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 Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  ‘I have not been alone with Justine for months now. Do you understand? It ended when the painting ended. If you wish us to be friends you will never refer to this subject again’ smiling a little tremulously, for in the same breath Justine came sailing down upon them, smiling warmly, radiantly. (It is quite possible to love those whom you most wound.) She passed, turning in the candlelight of the room like some great sea-bird, and came at last to where I was standing. ‘I cannot come tonight’ she whispered. ‘Nessim wants me to stay at home.’ I can feel still the uncomprehending weight of my disappointment at the words. ‘You must’ I muttered. Should I have known that not ten minutes before she had said to Nessim, knowing he hated bridge: ‘Darling, can I go and play bridge with the Cervonis — do you need the car?’ It must have been one of those rare evenings when Pursewarden consented to meet her out in the desert — meetings to which she went unerringly, like a sleep-walker. Why? Why?

• From Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  It is difficult to describe how unspeakably strange I found it to sit beside this vulgar double of the Nessim I had once known. I studied him keenly but he avoided my eye and confined his conversation to laboured commonplaces which he punctuated by yawns that were one by one tapped away behind ringed fingers. Here and there, however, behind this new façade stirred a hint of the old diffidence, but buried — as a fine physique may be buried in a mountain of fat. In the washroom Zoltan the waiter confided in me: ‘He has become truly himself since his wife went away. All Alexandria says so.’ The truth was that he had become like all Alexandria. Late that night the whim seized him to drive me to Montaza in the late moonlight; we sat in the car for a long time in silence, smoking, gazing out at the moonlit waves hobbling across the sand bar. It was during this silence that I apprehended the truth about him. He had not really changed inside. He had merely adopted a new mask. * * * * * In the early summer I received a long letter from Clea with which this brief introductory memorial to Alexandria may well be brought to a close. ‘You may perhaps be interested in my account of a brief meeting with Justine a few weeks ago. We had, as you know, been exchanging occasional cards from our respective countries for some time past, and hearing that I was due to pass through Palestine into Syria she herself suggested a brief meeting. She would come, she said, to the border station where the Haifa train waits for half an hour. The settlement in which she works is somewhere near at hand, she could get a lift. We might talk for a while on the platform. To this I agreed. ‘At first I had some difficulty in recognizing her. She has gone a good deal fatter in the face and has chopped off her hair carelessly at the back so that it sticks out in rats’ tails. I gather that for the most part she wears it done up in a cloth. No trace remains of the old elegance or chic. Her features seem to have broadened, become more classically Jewish, lip and nose inclining more towards each other. I was shocked at first by the glittering eyes and the quick incisive way of breathing and talking — as if she were feverish. As you can imagine we were both mortally shy of each other.

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  Now in his eighties, Ron has a philosophical approach toward the decision. He doesn’t bemoan the fact that he could be a billionaire. He knows why he made those choices in the moment, and he doesn’t want to waste energy on regret.1 I can’t second-guess poor Ron, of course. Money doesn’t buy happiness anyway, as we all know. But you still have to wonder—what if he had found a way to stay in the game? If he had trusted the abilities of his partners rather than feeling intimidated by them? What if he hadn’t given up after twelve days? History is full of other almost-millionaires, almost-celebrities, almost-victors. Hindsight is always 20/20, so I’m not judging them, but that doesn’t make their decisions any less agonizing. At the same time, I wonder how many times I’ve given up too easily, too quickly, in my prayers. Have there been times when I’ve been unwilling to trust God, my senior partner, to carry me through? Have I stopped believing too soon? I’m sure I have. Maybe you have too. That’s why Jesus’ words are for us today. Always pray. Never give up. Call out day and night. Let Jesus find faith, not doubt, in your heart. ASK, WATCH, WAIT, REPEAT The Old Testament prophet Elijah has a lot to teach us about persistent prayer. James used his life to illustrate how powerful it is when humans pray: The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective. Elijah was a human being, even as we are. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years. Again he prayed, and the heavens gave rain, and the earth produced its crops. 5:16–18 Elijah was a prophet sent to Israel when the nation was in a bad place. Evil, oppressive leadership had moved the nation away from God and from justice. As a way to get people to wake up and return to God, Elijah prayed that the rains would stop in Israel. From that day on, it didn’t rain. Three years later, God spoke to Elijah and said it was time for the drought to end. He was going to bring rain to the land. But first, Elijah needed to confront the nation about their idolatry and ask them to repent. What followed was the most epic showdown imaginable between Elijah and the false religion of Baal worship that had captivated Israel. Essentially, Elijah challenged the priests of Baal to a divine duel. Their god didn’t do a thing, of course. Then God sent fire from heaven, and Israel realized they needed to get their act together. It still hadn’t rained, but Elijah knew what God had promised.

• From The Lives of Great Christians (2007)

  B. To introduce himself to Roman Christians and to gain their support for his trip to Spain, Paul wrote what became his most important letter—Romans. C. Before heading west, Paul took his final journey to Jerusalem to deliver money for the poor that he had helped to collect from his Christian communities. D. While in Jerusalem, Paul was arrested and held for perhaps two years. E. Given that he was a Roman citizen, Paul demanded that he be sent to Rome. F. Paul probably did go to Spain via Rome. He was not received well by the Christians of Rome, and his expedition to Spain was a failure. G. After returning to the East, including a stop at Ephesus, Paul traveled to Rome a second time. 1. This was about the time of the great fire in Rome that some accused Nero of setting. 2. Paul was one of the Christians arrested in the aftermath of the fire. 3. It was probably during his time in prison that he wrote his last letter, today known as II Timothy. XI. Paul was executed in Rome, by tradition at the place where today stands the Church of St. Paul Outside the Walls. Essential Reading: Paul’s letters, especially Romans, and Acts of the Apostles, beginning with chapter 9. Supplementary Reading: Wayne Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, Paul: His Story. Questions to Consider: 1. What was the basis of Paul’s faith, which saw him through such hardships, setbacks, and rejections? ©2007 The Teaching Company. 10 2. Why is the relationship between Jewish and Gentile Christians so important in the earliest years of Christianity? 3. Is Paul’s greatness largely due to the fact that he was the first Christian writer we have, or because of his commitment, insights, and perseverance? ©2007 The Teaching Company. 11 Lecture Three The Early Martyrs Scope: The 3rd-century theologian Tertullian claimed that the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. Beginning with the story of Stephen in Acts of the Apostles and the letters written by St. Ignatius of Antioch as he was about to be martyred, we will look at a series of stories, some quite well documented and others, no doubt, considerably embellished in their retelling, of those who imitated Christ by dying for Him just as He died for them. For example, we will consider Perpetua and Felicity, whose martyrdoms are known through documents written shortly after their heroic deaths. Although the names of some early martyrs, for example, St. Lawrence and St. Lucy, are well known, others are known only from rather obscure sources. Keep in mind that although the “age of martyrdom” ended with the conversion of Constantine, there have been Christian martyrs in each of the Christian centuries.

• From The Chronology of Water (2011)

  It isn’t a very good novel. Whatever it was we entered, it wasn’t a novel. And if we followed an ex-con priest into a cave, all we found was sea lion excrement. I don’t know if the posse would agree with me on this, but it seemed to me like what we’d entered that year was an ending. The most extreme part or point of something. Or a small piece of something that is left after it has been used. Or perhaps it was simply Kesey’s last act - to further his own end. Every Oregon writer has a Kesey story. I’m serious - go to literary readings in Oregon and 85 percent of the time his name will rise, whether or not whoever is speaking knew him. Sometimes it’s about his house in Pleasant Hill. Sometimes it’s about the bus. Sometimes it’s about writing. Sometimes it’s about his “wild spirit.” Often, if I’m in the audience, it gives me a stomachache to hear his name used in such … soft and impotent ways. I think that everyone that knew Kesey knew him differently. Maybe that’s true about all larger than life people, or it may be that no one really ever knows them at all - we just have experiences near them and claim them as our own. We say their names and wish that something intimate is coming out of our mouths. But intimacy isn’t like in books or movies. It wasn’t until the following year, the year that was not the collaborative writing class, the year after the book we wrote that was not very good came out that made me feel like we’d utterly failed Kesey, the year after he’d ended up in the Mayo clinic for his affair with his lover, vodka, we met once at his coast house by ourselves. That night he boiled water and cooked pasta and dumped a jar of Ragu on it and we ate it with bent old forks. We drank whiskey out of tin cups. He told life stories. That’s what he was best at. Me? I didn’t have any stories. Did I? When it got dark he lit some crappy looking ancient candles. We sat in two wooden chairs next to each other looking out at the moonlit water. I distinctly remember trying to sit in the chair older and like I had been part of history. Which amounted to extending my legs out and crossing one ankle over the other and crossing my arms over my chest. I looked like Abe Lincoln. Then he said, “What’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you in your life?” I sat there like a lump trying to conjure up the best thing that had ever happened to me. We both already knew what the worst thing was. Nothing best had happened to me. Had it? I could only answer worst. I looked out at the ocean. Finally I said, “Swimming.”

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  “I always wanted to be like my mother. She was everything I wanted to be.” Naomi looks at me and adds in embarrassment, “But I failed.” I recognize how similar those feelings are to how Naomi feels about Isabella. In her idealization of both women she splits between good and bad and perceives them as all good and herself as a failure. This is her way to defend against feelings she can’t tolerate having about them and about herself. Naomi can’t let herself know how ambivalent she feels about them, how envious she can be, how angry. Rather, she directs those negative feelings toward herself. “She was always better than I was. She was beautiful, smart, talented, and I was myself. I know it’s childish but I feel like pointing at my mom and saying, ‘It’s not fair, it’s not what you promised me.’” Naomi takes a deep breath and then says with annoyance, “My parents loved each other; they were the perfect couple. Doesn’t that mean I am supposed to be happy in my own marriage? Isn’t that how it works?” I pause and wonder if I should state the obvious. “It sounds like you felt inferior, maybe even unworthy compared to your mother.” Naomi looks intrigued, as if my words force her to recalculate everything. I continue: “While our parents’ relationship can serve as a model for our romantic life, it is usually our relationship with them that we repeat in later intimate relationships.” Naomi seems startled and I’m worried that maybe I have just put into words the forbidden—that which was known but not allowed to be spoken. “Unworthy,” she repeats my word. “I remember that when I was about ten years old I told my mother that I didn’t believe they loved me the way they loved each other.” Naomi sighs and continues. “My mother got so upset. She said that I shouldn’t talk like that, that of course they loved me, and that one day I’d grow up and have a love exactly like theirs.” Naomi stops and looks at me. “But I never did,” she says. “Sam loves me, but he has never loved me the way he loved Isabella. She was his first love.” Naomi tries to hold back her tears. She doesn’t want to cry but she can’t help it. “I hope you know how much I love Isabella,” she says. “I feel devastated. I feel awful to compare the two of us right now, when she is so sick.” Isabella is fighting for her life while Naomi is trying to figure out her life. Isabella’s illness forces Naomi to face the excruciating limitations of our existence: that nothing is all good or lasts forever, that we are all flawed and vulnerable, and that bad things happen to everyone, even those we idealize. Before she leaves, Naomi asks to meet me again tomorrow, and we schedule a session to follow her breakfast with Isabella. Naomi leaves and my heart is heavy.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  It is a profound injury that touches an essential insecurity about one’s body and existence. Like many people, Alice struggles with the feelings that her inability to get pregnant might be a sign that she is not supposed to have a baby, that she doesn’t deserve it, and that she won’t be a good mother. She tries to push those painful feelings aside. She sees herself as damaged with bad genes and defends against her disappointment. While disappointed in herself, she is preoccupied with the ways she disappoints others, especially, as I come to learn, the surrogate mother. “I feel like she wants me to be involved in this process but I constantly forget to call her. I feel guilty that I don’t care about her or the baby. I’ve heard that some people talk with their surrogate every few days. I call her only once in a while. What am I supposed to ask her? How is she feeling? Sure, I can do that, but it would be fake. I don’t really care to hear the details about how she is doing. The most difficult decision I have to make now is whether I should be there when she gives birth. I mean in the room,” she clarifies. “What do you think?” “I think it’s hard to have someone else carry and give birth to your baby while making believe that it’s only easy and happy. It evokes a lot of feelings, positive and negative. It can be insulting and disappointing,” I say. “Exactly,” Alice agrees. “Finally someone understands. People don’t get it. They say how happy they are for me and how exciting it is that we will have a baby soon, as if it’s all good. A friend told me the other day, ‘The minute you have the baby, you don’t remember how it came into the world.’ What nonsense.” Alice sounds angry. “People are so stupid, or maybe they just feel bad for me and try to console me. But that’s dishonest and it makes me feel totally invisible. Like they don’t see what I’m going through. Also, I feel absolutely weird about being in the room with her when she gives birth. I wouldn’t want some woman to be there, looking between my legs, if I were giving birth. I want to give her privacy. I don’t know. How do you think she feels? What do other people do?” I believe Alice is afraid that it might be too painful for her to witness another woman giving birth to her daughter. “I think you are worried about what you might feel there, in the delivery room,” I say. “I’ll be an outsider,” Alice states. She is silent for a moment and then adds, “Now I understand how fathers feel. They don’t carry babies inside them, they don’t give birth to them, they don’t breastfeed them.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  Isabella didn’t mind. She was in love with another guy; she gave Naomi her blessing. A few years later, Isabella was a bridesmaid in Naomi and Sam’s wedding. Now, in her late thirties, Naomi looks back and tries to understand why she isn’t happy. I listen as she begins to unpack her relationship with her mother, her friendship with Isabella, her marriage with Sam. “What am I missing?” Naomi asks again, sounding desperate. It is clear to both of us that she has worked hard to keep herself from knowing the truth about her life and about the people around her. “I know it’s a cliché,” she says apologetically, “but life is short.” I’m aware that Naomi is referencing Isabella’s illness, which brings her in touch with the fragility of life. She feels frightened and disappointed. “On the surface I have everything I ever wanted and I love my family, but I feel so defeated, as if life were supposed to be something else, more than what it turned out to be. Now Isabella is sick and it makes me angry.” Naomi’s voice becomes louder. “Sometimes I feel that I don’t know anyone at all, not even Isabella. I feel betrayed and I’m not sure why.” I know what Naomi means. Naomi views Isabella, as well as her own childhood and her perfect mother, in ways that often don’t feel real. She idealizes the world around her as a way to protect herself from seeing things as they really are. It’s not just that she doesn’t know others; she is afraid to discover herself. Idealization is a defense mechanism that serves to keep the illusion that things, or people, are perfect, and even better than reality. It is based on the splitting between good and bad, which children do in order to organize a safe and predictable world. As we grow up and become less fragile, we allow ourselves to see the world as more complex. As adults, we sometimes use idealization to pretend that things are perfect, that people are not flawed and that we don’t have any negative feelings or ambivalence about them. “I always wanted to be like my mother. She was everything I wanted to be.” Naomi looks at me and adds in embarrassment, “But I failed.” I recognize how similar those feelings are to how Naomi feels about Isabella. In her idealization of both women she splits between good and bad and perceives them as all good and herself as a failure. This is her way to defend against feelings she can’t tolerate having about them and about herself. Naomi can’t let herself know how ambivalent she feels about them, how envious she can be, how angry. Rather, she directs those negative feelings toward herself. “She was always better than I was. She was beautiful, smart, talented, and I was myself.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  Our parents tend to live inside us without our permission. Our relationships with them are the first we have, and our future relationships exist only in dialogue with them. Guy had to move away but he still struggles with the guilt of leaving—and living. As I have come to learn from him over time, he hasn’t been able to create a safe-enough home in New York or to have an intimate relationship. He isn’t sure that he can love or trust others, and he certainly doesn’t trust himself to protect the people he loves from his legacy of brutality and abuse. Being alone feels like the best way to hide, and hiding, after all, is the only way to survive. In our first session, hiding behind his gray winter coat, Guy told me that he had researched me, wondering about who I was and about the people I had left behind. He questioned if therapy was even for him: Could he have an honest relationship, where he felt known, without being too vulnerable or threatened? Could he heal the abused boy he once was without feeling humiliated and ashamed? Could he ever love and be loved? On a snowy day, one year after Guy started his therapy, he walks into my office, nods, and says softly, “I think I’m getting used to this weather.” He takes off his coat and smiles. We both notice the difference. 11 THE UNEXAMINED LIFE ALICE LOOKS YOUNGER than her age. Maybe it’s her long black hair, or maybe it’s the sweatpants and sneakers she wears to our first session that make me think of her as a girl. She comes to see me right after celebrating her forty-fourth birthday. Very quickly her age becomes a topic. Alice was in her late thirties when she met Art, I learn. It was right after she got divorced, and she was worried that she might be too old to have children. “I don’t care about marriage,” she tells me in that first session. “My parents separated when I was five years old. They had a messy divorce and after my father officially remarried, he was not in the picture anymore.” I ask her what she means by “officially remarried.” Alice rolls her eyes. “It’s not why I came to therapy, but I guess it’s all relevant to what I’m dealing with,” she says. “I had a shitty childhood. Again, it’s not why I’m here.” “Why are you here?” I ask. “We are about to have a child,” Alice says, and I’m a bit surprised because she doesn’t look pregnant at all. “We tried to get pregnant for years. Between you and me, from our first week together we knew that we wanted to have children, but I couldn’t get pregnant. I tried everything. Many cycles of IVF.” She turns to me. “Do you know how expensive that is?

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  • What do I need to do to make my family or personal life more positive and rewarding now? Issues of BeliefSome former members liken their cult involvement to spiritual rape. This wound is deep and takes time to heal. Through the cult's indoctrination and manipulative techniques, members become convinced that their spiritual experiences are a consequence of allegiance to the leader and his carefully crafted path to enlightenment. In secular cults, members are led to feel that they are fulfilling their highest human potential through unquestioning belief and dedication to the group's ideology. Whether your experience was religious or secular, your realization that an enormous betrayal has taken place may cause you considerable pain. In response, you may now tend to reject all forms of belief. It can take many years to overcome your disillusionment and learn not only to trust your inner self but also to believe in something again. [image file=img/page0195_0000.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0001.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0002.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0003.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0004.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0005.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0006.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0007.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0008.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0009.svg] [image file=img/page0195_0010.svg] Although it is a widespread misconception that all cults are religious, it is true that all cults tend to disrupt a person's core beliefs. This tends to affect all areas of life, which is why it is sometimes said that a cult experience has an effect on the spiritual being, the psyche, or the inner person. Coming to terms with spirituality or personal beliefs may be the most upsetting part of some people's postcult experience. Counselor William Kent Burtner writes: The emotions of wonder and awe, transcendence and mystery, are a deep part of each person.... While in most of us those feelings are directed toward God, creation and the discovery of the "really real," like any other emotion, they are subject to manipulation. Ex-cultists have experienced these manipulations profoundly and the memory of them remains vivid. If they have not rejected those feelings totally as a result of their "heavenly sting," they question whether they can find that sense of transcendence anywhere other than in the cult. The cult has told them that no other path exists beyond that of the group. In essence cultists have never really made a choice for the group, but rather have experienced a program that causes them to progressively close the door on alternatives. The only "choice" that remains to them is the group itself. The lingering question of where to experience that sense of transcendence needs to be addressed.... In leaving such a group, the ex-member finds himself in an enormous vacuum.10 A related difficulty may be a persistent nagging thought that you made a giant mistake in the group, that perhaps the teachings are true and the leader right; perhaps it is you who failed. Because of the cult's "mystical manipulation" (see Chapter 3), coupled with the most human desire to believe, people may search for a way to continue believing even after leaving the group.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  In that same year, Anuttama Dasa, ISKCON's public affairs director, and the Communications Ministry commissioned Professor Burke Rochford Jr. to research and produce an academic report on the history ofgurukula. A sociology professor in Vermont and author of a prominent book about ISKCON, Rochford had been studying the boarding schools for almost twenty years.' Initially he learned of the child abuse in the same way as everyone else, by reading accounts of former students that came out in the 199os. Reform-minded devotees published Rochford's analysis in the ISKCON Communications Journal without clearing it with the hierarchy.9 Further, the public relations office supplied copies to the media, and the New York Times published a front-page report.10 A similar article by the Associated Press appeared in newspapers across the United States," and Rochford appeared on numerous talk shows to discuss his findings. My opinion, as an outside observer, is that this was the most meaningful gesture that ISKCON made toward reconciling with its children. As one ISKCON official told the media, "Even if we have to go through ten years of court cases and we lose every building in North America, it's more important [to resolve the issues so] we can give people spirituality."" Unfortunately, the publication of Rochford's paper led to internal divisions and outright hostility toward abuse survivors, including fistfights at temples. By 1999, ISKCON had polarized into two camps. The reformers genuinely wanted to help the victims and bring the matter out in the open. However, the conservative wing, which consisted of the majority of gurus and GBC members (and their followers), outnumbered the reformers, and seemed to want the victims to just go away. They opposed any open discussion or acknowledg ment of the problems. For his part, Rochford said he felt torn over his involvement. He wrote the article to help the survivors, but he expressed regret over the way it was received, saying, "Essentially I had been drawn into writing the article and exposing child abuse to promote a partisan political agenda."13 In 1999, the ISKCON Communications Office published a press release stating that it would raise one million dollars for Children of Krishna, Inc., and the Office of Child Protection.14 Unfortunately, the money never materialized. Moving OnIt seemed apparent to the victims and observers like me that ISKCON did not want to help. Many survivors needed counseling. They were trying to raise their own children, and many were suicidal or depressed. A few of us got together in 1999 and located an attorney who was interested in the case. Windle Turley met with the survivors, and in 2000, he initiated Children of ISKCON v. ISKCON. In May 2005, ISKCON settled the complaint, going into bankruptcy reorganization to pay millions in damages to the victims. Unfortunately, according to various reports, the organization has welcomed back some of the most notorious child abusers. In addition, the abuse was criminal in nature; yet, so far, no criminal charges have been filed.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  Isabella and Sam were a couple for a few years. He was the first guy she had sex with, and she shared that secret with Naomi, her best friend. When they graduated high school, Isabella and Sam broke up and went to different colleges. When they were in their twenties, Isabella had one boyfriend after another, passionate love affairs, which Naomi followed, always a little jealous and feeling slightly betrayed when Isabella prioritized her boyfriends over Naomi. She wanted to be loved the way Isabella was, but instead—as in her relationship with her mother—she was a witness to someone else’s love. One day, when she was in her twenties, Naomi ran into Sam on the street. She called Isabella right away to tell her about it. She asked her if she would give her permission to go out with Sam. Isabella didn’t mind. She was in love with another guy; she gave Naomi her blessing. A few years later, Isabella was a bridesmaid in Naomi and Sam’s wedding. Now, in her late thirties, Naomi looks back and tries to understand why she isn’t happy. I listen as she begins to unpack her relationship with her mother, her friendship with Isabella, her marriage with Sam. “What am I missing?” Naomi asks again, sounding desperate. It is clear to both of us that she has worked hard to keep herself from knowing the truth about her life and about the people around her. “I know it’s a cliché,” she says apologetically, “but life is short.” I’m aware that Naomi is referencing Isabella’s illness, which brings her in touch with the fragility of life. She feels frightened and disappointed. “On the surface I have everything I ever wanted and I love my family, but I feel so defeated, as if life were supposed to be something else, more than what it turned out to be. Now Isabella is sick and it makes me angry.” Naomi’s voice becomes louder. “Sometimes I feel that I don’t know anyone at all, not even Isabella. I feel betrayed and I’m not sure why.” I know what Naomi means. Naomi views Isabella, as well as her own childhood and her perfect mother, in ways that often don’t feel real. She idealizes the world around her as a way to protect herself from seeing things as they really are. It’s not just that she doesn’t know others; she is afraid to discover herself. Idealization is a defense mechanism that serves to keep the illusion that things, or people, are perfect, and even better than reality. It is based on the splitting between good and bad, which children do in order to organize a safe and predictable world. As we grow up and become less fragile, we allow ourselves to see the world as more complex. As adults, we sometimes use idealization to pretend that things are perfect, that people are not flawed and that we don’t have any negative feelings or ambivalence about them.

• From Less (2017)

  To Less’s delight, the name of the hotel is the Monkey House, and it is filled with art and music: in the front hallway is an enormous portrait of Frida Kahlo holding a heart in each hand. Below her, a player piano works through a roll of Scott Joplin. Arturo speaks in rapid Spanish to a portly older man, his hair slick as silver, who then turns to Less and says, “Welcome to our little home! I hear you are a famous poet!” “No,” Less said. “But I knew a famous poet. That seems to be enough, these days.” “Yes, he knew Robert Brownburn,” Arturo gravely explains, hands clasped. “Brownburn!” the hotel owner shouts. “To me he is better than Ross! When did you meet him?” “Oh, a long time ago. I was twenty-one.” “Your first time in Mexico?” “Yes, yes, it is.” “Welcome to Mexico!” What other desperate characters have they invited to this shindig? He dreads the appearance of any acquaintances; he can bear only a private humiliation. Arturo turns to Less with the pained expression of one who has just broken something beloved of yours. “Señor Less, I am so sorry,” he begins. “I think you speak no Spanish, am I correct?” “You are correct,” Less says. He is so weary, and the festival packet is so heavy. “It’s a long story. I chose German. A terrible mistake in my youth, but I blame my parents.” “Yes. Youth. And so tomorrow the festival is completely in Spanish. Yes, I can take you in the morning to the festival center. But you are not to speak until the third day.” “I’m not on until the third day?” His face takes on the expression of a bronze-medal winner in a three-man race. “Perhaps”—here Arturo takes a deep breath—“I take you downtown to see our city instead? With a compatriot?” Less sighs and smiles. “Arturo, that is a wonderful suggestion.” At ten the next morning, Arthur Less stands outside his hotel. The sun shines brightly, and overhead in the jacarandas three fantailed black birds make peculiar, merry noises. It takes a moment before Less understands they have learned to imitate the player piano. Less is in search of a café; the hotel’s coffee is surprisingly weak and American flavored, and a poor night’s sleep (Less painfully fondling the memory of a good-bye kiss) has led to an exhausted state. “Are you Arthur Less?” North American accent, coming from a lion of a man in his sixties, with a shaggy gray mane and a golden stare. He introduces himself as the festival organizer. “I’m the Head,” he says, holding out a surprisingly dainty paw for a handshake. He names the midwestern university at which he is a professor. “Harold Van Dervander. I helped the director shape this year’s conference and put together the panels.” “That’s wonderful, Professor Vander…van…”

• From Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  For Clea too the little book of Arnauti upon Justine seemed shallow and infected by the desire to explain everything. ‘It is our disease’ she said ‘to want to contain everything within the frame of reference of a psychology or a philosophy. After all Justine cannot be justified or excused. She simply and magnificently is; we have to put up with her, like original sin. But to call her a nymphomaniac or to try and Freudianise her, my dear, takes away all her mythical substance — the only thing she really is. Like all amoral people she verges on the Goddess. If our world were a world there would be temples to accommodate her where she would find the peace she was seeking. Temples where one could outgrow the sort of inheritance she has: not these damn monasteries full of pimply little Catholic youths who have made a bicycle saddle of their sexual organs.’ She was thinking of the chapters which Arnauti has entitled The Check, and in which he thinks he has found the clue to Justine’s instability of heart. They may be, as Clea thinks, shallow, but since everything is susceptible of more than one explanation they are worth consideration. I myself do not feel that they explain Justine, but to a degree they do illuminate her actions — those immense journeys they undertook together across the length and breadth of Europe. ‘In the very heart of passion’ he writes, adding in parentheses ‘(passion which to her seemed the most facile of gifts) there was a check — some great impediment of feeling which I became aware of only after many months. It rose up between us like a shadow and I recognized, or thought I did, the true enemy of the happiness which we longed to share and from which we felt ourselves somehow excluded. What was it?

• From Less (2017)

  They arrange to chat again in ten minutes, during which time Less manages to find the inn’s computer, which is startlingly up-to-date, considering the ancient room in which it sits. As he waits for the video call, he stares at a bird of paradise arranged in a bowl by the window. A minor stroke. Fuck you, life. Arthur Less’s life with Robert ended around the time he finished reading Proust. It was one of the grandest and most dismaying experiences in Less’s life—Marcel Proust, that is—and the three thousand pages of In Search of Lost Time took him five committed summers to finish. And on that fifth summer, when he was lying abed in a friend’s Cape Cod house one afternoon, about two-thirds of the way through the last volume, suddenly, without any warning at all, he read the words The End. In his right hand he held perhaps two hundred pages more—but they were not Proust; they were the cruel trick of some editor’s notes and afterword. He felt cheated, swindled, denied a pleasure for which he had spent five years preparing. He went back twenty pages; he tried to build up the feeling again. But it was too late; that possible joy had departed forever. This was how he felt when Robert left him. Or perhaps you assumed he left Robert? As with Proust, he knew the end was coming. Fifteen years, and the joy of love had long since faded, and the cheating had begun; not simply Less’s escapades with other men but secret affairs that ran the course of a month to a year and broke everything in sight. Was he testing to see how elastic love could be? Was he simply a man who had gladly given his youth to a man in midlife and now, nearing midlife himself, wanted back the fortune he squandered? Wanted sex and love and folly? The very things Robert saved him from all those years ago? As for the good things, as for safety, comfort, love—Less found himself smashing them to bits. Perhaps he did not know what he was doing; perhaps it was a kind of madness. But perhaps he did know. Perhaps he was burning down a house in which he no longer wanted to live.

• From Less (2017)

  Most of all: she does not look anywhere near fifty, or even forty. You would never know she drinks like a sailor, as well as swears like one, smokes one menthol after another. She certainly looks younger than lined and weary, old and broke and loveless Arthur Less. Zohra fixes her dazzling eyes on him. “You know, I’m a big fan of your books.” “Oh!” he says. They are walking along beside a low wall of ancient bricks, and, below, a series of whitewashed houses rises from a river. “I really loved Kalipso. Really, really loved it. You motherfucker, you made me cry at the end.” “I guess I’m glad to hear that.” “It was so sad, Arthur. So fucking sad. What’s your next one?” She flips her hair over her shoulder, and it moves in a long fluid line. He finds himself clenching his teeth. Below, two boys on horseback are moving slowly up the river shallows. Zohra frowns. “I’m freaking you out. I shouldn’t have asked. None of my fucking business.” “No, no,” Arthur says. “It’s okay. I wrote a new novel, and my publisher hates it.” “What do you mean?” “Well, they turned it down. Declined to publish it. I remember when I sold my first book, the head of the publishing house sat me down in his office, and he gave me this long speech about how he knew they didn’t pay very much, but they were a family, and I was now part of that family, they were investing in me not for this book but for my entire career. That was only fifteen years ago. And bam—I’m out. Some family.” “Sounds like my family. What was your new novel about?” Catching his expression, she quickly adds, “Arthur, I hope you know you can tell me to bugger off.” He has a rule, which is never to describe his books until after they are published. People are so careless with their responses, and even a skeptical expression can feel akin to someone saying about your new lover: Don’t tell me you’re dating him? But for some reason, he trusts her. “It was…,” he starts, stumbling on a rock in the path, then starts again: “It was about a middle-aged gay man walking around San Francisco. And, you know, his…his sorrows…” Her face has begun to fold inward in a dubious expression, and he finds himself trailing off. From the front of the group, the journalists are shouting in Arabic. Zohra asks, “Is it a white middle-aged man?” “Yes.” “A white middle-aged American man walking around with his white middle-aged American sorrows?” “Jesus, I guess so.” “Arthur. Sorry to tell you this. It’s a little hard to feel sorry for a guy like that.” “Even gay?” “Even gay.” “Bugger off.” He did not know he was going to say this. She stops walking, points at his chest, and grins. “Good for you,” she says.

• From Wild (2012)

  “It doesn’t look like anything,” I said. There was only the lake surrounded by a gathering of scraggly pines with Mount Shasta to the east—after having it in sight north of me since Hat Creek Rim, I was now finally moving past the showy 14,000-foot peak. “Maybe the Gathering is back a ways from the water,” said Stacy, though once we reached the lake’s shore it was clear that there was no happy encampment, no writhing mass of people jamming and tripping and making hearty stew. There were no dark breads or sexy hippies. The Rainbow Gathering was a bust. The three of us lunched dejectedly near the lake, eating the miserable things we always ate. Afterwards, Rex went for a swim and Stacy and I walked without our packs down the steep trail toward a jeep road our guidebook said was there. In spite of the evidence, we hadn’t entirely given up hope that we’d find the Rainbow Gathering, but when we came to the rough dirt road after ten minutes, there was nothing. No one. It was all trees, dirt, rocks, and weeds, just like it had always been. “I guess we got the wrong information,” said Stacy, scanning the landscape, her voice high with the same rage and regret that welled in me. My disappointment felt tremendous and infantile, like I might have the sort of tantrum I hadn’t had since I was three. I went to a large flat boulder next to the road, lay down on it, and closed my eyes to blot the stupid world out so this wouldn’t be the thing that finally brought me to tears on the trail. The rock was warm and smooth, wide as a table. It felt incredibly good against my back. “Wait,” said Stacy after a while. “I thought I heard something.” I opened my eyes and listened. “Probably just the wind,” I said, hearing nothing. “Probably.” She looked at me and we smiled wanly at each other. She wore a sun hat that tied under her chin and short shorts with gaiters that went up to her knees, a getup that always made her look like a Girl Scout to me. When I’d first met her, I’d been slightly disappointed that she wasn’t more like my friends and me. She was quieter, emotionally cooler, less feminist and artsy and political, more mainstream. If we’d met off the trail I didn’t know if we’d have become friends, but by now she’d become dear to me. “I hear it again,” she said suddenly, looking down the road.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I bit my nail, and frowned. ‘Dreams,’ I said. He snapped his fingers. ‘The very stuff that stages are made of.’ ‘Where would we start?’ I said then. ‘Who would offer us a spot?’ ‘The manager here would. Tonight. I’ve already spoken with him -’ ‘Tonight!’ ‘Just one song. He’ll find space for you in his programme; and if they like you, he’ll keep you there.’ ‘Tonight...’ I looked at Walter in dismay. His face was very kind, and his eyes seemed bluer and more earnest than ever. But what he said made me tremble. I thought of the hall, hot and bright and filled with jeering faces. I thought of that stage, so wide and empty. I thought: I cannot do it, not even for Walter’s sake. Not even for Kitty’s. I made to shake my head. He saw, and quickly spoke again - spoke, perhaps for the first time in all the months that I had known him, with something that was almost guile. He said: ‘You know, of course, that we cannot throw over the idea of the double act, now that we have hit upon it. If you don’t wish to partner Kitty, there’ll be some other girl who does. We can spread the word, place notices, audition. You mustn’t feel that you are letting Kitty down...’ I looked from him to the stage, where Kitty herself sat on the edge of a beam of limelight, sipping at her cup, swinging her legs, and smiling at some word of the conductor’s. The thought that she might take another partner - might stroll before the footlights with another girl’s arm through hers, another girl’s voice rising and blending with her own - had not occurred to me. It was more ghastly than the image of the jeering hall; more ghastly than the prospect of being laughed and hissed off a thousand, thousand stages... So when Kitty stood in the wing of the theatre that night, waiting for the chairman’s cry, I stood beside her, sweating beneath a layer of grease-paint, biting my lips so hard I thought they would bleed. My heart had beat fast for Kitty before, in apprehension and passion; but it had never thudded as it thudded now - I thought it would burst right out of my breast, I thought I should be killed with fright. When Walter came to whisper to us, and to fill our pockets with coins, I could not answer him. There was a juggling turn upon the stage. I heard the creaking of the boards as the man ran to catch his batons, the clap-gasp-clap-gasp- cheer of the audience as he finished his set; and then came the clack of a gavel, and the juggler ran by us, clutching his gear. Kitty said once, very low, ‘I love you!’ - and I felt myself half-pulled, half-thrust beneath the rising curtain, and knew that I must somehow saunter and sing.

• From Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  So I had lost sight of her for a month or more; and indeed I did not think of her, having many other preoccupations at this time. Then, one hot blank afternoon, when I was sitting at my window watching the city unwrinkle from sleep I saw a different Melissa walk down the street and turn into the shadowy doorway of the house. She tapped at my door and walked in with her arms full of flowers, and all at once I found myself separated from that forgotten evening by centuries. She had in her something of the same diffidence with which I later saw her take up a collection for the orchestra in the night-club. She looked like a statue of pride hanging its head.

• From Less (2017)

  “Hello, I’m Finley Dwyer,” said Finley Dwyer. “We’ve never met, but I’ve read your work. Welcome to my city; I live here, you know.” Less said he was looking forward to all traveling together, and Finley informed him that he had misunderstood. They would not be traveling together; they would be sent off in twos. “Like Mormons,” the man said with a smile. Less held his relief in check until he learned that, no, he would not be paired with Finley Dwyer. In fact, he would be paired with no one; an elderly writer had been too ill to make her flight. This did not lessen Less’s joy; on the contrary, it seemed a small miracle that now he would be in France, alone, for a month. Time to write, and take notes, and enjoy the country. The woman in gold stood at the head of the table and announced where they would all be headed: to Marseille, Corsica, Paris, Nice. Arthur Less…she looked at her notes…to Mulhouse. “I’m sorry?” Mulhouse. It turned out to be on the border of Germany, not far from Strasbourg. Mulhouse had a wonderful harvest festival, which was already over, and a spectacular Christmas market, which Less would miss. November was the season in between: the homely middle daughter. He arrived at night, by train, and the town seemed dark and crouched, and he was taken to his hotel, conveniently located within the station itself. His room and its furniture dated from the 1970s, and Less battled with a yellow plastic dresser before conceding defeat. Some blind plumber had reversed the hot and cold shower faucets. The view out his window was of a circular brick plaza, rather like a pepperoni pizza, which the whistling wind endlessly seasoned with dry leaves. At least, he consoled himself, Freddy would join him at the end of his journey for an extra week in Paris.