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.

Page 377 of 529 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Day the Sixth] CHICHIBIO, COOK TO CURRADO GIANFIGLIAZZI, WITH A READY WORD SPOKEN TO SAVE HIMSELF, TURNETH HIS MASTER'S ANGER INTO LAUGHTER AND ESCAPETH THE PUNISHMENT THREATENED HIM BY THE LATTER Lauretta being silent and Nonna having been mightily commended of all, the queen charged Neifile to follow on, and she said, "Although, lovesome ladies, a ready wit doth often furnish folk with words both prompt and useful and goodly, according to the circumstances, yet fortune whiles cometh to the help of the fearful and putteth of a sudden into their mouths such answers as might never of malice aforethought be found of the speaker, as I purpose to show you by my story. Currado Gianfigliazzi, as each of you ladies may have both heard and seen, hath still been a noble citizen of our city, liberal and magnificent, and leading a knightly life, hath ever, letting be for the present his weightier doings, taken delight in hawks and hounds. Having one day with a falcon of his brought down a crane and finding it young and fat, he sent it to a good cook he had, a Venetian hight Chichibio, bidding him roast it for supper and dress it well. Chichibio, who looked the new-caught gull he was, trussed the crane and setting it to the fire, proceeded to cook it diligently. When it was all but done and gave out a very savoury smell, it chanced that a wench of the neighbourhood, Brunetta by name, of whom Chichibio was sore enamoured, entered the kitchen and smelling the crane and seeing it, instantly besought him to give her a thigh thereof. He answered her, singing, and said, 'Thou shalt not have it from me, Mistress Brunetta, thou shalt not have it from me.' Whereat she, being vexed, said to him, 'By God His faith, an thou give it me not, thou shalt never have of me aught that shall pleasure thee.' In brief, many were the words between them and at last, Chichibio, not to anger his mistress, cut off one of the thighs of the crane and gave it her.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  Why do people get defensive in response to another person’s anger at them? Why is it so hard for people to admit they made a mistake and work to resolve it? It is a particularly strange phenomenon when you consider that many people get especially frustrated when other people don’t admit and apologize for their mistakes. “I just wish they would admit what they did was wrong and apologize” is a very common refrain when it comes to conflict. So, there’s this disconnect between what many people want from others and what they are willing to do themselves. Why? Threats to Our Self-Identity Like most emotional experiences, defensiveness is about self-protection. Being accused of an error is perceived as a threat to our wellbeing or our identity, and we react with distress. That distress motivates us to seek some sort of comfort and resolution. If we were able to think rationally in that moment, the comfort and resolution would come from owning the mistake and addressing it. But when we can’t think rationally, we seek resolution by denying the mistake or trying to refocus the conflict on the other person. “I’m sorry I forgot to do the dishes” turns into “Yeah, well you never put the laundry away like you’re supposed to!” ANGER FACT Defensiveness is a natural emotional reaction to having identity threatened. It’s protective in the same way other emotions are protective, but it can still interfere with progress. It’s even more of a threat when the error is inconsistent with your self- identity. If someone accused me being a bad fisherman, I wouldn’t care. I don’t identify as being good at this activity so being told I’m bad at it doesn’t feel like a threat to my identity. If, though, someone accused me of being, or implied I was, a bad teacher, parent, or spouse, I would care. I want to be, and work really

• From Another Country (1962)

  Vivaldo stopped and tried to straighten. They leaned, half-in, half-out of the door. The bartender watched them. Vivaldo looked at the bartender, then at Jane. He and Rufus stumbled together into the blinding rain. “Let me help you,” Jane cried again. But she stopped in the doorway long enough to say to the bartender, whose face held no expression whatever, “You’re going to hear about this, believe me. I’m going to close this bar and have your job, if it’s the last thing I ever do.” Then she ran into the rain, and tried to help Rufus support Vivaldo. Vivaldo pulled away from her touch, and slipped and almost fell. “Get away from me. Get away from me. You’ve been enough help for one night.” “You’ve got to get in somewhere!” Jane cried. “Don’t you worry about it. Don’t worry about it. Drop dead, get lost, go fuck yourself. We’re going to the hospital.” Rufus looked into Vivaldo’s face and became frightened. Both his eyes were closing and the blood poured down from some wound in his scalp. And he was crying. “What a way to talk to my buddy, man,” he said, over and over. “Wow! What a way to talk to my buddy!” “Let’s go to her place,” Rufus whispered. “It’s closer.” Vivaldo did not seem to hear him. “Come on, baby, let’s go on over to Jane’s, it don’t matter.” He was afraid that Vivaldo had been badly hurt, and he knew what would happen at the hospital if two fays and a spade came bleeding in. For the doctors and nurses were, first of all, upright, clean-living white citizens. And he was not really afraid for himself, but for Vivaldo, who knew so little about his countrymen. So, slipping and sliding, with Jane now circling helplessly around them and now leading the way, like a big-assed Joan of Arc, they reached Jane’s pad. He carried Vivaldo into the bathroom and sat him down. He looked in the mirror. His face looked like jam, but the scars would probably heal, and only one eye was closed; but when he began washing Vivaldo, he found a great gash in his skull, and this frightened him. “Man,” he whispered, “you got to go to the hospital.” “That’s what I said. All right. Let’s go.” And he tried to rise. “No, man. Listen. If I go with you, it’s going to be a whole lot of who shot John because I’m black and you’re white. You dig? I’m telling it to you like it is.” Vivaldo said, “I really don’t want to hear all that shit, Rufus.” “Well, it’s true, whether you want to hear it or not. Jane’s got to take you to the hospital, I can’t come with you.” Vivaldo’s eyes were closed and his face was white. “Vivaldo?” He opened his eyes. “Are you mad at me, Rufus?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  The yellow electric light, self-consciously indirect, would by now have been discovered to be useless and would have been turned off. The girl would have taken off her shoes and turned on her radio or her hi-fi set and would be lying on the bed. The gray light, coming in through the monk’s-cloth blinds, would, with the malice of the noncommittal, be examining every surface, corner, angle, of the unloved room. The music would not be loud. They would have poured drinks by now and the girl’s drink would be on the table. The boy’s would be between his hands. He would be sitting on the bed, turned a little away from the girl, staring at the floor. His cap would have been pushed further back. And the silence, beneath the music, would be tremendous with their fear. Presently, one of them would make a move to conquer this. If it were the girl, the movement would be sighing and halting—sighing because of need, halting because of hostility. If it were the boy, the movement would be harshly or softly brutal: he would lunge over the girl as though rape were in his mind, or he would try to arouse her lust by means of feathery kisses, meant to be burning, which he had seen in the movies. Friction and fantasy could not fail to produce a physiological heat and hardness; and this sheathed pressure between her thighs would be the girl’s signal to moan. She would toss her head a little and hold the boy more tightly and they would begin their descent into confusion. Off would come the cap—as the bed sighed and the gray light stared. Then his jacket would come off. His hands would push up the sweater and unlock the brassière. Perhaps both might wish to pause here and begin a discovery of each other, but neither would dare. She moaned and clung to darkness, he removed the sweater. He struggled unlovingly with her breasts; the sound of her gasps foreshadowed his failure. Then the record on the hi-fi came to an end, or, on the radio, a commercial replaced the love song. He pulled up her skirt. Then the half-naked girl, with a small, apologetic murmur, rose from the bed, switched off the machine. Standing in the center of the room, she might mock her nakedness with a small, cruel joke. Then she would vanish into the john. The boy would finish his drink and take off everything except his undershorts. When the girl reappeared, both would be ready.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Cass, very nearly, in her fear and despair, sank slowly into her seat again; but Ellis, mopping his brow, and gleaming, was more cheerful than ever. “I don’t think that’s necessarily so,” he said—and wrung from the table the obligatory laugh—“and, anyway, Mrs. Silenski is responsible for a very heavy investment. Her husband is very valuable, we must take good care of his morale.” Ida and Cass watched each other. Ida smiled. “Will Richard’s morale suffer if you do not get home?” “Unquestionably,” said Cass. “I must go.” Ida’s face changed, and she looked down. She seemed, abruptly, weary and sad. “I guess you’re right,” she said, “and there’s no point in putting it off.” She looked at Ellis. “Walk her to a cab, sweetie.” “My pleasure,” said Ellis. “Good night, all,” said Cass. “I’m sorry I have to run, but I must.” She said, to Ida, “I’ll see you soon——?” “Shall I expect to see you at the usual place?” “If it’s still standing,” Cass said, after a moment, “yes.” She turned and made her way through the darkening room, with Ellis padding behind her. They gained the street, she feeling limp and frightened. Ellis put her into a cab. The cab was driven by a young Puerto Rican. “Good night, Mrs. Silenski,” Ellis said, and gave her his wet, hard hand. “Please give Richard my best, and tell him I’ll be calling him in a couple of days.” “Yes, I’ll tell him. Thank you. Good night.”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Les autres aussi, ils ont des problèmes, tu sais ? Les autres aussi, ils ont peur. — De quoi as-tu peur ? », demande Wallace avant de pouvoir se retenir. La question lui échappe comme un petit oiseau agile. La large mâchoire de Miller s’active sur quelque chose que Wallace ne voit pas, qu’elle mastique. Les tendons se tendent, se crispent. Son visage se durcit. « La même merde dont tout le monde a peur, Wallace. D’être abandonné. De me faire jeter. De ne pas être suffisamment bon. D’être un foutu monstre. Tu sais ce que j’ai éprouvé quand tu es parti ? — Non, dis-moi. — J’ai eu le sentiment d’être le loup de ce conte. J’ai eu la sensation que je venais de tuer quelqu’un. Quand je me suis réveillé et que j’ai vu que tu t’étais tiré, je me suis dit : Merde, Miller, t’es vraiment un taré, t’es vraiment un putain de taré, pas vrai ? — Je n’avais pas l’intention de te faire éprouver ça. — Mais bien sûr que non, tu n’en avais pas l’intention… C’est comme avec Cole et Vincent, ou cette fille de ton labo, pas vrai ? C’est jamais ton intention, mais tu le fais tout le temps. Tes sentiments, tes sentiments. Jamais ceux de personne d’autre. Pas les miens en tout cas. » Miller respire bruyamment et hausse les épaules. « Pas mes sentiments. — C’est pas vrai », proteste Wallace, même s’il se demande à présent si ça n’est pas la vérité. Miller croise les bras, jette à Wallace un regard mi-amusé mi-agacé. « Donc ce soir, je vais dans un bar, reprend-il. Je vais dans un bar, je bois des coups avec Yngve et Lukas, on discute. Mais je n’arrive pas à me concentrer sur la conversation. Je pense encore à ce matin. Je pense encore à ce qui s’est passé quand je me suis réveillé et que j’ai vu que tu étais parti, je pense à ce mec qui me plaît, un mec, sans déconner, je pense qu’il me plaît et voilà que tout d’un coup, je ne suis pas assez bien pour lui. Je suis une merde. Il m’a utilisé, et il s’est barré. Ce mec que je croyais connaître. Je lui ai révélé des trucs sur moi que je ne révèle jamais à personne, et il m’a révélé des trucs qu’il ne révèle jamais à personne, et j’ai cru, stupidement, j’ai cru que ça signifiait quelque chose mais, bon, tu connais la suite, pas vrai ? » Wallace ne répond rien. Il garde les yeux baissés sur l’espace qui les sépare. Il ne parvient pas à se forcer à regarder Miller.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il voudrait dormir longtemps, mais il y a le labo, les nématodes ; même s’il rentre chez lui, il sait qu’il va devoir ressortir. Il se redresse, rassemble ses forces et se dirige vers son appartement – un peu de repos, il a au moins mérité ça. Les autres labos du deuxième étage du bâtiment des sciences du vivant sont déserts, comme après le Ravissement des fidèles. Bizarrement, c’est aussi un peu comme apercevoir quelqu’un en train de se déshabiller se croyant seul : le frisson et la honte du voyeur. L’atmosphère charrie l’odeur salée de la solution de levure. La bouche de Wallace se remplit de salive. En bas, l’atrium est baigné d’une lumière diaphane. Des ceps de vignes desséchées, jaunes, s’enroulent autour des grilles, le revêtement du sol tellement usé qu’il en est luisant. S’il saute, se dit-il, il tombera tout droit, une lente traversée du vide, une façon de mourir horrible. Il ressent, un bref instant, la chaleur de l’impact, l’humidité spectrale de son crâne en train d’éclater. L’illusion d’apesanteur se dissipe. L’ascenseur se referme avec un bruit métallique de ricochet. Il est un peu plus de 10 heures, on est samedi. Au bout du couloir, de la lumière s’échappe du labo de Simone. Katie est penchée sur la centrifugeuse. C’est une énorme machine grise émettant un couinement strident qui grimpe dans les aigus jusqu’à déteindre sur les bruits mécaniques du labo : cliquetis de cages et tintement de béchers en verre fixés à des agitateurs, miaulement des serpentins derrière les incubateurs, bourdonnement monotone de la clim au plafond. Entre ces murs, on l’impression de se trouver dans le système péristaltique d’un animal gigantesque, pris dans les sons d’un corps en train de s’autoréguler. Katie ne lève pas les yeux sur lui. Elle est blonde avec un tout petit visage, comme si quelqu’un avait effacé ses traits d’origine pour en peindre à la place ce fac-similé en miniature. Elle tient un seau vert plein de glace en équilibre contre sa hanche et fait claquer une paire de gants en nitrile bleu pâle contre sa cuisse. Impatience. Ennui. Wallace presse le pas en passant devant elle, comme s’il pouvait déjouer son attention, mais elle lance : « Allez, fini les conneries, au boulot. — Au boulot », répond-il prudemment. Il est grillé, il le sait. De l’autre bout du labo – car il est constitué en fait de trois salles en enfilade, avec deux postes de travail par paillasse et cinq paillasses par salle – un chœur de « Au boulot » leur parvient. Les autres entrent et sortent de son champ de vision tandis qu’il avance jusqu’à son poste. Elles sont toutes là, grappe colorée au milieu d’un bâtiment froid et mal éclairé, dont en cet instant elles sont le centre vibrant. Un réconfort mineur.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Mes grands-parents étaient assis dans leurs fauteuils, les yeux tournés vers les fenêtres, vers le voile gris de pluie qui s’abattait, qui s’abattait, devenant blanc et mousseux en se renversant sur les rambardes, rencontrant en torrents énormes les eaux qui inondaient les champs et le jardin. Il y avait quantité d’eaux qui se réunissaient dehors, tourbillonnant dans l’abreuvoir des oiseaux et attaquant les buissons d’une poussée forte et continue. Quand c’était terminé, il y avait des prunes et des baies éparpillées sur l’herbe, et les oiseaux descendaient en piqué pour s’en emparer et les rapporter aux nids qui avaient été vidés de leurs occupants par le vent. Avec la tempête qui hurlait, secouant les fenêtres, nous restions écouter à la fois le gémissement dehors, le tumulte énorme du monde au-delà et la voix monotone de nos grands-parents qui nous racontaient des histoires ou chantaient des spirituals. Ils nous parlaient de la Bible, du déluge descendu sur la terre pour noyer tous les méchants, promettant que nous serions les prochains si nous ne restions pas tranquilles, si nous ne nous taisions pas. Ils nous déclaraient que la fin du monde était proche, que Jésus allait revenir, qu’il nous mettait à l’épreuve. La maison puait, empestée par l’odeur de notre sueur et de la pisse, et les toilettes sentaient toujours la merde car nous mettions le PQ usagé dans une petite boîte en alu à côté de la cuvette. Et dans cette maison fétide, nauséabonde et suante, j’apprenais toutes les façons dont un individu peut offenser gravement Dieu.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Miller descend du bar à son tour, se glisse derrière lui et le prend dans ses bras. Son ventre se presse contre le milieu du dos de Wallace. Wallace le sent, le sent entièrement. « Je suis dans le monde aussi, fait Miller. — Malgré tous tes efforts. — C’est censé vouloir dire quoi ? — Rien. Je dis ça comme ça. — Tu penses que je veux mourir ? — Non, pas du tout. Enfin peut-être que c’est ce que tu veux. Mais ce n’est pas ce que je pense. — Alors pourquoi tu dis ça ? » Wallace réfléchit à la question. Il fait couler l’eau chaude sur ses doigts ; la température augmente vite, le brûle. Miller le pousse un peu en avant, si bien que le rebord de l’évier lui rentre dans le ventre. « Pourquoi tu dis ça ? » demande-t-il à nouveau, d’une voix plus basse, une voix de poitrine. Il cramponne fermement les épaules de Wallace, le tient de nouveau fermement. La peur, en fusion, lente, monte centimètre par centimètre en Wallace comme de l’eau. Ses mains le brûlent, le piquent, à vif. « Je ne sais pas », dit Wallace, et Miller augmente sa pression sur sa gorge. « Je ne sais pas. — Ça ne me plaît pas tellement », fait Miller, et son menton râpeux érafle le cou de Wallace. « Je suis désolé, fait Wallace. — J’essaie d’être dans le monde. J’essaie. Vraiment j’essaie. Ce n’est pas sympa de dire ça. — C’est vrai. » Il ferme le robinet. Ses mains mouillées le lancent. Miller augmente sa pression contre son dos, enfonce puissamment son menton dans l’espace entre ses épaules, une zone tendre qui cède facilement. Wallace laisse échapper un petit cri de douleur, surpris. « Demain c’est lundi, fait Miller. — Aujourd’hui, c’est lundi », corrige Wallace, qui se sent se débattre pour ne pas se noyer sous sa peau. « On est déjà lundi. — Effectivement », fait Miller, et il lâche Wallace, qui peut reprendre sa respiration. « Tu veux venir avec moi quelque part ? — Où ? », demande Wallace, s’essuyant les doigts en respirant lentement, profondément. « Au lac. — On est en pleine nuit. Le jour va se lever. — Si tu ne veux pas, dis-le. — Si, c’est bon, je viens. — Tu n’es pas obligé. — C’est bon. » Ils mettent leurs chaussures et sortent dans la nuit fraîche et humide. On devine une crête de lumière grise sur l’horizon, tel un deuxième monde émergeant du premier. Il fait moite.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Ils regardent le soleil se lever, sa lumière jaune qui sature tout et finit de sécher la rosée du matin. Ils sont encore là lorsque les premiers bruits de moteurs remplissent les rues en dessous, quand le monde se renverse sur lui-même, pour repartir à zéro. Dans la pénombre de son appartement, la chaleur de l’haleine de Miller contre sa peau met Wallace mal à l’aise. Ainsi que le poids qui presse contre son cou, lui donnant l’impression d’être suspendu à une hauteur impressionnante, retenu par des câbles fins et flexibles. La peau durcie des phalanges de Miller est calée sous son menton, et il a placé son poignet de manière à maintenir Wallace dans une prise d’étranglement. Il ne l’étrangle pas à proprement parler, il appuie, c’est tout, mais comme il est plus grand et plus fort, la tension normale de son bras est chargée d’une vraie intention. Wallace, décontenancé par la soudaineté du moment, ferme les yeux une brève seconde pour reprendre ses esprits, se recentrer. Il laisse ses bras pendre le long de son corps, s’immobilise. « Tu te souviens ? Le conte avec le loup et les cochons, je veux dire ? demande Miller. — Tu veux parler des Trois petits cochons ? C’est ça ? — Oui, fait Miller en riant. Exactement. — Eh bien quoi ? Qu’est-ce qu’il a, ce conte ? » Miller presse sa joue contre celle de Wallace ; encore un frottement râpeux, peau contre peau. Du whisky ou autre chose, une haleine à l’alcool fort. Il tient Wallace contre lui, presque comme s’il le berçait. Le geste serait tendre s’il ne s’agissait pas aussi d’une prise d’étranglement. Wallace se laisserait peut-être aller à une étreinte comme celle-ci, si elle ne contenait pas cette menace de violence – certes, Miller ne le menace pas franchement, mais Wallace a déjà subi des prises pareilles, infligées par des hommes plus forts et plus grands que lui, qui lui voulaient vraiment du mal. « Tu m’as laissé entrer. J’ai frappé à ta porte en pleine nuit et tu m’as fait entrer. Je pourrais être un loup. — Tu l’es ? — Je ne sais pas. C’est possible. — Qu’est-ce qui t’est arrivé, Miller ? Pourquoi t’es tout amoché comme ça ? — Je me suis battu dans un bar. Puis je suis venu ici. — À quel sujet tu t’es battu ? » Miller fait claquer sa langue. Wallace sent son menton s’appuyer sur le sommet de sa tête. « Ce n’est pas une réponse », fait Wallace, se détendant peu à peu car le geste a changé de nature, il est devenu moins menaçant. Mais Wallace n’est toujours pas libre de bouger comme il le souhaite, ce qui, se dit-il, devrait sans doute l’inquiéter plus que ce n’est le cas en cet instant. « Je n’en ai pas donné. — Pourquoi pas ? — Qu’est-ce que ça peut faire ? soupire Miller. On s’en fout, non ?

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Later he married Pat Downs, a physician, the daughter of two physicians, and the granddaughter of Harry Emerson Fosdick, the eminent pastor of the interdenominational Riverside Church in Manhattan. Bob asked her to convert to Judaism before their marriage and Pat agreed. In the conversion process, Pat told me, things were proceeding well until the rabbi announced that Jewish dietary laws banned the eating of shellfish, including lobster. Having spent much of her early life in Maine, Pat was stunned. She had eaten lobster all her life and felt this was too much, a potential deal-breaker. The rabbi, perhaps because of Pat’s eminent grandfather, was so eager to bring her into the fold that, after consulting with a consortium of rabbis, he made a rare exception: she, alone of all Jews, would be permitted to eat lobster. Bob chose to train as a heart surgeon—he told me that the only time he felt entirely alive was when he held a beating heart in his hand. He had an extraordinary career as a cardiac surgeon, became professor of surgery at Boston University, wrote over five hundred research and clinical papers in professional journals, and was on the brink of doing the world’s first heart transplant before another surgeon, Christiaan Barnard, beat him to the punch. A t the end of 2015, after suffering the loss of my sister and of my three close friends, I had several weeks of the flu, with loss of appetite and weight loss, and then an acute bout of gastroenteritis, most likely food poisoning, with vomiting and diarrhea that left me dehydrated. My blood pressure was so dangerously low that my son Reid drove me from San Francisco to the Stanford emergency room, where I remained for a day and a half. I received seven liters of intravenous fluid, and my blood pressure slowly returned to normal. As I awaited the results of an abdominal CT scan, I had, for the first time, a strong sense that I might be dying. My physician daughter, Eve, and my wife stayed with me, offering comfort, and I tried to soothe myself by drawing upon a thought I had often invoked in my work with patients: the greater the sense of unlived life, the greater the terror of death. This equation calmed me as I considered how few regrets I have about the life I’ve lived. After discharge from the hospital I weighed only 139 pounds—about 20 pounds under my average weight. Sometimes the hazy memory of my medical education creates problems. In this instance, I was haunted by a medical maxim: If the patient has significant weight loss of unknown cause, think of an occult cancer. I imagined my abdomen laced with metastatic lesions. During this time I comforted myself with a thought experiment suggested by Richard Dawkins: Imagine a laser-thin spotlight moving inexorably along the immense ruler of time.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The doorbell rang. Cass went to answer it. There was suddenly a tremendous commotion at the door, sobbing and screaming, but Eric did not react until he saw the change in Richard’s face, and heard Cass’ cry. Then Richard and Eric stood up and the children came pounding into the room. Michael was sobbing and blood dripped from his nose and mouth onto his red-and-white-striped T-shirt. Paul was behind him, pale and silent, with blood on his knuckles and smeared across his face; and his white shirt was torn. “It’s all right, Cass,” Richard said, quickly, “it’s all right. They’re not dead.” Michael ran to his father and buried his bloody face in his father’s belly. Richard looked at Paul. “What the hell’s been going on?” Cass pulled Michael away and looked into his face. “Come on, baby, let me wash this blood away and see what’s happened to you.” Michael turned to her, still sobbing, in a state of terror. Cass held him. “Come on, darling, everything’s all right, hush now, darling, come on.” Michael was led away, his hand in Cass’ trembling hand, and Richard looked briefly at Eric, over Paul’s head. “Come on,” he said to Paul, “what happened? You get into a fight or did you beat him up, or what?” Paul sat down, pressing his hands together. “I don’t really know what happened.” He was on the edge of tears himself; his father waited. “We had been playing ball and then we were getting ready to come home, we weren’t doing anything, just fooling around and walking. I wasn’t paying much attention to Mike, he was behind me with some friends of his. Then”—he looked at his father—“some colored—colored boys, they came over this hill and they yelled something, I couldn’t hear what they yelled. One of them tripped me up as he passed me and they started beating up the little kids and we came running down to stop them.” He looked at his father again. “We never saw any of them before, I don’t know where they came from. One of them had Mike down on the ground, and was punching him, but I got him off.” He looked at his bloody fist. “I think I knocked a couple teeth down his throat.” “Good for you. You didn’t get hurt yourself? How do you feel?” “I feel all right.” But he shuddered. “Stand up, come over here, let me look at you.” Paul stood up and walked over to his father, who knelt down and stared into his face, prodding him gently in the belly and the chest, stroking his neck and his face. “You got a pretty bad crack in the jaw, didn’t you?” “Mike’s hurt worse than I am.” But he suddenly began to cry. Richard’s lips puckered; he gathered his son into his arms. “Don’t cry, Paul, it’s all over now.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus.” The sudden light, when Vivaldo opened the door, was a great shock, as was Vivaldo’s face. “My God,” said Vivaldo. He grabbed Rufus around the neck, pulling him inside and holding him. They both leaned for a moment against Vivaldo’s door. “My God,” Vivaldo said again, “where’ve you been? Don’t you know you shouldn’t do things like that? You’ve had all of us scared to death, baby. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” It was a great shock and it weakened Rufus, exactly as though he had been struck in the belly. He clung to Vivaldo as though he were on the ropes. Then he pulled away. Vivaldo looked at him, looked hard at him, up and down. And Vivaldo’s face told him how he looked. He moved away from the door, away from Vivaldo’s scrutiny. “Ida’s been here; she’s half crazy. Do you realize you dropped out of sight almost a month ago?” “Yes,” he said, and sat down heavily in Vivaldo’s easy chair—which sagged beneath him almost to the floor. He looked around the room, which had once been so familiar, which now seemed so strange. He leaned back, his hands over his eyes. “Take off your jacket,” Vivaldo said. “I’ll see if I can scare up something for you to eat—are you hungry?” “No, not now. Tell me, how is Ida?” “Well, she’s worried, you know, but there’s nothing wrong with her. Rufus, you want me to fix you a drink?” “When was she here?” “Yesterday. And she called me tonight. And she’s been to the police. Everybody’s been worried, Cass, Richard, everybody——” He sat up. “The police are looking for me?” “Well, hell, yes, baby, people aren’t supposed to just disappear.” He walked into his small, cluttered kitchen and opened his refrigerator, which contained a quart of milk and half a grapefruit. He stared at them helplessly. “I’ll have to take you out, I haven’t got anything to eat in this joint.” He closed the refrigerator door. “You can have a drink, though, I’ve got some bourbon.” Vivaldo made two drinks, gave one to Rufus and sat down on the other, straight-backed, chair. “Well, let’s have it. What’ve you been doing, where’ve you been?” “I’ve just been wandering the streets.” “My God, Rufus, in this weather? Where’ve you been sleeping?” “Oh. Subways, hallways. Movies sometimes.” “And how’d you eat?” He took a swallow of his drink. Perhaps it was a mistake to have come. “Oh,” he said, astonished to hear the truth come out, “sometimes I sort of peddled my ass.” Vivaldo looked at him. “I guess you had pretty rough competition.”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Puis il le prend dans ses bras et lui dit de respirer, de se sentir de plus en plus léger jusqu’à ne plus rien peser du tout. Wallace flotte sur le dos. De temps à autre, des vaguelettes lui recouvrent le nez et la bouche et il panique, craint de se noyer, mais Miller le tient bien, avec un sourire plein d’aisance. L’eau est un peu visqueuse, comme s’ils étaient dans la gueule d’un organisme énorme, dont les vagues seraient un millier de dents dévorant la rive. « Avant j’aimais bien me raconter que j’étais dans le ventre de la baleine qui a avalé Jonas, dit Miller, flottant à côté de Wallace. Quand je nageais, je me racontais que j’étais dans le ventre d’une baleine. — C’est vrai qu’on pourrait le croire, avec ce bruit. » L’eau résonne dans ses oreilles. « Oui. Quand tu es dans le ventre d’une baleine, rien d’autre ne compte. L’univers entier pourrait exploser que tu ne le saurais même pas. Tu te trouves déjà dans un autre univers, j’imagine. — Avant, j’avais super peur quand je pensais à la traversée de la mer Rouge, l’écartement des eaux, fait Wallace. Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais quand ils racontaient cette histoire, à l’église, j’avais toujours la trouille, et ça me rendait triste. Il y avait quelque chose d’abominable dans l’idée d’avoir une telle quantité d’eau au-dessus de la tête. — J’imagine. — Puis elle retombe. Ces soldats qui traquaient les Juifs, ils sont tous engloutis. — Oui. — Le jour où ils ont essayé de me baptiser, quand j’étais petit, j’ai eu si peur de ça – de me faire noyer, comme dans l’Exode – j’ai tant hurlé, je me suis tant débattu… qu’ils ont renoncé. — Tu n’es pas baptisé ? — Non. Tous les autres oui, mais pas moi. — Tu crois en Dieu ? — Moi ? Non. Enfin je crois que non. Plus maintenant. — La science, c’est un peu pareil que Dieu. » Wallace ne se prononce pas sur le sujet. Au lieu de ça, il demande : « Pourquoi t’as voulu m’emmener ici ? — Parce que j’avais envie d’être à l’intérieur d’autre chose, je crois. — Autre chose que mon appartement, tu veux dire ? — Oui. Ça devenait étouffant, chez toi. Je crois que j’avais juste besoin d’être contenu par un truc plus grand. — Je vais sur le toit. — Comment ça ? » Wallace se tourne vers lui dans l’eau, mais perd son équilibre, coule sous la surface. Dessous, le monde est vert et noir. Il y a des algues qui fleurissent tout le long des bras de la jetée, et une pellicule couleur rouille juste en dessous de l’eau. Miller le tire vers le haut et Wallace émerge, se remplit les poumons. « Oh là, fait-il. — Sois prudent, fait Miller d’une voix sévère.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Have you ever counted how many references there are to fear in Scripture? Three hundred and sixty-five (one for every day of the year!). As many times as God proclaimed, “Fear not…” it is obvious that fear is a major hindrance to the Christian life. Why is it such a hindrance? Because fear is the opposite of faith. When we focus on our fear rather than having faith in God to deliver us from evil, we are much more likely to lose the battle for sexual and emotional integrity. How can we focus on what we know God will do when we think we are doomed? Such lack of faith says to God, “Even though you’ve carried me this far, you are probably going to fail me now, aren’t you?” Overcoming our fear and exercising our faith says to God, just as David did in Psalm 9:9-10, “The LORD is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you.” I love taking youth groups to a high-ropes challenge course. There we gear up with helmets and safety pads and are connected to a guide wire in order to waltz across a twelve-foot balance beam suspended twenty-five feet in the air between two telephone poles. This exercise can bring out the lion in the most timid of creatures and the mouse in the boldest. I’ve seen dainty young girls saunter up the pole and tiptoe across gracefully without breaking a sweat. I’ve also seen two-hundred-pound linebackers turn white with fear and break out in tears midway through the course. Before they climb the telephone poles, I always ask, “Would you have a problem walking across a wooden beam that was two inches off the ground?” When they say no, I remind them that walking across a beam twenty-five feet in the air is physically no different. The only difference is the mental challenge of overcoming the fear of heights. Success comes when we tune out the surroundings and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The same is true in our battle against sexual and emotional compromise. Many women are steeped in the fear of being alone, the fear of not being taken care of, the fear of not having another man on the hook in case the current one gets away. We can be so afraid of compromising tomorrow that we fail to take notice and celebrate the fact that we are standing firm today. For example: • Helen says, “Bill is not someone I am really interested in because he’s too touchy-feely, but whenever a weekend comes around that I don’t have plans, I usually accept his dinner invitation because I just can’t face a whole weekend alone.”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il y avait quelque chose de vigoureux et rude en lui, comme si, à n’importe quel moment, il pouvait vous passer le bras autour du cou et enfoncer les doigts dans vos cheveux. Mais il y avait aussi des moments, quand Henrik se dressait de toute sa hauteur, où l’on prenait subitement conscience de sa force. Wallace l’avait vu un jour jeter un bocal de 20 litres par terre dans une crise de rage car quelqu’un l’avait ouvert et ne l’avait pas refermé. Un autre jour, Wallace était en train d’inoculer des colonies quand Henrik l’avait poussé sur le côté, avait coupé le gaz d’une claque et dit : « Ça ne va pas, ce n’est pas la technique stérile. » Il avait fait tomber de la main de Wallace le porte-tubes en bois, qui avait heurté le plan de travail avec un petit bruit pathétique. Pendant les présentations d’expériences, tout le monde dans la salle pouvait sentir la présence de Henrik dans le noir, à croire qu’ils gardaient tous un œil sur lui, perpétuellement en attente. C’était étrange de l’entendre hausser le ton, parce que sa voix ne cessait pas pour autant de ressembler à celle d’un Muppet. Simplement, on aurait dit Kermit en colère, en train de débiner avec véhémence des conclusions qu’il jugeait faciles ou inintéressantes : On est où, là, autour du feu de camp, ou quoi ? Les données contredisent cette hypothèse. De bout en bout ! Elles l’invalident ! Wallace avait toujours un peu honte quand Henrik le faisait sursauter. Ça lui rappelait l’époque où il était jeune, quand son frère frappait dans ses mains juste devant ses yeux, sans prévenir et très fort, puis le traitait de mauviette sous prétexte qu’il avait tressailli. Pourquoi tu sursautes ? Tu crois que je veux te taper ? Wallace détestait la manière dont son corps réagissait à Henrik. Contre sa volonté. Encore et encore, comme des mains qui claquaient à la lisière de son nez. Mais Henrik est parti désormais : il dirige son propre labo à Vassar, où il enseigne à des futurs diplômés comme il lui a enseigné. Est-ce de l’envie, qu’éprouve Wallace ? Sur l’ancien poste de travail d’Henrik, il reste un peu de poussière, un surligneur vert ; ce n’est pas un autel. Wallace fait pivoter son siège face à son propre bureau, plein de tas de papiers : alignements de séquences, formulaires de la bibliothèque plasmide, graphiques, articles qu’il projette de lire depuis des mois. Son ordinateur est endormi ; une image ambrée de lui-même lui rend son regard. Son café de la veille est recouvert d’une pellicule de crème devenue rance. Il procrastine, il le sait. Il ne peut se résoudre à se tourner vers sa paillasse, mais il sait qu’il le doit, et finit par lever les yeux et se forcer à regarder, à regarder vraiment, à voir.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between Richard and me.” She forced herself to look into his eyes, and she put her drink down on the night table. “But it isn’t you that’s come between Richard and me—you don’t have anything to do with that.” “I don’t now, you mean. Or I don’t yet.” He put his cigarette down in the ashtray on the mantelpiece behind him. “But I guess I know what you mean, in a way.” He still seemed very troubled and his trouble now propelled him toward her again, to the bed. He felt her trembling, but still he did not touch her, only stared at her with his troubled and searching eyes, and with his lips parted. “Dear Cass,” he said, and smiled, “I know we have now, but I don’t think we have much of a future.” She thought, Perhaps if we take now, we can have a future, too. It depends on what we mean by “future.” She felt his breath on her face and her neck, then he leaned closer, head down, and she felt his lips there. She raised her hands to stroke his head and his red hair. She felt his violence and his uncertainty, and this made him seem much younger than she. And this excited her in a way that she had never been excited before; she glimpsed, for the first time, the force that drove older women to younger men; and then she was frightened. She was frightened because she had never before found herself playing so anomalous a role and because nothing in her experience had ever suggested that her body could become a trap for boys, and the tomb of her self-esteem. She had embarked on a voyage which might end years from now in some horrible villa, near a blue sea, with some unspeaking, unspeakably phallic, Turk or Spaniard or Jew or Greek or Arabian. Yet, she did not want it to stop. She did not quite know what was happening now, or where it would lead, and she was afraid; but she did not want it to stop. She saw the smoke from Eric’s cigarette curling up from the mantelpiece—she hoped it was still in the ashtray; the play script was beneath her head, the symphony was approaching its end. She was aware, as though she stood over them both with a camera, of how sordid the scene must appear: a married woman, no longer young, already beginning to moan with lust, pinned down on this untidy and utterly transient bed by a stranger who did not love her and whom she could not love. Then she wondered about that: love; and wondered if anyone really knew anything about it. Eric put one hand on her breast, and it was a new touch, not Richard’s, no; but she knew that it was Eric’s; and was it love or not? and what did Eric feel? Sex, she thought, but that was not really the answer, or if it was, it was an answer which clarified nothing. For now, Eric leaned up from her with a sigh and walked back to his cigarette. He leaned there for a moment, watching her; and she understood that the weight between them, of things unspoken, made any act impossible. On what basis were they to act? for their blind seeking was not a foundation which could be expected to bear any weight.

• From Another Country (1962)

  On the last day in Paris, at the last moment, they both suffered from terrible hangovers, having both been up all night, drinking, at a friend’s house; their faces were gray and damp; they stank with weariness. There was great shouting and confusion all around them, and the train breathed over them like some unimaginably malevolent beetle. They were almost too tired for sorrow, but not too tired for fear. It steamed out of them both, like the miasma rising from the Gare St. Lazare. In the deep black shadow of this shed, while their friends stood at a discreet distance from them; and the station attendant moved up and down the platform, shouting, “En voiture, s’il vous plaît! En voiture! En voiture!”; and the great hand of the great clock approached the zero hour; they stared into each other’s faces like comrades who have been through a war. “T’ne fait pas,” Eric murmured. “En voiture!” Eric moved up to stand in the crowded doorway of the train. There was nothing to say; there was too much to say. “I hate waiting,” he said. “I hate good-byes.” He suddenly felt that he was going to cry, and panic threatened to overtake him because of all these people watching. “We will see each other,” he said, “very soon. I promise you, Yves. I promise you. Tu me fait toujours confiance, j’espère?” And he tried to smile. Yves said nothing, but nodded, his eyes very bright, his mouth very vulnerable, his forehead very high, and full of trouble. People were screaming out of windows, were passing last minute items to each other through windows. Eric was the last person standing in the door. He had an awful feeling that he had forgotten something very important. He had paid for Yves’ hotel room, they had visited the American embassy and the French authorities, he had left Yves some money—what else? what else? The train began to move. Yves looked stunned for a moment, Eric raised his eyes from Yves’ face to say good-bye to all the others. Yves trotted along the platform, then suddenly leapt up on the step, holding on with one hand, and kissed Eric hard on the mouth. “Ne m’oublie pas,” he whispered. “You are all I have in this world.”

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  If the answer to any of these questions is yes, you need to stop and run in the opposite direction from this relationship until your emotions are more stable. If your feelings for this man have not been communicated to him and there is no intimacy in your relationship, you may still be able to avoid further damage by refraining from these behaviors and thought patterns. However, once feelings are communicated to this person and similar feelings are reciprocated, you’ve just crossed the line into an emotional affair. If you are single and emotionally involved with a married man, or if you are married and emotionally involved with a man other than your husband, I recommend you do three things: First, ask God for forgiveness. An emotional affair may not be as big a deal as a physical affair in the world’s eyes, but all sin is equal in God’s eyes. As you are praying for forgiveness, also ask God to reveal whether you should confess your sin to your spouse. As terrifying as this thought may be, don’t let fear convince you that keeping it secret is the best thing for your marriage. (Chapter 10 will explain the benefits of confessing to your husband and hopefully give you the courage to do so.) Next, pray for God’s divine protection, not just over your body, but over your heart, mind, and mouth as well. Continue to pray anytime you are feeling weak or vulnerable, but make sure this person doesn’t become the focus of your prayers. Instead, focus on your relationship with God, seeking to grow personally and spiritually. Pray for your other relationships with family and friends. Focus on your present blessings, and this potential burden won’t look so large. Third, avoid any unnecessary contact with this person. In the same way that you might have gone out of your way to cross this person’s path, now go out of your way to stay out of his path. Take the long way to the restroom if the direct way passes by his office. Drive a different route so you don’t pass by his house. Check your caller ID and let your answering machine screen your messages. If you are married, chances are he won’t leave a message. Avoid talking privately or being alone with this person at all costs. If you have photographs displayed of this person, put them away or destroy them if they don’t mean anything to anyone else. Remember, actions speak louder than words. When you refuse to remain in the presence of temptation, it loses its hold on you.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He paused, smiling, and Eric shrugged, then blushed. Yves laughed. “How silly you are!” Then, “I, too, have dreams that I have never spoken of to you,” he said. He was still smiling, but there was an expression in his eyes which Eric had come to know. It was the look of a seasoned and able adventurer, trying to decide between pouncing on his prey and luring his prey into a trap. Such decisions are necessarily swift and so it was also the look of someone who was already irresistibly in motion toward whatever it was he wanted; who would certainly have it. This expression always frightened Eric a little. It seemed not to belong in Yves’ twenty-one-year-old face, to have no relation to his open, childlike grin, his puppylike playfulness, the adolescent ardor with which he embraced, then rejected, people, doctrines, theories. This expression made his face extremely bitter, profoundly cruel, ageless; the nature, the ferocity, of his intelligence was then all in his eyes; the extraordinary austerity of his high forehead prefigured his maturity and decay. He touched Eric lightly on the elbow, as a very young child might do. “I have no wish to stay here,” he said, “in this wretched mausoleum of a country. Let us go to New York. I will make my future there. There is no future here, for a boy like me.” The word future caused in Eric a small trembling, a small recoil. “You’ll hate America,” he said, with vehemence. Yves looked at him in surprise. “What kind of future are you dreaming of?” “I am sure that there is something I can do there,” Yves said, stubbornly. “I can find my way. Do you really think that I want to be protected by you forever?” And he considered Eric for a moment as though they were enemies or strangers. “I didn’t know you minded being—protected—by me.” “Ne te fâche pas. I do not mind it; if I minded it, I would be gone.” He smiled and said, gently, reasonably, “But it cannot go on forever, I also am a man.” “What cannot go on forever?” But he knew what Yves meant and he knew that what Yves said was true. “Why,” said Yves, “my youth. It cannot last forever.” Then he grinned. “I have always been sure that you would be returning to your country one day. It might as well be now, while you are still fond of me, and I can seduce you into taking me along.” “You’re a great little old seducer,” said Eric, “and that’s the truth.” “Ah,” said Yves, wickedly, “with you it was easy.” Then he looked at Eric gravely. “So it is decided.” It was not a question. “I suppose that I must go and visit my whore of a mother and tell her that she will never see me any more.”