Excitement

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.

Page 112 of 182 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No la he visto en un rato. El arrepentimiento comienza a abrirse paso en mi estómago. Debí haberle dado algún tipo de instrucción aquí. Probablemente no sabe cómo moverse. Es fácil que la gente se lastime si no están entrenados. Caminando por un costado, veo todas las bolsas alineadas como deberían estar, las lonas aún intactas, incluso con el viento, y la plataforma de cemento prolijamente cubierta. Escucho voces y recorro la parte de atrás, al instante viendo a Jordan ayudando a llevar los insertos de las ventanas al remolque, uno de los chicos asegurándose que estén cubiertos, también. Está sonriendo. Como loca. Con ojos que brillan de emoción y como si estuviera a punto de saltar en las puntas de sus pies, por el amor Dios. ¿Se está divirtiendo? Su capucha se ha caído, y su coleta cuelga empapada mientras los mechones de cabello se pegan a su rostro. Sus zapatos están empapados, sus jeans están embarrados, y gracias a Cristo no está usando una camiseta blanca, porque el impermeable está haciendo muy poco para mantener los ojos de los muchachos alejados de ella como está. Miro a Dale, Bryan y Donny, que llevan equipo al remolque mientras miran hacia ella, sonriendo, y luego se miran, riéndose de algo que no puedo oír. —Dense prisa —les grito y se ponen firmes, continuando. Jordan camina hacia donde estoy de pie, al lado del edificio y se agacha, metiendo la lona debajo de una viga. —Entonces, tú eres el jefe, ¿eh? —Me mira inquisitivamente. Algo en su expresión parece más suave que esta mañana. Más feliz. Más a gusto. ¿Cole no le dijo que soy dueño de una empresa de construcción? ¿Habla de mí en absoluto? Un dolor serpentea por mis entrañas. —Bueno, trata de serlo —bromea Dutch, respondiendo su pregunta. Le echo una mirada, pero estoy tentado de sonreír. Bromear es lo nuestro, pero me gustaría que el imbécil no lo hiciera en el trabajo. Me deja como un tonto, maldita sea. —¡Mierda! —exclama Jordan de repente. Levanto mis ojos hacia ella y veo agua de lluvia cayendo sobre su cabeza como una cascada. La lona se rasgó en la parte superior del marco y derramó en su grieta toda el agua que había recogido. Salta, escapando del aguacero, y la alcanza, tratando de volver a colocarla en su lugar. Pero no puede alcanzarla. Colocándome detrás de ella, me estiro y la agarro, sosteniéndola en su lugar mientras giro mi cabeza y hago un gesto con mi barbilla hacia Dutch. Asiente y se marcha para recuperar la pistola de grapas de nuevo. Jordan suelta la lona y se desliza entre mis brazos, dando un paso hacia un lado y riéndose para sí misma. —¿Estás bien? —pregunto. Asiente, secándose el rostro y sacudiendo su chaqueta. —Sí. Supongo que el impermeable era inútil, ¿eh?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The kind nurse of digestion and appetite, sleep, began to descend upon the party. Hypnos, the son of Night, let it be known that after much toil, and after much drink, it was time to rest. So he kissed them all. He yawned, and bid them all to lie down. Their blood was thick and heavy. ‘Cherish your blood,’ he said. ‘It is nature’s friend.’ By now they were all yawning, too. They thanked him for his advice, and laid themselves down to rest. It was the best thing to do. I shall not describe their dreams. They were filled with drink and, in that state, dreams have no meaning. They all slept until prime, nine o’clock - all of them, that is, except Canacee. She had been very sensible, as women are, and had gone to bed early after thanking and blessing her father. She did not want to look ill or pale on the following day; she wanted to look fresh and gay. So she slept a moderate amount, and then awoke. On opening her eyes she thought once more of the ring, and the magic mirror; she was so excited that she must have changed colour twenty times. Even in her sleep she had dreamed of that mirror. It had made such an impression on her. So just before the sun began to rise she called her governess to her bedside, telling her that she wanted to dress and get ready for the day. The old crone, who considered herself to be as wise as her mistress, readily answered. ‘Where will you go, ma dame,’ she asked her, ‘when everyone else is still in bed?’ ‘I want to get up. I have had enough sleep. I want to walk about and take the air.’ So the governess clapped her hands and summoned the maidservants, a dozen or more, to attend their mistress. Then up rose Canacee, as bright and rosy as the sun itself. It was already warm, the sun having risen into Aries, and so the princess walked out blithely into the light. She was gaily dressed for the season and, with five or six of her attendants, she enjoyed the fragrance of the early morning. Together they made their way down a green avenue in the park. The mist rising from the fresh earth made the sun seem roseate and large; it was so fair a sight that all of the ladies were glad at heart. It was a lovely season. It was a wonderful morning. All the birds began to sing. And, as they sang, Canacee understood them perfectly. She could follow their meaning note by note. I forgot to mention one thing, you see. She had put on the ring.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  thirty. Somehow, she convinced Natalie Ponzo, professor of anthropology, to serve as her mentor. Maia couldn’t believe her chutzpah. She’d spent time in the editing room in the basement of Boyleston Hall last year, with a friend, Jocelyn, who was working on her senior thesis. From the moment she walked in and watched Jocelyn at work, she was hooked. Editing was like putting together jigsaw puzzles. You started off with a million little pieces and, if you did it right, wound up telling a coherent, interesting story. Jocelyn was Haitian, from Brooklyn, and dreamed of making important documentaries like Fred Wiseman. But her father was pushing for law school. Was she going to waste her Harvard degree on some career that wouldn’t pay chicken feathers or was she going to get out there and make him proud! “I am not going to law school,” Jocelyn told Vix. “I’ll get myself a decent day job, someplace where I have access to editing equipment, and I’ll make him proud my way!” Vix’s parents weren’t pushing for anything. Tawny had dropped out of her life, dropped out of all their lives, and her father’s hopes and dreams for her, if he had any, were never articulated. Maia thought she was lucky. “You don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations but your own.” Caitlin called from Buenos Aires. “I’m studying dance.” “Dance?” “Yes. Flamenco. I think I’ve found my true calling.” “Flamenco dancing?” “Yes. I think it’s important to pursue my talents at this time. I can always take academic classes but the day will come when I won’t be able to dance.” The only kind of dancing she’d ever seen Caitlin do was disco. “Is this a career move?” Vix asked. “God, Vix ... listen to yourself! Not everything has to lead to a career. I’d rather have talent than a career.” “You mean a career based on your talent?” “No ... I mean just have the talent.” “But what would be the point?”

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Yet they too belonged to the modern world and were able to convey the ideals of the republic to the people in a way that their political leaders could not. With his wild, flowing hair, Lorenzo Dow looked like a latter-day John the Baptist; he still saw a storm as a direct act of God, and yet he would often begin a sermon with a quotation from Jefferson or Paine and constantly urged his congregations to cast superstition aside and think for themselves. When Barton Warren Stone left the Presbyterians to found a more democratic church, he called his secession a “declaration of independence.” James O’Kelly who had fought in the Revolution and been thoroughly politicized, left mainstream Christianity to found his own church of “Republican Methodists.” These men have been called “folk geniuses.” 2 They were able to translate modern ideals such as freedom of speech, democracy, and equality into an idiom that the less privileged could understand and make their own. Drawing on the radical strain in the gospels, they insisted that the first should be last and the last first, that God favored the poor and unlettered. Jesus and his disciples had not had a college education, so people should not be in thrall to a learned clergy; they had the common sense to figure out the plain meaning of the scriptures for themselves. 3 These prophets mobilized the population in nationwide mass movements, making creative use of popular music and the new communications media. Instead of imposing modernity from above, as the founding fathers had intended, they created a grassroots rebellion against the rational establishment. They were highly successful. The sects founded by Smith, O’Kelly, and others amalgamated later to form the Disciples of Christ, which by 1860 had become the fifth-largest Protestant denomination in the United States with some two hundred thousand members. 4 Rooted in eighteenth-century Pietism, Evangelical Christianity led many Americans away from the cool ethos of the Age of Reason to the kind of populist democracy, anti-intellectualism, and rugged individualism that still characterizes American culture. Preachers held torchlight processions and mass rallies, and the new genre of the gospel song transported the audience to ecstasy, so that they wept and shouted for joy. Like some of the fundamentalist movements today, these congregations gave people who felt disenfranchised and exploited a means of making their voices heard by the establishment. But the Evangelical movement was not confined to the frontiers.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Now I will leave the gods in heaven, and return to the events of earth. It is time for the tournament. Of arms, and the men, I sing. PART FOUR The festivities that day in Athens were glorious. The vigour of May entered every person, so that all were bold and playful. They danced and jousted all that Monday, or spent the day in the service of Venus. The night was for rest. All were eager to rise early and to witness the great fight. On that morning there was a great bustle and noise, in the inns and lodgings, as the horses and the suits of armour were prepared for the battle. The knights and the companies of nobles, mounted on stallions and fine steeds, rode out to the palace. If you had been there, you would have seen armour so ornate and so exotic that it seemed to be spun out of gold and steel. The spears, the head-armour, and the horse-armour, glittered in the morning sun while the golden mail and coats of arms glowed in the throng. In the saddle were lords wearing richly decorated robes, followed by the knights of their retinue and their squires; the squires themselves were busy fastening the heads to the shafts of the spears, buckling up the helmets and fitting the shields with leather straps. This was no time to be idle. The horses were foaming and champing on their golden bridles. The armourers were running here and there with file and hammer. There were yeomen in procession, and also many of the common people with thick staffs in their hands. All of them rode, or marched, to the notes of pipes, trumpets, bugles and kettledrums blaring out the sound of battle. In the palace there were small groups of people in excited debate, all of them discussing the merits of the Theban knights. One had an opinion, which another contradicted. One said this, another said that. Some supported the knight with the black beard, while others commended the bald fellow. Yet others gave the palm to the knight with the shaggy hair. ‘I tell you this,’ one courtier said, ‘he looks like a fighter. That axe of his must weight twenty pounds at least.’ ‘Never!’ So, long after the sun had risen, the halls rang with gossip and speculation.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When he came up to us he cried out in a loud voice, ‘God save you all! I have come all this way for your sake. I rode as fast as I could to catch up with you. Do you mind if I join you?’ His servant now rode up behind him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I saw you leave the inn early this morning, and I told my master here all about you. You seemed such a jolly crowd. So he was determined to ride with you. He likes a bit of fun.’ ‘I’m glad you told him,’ the Host replied to the boy. ‘It looks as if your master is a clever man. Witty, too. And I bet he has a few stories to keep us all amused. Am I right?’ ‘Stories? He has got a million of them. He is very entertaining, if you know what I mean. I will tell you something else. He is skilled in many ways. He has many talents. He has undertaken work of great importance, too, which no one else could manage. Unless they learned from him how to do it. He may look ordinary enough, but it will profit you to get to know him. I bet you anything that you will gain from acquaintance with him. He is a very wise man. He is one of the best.’ ‘Tell me this. Is he a priest or a scholar? What kind of man is he?’ ‘He is more than just a priest, sir. I will tell you, in a few words, what kind of art he practises. I cannot let you know everything, even though I do work as his assistant. But I can tell you this about his business. He is a man of such subtlety and skill that he could turn all this ground on which we are riding - the whole route, from Southwark to Canterbury - into gold and silver. I am not exaggerating.’ ‘Good God!’ Harry Bailey was astounded. ‘That is a marvel, to be sure. But since your master is such a wise man, and so worthy of honour, can you explain why he is wearing such a tatty old gown? It is dirty and full of holes. It isn’t worth a penny. Where is his self-respect? According to you, he is worth a lot of money. If he can turn this road to gold and silver, why does he not buy a better gown? Tell me the answer.’

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  This is what he did. He put the ounce of copper into the crucible, and placed it upon the burning coals. Once more he cast in his white powder. Once more he asked the silly priest to blow upon the fire. It was all a trick, of course, a piece of showmanship to fool the gullible. Then he poured the molten copper into a mould, and plunged it into cold water. There was a hiss. Steam arose. At that moment the canon quickly took out from his sleeve the silver ingot he had made before and put it in the water, whereupon it sank to the bottom of the pan. As the water trembled to and fro, he was able to remove the copper and conceal it. The priest, intent upon the fire, had seen nothing. The canon now took him by the arm. ‘Well, sir,’ he said. ‘If this hasn’t worked, then I blame you. I need your help here. Put your hand in the water, and see if you can find anything. Go on.’ So the priest plunged his hand into the pan and, of course, retrieved the ingot of silver. Hey presto! The canon smiled at him and said, ‘Well, brother, let us take these silver ingots to the nearest goldsmith and get them assayed. I am sure they are the genuine article, but I want to have them tested all the same.’ So they visited the local goldsmith and laid their silver on his counter; he tested the three ingots with fire and hammer. They were silver all right. Of course they were. Who could have been happier than the foolish priest? No nightingale in May, no bird upon the wing, could be so blithe. No young girl could have been more ready to dance and sing. No knight could have been more lusty or fearless. The priest was now desperate to learn the secret of transmutation. ‘How much will it cost me,’ he asked the canon, ‘to learn the formula? I must have it. For God’s sake, tell me.’ ‘I must warn you,’ the canon replied, ‘it is not cheap. There are only two people in England who know the secret. One of them is a friar in Oxford. The other one is me. No one else.’ ‘I don’t care how much it costs. Just tell me.’ ‘It is expensive, as I said. I can let you have the formula for forty pounds. At that price, it is a bargain. If you were not such a dear friend of mine, I would be charging you much more.’ So the priest went back to his chamber, and took out his strongbox. He counted out forty pounds, and brought the money back to the canon in exchange for the secret recipe. It was a great deal to pay for a fraud and a delusion.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Also present was the philosopher and scientist Rene Descartes (1596–1650), who refused to join the applause. The assembly, Descartes explained, had made a fundamental error in being satisfied with knowledge that was merely probable. But he had developed a philosophical method based on the mathematical sciences that yielded absolute certainty. It was not easy, but if followed diligently over a long period of time, it could be applied effectively to any field of knowledge, including theology. After the conference, Bérulle took Descartes aside and told him that he had a duty—indeed, a divine mission—to publish this method, if he thought that it could pull Europe back from the abyss. Descartes had been educated at the Jesuit college of La Flèche in Anjou, founded by Henry IV, where he was encouraged to read widely. He had been overwhelmed with excitement when he read Galileo for the first time and had also been fascinated by the skepticism of Montaigne, though as time went on he became convinced that this was not the right message for a world torn apart by warring dogmatisms that seemed unable to find a truth to bring people together. Descartes’ philosophy was marked by the horror of his time. He had been present when the heart of Henry IV, martyr of tolerance, had been enshrined in the cathedral at La Flèche. Throughout his life, he was convinced that both Catholics and Protestants could hope for heaven. His goal was to find a truth on which everybody—Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, deists, and “atheists”—could agree so that all people of good will could live together in peace. Descartes’ ideas were formed on the battlefields of the Thirty Years’ War. On leaving school, he had joined the army of Maurice, Count of Nassau (1567–1625), and traveled Europe as a gentleman soldier, meeting some of the most important mathematicians and philosophers of the day. He claimed afterward that he had learned far more in the army than he would have at a university. As he witnessed the war at first hand, he became convinced that it was essential to find a way out of the theological and political impasse that seemed to be destroying civilization itself; everything seemed to be falling apart. The only way forward was to go back to first principles and start all over again. In 1619, Descartes transferred to the army of Maximilian I of Bavaria. As he was journeying to take up his new post, a heavy snowfall forced him to put up in a small poêle, a stove-heated room, near Ulm on the Danube. For once, he had time for serious, solitary reflection, and it was during this retreat that he devised his method. He experienced three luminous dreams, commanding him to lay the foundations of a “marvellous science” that would bring together all the disciplines—theology, arithmetic, astronomy, music, geometry, optics, and physics— under the mantle of mathematics.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Along Times Square, in the midst of the dogged winter, when the wind lashes at the concrete City like an icy scythe, the tattered army of young vagrants will raise their collars shelteringly and receive the calling.... In the warm palmtreed Los Angeles nights, restlessly they will feel the secret excitement. In Harry’s, Wally’s. Along the Main-Street-blocks-long arcade. In Pershing Square. Along winking Hollywood Boulevard. At Hooper’s in the stale greasy light.... On Market Street in dewy San Francisco, from Seventh Street to the magazine store at Powell, as they stand perhaps in the drizzle, fugitive spirits will respond to that now-faint message soon to become drummingly insistent.... In Chicago, along Clark Street. In the Square—as they huddle indolently in the frozen night for a car to stop and someone to ask if you want a Ride—that call will whisper to the outcasts like wind from the deserted concrete lake. Along Division Street. In the bars.... Sweeping through the other nightcities, the beckoning becomes louder. And the summoning words are these: Mardi Gras! By early January, say (depending on when Lent will begin that year, and therefore Mardi Gras), lean young faces will dot the white-winter highways, fingers will point in the direction of Away, New Orleans. In the Greyhound buses headed South, youngmen with maybe guitars and patched bags if any will eye the young girls reading True Confessions .... Quilted jalopies will tackle the highways of many-masked America. The exodus has begun. Slightly later, the second wave of fugitives will have felt the stirring of this call to brief Freedom. New Orleans is now the Pied Piper playing a multikeyed tune to varikeyed ears. In those same darkcities equally restless queens, wringing from their exiled lives each drop of rebellion, will feel the strange excitement (“My dear, the Most Fabulous Drags in the world go there,” you will hear them say, “and the simply butchest numbers—and all kinds of rich daddies so tired of their frigid wives theyll pay High for making it with a Queen!”) And with much more care and planning than that of the initial wave of masculine vagrants, the queens (prematurely sentenced to a purgatory of half-male, half-female) will begin their fe-male plans, selecting their women’s clothes Lovingly. The golden image of at last being Women—for that one glorious day!—of not possibly hassling getting busted (as they were in New York, Los Angeles, Points In Between)—is a fulfilled daydream in which The Newsreel Cameras—The Eyes and Ears of The World—will focus on them. Hips siren curved, wrists lily-delicately broken, they will stare in defiant demureness from theater screens and home screens all over the country; and those painted malefaces will challenge—and, Maybe, for an instant, be acknowledged by—the despising, arrogant, apathetic world that produced them and exiled them. Amid the swishing of taffeta and rayon drag, the queens will now join the Pageant.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Von, but when he did it was a slow smile, the kind that sneaked up and took you by surprise. She had no trouble imagining those sinewy arms wrapped around her. “How many games?” he asked again. “Two,” Caitlin told him, digging her money out of the pocket of her dress. He handed them two scorecards and a pencil, acting as if he’d never seen them before. “What color balls?” That sent them into gales of laughter. “Okay ... okay ...” he said. “Let’s get this over with. Pink, orange, yellow, green, blue ...” That made it worse yet. Finally Caitlin pointed to pink and Vix pointed to yellow. They were still convulsed as they started walking away. Then Caitlin pulled herself together, turned back and said, “I can’t believe you don’t remember us.” That caught his interest. But after a long look all he came up with was “Can’t say I do.” “Double Trouble ...” Caitlin told him. “Does that ring a bell?” When he still looked blank she added, “You and Von gave us a ride ...” He was waiting on someone else now, a young couple with a little boy. But he stopped and gave them the once-over again. “Double Trouble ... yeah, maybe ... but you look different ...” Of course they looked different! They were wearing matching sundresses with strapless bras underneath, sandals that tied around their ankles, strawberry-flavored lip gloss, and dangling skunk earrings—the official scent of Martha’s Vineyard, as the bumper stickers claimed—all purchased with Lamb’s credit card, which Caitlin had borrowed to take Vix on a shopping spree for her birthday. And they smelled different, too, of Charlie, which they’d splashed all over themselves. Caitlin tilted her head and threw him a smile. “See you around,” she called. “Not if I see you first,” he answered. The father with the little kid was drumming his fingers on the counter. “Could we get going here?” “Sure,” Bru told him. “What color balls?” They exploded again, laughing even harder than the first time. While

• From City of Night (1963)

  I will fall in love again soon—I can feel it—and when I do, I will have my Fabulous Wedding, in a pearlwhite gown—” and she went on delightedly until she caught sight of Pauline’s reflection in the panel of mirrors behind the bar, and something about the way Pauline was looking in our direction clearly threatened she would come right over and introduce herself and bug Miss Destiny. “Goddam queer,” Miss Destiny murmured, and she was fiercely depressed. CHUCK: Rope Heaven by the Neck 1 “HEY, MAN!—HOW YOU MAKIN IT?... Cummon over—jine me.” Chuck sat familiarly on the railing at Pershing Square under the statue of a World War I soldier valiantly facing the street. Wearing a new pair of cowboy boots—resplendently Bright (orange, brown, traces of yellow)—which hes showing off by rolling his levis an extra turn—Chuck sits there as if on his own frontporch. “Where you been?” he asks me. (I didnt tell him this, but I’ll tell you: After staying away from the park as compulsively as always, I returned, I had gone to San Diego again: to the beach at La Jolla set like a jewel in a ring of gleaming sand. I would lie alone for hours on that still-cool beach, just staring at the sky, at the patterns of the hastily smeared clouds: as I had lain looking into the El Paso sky when I was a kid, when I had climbed that range of mountains called Cristo Rey, to get closer to that Sky; hugged by the jutting sandy hills: lying there—alone—looking up—at times at the sky itself, times at the clouds, times toward the giant statue of the peasant-faced Christ at the top of the mountain.... And years later I was lying on the sand at La Jolla, trying now perhaps to find in the shape of those California beach-clouds the lost patterns I had found as a kid. Vainly.... The idleness of the not-yet crowded beach hinting lazily of spring—and the keyed-up idleness of the streets in the city—San Diego!—at night swarming with aimless sailors—this only emphasized the formless terror and panic.... I returned to Los Angeles, to that same room on Hope Street, to that same roof at night—to the same maryjane daze whose miracles were slowly diminishing.... And I returned, soon, to Pershing Square, as, before, I had returned to Times Square....) I only told Chuck: “Ive been away.” “Ain that somethin now?” he said. “Me, too—I been away too. I had this gig justa while ago,” He yawned as if even the memory of work tired him. “It was in this parking lot out in Hollywood. This score I met out here, he got me that job. But, hell, I figure: So I make a few bucks working, I blow them—jes like that! Shoot, I get along jes as good without.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Le lanzo una sonrisa burlona, ni un poco molesto porque haya vuelto al revés todo mi aburrido y cuidadosamente construido mundo. Estoy haciendo cosas que normalmente no haría solo para complacerla, pero también me hace sentir cosas que no había sentido en mucho tiempo. Algunas de ellas, nunca. De hecho, hoy me encontré considerando una lista mental de todas las cosas que quiero hacer con ella. Llevarla a juegos de béisbol, viajes por carretera, y hoy investigué en el jodido eBay cintas de casete de los 80 con las que pensé que podría sorprenderla, como si fuera a estar cerca en las festividades importantes y su próximo cumpleaños, por todos los cielos. Hace que me emocione por todo lo que vendrá. Sea lo que sea. Me vuelvo hacia ella, tratando de mantener un ojo en el camino y besarla al mismo tiempo, pero acabo riendo. —Cinturón de seguridad. Me vas a meter en problemas. Retrocede y se aparta un poco, poniéndose el cinturón de seguridad. —Oh —le digo, mirándola—, y sé que Mick quiere contratarte. No vas a trabajar allí. ¿Entendido? Descansa su cabeza en el asiento, mirando por el parabrisas. —Oh, ¿estás poniendo las reglas ahora? —No me gusta preocuparme. Esto se soluciona ahora. Realmente no creo que hable en serio, pero me gustan las cosas talladas en piedra. Solo se encoge de hombros. —Mi hermana gana mucho dinero. No está lastimando a nadie, y no voy a dejar que nadie me mantenga. —Hace una pausa y luego continúa—. Creo que haré lo que tenga que hacer. Realmente no necesito tu permiso, ¿sabes? Frunzo el ceño, la irritación de esta situación arrastrándose por mi espalda. Pero luego recuerdo lo duro que tiraron de ella al escenario esta noche, obviamente, decidiendo que un concurso de camisetas mojadas no era para ella, sin importar si se había vestido para eso o no. Suelto un bufido, recordando la forma en que protestó. —Ni siquiera sé lo que me preocupa —digo, mi voz llena de humor—. Eres una buena chica. No tienes lo que se necesita para trabajar allí. —No soy una niña. Presiono mis labios para dejar de sonreír, pero es difícil. Lo sé, lo sé, es una mujer. —¿Y si entran Dutch o ese pequeño idiota Jay o cualquiera de los tipos que trabajan para mí? —presiono—. ¿Podrías usar un bikini detrás de la barra y servirles bebidas, o peor aún, quitarte la ropa y bailar para ellos? ¿Dejar que te usen para correrse? ¿Sentarte en sus regazos y frotarte contra ellos por cuarenta dólares? No puedo evitar reír entre dientes ante la ridícula idea. Si realmente lo piensa y se pone mentalmente en esa situación, sabrá que es absurdo. Gira su cabeza hacia mí. —¿Te estás riendo de mí? —Estoy diciendo que te conozco —le digo, nivelando mi tono—. Tú y yo sabemos que no tienes más agallas de las que yo tendría, así que vamos a dejar de perder el tiempo discutiendo sobre algo que nunca sucederá.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me mira sobre el pasto y sus ojos se concentran, la ira y la intensidad fluyen a través de mí como si estuviera a punto de obtener la gran y gorda paliza que merezco. Pongo una mirada tímida en mi rostro y arqueo mi espalda, elevando mi trasero, y luego disminuyo el balanceo de mis piernas para llamar su atención a mi cuerpo. Sale de la camioneta y azota la puerta, y no puedo ocultar mi sonrisa presumida cuando se acerca, ninguno de nosotros puede apartar la mirada. —No me estoy riendo —señala severamente—. Ahora entra y quítate la ropa. He tenido todo un día para soñar el parque temático que voy a hacer de tu cuerpo esta noche, niña. Una oleada de excitación se acumula en mis pulmones, y no puedo respirar. Puedo ver todas las promesas de lo que está por venir en sus ojos, y ya no puedo mentir ni jugar con él. También lo deseo. Sosteniendo su mirada, me levanto, y sus ojos recorren mi cuerpo mientras lentamente retrocedo hacia la casa. Y él avanza, siguiéndome. Pero luego se oye una voz sobre su hombro, interrumpiéndonos. —¡Pike, hola! —dice una mujer. Ambos nos detenemos y veo a la señora Taft, una de las vecinas, detrás de él. —¿Cómo has estado? —pregunta ella. Él muestra los dientes, cierra los ojos y se ve a punto de golpear algo. Mi estómago se sacude con diversión que no dejo escapar. Rápidamente se da vuelta, colocando una sonrisa falsa. —Constanza, hola —dice, casi sonando alegre—. Estoy bien. Solo ocupado. Ella asiente y mira alrededor de su hombro. —Hola, Jordan. —Hola, señora Taft. Me acerco al lado de Pike, deslizando mis manos en mis bolsillos. Ella desliza una mano por su cola de caballo marrón, sosteniendo la correa del King Charles spaniel que ha estado paseando desde que salí a tumbarme en la hierba hace media hora. Mira a Pike. —No he visto mucho a tu hijo. —Oh, sí. Está... uhm... ocupado, también —tartamudea, tratando de inventar alguna excusa—. ¿Qué pasa? —Bueno, escuché que Jordan podría hacer de niñera. —Me mira—. ¿Algún interés? Hay una fiesta de inauguración de la casa al otro lado del río, en la casa de los Kuhl —le dice a Pike—. Deberías venir conmigo. Relajarte. Solo necesito que alguien cuide a los niños. —¿Esta noche? —suelta. Pero ella no le responde, solo me mira de nuevo. —Jordan, ¿qué tal? Sé que ya no tienes quince años, pero pensé que valía la pena intentarlo. —Sí, seguro… —No. —Me interrumpePike. Cierro los ojos por un momento. Jesús, Pike. Eso fue realmente suave y totalmente nada obvio. Constance lo mira, sorprendida. —Tiene clase por la mañana —explica rápidamente. Sí, tengo clases los domingos. —Y, uhm, tareas que hacer en la casa —agrega, lanzándome una mirada severa—, que ha sido mala por no atender. Sí, señora Taft. Después de lavar los platos, tengo que atender al señor Lawson, entonces... —Lo siento —dice.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Then the morrow came. At the first stirring of dawn our Host sprang out of his chamber and awakened us all. He called us together in the yard of the inn, and led us at a slow pace out of Southwark; after a mile or two we reached the little brook known as Saint Thomas a Watering, which is the boundary of the City liberties. He reined in his horse here, and addressed us. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, or should I say fellow pilgrims, I hope you all remember our agreement. I recall it vividly myself. I take it for granted that none of you have changed your minds. Is that not so? Good. Well, who do you think should tell the first story? We agreed that you would all be bound by my decision. Any man or woman who dissents will be obliged to pay all of our expenses. If I am mistaken, then I swear that I will never drink again. The best plan is to draw sticks, before we go any further, and he that picks the shortest will begin.’ We got down from our horses and formed a circle. The Host stood in the middle, with the bundle of sticks in his hand. ‘Sir Knight,’ he said, ‘my lord and master, you will be the first to draw the lot.’ The Knight stepped forward, gracefully accepting his authority, and took a stick. ‘Now, my lady Prioress,’ the Host said, ‘will it please you to come closer to me? And you, sir Clerk, put aside any embarrassment. You do not need to be learned to draw a stick. As for the rest of you, take it in turns.’ And so we all chose our stick. Whether it was by destiny, or providence, or just chance, it turned out that the Knight had chosen the shortest stick. We were all pleased with this piece of luck. It gave us more time to compose our own stories. The first must be the boldest. The Knight would have to tell his tale. That was the agreement. In any case he was not the kind of man to break a promise. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I have been chosen to begin the game. I welcome the challenge, in God’s name, as I welcome all noble challenges. Will it please you to ride forth, and listen to my story?’ So we mounted our horses and crossed the stream. It was called, in those parts, ‘going over the water’. Then the Knight, with a steady and cheerful countenance, began to tell his tale. This is what he said. [image file=images/ackr_9781101155639_oeb_002_r1.jpg] The Knight’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Knyghtes Tale PART ONE

• From The Case for God (2009)

  By the middle of the nineteenth century, largely, perhaps, because of the Evangelical initiative, Americans were more religious than ever before. In 1780, there were only about 2,500 congregations in the United States; by 1820, there were 11,000, and by 1860 a phenomenal 52,000—an almost twenty-one-fold increase. In comparison, the population of the United States rose from about 4 million in 1780 to 10 million in 1820 and 31 million in 1860—a less than eightfold increase. 14 In America, Protestantism empowered the people against the establishment, and this tendency still continues, so that today it is difficult to find a popular movement in the United States that is not associated with religion in some way. By the 1850s, Christianity in America had taken what it wanted from the Enlightenment and, confident in a certainty derived from science, seemed perfectly attuned to the modern world. By contrast, a new type of atheism was emerging in Europe that was different from the “scientism” of Diderot and d’Holbach. 15 Americans were wary of intellectualism and, appalled by the French Revolution, had used Christianity to promote social reform. But Germans were inspired by the French Revolution, which had translated the intellectual ideals of the Enlightenment into a program for justice and equity. The social and political situation in Germany ruled out revolutionary activity, and after the experience of France, it seemed better to try to change the way people thought than resort to violence and terror, so during the 1830s, an anti-establishment intellectual cadre had emerged in the universities. Many of these revolutionary intellectuals were theologically literate. In Germany, theology was an advanced and progressive discipline: two out of every five graduates had a theological degree and knew that they were in the vanguard of religious change. At the end of the eighteenth century, German scholars such as Johann Eichhorn (1752-1827), Johann Vater (1771-1826), and Wilhelm DeWette (17801849) had pioneered a new method of reading the Bible, applying to scripture the modern historical-critical methodology used to study classical texts. As a result, they had discovered that the Pentateuch had not been authored by Moses but was composed of at least four different sources, and were beginning to look at revelation and religious truth in an entirely different way. Other young men became disciples of Schleiermacher and Hegel and were eager to accelerate the dialectical progress that Hegel had described by abolishing reactionary ideologies and institutions. They were particularly incensed by the social privileges of the clergy and regarded the Lutheran Church as a bastion of conservatism. The new European atheism was a product of this hunger for radical social and political change.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I know only that Genghis Khan stayed at the revels with his nobles until the following dawn. PART TWO The kind nurse of digestion and appetite, sleep, began to descend upon the party. Hypnos, the son of Night, let it be known that after much toil, and after much drink, it was time to rest. So he kissed them all. He yawned, and bid them all to lie down. Their blood was thick and heavy. ‘Cherish your blood,’ he said. ‘It is nature’s friend.’ By now they were all yawning, too. They thanked him for his advice, and laid themselves down to rest. It was the best thing to do. I shall not describe their dreams. They were filled with drink and, in that state, dreams have no meaning. They all slept until prime, nine o’clock - all of them, that is, except Canacee. She had been very sensible, as women are, and had gone to bed early after thanking and blessing her father. She did not want to look ill or pale on the following day; she wanted to look fresh and gay. So she slept a moderate amount, and then awoke. On opening her eyes she thought once more of the ring, and the magic mirror; she was so excited that she must have changed colour twenty times. Even in her sleep she had dreamed of that mirror. It had made such an impression on her. So just before the sun began to rise she called her governess to her bedside, telling her that she wanted to dress and get ready for the day. The old crone, who considered herself to be as wise as her mistress, readily answered. ‘Where will you go, ma dame,’ she asked her, ‘when everyone else is still in bed?’ ‘I want to get up. I have had enough sleep. I want to walk about and take the air.’ So the governess clapped her hands and summoned the maidservants, a dozen or more, to attend their mistress. Then up rose Canacee, as bright and rosy as the sun itself. It was already warm, the sun having risen into Aries, and so the princess walked out blithely into the light. She was gaily dressed for the season and, with five or six of her attendants, she enjoyed the fragrance of the early morning. Together they made their way down a green avenue in the park. The mist rising from the fresh earth made the sun seem roseate and large; it was so fair a sight that all of the ladies were glad at heart. It was a lovely season. It was a wonderful morning. All the birds began to sing. And, as they sang, Canacee understood them perfectly. She could follow their meaning note by note. I forgot to mention one thing, you see. She had put on the ring. No one wants to hear a long story without a point, or a story in which the point is long delayed.

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Hell, if you decide to make that scene later, try Times Square—always good for a score.... And play it dumb—they dig that.” I stand on 42nd Street and Broadway looking at the sign flashing the news from the Times Tower like a scoreboard: The World is losing. The hurricane still menaces—the sky ashen with night rainclouds, and looking at it, which is suddenly like a shroud, I panic, I think about this wailing concrete island, and I cant even swim: an island—and the shrouded sky makes it a Cage. Along this street, I see the young masculine men milling idly. Sometimes they walk up to older men and stand talking in soft tones—going off together, or, if not, moving to talk to someone else. The subway crowds surged in periodic waves, blank newyork faces, as if, for air, they had just crawled out of the little boxes in the automat for say a quarter and two nickels. I feel explosively excited to be on this street—at the sight of the people and the lights, sensing the anarchy.... The merchant marine’s story about the youngman he had picked up—and the implied offer of sexmoney to me—have acted on me like a narcotic that makes me crave it. Predictably (and the life I have come to find is unfolding swiftly before me) the newyork cop comes by, to Welcome me, I will think later. He was shaped appropriately like a zero. Watching his approach, the other aimless youngmen leave their stands along the street. Stopping before me, the cop says to me in a bored, automatic, knowing tone: “Why dont you go to the movies, kid?... I aint seen you before—so I dent feel like running you in.” I take his advice. Two Sexy foreign movies at the Apollo theater: I surrender to the giant cavernous mouth with decaying brown seats for teeth—gobble!—Where you’ll see me often later, in the balcony. But I kept thinking about the hurricane. Im nervous. Outside, the rain is coming furiously. I stand under the marquee wondering where to go. Im reacting instinctively to this world, studying the stances of other obviously drifting youngmen. Then he walks by me, hat slouched to one side, dont-give-a-damn walk: a grayhaired middle-aged man—and says—exactly how he came on: verbatim: “I’ll give you ten, and I dont give a damn for you.” I follow the man, who has paused a few feet from me. “What did you say?” I asked. He looks at me steadily: “Was I wrong?” he asks me, but hes looking at me smiling confidently. “I just asked what you said.” “You heard me,” he says, without looking at me now, completely sure now.... “Well, for chrissake, you wanna come or not?” “Yes.” “Then come on, we’re getting wet.” That world has opened its door, and I walk in.

• From City of Night (1963)

  (From El Paso—knowing that my journey had somehow just begun—I had returned to New York. Again to the sexual anarchy.... In a period of about a month, I lived on East 16th Street, then 70th Street, finally Riverside Drive, in a once-mansion converted now into rooms-for-rent: From a large window I could see the trees along the strip of park—the river gray beyond it—and as those trees turned bare, sighingly releasing their leaves, I knew New York for me had been exhausted. I must find another city.) I walk along Main Street, Los Angeles, now. The jukeboxes blare their welcome. Dingy bars stretch along the blocks—three-feature moviehouses, burlesque joints, army and navy stores; gray rooming houses squeezed tightly hotly protesting against each other; colored lights along the street: arcades, magazine stores with hundreds of photographs for sale of chesty unattainable never-to-be-touched tempest-storm leggy women in black sheer underwear, hot shoeshine clipstands, counter restaurants... the air stagnant with the odor of onions and cheap greasy food. Instantly, I recognize the vagrant youngmen dotting those places: the motorcyclists without bikes, the cowboys without horses, awol servicemen or on leave.... And I know that moments after arriving here, I have found an extension, in the warm if smoggy sun, of the world I had just left. As I stand on the corner of 6th and Main, a girlish Negro youngman with round eyes swishes up: “Honey,” she says—just like that and shrilly loudly, enormous gestures punctuating her words, “you look like you jest got into town. If you aint gotta-place, I got a real nice pad....” I only stare at her. “Why, baby,” she says, “dont you look so startled— this is L.A.!—and thank God for that! Even queens like me got certain rights!... Well,” she sighs, “I guess you wanna look around first. So I’ll jest give you my number.” She handed me a card, with her name, telephone number, address: Elaborately Engraved. “Jest you call me—anytime!” she said. And the spadequeen breezed away, turned back sharply catching sight of another youngman, with a small suitcase. I heard her say just as loudly and shrilly: “Dear, you look like you jest got into town, and I—...” I turn the engraved card over, and on it there is written in ink: WELCOME TO LOS ANGELES! I walk into a bar by the corner, next to the loan shop. HARRY’S BAR.... It’s a long bar with accusing mirrors lining its back. A canvas hanging across the ceiling from wall to wall makes the bar resemble an elongated circus tent.... Although it is early afternoon, there are many people here. I realize immediately that this is a malehustling bar. Behind the counter a gay young waiter flutters back and forth, all airy bird-gestures. The scores sit eyeing the drifters who are stationed idly about the bar, by the jukebox, leaning against the booths.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  There was something blissfully unkempt about it, as though its mistress were too much engrossed in other affairs to control its behaviour. Nothing was quite where it ought to have been, and much was where it ought not to have been, while over the whole lay a faint layer of dust—even over the spacious salon. The odour of somebody’s Oriental scent was mingling with the odour of tuberoses in a sixteenth century chalice. On a divan, whose truly regal proportions occupied the best part of a shadowy alcove, lay a box of Fuller’s peppermint creams and a lute, but the strings of the lute were broken. Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was not beautiful nor was she imposing, but her limbs were very perfectly proportioned, which gave her a fictitious look of tallness. She moved well, with the quiet and unconscious grace that sprang from those perfect proportions. Her face was humorous, placid and worldly; her eyes very kind, very blue, very lustrous. She was dressed all in white, and a large white fox skin was clasped round her slender and shapely shoulders. For the rest she had masses of thick fair hair, which was busily ridding itself of its hairpins; one could see at a glance that it hated restraint, like the flat it was in rather splendid disorder. She said: ‘I’m so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon, do come and sit down. And please smoke if you want to,’ she added quickly, glancing at Stephen’s tell-tale fingers. Brockett said: ‘Positively, this is too splendid! I feel that you’re going to be wonderful friends.’ Stephen thought: ‘So this is Valérie Seymour.’ No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply their hostess with personal questions. The mood that had incubated in the motor was now becoming extremely aggressive, so that he fidgeted about on his chair, making his little inadequate gestures. ‘Darling, you’re looking perfectly lovely! But do tell me, what have you done with Polinska? Have you drowned her in the blue grotto at Capri? I hope so, my dear, she was such a bore and so dirty! Do tell me about Polinska. How did she behave when you got her to Capri? Did she bite anybody before you drowned her? I always felt frightened; I loathe being bitten!’ Valérie frowned: ‘I believe she’s quite well.’ ‘Then you have drowned her, darling!’ shrilled Brockett. And now he was launched on a torrent of gossip about people of whom Stephen had never even heard: ‘Pat’s been deserted—have you heard that, darling? Do you think she’ll take the veil or cocaine or something? One never quite knows what may happen next with such an emotional temperament, does one?

• From City of Night (1963)

  We went to Main Street, and Im feeling an intensified sense of perception—as if suddenly I can see clearly. Now Main Street is writhing with the frantic nothing-activity in the late hours. We walked into Wally’s, exploding with smoke. Then to Harry’s bar and more smoke, more streaky mirrors, more hungry eyes and stares—and later, before the burlesque house with the winking lights and the pictures of nude women, we saw three girls, and Chuck went casually and talked to them and they said yes. They belonged obviously to that breed of young girls with whom the hustlers periodically prove their masculinity. Like the malehustlers, they live the best they can from day to day.... We went back to the 1-2-3 to look for Skipper or Buddy to come along with us. Miss Destiny was standing outside with Lola, and when she saw the girls with us, she stomped angrily inside the bar. We found Skipper, and we got into Buddy’s car and Skipper made it run, and since no one had a place to go, we drove to Echo Park. And the night was miraculously clear as it rarely is in Los Angeles, and the moon hung sadly in the sky as unconcerned as the world, as we sexhuddled in the car with the three lost girls.... We left the girls at Silverlake and came back to the 1-2-3, where Miss Destiny, skyhigh, rushed at us shrieking, “You know whats the crazy matter with you, all of you? youre so dam gone on your own damselves you have to hang around queens to prove youre such fine dam studs, and the first dam cunt that shows, you go lapping after her like hot dam dawgs!” Then she cooled off right away and said drive her to Bixel Street, where someone (shes playing it mysterious like someone is turning her on free because shes such a gone queen) is laying all kinds of stuff on her. When we got to Bixel, it turns out Trudi’s daddy has paid for the stuff, including a tin of maryjane and rolls of bees, and hes asked Miss Destiny to take it to her place and Bring Everybody and theyll be up later and we’ll have a party. We rode back, and on Broadway the cop-patrol is driving meanly. Skipper put on his dark shades, Chuck lowered his widehat, I sank into the seat (the junk: the roust), and goddamned Miss Destiny waves at the cops—“Yoohoo, girls”—shes flying out of her gay head. Luckily they didnt hear her and they already had someone in back, so they went by with everyone-hating faces. Just as Skipper parked, Trudi’s daddy drives up in his tough station-wagon with Trudi behind him wrapped in—I swear—a fur stole—“Like Mae West,” she cooed. And we all went up to Miss Destiny’s. 4