Disappointment

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 Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I opened the window and called my mother. The large vegetable garden was bright in the strong summer sunlight. Rows of tomatoes and eggplants lifted their parched leaves toward the sun, defiantly, sharply. The sun kept pouring its scorching rays thickly over the strong-veined leaves. As far as the eye could reach the dark abundance of vegetable life was crushed beneath the brilliance that fell upon the garden. Beyond the garden there was a grove of trees around a shrine that turned its face gloomily in my direction. And beyond that there was low land, across which electric trains passed unseen from time to time, filling the countryside with vibrations. After each heedless passage of an upthrust trolley pole the cable was left swaying lazily, flashing in the sunlight. In response to my call a large straw hat with a blue-ribbon streamer rose from the middle of the vegetable garden. It was my mother. The straw hat my uncle was wearing—he was my mother's elder brother—remained motionless, bent over like a drooping sunflower, without once turning in my direction. With her present way of life my mother's complexion had become somewhat tanned and I could see the flash of her white teeth as she moved toward me. When she was close enough to be heard, she called out to me in a high-pitched childlike voice: "What is it? If you want to tell me something, come out here." "It's something important. You come here a minute." My mother approached slowly, as though protesting. She was carrying a basket heaped with ripe tomatoes. Reaching the house, she put the basket on the window sill and asked what I wanted. I did not show her the letter, but told her briefly what it said. As I was speaking I forgot why I had called her; it may have been that I was chattering on simply to convince myself. I told her that whoever became my wile would certainly have a hard time living in the same house with my nervous and fussy father, and yet there was no hope of having a separate house in such times as these. Moreover, there would probably be all the difference in the world between the ways of our old-fashioned family and what I described as Sonoko's vivacious, easygoing family. And as for me, I didn't want the worry of taking on the responsibility of a wife so soon. . . . I gave all these various trite objections with a cool air, hoping my mother would agree and obstinately oppose any thought of my marrying. But she was as calm and indulgent as ever. "That's a funny way to talk," she broke in, as though giving little thought to the matter. "So then, how do you really feel? Do you love her, or don't you?" "Of course, I also—well--" I mumbled. "But I was not so serious as all that. I only meant it half in fun.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  The sound of her high voice, always a blend of sadness and indolence, was most appropriate to the season. For a time we again carried on a meaningless, endlessly revolving, insincere conversation. At times it seemed nothing but a great skidding through empty air. It gave us a feeling that we were overhearing a conversation being carried on by two strangers. It was a feeling like that felt at the borderline between sleeping and waking, when one's impatient efforts to go back to sleep without awakening from a happy dream only make the recapture of the dream all the more impossible. I discovered how our hearts, as though infected with some malignant virus, were being eaten away by the uneasy awakening that was brazenly intruding upon our dream, by the futile pleasure of our dream seen at the threshold of consciousness. As though at a signal previously agreed upon, the disease had attacked both our hearts almost simultaneously. We reacted with a show of gaiety. As though each of us feared what the other might say at any moment, we capped joke upon joke. Even though her sun tan introduced a tiny note of discord, there beneath her fashionable upswept coiffure the same tranquillity as always was overflowing from her softly moist eyes, her youthful eyebrows, her slightly heavyish lips. Whenever other women passed our table they always noticed Sonoko. A waiter was moving about the room, carrying a silver tray on which iced desserts were arranged on a large block of ice carved in the shape of a swan. Sonoko was softly jingling the clasp of her plastic handbag, and a ring glittered on her finger. "Are you bored with this?" I asked. "Don't say that." Her tone of voice sounded full of a weariness that was somehow strange. It could even have been called charming. She had turned her head and was looking out the window at the summer street. When she spoke again her words came slowly: "Sometimes I become confused. I wonder why we're meeting like this. And yet in the end I always meet you again." "Probably because at least it's not a meaningless minus. Even if it certainly is a meaningless plus." "But I have something called a husband, remember. Even if the plus is meaningless, there oughtn't to be room for any plus at all.""It's tiresome arithmetic, isn't it?" I perceived that Sonoko had finally arrived at the doorway to doubt. She had begun to feel that the door that opened only halfway could not be left as it was.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Now it came to pass that one of Bluebeard’s neighbors was a widow who had two grown daughters. Upon visiting his property in that region, Bluebeard noticed the daughters, and shortly thereafter he revealed to the widow his desire to marry one of them, leaving the choice of which to the daughters themselves. But the widow’s daughters, upon hearing of Bluebeard’s offer, passed him back and forth between them, as neither one could bear the thought of having such a frightful-looking husband with so uncertain a past. In this way they put him off repeatedly until at last Bluebeard, in an effort to win the affection of one or the other, invited them to be his guests in one of his castles far away. This they readily agreed to, as they were curious to know how Bluebeard lived, and to see if the rumors about his exceptional wealth and eccentricities were true. So it was that the widow and her two daughters, along with a large party of their closest friends, came to stay in Bluebeard’s castle. They all remained as his guests for an entire month, which flew by in such a flurry of parties, fine dining and other types of merriment that no one wanted to leave, least of all the widow’s two daughters. In fact, the visit went so well that the older of the two sisters began to think that Bluebeard was not quite so fearsome to behold, and even that his beard was not so very blue. A short time later Bluebeard and the widow’s oldest daughter were married. And in spite of the rumors about him, his new bride found Bluebeard to be a loving and attentive husband who spared no expense in giving her everything she desired; she settled happily into her new life with him. But as everyone who has ever been married knows, there is much one doesn’t learn about their spouse until long after the wedding day and well into the marriage. Bluebeard’s wife discovered this one day, as her husband prepared to leave for an extended trip that would detain him for no less than a week on a business matter requiring his immediate attention. His wife was disappointed that her husband was going away so soon after their wedding, but Bluebeard kindly suggested that she amuse herself during his absence by throwing parties and filling the castle with guests. He handed her a large ring with many keys attached, giving her access to all of the rooms in his castle and his belongings therein, so that she might have any single thing her heart desired.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Further. If God took human nature in order to save mankind, it would seem proper that His divine nature should have been made clear to men by adequate signs. Now this apparently was not the case, since other men, by God’s power alone, and without God being united to their nature, worked miracles like those that Christ worked, and even greater. Therefore God’s Incarnation seemingly did not provide sufficiently for man’s salvation. Again. If it was necessary for man’s salvation, that God should take flesh; seemingly He ought to have taken human nature at the very beginning of the world, and not towards the end of time, seeing that there have been men since the world’s beginning: for it would seem that the salvation of all previous men was neglected. Further. For the same reason He ought to have continued to dwell with men until the end of the world, so as to teach and guide men by His presence. Moreover. It is most profitable to man that His hope of future bliss should have a strong foundation. Now God incarnate would have inspired man with this hope much more, had He taken an immortal, impassible, and glorious flesh, and shown it to all men. Therefore, seemingly, it was unfitting that He took a body subject to death and infirmities. Moreover. It would seem proper that He should have enjoyed an abundance of worldly possessions, and have lived in the midst of wealth and the highest honours in order to show that all the things in the world come from God. Nevertheless we are told that the contrary was the case, that He lived the life of a poor and humble man, and suffered a shameful death. Therefore, the teaching of faith concerning God incarnate would seem to be unbecoming. Further. By suffering humiliations He hid His divinity very considerably, and yet it was most necessary that men should acknowledge His Godhead, if He was God incarnate. Therefore the teaching of faith is, seemingly, out of keeping with the salvation of mankind. Someone might reply that the Son of God suffered death out of obedience to His Father; but this does not seem reasonable. Obedience consists in conforming oneself to the will of one who commands. Now the will of God the Father cannot be unreasonable. Consequently, if it was not becoming for God made man to die, since death is seemingly incompatible with the divinity that is life itself, His death is not sufficiently explained by saying that He died out of obedience to the Father. Again. God’s will is not inclined to the death of men, even of sinners, but rather that they should live, according to Ezech. 33:11, I desire not the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way, and live. Much less, therefore, could it be God’s will that the most perfect man should die.

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  For a moment she was frozen, with her carefully lipsticked mouth open wide, and then she made the catch. The keys were nestled among their brethren. The sound of keys seemed to follow. Dot frowned. The Sawyers said nothing. This giddy feeling evaporated almost immediately. In the foyer, surrounded by couples he hadn’t met, couples giggling nervously or ribaldly about the storm, the bowl, the party, their good luck, in the foyer, Hood ran into George Clair. From the office. Benjamin was on his way to the bar to get another drink, though he felt already that words were dissolving on his tongue, that the beginnings of WASP pronunciation were upon him—people always felt it was an ethnic thing. Then Clair appeared, in his bow tie and navy blue blazer. Elena was vanishing deep into the pantry of the Halfords’ house and Benjamin could feel himself stretch out toward her, to apologize again, but Clair was in his way. A faint fecal odor perfumed George always. The house of Shackley and Schwimmer had been at one time the most maverick and creative of the brokerage operations on the street. This was circa the Summer of Love. Though Hood hadn’t sampled the psychedelic cafeteria of that time, he often felt that he had come close—as close as those subordinates who smoked joints and finger-painted at Trinity Church at lunchtimes, who knew the unemployed musicians who played there, who could read the hidden messages in rock-and-roll album sleeves. Even Shackley and Schwimmer themselves had been known to turn up at Trinity now and then. They also went to parties to benefit the Black Panther Defense Fund. They opposed the Vietnam conflict. They were fellow travelers. Shackley and Schwimmer were Harvard-educated men who wore beards and studied like the Orthodox of their faith, though they were as secular as most of their Protestant counterparts. Sometimes they eschewed ties entirely or wore beat-up tweed jackets that must have been left over from their school days. Sometimes they ate at delicatessens and brought sandwiches back for the girls at the switchboard. What did they have going for them? They were smarter then everyone else. Shackley and Schwimmer’s reputation rested on this simple arrogance. Prior to S&S, the world of brokerage had been a world of congeniality and fraternity. Guys who had gone to the same boarding schools and who belonged to the same country clubs or squash clubs doing business with one another. This fraternity was no guarantee of business acumen. Shackley and Schwimmer confronted old- boy business with academic disdain and with statistics—debt, assets, amortization, dividends, quarterly earnings figures. A little analysis, a few hot tips. The old brokerage houses weren’t prepared for it, and they didn’t like it. About this time Shackley himself devised an advertising campaign, perfected by one of the expensive Madison Avenue advertising firms, in which individual members of the Shackley and Schwimmer team were introduced in full-page advertisements.

• From Post Office (1971)

  17 After three years I made “regular.” That meant holiday pay (subs didn’t get paid for holidays) and a 40-hour week with two days off. The Stone was also forced to assign me as relief man to five different routes. That’s all I had to carry —five different routes. In time, I would learn the cases well plus the shortcuts and traps on each route. Each day would be easier. I could begin to cultivate that comfortable look. Somehow, I was not too happy. I was not a man to deliberately seek pain, the job was still difficult enough, but somehow it lacked the old glamour of my sub days—the not-knowing-what-the-hell was going to happen next. A few of the regulars came around and shook my hand. “Congratulations,” they said. “Yeh,” I said. Congratulations for what? I hadn’t done anything. Now I was a member of the club. I was one of the boys. I could be there for years, eventually bid for my own route. Get Xmas presents from my people. And when I phoned in sick, they would say to some poor bastard sub, “Where’s the regular man today? You’re late. The regular man is never late.” So there I was. Then a bulletin came out that no caps or equipment were to be placed on top of the carrier’s case. Most of the boys put their caps up there. It didn’t hurt anything and saved a trip to the locker room. Now after three years of putting my cap up there I was ordered not to do so. Well, I was still coming in hungover and I didn’t have things like caps on my mind. So my cap was up there, the day after the order came out. The Stone came running with his write-up. It said that it was against rules and regulations to have any equipment on top of the case. I put the write-up in my pocket and went on sticking letters. The Stone sat swiveled in his chair, watching me. All the other carriers had put their caps in their lockers. Except me and one other—one Marty. And The Stone had gone up to Marty and said, “Now, Marty, you read the order. Your cap isn’t supposed to be on top of the case.”

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  […] the once-beloved glass slippers had of late become dreadfully uncomfortable. Cinderella’s feet had suffered from the rigid confines of the glass, and she could scarcely endure the pain it caused her to venture from one room to the next, let alone to go outside the castle. Any desire to roam or explore was quickly squelched by the horror of the piercing pain she would have to endure to get there. The prince had also become a source of displeasure to Cinderella, who felt as confined in her husband’s castle as her poor feet felt in the glass slippers. […] the attentions that her husband bestowed upon her had seemed flattering in the beginning, but in retrospect they appeared to have very little to do with her. His desires and appetites were shocking in their frequency and strength, […] Her initial instinct and aspiration to satisfy her husband had eventually come to feel more like a task.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  STEPHEN rested her head on her hand as she sat at her desk = it was well past midnight. She was heartsick as only a writer can be whose day has been spent in useless labour. All that she had written that day she would destroy, and now it was well past midnight. She turned, looking wearily round the study, and it came upon her with a slight sense of shock that she was seeing this room for the very first time, and that everything in it was ab- normally ugly. The flat had been furnished when her mind had been too much afflicted to care in the least what she bought, and 266 THE WELL OF LONELINESS now all her possessions seemed clumsy or puerile, from the small, foolish chairs to the large, roll-top desk; there was nothing personal about any of them. How had she endured this room for so long? Had she really written a fine book in it? Had she sat in it evening after evening and come back to it morning after morn- ing? Then she must have been blind indeed — what a place for any author to work in! She had taken nothing with her from Morton but the hidden books found in her father’s study; these she had taken, as though in a way they were hers by some in- tolerable birthright; for the rest she had shrunk from depriving the house of its ancient and honoured possessions.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Pietro, who had thitherto watched everything intently, seeing this last proceeding and himseeming it was ill done, said, 'Ho there, Dom Gianni, I won't have a tail there, I won't have a tail there!' The radical moisture, wherewith all plants are made fast, was by this come, and Dom Gianni drew it forth, saying, 'Alack, gossip Pietro, what hast thou done? Did I not bid thee say not a word for aught that thou shouldst see? The mare was all made; but thou hast marred everything by talking, nor is there any means of doing it over again henceforth.' Quoth Pietro, 'Marry, I did not want that tail there. Why did you not say to me, "Make it thou"? More by token that you were for setting it too low.' 'Because,' answered Dom Gianni, 'thou hadst not known for the first time to set it on so well as I.' The young woman, hearing all this, stood up and said to her husband, in all good faith, 'Dolt that thou art, why hast thou marred thine affairs and mine? What mare sawest thou ever without a tail? So God aid me, thou art poor, but it would serve thee right, wert thou much poorer.' Then, there being now, by reason of the words that Pietro had spoken, no longer any means of making a mare of the young woman, she donned her clothes, woebegone and disconsolate, and Pietro, continuing to ply his old trade with an ass, as he was used, betook himself, in company with Dom Gianni, to the Bitonto fair, nor ever again required him of such a service." * * * * *

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But after a little he and Anna must get talking, amusing themselves irrespective of Stephen, inventing absurd little games, ` like two children, which games did not always include the real child. Stephen would sit there silently watching, but her heart would be a prey to the strangest emotions — emotions that seven- years-old could not cope with, and for which it could find no 34 THE WELL OF LONELINESS adequate names. All she would know was that seeing her parents together in this mood, would fill her with longings for some- thing that she wanted yet could not define — a something that would make her as happy as they were. And this something would always be mixed up with Morton, with grave, stately rooms like her father’s study, with wide views from windows that let in much sunshine, and the scents of a spacious garden. Her mind would go groping about for a reason, and would find no reason — unless it were Collins — but Collins would refuse to fit into these pictures; even love must admit that she did not belong there any more than the brushes and buckets and slop- cloths belonged in that dignified study. Presently Stephen must go off to her tea, leaving the two grown-up children together; secretly divining that neither of them would miss her — not even her father. Arrived in the nursery she would probably be cross, because her heart felt very empty and tearful; or because, having looked at herself in the glass, she had decided that she loathed her abun- dant long hair. Snatching at a slice of thick bread and butter, she would upset the milk jug, or break a new tea-cup, or smear the front of her dress with her fingers, to the fury of Mrs. Bing- ham. If she spoke at such times it was usually to threaten: ‘I shall cut all my hair off, you see if I don’t!’ or, ‘I Aate this white dress and I’m going to burn it — it makes me feel idiotic!’ But once launched she would dig up the grievances of months, going back to the time of the would-be young Nelson, loudly com- plaining that being a girl spoilt everything — even Nelson. The rest of the evening would be spent in grumbling, because one does grumble when one is unhappy — at least one does grumble when one is seven — later on it may seem rather useless. At last the hour of the bath would arrive, and still grumbling, Stephen must submit to Mrs. Bingham, fidgeting under the nurse’s rough fingers like a dog in the hands of a trimmer. There she would stand pretending to shiver, a strong little figure, narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; her flanks as wiry and thin as a greyhound’s and even more ceaselessly restless. THE WELL OF LONELINESS 35 ‘God doesn’t use soap!’ she might suddenly remark.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Surely there is some arrangement whereby, before one knows it, the pictures in a picture book can be changed into "the next instant." . . . But one day my sicknurse happened to open the book to that page. While I was stealing a quick sideways glance at it, she said: "Does little master know this picture's story?" "No, I don't." "This looks like a man, but it's a woman. Honestly. Her name was Joan of Arc. The story is that she went to war wearing a man's clothes and served her country." "A woman . . .?" I felt as though I had been knocked flat. The person I had thought a he was a she. If this beautiful knight was a woman and not a man, what was there left? (Even. today I feel a repugnance, deep rooted and hard to explain, toward women in male attire.) This was the first "revenge by reality" that I had met in life, and it seemed a cruel one, particularly upon the sweet fantasies I had cherished concerning his death. From that day on I turned my back on that picture book. I would never so much as take it in my hands again. Years later I was to discover a glorification of the death of a beautiful knight in a verse by Oscar Wilde: Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed. . . . In his novel Là-Bas, Huysmans discusses the character of Gilles de Rais, bodyguard to Joan of Arc by royal command of Charles VII, saying that even though soon to be perverted to "the most sophisticated of cruelties, the most exquisite of crimes," the original impulse for his mysticism came from seeing with his own eyes all manner of miraculous deeds performed by Joan of Arc. Although she had a contrary effect upon me, arousing in me a feeling of repugnance, in my case also the Maid of Orleans played an important role. . . . Yet another memory : It is the odor of sweat, an odor that drove me onward, awakened my longings, overpowered me. . . . Pricking up my ears, I hear a crunching sound, muffled and very faint, seeming to menace. Once in a while a bugle joins in. A simple and strangely plaintive sound of singing approaches. Tugging at a maid's hand, I urge her to hurry hurry, wild to be standing at the gate, clasped in her arms. It was the troops passing our gate as they returned from drill.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Thus the volunteers with their schools, sanitation work and medical relief gained the confidence and respect of the village folk, and were able to bring good influence to bear upon them. But I must confess with regret that my hope of putting this constructive work on a permanent footing was not fulfilled. The volunteers had come for temporary periods, I could not secure any more from outside, and permanent honorary workers from Bihar were not available. As soon as my work in Champaran was finished, work outside, which had been preparing in the meantime, drew me away. The few months’ work in Champaran, however, took such deep root that its influence in one form or another is to be observed there even today. 145WHEN A GOVERNOR IS GOODWhilst on the one hand social service work of the kind I have described in the foregoing chapters was being carried out, on the other the work of recording statements of the ryots’ grievances was progressing apace. Thousands of such statements were taken, and they could not but have their effect. The ever growing number of ryots coming to make their statements increased the planters’ wrath, and they moved heaven and earth to counteract my inquiry. One day I received a letter from the Bihar Government to the following effect: ‘Your inquiry had been sufficiently prolonged; should you not now bring it to an end and leave Bihar?’ The letter was couched in polite language, but its meaning was obvious. I wrote in reply that the inquiry was bound to be prolonged, and unless and until it resulted in bringing relief to the people, I had no intention of leaving Bihar, I pointed out that it was open to Government to terminate my inquiry by accepting the ryots’ grievances as genuine and redressing them, or by recognizing that the ryots had made out a #prima facie# case for an offical inquiry which should be immediately instituted. Sir Edward Gait, the Lieutenant Governor, asked me to see him, expressed his willingness to appoint an inquiry and invited me to be a member of the Committee. I ascertained the names of the other members, and after consultation with my co-workers agreed to serve on the Committee, on condition that I should be free to confer with my co- workers during the progress of the inquiry, that Government should recognize that, by being a member of the Committee, I did not cease to be the ryots’ advocate, and that in case the result of the inquiry failed to give me satisfaction, I should be free to guide and advise the ryots as to what line of action they should take. Sir Edward Gait accepted the condition as just and proper and announced the inquiry. The late Sir Frank Sly was appointed Chairman of the Commitee.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  True friendship is an identity of souls rarely to be found in this world. Only between like natures can friendship be altogether worthy and enduring. Friends react on one another. Hence in friendship there is very little scope for reform. I am of opinion that all exclusive intimacies are to be avoided; for man takes in vice far more readily than virtue. And he who would be friends with God must remain alone, or make the whole world his friend. I may be wrong, but my effort to cultivate an intimate friendship proved a failure. A wave of ‘reform’ was sweeping over Rajkot at the time when I first came across this friend. He informed me that many of our teachers were secretly taking meat and wine. He also named many well-known people of Rajkot as belonging to the same company. There were also, I was told, some high-school boys among them. I was surprised and pained. I asked my friend the reason and he explained it thus: ‘We are a weak people because we do not eat meat. The English are able to rule over us, because they are meat-eaters. You know how hardy I am, and how great a runner too. It is because I am a meat- eater. Meat-eaters do not have boils or tumours, and even if they sometimes happen to have any, these heal quickly. Our teachers and other distinguished people who eat meat are no fools. They know its virtues. You should do likewise. There is nothing like trying. Try, and see what strength it gives.’ All these pleas on behalf of meat-eating were not advanced at a single sitting. They represent the substance of a long and elaborate argument which my friend was trying to impress upon me from time to time. My elder brother had already fallen. He therefore supported my friend’s argument. I certainly looked feeble-bodied by the side of my brother and this friend. They were both hardier, physically stronger, and more daring. This friend’s exploits cast a spell over me. He could run long distances and extraordinarily fast. He was an adept in high and long jumping. He could put up with any amount of corporal punishment. He would often display his exploits to me and, as one is always dazzled when he sees in others the qualities that he lacks himself, I was dazzled by this friend’s exploits. This was followed by a strong desire to be like him. I could hardly jump or run. Why should not I also be as strong as he? Moreover, I was a coward. I used to be haunted by the fear of thieves, ghosts, and serpents. I did not dare to stir out of doors at night. Darkness was a terror to me. It was almost impossible for me to sleep in the dark, as I would imagine ghosts coming from one direction, thieves from another and serpents from a third.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  He had to suffer inconveniences on many occasions entirely on account of me. We had to break the journey on the way, as one of the days happened to be a Sunday, and Mr. Baker and his party would not travel on the sabbath. Though the manager of the station hotel agreed to take me in after much altercation, he absolutely refused to admit me to the dining- room. Mr. Baker was not the man to give way easily. He stood by the rights of the guests of a hotel. But I could see his difficulty. At Wellington also I stayed with Mr. Baker. In spite of his best efforts to conceal the little inconveniences that he was put to, I could see them all. This Convention was an assemblage of devout Christians. I was delighted at their faith. I met the Rev. Murray. I saw that many were praying for me. I liked some of their hymns, they were very sweet. The Convention lasted for three days. I could understand and appreciate the devoutness of those who attended it. But I saw no reason for changing my belief my religion. It was impossible for me to believe that I could go to heaven or attain salvation only by becoming a Christian. When I frankly said so to some of the good Christian friends, they were shocked. But there was no help for it. My difficulties lay deeper. It was more than I could believe that Jesus was the only incarnate son of God, and that only he who believed in him would have everlasting life. If God could have sons, all of us were His sons. If Jesus was like God, or God Himself, then all men were like God and could be God Himself. My reason was not ready to believe literally that Jesus by his death and by his blood redeemed the sins of the world. Metaphorically there might be some truth in it. Again, according to Christianity only human beings had souls, and not other living beings, for whom death meant complete extinction; while I held a contrary belief. I could accept Jesus as a martyr, an embodiment of sacrifice, and a divine teacher, but not as the most perfect man ever born. His death on the Cross was a great example to the world, but that there was anything like a mysterious or miraculous virtue in it my heart could not accept. The pious lives of Christians did not give me anything that the lives of men of other faiths had failed to give. I had seen in other lives just the same reformation that I had heard of among Christian principles. From the point of view of sacrifice, it seemed to me that the Hindus greatly surpassed the Christians. It was impossible for me to regard Christianity as a perfect religion or the greatest of all religions.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  So this stranger is my Beast, I thought, amazed. I examined his face and saw that he was indeed a handsome prince. I could not account for the disappointment I felt and besides, I had never seen my Beast happier than he was on that day. We married. And now I must end my tale, as it is late and time to prepare for my husband, the prince. He comes to my bedchamber now and, as always, I shall be ready for him when he gets here. But I shall not search his eyes for that savage glow. Or listen for that deafening roar. I stopped looking for those things years ago. BluebeardThere once lived a wealthy gentleman who had acquired property throughout several kingdoms. He traveled extensively from one to the next, never staying for any length of time in any one place, so that no one knew just where he resided or what he did and with whom. Because of this, there was much curiosity and speculation about the man. This circumstance was further aggravated by an irregularity in the man’s aspect that seemed to confirm his apparent eccentricity, for he was so unfortunate as to have a beard that was blue. His mysterious lifestyle combined with his peculiar appearance tipped the scales of favor against him just enough that he became, perhaps unjustly, regarded as a man of disreputable character. His surname was abandoned and forgotten, and he was known simply as Bluebeard. The mysterious life of Bluebeard was a regular topic of conversation among the neighbors of his various mansions, castles and estates, and, with each story that was told of him, his reputation became more and more scandalous. It was, in fact, widely believed that Bluebeard owned his many properties for the sole purpose of housing numerous wives. And when those wives failed to materialize, it was further decided that they must have met with some unfortunate disaster. Who these women were or what exactly it was that happened to them, no one could say for sure. Nevertheless, the ladies shrank back in fear whenever Bluebeard approached.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  There were people staying in the house, among them Clifford's Aunt Eva, Lady Bennerley. She was a thin woman of sixty, with a red nose, a widow, and still something of a "grande dame." She belonged to one of the best families, and had the character to carry it off. Connie liked her, she was so perfectly simple and frank, as far as she intended to be frank, and superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in holding her own, and holding other people a little lower. She was not at all a snob: far too sure of herself. She was perfect at the social sport of coolly holding her own, and making other people defer to her. She was kind to Connie, and tried to worm into her woman's soul with the sharp gimlet of her well-born observations. "You're quite wonderful, in my opinion," she said to Connie. "You've done wonders for Clifford. I never saw any budding genius myself, and there he is all the rage."--Aunt Eva was quite complacently proud of Clifford's success. Another feather in the family cap! She didn't care a straw about his books, but why should she? "Oh, I don't think it's my doing," said Connie. "It must be! Can't be anybody else's. And it seems to me you don't get enough out of it." "How?" "Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If that child rebels one day you'll have yourself to thank!" "But Clifford never denies me anything," said Connie. "Look here, my dear child,"--and Lady Bennerley laid her thin hand on Connie's arm. "A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it. Believe me!" And she took another sip of brandy, which maybe was her form of repentance. "But I do live my life, don't I?" "Not in my idea! Clifford should bring you to London, and let you go about. His sort of friends are all right for him, but what are they for you? If I were you I should think it wasn't good enough. You'll let your youth slip by, and you'll spend your old age, and your middle age too, repenting it." Her ladyship lapsed into contemplative silence, soothed by the brandy. But Connie was not keen on going to London, and being steered into the smart world by Lady Bennerley. She didn't feel really smart, it wasn't interesting. And she did feel the peculiar, withering coldness under it all; like the soil of Labrador, which has gay little flowers on its surface, and a foot down is frozen. Tommy Dukes was at Wragby, and another man, Harry Winterslow, and Jack Strangeways with his wife Olive. The talk was much more desultory than when only the cronies were there, and everybody was a bit bored, for the weather was bad, and there was only billiards, and the pianola to dance to.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  We must have it out with the Commanding Officer, otherwise we shall not be able to go on any longer. The Indian students and others who have joined our Corps are not going to abide by any absurd orders. In a cause which has been taken up for the sake of self-respect, it is unthinkable to put up with loss of it.’ I approached the Commanding Officer and drew his attention to the complaints I had received. He wrote asking me to set out the complaints in writing, at the same time asking me ‘to impress upon those who complain that the proper direction in which to make complaints is to me through their section commanders, now appointed, who will inform me through the instructors.’ To this I replied saying that I claimed no authority, that in the military sense I was no more than any other private, but that I had believed that as Chairman of the Volunteer Corps, I should be allowed unofficially to act as their representative. I also set out the grievances and requests that had been brought to my notice, namely, that grievous dissatisfaction had been caused by the appointment of section leaders without reference to the feeling of the members of the Corps; that they be recalled, and the Corps be invited to elect section leaders, subject to the Commander’s approval. This did not appeal to the Commanding Officer, who said it was repugnant to all military discipline that the section leaders should be elected by the Corps, and that the recall of appointments already made would be subversive of all discipline. So we held a meeting and decided upon withdrawal. I brought home tothe members the serious consequences of Satyagraha. But a very large majority voted for the resolution, which was to the effect that, unless the appointments of Corporals already made were recalled and the members of the Corps given an opportunity of electing their own Corporals, the members would be obliged to abstain from further drilling and week-end camping. I then addressed a letter to the Commanding Officer telling him what a severe disappointment his letter rejecting my suggestion had been. I assured him that I was most anxious to serve. I also drew his attention to a precedent. I pointed out that, although I occupied no official rank in the South African Indian Ambulance Corps at the time of the Boer War, there was never a hitch between Colonel Gallwey and the Corps, and the Colonel never took a step without reference to me with a view to ascertain the wishes of the Corps. I also enclosed a copy of the resolution we had passed the previous evening. This had no good effect on the Officer, who felt that the meeting and the resolution were a grave breach of discipline. Hereupon I addressed a letter to the Secretary of State for India, acquainting him with all the facts and enclosing a copy of the resolution.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  The Viceroy seemed to be listening spell- bound, his eyes riveted on Shastriji as the latter poured forth the hot stream of his eloquence. For the moment it seemed to me as if the Viceroy could not but be deeply moved by it, it was so true and so full of feeling. But you can wake a man only if he is really asleep; no effort that you may make will produce any effect upon him if he is merely pretending sleep. That was precisely the Government\’s position. It was anxious only to go through the farce of legal formality. Its decision had already been made. Shastriji’s solemn warning was, therefore, entirely lost upon the Government. In these circumstances mine could only be a cry in the wilderness. I earnestly pleaded with the Viceroy. I addressed him private letters as also public letters, in the course of which I clearly told him that the Government’s action left me no other course except to resort to Sayagraha. But it was all in vain. The Bill had not yet been gazetted as an Act. I was in a very weak condition, but when I received an invitation from Madras I decided to take the risk of the long journey. I could not at that time sufficiently raise my voice at meetings. The incapacity to address meetings standing still abides. My entire frame would shake, and heavy throbbing would start on an attempt to speak standing for any length of time. I have ever felt at home in the south. Thanks to my South African work I felt I had some sort of special right over the Tamils and Telugus and the good people of the south have never belied my belief. The invitation had come over the signature of the late Sjt. Kasturi Ranga Iyengar. But the man behind the invitation, as I subsequently learnt on my way to Madras, was Rajagopalachari. This might be said to be my first acquaintance with him; at any rate this was the first time that we came to know each other personally. Rajaagopalachari had then only recently left Salem to settle down for legal practice in Madras at the pressing invitation of friends like the late Sjt. Kasturi Ranga Iyengar, and that with a view to taking a more active part in public life. It was with him that we had put up in Madras. This discovery I made only after we had stayed with him for a couple of days. For, since the bungalow that we were staying in belonged to Sjt. Kasturi Ranga Iyengar. I was under the impression that we were his guests. Mahadev Desai, however, corrected me. He very soon formed a close acquaintance with Rajagopalachari, who, from his innate shyness, kept himself constantly in the background. But Mahadev put me on my guard. ‘you should cultivate this man’ he said to me one day. And so I did.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  He had made a careful study of the question, and he often invited me to his office and gave me guidance. Sjt. G. Subrahmaniam of The Hindu and Dr. Subrahmaniam also were very sympathetic. But Sjt. G. Parameshvaran Pillay placed the columns of The Madras Standard entirely at my disposal, and I freely availed myself of the offer. The meeting in Pachaiappa’s Hall, so far as I can recollect, was with Dr. Subrahmaniam in the chair. The affection showered on me by most of the friends I met and their enthusiasm for the cause were so great that, in spite of my having to communicate with them in English, I felt myself entirely at home. What barrier is there that love cannot break? 56RETURN SOONFrom Madras I proceeded to Calcutta where I found myself hemmed by difficulties. I knew no one there, so I took a room in the Great Eastern Hotel. Here I became acquainted with Mr. Ellerthorpe, a representative of The Daily Telegraph. He invited me to the Bengal Club, where he was staying. He did not then realize that an Indian could not be taken to the drawing-room of the club. Having discovered the restriction, he took me to his room. He expressed his sorrow regarding this prejudice of the local Englishmen and apologized to me for not having been able to take me to the drawing-room. I had of course to see Surendranath Banerji, the ‘Idol of Bengal’. When I met him, he was surrounded by a number of friends. He said: ‘I am afraid people will not take interest in your work. As you know, our difficulties here are by no means few. But you must try as best you can. You will have to enlist the sympathy of Maharajas. Mind, you meet the representatives of the British Indian Association. You should meet Raja Sir Pyarimohan Mukarji and Maharaja Tagore. Both are liberal- minded and take a fair share in public work.’ I met these gentlemen, but without success. Both gave me a cold reception in Calcutta, and if anything could be done, it would practically all depend on Surendranath Banerji. I saw that my task was becoming more and more difficult. I called at the office of the Amrita Bazar Patrika. The gentleman whom I met there took me to be a wandering jew. The Bangabasi went even one better. The editor kept me waiting for an hour. He had evidently many interviewers, but he would not so much as look at me, even when he had disposed of the rest. On my venturing to broach my subject after the long wait, he said: ‘Don’t you see our hands are full? There is no end to the number of visitors like you. You had better go. I am not disposed to listen to you.’ For a moment I felt offended, but I quickly understood the editor’s position. I had heard of the fame of The Bangabasi.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  There had been no welcome home for the young squire, no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower. Only a dank ride in a motorcar up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees, out to the slope of the park where grey damp sheep were feeding, to the knoll where the house spread its dark brown façade, and the housekeeper and her husband were hovering, like unsure tenants on the face of the earth, ready to stammer a welcome. There was no communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village, none. No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The colliers merely stared; the tradesmen lifted their caps to Connie as to an acquaintance, and nodded awkwardly to Clifford; that was all. Gulf impassable, and a quiet sort of resentment on either side. At first Connie suffered from the steady drizzle of resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps non-existent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial North gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity. Yet the village sympathised with Clifford and Connie in the abstract. In the flesh it was--You leave me alone!--on either side. The rector was a nice man of about sixty, full of his duty, and reduced, personally, almost to a nonentity by the silent--You leave me alone!--of the village. The miners' wives were nearly all Methodists. The miners were nothing. But even so much official uniform as the clergyman wore was enough to obscure entirely the fact that he was a man like any other man. No, he was Mester Ashby, a sort of automatic preaching and praying concern. This stubborn, instinctive--We think ourselves as good as you, if you _are_ Lady Chatterley!--puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of--Oh dear me! I _am_ somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as her for all that!--which she always heard twanging in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.