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.

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

  “I explained I wasn’t feeling well, which was true. I’d returned from Acapulco, not only to the coldest winter in New York history, but also to reviews of my book so chilly that Dutton dropped me. I was depressed and exhausted and I told Hugo I needed time at a rest ranch in California to be able to write again.” “Which was really Rupert’s cabin!” Encouraged by her mischievous smile, I said, “I bet it was romantic staying with a lover in the woods.” “You think that would be romantic?” She looked at me dubiously. “Yeah, Adam and Eve in paradise.” She exhaled a harsh “Ha!” and told me that the national park was too far from the social life she was used to, and that the few locals there were so square that she and Rupert had to pretend they were married. “The US Forest Service had rules that rangers couldn’t have female guests overnight in their cabins so we put on a show that I was Rupert’s writer wife who traveled a lot.” I had gotten it all wrong! “So that’s why Rupert introduced himself as your husband at the restaurant,” I said. “That made me think you’d gotten divorced, but you’re still married to Hugo!” “But, Tristine, we have gotten sidetracked from your recent ordeal with that awful Minor Inch.” “Yes, just before you got here, Renate started to tell me that Christopher Isherwood—” “—was very impressed when he met you.” “I’m surprised he even remembered me.” “Well, Renate reminded him and told him that a terrible injustice was being done to you at that conservative college because you were helping me with an intimate situation of great delicacy. As fortune would have it, Chris had met your Dr. Inch socially and phoned him on your behalf.” “Christopher Isherwood called Dr. Inch?” Preening, she continued, “Then, in New York, I told Gore Vidal about the phone call and invited him into our little conspiracy. Gore, who loves a conspiracy but doesn’t often get to join one, phoned your Dr. Inch, too, and told him what great promise you have in the eyes of the writers’ community.” “But he’s never even met me!” “It is our credo that artists support each other.” “Oh my god. Inch must have pissed himself!” Dr. Inch had lectured reverentially about Vidal’s books to our Twentieth-Century Authors class, and I’d seen a new hardbound of Julian on Dr. Inch’s desk. Anaïs, enjoying my excitement, added, “Gore likes having his fun at the expense of academics. The more he disdains them, the more they prostrate themselves to him.” Now I understood what had turned Dr. Inch around. He might not respect Anaïs, who wasn’t in the Acropolis or even on the marble steps of literary recognition, but he would have been awed and intimidated by calls from her celebrated friends.

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

  During this lonely time, my new closeness with Renate sustained me. We talked for hours on the phone every night. Renate’s mind was a garden of strange knowledge; there wasn’t an esoteric subject about which she was not informed: Joan of Arc, contraception in the Middle Ages, the culture of the Chumash Indians in Malibu, Jung’s book on flying saucers, the Vedantist concept of pain as illusion. Listening to Renate speak was like reading a book by a great writer. It saddened me that her true talent of discourse was just thrown to the wind, given away; never to receive recompense, recognition, or appreciation except by Anaïs, who’d taken sentences from Renate’s lips and placed them in her fiction. For my part, I would have been happy simply to listen to Renate’s stories all night, especially about Anaïs. But Renate challenged me to keep up with her, making me volley sentences, testing my memory, and heightening my game like a tennis pro with a fledgling. Always our nightly conversations began and ended with our shared business of moving Anaïs’s movie project forward. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] The Old World was an eatery frequented by aspiring actors and directors. Alan Rosen was waiting for us at a street-side patio table where we almost had to shout to be heard over the traffic. After we ordered salads, he said, “I talked with my investors, and we think the safest thing would be for us to tie up all the novels.” Renate kicked my leg under the table but kept her voice professional. “That would be quite expensive, to tie up all of Anaïs’s work.” “You have to help me here.” Alan smiled. “I was thinking $50,000 up front. I’m going to need a five-year option for that price.” I could not believe my ears. $50,000! Renate nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing. “What about the back end?” I asked. I’d been talking to friends, and this was something they always asked about. I wasn’t sure what it was. Alan said, “Look, I know you two want to be producers but I’m not going to promise you anything I can’t deliver. Would you consider taking associate producer if I paid you Writer’s Guild minimum to write the screenplay?” We hadn’t actually thought we could be producers, real or associate, nor screenwriters, but we both kept silent. Finally, I said, “You’ll have to talk to our agent.” We didn’t have an agent, and Renate gave me a surprised look, but she went along with my bluff. Alan said, “I’ll have to get all this OK’d by my people, too.” Alan told us to get started on a film treatment for Spy and have our agent call him.

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

  I was confused. “You can’t mean you want me to follow him around?” I was, at once, terrified and titillated by the idea. “Yes, I do,” she said, “but in plain sight. You need to befriend Rupert. That is why I asked you to stay for dinner and listen to his music group this evening.” “Is his family coming?” When she’d invited me, I’d fantasized meeting Frank Lloyd Wright’s descendants. “No, Rupert has formed a new chamber group with friends closer to his age. I know you’ll like them, and they’ll like you. Two of them are teachers at his school. They know me as Mrs. Pole, so that is how you should refer to me, either as Anaïs with no last name or as Mrs. Pole.” Her hands went to reach for something again. She saw my eyes follow. “I quit smoking,” she explained. “Rupert and I are both quitting. Do you have the habit?” I shrugged noncommittally. “The only time I miss it is after making love.” She sighed and returned to her agenda. “Tonight, after the musicians finish playing, you should go up to Rupert and tell him how much you enjoyed listening and that you hope to be invited again.” I was furiously scribbling notes; she barely paused for a breath. “Rupert will say you are welcome any time.” “You know he’ll say that?” “Yes. You can then come every Tuesday early enough to hear the gossip.” I looked up. “You just want me to listen for gossip?” “Yes, get the other musicians to trust you. Just be easy and charming.” “Be an actress,” I said. “You told me when we first met that you wanted to be an actress!” Her laugh jingled. “Tristine, do you think you could spare a few weekend afternoons in addition to the chamber group evenings?” “I guess so.” “Good. Then when you are saying goodnight next Tuesday, volunteer to help Rupert clear the land he bought in Silver Lake on which he plans to build me a house.” “Rupert is building a house?” “Yes, unfortunately. His half-brother Eric designed it.” “You don’t like the design?” “Oh, yes I do. Eric is very talented. He’s Frank Lloyd Wright’s grandson, after all. But I don’t want to be tethered to any house. It’s Rupert’s attempt to bury me in permanent soil.” I nodded; I wouldn’t want to be tied down to a house, either. She continued, “Don’t strain yourself when you join Rupert at the building site. He prefers to do the work himself but he enjoys company. Bring him some cold beer. It’ll get him to talk.” She dug a wallet from her purse, pulled out three twenties, and squeezed them into my hand. “For Rupert’s beer.” “That’s a lot of beer,” I said. “For your trouble, gas.” She waved the money away. “Okay, but I really don’t think Rupert is going to confide in me.”

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

  “I don’t think so. She has a lecture agent who books all her appearances.” “Offer the stipend you get for guest lecturers in your class, and we’ll all come,” the excited secretary urged. Her unabashed eagerness made me want to show Anaïs off to the group, but Clara said, “She’s not going to come to your undergraduate class or visit our little group. It would insult her narcissism now that she’s a star.” I was so tired of hearing this accusation of narcissism against Anaïs that I was determined to show Clara she was wrong. I’d get Anaïs to come talk to our group and my class. It would be a feather in my cap, and Clara would see for herself how egalitarian, witty, eloquent—and feminist—Anaïs really was. I always seemed to be trying to prove something to Clara because compared to her raised political consciousness, mine always came up short. She participated in a dangerous underground for Latin American victims of terror, summered on sugar collectives in Cuba, and stood in solidarity with working class women. So in addition to the UCLA women’s group, I joined an on-campus socialist group for grad students and professors. It turned out, though, that our group didn’t actually do anything except read and discuss texts by Marx, Lenin, and Engels. One evening, I said to the study group—because my landlord wasn’t renewing my lease—“What if, instead of just talking about communism, we tested it ourselves to see if we could make it work?” “What do you mean?” asked Bob, whose beard was the same orange shade as his long hair. He liked experiments; he had a PhD in nuclear physics and had told us that the only jobs he could find in his field were for the US government, so he’d saved his large salary for three years and dropped out at twenty-six with enough money, according to his calculations, to last the rest of his life. I proposed, “What if we become a commune and live together in a house where we each pay according to our ability and receive according to our need?” I didn’t think anyone would go for the idea, especially since my income as a teaching assistant was near bottom, but to my amazement three of the guys said yes. Bob brought along his girlfriend, so we were five; sufficient, we decided, to call ourselves a commune. After we added up what we could collectively pay for rent, we began to look for a mansion to lease. We found a Greene and Greene–style manor house in Santa Monica four blocks from the boardwalk. In August we all moved in, the guys unloading salvaged furniture my mother had been happy to clear from her living room and running my mattress up the curved, balustraded stairway. We joined a Venice food co-op for weekly boxes of organic produce and established a nightly ritual of communal dinners in our chandeliered dining room.

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

  After we picked up Renate, the three of us cooed over one another’s clothes. Renate wore a low-cut black sheath that could be interpreted as mourning garb, and Anaïs was resplendent in a violet A-line dress. I had to park several blocks up the street on Malibu Colony Road, which was really an alley behind the strip of beach houses. Anaïs, Renate, and I entered the open front door to find guests in shorts and bikini swimsuits milling about. I was immediately self-conscious for being overdressed, but Anaïs and Renate were unfazed. They were used to standing out and carried themselves like regal movie stars of an earlier era. We wandered around until Renate found her friend, James Bridges. He and his partner Jack Larson enclosed Renate in a long hug. She started to tear up but fought it off and, with her formal Viennese manners, introduced Anaïs and me. I stared at Jack Larson because I recognized him as Superman’s sidekick, Jimmy Olsen, from the TV series. James Bridges, whom I now thought of as Superman’s partner’s partner, told us that he’d seen Alan Miller earlier, but that the producer had disappeared upstairs for a high stakes poker game. We should just enjoy ourselves and circulate until the game broke up. Anaïs, Renate, and I settled into director’s chairs on the second-floor deck enjoying the ocean view. Several people wandered out to the deck but, not seeing anyone important, moved on. A few people recognized Renate and awkwardly offered condolences about Peter, then rushed away. Renate shrugged. “People in Hollywood think bad fortune is infectious.” She rose to leave. “I’m going to see if Jack will give me a lift home. I’m afraid I will be the kiss of death for your movie quest, Anaïs.” Just then, we heard a group of men guffawing and cursing on their way down the stairs. Someone growled, “You’re never getting me into another game, Alan. No one can be that lucky.” Through the open French doors, we could see several men shaking hands. Someone punched the arm of a smiling man. “Hey, Alan, if you make a movie with all the money you just skinned, gimme a job, will ya? I’m gonna need it after today.” Anaïs hissed to Renate, “The winner is Alan Miller. Stay!” Renate sank back into her chair just as Alan strolled out onto our deck. He sat in a director’s chair and started counting a huge stack of bills. He had small, well-shaped hands, though the rest of him was muscular and stocky. We all stared at the cash, waiting for him to finish counting. When he got to the end, a young actor who’d gotten up to leave said, “How much?” Alan answered him with a George Raft interpretation. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.” To my surprise, Renate jumped in. “Do you always win?”

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

  The discoveries in the New World and the nautical exploits, which carried Portuguese sailors around the Cape of Good Hope, also stimulated this feeling of restlessness. While the horizon of the natural world was being enlarged and new highways of commerce were being opened, thoughtful men had questions whether the geography of the spiritual world, as outlined in the scholastic systems, did not need revision. The resurrection of the Bible as a popular book stimulated the curiosity and questioning. The Bible also was a new world. The trade, the enterprise, the thought awakened during the last 70 years of the Middle Ages were incomparably more vital than had been awakened by the Crusades and the Crusaders’ tales. When the Reformation came, the chief centres of business in Germany and England became, for the most part, seats of the new religious movement, Nürnberg, Ulm, Augsburg, Geneva, Strassburg, Frankfurt, Lübeck and London. The Renaissance, as has already been set forth, was another potent factor contributing to the forward impulse of the last century of the Middle Ages. All the faculties of man were to be recognized as worthy of cultivation. Europe arose as out of a deep sleep. Men opened their eyes and saw, as Mr. Taine put it. The Renaissance made the discovery of man and the earth. The Schoolmen had forgotten both. Here also a new world was revealed to view and Ulrich von Hutten, referring to it and to the age as a whole could exclaim, "O century, studies flourish, spirits are awaking. It is a pleasure to live!" But in the Renaissance Providence seems to have had the design of showing again that intellectual and artistic culture may flourish, while the process of moral and social decline goes on. No regenerating wave passed over Italy’s society or cleansed her palaces and convents. The outward forms of civilization did not check the inward decline. The Italian character, says Gregorovius, "in the last 30 years of the 15th century displays a trait of diabolical passion. Tyrannicide, conspiracies and deeds of treachery were universal." In the period of Athenian greatness, the process of the intellectual sublimation of the few was accompanied by the process of moral decay in the many. So now, art did not purify. The Renaissance did not find out what repentance was or feel the need of it. Savonarola’s admiring disciple, Pico della Mirandola, presented a memorial to the Fifth Lateran which declared that, if the prelates "delayed to heal the wounds of the Church, Christ would cut off the corrupted members with fire and sword. Christ had cast out the money-changers, why should not Leo exile the worshippers of the many golden calves?" In Italy, remarks Ranke, "no one counted for a cultured person who did not cherish some erroneous views about Christianity."

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘I could never describe to you the range and multiplicity of the dulcet sounds from countless instruments, and the melodious songs, that descend upon our ears at these gatherings. Nor could I tell you how many candles we burn at these banquets, or estimate the number of sweetmeats we consume, or the value of the wines that we drink. 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 couple of thousand florins, they hand them over to us right away. And that’s what we mean when we talk about going the course, for just as the corsair takes away other people’s goods, we do the same; but whereas corsairs never restore their plunder, we give ours back as soon as we’ve put it to good use.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Usually, the youngster’s eyes and breathing will tell you when it’s time to continue. Read Sammy’s story again and pay particular attention to the places that indicate his decision to continue the game. There are three explicit examples in addition to the one cited above. 2. Distinguish between fear, terror, and excitement. Experiencing fear or terror for more than a brief moment during traumatic play will not help the child move through the trauma. Most children will take action to avoid it. Let them. At the same time, be certain that you can discern whether it is avoidance or escape. When Sammy ran down the creek, he was demonstrating avoidance behavior. In order to resolve his traumatic reaction, Sammy had to feel that he was in control of his actions rather than driven to act by his emotions. Avoidance behavior occurs when fear and terror threaten to overwhelm the child. This behavior is usually accompanied by some sign of emotional distress (crying, frightened eyes, screaming). Active escape, on the other hand, is exhilarating. Children will become excited by their small triumphs and often show pleasure by glowing with smiles, clapping their hands, or laughing heartily. Overall, the response is much different from avoidance behavior. Excitement is evidence of the child’s successful discharge of emotions that accompanied the original experience. This is positive, desirable, and necessary. Trauma is transformed by changing intolerable feelings and sensations into palatable ones. This can only happen at a level of activation that is similar to the activation that led to the traumatic reaction. If the child appears excited, it is OK to offer encouragement, and continue as we did when we clapped and danced with Sammy. If the child appears frightened or cowed, on the other hand, give reassurance but don’t encourage any further movement at this time. Be present with your full attention, support, and reassurance; wait patiently while the fear subsides. 3. Take one small step at a time. You can never move too slowly in renegotiating a traumatic event. Traumatic play is repetitious almost by definition. Make use of this cyclical characteristic. The key difference between renegotiation and traumatic play is that in renegotiation there are small incremental differences in the child’s responses and behaviors. When Sammy ran into the bedroom instead of out the door, he was responding with a different behavio r, this is a sign of progress. No matter how many repetitions it takes, if the child is responding differently, even slightl y, with more excitement, with more speech, with more spontaneous movements-the child is moving through the trauma. If the child’s responses appear to be moving in the direction of constriction or repetition instead of expansion and variety, you may be attempting to renegotiate the event with scenarios that involve too much progress for your child to make at once.

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

  The ordeal was authorized by the signory and set for April 7. It was decided that, in case Fra Domenico perished, Savonarola should go into exile within three hours. The two parties, Domenico and Rondinelli, filed their statements with the signory. The Dominican’s included the following points. The Church stands in need of renovation. It will be chastened. Florence will be chastened. These chastisements will happen in our day. The sentence of excommunication against Savonarola is invalid. No one sins in ignoring it.1200 The ordeal aroused the enthusiasm of Savonarola’s friends. When he announced it in a sermon, many women exclaimed, "I, too, I, too." Other monks of St. Mark’s and hundreds of young men announced their readiness to pass through the flames out of regard for their spiritual guide. Alexander VI. waited with intense interest for the last bulletins from Florence. His exact state of mind it is difficult to determine. He wrote disapproving of the ordeal and yet he could not but feel that it afforded an easy way of getting rid of the enemy to his authority. After the ordeal was over, he praised Francesco and the Franciscans in extravagant terms and declared the Franciscans could not have done anything more agreeable to him.1201 The coming trial was looked for with the most intense interest. There was scarcely any other topic of conversation in Florence or in Rome. Great preparations were made. Two pyres of thorns and other wood were built on the public square about 60 feet in length, 3 feet wide at the base and 3 or 4 feet high,1202 the wood soaked with pitch and oil. The distance between the pyres was two feet, just wide enough for a man to pass through. All entrances to the square were closed by a company of 300 men under Marcuccio Salviatis and two other companies of 500 each, stationed at different points. The people began to arrive the night before. The windows and roofs of the adjoining houses were crowded with the eager spectators. The solemnity was set for eleven o’clock. The Dominicans made a solemn impression as they marched to the appointed place. Fra Domenico, in the van, was clothed in a fiery red velvet cope. Savonarola, clad in white and carrying a monstrance with the host, brought up the rear of the body of monks and these were followed by a great multitude of men, women and children, holding lighted tapers. When the hour arrived for the procession to start, Savonarola was preaching. He had again told the people that his work required no miracle and that he had ever sought to justify himself by the signs of righteousness and declared that, as on Mt. Carmel, miraculous intervention could only be expected in answer to prayer and humility.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  When humans roamed the hills and valleys, gathered roots and berries, hunted wild animals, and lived in caves, our existence was closely linked to the natural world. Every day, every minute, and every second we were prepared to defend ourselves, our families, and allies from predators and other danger s— often at the risk of our own lives. The irony is that the life-threatening events prehistoric people routinely faced molded our modern nervous systems to respond powerfully and fully whenever we perceive our survival to be threatened. To this day, when we exercise this natural capacity, we feel exhilarated and alive, powerful, expanded, full of energy, and ready to take on any challenge. Being threatened engages our deepest resources and allows us to experience our fullest potential as human beings. In turn, our emotional and physical well-being is enhanced. Modern life offers us few overt opportunities to use this powerfully evolved capacity. Today, our survival depends increasingly on developing our ability to think rather than being able to physically respond. Consequently, most of us have become separated from our natural, instinctual selve s— in particular, the part of us that can proudly, not disparagingly, be called animal. Regardless of how we view ourselves, in the most basic sense we literally are human animals. The fundamental challenges we face today have come about relatively quickly, but our nervous systems have been much slower to change. It is no coincidence that people who are more in touch with their natural selves tend to fare better when it comes to trauma. Without easy access to the resources of this primitive, instinctual self, humans alienate their bodies from their souls. Most of us don’t think of or experience ourselves as animals. Yet, by not living through our instincts and natural reactions, we aren’t fully human either. Existing in a limbo in which we are neither animal nor fully human can cause a number of problems, one of which is being susceptible to trauma. In order to stay healthy, our nervous systems and psyches need to face challenges and to succeed in meeting those challenges. When this need is not met, or when we are challenged and cannot triumph, we end up lacking vitality and are unable to fully engage in life. Those of us who have been defeated by war, abuse, accidents, and other traumatic events suffer far more severe consequences. Trauma!

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  While returning from a walk alone in the mountains, he was attacked by a pack of three wild dogs and bitten badly on his right leg. He remembers feeling the bite, waking up in the arms of a neighbor, and has an image of his father coming to the door and being annoyed with him. He feels bitter, angry, and hurt by his father’s rejection. He remembers, particularly, that his new pants were ripped and covered with blood. Describing this, he is visibly upset. I ask him to tell me more about the pants. They were a surprise from his mother that morning; she had made them of polar bear fur especially for him. His experience switches dramatically and transparently to pleasure and pride. Feeling excited, Marius holds his arms in front of himself as though feeling the soft fur and basking in the warmth of his new pants: “These are the same kind of pants that the men of the village, the hunters, wear.” He is more excited and describes seeing them with vivid, clear detail. He imagines feeling the pants with his hands. “Now, Marius,” I ask, “can you feel your legs inside the pants?” “Yes, I can feel my legs, they feel very strong, like the men when they are hunting.” As images and body sensation experiences unfold, he sees an expanse of rocks. I ask him to feel his pants and then look at the rocks. “My legs want to jump; they feel light, not tight like they usually do. They are like springs, light and strong.” He reports seeing the image of a long stick that is lying by a rock and picks it up. “What is it?” I ask. “A spear.” He goes on, “I am following a large polar bear. I am with the men, but I will make the kill.” (Very small movements can be seen in his thigh, pelvic, and trunk muscles, as he imagines jumping from rock to rock in following the trail.) “I see him now. I stop and aim my spear.” “Yes,” I say, “Feel that in your whole body, feel your feet on the rocks, the strength in your legs, and the arching in your back and arms, feel all that power.” (This play in “dream time” helps to stimulate his instinctual, aggressive behaviors that were thwarted when he was overwhelmed by the attacking dogs. It is helping to ‘prime the pump’ with predatory responses that will eventually become resources in neutralizing the immobility-freeze collapse which occurred at the time of the attack). “I see the spear flying,” he says. Again, small postural adjustments can be seen in Marius’ body; he is trembling lightly now in his legs and arms. I encourage him to feel these sensations. He reports waves of excitement and pleasure. “I did it. I hit him with my spear!” “What are the men doing now?” I ask (again hoping to evoke predatory impulses).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she should not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy. The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: ‘Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to detract from the beauty of the pearl.’ He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten. Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he said: ‘Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?’ At this, however, his customer flushed: ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!’ ‘I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.’ ‘Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.’ ‘Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?’ Stephen answered promptly: ‘It’s a very small hand,’ then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious. And now the old gentleman was openly staring: ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, ‘an extraordinary likeness. . . .’ Then more boldly: ‘Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—’ ‘Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,’ said Stephen. He nodded and smiled: ‘Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything but his daughter.’ ‘You knew my father?’ she inquired, in surprise. ‘Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I made your mother’s engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds—’ ‘Did you make that ring?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  His nine companions having each told a story, Dioneo knew without waiting for any formal command that it was now his own turn to speak. He therefore silenced those of his companions who were praising Guido’s clever retort, and began: Charming ladies, although I have the privilege of speaking on any subject I may choose, I do not propose to depart from the topic on which all of you have spoken so appositely today. On the contrary, following in your footsteps, I intend to show you how one of the friars of Saint Anthony,1 by a quick piece of thinking, neatly side-stepped a trap which had been laid for him by two young men. And if I speak at some length, so as to tell the whole story as it should be told, this ought not to disturb you unduly, for you will find, if you look up at the sun, that it is still in mid heaven. Certaldo,2 as you may possibly have heard, is a fortified town situated in the Val d’Elsa, in Florentine territory, and although it is small, the people living there were at one time prosperous and well-to-do. Since it was a place where rich pickings were to be had, one of the friars of Saint Anthony used to visit the town once every year to collect the alms which people were foolish enough to donate to his Order. He was called Friar Cipolla,3 and he always received a warm welcome there, though this was doubtless due as much to his name as to the piety of the inhabitants, for the soil in those parts produces onions that are famous throughout the whole of Tuscany. This Friar Cipolla was a little man, with red hair and a merry face, and he was the most sociable fellow in the world. He was quite illiterate, but he was such a lively and excellent speaker, that anyone hearing him for the first time would have concluded, not only that he was some great master of rhetoric, but that he was Cicero in person, or perhaps Quintilian.4 And there was scarcely a single man or woman in the whole of the district who did not regard him as a friend, familiar or well-wisher. During one of his regular annual visits to Certaldo, on a Sunday morning in the month of August, when all the good folk from the neighbouring hamlets were gathered in the parish church for mass, Friar Cipolla, choosing a suitable moment, came forward and said:

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  We honed ourselves on that energy, were tested by it, destroyed and recreated by it. The Indian school world was rife with paradox. Formerly run like a military camp by the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the school had been transformed into a unique school for native arts, like the New York City Fame school but for Indian students. Almost overnight the staff, mostly established BIA employees, were asked to accommodate a fine arts curriculum and faculty—an assortment of idealistic and dedicated artists, both Indian and non-Indian. We were given materials and encouraged to create, as we often did until three or four in the morning. Then we were awakened at exactly five-thirty a.m. by the dorm staff to report to details, jobs that included working in the kitchen and cleaning studios and offices. Then we went to our classes. The most accomplished native and non-native artists taught our classes. Otellie Lolama, Hopi, taught traditional pottery; Fritz Scholder, Mission, taught painting; Allan Houser, Apache, taught sculpture; and Rolland Meinholtz, a Cherokee descendant, taught dramatic arts. The academic classes were different. We had either stellar teachers who taught because they felt they could make a difference and loved what they were doing or those who signed on with the BIA because it was their last chance. In one of my junior English classes we read aloud from fourth-grade readers. I always remember the story in that reader about a banker in a city in the Midwest who swept his sidewalk every morning before opening his bank. I looked around at our class. Many were gifted storytellers and speakers, but not in the English language. We were insulted and bored by the poor selection of materials. We could see that the teacher truly cared, but he didn’t know what to do with a class of students with widely varying skills in the use of English. Reading aloud is the last thing you’d ask a class of shy Indian students to do. It was a painful process. While the story was read word by word, student by student, the rest of us wrote notes and poems and sent drawings to each other. My poetry notes were rhymed doggerel, mostly rude commentary. I was soon removed from class and sent to study solo with a young Jesuit priest who had come through town to visit the school before returning to Holy Rosary Mission in South Dakota. When the school urgently needed a teacher to fill in, he agreed and stayed over to teach through the spring. As I walked into his classroom that first day, I was hidden in my navy pea coat and long dark hair that always clouded my face. Father-to-be John Staudenmaier saw into me and took care of my spirit. He gave me the freedom to read what I wanted. The only requirement was that I observe carefully and write about my observations. I read the poetry of Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson. I read O. Henry short stories.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Pay attention to me, my friends, and we can become the richest men in Florence, for I have heard on good authority that along the Mugnone there’s a certain kind of stone, and when you pick it up you become invisible. I reckon we ought to go there right away, before anyone else does. We’ll find it without a doubt, because I know what it looks like; and once we’ve found it, all we have to do is to put it in our purses and go to the money-changers, whose counters, as you know, are always loaded with groats and florins, and help ourselves to as much as we want. No one will see us; and so we’ll be able to get rich quick, without being forced to daub walls all the time like a lot of snails.’ When Bruno and Buffalmacco heard this, they had a good laugh to themselves, stared one another in the face pretending to be greatly astonished, and told Calandrino that they thought it a splendid idea. Then Buffalmacco asked him what the stone was called, but Calandrino, being rather dense, had already forgotten its name, and so he replied: ‘Why should we bother about the name, when we know about its special powers? Let’s not waste any more time, but go and look for it now.’ ‘Very well,’ said Bruno, ‘but what do these stones look like?’ ‘They come in various shapes and sizes,’ said Calandrino, ‘but they’re all the same colour, which is very nearly black. So what we have to do is to collect all the black stones we happen to see, until we come across the right one. Come on, let’s get going.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ said Bruno. And turning to Buffalmacco, he said: ‘Calandrino appears to be talking sense, but there’s no point in going there at this time of day, because the sun is shining straight down on the Mugnone and it will have dried all the stones, so that the ones that seem black in the early morning, before the sun gets at them, will be just as white as the others. Besides, as it’s the middle of the week there’ll be a lot of people along the Mugnone, and if they were to see us they might guess what we were up to, in which case they might follow our example, and come across the stone before we do. We don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Wouldn’t you agree, Buffalmacco, that we ought to do this job in the early morning, so that we can distinguish the black stones from the white ones, and that we should wait until the weekend, when nobody will see us?’

• From Trash (1988)

  I went, instead, downtown to steal. I became what had always been expected of me—a thief. Dangerous, but careful. Wanting everything, I tamed my anger, smiling wide and innocently. With the help of that smile I stole toilet paper from the Burger King rest room, magazines from the lower shelves at 7-Eleven, and sardines from the deli—sliding those little cans down my jeans to where I had drawn the cuffs tight with rubber bands. I lined my pockets with plastic bags for a trip to the local Winn Dixie, where I could collect smoked oysters from the gourmet section and fresh grapes from the open bins of produce. From the hobby shop in the same shopping center I pocketed metal snaps to replace the rubber bands on my pantleg cuffs and metal guitar picks I could use to pry loose and switch price tags on items too big to carry away. Anything small enough to fit a palm walked out with me, anything round to fit an armpit, anything thin enough to carry between my belly and belt. The smallest, sharpest, most expensive items rested behind my teeth, behind that smile that remained my ultimate shield. On the day that I was turned away from registration because my scholarship check was late, I dressed myself in my Sunday best and went downtown to the Hilton Hotel. There was a Methodist Outreach Convention with meetings in all the ballrooms, and a hospitality suite. I walked from room to room filling a JCPenney shopping bag with cut-glass ashtrays showing the Hilton logo and faceted wineglasses marked only with the dregs of grape juice. I dragged the bag out to St. Pete Beach and sailed those ashtrays off the pier like Frisbees. Then I waited for sunset to toss the wineglasses high enough to see the red and purple reflections as they flipped end over end. Each piece shattered ecstatically on the tar-black rocks under the pier, throwing up glass fragments into the spray. Sight and sound, it was better than a movie. The president of the college invited all of the scholarship students over for tea or wine. He served cheese that had to be cut from a great block with delicate little knives. I sipped wine, toothed cheese, talked politely, and used my smile. The president’s wife nodded at me and put her pink fleshy hand on my shoulder. I put my own hand on hers and gave one short squeeze. She started but didn’t back away, and I found myself giggling at her attempts to tell us all a funny story. She flushed and told us how happy she was to have us in her home. I smiled and told her how happy I was to have come, my jacket draped loosely over the wineglasses I had hooked in my belt. Walking back to the dorm, I slipped one hand into my pocket, carefully fingering two delicate little knives.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The Abbot, far from being asleep, was locked in meditation on the subject of certain newly aroused longings of his. He had overheard the conversation between Alessandro and the landlord, and was listening, too, when Alessandro turned in for the night. ‘God has answered my prayers,’ said the Abbot delightedly to himself. ‘If I do not seize this opportunity, it may be a long time before another comes my way.’ Having firmly made up his mind, he waited for complete silence to descend on the inn, then he called out to Alessandro in a low voice, and, firmly brushing aside the latter’s numerous excuses, persuaded him to undress and he down at his side. The Abbot placed one of his hands on Alessandro’s chest, and then, to Alessandro’s great astonishment, began to caress him in the manner of a young girl fondling her lover, causing Alessandro to suspect, since there seemed to be no other explanation for his extraordinary behaviour, that the youth was possibly in the grip of some impure passion. But either by intuition, or because of some movement on Alessandro’s part, the Abbot understood at once what he was thinking, and began to smile. Then, hastily tearing off the shirt he was wearing, he took Alessandro’s hand and placed it on his bosom, saying: ‘Drive those silly thoughts out of your head, Alessandro. Lay your hand here, and see what I am hiding.’ And placing his hand on the Abbot’s bosom, Alessandro discovered a pair of sweet little rounded breasts, as firm and finely shaped as if they were made of ivory. It dawned on him at once that this was a woman, and without awaiting further invitation he immediately took her in his arms. But just as he was about to kiss her, she said: ‘Wait! Before you come any closer, there is something I want to tell you. As you can gather, I am not a man, but a woman. I am also a virgin, and I set out from home in order to obtain the Pope’s permission for my marriage. I know not whether to call it your good fortune or my misfortune, but from the moment I saw you, the other day, I burned with a love deeper than woman has ever experienced for any man. Hence I am resolved to have you as my husband rather than any other. But if you do not want to marry me, you must leave me at once and return to your own place.’ Alessandro had no idea who she was, but in view of the size of her retinue he judged her to be a rich noblewoman, and could see for himself that she was very beautiful. So without wasting too much time in thought, he replied that if this was what she desired, he was only too ready to oblige.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  I was excited to start all over in a new school at the beginning of my first year at Will Rogers High. And like every first day of school since kindergarten, I determined to do my best as I opened up my new pads of paper, sharpened my new pencils, lined up my new pens and packed them in my school bag. Several junior high classes fed into the school. It was massive. At every bell students jammed the halls, streaming to make it to the next class. Now and then I waved to someone I knew and added my greeting to the din of voices. I’d always liked the discipline and ritual of learning. To know something gave me more ability to move within my mind. There was more territory to contemplate. There were more doors. Where I got stuck was in wanting to perfect what I learned; instead, we had to keep going, imperfect, from one assignment or set of lessons to the next. There was always something more to know. And what happened, I wondered, if you read and took in every book in every library of the world, learned the name of every seashell, every war, and could quote every line of poetry? What would you do with all that knowing? Would it be the kind of knowledge that could free you? Or would infinite knowledge bind you with the junky posturing of human beings who didn’t appear to be that wise? And who decided what knowledge was important to know and understand? I saw a posted flier about upcoming auditions for the next school play. I decided to challenge myself. I was terrified about standing in front of juniors and seniors and auditioning. Yet I was compelled. The stage was a place where magic could happen that could take you far away. Countries could rise up and be destroyed. Lovers could defy obstacles. Some would die, while others would find a way through the abyss. My mother gave me permission to stay after school for the meeting to get script pages and be assigned a tryout time. Because I would miss the bus, I would have to walk the two miles home. I didn’t mind. The walk home would

• From Trash (1988)

  It’ll open your eyes,” she’d say, her pupils hidden behind half-closed lids. I shook my head no and gave her a quick lick on the neck that made her cheeks flash pink and her eyes open wide. All the women near us, most of them Cass’s friends from work or the pool hall, had their own bottles. I tried to get Cass to keep her little bottle down in the shadows. The crowd kept pushing past, their eyes hooded with too much dope and skin sour with cigarettes—women in party clothes: loose trousers, velvet vests, hats, high-heeled boots, glittering necklaces, and elaborate hoops dangling from their ears. Most of them looked like they belonged to the same gypsy troupe, their tribe indicated by the slogan-bearing buttons pinned to their collars and jackets. I saw Anna go by with her new girlfriend, Gayle, and then three of the women from the house—Judy, Paula, and Lenore. But none of them seemed to have seen us, and they all quickly disappeared into the audience. I felt Cass slip her hands around my waist and turned my face into the shelter of her neck. “Where do they all come from?” I was only half serious. There were more women in the audience than I’d seen at any demonstration up at the capitol building. “Oh, these only come out for the music,” Cass laughed. “Just like me.” “You know, culture, women’s culture.” Cass’s friend Billy leaned over us, her hand sliding past my butt on its way to the bottle in Cass’s pocket. “An’t you heard about women’s culture?” I looked down at the black ink tattoos standing out all over her forearms. Billy was wearing her usual uniform—jeans so old and worn they looked like gray sky over the ocean at dawn, and a denim vest buttoned up tight to flatten her breasts. Her arms were bare, and every time she stretched her hand out, I could see white flash under her armpit from skin that was never exposed to the sun. “You mean to tell me we an’t here to listen to rock and roll?” Cass slapped Billy’s shoulder and giggled. It had taken two weeks of teasing and arguing before Cass had agreed to come to this event, and she’d insisted on getting Billy and her girlfriend Roxanne to come, too. “Got to have somebody to talk to,” she’d insisted. Billy had thought the whole notion a hoot. “They don’t know how to dress,” she kept saying, “but some of these chicks an’t bad-looking.” Roxanne just kept biting the lipstick off her lips and kicking her heels against the wall behind us. “I don’t see nothing here anybody’d want to take home with ’em.” She lit a cigarette and gave me a look of pure malevolence.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  And what happened, I wondered, if you read and took in every book in every library of the world, learned the name of every seashell, every war, and could quote every line of poetry? What would you do with all that knowing? Would it be the kind of knowledge that could free you? Or would infinite knowledge bind you with the junky posturing of human beings who didn’t appear to be that wise? And who decided what knowledge was important to know and understand? I saw a posted flier about upcoming auditions for the next school play. I decided to challenge myself. I was terrified about standing in front of juniors and seniors and auditioning. Yet I was compelled. The stage was a place where magic could happen that could take you far away. Countries could rise up and be destroyed. Lovers could defy obstacles. Some would die, while others would find a way through the abyss. My mother gave me permission to stay after school for the meeting to get script pages and be assigned a tryout time. Because I would miss the bus, I would have to walk the two miles home. I didn’t mind. The walk home would give me rare time to myself. I hoarded time alone and liked best spending it outside, in music, or buried in a book. I liked being with my thoughts—which ran between sensual fantasy and conjecture over the nature of reality. What is eternity? And what about the presence of Time? Is Time a being who can be appeased? Or is Time a tyrant? And will I ever find love? Love was something distant. I did not associate it with the fumbles of boys who were only looking for quick gratification. I wanted someone to come and find me and take me away. Though I rarely spoke up in my classes, I had a voice that carried. When I was in plays in elementary school, I loved the ritual preparations of rehearsal and finally the test of performance. I was able to escape from the hard reality of the Oklahoma of stolen Indian lands and the self-righteous religious right. The last play I had been in was in sixth grade. In junior high there had been no theater, except the shot-through hormone dramas that played out through all the linked social circles. I walked home after the high school theater meeting excited and nervous. I patted my bag, making sure my script pages with my tryout time scribbled on it were there. I admired the trees that lined the streets in the upper-class neighborhoods near the high school. I breathed in air that felt like freedom. I imagined that one day I might even live in a neighborhood like this. My father had grown up in a house of twenty-one rooms in Okmulgee, a house bought by Indian oil money. As I drew closer to our block, the houses were smaller, poorer.