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 Aquinas's Summa Theologiae (Critical Essays on the Classics Series) (2006)

  In that sense at least, Thomas’s legacy in the Summa Theologiae to beginners and to Dominicans at large had its reward. But, in the whole context of the Summa, this was not quite what Thomas had hoped for. Rather, it only compounded the situation that I have suggested he had attempted to correct. Where Thomas toiled to provide an integral theology for his brethren in their dedication to the cura animarum, the Secunda Secundae—a gutted Secunda Secundae at that—was now, through the Summa Confessorum of John of Freiburg, irretrievably adrift from the other parts of the Summa, especially the first and the third, to which St. Thomas had so carefully moored it. But one should not place all the blame squarely on the shoulders of John of Freiburg. John had been attracted to the Secunda Secundae because it was, as he put it, “for the most part on morals and cases” (pro maiori parte moralis et casualis).50 He had a point. The Secunda Secundae is indeed casualis, if by that one means, as John explicitly does, that it contains “useful questions bearing on the counseling of souls.” And, if one is to take Thomas himself at his word in the Prologue, it is also very much moralis, because it considers “virtues and vices and other things pertaining to moral matter,” and claims not to omit “anything related to morals.” John, too, may be excused for not paying much attention to the Prima Secundae, which establishes the principles on which the Secunda Secundae rests, for Thomas himself seems to diminish the role of the Prima when (in the Prologue to the Secunda) he says, “after this general consideration [in the Prima Secundae] of virtues and vices and other things pertaining to moral matter, it is necessary to take these up in detail one by one. For moral teaching in the abstract is not all that useful, since what takes place in practice is with respect to particular things” (ibid.).51

• From Aquinas's Summa Theologiae (Critical Essays on the Classics Series) (2006)

  As for the axiomatic influence of the Summa as a whole within the Dominican order, the dogged effort on the part of Thomas to give a full theological direction to the pastoral preparation of Dominicans seems to have gone over the head of the generality of his brethren. Even after his canonization in 1323 and the withdrawal of the ban of 1277 on Thomas at the University of Paris, the Summa never became a part of the curriculum of the priory schools that, as I have suggested, really occasioned it. In these priory schools, practical theology in the old mold continued to dominate the curriculum, with Raymund and Peraldus ruling the roost, although Raymund’s Summa de Casibus gave way in the fourteenth century to John of Freiburg’s Summa Confessorum (1298). In the various provincial studia that have come to light in the last quarter of the thirteenth century, and which may have been a result of Thomas’s Roman experiment between 1265 and 1268, Peter Lombard’s Sentences, in line with the usage of studia generalia and universities, became and remained throughout the Middle Ages the textbook of theology. Thomas’s own Roman Province, which in 1269 began what was to become a network of studia provincialia, seems never to have granted the Summa a place in its system. There is no sign even that any of the annual Provincial Chapters ever recommended Thomas or any of his works in the way in which, a shade unrealistically, the Chapter of 1284 at Aquila ordered that, “Lectors and others of the brethren in their lectures and disputations” should use the formulary book of papal and other letters compiled by Marinus of Eboli, lately archbishop of Capua.41 Some bright spirits in the Province seem to have attempted to replace the Sentences with the Summa at the beginning of the fourteenth century, but they were firmly put in their places by the Chapter at Perugia in 1308: “We wish and order that all Lectors and Bachelors lecture on the Sentences and not on the Summa of Thomas.”42 However, the General Chapter of the order at Metz in 1313 was a little more accommodating. It allowed that Lectors, when teaching the Sentences, “should treat briefly of at least three or four articles of Brother Thomas” (presumably from his commentary on the Sentences), and ruled that no one was to be sent to the studium generale at Paris “unless he has studied diligently the teaching of Thomas for three years.”43

• From Bluets (2009)

  166. The 1939 film The Women was shot entirely in black and white, with the exception of one Technicolor sequence—a fashion show—which was literally detachable from the rest of the film. This colored reel had no bearing on the plot whatsoever, so the projectionist could choose to insert it as part of the movie or ignore it altogether. Could one imagine a book that functioned similarly, albeit in reverse—a kind of optional, black-and-white appendage to a larger body of blue (e.g., “the blue planet”)? 167. I don’t go to the movies anymore. Please don’t try to convince me. When something ceases to bring you pleasure, you cannot talk the pleasure back into it. “My removal arose not out of a conscious decision, but was simply a natural fading away from film,” writes artist Mike Kelley. “We have become filmic language, and when we look at the screen all we see is ourselves. So what is there to fall into or be consumed by? When looking at something that purports to be you, all you can do is comment on whether you feel it is a good resemblance or not. Is it a flattering portrait? This is a conscious, clearly ego-directed, activity.” I find myself in agreement with him on all counts. Perhaps this is why I have turned my gaze so insistently to blue: it does not purport to be me, or anyone else for that matter. “I think both the theater and we ourselves have had enough of psychology” (Artaud). 168. Cézanne, too, had had enough of psychology. He attended, instead, to color. “If I paint all the little blues and all the little browns, I capture and convey his glance,” he said of painting a man’s face. This may be but a colorized restatement of Wittgenstein’s remark, “if only you do not try to utter what is unutterable then nothing gets lost. But the unutterable will be—unutterably— contained in what has been uttered!” Perhaps this is why I take the blues of Cézanne so seriously. 169. Despite his falling away from film, Kelley remains charmed by Joseph Cornell’s 1936 film Rose Hobart , a collage of found footage of a jungle B -movie called East of Borneo . Using scissors and tape, Cornell cut East of Borneo down from 77 minutes to 191/2, focusing fairly exclusively on shots of Rose Hobart, the movie’s spunky female lead. Cornell’s instructions for the film state that it should be screened with a soundtrack of Latin dance music, and that it should be projected through a deep blue filter, so as to bathe Rose in the color he so loved.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  But money, though it might well be an indirect way of helping my father, was not of much importance to me, since I knew that I had to turn all of it over to him. I had hoped very much to get a wrist watch or, in its stead, a fine fountain pen. Only my Uncle Abbou gave me, with trembling hands, a small case of worn leather that I opened as soon as I was out of his house. It contained a tiny silver cup with a spoon to match. It was an eggcup. I had never seen one used, and I assumed it was a cup for drinking, but too small. When I got back to our Passage, the celebrations had already begun. I was disappointed, though my pockets were stuffed with money. Our apartment, emptied of its furniture, was full of guests who were calling on my mother before going on to the party on the terrace. Whatever compliments were made had to be very carefully worded, and many guests said outright that the twins were a pain in the eye. But they winked toward my mother while making such statements for they were merely a trick to fool the Evil Eye. To have two children at one and the same time might easily arouse murderous envies and the ill will of the demons who had thereby been defied. The women spat on the floor, assured everyone loudly that nobody on earth would want to have such little runts; after which they laughed silently among themselves, the only human witnesses. As for me, I felt that the babies really didn’t deserve so much attention. They were still as ugly, red, and round as blood sausages, with mouths that took up all their gnomelike faces. My mother, unable to control her expressions, didn’t seem happy. My father had refused to ask Uncle Aroun to be the godfather. Uncle Aroun had already enjoyed the honor of being my own godfather, but he had failed after that to show any generosity. What is the use of such a godfather? Offended and especially disappointed at having failed to obtain a blessing that always brings children to the one who accepts it, my uncle had then decided not to attend the ceremony. He had gone away, his head thrust forward, far ahead of him like that of a hasty giraffe. My mother wept bitter tears as a result of this, and my father lost his temper once more over his wife’s partiality for her own family. I could feel jealousy tearing at my heart as I sat and waited for my share of the congratulations, my hair glued flat with brilliantine, swarthy and thin and goatlike in my dark suit. But most of our guests seemed to forget that our party was in my honor too.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Once I was clean, the women took me by the hand and began, with songs and trills of joy and excitement, to dress me, each one handing me a different garment, as this brought luck to each in turn. This was the most pleasant moment in my bar mitzvah celebrations, the only one when I was the actual center of attraction. All the women were crowding around me, squabbling for the honor of helping me put on my undershirt, my shirt, or a sock. Though they handled me and turned me about without much tenderness, I was still the only object of their thoughts, so I was proud to let them do as they wished, except when it came to putting on my drawers. Dressed in a dark blue suit, with patent-leather shoes on my feet, I then went to pay a call, accompanied by my ushers, on each one of my uncles in turn. Tradition required that they give me presents to thank me for coming. But I derived no great pleasure from all this. Each one of them, after kissing me, Uncle Gastoune, Uncle Mirou, Monsieur Maarek who was Uncle Mirou’s partner, and Uncle Aroun, gave me some money. But money, though it might well be an indirect way of helping my father, was not of much importance to me, since I knew that I had to turn all of it over to him. I had hoped very much to get a wrist watch or, in its stead, a fine fountain pen. Only my Uncle Abbou gave me, with trembling hands, a small case of worn leather that I opened as soon as I was out of his house. It contained a tiny silver cup with a spoon to match. It was an eggcup. I had never seen one used, and I assumed it was a cup for drinking, but too small.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  So I went first to their magnificent government villa. The footman recognized me and I asked to see the Administrator. He disappeared and returned to ask me what might be the motive of my visit, which rather embarrassed me; as usual, I had acted too fast and had not foreseen this move. I could not bring myself to tell the servant what his master should have understood at once. Again, he disappeared with a confused message. I waited in the hall, miserable that my request should have such a bad start and already sorry I had come. The staircase which rose from the middle of the hall turned in front of the rooms of the first floor, so that the occupants could see the visitors waiting below. Suddenly, a door opened and a disheveled woman in a negligee appeared: it was his wife. She placed both hands on the banisters and started screaming. I could not clearly understand what she was saying, and caught only bits of sentences which poured like a hailstorm from the gallery: “... bothering people... thinking only of your own little person... rudeness... selfishness, etc., etc...” I was amazed that my request should have made her so angry and could find nothing to say; besides, it was uncomfortable to speak from one floor to the next. In any case, I was not given time to think: she had said what she wanted to say and had slammed the door shut. I pushed the heavy Arab door open and was once again in the silence of the gardens. My plans were going badly: I had just lost my trump card and an illusion. I had been childishly disappointed and was sad that I had seen my symbol of dignity and politeness turn into a Fury. Besides, my disappointment seemed to me absurd. I had made myself an ideal of this woman and was now surprised that she had not lived up to it.

• From Bluets (2009)

  Once I traveled to the Tate in London to see the blue paintings of Yves Klein, who invented and patented his own shade of ultramarine, International Klein Blue ( IKB ), then painted canvases and objects with it throughout a period of his life he dubbed “l’epoque bleue.” Standing in front of these blue paintings, or propositions, at the Tate, feeling their blue radiate out so hotly that it seemed to be touching, perhaps even hurting, my eyeballs, I wrote but one phrase in my notebook: too much . I had come all this way, and I could barely look. Perhaps I had inadvertently brushed up against the Buddhist axiom, that enlightenment is the ultimate disappointment. “From the mountain you see the mountain,”wrote Emerson. 79. For just because one loves blue does not mean that one wants to spend one’s life in a world made of it. “Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and as we pass through them they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus,” wrote Emerson. To find oneself trapped in any one bead, no matter what its hue, can be deadly. 80. What I have heard: when the mines of Sar-e-Sang run dry (locals say the repressive rule of the Taliban, who, in 2000, blew up the two giant statues of Buddha at the mines’ entrance—Buddhas whose blue auras were the oldest-known application of lapis on earth—caused a particularly long dry spell; God only knows what the American bombing has done since), the miners use dynamite to bleed a vein, in hopes of starting a “blue rush.” 81. What I know: when I met you, a blue rush began. I want you to know, I no longer hold you responsible. 82. I have made efforts, however fitful, to live within other beads. During one particularly despondent New York City winter, I bought a huge can of bright yellow paint at the hardware store on Allen Street, imagining that I might buoy my soul with its cheer. When I got home and pried off the lid I realized they’d given me the wrong color, or maybe it was the right one, but at home it looked garish—like “death warmed over,” as they say. It was a terrible yellow, a yellow of utter rage. Later I learned that nearly all cultures have considered yellow in isolation one of, if not the least attractive of all colors. I painted everything with it. 83. I tried to go with the theme: I bought a yellow journal. On its cover sheet I wrote a slogan of penetration: Do not tell lies and do not do what you hate, for all things are manifest in the sight of heaven . 84. I hated that time and I hated that apartment and soon after I painted everything yellow I moved out.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The poor girls without customers sat on their doorsteps and invited us in, with forced smiles and languid looks. I was not even afraid any more. The last ones we saw, the women I had not even dared look at earlier, were hideous and fat, with withered skin and flabby jowls, with oily hair and thick makeup, like eczema scabs. Most of them were collapsed on the stone steps of their doorways to rest their thick, varicose legs. “They’re for the old guys,” Bissor explained. Before we left the district, he made me piss in a corner against a leaning buttressed wall, all damp and sticky with a yellow pool that stank of ammonia at its base. It was necessary, he said, to avoid catching clap. I returned for a time to my sexual loneliness and to my attempts to imagine one of the neighborhood girls in the nude or to give consistency and life to pin-up photographs. My attempt to escape from my aloneness had only forced me back on myself, all the poorer for the loss of my illusions. How I envied Sitboun, who dreamed at night of the girls he had noticed the day before! But I had reached a stage in my life when I was no longer satisfied with myself. As I got over the bitterness I felt after my first adventure and as my memories of it became blurred, there remained only the ghost of a woman whose pubes or breasts I still tried to recall. Then, driven by a new urge, I returned to the narrow alley of the red-light district. I was no less disappointed, but I was less surprised about it. I realized that this is all there is to physical love and that it always leaves one unassuaged. I did not return to search for rarer pleasures, but for something else which was not to be found. So I stayed away again for a while, but naturally came back again, each time promising myself never to return to the filth and disappointment and bitterness and loss of self-respect I experienced after each visit. Besides it was expensive, and I had to be careful. Thereafter, my sex-life, like all the rest of my life, went from one extreme to the other, from attempts at communion with others to hasty and nauseated retreats into despair. My disappointments were not merely physical, as a result of the hurried and indifferent behavior of the girls. I had not found what I was looking for and had hoped for so long: to make love to a human being.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  As nobody was paying any attention to me, I pushed the bedroom door open. The heat was terrific, with two earthenware fire baskets full of glowing embers to warm the room. My mother was asleep, bloodlessly pale, her brow glazed with sweat, terrifyingly thin. Seeing her in such a state, I began to doubt the sublime quality of the event. Then I noticed the children. I could see, on the divan, two hideous purplish-red babies, all wrapped in cotton wool and apparently of the same thickness from one end to the other, their faces all wrinkled, like caricatures. They were identical and I couldn’t distinguish the boy, my inescapable partner in the forthcoming feast day. I knew that the newborn child had to be circumcised eight days after birth, so that I could celebrate my bar mitzvah the following Thursday. The next day, I announced this to all my friends. But a new disappointment awaited me on my return from school: as the twins were too weak, the mohel had asked for an additional delay to circumcise the boy. So my bar mitzvah, of course, was delayed too, until the child would be stronger. I would gladly have stuck my finger into the eye of this larval being. Fortunately, the delay was not long, and the great day soon came. Our apartment was already invaded at dawn by all the women of our family and of the building. There was work enough for all: food had to be prepared, furniture moved out, Mother and the babies to be looked after, our terrace to be decorated. But there were too many women around and they all got in each other’s way, took nasty cracks at each other, and then sulked, finally uttering sudden cries of joy. I was already aware of my own dignity as a man and despised these women who were all noisy and changing in their moods like children. Their pointless excitement was like that of hens, especially when, looking up and staring straight ahead, with the chin thrust forward, they suddenly uttered long and loud cries of joy in the Oriental manner. At first, I thought of trying to be useful, but they soon steered me away toward the street. I would never have obeyed them had I really thought that they had come together in my honor. Besides, the presence of all these strangers, busied with tasks that were normally my mother’s, irritated me considerably. The comings and goings of aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors, through the wide-open door, never ceased. I no longer felt at all at home. Because it was so public, my party seemed no longer to be so much my own.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Fortunately, Bissor was silent. The poor girls without customers sat on their doorsteps and invited us in, with forced smiles and languid looks. I was not even afraid any more. The last ones we saw, the women I had not even dared look at earlier, were hideous and fat, with withered skin and flabby jowls, with oily hair and thick makeup, like eczema scabs. Most of them were collapsed on the stone steps of their doorways to rest their thick, varicose legs. “They’re for the old guys,” Bissor explained. Before we left the district, he made me piss in a corner against a leaning buttressed wall, all damp and sticky with a yellow pool that stank of ammonia at its base. It was necessary, he said, to avoid catching clap. I returned for a time to my sexual loneliness and to my attempts to imagine one of the neighborhood girls in the nude or to give consistency and life to pin-up photographs. My attempt to escape from my aloneness had only forced me back on myself, all the poorer for the loss of my illusions. How I envied Sitboun, who dreamed at night of the girls he had noticed the day before! But I had reached a stage in my life when I was no longer satisfied with myself. As I got over the bitterness I felt after my first adventure and as my memories of it became blurred, there remained only the ghost of a woman whose pubes or breasts I still tried to recall. Then, driven by a new urge, I returned to the narrow alley of the red-light district. I was no less disappointed, but I was less surprised about it. I realized that this is all there is to physical love and that it always leaves one unassuaged. I did not return to search for rarer pleasures, but for something else which was not to be found. So I stayed away again for a while, but naturally came back again, each time promising myself never to return to the filth and disappointment and bitterness and loss of self-respect I experienced after each visit. Besides it was expensive, and I had to be careful. Thereafter, my sex-life, like all the rest of my life, went from one extreme to the other, from attempts at communion with others to hasty and nauseated retreats into despair. My disappointments were not merely physical, as a result of the hurried and indifferent behavior of the girls. I had not found what I was looking for and had hoped for so long: to make love to a human being. The girls’ faces remained blank and impersonal. One of them smoked, and another gossiped while I had my fun alone. Once, someone came along and banged on the door just as I was reaching the moment, so brief, when a man forgets where he is and with whom.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  It is only these past days that I have felt my old restlessness. I suggested to Henry that we go out, but I was disappointed when he refused to take me to exotic places. He was content with a movie and sitting in a cafe. Then he refused to introduce me to his rakish friends (to protect and keep me). When he did not take the lead, I began to suggest going here or there. One night we had gone from Gare St. Lazare to a movie and then to a cafe. In the taxi on the way to meet Hugo, Henry began kissing me, and I clung to him. Our kisses grew frenzied, and I said, “Tell the taxi driver to drive us to the Bois.” I was intoxicated by the moment. But Henry was frightened. He reminded me of the hour, of Hugo. With June, how different it would have been! I left him with sadness. There is really nothing crazy about Henry except his feverish writing. I make an effort to live externally, going to the hairdresser, shopping, telling myself: “I must not sink, I must fight.” I need Allendy, and I cannot see him until Wednesday. I want to see Henry, too, but now I do not count on his strength. That first day in the Viking, he said, “I am a weak man,” and I did not believe him. I do not love weak men. I feel tenderness, yes. But, my God, in a few days he has destroyed my passion. What has happened? The moment when he doubted his potency was only a spark. Was it because his sexual power was his unique power? Was it in this way only that he held me? Was it a change in me? By evening I begin to feel it isn’t very important that I am disappointed. I want to help him. I am happy his book is written and that I have given him a feeling of security and well-being. I love him in a different way, but I love him. Henry is precious to me, as he is. I melt when I see his frayed suit. He fell asleep while I was dressing for a formal dinner. Then he came to my bedroom and watched me adding the last touches. He admired my Oriental green dress. He said I moved about like a princess. My bedroom window was open on the luxurious garden. It made him think of the setting of Pelleas and Melisande. He lay on the couch. I sat next to him for a moment and cuddled him. I said, “You must get yourself a suit,” wondering how I would get the money for it. I couldn’t bear to see the frayed sleeves around his wrists. We sit close together in the train.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  There was too great a diversity about him and he felt no urge to solve any particular problem. When his parents began to quarrel and finally separated, it left him free to lead an utterly airy life, without roots of any kind. I tried several times to convert him, in turn, to each one of my successive views; but politics left him cold and he slithered between my fingers, so to speak, and answered my arguments with talk about his guitar, about painting, about summer camps. In the Italian high school where he studied, Fascism discouraged, in those years, all serious thought and was producing a whole generation of lightheaded boys who actually knew nothing thoroughly, only a smattering of mathematics, of doctored history, and a lot of poetry, music, drama, and drawing. So I ended up by accepting Henry just as he was, enjoying in his presence, as if by a clear spring of water, a kind of repose that did me good. It helped me relax and I would then allow him to dream away as I listened to him grow enthusiastic about imaginary projects: miraculous fishing expeditions off the shores of Southern Tunisia, with millions to be made there, or the building of a monstrous theater in the ruins of the ancient one in Carthage. Then he would vanish for a couple of weeks and, when he reappeared to meet me at the gates of our high school, all absent-minded and with his hair ruffled, he would already have forgotten his theater project in favor of a fabulous voyage to the South Sea Isles. I was fond of Henry because life, in his company, seemed less drearily serious, and I have often wished it were indeed less serious! But my classmates were no innocent poets. On the contrary, they were all quite satisfied with themselves and their social background, with their parents and little celebrations and annual charities, and knew all the rules of their own mediocre little game. As for me, I was disappointed by their meetings, which struck me as quite futile. They constituted a kind of miniature society, with its gossip, its flirtations, and its worries, but everything there was playful and childish. Their parents footed the bill for their parties, gave them the use of the apartment, with cakes too that their mothers had baked. In my own family circle, everyone systematically distrusted any youth group, expecting only trouble, as was repeatedly said, to come of them. The less privileged young Jews, it is true, were all drifting into Zionism or Communism. But the middle-class boys and girls made fun of the tragic and austere expressions of the youth of the ghetto and affected, on the contrary, a pleasant and sociable manner.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  One night, I was suddenly shaken and sent, still almost asleep, to finish my night’s rest on the first floor, in Uncle Aroun’s home. Later, these interruptions of my slumber became a familiar occurrence. Whenever my mother was pregnant and I was awakened in the middle of the night, I guessed, though still half asleep, that she was once more being delivered of a child. The next morning, the house was full of busy women, far too many of them wanting to open a closet door or to empty out one and the same basin, in fact all squabbling for the sacred honor of serving a woman just out of childbirth. This time, there had indeed been a girl, but there had also been a boy. On the door of the bedroom, the red announcement had been pinned, decorated with a fish that was intended to protect the young male against the evil eye. My father was beaming as he served drinks of raki to the guests. He held the bottle in his hand as he followed our only glass that went the round of all who were present and had to be filled again and again. To temper the exquisite burning of the liquor, he offered, in his other hand, a plateful of green olives. Birth is a business for grownups, and I couldn’t fully understand their joy. As nobody was paying any attention to me, I pushed the bedroom door open. The heat was terrific, with two earthenware fire baskets full of glowing embers to warm the room. My mother was asleep, bloodlessly pale, her brow glazed with sweat, terrifyingly thin. Seeing her in such a state, I began to doubt the sublime quality of the event. Then I noticed the children. I could see, on the divan, two hideous purplish-red babies, all wrapped in cotton wool and apparently of the same thickness from one end to the other, their faces all wrinkled, like caricatures. They were identical and I couldn’t distinguish the boy, my inescapable partner in the forthcoming feast day. I knew that the newborn child had to be circumcised eight days after birth, so that I could celebrate my bar mitzvah the following Thursday. The next day, I announced this to all my friends. But a new disappointment awaited me on my return from school: as the twins were too weak, the mohel had asked for an additional delay to circumcise the boy. So my bar mitzvah, of course, was delayed too, until the child would be stronger. I would gladly have stuck my finger into the eye of this larval being.

• From Aquinas's Summa Theologiae (Critical Essays on the Classics Series) (2006)

  A professional familiarity as Lector at Orvieto with the Summa de Casibus and with the system of casus and “collationes morales” certainly aided Thomas when he began composing his Summa Theologiae, and particularly the Secunda Secundae, furthermore, it enabled him to field with ease the many questions concerning pastoral care at the six quodlibets (I-VI) held during his second Parisian sojourn from 1268 to 1272. All the same, Thomas may have felt that practical theology was too much with the Dominican order and that the fratres communes, and the students in particular, both at Orvieto and in the Roman Province, as well as in the order at large, were not being allowed more than a partial view of theology. Perhaps this is why, as I shall now suggest, Thomas began a Summa Theologiae at Rome soon after his move there from Orvieto in 1265. Perhaps, indeed, this is precisely why he moved. Thomas at Santa SabinaOn or about 8 September 1265, the annual Chapter of the Roman Province to which Thomas belonged enjoined on him from Anagni, and probably in his presence as Preacher General for the house in Naples, the task of setting up a studium at Rome for students from various houses of the Province. The place selected, although not specified in the acts of the Chapter, was Santa Sabina on the Aventine Hill, Dominic’s second Roman foundation. Thomas probably took up residence there in late September or early October of that year, remaining for three full scholastic years until posted to Paris in, probably, summer 1268 by the general of the order, John of Vercelli.17 During his three years at Santa Sabina, Thomas was very active. He preached, made journeys out of Rome, and held Quaestiones Disputatae de Potentia, De Malo (probably), and “De Attributis Divinis” (the latter of which he then inserted into his Scriptum super Sententiis as I d. 2, a. 3).18 He also supervised and taught the students at Santa Sabina. Just what he taught them is a little difficult to ascertain. According to Tolomeo of Lucca in 1315-1317, who, as a young Dominican, had been his friend and confessor at Naples between 1272 and 1274, Thomas “expounded almost all of the philosophical works of Aristotle, whether natural or moral, while in charge of the studium at Rome, and wrote his lectures up in the form of a scriptum or commentary on each work, particularly on the Ethics and Metaphysics.”19

• From Bluets (2009)

  171. When one begins to gather “fragments of blue dense,” one might think one is paying tribute to the blue wholes from which they came. But a bouquet is no homage to the bush. Over the years I have amassed countless blue stones, blue shards of glass, blue marbles, trampled blue photographs peeled off sidewalks, pieces of blue rubble from broken buildings, and though I can’t remember where most of them came from, I love them nonetheless. 172. To stumble upon discarded canisters of a bad Hollywood movie, to cut the reels up in an effort to isolate the thing you love to gaze upon most, to project the resulting patchwork through the lens of your favorite color, alongside a bustling “tropical” soundtrack: this seems to me, right now, the perfect film. But there is one other important candidate: Warhol’s Blue Movie , otherwise known as Fuck. “ I’d always wanted to do a movie that was pure fucking, nothing else,” Warhol said, and in October of 1968, he did. 173. In July of 1969, Blue Movie was seized by the police for obscenity, and was then not screened publicly for years. When the obscenity issue faded away, one of its fuckers, Viva, suppressed the film on the grounds that she’d never signed a release for it. By 2005, Viva had apparently changed her mind, and she appeared with the film at several festivals. But as I saw neither it nor her, it would be unjust to say any more on the subject. 174. Mallarmé might have felt otherwise. For Mallarmé, the perfect book was one whose pages have never been cut, their mystery forever preserved, like a bird’s folded wing, or a fan never opened. 175. Viva to Louis Waldon, the other fucker in Blue Movie: “We don’t want to see your ugly cock and balls . . . It should be hidden.” Louis: “You can’t see it.” Viva: “Well, it should be hidden.” 176. This idea has its charms, but I think it possible that I have watched too many blue movies for it to have a lasting hold on me. If you grow accustomed to wall-to-wall, even the slightest shred of mystery or plot can become an agitation. Who cares why these people have found themselves in this banal, suburban tract home in Burbank? He is not a delivery man; she is not a bored housewife. They are not the stars—their orifices are. Let them open. 177. Perhaps it is becoming clearer why I felt no romance when you told me that you carried my last letter with you, everywhere you went, for months on end, unopened. This may have served some purpose for you, but whatever it was, surely it bore little resemblance to mine. I never aimed to give you a talisman, an empty vessel to flood with whatever longing, dread, or sorrow happened to be the day’s mood. I wrote it because I had something to say to you.

• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  Religion had grown narrower and feebler when it was forced back from the great national and human interests into an ecclesiastical attitude of mind. This impression deepens as we follow the little colony of Jewish Puritans who returned to their home and rebuilt the temple and the city amid poverty and fear. We shall have occasion hereafter to point out how intimately the religious life is connected with the secular life in which it develops. It is unjust to expect that the religious life which took form in the contracted circle that gathered about the rebuilt shrine of Jehovah would have the same bold originality and genius that swept through a hopeful and autonomous nation. But it is also unwise to hold that type of religion up to us as a higher development of religion. It was an earnest, solid community of sifted and picked religious men, with a great preponderance of priests. There was marvellous courage and tenacity, heroic loyalty to conviction, a tenderness of personal piety and a devotion to religion surpassing that of better times. But on its serious brow this religion wore a pallid complexion. It became legal, fixed, monotonous, a thing by itself, shut off from the spontaneity and naturalness of the general life. The prophetic voice was hushed and the prophetic fire died out. The scribe now sat where the prophet had stood, and the sacred book took the place of the living Voice. There was greater insistence on holiness than ever, but the conception of holiness had insensibly been lowered. The prophets had lifted the expression of religion to the ethical plane. The strong ethical ingredient was never again lost from Jewish religion, but the ceremonial ingredient began to mix with it in larger proportions and to become almost the chief constituent of holiness. Religion became once more priestly and ritual, with a timid and legal reverence for externals. It was coming to be dominated by those influences which Jesus and Paul opposed. This was a development similar to that of Christianity when the primitive spirituality of Paul passed into the ecclesiasticism and ceremonialism of the Catholic Church. This is not the classical period of Israel to which we turn for inspiration. Yet this is the period when personal religion was cultivated and when the teachers of religion did not preach politics, but devoted themselves to questions of worship and to church affairs. The prophetic hope of national perfection In our personal Christian life every call to duty is immensely strengthened by the large hope of ultimately attaining a Christlike character and the eternal life. That creates the atmosphere for the details of the religious life. In the social movement of our time the single reformatory demands are drawing a new and remarkable power from the larger conception of a reconstitution of social life on a coöperative basis. It takes a great and comprehensive hope to kindle the full power of enthusiasm in human lives.

• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  In many respects they most faithfully preserved the direct impress of Jesus, for they were the product of the same moral environment which had nurtured his mind. But the main current of Christian life, which finally resulted in Catholic Christianity, followed other channels and left Jewish Christianity like a land-locked bay, and of its literary products only a few remnants were preserved. Consequently the social spirit which glowed in that part of the Christian Church is not adequately represented in early Christian literature as we now know it, and our general impression of the social impetus in primitive Christianity is to that extent weakened and imperfect. It is not at all unlikely that a similar fate befell other writings which shared the same qualities. Again, of those writings which did survive, only a limited number were embodied in the Canon of the New Testament, and only those that were embodied are known to the mass of Christian readers to-day. They have to form their judgment of the nature of original Christianity solely from their impressions of the New Testament. But an impression based only on that material is bound to be one-sided. If the gospels and the writings of one man were eliminated from our New Testament, the compass of what remains would be very slight. Paul immensely preponderates in the bulk of our material, and so we get the impression that his ideas and points of view were those generally prevailing in the apostolic age. That is probably far from true. In many respects Paul was a free lance, the propagandist of a new theology, a great dissenter and nonconformist, who was viewed with distrust or hostility by the representatives of an older theology and a more authoritative organization. He was a mind of immense stature and virility, but it was impossible that so intense a spirit should embody all sides of Christianity with equal vigor and in rounded harmony. Paul was a radical in theology, but a social conservative, a combination frequently met to-day. If we assume that in this respect he is an exponent of the whole of primitive Christianity, we may be misled. Yet even Paul was not as apathetic toward social questions as is usually assumed. And finally the same caution with which we began our study of the social aims of Jesus applies to any study of the social contents of early Christianity. We have not been accustomed to read the records from this point of view. We have read them for spiritual devotion. We have studied them from the theological and ecclesiastical point of view. The records as they lie before us are incomplete and one-sided, and even what does bear on our purposes is overlaid for us by other interests, by preconceptions and long-standing habits of mind.

• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  We live under our own government, free to think and speak as we will; we look backward on nineteen centuries of Christian history, and we look forward to an indefinite continuance of the present world. Yet it still passes as a clinching argument for Christian indifference to social questions that Paul never started a good government campaign. “When two do the same thing, it is not the same.” We cling to the letter of primitive Christianity and are false to its spirit. We have turned the eagle-minded Paul, one of the greatest champions of freedom and progress in all history, into a personified code of law and precedent that bids us ever remain where he stood. We have thrust the steel driving-rod of an old locomotive between the spokes of a new locomotive. There is the grim humor of human life! The otherworldliness of Christianity There is another line of causes which set in very early, but Which did not come to their full force in Primitive Christianity. They swayed that “catholic” Christianity which developed out of primitive Christianity about the end of the second century and which ruled with unbroken power till the Reformation. We have seen that the ancient Hebrew religion had been for this present life. The hope of blessedness or the fear of punishment in a life after death plays no appreciable part in Old Testament religion. The prophetic insistence on present social righteousness and the hope of a Messianic reign on earth developed in a national religion devoted to the present life. On the other hand, in the Græco-Roman world there was an intense desire for the future life. A great revival of religion had begun in the pagan world before the Christian era and continued for several centuries to gather strength. The deep interest in religious philosophy, the popularity of the “mysteries,” the eagerness with which old Oriental religions were welcomed in the West, and the swiftness with which religions made headway, were all symptoms of this new religious awakening. The chief hope held out by all these religious movements was the atonement and purification of sin and the attainment of immortal life. It was natural that when Christianity spread in the pagan world that men should seize that part of its rich and varied contents which most appealed to their desires, and emphasize it to the exclusion of others. They saw in Christ the redeemer from earthliness. By his incarnation, his death and resurrection he had implanted potential immortality in the human race. By baptism the immortal life could be imparted to the believer; by the eucharist, that “medicine of immortality”, and by the mortification of the body, it could be nourished and strengthened to the final triumph over all that clogged it. Nearly all the early Fathers wrote on the resurrection. The gift of immortality was the great theme of early Greek theology.

• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  Now these institutions, founded usually with noble devotion to God, with an honest desire to live the perfect life, carrying with them so many admirable effects for the religious and social life of men, were nevertheless one potent cause for the failure of Christianity to undertake its reconstructive social mission. The finest and most elevated natures were picked out of society as by a spiritual magnet and placed in communities by themselves, isolated from common society. The energy which they ought to have devoted to making society normal, they employed in making themselves abnormal. The power that might have lifted mankind up, was used in wearing themselves down. The good men among the monks served mankind even as monks; but would men of that stamp not have served it if they had remained in the natural bonds of family and neighborhood? When the monastic movement first swept over the ancient Church, it is certain that many went out to the hermit colonies at least partly because they were weary of the burdens of taxation and service imposed by the tottering Empire, and of the lack of freedom that hemmed all men in. They shook off the burdens of civilization at a time when civilization was desperately in need of all its human resources, and especially of all moral energy. They necessarily unloaded on those who remained the burdens which they refused to carry longer. Thus a social organism, wasted by disease and attacked by external dangers, was further bled of some of its best blood corpuscles. Ascetic and monastic Christianity contributed not a little to the fall of the Roman Empire and the destruction of ancient civilization. During the Middle Ages some of the best organizing ability, which might have sufficed to meet the social anarchy and disorganization of society, was devoted to the organization of local monasteries or new orders, or to the reformation of old orders. When occasionally some great monastic leader took hold of a real moral and social task, the effect was sometimes wonderful. One of the worst consequences of monasticism was the sterilizing of the best individuals. The minds of ideal bent were not allowed to propagate. The monks and nuns were condemned to childlessness. The enthusiasm of the monastic movement dragged the common priesthood into celibacy also. Aside from the considerations of ecclesiastical politics, it was chiefly the reaction of monasticism which made celibacy compulsory for the priest. But the sterility of monks and nuns and priests for so many centuries turned the laws of heredity against the moral progress of the race. It was just as if an agricultural experiment station should nip off all the flowers that showed unusual color and fragrance and should develop seed from the rest. It has been truly asserted that the most draining effect which war has on the life of nations is that it kills off the capable and lets the incapable propagate. Monasticism eliminated the morally capable, just as war eliminates the physically capable.

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  She forgave this passing acquaintance his silliness, and blamed him only for having failed to please her. In her memory — that of a healthy woman with a forgetful body — Monsieur Roland was now only a powerful animal, slightly ridiculous and, when it came to the point, so very clumsy. Lea would now have denied that, one rainy evening when the showers were falling in fragrance on the rosegeraniums, a flood of blinding tears had served to blot out Monsieur Roland behind the image of Cheri. This brief encounter had left Lea unembarrassed and unregretful. In the villa she had taken at Cambo, the ‘idiot’ and his frolicking old mother would have been made just as welcome as before. They could have gone on enjoying the well-arranged meals, the rocking-chairs on the wooden balcony, all the creature comforts that Lea dispensed with such justifiable pride. But the idiot had felt sore and gone away, leaving Lea to the attentions of a stiff, handsome officer, greying at the temples, who aspired to marriage with ‘Madame de Lonval.’ Our years, our fortunes, the taste we both have for independence and society, doesn’t everything show that we were destined for each other? * murmured the colonel, who still kept his slim waist. She laughed, and enjoyed the company of this dry, dapper man, who ate well and knew how to hold his liquor. He mistook her feelings and he read into the lovely blue eyes, and the trustful, lingering smiles of his hostess, the acceptance he was expecting. The end of their dawning friendship was marked by a decisive gesture on her part: one she regretted in her heart of hearts and for which she was honest enough to accept the blame. “It’s my own fault. One should never treat a Colonel Ypoustegue, descendant of an ancient Basque family, as one would treat a Monsieur Roland. I’ve never given anyone such a snub. All the same, it would have been gentlemanly, and intelligent too, if he had come back as usual the next day in his dogcart, to smoke his cigar, meet the two old girls, and pull their legs.” She failed to understand that a middle-aged man could accept his dismissal, but not certain glances — glances appraising his physique, comparing him in that respect so unmistakably with another, unknown and invisible. L6a, caught in his sudden kiss, had subjected him to the searching, formidable gaze of a woman who knows exactly where to find the tell-tale marks of age. From the dry, wellcared-for hands, ribbed with veins and tendons, her glance rose to the pouched chin and furrowed brows, returning cruelly to the mouth entrapped between double lines of inverted commas. Whereupon all the aristocratic refinement of the ‘Baroness de Lonval’ collapsed in an ‘ Oh, la la,’ so insulting, so explicit, so common, that the handsome figure of Colonel Ypoustegue passed through her door for the last time.