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 Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  Once in bed Artemis began licking. Every inch of his skin tingled, glowed, until his whole body felt red-hot. Each stroke of her tongue sent him higher and higher until he exploded—not with the sharp crack of a young pistol shot but with the roar of a mighty howitzer. In a brief moment of lucidity, he suddenly noticed Artemis dozing by his side. He had been so transported by his pleasure that he had all but forgotten her, had failed to attend to her pleasure. Reaching out to touch her face, he felt her cheeks wet with streaming tears. Then he fell into the deepest sleep he had ever known. Some time later the sound of scratching awakened him. At first he could see nothing in the pitch-black room. But he knew that something was wrong, terribly wrong. Gradually, as the black receded, a ghostly green light eerily illuminated the room. His heart pounding, Ernest slid out of bed, pulled on his trousers, and ran to the windows to find out what was scratching. But all he could see, staring back at him, was the reflection of his own face. He turned to rouse Artemis—but she had vanished. The scratching and scraping grew louder. Then an unearthly yeeeoooowwww, like a thousand cats in heat. The room started to vibrate, softly at first, then with increasing intensity. Ever louder, ever coarser grew the scratching. He heard the sound of pebbles striking the ground, then larger stones, then a small avalanche. The noise seemed to come from behind the bedroom wall. Approaching it gingerly, Ernest saw cracks appear in the wall; plaster flaked, falling into a heap on the carpet. Soon he could see drywall; under that, moments later, the wooden laths of the house skeleton lay bare. Crash! A gigantic paw bristling with claws broke through.

• From Story of O (1954)

  The cell was quite small, and actually consisted of two rooms. With the hall door closed, they found themselves in an antechamber which opened into the cell proper; in this same wall, inside the room itself, was another door which opened into the bathroom. Opposite the doors there was the window. Against the left wall, between the doors and the window, stood the head of a large square bed, which was very low and covered with furs. There was no other furniture, no mirror. The walls were bright red, and the rug black. Andrée pointed out to O that the bed was less a bed than a mattressed platform covered with a black, long-haired imitation fur material. The pillow, hard and flat like the mattress, was of the same reversible material. The only object on any of the walls was a thick, gleaming steel ring which was set at about the same height above the bed as the hook in the stake had been above the floor of the library; from it descended a long steel chain directly onto the bed, its links forming a little pile, the other end being attached at arm’s length to a padlocked hook, like a drapery pulled back and held in place by a curtain loop. “We have to give you your bath,” Jeanne said. “I’ll unfasten your dress.” The only peculiar features of the bathroom were the Turkish-type toilet, located in the corner nearest the door, and the fact that every inch of wall space was covered with mirrors. Jeanne and Andrée did not allow O to go in until she was naked. They put her dress away in the closet next to the washbasin, where her mules and red cape already were, and remained with her, so that when she had to squat down over the porcelain pedestal she found herself surrounded by a whole host of reflections, as exposed as in the library when unknown hands had taken her by force. “Wait until it’s Pierre,” said Jeanne, “and you’ll see.” “Why Pierre?” “When he comes to chain you, he may make you squat.” O felt herself turn pale. “But why?” she said. “Because you have to,” Jeanne replied. “But you’re lucky.” “Why lucky?” “Was it your lover who brought you here?” “Yes,” O said. “They’ll be a lot harder with you.” “I don’t understand.…” “You will very soon. I’m ringing for Pierre. We’ll come and get you tomorrow morning.” Andrée smiled as she left and Jeanne, before following her, caressed the tips of O’s breasts. O, completely taken aback, remained standing at the foot of the bed. With the exception of the collar and leather bracelets, which the water had stiffened when she had bathed and were tighter than before, O was naked.

• From Story of O (1954)

  As the months went by since the day René had given her to Sir Stephen, O was terrified to note the growing importance Sir Stephen was assuming in her lover’s eyes. Moreover, she realized at the same time that, in this matter, she was perhaps mistaken, imagining a progression in the fact or the feeling where actually the only progression had been in the acknowledgment of this fact or the admission of this feeling. Be that as it may, she had been quick to note that René chose to spend with her those nights, and only those nights, following those she had spent with Sir Stephen (Sir Stephen keeping her the whole night only when René was away from Paris). She also noticed that when René remained for one of those evenings at Sir Stephen’s he would never touch O except to make her more readily available or an easier offering to Sir Stephen, if she happened to be struggling. It was extremely rare for him to stay, and he never did unless at Sir Stephen’s express request. Whenever he did, he remained fully dressed, as he had done the first time, keeping quiet, lighting one cigarette after another, adding wood to the fire, serving Sir Stephen something to drink—but not drinking himself. O felt that he was watching her the way a lion trainer watches the animal he has trained, careful to see that it performs with complete obedience and thus does honor to him, but even more the way a prince’s bodyguard or a bandit’s second-in-command keeps an eye on the prostitute he has gone down to fetch in the street. The proof that he was indeed yielding to the role of servant or acolyte resided in the fact that he watched Sir Stephen’s face more closely than he did hers—and beneath his gaze O felt herself stripped of the very voluptuousness in which her features were immersed: for this sensual pleasure René paid obeisance, expressed admiration and even gratitude to Sir Stephen, who had engendered it, pleased that he had deigned to take pleasure in something he had given him. Everything would probably have been much simpler if Sir Stephen had liked boys, and O did not doubt that René, who was not so inclined, still would have readily granted to Sir Stephen both the slightest and the most demanding of his requests. But Sir Stephen only liked women.

• From Story of O (1954)

  It was Norah who came in. Sir Stephen ordered her to undress O and remove her clothing from the room. O allowed her to take off her bolero, her dress, her whalebone belt which constricted her waist, and her sandals. As soon as she had stripped O completely, Norah left, and O, automatically reverting to the rules of Roissy, and certain that all Sir Stephen wanted from her was perfect submissiveness, remained standing in the middle of the room, her eyes lowered, so that she sensed rather than saw Natalie slip in through the open window, dressed in black like her sister, barefoot and silent. Sir Stephen had doubtless explained who she was and why she was there; to his visitor he merely mentioned her name, to which the visitor did not respond, and asked her to make them a drink. As soon as she had handed them some whisky, soda water, and ice cubes (and, in the silence, the clink of the ice cubes against the sides of the glasses made a harrowing racket), the Commander got up from his wicker chair, in which he had been sitting while O was being undressed and, with his glass in his hand, walked over to O. O thought that, with his free hand, he was going to take her breast or seize her belly. But he did not touch her, confining himself to scrutinizing her closely, from her parted lips to her parted knees. He circled her, studying her breasts, her thighs, her hindquarters, inspecting her in detail but offering no comment, and this careful scrutiny and the presence of this gigantic body so close to her so overwhelmed O that she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to run away or, on the contrary, have him throw her down and crush her. So upset was she that she lost control and raised her eyes toward Sir Stephen, searching for help. He understood, smiled, came over to her, and, taking both her hands, pulled them behind her back, and held them in one of his. She leaned back against him, her eyes closed, and it was in a dream, or at least in the dusk of a near-sleep born of exhaustion, the way she had heard as a child, still half under the influence of ether, the nurses talking about her, thinking she was still asleep, of her hair, her pallor, her flat belly where only the faint early signs of pubescence were showing, it was in a dream that she heard the stranger complimenting Sir Stephen on her, paying special due to the pleasant contrast between her ample bosom and the narrow waist, the irons which he found longer, thicker, and more visible than usual. At the same time, she learned that Sir Stephen had in all probability consented to lend her to him the following week, since he was thanking Sir Stephen for something. At which point Sir Stephen, taking her by the nape of the neck, gently told her to wake up and, with Natalie, to go upstairs and wait in her room.

• From Story of O (1954)

  I have no idea how long she remained in the red bedroom, or whether she was really alone, as she surmised, or whether someone was watching her through a peephole camouflaged in the wall. All I know is that when the two women returned, one was carrying a dressmaker’s tape measure and the other a basket. With them came a man dressed in a long purple robe, the sleeves of which were gathered at the wrists and full at the shoulders. When he walked the robe flared open, from the waist down. One could see that beneath his robe he had on some sort of tights which covered his legs and thighs but left the sex exposed. It was the sex that O saw first, when he took his first step, then the whip, made of leather thongs, which he had stuck in his belt. Then she saw that the man was masked by a black hood—which concealed even his eyes behind a network of black gauze—and, finally, that he was also wearing fine black kid gloves. Using the familiar tu form of address, he told her not to move and ordered the women to hurry. The woman with the tape then took the measurements of O’s neck and wrists. Though on the small side, her measurements were in no way out of the ordinary, and it was easy enough to find the right-sized collar and bracelets, in the basket the other woman was carrying. Both collar and bracelets were made of several layers of leather (each layer being fairly thin, so that the total was no more than the thickness of a finger). They had clasps, which functioned automatically like a padlock when it closes, and they could be opened only by means of a small key. Imbedded in the layers of leather, directly opposite the lock, was a snugly-fitting metal ring, which allowed one to get a grip on the bracelet, if one wanted to attach it, for both collar and bracelets fit the arms and neck so smugly—although not so tight as to be the least painful—that it was impossible to slip any bond inside. So they fastened the collar and bracelets to her neck and wrists, and the man told her to get up. He took her place on the fur ottoman, called her over till she was touching his knees, slipped his gloved hand between her thighs and over her breasts, and explained to her that she would be presented that same evening, after she had dined alone.

• From Story of O (1954)

  Another version of the same beginning was simpler and more direct: the young woman, dressed in the same way, was driven by her lover and an unknown friend. The stranger was driving, the lover was seated next to the young woman, and it was the unknown friend who explained to the young woman that her lover had been entrusted with the task of getting her ready, that he was going to tie her hands behind her back, unfasten her stockings and roll them down, remove her garter belt, her panties, and her brassiere, and blindfold her. That she would then be turned over to the château, where in due course she would be instructed as to what she should do. And, in fact, as soon as she had been thus undressed and bound, they helped her to alight from the car after a trip that lasted half an hour, guided her up a few steps and, with her blindfold still on, through one or two doors. Then, when her blindfold was removed, she found herself standing alone in a dark room, where they left her for half an hour, or an hour, or two hours, I can’t be sure, but it seemed forever. Then, when at last the door was opened and the light turned on, you could see that she had been waiting in a very conventional, comfortable, yet distinctive room: there was a thick rug on the floor, but not a stick of furniture, and all four walls were lined with closets. The door had been opened by two women, two young and beautiful women dressed in the garb of pretty eighteenth-century chambermaids: full skirts made out of some light material, which were long enough to conceal their feet; tight bodices, laced or hooked in front, which sharply accentuated the bust line; lace frills around the neck; half-length sleeves. They were wearing eye shadow and lipstick. Both wore a close-fitting collar and had tight bracelets on their wrists.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I went off in the direction of Poinsot’s villa. He was not on my list, but I needed to talk to straighten out my ideas. I carefully avoided the main streets for fear of police dragnets; the Germans had not waited for the deadline for the community’s reply and had begun raiding the streets. It took me a long time, in my panic, to climb the hill I had so often climbed full of hope. Following the instructions of the Civilian Defense Authorities, the Poinsots had abandoned their house to live in the cellar. I found Poinsot all bewildered and lost without his books, quite at sea among the absurd wooden props which were supposed to sustain the ceiling in case of a bomb hit. I told him about the requisition orders; he had already heard and seemed overwhelmed. I told him the latest news and of the panic of our community, which was so unused to this sort of warfare. I also reported to him the arrest of some of his former pupils and my own decision to stay in hiding and await developments. Was I right or wrong to try to save only myself? I was doing nobody any harm, neither could I be of much help. Besides, my health would not be able to withstand the camps. The inspecting doctor of the school, Dr. Nunez, whom I still saw, had warned me that I had an infected spot on one of my lungs. Poinsot said nothing, nor did he smoke; he seemed to be in a cage behind the wooden beams. He and his wife exchanged glances, communicating with each other in silence. At last, she spoke: “You know, I’m terribly sorry we can’t offer to hide you here. It seems the Germans search French homes too.” I reassured her: I had not come for that. I could say this without any effort as I was not lying. But the suggestion instantly seemed to me reasonable; I could certainly have hidden there. The Germans apparently wished to conciliate the French. I was suddenly very embarrassed at having to explain why I was not asking such a service of them. Their villa, I suggested, was too exposed and would be most dangerous; I would surely be spotted there at once. Between Poinsot and me, silence was meaningful too. I felt sorry for him, so silent and so powerless in the cold cellar. He had put up the collar of his dressing gown and was huddled up on a wooden bench against a bundle of linen. Madame Poinsot was more at ease and said she was going to fetch some wood for a fire. But I did not want to be left alone with him and at once took my leave.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  But fate would not let us enjoy so unexpected a holiday. We had hardly gone a mile toward the camp, chattering cheerfully and already feeling less tired at the prospect of a full day’s rest, when we came upon preparations for an approaching battle. Carefully and without hurry, German artillery men were setting up their short and dwarflike guns, bigmouthed as bulldogs, right across the road. A sort of sergeant, with a face like a cook and no cap or tunic, was rolling up his shirt sleeves with a greedy look. Our Italian guards came together to argue excitedly without concealing their fears. We waited and watched, worried and intrigued, our ears cocked to hear what they were saying, but they grew ashamed, and roughly ordered us to get back. We had to break ranks to pass between the guns, with the screaming Italians behind us. Further on, we met a stationary German truck full of silent men packed against each other and carrying the full weight of their imminent death. The contrast between the calm despair of the Germans and the excitement of the Italians sent us into a flurry as soon as we were inside the camp; the soldiers ran about and pushed each other around as they undid the tents and prepared to load their equipment. The exhausts of the noisy Faravelli trucks sputtered as they stood awaiting the orders which were finally brought by the lieutenant. We had to evacuate and all men were to be placed at the disposal of the Nazi command. At any moment the whole region was about to become a battlefield. The lieutenant decided that his men would have to abandon their personal belongings so as to save the equipment. The maddened workers then threw themselves on the meager belongings of the furious soldiers and there was almost a fight as they stuffed lamps, clothes, and utensils into their bags and even loaded whole sacks onto their backs. Then the lieutenant took care of us. We would leave first, on foot, naturally, and alone; it was impossible for us to disappear on account of all the troop concentrations in the region. We had to go as far as we could, in our own interest. Otherwise, we would be caught between two firing lines. These explanations cooled down our joy at being avenged. The situation also had its disadvantages: we might get killed on the same battlefield as our bewildered oppressors. We returned along the same road that passed through our place of work, which was deserted. Again, we met the German artillery men and their sergeant with a cook’s face. They had finished their work and were now seated on the ground, quite unconcerned. Further on, Italians were being loaded into the first convoy of trucks as they swore at fate and the Madonna to relieve their anxiety. Each time they saw our column, they were upset again. Ironically, we reassured them, but quickly, for fear of a sudden volley:

• From Mating in Captivity: Unlocking Erotic Intelligence (2006)

  Because loss of control is almost exclusively seen in a negative light, we don’t even entertain the idea that surrender can be emotionally or spiritually enlightening. But experiencing a temporary suspension of our discernible self is often liberating and expansive. I have seen many people stumble when they can’t simply take the problem of eros and fix it. They are left feeling bewildered and frightened by their slackened command. I help them learn how to relinquish control intentionally, as a means of personal growth and self-discovery. Ryan and Christine have been in therapy for a year. I meet with them together and individually as they struggle through the transition from being a sexually entwined couple to being the parents of three small children. Following the birth of their twin daughters, the lovers’ erotic inspiration began gasping for air. While some couples accept fading intensity with gracious resignation, settling into affectionate companionship, Ryan and Christine don’t want to give up. The memory of what they once had is still dear to them. They make a clear distinction between having sex and making love, and they haven’t made love in a while. They’ve rented videos, they’ve taken baths together, and they are committed to their weekly date. They’ve tried a lot of things, some yielding satisfying results, others a total waste. Merely having sex is not really their issue. Of course they’d like to have it more often, but their concern is more about intensity than frequency. It’s not the diminishing amount of sex that bothers them, but its increasing dullness. They like to be proactive, and they’re shopping for new tools. I can think of a number of things that I could suggest to this couple, joining them in their practical approach to the problem of diminishing desire. But I question the rationalist approach in matters of the heart. I think that the challenge of sustaining eros in a committed relationship over time is of a different nature. We don’t always know our aims in advance. Our desires are not exempt from conflict; nor are our passions free of contradictions. No amount of will or reason can dictate our love dreams. Reason doesn’t know the roots of our dreams; nor does it know the mysterious needs of the heart. We can’t always use the laws of profit and loss in our romantic and erotic lives. Applying the work ethos is tricky. Even the most logical approach cannot neutralize the ambivalence of love. I tell Ryan and Christine, “I have nothing new to offer in the ‘how to’ department. You’ve had dates, you’ve been burning incense, you’ve cracked into the Astroglide. And it’s landed you a steady diet of sex that’s satisfactory without being really satisfying. Do I get it?” “Yes, you get it, but what are you saying? That that’s it?

• From Story of O (1954)

  The rings were of stainless steel, unburnished, the same dull finish as the gold-plated iron ring. They were oblong in shape, similar to the links of a heavy chain, the rounded metal being approximately as thick as the diameter of an oversized coloring pencil. Anne-Marie showed O that each ring was composed of two U-shaped halves, one of which fitted into the other. “This is only the test model,” she said, “which can be removed after it’s been inserted. The permanent model, you see, has a spring inside, and when you press on it it locks into the female slot of the other half of the ring and cannot be removed, except by filing.” Each ring was as long as two joints of the little finger and wide enough for the same little finger to slip through it. To each ring was suspended, like another ring, or as though to the supporting loop of an earring, a ring which was meant to hang parallel to the plane of the ear and form its extension, a round disk made of the same metal, whose diameter was the same size as the ring was long. On one of its faces, a triskelion in gold inlay; on the opposite face, nothing. “On the blank side will be your name, your title, and Sir Stephen’s family and given names,” Anne-Marie said, “with, below it, a design composed of a crossed whip and riding crop. Yvonne is wearing a disk just like it on her necklace, but yours will be worn on your loins.” “But …,” O ventured. “I know,” Anne-Marie replied, “that’s why I brought Yvonne along. Show yours, Yvonne.” The red-haired girl rose to her feet and lay back on the bed. Anne-Marie spread her thighs and showed O that one of the nether lobes had been neatly pierced, half way down and close to the base. The iron ring would just fit into it. “In a moment I’ll pierce you, O,” Anne-Marie said. “It’s nothing really. What takes the longest is placing the clamps so as to be able to suture the outer and inner layers, attach the epidermis to the inner membrane. It’s much easier to bear than the whip.” “You mean to say you won’t put me to sleep?” O cried, trembling. “Of course not,” Anne-Marie replied. “You’ll merely be tied a little more tightly than you were yesterday. That’s really quite sufficient. Now come along.” A week later Anne-Marie removed the clamps and slipped on the test ring. It was lighter than it looked, for it was hollow, but still O could feel its weight. The hard metal, which was visibly piercing the flesh, looked like an instrument of torture. What would it be like when the weight of the second ring was added to it? This barbaric instrument would be immediately and glaringly apparent to the most casual glance.

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

  An old wordplay catches this broader meaning: atonement is about “at-one-ment.” How does at-one-ment with God occur? What role does the cross of Jesus play in this? How does his death bring about at-one-ment? For Paul, as for the New Testament as a whole, the answer to this question is plural, not singular. A scholar recently wrote that Paul had dozens of ways of speaking about the atoning significance of the cross. That may be hyperbole, but not by much. We group Paul’s understandings into three categories: the cross reveals the character of empire, the path of personal transformation, and the character of God. AS REVELATION OF THE CHARACTER OF EMPIRE In the first-century setting of Paul and his hearers, “Christ crucified” had an anti-imperial meaning. Paul’s shorthand summary was not “Jesus died,” not “Jesus was killed,” but “Christ crucified.” Jesus didn’t just die, wasn’t simply murdered—he was crucified. This meant that Jesus had been executed by imperial authority: crucifixion was a Roman form of execution. In Paul’s world, a cross was always a Roman cross. Rome reserved crucifixion for two categories of people: those who challenged imperial rule (violently or nonviolently) and chronically defiant slaves (not simply occasionally disobedient or difficult slaves). If you were a murderer or a robber, you would not be crucified, though you might be executed another way. The two groups who were crucified had something in common: both rejected Roman imperial domination. Crucifixion was a very public, prolonged, and painful form of execution that carried the message, “Don’t you dare defy imperial authority, or this will happen to you.” It was state torture and terrorism. To proclaim “Christ crucified” was to signal at once that Jesus was an anti-imperial figure, and that Paul’s gospel was an anti-imperial gospel. The empire killed Jesus. The cross was the imperial “no” to Jesus. But God had raised him. The resurrection was God’s “yes” to Jesus, God’s vindication of Jesus—and thus also God’s “no” to the powers that had killed him. The twofold pattern executed by Rome and vindicated by God appears twice early in the book of Acts. The authorities crucified Jesus, but God raised him up (2:23–24). A few verses later, in only slightly different language, it is repeated: this Jesus who was crucified by the authorities God has made both Lord and Messiah (2:36). Of course, these words are from Acts, not Paul, but we cite them to illustrate the obvious and immediate meaning of “Christ crucified.” Executed by Rome exposed the nature of the rulers of that world: they “crucified the Lord of glory” (1 Cor. 2:8), thereby revealing the character of the system of domination and violence that killed Jesus. Vindicated by God —raised by God—meant Jesus is Lord, and thus the powers that executed him were not. In language that confronted and countered Roman imperial theology: Jesus is Lord—Caesar is not. This is the primary meaning of Paul’s emphatic use of “Christ crucified” in its context in 1 Corinthians.

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

  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. Luke’s account of Paul’s missionary strategy sends him immediately to the Jewish synagogue in city after city in order to convert his fellow Jews to Christian Judaism: Pisidian Antioch (13:14), Iconium (14:1), Thessalonica (17:1), Beroea (17:10), Athens (17:17), Corinth (18:4), and Ephesus (18:19; 19:8). Luke’s understanding of Paul’s missionary strategy is clear and consistent—in every city he always starts in the synagogue with his fellow Jews. But is that what Paul actually did? Is that what actually happened? Paul’s own account of his mission always insists that he was divinely called for and to the “Gentiles.” First, at the very start, in Damascus, he says God chose “to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him among the Gentiles.” Second, that is how he always describes his vocation thereafter, for example, in Romans: “among all the Gentiles” (1:5), “among the rest of the Gentiles” (1:13), “to win obedience from the Gentiles (15:18). Finally, his specific titles for himself in that same letter are: “an apostle to the Gentiles” (11:13) and “a minister of Christ Jesus to the Gentiles” (15:16). If, therefore, Paul went, as in Luke’s Acts, to convert Jews in the synagogue, he was disobeying his missionary mandate from God and contradicting his own understanding of his destiny. Furthermore, he would also have been contravening the decision agreed on between himself and all the other apostles at Jerusalem around the year 50 CE.

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

  On the other, he has fled to the most dangerous place imaginable—to a Roman prisoner in a Roman jail. Has he not endangered his own life and that of Paul as well? If we assume that Onesimus is not simply imprudent here, there is another way to understand his action. When severe punishment or even death was imminent, Roman law allowed a slave to flee not only to certain temples for refuge, but also “to a friend” (Latin ad amicum ) of the owner to beg for intercession and mercy. An example will make this clear. Although Seneca the Younger became a victim near the end of Nero’s reign, he had begun it as the young emperor’s philosopher. He wrote the treatises On Mercy and On Anger in the same decade that Paul wrote this letter to Philemon (which might be called, as it were, On Duty ). In the former study, Seneca mentions that “Slaves have the right to seek refuge at a god’s statue” (1.18.2). In the latter one, he gives us this story about a slave’s (short) flight ad amicum . The anecdote concerns what “our deified Augustus did when dining with Vedius Pollio” at the latter’s palatial mansion above the Bay of Naples: One of the servants had broken a crystal cup. Vedius ordered him to be seized and executed in an unusual way—he was to be thrown to the giant lampreys which were kept in a pool…. The boy struggled free and fled to Caesar’s feet, asking only for some other form of death, just not to be eaten. Shocked by the unprecedented cruelty, Caesar had him released, ordering all the crystal to be broken in front of him and the pool to be filled in. (3.40.2–4) Seneca notes that the slave fled “upward,” fled to one who was his owner’s friend, but who could also operate “from a position of superiority.” That might be parable rather than history, but when Pollio’s will left that mansion to Augustus, the emperor had it demolished and turned into a garden. Our best reconstruction of Onesimus’s intention and situation is that he was in some very serious trouble with his owner, Philemon, and fled—legally by Roman law—for intercession to Paul, whom he recognized as the somewhat “superior” friend of his master. But now that original situation has changed, because the pagan slave has become a Christian convert. So what exactly is Philemon’s duty in that changed situation? Is it to take him back as a forgiven and now Christian slave? Or to give him to Paul as the apostle’s own slave? It is neither—but something much more radical. Paul continues: I am sending him, that is, my own heart, back to you.

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

  Jesus says: “Do not resist an evildoer” in Matthew 5:39, as just seen. The Greek verb for “do not resist” is composed of anti + histēmi and the major Greek lexicon of Liddell & Scott explains that verb as “to stand against, esp. in battle, to withstand, oppose .” In Matthew 5:39, therefore, it means “to resist violently.” So also with Paul’s theme of resistance in Romans 13:1–7. It concerns violent resistance and, if anything, emphasizes it even more than does Matthew 5:39. Watch his sequence of two Greek verbs across these two verses: Whoever resists (anti + tasso) authority resists (anti + histēmi) what God has appointed, and those who resist (anti + histēmi) will incur judgment…. One must be subject (hupo + tasso) not only because of wrath but also because of conscience. (13:2, 5)If anti + histēmi is redolent of (military) violence, anti + tasso is even more so. We refer once again to Liddell & Scott, which explains that latter verb as meaning “to set opposite to, range in battle against” and also “to set oneself against, meet face to face, meet in battle.” It comes from anti, which means “against,” and taxis, which means “a drawing up, the order or disposition of an army…array, order of battle…a single rank or line of soldiers…to be drawn up a few lines deep…a body of soldiers, a squadron” and other such military dispositions for battle. Our English word tactics, by the way, comes from that same Greek root. Final Parallel. Jesus says: “Love your enemies” in both Matthew 5:44 and Luke 6:27–28. Paul says: Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments, “You shall not commit adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not steal; You shall not covet”; and any other commandment, are summed up in this word, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law. (13:8–10) He manages to mention “love” five times in those three verses. We can now see what is Paul’s concern in 13:1–7 when it is replaced within its fuller context of 12:14–13:10. It is, of course, about taxes and revenues demanded by Rome but precisely about refusing them violently, about the specter of violent tax revolts among Christians. It is something that appalls him so much that—in rather a rhetorical panic—he makes some very unwise and unqualified statements with which to ward off that possibility. Paul is most afraid, not that Christians will be killed but that they will kill, not that Rome will use violence against Christians but that Christians will use violence against Rome. And that emphasizes the ultimate difference between the peace of Rome and the peace of Christ. ALTERNATIVE VISIONS OF PEACE ON EARTH We began this chapter with a list of Roman imperial theology’s divine titles and transcendental claims for Caesar the Augustus.

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

  An analogy might help in understanding Paul’s use of “Lord” for Jesus—but please do not push it beyond the linguistic level. In German the ordinary word for a leader is Führer and, like all nouns in that language, the initial letter is uppercase. In itself, that titular term could be used of any leader, but in the early 1930s it was the official title of Adolf Hitler. He was not simply a leader, ein Führer—he was the Leader, Der Führer. In that specific context, to call Jesus “our Leader” or to say that “our Leader is the Leader” would have sent you straight to Dachau. As with the word “Leader” in the German context, so with the word “Lord” in the Roman context. Any exclusive and absolute usurpation of that title was lethally dangerous, because it was deliberately treasonous. The problem for Rome was not calling others “Lord” or even speaking of “our Lord.” That could be quite ordinary, innocent, and acceptable. But it was treasonous confrontation to claim that “our Lord” was “the Lord,” and if for us today “Lord” is simply a quaintly archaic or flatly patriarchal title, the confrontational choice between the peace of Caesar and the peace of Christ does not thereby disappear. If, therefore, the lordship of Caesar meant that vision of peace through victory inscribed on stone from Actium to Ankara, what was the content of the alternative lordship of Christ? Bluntly put, once more, how else do you obtain peace on earth except through violent victory? THE JUSTICE OF EQUALITY IN CHRIST JESUS Why was it only after Onesimus’s conversion to Christianity that Philemon’s duty was to liberate him by manumission? Why—for the radical Paul—cannot a Christian master like Philemon own a Christian slave like Onesimus? Why are Christian women and men, wives and husbands equal with one another? Why must Christians be equal with one another? For the principle involved we go into the wider matrix of Pauline theology as noted in his letter to the Galatians. This absolutely crucial statement must be read fully, and to assist us in doing so, we set it out as follows: As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ…(3:27–29) That central triad must never, ever, be cited without those framing statements containing “into” and “with Christ” and “in” and “to Christ.” Quoted without those frames, they might correctly deny the validity of slavery, but they also incorrectly deny the validity of the difference (as distinct from the hierarchy) between women and men, and the ongoing validity of Judaism as a religion separate from Christianity.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “You’re going to like it,” he said. “I’m going to do you a big favor before we’re through.” Why did she find him reassuring, even attractive, despite that brutal note in his voice? He was just so damned strong. Maybe strong enough for both of them, stronger than her fear and outrage? He was almost masturbating now. His gloved hand returned again and again to the hidden cock, which bulged and lengthened. He smoked his cigar while he worked, and when he took the cigar out of his mouth, he kept it pointed negligently at his crotch. She could not look away from it. Her mouth was dry, then filled with a gush of saliva, then parched again. The leather gloves fit his large hands so tightly, there must not be a wrinkle anywhere on them, they were so thin he must be able to feel— Her breasts. The cigar smoldered in the ashtray. He had put it down, leaned over, laid his hands on her breasts and his breath across her cheek. He smelled like tobacco, leather, sweat, and men. The hands were surprisingly gentle, squeezing and stroking her breasts until they came down to the nipples, where his fingertips pinched her lightly—then harder. He repeated the caress only a half-dozen times while she wedged herself into the corner between the door and the seat and writhed. “Nice,” he said, as if he were surprised, then he grabbed her knees and forced them apart and touched her there, making his hand into a fist and pressing the knuckles against her seam, rocking the fist into her clit and labia and the aching hole. Thank God he was wearing leather gloves. Thank God she had her pants on. He probably couldn’t tell how aroused she was—or her body was, despite her self, which stubbornly resisted him. But then he took his hand away and her hips lifted, just half an inch, to follow, and he smiled a nasty smile at her and said, “Gotcha.” Then he was back on his side of the car and she was breathing hard, bewildered and pissed off. She tried to look away, out the window, but the power that would determine whether her life continued or not was sitting with her inside the car, so she had to look at him again. His hands went to his zipper—competent, practiced—and he undid it slowly (for her benefit,) reached inside, and (with some difficulty) removed his sem-rigid rod. Nobody was talking in the front seat now. Mike was driving, but he kept stealing long looks in the rear-view mirror, and Joe was frankly staring at their reflection, his mouth hanging open like a dog on a hot day. Maybe I could do this in private and like it, she thought, but to have them watch and know I gave in and know I wanted it—it’s too humiliating, I can’t stand it!

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  please, when you please. Isn’t that right?” I shook my head. “That’s what I hear,” he said. “Regular man about town. Performer, too. That right? You a performer?” “No sir.” “That’s a goddamned lie.” Dwight kept looking back and forth between me and the road. “Dwight, please slow down,” I said. “If there’s one thing I can’t stomach,” Dwight said, “it’s a liar.” I pushed myself against the seat. “I’m not a liar.” “Sure you are. You or Marian. Is Marian a liar?” I didn’t answer. “She says you’re quite the little performer. Is that a lie? You tell me that’s a lie and we’ll drive back to Seattle so you can call her a liar to her face. You want me to do that?” I said no, I didn’t. “Then you must be the one that’s the liar. Right?” I nodded. “Marian says you’re quite the little performer. Is that true?” “I guess,” I said. “You guess. You guess. Well, let’s see your act. Go on. Let’s see your act.” When I didn’t do anything, he said, “I’m waiting.” “I can’t.” “Sure you can.” “No sir.” “Sure you can. Do me. I hear you do me.” I shook my head. “Do me, I hear you’re good at doing me. Do me with the lighter. Here. Do me with the lighter.” He held out the Zippo in its velvet case. “Go on.” I sat where I was, both hands on the dashboard. We were all over the road. “Take it!” I didn’t move. He put the lighter back in his pocket. “Hotshot,” he said. “You pull that hotshot stuff around me and I’ll snatch you bald-headed, you understand?” “Yes sir.” “You’re in for a change, mister. You got that? You’re in for a whole nother ball game.” I braced myself for the next curve. Citizenship in the Home____

• From White Oleander (1999)

  “People use it for arthritis,” he said. I leafed through a Variety and tried to ask casually, “Is it dangerous?” “Completely harmless,” he said. He raised his glass and examined the amber liquor, then sipped slowly, his eyes closing in satisfaction. I hadn’t expected good news. “What’s it for, then?” “It helps drugs absorb through your skin. That’s how the nicotine patch works, and those seasickness patches. You put it on and the DMSO lets it get through your skin into the bloodstream. Marvelous stuff. I remember when they used to worry that hippies would mix it with LSD and paint the doorknobs of public buildings.” He laughed into his drink. “As if anybody would waste their acid on a bunch of straights.” I LOOKED for the bottle of DMSO. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I looked under the kitchen sink and in the bathroom, in the drawers—there just weren’t many places to hide things in our apartment, and anyway, hiding things wasn’t my mother’s style. I waited up for her. She came back late, with a handsome young man whose dark curls trailed halfway down his back. She held his hand. “This is Jesus,” she said. “He’s a poet. My daughter, Astrid.” “Hi,” I said. “Mom, can I talk to you for a second?” “You should be in bed,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She smiled at Jesus, let go of his hand, and walked me out onto the screen porch. She looked beautiful again, no circles under her eyes, hair like falling water. I lay down in my bed and she covered me with a sheet, stroked my face. “Mom, what happened to that stuff from Mexico?” She just kept smiling, but her eyes told me everything. “Don’t do it,” I said. She kissed me and stroked my hair with her cool hand, always cool, despite the heat, despite the wind and the fires, and then she was gone. THE NEXT DAY I called Barry’s number. “Tunnel of Love,” a girl answered, stoned, giggling. I heard his voice, velvet, in the background. Then he came on the line. “Hello?” I was going to warn him, but now all I could remember was my mother’s face when she came out of his house that day. The way she rocked, the square of her mouth. Anyway, what could I tell him—don’t touch anything, don’t eat anything, watch out? He was already suspicious of her. If I told him, they might arrest her, and I would not hurt my mother, not for Barry Kolker and his screwing Shivas. He deserved it. He had it coming. “Hello,” he said, as she said something and laughed, stupidly. “Well, fuck you too,” he said, and hung up. I didn’t call again. WE SAT ON the roof and watched the moon, red and huge in the ash-laden air, hovering over the city laid out like a Ouija board.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Our enthusiasm was soon followed by a silence full of mystical terror when it came to the problem of choosing the victim, the baby to be circumcised. But were we still at play? The older boys began to examine the younger, who included me, with the sadistic calm of executioners. I was absolutely terrified of being chosen. Besides, I was quite unusually shy, and could already feel myself turn pale with shame at the mere idea of having my pants torn off me in front of everybody. For some time now, I had been concealing myself from my mother whenever I had to change my shorts, and for anybody to touch me would make me feel that I had been violently raped. So I retreated against the distempered wall and felt the blisters in the distemper break as I pressed against them. Even the big boys seemed to be impressed by the general silence and began to whisper among themselves, like men who are about to perform a sacrifice that involves terrifying responsibilities. When they at last approached our group, where the smallest boys were gathered together, I closed my eyes and my lips and prayed to God to save me. I would never have been able to defend myself, and my disorganized movements would have only served to encourage my aggressors. On other occasions, I had learned at great cost that it is always wiser, with grownups and with a crowd, to play possum, as if beneath the snout of a fierce animal. I was about to be seized by a hundred hands, brutalized, stripped of my pants, subjected to the touch of these other boys. In my distraction, I began, with my eyes closed, to whisper to myself the Sh’mah Yizroel, the prayer for the dead, until the shouts of the crowd made me realize that I was at last free from this unbearable suspense: the victim had been chosen, and I was not to be sacrificed.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Then, without looking back, without a word, he lightly quickened his step. Five others did the same, and the little group soon outstripped us. I had neither the courage nor the weakness to follow their example. In my haversack I had, among other things, an annotated Bible, my diary, and some letters. I would have been ashamed, besides, to leave the long column which still clung together. At one turning we came upon a German antiaircraft battery, camouflaged under palms and reeds. “Arbeiter! Workers.” They asked no more questions, but warned us we were going toward the front. We could now imagine the plan of battle. They were still fighting on the wings of an arc, and the retreat had been ordered in the center. We knew that the Germans shot any civilians found in the battle zone. Whatever the price, and in spite of the Italian danger, we had to turn back. With a quick thought for the six men who had vanished ahead of us, we retraced our steps. But we were lost in any case. If, by luck, we escaped the gunfire, we would certainly be recaptured by the Italians even sooner than we thought, for we could hear voices like hallucinations in the pale unborn dawn. Had it been worth so much trouble and pain? It did not occur to us to run or to fight. Heavy as oxen, unable to move swiftly, we stopped and awaited our pursuers. But our mistake was full of pleasant surprises: the voices were only those of our comrades on their way back from the danger zone. In spite of our dejection, a ray of joy pierced our armor of fatigue. We congratulated each other; the idea that they had been lost and found again made them dearer to us, each one of them more vividly present as a member of the group, reducing for a moment each man’s growing sense of loneliness. I suggested to the leader that we stop this exhausting march which only led us back to the Italians. We should hide in the bushes of the countryside and let two men watch on the road for a ride: “If our guards arrive before they hitch a ride, our friends can then lie and say they have left us and are alone. If something comes along before the Italians, they will get a ride to Tunis and come back with one of our community trucks.” He thought this over at length and finally agreed. The men disappeared behind the thorny Arabian acacia bushes that lined the road, while Picchonero and I sat on the ground and awaited any vehicle that might show up. “I warn you,” said the little shoemaker, “if I get there I’m not coming back. You don’t need me to recognize the spot.”