Disgust

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 Martin Luther (2016)

  32 And Luther meant it. When Melanchthon sent Philip of Hesse a copy of the text, he told him that it “truly” contained “much useful teaching.” An electoral Saxon mandate of 1543 referred to Luther’s “recent book” as it ordered that anyone who encountered Jews should seize them and all their goods and report them to the authorities; they would be entitled to receive half of the confiscated goods as their reward. 33 Indeed, Luther’s violence was sometimes too much even for his contemporaries. Just a few weeks later, in early 1543 he produced Vom Schem Hamphoras und vom Geschlecht Christi ( On the Ineffable Name and the Generations of Christ ), 34 which the Swiss theologian Heinrich Bullinger condemned, while Andreas Osiander in Nuremberg wrote privately to a Jewish friend of his in Venice to express his revulsion. But it was not repudiated by Lutherans and was reprinted in 1577, with Nikolaus Selnecker, an early biographer of Luther, adding a preface that included scurrilous stories such as one about the Jews in Magdeburg who refused to come to the aid of a Jew who had fallen into a privy because it was the Sabbath. Vom Schem Hamphoras appeared again in 1617, the centenary year of the Reformation, alongside On the Jews and their Lies, as the headline work in this vicious potpourri. 35 This was Luther off the leash, and the text reads like a revelation of his inner fantasies. Luther again assaulted the rabbinic tradition of interpreting Scripture, arguing that the Jews were led by the Devil who is behind any invocation of magic. This might seem like an abstruse accusation, but it concerned issues that were very close to home. In 1514, Luther had taken the side of the Hebraist Johannes Reuchlin—a relative of Melanchthon—as he resisted an attempt by Catholic conservatives to get all Jewish books destroyed. Yet Reuchlin’s interest in Hebrew had in part concerned the mysterious powers of the Kabbalah; this was why Christians ought to learn it. Luther may have been unaware of Reuchlin’s writings on the wonder-working word, but he was determined to distinguish the evangelicals’ use of words from the magical use of words by the Jews. 36 Perhaps realizing how close they are to each other, he is driven to explain what it is that Lutherans do when they administer the sacrament of baptism or speak the words of consecration over the bread and wine. His energies were passionately engaged in this because the background was the accusation that the sacramentarians brought against the Lutherans: that they pretended to produce God’s flesh magically by means of words. Luther then suddenly breaks off to describe the “Schem Hamphoras” sculpture high up on the parish church of Wittenberg itself, which shows a sow suckling several Jews, while a rabbi lifts its tail and looks into its rear.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  χολέρα (on the acc., v. Lob. Paral. 355), ἧ, the cholera, a disease in which the humours of the body (χολή, xoAaé) are violently discharged by vomiting and stool, Hipp. 134 E, 404. 47, al., Aretae. Caus. Morb. Ac. 2.5; whereas the ξηρὰ χολέρα is an obstinate obstruction, Hipp. 404. 55: v. Foés. Oec. (The deriv. from χολή is given by Celsus and others: Alex. Trall. refers it to yoAds, χολάδες.) 11.-- σωλήν, the gutter of a roof, a rain-pipe, Hesych.; written χολέδρα, Archimed. p. 145 Ox., Philo Bel. p. 98, Horapoll. 1. 21. χολεριάω, Zo have the cholera, Diosc. 1. 160, Plut. 2.974 B, Galen. χολερικός, 7, dv, of or like cholera, πάθεα Hipp. 1230 A, Sext. Emp. 1 a ie Wt 2. of persons, suffering from cholera, Diosc. 4. 4, Plut. 2.831 A. Adv. --κῶς, hence x. ληφθῆναι to be attacked by cholera, Diog. L. 6. 76. χολερώδη5. es, (εἶδος) of the nature of cholera, Hipp. Coac. 205 E. χολέω. = χολόομαι, Malal. 362. τ. χολή, 7, gall, bile, Archil. 118, Aesch. Cho. 182, Soph. Fr. 733, Eur., Thuc. 2. 49, etc., v. Foés. Oec. Hipp.; xy. μέλαινα black, i.e. diseased, bile, Hipp. Aph. 1249, cf. Plat. Tim. 83 C; ξανθὴ x. Hipp. Vet. Med. 16; muppa Galen.; χολὴν ἐμεῖν Nicopho Sep. 1:—proverb., πικρὰν χολὴν κλύζουσι φαρμάκῳ πικρῷ Soph. Fr. 7333; πικρότερ᾽ αὐτῆς τῆς x. Alex. ᾿Απεγλ. I. 12; χολῇ ἀλείφειν, proverb. of giving one a disgust for a thing, from the custom of mothers putting gall to the nipple when the child was to be weaned, Diphil. Euvwp. 2. 2. pl. χολαΐ, the gall-bladder, Soph. Ant. 1010; called δοχαὶ χολῆς in Eur. ΕἸ. 828; the sing. χολή is used in same sense by Aesch, Pr. 495, Arist. H. A. 2. 15, 9, al.; in P. A. 4. 2, 2, ζῷα οὐκ ἔχοντα χολήν are evidently animals lacking the gall-bladder, and modern anatomists have found the list surprisingly accurate: cf. ἐπίχολος. 8. metaph. in Poets, like χόλος (q.v.), Lat. bilis, bile, gall, i.e. bitter anger, wrath, Aesch. Ag. 1660, Ar. Pax 66; ἢ δοκεῖς γυναιξὶν οὐ χολὴν ἐνεῖναι Id. Lys. 464; οὐδεὶς χολὴν οὐδ᾽ ὀργὴν ἔχων φανήσεται Dem. 778.8; πάνυ ἐστί μοι χολή stirs my bile, makes me sick, Ar. Ran. 4; χολὴ ἐπιζεῖ the bile boils over, cf. Horat. bile tumet jecur, Ar. Thesm. 468; χολὴν κινεῖν τινι Id. Vesp. 403, cf. Pherecr. Κοριανν. 3. II. the juice of the cuttle-fish, Nic. Al. 474, Ther. 561. III. the Lxx use it to translate the Hebr. rsh, a poisonous plant, variously called hemlock or poppy, Ps. 68. 22, Jer. 8. 14; cf. ῥίζα πικρίας Ep. Hebr. 12.15. (With yodA-7, χόλεος, cf. Lat. fel; O. Norse gall, A.S. geall-a, O.H.G. gall-d (gall); Slav. zli-ci:—prob. the name is derived from the colour of bile, and yoA-7 is connected with χλό-η, χλω-ρός, yell-ow :—the connexion of Lat. dilis is dub., v. Curt. no. 200.) χολή-βἄφος, ov, bile-coloured, Aretae. Caus. M. Diut. 1. 13; vulg. χλοήβαφος.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  In the months after Ted Lavender died, there were many other bodies. I never shook hands—not that—but one afternoon I climbed a tree and threw down what was left of Curt Lemon. I watched my friend Kiowa sink into the muck along the Song Tra Bong. And in early July, after a battle in the mountains, I was assigned to a six-man detail to police up the enemy KIAs. There were twenty-seven bodies altogether, and parts of several others. The dead were everywhere. Some lay in piles. Some lay alone. One, I remember, seemed to kneel. Another was bent from the waist over a small boulder, the top of his head on the ground, his arms rigid, the eyes squinting in concentration as if he were about to perform a handstand or somersault. It was my worst day at the war. For three hours we carried the bodies down the mountain to a clearing alongside a narrow dirt road. We had lunch there, then a truck pulled up, and we worked in two-man teams to load the truck. I remember swinging the bodies up. Mitchell Sanders took a man's feet, I took the arms, and we counted to three, working up momentum, and then we tossed the body high and watched it bounce and come to rest among the other bodies. The dead had been dead for more than a day. They were all badly bloated. Their clothing was stretched tight like sausage skins, and when we picked them up, some made sharp burping sounds as the gases were released. They were heavy. Their feet were bluish green and cold. The smell was terrible. At one point Mitchell Sanders looked at me and said, "Hey, man, I just realized something." "What?" He wiped his eyes and spoke very quietly, as if awed by his own wisdom. "Death sucks," he said. Lying in bed at night, I made up elaborate stories to bring Linda alive in my sleep. I invented my own dreams. It sounds impossible, I know, but I did it. I'd picture somebody's birthday party—a crowded room, I'd think, and a big chocolate cake with pink candles—and then soon I'd be dreaming it, and after a while Linda would show up, as I knew she would, and in the dream we'd look at each other and not talk much, because we were shy, but then later I'd walk her home and we'd sit on her front steps and stare at the dark and just be together. She'd say amazing things sometimes. "Once you're alive," she'd say, "you can't ever be dead." Or she'd say: "Do I look dead?" It was a kind of self-hypnosis. Partly willpower, partly faith, which is how stories arrive.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Start here: a body without a name. On an afternoon in 1969 the platoon took sniper fire from a filthy little village along the South China Sea. It lasted only a minute or two, and nobody was hurt, but even so Lieutenant Jimmy Cross got on the radio and ordered up an air strike. For the next half hour we watched the place burn. It was a cool bright morning, like early autumn, and the jets were glossy black against the sky. When it ended, we formed into a loose line and swept east through the village. It was all wreckage. I remember the smell of burnt straw; I remember broken fences and torn-up trees and heaps of stone and brick and pottery. The place was deserted—no people, no animals—and the only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen at the center of the village. His right arm was gone. At his face there were already many flies and gnats. Dave Jensen went over and shook the old man's hand. "How-dee-doo," he said. One by one the others did it too. They didn't disturb the body, they just grabbed the old man's hand and offered a few words and moved away. Rat Kiley bent over the corpse. "Gimme five," he said. "A real honor." "Pleased as punch," said Henry Dobbins. I was brand-new to the war. It was my fourth day; I hadn't yet developed a sense of humor. Right away, as if I'd swallowed something, I felt a moist sickness rise up in my throat. I sat down beside the pigpen, closed my eyes, put my head between my knees. After a moment Dave Jensen touched my shoulder. "Be polite now," he said. "Go introduce yourself. Nothing to be afraid about, just a nice old man. Show a little respect for your elders." "No way." "Maybe it's too real for you?" "That's right," I said. "Way too real." Jensen kept after me, but I didn't go near the body. I didn't even look at it except by accident. For the rest of the day there was still that sickness inside me, but it wasn't the old man's corpse so much, it was that awesome act of greeting the dead. At one point, I remember, they sat the body up against a fence. They crossed his legs and talked to him. "The guest of honor," Mitchell Sanders said, and he placed a can of orange slices in the old man's lap. "Vitamin C," he said gently. "A guy's health, that's the most important thing." They proposed toasts. They lifted their canteens and drank to the old man's family and ancestors, his many grandchildren, his newfound life after death. It was more than mockery. There was a formality to it, like a funeral without the sadness. Dave Jensen flicked his eyes at me. "Hey, O'Brien," he said, "you got a toast in mind? Never too late for manners."

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  12 Bent Bender “Well, if God doesn’t exist, who’s laughing at us?” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov O ne day Lecia rings me up. Tawdry, she says. An adjective meaning crude or trashy or otherwise unseemly, I say. Talk to me. Mother’s sleeping with Harold, she says, meaning Daddy’s pill-popping nurse, crashing of late in the spare room. Never happen, I say. That man has got to be gay. Happened, she says. They showed up drunk last night, talking about the hustle contest at Get Down Brown’s. Lecia lives two hours from our hometown, but her former secretary saw Mother and Harold necking. I wonder were they doing this with Daddy in the house! Who knows? Lecia says. Daddy’s so out of it, he may not have twigged to it anyway. If anything, he likes Harold better than Mother. Harold’s nicer, I say. Way nicer. And he used to work at the jail, Lecia says. I wonder if they practice safe sex. We both went quiet till I add, She needs to get an AIDS test. Tawdry, Lecia says . Tawdry, I say, and hang up. So vivid is Mother’s story of her final drunk with Harold—so painterly in its grotesque detail—that I take the liberty of recounting as if I were there, for a good story told often enough puts you in rooms never occupied. The way other families keep wedding videos or log dates in a Bible, mine stores in the genetic warehouse alcohol-fueled catastrophe. I’m the voyeur as Harold tries to zip Mother into her red sequined top, a close fit on her sixty-two-year-old frame. You need to spray some PAM on me, Mother says. Before the mirror, she sucks in her cheeks and rouges a terra-cotta stripe in the cheekbone’s shadow. He tugs down on the blouse hem and she feels her zipper pop midback. Whoa, she says. I can feel a breeze in here. She takes a sip of Harold’s banana daiquiri as he checks her out from behind. I’ll safety-pin it, he says. After draining the glass, she holds up the empty, saying, And do me. He opens the refrigerator, on which Mother has painted a bulbous hippolike old woman, nude in a floppy hat. Hippos are their theme animal, Mother and Harold’s. In the months since I’ve moved Daddy into the home, the old house has sprouted hippos all over. Money I’ve sent to help out has partly been used for the bloated, nappy furniture they laze on—also for redoing the bath, where Mother painted another cartoonlike mural of twin hippos, which I fear echoes the two of them nude together. Mother dials the phone while telling Harold to put some britches on. The silky polyester shirt he slides into has zigzag lightning bolts. Once the buttons are fastened, the front puckers. In our apartment in Cambridge, the phone squeals, and I holler to my husband, who’s typing in the next room, That’s her. Don’t answer it, he says. I know he’s right.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Across the room a dozen candles were burning on the floor near the open window. The place seemed to echo with a deep-wilderness sound— tribal music—bamboo flutes and drums and chimes. But what hit you first, Rat said, was the smell. Two kinds of smells. There was a topmost scent of joss sticks and incense, like the fumes of some exotic smokehouse, but beneath the smoke lay a deeper and much more powerful stench. Impossible to describe, Rat said. It paralyzed your lungs. Thick and numbing, like an animal's den, a mix of blood and scorched hair and excrement and the sweet-sour odor of moldering flesh—the stink of the kill. But that wasn't all. On a post at the rear of the hootch was the decayed head of a large black leopard; strips of yellow-brown skin dangled from the overhead rafters. And bones. Stacks of bones—all kinds. To one side, propped up against a wall, stood a poster in neat black lettering: ASSEMBLE YOUR OWN GOOK!! FREE SAMPLE KIT!! The images came in a swirl, Rat said, and there was no way you could process it all. Off in the gloom a few dim figures lounged in hammocks, or on cots, but none of them moved or spoke. The background music came from a tape deck near the circle of candles, but the high voice was Mary Anne's. Mark Fossie started to get up but then stiffened. "Mary Anne?" he said. Quietly then, she stepped out of the shadows. At least for a moment she seemed to be the same pretty young girl who had arrived a few weeks earlier. She was barefoot. She wore her pink sweater and a white blouse and a simple cotton skirt. For a long while the girl gazed down at Fossie, almost blankly, and in the candlelight her face had the composure of someone perfectly at peace with herself. It took a few seconds, Rat said, to appreciate the full change. In part it was her eyes: utterly flat and indifferent. There was no emotion in her stare, no sense of the person behind it. But the grotesque part, he said, was her jewelry. At the girl's throat was a necklace of human tongues. Elongated and narrow, like pieces of blackened leather, the tongues were threaded along a length of copper wire, one tongue overlapping the next, the tips curled upward as if caught in a final shrill syllable. Just for a moment the girl looked at Mark Fossie with something close to contempt. "There's no sense talking," she said. "I know what you think, but it's not ... It's not bad." "Bad?" Fossie murmured. "It's not." In the shadows there was laughter. One of the Greenies sat up and lighted a cigar. The others lay silent. "You're in a place," Mary Anne said softly, "where you don't belong."

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Start here: a body without a name. On an afternoon in 1969 the platoon took sniper fire from a filthy little village along the South China Sea. It lasted only a minute or two, and nobody was hurt, but even so Lieutenant Jimmy Cross got on the radio and ordered up an air strike. For the next half hour we watched the place burn. It was a cool bright morning, like early autumn, and the jets were glossy black against the sky. When it ended, we formed into a loose line and swept east through the village. It was all wreckage. I remember the smell of burnt straw; I remember broken fences and torn-up trees and heaps of stone and brick and pottery. The place was deserted—no people, no animals—and the only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen at the center of the village. His right arm was gone. At his face there were already many flies and gnats. Dave Jensen went over and shook the old man's hand. "How-dee-doo," he said. One by one the others did it too. They didn't disturb the body, they just grabbed the old man's hand and offered a few words and moved away. Rat Kiley bent over the corpse. "Gimme five," he said. "A real honor." "Pleased as punch," said Henry Dobbins. I was brand-new to the war. It was my fourth day; I hadn't yet developed a sense of humor. Right away, as if I'd swallowed something, I felt a moist sickness rise up in my throat. I sat down beside the pigpen, closed my eyes, put my head between my knees. After a moment Dave Jensen touched my shoulder. "Be polite now," he said. "Go introduce yourself. Nothing to be afraid about, just a nice old man. Show a little respect for your elders." "No way." "Maybe it's too real for you?" "That's right," I said. "Way too real." Jensen kept after me, but I didn't go near the body. I didn't even look at it except by accident. For the rest of the day there was still that sickness inside me, but it wasn't the old man's corpse so much, it was that awesome act of greeting the dead. At one point, I remember, they sat the body up against a fence. They crossed his legs and talked to him. "The guest of honor," Mitchell Sanders said, and he placed a can of orange slices in the old man's lap. "Vitamin C," he said gently. "A guy's health, that's the most important thing." They proposed toasts. They lifted their canteens and drank to the old man's family and ancestors, his many grandchildren, his newfound life after death. It was more than mockery. There was a formality to it, like a funeral without the sadness. Dave Jensen flicked his eyes at me. "Hey, O'Brien," he said, "you got a toast in mind? Never too late for manners."

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  πρᾶγμα must be supplied), Ηάέ, 5. 50; ἐς πᾶσαν κακότητα Id.2.124; εἰς κόρον ἐλαύνειν to push matters till disgust ensued, Tyrtae. ὃ. 1ο, cf. signf. 2:—hence, to push on, go on, ἐγγὺς μανιῶν Eur. Heracl. go4 ; ἔξω Tov φρονεῖν Id. Bacch. 853; πρόσω ἐλ. τινός to go far in a thing, Plat. Euthyphro 4 B, Gorg. 486 A, Xen. Cyr. 1. 6, 393; v. supr. signt. 5: Il. to strike, ἐλάτῃσιν πόντον ἐλαύνοντες, cf. Lat. remis impellere, 1.7. 6; κιθάραν Eur. H. F. 351. 2. to strike with a weapon, but never with a missile, τὸν σκήπτρῳ ἐλάσασκεν 1]. 2.199 ; ἐΐφει ἤλασε κόρσην 5. 584; κόρυθος φάλον ἤλασεν 13. 614; cf. εἴλω 1:—c. dupl. acc., τὸν μὲν μεταδρομάδην ἔλασ᾽ ὦμον him he struck on.. , Il. 5. 80:— Pass. c. acc., νῶτον ὄπισθ᾽ αἰχμῇ δουρὸς ἐληλαμένος Tyrtae. 8.20:— xOdva δ᾽ ἤλασε παντὶ μετώπῳ struck earth with his forehead, of a falling man, Od. 22. 94 :—also c. acc. cogn. to inflict a wound, οὐλὴν τὴν ποτέ με σῦς ἤλασε 21. 219; and, ὀδόντας ἐλ. to knock out, Ap. Rh. 2. 785. 3. to strike one thing against another, πρὸς γῆν ἐλ. κάρη Od. 17. 2373; of weapons, to drive through, διαπρὸ χαλκὸν ἔλασσε 22.295; δόρυ διὰ στή- θεσφιν ἔλασσε Il. 5.57, cf. 20. 269; and in Pass. to go through, 4.138.» 13.595: to be fixed in, ὀϊστὸς ὥμῳ evi στιβαρῷ ἠλήλατο 5. 400, cf. Plat. Rep. 616 E. III. in various metaph. senses: 1. to beat with a hammer, Lat. ducere, to beat out metal, forge, ἀσπίδα .. ἣν ἄρα χαλκεὺς ἤλασεν 1]. 12. 296; πέντε πτύχας ἤλασε beat out five plates, 20.170; περὶ δ᾽ ἕρκος ἔλασσε κασσιτέρου make a fence of beaten tin (with a play on signf. 2), 18. 564; εὐνὴ ἐληλαμένη χρυσοῦ a bed of beaten gold, Mimnerm. 6; σίδηρος ἐληλ. Plut. Camill. 31. 2. to draw a line of wall, trench, etc., like Lat. ducere murum, ἀμφὶ δὲ τάφρον ἤλασαν Il. 7. 450; ἀμφὶ δὲ τεῖχος ἔλασσε πόλει Od. 6.9; σταυροὺς δ᾽ ἐκτὸς ἔλασσε 14.11; τοῖχοι ἐληλέδατ᾽ 7.86; often in Hat., as, τεῖχος ἐς τὸν ποταμὸν τοὺς ἀγκῶνας ἐλήλαται the wall has its angles carried down to the river, 1. 180, cf. 185, 1901; ἐληλαμέναι περὶ πυργόν having a wall built round, Aesch. Pers.871 :—so, ὄγμον ἐλαύνειν to work one’s way down a ridge or swathe in reaping or mowing, Il. 11. 68; ἐλ. αὔλακα Hes. Op. 441; ὄρχον ἀμπελίδος ἐλ. fo draw a line of vines, i. e. plant them in line, Ar. Ach. 995: hence, generally, to plant, produce, ἔλᾳ τέσσαρας ἀρετὰς αἰών Pind. N. 3. 129. 3. κολῳφὸν ἐλαύνειν to prolong, keep up the brawl, Il. 1.575. 4. ἐξ ὄσσων és γαῖαν ἐλ. δάκρυ Eur. Supp. 96. ἐλάφειος, ov, of a stag or hart, Lat. cervinus, κέρας Arist. H. A. 4.8, 27; ἐλ. κρέα venison, Xen. An. 1. 5, 2. 2. deer-like, cowardly, E. M. 326. το. ἐλᾶἄφη-βολία, ἡ, a shooting of deer, Call. Dian. 262; in pl., Soph. Aj. 178.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  sister, who would not write back, but for now it was a question of pain. He shot off the tail. He shot away chunks of meat below the ribs. All around us there was the smell of smoke and filth and deep greenery, and the evening was humid and very hot. Rat went to automatic. He shot randomly, almost casually, quick little spurts in the belly and butt. Then he reloaded, squatted down, and shot it in the left front knee. Again the animal fell hard and tried to get up, but this time it couldn't quite make it. It wobbled and went down sideways. Rat shot it in the nose. He bent forward and whispered something, as if talking to a pet, then he shot it in the throat. All the while the baby buffalo was silent, or almost silent, just a light bubbling sound where the nose had been. It lay very still. Nothing moved except the eyes, which were enormous, the pupils shiny black and dumb. Rat Kiley was crying. He tried to say something, but then cradled his rifle and went off by himself. The rest of us stood in a ragged circle around the baby buffalo. For a time no one spoke. We had witnessed something essential, something brand-new and profound, a piece of the world so startling there was not yet a name for it. Somebody kicked the baby buffalo. It was still alive, though just barely, just in the eyes. "Amazing," Dave Jensen said. "My whole life, I never seen anything like it." "Never?" "Not hardly. Not once." Kiowa and Mitchell Sanders picked up the baby buffalo. They hauled it across the open square, hoisted it up, and dumped it in the village well. Afterward, we sat waiting for Rat to get himself together. "Amazing," Dave Jensen kept saying. "A new wrinkle. I never seen it before." Mitchell Sanders took out his yo-yo. "Well, that's Nam," he said. "Garden of Evil. Over here, man, every sin's real fresh and original." How do you generalize? War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Another child who happened to walk by came to my rescue and pried Gwyn’s jaws open so I could free my hand. The following week Theresa again asked me to watch Gwyn for a few hours. I spent the time ignoring her, my attention absorbed in a book, while she amused herself, constrained to a large playpen of sorts. A truce of silence held between us. Then, a powerful odor wafted through the room, a wet, sticky fart smell that prompted me to look up from my book. Gwyn had removed her pants and defecated on her mattress. She stood watching me, eyes glinting with challenge. Her bare legs were pale, thin and wiry. Between them, a surprising black bush of pubic hair announced burgeoning womanhood on Gwyn’s more or less underdeveloped girlish body. Not sure what to do, I stood up and yelled, “You know better than this! Now I need to put you in the bath!” She stooped down, grabbed a handful of her shit and slowly smeared it onto her face and hair, smiling her little crooked smile all the while. I ran into the bathroom, where I stood trying to calm my spinning mind. Make a bath, make a bath, I gasped to myself. I turned on the tap and went back into the room. In the one minute I had walked away, Gwyn had spread feces everywhere, all over her body and along the railing of the enclosed area. It was streaked along the walls and embedded in some of the carpet. I couldn’t do or say anything but squeak with rage and disgust. Fortunately, Theresa returned and took over the situation. While I watched her clean up Gwyn’s mess and patiently escort the girl to a bath, a sour feeling washed over me. I desperately wanted to spend some time with just my mom, without Gwyn, Sophie or Ray, and yet at the same time I seethed with irritation toward Theresa. “I had a dream about Gwyn,” Theresa told me after she had Gwyn bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. “I dreamt of her life before this one. In her former life she was a wealthy, horribly bitter woman who had acted selfishly toward others, creating a lot of darkness in her spirit. I learned that she chose to come back this way. She’s working out karmic debt.” I imagined a rail-thin aristocratic woman with long, sharp nails and a narrow, gaunt-looking face. Thinking about Gwyn’s former life, I wondered about my own. Was I working out karma too? As the lawsuits began to pile up against the community and we suffered from bad press, a frantic optimism swept through the cult. Pasted smiles and “act as if” attitudes were reinstated, partly as a way to shape up and show the outsiders who we were, but mostly to prove to ourselves that we were right and our way would prevail. One day the world would come to Synanon, and we would be ready.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  κάθαρμα, τό, (ἀαθαίρω) that which is thrown away in cleansing ; in Ρ]. the offscouring's, refuse of a sacrifice, Aesch. Cho. 98 :—the residuum of ore after smelting, Strabo 146 C. 2. metaph. of worthless fellows, a castaway, outcast, Ar. Pl. 454; αἱρούμενοι καθάρματα στρατηγούς Eupol. Any. 15; τοὺς μὲν ἐχθρούς, τοὺς δὲ καθάρματα, τοὺς δὲ οὐδὲν ὑπολαμβάνων εἶναι Dem. 578. 19, cf. 269. 26., 578. 20, Aeschin. 84. 15. It was the custom at Athens to reserve certain worthless persons, whom in case of plague, famine, or other visitations from heaven, they used to throw into the sea, saying περίψημα ἡμῶν γενοῦ, in the belief that they would cleanse away or wipe off the guilt of the nation: these were called καθάρματα, περικαθάρματα, περιψήματα, φαρμακοί, δημόσιοι: v. Schol. Ar; 1. 6., Eq. 1133; II. in pl. -- κάθαρσις, purification, Eur. 1. T. 1316; ποντίων καθαρμάτων .. ἀμοιβάς in return for clearing the sea (of pirates), Id. H. F. 225. III. in Ar. Ach. 44, ἐντὸς καθάρματος within the purified ground; cf. Dict. of Antiqq. p. 363. καθαρμόξω, to join or fit to, βρόχον δέρᾳ Eur. Hipp. 771; πλόκαμον ὑπὸ μίτρᾳ Id. Bacch. 929 :—for Rhes. 210, v. sub πρόσθιος. κἄθαρμός, ὁ, (καθαίρων a cleansing, purification, from guilt, νίψαι

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  I placed a small frog in the terrarium with the snake and watched the gross and bizarre scene as the snake slithered up to the frog, which remained very still. The snake opened its mouth and fastened onto the frog’s backside. As it swallowed its prey, the snake stretched its mouth wider and wider until it became just a mouth with a long body. The frog’s eyes popped as it disappeared bit by bit until all I could see was the bulge of its body, expanding the snake’s neck and looking like a huge abscess. The bulge gradually worked its way down the length of the reptile. Later the snake vomited up the skin, which I examined with equally intense interest. I often ambled down to the high banks of the creek bed on my own, fascinated with the wide swath of water that cut through the earth. I slogged through some of the boggy natural pools, the mud sucking at my feet. If I squatted and plunged my hand into the water and muddy bottom, I could feel the lumpy bodies of bullfrogs resting there. Sometimes I’d yank out a frog and watch it blink its astonishment in the light of day. I thought these frogs were adorable, and I would kiss their clammy cold mouths before I put them back in the mud or stuffed them in my pocket to take home. In the spring when I swam in the creek, I could usually cup up a handful of tadpoles, the tiny creatures in various stages of development. Once I caught some baby salmon and stuck them in a shallow, plastic, compartmentalized dish. When I returned to my room later, I found the fish had jumped free of their prison and dried up on the carpet. I climbed trees to look at baby birds in various cycles of growth in their nests, knowing not to touch them, while the parent bird flew around in circles, shrieking its distress. Sometimes I was lucky enough to discover a litter of kittens left by the mother, who was no doubt off hunting for their next meal. I would spend an hour or more petting and snuggling the kittens, returning again and again to see how well they had grown and thrived. I also collected and studied bees, spiders, ants and other insects. I did not consider it boring to sit for long stretches of time watching a web being spun or ants in their endless toil, marching to and from their underground colony, collecting bits of leaves, food, larvae and other dead ants. Potato bugs disgusted me, though. Large and ugly with their fat heads and abdomens, they seemed to come out only after a good rain and to me they were good for nothing other than getting themselves squashed underfoot into a disgusting mess. But that was not the worst of it.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  μῦς, ὁ (even of the female, Philem. Incert. 32), gen. puds, acc. μῦν, vocat. wv, Anth. P. 11. 391 :—a mouse, Mus musculus L., first in Batr. 1723 μ. ἀρουραῖος literally the Jield-mouse, but prob. the hamster, Cricetus vulgaris, Hdt. 2.141, cf. μυγάλη: proverb., μῦς πίττης γεύεται. oi one who tempted by some apparent good finds himself in inextricable difficulties, Dem. 1215. 103. ὧς pus .. γεύμεθα πίσσας Theocr. 14. 51; μῦς λευκός a lewd, lecherous person, Philem. 1. c. II. a shell-fish, the muscle, Aesch. Fr. 25, Philyll. Πολ. 1, H. A. 5.15, 13, al.; cf. μύαξ, μυΐίσκη. IIT. a large kind of ΠΣ Lat. musculus, Arist. H. A. 3. ¥2, 5. IV. a muscle of the body, Lat. musculus, Hipp. Aph. 1259, Theocr. 22. 48, and Medic. © (Cf. Skt. mish-as, mtish-akas, miish-ikas ; Lat. mus, mus-culus, mus-cipula; mis (maus, mouse):—the Root seems to be found in Skt. mush, mush-ndmi (furor, steal); but there seems to be another Root beginning with s, cf. opts (Hesych.), σμίνθος, Σμινθεύς.) μύσαγμα, τό, (μῦσἀττομαι) = Ξε μύσος, Aesch. Supp. 995. picdto, (μύσον) = μυσάττομαι, Aquil. V. T. μῦσακτέον, verb. Adj. one must abominate, Oribas. p. 183 Mai. μῦσᾶρία, ἡ, loathsomeness, Arethas. μῦὕσᾶδρο-ποιία, ἡ, abominable conduct, Eus. Η. E. p. 120. μῦσᾶρός, a, dv, (μύσος) foul, dir ty: hence, like tie impurus, loath- some, woriable, much like μιαρός, Eur. Or. 1624, etc.; τὸ p. an abomination, Hdt. 2.37. 2. of persons, defiled, polluted, abominable, Eur. Med. 1393, El. 1350, Ar. Lys. 340. Adv. —pas, Eus., etc. μῦὕσδρότης, TOS, ἡ, =pvoapia, Eccl. one ov, 6, (μύσος) the originator of a foul deed, LXX (2 Macc. 5: 24 μῦσαρ-ώνυμος, ov, of loathsome name, Manass. Chron. 4352. μῦσαρ-ωπός, όν, Soul-looking, Manetho 4. 316. μῦσάττομαι, fut. μυσαχθήσομαι Luc. ΤΠ). Meretr. 11. 3: aor. ἐμυσάχ- θην Eur., Luc.: Dep.: (μύσος). To feel disgust at anything loath- some, to loathe, abominate, c. acc., Hipp. 477. 25, Eur. Med. 1149, Xen. Cyr. 1. 3, 5; ἐπί τινι Luc. Prom. 4.—The Act. only in Hesych., cf. μυσάζω. μῦσαχθής, ἐ €5, poet. for μυσαρός, Nic. Th. 361, Anth. P. 9. 253. μυσαχνή, ἢ, (μύσος) a prostitute, like μισήτη, Archil. 173. μῦσερός, ά, ov, late form of μυσαρύς, Manetho 4. 269, Ε. Μ. 535. 32. μῦὕσητός, ή, Ov, (μύσοΞ) -- μυσαρός, Gloss. μῦὕσιάω, ζάνζω) to snuff, snort, esp. in eating greedily, Cornut. N. Ὁ 28: to breathe hard, Hesych. μῦσίδδω, Lacon. for μυθίζω, Ar. Lys. 94,1076; aor. μυσίξαι Ib. 981. μυσικαρφί, (μύω) Adv. with the eyes shut, Cratin. “Qp. 12, but v. Meineke. Micros [0]. a, ov, Mysian: 10545 cf. Κίσσιος. μύσις [Ὁ], ews, 7, (μύω) a closing the lips, eyes, etc., Eccl.; of the womb, Aretae. Caus. M. Diut. 2. 1. ITI. (from Pass.) a being’ closed, of the pores, bowels, etc., Medic. μυσκέλενδρον, τό, mouse-dung, Poll. 5. 31, Hesych. 9 τὸ Μύσιον (sc. θρήνημα) Aesch. Pers. 987 μύσκος, ὁ, Dim. of μῦς, for μυΐσκος, Arcad. 50. 15.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  During naptime, the boys often used the girls who drifted off to sleep for masturbation. Creeping from their mats, the boys dry humped their classmates. I never closed my eyes and never did a teacher halt this regular, repugnant routine. An innocent game of cops and robbers in the schoolyard turned into a brutal reenactment of gang rape. Two of the boys wrestled my friend to the ground and yanked her legs open while a third mounted her, pumping away. I can still see the whites of her eyes as her head thrashed from side to side while the little rapist tried to kiss her. I pounded the boy’s head and back with my fists, trying to pull him off of her until he turned around and punched me in the face. No teacher came to our rescue. On one of my last days at the preschool, a girl was whisked away in an ambulance, her eye punctured by a needle driven in by another girl who sat sulkily on a blue plastic chair, swinging her legs and waiting for her parents to pick her up.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  control and straighten out the youth of Synanon are still in use in many troubled-teen programs that exist today. Some of these programs, such as Straight Inc. and The Seed, have been shut down by legal order after being subjected to lawsuits over various charges of mental, physical and emotional abuse. Although some scholarly studies have shown aggressive-style encounter groups to have an adverse psychological effect on participants, these tough-love teen programs continue to thrive and flourish. Maia Szalavitz speaks to this very issue in her book Help at any Cost: How the Troubled-Teen Industry Cons Parents and Hurts Kids (2006). She explores much of the background and history of the troubled- teen big-business phenomenon in America, discussing techniques used in some of these programs that stem directly from Synanon. When the Synanon school began, the best and brightest teachers of the commune worked with the children; the intention was to inspire our capacity for innovative and philosophical thinking. Parents were regularly involved, and the school was often likened to Israel’s kibbutzim (agricultural collectivist communities with socialistic economies). In a kibbutz, as in Synanon, children lived in separate houses and parents visited their children several hours each day. However, by the 1970s, kibbutzim were moving away from this model, and family members once again lived with one another. In Synanon, the opposite was true as the community became more antagonistic toward the traditional family structure. Parents were expected to support this devolution in Synanon philosophy. They were ordered to spend less time at the school. Chuck and other VIPs who parroted his distorted opinions lectured parents about their involvement with their children, shaming moms in particular by calling them “soul-sucking” and detrimental to children’s health. Parents were “gamed,” i.e., screamed at by their peers, for such indiscretions as “poisoning” their children by taking too much interest in their welfare. Mothers deemed too maternal were called “head suckers.” By the time I arrived in February 1977, Synanon was at its most

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Another child who happened to walk by came to my rescue and pried Gwyn’s jaws open so I could free my hand. The following week Theresa again asked me to watch Gwyn for a few hours. I spent the time ignoring her, my attention absorbed in a book, while she amused herself, constrained to a large playpen of sorts. A truce of silence held between us. Then, a powerful odor wafted through the room, a wet, sticky fart smell that prompted me to look up from my book. Gwyn had removed her pants and defecated on her mattress. She stood watching me, eyes glinting with challenge. Her bare legs were pale, thin and wiry. Between them, a surprising black bush of pubic hair announced burgeoning womanhood on Gwyn’s more or less underdeveloped girlish body. Not sure what to do, I stood up and yelled, “You know better than this! Now I need to put you in the bath!” She stooped down, grabbed a handful of her shit and slowly smeared it onto her face and hair, smiling her little crooked smile all the while. I ran into the bathroom, where I stood trying to calm my spinning mind. Make a bath, make a bath, I gasped to myself. I turned on the tap and went back into the room. In the one minute I had walked away, Gwyn had spread feces everywhere, all over her body and along the railing of the enclosed area. It was streaked along the walls and embedded in some of the carpet. I couldn’t do or say anything but squeak with rage and disgust. Fortunately, Theresa returned and took over the situation. While I watched her clean up Gwyn’s mess and patiently escort the girl to a bath, a sour feeling washed over me. I desperately wanted to spend some time with just my mom, without Gwyn, Sophie or Ray, and yet at the same time I seethed with irritation toward Theresa. “I had a dream about Gwyn,” Theresa told me after she had Gwyn bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. “I dreamt of her life before this one. In her former life she was a wealthy, horribly bitter woman who had acted selfishly toward others, creating a lot of darkness in her spirit. I learned that she chose to come back this way. She’s working out karmic debt.” I imagined a rail-thin aristocratic woman with long, sharp nails and a narrow, gaunt-looking face. Thinking about Gwyn’s former life, I wondered about my own. Was I working out karma too? As the lawsuits began to pile up against the community and we suffered from bad press, a frantic optimism swept through the cult. Pasted smiles and “act as if” attitudes were reinstated, partly as a way to shape up and show the outsiders who we were, but mostly to prove to ourselves that we were right and our way would prevail. One day the world would come to Synanon, and we would be ready.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  her best friends. “I don’t want to go out with you!” one girl yelled at her boyfriend. “Why?” he demanded. She leaned forward, lips peeled away from her teeth. “Look, sucker, I never wanted to be your girlfriend in the first place.” This remark brought on a backlash from the humiliated boyfriend’s friends. “You fucking slut! He’s glad to be rid of your stupid pussy. He was doing you a favor!” “Yeah. You dumb bitch, you’re too stupid to know what you have!” “Oh, you think you’re good with girls, asshole? Have you ever had a girlfriend, dick-face?” The rest of us, who were a few years younger, sat out the amorous savagery, neither sufficiently experienced nor much caring to participate. Hours dragged by as the demonstrators took turns watching over us and encouraging us to keep going. “Play! Keep playing! This is a stew.” By midnight some of the kids had nodded off, spent, with nothing more to say. At some point I also drifted off and awoke to a demonstrator vigorously shaking me. “It’s not time to sleep! We’re still playing. You must participate!” The penetrating glow of fluorescent light, stark and hellish, illuminated my droopy-eyed schoolmates. My eyes felt grainy and scratchy with sleep. “Fuck. I’m tired,” I muttered. The demonstrator pushed her face close to mine. A black fury swirled in the depths of her eyes, the bags under them swollen to half-moons from lack of sleep. “You wake up and play. Do you hear me?” I sat up straighter, blinking rapidly. I didn’t know what was going on. Someone talked about a roommate not keeping her side of the room tidy. The child being attacked stared with glazed eyes, expressionless. The rest of my circle was almost comatose.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  them, a surprising black bush of pubic hair announced burgeoning womanhood on Gwyn’s more or less underdeveloped girlish body. Not sure what to do, I stood up and yelled, “You know better than this! Now I need to put you in the bath!” She stooped down, grabbed a handful of her shit and slowly smeared it onto her face and hair, smiling her little crooked smile all the while. I ran into the bathroom, where I stood trying to calm my spinning mind. Make a bath, make a bath, I gasped to myself. I turned on the tap and went back into the room. In the one minute I had walked away, Gwyn had spread feces everywhere, all over her body and along the railing of the enclosed area. It was streaked along the walls and embedded in some of the carpet. I couldn’t do or say anything but squeak with rage and disgust. Fortunately, Theresa returned and took over the situation. While I watched her clean up Gwyn’s mess and patiently escort the girl to a bath, a sour feeling washed over me. I desperately wanted to spend some time with just my mom, without Gwyn, Sophie or Ray, and yet at the same time I seethed with irritation toward Theresa. “I had a dream about Gwyn,” Theresa told me after she had Gwyn bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. “I dreamt of her life before this one. In her former life she was a wealthy, horribly bitter woman who had acted selfishly toward others, creating a lot of darkness in her spirit. I learned that she chose to come back this way. She’s working out karmic debt.” I imagined a rail-thin aristocratic woman with long, sharp nails and a narrow, gaunt-looking face. Thinking about Gwyn’s former life, I wondered about my own. Was I working out karma too? As the lawsuits began to pile up against the community and we suffered from bad press, a frantic optimism swept through the cult. Pasted smiles and “act as if” attitudes were reinstated, partly as a way to shape up and show the outsiders who we were, but mostly to prove to ourselves that we were right and our way would prevail. One day the

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  impure, Diosce. 5. 84. 2. metaph, dirty, sordid, p. τρόποι Philetaer. Φιλαυλ. 1. 4; βίος δουλοπρεπὴς καὶ ῥ. Arist. Virt. et Vit. 7,43 6. πολῖ- ται, ὄχλος Dion. H. 7, 8., 9. 44; of style, Longin. 43. 5 :—Adv. πρῶς, Menand. Ἕαυτ. 3, Anth. P. 10. 48: Sup. -ὦτατα Dio C. 59. 4, 5. ῥὕπαᾶρότης, Tos, ἡ, -- ῥυπαρία, Ath. 220A, ῥὕπαρο-φάγος, ov, foul-feeding, Tzetz. Lyc. 513. ῥὕπαρό-ψυχος, ov, sordid of spirit; and ῥυπαροψυχία, 7, Byz. ῥὕπαᾶρώδης, ες, filthy, Tzetz. Lyc. 975. ῥύπασμα, τό, dirt, filth, pollution, Greg. Nyss. :—also ῥὕπασμόρ, 6, Eust. 1849. 12; and Dim. ῥυπάσμιον, τό, Schol. Soph. ῥὕπάω, Ep. ῥὕπόω, (ῥύπος) to be foul, filthy, dirty, slovenly, μάλα περ ῥυπόωντα καθῆραι Od. 6. 87; ῥωγαλέα, ῥυπόωντα 13. 435; ἢ ὅτι δὴ ῥυπόω 19.72; νῦν δ᾽ ὅττι ῥυπόω 23.115; ῥυπόωντα δὲ ἕστο χιτῶνα 24. 227; impf. ἐρρύπων Ar. Αν. 1282; ῥυπῶντα, κυφόν, ἄθλιον Id. PI. 206; of the habits of Spartans and Philosophers, ἐρρύπων, ἐσωκράτων Id. Av. 1282; τοὺς Πυθαγοριστὰς... ῥυπᾶν ἕκοντας Aristopho Πυθαγ. 3, cf. Luc. Necyom. 4. ῥὕπ-έλαιον, τό, foul, dirty oil, Paul. Aeg. 7. 17. ῥυπέω or ῥυπόω, = ῥυπάω, ν.]. ΑΕ]. N. A. 14. 4. ῥυπήμων, ον, -- ῥυπαρός, Caesario Qu. 49. ῥὕπο-γράφος, ov, ν. ῥυπαρογρ--. penne, εσσα, εν, -- ῥυπαρός, Nic. Al. 469; ὄλπη Anth. P. 6. 293, cf. 11. 158. PUToKEep&pos, ov, f. 1. for ῥυπαροκέραμος. ῥὕπο-κόνδῦλος, ov, with dirty knuckles, esp. of one who imitates the Laconians, Plat. Com. Πρεσβ. 2 (ubi v. Meineke), cf. Ar. Fr. 620. ῥύπον [Ὁ], τό, -- ὀρός, whey, Phot.; v. Lob. Phryn. 150. ῥύπος [Ὁ], ὁ, dirt, filth, dirtiness, uncleanness, used by Hom. only in heterocl. pl., κάθῃράν τε ῥύπα πάντα Od. 6. 93; later in sing., Simon. Amorg. 6. 63, Aesch. Fr. 76, Plat., etc.; ἅπαν ῥύπον all of it filth (acc.), Theocr. 15. 20; of a person, πρὸς τὸ μὴ λοῦσθαι ῥύπος Aristopho Πυ- Oay. 1. 4:—also ῥύπος, eos, τό, of cheese-parings, Hipp. 614. 54; pl. pun Greg. Naz., Epiphan. :—but the existence of a neut. sing. ῥύπον is without proof, v. Lob. Phryn. 150. 2. metaph. sordidness, mean- ness, ὃ p. τοῦ χαμαὶ βίου M. Anton. . Ἅ7: ΤΙ. sealing-wax, τοὺς ῥύπους ἀνασπάσαι Ar. Lys. 1200. ῥὕπο-φορέω, to wear dirty clothes, Schol. Ar., where Hemst. ῥυπαροφ-. pide, to make foul and filthy, to befoul (cf. ῥυπάω) :—Pass. to be foul and filthy, Ep. part. pf. pass. ῥερῦύπωμένος, all filthy, Od. 6. 59, Hipp. 616. 36., 859 B (for which some Gramm. would write peputwpévos) ; ἐρρυπωμένος Schol. Ar. Ach. 425. ῥὕπόω, ῥυπόωντα, Ep. for ῥυπάω, ῥυπάοντα. ῥυππᾶπαί, a cry of the Athenian rowers, like ὠόπ, yoko! Ar. Ran. 1073; hence comically, τὸ ῥυππαπαί, the crew, one’s messmates, Id. Vesp. 909.—Cf. ἱππαπαί. ῥύπτειρα, as if fem. of ῥυπτήρ (which is only f. 1. in Diosc. 2. 84), that cleanses from dirt, p. κονία soap, lye, Nic. Al. 370.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  πτύω, Hom., etc., v. infr.: fut. πτύσω [Ὁ], Hipp. 112 E, or πτύσομαι Id. 607. 46: aor. ἔπτύῦσα Hipp. 816 G, 1220 H, Soph. Ant. 653, etc.: pf. ἔπτῦκα Sext. Emp. M. 8. 252.—Pass., fut. πτυσθήσομαι Galen.: aor. ἐπτύσθην Hipp. 459. 31, etc.; also aor. 2 ἐπτύην Id. 1023 H. (From ATITY, UT, cf. πτύ-αλον, πυτ-ίζω, ἐπι-φθύζω, ψύττω ; Skt. shtiv, shiiv-dmi; Lat. spu-o, pitui-ta; Goth. speiv-an (πτύειν) ; O. H.G. spiw-an, spi-han (speien, spue, spit.) [Ὁ in pres. and impf.; except that Theocr. 24.19, Ap. Rh. 2. -570-, 4.925, and later Ep. use ὕ in impf. before a short syll., v. ἀναπτύω: ὕ always in aor. ] To spit out or up, αἷμα 1]. 23.697: absol. to spit, Hdt. 1. 99, Xen. Cvr. 8. 1, 24. 2. of the sea, to disgorge, cast out, τινὰ τηλόσ᾽ ἀπ᾽ ἠιόνος Anth. P. 7. 283, cf. Ap. Rh. 2. 570, Opp. H. 5. 596: metaph., στοργὰν ἔπτυσας eis ἀνέμους Anth. P. 7. 468 :—absol., ἐπ᾿ ἀϊόνι πτύοντα, of waves, Theocr. 15. 133; ἱστὸς ὦλισθεν εἰς ἅλα πτύσας with a splash, Anth. P. 9. 290. By metaph., πτύσας in token of abhorrence or loathing, Soph. Ant. 653; πτύσας προσώπῳ with an expression of loathing, Hs! 1232; ἰδεῖν .. kal πτύσαι Epicr. "AYTIA. I. 203 cf. ἀποπτύω. eis κύλπον πτύειν, Lat. in sinum spuere (Plin.), to avert a bad omen, disarm witchcraft, and the like, which was done three times, ws μὴ Ba- σκανθῶ, τρὶς eis ἐμὸν ἔπτυσα κόλπον Theocr. 6. 39, cf. 20. 11; φρίξας eis κόλπον πτύσαι Theophr. Char. 16, cf. Luc. Navig. 15, Paroemiogr. ; so, ὑπὸ κόλπον wr. Anth. P. 12. 229. II. to promote the flow of spittle, of certain wines, Hipp. 358. 45. IItaos, contr. Πτῷος, ov, a name of Apollo at Delphi, from Mt. Ptoén in Boeotia, C. 1. 1625. 83:—ra Πτώια the festival of Apollo Πτώιος, Ib. 39. ΩΝ f.1. for πτωσκάζω, 4. ν. πτωκάς, ados, 7, (mTwE, πτώσσω) timorous, fearful, πτωπκάσιν αἰθυίῃσι Ep. Hom. 8. 2; ar. κύπειρος crouching, low, Simmias ap. Hesych. :—in Soph, Ph. 1093, πτωχάδες is taken by the Schol. as a Subst., meaning the Harpies, and several variations are given by the Schol., as πτωχάδες, mpwrades (Brunck suggested πλωάδες, cf. Ap. Rh. 2. 1054), δρομάδες. πτῶμα, τό, (πίπτω, πέ-πτωκαν a fall, πεσεῖν .. πτώματ᾽ OvK ἀνασχετά Aesch. Pr. 919; πίπτουσι .. πτώματ᾽ αἰσχρά Soph. Ant. 1046; mr. θανάσιμον πεσεῖ Eur. El. 686; οὐκ ἂν ἔπεσε τοιοῦτον mr. Plat. Lach.