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 85 of 182 · 20 per page

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  “By the way,” she suddenly confided rather knowingly, “let me congratulate you. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Ginou talk like that about any boy. She’s a reasonable girl, and one who is well aware of her own charm. That’s why she never does anything silly. Well, she mentioned your name to me six times in six days of summer camp, and even told me all about how she had dreamed about you. I think she would be ready to allow you to sit in the front row, just beyond the footlights of the stage where she gives her personal appearances.” I knew how much Mina enjoyed all kinds of go-between business. It gave her a chance to exercise her catty tongue and her foxy mind. That was why everyone was a bit scared of her but quite willing to use her services once in a while. So although I only shrugged my shoulders, I decided that she couldn’t be inventing all of it. True, she helped people to fall into each other’s arms, but she never brought couples together at random. Anyhow, I was too much interested and flattered by what she hinted at, and that alone excited me, though I tried to force myself to act as if I didn’t care much. So I threw the ball back toward her, carelessly at that, so that it fell without much of a splash on the crest of a lazy wave, borne almost to the shore, and then immediately lost again in the light foam. The sea was like us, content to play languidly with the tips of its fingers. But Mina insisted: “Still, Ginou’s a wonderful kid. You know, she’s my best friend, and she really dreamed about you.” Ginou, also called Jeannette, was playing ball over the breakwater just beyond ours; she was the only girl there, in a crowd of five boys. She was petite, plump, as perfectly proportioned as if an artist had created her, bursting with health, her cheeks rosy, her lips red, eyes blue, almost like a celluloid doll. Whenever she won a point in the game, she shouted out her joy; but when her opponent scored she threw the ball right at his head, splashed around in the water, clapped her hands, put on a real three-ring circus with all her excitement and byplay, a show indeed for the boys who were with her. “She’s a bit of a minx,” added Mina. “Watch her now! You had better be careful, boy. Anyhow, good luck!” I pretended to be surprised and annoyed: “What on earth do you think you’re talking about? You’re even crazier than usual.”

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  I mentioned an example from nature, too. It follows. Though metaphors of the mind of God are characterized by coincidence and repetition, examples from nature aren’t as tidy. Nature is senseless and violent. So this part of the story is violent, and because it’s senseless, too, it’s not from the point of view of any of the protagonists. It features a minor character. Mike Williams. The ice had built up on every surface, on roofs and shrubs and avenues and cars and waterways. It formed a glittering and immense cocoon on tree limbs and power lines, a cocoon of impossible mass. The sound of tree limbs giving out under this weight was like the crackling of gunfire. Mike Williams, who was wandering around in the earliest part of dawn, heard these explosions in the stillness and laughed giddily at them. He was up really late. The threat of heavy weather impelled him out into the elements. To watch. Danny Spofford’s had been his first destination, up on Mill Road; Mike walked up Silvermine. When the occasional vehicle skidded past, he hid. The Conrads’ AMC Gremlin went by. Somebody in a Corvette. It took a while to get to the Spoffords’ on foot. When he got there, though, he and Danny stayed up watching television—Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert—until the electricity went off. Then they became inventive, resourceful and inventive, as though the storm could in some way end all conversation, all teenaged fraternity. As though they only had a little time left. They began to counsel one another on what sexual intercourse would really be like. Fucking. At one point, Danny went into the kitchen and fetched a jar of strawberry jam out of the dormant refrigerator, Shopwell brand jam, into which he slid his middle finger. In an effort to simulate the velvet interior of a woman’s reproductive apparatus. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, licking the jam from his fuck finger, Danny Spofford said that if it was going to be like that he wanted to do it right away. —Pop the cherry, Charles. Mike, of course, had experienced more of this than he was letting on. He was a Casanova. But since Danny Spofford was homely, since he was a kid with a big beak and a sloping forehead, ears that stuck out too far, Mike didn’t want to insult him with too much experience. Not right away. But then as the night got deeper and colder and they wrapped themselves tighter in the blankets and quilts that Danny’s dad had piled up on the old couch in the basement, Mike started to tell Danny about Wendy Hood. —That slut? Danny Spofford said. —Hey, you don’t know her. Don’t say that. —A harlot, Charles. She’s a lesbee. You’re not gonna tell me— —You don’t get it, Spud.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The posters on the dragon’s cheeks announced two Tom Mix films and one Rin-Tin-Tin. We were used to this, but we never tired of exulting in the triumphs of our wonderful cowboy. We joined him in his pursuit of the stagecoach that contained the gold and the exquisite blond heroine and was being driven away by bandits. How could one remain a passive spectator when faced with such sublime excitements? We threw ourselves into the scuffles and added to the rhythm of the galloping horses by stamping our feet on the floor; we pulled at the reins with our hero and roared with joy or disappointment. For a few minutes, we all forgot our individual fears and hatreds and became a single unit in the noisy expression of our emotions. We entered the hall slowly, quietly. I was sorry the policeman had not come in with us, because the crowd’s savagery soon revealed itself again. My seat was in the second row and so close to the screen that I would certainly come away with an aching back, a headache, and a stiff neck. The Kursaal, in spite of its majestic name, smelled of wine. But the magic of its silver screen, brightened by a frame of darkness, and the mystery of its little blue lights, even its odor — a special mixture of disinfectant, damp, and human emanations — made me ecstatic. The impatient audience was already overexcited, stamped rhythmically on the floor and began to whistle. But the projecting staff was used to their outbursts and ignored the cries of: “Come on! Let’s go! We want the picture! Give us our money back!” Soon, however, the fickle occupants of the reserved stalls lost interest in shouting and turned their energy on us, the Jews, who sat crowded together. A shower of beans and gourd seeds began to fall on my head. Because humiliation was my daily bread, I believed for a long time that all stories which tell of heroic action resulting from humiliation were either exaggerated or completely false. Our skin was thick and, if we weren’t stung too deeply, we could bear it: we could manage to continue enjoying ourselves, as people can who are pestered by flies. But, that day, the show was delayed and the ingenuity of our tormentors became excessively inventive and went beyond a mere sting. In the gloom, they had the bright idea of striking matches and tossing them over us. Our real fears delighted them and they roared with joy each time they threw a match. Meanwhile, we tried to save ourselves by ducking down in our seats and heard them call: “Kiki! Kiki!” — which is, for them, the nickname of all Jews. Sickened by my own impotence, crushed under the weight of blind and anonymous injustice, I could have burst into tears from disgust and rage.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Yes, I know well that unpleasant but voluptuous tremor. Before going to grade school, I used to go to the kouttab, the Hebrew cheder school in our neighborhood, where every morning the rabbi used to make us repeat aloud and in chorus the prayers of the Jewish faith. We used to make a fine noise, which any surprised wanderer in our part of town may yet hear if he goes into the heart of the ghetto. Out of the windows of the chedarim the voices escape toward freedom, a cacophony of the tones of fifty children of all ages as they repeat constantly, in every kind of nasal singsong, a mysterious text that is meaningless to the listener outside and, it would seem, to the children themselves. One morning, as he had to go away, the rabbi entrusted the supervision of the class to the oldest among the boys, who submissively promised to watch us carefully: “Yes, Rabbi, yes...,” repeating this after each one of the rabbi’s remarks, so that our collective recitation continued: “Yes, Rabbi...,” without being interrupted once until he returned, “Yes, Rabbi...”; only the smaller boys were to be allowed to leave the room to go to the toilet, the older boys only in extremely urgent cases; nothing in the old synagogue that served us as a kouttab was to be touched; our new supervisor would be allowed to report to the rabbi all those among us who were guilty of breaking any rule, and they would be punished with ten strokes of the cane on the soles of the feet — ”Yes, Rabbi. Yes, Rabbi. Yes, Rabbi...“ We all listened carefully, sneaking glances of complicity at one another and anticipation for the gala of wild jubilation that we would soon be celebrating. The rabbi’s gouty foot may still have been on the last step of the narrow and steep stone staircase that twisted and turned before leading straight into the street downstairs, when a wild clamor rose throughout the cheder. We jumped up so hastily from our wooden seats that they toppled over onto our heels. Those of us who were seated on the floor on esparto-grass mats climbed in turn onto the benches and chairs. We all began to shout as if only to prove to ourselves that our voices were still capable of producing other euphonic sounds besides the monotonous singing of the prayers we were there to learn. Never had the old synagogue’s walls resounded to such a collective hymn of joy.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  In their eyes, as in my own, my entering high school acquired the importance of an introduction into society, which it actually turned out to be, even more than I had guessed. Our alley and the Alliance School belonged to one society, but the European sections of town and the high school to another. Above all, I was now setting forth on the adventure that leads to knowledge. I sometimes think back now, with horror, on the darkness in which I might have been forced to live, and I then consider the many aspects of the universe that I might never have come to know. I would not even have dreamed of their existence, like some deep-sea fish that remain ignorant of the very existence of light. Knowledge was the very origin, perhaps, of all the rifts and frustrations that have become apparent in my life. I might have been happier as a Jew of the ghetto, still believing confidently in his God and the Sacred Books, devoting his Sabbaths to the fun of pilpul distinctions of Talmudic right and wrong, flouting tiny details of the sacred edifice of the Law but never going beyond the approved limits of the game. But I could only see, in those days, the element of new adventure, and I approached it violently and full of confidence, sure that I had everything to gain. All my family difficulties, from now on, took on the appearance of unworthy worries. I had the whole world to conquer. A month later, I successfully passed the scholarship examinations that relieved me of almost all the school fees, much to Monsieur Bismuth’s satisfaction. The city high school isn’t free, which of course reduces one’s chances of being admitted to it. I was less brilliant in the exams for the school certificate than had been expected: I was too confident and, carried away by the impetus of my enthusiasm, had already embarked, in my mind at least, on my high school career. ~ 8. THE DRUGGIST ~ It was only after the summer holidays that Monsieur Bismuth was at last free to see me. I had to wait a long while in the crowd of his customers. The drugstore was luxurious, its windows framed in chromium-plated nickel, the walls painted a light color, the chairs upholstered in leather. On the walls the many framed sheepskins testified to the eminent merits of the owner of the store and to his successes in several pharmaceutical contests. I felt sincerely happy on Monsieur Bismuth’s behalf, and somewhat proud too, as if I shared his glory. Wasn’t my future henceforth bound, in a way, with that of Monsieur Bismuth and of his achievements? Didn’t I now depend to some extent on his prosperity? I gazed in a friendly mood at the faces of his employees, as if I were silently introducing myself: “I’ll be coming here often and you’ll often see me here again.”

• From Henry and June (1986)

  The room is softly lighted and the bed low and ample. The women are cheerful, and they wash themselves. How the taste for things must wear down with so much automatism. We watch the big woman tie a penis on herself, a rosy thing, a caricature. And they take poses, nonchalantly, professionally. Arabian, Spanish, Parisienne, love when one does not have the price of a hotel room, love in a taxi, love when one of the partners is sleepy . . . Hugo and I look on, laughing a little at their sallies. We learn nothing new. It is all unreal, until I ask for the lesbian poses. The little woman loves it, loves it better than the man’s approach. The big woman reveals to me a secret place in the woman’s body, a source of a new joy, which I had sometimes sensed but never definitely—that small core at the opening of the woman’s lips, just what the man passes by. There, the big woman works with the flicking of her tongue. The little woman closes her eyes, moans, and trembles in ecstasy. Hugo and I lean over them, taken by that moment of loveliness in the little woman, who offers to our eyes her conquered, quivering body. Hugo is in turmoil. I am no longer woman; I am man. I am touching the core of June’s being. I become aware of Hugo’s feelings and say, “Do you want the woman? Take her. I swear to you I won’t mind, darling.” “I could come with anybody just now,” he answers. The little woman is lying still. Then they are up and joking and the moment passes. Do I want . . . ? They unfasten my jacket; I say no, I don’t want anything. I couldn’t have touched them. Only a minute of beauty—the small woman’s heaving, her hands caressing the other woman’s head. That moment alone stirred my blood with another desire. If we had been a little madder . . . But the room seemed dirty to us. We walked out. Dizzy. Joyous. Elated. We went to dance at the Bal Nègre. One fear was over. Hugo was liberated. We had understood each other’s feelings. Together. Arm in arm. A mutual generosity. I was not jealous of the little woman Hugo had desired. But Hugo thought, “What if there had been a man . . .” So we don’t know yet. All we know is that the evening was beautifully carried off. I had been able to give Hugo a portion of the joy that filled me. And when we returned home, he adored my body because it was lovelier than what he had seen and we sank into sensuality together with new realization. We are killing phantoms.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The orders of the principal required immediate execution, so I stood up at once and left the room, my knees already weak. I walked across the yard that was strangely empty at this hour, though intensely alive with the concealed presence of a thousand silent children. This magic silence, the unbelievable concentrate of a thousand shouts, was ready, I felt, to explode in all directions as soon as Graziani’s bell should ring. But all the demons were still safely bottled up, and only I was free to walk between the two rows of giant eucalyptus trees. A freedom that went to my head, magical, with the whole universe obeying me at that moment; the freedom of the first few days of vacation, or of an adventurer taking off and abandoning his country to its rhythm of everyday life, the office workers at their desk jobs, the workers in their plants, the children in their schools. As I crossed the yard that I had never seen so silent and went by the windows of the classrooms where all my classmates watched me with envy, their arms crossed, I felt privileged indeed, with a great adventure beginning ahead of me. For the first time in my life, I opened the glass-paneled door of the principal’s office and saw him writing at his desk. I was now within the sacred precincts and all my gestures were therefore slow and studied, as if for a ritual. I was careful to close the door and progressed slowly across three platforms or stages, end to end. The desk of Monsieur Louzel was placed at the end of the third, at the far end of the room, against the wall. Three black cabinets, some framed reproductions in black and white, and black curtains. Behind Monsieur Louzel, a bay window revealed a tiny garden that seemed full with a single green banana tree and one aloe tree that somehow tempered the schoollike severity, so solemn and cold, of this room. With a gesture of his hand, the principal invited me to be seated, then he got up to fetch my file from one of the cabinets. I stole a glance at him, full of admiration. His hair was spotlessly white, of a fine silky white, and gave him a distinguished air. He was, I feel, a bit histrionic, but with sincerity, out of an awareness of his function and his importance in our eyes. He always impressed us because of his perfect diction and polished manners that represented, for us, the real Frenchman from metropolitan France whose prestige remains undiminished. My various instructors and he too, the principal informed me, had noted my uninterrupted successes and had decided to reward them. So I had been proposed as candidate for the annual school scholarship. It is wrong to think that a child of twelve cannot grasp the importance of a decisive moment in his own life.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  We were already going ahead with the application of our plans and biting into the future. I assumed an attentive and preoccupied look, ready to rush wherever he would send me. Monsieur Bismuth, the well-known druggist, was going to be, it seemed, my paying sponsor. Yes, I knew his drugstore well, though I had never met Monsieur Bismuth: a modern storefront, spacious display windows, with neon lighting at night. A stout thread of gold now bound me to the city. The principal began to speak to me in detail about my sponsor; a son of poor parents, who had been a courageous and hard worker, with the community scholarship coming to bring recognition to his merits, and here he was a wealthy man, an honored member of the community, the owner of the finest drugstore in our part of the country. “Let him be your inspiration,” concluded Monsieur Louzel. “Your destinies have much in common, and I hope, for you, that they’ll continue to have as much in common.” Abandoning his histrionic manner to become almost paternal, the principal then asked me: “What do you want to be?” “A physician,” I answered, without any hesitation. “Well, if you continue to study as hard as you have been, we’ll make a physician of you.” He then dismissed me, and I went again across the three stages, opened the glass-paneled door, closed it carefully. To me, it seemed as if I were awakening from a dream. But unlike those awakenings when one is seized with the irresistible desire to check on the real existence of one’s treasure, my own gold was here with me: magically, my dream had acquired a body. The school principal, Monsieur Bismuth, the influential druggist, the Alliance Israélite Universelle, the whole of the Jewish community of Tunis had decided that it must come true. This was no time for self-satisfied jubilation. My destiny pushed me ahead: I was expected. So I hurried across the yard, without paying any attention to the benevolent eucalyptus trees, to the big bronze bell that waited there, patient and almost motherly, to the sidelong glances of all my classmates indoors. I climbed the old wooden staircase four steps at a time. As I feverishly gathered my things together, I felt on me the gaze of all my classmates. They were perhaps astonished to see me summoned like this by the principal; perhaps Monsieur Marzouk had announced to them my new and sudden glory. But I was sure that they all stared at me. So as not to have to compete against this general lack of concentration in the class, Monsieur Marzouk interrupted his teaching. In the silence that ensued, my heart beat cheerfully, with big, heavy beats, as if it were dancing.

• From Vox (1992)

  And then the last time I turn my head, there’s nothing I can do, my mouth is just buried in your pubic hair, and I breathe through it, I fill it with warmth, and I open my mouth more, and I bring my tongue out, and I start low, and the underside of my tongue is touching my lower teeth, and I lick slowly upwards, until I reach the place where the skin is more folded, and I find that beautiful clitoris, and I move over it with my tongue, and then when I’ve found it I close my mouth and sort of burrow my way into you so that all your pubic hair is away from my mouth, and my mouth is entirely around your clit, and I hold my hands very high on the insides of your thighs, feeling those stretched tendons, so you feel how wide apart you are, and I suck the skin around your clitoris into my mouth, like I did with your nipple, so that you feel it drawn into my mouth, and when you feel it drawn in I take my tongue, very high, right at the base of your clitoris, where I can feel that little ridge beginning, and I start to go back and forth over it, back and forth slowly over it, and you feel the tip of my tongue traveling down toward the part where it’s hotter, and then I reach the very full part of your clitoris, and you pull your hips in slightly and readjust to that feeling, and I cup my hands under your ass and lift you into my mouth and just suck on you, and I shake my whole head back and forth very fast, as if I’m saying, no, no, no, but I’m saying yes to your clit with my tongue.” “Oh, I’m going to come soon. Put your cock in me, I want to think about your cock in me.” “Are your legs spread apart?” “Yes.” “Oh, and you’re stroking that clit?” “Yes.” “Okay, so I’d take one last long up-lick on your pussy and then I’d straighten up, and I’d still be cupping your ass in my hands, and you’d be completely visible by now, wide open, sopping wet, and I’d take my cock in one hand and kind of vibrate it over your clit, and you’d slide your hands down and hold your lips apart with your fingers, and then I’d push my cock down and I’d feel how hot you were and I’d have to slide myself slowly all the way in, and then I’d pull almost all the way out again and slide in, into that nice nasturtium, and each time I pulled out I’d be able to see your hand circling your clit, and I’d slide in until my pubic bone thumped against you, and I’d watch your breasts move each time I reached this limit, and we would be fucking, sliding in and out …” “Oh!” “And your finger would be flying over your clit, your hand would be lifted and your finger would be flying back and forth, and I’d have your asscheeks cupped in both my hands, so you could feel a pulling on your asshole, and I would be sliding with long strokes out, and in, and out, and in, and I’d see your tits moving each time …” “Oh! Oh! ” “Oh, I’m starting to come for you, my cock is pumping inside you …” “Oh! Nnnnnnnn!

• From Vox (1992)

  On an impulse, I bought a People magazine, too. So then we went back to the car, and the great lucky thing was, I’d been able to park craftily not right in front of the discount store, but to one side, a little ways down—we were driving in my car—and I’d parked almost directly in front of this video spot. The place hadn’t been too noticeable when we’d driven in, but now that it was darker it had the flashing lights on, video video video, it was the brightest thing in the whole mall. So I opened the door for her, and she got in, and I handed her the blanket in this enormous bag, and I said, ‘Hang on, I’ll be right back,’ and I darted into the video place and went to the adult section that they had sequestered away and I started looking over the boxes. I was out of breath, and my senses were so hyper-alert, I was scanning the boxes for ‘Atom’ ‘Atom’ ‘Atom.’ I knew I had to get only one single film, the right film, which seemed impossible, but I could feel myself surging forward on this irresistible surge of luck, and I found a couple of ‘Atom’ productions among all the Caballero Controls and the Cal Vistas and all the other little companies, and I rented this thing called Pleasure So Deep . I mean the title reeked of translation, it was perfect. I signed up for membership, rented the movie, was back in the car in five minutes. Emily was there leafing calmly through the People magazine. She said, ‘What did you get?’ and I said, ‘It’s called Pleasure So Deep.’ She made this little ‘Oh!’ and she said, ‘And you’re going to watch that tonight?’ I said, ‘Yes, I have to, I need to commit myself to a situation, you’ve totally convinced me.’ And she said, ‘Tell me again, so I have it clear in my mind. What you’re advertising for is a woman who wants to sit on the couch next to you and watch this movie and masturbate, right?’ She put her hand lightly on the box holding the tape. I said ‘Yep’ and she said, ‘Just that, nothing else, only that, nothing beside that, right?’ And I said, ‘Yes, just that. And I think I really have a shot at formulating the ad that will find someone who wants to do that, thanks to you. You helped me pick out the right blanket, and I think now I’ve got the right tape …’ Then I hesitated, and I said, ‘I think I’ve got the right tape, but still—that’s worrying me now. How will I know that the tape is really right, and which specific scenes on it are the ones …?’

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  I felt exhilarated by the presence of so many sophisticated adults: the woman in a black turtleneck examining Either/Or ; Morris playing efficient behind the cash register and conspicuously effacing himself like a glamourpuss actress in a nun film; Tex tapping his cigarette in a Ricard ashtray, his fear of bankruptcy temporarily pushed aside; and this successful New York heterosexual who might tolerate me in his bed. Tex introduced us. The man’s first name was Lester and the last something Russian that ended in “iak.” He wore horn-rims that he kept taking off as he spoke or examined a book, as though they served no function other than rhetorical. He wore a shaggy coat as a metonym for the hair I felt certain must cover his entire body. He had the bulging forehead, shaggy brows, and strong jaw of Beethoven in the hand-size, chalky busts that my childhood piano teacher, Herr Pogner, doled out to students as prizes. And now Tex had proposed this New York Beethoven as a prize for me, someone I’d be allowed to service later as he reclined on the anonymous hotel bed, his thoughts winging back to the East Coast a full day before his heavier body. Surely this man had no need of me. Surely Beethoven was entirely self-reliant. At that time I had a horrible brush cut my father had chosen for me, neither long enough to comb nor short enough to be marine-sexy, and I wore not ivy-league horn-rims but thick black glasses that girls said made me look “intellectual,” a dubious compliment in the 1950s. Although Tex had assured me only the other day that New Yorkers prized intelligence, I wasn’t sure mine could be counted on. It didn’t feel like a thing in our very thinglike world, a world where identity began with the choice of massive automobile (my mother was a “gay divorcee” as could be seen from her powder-blue Buick convertible with its upholstery outlined in red piping; my father was “no-comment” rich in his midnight-blue Cadillac). I asked the man what he thought of the Kierkegaard boom. He mouthed the word boom and picked up another book. I was left standing there. But then, despite or maybe because of the rebuff, it became more and more important to me that he be aware of me, realize that I was “feeling gay tonight.” I kept standing next to him, like a horse whose bridle has been dropped. I picked up a book and turned the pages without seeing them. I inched closer to him and let my shoulder brush his. He stood there taking it, until suddenly he looked up, frowned, put the book back, and moved away. For the next hour I kept inching close to Lester while maintaining a space between our shoulders or stationing myself in the next aisle face-to-face with him over bookshelves. If he caught my glittering eye he’d smile the pained smile reserved for possibly crazy people.

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  Lili shook with laughter from chin to thigh. ‘If it weren’t for that, you’d get married yourself just to give me the lie? I know - it’s not so hard to get married! Why, I’d marry Guido like a shot, if only he were of age! ’ ‘Not possible!’ gasped Charlotte, so taken aback that she forgot her anger. ‘But, of course ... Princess Ceste, my dear! la piccola principessaf Piccolaprincipessa, that’s what my little Prince always calls me!’ She nipped hold of her skirt, and, in turning, displayed a gold curb-chain where her ankle ought to have been. ‘ Only/ she continued mysteriously, ‘his father ...* By now out of breath, she made a sign to the silent young man, who took up the tale in a low rapid voice as if he were reciting his piece: ‘My father, the Duke of Parese, threatens to put me in a convent if I marry Lili.* ‘In a convent! * Charlotte Peloux squealed. ‘A man in a convent! * ‘A man in a convent!* neighed Madame de la Berche in her deep bass, ‘Egad! if that isn’t exciting!* ‘They’re barbarians/ Aldonza lamented, joining her misshapen hands together. Lea rose so abruptly that she upset a glass. ‘It’s uncoloured glass/ Madame Peloux observed with satisfaction. ‘You’ll bring good luck to my young couple. Where are you running off to? Is your house on fire?* Lea managed to squeeze out a sly little laugh: ‘ On fire? In a sense, perhaps. Ssh! no questions! It’s a secret.’ ‘What? Already? ItN not possible!’ Charlotte Peloux cheeped enviously. ‘I was just saying to myself that you looked as if ...’ ‘Yes, yes! You must tell us! Tell us everything/ yapped the three old women. Lili’s quilted fists, old Aldonza’s deformed stumps, Charlotte Peloux’s hard fingers had seized upon her wrist, her sleeve, her goldmesh bag. She snatched her arm away from all these claws and succeeded in laughing again, teasingly: ‘No, it’s far too early in the day, it would spoil everything! It’s my secret.* And she rushed away to the hall. But the door opened in front of her and a desiccated old fellow, a sort of playful mummy, took her into his arms: ‘ Lea, lovely creature, a kiss for your little Berthellemy, or he won’t let you pass! * She gave a cry of fright and impatience, struck off the gloved bones retarding her progress, and fled. Neither in the avenues of Neuilly, nor on the roads through the Bois, turning to blue in the fast-falling twilight, did she allow herself a moment’s reflection. She shivered slightly and pulled up the windows of the motor-car. She felt restored by the sight of her clean house, the comfort of her pink bedroom and boudoir, overcrowded with furniture and flowers. . * Quick, Rose, light the Are in my room!’

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  Shaved, shod, and impatient - he had been up since eight - Cheri shook Desmond. Sleep gave him a swollen look, livid and quite frightful, like a drowned man. ‘Desmond! Hey, Desmond! Up you get. ... You look too hideous when you’re asleep!’ The sleeper woke, sat up, and turned towards Cheri eyes the colour of clouded water. He pretended to be fuddled with sleep so that he could make a long and close examination of Cheri — Cheri dressed in blue, pathetic, superb, and pale under the lightest coat of powder. There were still moments when Desmond felt painfully aware of the contrast between his ugly mask and Cheri’s good looks. He pretended to give a long yawn. “What’s he up to now?” he wondered. “The idiot is in far better looks than yesterday - especially his eyelashes, and what eyelashes he has ...” He was staring at the lustrous sweep of Cheri’s thick lashes and the shadow they shed on the dark pupils and bluish whites of his eyes. Desmond noticed also that, this morning, the contemptuously arched lips were moist and fresh, and that he was breathing through them as if he had just that moment finished making love. Quickly he relegated his jealousy to the back of his mind — where he kept his personal feelings - and asked Cheri in tones of weary condescension: * May one enquire whether you are going out at this hour of the morning, or just coming in?* ‘I’m going out,’ Cheri said. * Don’t worry about me. I’m off shopping. I’m going to the florist’s, the jeweller’s, to my mother’s, to my wife’s, to ...’ ‘Don’t forget the Papal Nuncio!’ ‘I know what’s what,’ Cheri answered. ‘He shall have some imitation gold studs and a sheaf of orchids.’ It was rare for Cheri to respond to jokes: he usually accepted them in stony silence. His facetious reply proved that he was pleased with himself, and revealed this unaccustomed mood to Desmond. He studied Cheri’s reflection in the looking-glass, noted the pallor of his dilated nostrils, observed that his eyes were continually on the rove, and ventured to put the most discreet of questions. ‘Will you be coming back for luncheon? ... Hey, Cheri, I’m speaking to you. Are we lunching together? ’ Cheri answered by shaking his head. He whistled softly, arranging himself in front of the pier-glass so that it framed his figure exactly like the one between the two windows in Lea’s room — the one which would soon frame in its heavy gold, against a sunny pink background, the reflection of his body - naked or loosely draped in silk — the magnificent picture of a young man, handsome, loved, happy, and pampered, playing with the rings and necklaces of his mistress. “Perhaps her young man’s reflection is already there, in L6a’s looking-glass!” This sudden thought cut so fiercely into his exhilaration that it dazed him, and he fancied he had heard it actually spoken.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Smith, I found, had got books for me, Latin and Greek-English dictionaries, a Tacitus too and Xenophon’s Memorabilia with a Greek grammar: I insisted on paying for them all and then he began to talk. Tacitus he just praised for his superb phrases and the great portrait of Tiberius—“perhaps the greatest historical portrait ever painted in words.” I had a sort of picture of King Edward the Fourth in my romantic head, but didn’t venture to trot it out. But soon, Smith passed to Xenophon and his portrait of Socrates as compared with that of Plato. I listened all ears while he read out a passage from Xenophon, painting Socrates with little human touches: I got him to translate every word literally and had a great lesson, resolving when I got home, I’d learn the whole page by heart. Smith was more than kind to me: he said I’d be able to enter the Junior Class and thus have only two years to graduation. If Willie gave me back even five hundred dollars, I’d be able to get through without care or work. Then Smith told me how he had gone to Germany after his American University: how he had studied there and then worked in Athens at ancient Greek for another year till he could talk classic Greek as easily as German. “There were a few dozen Professors and students” he said, “who met regularly and talked nothing but classic Greek: they were always trying to make the modern tongue just like the old.” He gave me a translation of “Das Kapital” of Marx, and in fifty ways inspired and inspirited me to renewed effort. I came back to the Gregorys for dinner and discussed in my own mind whether I should go to Mrs. Mayhew’s as I had promised or work at Greek: I decided to work and then and there made a vow always to prefer work, a vow more honored in the breach, I fear, than in the observance. But at least I wrote to Mrs. Mayhew excusing myself and promising her the next afternoon. Then I set myself to learn by heart the two pages in the “Memorabilia.” That evening I sat near the end of the table; the head of it was taken by the University Professor of Physics, a dull pedant! Every time Kate came near me I was ceremoniously polite: “Thank you very much! It is very kind of you!” and not a word more. As soon as I could, I went to my room to work. Next day at three o’clock I knocked at Mrs. Mayhew’s: she opened the door herself: I cried, “how kind of you” and once in the room drew her to me and kissed her time and time again: she seemed cold and numb.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Stackpole told the Head that I would be a good Shylock: Fawcett to my amazement didn’t want to play the Jew: he found it difficult even to learn the part, and finally it was given to me. I was particularly elated for I felt sure I could make a great hit. One day my sympathy with the bullied got me a friend. The Vicar’s son Edwards was a nice boy of fourteen who had grown rapidly and was not strong. A brute of sixteen in the Upper Fifth was twisting his arm and hitting him on the writhen muscle and Edwards was trying hard not to cry. “Leave him alone, Johnson”, I said, “why do you bully?” “You ought to have a taste of it”, he cried, letting Edwards go, however. “Don’t try it on if you’re wise”, I retorted. “Pat would like us to speak to him”, he sneered and turned away. I shrugged my shoulders. Edwards thanked me warmly for rescuing him and I asked him to come for a walk. He accepted and our friendship began, a friendship memorable for bringing me one novel and wonderful experience. The Vicarage was a large house with a good deal of ground about it. Edwards had some sisters but they were too young to interest me; the French governess, on the other hand, Mlle. Lucille, was very attractive with her black eyes and hair and quick, vivacious manner. She was of medium height and not more than eighteen. I made up to her at once and tried to talk French with her from the beginning. She was very kind to me and we got on together at once. She was lonely, I suppose, and I began well by telling her she was the prettiest girl in the whole place and the nicest. She translated nicest, I remember, as la plus chic. The next half-holiday Edwards went into the house for something. I told her I wanted a kiss, and she said: “You’re only a boy, mais gentil”, and she kissed me. When my lips dwelt on hers, she took my head in her hands, pushed it away and looked at me with surprise. “You are a strange boy”, she said musingly. The next holiday I spent at the Vicarage. I gave her a little French love-letter I had copied from a book in the school library and I was delighted when she read it and nodded at me, smiling, and tucked it away in her bodice: “near her heart” I said to myself, but I had no chance even of a kiss for Edwards always hung about. But late one afternoon he was called away by his mother for something, and my opportunity came.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “You look at me strangely!” she said swinging round from the long mirror with a challenge on her parted lips. I made some inane remark: I couldn’t trust myself to speak frankly; but natural sympathy drew us together. I told her I was going to be a student and she wanted to know whether I could dance: I told her I could not, and she promised to teach me: “Lily Robins, a neighbor’s girl, will play for us any afternoon. Do you know the steps?” she went on and when I said “No”: she got up from the sofa, held up her dress and showed me the three polka steps which she said were the waltz steps too, only taken on a glide. “What pretty ankles! you have”, I ventured; but she appeared not to hear me. We sat on and on and I learned that she was very lonely: Mr. Mayhew away every night and nearly all day and nothing to do in that little dead-and-alive place. “Will you let me come in for a talk sometimes?” I asked: “Whenever you wish”, was her answer. As I rose to go and we were standing opposite to each other by the door, I said: “You know, Mrs. Mayhew, in Europe when a man brings a pretty woman home, she rewards him with a kiss—” “Really?” she scoffed, smiling, “That’s not a custom here.” “Are you less generous than they are?” I asked and the next moment I had taken her face in my hands and kissed her on the lips. She put her hands on my shoulders and left her eyes on mine: “We’re going to be friends”, she said, “I felt it when I saw you: don’t stay away too long!” “Will you see me tomorrow afternoon?” I asked: “I want that dance lesson!” “Surely” she replied, “I’ll tell Lily in the morning.” And once more our hands met: I tried to draw her to me for another kiss; but she held back with a smiling—“tomorrow afternoon!” “Tell me your name”, I begged, “so that I may think of it.” “Lorna” she replied, “you funny boy!” and I went my way with pulses hammering, blood aflame and hope in my heart. Next morning I called again upon Smith; but the pretty servant, “Rose”, she said her name was, told me that he was nearly always out at Judge Stevens’ “five or six miles out,” she thought it was; “they always come for him in a buggy”, she added. So I said I’d write and make an appointment and I did write and asked him to let me see him next morning.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  In five minutes the fight had begun. In ten more it was all over. Nothing could stand against the deadly shooting of the Westerners. In five minutes one or two of the Mexicans had been killed and several wounded; half a dozen horses had gone down; it was perfectly evident that the eight or ten of us were more than a match for the twenty Mexicans, for except Don Luis, none of them seemed to have any stomach for the work, and Luis got a bullet through his arm in the first five minutes. Finally they drew off threatening and yelling and we saw no more of them. After the battle we all adjourned to Locker’s and had a big drink. Nobody took the fight seriously: whipping Greasers was nothing to brag about; but Rossiter thought that a claim should be made against the Mexican Government for raiding United States territory: said he was going to draw up the papers and send them to the State District Attorney at Austin. The proposal was received with whoops and cheers. The idea of punishing the Mexicans for getting shot trying to recapture their own cattle appealed to us Americans as something intensely humorous. All the Texans gave their names solemnly as witnesses, and Rossiter swore he would draw up the document. Years afterwards Bent whom I met by chance, told me that Rossiter had got forty thousand dollars on that claim. Three days later we began to move our cattle eastward to rejoin Reece and Dell. I gave one hundred dollars as a reward to Locker’s two boys who had helped us from start to finish most eagerly. A week or so later we got back to the main camp. Reece and Dell had their herd ready and fat, and after a talk we resolved to go each on his own and join afterwards for the fall and winter on the ranch, if it pleased us. We took three weeks to get our bunch of cattle into condition and so began driving North in July. I spent every night in the saddle and most of the day, even though the accursed fever was shaking me. All went well with us at first: I promised my three lieutenants a third share in the profits and a small wage besides: they were as keen as mustard and did all men could do. As soon as we reached the latitude of the Indian territory our troubles began. One wild night Indians, who wore sheets and had smeared their hands with phosphorus, stampeded the cattle and though the boys did wonders we lost nearly a thousand head and some hundred horses all of them broken in carefully.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  A day or two afterwards we had made friends and a little later, Reece got me measured for two pairs of cord-breeches and had promised to teach me how to ride. They were cowpunchers, he said, with his strong English accent and were going down to the Rio Grande to buy cattle and drive ’em back to market here or in Kansas City. Cattle, it appeared, could be bought in South Texas for a dollar a head or less and fetched from fifteen to twenty dollars each in Chicago. “Of course we don’t always get through unscathed” Reece remarked, “The Plain Indians—Cherokees, Blackfeet and Sioux—take care of that; but one herd in two gets through and that pays big.” I found they had brought up a thousand head of cattle from their ranch near Eureka, Kansas and a couple of hundred head of horses. To cut a long story short, Reece fascinated me: he told me that Chihuahua was the Mexican province just across the Rio Grande from Texas and at once, I resolved to go on the Trail with these cowpunchers if they’d take me. In two or three days Reece told me I shaped better at riding than anyone he had ever seen, though, he added “when I saw your thick short legs I thought you’d never make much of a hand at it.” But I was strong and had grown nearly six inches in my year in the States and I turned in my toes as Reece directed and hung on to the English saddle by the grip of my knees till I was both tired and sore. In a fortnight Reece made me put five cent pieces between my knees and the saddle and keep them there when galloping or trotting. This practice soon made a rider of me so far as the seat was concerned and I had already learned that Reece was a past-master in the deeper mysteries of the art for he told me he used to ride colts in the hunting field in England and “that’s how you learn to know horses” he added significantly. One day I found out that Dell knew some poetry, literature too, and economics and that won me completely; when I asked them would they take me with them as a cowboy, they told me I’d have to ask the Boss, but there was no doubt he’d consent, and he consented, after one sharp glance.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “What’s the matter!” I asked. “Matter!” he repeated scornfully, “I don’t believe there’s a place in the hull God d—d town big enough to show our double-crown Bills! Not one: not a place. And I meant to spend ten thousand dollars here in advertising the great Hatherly Minstrels, the best show on earth: they’ll be here for a hull fortnight and by God, you won’t take my money: you don’t want money in this dead-and-alive hole!” The fellow amused me: he was so convinced and outspoken that I took to him. As luck would have it I had been at the University till late that day and had not gone to the Gregory’s for dinner: I was healthily hungry: I asked Mr. Dingwall whether he had dined? “No, Sir”, was his reply, “Can one dine in this place?” “I guess so”, I replied, “if you’ll do me the honor of being my guest, I’ll take you to a good porterhouse steak at least” and I took him across to the Eldridge House, a short distance away, leaving a young friend, Will Thomson, a doctor’s son whom I knew, in my place. I gave Dingwall the best dinner I could and drew him out: he was, indeed, “a live wire” as he phrased it and suddenly inspired by his optimism the idea came to me that if he would deposit the ten thousand dollars he had talked of, I could put up hoardings on all the vacant lots in Massachusetts Street and make a good thing out of exhibiting the bills of the various travelling shows that visited Lawrence. It wasn’t the first time I had been asked to help advertise this or that entertainment. I put forward my idea timidly, yet Dingwall took it up at once: “if you can find good security, or a good surety”, he said, “I’ll leave five thousand dollars with you: I’ve no right to, but I like you and I’ll risk it.” I took him across to Mr. Rankin, the banker, who listened to me benevolently and finally said: “Yes”, he’d go surety that I’d exhibit a thousand bills for a fortnight all down the chief street on hoardings to be erected at once, on condition that Mr. Dingwall paid five thousand dollars in advance, and he gave Mr. Dingwall a letter to that effect and then told me pleasantly he held five thousand and some odd dollars at my service.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “But how did you do it!” we wanted to know and he gave us his whole experience. “Girls love kissing,” he said, “and so I kissed and kissed her and put my leg on her, and her hand on my cock and I kept touching her breasts and her cunny (that’s what she calls it) and at last I got on her between her legs and she guided my prick into her cunt (God it was wonderful!) and now I go with her every night and often in the day as well. She likes her cunt touched, but very gently”, he added, “she showed me how to do it with one finger like this” and he suited the action to the word. Strangways in a moment became to us not only a hero but a miracle-man; we pretended not to believe him in order to make him tell us more, but in our hearts we knew he was telling us the truth, and we were almost crazy with breathless desire. I got him to invite me up to the Vicarage and I saw Mary the nurse-girl there, and she seemed to me almost a woman and spoke to him as “Master Will” and he kissed her, though she frowned and said “Leave off” and “Behave yourself”, very angrily; but I felt that her anger was put on to prevent my guessing the truth. I was aflame with desire and when I told Howard, he, too, burned with lust, and took me out for a walk and questioned me all over again and, under a haystack in the country we gave ourselves to a bout of frigging which for the first time thrilled me with pleasure. All the time we were playing with ourselves I kept thinking of Mary’s hot slit, as Strangways had described it, and at length a real orgasm came and shook me; the imagining had intensified my delight. Nothing in my life up to that moment was comparable in joy to that story of sexual pleasure as described, and acted for us, by Strangways. MY FATHER. Father was coming: I was sick with fear: he was so strict and loved to punish. On the ship he had beaten me with a strap because I had gone forward and listened to the sailors talking smut: I feared him and disliked him ever since I saw him once come aboard drunk.