Despair

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Oh, Madame! never had anything similar soiled my gaze, and whatever may have been my previous representations, what now I beheld surpassed everything I have been able to describe until the present: 'tis like unto the ascendancy the imperious eagle enjoys over the dove. Our two debauchees soon laid hands upon those menacing spears: they caressed them, polluted them, drew them to their mouths, and the combat straightway became more in earnest. SaintFlorent crouches upon the armchair supporting me; he is so adjusted my widespread buttocks are on an exact level with his mouth; he kisses them, his tongue penetrates into first one then the other temple. Saint-Florent provided Cardoville with amusement, the latter offers himself to the pleasures of La Rose whose terrific member instantly vanishes into the redoubt dressed before him, and Julien, situated beneath Saint-Florent, excites him with his mouth the while grasping his haunches and modulating them before the resolute blows of Cardoville who, treating his friend with intransigent rudeness, does not quit him before having wetted the sanctuary with his incense. Nothing could equal Cardoville's transports when the crisis deprives him of his senses; softly abandoning himself to the man who is serving as husband to him, but pressing hard after him of whom he is making a wife, this dastardly libertine, with hoarse gasps like unto those of a dying man, thereupon pronounces indescribable blasphemies; as for Saint-Florent, measure governs his evolutions, he restrains himself, and the tableau is dissolved without his having performed his beau geste. "Truly," Cardoville says to his comrade, "you still give me as much pleasure as you did when you were fifteen.... Indeed," he continues, turning and kissing La Rose, " 'tis true this fine lad knows how to arouse me too.... Have you not found me rather gulfy this evening, angelic boy?... would you believe it, Saint- Florent? 'tis the thirty-sixth time I've had it today... only natural that the thing be somewhat dilated; I'm all yours, dear friend," the abominable man pursues, fitting himself into Julien's mouth, his nose glued to my behind, and his own offered to Saint-Florent, "I'm yours for the thirty-seventh." Saint-Florent takes his pleasure with Cardoville, La Rose his with Saint-Florent, and after a quick skirmish the latter burns in his friend the same offering his friend had burned in him. If Saint-Florent's ecstasy was of briefer duration, it was no less intense, less noisy, less criminal than Cardoville's; the one shouted, roared out everything that came to his mouth, the other restricted his transports' scope without their being the less energetic for that; Saint-Florent chose his words with care, but they were simply yet filthier and more impure: distraction and rage, to select precise terms, seemed to characterize the delirium of the one, wickedness and ferocity were the eminent qualities announced in the other's. "To work, Therese, revive us," says Cardoville; "you see the lamps are extinguished, they've got to be lit again."

• From Going Clear (2013)

  4 When McPherson entered room 174, she was a lovely, shapely young woman. She underwent an Introspection Rundown, the same procedure that Hubbard had developed on the Apollo two decades earlier to treat psychotic behavior. It involved placing McPherson in solitary confinement and providing her with water, food, and vitamin supplements. All communication had to be in writing. Instead of calming down, McPherson stopped eating. She screamed, she clawed her attendants, she spoke in gibberish, she fouled herself, she banged her head against the wall. Staff members strapped her down and tried to feed her with a turkey baster. On December 5, McPherson slipped into a coma. When church members decided to take her to the hospital that night, they bypassed the Morton Plant Hospital, just down the street, where McPherson had originally been seen, and drove her forty-five minutes away, passing four other hospitals, to the Columbia New Port Richey Hospital, where there was a doctor affiliated with the church. The woman they finally wheeled into the emergency room was skeletally thin and covered with scratches, bruises, and dark brown lesions. She was also dead. She had suffered a pulmonary embolism on the way to the hospital. In the eyes of the world press, Scientology had murdered Lisa McPherson. She was one of nine Scientologists who had died under mysterious circumstances at the Clearwater facility. The night after McPherson died, Rathbun got word from church officials to wait for a call at a pay phone at a nearby Holiday Inn. “Why aren’t you all over this mess?” Miscavige demanded, when Rathbun answered the call. “The police are poking around. Do something.” Rathbun discovered that church officials in Clearwater had already lied in two sworn statements to the police, claiming that McPherson hadn’t been subjected to an Introspection Rundown. The church’s official response, under Rathbun’s direction, was to continue to lie, stating that McPherson had been at the church’s Fort Harrison Hotel only for “rest and relaxation” and there was nothing unusual about her stay. In the meantime, Rathbun went through the logs that McPherson’s attendants had kept. As many as twenty people had been rotating in and out of McPherson’s room; some of them were scratched and bruised from trying to subdue her; that was hardly the isolation and absolute silence and calm that the Introspection Rundown called for. Rathbun noted that, among other entries in the logs, one of the caretakers admitted that the situation was out of control and that McPherson needed to see a doctor. In the presence of a Scientology lawyer, Rathbun handed several of the most incriminating logs to a church executive and said, “Lose ’em.” The McPherson case loomed over the church for five years, with an ongoing police investigation, protests in front of Scientology facilities, lawsuits on the part of the family, and endless unwanted press.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  They thrust me toward him, I was everywhere more furiously harassed, and his ecstasy supervened.... The third bade me mount upon and straddle two somewhat separated chairs and, seating himself betwixt them, excited by Dubois, lying in his arms, he had me bend until his mouth was directly below the temple of Nature; never will you imagine, Madame, what this obscene mortal took it into his head to do; willy-nilly, I was obliged to satisfy his every need.... Just Heaven! what man, no matter how depraved, can taste an instant of pleasure in such things.... I did what he wished, inundated him, and my complete submission procured this foul man an intoxication of which he was incapable without this infamy. The fourth attached strings to all parts of me to which it was possible to tie them, he held the ends in his hands and sat down seven or eight feet from my body; Dubois' touches and kisses excited him prodigiously; I was standing erect: 'twas by sharp tugs now on this string, now on some other that the savage irritated his pleasures; I swayed, I lost balance again and again, he flew into an ecstasy each time tottered; finally, he pulled all the cords at once, I fell to the floor in front of him: such was his design: and my fore-head, my breast, my cheeks received the proofs of a delirium he owed to none but this mania. That is what I suffered, Madame, but at least my honor was respected even though my modesty assuredly was not. Their calm restored, the bandits spoke of regaining the road, and that same night we reached Tremblai with the intention of approaching the woods of Chantilly, where it was thought a few good prizes might be awaiting us. Nothing equaled my despair at being obliged to accompany such persons, and I was determined to part with them as soon as I could do so without risk. The following day we fell hard by Louvres, sleeping under haystacks; I felt in need of Dubois' support and wanted to pass the night by her side; but it seemed she had planned to employ it otherwise than protecting my virtue from the attacks I dreaded; three of the thieves surrounded her and before my very eyes the abominable creature gave herself to all three simultaneously. The fourth approached me; it was the captain. "Lovely Therese," said he, "I hope you shall not refuse me at least the pleasure of spending the night with you?" and as he perceive my extreme unwillingness, "fear not," he went on; "we'll have a chat together, and I will attempt nothing without your consent. "O Therese," cried he, folding me in his arms, " 'tis all foolishness, don't you know, to be so pretentious with us.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Therese must surely sense we have amused ourselves with her person for the natural, common, and uncomplex reason which engages might to abuse feebleness; she must surely sense she can-not escape her sentence, that it must be undergone, that she will undergo it, that it would be in vain she might divulge this evening's absence from jail; she'd not be believed; the jailer Ä for he's ours Ä would deny it at once. And so may this lovely and gentle girl, so penetrated with the grandeur of Providence, peacefully offer up to Heaven all she has just suffered and all that yet awaits her; these will be as so many expiations for the frightful crimes which deliver her into the hands of the law; put on your clothes, Therese, day is not yet come, the two men who brought you hither are going to conduct you back to your prison." I wanted to say a word, I wanted to cast myself a suppliant at these ogres' feet, either to unbend their hearts, or ask that their hands smite away my life. But I am dragged off, pitched into a cab, and my two guides climb in after me; we had hardly started off when infamous desires inflamed them again. "Hold her for me," quoth Julien to La Rose, "I simply must sodomize her; I have never laid eyes on a behind which could squeeze me so voluptuously; I'll render you the same service." There is nothing I can do to defend myself, the project is executed, Julien triumphs, and it is not without atrocious agonies I sustain this newest attack: the assailant's exorbitant bulk, the lacerated condition of those parts, the fire with which that accursed ball had devoured my intestines, everything combined to make me suffer tortures which La Rose renewed immediately his companion was finished. Before arriving I was thus yet another time victim of those wretched valets' criminal libertinage; we reached our destination at last. The jailer greeted us, he was alone, it was still night, no one saw me enter. "Go to sleep, Therese," said he, restoring me to my cell, "and if ever you wish to tell, it makes no difference whom, that on this night you left prison, remember that I will contradict you, and that this useless accusation will get you nowhere...." And, said I to myself when I was left alone, I should regret departing this world! I should dread to leave a universe freighted with such monsters! Ah! were the hand of God to snatch me from their clutches at whatever instant and in whatever manner He sees fit! why!

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  Lecture Eleven Book V—From Carthage to Rome Scope: In this section of the Confessions, Augustine moves from North Africa to Italy, first Rome, then Milan. Two powerful encounters define this part of Augustine’s journey. For quite some time, he has been told by his Manichean colleagues that any questions they could not answer could be addressed to Faustus when he came to visit them. Although Augustine found Faustus personable and articulate, this Manichee “bishop” really had no substantive answers to the questions he asked. Hence, Augustine reflects on the relationship of form to substance, the way something is said and the truth it may contain. After Faustus’s visit, Augustine begins to despair that humans are unable to grasp what he has been searching for—those things that last forever. For professional reasons, Augustine departs for Italy. When he arrives in Milan, he goes to hear Bishop Ambrose speak, because the bishop has a reputation for his rhetorical skills. Despite his lack of interest in the substance of Ambrose’s sermons, Augustine finds himself drawn in. In particular, Ambrose interprets certain biblical passages allegorically. On hearing what Ambrose has to say, Augustine begins to realize that Christians are not so primitive and literal as he had imagined. This discovery would soon lead Augustine to return to Scripture and to give Christianity another look. Outline I. In this book, Augustine moves from North Africa (Carthage) to Italy (Rome, then Milan). A. In this journey, he is following the path of Aeneas after his affair with Queen Dido of Carthage. B. This move indicates the success Augustine is having in his career as a teacher of rhetoric. C. In fact, Milan, not Rome, was the seat of the Roman Empire at this time. D. Thus, Augustine is practicing his craft at the center of power. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 33

• From City of Night (1963)

  And was it only the sudden, ramming violence, the sudden smashing fist prepared to crush again and again, the sudden threatening image of this queen? Or was it, instead—or at least partly—Chi-Chi’s shouting for an instant acknowledgment of dignity? Or was it a swift glimpse, by that man now cringing stonecold-afraid beside his wife, of himself in Chi-Chi, not of the woman in himself, but of the hopelessness of his own sad fate, mirrored in his wife’s tired face, the frigid body—whatever shape that fate may have assumed for him, whatever destiny hovering over him—over us—like a dreadful cloud? What is it that makes that man, his face imprinted with the terrible impact of Chi-Chi’s giant fist, what is it that makes him turn to his wife and to the others with him, away from this menacing-eyed Cassandra whose message of doom, through violence, has finally flashed out—and, after looking at Chi-Chi in amazement and, now, with only the barest, flimsiest imitation of derision—that derision so carefully taught and practiced, seeded, cultivated, nurtured—what is it that makes that man, rising from the ground, retreat and say to his wife, as he covers his face where the blood is now coming—what is it—really—that makes him say—almost sadly: “Lets get away from here and leave them alone.” Oh, soon.... Very soon now it will be just another of many incidents quickly to be forgotten by those who have witnessed it ( but remembered, perhaps—perhaps remembered, unmentioned, unacknowledged but festering in the cobweb-infested shadows of their minds—by that fleeting man, that woman). Already the cleared space about Chi-Chi is being filled. Already the crowds are milling, the horns are blaring again, the streamers floating, the confetti falling, the couples making love.... Already the queens are squealing.... And already, Whorina, fluttering a huge ostrich fan, is saying in a husky siren voice: “Never, never, never try to dish a queen, babies—thats the moral of this story!” And now! Now—that mere interlude of his life over—Chi-Chi again leaned languidly, calmly, demurely against the wall, adjusting her dress with auspicious care, arranging the false breasts. Missing her cigarette holder, she spotted it on the ground; and in a composed queenvoice, softly, she says to a man standing next to her: “Baby—sweetheart—would you mind retrieving her fairy-wand... please... for a Lady?” But despite the composure, there is a note of frightened, melancholy pleading in her voice. A noble cavalier, the man bends, picks up the cigarette holder, and presents it to Chi-Chi with a deep, deep acknowledging bow.... Smiling gratefully at him, Chi-Chi clenched the retrieved cigarette holder between those second and fourth fingers. She puffs a long billowing stream of smoke into the air. Then gazing savage-eyed at the hectic crowds, she defied the world in a loud, clear voice: “Hey, world!” she shouted. And she punctured the dark air sharply with the beaded cigarette holder. CITY OF NIGHT PHANTOM CLOUDS SEARCH THE DAWNING SKY.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero es lo que quise decir, ¿verdad? Si no puedo decírselo ahora, ¿alguna vez planeaba hacerlo? ¿Cuándo sería más fácil? ¿Después de hubieran terminado por un par de años? Cuando no respondo, me mira. —Te veré en la mañana. Camina hacia la puerta de atrás, y siento que me han pateado. Siento que nunca más volveré a verla. Corro detrás de ella, tomándola de la mano y deteniéndola. —No —se lo ruego—. Jesús, no quise decir eso. Jordan, yo... tú lo vales. Yo solo... —Sacudo la cabeza—. No lo sé. —Está bien —dice, sonando tan tranquila que tengo miedo—. Realmente lo está. Debería agradecerte, en realidad. He estado tratando durante años, al parecer, ser el tipo de mujer que admiro, y de repente, siento que soy esa mujer ahora. Sé que lo valgo Simplemente tú no. Se mueve para alejarse, y la detengo de nuevo. —Jordan. Esta vez se da vuelta, levantando la cabeza y tirando de su mano fuera de mi alcance. —Díselo ahora —exige. El aire sale de mis pulmones con el ultimátum. —Dile que estás conmigo ahora —dice—, para que pueda ir a nuestra cama, y podamos ir a dormir y mañana podamos comenzar a avanzar, porque todo estará hecho, y no tendremos que preocuparnos más por eso. —Sus ojos me desafían—. Díselo ahora. Abro la boca para hablar. Para decirle que lo haré. Voy a marchar ahora mismo y decirle la verdad a mi hijo. Creo que la amo y lo siento, no quise lastimarla. Pero sé que tengo razón. Regresará a la escuela a tiempo completo en dos meses, conocerá hombres educados que tendrán toda la vida por delante. No voy a arruinar a mi familia cuando aún no sé qué es esto. No tiene derecho a pedirme eso. Comienza a retroceder, el azul en sus ojos como hielo. —Es tan increíble lo rápido que puede suceder, ¿no? —dice mientras me deja lentamente—. Cómo no siento absolutamente nada por ti ahora.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  power. Hence, as the constituted or signified object of exchange through which the paternal law extends its power and the mode in which it appears, women are said to be the Phallus, that is, the emblem of its continuing circulation. But this “being” the Phallus is necessarily dissatisfying to the extent that women can never fully reflect that law; some feminists argue that it requires a renunciation of women’s own desire (a double renunciation, in fact, corresponding to the “double wave” of repression that Freud claimed founds femininity), 15 which is the expropriation of that desire as the desire to be nothing other than a reflection, a guarantor of the pervasive necessity of the Phallus. On the other hand, men are said to “have” the Phallus, yet never to “be” it, in the sense that the penis is not equivalent to that Law and can never fully symbolize that Law. Hence, there is a necessary or presuppositional impossibility to any effort to occupy the position of “having” the Phallus, with the consequence that both positions of “having” and “being” are, in Lacan’s terms, finally to be understood as comedic failures that are nevertheless compelled to articulate and enact these repeated impossibilities. But how does a woman “appear” to be the Phallus, the lack that embodies and affirms the Phallus? According to Lacan, this is done through masquerade, the effect of a melancholy that is essential to the feminine position as such. In his early essay, “The Meaning of the Phallus,” he writes of “the relations between the sexes”: Let us say that these relations will revolve around a being and a having which, because they refer to a signifier, the phallus, have the contradictory effect of on the one hand lending reality to the subject in that signifier, and on the other making unreal the relations to be signified. 16 In the lines that directly follow this sentence, Lacan appears to refer to the appearance of the “reality” of the masculine subject as well as to the “unreality” of heterosexuality. He also appears to refer to the position of women (my interruption is within brackets): “This follows from the intervention of an ‘appearing’ which gets substituted for the ‘having’ [a substitution is required, no doubt, because women are said not “to have”] so as to protect it on one side and to mask its lack on the other.” Although there is no grammatical gender here, it seems that Lacan is describing the position of women for whom “lack” is characteristic and, hence, in need of masking and who are in some unspecified sense in need of protection. Lacan then states that this situation produces “the effect that the ideal or typical manifestations of behaviour in both sexes, up to and including the act of sexual copulation, are entirely propelled into comedy” (84). Lacan continues this exposition of heterosexual comedy by explaining that this “appearing as being” the Phallus that women are compelled to do is inevitably masquerade.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  But this vision of hope required an act of faith. The American Civil War (1861–65) and the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71) had both revealed the horror of warfare in the industrial age, when the exact sciences were applied to weaponry to devastating effect. Yet the nation-states of Europe seemed in thrall to Freud’s death wish. After the Franco-Prussian War, they began an arms race that led to the carnage of the First World War (1914–18), apparently regarding warfare as a Darwinian necessity in which only the fittest would survive. At whatever cost to itself or others, the modern state must build the biggest army and create the most destructive weapons. The British writer I. F. Clarke has shown that between 1871 and 1914, it was unusual to find a single year in which a novel or story looking forward to a terrifying future war did not appear in some European country.92 The “next great war” loomed as a fearful but unavoidable ordeal, from which the nation would emerge with renewed strength and vigor. As the nineteenth century drew to a close, the British poet and novelist Thomas Hardy (1840–1928) poignantly expressed the modern predicament. In “The Darkling Thrush,” dated December 31, 1900, he expressed the bleak desolation of the human spirit excluded from traditional ways of arriving at a sense of life’s meaning. He described the “sharp features” of the wintry landscape as “the century’s corpse;” it seemed to Hardy that “every spirit upon earth seemed fervourless as I.” Suddenly, an aged thrush—”frail, gaunt and small”—began to sing, flinging his soul upon the growing gloom. As he listened to this “full hearted evensong,” Hardy could only reflect, with a calm, sad acceptance: So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembl’d through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.93

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The coat and trousers is handsome enough, likewise the shoes. I shall take them from you, for a guinea.’ ‘A guinea!’ I said. ‘A guinea is as fair a price as you will get, tonight.’ He sniffed again. ‘I daresay they are hot enough.’ ‘They ain’t hot at all,’ said Zena. ‘But the guinea will do; and if you’ll chuck in a couple of ladies’ niceties and a pair of hats with bows on, call it a pound.’ The drawers and stockings he gave us were yellowed with age; the hats were terrible; and we were both, of course, still in need of stays. But Zena, at least, seemed satisfied with the deal. She pocketed the money, then led me to a baked-potato stall, and we had a potato each, and a cup of tea between us. The potatoes tasted of mud. The tea was really tinted water. But at the stall there was a brazier, and this warmed us. Zena, as I have said, seemed very changed since our expulsion from the house. She did not tremble - it was I who trembled now - and she had an air of wisdom and authority about her, a way of passing through the streets, as if she were quite at her ease upon them. I had been at ease upon them once; now, I think that, if she had let me hold her hand, I would have done it - as it was, I could only stumble at her heels, saying wretchedly, ‘What shall we do next, Zena?’ and ‘Oh, Zena, how cold it is!’ and even ‘What do you suppose they are doing now, Zena, at Felicity Place? Oh, can you believe that she has really cast me from her!’ ‘Miss,’ she said to me at last, ‘don’t take it the wrong way; but if you don’t shut up, I really shall be obliged to hit you, after all.’ I said: ‘I’m sorry, Zena.’ In the end she fell into conversation with a gay girl who had also come to stand beside the brazier; and from her she got the details of a lodging-house nearby, that was said to take people in, all through the night. It turned out to be a dreadful place, with one chamber for the women and another for the men; and everyone who slept there had a cough. Zena and I lay two in a bed - she keeping her dress on, for the sake of the warmth, but me still fretting over the creases in mine, and so placing it beneath the foot of the mattress in the hope that it would press flat overnight. We lay together very straight and stiff, our heads upon the same prickling bolster, but hers turned from mine and her eyes shut fast. The coughing of the other lodgers, the soreness at my cheek, my general wretchedness and panic, kept me wakeful.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Oh, oh, oh, oh. Oh hate and harm, the conditions of poverty! The thirst, the cold, the hunger and the hurt! If you are a poor man, then you are hard pressed on all sides. If you do not ask for your meat, you die of hunger. If you do ask for it, you die of shame. Your need is known to all. You must beg, or borrow, or steal, and all against your will. But how else will you stay alive? Will you blame Christ himself, lamenting bitterly that He has falsely distributed the riches of the world? Will you accuse your neighbour of sinfulness? He has everything, while you have nothing. ‘There will come a time,’ you say, ‘when he will burn in hell. He has turned the poor man from his door.’ Listen to a lesson from the wise: ‘It is better to die than to be poor. It is better to leave this life than to be despised by your neighbour.’ If you are poor, then all respect for you is gone. Here is another saying from the wise: ‘All the days of poor men are sorrowful.’ Beware! If you are poor, your own brother hates you. If you are poor, your friends all leave you. How different for you rich merchants, who are swimming in coin! What nobility! What prudence! You have cast the winning dice, and now scoop up the pool. Who dances most gaily at Christmas time? You do. You search the land and sail the sea to find your fortune. You predict the rise and fall of kingdoms. You know the secrets of kings concerning peace and war. I said a minute ago that I knew no stories. But now I remember one told me by - guess who - a rich merchant. This is it. The Man of Law’s Tale Heere begynneth the Man of Lawe his tale PART ONE Once upon a time there dwelled a company of wealthy merchants in Syria. They were serious and responsible people. They traded in spices all over the world, as well as in satin and in cloth of gold. Their merchandise was so excellent and luxurious that every broker and dealer wanted to do business with them; there were as many sellers as there were buyers. Now it so happened that some of these merchants decided to visit Rome. I do not know whether they were going for business, or for pleasure, but they decided that they wanted to travel to that city in person. They did not want to deal with agents. So they journeyed there and took up residence in that quarter of the city where they felt most comfortable.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  As soon as I got outside, I ran up into the woods, pushing tree branches and wild grape vines out of my face. I thought I’d start crying now that I was away from the house, but instead, I threw up. I ate some wild mint to get rid of the taste of bile, and I walked for what felt like hours through the silent hills. The air was clear and cool, and the forest floor was thick with leaves that had fallen from the buckeyes and poplars. Late in the afternoon, I sat down on a tree trunk, leaning forward because the backs of my thighs still stung. All through the long walk, the pain had kept me thinking, and by the time I reached the tree trunk, I had made two decisions. The first was that I’d had my last whipping. No one was ever going to do that to me again. The second was that, like Lori, I was going to get out of Welch. The sooner, the better. Before I finished high school, if I could. I had no idea where I would go, but I did know I was going. I also knew it would not be easy. People got stuck in Welch. I had been counting on Mom and Dad to get us out, but I now knew I had to do it on my own. It would take saving and planning. I decided the next day I’d go to G. C. Murphy and buy a pink plastic piggy bank I’d seen there. I’d put in the seventy- five dollars I had managed to save while working at Becker’s Jewel Box. It would be the beginning of my escape fund.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In his early work, therefore, Heidegger insisted that it was essential systematically to dismantle faith in this “God” so that we might recover a sense of Being. The God of the philosophers, a typically modern invention, was as good as dead: it was impossible to pray to such a god. This was a time of great depletion; the technological domination of the earth had brought about the nihilism foretold by Nietzsche, because it had made us forgetful of Being. But in his later work, Heidegger found it heartening that God had become incredible. People were becoming conscious of a void, an absence at the heart of their lives. By practicing meditative “thinking,” we could learn to experience what Heidegger called “the return of the holy.” No longer hopelessly mired in mere beings, we should cultivate that primordial waiting in which Being could, as it were, “speak” to us directly. 54 Many were dismayed by Heidegger’s apparent refusal to condemn National Socialism after the war. But his ideas were extremely evocative and influenced a generation of Christian theologians. Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976) insisted that God must be de-objectified and that the scriptures did not convey factual information but could be understood only if Christians involved themselves existentially with their faith. “To believe in the cross of Christ does not mean to concern ourselves ... with an objective event,” he explained, “but rather to make the cross our own.” 55 Europeans had lost the sense that their doctrines were mere gestures toward transcendence. Their literalist approach showed a complete misunderstanding of the purpose of myth, which is “not to present an objective picture of the world as it is. ... Myth should be interpreted not cosmologically but ... existentially.” 56 Biblical interpretation could not even begin without personal engagement, so scientific objectivity was as alien to religion as to art. Religion was possible only when people were “stirred by the question of their own existence and can hear the claim that the text makes.” 57 A careful examination of the Gospels showed that Jesus did not see God as “an object of thought or speculation” but as an existential demand, a “power that constrains man to decision, who confronts him in the demand for good.” 58 Like Heidegger, Bultmann understood that the sense of the divine was not something to be comprehended once and for all; it came to us repetitively, by constant attention to the demands of the moment. He was not speaking of an exotic mystical experience. Having lived through the Nazi years, Bultmann knew how frequently, in such circumstances, men and women are confronted by an internal requirement that seems to come from outside themselves and which they cannot reject without denying what is most authentic to them. God was, therefore, an absolute claim that drew people beyond self-interest and egotism into transcendence.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Atheism was no longer regarded as a term of abuse. As Nietzsche had predicted, the idea of God had simply died, and for the first time ordinary folk, who were not pioneering scientists or philosophers, were happy to call themselves atheists.3 They did not spend time examining the scientific and rational arguments against God’s existence: for many Europeans, God had simply become otiosus (“superfluous”). As the political philosophers Antonio Negri and Michael Hardt have explained: Modern negativity is located not in any transcendent realm but in the hard reality before us: the fields of patriotic battles in the First and Second World Wars, from the killing fields at Verdun to the Nazi furnaces and the swift annihilation of thousands in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the carpet bombing of Vietnam and Cambodia, the massacres from Setif and Soweto to Sabra and Shatila, and the list goes on and on. There is no Job who can sustain such suffering.4 Belief had emerged as the enemy of peace. John Lennon’s song “Imagine” (1971) looked forward to a world where there was no heaven and no hell—”above us only sky.” The elimination of God would solve the world’s problems. This was a simplistic belief, since many of the conflicts that had inspired the peace movement were caused by an imbalance of political power, secular nationalism, and the struggle for world domination. But religion had been implicated in many of these atrocities: in Northern Ireland and the Middle East it had served as a tribal or ethnic marker, it was used rhetorically by politicians, and it was clear that it had signally failed in its mandate of saving the world.

• From City of Night (1963)

  At the top of the sheet was his name—and then: “RESUME,” was printed beneath it: It listed his years at Yale, his many degrees—including honorary ones. “Read it all!” he shouted at me; he trembles. “Go on!”... The list continued: foreign service appointments, honorary titles, publications in scholarly reviews, foreign publications, books he had written, citations awarded him.... I looked up from the list and saw the man who had accomplished all this: And the balloon face, pitiably tilted like a sad dog’s, is staring at me with something that could be only racking pain.... “That is me too!” he shouts at me. “I am Respected, Admired, listened to, read!—but what do you care about that? You see only the ridiculous man who made you stand by the bed with your pants down. But do you know the rest?” The transformation was sudden and incredible. His great head was thrust forward toward me, almost beseechingly, like that of a great wounded animal, the eyes almost popping from his face behind the glasses. “The angels who drained my life!” he said contemptuously. I watch his eyes in fascination, wondering if the tears that may emerge will be giant tears coming from the giant eyes in the giant face. “The angels! The voracious angels!” he shouts. “The ones who drained me—who never knew Me! —never respected Me. Love? Bought! Bought for the prospect of a trip to America, a wedding ring which I would never wear, pairs of shoes and bottles of wine— bought! Bought for $7.50 an hour! Bought!... for a hundred dollars... which was... cunningly... expected... when the word... Love... was spoken....” There were no tears, the eyes had already run dry. The malenurse rushes in. “Professor!” he calls urgently, reaching for pills, water. The Professor continues sobbing. The malenurse hugs him to him, closely, tenderly, sheltering him, rocking his head in his arms like a baby, soothing him—his lips kissing the shaved head.... The malenurse glares at me suddenly, eyes brimming with hatred. “What Did You Do To Him?” He shoots the words at me like bullets. “Leave him alone,” the Professor sighs, freeing himself from the youngman’s sheltering embrace. The malenurse marches out. “Larry—” the Professor says, the sobs slowly subsiding, “—Larry is not—... an angel....” And now, spent, he leans back in the propped-up bed. He reaches for a cigarette, shuffling through the box; he finds a black gold-banded one, puts it into his mouth; sighs calmly now: “Forgive me, child. My nerves. It’s lying here so long. I spoke rashly. We all do at times. I had no right to—... And actually,” he said sadly, “actually I dont—really like—... to kiss.... And after all—the terms—were made—at the beginning—of the interviews.... They were, in fact, made long, long ago.... Now, child, stand near me again, please.... Let me—let me—express—” He stopped. And then with something of contempt aimed both at himself and me, he finishes: “Let me express—My Love....”

• From City of Night (1963)

  Once, walking along Hollywood Boulevard in the afternoon, I saw a woman coming out of Kress’s: a wild gypsy-looking old woman, like a fugitive from a movie-set—she was dark, screamingly painted... kaleidoscopic earrings... a red and orange scarf about her long black hair... wide blue skirt, lowcut blouse—an old frantic woman with demented burning eyes, and as she stepped into the bright Hollywood street, this old flashy woman began a series of the same strange gestures: her right hand would rise frantically over her eyes, as if to tear some horrible spectacle from her sight. But halfway down, toward her breast, the gesture of her hand mellowed, slowed, lost its franticness.... And she seemed now instead to be blessing the terrible spectacle she had first tried to tear from her sight.... Stupidly, now, I raised my hand as if to imitate that woman’s benediction. Then smash! Smash! Smash! Smash! The world collapsed. And it happened exactly like this: Suddenly, in one moment— in one single solitary crazy one-unit moment, I was both drunk and sober: I was two people. And the sober me was looking on at the drunk me, and it’s terrifying to see yourself so beaten and scared. Soberly and clearly I saw myself drunk—drunk worth all those days and nights of determined sobriety. And I saw myself folded over vomiting in the head of The Rocking Times; and I knew it was happening, that the nightworld was caving in—because the terror of a lifetime can be contained in one inexplicable moment. And why that moment? I dont know. But it was then. It was then that the ugly tortured world whirled. It was then that a perimeter of black surrounded the area of my sight, closed in swiftly, heavily, darkly. And it was then that the sober me saw the drunk me reel to the floor and fall. Felt the drunk laughter like cotton in my mouth choking. It’s Ash Wednesday. Im out on the streets. There are only a few stray people, some foreheads smeared with ashes. The city is strangely quiet. It’s late night. The demons, the clowns are gone. After the smothering black-out, I remember—only hazily, as if my mind had been rubbed over with an imperfect eraser—waking up on a cot in a back room of Sylvia’s boarded-up bar where we had taken Sonny that afternoon. Others were still passed out about me when I walked out. I remember walking the streets of the Lenten city, away from the Quarter. Now, too tired to walk any farther, I enter an all-night moviehouse. The air is excessively hot. Derelicts sleep on the floor. I slump on a wooden seat. A few rows away, I see Sonny, dejectedly asleep: deserted. The two scores are no longer with him.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Respiro profundamente y lo sostengo mientras tomo la perilla de la puerta de Grounders. Intenté llamar a Cam, e incluso volví a The Hook pero no pude encontrarla. Entonces, Shel es, supongo. Estoy seguro que es una pérdida de tiempo, la mujer me ha odiado desde que me conoció, pero estoy desesperado. Abriendo la puerta, entro, la música y el olor a comida frita me atrapan inmediatamente. Shel está detrás del bar con solo tres clientes frente a ella, y miro alrededor, viendo algunas mesas llenas pero la mayor parte vacías. Es un lunes por la noche bastante tranquilo. Trueno mi cuello, preparándome mientras me acerco al bar. Ella me ve de inmediato y deja de secar el vaso mientras endereza su espalda. —Cam, ¿puedes servirle a ese hombre? —dice. Miro al otro extremo y observo a la hermana de Jordan inclinándose sobre éste. Debe estar cubriendo los turnos de Jordan mientras no está. Su cabeza descansa en sus manos mientras habla con un cliente, pero en cuanto sus ojos se encuentran con los míos, se endereza y su sonrisa se desvanece. Shel comienza a alejarse. —Espera —digo, deteniéndola—. No voy a quedarme. —Bien. —Yo solo... —No voy a decirte dónde está —me interrumpe. Veo a Cam observándonos, y respiro profundamente una vez más, dejando caer mis hombros. —Solo necesito saber que está bien. —Ella está bien —responde cortantemente—. Y estará mucho mejor si permanece alejada de ti y este pueblo. Me muevo, dejando caer mi voz. —Necesito verla. Por favor. —Tú la tuviste.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Dutch está afuera, sentado en una silla de jardín, inclinado hacia delante, sus codos sobre sus rodillas y mirándome como si fuera un toro en una tienda de China, a punto de romper una mierda en cualquier momento. Han pasado nueve días desde que vi a mi hijo o a Jordan, y cada día que pasa siento que se están alejando cada vez más de mí. Como si hubiera seguido adelante y como si nunca hubiera existido para ella. Cualquier esperanza que tenía se está agotando rápidamente. He llamado, enviado mensajes de texto y dejado mensajes para ambos, y la única ventaja que tengo es una dirección para escribirle a Cole. Tuve que acosar a su reclutador para que me la consiguiera. Envié mi primera carta ayer. En cuanto a Jordan, la única certeza que he podido obtener de que está bien es de Dutch, que tuvo noticias de su esposa, quien supo por Shel que Jordan está fuera de la ciudad visitando amigos y está bien. ¿Regresará? Dejé de llamar después de unos días, porque claramente no quiere hablar y estoy intentando respetar sus deseos, pero... si llamara ahora mismo, iría a buscarla desde cualquier lugar y le daría todo lo que quisiera. Por el resto de mi vida ella puede tener todo lo que quiera. —Pike, no puedes casarte con ella —declara Dutch como si supiera dónde está mi cabeza—. Lo sabes, ¿verdad? Le doy la espalda, volviendo a colocar las herramientas desechadas en el banco de trabajo y despejando lentamente la mesa. Hace nueve días hubiera estado de acuerdo con él. Hubiera dicho que tenía razón. La gente hablará. Probablemente ya estén hablando. Lo harán sucio e incorrecto y sus amigas de la escuela secundaria bromearán sobre ella, y nadie nos tomaría en serio. Todo lo que verían es su edad y cómo cambió del hijo a su padre, y sería la comidilla de la ciudad. Pero ahora no estoy tan seguro. ¿A quién le importa lo que piensen? Lo superaríamos, y el círculo de amigos de Jordan es tan pequeño como el mío. A ella no le importará lo que los extraños tengan que decir al respecto. Seríamos jodidamente felices, y finalmente la gente seguiría adelante. Ella me quería. Quería amarme. Estaba lista para nosotros. Sacudo la cabeza, argumentando: —Ella es diferente. —No, no lo es —responde Dutch—. Es joven y llena de esperanza. Como solíamos ser. Me giro lentamente y lo miro. No es como que él se oponga a mí. Pero lo escucho mientras continúa. —Todo es nuevo y fresco para ella —dice—. Está entusiasmada con la vida y te hace recordar cómo se sentía. Antes que creciéramos y nos diéramos cuenta que no íbamos a ser pilotos de caza salvando el mundo o reyes de Wall Street montados en alargadas limusinas. —Se ríe en voz baja, recostándose en la silla—. Antes que hubiera facturas que pagar y responsabilidades que aumentaban a medida que pasaban los años.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  There never was a more well-respected man. He was so gentlemanly, so modest in demeanour, that his reputation spread throughout the royal court. Everyone said that it would be an act of charity on the part of Theseus to give him more honourable employment, in a post where his particular virtues might be nourished and displayed. So his good deeds and eloquence were spread abroad. Theseus himself came to hear of them. What was his response? He made him squire of the chamber, and gave him enough gold to maintain his new position. But Arcite also had another source of gold. He received rental income from his lands in Thebes. It was brought to him privately and secretly, by agents from his home city, and they were so discreet that no one in Athens ever guessed the truth. He spent it wisely, too, and avoided gossip. In this manner he spent the next three years of his life. He worked so well, both in peace and war, that Theseus held no man in higher regard. Now I will leave Arcite for a little while, and turn my attention to Palamon. Oh dear. What a difference. While Arcite dwelled in bliss, Palamon lived in hell. For seven years he had lain in darkness and despair, fettered in the dark tower, wasted by suffering and suffused with woe. He endured double distress, with his unfulfilled love for Emily increasing his burden of imprisonment. He would never leave his cell. He would never kneel before her or address her. He was close to madness. Who could describe, in plain English, his suffering? I am not the man. So, if you don’t mind, I will pass on. ‘Take your time,’ our Host told him, ‘for this day has been a green day. It will stay fresh in our imaginations.’ ‘I thank you. But I must move on.’

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  There was among the dancers a jolly young squire, handsome and fleet of foot; he was fresher than the spring day and, according to all reports, he could sing and dance better than any other man in the world. He was also one of the most good-looking. He was young and strong, virtuous and rich, wise and well respected. What else can I say? Oh, one more thing. Unknown to Dorigen and the others, this young squire, Aurelius by name, was in thrall to Venus; for the last two years he had secretly been enamoured of Dorigen. He loved her more than anyone else in the world, but of course he had not been able to disclose his love. He had drunk the bitter cup of misery down to the lees. He was in despair; but he was silent, save for the songs of woe that he sometimes sang. He did not sing of his own case but, rather, made general complaint about the pains of love in various chants and lyrics, roundels and virelays. He sang of a lover who was not beloved. He sang of a true heart beating in vain. He sang of a lover suffering all the pains of hell. Echo pined away for love of Narcissus. That will always be the fate of the star-struck lover. So in all his pain Aurelius dared not reveal his feelings to Dorigen. Yet there were times, at dances where the young come together, when he looked upon her with such intentness that he seemed to be asking her for mercy. But she knew nothing about this. Nevertheless it happened on this day that, after the dance was over, they fell into conversation. There was nothing wrong with that. They were neighbours. They had known each for a long time. And he was an honourable man. Yet, as they talked, Aurelius came closer and closer towards the one theme that haunted him. When he saw the right time, he spoke out. ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘I wish to God that I had gone over the seas like your husband. I wish I had set sail on the same day. If it would make you happy, I would gladly travel to a distant land from which I could never return. I know well enough that my service to you here is all in vain. My reward is a broken heart. Ma dame, have pity on my pain. You can cure me or kill me with one word. I wish that I lay buried here beneath your feet. I have no more to say. Have mercy on me, sweet Dorigen, or else I will die!’