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 36 of 182 · 20 per page

• From Little Birds (1979)

  “Yes, give it to me, but make it last, do not come; I like it like this, over and over and over again.” She was so moist and feverish. She would walk, waiting for the moment he would thrust her into the sand and take her again, stirring her and then leaving her before she had come. Each time, she felt anew his hands over her body, the warm sand against her skin, his caressing mouth, the caressing wind. As they walked, she took his erect penis into her hand. Once she stopped him, knelt before him and held it in her mouth. He stood towering over her, with his belly moving slightly forwards. Another time she pressed his penis between her breasts, making a cushion for it, holding it and letting it glide between this soft embrace. Dizzy, palpitating, vibrating from these caresses, they walked drunkenly. Then they saw a house and stopped. He begged her to conceal herself among the bushes. He wanted to come; he would not leave her until then. She was so aroused and yet she wanted to hold back and wait for him. This time when he was inside of her he began shaking, and finally he came, with a violence. She half climbed over his body to reach her own fulfillment. They cried together. Lying back resting, smoking, with the dawn coming upon them, lighting their faces, they now felt too cool and covered their bodies with their clothes. The woman, looking away from Louis, told him a story. She had been in Paris when they had hanged a Russian radical who had killed a diplomat. She was then living in Montparnasse, frequenting the cafés, and she had followed the trial with a passion, as all her friends had done, because the man was a fanatic, had given Dostoevskian answers to the questions put to him, faced the trial with great religious courage. At that time they still executed people for grave offenses. It usually took place at dawn, when no one was about, in a little square near the prison of the Santé, where the guillotine had stood at the time of the Revolution. And one could not get very near, because of the police guard. Few people attended these hangings. But in the case of the Russian, because emotions had been so much aroused, all the students and artists of Montparnasse, the young agitators and revolutionaries had decided to attend. They waited up all night, getting drunk. She had waited with them, had drunk with them, and was in a great state of excitement and fear. It was the first time she was to see someone die. It was the first time she was to see someone hanged. It was the first time she was to witness a scene that had been repeated many, many times during the Revolution.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Smith and I look at each other. “Come on, you Dougie!” Randy yells. “Put it on ’im! Gobble, gobble, gobble one time!” Doug looks sheepishly to the bench where Coach Ratta and the assistant coach, Tom Morgan, sit with the JVs. Morgan laughs and speaks into the tape recorder. L.C. has visions of a quick pin. He begins to ride Doug high, looking to sneak a half nelson on him and drive him to his back. Doug feels the guy’s weight shifting and lets him have the half nelson. Almost. The light of five pinning points shines in his eyes as L.C. starts to drive Doug over. Doug clamps down hard on the guy’s feeble half nelson, rolls to his back, then right over again. Our bleachers erupt in a chant of “Pin, pin, pin!” and the light in L.C.’s eyes turns to panic. He flops and strains and tries to bridge, but Doug has his shoulders controlled now with a half nelson of his own. Slap! The ref slaps the mat, and it’s all over. Our side cheers, the L.C. side sighs, and Doug bounces up and waits for the ref to raise his hand. There it is: balance again. The most important quality a wrestler has. More important than strength, speed, smarts—even more important than endurance. You feel the guy’s weight. You feel where he’s going, what his body’s going to do. Then you take advantage. You use his strength, his speed, his smarts, even his endurance, against him. I’m not terribly excited about the other JV matches, so I go sit with Kuch and Sausage. Kuch is trying to bolster Sausage’s confidence. Mash did a little psych job on him at the weigh-in. Mash knew he couldn’t make weight with his warm-up suit on, but he tried anyway. The ref read off 104.5. You could just see Sausage thinking, “He’s not gonna make weight! I won’t be killed!” Mash took off his warm-ups. In his tights and top he weighed 103.25. Sausage closed his eyes, undoubtedly calculating the weight of an L.C. wrestling uniform. Mash stripped to his jock. Sausage peeked around the ref and read the results for himself: 102.75. He turned a white shade of pale. Mash stood off by himself and put his stuff back on. With no larger person next to him to put his small stature in perspective, Mash looks like he could go about nine-feet-three and 690 pounds. Sausage shouldn’t have looked, but he did. “You gotta go after him, Sausage,” Kuch says. “You’ve got nothing to lose. Go out there fierce and proud and there’s no way you’ll come back ashamed. No matter how bad ya get beat.” Sausage is hunched up in a corner. He hangs his head between his legs and breathes heavily through his mouth. Balldozer comes over, pats him on the knee, and says, “Shit to the thirteenth power, Sausage,” which is a French way of saying good luck. Coach comes through the door smiling.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  They just grunt and moan a little at each other. Opposing schools’ fans get very offended. There’s something of the air of professional wrestling in their histrionics. They do it to psych out their opponents and it works about half the time. It sure works on me. I love it so much I just want to applaud. It takes me until my second round before I even feel like serious wrestling. Roman Polanski would love the L.C. warm-ups. We’re all bunched up behind the locker-room door. Coach has left us and gone out to the bench to chuckle at L.C. Sausage is on tiptoes, peering through the little window in the door to see when they finish. He’s all set to lead us out on the mat and take us through our exercises. “Okay,” Sausage says. He turns back to face us. He takes a big breath. The captain is always supposed to give a big battle cry as we charge out. “Dog style!” yells Sausage as we burst through the door to heavy cheers and thread our way between the bleachers to the mat. We’re all sprinting, legs high, and whooping hard and laughing a little, too, at Sausage’s chilling call to arms. I’d say he’s in the right frame of mind. We’re fairly loose and sweating just a bead or two by the end of the exercises. Sausage leads us a couple times around the big gold circle as we whoop and holler, then to the bench. In a minute we’re out on the mat again for the introductions. The two teams line up, facing each other. The announcer gives the weight class, then introduces the wrestlers. Sausage has only a black apparition with which to shake hands. But we know Mash is in there. He moves like a small but mighty thunderhead back to the L.C. bench to take off his warm-up suit and do a few more twists and bends. Coach takes Konigi and Sausage back behind our bench and kneads their shoulders in turn and talks steadily to them. Romaine gives me a couple fists to bang. I do it twice. “Brother man,” he says and bangs back once. “Good luck, Romaine,” I reply. I sure like him. As long as we’ve been acquainted I’ve always wanted to get to know him better. Go camping or to some shows or something. Otto knows him pretty well. Romaine is a wide receiver and defensive halfback. Little Konigi decisions his man in a crummy match characterized by mutual stalling. He got two takedown points and then wrestled defensively the rest of the match. His older brother yells at him by the drinking fountain. They’re a funny pair. Little Konig is a hell-raiser everywhere but on the mat, where he’s technically good enough but wrestles like he’s signed a nonaggression pact. Big Konig is shy everywhere but on the mat, where he goes for broke every second. His matches never go beyond two rounds.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  In a little while I’ll work up a good dancin’ sweat and nobody’ll know the difference. Off in the corner we spot Schmooz and Karen and Kuch and Laurie. Schmooz is president of the social club that’s cosponsoring the dance. Besides wrestling and selling clothes part-time at the Klothes Kloset, he makes time for the club. He invited a lot of the guys on the team to join, but most of us just have other priorities, I guess. Also, Schmooz is about the only guy in the club I feel like I have much in common with. They’re not bad guys or anything, although I can’t say I’m crazy about their initiation rites. Belle is in the girls’ club that’s the other cosponsor. She was after Carla to join for a while. But Carla finally convinced her she’d had her fill of that sort of thing in Chicago. I think the girls’ club is a little more exclusive than the guys’. I belong to the Lettermen’s club at school. I’m not against clubs or anything. Dad kind of is now, though. He dropped out of the Moose Lodge because they wouldn’t let me in their gym when my hair was long and geodesic. We say hello all around. Carla grabs Schmooz and gives him a vigorous head rub. Schmooz is short and broad. He swoons against Carla’s braless breast. Because of the double lures of his curly blond mane and the animal onomatopoeia of his name, Carla is unable to keep from fondling him. Toward us walk Romaine and a girl I don’t know and Otto and Rayette. Otto and Rayette look like they come from heaven they’re so beautiful. In his rented blue suit Otto looks like the world’s biggest, toughest stockbroker. Rayette looks like an African angel in her long, sky-blue robes. Her eyes are huge and brown and remind me of deer’s eyes. Otto is self-conscious because she’s so young, but I guess he couldn’t resist. Mike and Keiko arrive and head in our direction. Behind them Belle and Tanneran stand in the doorway. They spot us and wave. “Hi, folksies!” Belle shouts. Tanneran is a chaperone. They walk upstairs to join Leeland and Joretta Wain, who are chaperones, too. They all sit at a table on the balcony that surrounds the dance floor. I’ve been very nervous lately, thinking of the match, but I feel it slipping away now. It’s fun to dance and laugh and forget it all for a while, even though I know I’ll wake up to it again in the morning. The first band is called Soul Food. They’re a bunch of older guys, mostly black, who used to be the house band at Rollie’s Ribs. They get into “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and lure Leeland and Joretta down from the balcony. Carla and I just stand awhile and watch them dance.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  Other devout Muslims attacked the heretics, and the meeting ended in disorder. But the leaders’ work had only just begun. They traveled separately back to Mazanderan, where the Babi leader Mullah Husain Bushrui (d. 1849) gathered two hundred men. He delivered a fiery speech: Babis must sacrifice their worldly possessions and take Imam Husain as their model. Only by martyrdom could they inaugurate the New Day, when the Bab would exalt the downtrodden and enrich the poor. Within a year, the Bab would conquer the world and unify all the religions. Bushrui proved to be a brilliant commander; his little army put the royal troops to flight, so that, we read in the court annals, they ran away “like a herd of sheep escaping from wolves.” The Babis raided, looted, plundered, killed, and burned. The religiously inclined believed that their uprising was more important than the Battle of Kerbala, while the poor, who may have joined the movement for more mundane reasons, were the best partisans of all. For the first time, they felt that they counted, and were treated, if not as equals, as valued co-workers. That revolt was eventually put down by the government, but 1850 saw new uprisings in Yazd, Nairiz, Tehran, and Zanjan. The Babis created an atmosphere of utter terror. Political dissidents joined the revolt, as did local students. Even women, clad in men’s clothes, fought valiantly. The movement united all those who were dissatisfied with the regime. Mullahs who felt oppressed by the lofty mujtahids , merchants who resented the sale of Iranian resources to foreigners, bazaaris , landowners, and impoverished peasants all joined forces with the Babi religious enthusiasts. Shiism had long helped Iranians to cultivate a yearning for social justice, and when the right leader and the right philosophy came along, all kinds of malcontents found it natural to fight under a religious banner. 67 This time the government was able to quell the insurgents. The Bab was executed on July 9, 1850, the leaders were also put to death, and other suspects rounded up and massacred. Some Babis fled to Ottoman Iraq, and there the movement split in 1863. Some, following Mirza Yahya Nuri Subh-i Azal (1830–1912), the appointed successor of the Bab, remained faithful to the political aims of the rebellion. Later many of these “Azalis” abandoned the old Babi mysticism and became secularists and nationalists. As in the Shabbatean movement, the casting off of taboos, the discarding of old laws, and the taste of rebellion enabled them to break free of religion altogether. Yet again, a messianic movement provided a bridge to a secularist ideology. Most of the surviving Babis, however, followed Subh-i Azal’s brother, Mirza Husain Ali Nuri Bahaullah (1817–92), who abjured politics and created the new Bahai religion, which embraced the modern Western ideals of the separation of religion and politics, equal rights, pluralism, and toleration. 68 The Babi rebellion can be seen as one of the great revolutions of modernity. It set a pattern in Iran.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I think he grew weary of pushing against her and resisting The Truth. He discovered that letting go made him happy, and that everything in his life got a little easier and made more sense when he surrendered to Mom’s program. “Why don’t you want Mom to know? She’ll pee her pants when she finds out.” “She’s been nagging me to do this for a while, and I told her months ago to drop it. After thirty-plus years of marriage, you’d think she’d know that doesn’t work with me, but she can’t help herself, so we’ve been avoiding the subject ever since. I just want to see her face when they call for the baptism candidates to come forward and I step on up. Won’t that be fun?” I pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “Amazing. Do you think you’ll actually be able to pull it off? Mom has ways of finding things out, you know.” “I will if people like you keep quiet. I’ve already discussed this with Phil. He’s arranged for me to begin the review process with the rest of the elders.” A coterie of three elders meets one-on-one with all baptismal candidates to ensure the purity of their hearts and clarity of mind on church doctrine, using a review of eighty questions and answers. “Who else have you told?” I was wiping tears from my cheeks. Dad wouldn’t be investing this much time in details if he weren’t fully committed. “Randy and Marlene know. They’ll come that morning with the kids but will stay in the back so your mother doesn’t see them. I’ll talk to Lory later today.” His voice danced across the phone line. I found a pen and jotted down the date on our calendar, two months away. “Dad, I’m thrilled. I’ll tell Ross the minute he walks in the door. And don’t worry—your secret is safe with us.” We all derived morbid pleasure from successfully keeping this secret from Mom, especially one so big, taut with postponed expectations. As we shared the news with our friends, word spread throughout the entire city, to people we didn’t even know. It’s big news when an unbelieving spouse comes around, sparking hope in those in the same situation. Adding to the intrigue, Lory, Randy, and I kept our own secret from both parents: we planned a celebration dinner that evening, hosted by my sister, as a surprise for them both. Several families planned to come by for dessert and pay their respects. Dad grew giddy with the unfolding success of his plan. Before the assembly started on the day of his baptism, as Mom sipped coffee and visited with friends in the dining area, Dad stood near the foyer, smiling and greeting friends passing by, shaking everyone’s hand. He was like a politician working a crowd for reelection.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Other cyclists were migrating with us, dressed in black cycling shorts, helmets and gloves hanging off handlebars or crooked elbows, bike shoes curled up at the toes with court-jester flair, clicking against the pavement as we walked. We followed the arrows on signs that read: WELCOME , FRIENDS OF THE PARK, TO THE FIFTH ANNUAL L.A.T.E. RIDE —REGISTRATION BOOTHS AHEAD . I was one of five thousand cyclists who would soon overtake a core of Chicago’s city streets following a twenty-five-mile loop through the western neighborhoods, heading north, then returning south along the lakefront bike path, ending where we now stood, near Buckingham Fountain. “Can you hold my bike?” Steve asked. “I’ll sign us in at Registration.” “Sure,” I said. When he returned, we helped each other pin the numbers to our shirts, which allowed us entry to the preride party. Steve was a few inches taller than I, and as he stood near me, I sensed his lean, fit body. He had short brown hair and a neatly trimmed goatee he sometimes stroked with one hand while listening to me or formulating a thought. We’d met on a blind date two months earlier, when I’d traveled to Chicago for a series of job interviews. I was stunned even to be there, with him, about to ride bikes in the middle of the night through the second-largest city in the country—a city I now lived in. I’d just moved here one month earlier and was finding it robust and magical, my own New World. I was glad to stand and get my bearings, absorbing the stunning architecture and watching people gathering at such an unlikely hour. So this is what life is like in a big city. Once I had opened up to the idea that I could take a job anywhere, leaving Portland had become more than a necessity—it had taken on the pull of destiny. The logistics and specifics came together with dizzying speed and ease. I knew business development was my métier and set out to find a job in a new city—preferably Seattle or Chicago—selling financial services. I updated my résumé and discreetly told select colleagues about my goal. Within two weeks, I had three interviews lined up. I’d expected it could take six months to one year to line up the right work situation. To spare my family further anguish, I kept my job hunt and desire to leave Portland secret until I knew exactly where I was going. But when this all came together— only three months after my first dramatic divorce announcement—I set out to reveal my plans in detail. Unfortunately, the Witness grapevine beat me to the punch. I made the mistake of disclosing my plans to Ross during a midweek phone call to cover some mundane divorce details. In retrospect, it was a foolhardy disclosure. I hadn’t broken the habit of sharing good news with him.

• From Shunned (2018)

  “Excuse me,” Ross said, jolting the emergency brake, “I don’t recall anyone forcing you to work on a Sunday.” It was a conversation we’d been having with greater frequency. My work at the bank had evolved into more than just a job. The inner workings of business—at least the consumer side of finance—had been revealed to me, and I found it fascinating. I sat in on marketing meetings, where promotional storyboards were presented and ad campaigns were analyzed. I was regularly asked to weigh in on the message of these campaigns, and my clients’ feedback indicated that I had solid input to offer. There were pricing models to consider, which factored in the current cost of funds and reserves for loan loss, and I was beginning to see the bigger picture of how the ebb and flow of politics and world events impacted the economy and our profits. The term ‘prime lending rate’ on the six o’clock news held a whole new meaning. I was beginning to understand why people cared about it. Observing how my efforts made direct impact on our group’s bottom line had a visceral effect on me. Being part of a winning team was fun. Every day held something new and engaging. Our start-up initiatives were seeing impressive wins and received the adulation of the bank president. One day, John even took me along to meet the president in his marble office at the top of the bank tower. Spending ten minutes on a Sunday to write a business letter did not feel like an inconvenience to me. “Let’s drop this argument and go enjoy our friends, okay?” I said to Ross. We got out of the car and started walking in silence toward Jerry and Julia’s house. Scott was playing basketball in the driveway with eight other brothers. Standing at the foul line, he slowly bounced the ball, preparing to take a free throw. As we approached the sidewalk, Ross yelled out, “Brick!” His concentration interrupted, Scott turned and smiled. Ross handed me his car keys and wallet. “I’ll be in soon,” he said. He was off to join the game. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] I opened the screen door from Julia’s kitchen and stepped onto the back deck, where Jerry was presiding over the grill. He was wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK . The tangy smoke from the marinade floated through the yard and whetted my appetite. “It’s hard to say who’ll be the star today,” I said, standing next to Jerry, watching him slather each piece with sauce. “Scott or your famous chicken.” “Your flattery entitles you to an extra piece,” Jerry said, smiling as he closed the lid on the grill. Wandering into the backyard, I found Ross surrounded by an entourage of eager children, waiting their turn for a piggyback ride. Jerry asked everyone to gather around the food tables. A hush came over the crowd as he bowed his head and led us in a prayer.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I told only of going and did not elaborate on my discomfort, my relief in leaving early, or how I’d listened to Marianne Williamson again on the drive home. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] The meeting with Richard was the best thing I could have done. He was a banker’s banker, a numbers man, and needed to shift his attention away from the big fat zero next to my name and onto all the millions of dollars sitting on the runway. We sat in his corner office and methodically reviewed each opportunity I was pursuing. I was well prepared and had thoughtful answers for every one of his questions. I took the risk of admitting that, after months of deliberate effort, I was baffled that this was taking so long. My honesty took him aback, but he said he shared my disappointment. “Richard, is there anything you suggest I approach differently, anything I’ve overlooked?” He leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers tapping the armrest, and looked at me for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, he shook his head and said something that was music to my ears. “No. No, there isn’t. You’ve done everything I can think of.” “Would you be willing to come out on a few calls with me?” I asked. His face lit up. Most of my colleagues tried to keep him at a distance from the selling process. “It could showcase the commitment of executive management and help our cause.” Over the coming weeks, his secretary arranged for him and me to host several lunches at the executive dining room in downtown Chicago. Richard seemed invigorated by being included, and I got to see a new side—a human side—of him. I came to appreciate his years of experience in the industry and how many people he knew throughout the Chicago banking community. Richard was a gold mine of information; he knew who had worked where and when and for whom. Through these meetings, he got to see me in action, how I handled myself and our prospective clients. He emerged as a supportive ally, and that allowed me to relax some. Feeling less on the defensive, I once again started enjoying the process of selling. The enthusiasm that had eluded me started to percolate. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] One day in March, I returned from a work lunch and discovered I had a voice message from David, a Chicago banker. I’d given him a proposal months earlier, and we’d kept in touch ever since. He consistently encouraged me not to give up on him, and said one day—when the time was right—he’d become a client and tackle the conversion process. “Linda,” the message began, “I hope you’re sitting down while you listen to this.” David’s sanguine tone had me hanging on his every word. “Last week I presented your proposal to our executive committee, and they approved it.” A shot of adrenaline whipped through my body as I stood up and continued listening.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I’d come this far in overhauling my life and decided to put it all on the line. I had just seen with my own eyes and heart that Ross would be fine, and so would I. We’d come together at an important time in each other’s lives, and together we’d learned a lot about how to do life. We’d taken it as far as we could as a team. I could tell by Ross’s response that he loved me in a way that was genuine. Given his convictions, he feared for the path I’d chosen, but he wasn’t going to argue or stand in my way. I felt as if we had come full circle and I’d just participated in an honorable completion. As I turned the car into my parents’ driveway, I saw that my father had backed his Trooper up to the garage and was loading our luggage into the back. The unexpected advantage of Randy’s not traveling with us was that all five of us could ride together in one vehicle, rather than creating a caravan of many cars. Dad gestured for me to park to the side. As I did, Lory and Ove pulled up in their Volvo and parked next to me. My excitement was building. Relieved by how well the morning had gone, and clear of my plan not to talk to my family until the end of the weekend, I was able to give myself to the moment. Everyone seemed in a jovial, expectant mood. It was early enough on Friday to assume we’d beat the weekend traffic. We got into the Trooper. I sat in the backseat, between Lory and Ove. Mom sat in the front passenger seat, fastened her seat belt, and turned to me. “How was your breakfast with Ross?” she asked, reading too much, I feared, into the radiant smile on my face. Everyone in the car stopped what they were doing and fell silent. I needed to set a realistic expectation for the sake of every-one’s sanity. “Nice,” I said, nodding at my mom. “It was great to see Ross. We had a very good talk, and I want to tell you all about it, but not now. It’s time to have fun. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to share, and we can all gather around the table.” This seemed to satisfy everyone. “Good idea,” my dad said, looking at me through the rear-view mirror. “Let’s get this show on the road.” I imagined he was worn out by the situation and happy to postpone any serious talk for later. He turned the key and put the car in gear, and we were off. Chapter 16 [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  [image "36. Hermann von dem Busche’s Passion D Martins Luthers , oder seyn lydung, printed in Strasbourg in 1521. The work is prefaced with an unusual woodcut of Luther, which found no contemporary imitators and owes nothing to Cranach. Luther stands full height, a monumental hero clutching a giant Bible, tonsured and in monastic habit, gazing out at the reader." file=images/Rope_9780812996203_epub3_041_r1.jpg] [image "36. Hermann von dem Busche’s Passion D Martins Luthers , oder seyn lydung, printed in Strasbourg in 1521. The work is prefaced with an unusual woodcut of Luther, which found no contemporary imitators and owes nothing to Cranach. Luther stands full height, a monumental hero clutching a giant Bible, tonsured and in monastic habit, gazing out at the reader." file=images/Rope_9780812996203_epub3_041_r1.jpg] 36. Hermann von dem Busche’s Passion D Martins Luthers, oder seyn lydung, printed in Strasbourg in 1521. The work is prefaced with an unusual woodcut of Luther, which found no contemporary imitators and owes nothing to Cranach. Luther stands full height, a monumental hero clutching a giant Bible, tonsured and in monastic habit, gazing out at the reader.72 When Luther later insisted that “the Word did everything,” it was true in the sense that he made himself into Christ’s vessel and tried to resign his own agency, thus greatly strengthening his ability to act and face danger.73 But his appearance at Worms was even more a devotional act, a sacred drama, where he stood on Christ’s side while his enemies attempted to try him. Identifying his cause with that of Christ gave Luther immense certainty and courage. It enabled him to accept the possibility of martyrdom, without embracing it as a destiny. But he also initiated an understanding of events that would brook no argument. At Worms, God’s Word had been at work, an authority that trumped all emperors and princes. Luther had appealed to the emperor against the Pope, and though he had escaped martyrdom, he had lost; now both imperial and papal power were ranged against him. On May 26, the day after the conclusion of the Diet, and when Luther had long ago left town, the emperor signed the Edict of Worms, which declared Luther an outlaw, forbade anyone to house him or eat with him, and banned the sale, reading, possession, or printing of his works. Luther had known what was coming, but he was in an exhilarated mood. Comparing his travails at Worms with Christ’s Passion and Resurrection, he had written to Cranach on April 28, two days after leaving Worms: “For a little while we must suffer and be silent. A little time, and you will not see me again; a little more time and you will see me.”74

• From Shunned (2018)

  Under the bright lights, riders synced up their pedals as Tom Petty sang out “Learning to Fly.” The start gun blasted, and we were off, heading through the Loop, past street barricades and traffic cops. It seemed like the whole city had rolled out a red carpet welcome. It was enough to make me woozy. People sitting on their brownstone porches clapped and shouted encouragement as we rode by. The drivers of cars waiting to cross at large intersections honked their horns and waved as cyclists passed in clusters. Steve was showing me the real Chicago. He knew his way around and favored restaurants and bars that were off the beaten track. On our first date, he took me to Rosa’s on Armitage, a blues club he felt was much more authentic than the better-known “tourist” clubs on Halsted Street. He had a cynical edge about him and was a bit of a raconteur, which stimulated my own wit, igniting a snappy repartee. Part of my appeal to him, I think, was that I could give him a verbal run for his money. Sometimes his stories would turn into rants, but I found him handsome and engaging; his complaints showed he cared about things that mattered, and he offered me a window into the zeitgeist of my new city. He also thought the hassles my family gave me over religion were preposterous. His reaction to my high-level summary was so over the top, laced with acrimony on my behalf, that I immediately understood it would not be a safe conversation topic for us. If, for example, I told him about my sister’s going-away letter, how she’d lamented my selfishness, alluded to the Scripture about “pride coming before a crash,” pronounced me a “worldly person,” and reminded me that “Satan is a cruel master; he will cheat you out of life,” no good would come of it. Under his mordant tone, I sensed a spiritual side, but I knew this was not a person to sort my doubts with. To my surprise, I found this refreshing. Here was someone to have fun with, pure and simple. [image "Images" file=Image00000.jpg] A few minutes into the start of the L.A.T.E. Ride, Steve and I found our cadence and settled in side by side. Occasionally I caught a glimpse inside bars and clubs as wobbly patrons came out to the streets to cheer us on. There was a whole world here that carried on while most of us slept—another part of the real Chicago, equal parts grit and glitter. Within a half hour, we reached the halfway point and a refreshment center for the riders. Steve didn’t want to stop, but I didn’t want the ride to end too quickly. “Stick with me,” Steve said, motioning me along. “The best is up ahead.” We continued through the parking lot and past our resting comrades and arrived on the lakefront bike path, just north of Montrose Harbor.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Other cyclists were migrating with us, dressed in black cycling shorts, helmets and gloves hanging off handlebars or crooked elbows, bike shoes curled up at the toes with court-jester flair, clicking against the pavement as we walked. We followed the arrows on signs that read: WELCOME, FRIENDS OF THE PARK, TO THE FIFTH ANNUAL L.A.T.E. RIDE— REGISTRATION BOOTHS AHEAD. I was one of five thousand cyclists who would soon overtake a core of Chicago’s city streets following a twenty-five-mile loop through the western neighborhoods, heading north, then returning south along the lakefront bike path, ending where we now stood, near Buckingham Fountain. “Can you hold my bike?” Steve asked. “I’ll sign us in at Registration.” “Sure,” I said. When he returned, we helped each other pin the numbers to our shirts, which allowed us entry to the preride party. Steve was a few inches taller than I, and as he stood near me, I sensed his lean, fit body. He had short brown hair and a neatly trimmed goatee he sometimes stroked with one hand while listening to me or formulating a thought. We’d met on a blind date two months earlier, when I’d traveled to Chicago for a series of job interviews. I was stunned even to be there, with him, about to ride bikes in the middle of the night through the second-largest city in the country—a city I now lived in. I’d just moved here one month earlier and was finding it robust and magical, my own New World. I was glad to stand and get my bearings, absorbing the stunning architecture and watching people gathering at such an unlikely hour. So this is what life is like in a big city. Once I had opened up to the idea that I could take a job anywhere, leaving Portland had become more than a necessity—it had taken on the pull of destiny. The logistics and specifics came together with dizzying speed and ease. I knew business development was my métier and set out to find a job in a new city— preferably Seattle or Chicago—selling financial services. I updated my résumé and discreetly told select colleagues about my goal. Within two weeks, I had three interviews lined up. I’d expected it could take six months to one year to line up the right work situation. To spare my family further anguish, I kept my job hunt and desire to leave Portland secret until I knew exactly where I was going. But when this all came together— only three months after my first dramatic divorce announcement—I set out to reveal my plans in detail. Unfortunately, the Witness grapevine beat me to the punch. I made the mistake of disclosing my plans to Ross during a midweek phone call to cover some mundane divorce details. In retrospect, it was a foolhardy disclosure.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  But there were deeper reasons for Luther’s refusal to compromise. His letters at this time, especially those to Spalatin, convey a sense of exaltation and exhilaration as he came to accept that he was likely to die a martyr. The letters written before Augsburg are marked by a sense of urgency: “This affair has to be handled in a great hurry. They have given me only a short time,” or “Fast action is necessary here. The days fly by and the appointed day draws near.”49 All this increased the singular importance of the meeting. In May 1518, when he dedicated his explanations of the Ninety-five Theses to Staupitz, he had written that “only one thing is left, my poor, weak little bit of body, worn out by constant abuse…if they want to take that away by force or intrigue, they will only make me poorer of my life by one or two hours.”50 With his health weakened by excessive asceticism, he had never expected to live long, and this belief had stamped his religiosity. The prospect of martyrdom now intensified that streak in his spirituality, and increased the conviction of election that had marked him ever since St. Anna had saved him from the storm. From Augsburg on October 11, he had written to Melanchthon who, to his delight, had just been made professor of Greek at Wittenberg, telling him that there was no news “except that the whole town is full of rumors of my name and everyone desires to see the man of such fires of Herostratus.” In classical mythology, Herostratus burned the temple of Artemis to the ground, but it seems that Luther was using the reference in a double sense, suggesting that not only was he, like Herostratus, destroying the “temple” of the papacy, but also that he himself was also likely to be burned. “I will be burned for you and them, if it pleases God,” Luther continued. “I would prefer to perish, and which upsets me most gravely, I would prefer to lose your most sweet conversation in all eternity than that I should revoke.”51 It is almost as if he were admonishing Melanchthon not to join him in martyrdom, while he “burned for you and them,” sacrificed himself for their sake. Indeed, Luther was not just thinking about himself. As he wrote to Spalatin from Augsburg soon after October 14, if he were to be oppressed by force, then Karlstadt and the whole Wittenberg faculty, which had been supporting Luther’s theological position, would find itself under threat. The survival of the university, so recently founded, would be imperiled.52

• From Shunned (2018)

  I’d given him a proposal months earlier, and we’d kept in touch ever since. He consistently encouraged me not to give up on him, and said one day—when the time was right—he’d become a client and tackle the conversion process. “Linda,” the message began, “I hope you’re sitting down while you listen to this.” David’s sanguine tone had me hanging on his every word. “Last week I presented your proposal to our executive committee, and they approved it.” A shot of adrenaline whipped through my body as I stood up and continued listening. I could tell David was smiling when he spoke. “That’s right. We’re ready to go. Give me a call so we can get this ball rolling.” I listened to the message a second time, and a third, allowing the stunned feeling to melt into joy. My first instinct was to hang up the phone and twirl about the room in triumph. Instead, I took a breath and returned David’s call. After the mutually congratulatory banter, I promised to send a contract via overnight mail. He was anxious to move forward and thought the legal review could be done that week. This was my second bit of good news, as corporate attorneys can waylay these deals for weeks. David assured me he had an inside track and was confident of the timing, impressing upon me the need to get my team lined up. Catherine was in closed-door meetings until late that afternoon. I’d been impatient to share this news with her and had refrained from telling anyone else. Poking my head through her office doorway, I caught her eye and she motioned for me to come in. I closed the door behind me and sat down to wait as she finished a phone call. My sense of jubilation and validation were palpable. “You look like the Cheshire cat,” Catherine said, putting her phone down. “Are you available this Friday to join me in the city for an early-afternoon meeting with Mid-Town Bank?” I asked. Catherine glanced down to check her calendar. “Today I received a verbal commitment from them to move forward.” Catherine froze in place and looked up, a luminous smile across her face. “Well, well,” she said. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for and knew would come. Congratulations.” “The legal review starts tomorrow, and my contact there is committed to pushing it through this week,” I said. “I’d love it if you came with me to pick up the contract and welcome them aboard.” “Absolutely,” Catherine said. “And after that, there’s a small bar just around the corner where we can celebrate.” “One more thing,” I said. “Unless you disagree, I’d prefer that this not be announced to Richard or anyone else until the ink is dry on the contract.” “Good call,” Catherine said. “Remind me of the numbers again.” “Fifty million dollars in annual volume.” It would move me from last to third in sales for the team.

• From Shunned (2018)

  The vibrant blue of the sky made my eyes sting, so I slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses. I turned the Honda into the mall parking lot and headed toward JCPenney. My brother’s car was easy to spot, off by itself at the farthest end. As I parked my car next to his, I noticed his slumped shoulders and bowed head behind the wheel. He’s probably praying for me. He glanced up and, upon seeing me, got out of his car and into my passenger seat. I turned off the ignition. Randy was wearing Levi’s and a starched cotton shirt. There was a taut air and seriousness around him. His jaw was clenched as he settled into the seat, pushed the sun visor down, and leaned back in the shade it created. I pushed my seat all the way back and turned toward him. Randy didn’t want me coming to his house. We were both free to meet only at times when his two children were home, and it would have been difficult to speak in private. I also suspected he didn’t want my niece, Sheena, to know we were talking or overhear our conversation. She looked up to me, and we often fawned over each other. I had invited him to come over to my apartment, but he had refused. I dismissed his reluctance by telling myself he was not ready to confront the full reality of my new life. When I had suggested meeting for coffee at a restaurant, he’d rejected the idea of being surrounded by strangers. Finally, he’d suggested this space for our rendezvous: a mall parking lot. I wondered if security would think a drug deal was going down. The whole scene felt covert and absurd. I had just moved into my new apartment and was tired from the intensity of the week. I’d taken a few days off work, and Lory had surprised me by coming over to help me pack my belongings. It was the first time I’d had to hire professional movers. I no longer had a community to rally around the chore, no one to call about borrowing a truck. The contrast was a bit lonely, but another part of me enjoyed the independence and simplicity of taking action without having other people in my business. Lory and I watched as the burly pair of movers loaded my few bulky possessions—bed, dresser, piano, and assorted boxes—into the moving van. She then returned home, leaving me to direct them at the other end. I’d spent the morning unpacking and hanging pictures, making a list of things to buy: bath towels, pots and pans, laundry detergent. These preoccupations kept me from preparing for this conversation, and by the time I met Randy, I was too physically spent to fret and was happily caught up in the overwhelming exhilaration of my newfound freedom. Interrupting my weekend for yet another grave and serious conversation about my “foolish” choices was annoying.

• From Vision Quest (1979)

  Doug didn’t seem real impressed, however, because he boomed right to his feet and rolled Rilke to his back. Unfortunately, he rolled him off the mat. There were some heavy sighs in the Battleground bleachers at that move. Doug wrestled that match in one explosion of energy right after another, which is what it takes against tough guys. With about half a minute left in the match he spun into a short sitout. Rilke freaked and tried to drive Doug’s head down between his legs. I guess he was just trying to keep Doug from switching him. But he drove into Doug way too hard and Doug just let Rilke push him to his feet. Then Doug rolled him the exact same way he had in the first round. Except this time he rolled him inbounds. Time ran out before Doug could pin him, but he got the near-fall points and won the match. The bench just went fucking insane. Coach was leaping up and down and shouting. He had let me sit beside him with the team. Kuch, who lay behind the bench in semi-exhaustion after his very tough win, whooped and yipped and banged his hands and feet on the floor. We mobbed the mat to get Doug, and in the confusion Coach Morgan conked me in the nose with his tape recorder. He slung it over his shoulder, probably to be sure not to lose it, and BLAM—I got his TEAC smack on my nose. I can’t even watch a wrestling match without getting my nose bloodied. I soaked my letter sweater in cold water right after I congratulated Doug. I returned from the bathroom in time to see Balldozer wrestle what I consider to be the best match of his career at David Thompson. Even though he did get beat 6–3. He lost to Dan Klosterman, a two-time state champ and one of the best wrestlers in the Northwest and maybe the whole country. Balldozer is good—strong and fast and loaded with guts—but his balance just isn’t what it could be. And if you haven’t got that, you just can’t beat the good guys. He did everything right and looked beautiful. Balldozer is this sort of Greco-Roman-looking, incredibly handsome guy. Shute is handsome that way. Shute and Balldozer look a lot alike, in fact. Balldozer is the giant economy size, though. I think if I weren’t a pretty fair wrestler and a semigood student, I’d feel inferior around Balldozer just because he’s so good-looking. I’ve got to get over that. I plan to tell him what a good match he wrestled, but the bastard’s drinking a peanut butter milk shake, and I’m afraid if I get near enough to smell it, I’ll roll him for it. We stopped for burgers at Denny’s on the way out of town. I drank tea. I figured I’d lost that much weight just watching the match. Boy, it’s weird to just sit and watch.

• From Shunned (2018)

  Columbus Drive and Congress were blocked off from traffic and filled with “gearheads,” as Steve called them. Under the bright lights, riders synced up their pedals as Tom Petty sang out “Learning to Fly.” The start gun blasted, and we were off, heading through the Loop, past street barricades and traffic cops. It seemed like the whole city had rolled out a red carpet welcome. It was enough to make me woozy. People sitting on their brownstone porches clapped and shouted encouragement as we rode by. The drivers of cars waiting to cross at large intersections honked their horns and waved as cyclists passed in clusters. Steve was showing me the real Chicago. He knew his way around and favored restaurants and bars that were off the beaten track. On our first date, he took me to Rosa’s on Armitage, a blues club he felt was much more authentic than the better-known “tourist” clubs on Halsted Street. He had a cynical edge about him and was a bit of a raconteur, which stimulated my own wit, igniting a snappy repartee. Part of my appeal to him, I think, was that I could give him a verbal run for his money. Sometimes his stories would turn into rants, but I found him handsome and engaging; his complaints showed he cared about things that mattered, and he offered me a window into the zeitgeist of my new city. He also thought the hassles my family gave me over religion were preposterous. His reaction to my high-level summary was so over the top, laced with acrimony on my behalf, that I immediately understood it would not be a safe conversation topic for us. If, for example, I told him about my sister’s going-away letter, how she’d lamented my selfishness, alluded to the Scripture about “pride coming before a crash,” pronounced me a “worldly person,” and reminded me that “Satan is a cruel master; he will cheat you out of life,” no good would come of it. Under his mordant tone, I sensed a spiritual side, but I knew this was not a person to sort my doubts with. To my surprise, I found this refreshing. Here was someone to have fun with, pure and simple. A few minutes into the start of the L.A.T.E. Ride, Steve and I found our cadence and settled in side by side. Occasionally I caught a glimpse inside bars and clubs as wobbly patrons came out to the streets to cheer us on. There was a whole world here that carried on while most of us slept—another part of the real Chicago, equal parts grit and glitter. Within a half hour, we reached the halfway point and a refreshment center for the riders.

• From Shunned (2018)

  I was calm again. I rose from the chair, grabbed the work files I had brought in as a decoy, and returned to my desk. There was only one thing left to do: carry on. Chapter 18 Too much of a good thing can be wonderful. —Mae West Massive waves of energy were freed up now that I was no longer hiding my life from my family. Like a spring held tightly in the hand, then released, I bounced through life loose and free. It was the middle of summer—time to party. I crammed the months with activity. I missed my family, of course, and in quiet moments I felt forlorn, but more than anything I was giddy in the absence of their pestering. I believed the worst of the experience was behind me; the full scale of my loss hadn’t hit yet. Little did I know how many heart-wrenching moments lay ahead. But early on I made excuses for my family’s behavior, as I had been taught to do. Hadn’t I, through the years, shunned people who’d been disfellowshipped, turning my head, avoiding the gaze of someone I passed on the street or in a store? I repeatedly told myself that my family had no choice but to do the same if they wanted to stay true to God and their religion. No matter, I thought, as I practically levitated from the freedom from having to please them, the elders, and angry old Jehovah. Those days had an urgency, as though I needed to swallow life whole and satisfy the pent-up and greedy hungers of my soul. So I decided to try everything that called to me, explore all ideas, and keep my dance card full. Armageddon may or may not have been coming—I hadn’t sorted that out—but I’d come this far, and I might as well have a good time. My career continued to blossom, and my sales numbers skyrocketed. I was comfortable navigating around greater Chicago-land and was regularly flying to Houston, where I was starting to get traction in that banking community. When talking about the industry, I spoke with authority. I had a steady paycheck, a commission check in the queue, and the respect of my peers. That summer, I also set a goal of participating in three century rides— organized cycling events where participants bike one hundred miles over one or two days. Training for these rides, playing beach volleyball with a team I’d joined in the spring, and personal-training sessions at my gym helped fill my evenings and burn off stress. In addition, eligible, attractive men were everywhere, and I had no trouble meeting them.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  This was a whole new approach to poverty. Instead of mendicancy being a sign of monastic virtue, begging could be conceived as an issue of social justice. The Wittenberg council ordered that the funds be kept in a chest with three locks—two for the four overseers and their three advisors, and one for the mayor. The four overseers should note down which people were needy, especially those who were too ashamed to beg. In line with Luther’s strictures in To the Christian Nobility of the German Nation, the money should be spent on supporting Wittenberg’s own poor, not on outsiders, and certainly not on mendicant monks. It seemed as if the Reformation, under the guidance of the Augustinians and the town council, was about to be perfected in Wittenberg. The Augustinian prior of Eisleben, Caspar Güttel, who attended the chapter meeting in Wittenberg in January 1522, wrote to a friend about his conviction that he was living in exceptional times: “It looks to me as if God intends to offer us all great grace and high seriousness.” That sense of excitement is also evident in a newsletter report from early January: “The prince can no longer stop matters, let other princes do what they will, they won’t be able to prevent or suppress it; it is from or by God, we will yet see miracles; all around in all little towns strange events and happenings are taking place, may God grant His grace, Amen.” 60 The author went on to report how a merchant had arrived in Wittenberg, asking for the Augustinian monastery. When locals pointed it out, he tied up his horse, went inside, and found only one monk left. Stretching out his arms in the shape of the Cross, he gave God praise and thanks, and wept from his heart, rejoicing that he could tread the ground of “the holy city.” 61 L UTHER’S FRIENDSHIP WITH Andreas Karlstadt is airbrushed out of most biographies of the reformer, starting with those by Mathesius and Spangenberg in the late sixteenth century. 1 Karlstadt had originally idolized Luther, acted as his right-hand man and his co-debater at Leipzig, and led the way on several key theological issues. Yet the debt Luther owed him is often forgotten. 2 Luther followed in his wake in his theses against scholasticism, and it was Karlstadt who first saw the propaganda potential of images and articulated the argument for breaking monastic vows. The story of their tortured relationship not only explains some key psychological and emotional patterns in Luther’s life; it also illuminates why Luther’s theology, and with it the Reformation as a whole, took the path that it did.