Embarrassment

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 Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Through open latticed doors, I watched Anaïs chattering with the plump woman patting tortillas who, with her hair in a puffy gray bun, reminded me of my mother. I suddenly felt guilty; here I was being taken to lunch by a fascinating novelist, while Mother was serving lunch to the bratty kids she babysat as she cleaned their house. Anaïs returned to the folding chair opposite me, descending gracefully, crossing her calves, and presenting her narrow ankles to the businessmen. They paid but lingered, clearly fascinated by her. They were in my line of sight, with Anaïs’s back to them, when she told me, “We’re in luck. They have ceviche today.” “Very fresh,” one of the businessmen chimed in. Anaïs turned and gave him her glorious smile. “Tell my young friend that it’s delicious. It’s her first time.” With great gusto, the men assured me I would love it, that this was the right place for the first time. Then Anaïs returned her attention to me as the cook brought us two glasses of Chablis and two plates of ceviche that carried the faint aroma of the sea. I couldn’t believe that I was going to have to put those glistening slices of raw fish into my mouth. “Just try it. It’ll be a new experience. If you don’t like it we’ll order you something else,” Anaïs urged. I hesitated. “Just do what I do,” she instructed. She squeezed lemon over the pale pink flesh on both of our plates. It seemed to shiver as her fork punctured a square slice. She lifted the entire square to her mouth and, without it touching her lipstick, popped it in. She closed her ruby lips and chewed. I copied her every move, girding myself for the worst. The two men were watching me, amused. Mercifully, the fish had been soaked in so much lemon and spices it tasted good and soon I was asking for more. Sipping her Chablis, Anaïs said, “Let me see your copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” I tried to indicate to her that the businessmen were watching us and listening, but she appeared not to care. She leafed through the paperback, finding the page she was looking for, and read aloud in her high, undulating voice, loudly enough for the men to hear: “‘In the short summer night she learnt so much. She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died. Shame, which is fear: the deep organic shame, the old physical fear which crouches in the bodily roots of us, and can only be chased away by the sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the man …’ Lawrence knows how to tell a story through feelings!” The two businessmen were grinning with astonishment and titillation. They seemed to be enjoying some sophisticated game with Anaïs at my expense, and my cheeks burned like the red salsa on our table.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FOURTH STORY Cecco Fortarrigo gambles away everything he possesses at Buonconvento, together with the money of Cecco Angiulieri. He then pursues Ceceo Angiulieri in his shirt claiming that he has been robbed, causes him to be seized by peasants, dons his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and rides away leaving Angiulieri standing there in his shirt. All the members of the company roared with laughter on hearing what Calandrino had said about his wife; but when Filostrato had finished speaking, Neifile began, at the queen’s behest, as follows: Worthy ladies, but for the fact that it is more difficult for people to display their wisdom and their virtues than it is to show their folly and their vices, it would be so much wasted effort for them to reflect carefully before opening their mouths to speak; all of which has been amply demonstrated by the stupidity of Calandrino, who was under no obligation whatever, in order to recover from the malady from which in his simplicity he believed himself to be suffering, to hold forth about the secret pleasures of his wife in public. But the story of Calandrino brings to mind a tale of a totally different sort, wherein one man’s cunning defeats the wisdom of another, to the latter’s extreme distress and embarrassment; and I should now like to tell you about it. In Siena, not many years ago, there lived two young men, who had both come of age and were both called Cecco, the one being the son of Messer Angiulieri 1 and the other of Messer Fortarrigo. 2 And whilst they failed to see eye-to-eye with each other on several matters, there was one respect at least – namely, their hatred of their respective fathers 3 – in which they were in such total agreement that they became good friends and were often to be found in one another’s company. But Angiulieri, who was as handsome a man as he was courteous, feeling that he was leading a poor sort of life in Siena on the meagre allowance he was given by his father, and hearing that the new papal ambassador in the March of Ancona was a certain cardinal who was very well disposed towards him, resolved to make his way there in the belief that by doing this he would better his lot. And having spoken to his father on the subject, he came to an arrangement with him whereby he would receive six months’ allowance in advance, so that he could purchase new clothes and a good horse, and go there looking reasonably respectable.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Lauretta then resumed her seat, leaving Emilia feeling somewhat ill at ease, not so much in having been made their queen as in hearing herself praised in public for something to which ladies are wont to attach most importance, and her face turned the colour of fresh roses at dawn. But having lowered her gaze until her blushes had receded, she summoned the steward and made appropriate arrangements for their activities of the morrow, after which she addressed them as follows: ‘Delectable ladies, we may readily observe that when oxen have laboured in chains beneath the yoke for a certain portion of the day, their yoke is removed and they are put out to grass, being allowed to roam freely through the woods wherever they please. Similarly, we may perceive that gardens stocked with numerous different trees are much more beautiful than forests consisting solely of oaks. And therefore, having regard to the number of days during which our deliberations have been confined within a predetermined scheme, I consider that it would be both appropriate and useful for us to wander at large for a while, and in so doing recover the strength for returning once again beneath the yoke. ‘Accordingly, when we resume our storytelling on the morrow, I do not propose to confine you to any particular topic; on the contrary, I desire that each of us should speak on whatever subject he or she may choose, 1 it being my firm conviction that we shall find it no less rewarding to hear a variety of themes discussed than if we had restricted ourselves to one alone. Moreover, by doing as I have suggested, we shall all recruit our strength, and thus my successor will feel more justified in forcing us to observe our customary rule.’ The members of the company applauded the queen for proposing so sensible an arrangement; and rising from their places, they turned to various forms of relaxation, the ladies making garlands and otherwise amusing themselves whilst the young men sang songs and played games. In this way they whiled away their time until supper, to which in due course they gaily addressed themselves, sitting in a circle round the delectable fountain. And when supper was over they freely engaged in their usual pastimes of singing and dancing. Finally the queen, out of deference to the ways of her predecessors, ordered Panfilo to sing a song, notwithstanding the fact that various members of the company had already sung several of their own accord. And so Panfilo promptly began, as follows: ‘Love, I take such delight in thee, And find such joy and pleasure in thy name, That I am happy burning in thy flame. ‘I feel such joy within my breast, Grown from the precious grace Which thou hast brought to me, So strong it cannot be suppressed But shines out from my face Declaring me to be Enamoured joyfully– Happy to stay and burn so nigh To one in place and name so high! ‘I cannot sing aloud in song Or sketch forth with my hand The joy, Love, that I know; For to reveal it would be wrong, That I well understand. A torment it would grow; But I am happy so. All speech would be subdued and broken ‘Ere one small part of it were spoken. ‘Who is there who aright could guess My arms would find that place That they were clasped around? None would believe my happiness That I might bend my face Whither I did, and found Salvation sweet and grace. Hence I with burning joy conceal A rapture I may not reveal.’ Thus did Panfilo’s song come to an end, and though everyone had joined wholeheartedly in the refrain, there was not a single person present who did not attend more carefully than usual to the words, striving to guess what Panfilo had implied he was obliged to conceal. And whilst several formed their own opinions as to his meaning, they were all well wide of the mark. But in the end the queen, perceiving that Panfilo’s song was finished and that the young ladies and the gentlemen were showing clear signs of fatigue, ordered them all to retire to bed. Here ends the Eighth Day of the Decameron

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Let’s pull those breeches right down for the fellow. We can do it quite easily.’ The other two had already seen how it could be done, and having arranged with one another what they were to say and do, they returned there the following morning. Despite the fact that the courtroom was crowded, Matteuzzo managed to crawl into the space beneath the platform without being seen, and positioned himself exactly below the spot where the judge’s feet were resting. Then Maso went up to the judge on one side and seized the hem of his robe, whilst Ribi approached him from the other side and did the same. ‘Sir,’ Maso began. ‘O sir, I beseech you in God’s name not to let this petty thief, who is standing at the other side of you, escape from this courtroom before you have made him give me back the pair of thigh-boots he has stolen from me. He claims he didn’t do it, and yet I saw him, less than a month ago, having them re-soled.’ Then Ribi shouted in his other ear: ‘Don’t you believe him, sir; he’s a lying rogue, and because he knows that I’ve come to lay a complaint against him for stealing a saddlebag of mine, he comes out with this story about the thigh-boots, which I’ve had in my house for donkey’s years. If you don’t believe me, I can call any number of witnesses, such as the woman next door, who runs the fruit stall, and Grassa the tripe-merchant, and a dustman from Santa Maria a Verzaia, who saw him on his way home from town.’ Maso for his part was not prepared to leave all the talking to Ribi, but he too began to shout, and Ribi shouted even louder. And as the judge stood up and edged closer to them in order to follow what they were saying, Matteuzzo seized his opportunity, thrust his hand through the hole in the plank, took a firm hold on the seat of the judge’s breeches, and pulled hard. The breeches came down forthwith, for the judge was a scraggy fellow, and very lean in the buttocks. Being at a loss to understand how this had come about, the judge tried to cover himself up by drawing his clothes across the front of his body and sitting down, but Maso and Ribi were still holding on to them at either side and shouting their heads off, saying:

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Lenore smashed the ball of lint in her palm with her thumb. “That’s when she saw my little weaving and begged me to let her have it.” “I’m supposed to tell you how much she loves it.” Lenore sighed. “I should have kept it.” CHAPTER 3 Greenwich Village, New York, 1962 THE NEXT DAY, MILLIE BROUGHT a tea tray out to where I’d been seated under the shade of an umbrella on the terrace. After a few moments, Anaïs sailed out in a full-skirted Mexican sundress to join me. She smiled mischievously. “So, has Jean-Jacques called you?” “No.” My heart jumped. “Did he ask you for my number? Do you have it?” “I haven’t spoken with him. Would you like me to give him your number? I’ll be happy to give you his.” Embarrassed by my obvious eagerness, I shook my head but I felt transparent, as if she already knew what had happened with him. The fib I was about to tell burned my face. “He saw Lenore’s work and wanted to know if he could buy a piece, but we forgot to exchange phone numbers.” “Oh, he saw her marvelous loft!” “Yes, he had to help me in. I wasn’t feeling too well.” “Lenore was out of town?” I nodded and as I sat, hugging my midriff with crossed arms, she gently asked me delicately phrased questions about my night with Jean-Jacques. Bit by bit she untangled the knot of confusion, shame, and longing I held so tightly. “So you think you are still a virgin?” she asked after considering all I had said. “Technically.” She laughed, and then we laughed together. “He should finish the job!” Anaïs announced gaily. “He’s French, after all. He’ll know what he’s doing, and you can be sure he’ll be sensitive to you because he already has been.” “That’s what I’ve been thinking. How did you know?” “I was eighteen once, though I didn’t have the good fortune to meet a Jean-Jacques. Even if I had, I would have been too shy to let him know my desires. It’s not just men who enjoy sex, you know, although this Puritan American culture makes women ashamed of wanting equal pleasure.” No one had ever spoken with me this way, not my mother or Lenore, certainly not the nuns, or even my girlfriends. Anaïs urged, “You must tell him that you want him to deflower you, otherwise he will have no way of knowing.” “I can’t. I couldn’t get the words out.” “Sometimes it is pleasurable to be passive,” she said, “but it is not always good for you to hide behind shyness. A man cannot read your mind, and things can happen that you do not want if you are not clear.” We both became thoughtful. I became aware of the sounds of traffic and a faraway jackhammer. Anaïs poured us each a tepid cup of tea.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Being at a loss to understand how this had come about, the judge tried to cover himself up by drawing his clothes across the front of his body and sitting down, but Maso and Ribi were still holding on to them at either side and shouting their heads off, saying: ‘It’s monstrous, sir, that you should refuse me a hearing, and try to withdraw without giving your verdict. Surely you don’t need written evidence to decide a trifling matter of this sort.’ And whilst they were saying all this, they held on to his clothes sufficiently long for everyone in court to perceive that he had lost his breeches. Then finally, Matteuzzo, having clung to them for some little time, released his hold and made good his escape from the courtroom without being seen, whilst Ribi, deciding he had done quite enough, exclaimed: ‘I swear to God I’ll appeal to the Senate.’ At the same time, Maso let go the judge’s robe on his side, saying: ‘I shan’t go to any Senate. I’ll keep coming back here, sir, until I find you in less of a muddle than you seem to be in this morning.’ Then they both made off in opposite directions as fast as their legs would carry them. It was only at this point that Master Judge, having pulled up his breeches before all those present, as though he were just getting up out of bed, became aware of the deception and demanded to know what had become of the two men who were arguing about the thigh-boots and the saddlebag. But when they couldn’t be found, he began to swear by the bowels of God that somebody should tell him whether it was the custom in Florence for a judge to have his breeches removed whilst sitting on the bench of justice. When the podestà , for his part, was told what had happened, he practically threw a fit. But when it was pointed out by his friends that this had only been done in order to show him that the Florentines knew he had brought fools with him instead of judges so as to save money, he thought it best to hold his tongue, and nothing more was said about the matter.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  When my four-foot-eleven godmother returned from her weekend carrying a doll-sized suitcase, I was scribbling in my diary, trying to imitate Anaïs’s poetic prose. Lenore, excited about what she’d learned in her sensory awareness workshop, told me how they’d practiced eating a grape slowly and consciously. Her description of holding the pliant grape in her fingers made me think guiltily about touching Jean-Jacques’s penis, but Lenore, running in a little trot to turn on a Ravi Shankar recording, didn’t notice my flush. She went right to work patiently tying knots into a gauzy weaving spread out on one of the worktables. I knew that her weaving was one of her forms of meditation, so I tiptoed as I went into to the kitchen to phone Anaïs.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  I shall be coming round straightway to tell him what’s wrong with him, and explain what he has to do.’ The girl delivered the message, and shortly afterwards the Master arrived with Bruno, sat down at Calandrino’s bedside, and proceeded to take his pulse. Then after a while, in the hearing of Calandrino’s wife, who was present in the room, he said: ‘Look here, Calandrino, speaking now as your friend, I’d say that the only thing wrong with you is that you are pregnant.’ When Calandrino heard this, he began to howl with dismay, and turning to his wife, he exclaimed: ‘Ah, Tessa, this is your doing! You will insist on lying on top. I told you all along what would happen.’ When she heard him say this, Calandrino’s wife, who was a very demure sort of person, turned crimson with embarrassment, and lowering her gaze, left the room without uttering a word. Meanwhile Calandrino continued to wail and moan, saying: ‘Ah, what a terrible fate! What am I to do? How am I to produce this infant? Where will it come out? This woman’s going to be the death of me now, with her insatiable lust, I can see that. May God make her as miserable as I desire to be happy. I swear that if I were fit and strong, which is far from being the case, I should get up from this bed and break every bone in her body. It serves me right, though; I should never have allowed her to lie on top: but if I ever get out of this alive, she certainly won’t do it again, even if she’s dying of frustration.’ Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were so vastly amused by Calandrino’s outburst that it was all they could do to keep a straight face, although Master Simone guffawed so heartily that all his teeth could have been pulled out one after another. At length, however, on being urged and entreated by Calandrino for advice and assistance, the doctor said: ‘Now there’s no cause for alarm, Calandrino. By the grace of God we’ve diagnosed the trouble early enough for me to cure you quite easily in a matter of a few days. But it’s going to cost you a pretty penny.’ ‘Get on with it then, doctor, for the love of God,’ said Calandrino. ‘I have two hundred pounds here with which I was going to buy a farm, but you can take the whole lot if necessary, provided I don’t have to bear this child. I simply don’t know how I could manage it, when I think of the great hullabaloo women make when they are having babies, even though they have plenty of room for the purpose. If I had all that pain to contend with, I honestly think I

• From Adam, Eve, and the Serpent (1988)

  The author of Matthew not only apparently changes words and injects phrases but goes further, deliberately juxtaposing Jesus’ more radical sayings with more moderate sayings on the same theme. According to Matthew, for example, Jesus concludes his ringing rejection of divorce—“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder”—with Matthew’s modification allowing for divorce—“Whoever divorces his wife, except for immorality, and marries another, is guilty of adultery” (Matthew 19:9). Only a few verses later, Matthew juxtaposes Jesus’ promise of great rewards to “every one that has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or lands for my name’s sake” (19:29), with Jesus’ reaffirmation of the traditional commandment “Honor your father and mother” (19:19). Thus Matthew, obviously aware of such discrepancies, and perhaps embarrassed by them, implicitly discriminates between two types of saying—and two levels of discipleship. Matthew gives the reader the impression that Jesus’ message and the movement he inspired need not place extreme demands upon every believer, but only upon would-be spiritual heroes—those who want to follow Jesus’ command to “be perfect” (Matthew 5:48). But followers of Jesus who want to stay home with their spouses and children and continue to support their aging parents can, according to Matthew, remain committed to family life and still find their place within the Christian community. Certain followers of Paul, concerned to make Paul’s message equally accessible, and finding some statements in his first letter to the Corinthians, for example, too extreme, decided that he could not have meant what he said there, much less what enthusiastically ascetic Christians took him to mean. Thus some of Paul’s followers proceeded to compose, in Paul’s name, letters of their own designed to correct what they believed were dangerous misinterpretations of Paul’s teaching. Several of these anonymous admirers of Paul, a generation or two after his death, forged letters, filling them with personal details of Paul’s life and greetings to his friends, hoping to make them appear authentic. Many people—then and now—have assumed that these letters are genuine, and five of them were in fact incorporated into the New Testament as “letters of Paul.” Even today, scholars dispute which are authentic and which are not. Most scholars, however, agree that Paul actually wrote only eight of the thirteen “Pauline” letters now included in the New Testament collection: Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, and Philemon. Virtually all scholars agree that Paul himself did not write 1 or 2 Timothy or Titus—letters written in a style different from Paul’s and reflecting situations and viewpoints very different from those in Paul’s own letters. About the authorship of Ephesians, Colossians, and 2 Thessalonians, debate continues; but the majority of scholars include these, too, among the “deutero-Pauline”—literally, secondarily Pauline—letters.42

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Do you know them?” I hissed. “No, I’ve never seen them before in my life.” She glanced back at one of the men, who lit up in a smile. “Are they bothering you? We can leave.” She started to rise. The two men rose as well. One said, “We have to get back to work … unless?” He let the unspoken question hang in the air. Anaïs’s guttural laugh was the throaty sound she’d described in her novels as Sabina’s. She gave me a questioning look. I felt paralyzed in the moment; I had no volition of my own. I was like an insect she’d pinned to a board. I glared at the dawdling pair of men who were too old for me and too young for her. Finally, they took the hint and left. As soon as they were gone Anaïs’s laughter, like a temple bell, cleansed the air. “I was just playing with them. I thought you were participating. No? Nothing would have happened. I am completely faithful to Rupert now.” “They thought we were prickteases,” I said. “Prrrickteases? I’ve never heard that one! Prrricktease! I have to tell Renate.” “It’s not a compliment.” “No? How is it used?” “When a guy is mad because you acted sexy but won’t follow through. I used to get called it all the time.” “Give me an example of a time you were a prrricktease.” I recalled again, as I had at her Greenwich Village apartment, my pubescent hunt for boys. “When I was just twelve, my girlfriend and I would put on makeup and look for boys to make out with at miniature golf or the movies. When I refused to go past kissing, the guy would call me a pricktease.” “So that’s what happens when girls don’t have chaperones,” she mused. “You were fortunate. At that age I couldn’t go anywhere without one of my older brothers.” “You think that was lucky? I think you were lucky to have older brothers.” “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “What’s interesting is that you were already a baby Sabina.” She went to pay the check rather than wait for the cook to bring it. Returning to our patio table, she leaned down, set her hands lightly on my shoulders, and said into my ear, “But where did Sabina go today, Tchrristine? Nowhere to be found! Into the ether like a genie! You should have flirted with them, had some fun, watched to see what would have happened. It would have given you a better story than a stupid shoe. You should write about being a prrricktease.” [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Thursday morning, after Anaïs had left for New York, I intended to sleep in. I’d been up late studying and didn’t have a class until the afternoon. But the phone jangled insistently at 8:30 a.m.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Isn’t that enough for you to change my number?” I asked the operator, breathless and flushed. I felt like the butt of the joke, as when Anaïs and the two businessmen in the Mexican café had exchanged smirks over my inexperience. Putting down the receiver, I asked Anaïs, “How do you know all those dirty things to say?” “Oh, I’ve had my own dealings with the phone company. You have to make it sound terrrible or they won’t change the number.” She shrugged. “And I wrote pornography for a wealthy collector when all the artists in the Village were doing it. The old man always wanted more of the rough stuff. Would you like more tea?” I hadn’t touched my now very brown tea. I took the Lipton’s bag out of the cup and took a sip. We sat in silence until I said, “Once they change my number, how will Hugo get in touch with you?” “Never mind.” She rubbed her forehead with her manicured fingers. “There are other people I can trust.” It took a moment before I noticed my stomach had clenched from the stab wound. She meant she’d replace me and wouldn’t need me anymore. “If there’s anything else I can do for you,” I offered, hoping to hold onto my apprentice position. “I can still help with your writing and correspondence.” She nodded. “There may be something.” Her eyebrows furled in thought. “I’m still conceptualizing this.” She studied me for awhile. “If you are going to help, you have to know what happened.” “When Rupert called you at Hugo’s?” “That, but there’s so much more. So much has changed.” CHAPTER 20 Greenwich Village, New York, 1964 ANAÏS WHEN ANAÏS RETURNED TO CONVINCE Hugo that the rest ranch hadn’t been a lie, she found the situation to be worse than she’d feared. Hugo had taken a mistress, a Haitian-born dancer he’d met at his modern dance class. Driven by jealousy, Anaïs snuck into the back of the theater where the dancers rehearsed and observed Hugo and his mistress gyrating to wild drums. From the communication of their hips, Anaïs imagined that Hugo had, at last, found a woman attuned to his frenzied rhythms, and she panicked. Needing to speak to someone, she phoned Renate. Ronnie picked up, but Anaïs heard Renate wailing. Between Renate’s heaving sobs and Ronnie’s attempts to explain, she finally made out that Renate had found her son unconscious on the living room floor and could not revive him. Peter was dead from a heroin overdose. Renate had had no idea that Peter had been using drugs and blamed herself. Anaïs wanted to return to Los Angeles immediately, but Ronnie insisted that Renate, distraught with grief and guilt, would not see anyone.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Upon her arrival at the motel, the desk clerk handed her a note from Rupert, an invitation to dinner at his mother’s house. Rupert had warned Anaïs that his mother, Helen, and her second husband, Lloyd, son of the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright, were guarded about whom they let into their world. Likely they wanted to look her over. As Anaïs stepped out of a taxi at 858 Doheny that evening, she thought how perfectly the site expressed the family’s reserve. She was already forming the metaphors in her mind that she would use in her diary to describe it: The crossed arms of a giant tree guarding the entrance. The high stone wall surrounding the house like a castle moat. Anaïs tried hard to charm Rupert's mother, but found the short, restrained woman impenetrable. Seated next to Helen at the dinner table, Anaïs could feel her scrutinizing the side of her face, studying her crow’s-feet and likely searching for plastic surgery scars. Helen questioned Anaïs about her life in New York: did they know any of the same people? How long had it been, she asked, since Anaïs had gotten divorced? Feeling defensive, Anaïs said the first thing that jumped into her head. “I just got my divorce in Mexico.” “And do you intend to continue writing novels?” “Oh, yes. Dutton is planning on publishing my next one.” Well, she hoped they would. Helen commented, “The artist’s life is difficult. It does not create a base for a full life or stable relationships. Rupert has learned that, not only from having been an actor but from marrying an actress.” “So he told me.” “I read one of your books,” Helen said as she poured mint sauce from a chrome Bauhaus pitcher for the pink sliced lamb on Anaïs’s plate. “The book had a troubling title, what was it? Yes, House of Incest?” Accepting the perfectly presented plate, Anaïs looked across the table to Rupert for help. Where was her brave, manly lover now? Letting her be subjected to his mother’s scrutiny and digs without jumping in to support her. He got the message, finally, in Anaïs’s pleading eyes. “Mother,” he said, “the title refers to incest as a metaphor for self-absorption, for being able only to see other people as projections of oneself.” So, Anaïs thought, Rupert does listen. He can even repeat as his own what I’ve told him. “That’s very interesting,” said Lloyd. Anaïs looked at Rupert’s stepfather, the famous architect’s son, with sympathy. “My father was a world-famous musician,” she said. “Not as famous as Frank Lloyd Wright, of course, but I know what it feels like to be the child of a famous artist. Like you, I have had to work to create my own identity.” Rupert and his brother Eric turned their eyes on Lloyd as he was about to respond, but Helen slid in a question as smoothly as her silver-handled knife through the leg of lamb. “Do you enjoy cooking, Anaïs?”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Through open latticed doors, I watched Anaïs chattering with the plump woman patting tortillas who, with her hair in a puffy gray bun, reminded me of my mother. I suddenly felt guilty; here I was being taken to lunch by a fascinating novelist, while Mother was serving lunch to the bratty kids she babysat as she cleaned their house. Anaïs returned to the folding chair opposite me, descending gracefully, crossing her calves, and presenting her narrow ankles to the businessmen. They paid but lingered, clearly fascinated by her. They were in my line of sight, with Anaïs’s back to them, when she told me, “We’re in luck. They have ceviche today.” “Very fresh,” one of the businessmen chimed in. Anaïs turned and gave him her glorious smile. “Tell my young friend that it’s delicious. It’s her first time.” With great gusto, the men assured me I would love it, that this was the right place for the first time. Then Anaïs returned her attention to me as the cook brought us two glasses of Chablis and two plates of ceviche that carried the faint aroma of the sea. I couldn’t believe that I was going to have to put those glistening slices of raw fish into my mouth. “Just try it. It’ll be a new experience. If you don’t like it we’ll order you something else,” Anaïs urged. I hesitated. “Just do what I do,” she instructed. She squeezed lemon over the pale pink flesh on both of our plates. It seemed to shiver as her fork punctured a square slice. She lifted the entire square to her mouth and, without it touching her lipstick, popped it in. She closed her ruby lips and chewed. I copied her every move, girding myself for the worst. The two men were watching me, amused. Mercifully, the fish had been soaked in so much lemon and spices it tasted good and soon I was asking for more. Sipping her Chablis, Anaïs said, “Let me see your copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” I tried to indicate to her that the businessmen were watching us and listening, but she appeared not to care. She leafed through the paperback, finding the page she was looking for, and read aloud in her high, undulating voice, loudly enough for the men to hear: “‘In the short summer night she learnt so much. She would have thought a woman would have died of shame. Instead of which, the shame died. Shame, which is fear: the deep organic shame, the old physical fear which crouches in the bodily roots of us, and can only be chased away by the sensual fire, at last it was roused up and routed by the phallic hunt of the man …’ Lawrence knows how to tell a story through feelings!” The two businessmen were grinning with astonishment and titillation. They seemed to be enjoying some sophisticated game with Anaïs at my expense, and my cheeks burned like the red salsa on our table.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Maybe Jean-Jacques would ask Anaïs for it. I should have Lenore’s number written down and ready when I went to retrieve the forgotten books. That afternoon I repeated my steps from Lenore’s Bowery loft to Anaïs’s Greenwich Village apartment. She buzzed me right up but seemed flustered when she opened the door. “Did I interrupt you?” I asked. “No, but I only have ten minutes. I have to meet Gore for lunch.” I didn’t know who Gore was but thought it unusual she was leaving for lunch at three. She was wearing flared silk trousers and a chiffon blouse with one large ruffle down the front, more suitable for hostessing than going out, so I guessed Gore, whoever he was, was coming there. “Sit down for a few minutes.” Anaïs indicated the couch. In the soft light of her living room with the shades drawn against the sunlight, she looked younger and more natural, and suddenly I knew why she’d seemed familiar the first time I saw her. Though aged, she had the face of Botticelli’s Venus rising from the sea on a clamshell, the same heart shape, the same arched brows, identical lips, a likeness emphasized by how she penciled the upper twin peaks. As if Anaïs knew I was thinking about her as the goddess of love, she asked gaily, “How did it go with Jean-Jacques last night?” Hearing her pronounce his name made my inner thighs, where he’d pushed against me, melt into butterscotch pudding, but I tried to keep my voice noncommittal. “Oh, he got me back to Lenore’s.” For the first time, I realized he must have told the limo driver to wait for him all the while he was upstairs with me. Had the driver told Hugo? Did Anaïs know? I was afraid she could see the flush that was now burning on my chest and cheeks. “Jean-Jacques seemed very taken with you.” She smiled. “He’s too old to be interested in me,” I protested, hoping she would contradict me. There was a twinkle in her aquamarine eyes, but perhaps to spare me further embarrassment, she changed the subject. “So, tell me, how did Lenore Tawney become your godmother?” “She and my mother were good friends when I was born. They were both Catholic—” “I was once Catholic, too,” Anaïs said, adding, “It’s a very sexually repressive religion, you know.” I nodded, feeling tongue-tied. During the night with Jean-Jacques, my Catholic repression had disappeared. I would have liked to talk with Anaïs about that, but I had no words to describe what had happened. Anaïs waited a moment patiently, then shrugged as if recognizing that I was not going to say anything, and went back to the topic of my godmother. “You said your mother and Lenore were friends in the past tense. They aren’t any more?” “Well, they lost touch after my father left.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  * * * No sooner had Dioneo reached the end of his story, than Lauretta, knowing that the time had come for her to abdicate, commended the advice given by Pietro dello Canigiano, which to judge by its effects had been very sound; and having also praised the sagacity of Salabaetto, who was no less worthy of commendation for translating Pietro’s advice into practice, she removed the laurel crown from her head and placed it upon Emilia’s, saying with womanly grace: ‘I know not, madam, whether you will make an agreeable queen, but we shall certainly have a fair one. See to it, then, that your actions are in keeping with your beauty.’ Lauretta then resumed her seat, leaving Emilia feeling somewhat ill at ease, not so much in having been made their queen as in hearing herself praised in public for something to which ladies are wont to attach most importance, and her face turned the colour of fresh roses at dawn. But having lowered her gaze until her blushes had receded, she summoned the steward and made appropriate arrangements for their activities of the morrow, after which she addressed them as follows: ‘Delectable ladies, we may readily observe that when oxen have laboured in chains beneath the yoke for a certain portion of the day, their yoke is removed and they are put out to grass, being allowed to roam freely through the woods wherever they please. Similarly, we may perceive that gardens stocked with numerous different trees are much more beautiful than forests consisting solely of oaks. And therefore, having regard to the number of days during which our deliberations have been confined within a predetermined scheme, I consider that it would be both appropriate and useful for us to wander at large for a while, and in so doing recover the strength for returning once again beneath the yoke. ‘Accordingly, when we resume our storytelling on the morrow, I do not propose to confine you to any particular topic; on the contrary, I desire that each of us should speak on whatever subject he or she may choose, 1 it being my firm conviction that we shall find it no less rewarding to hear a variety of themes discussed than if we had restricted ourselves to one alone. Moreover, by doing as I have suggested, we shall all recruit our strength, and thus my successor will feel more justified in forcing us to observe our customary rule.’ The members of the company applauded the queen for proposing so sensible an arrangement; and rising from their places, they turned to various forms of relaxation, the ladies making garlands and otherwise amusing themselves whilst the young men sang songs and played games. In this way they whiled away their time until supper, to which in due course they gaily addressed themselves, sitting in a circle round the delectable fountain. And when supper was over they freely engaged in their usual pastimes of singing and dancing.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘You might as well know, Calandrino, that one of the fellows we were drinking and eating with this morning told me that you had a girl up here, that you kept her for your pleasure and gave her all the little titbits that came your way, and that he was quite certain you had sent her this pig of yours. You’ve become quite an expert at fooling people, haven’t you? Remember the time you took us along the Mugnone?3 There we were, collecting those black stones, and as soon as you’d got us stranded up the creek without a paddle, you cleared off home, and then tried to make us believe that you’d found the thing. And now that you’ve given away the pig, or sold it rather, you think you can persuade us, by uttering a few oaths, that it’s been stolen. But you can’t fool us any more: we’ve cottoned on to these tricks of yours. As a matter of fact, that’s why we took so much trouble with the spell we cast on the sweets; and unless you give us two brace of capons for our pains, we intend to tell Monna Tessa the whole story.’ Seeing that they refused to believe him, and thinking that he had enough trouble on his hands without letting himself in for a diatribe from his wife, Calandrino gave them the two brace of capons. And after they had salted the pig, they carried their spoils back to Florence with them, leaving Calandrino to scratch his head and rue his losses. SEVENTH STORYA scholar falls in love with a widow, who, being in love with someone else, causes him to spend a winter’s night waiting for her in the snow. But on a later occasion, as a result of following his advice, she is forced to spend a whole day, in mid July, at the top of a tower, where, being completely naked, she is exposed to the flies and the gadflies and the rays of the sun. Though the ladies shook with laughter over the hapless Calandrino, they would have laughed even more if the people who had stolen his pig had not relieved him also of his capons, which made them feel sorry for him. However, the story having come to an end, the queen called upon Pampinea to tell hers, and she began forthwith, as follows:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Whilst Pinuccio and the girl were thus employed, a cat, somewhere in the house, happened to knock something over, causing the man’s wife to wake up with a start. Being anxious to discover what it was, she got up and groped her way naked in the dark towards that part of the house from which the noise had come. Meanwhile Adriano also happened to get up, not for the same reason, but in order to obey the call of nature, and as he was groping his way towards the door with this purpose in view, he came in contact with the cradle deposited there by the woman. Being unable to pass without moving it out of his way, he picked it up and set it down beside his own bed; and after doing what he had to do, he returned to his bed and forgot all about it. Having discovered the cause of the noise and assured herself that nothing important had fallen, the woman swore at the cat, and, without bothering to light a lamp and explore the matter further, returned to the bedroom. Picking her way carefully through the darkness, she went straight to the bed where her husband was lying; but on finding no trace of the cradle, she said to herself: ‘How stupid I am! What a fine thing to do! Heavens above, I was just about to step into the bed where my guests are sleeping.’ So she walked a little further up the room, found the cradle, and got into bed beside Adriano, thinking him to be her husband. On perceiving this, Adriano, who was still awake, gave her a most cordial reception; and without a murmur he tacked hard to windward over and over again, much to her delight and satisfaction. This, then, was how matters stood when Pinuccio, who had gratified his longings to the full and was afraid of falling asleep in the young lady’s arms, abandoned her so as to go back and sleep in his own bed. But on reaching the bed to find the cradle lying there, he moved on, thinking he had mistaken his host’s bed for his own, and ended up by getting into bed with the host, who was awakened by his coming. And being under the impression that the man who lay beside him was Adriano, Pinuccio said: ‘I swear to you that there was never anything so delicious as Niccolosa. By the body of God, no man ever had so much pleasure with any woman as I have been having with her. Since the time I left you, I assure you I’ve been to the bower of bliss half a dozen times at the very least.’ The host was not exactly pleased to hear Pinuccio’s tidings, and having first of all asked himself what the devil the fellow was doing in his bed, he allowed his anger to get the better of his prudence, and exclaimed:

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; she would feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward. Embarrassed, she would sit staring down at her hands, which would seem to be growing more and more awkward. No escape! No escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would try very hard to be complimentary; his grey eyes would try to express admiration, polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice would sound softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men reserve for good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, a little expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feel herself growing more rigid with every kind word and gallant allusion. Openly hostile she would be feeling, as poor Captain Ramsay or some other victim was manfully trying to do his duty. In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one glass only, the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down in sheer desperation—the result had not been Dutch courage but hiccups. Violent, insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed along the whole length of the table. One of those weird conversational lulls had been filled, as it were, to the brim with her hiccups. Then Anna had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim had smiled and so had their hostess. Their hostess had finally beckoned to the butler: ‘Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,’ she had whispered. After that Stephen shunned champagne like the plague—better hopeless depression, she decided, than hiccups! It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help her when she was trying to be social; in spite of her confident boasting to Raftery, it did not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps is was the clothes, for she lost all conceit the moment she was dressed as Anna would have her; at this period clothes greatly influenced Stephen, giving her confidence or the reverse. But be that as it might, people thought her peculiar, and with them that was tantamount to disapproval. And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her there was no real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates of Morton, and she clung more and more to her home and to her father. Perplexed and unhappy she would seek out her father on all social occasions and would sit down beside him. Like a very small child this large muscular creature would sit down beside him because she felt lonely, and because youth most rightly resents isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard lesson—she had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is the no-man’s-land of sex. CHAPTER 91S

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  I said, “You know that I admire you and I want to be like you—” “Oh, I don’t know why anyone would want that!” Her hand brushed away the thought as if it were smoke. “No, Jamie thinks you overcompensate; that you try to act sophisticated and Hollywood so you appear superficial, and that’s not who you really are. I used to do that, too. I wore hats and flamboyant outfits, because I didn’t feel interesting enough in myself.” “Maybe Jamie’s right,” I admitted to Anaïs. “Maybe I do want to seem Hollywood and glamorous because I’m afraid of being boring.” I hoped that copping to it would stop what felt like her attack on me. My admission did seem to disarm her. Her pitch lowered to her wise Djuna voice, soothing and gentle. “It’s because you grew up in the Valley with such a limited life.” Even though I was upset, I was struck by her insight. “But that is past now,” she crooned. “Now you have interesting friends and work. You have a wonderful house at the beach. The research you have done on women’s diaries is very important. I believe in your writing. I’ve shown you in every way that I want your friendship. Why do you think that is?” “Because I’m devoted to you?” “No, Tristine! I think you are a sensitive, intelligent, and talented person, and I’m telling you not to be devoted to me. To be my friend but to be devoted to your own growth. You know that in all the years we have known each other, you have never let me read your diary. Why is that?” I told her the truth. That I was too embarrassed by the writing. “Do you write about sex? You know how much I liked those tapes you made with your women friends.” Yes, I knew. I thought about reminding her that she’d never returned the tapes but realized that would only raise her hackles again. Yet I could hardly trust her with my diaries. I answered her truthfully and strategically: “Sometimes I write about sex, but that’s not why I’m embarrassed. It’s because my thoughts are all over the place and so much of my diary is just moaning and griping about my life. Believe me, my diaries aren’t like yours. They’re no fun to read, even for me.” “Tristine! You know my diaries are rewritten. You can’t compare! Why don’t you let me read just one volume?” “My handwriting is so sloppy you’d never be able to make it out.” “Oh yes, after a few pages, I’ll be able to.” I recognized she was not going to back down and conceded. “Maybe I could type out a volume like you used to.” At least then I could cut out the most chaotic parts and the sexual descriptions she’d likely share with Rupert. “Do what you wish.” She sounded exhausted. “But don’t wait long.” She didn’t object when I offered to go.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  On hearing himself chided so politely, the doctor replied, smiling broadly: ‘My lady, the fact that I am enamoured should not excite the wonder of anyone who is wise, and especially not your own, because you are worthy of my love. For albeit old men are naturally deficient in the powers required for lovemaking, they do not necessarily lack a ready will, or a just appreciation of what should be loved. On the contrary, in this respect their longer experience gives them an advantage over the young. The hope which sustains an old man like myself in loving one who is loved, as you are, by many young men, is founded on what I have often observed in places where I have seen ladies eating lupines and leeks whilst taking a meal out of doors. For although no part of the leek is good, yet the part which is less objectionable and more pleasing to the palate is the root, which you ladies are generally drawn by some aberration of the appetite to hold in the hand while you eat the leaves, which are not only worthless, but have an unpleasant taste. How am I to know, my lady, whether you are not equally eccentric in choosing your lovers? For if this were so, I should be the one you would choose, and the others would be cast aside.’ The gentlewoman, who along with the others was feeling somewhat abashed, replied: ‘Master Alberto, you have given us a charming and very sound reproof for our presumptuousness. Your love is none the less precious to me, since it proceeds from so patently wise and excellent a man. And therefore, saving my honour, you are free to ask of me what you will, and regard it as yours.’ The doctor stood up with his companions, thanked the lady, took his leave of her amid much laughter and merriment, and departed. Thus the lady, thinking she would score a victory, underestimated the object of her raillery and was herself defeated. And if you ladies are wise, you will guard against following her example. * * * Already the sun was dipping towards the west, and the heat of the day had largely abated, when the stories told by the seven young ladies and the three young men were found to be at an end. Accordingly their queen addressed them, in gracious tones, as follows: ‘For the present day, dear friends, my reign is complete except for giving you another queen, who shall decide for herself how her time and ours should be spent in seemly pleasures on the morrow. And albeit some little time still appears to be left until nightfall, I believe this to be the most suitable hour at which to begin all the days that ensue, since preparations can thus be made for whatever the new queen considers appropriate with regard to the following day.