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 The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  But I had thought that meant my ending, my final destination, when, in fact, he was my beginning, my wretched beginning. God, that hurt. The profound disillusionment of having the great love of my life founder on the rocky road of reality was a blow too great for my own consciousness to bear, much less comprehend. After ten years I left my husband. He couldn’t see me any longer; and he never even knew I had an asshole. I had retired from dancing some years earlier because of a hip injury that had first surfaced six months into my marriage. Funny, that: life’s wicked signposts. A friend says hips represent where you hold trust in your body. Hokum? Maybe. Either way, both my right hip joint and my trust were shot. I became intolerable both to myself and my husband. A wailing banshee, a celibate nymphomaniac with a suitcase of resentments and matching lingerie. I listed fifty-two of the former and left with the latter. Freedom. Fear. NEW YEAR’S EVE A year later. A petite, Pre-Raphaelite redheaded dancer kept flirting with me at the gym where I exercised. She could tell I was a dancer, too: lean, hard-bodied, physically intense. I had never been with a woman, though I had thought about it plenty. The reality seemed far, far away. It wasn’t quite as far as I had thought. She had been trying, she told me, to get this Young Man, who also worked out at the gym occasionally, to have sex with her, but had yet to succeed. She was recently out of a seven-year live-in disappointment. Heroin, lies, other women. Her mental masochism, like mine, needed a rest. One day, I was at the gym in a corner stretching on a mat when I saw the Young Man nearby, resting between exercises. I had hardly ever noticed him before. He was self-effacing, quiet, and ventured carefully. Sitting, stretching over my toes, I asked him for a push on my back. It was not a sexual overture; I wanted a push. I got one. His hands touched the middle of my back, moved up and down, pressing my tightness, and I released—even moaned a little. We said nothing. Just his firm fingers pushing deeply, consciously, up and down my back. Time stood still until he took his hands away and I lifted my head, flushed and clear-eyed, as if I’d just come. We looked at each other, said nothing, stood, went through a fire-exit door into an empty hallway, and slowly pressed into each other, my back to the wall. No words: just eyes and an electric current with European voltage. So much power in one man’s hands. It must, physically, be some kind of vibrational force, a quixotic dance of a million molecules. His touch was very strong, very unafraid, and yet so tender. And humble. My belly started contracting involuntarily, and he started trembling through his strength. Yielding, we slid down the wall, stunned.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Después de limpiar la casa, realmente no quería sacarme el olor de él, pero necesitaba desesperadamente una ducha. Me limpié y luego llamé a Cam y le pedí su auto para conseguir mi cheque de paga de Grounders e hice algunos recados. Obtuve miradas ladeadas de mi hermana y Shel, probablemente ambas preguntándose por qué estaba prácticamente corriendo, pero no me importó. Porque en unas horas, sus ojos estarían nuevamente sobre mí, y realmente me gusta cuando su mirada está sobre mí. Tal vez iríamos a nadar esta noche, o pondríamos algunos cojines y mantas en la parte trasera de la camioneta para enrollarnos en alguna parte. O tal vez provocaría una pelea, así él me inclinaría sobre la mesa de la cocina para otra sesión de azotes. Estúpida. Fantasías y expectaciones que nunca se cumplen en la realidad. Debería haberlo sabido. Aquí estoy, sentada, esperando a que él aparezca, lista para estar a su servicio y llamada. Después de un tiempo, tomo mi teléfono de nuevo comprobando si tengo algún mensaje. Todavía nada. Miro la hora, y ahora son casi las siete. Dos horas tarde. Él sabría que lo estaría esperando. Si no llamó, entonces sucedió algo. Lo llamo, a punto de sentirme realmente patética si no está sentado en la sala de emergencias ahora mismo, o realmente mal por todas mis dudas si lo está. Sin embargo, la llamada va al buzón de voz y cuelgo, dudando solo un momento antes de levantarme y dirigirme al refrigerador, pasando el dedo por la lista de contactos de Pike. Veo el número de Dutch y lo llamo, pensando en algo que decir para no parecer desesperada. La línea suena tres veces antes que responda. —¿Diga? —Hola, Dutch —contesto rápidamente, añadiendo un poco de alegría a mi tono—. Soy Jordan. Siento molestarte. Sé que Pike no siempre lleva el teléfono encima y pensé que tú lo tendrías. Estoy a punto de irme al trabajo y perdí mi llave de la casa. —Me lamo los labios secos, el corazón latiéndome con fuerza—. ¿Ya terminaron allí? No sabía a qué hora volvería Pike a casa y no quería irme dejando la puerta sin bloquear. —Oh, cerramos el negocio hace dos horas, cariño —me comenta—. Ya estoy en casa, y él se fue con los chicos a tomar una cerveza al Poor Red’s. Estoy seguro que si lo llamas irá a casa y cerrará. Se me cierra la garganta y las lágrimas pican por salir. Él se fue. Fuerzo una tensa sonrisa, esperando que disfrace mi furia interior. —Sí. Lo haré. Gracias. Cuelgo y cierro los ojos, obligándome a tranquilizarme. Él se fue. Sin decirme nada. Simplemente me dejó esperando aquí. Pestañeo para alejar las lágrimas, negándome a sentirme herida. Me preocupé por él y follé con él, pero no lo amo y claramente a él le importo una mierda. Obtuvo lo que quería.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  But the masseur was not real, I decided. He was only my transient sexual angel who kept reappearing with his heavenly message in my bedroom at preappointed hours. Perhaps, I thought, deep in my unexamined soul, I really am a conventional girl who simply got thrown out of orbit, and a boyfriend is what I need. Perhaps the masses knew something I didn’t about men and women and love and sex. So I also tried dating. Six weeks per male, quick to sex, oral, but every time they fucked me I felt fucked over and fired them, one by one. They’d get in, get off, roll over, and I’d feel used and underpaid. So I kept calling the masseur—whom I paid. It was a better deal. Disappointment is a great teacher—if one survives the lacerations to one’s romantic ideal. After my marriage ended I was willing, open, and angry, and nothing that others did or “society” suggested in terms of conducting relationships necessarily held any merit for me. Everything I knew hadn’t worked, so I was free to try anything. Most of all, I had valuable firsthand experience that “relationships” that exist in “real life” sooner or later lose their erotic excitement. Not a particularly original notion, but one I now owned. At the same time, being a dreamer, I was adamant that there had to be another way. All was now backwards to me: fuck love and love sucking. I was discovering that while the theatrical stage left me numb and afraid and invisible, the sexual stage brought out a spontaneous theatricality and confidence that I knew was my truest self—or at least the one that amused me most. So, like a sexual scientist, I set out to test my theories, to adjust them as needed, and to formulate new ones as they evolved. I had already lost everything, so I had nothing to lose. Thus I vacillated between experiments in the nightmare of attachment with nice-nice sex and the thrill of naughty sex without attachment—take your Tantra and shove it up your yoni. There were only two rules that governed my behavior. One was relentlessly safe sex—I became the Queen of Condoms. The second was the importance of quality control. If the sex isn’t awesome, or at least fascinating, get out, stop, shift gears, and change direction with minimum discussion. There were, as a result, plenty of discarded bodies floating in the moat around my castle, but the drawbridge was always down, inviting new specimens into my laboratory. They came in droves. NEW YEAR’S EVE

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Necesitas dinero? —dice mientras espero que mi padre se ponga al teléfono—. Porque no tenemos nada. Tu padre se lastimó la espalda y perdió algo de trabajo hace un par de semanas, así que las cosas están apretadas en este momento. Parpadeo. —No, yo… —tartamudeo, agravada por su pregunta—. No necesito dinero. Y si así fuera, serían las últimas personas a las que les pediría. Mi padre nunca tiene efectivo por más de un día antes de quemarle un agujero en el bolsillo. Una de las muchas razones por las que mi madre se fue. Pero al menos mi padre se quedó. —¡¿Chip?! —lo llama otra vez, pero luego gruñe a los perros—. Salgan del camino, ustedes dos. Sacudo la cabeza, la sospecha previa de que un mensaje de texto hubiera sido mejor ahora se solidifica. Si mi papá logra llegar al teléfono, simplemente colgaré sintiéndome enojada porque sea tan cálido como esta mujer. Gracias a Dios que no fue mi madrastra por mucho tiempo bajo ese techo. Me fui tan pronto como pude. —Solo quería que supieran que me mudé —explico—. En caso de que necesiten mi nueva dirección. —Ah, sí, claro. —La escucho inhalar y sé que está fumando—. Te mudaste con Cole a la casa de su padre. Sí, lo hemos oído. —Sí, yo… —¡Chip! —grita de nuevo, interrumpiéndome. Me cubro los ojos, exasperada. —Está bien —le digo—. Eso es todo para lo que llamé, así que no molestes a papá si ya lo sabe. Los llamaré… más tarde. —Está bien. —Sopla humo—. Bueno, cuídate y llamaré dentro de una semana más o menos. Te invito a cenar o algo así. Mi cuerpo tiembla con una risa amarga que contengo. No es gracioso. Es triste, realmente. Pero cuelga sin esperar a que le diga “adiós”, y dejo escapar un suspiro, lanzando mi teléfono sobre la cama. Ni mi padre ni mi madrastra son malas personas, aunque tampoco ninguno me llamó el día de mi cumpleaños. Nunca fui golpeada, matada de hambre o abusada verbalmente. Solo un poco olvidada, supongo. Lucharon por algo bueno en la vida, por lo que era demasiado pedir que dejaran que la responsabilidad o la preocupación por sus hijos interfirieran con el pequeño placer que lograban reunir con sus noches de cerveza y bingo. Después que Cam se fue y consiguió su propio lugar, no tuve a nadie con quien hablar. No era nadie en ese remolque, y nunca más quería volver a sentirme sola. Recojo mi libreta de la cama y reanudo la tarea de mi clase de verano ese día. Mi libro de texto se abre frente a mí y pulso mi lápiz mecánico para obtener más ventaja. Suena un golpe en la puerta de la habitación, y levanto la cabeza, tensándome. —¿Entre? —digo, pero parece una pregunta. Cole no llamaría. Debe ser su padre. ¿Dejé la ropa en la secadora? ¿La estufa encendida? Repaso mi lista mental de verificación.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Girls in gay dresses walked the pavements in long, intimidating lines, or spooned with their bowler-hatted beaux on steps and benches. Boys stood drinking at the doors of public-houses, their pomaded heads gleaming, in the gas-light, like silk. The moon hung low above the roofs of Soho, pink and bright and swollen as a Chinese lantern. One or two stars winked viciously alongside it. And through it all sauntered I, in my suit of scarlet; and yet by eleven o’clock, when the streets were thinning, I had had no luck at all. A couple of gents had seemed to like the look of me, and one rough-looking man had set himself to follow me, right the way from Piccadilly to Seven Dials and back again. But the gents, at the last, had been lured by other renters; and the rough man was not the type I cared for. I had given him the slip in a lavatory with two exits. And then there had been yet another almost-encounter, later, while I was idling beside a lamp-post in St James’s Square. A brougham had driven slowly by, then stopped; and then, like me, it had lingered. No one had got out of it, no one had got in. The driver had had a high collar shadowing his face, and had never moved his gaze from his horse - but there had been a certain twitching of the lace at the dark carriage windows, that let me know that I was being observed, carefully, from within. I had strolled about a bit, and lit a cigarette. I didn’t, for obvious reasons, do carriage jobs. Gents on wheels, I knew from my friends at Leicester Square, were demanding. They paid well, but expected correspondingly large favours: bumwork, bed-work - nights, sometimes, in hotels. Even so, it never hurt to show off a bit: the gent inside might remember me on another, more pedestrian, occasion. I had ambled up and down the edges of the Square for a good ten minutes, occasionally reaching down to give a twitch to my groin - for, in the rather flamboyant spirit in which I had dressed that night, I had padded my drawers with a rolled silk cravat, instead of my usual kerchief or glove, and the material was slippery, and kept edging along my thigh. Still, I thought, such a gesture might not prove unpleasing to the distant eye of an interested gent ... The carriage, however, with its taciturn driver and bashful occupant, had at last jerked into life and pulled away. Since then my admirers had all, apparently, been as cautious as that last one; I had sensed a few interested glances slither my way, but had managed to hook none of them with my own more frankly searching one. By now it had grown very dark, and almost chill. It was time, I thought, to pick my slow way home. I felt disappointed.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  When after the defeat of the Protestants in the Smalkaldian War, Melanchthon accepted the Leipzig Interim with the humiliating condition of conformity to the Roman ritual, which the German emperor imposed upon them, Calvin was still more dissatisfied with his old friend. He sided, in this case, with the Lutheran non-conformists who, under the lead of Matthias Flacius, resisted the Interim, and were put under the ban of the empire. He wrote to Melanchthon, June 18, 1550, the following letter of remonstrance:570— "The ancient satirist [Juvenal, I. 79] once said, — ’Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum.’

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Even in the final, combustible days leading up to the movie’s release, Walt couldn’t stop micromanaging. “Have the hummingbird make four pick-ups instead of six,” he corrected. Regarding one of the dwarfs: his “fanny in the last half of the scene is too high.” The Queen’s eyebrows were too extreme. One of Grumpy’s fingers was too big. In an irony visible only to his exasperated staff, Walt worried aloud that the constant revisions would suck the spontaneity from the film. Far from Walt’s office, on the studio floor, the supervising director threw drawing boards across the room, screaming, “We gotta get the picture out!” When the film was finalized, Walt could only see the flaws. To a reporter, he admitted, “I’ve seen so much of Snow White that I am conscious only of the places where it could be improved. You see, we’ve learned such a lot since we started this thing! I wish I could yank it back and do it all over again.” Ultimately, the colossal success of Snow White publicly cemented Walt’s place in cinematic history. For a time, it was the highest-grossing American film ever, making nearly $92 million in today’s dollars during its initial release. Away from the spotlight, however, it solidified Walt’s perpetual dissatisfaction. His triumph only set the bar higher for Disney magic. Despite Walt’s carefully crafted public image of the sheepish, aw-shucks “Uncle Walt,” a journalist visiting the studios noted that Walt “appeared to be under the lash of some private demon.” After the war, faced with the realities of budgets and bank loans, the studio went through a round of layoffs and budget cuts. Walt, demoralized, began to lose his drive. His future films, he fretted, would never be the jewel box masterpieces—painstaking, gorgeous, almost spiritual experiences—that the earlier ones had been. Rather than making the most of what he had or looking at the new constraints as a challenge to be mastered, he grew despondent: If the films couldn’t be perfect, what was the point in making them? Walt tried immersing himself in an old interest: model trains. “Just a hobby to get my mind off my problems,” he said, but he felt trapped and rule bound even in leisure. Tellingly, Walt wrote to a fellow railroad buff who had constructed a model railroad big enough to straddle and ride in his yard, “I envy you for having the courage to do what you want.”

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I fell in love for two years although the affair lasted less than three months. Looking back, I now realize that his first sexual comment to me was, “You have a great ass.” Must have been my fate, even then. But I didn’t know it for many years. I look good, from the back. After I lost my virginity, my pussy became a place of great interest to me. I had not realized until then that that hidden hole below my waist was the entrance to my heart. Others came to the now-opened gate, and I proceeded to have what everyone else seemed to be having: consecutive monogamous relationships of varying lengths. It never occurred to me that you didn’t have to become monogamous the moment a guy put his tongue in your mouth. That’s just the way it was—sealed with saliva—and I didn’t have enough experience to think that I might have a choice in the matter. The second and third boyfriends—both “nice” and “appropriate” young men—introduced me to orgasms through oral sex and I became hooked on that, on their tongues, but not so much on them. The intercourse that followed just seemed like their part of the deal. And there were a few more boyfriends after them. Same thing. The only time I had sex that was not defined by monogamy was with a stagehand I met in a bar. Long blond hair, gruff language, tattoos. I was having a drink with friends one night when he turned to me and whispered, “I want you to sit on my face.” “Excuse me?” I said. I had no idea what he was talking about. He thought I must be joking, but I wasn’t. So he explained. I had another vodka, left the bar with him, and sat on his face. I’d never done that before. He had big hands that handled me like meat, prime. It was my second taste of being with a man who was “wrong” for me, a man with whom I knew there would be no “relationship.” Fucking him, I felt the fantastic power of a completely other being crashing into mine. I could not lose myself with a peer, only with a man who was impossible. But then I fell deeply, suddenly, and totally in love with the man who became my husband—it was like being hit with a cement block on the head, crash, and there I was at the altar—and bad boys were banished. It never even occurred to me to have an affair while I was married. I loved him too much, it was unthinkable. He was my fate, my husband. But I had thought that meant my ending, my final destination, when, in fact, he was my beginning, my wretched beginning. God, that hurt. The profound disillusionment of having the great love of my life founder on the rocky road of reality was a blow too great for my own consciousness to bear, much less comprehend.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Antoine Froment was born in 1509 in Mens, in Dauphiné, and was one of the earliest disciples of Farel, his countryman. He accompanied him in his evangelistic tours through Switzerland, and shared in his troubles, persecutions, and successes. In 1532 he went for the first time to Geneva, and opened an elementary school in which he taught religion. He advertised it by placards in these words: "A man has arrived, who in the space of one month will teach anybody, great or small, male or female, to read and write French; who does not learn it in that time need not pay anything. He will also heal many diseases without charge." The people flocked to him; he was an able teacher, and turned his lessons into addresses and sermons. On new year’s day, in 1533, he preached his first sermon on the public place, Molard, attacked the pope, priests, and monks as false prophets (Matt. 7:15 sq.), but was interrupted by armed priests, and forced by the police to flee to a retreat. He left the city by night, in February, but returned again and again, and aided Farel, Viret, and Calvin. Unfortunately he did not remain faithful to his calling, and fell into disgrace. He neglected his pastoral duties, kept a shop, and at last gave up the ministry. His colleagues, especially Calvin, complained bitterly of him.356 In December, 1549, he was engaged by Bonivard, the official historian of the Republic, to assist him in his Chronicle, which was completed in 1552. Then he became a public notary of Geneva (1553). He got into domestic troubles. Soon after the death of his first wife, formerly abbess of a convent, he married a second time (1561), but committed adultery with a servant, was deposed, imprisoned, and banished, 1562. His misfortune seems to have wrought in him a beneficial change. In 1572 he was permitted on application to return to Geneva in view of his past services, and in 1574 he was reinstated as notary. He died in 1581(?). The Genevese honored his memory as one, though the least important, and the least worthy, of the four Reformers of their city. His chief work is the Chronicle mentioned above, which supplements the Chronicles of Bonivard, and Sister Jeanne de Jussie.357 CHAPTER VIII.JOHN CALVIN AND HIS WORK.The literature in § 58, pp. 225–231. § 65. John Calvin compared with the Older Reformers. We now approach the life and work of John Calvin, who labored more than Farel, Viret, and Froment. He was the chief founder and consolidator of the Reformed Church of France and French Switzerland, and left the impress of his mind upon all other Reformed Churches in Europe and America. Revolution is followed by reconstruction and consolidation. For this task Calvin was providentially foreordained and equipped by genius, education, and circumstances.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  [image file=image_rsrc1RD.jpg] The Veiled WomanGeorge once went to a Swedish bar he liked, and sat at a table to enjoy a leisurely evening. At the next table he noticed a very stylish and handsome couple, the man suave and neatly dressed, the woman all in black, with a veil over her glowing face and brilliant colored jewelry. They both smiled at him. They said nothing to one another, as if they were very old acquaintances and had no need to talk. The three of them watched the activity at the bar—couples drinking together, a woman drinking alone, a man in search of adventures—and they all seemed to be thinking the same things. Finally the neatly dressed man began a conversation with George, who now had a chance to observe the woman at length and found her even more beautiful. But just when he expected her to join the conversation, she said a few words to her companion that George could not catch, smiled, and glided off. George was crestfallen. His pleasure in the evening was gone. Furthermore, he had only a few dollars to spend, and he could not invite the man to drink with him and discover perhaps a little more about the woman. To his surprise, it was the man who turned to him and said, “Would you care to have a drink with me?” George accepted. Their conversation went from experiences with hotels in the South of France to George’s admission that he was badly in need of money. The man’s response implied that it was extremely easy to obtain money. He did not go on to say how. He made George confess a little more. Now George had a weakness in common with many men; when he was in an expansive mood, he loved to recount his exploits. He did this in intriguing language. He hinted that as soon as he set foot in the street some adventure presented itself, that he was never at a loss for an interesting evening, or for an interesting woman. His companion smiled and listened. When George had finished talking, the man said, “That is what I expected of you the moment I saw you. You are the fellow I am looking for. I am confronted with an immensely delicate problem. Something absolutely unique. I don’t know if you have had many dealings with difficult, neurotic women—No? I can see that from your stories. Well, I have. Perhaps I attract them. Just now I am in the most intricate situation. I hardly know how to get out of it. I need your help. You say you need money. Well, I can suggest a rather pleasant way of making some. Listen carefully. There is a woman who is wealthy and absolutely beautiful—in fact, flawless. She could be devotedly loved by anyone she pleased, she could be married to anyone she pleased. But for one perverse accident of her nature—she only likes the unknown.”

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Even so, there was the scent of oysters on them still, and a slender thread - it might have been the bristle from the back of a lobster, the whisker from a shrimp - beneath one of my nails. How would it be, I thought, to surrender my family, my home, all my oyster-girl’s ways? And how would it be to live at Kitty’s side, brim-full of a love so quick, and yet so secret, it made me shake? Chapter 5 At first, the prospect of joining Kitty upon the stage, in a profession for which I had never been trained, never yearned, and had - as I thought - no special talent, filled me with dismay. ‘No,’ I said to Walter that afternoon, when at last I understood him. ‘Absolutely not. I cannot. You, of all people, should know what a fool I would make of myself - and of Kitty!’ But Walter wouldn’t listen. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said. ‘How long have we been looking for something that will lift the act above the ordinary, and make it really memorable? This is it! A double act! A soldier - and his comrade! A swell - together with his chum! Above all: two lovely girls in trousers, instead of one! When did you ever see the like of it before? It will be a sensation!’ ‘It might be a sensation,’ I said, ‘with two Kitty Butlers in it. But Kitty Butler and Nancy Astley, her dresser, who never sang a song in her life -’ ‘We have all heard you sing,’ said Walter, ‘a thousand times - and very prettily, too.’ ‘Who never danced -’ I went on. ‘Pooh, dancing! A bit of shuffling about the stage. Any fool with half a leg can do it.’ ‘Who never raised her voice before a crowd -’ ‘Patter!’ he said carelessly. ‘Kitty can take care of the patter!’ I laughed, in sheer exasperation, then turned to Kitty herself. So far she had taken no part in the exchange, only stood at my side, biting at the edge of one of her nails, and frowning. ‘Kitty,’ I said now, ‘for goodness’ sake, tell him what madness he is talking!’ She didn’t answer at first, but continued to chew distractedly at her fingertip. She looked from me to Walter, then back to me again, and narrowed her eyes. ‘It might work,’ she said. I stamped my foot. ‘Now you have both lost your minds, entirely! Think what you’re saying. You come from families where everybody is an actor.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  Now he could talk about it, and he opened his whole life before Elena, without shame. It caused her no pain. It relieved her doubts about herself. Because he did not understand his nature, he had at first blamed her, put on her the burden of his frigidity towards woman. He said it was because she was intelligent, and intelligent women mixed literature and poetry with love, which paralyzed him; and that she was positive, masculine, in some of her ways, and this intimidated him. She was so young at the time, she had readily accepted this and come to believe that slender, intellectual, positive women could not be desired. He would say: “If only you were very passive, very obedient, very very inert, I might desire you. But I always feel in you a volcano about to explode, a volcano of passion, and that frightens me.” Or: “If you were just a whore, and I could feel that you would not be too exacting, too critical, I might desire you. But I would feel your clever head watching me and looking down on me if I failed, if, for instance, I were suddenly impotent.” Poor Elena, for years she completely overlooked the men who desired her. Because Miguel was the one she had wanted to seduce, it seemed to her that only Miguel could have proved her power. Miguel, in his need of someone other than his analyst to confide in, introduced Elena to his lover, Donald. As soon as Elena saw Donald she loved him too, as she would a child, an enfant terrible, perverse and knowing. He was beautiful. He had a slender Egyptian body, wild hair like that of a child who had been running. At times the softness of his gestures made him seem small, but when he stood up, stylized, pure in line, stretched, then he seemed tall. His eyes were in a trance, and he talked flowingly, like a medium. Elena was so enchanted with him that she began to enjoy subtly and mysteriously Miguel’s making love to him—for her. Donald as a woman, being made love to by Miguel, courting his youthful charm, his sweeping eyelashes, his small, straight nose, his faun ears, his strong, boyish hands. She recognized in Donald a twin brother who used her words, her coquetries, her artifices. He was obsessed with the same words and feelings that obsessed her. He talked continually about his desire to be consumed in love, about his desire for renunciation and for protection of others. She could hear her own voice. Was Miguel aware that he was making love to a twin brother of Elena, to Elena in a boy’s body?

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Gregory Nazianzen fled into the wilderness when his father, without his knowledge, suddenly consecrated him priest in the presence of the congregation (361). He afterward vindicated this flight in his beautiful apology, in which he depicts the ideal of a Christian priest and theologian. The priest must, above all, he says, be a model of a Christian, offer himself a holy sacrifice to God, and be a living temple of the living God. Then he must possess a deep knowledge, of souls, and, as a spiritual physician, heal all classes of men of various diseases of sin, restore, preserve, and protect the divine image in them, bring Christ into their hearts by the Holy Ghost, and make them partakers of the divine nature and of eternal salvation. He must, moreover, have at command the sacred philosophy or divine science of the world and of the worlds, of matter and spirit, of good and evil angels, of the all-ruling Providence, of our creation and regeneration, of the divine covenants, of the first and second appearing of Christ, of his incarnation, passion, and resurrection, of the end of all things and the universal judgment, and above all, of the mystery of the blessed Trinity; and he must be able to teach and elucidate these doctrines of faith in popular discourse. Gregory, sets forth Jesus as the perfect type of the priest, and next to him he presents in an eloquent picture the apostle Paul, who lived only for Christ, and under all circumstances and amid all trials by sea and land, among Jews and heathen, in hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness, in freedom and bonds, attested the divine power of the gospel for the salvation of the world. This ideal, however, Gregory found but seldom realized. He gives on the whole a very unfavorable account of the bishops, and even of the most celebrated councils of his day, charging them with ignorance unworthy means of promotion, ambition, flattery, pride, luxury, and worldly mindedness. He says even: "Our danger now is, that the holiest of all offices will become the most ridiculous; for the highest clerical places are gained not so much by virtue, as by iniquity; no longer the most worthy, but the most powerful, take the episcopal chair."446 Though his descriptions, especially in the satirical poem "to himself and on the bishops," composed probably after his resignation in Constantinople (A.D. 381), may be in many points exaggerated, yet they were in general drawn from life and from experience.447 Jerome also, in his epistles, unsparingly attacks the clergy of his time, especially the Roman, accusing them of avarice and legacy hunting, and drawing a sarcastic picture of a clerical fop, who, with his fine scented clothes, was more like a bridegroom than a clergyman.448 Of the rural clergy’, however, the heathen Ammianus Marcellinus bears a testimony, which is certainly reliable, to their simplicity, contentment, and virtue.449

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Julian led the way himself with a complete example. He discovered on every occasion the utmost zeal for the heathen religion, and performed, with the most scrupulous devotion, the offices of a pontifex maximus, which had been altogether neglected, although not formally abolished, under his two predecessors. Every morning and evening he sacrificed to the rising and setting sun, or the supreme light-god; every night, to the moon and the stars; every day, to some other divinity. Says Libanius, his heathen admirer: "He received the rising sun with blood, and attended him again with blood at his setting." As he could not go abroad so often as he would, he turned his palace into a temple and erected altars in his garden, which was kept purer than most chapels. "Wherever there was a temple," says the same writer, "whether in the city or on the hill or the mountain top, no matter how rough, or difficult of access, he ran to it." He prostrated himself devoutly before the altars and the images, not allowing the most violent storm to prevent him. Several times in a day, surrounded by priests and dancing women, he sacrificed a hundred bulls, himself furnishing the wood and kindling the flames. He used the knife himself, and as haruspex searched with his own hand the secrets of the future in the reeking entrails. But his zeal found no echo, and only made him ridiculous in the eyes of cultivated heathens themselves. He complains repeatedly of the indifference of his party, and accuses one of his priests of a secret league with Christian bishops. The spectators at his sacrifices came not from devotion, but from curiosity, and grieved the devout emperor by their rounds of applause, as if he were simply a theatrical actor of religion. Often there were no spectators at all. When he endeavored to restore the oracle of Apollo Daphneus in the famous cypress grove at Antioch, and arranged for a magnificent procession, with libation, dances, and incense, he found in the temple one solitary old priest, and this priest ominously offered in sacrifice—a goose.67 At the same time, however, Julian sought to renovate and transform heathenism by incorporating with it the morals of Christianity; vainly thinking thus to bring it back to its original purity. In this he himself unwittingly and unwillingly bore witness to the poverty of the heathen religion, and paid the highest tribute to the Christian; and the Christians for this reason not inaptly called him an "ape of Christianity."

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Manuscripts of the Bible also, liturgical books, private houses, and even the vestments of officials in the large cities of the Byzantine empire were ornamented with biblical pictures. Bishop Asterius of Amasea in Pontus, in the second half of the fourth century, protested against the wearing of these "God-pleasing garments,"1224 and advised that it were better with the proceeds of them to honor the living images of God, and support the poor; instead of wearing the palsied on the clothes, to visit the sick; and instead of carrying with one the image of the sinful woman kneeling and embracing the feet of Jesus, rather to lament one’s own sins with tears of contrition. The custom of prostration1225 before the picture, in token of reverence for the saint represented by it, first appears in the Greek church in the sixth century. And then, that the unintelligent people should in many cases confound the image with the object represented, attribute to the outward, material thing a magical power of miracles, and connect with the image sundry superstitious notions—must be expected. Even Augustine laments that among the rude Christian masses there are many image-worshippers,1226 but counts such in the great number of those nominal Christians, to whom the essence of the Gospel is unknown. As works of art, these primitive Christian paintings and sculptures are, in general, of very little value; of much less value than the church edifices. They are rather earnest and elevated, than beautiful and harmonious. For they proceeded originally not from taste, but from practical want, and, at least in the Greek empire, were produced chiefly by monks. It perfectly befitted the spirit of Christianity, to begin with earnestness and sublimity, rather than, as heathenism, with sensuous beauty. Hence also its repugnance to the nude, and its modest draping of voluptuous forms; only hands, feet, and face were allowed to appear. The Christian taste, it is well known, afterwards changed, and, on the principle that to the pure all things are pure, it represented even Christ on the cross, and the holy Child at His mother’s breast or in His mothers arms, without covering. Furthermore, in the time of Constantine the ancient classical painting and sculpture had grievously degenerated; and even in their best days they reached no adequate expression of the Christian principle.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  He drank away the first money, and I could not lend him anything but more paper and carbons. George Barker, the excellent English poet, writing erotica to drink, just as Utrillo painted paintings in exchange for a bottle of wine. I began to think about the old man we all hated. I decided to write to him, address him directly, tell him about our feelings. “Dear Collector: We hate you. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession. It becomes a bore. You have taught us more than anyone I know how wrong it is not to mix it with emotion, hunger, desire, lust, whims, caprices, personal ties, deeper relationships that change its color, flavor, rhythms, intensities. “You do not know what you are missing by your microscopic examination of sexual activity to the exclusion of aspects which are the fuel that ignites it. Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood. “If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent man in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony. Without feeling, inventions, moods, no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine. “How much do you lose by this periscope at the tip of your sex, when you could enjoy a harem of distinct and never-repeated wonders? No two hairs alike, but you will not let us waste words on a description of hair; no two odors, but if we expand on this you cry Cut the poetry. No two skins with the same texture, and never the same light, temperature, shadows, never the same gesture; for a lover, when he is aroused by true love, can run the gamut of centuries of love lore. What a range, what changes of age, what variations of maturity and innocence, perversity and art . . . “We have sat around for hours and wondered how you look. If you have closed your senses upon silk, light, color, odor, character, temperament, you must be by now completely shriveled up. There are so many minor senses, all running like tributaries into the mainstream of sex, nourishing it. Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.” POSTSCRIPT

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  But on the other hand discipline became weakened. With the increasing stringency against heretics, firmness against practical errors diminished. Hatred of heresy and laxity of morals, zeal for purity of doctrine and indifference to purity of life, which ought to exclude each other, do really often stand in union. Think of the history of Pharisaism at the time of Christ, of orthodox Lutheranism in its opposition to Spener and the Pietistic movement, and of prelatical Anglicanism in its conflict with Methodism and the evangelical party. Even in the Johannean age this was the case in the church of Ephesus, which prefigured in this respect both the light and shade of the later Eastern church.653 The earnest, but stiff, mechanical penitential discipline, with its four grades of penance, which had developed itself during the Dioclesian persecution,654 continued in force, it is true, as to the letter, and was repeatedly reaffirmed by the councils of the fourth century. But the great change of circumstances rendered the practical execution of it more and more difficult, by the very multiplication and high position, of those on whom it ought to be enforced. In that mighty revolution under Constantine the church lost her virginity, and allied herself with the mass of heathendom, which had not yet experienced an inward change. Not seldom did the emperors themselves, and other persons of authority, who ought to have led the way with a good example, render themselves, with all their zeal for theoretical orthodoxy, most worthy of suspension and excommunication by their scandalous conduct, while they were surrounded by weak or worldly bishops, who cared more for the favor of their earthly masters, than for the honor of their heavenly Lord and the dignity of the church. Even Eusebius, otherwise one of the better bishops of his time, had no word of rebuke for the gross crimes of Constantine, but only the most extravagant eulogies for his merits. In the Greek church the discipline gradually decayed, to the great disadvantage of public morality, and every one was allowed to partake of the communion according to his conscience. The bishops alone reserved the right of debarring the vicious from the table of the Lord. The patriarch Nectarius of Constantinople, about 390, abolished the office of penitential priest (presbyter poenitentiarius), who was set over the execution of the penitential discipline. The occasion of this act was furnished by a scandalous occurrence: the violation of a lady of rank in the church by a worthless deacon, when she came to submit herself to public penance. The example of Nectarius was soon followed by the other oriental bishops.655

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  But on the other hand, a regular and general system of clerical education was still entirely wanting. The steady decay of the classic literature, the gradual cessation of philosophical and artistic production, the growth of monastic prejudice against secular learning and culture, the great want of ministers in the suddenly expanded field of the church, the uneasy state of the empire, and the barbarian invasions, were so many hinderances to thorough theological preparation. Many candidates trusted to the magical virtue of ordination. Others, without inward call, were attracted to the holy office by the wealth and power of the church. Others had no time or opportunity for preparation, and passed, at the instance of the popular voice or of circumstances, immediately from the service of the state to that of the church, even to the episcopal office; though several councils prescribed a previous test of their capacity in the lower degrees of reader, deacon, and presbyter. Often, however, this irregularity turned to the advantage of the church, and gave her a highly gifted man, like Ambrose, whom the acclamation of the people called to the episcopal see of Milan even before he was baptized. Gregory Nazianzen laments that many priests and bishops came in fresh from the counting house, sunburnt from the plow, from the oar, from the army, or even from the theatre, so that the most holy order of all was in danger of becoming the most ridiculous. "Only he can be a physician," says he, "who knows the nature of diseases; he, a painter, who has gone through much practice in mixing colors and in drawing forms; but a clergyman may be found with perfect ease, not thoroughly wrought, of course, but fresh made, sown and full blown in a moment, as the legend says of the giants.410 We form the saints in a day, and enjoin them to be wise, though they possess no wisdom at all, and bring nothing to their spiritual office, except at best a good will."411 If such complaints were raised so early as the end of the Nicene age, while the theological activity of the Greek church was in its bloom, there was far more reason for them after the middle of the fifth century and in the sixth, especially in the Latin church, where, even among the most eminent clergymen, a knowledge of the original languages of the Holy Scriptures was a rare exception. The opportunities which this period offered for literary and theological preparation for the ministry, were the following: 1. The East had four or five theological schools, which, however, were far from supplying its wants.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Come with me to New York,” she said, urgently. “Why would we go to New York?” “I’ve been offered a job there.” “So tell them no.” “What about Boston?” she asked, grabbing at straws. “I could probably get a job in Boston.” “How many times do I have to tell you,” Bru said, “I hate cities. They make me claustrophobic. I’m an islander … you know that.” “I just need some time to find out …” “I put in indoor plumbing. I got a phone!” She looked back at the ring. She sensed if they broke up now it wouldn’t be like last time. “If you can’t say yes to marriage and island life that’s it. I mean it. I’ve waited four fucking years for you. You’re almost twenty-two. What’s your problem?” “I need vitamins?” she asked, trying to lighten it up. She could see the disappointment in his eyes turn to anger. He grabbed the jewelry box out of her hand and for a minute she thought he might hurl it into the river. But no, he shoved it back in his pocket, too practical to give in to his emotions. They were a lot alike, weren’t they? Two people who had trouble sharing their thoughts. Two people who kept everything inside. Had she mistaken his silence for depth? His wounded look for sensitivity? She didn’t know. She didn’t know any thing except she wasn’t ready. She couldn’t promise him the rest of her life. She had no idea where she was going. Her eyes filled. Her throat felt tight. Was she making the biggest mistake of her life? “Bru … please, let’s not …” She tried to embrace him. He pushed her aside. “I’m not enough for you anymore. That’s it, isn’t it?” He spit out the words. “The island’s not enough … now that you’re almost a Harvard graduate.” “You don’t get it, do you?” she said. “It has nothing to do with Harvard …” He let out an angry laugh. “Let me be the first to break the news, Victoria. You’re the one who doesn’t get it.” PART FOUR Didn’t We Almost Have It All 1987–1990 35SHE’D FINALLY ARRIVED . This was life after college, life in the real world. The world of first, last, and security . It gave her a heady feeling. She and Maia came to the city together, in June, and Paisley, who had an entry-level job at ABC, caught up with them a few weeks later. Maia took them both to Loehmann’s. “Put yourselves in my hands,” she said, gathering jackets, pants, and tops. “Trust me. No colors!” she scolded, when she caught Vix holding up a pink sweater. “Only neutrals. Sophisticated. Professional.” “But …” Vix began. “Trust,” Maia told her. “This is worse than shopping with my mother,” Paisley joked. Vix laughed with her, though she couldn’t remember ever having shopped for clothes with Tawny. Maia bought herself a pinstripe suit. Very investment banker.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Tiene que estar trabajando en ocho horas, y será mejor que vaya. De lo contrario, no vendrá conmigo cuando ahorre lo suficiente como para salir de aquí. Me quito los zapatos y me dirijo hacia la cama, lista para desplomarme y descansar mis pies cansados, pero me detengo, recordando el “algo” que mi hermana dijo que puso en mi bolso. Dando la vuelta, recojo mi bolso y lo abro, poniéndolo en la cama. Y allí, justo en la parte superior, hay una bolsa de compras con rayas rosas que no puse ahí. Es de Victoria's Secret. Al desenrollar el paquete, alcanzo el interior y al instante lleno mi mano con tela. Reprimo un gemido, y mis ilusiones mueren. Saco las bragas de encaje de color crema y la camisola a juego que no se ve lo suficientemente grande como para cubrir mucho. El escote es bajo, y no es lo suficientemente larga como para cubrir mi estómago. Definitivamente es bonito. Y sexy. Pero es increíblemente pequeño. Cole tendría un día de campo, viniendo a la cama para encontrarme en esto. Sin juegos preliminares. Estaría encima de mí en un segundo. Pero ¿por qué me compró esto? No es que no use ropa interior sexy. No necesito lecciones sobre cómo mantener a un chico interesado, gracias. Pero luego veo un pedazo de papel sobre la cama que debe haber estado con la ropa. Recojo la media hoja y leo el volante. Noche de aficionados ¡Mójate! (Tu camiseta, como sea) 27 de mayo a las 9 p.m. The Hook en Jamison Lane ¡¡Gran Premio $300!! —Genial. —Me río entre dientes y dejo caer el volante y la ropa, sacudiendo la cabeza. Mi propia hermana está tratando de cambiarme de trabajo. ¿Qué demonios le pasa? No le mostraré mis tetas a todos los viejos de la ciudad para tener la oportunidad de ganar trescientos dólares. Puedo trabajar en Grounders, porque disfruto de algunas personas, escucho música y tengo un trabajo en el que gano propinas, así que tengo un poco de dinero en efectivo después de cada turno, pero no hay nada sobre un concurso de camisetas mojadas que disfrutaría, a menos que estuviera borracha. Tal vez.