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 54 of 182 · 20 per page

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  One is East Texas State University, where future farmers study agriculture, and another is Southern Methodist University in Dallas, where future leaders study whatever they please. Yet as different as they are, a pair of women students approach us afterward with the same passionate message in each place: If you think this is bad, you should come to Texas Women’s University. Each pair is also one white woman and one black woman, unusual in itself. Back home in New York, we keep hearing from more TWU students. It’s a campaign to get us there, without a speakers’ program to pay expenses—at least, without one willing to invite us. Who can resist? Denton turns out to be a small town known for its rodeos and hot summers. Students take us around the campus of low buildings, plus one tower that is topped by the president’s office—like a warden’s aerie overlooking a prison, as the students point out. The good news about this state-supported women’s university is that its low cost invites women who might never otherwise be able to go to college, including black and Latina students. The not-so-good news is that TWU is known for two specialties. One is domestic science, which was originally a way of elevating women’s work in the home but has become a field that students feel is training them for marriage or domestic service jobs. The other is nursing, the most organized of the professions that are mostly female, but it is still paid less than such similar but mostly male professions as pharmacy. The worst news is that the many sexual assaults on campus have been met with fences, curfews, and male guards that restrict the victims, but not the victimizers. In fact, students suspect that a couple of the guards are the rapists. Margaret and I find ourselves in TWU’s main auditorium. It is packed with students and exploding with new feminism, combined with civil rights and black power, plus the newly founded La Raza Unida, a national party created by Mexican American leaders in Texas. Already, La Raza has confounded expectations by becoming the first national political party to support reproductive freedom, including abortion. Many of these students have experienced the double discrimination of sex and race—not only in the mainstream but also by race in the women’s movement, and by sex in the black power movement. They applaud when Margaret says, “I still have scars on my head and dust between my toes from marching across that bridge in Selma. Once I was left for dead.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  She was elected to Congress in 1970, as a war raged in Vietnam, and Richard Nixon was in the White House. It was hard to imagine any two people more different than Bella and Nixon. Indeed, after the Watergate scandal broke, she would become one of the first members of Congress to call for his impeachment. —A YEAR AFTER HER ELECTION, Bella, Shirley Chisholm, and their sister congresswoman, Patsy Mink from Hawaii, decided to hurry history along. Though this new wave of feminism had many groups working on issues, there was no nationwide organization to advance them all by getting more pro-equality women into elected and appointed office. It was clear that neither the Republican nor the Democratic Party would do this on its own. Indeed, both parties doubted there were women who could win elections or be “qualified” for appointments. When Bella, Shirley, and Patsy called a dozen or so of us into a congressional meeting room to talk about founding a new national organization, I felt as if we were already breaking barriers just by being there. It was the first of many such meetings. Our job was to research a few hundred names for a founding meeting that would include women from new feminist groups as well as such established ones as the YWCA, the National Council of Negro Women, and the National Council of Jewish Women. All this needed to be done yesterday if we were to form a national group that could have an impact on the upcoming 1972 elections. Washington can be so hot that the British Embassy once gave its workers extra pay for working in a tropical climate. It was that kind of July in 1971, when 320 diverse women began arriving for three days of big meetings and nights of caucuses. I’m not sure any of us ever left the hotel to see the light of day. We were saved from chaos by the creative chairing of Aileen Hernandez, a labor organizer who had been the first African American and first woman on the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, and also the first African American president of NOW. We voted to call ourselves the National Women’s Political Caucus (NWPC); to have a structure that included state, city, and local caucuses; to be multipartisan; and to adopt a statement of purpose that opposed sexism, racism, institutional violence, and poverty through the election and appointment of pro-equality women to political office. I was elected to a temporary twenty-four-member policy council along with Bella, Betty Friedan, Shirley Chisholm, Fannie Lou Hamer, Dorothy Height, Beulah Sanders from the National Welfare Rights Organization, Native American leader LaDonna Harris, and many more. Our job was to initiate state and city caucuses and to meet with those already forming by contagion just from reading news reports of the NWPC. I traveled to a dozen states, from familiar California to unfamiliar Tennessee.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He did not know how great a sense of change she was experiencing; she, who at home had sometimes wanted some favorite dish, or sweets, without the possibility of getting either, now could order what she liked, buy pounds of sweets, spend as much money as she liked, and order any puddings she pleased. She was dreaming with delight now of Dolly’s coming to them with her children, especially because she would order for the children their favorite puddings and Dolly would appreciate all her new housekeeping. She did not know herself why and wherefore, but the arranging of her house had an irresistible attraction for her. Instinctively feeling the approach of spring, and knowing that there would be days of rough weather too, she built her nest as best she could, and was in haste at the same time to build it and to learn how to do it. This care for domestic details in Kitty, so opposed to Levin’s ideal of exalted happiness, was at first one of the disappointments; and this sweet care of her household, the aim of which he did not understand, but could not help loving, was one of the new happy surprises. Another disappointment and happy surprise came in their quarrels. Levin could never have conceived that between him and his wife any relations could arise other than tender, respectful and loving, and all at once in the very early days they quarreled, so that she said he did not care for her, that he cared for no one but himself, burst into tears, and wrung her arms. This first quarrel arose from Levin’s having gone out to a new farmhouse and having been away half an hour too long, because he had tried to get home by a short cut and had lost his way. He drove home thinking of nothing but her, of her love, of his own happiness, and the nearer he drew to home, the warmer was his tenderness for her. He ran into the room with the same feeling, with an even stronger feeling than he had had when he reached the Shtcherbatskys’ house to make his offer. And suddenly he was met by a lowering expression he had never seen in her. He would have kissed her; she pushed him away. “What is it?”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Noticing Laska’s special attitude as she crouched on the ground, as it were, scratching big prints with her hind paws, and with her mouth slightly open, Levin knew she was pointing at grouse, and with an inward prayer for luck, especially with the first bird, he ran up to her. Coming quite close up to her, he could from his height look beyond her, and he saw with his eyes what she was seeing with her nose. In a space between two little thickets, at a couple of yards’ distance, he could see a grouse. Turning its head, it was listening. Then lightly preening and folding its wings, it disappeared round a corner with a clumsy wag of its tail. “Fetch it, fetch it!” shouted Levin, giving Laska a shove from behind. “But I can’t go,” thought Laska. “Where am I to go? From here I feel them, but if I move forward I shall know nothing of where they are or who they are.” But then he shoved her with his knee, and in an excited whisper said, “Fetch it, Laska.” “Well, if that’s what he wishes, I’ll do it, but I can’t answer for myself now,” she thought, and darted forward as fast as her legs would carry her between the thick bushes. She scented nothing now; she could only see and hear, without understanding anything. Ten paces from her former place a grouse rose with a guttural cry and the peculiar round sound of its wings. And immediately after the shot it splashed heavily with its white breast on the wet mire. Another bird did not linger, but rose behind Levin without the dog. When Levin turned towards it, it was already some way off. But his shot caught it. Flying twenty paces further, the second grouse rose upwards, and whirling round like a ball, dropped heavily on a dry place. “Come, this is going to be some good!” thought Levin, packing the warm and fat grouse into his game bag. “Eh, Laska, will it be good?” When Levin, after loading his gun, moved on, the sun had fully risen, though unseen behind the storm-clouds. The moon had lost all of its luster, and was like a white cloud in the sky. Not a single star could be seen. The sedge, silvery with dew before, now shone like gold. The stagnant pools were all like amber. The blue of the grass had changed to yellow-green. The marsh birds twittered and swarmed about the brook and upon the bushes that glittered with dew and cast long shadows. A hawk woke up and settled on a haycock, turning its head from side to side and looking discontentedly at the marsh. Crows were flying about the field, and a bare-legged boy was driving the horses to an old man, who had got up from under his long coat and was combing his hair. The smoke from the gun was white as milk over the green of the grass.

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  Everyone is simply dying to meet you!” Entering, I see the incredible ensemble; here and there are a few very beautiful determinedly sexless women, one in a tuxedo. I'm wearing a tight, very open shirt, and I love how I am being looked at; I am obviously the evening's fresh blood—myself, and the other muscular man, who sits rigidly throughout the evening with the man who “sponsors” him in body contests. The chairs are all high-backed, of course. Velvet cuddles the room. The light is, oh, golden. A yellow chandelier twinkles flirtatiously. The ladies and gentlemen are wearing emeralds, diamonds, rubies, pearls—one gentleman exhibits at least a dozen rings on a chain (“his fingers are too fat ,” our host whispers). Dusty the Busby Berkeley chorus boy wears a tacky necklace of pukah shells. “They're quite expensive,” he informs Count Etienne, a skinny man with plucked eyebrows—no relation to the duchess here. “Hmmm,” says his lordship. “I paid fifty dollars for the necklace,” the ex-chorus boy insists. Flashing rubies and emeralds, the count says, “Oh, nice! But you know, dear, you have to have a certain bubbly personality to get away with those things— you have it, I don't.” Dusty waits for his turn. It comes. His lordship is narrating the shock he felt when an ordinary policeman came to his door by mistake. In Pasadena! Dusty strikes: “And the Pasadena ladies looking out their windows said, Oh, my God, she's entertaining the military now!” He loops the pukah-shell necklace around his wrist. Drinks about the room are like colored water in goblets: green, red, amber. Photographs of the great stars line bookshelves; the gorgeous artificial faces next to dead flowers. When the count comments favorably on my body, I ask what he does. “Mostly I'm a count,” he answers. And the Busby Berkeley chorus boy strikes again: “Cunt?” His lordship smiles tolerantly. The rabble— … “Count, dear, with an ‘O.’” “Oh,” says the ex-chorus boy, and goes on to tell about the death of Hollywood and glamor. “So many funerals,” sighs Billy Adams, the son of the mute star. “So many stars dying. Gone, gone. I went to Mandy Mandeville's funeral. She looked terrible—so shriveled, so tiny. They used to be bigger. Oh, but at Forest Lawn this adorable youngman insisted I buy a plot there— before need. And I did.” “Did you buy the youngman or the plot?” asks the host. “It overlooks Glendale,” the famous son of Alexa Alexandra says. “How chic,” says his lordship. The icy ladies sip their drinks frostily. They look like Russian spies in an American movie. “My God!— I thought you were dead,” Dusty the ex-chorus boy says to a new guest, a man who once played the evil scientist in dozens of movies, Natasha the Russian duchess wants to read the cards for me—but there's only an incomplete deck, two incomplete decks. So she mixes them—different-sized cards.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Querelle went on smiling, smoking. Vic was matching Querelle's long, heavy stride, and as long as he kept pace with him, he was filled with surprising confidence. Querelle's taciturn and powerful presence instilled in Vic a feeling of authority similar to the one he had experienced the times they had pulled stick-up jobs together. Querelle smiled. He let it rise inside him, that emotion he knew so well, which very soon now, at a good spot, there where the trees stood closer together and where the fog was dense, would take full command of him, driving out all conscience, all inhibition, and would make his body go through the perfect, quick and certain motions of the criminal. He said : "It's my brother who'll take care of the rest. He's our partner." "Didn't know he was in Brest, your bro." Querelle was silent. His eyes became fixed, as if to observe even more attentively the rising of that emotion within him. The smile left his face. His lungs filled with air. He burst. Now he was nothing. "Yeah, he's in Brest a11 right. At La Feria." 59 I QUERELLE "La Feria? No kidding! What's he do there? La Feria's a weird kind of joint." "How so?" No longer was any part of Querelle present within his body. It was empty. Facing Vic, there was no one. The murderer was about to attain his perfection, because here, in the dark of the night, there now loomed up a group of trees forming a kind of chamber, or chapel, with the path running through it like an aisle. Inside the package containing the opium there were also some pieces of jewelry, once obtained with Vic's assistance. ccWell, you know what they say. You know it as well a� I do." ''So what? He's screwing the Madam." A fraction of Querelle returned to the tips of his fingers, to his lips : the furtive ghost of Querelle once again saw the face and overwhelming presence of Mario combined with Norbert. A wall that had to be dealt with, still, and Querelle paled and dissolved at the foot of it. It had to be scaled, or climbed, or broken through, with a heave of the shoulder. "Me, too, I've got my jewels," he thought. The rings and the gold bracelets belonged to him alone. They invested him with sufficient authority to perform a sacred rite. Querelle was now no more than a tenuous breath suspended from his lips and free to detach itself from the body, to cling to the closest and spikiest branch. "Jewels. That copper, he's covered in jewels. I've got my jewels, too. And I don't show them off." He was free to leave his body, that audacious scaffolding for his balls. Their weight and beauty he knew. With one hand, calmly, he opened the folding knife he had in the pocket of his pea coat. "Well then the proprietor must've screwed him first." "And so? If that's his game." "Shee-it."

• From Querelle (1953)

  57 I QUERELLE Having conquered the city, it might well decide to last longer than twenty-four hours. Without saying a word to Querelle, Vic walked off toward the Customs shed through which the sailors passed before ascending the steps that lead up to the level of the road, the quayside, as we have mentioned before, being immediately below. Inst�ad of following Vic, Querelle merged into the fog, heading toward the sea wall. A cunning grin on his face, he waited a moment, then started walking along the wall, running his bare palm over its surface. It did not take long before he felt something brush against his fingers. Taking hold of the string, he tied the end of it round the opium package he had been carrying under his peacoat. He gave the st ring three sharp little tugs, and up it went, over the wall face, slowly, all the way to Vic. The Admiral in command of the port was quite shaken the next morning when he was told that a young sailor had been found on the ramparts with his th roat cut. Nowhere had Querelle been seen in Vic's company. In the boat they had not spoken to one another, or certainly not at any length. That same evening, in the shadow of a smokestack, Querelle had given Vic a quick briefing. As soon as Querelle reached the road, he took the ball of string and the package back from Vic. Walking by Vic's side, with the sailor's blue coat sleeve, stiff and heavy from the fog's moisture, brushing against his own, Querelle felt the presence of Murder in every cell of his body. At first this came upon him slowly, a little like the mounting of an amorous affect, and, it seemed, through the same channel-or rather, through the reverse of that channel. In order to avoid the city and to enhance the bravado of their venture, Querelle decided to follow the rampart wall. Through the fog, his voice reached Vic: "Get over here." They continued along this road as far as the Castle (where

• From Querelle (1953)

  177 I QUERELLE shitting on your honor, man. And you can't do that, to any body. That gives you the right to kill the bastard." "That's what I've been tellin' myself. But them judges, they don't understand that too well." "They couldn't, not in a million years. They're such goddamn fatheads, and even more so out here in the sticks. And that's why you have to keep on lying low. And that's why you need buddies to help you. If you want to live and be a real tough motherfucker." In the light of the candle and as if looking through a thin sheet of paper Gil saw the little smile on Querelle's face. It gave him confidence. With all his heart he wished to become a real tough motherfucker. (With all his heart-that is to say, Querelle's smile triggered a whirlwind of enthusiasm, a sense of exaltation that made Gil forget even his own body.) Querelle's presence provided some friendly and effective comfort, moving in its own way, as are helpful hints between athletes-even between competitors, sometimes-during an event: "Take a deeper breath" ... "don't breathe through your mouth" ... "flex your calves" ... which indicate all their secret concern for the overall beauty of the action. "W hat have I got to lose now? Nothing. I got no parents, no more. Nothing. I better start taking my life in my own hands." Out loud, he said to Querelle: "I've got nothing to lose. I can do as I please . . : I'm free, now." Querelle thought it over. He saw, right there in front of him, ' the suddenly fleshed-out image of himself as he had been five years before. He had killed a guy in Shanghai, accidentally. His pride as a sailor and as a Frenchman had been the motive. It had been a very quick job: the young Russian had _insulted him, Querelle lashed out with his knife, taking out one of the other man's eyes. Aghast at the horrible sight, and in order to get rid of it, he then cut his throat. It all happened at night, in a well lit street. He had �ragged the corpse to a dark spot and had

• From Querelle (1953)

  To those who are unable to pursue a life of adventure on their own, the Navy (as all armed forces ) offers them one on a platter: all they do is sign up, and it will take its methodical course, finally underlined with the thin red ribbon of the Legion of Honor. However, right in the middle of his official adventure, Lieutenant Seblon was chosen for another one which turned out to be far more serious. Not that he went so far as to regard himself a hero, but he became keenly aware of his direct and intimate experience of the most despised, disgusting, and most noble of social activities : armed robbery. He had been the victim of a hold-up in broad daylight. The robber had a charming face. Though it would have been even more marvelous to be this robber, it was exciting enough to have been the victim. He made no attempt to disentangle himself from the masses of daydreams that gave him such delicious little jolts. He felt certain that no part of his secret adventure (where he was completely alone with the robber) would ever come to light. "None of that can ever transpire" was the expression he used in 259 I QUERELLE his mind. He was able to shelter behind his severe countenance. 41My ravisher! he's my ravisher! trotting out of the fog like a wolf, to kill me. For I did defend the money in the face of death." After a couple of days in the infirmary he spent his days at his desk. Carrying his arm in a sling he took walks on deck, then rested, stretched out in his cabin. "Would you like me to get you some tea, sir?" .. Yes, why not." He regretted that his ravisher had not been Querelle. How happy I should have been to struggle with him over my satchel! He \vould, at long last, have given me a chance to dem· onstrate my courage. But then, would I have charged him? Strange question that leads me to discover-what?-in myself. Let us remember the detectives' visit to my .cabin and my dizzi· ness then. I carne very close to handing Querelle over to them. I still ask myself whether my attitude and my responses did not, after all, point him out to the police. I hate the police, yet I came very close to doing their dirty work. It would be madness to believe that Querelle murdered Vic, except in that dream. I would like hin1 to have done it, but that is only because I can then con·

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  Koryne Horbal, a founder of the Feminist Caucus of the Democratic-Farmer-Labor Party in Minnesota, saw that anti-equality groups were distributing lists of issues to oppose in Houston, but pro-equality groups were giving out no lists of what to support. She put all the pro-equality issues into one National Plan of Action, made buttons that said I ’M PRO -PLAN , and spent weeks phoning delegates to explain why each issue was important. Once in Houston, her work in creating clarity would save the day. I ’M PRO -PLAN buttons would help women to recognize allies they didn’t know, just as anti-equality delegates recognized each other by wearing red STOP ERA buttons. —THIS LONG, HARD, HUMOROUS, educational, angering, unifying, improvised, and exhausting two-year process probably shortened all our lives. But it was worth it. On a hot November day in 1977, two thousand elected delegates and about eighteen thousand observers began to fill the biggest arena in Houston. With issue areas from the arts to welfare, and three days to vote on them, there was a feeling of urgency, excitement, and even a little fear that we couldn’t pull it off. Also hundreds of anti-ERA, anti-abortion, and other pickets were marching outside the arena in the hope of making sure that we couldn’t. Across town, a right-wing and religious counterconference—led by Phyllis Schlafly—was getting equal media coverage for accusing the National Women’s Conference of being antifamily, anti-God, and otherwise unrepresentative; never mind that those counterconference participants had been elected by no one. All I could hope was that Bella’s tactics—for instance, including every democratic symbol she could think of—would convey the difference. There were First Ladies, Girl Scout Color Guards, and even relay runners: women athletes who set out from Seneca Falls, New York, where the fight for suffrage began, carrying a lighted torch all the way. Right-wing radio hosts attacked the First Ladies for showing up at all, and Phyllis Schlafly’s supporters in Alabama persuaded local athletes to refuse to run a crucial stretch of highway on the way to Houston. Despite dangers, a young Houston woman had flown to Alabama to fill in. As thousands of delegates-plus-alternates began to arrive, several business conventions were late in checking out of Houston hotels. Our delegates were lined up for hours waiting to check in. I walked up and down the lobby lines, trying to be reassuring. Observers from faraway countries were camped out next to women who’d never left their states before; Title IX athletes shared water bottles with women disability advocates in wheelchairs; Native Hawaiians compared long flights with Native Alaskans; and high-powered women leaders in the corporate or political worlds stood in line like everybody else. Despite a few meltdowns, most women seemed to be getting to know each other in a kind of celebratory chaos. If I hadn’t been so anxious about the combination of counterdemonstrations and crucial goals, I would have felt celebratory, too.

• From Escape (2007)

  Ten of us hiked to the mountain—a ragamuffin band of kids ranging in age from four to eight. But our digging didn’t produce much. We got tired quickly and it was very hot. Nor did we eat the fried potato sandwiches because they tasted as bad as they looked—yuck yuck. But we did throw them back and forth at one another. As we were hiking, we told story after story of the things that the spirits of the Gadianton robbers had done when they haunted the community before being expelled by the priesthood. Even evil spirits have to obey the priesthood. The priesthood is the way God acts in us, but the power is given only to men. Boys are initiated into the priesthood at twelve by any man in the FLDS who holds the priesthood and has kept his covenants. We believed that the priesthood was the glue that held the earth together. Without its power, the earth would fly apart. Because of this, one good man in the priesthood could turn back thousands of evil spirits, who would do whatever he ordered them to do. I’m not sure how this squared with all the destruction that was supposed to rain down on our heads. Couldn’t the good men just tell the evil ones to scram? But a six-year-old doesn’t put such thoughts together. I took it all in as the grand myth and folklore that it was. While our fundamentalist faith cast a long shadow on how we played, a lot of the things we did and the trouble we stirred up were fairly typical. It was the consequences that were more severe. One afternoon we got to go back to my cousins’ because Mother needed to do some shopping. It felt like a return to wonderland. My cousin Ray Dee was pushing the family cat around in a small doll carriage with a pacifier taped to its mouth. The cat was wearing a ruffled dress. Beverly, another cousin, was congratulating her on her new baby. When we were distracted, the cat leaped out of the carriage and ran for its life. We went looking for it and instead found our cousin Shannon. Shannon was sitting in the grass stirring a big bowl of punch. She had cups and passed out drinks to all of us. We were having a fine time, savoring our freedom and catching up with our cousins. But it was short-lived. One of the younger boys came running out with the news that Shannon had stolen the punch and that his mother, our aunt Charlotte, planned to spank everyone involved. Shannon was guilty. She’d gone to Aunt Charlotte and said she needed a package of Kool-Aid for Aunt Elaine, which was untrue. Someone squealed on her when we were spotted out in the orchard drinking punch. Now anyone with punch-stained lips might be spanked. Shannon said she didn’t care if Aunt Charlotte spanked her. “Why?” I said. I hated spankings.

• From Escape (2007)

  When one of the wicked was killed by the tomahawk of a resurrected Indian, he’d fall to the ground, seemingly from a heart attack. But what had happened was that the tomahawk had split his heart in two. When an autopsy was performed, doctors would find the severed heart and be at a loss to explain it. But only a few would know the truth. Most would think that the person hit by the tomahawk had died from a heart attack. No one would know that the resurrected Indians had been our saviors. Once the planes were knocked out of the sky, my cousins who were playing the role of government agents marched into the orchard. Once again the resurrected Indians came to our rescue without firing a single shot or hurling a single tomahawk. It had been prophesied to us that in the last days, any army that went up against the Lord’s people would drop dead for no apparent reason and the armies of Zion would be seen as great and terrible. In the game of apocalypse, the resurrected Indians protected us from the government. But that wasn’t enough. We were being invaded by the Russians in the east and the Chinese in the west. Once again, it was the people of God who turned the invaders back by participating in prayer circles. We all came out from our hiding places and gathered together in circles, pretending to listen to radio reports about the Chinese invaders, who had made it as far as Nevada. The Russians were poised at the Mississippi River. Women and children had been evacuated from cites. We were informed that the men who’d stayed behind to fight were now dead. As the Lord’s people, we were required to stand in holy places and watch the army of the Lord be made manifest. So we stood in our prayer circles believing that when the last days actually came, the Lord would fight our battles for us. The war was over, but our game was not. We then faced famine because we had not yet conquered enough land to sustain all the people who needed to live on it. We went back to the orchard, splitting into groups to hide. We had to make sure the food we had set aside for the end times wouldn’t be taken from us. Messengers were sent back and forth to communicate between the groups. If we were caught while we were delivering a message, we were killed on the spot. This part of the game made my baby sister, Annette, burst into tears. The game was fine when the resurrected Indians were fighting our battles, but now that we had to sneak messages back and forth, she was too scared. I loved every minute of it, though. This was a huge and exciting adventure for me. I thrived on being in the thick of things. But my cousin came out and called us all in for dinner.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  I remember such serendipity as waiting out a storm in a roadhouse that just happened to have a jukebox and a stranded tango teacher who explained the street history of this dance; hearing Mohawk children as they relearned language and spiritual rituals that had been forbidden for generations; sitting with a group of Fundamentalists Anonymous as they talked about kicking the drug of certainty; being interviewed by a nine-year-old girl who was the best player on an otherwise all-boy football team; and meeting a Latina college student, the daughter of undocumented immigrants, who handed me her card: CANDIDATE FOR THE U.S. PRESIDENCY, 2032. There are also natural gifts of an on-the-road life. For instance, witnessing the northern lights in Colorado, or walking under a New Mexico moon bright enough to reveal the lines in my palm, or hearing the story of a solitary elephant in a Los Angeles zoo reunited with an elephant friend of many years before, or finding myself snowed into Chicago with a fireplace, a friend, and a reason to cancel everything. More reliably than anything else on earth, the road will force you to live in the present. — MY LAST HOPE IS to open up the road—literally. So far it’s been overwhelmingly masculine turf. Men embody adventure, women embody hearth and home, and that has been pretty much it. Even as a child, I noticed that Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz spent her entire time trying to get back home to Kansas, and Alice in Wonderland dreamed her long adventure, then woke up just in time for tea. From Joseph Campbell and his Hero’s Journey to Eugene O’Neill’s heroes who were kept from the sea by clinging women, I had little reason to think the road was open to me. In high school, I saw Viva Zapata!, the Hollywood version of that great Mexican revolutionary. As Zapata rides to his destiny, his wife hangs on to his boot, dragging in the dust, imploring him to stay home. Since I couldn’t yet admit to myself that I was more interested in going to sea and the revolution than in staying home as the mother or the wife, I just vowed silently that I would never become an obstacle to any man’s freedom. Even the dictionary defines adventurer as “a person who has, enjoys, or seeks adventures,” but adventuress is “a woman who uses unscrupulous means in order to gain wealth or social position.” When women did travel, they seemed to come to a bad end, from the real Amelia Earhart to the fictional Thelma and Louise. In much of the world to this day, a woman may be disciplined or even killed for dishonoring her family if she leaves her home without a male relative, or her country without a male guardian’s written permission. In Saudi Arabia, women are still forbidden to drive a car, even to the hospital in an emergency, much less for an adventure.

• From Querelle (1953)

  shitting on your honor, man. And you can't do that, to anybody. That gives you the right to kill the bastard." "That's what I've been tellin' myself. But them judges, they don't understand that too well." "They couldn't, not in a million years. They're such goddamn fatheads, and even more so out here in the sticks. And that's why you have to keep on lying low. And that's why you need buddies to help you. If you want to live and be a real tough motherfucker." In the light of the candle and as if looking through a thin sheet of paper Gil saw the little smile on Querelle's face. It gave him confidence. With all his heart he wished to become a real tough motherfucker. (With all his heart-that is to say, Querelle's smile triggered a whirlwind of enthusiasm, a sense of exaltation that made Gil forget even his own body. ) Querelle's presence provided some friendly and effective comfort, moving in its own way, as are helpful hints between athletes-even between competitors, sometimes-during an event : "Take a deeper breath" . . . "don't breathe through your mouth" . . . "flex your calves" . . . which indicate all their secret concern for the overall beauty of the action. "What have I got to lose now? Nothing. I got no parents, no more. Nothing. I better start taking my life in my own hands." Out loud, he said to Querelle : "I've got nothing to lose. I can do as I please . . : I'm free, now." Querelle thought it over. He saw, right there in front of him, ' the suddenly fleshed-out image of himself as he had been five years before. He had killed a guy in Shanghai, accidentally. His pride as a sailor and as a Frenchman had been the motive. It had been a very quick job : the young Russian had _insulted him, Querelle lashed out with his knife, taking out one of the other man's eyes. Aghast at the horrible sight, and in order to get rid of it, he then cut his throat. It all happened at night, in a welllit street. He had �ragged the corpse to a dark spot and had 178 · I JEAN GENET propped him against a wall, in a squatting position. Finally, on an impulse, and to humiliate the dead man so as not to be haunted by him, he took a briar pipe from his pocket and stuck it in his victim's mouth.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  Meanwhile on the quay, & even for a while from the bows of the ship until an official stopped them, three or four youths, virtually naked & entrancingly wild & fearless, were diving for coins. As I sat & watched them, my pleasure & fascination evident perhaps in my gaze, a handsome young man with the immemorial flat, broad features of the Egyptian, a blue djellaba & a circular embroidered hat that made him look like an exotic afterthought of Tiepolo, sidled among the tables towards me, half-concealing behind him a battered valise. I had been thoroughly trained to expect him & his inevitable offers of fake antiquities, but as I was still alone—the others not yet having arrived at the rendezvous—& in my mood of exultant curiosity & celebration, I let him approach. The major-domo, I noticed, kept an eye out for my reaction, & when I did not object, looked at the youth in a way which suggested some sinister understanding between them, as if, the protocol of deference having been observed, I was now a legitimate victim of their antique trade. ‘You see Lesseps statue, m’sieu,’ he said, standing over me solicitously. ‘No, no,’ I replied tolerantly. ‘Is very good, m’sieu. You like. You like, I take you. Only 50 piastres. Is most instructive.’ ‘No thank you,’ I said firmly, but with an amused look, I suppose, which may have encouraged him—if encouragement were needed—to carry on. He hoisted his case up then on to the table, although I raised a hand to promise him it was no use. ‘Here is postcard picture of statue of Lesseps, m’sieu. Is most instructive & also relaxing. Also is only ten piastres.’ I bought one of these &, since we wd not go there, one of the Pharos & one of Pompey’s Pillar. Encouraged, he rummaged inside a cloth bag, & produced a small brown bottle, taking the opportunity too to pull a chair up beside me & sit down. He had a strong, not particularly pleasant smell. ‘Here is very special drink, m’sieu. Very good for you & for your lady.’ He looked at me keenly & I felt myself colour. ‘Is the cocktail of love, m’sieu. Is the wine of Cleopatra.’ ‘No, no, no,’ I said, flustered. To my surprise he was sensitive to this & put the bottle away. He seemed prepared already to give me up, afraid to overstep the mark, & packed up his case again; some other Europeans approached an adjacent table, & I was glad to be seen successfully repulsing this mountebank, fascinating & confidential though he was. Leaning forwards as though to rise, & so hiding what he did from our neighbours, he produced, almost prestidigitated, from inside his robe, from somewhere mysterious about his person, a hand of postcards which he quickly fanned & as quickly swept together again & covered.

• From Escape (2007)

  Merril began by saying, “Carolyn, I guess you are wondering why I sent for you. I’ve been thinking about that class you talked to me about last weekend. When I gave you permission to take it, I gave no thought to what you would do for a car. I’m embarrassed to say that my family doesn’t have a decent car, except the one I’m driving.” I listened, barely breathing in anticipation of what might be coming next. “It doesn’t make sense to buy a car for a two-week class. So, if you like, I’ll buy you a car now, and you can take the course and start college in the fall, or, if you are eager to get started, it’s all right for you to start this summer.” I smiled, trying to contain my emotions. I was so excited! Few women in the FLDS at that time had their own cars, and even fewer were allowed to live independently of their families. But apparently Merril was willing to do that, too. “I guess we’ll have to find you an apartment in Cedar. In considering the expense, I realized it is going to cost me nearly the same amount to send you to college as it would to send two of my daughters along with you. So I’ve decided to use this opportunity to give two of my daughters an education.” We then went into town and bought two cars—one for me and one for Merril’s daughter Nancy, who worked at Page. I would have a week more at home before school started. As Merril and Barbara were leaving on Monday morning, Barbara’s four small daughters asked him if they could sleep with me while they were gone. Millie, Barbara’s four-year-old, already did. Now her sisters wanted to, as well. The girls pleaded, and Merril relented. But I didn’t have enough space in my room for them, so Merril asked me to sleep in Barbara’s bed that week with her daughters. Seven days and counting. I agreed. I was elated and sleeping better than I had since my marriage two months before. Relief had swept over me and my future did not feel as terrifying or claustrophobic. A few days later, I was deep in sleep when someone shook me. “Carolyn, wake up. I have to talk to you.” I sat up in bed. I recognized Audrey’s voice but couldn’t see her because the room was pitch black. I flipped on a light by the bed. Audrey looked shaken. Her face seemed tense, her body, stiff. “Audrey, what’s wrong?” I said in a whisper. “Has something happened?” “Yes, something is terribly wrong. Oh, Carolyn, I have been assigned to marry someone. Father called me early today and told me.” This was shocking news. “Who are they making you marry?”

• From Escape (2007)

  The plan worked flawlessly. There was a general meeting before we broke up into our smaller classes. The big meeting never lasted very long—someone gave a short speech and a prayer. By the time it was over, our parents had already left. We girls made a beeline for the bathroom. One girl stood watch at the door, ready to give a signal if someone was coming toward the bathroom who was not part of the scheme. When the coast was clear, we’d line up next to the window, climb up, and jump out. Once we were all outside, we ran to the reservoir, protected by the darkness of the early evening. The boys did exactly the same thing from their bathroom. Once we were all at the reservoir, we were home free. This was the first time ever in our lives that we could socialize with the opposite sex in an unsupervised way. It was so much fun to be able to relax and get to know one another without any pressure. For the most part, we hung out as a group and just talked. No one tried to have a romantic relationship. Someone always kept a close eye on the time. We knew when class was supposed to end, so we’d run back to the parking lot and stand next to the car of the person who’d brought us. They always assumed our class had gotten out ahead of theirs and were never suspicious. This worked so well that more girls wanted to join our intrepid group. Boys did, too. Linda and several of her friends were pulled into our newfound freedom. Mother did begin to become suspicious because we were always determined never to miss theology. She had a hard time believing we were that hungry for the gospel because we’d never wanted to go to church to hear the sermons. Mother told our father that she thought something was up. He brushed her off. Dad was proud that we were so committed to learning how to be more like God. After the first few months of our unique “theology,” some of us had a boy whom we were attracted to and wanted to see more than three times a month. There was someone I liked at the time, but he’s still in the FLDS, so the less said the better. But a year into our ruse, one of the teachers from school was outside the building and saw us jumping out of the windows and making a mad dash for the reservoir when we were supposed to be in class. He went to my father. Another teacher spotted the boys following us. Everyone was scandalized by our behavior. Some were punished severely by their families. My father seemed both furious and brokenhearted.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Upstairs, Milton’s parents watch the news and clear away the remnants of dinner, their footsteps and the clattering of dishes in the sink like thunder. Nolan’s busy on his phone, trying to find out what their other friends are doing—there might be a party later. Woolly Christmas garlands and old coats peer at them from corners. The night is just getting started, but Milton is already a little drowsy. Low music plays, a riff on a riff on a riff of some song by the Cardigans, sped up and looped infinitely over a soft electro-synth. “You drowsing or what? It’s all this sleepy-ass music.” “I’m good, I’m good,” Milton says, and tries to sit upright on the beanbag chair, but it’s seen better days and he almost dumps himself on the floor. “How are you this wasted already?” “It’s my birthday,” Milton says. “I’ll do what I want.” “Tate and Abe say there’s a burner on the hill.” “Bet.” Burner means that there will be ten to fifteen people they vaguely know and kerosene-soaked rags torched in metal barrels. Cheap whiskey, cheap beer for the Christians. Coke, molly, and weed for the true believers. Heavy bass pumping from the mudder trucks—Kendrick and Luke Bryan in some kind of awful mash-up like a diversity poster. Tommy Boy cologne, white polos, Wallabees, and dark denim turned white in the crotch and ass from wear. Exhausting. “Unless you wanna waste a good high in your fucking basement,” Nolan says, his gaze leveled on Milton. “It’s whatever.” “You’re such a little girl sometimes.” Milton shimmies his jeans up over his basketball shorts and pulls on a gray sweater made for him by his grandmother from the wool of Sturdy Matilda, her bossy ewe. “Get up, lazy.” Nolan is already dressed in his jeans and eye-searing orange hoodie. They’re almost the same height, and people sometimes mistake them for siblings. Nolan is beige and drenched in freckles. Milton has only one black grandparent, but Nolan calls him a pale-ass nigga just the same. Milton doesn’t see a resemblance except for the parts of them that aren’t white. On his feet, Nolan punches Milton in the gut, then bounds up the stairs. Milton stomps after him, grabbing at his heels. They emerge into the back hall, and Nolan jerks the door open and sprints out through the garage to the safety of the driveway. Milton catches sight of his mother in the living room. “Where you boys off to?” The gentle music of her voice makes Milton shift awkwardly near the door. He rests his hand on the outside knob. She’s folding a thick blanket. “The hill, I guess.” “Make sure you’re back before too late.” There’s something else, he knows, but she won’t bring it up. “All right, yes, ma’am,” he says. “Milton,” his father says from the kitchen. The news plays through the ending credits. Wheel of Fortune will be on soon.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  It’s all this sleepy-ass music.” “I’m good, I’m good,” Milton says, and tries to sit upright on the beanbag chair, but it’s seen better days and he almost dumps himself on the floor. “How are you this wasted already?” “It’s my birthday,” Milton says. “I’ll do what I want.” “Tate and Abe say there’s a burner on the hill.” “Bet.” Burner means that there will be ten to fifteen people they vaguely know and kerosene-soaked rags torched in metal barrels. Cheap whiskey, cheap beer for the Christians. Coke, molly, and weed for the true believers. Heavy bass pumping from the mudder trucks—Kendrick and Luke Bryan in some kind of awful mash-up like a diversity poster. Tommy Boy cologne, white polos, Wallabees, and dark denim turned white in the crotch and ass from wear. Exhausting. “Unless you wanna waste a good high in your fucking basement,” Nolan says, his gaze leveled on Milton. “It’s whatever.” “You’re such a little girl sometimes.” Milton shimmies his jeans up over his basketball shorts and pulls on a gray sweater made for him by his grandmother from the wool of Sturdy Matilda, her bossy ewe. “Get up, lazy.” Nolan is already dressed in his jeans and eye-searing orange hoodie. They’re almost the same height, and people sometimes mistake them for siblings. Nolan is beige and drenched in freckles. Milton has only one black grandparent, but Nolan calls him a pale-ass nigga just the same. Milton doesn’t see a resemblance except for the parts of them that aren’t white. On his feet, Nolan punches Milton in the gut, then bounds up the stairs. Milton stomps after him, grabbing at his heels. They emerge into the back hall, and Nolan jerks the door open and sprints out through the garage to the safety of the driveway. Milton catches sight of his mother in the living room. “Where you boys off to?” The gentle music of her voice makes Milton shift awkwardly near the door. He rests his hand on the outside knob. She’s folding a thick blanket. “The hill, I guess.” “Make sure you’re back before too late.” There’s something else, he knows, but she won’t bring it up. “All right, yes, ma’am,” he says. “Milton,” his father says from the kitchen. The news plays through the ending credits. Wheel of Fortune will be on soon. His father’s tall and solid. He watches Milton over his glasses and that long straight nose of his. “Sir?” Milton asks. Nolan kicks a pinecone from foot to foot at the end of the driveway. Milton waits for his father to say what he needs to say. “Having a good one?” “Yes, Pop,” Milton says. “I am.” “Get back safe.” “Yes, Pop.” “Milton.” “Yep?”

• From Escape (2007)

  I listened to the girls explain how an elderly man who was looking for an additional wife kept coming to the young ladies’ section to shop around. None of the young girls ever wanted to dance with an old man. It was frowned upon for a girl to dance more than one dance with a young boy. She also could refuse to dance with a young man if she had no interest. But a girl could never refuse the attentions of an older or even elderly man. This was considered to be one of the most disrespectful things one of us could do. These were the rules of engagement. But there was no rule against a stampede. So when someone saw an elderly man heading toward our section, she gave a signal and all the girls ran out the door. If a girl was distracted or not paying attention, she could find herself left behind. That was what happened to Laura. We all felt so sorry for her, but thankfully, she didn’t have to marry that old man. We streamed back into the dance hall once we knew the threat had passed. The young boys would be waiting near the door and we’d usually be asked to dance right away. The music that was played was the same music that the saints danced to when they first came to Salt Lake in the nineteenth century. We danced to waltzes and other slow music. Dances were one of the most exciting nights in the community for us. This was the only time we were ever allowed to be near boys our own age. We were closely watched and monitored and would get into trouble if we danced too much with the same person. We had to dress appropriately, which meant modest and simple clothes. Girls could wear some makeup and dresses, but only ones that were not too tight and didn’t have necklines that were too low. Shiny fabrics and loud colors were unacceptable. Boys wore ties, dress shirts, and slacks. Jeans were not allowed. The dances were also another time when the bitter split that had divided the community was ignored. We were free to dance with anyone. I was beginning to notice boys and realize that there were some I liked so much more than others. Boys were noticing me, too. Linda had always been very popular. I became more so in the eighth grade when I got a big part in a school play.