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.

Page 107 of 189 · 20 per page

• From Post Office (1971)

  I didn’t know if he were trying to con me or not, but since I was that far ahead of them I slowed down a little more. 13At 3:30 a.m. my 12 hours were up. At that time they did not pay the subs time and one half for overtime. You just got straight time. And you hired in as a “temporary indefinite substitute clerk.” I set the alarm so that I would be at the art store at 8 a.m. “What happened, Hank? We thought maybe you had been in an auto accident. We kept waiting for you to come back.” “I’m quitting.” “Quitting?” “Yes, you can’t blame a man for wanting to better himself. “ I walked into the office and got my check. I was back in the post office again. 14Meanwhile, there was still Joyce, and her geraniums, and a couple of million if I could hang on. Joyce and the flies and the geraniums. I worked the night shift, 12 hours, and she pawed me during the day, trying to get me to perform. I’d be asleep and I’d awaken with this hand stroking me. Then I’d have to do it. The poor dear was mad. Then I came in one morning and she said, “Hank, don’t be mad.” I was too tired to be mad. “What izzit, baby?” “I got us a dog. A little pup dog.” “O.K. That’s nice. There’s nothing wrong with dogs. Where is he?” “He’s in the kitchen. I named him ‘Picasso.’” I walked in and looked at the dog. He couldn’t see. Hair covered his eyes. I watched him walk. Then I picked him up and looked at his eyes. Poor Picasso! “Baby, you know what you’ve gone and done?” “You don’t like him?” “I didn’t say I didn’t like him. But he’s a subnormal. He has an I.Q. of about 12. You’ve gone out and gotten us an idiot of a dog.” “How can you tell?” “I can tell just by looking at him.” Just then Picasso started to piss. Picasso was full of piss. It ran in long yellow fat rivulets along the kitchen floor. Then Picasso finished, ran and looked at it. I picked him up. “Mop it up.” So Picasso was just one more problem. I’d awaken after a 12-hour night with Joyce strumming me under the geraniums and I’d say, “Where’s Picasso?” “Oh god damn Picasso!” she’d say. I’d get out of bed, naked, with this big thing in front of me. “Look, you’ve left him out in the yard again! I told you not to leave him out in the yard in the daytime!” Then I’d go out into the backyard, naked, too tired to dress. It was fairly well sheltered. And there would be poor Picasso, overrun with 500 flies, flies crawling all over him in circles. I’d run out with the thing (going down then) and curse those flies.

• 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)

  Doesn’t Miss Stephen look exactly like a boy? I believe she must be a boy with them shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she’s got on her!’ And Stephen would say gravely: ‘Yes, of course I’m a boy. I’m young Nelson, and I’m saying: “What is fear?” you know, Collins—I must be a boy, ’cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson in the picture upstairs.’ Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen had gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: ‘She is a queer kid, always dressing herself up and play-acting—it’s funny.’ But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: ‘I don’t hold with such nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen’s quite different from other young ladies—she’s got none of their pretty little ways—it’s a pity!’ There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky when Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. ‘Now, don’t bother me, Miss, I’ve got my work to see to!’ or: ‘You go and show Nurse—yes, I know you’re a boy, but I’ve got my work to get on with. Run away.’ And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so dearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets too, and these were forbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed her, because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be some one quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In a quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised the idiotic creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas and birthday. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ she would mutter thumping their innocuous faces. But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she seemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. ‘It’s me housemaid’s knee,’ she confided to Stephen, ‘It’s not you, it’s me housemaid’s knee, dearie.’ ‘Is that dangerous?’ demanded the child, looking frightened. Then Collins, true to her class, said: ‘It may be—it may mean an ’orrible operation, and I don’t want no operation.’ ‘What’s that?’ inquired Stephen. ‘Why, they’d cut me,’ moaned Collins; ‘they’d ’ave to cut me to let out the water.’ ‘Oh, Collins! What water?’ ‘The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, Miss Stephen.’ They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where Collins was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and delicious occasions when Stephen could converse with her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a letter.

• 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 The Ice Storm (1994)

  The men tossed their house keys into a convenient container—or hung them on pegs or spread them like a buffet on the front table or on the master bed—and the women, at evening’s end, selected a set at random. And then the party retired to taste novelty. Sometimes the men looked on as the women selected—leering, suggestive, hopeful, disappointed, or despairing; sometimes the women wore blindfolds fashioned from metaphorically rich garments, black silk stockings, for example; sometimes, the proceedings took place with a joyless resolve, as if the participants were merely plugged into a circuitry of compulsion. In New Canaan, word had come of the key parties long before the first had been thrown. Local marriages awaited key parties the way a smart boy, already having pored over the dictionary definition of masturbation, awaits the day when he will understand it. The first one, thrown by some younger, unhappier residents over in the West School district, on Ponus Ridge, was viewed publicly with contempt but privately with much interest. And this contradictory posturing became the rule. At the Armitage party, held in the summer of 1972, partners at competing law firms bedded one another’s wives, and women who were best of friends compared notes on the prowess and endowment of local men. The ramifications of these first parties took some time to emerge. Love had woven its tapestry, and the Armitages, the Sawyers, the Steeles, the Boyles, the Gormans, the Jacobsens, the Hamiltons, the Gadds, the Earles, the Fullers, the Buckleys, the Regans, not to mention the Bolands, the Conrads, the Millers, and others, had followed its complex thread. But the revelations of this inquiry weren’t so surprising. No one returned with tales of dark new terrains—anal sex or urolagnia or masochism or coprophagy; in fact, the Armitage’s couples coupled in the way they always had. But they walked with a new jauntiness. For a day or two. Their hearts twittered with novelty. Then silence took hold of the participants. Whispers, that fall, at cocktail parties or on the paddle-tennis courts, spoke of unsubstantiated liaisons between those whose night of passion was intended to be singular, unique, unrepeatable. Annie Buckley told Maria Smith who told Maura O’Brien who told her husband, Phil O’Brien, the urologist, who told Steve Buckley in the very midst of percussing Buckley’s enlarged prostate, who told his wife, Annie, who knew already. And as this information circulated—according to statistical order and disorder, according to summation, transition, and reciprocal induction—it became painful, injurious. It became compulsive. You couldn’t avoid talking about it and yet you did nonetheless. Just as the key parties themselves persisted. How could Benjamin and Elena have been so stupid? They ought to have known.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Sitting down she groped for her manuscript: ‘I’m going to turn you out now, I must work. Don’t wait for me if I’m late for dinner.’ Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study. CHAPTER 29 1 S oon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen’s second novel was published. It failed to create the sensation that the first had created, there was something disappointing about it. One critic described this as: ‘A lack of grip,’ and his criticism, on the whole, was a fair one. However, the Press was disposed to be kind, remembering the merits of The Furrow. But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and is seldom responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said: ‘Never mind, Stephen, you can’t expect every book to be The Furrow—and this one is full of literary merit,’ Stephen replied as she turned away: ‘I was writing a novel, my dear, not an essay.’ After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the use of fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew also that this book fell far short of its author’s powers. Then suddenly, that spring, Raftery went very lame, and everything else was forgotten. Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in him was not easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him sorely, he had missed the light, airy stables of Morton, and the cruel-hard bed that lay under the tan of the Row had jarred his legs badly. The vet shook his head and looked very grave: ‘He’s an aged horse, you know, and of course in his youth you hunted him pretty freely—it all counts. Every one comes to the end of their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at times I’m afraid it is painful.’ Then seeing Stephen’s face: ‘I’m awfully sorry not to give a more cheerful diagnosis.’ Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted, including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always the same, and at times, they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; but this she well knew—she had seen the sweat break out darkly on Raftery’s shoulders. So one morning she went into Raftery’s loosebox, and she sent the groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her cheek against the beast’s neck, while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Then they looked at each other very quietly and gravely, and in Raftery’s eyes was a strange, new expression—a kind of half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call pain: ‘What is it, Stephen?’ She answered, forcing back her hot tears: ‘Perhaps, for you, the beginning, Raftery. . . .’ After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slip through her fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her, so she called the groom back and ordered some gruel.

• 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 A Theology for the Social Gospel (1918)

  A THEOLOGY FORTHESOCIAL GOSPEL out, the understanding of itsnature grew artificial, just as the understanding of Old Testament inspiration had become centuriesearlier. Itwas notto theinterest of churchleaders to emphasize that the laity hadonce pos- sessedthe gift of inspiration andthe right of utterance. Consequently the realization of thecharismatic life of the primitive Churchwasallowed tofadefrom the memory of Christians. The apostles alone stoodout in thehis- torical perspective as the possessors of inspiration. Theirhuman frailties and fallibilitieswere forgotten or suppressed; they were conventionalized and fitted with haloes. Their utteranceswere infallible. Inspiration and infallibility were almostconvertible terms. Being so high a gift, inspiration was strictly circumscribed, and was supposed to have ceased when the canon of the New Testamentwas completed. This, on the whole, hasre- mainedthe popular orthodoxview downto recent times. Now, so high a conception of inspiration discourages the stirring of the prophetic spirit in living men. Aman might wellclaimthatGod had spoken to hissoul andlaid a messageupon him. But whowould wanttoclaim that he isinfallible ? Psychical experiences are evoked by ex- pectancy. Ifmendo not expect to be regenerated, few will havethe experience. If they donot expect to be inspired, few willmake their way single-handed tosuch an experience. The Church hasreversed all the maxims of Paul except the last. It has quenched the spirit; it has discountenanced prophesying ; it has forbidden intel- lectual scrutiny of inspiration so farasthe biblical books wereconcerned. The only thing it encouraged was to cleave to thatwhich is good. THE HOLY SPIRIT, REVELATION 193 The old viewof inspiration is supposed to be more deeply religious than the new.Itdid involveamore reverentand passive attitudeof mind. Butitrobbedus of part of our consciousnessof God.A religious man knowsthat he has no merit of his own, and that allhis righteousness was wrought in him by God.To suppose that he canset his ownwill on God and workouthisown salvationis sub-christian. We ought tohave the same consciousnessof God's influence on our intellectual com- prehension of Christian truth.To suppose thatwecan work outa living knowledge of the truth froma sacred book withoutthe enlightening energy ofthe spirit ofGod is sub-christian and rationalistic. On theother hand, to be conscious of the divine light, tolistento the inner voice, toread the inspired wordsof the Biblewith an answering glow of fire, is part of the consciousness of Godtowhich we are entitled. Thereare many degrees of clarity and power inthis livinginspiration, and heavy admixtures of human error, passion, and false sentiment, but the same is trueof the experiences of regeneration and sanctifica- tion. It is the business ofthe Churchto encourage, tem- per, and purify the intellectual, aswellas theemotional andvolitional experiences ofitsmembers. At this point the social gospel coincides withthe most energetic religious consciousness. Traditional theology hasfeltthe need of inspiredprophets and apostles chiefly inorder to furnish the system of doctrine with a firm footing of inerrancy and infallibility. The doctrine of inspiration is not treated as part ofthe glorious results of redemption, and as the Christian salvation of the human

• From The Fermata (1994)

  It would be the Suzanne Vega tape wrapped in one of the now-stiffened washcloths, with a note saying, Take care of yourself—A.J.S . I wouldn’t be sure if this gift was meant to show that she knew that I was the one who had switched the tapes in the car, or whether it was simply a friendly gesture. But I would take care of myself, at least twice, before driving back to Boston. That was what I planned to happen. What did happen, though, is that after an hour and a half or so of steady driving on the Mass Pike, an hour and a half full of hope and keyed-up concentration, I saw a small twirling rectangular shape fly out of Adele’s car window. She hadn’t liked it. How very sad and disappointing. Had she listened to all of it and then decided she didn’t like it, or had she hated it so much that she had tossed it halfway through? I pushed up on my glasses and checked her car stereo: yes, Suzanne Vega was back in place. Nor were Adele’s nipples noticeably erect under her pink floral sweater. Was she made of stone ? Imagine her chucking my cassette right out the window! Hours and hours of work, all custom joinery, all for her, dismissed. Of course I had said that she should feel free to do that, but still, I hadn’t expected her to do it. My pride was hurt. I paced around in the tall grass where I thought I had seen the tape land, but I couldn’t find it. And I didn’t want to spend much time out of the car, because the grass I walked in had the same disturbingly blurred quality that the road had—I felt I would inflict some rending injury to the network of cosmic wormholes if I walked on the median strip for too long. I started up time and drove slowly, until Adele was way ahead of me. At the next exit, I turned around and drove home. When I woke up the next morning, my Fold-powers were gone. The Fermata 16 T HE WEEK FOLLOWING MY FAILED DRIVE, I WORKED FIFTEEN hours of overtime at a consulting firm. I was bothered by a persistent tingly feeling in the base of my right palm and increasing pain in my forearm. I needed at least a week off from typing, but because my Fermatal visitation-rights were now denied, I didn’t get one. What was clearly a carpal-tunnel problem got quite bad over the next several months. An over-the-counter wrist brace didn’t fit properly and made the pain worse. I was able to alleviate the symptoms a little by sleeping with my arm embracing a spare pillow. After a particularly trying stint typing an eighty-page price list, I went to Commonhealth and saw several nurse practitioners and doctors. Each of them tapped the inside of my wrist hard and asked what it felt like.

• 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 Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  And he wanted Clifford to marry and produce an heir. Clifford felt his father was a hopeless anachronism. But wherein was he himself any further ahead, except in a wincing sense of the ridiculousness of everything, and the paramount ridiculousness of his own position. For willy-nilly he took his baronetcy and Wragby with the last seriousness. The gay excitement had gone out of the war ... dead. Too much death and horror. A man needed support and comfort. A man needed to have an anchor in the safe world. A man needed a wife. The Chatterleys, two brothers and a sister, had lived curiously isolated, shut in with one another at Wragby, in spite of all their connections. A sense of isolation intensified the family tie, a sense of the weakness of their position, a sense of defencelessness, in spite of, or because of the title and the land. They were cut off from those industrial Midlands in which they passed their lives. And they were cut off from their own class by the brooding, obstinate, shut-up nature of Sir Geoffrey, their father, whom they ridiculed, but whom they were so sensitive about. The three had said they would all live together always. But now Herbert was dead, and Sir Geoffrey wanted Clifford to marry. Sir Geoffrey barely mentioned it: he spoke very little. But his silent, brooding insistence that it should be so was hard for Clifford to bear up against. But Emma said No! She was ten years older than Clifford, and she felt his marrying would be a desertion and a betrayal of what the young ones of the family had stood for. Clifford married Connie, nevertheless, and had his month's honeymoon with her. It was the terrible year 1917, and they were intimate as two people who stand together on a sinking ship. He had been virgin when he married: and the sex part did not mean much to him. They were so close, he and she, apart from that. And Connie exulted a little in this intimacy which was beyond sex, and beyond a man's "satisfaction." Clifford anyhow was not just keen on his "satisfaction," as so many men seemed to be. No, the intimacy was deeper, more personal than that. And sex was merely an accident, or an adjunct: one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary. Though Connie did want children: if only to fortify her against her sister-in-law Emma. But early in 1918 Clifford was shipped home smashed, and there was no child. And Sir Geoffrey died of chagrin. CHAPTER II Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby in the autumn of 1920. Miss Chatterley, still disgusted at her brother's defection, had departed and was living in a little flat in London.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. Free! That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and--above all--to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a minor accompaniment. Both Hilda and Constance had had their tentative love affairs by the time they were eighteen. The young men with whom they talked so passionately and sang so lustily and camped under the trees in such freedom wanted, of course, the love connection. The girls were doubtful, but then the thing was so much talked about, it was supposed to be so important. And the men were so humble and craving. Why couldn't a girl be queenly, and give the gift of herself? So they had given the gift of themselves, each to the youth with whom she had the most subtle and intimate arguments. The arguments, the discussions were the great thing: the love-making and connection were only a sort of primitive reversion and a bit of an anticlimax. One was less in love with the boy afterwards, and a little inclined to hate him, as if he had trespassed on one's privacy and inner freedom. For, of course, being a girl, one's whole dignity and meaning in life consisted in the achievement of an absolute, a perfect, a pure and noble freedom. What else did a girl's life mean? To shake off the old and sordid connections and subjections. And however one might sentimentalise it, this sex business was one of the most ancient, sordid connections and subjections. Poets who glorified it were mostly men. Women had always known there was something better, something higher. And now they knew it more definitely than ever. The beautiful pure freedom of a woman was infinitely more wonderful than any sexual love. The only unfortunate thing was that men lagged so far behind women in the matter. They insisted on the sex thing like dogs.

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

  How can we bear the burden of sin? We can out throw it on Jesus. He is the only sinless Son of God. It is His word that those who believe in Him shall have everlasting life. Therein lies God’s infinite mercy. And as we believe in the atonement of Jesus, our own sins do not bind us. Sin we must, It is impossible to live in this world sinless. And therefore Jesus suffered and atoned for all the sins of mankind. Only he who accepts His great redemption can have eternal peace. Think what a life of restlessness is yours, and what a promise of peace we have.’ The argument utterly failed to convince me. I humbly replied: ‘If this be the Christianity acknowledged by all Christians, I cannot accept it. I do not seek redemption from the consequences of my sin. I seek to be redeemed from sin itself, or rather from the very thought of sin. Until I have attained that end, I shall be content to be restless.’ To which the Plymouth Brother rejoined: I assure you, your attempt is fruitless. Think again over what I have said.’ And the brother proved as good as his word. he knowingly committed transgressions, and showed me that he was undisturbed by the thought of them. But I already knew before meeting with these friends that all Christians did not believe in such a theory of atonement. Mr. Coates himself walked in the fear of God, His heart was pure, and he believed in the possibility of self-purification. The two ladies also shared this belief. Some of the books that came into my hands were full of devotion, So, although Mr. Coates was very much disturbed by this latest experience of mine. I was able to reassure him and tell him that the distorted belief of a Plymouth Brother could not prejudice me against Christianity. My difficulties lay elsewhere. They were with regard to the Bible and its accepted interpretation. 39SEEKING TOUCH WITH INDIANSBefore writing further about Christian contacts, must record other experiences of the same period. Sheth Tyeb Haji Khan Muhammad had in Pretoria the same position as was enjoyed by Dada Abdulla in Natal. There was no public movement that could be conducted without him. I made his acquaintance the very first week and told him of my intention to get in touch with every Indian in Pretoria. I expressed a desire to study the conditions of Indians there, and asked for his help in my work, which he gladly agreed to give. My first step was to call a meeting of all the Indians in Pretoria and to present to them a picture of their condition in the Transvaal. The meeting was held at the house of Sheth Haji Muhammad Haji Joosab, to whom I had a letter of introduction. It was principally attended by Meman merchants, though there was a sprinkling of Hindus as well.