Fear

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  GIANNI LOTTERINGHI HEARETH KNOCK AT HIS DOOR BY NIGHT AND AWAKENETH HIS WIFE, WHO GIVETH HIM TO BELIEVE THAT IT IS A PHANTOM; WHEREUPON THEY GO TO EXORCISE IT WITH A CERTAIN ORISON AND THE KNOCKING CEASETH "My Lord, it had been very agreeable to me, were such your pleasure, that other than I should have given a beginning to so goodly a matter as is that whereof we are to speak; but, since it pleaseth you that I give all the other ladies assurance by my example, I will gladly do it. Moreover, dearest ladies, I will study to tell a thing that may be useful to you in time to come, for that, if you others are as fearful as I, and especially of phantoms, (though what manner of thing they may be God knoweth I know not, nor ever found I any woman who knew it, albeit all are alike adread of them,) you may, by noting well my story, learn a holy and goodly orison of great virtue for the conjuring them away, should they come to you. There was once in Florence, in the quarter of San Brancazio, a wool-comber called Gianni Lotteringhi, a man more fortunate in his craft than wise in other things, for that, savoring of the simpleton, he was very often made captain of the Laudsingers[340] of Santa Maria Novella and had the governance of their confraternity, and he many a time had other little offices of the same kind, upon which he much valued himself. This betided him for that, being a man of substance, he gave many a good pittance to the clergy, who, getting of him often, this a pair of hose, that a gown and another a scapulary, taught him in return store of goodly orisons and gave him the paternoster in the vulgar tongue, the Song of Saint Alexis, the Lamentations of Saint Bernard, the Canticles of Madam Matilda and the like trumpery, all which he held very dear and kept very diligently for his soul's health. Now he had a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, by name Mistress Tessa, who was the daughter of Mannuccio dalla Cuculia and was exceeding discreet and well advised. She, knowing her husband's simplicity and being enamoured of Federigo di Neri Pegolotti, a brisk and handsome youth, and he of her, took order with a serving-maid of hers that he should come speak with her at a very goodly country house which her husband had at Camerata, where she sojourned all the summer and whither Gianni came whiles to sup and sleep, returning in the morning to his shop and bytimes to his Laudsingers. [Footnote 340: See p. 144, note 2.]

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  caught hold of Mr. Laughton and separated us. Then they pelted me with stones, brickbats and rotten eggs. Someone snatched away my turban, whilst others began to batter and kick me. I fainted and caught hold of the front railings of a house and stood there to get my breath. But it was impossible. They came upon me boxing and battering. The wife of the Police Superintendent, who knew me, happened to be passing by. The brave lady came up, opened her parasol though there was no sun then, and stood between the crowd and me. This checked the fury of the mob, as it was difficult for them to deliver blows on me without harming Mrs. Alexander. Meanwhile an Indian youth who witnessed the incident had run to the police station. The Police Superintendent Mr. Alexander sent a posse of men to ring me round and escort me safely to my destination. They arrived in time. The police station lay on our way. As we reached there, the Superintendent asked me to take refuge in the station, but I gratefully declined the offer, ‘They are sure to quiet down when they realize their mistake,’ I said. ‘I have trust in their sense of fairness.’ Escorted by the police, I arrived without further harm at Mr. Rustomji’s place. I had bruises all over, but no abrasions except in one place. Dr. Dadibarjor, the ship’s doctor, who was on the spot, rendered the best possible help. There was quiet inside, but outside the whites surrounded the house. Night was coming on, and the yelling crowd was shouting, ‘We must have Gandhi.’ The quick-sighted Police Superintendent was already there trying to keep the crowds under control, not by threats, but by humouring them. But he was not entirely free from anxiety. He sent me a message to this effect: ‘If you would save your friend’s house and property and also your family, you should escape from the house in disguise, as I suggest.’

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  I got into car. Near Pydhuni I saw that a huge crowd had gathered. On seeing me the people went mad with joy. A procession was immediately formed, and the sky was rent with the shouts of Vande mataram and Allaho akbar. At Pydhuni we sighted a body of mounted police. Brickbats were raining down from above. I besought the crowd to be calm, but it seemed as if we should not be able to escape the shower of brickbats. As the procession issued out of Abdur Rahman Street and was about to proceed towards the Crawford Market, it suddenly found itself confronted by a body of the mounted police, who had arrived there to prevent it from proceeding further in the direction of the Fort. The crowd was densely packed. It had almost broken through the police cordon. There was hardly any chance of my voice being heard in that vast concourse. Just then the officer in charge of the mounted police gave the order to disperse the crowd, and at once the mounted party charged upon the crowd brandishing their lances as they went. For a moment I felt that I would be hurt. But my apprehension was groundless, the lances just grazed the car as the lancers swiftly passed by. The ranks of the people were soon broken, and they were thrown into utter confusion, which was soon converted into a rout. Some got trampled under foot, others were badly mauled and crushed. In that seething mass of humanity there was hardly any room for the horses to pass, nor was there an exit by which the people could disperse. So the lancers blindly cut their way through the crowd. I hardly imagine they could see what they were doing. The whole thing presented a most dreadful spectacle. The horsemen and the people were mixed together in mad confusion. Thus the crowd was dispersed and its progress checked. Our motor was allowed to proceed. I had it stopped before the Commissioner’s office, and got down to complain to him about the conduct of the police. 158.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  His cock was beautiful. She felt like a traitor, but it was honestly quite lovely. So many inches of sculpted ivory, with a slight curve to one side and a shapely head. As they passed a street light, she saw that his piss-eye was glistening with a silvery fluid. He sprawled, legs apart, crowding her, his boot up against hers, slowly stroking himself with his leather fist, eyeing her. She knew what he wanted, but she would not make it easy for him to get it. He would have to make all the moves. If only she could look away! “See this?” he said seductively. Coaxing. She did not answer. “Come on, quit trying to kid me. You can’t take your eyes off it. Want to see it up close?” His long arm reached out and dragged her to him, bent her over his erect flesh. “Aren’t I nice to you? Providing all this free entertainment? Without you even saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ or ‘Mother may I.’” “Let me go,” she cried, wrestling with his hand. “Let me go, sir,” he corrected, holding her in place. When she realized he was not pushing her down any further, she stopped struggling. He regarded her coldly, displeased by her refusal to use his title. “Sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?” he said. “But before I’m done with you, you’ll call me ‘sugar’ if I want you to.” He waited, then suddenly insisted, “Suck it!” “No.” “No, sir,” he corrected her again. How clever of him to append that hateful honorific to a refusal. How easy, to begin calling him “sir” while she refused to suck his cock. But I am wise, like all hunted things, she told herself, and I know if I say that word I will descend a step down the ladder into submission. “Yes, sir?” he suggested. “Yes sir, I’d love to suck your big drooling cock, sir?” The atmosphere in the car was charged. Heavy breathing came from the front seat. Something had to break. He turned her loose and reached for his gun in one smooth move. The cold steel of the barrel stroked her cheek, and she froze. Nothing in the world was as big as that gun. He came at her again, backing her into the corner, and took her chin with one hand. “You will take it in your mouth, you know.” The trigger clicked. “Yes, sir,” she said, and slumped. Of course. She was the thing that had to break.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Further, in marriage there is a contract. Now the will can be compelled in the matter of contracts; for which reason the law adjudges that restitution should be made of the whole, for it does not ratify “that which was done under compulsion or fear” (Sent. iv, D[29]). Therefore in marriage also it is possible for the consent to be compulsory. I answer that, Compulsion or violence is twofold. One is the cause of absolute necessity, and violence of this kind the Philosopher calls (Ethic. iii, 1) “violent simply,” as when by bodily strength one forces a person to move; the other causes conditional necessity, and the Philosopher calls this a “mixed violence,” as when a person throws his merchandise overboard in order to save himself. In the latter kind of violence, although the thing done is not voluntary in itself, yet taking into consideration the circumstances of place and time it is voluntary. And since actions are about particulars, it follows that it is voluntary simply, and involuntary in a certain respect (Cf. [4945]FS, Q[6], A[6]). Wherefore this latter violence or compulsion is consistent with consent, but not the former. And since this compulsion results from one’s fear of a threatening danger, it follows that this violence coincides with fear which, in a manner, compels the will, whereas the former violence has to do with bodily actions. Moreover, since the law considers not merely internal actions, but rather external actions, consequently it takes violence to mean absolute compulsion, for which reason it draws a distinction between violence and fear. Here, however, it is a question of internal consent which cannot be influenced by compulsion or violence as distinct from fear. Therefore as to the question at issue compulsion and fear are the same. Now, according to lawyers fear is “the agitation of the mind occasioned by danger imminent or future” (Ethic. iii, 1). This suffices for the Replies to the Objections; for the first set of arguments consider the first kind of compulsion, and the second set of arguments consider the second. Whether a constant man can be compelled by fear?Objection 1: It would seem that “a constant man” [*Cap. Ad audientiam, De his quae vi.] cannot be compelled by fear. Because the nature of a constant man is not to be agitated in the midst of dangers. Since then fear is “agitation of the mind occasioned by imminent danger,” it would seem that he is not compelled by fear. Objection 2: Further, “Of all fearsome things death is the limit,” according to the Philosopher (Ethic. iii, 6), as though it were the most perfect of all things that inspire fear. But the constant man is not compelled by death, since the brave face even mortal dangers. Therefore no fear influences a constant man.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  The lack of sanitation bred not only stench, but insects and diseases. Mortality rates from disease were high everywhere in the ancient world, but even higher in cities—so high that cities could not have survived without a steady influx of people from the countryside. Of this, there was plenty. The major reason was an economic policy of the Roman Empire: agriculture was being systematically commercialized. Once, families had worked a small piece of their own land to provide for their needs, but that was changing as land increasingly passed into the hands of large landowners who employed workers to produce crops for commercial sale. The result was a virtually forced migration to cities. Thousands from rural areas who had become landless, whose labor was no longer needed, or who were unable to produce enough income for their families to live on moved to cities. A majority of the urban working class were thus newcomers and strangers to each other. Moving to a city meant the loss of traditional communities of support provided by extended families and lifelong residency in a village. Moreover, because of the high death rates within cities, many who moved there with families soon found themselves without family. Migration to cities also involved people of many different linguistic and ethnic groups. Antioch, with its population of 150,000 on 2 square miles, included eighteen ethnic quarters. Misunderstanding, rivalry, and enmity were endemic and often resulted in riots. Thus, as Stark concludes, the cities of Paul were places of “misery, danger, fear, despair and hatred,”5 despite the glory suggested by the last remains of their monumental structures. This is the setting in which Paul conducted his urban mission. He was able to do so in part because he practiced an urban trade: he was a tentmaker. We should not think of tents in the modern sense of what campers use or even in the premodern sense of what nomads lived in. Nomads did not come to cities to buy tents. Rather, a tentmaker was an awning maker, using cloth or skins or both. Tents as awnings were in considerable demand in Paul’s world of the Mediterranean sun, and his skill gave him mobility. His tools were light and could be carried with him, and he could find employment in virtually any city. We find him working, for example, in the shop of Aquila and Priscilla at Corinth: “Because he was of the same trade, he stayed with them, and they worked together—by trade they were tentmakers” (Acts 18:3). Paul’s audiences. What did Paul do in those predominantly capital cities? Who were his primary or focal audience? We must, once again, read Luke’s account in Acts very carefully to distinguish information from interpretation. Luke superimposed the missionary strategy of Barnabas on Paul, but Paul, having learned it under Barnabas, set out to change it quite drastically when he went out on his own.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  Although some cannot bear it and refuse to go on living, most of us blot out our awareness of death by immersing ourselves in the tasks of adulthood—building a career and family, personal growth, acquiring possessions, exercising power, winning the race. That’s where I am now in life. After that stage, we enter the later era of life, where awareness of death emerges again, and now death is distinctly menacing—in fact, imminent. At that point, we have the choice of thinking about it a great deal and making the most of the life we still have or pretending in various ways that death is not coming at all.” “So what about you, yourself? Do you pretend to yourself that death will not come?” “No, I can’t really do that. Since in my work as a psychiatrist I talk to many people who are terribly troubled about life and death, I have to face the truth all the time.” “Let me ask you again, then”—Merges’s voice, now soft and weary, had lost all its menace—“how you stand it? How can you take pleasure from any part of life, any activity at all, with death looming ahead and only one life?” “I’d turn that question upside down, Merges. Perhaps death makes life more vital, more precious. The fact of death bestows a special poignancy, a bittersweet quality, to life’s activities. Yes, it may be true that living in the dream dimension confers immortality upon you, but your life seems to me to be soaked in ennui. When I asked you, a while back, to describe your life, you answered with the single phrase ‘I wait.’ Is that life? Is waiting living? You still have one life left, Merges. Why not live it to the fullest?” “I cannot! I cannot!” Merges said, bowing his head deeper. “The thought of no longer existing, of not being among the living, of life going on without me, is—is—simply too terrible.” “So the point of the curse is not perpetual revenge, is it? You use the curse to avoid coming to the end of your last life.” “It is simply too terrible to just end. To not be.” “I have learned in my work,” said Ernest reaching over and patting Merges’s great paw, “that those who most fear death are the ones who approach it with too much unlived life inside them. It’s best to use all of life. Leave death nothing but the dregs, nothing but a burned-out castle.” “No, no,” moaned Merges, shaking his head. “It is simply too terrible.” “Why so terrible? Let’s analyze it. Precisely what is so fearful about death? You’ve already experienced it more than once.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  We are held hostage by these habitual emotions, unaware that they can only be transformed if we consciously restrain and resist being triggered into the expressive phase. The samurai lost his false self and found salvation by such a momentary interruption. Containment promotes choice between a number of possible responses where previously there were only those of fear, rage, defensiveness and helplessness. In primitive life we needed to rapidly assess whether an individual we met in the forest was friend or foe, safe or dangerous. Would he attack? Should we attack first to protect ourselves, or would it be better to move quietly away? However, in modern times we are more apt to need our social skills to differentiate: do we like this person or dislike them, and what do they mean to us? Rather than coming to fisticuffs, we might first try to socially engage by conversing with the person; we might try to “disarm” him with an authentic smile. We are not acting out of emotion but rather are guided by sensate feelings—like or dislike? And most importantly we need to do this before we actually act—before we strike out with angry words. This way we enhance the capacity to prioritize possible motoric (and moment-to-moment) actions; we are able to choose which would be the most appropriate action. 156 What Feelings Do for Us Biologically, the expression of emotion serves primarily as a vital signaling function. For example, when we are frightened, both our face and our entire posture let everyone around us know directly that we sense danger lurking out there in the forest or bushes. When the bomb went off at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, the “deer in the headlights,” “get me out of here” look on swimmer Janet Evans’s face signaled to everyone (there and on TV) that we’re all in danger. Had she run from the scene, it is likely that many would have followed her nonverbal command. The look of fear is unmistakable. The eyes are wide open with raised eyebrows. The mouth is partially opened with the corners strongly retracted, and the ears drawn back. 157 A herd of grazing elk being surveyed by an encroaching wolf pack employs their own method. Even knowing of their presence, the elk continue grazing—that is until one of its members first senses that the wolf has penetrated the “strike-ready” perimeter. Then in grunting and stiffening, all the others are signaled to follow its lead, dashing together toward safety. However, fear can also stimulate panic. People are frequently hurt or die because of “deer in the headlights” freezing. Emotion here could certainly not be said to be adaptive.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Hence we must allow the fire to exercise on the soul an action connatural to the fire, in order that it may be the instrument of Divine justice in the punishment of sin: and for this reason we must say that a body cannot naturally act on a spirit, nor in any way be hurtful or distressful to it, except in so far as the latter is in some way united to a body: for thus we observe that “the corruptible body is a load upon the soul” (Wis. 9:15). Now a spirit is united to a body in two ways. In one way as form to matter, so that from their union there results one thing simply: and the spirit that is thus united to a body both quickens the body and is somewhat burdened by the body: but it is not thus that the spirit of man or demon is united to the corporeal fire. In another way as the mover is united to the things moved, or as a thing placed is united to place, even as incorporeal things are in a place. In this way created incorporeal spirits are confined to a place, being in one place in such a way as not to be in another. Now although of its nature a corporeal thing is able to confine an incorporeal spirit to a place, it is not able of its nature to detain an incorporeal spirit in the place to which it is confined, and so to tie it to that place that it be unable to seek another, since a spirit is not by nature in a place so as to be subject to place. But the corporeal fire is enabled as the instrument of the vengeance of Divine justice thus to detain a spirit; and thus it has a penal effect on it, by hindering it from fulfilling its own will, that is by hindering it from acting where it will and as it will. This way is asserted by Gregory (Dial. iv, 29). For in explaining how the soul can suffer from that fire by feeling it, he expresses himself as follows: “Since Truth declares the rich sinner to be condemned to fire, will any wise man deny that the souls of the wicked are imprisoned in flames?” Julian [*Bishop of Toledo, Prognostic ii, 17] says the same as quoted by the Master (Sent. iv, D, 44): “If the incorporeal spirit of a living man is held by the body, why shall it not be held after death by a corporeal fire?” and Augustine says (De Civ. Dei xxi, 10) that “just as, although the soul is spiritual and the body corporeal, man is so fashioned that the soul is united to the body as giving it life, and on account of this union conceives a great love for its body, so it is chained to the fire, as receiving punishment therefrom, and from this union conceives a loathing.”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, When Christ shall come to judge He will appear in the form of glory, on account of the authority becoming a judge. Now it pertains to the dignity of judicial power to have certain signs that induce people to reverence and subjection: and consequently many signs will precede the advent of Christ when He shall come to judgment, in order that the hearts of men be brought to subjection to the coming judge, and be prepared for the judgment, being forewarned by those signs. But it is not easy to know what these signs may be: for the signs of which we read in the gospels, as Augustine says, writing to Hesychius about the end of the world (Ep. lxxx), refer not only to Christ’s coming to judgment, but also to the time of the sack of Jerusalem, and to the coming of Christ in ceaselessly visiting His Church. So that, perhaps, if we consider them carefully, we shall find that none of them refers to the coming advent, as he remarks: because these signs that are mentioned in the gospels, such as wars, fears, and so forth, have been from the beginning of the human race: unless perhaps we say that at that time they will be more prevalent: although it is uncertain in what degree this increase will foretell the imminence of the advent. The signs mentioned by Jerome are not asserted by him; he merely says that he found them written in the annals of the Hebrews: and, indeed, they contain very little likelihood. Reply to Objection 1: According to Augustine (Ad Hesych., Ep. lxxx) towards the end of the world there will be a general persecution of the good by the wicked: so that at the same time some will fear, namely the good, and some will be secure, namely the wicked. The words: “When they shall say: Peace and security,” refer to the wicked, who will pay little heed to the signs of the coming judgment: while the words of Lk. 21:26, “men withering away,” etc., should be referred to the good. We may also reply that all these signs that will happen about the time of the judgment are reckoned to occur within the time occupied by the judgment, so that the judgment day contains them all. Wherefore although men be terrified by the signs appearing about the judgment day, yet before those signs begin to appear the wicked will think themselves to be in peace and security, after the death of Antichrist and before the coming of Christ, seeing that the world is not at once destroyed, as they thought hitherto. Reply to Objection 2: The day of the Lord is said to come as a thief, because the exact time is not known, since it will not be possible to know it from those signs: although, as we have already said, all these most manifest sings which will precede the judgment immediately may be comprised under the judgment day.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  One morning, we thought the hour for our mass executions had struck. The whistle which usually roused us at dawn failed to sound. From habit we awoke at the same hour, surprised at such a respite. Soon the camp began to buzz, but no one moved, of course, so as to avoid the beginning of work. We formulated hundreds of suppositions as to the cause of our luck: our whistling guard had had a stroke, Germany had been defeated, the Nazis had suddenly become humanitarian, our guards had all gone out of their minds together... We joked as though we were in a holiday camp, and we had difficulty in refraining from pillow fights. At last, as time passed, we risked a few steps outside the tents. Our new camp was on a bare slope with an open horizon at the bottom of the valley. The army huts had been built a few yards higher up; to get out of their field of vision and escape being shot, one would have to run for several miles. Up there, nothing had moved. We washed and ate without hurrying and settled down peacefully to tasks like letter-writing and sewing. I was signing my last letter when one of the scouts came in, alarmed. Above us, between their huts, the soldiers were carrying out strange operations. Wearing battledress and hideous oilskin overalls striped green, yellow, and brown, they had lined up at fixed intervals and were fixing their machine guns on pivots. The mechanical slowness of their movements made the scene all the more solemn and sinister. When they stopped moving, we found we were in the center of a semicircular firing line from which escape was impossible. We would be mown down like rabbits. I smiled to my companions and tried to lie all the same. “It’s only a maneuver.” But I could see that our death was being planned. That day, however, it was only a rehearsal. It was time to escape and, a week later, there came a chance. ~ 5. ESCAPE ~ We were still at work when the clear and bright-eyed night fell on us. Our guards were as bad-tempered as we were tired. In the last fortnight, the Germans had handed us over to an elegant Italian lieutenant who kept perfecting this strip of road to avoid being sent to the front. He went to and fro nervously, whipping his shiny fascist boots with a swagger stick as slim and black as his own mustache. At last, his thin lips condescended to smile. He had overworked us to make us appreciate an extraordinary gift: tomorrow there would be no work.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  At eleven in the morning, my father rushed home in spite of his asthma, carrying an armful of provisions, including meats and sugar. Usually, he lunched in his store, but it was said that fights had already started not far from the ghetto. My mother ran to the grocer’s just as the store was closing down. Then we barricaded our doors and windows, the front door with two bars of wrought iron. After that, we sat and listened for any unusual sounds. But we were far from the ghetto and could only study the deathly silence of our own neighborhood, periodically broken by the rattling noise of empty streetcars. My father had an occupation for such stay-in periods: he then made heavy canvas feed bags for horses. From time to time, he dropped his work and rushed to the window. As he grew paler, I recognized on his face the marks of the terror which he had transmitted to me in my earliest childhood. Will I ever be able to rid myself of that cold clamminess at the back of my neck, and of the absurd feeling of being paralyzed and disarmed in the face of a humiliating death? It was in high school that I discovered how painful it is to be a Jew. Until then, the world had been alien to me, hostile of course, but no more so than anything unknown. I was not the cause of my own suffering, I did not feel alien to myself as I do today. Can I make myself more clear? Anti-Semitism seemed to be a characteristic of the others, much as they might have a way of speaking or of dressing. They were not Jews, as I was, so they were anti-Semites. Naturally, it was not very pleasant, but no less so than the brutality of Sicilians or the prerogatives of the French. It did not fit any particular characteristic of my own, for I did not feel Jewish in any way that might provoke anti-Semitism. In short, I felt neither accused nor guilty.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The fighter planes! We forced our swollen feet to run and threw ourselves into the ditches. Intelligently and diabolically, the planes passed over us, changed their minds, came back, then swooped and fired wherever they saw any sign of life. A German courier was racing past on his motorcycle, both he and his machine wrapped in striped oilskin camouflage like a fabulous caparisoned beast, when suddenly a Spitfire dived and flew low, riddling him with bullets till it rose again and left behind a flaming human torch. I closed my eyes. But there were neither screams nor spectacular convulsions. The machine silently went on, left the road, cut straight across a field, then lay down on its side, still burning. So the war had caught up with us; any encounter now was dangerous. Outside Bir M’Cherga there was again some traffic. Without quite losing sight of it, we left the road and cut across country. Armored cars, tanks, and trucks formed an endless procession. The bombers resumed their relays. At each alarm, the drivers and their assistants left their vehicles and dashed for the ditches. We threw ourselves flat on the earth which shook hard beneath us. When it was over, each of us glanced at the others to count the survivors, and we then set forth again, uncuriously following the road. Vehicles were burning, and soldiers were trying to save them. I can no longer recall each attack separately: the roar of motors, the screams of warning of the men, their flight, and the silent anxiety as death took its pick, then the thuds of the bombs that shook the ground beneath us, the din of explosions, and again silence, with a gun still rumbling in the distance, and our departure once more. I was no longer surprised to find myself still alive, and the fear of death was no longer so acute. My mind was detached from my body, which lived on and automatically looked after itself.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  22. These words spake his parents, because they feared the Jews: for the Jews had agreed already, that if any man did confess that he was Christ, he should be put out of the synagogue. 23. Therefore said his parents, He is of age; ask him. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lviii. 1) The Pharisees being unable, by intimidation, to deter the blind man from publicly proclaiming his Benefactor, try to nullify the miracle through the parents: But the Jews did not believe concerning him, that he had been blind, and received his sight, until they had called the parents of him that had received his sight. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xliv. s. 10) i. e. had been blind, and now saw. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lviii. 3) But it is the nature of truth, to be strengthened by the very snares that are laid against it. A lie is its own antagonist, and by its attempts to injure the truth, sets it off to greater advantage: as is the case now. For the argument which might otherwise have been urged, that the neighbours knew nothing for certain, but spoke from a mere resemblance, is cut off by introduction of the parents, who could of course testify to their own son. Having brought these before the assembly, they interrogate them with great sharpness, saying, Is this your son, (they say not, who was born blind, but) who ye say was born blind? Say. Why what father is there, that would say such things of a son, if they were not true? Why not say at once, Whom ye made blind? They try two ways of making them deny the miracle: by saying, Who ye say was born blind, and by adding, How then doth he now see? THEOPHYLACT. Either, say they, it is not true that he now sees, or it is untrue that he was blind before: but it is evident that he now sees; therefore it is not true that he was born blind. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lviii. 2) Three things then being asked,—if he were their son, if he had been blind and how he saw,—they acknowledge two of them: His parents answered them and said, We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind. But the third they refuse to speak to: But by what means he now seeth, we know not. The enquiry in this way ends in confirming the truth of the miracle, by making it rest upon the incontrovertible evidence of the confession of the healed person himself; He is of age, they say, ask him; he can speak for himself. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xliv. 10) As f to say, We might justly be compelled to speak for an infant, that could not speak for itself: but he, though blind from his birth, has been always able to speak.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  We had always “treated” each other, spoken past each other, each of us fearing, controlling, deceiving the other. I’m certain that’s why I had always wanted to speak honestly and directly to Paula. And why I hated being forced to “treat” her falsely. The night after the funeral, I had a powerful dream. My mother and many of her friends and relatives, all dead, are seated very quietly on a flight of stairs. I hear my mother’s voice calling—shrieking—my name. I am particularly aware of Aunt Minny, sitting on the top stair, who is very still. Then she begins to move, slowly at first, then more and more quickly until she is vibrating faster than a bumblebee. At that point everyone on the stairs, all the big people of my childhood, all dead, begin to vibrate. My Uncle Abe reaches out to pinch my cheek, clucking, “Darling Sonny,” as he used to do. Then others reach out for my cheeks. At first affectionate, the pinching grows fierce and painful. I awake in terror, cheeks throbbing, at three A.M. The dream depicted a duel with death. First, I am called by my dead mother and see all the dead of my family sitting in eerie stillness on the stairs. Then I try to negate deathly quiescence by infusing the dead with the movement of life. I especially note my Aunt Minny, who had died the year before after a cataclysmic stroke had left her completely paralyzed for several months, unable to move a muscle in her body aside from her eyes. In the dream Minny begins to move but quickly veers out of control and into frenzy. Next I try to alleviate my dread of the dead by imagining them affectionately pinching my cheeks. But that dread breaks through once again, the pinching grows fierce and malignant, and I am overwhelmed with death anxiety. The image of my aunt vibrating like a bumblebee haunted me for days. I couldn’t shake it loose. Perhaps, I thought, it is a message telling me that my own frenzied life pace is but a clumsy attempt to quell death anxiety. Is the dream not telling me to slow down and attend to the things I really value? The idea of value brought Paula back to my mind. Why hadn’t I called her? She was one who had faced death and stared it down. I remembered the way she had guided the meditation at the end of our meetings: her eyes fixed on the candle flame, her sonorous voice leading all of us into deeper, quieter regions. Had I ever told her how much those moments meant to me? So many things I had never said to her. I would say them now. On the flight home from my mother’s funeral, I resolved to renew my friendship with her.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, When Christ shall come to judge He will appear in the form of glory, on account of the authority becoming a judge. Now it pertains to the dignity of judicial power to have certain signs that induce people to reverence and subjection: and consequently many signs will precede the advent of Christ when He shall come to judgment, in order that the hearts of men be brought to subjection to the coming judge, and be prepared for the judgment, being forewarned by those signs. But it is not easy to know what these signs may be: for the signs of which we read in the gospels, as Augustine says, writing to Hesychius about the end of the world (Ep. lxxx), refer not only to Christ’s coming to judgment, but also to the time of the sack of Jerusalem, and to the coming of Christ in ceaselessly visiting His Church. So that, perhaps, if we consider them carefully, we shall find that none of them refers to the coming advent, as he remarks: because these signs that are mentioned in the gospels, such as wars, fears, and so forth, have been from the beginning of the human race: unless perhaps we say that at that time they will be more prevalent: although it is uncertain in what degree this increase will foretell the imminence of the advent. The signs mentioned by Jerome are not asserted by him; he merely says that he found them written in the annals of the Hebrews: and, indeed, they contain very little likelihood. Reply to Objection 1: According to Augustine (Ad Hesych., Ep. lxxx) towards the end of the world there will be a general persecution of the good by the wicked: so that at the same time some will fear, namely the good, and some will be secure, namely the wicked. The words: “When they shall say: Peace and security,” refer to the wicked, who will pay little heed to the signs of the coming judgment: while the words of Lk. 21:26, “men withering away,” etc., should be referred to the good. We may also reply that all these signs that will happen about the time of the judgment are reckoned to occur within the time occupied by the judgment, so that the judgment day contains them all. Wherefore although men be terrified by the signs appearing about the judgment day, yet before those signs begin to appear the wicked will think themselves to be in peace and security, after the death of Antichrist and before the coming of Christ, seeing that the world is not at once destroyed, as they thought hitherto. Reply to Objection 2: The day of the Lord is said to come as a thief, because the exact time is not known, since it will not be possible to know it from those signs: although, as we have already said, all these most manifest sings which will precede the judgment immediately may be comprised under the judgment day.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, of all dangers a good man fears most that which affects his good name. But the fear of disgrace is not reckoned to influence a constant man, because, according to the law (vii, ff, de eo quod metus, etc.), “fear of disgrace is not included under the ordinance, ‘That which is done through fear’” [*Dig. iv, 2, Quod metus causa]. Therefore neither does any other kind of fear influence a constant man. Objection 4: Further, in him who is compelled by fear, fear leaves a sin, for it makes him promise what he is unwilling to fulfill, and thus it makes him lie. But a constant man does not commit a sin, not even a very slight one, for fear. Therefore no fear influences a constant man. On the contrary, Abraham and Isaac were constant. Yet they were influenced by fear, since on account of fear each said that his wife was his sister (Gn. 12:12; 26:7). Further, wherever there is mixed violence, it is fear that compels. But however constant a man may be he may suffer violence of that kind, for if he be on the sea, he will throw his merchandise overboard if menaced with shipwreck. Therefore fear can influence a constant man. I answer that, By fear influencing a man we mean his being compelled by fear. A man is compelled by fear when he does that which otherwise he would not wish to do, in order to avoid that which he fears. Now the constant differs from the inconstant man in two respects. First, in respect of the quality of the danger feared, because the constant man follows right reason, whereby he knows whether to omit this rather than that, and whether to do this rather than that. Now the lesser evil or the greater good is always to be chosen in preference; and therefore the constant man is compelled to bear with the lesser evil through fear of the greater evil, but he is not compelled to bear with the greater evil in order to avoid the lesser. But the inconstant man is compelled to bear with the greater evil through fear of a lesser evil, namely to commit sin through fear of bodily suffering; whereas on the contrary the obstinate man cannot be compelled even to permit or to do a lesser evil, in order to avoid a greater. Hence the constant man is a mean between the inconstant and the obstinate. Secondly, they differ as to their estimate of the threatening evil, for a constant man is not compelled unless for grave and probable reasons, while the inconstant man is compelled by trifling motives: “The wicked man seeth when no man pursueth” (Prov. 28:1).

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  “Since many of us were shamed in childhood either in our families of origin or in school settings, a learned pattern of going along with the program and not making a fuss is the course of action we most frequently choose as a way to avoid conflict. As children, conflict was often the setting for put-downs and humiliation, the place where we were shamed. Many of us learned that passivity lessened the possibility of attack.” —bell hooks, All About Love “If I don’t like how somebody is going down on me, I don’t know how to explain the correction. I don’t know how to teach that skill. I think one of the biggest things we’re not taught is how to communicate, but men aren’t taught how to figure it out either. I would like to be able to explain how to do things right and what I prefer. But even better and more efficient would be for the guy to try and check in with me and see what’s working. I’ve never been with anyone who has done that.” —Charlotte, cis bi woman, 31 It was the night I planned to lose my microvirginity, and I was terrified. “Microvirginity” is what I came to call a yearlong period of sexlessness, my longest stretch since puberty. While I struggled with the absence of human touch and intimacy, I was mostly grateful for the break. For one, it had freed up more time for creative projects, like making bread one single time. But more powerfully, I sensed a dulling of that bone-deep longing I ordinarily had for sex to fulfill everything—to validate my worth, to boost my serotonin, to tell me I’m pretty. Without sex or harebrained romantic entanglements, I learned to scavenge for these things on my own, providing for myself the best I could. If I felt the urge to text an ex, I sat with that urge, then changed course by FaceTiming a friend: there, a serotonin boost. If I longed for superficial validation, I sat with that urge, then posted a selfie to Instagram Story using a filter that gives you rhinoplasty and cheek fillers: there, some dads called me pretty. Eventually, the time came to retest sex. With a newfound distaste for bullshit, antics, and shenanigans, I realized I wanted sex, for sex’s sake. Anticipating my third date with a guy I liked, set to take place at my home under the pretense of watching a movie, I recognized an opportunity to apply everything I’d learned about myself and my sexuality to the act itself. I was nervous and excited. There would be a human penis inside me, a human penis attached to a human person for whom I had romantic, sexual feelings. I spent the day tidying my apartment, tracking down loose coins and pills in furniture crevices, shaving my body, worrying—I’d spent half a year researching bad sex. Could I really have sex that was less bad? On the night of the show?

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Nevertheless, like a tracked animal, I thought first of saving my own skin. I relied on what connections I had among the French and on my admiration for France. It is not easy to believe in the betrayal of a myth. First, I put my papers in order and hid some vaguely political writings in the laundry-room; then I piously buried in Henry’s garden a number of poems that were almost finished and many more drafts. I’m not quite sure what it was I most feared, whether the bombings, the inquisitive hands of the children, or German police-raids. Not once did it occur to me that I might never come back. Then I started to move. I went to all the people I could count on. Luckily, at the head of my list was one of the highest French dignitaries in the country. Until the eve of the German invasion, I had been his son’s tutor. An incident to which I had not given its full meaning now came back to me. One day, quite recently, he had sent for me in his office. I had gone full of respect and proud to be able to tell the guard on duty that I had an appointment with His Excellency. He was an aristocrat in the diplomatic service of the Republic, tall, dry, theatrical, with white hair, fine features, and a discreet voice and gestures which greatly impressed me. I myself was incapable of speaking without becoming excited and of expressing myself without movements of my whole body, so that I admired men who could be brief and speak with no agitation. He wanted to know about his son’s work. At the end of our talk, he thanked me and said I could come and see him if ever I needed him. At the time, I did not realize the importance of these words. I was grateful that so important a personality should allow me to have recourse to his influence on my behalf, and the simplicity of his manner had impressed me. On another occasion, I had been received by his wife. I had never approached a woman of such high rank. I left full of wonder for the perfect balance between her simplicity and dignity, for her elocution, her manner, her reserve, her blond hair, her fine features and hands, and for Heaven knows what else. It seemed that the splendid idea I had of French culture was all contained in one exalted individual.

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  A few weeks later, after shaving off half my hair to establish I was misunderstood, I met a tall, handsome cruise ship worker at the same club and brought him home to my rental apartment. We sat on the stony stretch of Adriatic that was my backyard; the sea was inky black. He kept asking me if I’d seen Californication, and reciting lines from it that I found inscrutable, as he was translating the Croatian translation back into English. Hooking up with him felt exciting and odd. The make-out was frenetic as we tore off each other’s clothes, knocking over abandoned water glasses left and right. I asked him to get a condom. He refused; he said he could not have sex with a condom, that it was agonizing for him. So we didn’t have sex. We simply laid there on the bed, each of us hoping the other would fold; people had clearly folded to him before. (His jawline could have sliced an apple.) But unprotected sex with a stranger was off-limits to me. He continued trying to convince me to forgo the condom, citing low pregnancy rates. This is when I should have sent him home. After explaining the premise of Californication again, he hoisted himself up from the bed and peed into the sink, looking at me through the mirror as he did it. A few nights later, head throbbing from supermarket wine, I invited him back. For years, retelling these stories to myself and others, I’d recall the first sexual encounter as bad and the second one as good, sexy, and fun—a disturbing testament to the skill with which I cling to scraps of intrigue to fill the void. The first guy was textbook inappropriate, and I was textbook unattracted to him, from the tip of his ponytail to the butt flap of his onesie. He used me as a prop for his satisfaction, and I complied, sustained by novelty and an eagerness to feel something, anything. The second guy was stoic and aggressive in a way that aroused me, despite his rudeness around condoms, which I too quickly brushed aside. In both cases I understood there was a possibility I could be killed and didn’t care; in both cases, I understood I wouldn’t get off and didn’t care. In that era of my life, sex hadn’t been about pleasure. It was a means to feel desired and less alone. And it didn’t even work!