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 The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When the Canon realized that all his threats were useless, he fled in sorrow and in shame. ‘Ah,’ his Yeoman said, ‘now we can have some fun. I will tell you everything I know. He has run away, has he? I hope he goes to the devil. I don’t want to have anything else to do with him, I can promise you that. Not for all the money in the world. He was the one who led me into the false game. Yet I never thought of it as a game. I was deadly serious, believe me, in its pursuit. I laboured. I sweated. I worried. I cried. Yet, for all that, I could never leave it alone. I wish to God that I had the brains to tell you everything there is to know about alchemy. I can only explain a small part of the art. Now that my master has gone, I will do my best. So . . .’ Heere endeth the Prologe of the Chanounes Yemannes Tale The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Chanouns Yeman his Tale PART ONE I have lived with this Canon for seven years, but I am nowhere near to understanding the secret. I have lost everything I owned, as have many others. Once upon a time I was clean, cheerful and well dressed. Can you believe it? I now use an old sock as my hat! I used to be plump and ruddy-cheeked. Now I am thin and sallow. I am losing my eyesight through all the hard work. Stay away from alchemy at all costs. Where is the benefit in trying to transmute metals? The sliding science has left me penniless and in despair. Nothing good has come of it. I have borrowed so much gold that I will never be able to repay my debts. Let me stand as a warning to everyone else, like a wolf’s head. If anyone were foolish enough to practise alchemy, it will prove to be his undoing. He will not succeed. He will empty his purse. He will addle his wits. But there is worse. As soon as he has lost all of his money, through his stupidity, he will try to persuade others to follow his example and try their hand at the black art. ‘Misery loves company.’ That is the proverb, is it not? Well, enough said. Now I will tell you all about our work.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Living in medias res, they could not see the direction that their society was taking but experienced its slow transformation in isolated, incoherent ways. As the old mythology that had given structure and significance to their ancestors crumbled in this new situation, many seem to have experienced the sense of powerlessness that had afflicted Luther. Before their own conversions to fresh religious vision, Zwingli and Calvin had also experienced a paralyzing helplessness before the trials of human existence and were convinced that they could contribute nothing toward their own salvation. Consequently, all the reformers emphasized the unqualified divine sovereignty that would not only characterize the modern God but also help to shape the Scientific Revolution. 31 The emphasis on God’s absolute power meant that God alone could change the course of events, so human beings, who were essentially impotent, must rely on his unconditional might. When the young Zwingli had contracted the plague that wiped out 25 percent of the population of Zurich, he knew there was nothing he could do to save himself. “Do as you will for I lack nothing,” he prayed. “I am your vessel to be restored or destroyed.” 32 The young Calvin had felt so in thrall to the institutional Church that he was both unwilling and unable to break free, and it had taken what seemed a divine initiative to shift him: “At last God turned my course in a different direction by the hidden bridle of his providence ... by a sudden conversion to docility, he tamed a mind too stubborn for its years.” 33 When Luther spoke of the faith that could justify men and women he did not, of course, mean “belief” in our modern sense but an act of total trust in the absolute power of God. “Faith,” he explained in one of his sermons, “does not require information, knowledge and certainty, but a free surrender and joyful bet on his unfelt, untried and unknown goodness.” 34 Luther had no time for the “false theologian,” who “looks upon the invisible things of God as though they were clearly perceptible in those things that have actually happened.” 35 Far from giving a clear vision, faith brought “a sort of darkness that can see nothing.” 36 Alienated from the natural theology of Scotus and Ockham, he did not imagine for one moment that the investigation of the cosmos or natural reasoning could bring us true knowledge of God. It was not only pointless but could even be dangerous to try to prove God’s existence, because too much speculation about God’s inconceivable might in governing the universe could cause human beings to fall into a state of abject despair and terror.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Despite Hilbert, we seemed no closer to understanding the universe. Human beings, randomly produced minutiae whose existence was probably ephemeral, still appeared to be cast adrift in a vast, impersonal universe. There was no clear answer as to what had preceded the “big bang” that had given birth to the universe. Even physicists did not believe that the equations of quantum theory described what was actually there; these mathematical abstractions could not be put into words, and our knowledge was confined to symbols that were mere shadows of an indescribable reality. Unknowing seemed built into the human condition. The revolution of the 1920s had overturned traditional scientific orthodoxy, and if that had happened once, it could happen again. Some Christians believed that the new physics was friendly to faith, even though Einstein always insisted that relativity was a scientific theory and had no bearing on religion. They seized eagerly on his famous remark in a debate with Bohr in Brussels (1927) that although quantum mechanics was “certainly imposing,” an “inner voice tells me that it ... does not bring us any closer to the secret of the Old One. I, at any rate, am convinced that He does not throw dice.” 2 But Einstein was not referring to the personal God; he had simply used the “Old One” (a medieval Kabbalistic image) to symbolize the impersonal, intelligible, and immanent order of what exists. The British astronomer Arthur Stanley Eddington, however, saw relativity as evidence for the existence of mind in nature; Canon Arthur F. Smethurst regarded it as a manifestation of the Holy Spirit; 3 others saw the new conception of time as validating the after-life; 4 big bang theory was thought to substantiate the Genesis account; 5 and some even managed to see the indeterminacy of quantum mechanics as support for God’s providential control of the world. 6 This type of speculation was ill-conceived. Inured to their need for scientific proof, these apologists were still interpreting the ancient biblical symbols in too literal a manner. Max Planck had a more sage view of the relations between science and religion. The two were quite compatible: science dealt with the objective, material world and religion with values and ethics. Conflict between them was based “on a confusion of the images and parables of religion with scientific statement.” 7 After Einstein, it became disturbingly clear that not only was science unable to provide us with definitive certainty but its findings were inherently limited and provisional too. In 1927, Heisenberg formulated the principle of indeterminacy in nuclear physics, showing that it was impossible for scientists to achieve an objective result because the act of observation itself affected their understanding of the object of their investigation. In 1931, the Austrian philosopher Kurt Gödel (1906–78) devised a theorem to show that any formal logical or mathematical system must contain propositions that are not verifiable within that system; there would always be propositions that could be proved or disproved only by input from outside.

• From City of Night (1963)

  At the table, everyone is talking, eyes constantly searching the bar. The beat of the music somehow matches the movements, the stares, the muted desperation all around; the smothered moans of the spade now blaring words from the balcony is like a composite moan, a wail emanating in unison from everyone crushed into this dirty bar.... Darling Dolly is breathlessly explaining the Severe Jolt she got when she got home and found her best drag clothes gone: “My lovely lace negligee—my studded shoes!” Buddy shakes his head and says to the table: “I needed the bread.” Darling Dolly stabs him with a look. Chuck says hes heard of a malehouse in Hollywood where he can make hundreds of dollars a day: “But I don know where it is so I cain apply.” Miss Destiny says, “Chuck, my dear, you are just too lazy to get ahead—remember the $15 score I got you and you fell asleep?”... Trudi is wondering wheres her daddy, and Miss Destiny explains to me that Trudi’s “daddy” is an old man whos been “keeping Trudi for ages—and keeps Skipper, too, sometimes—but indirectly”: Skipper living off and on with Trudi and hitting it big occasionally—“after being Really Big in Hollywood once”—and going away, coming back to Trudi’s.... Nearby, an emaciated man with devouring deep-buried eyes is pretending to read the titles on the jukebox, but it’s obvious that he is fascinatedly studying Tiger’s tattoos—and Tiger, noticing this, glances at him with huge undisguised contempt, which sends the emaciated man into an ecstasy of sick smiles. Now the queens at the table are wondering aloud who the score buying the juice is digging: the queens or otherwise, and which one. And which does it turn out hes digging? The queens. And which one? Darling Dolly Dane. And when this became known, by means of the “waitress,” Darling Dolly skips over to him, perches on the stool next to him at the bar, and says, “Another tall cool Coca-Cola please, honey, and make it straight.” Miss Destiny sighed, “Well, lordee, Tara is saved tonight.” Immediately Skipper had a plan to clip the score, and Trudi says philosophically, “Dont get nervous, youll shake the beads”—(the beads being life—fate—chance—anything)—“and besides, Darling Dolly saw him first.” Miss Destiny says theyre all Too Much. Suddenly shes becoming depressed—and the obvious reason is that the score who it turned out dug queens didnt dig her. “Oh, Im really depressed now!” Miss Destiny said. Someone had mentioned that Pauline had just walked in. I looked, and theres Pauline—a heavily painted queen who thinks she looks like Sophia Loren—with a collar like the wicked queen’s in Snow White. Miss Destiny said icily: “Pauline... is a lowlife... prostitute.” Trudi: “A cheap whore.” Lola, in her husky man’s voice and glowering nearsightedly: “A slut.” Trudi: “A common streetwalker.” Lola: “A chippy.” Miss Destiny—conclusively, viciously: “A cocksucker! ” Chuck gagged on his beer. “She ain got nothin on you, Destinee!”

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Oh dear John,’ she said, ‘my true love. I wish that I could keep all these things secret, but alas -’ She brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘I cannot stand the sight of him. He is the worst husband in the world. Yet, since I am his wife, I am not supposed to reveal the secrets of our marriage. Or of our marriage bed. God forbid I should do so. I am bound to honour and obey him.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But I have to tell you this. He isn’t worth as much as a fly. And what upsets me more than anything is his stinginess. You know well enough that a woman wants six things. I am no different. She wants a husband to be healthy and wise, wealthy and generous; she wants him to be obedient to his wife, and good in bed. Just those six things. Is that too much to ask? Yet, by Christ who shed His precious blood for our salvation, I have to find one hundred francs by next Sunday. Why? To pay for my new gowns. And I only bought them to bring credit on him! I would rather die than be shamed in public for bad debts. If my husband finds out about it, he will kill me anyway. So please, John, can you lend me the money? Otherwise, I am ruined. If I can borrow the hundred francs from you, I will be forever thankful to you. I will pay you back, of course, on a stated day, but I will also do whatever else you require of me. Anything at all. If I am untrue to my word, take any vengeance you wish. Tear me apart with horses. Burn me alive.’ The monk was very courteous in his reply. ‘I have so much pity for you, gentle lady, that I here plight my word to you. I swear that, when your husband has gone to Bruges, I will solve your problem. I will bring you the hundred francs.’ Saying that he fondled her thighs and buttocks, embraced her, and kissed her a hundred times. ‘Go upon your way,’ he said, ‘quietly and discreetly. Let us dine soon. I see from this sundial that it is past nine o’clock in the morning. So go now. Be as faithful to me as I am true to you.’ ‘Of course. God forbid that I should behave in any other way.’ So she sets off as merry as a magpie, and instructs the cooks to prepare a good meal for the master and his guest. Then she went off to see her husband, and knocked boldly on the door of the counting house. ‘Who is it?’

• From The Case for God (2009)

  The declaration of the Second Republic in France in 1848 led to widespread hopes that something similar could be achieved in Germany, and there were calls for constitutional rule. Hoping that this agitation would spread to the rest of Europe, Karl Marx (1818–83) published his Communist Manifesto, but a year later it was clear that the revolutionary movement had failed. Marx took it for granted that God did not exist, so he did not bother to justify his atheism philosophically; his sole aim was to alleviate human misery. Born into a middle-class Jewish family at Trier, Marx had studied with Hegel in Berlin, where he had met some of the most controversial theologians of the day. Failing to get an academic post in Germany, he worked as a journalist in Paris until he was expelled for his political activities and settled in London, where he began work on Das Kapital, his monumental analysis of capitalism. While Feuerbach’s analysis was quite sound, Marx conceded, it did not go far enough. The time for theory was past. “The philosophers have only interpreted the world,” he insisted emphatically; “the point, however, is to change it.”22 Instead of meditating on Hegel’s dialectic, a committed revolutionary must make it happen; he must bring the underlying contradictions of capitalist society into the open, thus accelerating the emergence of the forces that would negate them. Of course God was a projection of human needs—that went without saying—but these needs were created by material and social factors that conditioned the way people thought and lived. The injustice of capitalism had produced a God that was simply a consoling illusion: Religious distress is at the same time an expression of real distress and a protest against real distress. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, just as it is the spirit of a spiritless situation. It is the opium of the people.23 When men and women were no longer reduced by an oppressive system to a “debased, enslaved, abandoned, despicable essence,” the idea of God would simply wither away.24 Atheism was not an abstract theory but a project. It was a program that was essential to the well-being of humanity: “The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is required for their real happiness.”25

• From City of Night (1963)

  At a turn in the road, the car almost swerved into the trees. Lance sat up: “Have—a—baaall!” he laughed. “Crash the fuckin car!—lets go up in flames!—aim for Heaven!—get there with a Wham!” Green scenery rushing toward us, retreating. Vast blue of the sky like shifting panels.... “Im drunk,” Lance said. “You too?... Here—if we drink more, we’ll be on the way back—cold sober again.... There....” Crack of wood! Green shrubbery trembles. The car has stopped. I leaned on the wheel, surrendering to the dizzy carousel of green. Dots of sun needled my eyes as the leaves shifted dazedly about us. Lance staggered out. “Great to be Drunk!” he says, making his way down the hill. “Great, great! Everyone should be drunk—all the time—right?... Whole fuckin world on one great big endless: Durrrunk!” I pushed against the door, against the bushes. Tall trees sheltered us from the sun. At the foot of the hill, some water, very blue and clear like the sky, winds serenely along the trees. I knelt, throwing water on my face, trying to stop the green merry-go-round whirling about me. And in one wild instant Lance was hugging me to him, sobbing urgently. “Dean—dont—go—away—” “Im not Dean,” I kept repeating. But he didnt hear me. “Dean—” he was sobbing, holding me tightly. The scenery stopped spinning now and collapsed, came crashing over us—the trees burst, shattered. Again, once, the sun pierced the leaves in a myriad of light—pinpoints bursting in the water shimmering. And Lance’s arms squeezed me tightly—and he whispered over and over: “Dean...” I felt my hand in the water, my one contact with reality. I let my fingers dangle in the spring.... And the scenery which had closed in on us green, blackened, and... the... pinpoints... of... the... shattered... sun... are... closing. I awoke and the sun slashed through the trees blindingly at my eyes. Beside me, Lance’s head almost touched the spring. I pulled him away, threw water on his face, and he opened his eyes abruptly, stared at me, surprised, trying to remember. And then he turned from me and began to sob. I walked back to the car and waited, and finally Lance returned. “Who are you?” he asks me. “I just met you—early this morning.” He was silent “You asked me to take your car.” “I remember—something like that.” His eyes stared ahead in the dreadful limbo of after-drunkenness and near-hangover. “Where are we?” he asked. “Near Arrowhead—I think.” He still avoided looking at me. “I remember now—I saw you in some bar. I mistook you for Dean. I dont know what I was doing looking for him in the bars—hes not even old enough to get in.” “I was drunk too,” I said, to ease his obvious embarrassment As I drove his car down the mountain, he became friendlier, his embarrassment relaxing. “I dont remember everything,” he said, “but whatever happened—if something was wrong—Im sorry. I cant drink,” he explained.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Strangely, illogically—like a shadowy movie cut indiscriminately without logical order, I remember living next to the Y in Los Angeles, where I sunbathed on the roof of that apartment building, and by signals from the residents of the Y, I would meet them later on the street.... I remember Griffith Park—the hill where you could make it hidden by trees.... I remember the police, the many roustings, finger-printings, interrogations: the cops, the rival gang—the enemy: the world.... Laguna Beach, the sand drifting into the bar. Lance... poised on a cliff.... And I remember a Texas sky .... I remember a party where three of us turned on with marijuana in the locked head, and I remember the indiscriminate partners, later, outside in the yard.... Remembering a man on the Boulevard who picked me up, who paid me to tell him what the others I had been with had done; and as he listened, he tried to conceal the fact that he was pulling off.... That sky recalled from a childhood in gray, gray shades.... I remember a steambath and the naked bodies pacing hungrily along the hallways, the sudden entrances and exits into the tiny cubicles; and, in the phosphorescent grayness, like nameless bodies in a morgue.... I think of St Louis Cemetery in this city, the stark graves above the Waiting ground.... And the wind had swept that sky, coming in a steelgray cloud.... I think of the beach in Chicago, deserted except for the maleshadows hugging the cold walls. And I remember the FASCINATION sign in New York.... In Dallas—remembering—the doors of rooms left open at the Y and the steamy intimacy in the showers.... I imagine Miss Destiny storming heaven, protesting to God, shaking her beads.... Remembering Sylvia, I think: And she slaughtered her son and he slaughtered her because they each had to.... And I remember: Out of that Window during that windstorm which is now howling again in my mind, I watched a tree bend with the wind .... Something searched, its fulfillment hinted by the fact that the heart craves it—but not to be found. Not found. And the heart weakens and resists even hope.... Twas the night before Ash Wednesday and All Through The City—... I remembered someone in San Francisco who had followed me and someone else to an apartment, and later I looked out the window and saw the man who had followed us still waiting, looking up forlornly to where we were, his hands in his pockets.... Finally, the wind had lashed furiously at the tree, tearing off the branches, which had hinted of spring.... And the dust rose, coming from the orange horizon, settling on my mind . Dregs of memories churn. Remembering.... This:

• From City of Night (1963)

  “ I pissed on them!” His voice quavered, broke, halted. He turned his face away from me. His shoulders trembled as if in a sudden cold wind. “So you see: power and strength—” he began weakly without finishing. I sat next to him, where he had sunk onto the bed. But is there anything you can say now to Neil? It’s too late. It’s too late. Through the open door of the bathroom I see a water-soaked bag on the floor. CITY OF NIGHT CHICAGO! (San Francisco... the fog... the mourning wind... the discovered violence, hatred.... I fled California. San Francisco, which had lured me spuriously with its promise of renewed life, had withdraw that promise.) Now it will be Chicago—that savage city like a black fortress erected against the blue of the sky, the blue of the lake. And what have I come here to search for? Something not yet clearly defined which has to do with the antithesis of Neil’s world. And I’ll search again through the labyrinthine world I had found on Times Square, in downtown Los Angeles, Hollywood, Market Street... I stayed in an apartment house on Dearborn next to the YMCA.... And nearby was the beach. And nearby is the hustling park. On the beach (which is not so much a beach as a loop of sanded concrete along the lake—to get to which you walk through a subway tunnel—lights slanted on one side of the wall flashing like interrogation lights in your eyes—and you emerge, somehow guiltily, and see, through cracks in the cement, weeds and patches of grass struggling to emerge for one last breath of the expiring-summer air), I will meet a series of new faces which will be added to the hundreds that have already paraded through my life. Near-autumn afternoons spent there waiting to be picked up. (Behind me, the outline of the wealthy Gold Coast: luxurious apartments glistening goldenly in the sun—resembling, for all their plush elegance, clean hospital wards: rows of giant apartment buildings like monsters ready to march snobbishly into the lake, their backs haughtily to the rest of the city as they huddle—healthy and muscular but still somehow afraid—close to each other as if for protection.) Sometimes, at night, I’ll return there. Ghostly waves will seek out life, dashing against the shore (while teenagers swim bravely in the cold water, men fish, couples make love, tramps sleep along the expanse of cement ground).... And I wandered along the beach, idly, until someone spoke to me. But, mostly—at night in that city—I will search the park between Dearborn and Clark: Chicago’s Pershing Square, without the almost-healthy indolence of Los Angeles. This park where in the afternoons the city’s old and young vagrants serve their novitiate before the derelict jungles of the city.... They gather drearily here in bunches, frantic in the awareness that soon the weather will turn cold. I watch and listen and join in.

• From City of Night (1963)

  When I had first seen him at the Splendide, the subdued light had chosen mercifully to bless him—and I had seen the youngman who had reigned securely. Now, in the glare of the summer sun, there was little mercy. I see the crushed Lance O’Hara of the now-fading legend: tall, yes—slender; but his face, bloated from drinking and sleepless nights, had the look of alarm which only the faces of the once very beautiful and anarchically disdainful, on the brink of relinquishing their claim to that anarchy, can have: The skin was yellowish in the bright light, lines converged under the eyes forming small sagging sacks; his dark hair was matted at the forehead with perspiration. But the haunted eyes looking at me, a clear blue that melted almost indistinguishably into the white, are what I notice most: They are the astonished eyes of someone who after years of wearing sunglasses is forced suddenly to remove them in the savage stare of the sun.... “Lets—drive—somewhere,” he said. “Anywhere—nowhere—sooooooooommmmmmmmmewhere—over the rainbow!” Laughing chokingly, he swerves sideways on the seat—“Ooops!”—retrieves a bottle of whiskey which had rolled under the seat and drank thirstily from it. I started the car, moving toward the Strip on Sunset. As if on its own, the car speeds past the California palmtrees, silent witnesses to speeding life, fleeting Youth. Lance opens his eyes suddenly wide, seeing me, I thought, really for the first time. “You dont even look like him,” he said. “Not at all, really. I followed you out When I saw you leave—leave the bar, I thought—I thought you were—Dean.... Hey! Lets make it: A Party—havent had—party in—oh, long, long—... I wanna get realleeee drunk!” He held the bottle to me and I drank from it. His panic was infectious. Im aware of Flight now, acutely—of Lance’s, mine. “Wowee,” he said, “youre drunk too—thats it—wowee!” We were on the Freeway now, cars racing before us, toward us, next to us. The world, everyone on the Freeway, is spinning in wide swirls... Away!... “Bumpity-bump,” said Lance, drinking again from the bottle, handing it to me. “More I drink, more you look like him. Dont care who you are—so—long—as—you—driiiive. Oops! Liquor hit—my head! Bumpity-bump. Hey! Lets ballt...” Then he was silent, eyes closed. “You dont know—Dean—do you?” he asked me abruptly. “Havent seen him—since—whee—...” holding the bottle for me again. “Dean,” he said furrily, and again he seemed to pass out. Now my vision became fantastically clear—which is that stage preparatory to my becoming drunk, when each object becomes sharply real. The traffic had thinned, and we were moving past many-colored fruitstands strung along the highway like a gypsy caravan. Now we’re in the mountains, here lushly green, there brown-patched, leprous—past, occasionally, areas of burned-down trees: Dead. The road winds treacherously in a series of tight S’s—the sky is blue and clear: a cool inverted inaccessible lake.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  If we didn’t chase the light, did people like us just end up here anyway? If Claire had never left her marriage, where would she be now? She said that she was depressed during her marriage and ended up here once before. And that was before she began her odyssey of love and sex. If you were just going to end up here, regardless of what you did, it seemed worth it to really push things like she did. The nothingness was going to eat you alive anyway. It was going to be mashed potatoes at the end no matter what. So why not just grab for whatever you could get? — “Well, I’ve really mucked it up this time,” said Claire. “I’m back in group therapy now, only here with a pack of sad arses who are completely catatonic—which is maybe actually better.” She laughed. It was good to see her sense of humor back. Her hair was still greasy, piled on top of her head, but the circles under her eyes had diminished and there was a glint in her eyes again. “You seem better,” I said. “Like you’re not just staring at the wall.” “Yes, with my last suicide attempt I woke up completely miffed that I was still alive. But this one was oddly refreshing. Maybe I just needed some sort of sorbet—a life palate cleanser.” My God, I loved her. “I get it,” I said. “I mean, not really, because mine wasn’t really a consciously active attempt.” “No, yours was more of a gesture.” “Exactly, a gesture. I’m not the suicide pro that you are. But I think I understand.” “Love, if I were a pro I wouldn’t be here.” “Right,” I said. “But I mean I’m not as, like, experienced with suicide or whatever. Like it’s not as much a part of my oeuvre. I’m more—I don’t know what I am actually. But I know what you mean by a palate cleanser. Sometimes everything is just so bleh that you need to fucking cut it with a knife.” I was trying to ask her in a roundabout way if it was worth it. We felt the same nothingness, of that I was sure. But I wanted to see if she knew if we were going to be okay or not. Or, at least, if I was. I was asking life advice, couched in the language of suicide, from a friend in a mental hospital. This was the direction my life had taken. “So are you glad about everything? Like, everything that led you up to this point where you feel okay, maybe even good about being alive? Are you glad for that trajectory of your life?” “Yeah,” she said. “I feel strangely good about everything.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Even in the camps, some of the inmates continued to study the Torah and to observe the festivals, not in the hope of placating an angry deity but because they found, by experience, that these rituals helped them to endure the horror. One day a group of Jews decided to put God on trial. In the face of such inconceivable suffering, they found the conventional arguments utterly unconvincing. If God was omnipotent, he could have prevented the Shoah; if he could not stop it, he was impotent; and if he could have stopped it but chose not to, he was a monster. They condemned God to death. The presiding rabbi pronounced the verdict, then went on calmly to announce that it was time for the evening prayer. Ideas about God come and go, but prayer, the struggle to find meaning even in the darkest circumstances, must continue. The idea of God is merely a symbol of indescribable transcendence and has been interpreted in many different ways over the centuries. The modern God—conceived as powerful creator, first cause, supernatural personality realistically understood and rationally demonstrable —is a recent phenomenon. It was born in a more optimistic era than our own and reflects the firm expectation that scientific rationality could bring the apparently inexplicable aspects of life under the control of reason. This God was indeed, as Feuerbach suggested, a projection of humanity at a time when human beings were achieving unprecedented control over their environment and thought they were about to solve the mysteries of the universe. But many feel that the hopes of the Enlightenment also died in Auschwitz. The people who devised the camps had imbibed the classical nineteenth-century atheistic ethos that commanded them to think of themselves as the only absolute; by making an idol of their nation, they felt compelled to destroy those they viewed as enemies. Today we have a more modest conception of the powers of human reason. We have seen too much evil in recent years to indulge in a facile theology that says—as some have tried to say—that God knows what he is doing, that he has a secret plan that we cannot fathom, or that suffering gives men and women the opportunity to practice heroic virtue. A modern theology must look unflinchingly into the heart of a great darkness and be prepared, perhaps, to enter into the cloud of unknowing. After the Second World War, philosophers and theologians all struggled with the idea of God, seeking to rescue it from the literalism that had made it incredible. In doing so, they often revived older, premodern ways of thinking and speaking about the divine. In his later years, Wittgenstein changed his mind. He no longer believed that language should merely state facts but acknowledged that words also issued commands, made promises, and expressed emotion.

• From City of Night (1963)

  And West Madison stretches in shabby tatters for blocks of leprous buildings. Networks of fire escapes cling to the crumbling walls like tenacious steel spiderwebs. Intertwined among the transient hotels and the harsh yellow-lighted bars are the missions. Each presents its scrubbed face to the stained desperate faces of the doomed tramps, waiting for the sermon and whatever else theyll get. I pursued those streets as if hunting ghosts. In one mission, a deacon-type athletic man, radiating health, shouts: “I got a friend in Jesus!”—while an old tramp, doubled over in a wrecked heap, experiences a religious (drunken-hungry) fit, howling: “Lord, Lord, Lord!” Men outside pace the fetid street funereally, sleep under parked cars, trucks. I see a man roll onto the street, groaning, while the parade of wined-up zombies passes, ignoring him. Others stand like displaced sentinels; dismal mask-faces hanging lifeless outside of doorways. Shadows huddle, drinking. From the street, I looked up into the apartment buildings, into the naked windows of the tiny cubicle-rooms. More haggard faces peering blankly; skinny, maimed bodies of uncaring women in slips; men without shirts. All have the same look: the look of nolonger-questioning, resigned doom. The world on its knees.... A beat-up old man before me chases a wine bottle along its course into the gutter. He yells at it: “Go on, damya—into the gutter whereya belong. I aint gonna touchya no more.” Instantly, three men jump out of the shadows to retrieve the bottle. Discovering it empty, one smashes it on the filthy street. I see the terrible cheated eyes. Other ghosts to pursue through the bandaged jungles. Beyond the tangle of the elevated, to State Street: carnival street: Tattoo joints; novelty shops (horror masks leering among rubber cobra snakes, masks less hideous than the human ones along the Madison doorways); arcades (“Parisian Movies,” “Chauffeur Photos,” “Art Films”). Tough girls shoot pool. Sailors stand on corners. Burlesque bars coax you with NO COVER NO MINIMUM. The Gayety Burlesque is featuring Teddy Bare and Borden’s Ice Cream. A tall gaunt man hands me a pamphlet. ARE YOU BORN AGAIN? And I followed the ghosts into the burlesque theater. Blondes! redheads! brunettes!—lips liver-colored in the changing light; shouting Ah-haaaaa like cowboys; hands edging toward the hypnotic spot between the legs, resting there caressingly; hips momentarily magnetized, suddenly released, swinging sex around; kneeling.... Fingers teasingly exploring the breasts, playfully pinching them, coyly affecting looks of mock pain.... G-strings like phosphorescent badges etched across the thighs; spread legs radiating their unfulfilled invitation; breasts like searchlights, completely uncovered; apocalyptically revealed pink-crowned nipples, presented cupped in white hands like an offering to the hungry audience; breasts bouncing playfully, jiggling temptingly like white-jelly.... Night Train from the jungle of exhibitionistic sex.... Hands at the back, naked breasts pointing Heavenward; tensed stomachs forming a tight “8”; legs arched open; fingers sliding into G-strings; thighs thrust out groaningly simulating orgasm. Hungry unfulfilled eyes in the male audience, focused on the promised but unattainable.... Pursuing ghosts through Negro streets....

• From City of Night (1963)

  And a priest who sounded very young answered, and he didnt hang up and he was the one I had tried to reach, I knew, and he spoke to me and spoke—and I can remember only one thing he said—and the rest doesnt matter because all I had wanted was to hear a voice from a childhood in the wind.... And what I do remember that priest saying is merely this: “I know,” he said. “Yes, I know.” And I returned to El Paso. Here, by another window, I’ll look back on the world and I’ll try to understand.... But, perhaps, mysteriously, it’s all beyond reasons. Perhaps it’s as futile as trying to capture the wind. And it’s windy here now. No matter how you close the windows or pull the curtains or try to hide from it or shelter yourself from it, it’s there. It’s impossible to escape the Wind. You can still hear it shrieking. You always know it’s there. Waiting. And I know it will wait patiently for me, ineluctably, when inevitably I’ll leave this city again. And what has been found? Nothing. A circle which winds around, without beginning, without end. The clouds are storming angrily across the orange-gray sky. They rush at each other as if to battle. You know how it is in Texas each year before spring. One moment theres the stunning awareness that soon spring is coming, with the yellow-green clusters of leaves budding on the skeleton trees, hinting of a potential revival—soon, soon. And the next moment the fierce wind comes screaming, whirling the needle-pointed dust, stifling all hope. And you know then that what has not happened will never happen. That hope is an end within itself. And the fierce wind is an echo of angry childhood and of a very scared boy looking out the window—remembering my dead dog outside by the wounded house as the gray Texas dust gradually covered her up—and thinking: It isnt fair! Why cant dogs go to Heaven?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  telling the truth. Now that I have saved his life, the time has come.’ She turned to face him. ‘Now, sir knight, I ask that you marry me without delay. I wish to be your wife.’ He looked at her in horror. ‘Oh my God! Is that it? How can I? I admit that I did swear an oath to you. But for God’s sake ask for something else. Take all my money. Anything. But don’t take my body.’ ‘No way. I will not betray myself, or you. I may be foul and old and poor, but I don’t want your money. I would not part with you for all the gold in the world. I only want your love.’ ‘My love? No. My ruin. My despair. I am to be degraded and disgraced.’ He complained in vain. It was determined that he must marry this old woman. He was also obliged to go to bed with her. I wish that I could tell you all about the happy festivities and the joyful ceremonies that accompanied the union. But I can’t. There were none. There were no speeches of congratulation, no toasts, no wedding cake. There were, instead, expressions of sorrow and pity. He married her secretly the next morning, and then hid himself from the light of day like an owl. He could not look at her, ugly and dirty as she was. When eventually he got into bed with his new wife, he was disgusted and ashamed; he turned and twisted beneath the sheets, while she just lay there with a smile on her face. ‘Oh husband dear,’ she said. ‘Bless me! Is this the way that knights treat their new brides? Is this the household law of King Arthur? Is everyone of your rank so shy? I am the love of your life, your own wife. I am the woman who saved you. I have never done you any harm. I know that much. So why are you behaving like this on our first night together? You are writhing like a madman. What is my crime? Tell me, for God’s sake. If I can amend it, I will do so.’ ‘Amend it? I don’t think so. There is nothing you can do about it. You are old. You are ugly. You come from such low stock that it is little wonder that I twist and turn. My lineage is besmirched! I wish to God that my heart would break!’ ‘Is that the only reason for your distress?’ ‘Only! What do you think?’ ‘Well, sir, I think I can cure it. I think I may do you a service, in a day or two if necessary. If you showed me a little bit more consideration, I might help you out. But please don’t go on about your high rank. You get your lineage from old money. That is all. It isn’t worth a damn. It is sheer conceit. You should be more concerned with human virtue.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Once more he began to cry out loud. ‘Oh cruel gods that govern this world, binding it with your eternal decrees inscribed on sheets of adamantine steel, what is humankind to you? Do men mean more to you than the sheep that cower in the fold? Men must die, too, like any beast of the field. Men also dwell in confinement and restraint. Men suffer great sickness and adversity, even when they are guilty of no sin. What glory can there be for you in treating humankind so ungenerously? What is the good of your foreknowledge, if it only torments the innocent and punishes the just? What is the purpose of your providence? One other matter, too, outrages me. Men must perform their duty and, for the sake of the gods, refrain from indulging their desires. They must uphold certain principles, for the salvation of their souls, whereas the silly sheep goes into the darkness of non-being. No beast suffers pain in the hereafter. But after death we all may still weep and wail, even though our life on earth was also one of suffering. Is this just? Is this commendable? I suppose I must leave the answer to theologians, but I know this for a fact. The world is full of grief. I have seen a serpent sting an unwary traveller and then glide away. I have seen the thief murder his prey, and then wander forth unchecked and unharmed. But I must linger here in prison. Truly the gods, in their jealous rage against my race, have all but destroyed my family and razed the walls of Thebes. Now Venus herself has decided to slay me, too, by poisoning me with jealousy for Arcite. Where can I turn?’ I will now leave Palamon in his sad plight for a moment, and tell you what has been happening to Arcite. The summer has passed, and the long nights have merely increased the duration of his pain. In truth I do not know who has endured the most suffering, the freed lover or the prisoner. Let me summarize their situation. Here is Palamon. He is condemned to perpetual imprisonment, consigned to chains and shackles until the day of his death. Here is Arcite. On pain of death by beheading he is exiled from the territory of Athens, forever excluded from the sight of fair Emily. I will ask you lovers the question. Who is worse off? One of them can glimpse his gracious lady, day by day, but will never be able to approach her. The other is as free as air, able to journey wherever he wishes, but he will never see Emily again. Consider it. Judge the matter as best you can. Put the two characters before you, as if they were upon a gaming board. Meanwhile I will carry on with the story, just to see what happens next. PART TWO

• From The Case for God (2009)

  But to blame the entire catastrophe on religion is simply—and perhaps even dangerously—inaccurate. Far from being in conflict with the rational pursuit of well-organized, goal-oriented modernity, the hideous efficiency of the Nazis was a supreme example of it. Rulers had long initiated policies of ethnic cleansing when setting up their modern, centralized states. In order to use all the human resources at their disposal and to maintain productivity, governments had found it necessary to bring out-groups such as the Jews into the mainstream, but the events of the 1930s and 1940s showed that this tolerance was merely superficial and the old bigotry still lurked beneath. To carry out their program of genocide, the Nazis relied on the technology of the industrial age: the railways, the advanced chemical industry, and rationalized bureaucracy and management. The camp replicated the factory, the hallmark of industrial society, but what it mass-produced was death. Science itself was implicated in the eugenic experiments carried out there. The modern idolatry of nationalism had so idealized the German volk that there was no place for the Jews: born of the new “scientific” racism, the Holocaust was the ultimate in social engineering in what has been called the modern “garden culture,” which simply eliminated weeds—the supreme, perverted example of rational planning in which everything is subordinated to a single, clearly defined objective.38 Perhaps the Holocaust was not so much an expression as a perversion of Judeo-Christian values.39 As atheists had been eager to point out, the symbol of God had marked the limit of human potential. At the heart of the Nazi ideology was a romantic yearning for a pre-Christian German paganism that they had never properly understood, and a negation of the God who, as Nietzsche had suggested, put a brake on ambition and instinctual “pagan” freedom. The extermination of the people who had created the God of the Bible was a symbolic enactment of the death of God that Nietzsche had proclaimed.40 Or perhaps the real cause of the Holocaust was the ambiguous afterlife of religious feeling in Western culture and the malignant energies released by the decay of the religious forms that had channeled them into more benign, productive outlets.41 In Christian theology, hell had traditionally been defined as the absence of God, and the camps uncannily reproduced the traditional symbolism of the inferno: the flaying, racking, whipping, screaming, and mocking; the distorted bodies; the flames and stinking air all evoked the imagery of hell depicted by the artists, poets, and dramatists of Europe.42 Auschwitz was a dark epiphany, providing us with a terrible vision of what life is like when all sense of the sacred is lost and the human being—whoever he or she may be—is no longer revered as an inviolable mystery.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  There was a paradox in the Enlightenment.27 Philosophers insisted that individuals must reason for themselves, and yet they were only permitted to think in accordance with the scientific method. Other more intuitive ways of arriving at different kinds of truth were now belittled in a manner that would prove highly problematic for religion. Again, revolutionary leaders in France and America preached the doctrine of untrammeled liberty with immense passion and enthusiasm, but their doctrine of nature was rigorously mechanical: the motion and organization of every single component of the universe was completely determined by the interaction of its particles and the iron rule of nature’s law. In England, Newton’s cosmology would be used to endorse a social system in which the “lower” orders were governed by the “higher,” while in France, Louis XIV, the Sun King, presided over a court in which his courtiers revolved obsequiously around him, each in his allotted orbit. Central to this political vision and Newtonian science was the doctrine of the passivity of matter, which needed to be activated and controlled by a higher power. People who challenged this orthodoxy were associated with radical movements and often found themselves in bad odor with the establishment.28 In rather the same way as Spinoza, John Toland believed that God was identical with nature and that matter was, therefore, not inert but vital and dynamic: he died in abject poverty. Locke thought it possible that some material substances might be able to “think” and perform rational procedures. He had a radical past: because he was involved in the turbulence preceding the Glorious Revolution of 1688, he had been forced to flee to Holland, where he lived in exile for six years as “Mr. van der Linden.” The Presbyterian minister and chemist Joseph Priestley (1733–1804), who remained an outsider all his life—educated in Daventry instead of Oxford and exercising his ministry in the provinces—argued that Newtonian theory was not in fact dependent upon the inertia of matter. When he spoke in support of the French Revolution in 1789, a Birmingham mob burned his house to the ground and he migrated to America.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  They have created religions and works of art to help them find value in their lives, despite all the dispiriting evidence to the contrary. The initiation experience also shows that a myth, like that of the Animal Master, derives much of its meaning from the ritualized context in which it is imparted. 21 It may not be empirically true, it may defy the laws of logic, but a good myth will tell us something valuable about the human predicament. Like any work of art, a myth will make no sense unless we open ourselves to it wholeheartedly and allow it to change us. If we hold ourselves aloof, it will remain opaque, incomprehensible, and even ridiculous. Religion is hard work. Its insights are not self-evident and have to be cultivated in the same way as an appreciation of art, music, or poetry must be developed. The intense effort required is especially evident in the underground labyrinth of Trois Frères at Ariège in the Pyrenees. Doctor Herbert Kuhn, who visited the site in 1926, twelve years after its discovery, described the frightening experience of crawling through the tunnel—scarcely a foot high in some places— that leads to the heart of this magnificent Palaeolithic sanctuary. “I felt as though I were creeping through a coffin,” he recalled. “My heart is pounding and it is difficult to breathe. It is terrible to have the roof so close to one’s head.” He could hear the other members of his party groaning as they struggled through the darkness, and when they finally arrived in the vast underground hall, it felt “like a redemption.” 22 They found themselves gazing at a wall covered in spectacular engravings: mammoths, bison, wild horses, wolverines, and musk oxen; darts flying everywhere; blood spurting from the mouths of the bears; and a human figure clad in animal skin playing a flute. Dominating the scene was a large painted figure, half man, half beast, who fixed his huge, penetrating eyes on the visitors. Was this the Animal Master? Or did this hybrid creature symbolize the underlying unity of animal and human, natural and divine? A boy would not be expected to “believe” in the Animal Master before he entered the caves. But at the culmination of his ordeal, this image would have made a powerful impression; for hours he had, perhaps, fought his way through nearly a mile of convoluted passages to the accompaniment of “songs, cries, noises or mysterious objects thrown from no one knows where,” special effects that would have been “easy to arrange in such a place.” 23 In archaic thinking, there is no concept of the supernatural, no huge gulf separating human and divine. If a priest donned the sacred regalia of an animal pelt to impersonate the Animal Master, he became a temporary manifestation of that divine power. 24 These rituals were not the expression of a “belief” that had to be accepted in blind faith.

• From City of Night (1963)

  I close my eyes. I try to sleep. But I cant. Because when I close my eyes, that recurrent nightmare I had had as a very little boy comes again: And Im being crushed by wooden stones, over which theres a thin, flimsy veil. I try to push them away. But even when I open my eyes, the stones keep crushing me, the veil melting like wax over my face. Finally it was gone. Sleep is coming—not that slow entering into a state of momentary beinglessness. No. It was as if for a long, long time I struggle to open an enormous black door—beyond which I shut myself at last in sleep. Wide awake suddenly, I opened my eyes. I saw three cockroaches crawling on my arm. And in the flickering light of the movie, I looked down on a man squatting before me on the floor, his hungry hot hands on my thighs, his moist lips glued to the opening of my pants. The first church I telephoned was St Patrick’s. “I cant see you,” said the priest, “not until morning, we’re closed now.” And he hung up. I called St Louis Cathedral. “I cant see you—of course not—I get these calls all the time.” A third one—and I said hurriedly: “Dont hang up, Father. Ive got to talk to someone!” And he listened only a few moments. “You must be drunk,” he said angrily, and he hung up. And I called The Church of Eternal Succor, and I called other churches—and they all said: “No.” “Go to sleep.” “Come tomorrow to the confessional.” (Where life doesnt roar so loudly—in whispers, it can be listened to....) “Some time else.” “When we are open.” One even said: “God bless you,” before he hung up. And I was experiencing that only Death, which is the symbolic death of the soul. It’s the death of the soul, not of the body—it’s that which creates ghosts, and in those moments I felt myself becoming a ghost, drained of all that makes this journey to achieve some kind of salvation bearable under the universal sentence of death. And the body becomes cold because the heart and the soul, about to give up, are screaming for sustenance—from any source, even a remote voice on a telephone—and they drain the body in order to support themselves for that one last moment before the horror comes stifling out that already-dying spark. And I was thinking that although there is no God, never was a God, and never will be One—considering the world He made, it is possible to understand Him—or that part of Him that had forbidden Knowing, because—Christ!—at that moment I longed for innocence more than for anything else, and I would have thrown away all the frantic knowing for a return to a state of Grace—which is only the state of, idiot-like, Not Knowing. I called one more church. St Vincent de Paul.