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 14 of 182 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The steward agreed to carry out her instructions, but Masetto was not far away, pretending to sweep the courtyard, and he had overheard their whole conversation. ‘Once you put me inside that garden of yours,’ he said to himself, gleefully, ‘I’ll tend it better than it’s ever been tended before.’ Now, when the steward had discovered what an excellent gardener he was, he gestured to Masetto, asking him whether he would like to stay there, and the latter made signs to indicate that he was willing to do whatever the steward wanted. The steward therefore took him on to the staff, ordered him to look after the garden, and showed him what he was to do, after which he went away in order to attend to the other affairs of the convent, leaving him there by himself. Gradually, as the days passed and Masetto worked steadily away, the nuns started teasing and annoying him, which is the way people frequently behave with deaf-mutes, and they came out with the foulest language imaginable, thinking that he was unable to hear them. Moreover, the Abbess, who was possibly under the impression that he had lost his tail as well as his tongue, took little or no notice of all this. Now one day, when Masetto happened to be taking a rest after a spell of strenuous work, he was approached by two very young nuns who were out walking in the garden. Since he gave them the impression that he was asleep, they began to stare at him, and the bolder of the two said to her companion: ‘If I could be sure that you would keep it a secret, I would tell you about an idea that has often crossed my mind, and one that might well work out to our mutual benefit.’ ‘Do tell me,’ replied the other. ‘You can be quite certain that I shan’t talk about it to anyone.’ The bold one began to speak more plainly.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  The pros outweigh the cons I guess, and every date with a new man is an adventure. It’s exciting to walk in with no idea what to expect and see where it goes. And it turns out that I really love having sex. I feel like I’m insatiable. I imagine at some point the novelty will wear off, but right now I’m trying to make the most of it.” “Have you had anal sex?” she leans forward to quietly ask. “No, and it’s funny you should ask because a few of the men have asked me about it. I’m pretty open-minded, but that terrifies me. I’m squeamish even thinking about it.” “I swear to you it’s the best thing ever. It makes every other orgasm you’ve ever had feel like a warm-up. You just have to get over it mentally. When I have sex now that’s not anal, it’s totally humdrum,” she says. “Huh. I would not have expected you to say that. I will try to work up the courage,” I say. “Laura, please start writing all of this down. It might be cathartic for you and you have a lot of good stories,” she says. I give her a half-hearted reply, saying I will think about it but don’t think I have enough of an attention span to write coherently. * The barrage of phone calls and texts from #5 continue well into the night. Sometimes they’re sweet, “I will miss our morning hellos and the sound of your voice and the way your hair smells”, and sometimes full of fury, “I can’t believe I opened up to you, you’re such a liar, I never should have trusted you. And here I thought you were different from other women.” I text him back one time to let him know that I will not be responding anymore. The onslaught goes on for days. Lauren suggests that I block him but I am convinced he’s going to make an appearance at my building or wait for me after I drop Georgia at school, so I would rather get his texts and ignore them to know if he’s still at it or trailing off. She offers to send her husband over to keep an eye on things for me, but I insist that I will be fine without a bodyguard, that #5 is unstable but probably harmless. The calls and texts taper off, although months later, he will still on occasion text me to wish me a happy holiday or say he’s thinking of me. Even a full year later, he will try to “friend” me on Facebook. Another lesson learned: I have to start trusting my instincts. CHAPTER 28 An Older Man I treasure most aspects of motherhood, with one notable exception: the constant planning.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  The dark and quiet of my apartment envelop me when I leave my bedroom. I am not used to being here without at least one of my kids home and I feel like I’m in a hotel. At the front door, I put my hands on Karl’s shoulders and we kiss goodbye. In my future dating app searches, I will set 5’8” as a minimum for height now that I’ve become aware of two important pieces of information: 1) at least two fudged inches are definitely being added to the profiles of men who are self-conscious of their stature, and 2) height, which I’ve never thought much about before, matters to me. * In the morning, I wake up to a flurry of texts. George is confirming coffee. Jeff is confirming an early afternoon drink. Scott wants to know what time I can make it to Long Island. And Karl, oh poor Karl, has written, “Good morning sunshine and roses! I can’t stop thinking about you and smiling today. Thanks for an incredible night.” It’s only Saturday morning. Maybe I was a tad overzealous in my eagerness once I got started on Tinder? I text Lauren, “Help! I want to go back to sleep and wake up to Georgia in my bed. How do I get out of this?” “You’re asking the wrong person. I can’t wait for details,” she responds. “Well at least what I do about sunshine and roses?” “My God, Laura! What did you do to that man?” she asks. “Nothing! I listened to his litany of historical facts and let him go down on me.” “You don’t owe these men anything. Write him back or don’t, you get to do whatever you want.” “But he’s really nice, I don’t want to hurt his feelings.” “OK, so tell him nicely that you can’t be his sunshine and roses. Now up and at ’em. Go put on some of that rose oil I’m obsessed with.” I arrive twenty minutes early to the café where I am due to meet George so I can gulp down coffee before it’s time to make small talk. George is not just a doctor, he’s a surgeon, and my first shot at making my fantasy of sleeping with a doctor a reality. I sip my coffee and recall the time a year earlier when I was having such severe neck pain that I had to get cortisone shots at the base of my skull.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Not long ago there lived in Treviso a German, whose name was Arrigo. He was just a poor fellow who carried people’s heavy goods for hire, yet everyone regarded him as a man of honest and very saintly ways. Whether it is true or not I cannot say, but the Trevisans claim that when he died, all the bells of the cathedral in Treviso began to ring of their own accord. This was taken as a miracle, and everyone said that Arrigo must be a Saint. The whole of the populace therefore converged on the house in which his corpse was lying, and from there they conveyed it to the cathedral, treating it as though it were indeed the body of a Saint. People who were lame or blind or paralysed were taken to the church, along with others suffering from any kind of illness or infirmity, in the belief that they would all be cured by contact with Arrigo’s body. In the middle of all this turmoil, with people rushing hither and thither, three fellow citizens of ours, whose names were Stecchi, Martellino, and Marchese, happened to arrive in Treviso. These three used to do the rounds of the various courts, where they would entertain their audiences by putting on disguises and making all manner of gestures, by means of which they could impersonate anyone they pleased. They had never been to Treviso before, and were surprised to find so much commotion. But when they heard the reason, they immediately wanted to go and see for themselves. After calling at an inn, where they left their belongings, Marchese said: ‘We ought to go and inspect this Saint. But I can’t see how we are to reach him, because from what I have heard, the square is swarming with Germans,2 to say nothing of the armed men stationed there by the ruler to prevent disturbances. And in any case, the church itself is said to be crammed with so many people, that it can hardly take another living soul.’ ‘Don’t be put off by a little thing like that,’ said Martellino, who was eager to see what was going on. ‘I shall certainly find a way of reaching the Saint’s body.’ ‘How?’ said Marchese. ‘Like this,’ Martellino replied. ‘I’ll disguise myself as a paralytic, and pretend I can’t walk. Then with you propping me up on one side and Stecchi on the other, you will both go along giving the impression that you’re taking me to be healed by the Saint. When they see us coming, everyone will step aside and let us through.’

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Despite this, I am amused and delighted. I live in a densely populated city, so the quantity of people to potentially match with seems limitless. Sure, I have to swipe left 100 times before I earn the privilege of clicking on a heart, but there are certainly educated, sporty, fit hearts to be had and when I click one and am instantly rewarded with hearts flying at me and “It’s a Match” popping across my screen in bold letters, I feel a moment’s worth of well, look at that, my work here is already done. Like Pavlov’s dogs, I am so roped in by instant gratification that I cannot stop looking and swiping and clicking. When I wake up in the morning, I have a new reason to open my eyes: to check my Tinder action! There have been so many matches that now I can afford to get a little cocky, double-checking men’s profile pictures and thinking, no, surely this one was a mistake, I would never click on a man wearing a fitted muscle shirt at his gym or someone arrogantly winking into the camera. But there are enough that seem promising and some have sent messages that are cheeky and charming, like “Hey Laura, you have lovely pics ... just curious, how many ‘little black dresses’ do you have :)” or “Hi Laura, you didn’t write anything about yourself, but you have very sweet dimples”. I write back short answers with questions thrown in to attempt a conversation, “Why thank you, nice to meet you on here, looks like you travel a lot, where have you gone recently that you’ve loved?” or “You seem to be on the move a lot, what’s your favorite neighborhood to explore?”

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I got it during a stint in the military a long time ago,” he says. Shimmying my hips back until I am kneeling on the bed, his legs on either side of me, I pause to fully take in what’s in front of me: his penis is erect and his entire pubic area hairless. I ponder what I had just asked him minutes earlier about what makes one pussy different from another and I am struck by how different his penis is from what I’m used to. It’s been 27 years since I’ve seen a penis that did not belong to my husband and to my surprise, this one really does look very different, but I can’t say exactly how. Suddenly I’m aware that I couldn’t adequately describe Michael’s penis if I tried to. When was the last time I really looked at it? And when was the last time I lustfully (or even with complete boredom) wrapped my lips around it? I stroke his balls; I like the way they feel without hair, like baby skin. Tentatively, I flick my tongue against them and he grabs my hair and groans. I slide back up, pressing my body against his, and now reach for the condom myself, opening it and helping him unroll it down the length of his penis. I had been certain that condoms must have changed drastically in the thirty years since I last used one, but no – the sensation of a synthetic, sticky object rather than warm, soft skin is the first thing I notice when he slides into me. The second thing I notice is that a man who is not my husband is now deep inside me and I’m still very much intact. We remain in his bed for hours, touching and kissing and talking in between. Whatever I think ‘it’ is, I’m proving to myself that I might actually still have it. I had expected tears, nostalgia for the way it had been with Michael who knew so well what I did and didn’t like in bed. It turns out I’m an expert at achieving an orgasm and many women aren’t, according to Jack in what is admittedly a limited research study. For all the ways in which I’ve assumed I’m out of touch with myself sexually, I’ve just discovered that I understand what my body responds to, and that I enjoy the physical sensations that come with having sex. Sure, I’ve been having it for decades, but with the same man mostly the same way and with sleeping children a thin wall away. This is the sex I remember from my youth – ravenous, raw, and thrilling – the kind of sex that takes my breath away and makes me greedy for more. It occurs to me that I’m free to reinvent myself now in whatever way I choose, to shed the sexual persona that I rigidly assigned myself.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I furrow my brows in confusion, but I’m too wrapped up in the potential of my fantasy taking this amazing turn to wonder at his statement. “When can I see you?” he asks. “Alone?” I ask, stupidly, and we make a plan to meet after dinner by the bar on the private beach. He says he will wait there for me as no one comes on that beach at night. I calmly rise from my seat despite the thumping of my heart. He catches my arm as I turn to go and pulls me down toward him so that my lips meet his for a kiss as passionate as it is quick. I have been rendered speechless, so I touch my lips with my index finger, give a small smile and walk away. It takes every iota of self-restraint I have not to leap down the beach, cackling with glory and laughter. Instead, I walk slowly, attempting to sashay, knowing he is watching my every step. Back at the pool, the kids and Michael have disappeared so I dig my phone out of my bag and call Tina, who knows Blaze from her recent vacation here. I silently plead for her to pick up and when she finally does, I blurt out, “Tina, I have a date with Blaze tonight.” “Mama, what are you talking about? You just got there! Hang on, I’m at pick- up, school just let out. I have to tell Alexandra and Sarah, they’re right here,” she says, and I hear shouts of kids in the background as she excitedly tells Alexandra and Sarah that I’m calling from the Caribbean and I have a date with the object of my fantasy. There is joyous shrieking and laughter all around and then Tina comes back on the line, saying, “We are so excited for you. Tell us everything. And be safe!” I call #6, feeling the need to confess, wanting to give him one last chance to say he can’t have me sleeping with another man, but he doesn’t answer. CHAPTER 44 Lost Condoms I still find it challenging to put my own needs up there with my kids’ needs, but I know it’s the only way forward. I have to take care of myself properly if I am to take care of them the way I want to, which means not just managing their basic care but showing by example how to live a life with joy, serenity, kindness and compassion. If I do not give myself opportunities to feel happy or at peace or filled up as a woman, how will I be a mother who can share these qualities with her children?

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Alan is one of Leslie’s brother’s best friends and I met him when Michael and I bought our first apartment eighteen years earlier when I was pregnant with Daisy. He was the co-op board president and Michael and I had to be interviewed by him to be allowed to buy in the building. We were in our late 20s and had scraped together every dollar we could find to purchase a lofty studio. The building had an elevator and a doorman, and the dishwasher, washer/dryer, and bathroom faucet in which hot and cold water mixed together in one glorious tap so that we would no longer have to choose between icy cold or scalding hot water made me feel that adulthood was finally within our reach. This man was all that was standing between our faking being adults and our actually becoming them. He turned out to be kind and welcoming and we were surprised by how readily he had ushered us into the building and our new state of maturity. Over the ensuing years, we often ran into him and his wife; perhaps because he had unwittingly played such a large role in this milestone moment, I had always felt indebted and even deferential to him. Leslie tells me that he just moved out of his family’s apartment into his own place, and I suggest she drop it into conversation with him that I happen to be single now too. “You sure?” she says. “Seems like he has his hands full right now.” I snort and say, “Oh please, who doesn’t? If I use that as criteria, everyone will be off limits and I’ll definitely be untouchable. Ask your brother to mention it to him, see if it piques his interest.” A few days later, she calls me back, her voice breathless with excitement, to tell me that Alan jumped enthusiastically on the news of my being single and said he will not only call me, he wants to take me out for dinner. “OK, so pass along my number. I mean, he’s cute and nice, right?” “Yes, very cute, fit, nice, and an amazing cook. You can give him any random ingredients and he could make something delicious out of it,” she says. That’s all I need to know: nothing is as tantalizing as the idea of dating a man who cooks for me. He wastes no time, texting me that night so we can set up a time to talk after I get Georgia to sleep.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  But the experiences of the past few weeks – flirting with men, talking to them, having sex, imagining the possibilities – has unleashed a previously forbidden side of myself I am unwilling to bottle back up. I am torn between what I have always believed a good mother to represent – complete devotion – and what I now think I need to be a complete person, which includes, but is not limited to, being a good mother. * The day I return to the city is cool and gloomy with relentless rain. I drive two hours with windshield wipers methodically thumping from side to side, and all the produce I bought at local farm stands tucked in the seat beside me so that I can prepare the dinner I had planned for #3. He texts me throughout the day. The heavy downpours are slowing traffic to a halt and his ETA keeps getting later and later. He has his dog with him and has to make frequent stops to let her out. I feel guilty that I’m the reason for this disastrous trip, and when he finally arrives well into the evening after countless delays, it feels decidedly anticlimactic. I wait for him under an umbrella in front of his friend’s apartment building, ready to apologize for everything from the weather to the traffic to the difficulty of parking in the city. I see him emerge from his car before he spots me and I am struck by how out of place he looks here, a country boy in the city. I am enamored of him in his bucolic milieu, but here, in my hometown, he looks out of his element, as if he might be consumed whole by the carefully styled bearded hipsters and lithe women pushing thousand-dollar strollers. We have to walk his dog before we can leave her at his friend’s apartment. The dog is not used to concrete city streets and #3 asks if there is a grassy area where she could be more comfortable, so I lead them a few blocks west to a park along the Hudson River. I keep a safe distance from him, my arms folded tightly in front of me as we walk, nervous that I will run into people I know. I feel guilty all over again that this man has come hours out of his way to see me only to find me stiff and aloof, but seeing him out of context and on my home turf has made me unexpectedly ill at ease. It doesn’t feel like play-acting as it does upstate – this is my actual life, lending an air of gravity to what had been fantastical and safely anonymous until now. When we reach my apartment an hour later, I realize this is the first man I’ve had to my home.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Now, seven months later, sitting in the Mickey Mouse-themed patient room for Georgia’s annual check-up, she again sends her out of the room to give us a chance to catch up. Georgia reaches for the phone I’m holding outstretched to her and rolls her eyes, asking me not to take too long. As soon as Dr B closes the door behind Georgia, she tells me that she is relieved to see that I look much healthier than the last time she saw me, that my color is back and I don’t look painfully thin anymore. I thank her for her words to me months earlier, telling her they gave me clarity, that Michael and I are going to get divorced and I’m dating again. “Good girl!” she says in her most encouraging pediatrician voice. “You’re a hot catch. I’m sure you’re very popular on the dating scene. Can I please set you up with someone?” “Not yet, but eventually. I just started dating this man I like. I’ll let you know when it runs its course and you can do your matchmaking then,” I say. “No way, it’s too soon for you to be invested in one person. Just have fun for now. Keep dating the guy, but date other people too. Please, I have someone great for you. My best friend’s friend. He’s a lawyer, very successful, recently separated. I’m giving him your number,” she says with the authority I so love in doctors. “Give me a few weeks. I’m not good at juggling men,” I say. “Fine. I’m checking back in with you very soon,” she says, and ushers me out the door. * A couple of weeks later, on a Friday night, I go to a cocktail party at Tina’s apartment. She is a woman who was born to throw a soirée and does so as often as possible, with free-flowing wine and tequila and oysters and her famous clam dip. The kids play downstairs so that we can almost forget that they’re there except when they run up the long elegant staircase of her duplex for snacks. Hudson texts to ask if he can stay over at his friend’s house and I realize that I am down to just Georgia for the night so could sneak a visit over to see #6 if I leave her with Tina. When I ask Tina if that’s OK, I can barely finish my sentence before she says, “Mama, absolutely leave her here with us for the night, go, enjoy.” I call #6 and ask, “Hey, what are you up to?” “Oh you know, it’s Friday night and my harem is here, wearing me out.” “Want an addition to your harem?” I ask. “If it’s you, then yes. How have you come to be free?” he asks. I tell him I am not just free for the evening but have been given a one-night reprieve. “So where will you sleep?” he asks. “What are my options?”

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  “Chasing the weekend down, I love it. Go, Mama, go!” At home, I jump in the shower and speed through some last-minute grooming. I start to get dressed but realize it’s all about to come off anyway, so instead wrap myself in a short silk bathrobe and a pair of leggings, zip a long puffy parka over it and walk the ten blocks to #6’s apartment. He texts to ask what’s taking me so long. “Sorry, I was saving time on the back end,” I write. “What does that mean?” he asks. “You’ll find out soon enough.” When he opens the door, I unzip my coat, throw it on the floor and then unwrap my robe and let it fall open. “See how much time I saved? I’ve already cleaned myself up and done all the necessary preamble. Now I’m ready for you,” I say. He drops to his knees and pulls down my leggings, pressing his face against my stomach and then working his way down. “I love how efficient you are with your time,” he says laughing, and after a few minutes of his inhaling me in the foyer I confess that I’m freezing and would love to get under the covers with him. I am a little bit drunk and more than a little excited to be kid-free for the whole night, so I do not hold back. I come over and over again and each time accompany the physical release with satisfied cries and then screams of joy. When we quiet down and start to fall asleep, he lies curled on his side of the bed facing away from me. I am unsure what to do. I have always been a solitary sleeper and barely move in my sleep, but this is our first sleepover and I want him to curl around me, not to be able to get enough of me. I settle for placing my hand on his back so that we have a particle of physical connection. I awaken early in the morning when he rises from the bed. I assume he will come right back, but I hear water running in the bathroom and a few minutes later he sits next to me on the side of the bed where I am lying. He is fully dressed. “Hey,” he says softly, and I gaze at him with sleepy morning eyes. “I’m going to the farmers’ market and then to yoga. Stay as long as you want, the door will lock behind you when you leave,” he says. My eyes widen and I grimace. “In other words, don’t let the door hit me on the way out,” I say. ‘”No, not at all. I like to get an early start on Saturdays but that doesn’t mean you have to. We’ll talk later, OK?” he says. “Sure, OK, bye,” I say, closing my eyes. A moment later I hear the front door close behind him.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Neither of us skips a beat in our conversation or changes expression. His index finger pulls aside the elastic edge of my panties and presses against my clit, and still we talk without interruption. When his finger slides inside me, my eyes dart to the side where a large group of millennials is gathered next to us. They are all too busy with each other to pay attention to the handsy middle-aged couple in their midst, but also I realize with surprise that I really don’t care if someone does see. Not only do I feel completely anonymous here, I care less about how I seem than how I really am, and how I am is present in this moment with a man’s eyes locked on mine and his finger warm and pulsing inside of me. Of course, later when I find out that this is the town where some of Daisy’s camp friends live and that they frequent this bar, I will feel less cavalier and more relieved that I remained anonymous, but at this moment the danger feels fresh and exciting. When he suggests that it’s too late at night for me to drive back to the city and I should spend the night, I cock my head to the side to mull the option over, pretending that I hadn’t thrown a pair of glasses and clean underwear into my bag just in case this option arose. Back at his apartment, he offers me a T-shirt to sleep in but I decline it and strip down to my underwear to lie in bed next to him.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Eventually he confesses that he’s never actually fought a real fire, that the local fire department doesn’t get a lot of action aside from cats stuck in trees and kids locked in bathrooms, but even that information only mildly reduces his virile masculinity in my eyes. It is challenging for us to find time to see each other as the physical distance and our schedules with our kids get in the way, so we make do with quick weekday visits that thrill with their speed and surprise. He texts that he has an hour free at lunchtime and then rides his bike miles from where he teaches uptown to find me waiting for him in my apartment in varying states of undress, or he texts as he drives into the city to tell me that he doesn’t have to be at work until 10, and I drop Georgia at school and then find him sitting on the steps of the building next to mine waiting for me as I turn the corner back to my building. The sex we have is always hasty, intense, and toe-curling. One muggy day he comes into my apartment dripping with sweat from the bike ride to get downtown. I invite him into the shower, where he lifts me up and holds me as I wrap my legs around his waist; in the glass box of my shower with steam and water pouring down on us he presses me against the marble wall and I think, aha, so this is what it means to get fucked. We are barely dry from the shower when his damp, sweaty clothes go back on and he is pedaling his bike to get uptown to the class he has to teach. I continue to meet men for coffee or cocktails that I connect with on dating apps. I’ve moved on from Tinder, which feels messy and slipshod and seems to display an inordinate number of shirtless, heavily tattooed men lying on their beds, leering at the camera. The quality of men on Hinge seems slightly higher – emphasis on the word ‘slightly’ – and forces users to write enough words that I can at least tell if they’re literate or funny or too intensely looking for a long- term relationship. One evening as I’m frying chicken cutlets for dinner, #5 calls on his way home to say hi and to tell me that he’s no longer comfortable with my going on dates with other men. “Where is this coming from?” I ask. “When we started seeing each other a few weeks ago, I was upfront with you about my need for openness and you laughed it off, like of course that’s how it’ll be.” “I know I said that, but I really like you and we’re seeing each other enough that I don’t see why you need to see other men too.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Neither would I want you to imagine, my dear wiseacre, that we attend these meetings in the clothes you normally see us wearing; even the most beggarly of the people present looks like an emperor, for we are decked out, one and all, in sumptuous robes and other finery. ‘But over and above all these other delights, there are the beautiful women who are brought to us there, the moment we ask for them, from every corner of the earth. Not only would you see the Begum of Barbanicky, the Queen of the Basques, and the Sultana of Egypt, but also the Empress of Uzbek, the Chitchatess of Norwake, the Semolina of Nomansland, and the Scalpedra of Narsia. But why bother to enumerate them all? You would see every queen in the world there, not even excluding the Skinkymurra of Prester John, 7 who has horns sticking out of his anus: now there’s a pretty sight! And when they have wined and dined, these ladies trip the light fantastic for a little while, after which each of them retires to a bedroom with the man who asked for her to be brought. ‘Now these rooms, mark you, are so glorious to behold that you’d swear you were in Paradise itself. Moreover they’re as fragrant as the spice-jars in your dispensary when you’re pounding the cumin, 8 and the beds on which we lie are every bit as splendid as the Doge’s bed in Venice. I leave you to imagine how busily these ladies work the treadle, and how nimbly they pull the shuttle through, to weave a fine close fabric. But the people who have the best time of all, in my opinion, are Buffalmacco and myself, because Buffalmacco invariably sends for the Queen of France, and I send for the Queen of England, who when all’s said and done are two of the handsomest women on God’s earth. So you can work it out for yourself whether we have good reason to be happier than other men, considering that we enjoy the love of two such queens as these, not to mention the fact that when we have need of a

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  his writing is capable of a political, as well as a theological interpretation. He sought in his preaching to arouse what he called ‘affections’, which he defined as ‘that which moves a person from neutrality or mere assent and inclines his heart to possess or reject something’. In his very widely read Treatise Concerning Human Affections (1746) he quoted from the Cambridge Platonist John Smith a passage which should be read in the light of subsequent political history: ‘A true celestial warmth is of an immortal nature; and being once seated vitally in the souls of man, it will regulate and order all the motions in a due manner; as the natural head, radicated in the hearts of living creatures, hath the dominion and economy of the whole body under it. . . . It is a new nature, informing the souls of man.’ Edwards argued strongly that the deeds of men were caused by God’s will. There was thus no essential difference between a religious and a political emotion, both of which were God-directed. Within Edwards’s rational theology there was a strident millenarian struggling to get out. In human history, he wrote, ‘all the changes are brought to pass . . . to prepare the way for that glorious issue of things that shall be when truth and righteousness shall finally prevail.’ Men must know the hour when God ‘shall take the kingdom’ and he looked towards ‘the dawn of that glorious day’. In his last work, on original sin (1758), he prophesied: ‘And I am persuaded, no solid reason can be given, why God, who constitutes all other created union or oneness, according to his pleasure . . . may not establish a constitution whereby the natural posterity of Adam, proceeding from him, much as the buds or branches from the stock or root of a tree, should be treated as one with him.’ It was against this eschatological background that the Great Awakening ‘took off’, being reanimated whenever it showed signs of flagging by the advent of new and spectacular orators, such as Wesley’s friend George Whitefield, the ‘Grand Itinerant’. A German immigrant woman who heard Whitefield in New England said that though she understood no English, she had never been so edified in her life. He preached, as he put it, ‘with much Flame, Clearness and Power . . . Dagon falls daily before the Ark’; and when he left Boston he handed over to a native evangelist, Gilbert Tennent. ‘People wallowed in snow, night and day’, wrote a jealous Anglican, ‘for the benefit of his beastly brayings’. Another ‘awakener’ who served to ‘blow up the divine fire lately kindled’ was John Davenport from Yale, at one point arrested and judged mentally disturbed when he called for wigs, cloaks, rings and many works on religion to be burned. It was the beginning of American personal evangelism. Not

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘The Angel Gabriel asked me to tell you that he had taken such a liking to you that he would have come to spend the night with you on several occasions except for the fact that you might have been frightened. He now charges me to inform you that he would like to come to you on some night in the near future and spend a little time in your company. But since he is an angel and would not be able to touch you if he were to come in his own angelic form, he says that for your own pleasure he would prefer to come in the form of a man. He therefore desires that you should let him know when, and in whose form, you would like him to come, and he will carry out your instructions to the letter. Hence you have every reason to regard yourself as the most blessed woman on earth.’2 Lady Noodle said she was delighted to hear that the Angel Gabriel was in love with her, for she herself was greatly devoted to him and never failed to light a fourpenny candle in his honour whenever she came across a painting in which he was depicted. So far as she was concerned, he would be welcome to visit her whenever he pleased, but only if he promised not to desert her for the Virgin Mary, of whom it was said that he was a great admirer, as seemed to be borne out by the fact that in all the paintings she had seen of him, he was invariably shown kneeling in front of the Virgin. As for the form in which he should visit her, she would leave the choice entirely to him so long as he was careful not to give her a fright. ‘You speak wisely, madam,’ said Friar Alberto, ‘and I shall certainly arrange for him to do as you suggest. But I want to ask you a great favour and one that will cost you nothing, namely, that you should instruct him to use this body of mine for the purpose of his visit. The reason is this, that when he enters my body, he will remove my soul and set it down in Heaven, where it will stay for the whole of the time he remains in your company.’ ‘What a good idea!’ said Lady Birdbrain. ‘It will make up for the blows he gave you on my account.’ ‘Very well, then,’ said Friar Alberto. ‘Now remember to leave your door unlocked for him tonight, because otherwise, since he will be arriving inside a human body, he will be unable to get in.’

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  cabalistic theosophy to neo-Platonic cosmology. His pupil, the Hebraist Johann Reuchlin, produced the first Hebrew-Christian grammar in 1506, and tried to prevent the systematic destruction of these emerging Jewish books by the Dominican Inquisition. Thus was the New Learning first brought into conflict with the established Church. But conflict was inevitable. Men were now able to study the Greek and Hebrew texts in the original, and compared them with the received version in Latin treated as sacrosanct in the West for centuries. Valla, working from the Greek New Testament, pointed out numerous errors in St Jerome’s Vulgate – the first glimmerings of modern scriptural scholarship. And once men began to look at the texts with fresh eyes, they saw many things which made them uncomfortable or excited. The message of the New Learning was, indeed, this: through greater knowledge to a purer spiritual truth. Ficino, Pico and Reuchlin suggested that there was, as it were, a natural religion; that behind diverse philosophical and religious experiences there was a unity. Its essential truth was most perfectly expressed in Christianity. Over the centuries, accretions had obscured this truth: the new learning would rediscover it and purify it. Thus the new intellectual movement was pressed into the service of reforming the Church, something which had baffled popes, councils, bishops and kings for more than a century. Ignorance was identified with sin; knowledge with reform. The principle could be expressed in many ways: by the exposure of fraudulent documents; by the establishment of wholly accurate and authentic texts; by the re-examination of these texts in the light of new knowledge to discover their full meaning; and – the meaning of the scriptures having been finally established – by the elimination from the Church’s life and activities of all beliefs and practices which lacked biblical authority or the sanction of the early Church. The effect of this movement, if allowed to progress unchecked, was to place the well-being and future of the Church in the hands of its empirical scholars. Or perhaps, indeed, in the hands of a wider audience. The spread of the new knowledge virtually coincided with the technical development of printing. The coincidence ensured the acceleration of both. The earliest printed books in the West were produced at Mainz in 1454–7, at the time Valli was annotating the Greek New Testament. By 1500 there were seventy-three presses in Italy, fifty-one in Germany, thirty-nine in France, twenty-four in Spain, fifteen in the Low Countries and eight in Switzerland. The most important of the firms, run by Aldus Manutius in Venice, was almost entirely devoted to publishing the recovered

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When the wedding-day arrived, it was marked by magnificent pomp and splendour, and the house of the two brothers was filled throughout with sounds of revelry and rejoicing. Lysimachus, having completed all his preparations, handed out weapons to Cimon and his companions, as well as to his own friends, and these they concealed beneath their robes. He then delivered a lengthy harangue to fire them with enthusiasm for his plan, and when he judged the time to be ripe, he divided them into three separate groups, one of which he prudently dispatched to the harbour so that no one could prevent them from embarking when the time came for them to leave. Having led the other two parties to the house of Pasimondas, he posted one of them at the main entrance to frustrate any attempt to lock them inside or bar their retreat, whilst with the other, including Cimon, he charged up the stairs. On reaching the hall, where the two brides were already seated and about to dine along with numerous other ladies, they marched boldly forward and hurled the tables to the floor. Then each of the two men seized his lady and handed her over to his companions, instructing them to carry them off at once to the waiting ship. The brides began to cry and scream, the other ladies and the servants followed suit, and the whole place was filled in an instant with uproar and wailing. But Cimon and Lysimachus and their companions, having drawn their swords, made their way unopposed to the head of the staircase, everyone standing aside to let them pass. As they were descending the stairs, they were met by Pasimondas, who had been attracted by all the noise and came up wielding a heavy stick; but he was struck such a fierce blow over the head by Cimon that a good half of it was severed from his body, and he dropped dead at the feet of his assailant. In rushing to his brother’s assistance, the hapless Ormisdas was likewise slain by one of Cimon’s lusty blows, whilst a handful of others who ventured to approach were set upon and beaten back by the rest of the invaders. Leaving the house full of blood, tumult, tears, and sadness, they made their way unimpeded to the ship, keeping close together and carrying their spoils before them. Having handed the ladies aboard, Cimon and Lysimachus followed with their comrades just as the shore began to fill with armed men who were coming to the rescue of the two ladies. But they plied their oars with a will, and made good their escape. On arriving in Crete they were given a joyous welcome by a large number of their friends and relatives, and after they had married their ladies and held a great wedding-feast, they gaily enjoyed the spoils of their endeavours.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  document, and it was a principle of the canonist reformers that the Church could not entertain any legal proposition that was based on secular documentation alone: there must be confirmation in clerical archives. There was, also, a sense of exhilaration among the clerical revolutionaries. They were bringing mankind out of the dark past, into a brave new world of administrative efficiency. Away with government by illiterates and barbarous folk-laws! This was a view shared by many, especially, of course, clerics. The growth of an efficient papal court and chancery not only made the exercise of papal-clerical authority easier, it also attracted litigants and business. From the late eleventh century, every index of papal and central church activity began to show a sharp increase. ‘Big’ government and papal claims went hand in hand: the demand for power expanded pari passu with the administrative capacity to exercise it. In England, for instance, there had been no legislative councils until 1070 (except one in 786); in the period 1070–1312 there were between twenty and thirty. The West had played little part in the early general councils; then, between 1123–1311 there were seven. Papal correspondence increased accordingly (making allowance for a higher survival rate the later the period), from an average of one a year under Benedict IX, 1033–46, to thirty-five up to 1130, 179 under Alexander III, 1159–81, 280 by the turn of the thirteenth century and 3646 by the beginning of the fourteenth. Virtually all this business was legal. Of course, the twelfth century was an age of legal discovery and expansion generally. Every other kind of court, especially the royal court, was expanding fast. But canon law, radiating from Rome, set the pace and kept the lead by far. The run-up to the canonical explosion took about seventy years, from 1070–1140; then, in a mere decade, it suddenly became a universal fact of life. We saw how the notions of Christianity penetrated deep into every crevice of society in the Carolingian period; now, a papally-controlled legal system suddenly moved into the forefront of every individual’s experience. It began to settle vast areas of ordinary life in great and expensive legal detail: the administration of the sacraments and all other aspects of the strictly religious side of existence; the rights, duties, payments and obligations of the humblest parish priest and his congregation; the dress, education, ordination, status, crimes, punishments of clerics; charity, alms, usury, wills, graveyards, churches, prayers, masses for the dead, burials, marriage, inheritance, legitimacy, sex and morals. Until the 1040s, the popes had only a vague idea of what was going on at the highest level in places like England, north Germany or Spain; a

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  diligent and frugal; we must exhort all Christians to gain all they can, and save all they can: that is, in effect, to grow rich.’ In 1773, he noted in his Journal : ‘I went to Macclesfield, and found a people still alive to God, in spite of swiftly increasing riches. If they continue so, it will be the first instance I have known in above half a century.’ As the eighteenth century progressed, Methodism accordingly identified itself with the established order of society, and after its break with the Anglican Church it became an institution on its own. Like the primitive Church itself, it became immersed in the problems and responsibilities of finance, it built expensive churches, and virtually abandoned itinerant preaching – it underwent the subtle transformation from awakening and enthusing to teaching and ruling. As Methodism changed itself from a revival to an established sect, the more militant sections of the movement hived off. In 1807, when the Methodist Conference voted against camp-meetings, a group broke away to form the Primitive Methodist Connection in which revivalism was institutionalized. Among the poorer elements of the working class, it provided religious fireworks as a substitute for political activism. At Redruth in Cornwall, in 1814, a revival went on for nine successive days and nights: ‘Hundreds were crying for mercy at once. Some remained in great distress of soul for one hour, some for two, some six, some nine, 12 and 15 hours before the Lord spoke peace in their souls – then they would rise, extend their arms and proclaim the wonderful works of God with such energy that bystanders would be struck in a moment and fall to the ground and roar for the disquieture of their souls.’ This wild revivalism, known in Britain as ‘Ranterism’, was an international phenomenon during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic period, and was particularly common in Germany. In the Middle Ages and the sixteenth century, revivalism was always liable to transform itself into political violence. Now, in Britain, the two forms of activism became alternatives. It is true that the sons of strict Methodists sometimes became political revolutionaries: six out of seventeen Luddites hanged at York in January 1813, for instance, came from Methodist families. But Methodist radicals were more likely to be political reformers – the beginning of a tradition which made Methodism and other nonconformist sects the allies first of the Liberals, then of the Labour Party. And the Methodist organization itself almost invariably sided with law, order and property during difficult times. In 1812, the rich