Gratitude

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 Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Also. Of all things pertaining to latria, sacrifice would seem to hold a special place: for genuflections, prostrations, and other like signs of honour, may be given even to men, albeit with another intention than when given to God: whereas no one has thought that a sacrifice should be offered except to one whom he looked upon, or pretended to look upon, as God. Now the external sacrifice is a representation of the interior true sacrifice in which the human mind offers itself to God. And our mind offers itself to God, as the principle of its creation, as the author of its operation, as the end wherein lies its happiness. This can only apply to the supreme cause of all: for it was shown above that God is the sole cause of the rational soul; that He alone can incline the will of man whithersoever He will; and that man’s final happiness consists in the enjoyment of Him alone. To God alone, therefore, must man offer sacrifice and the worship of latria, and not to any spiritual substances whatsoever. Although the opinion which holds that the most high God is nothing else but the soul of the world, is false, as we have proved; while that is true which holds God to be a separate being, from whom all other intellectual substances, both separate or embodied, originate; yet the offering of latria to various things is more consistent with the former opinion. Because, by offering the worship of latria to various things, one would seem to offer the same worship to the one most high God, to whom, according to this opinion, the various parts of the world are compared, as the various members of the human body are compared to the soul.—But reason again is in contradiction with this opinion. For they assert that the worship of latria should be given to the world not on account of its body but on account of its soul, which they hold to be God. And though the body of the world is divisible into various parts, the soul is indivisible. Therefore divine honour is not to be given to many things, but to one only.

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

  God’s Bounty.—We receive every good from God; and this also is of the dignity of God, that He is the maker and giver of all good things: “When You openest your hand, they shall all be filled with good” [Ps 103:28]. And this is implied in the name of God, namely, Deus, which is said to be distributor, that is, “dator” of all things, because He fills all things with His goodness. You are, indeed, ungrateful if you do not appreciate what you have received from Him, and, furthermore, you make for yourself another god; just as the sons of Israel made an idol after they had been brought out of Egypt: “I will go after my lovers” [Hosea 2:5]. One does this also when one puts too much trust in someone other than God, and this occurs when one seeks help from another: “Blessed is the man whose hope is in the name of the Lord” [1 Kg 18:21]. Thus, the Apostle says: “Now that you have known God... how turn you again to the weak and needy elements?... You observe days and months and times and years” [Gal 4:9,10] The Strength of Our Promise.—The third reason is taken from our solemn promise. For we have renounced the devil, and we have promised fidelity to God alone. This is a promise which we cannot break: “A man who has violated the law of Moses dies without mercy on the word of two or three witnesses. How much worse punishment do you think will be deserved by one who treads under foot the Son of God, and esteems the blood of the testament unclean, by which he was sanctified, and outrages the Spirit of grace!” [Hb 10:28-29]. “While her husband lives, she shall be called an adulteress, if she be with another man” [Rom 7:3]. Woe, then, to the sinner who enters the land by two ways, and who “halts between two sides” [1 Kg 18:21]

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

  HOMILY III THE TEACHING OF HOLY SCRIPTURE.—No. I SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.—(FROM THE EPISTLE)“For whatsoever things were written aforetime were written for our learning.”—Rom. 15:4. THE Apostle has taught us on the preceding Sunday to arise from the dead; on this day he teaches us towards what we ought to arise, for the Scripture, which our heavenly Master has given for us, is to be studied and read. And the Lord as a good Master was the more solicitous to provide us with the best writings, that He might make us perfectly instructed. “Whatever things,” He said, “were written, were written for our learning.” But these writings are comprised in two books—that is to say, in the Book of Creation, and in the Book of Scripture. The first book has so many creations: it has just so many most perfect writings, which teach the truth without a lie; hence, when Aristotle was asked whence he had learnt so many and so great things, answered, “From the things themselves, which know not how to deceive.” But they teach two things to be learned; and of the things which may be known four things are to be taught. First, that there is a God; secondly, that this God is one; thirdly, that this God is triune; and, fourthly, that He is the highest good. For the world teaches by itself that it is His work. Wis. 13:5, “For by the greatness of the beauty, and of the creature, the Creator of them may be seen, to be known thereby.” Because they are one, and are preserved, in the same manner, they teach the unity of God; for, if there were many Gods, the world would have already been destroyed, since division is the cause of destruction.” S. Matt. 12:25, “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand.” For all things exist by number, weight, and measure; or, according to S. Augustine, “On the Trinity by mode, by species, and by order; so that they teach a three-fold Godhead.” Wis. 11:21, “Thou hast ordered all things in measure, number, and weight.” Because all things are good, they teach that He is the highest goodness through Whom so many good things proceed. According to S. Augustine it is a great token of goodness that every creature conceives itself to be good; therefore, because God is good, so are we. About the actions to be done, in like manner, we are taught a four-fold lesson. God is to be obeyed, loved, feared, and praised. Of the first, we ought to obey God, for all things serve Him. Ps. 148:6, “He hath made a decree which shall not pass.” Nothing among God’s creatures does the Creator find to be disobedient, save the sinner and the devil. God teaches us to love Him by His benefits and gifts, which He shows to us daily. S. Augustine says that heaven and earth, and all things which are in them, on every side, say to me that I should love Thee; neither do they cease to say this by all things, that I may be inexcusable if I love Thee not. By pains and punishments they teach us to fear God. We see that all things are prepared to punish those that rebel against their Creator. Wis. 16:24, “For the creature serving Thee, the Creator, is made fierce against the unjust for their punishment: and abateth its strength for the benefit of them that trust in Thee.” They teach us to praise God; for all things praise Him and invite us to His praising. S. Augustine says that it is wonderful that man does not always praise God, since every creature invites to the praising of Him; and this so plainly that all His creatures become as so many Scriptures of God, teaching us that there are four things to be known, as well as four commands to be performed.

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

  III. On the third head it is to be noted, that the Apostle likewise exhorts us in this Epistle to seven virtues, by which the devil is driven from the soul. (1) To renovation of mind: “And be renewed in the spirit of your mind.” We ought to be renewed in five ways. Firstly, as an eagle, laying down the beak of an evil tongue: “Wherefore, putting away lying, speak every man truth.” “My youth is renewed like the eagle’s,” Ps. 103:5. Secondly, as a stag casting away the horns of pride: “As the hart panteth after the water-brooks,” Psalm 42:1,[ S. Augustine writes on this Psalm: “Quid aliud est in cervo? Serpentes necat, et post serpentium interemptionem majoii siti in-ardescit: peremptis serpentibus ad fontes acrius currit.” See also Alian’s “Hist. Animalium,” lib. II., 100:9, where the same phenomenon is referred to.—Trans.] Gloss. The hart is burdened with beautiful hair and horns: it attracts or draws up the serpent by its nostrils; which being swallowed, the poison inflames it, whence it most ardently desires the water, on drinking which it sheds its horns and hair: “Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters,” Isa. 55:1. Thirdly, as a hawk accepting the plumage of virtue through the grace of the Holy Spirit: “Does the hawk fly by thy wisdom and stretch her wings to the south,” Job 39:26. Fourthly, as a serpent casting off the skin of the old conversation: “Seeing that ye have put off the old man with his deeds; and have put on the new man,” &c., Colos. 3:9, 10. Fifthly, by taking away the lust of evil.love: “But he knoweth the way that I take: when He hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold,” Job 23:10. (2) He exhorts us to honest labour: “But rather let him labour.” (3) To the enlargement of charity: “That he may have to give,” &c. (4) He bids those things be spoken which tend to the edification of faith: “That it may minister grace unto the hearers.” (5) To the showing of kindness: “And be ye kind one to another.” (6) To tender-heartedness: “Tender-hearted.” (7) To the mutual forgiveness of injuries: “Forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” HOMILY XXXVIII THE HEAVENLY CITY NINETEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.—(FROM THE GOSPEL)“And He entered into a ship, and passed over, and came into His own city. And, behold, they brought to Him a man sick of the palsy, lying on a bed: and Jesus seeing their faith said unto the sick of the palsy; Son, be of good cheer; thy sins be forgiven thee.”—S. Matt. 9:1, 2.

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

  II. On the second head it is to be noted, that we ought in like manner, for three reasons, to give thanks to God for spiritual benefits. (1) Because He sanctifies us by conferring grace: “Giving thanks unto the Father, which hath made us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light: Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness, and hath translated us into the kingdom of His dear Son, in Whom we have redemption through His blood,” Colos. 1:12–15. (2) Because He instructs us, teaching by His word: “For this cause also we thank God without ceasing, because, when ye received the word of God, which ye heard of us, ye received it not as the word of men, but as it is in truth, the word of God, which effectually worketh also in you that believe,” 1 Thess. 2:13. (3) Because He refreshes the soul in granting to it the food of the Eucharist: “And He took bread and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, This is My Body, which is given for you,” S. Luke 22:19. Inasmuch as Christ gave us His Body, with thanksgiving we ought to receive that ineffable food. III. On the third head it is to be noted, that we ought likewise to give thanks, in a three-fold manner, for eternal benefits. (1) For the liberation of the just from eternal death: “Giving thanks unto the Father, &c., Who hath delivered us from the power of darkness,” Colos. 1:13. (2) For the just condemnation of the profane; for the high glorification and dignity of the saints. Of these two: “The four-and-twenty elders, which sat before God on their seats, fell upon their faces, and worshipped God, saying, We give Thee thanks, O Lord God Almighty, which art, and wast, and art to come; because Thou hast taken to Thee Thy great power, and hast reigned. And the nations were angry, and Thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that Thou shouldest give reward unto Thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear Thy Name,” Rev. 11:17, 18. HOMILY XXXIII THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.—(FROM THE EPISTLE)“Endeavouring to keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”—Ephes. 4:3. NOTE that the Apostle raises three points upon these words. Firstly, he exhorts us that we should preserve unity: “Endeavouring to keep,” &c., Secondly, he places before us the manner of this keeping: “in the bond of peace.” Thirdly, he exhorts us to earnest desire towards both: “Endeavouring.”

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

  WHAT CHILDREN OWE PARENTSNow, because we owe our birth to our parents, we ought to honor them more than any other superiors, because from such we receive only temporal things: “He who fears the Lord honors his parents, and will serve them as his masters that brought him into the world. Honor your father in work and word and all patience, that a blessing may come upon you from him” [Sir 3:10]. And in doing this you shall also honor thyself, because “the glory of a man is from honor of his father, and a father without honor is the disgrace of his son” [Sir 3:13]. Again, since we receive nourishment from our parents in our childhood, we must support them in their old age: “Son, support the old age of your father, and grieve him not in his life. And if his understanding fail, have patience with him; and do not despise him when you are in your strength... Of what an evil fame is he who forsakes his father! And he is cursed of God who angers his mother” [Sir 3:14,15]. For the humiliation of those who act contrary to this, Cassiodorus relates how young storks, when the parents have lost their feathers by approaching old age and are unable to find suitable food, make the parent storks comfortable with their own feathers, and bring back food for their worn-out bodies. Thus, by this affectionate exchange the young ones repay the parents for what they received when they were young” [Epist. II]. We must obey our parents, for they have instructed us. “Children, obey your parents in all things” [Col 3:20]. This excepts, of course, those things which are contrary to God. St. Jerome says that the only loyalty in such cases is to be cruel [Ad Heliod]: “If any man hate not his father and mother... he cannot be My disciple” [Lk 14:26]. This is to say that God is in the truest sense our Father: “Is not He your Father who possessed you, made you and created you?” [Deut 32:6]. REWARDS FOR KEEPING THIS COMMANDMENT“Honor your father and your mother.” Among all the Commandments, this one only has the additional words: “that you may be long-lived upon the land.” The reason for this is lest it be thought that there is no reward for those who honor their parents, seeing that it is a natural obligation. Hence it must be known that five most desirable rewards are promised those who honor their parents.

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

  I answer that, With regard to Christ Himself, it is clear from the above [3874](A[10]) that no merits of His could have preceded the union. For we do not hold that He was first of all a mere man, and that afterwards by the merits of a good life it was granted Him to become the Son of God, as Photinus held; but we hold that from the beginning of His conception this man was truly the Son of God, seeing that He had no other hypostasis but that of the Son of God, according to Luke 1:35: “The Holy which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.” And hence every operation of this man followed the union. Therefore no operation of His could have been meritorious of the union. Neither could the needs of any other man whatsoever have merited this union condignly: first, because the meritorious works of man are properly ordained to beatitude, which is the reward of virtue, and consists in the full enjoyment of God. Whereas the union of the Incarnation, inasmuch as it is in the personal being, transcends the union of the beatified mind with God, which is by the act of the soul in fruition; and therefore it cannot fall under merit. Secondly, because grace cannot fall under merit, for the principle of merit does not fall under merit; and therefore neither does grace, for it is the principle of merit. Hence, still less does the Incarnation fall under merit, since it is the principle of grace, according to Jn. 1:17: “Grace and truth came by Jesus Christ.” Thirdly, because the Incarnation is for the reformation of the entire human nature, and therefore it does not fall under the merit of any individual man, since the goodness of a mere man cannot be the cause of the good of the entire nature. Yet the holy Fathers merited the Incarnation congruously by desiring and beseeching; for it was becoming that God should harken to those who obeyed Him. And thereby the reply to the First Objection is manifest. Reply to Objection 2: It is false that under merit falls everything without which there can be no reward. For there is something pre-required not merely for reward, but also for merit, as the Divine goodness and grace and the very nature of man. And again, the mystery of the Incarnation is the principle of merit, because “of His fulness we all have received” (Jn. 1:16). Reply to Objection 3: The Blessed Virgin is said to have merited to bear the Lord of all; not that she merited His Incarnation, but because by the grace bestowed upon her she merited that grade of purity and holiness, which fitted her to be the Mother of God.

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

  BASIL. (Hom. de Avar.) Or if thou hast succeeded to a patrimony, thou receivest what has been amassed by the unrighteous; for in a number of predecessors some one must needs be found who has unjustly usurped the property of others. But suppose that thy father has not been guilty of exaction, whence hast thou thy money? If indeed thou answerest, “From myself;” thou art ignorant of God, not having the knowledge of thy Creator; but if, “From God,” tell me the reason for which thou receivedst it. Is not the earth and the fulness thereof the Lord’s? (Ps. 24:1.) If then whatever is ours belongs to our common Lord, so will it also belong to our fellow-servant. THEOPHYLACT. Those then are called the riches of unrighteousness which the Lord has given for the necessities of our brethren and fellow-servants, but we spend upon ourselves. It became us then, from the beginning, to give all things to the poor, but because we have become the stewards of unrighteousness, wickedly retaining what was appointed for the aid of others, we must not surely remain in this cruelty, but distribute to the poor, that we may be received by them into everlasting habitations. For it follows, That, when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations. GREGORY. (21. Mor. cap. 14.) But if through their friendship we obtain everlasting habitations, we ought to calculate that when we give we rather offer presents to patrons, than bestow benefits upon the needy. AUGUSTINE. (Serm. 113.) For who are they that shall have everlasting habitations but the saints of God? and who are they that are to be received by them into everlasting habitations but they who administer to their want, and whatsoever they have need of, gladly supply. They are those little ones of Christ, who have forsaken all that belonged to them and followed Him; and whatsoever they had have given to the poor, that they might serve God without earthly shackles, and freeing their shoulders from the burdens of the world, might raise them aloft as with wings. AUGUSTINE. (de Quæst. Ev. l. ii. q. 34.) We must not then understand those by whom we wish to be received into everlasting habitations to be as it were debtors of God; seeing that the just and holy are signified in this place, who cause those to enter in, who administered to their necessity of their own worldly goods. AMBROSE. Or else, make to yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, that by giving to the poor we may purchase the favour of angels and all the saints.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  It was natural, she wanted her new life. But within a few days we'd each remembered how the other ticked; we were both somewhat raw from our bereavements, we had disagreements, just as we always had. To be honest, it has often been very difficult for us. The most important thing was that Marcel got on so well with her. I could see he was a way for her to come to terms with the city again, at least as far as it was possible for her to. They took each other for long walks, which must have brought back terrible thoughts for her, the whole mood of those years, and the subterfuge that had allowed her to survive when all her family had been annihilated. She used to come back in with Marcel, exhausted, gripping his hand tight—obviously he didn't realise what he meant to her. She never said so to me, indeed she's never spoken of it at all, but I'm sure he helped her to see things through his eyes—I mean, with a certain freshness, and optimism. He seemed to forget his own woes, too, when he had her to protect him." I thought, why did no one tell me? I might never have found out. I scurried back over various semi-drunken mealtimes, thinking I might have said something awful. "And what happened to the boy?" Paul looked at me kindly, uncertainly. I saw he was still thinking of Marcel. Then, "Oh, the boy. Well, we remained great friends, we went to university together. If I tell you he became a schoolteacher," said Paul, with a slight amused hesitation, "I will probably have told you enough." In fact it took me a few seconds of clumsy verification. I said nothing, but smiled and nodded slowly to acknowledge my surprise and then my lack of any reason to be surprised. So the two former orphans both looked after children—well, that seemed right, it was the form some unalterable need had taken. I heard the familiar crack of a board, and half-turned to see that Helene was standing in the doorway that gave on to the stairs. Her hand was on the door-knob and she leaned into the room as though waiting for a sign that she was not disturbing us. I wondered how long she had been standing and listening. Paul must have seen her; that hint of amusement perhaps came from having her there at the dénollement of her father's story. She went round the desk, behind Paul's chair, and leant forward to embrace him, her arms crossed loosely under his chin, her cheek pressed to his temple. The gesture seemed full of her fresh adult confidence, though it was also the embrace with which a child cajoles a stern but sentimental old relative. She stayed there, looking up at me with a glow, until Paul patted her hand and she slowly stood back.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  It was hard to convince them that not all peers—just as not all queers—know each other. Even so it appears that his case—and in its little way mine—are doing some good: even the decorous British, with their distrust of the life of instinct, their pleasure in conformity, are saying that enough is enough. Some of them, even, are saying that a man’s private life is his own affair, and that the law must be changed. My dim lavatorial notoriety became in the prison a kind of glamour, and helped me, as I looked about and learnt the faces and moods of the men, to make friends. Covert gestures of kindness saved me from trouble, or explained the punctilio of some futile but unavoidable chore. Matchboxes and half-cigarettes were slipped to me as we jostled together for Association. Warnings were given of the foibles of particular screws. And so the nonce-world, which became my world, closed about me, offered me its pitiful comforts, and began to reveal its depths—now murky, now surprisingly coralline and clear. My guide and companion in this was a young man I met after a week or so, a well set-up, rather tongue-tied little chap called Bill Hawkins. I had noticed him early on, and was not surprised to find that he spent a lot of time in the gym: he had a fine torso and packed shoulders. We played a few games of draughts together on my first Sunday evening. He clearly wanted to talk to me, but was uncertain how to go about it, so I drew him out. It transpired that he had been for over a year the lover of a teenage boy who trained at the sports club in Highbury where Bill was employed. They saw each other every day, and were blissfully happy, though Alec, as the boy was called, avoided his old friends and caused concern to his parents by his singular behaviour. Twice Bill and Alec went to Brighton and spent the weekend in a guesthouse owned by a friend of the sports club manager: if anyone asked questions they were to pretend to be brothers, for Bill himself was only eighteen, and Alec was a couple of years younger. After a while, though, Alec became more distant, and it soon became clear that he was involved with another man. Bill, in all the torments of first love, took precipitately to drink, and would make a nuisance of himself banging on the door of Alec’s parents’ house. Then foolish, intimate letters were written: and found, by the parents. They showed them to Alec’s new friend, an insurance salesman with a Riley whom they, in a fine hypocritical fashion, considered more suitable and respectable than poor, passionate, uncontrollable Bill. Together the salesman and the parents took the letters to the police.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  My own obsessions made it hard for me to grant the force of someone else's—and besides it was long ago and part of the never fully plausible world of heterosexual feeling. I started trying to convert it into my own terms; if I had met someone physically identical to Luc would he have done just as well as the object of my wild longings—which flooded into my throat for a second and pricked my eyes as we turned a corner into the cold wind. "You say that I'm secretive," he said, in a tone that admitted the charge but showed his pride had in fact been scratched by my remark of a few minutes before. "But I've always been prepared to tell, if I could first find the right person. That's why I'm so glad you've got the point: I very much want you to get the point, since you're helping me so much to get all this done." I shoved my hands into my pockets and nursed this to me in a sflence I hoped he didn't feel was negative. I wondered if I had got the point. I had the sense that my importance, my helpfulness, were being flatteringly exaggerated. Proof-reading, fact-checking, were necessary of course; but they could be done just as well by somebody else, better perhaps by somebody who didn't share my groping remoteness from the subject. At the same time I was warmed and bucked up by the confidence Paul put in me, the tone of urgency I had sometimes heard before and the implication that I could meet the crisis, even if I didn't quite know yet what it was. It was as though he saw some virtue in me that I had lost sight of myself, or never believed myself to have possessed. Towards the end of lunch I pressed him further about the war. I'd had two or three, perhaps four, glasses of wine, he'd drunk more than usual himself and seemed cautiously to be celebrating. He was giving a comic account of some French art critics and their notions about Orst. I got a very clear impression of their style and their theoretical obtuseness, and also of the disquiet beneath Paul's mockery. Lilli listened to everything he said with her usual, rather stolid, attentiveness, sometimes repeating a phrase when he fell silent as though to memorise it or to help me to. I said simply, "Tell me about your visits to Orst"—and saw her gaze settle on his down-turned face. After a while he said, "I only hesitate because it's hard to know where to begin." He smiled at me distantly, but seemed reluctant to meet Lilli's eye. Marcel, opposite me, bundled up his napkin and pushed back his chair—I saw he waited for Lilli's nod before he got down.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  The young baritone, singing with the greatest beauty and freshness, brought an extraordinary quality of resisted pathos to Billy; in the stammering music his physiognomy, handsome and forthright and yet with a curious fleshy debility about the mouth, made me believe it as his own tragedy. None of this should have surprised me. I had not heard any music for a few days, and I was all charged up, glowing and gratified, so that my sense of everything was heightened. I felt every phrase of the music in a physical way, as if I had turned into a little orchestra myself. In the interval we had champagne, though James would only take a drop, saying it would give him a headache. He was prone to bad headaches, often of a nervous kind (for instance, when he had a clear weekend after being on call for two or three weeks he would spend it supine in a darkened room, a hand pressed to his brow). The heat and intensity of a theatre always brought on a bit of a head for him too. I think he concentrated exceptionally hard—at a concert he would either follow the score or his knuckles would be white with tension—whereas I, though I was gripped and appalled by the opera, blubbing again at the despair of the poor little Novice, his body and spirit broken by his flogging, had also had periods of several minutes’ duration when I had paid no attention at all, thinking about Phil, and sex, and what I was going to do later. My grandfather looked at me apprehensively. ‘Are you enjoying it, darling?’ he asked. ‘I think it’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘It’s a funny old production, but there’s something quite touching about that.’ ‘Mm—I agree. Quite unchanged since the very first performance, of course. It’s a museum piece, still being used after thirty years. We had a lot of talk about a new production, but we felt the loot could be better spent on something else.’ ‘Yes.’ I was on for more champagne already. ‘What do you think, James?’ ‘Oh, I’m enjoying it,’ James said, with an emphasis that suggested reservations. His eyes were darkly rimmed, he looked sallow with lack of sleep, and I wondered what it would be like to come to the crowded unreality of a theatre after a day’s long concentration on illness and misery. ‘I don’t know if it’s a piece you especially care for.’ ‘It’s always more moving and impressive than you expect,’ James said, as so often echoing my own feelings; but our solidarity brought us to the edge of difficult terrain. What he would want to talk about would be the suppressed or (in his usual term) deflected sexuality of the opera. We must all have recognised it, though it would have had an importance, even an eloquence, to James and me that would have been quite lost on my grandfather.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  Paul looked at me kindly, uncertainly. I saw he was still thinking of Marcel. Then, "Oh, the boy. Well, we remained great friends, we went to university together. If I tell you he became a schoolteacher," said Paul, with a slight amused hesitation, "I will probably have told you enough." In fact it took me a few seconds of clumsy verification. I said nothing, but smiled and nodded slowly to acknowledge my surprise and then my lack of any reason to be surprised. So the two former orphans both looked after children—well, that seemed right, it was the form some unalterable need had taken. I heard the familiar crack of a board, and half-turned to see that Helene was standing in the doorway that gave on to the stairs. Her hand was on the door-knob and she leaned into the room as though waiting for a sign that she was not disturbing us. I wondered how long she had been standing and listening. Paul must have seen her; that hint of amusement perhaps came from having her there at the dénollement of her father's story. She went round the desk, behind Paul's chair, and leant forward to embrace him, her arms crossed loosely under his chin, her cheek pressed to his temple. The gesture seemed full of her fresh adult confidence, though it was also the embrace with which a child cajoles a stern but sentimental old relative. She stayed there, looking up at me with a glow, until Paul patted her hand and she slowly stood back. I shared their quiet pleasure that I was in on the secret; as well as feeling the initiate's disadvantage, the tacit admission of how clueless I had been before. I got up more suddenly than I'd meant to, and in my customary reflex stared out of the window, at the fog which annihilated the street and at the same time cast a faint illumination. "I nearly told you before," Helene said, "when we went for that walk, do you remember? But you know they never talk about it—Daddy and Lilli don't—and so it never seems quite right for me to either." "I'm just so glad they're here at all," I said after a moment, though with a sense that I shouldn't now pretend to like Maurice more than I did. I saw how the schoolboy role of know-all and competitor had lasted and soured like a tough old jacket. It was hateful of me, but I began to be irritated by the ubiquitous power of the unsaid, and by the generous little enactment of Helene's gratitude, the stooping hug that said for them the crisis was over—not still waiting to happen, somewhere along the invisible roads. "Any news of Luc?" said Matt, in a tone that for the first time admitted tender concern and caught me unawares. My voice cracked under the light pressure of sympathy.

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

  Reply to Objection 3: Reverential honor is due to one’s parents as such, whereas support and so forth are due to them accidentally, for instance, because they are in want, in slavery, or the like, as stated above ([3280]Q[101], A[2] ). And since that which belongs to a thing by nature precedes that which is accidental, it follows that among the first precepts of the Law, which are the precepts of the decalogue, there is a special precept of honoring our parents: and this honor, as a kind of principle, is understood to comprise support and whatever else is due to our parents. Reply to Objection 4: A long life is promised to those who honor their parents not only as to the life to come, but also as to the present life, according to the saying of the Apostle (1 Tim. 4:8): “Piety [Douay: ‘godliness’] is profitable to all things, having promise of the life that now is and of that which is to come.” And with reason. Because the man who is grateful for a favor deserves, with a certain congruity, that the favor should be continued to him, and he who is ungrateful for a favor deserves to lose it. Now we owe the favor of bodily life to our parents after God: wherefore he that honors his parents deserves the prolongation of his life, because he is grateful for that favor: while he that honors not his parents deserves to be deprived of life because he is ungrateful for the favor. However, present goods or evils are not the subject of merit or demerit except in so far as they are directed to a future reward, as stated above (FS, Q[114], A[12]). Wherefore sometimes in accordance with the hidden design of the Divine judgments, which regard chiefly the future reward, some, who are dutiful to their parents, are sooner deprived of life, while others, who are undutiful to their parents, live longer. Whether the other six precepts of the decalogue are fittingly expressed?Objection 1: It seems that the other six precepts of the decalogue are unfittingly expressed. For it is not sufficient for salvation that one refrain from injuring one’s neighbor; but it is required that one pay one’s debts, according to Rom. 13:7, “Render . . . to all men their dues.” Now the last six precepts merely forbid one to injure one’s neighbor. Therefore these precepts are unfittingly expressed. Objection 2: Further, these precepts forbid murder, adultery, stealing and bearing false witness. But many other injuries can be inflicted on one’s neighbor, as appears from those which have been specified above (QQ[72], seq.). Therefore it seems that the aforesaid precepts are unfittingly expressed.

• From Memoirs of Hadrian (1951)

  In December, 1951, learned of the fairly recent death of the German historian Wilhelm Weber, and in April, 1952, of the death of the scholar Paul Graindor, both of whose works I have so much used. A few days ago talked with G.B. . . and J.F. . . , who had known the engraver Pierre Gusman in Rome at the time that he was drawing, with passion, all the different parts of the Villa. The feeling of belonging to a kind of Gens Aelia, of being, as it were, one of the throng of secretaries who had served the great man, of participating in the change of that imperial guard which poets and humanists mount in relay around any great memory. Thus (and it is doubtless the same for specialists in the study of Napoleon, or for lovers of Dante), over the ages is formed a circle of kindred spirits, moved by the same interests and sympathies, or concerned with the same problems. The pedants of comedy, Vadius and Blazius still exist, and their fat cousin Basil is ever about. Once and once only have I happened to be confronted with that mixture of insults and coarse jokes; with extracts truncated or skillfully deformed, so as to make our sentences say some absurdity which they do not say; with captious arguments built up by assertions both vague and peremptory enough to win ready credence from the reader respectful of academic trappings and lacking the time, or the desire, to look up the sources for himself. Characteristic, all of it, of a certain species which, fortunately, is rare. On the contrary, what genuine good will have so many scholars shown who could just as readily, in these times of excessive specialization, have disdained outright any literary effort at reconstruction of the past which might seem to them to trespass on their domain. . . . Too many of them have graciously, and of their own accord, taken trouble to rectify some error already in print, or to confirm a detail, support a hypothesis, expedite new research, for me not to express here a word of gratitude to such well-disposed readers. Each book which sees a new edition owes something to the discriminating people who have read it. Do the best one can. Do it over again.

• From Memoirs of Hadrian (1951)

  In December, 1951, learned of the fairly recent death of the German historian Wilhelm Weber, and in April, 1952, of the death of the scholar Paul Graindor, both of whose works I have so much used. A few days ago talked with G.B. . . and J.F. . . , who had known the engraver Pierre Gusman in Rome at the time that he was drawing, with passion, all the different parts of the Villa. The feeling of belonging to a kind of Gens Aelia, of being, as it were, one of the throng of secretaries who had served the great man, of participating in the change of that imperial guard which poets and humanists mount in relay around any great memory. Thus (and it is doubtless the same for specialists in the study of Napoleon, or for lovers of Dante), over the ages is formed a circle of kindred spirits, moved by the same interests and sympathies, or concerned with the same problems. The pedants of comedy, Vadius and Blazius still exist, and their fat cousin Basil is ever about. Once and once only have I happened to be confronted with that mixture of insults and coarse jokes; with extracts truncated or skillfully deformed, so as to make our sentences say some absurdity which they do not say; with captious arguments built up by assertions both vague and peremptory enough to win ready credence from the reader respectful of academic trappings and lacking the time, or the desire, to look up the sources for himself. Characteristic, all of it, of a certain species which, fortunately, is rare. On the contrary, what genuine good will have so many scholars shown who could just as readily, in these times of excessive specialization, have disdained outright any literary effort at reconstruction of the past which might seem to them to trespass on their domain. . . . Too many of them have graciously, and of their own accord, taken trouble to rectify some error already in print, or to confirm a detail, support a hypothesis, expedite new research, for me not to express here a word of gratitude to such well-disposed readers. Each book which sees a new edition owes something to the discriminating people who have read it. Do the best one can. Do it over again.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  “Look, Toni,” I said, “if you want to hit me, you go ahead. If it’ll make you feel better, I won’t stop you. But why would I want to hit you? You helped me out when I needed it. You know damn well I’d never disrespect you or Betty.” I caught Betty’s eye and she looked at me apologetically. “Don’t you be looking at my femme, you motherfucker!” Toni sputtered. “Toni, I’m telling you I wouldn’t do anything, ever, to disrespect you.” “Get out of my fucking house,” she yelled at me. She was reeling. “Get out!” Angie was behind me. “C’mon, baby.” She tugged on my arm. “It’s only gonna get worse out here. C’mon,” she said, pulling me back into the bar. Grant and Edwin offered to help me pack up my stuff and bring it back. “Hell,” I told them, “T still only need a couple of pillowcases for all my stuff. I can bring it back on the bike.” When I got back to the club with my things, I found a stool at the end of the bar and nursed a beer. Angie sat down next to me. “You got a place to stay 70 = Leslie Feinberg tonight?” She stubbed out her cigarette. I shook my head. “Look,” she patted my arm. “I’m tired, I want to go home and to bed—to sleep. You need a place to sack out for the night, fine. Just don’t get any funny ideas.” “You been turning tricks all night?” I asked her. Angie eyed me distrustfully. “Yeah.” “Then why on earth would I think you were dying for someone to take you home and fuck you?” Angie tossed back her whiskey and laughed. “C’mon, baby, I'll buy you breakfast for that one.” “Tell me the truth,’ Angie said as she buttered her toast. “No bullshit. How come you didn’t fight her? Was it really ’cause she’s your friend or were you scared?” I shook my head. “She’s not like my best friend or anything, but she helped me out a lot. I don’t want to hit her, that’s all. She was drunk.” Angie smirked at me. “So were you fuckin’ around with Betty?” I shook my head. “I don’t play that game.” She watched my face as she poked her eggs with a fork. “How old are you, baby?” “How old were you when you were my age?” I felt annoyed. She leaned back against the booth. “I guess the streets made us old before our time, huh, kid?” “T’m not a kid.” My voice sounded hard. “T’m sorry.” She sounded like she meant it. “Youre right, you aren’t a kid.” I yawned and rubbed my eyes. She laughed. “Am I keeping you up?”

• From Hillbilly Elegy (2016)

  I will send my address soon. Goodbye.” “Wait, you little shithead. Are you okay?” “Sorry, Mamaw, can’t talk. But yes, I’m okay. I’ll write as soon as I can.” The drill instructor, overhearing my two extra lines of conversation, asked sarcastically whether I’d made enough time “for her to tell you a fucking story.” That was the first day. There are no phone calls in boot camp. I was allowed only one, to call Lindsay when her half brother died. I realized, through letters, how much my family loved me. While most other recruits—that’s what they called us; we had to earn the title “marine” by completing the rigors of boot camp—received a letter every day or two, I sometimes received a half dozen each night. Mamaw wrote every day, sometimes several times, offering extended thoughts on what was wrong with the world in some and few-sentence streams of consciousness in others. Most of all, Mamaw wanted to know how my days were going and reassure me. Recruiters told families that what most of us needed were words of encouragement, and Mamaw delivered that in spades. As I struggled with screaming drill instructors and physical fitness routines that pushed my out-of-shape body to its limits, I read every day that Mamaw was proud of me, that she loved me, and that she knew I wouldn’t give up. Thanks to either my wisdom or inherited hoarder tendencies, I managed to keep nearly every one of the letters I received from my family. Many of them shed an interesting light on the home I left behind. A letter from Mom, asking me what I might need and telling me how proud she is of me. “I was babysitting [Lindsay’s kids],” she reports. “They played with slugs outside. They squeezed one and killed it. But I threw it away and told them they didn’t because Kam got a little upset, thinking he killed it.” This is Mom at her best: loving and funny, a woman who delighted in her grandchildren. In the same letter, a reference to Greg, likely a boyfriend who has since disappeared from my memory. And an insight into our sense of normalcy: “Mandy’s husband Terry,” she starts, referencing a friend of hers, “was arrested on a probation violation and sent to prison. So they are all doing OK.” Lindsay also wrote often, sending multiple letters in the same envelope, each on a different-colored piece of paper, with instructions on the back—“Read this one second; this is the last one.” Every single letter contained some reference to her kids. I learned of my oldest niece’s successful potty training; my nephew’s soccer matches; my younger niece’s early smiles and first efforts to reach for things. After a lifetime of shared triumphs and tragedies, we both adored her kids more than anything else.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  TWENTY-ONE Children of Divorce TWENTY-TWO Conclusions Appendix: Research Sample Index Acknowledgments About the Author BOOKS BY JUDITH WALLERSTEIN, PH.D. Copyright Notes PART ONE Parallel Universes: Karen and Gary PART TWO The Legacy of Violence: Larry and Carol PART THREE The Parentless Child: Paula PART FOUR The Vulnerable Child: Billy PART FIVE My Best Case: Lisa Acknowledgments W E WOULD LIKE TO ACKNOWLEDGE a profound debt to the Zellerbach Family Fund, which funded the original “children of divorce study” in the early seventies and has continued to support this work for twenty-five years. In a culture where foundations prefer quick results and time-limited programs, the Zellerbach Family Fund has had the wisdom and courage to recognize the matchless contribution of long-term follow-up studies of children. Throughout most of those years, the foundation’s executive director, Edward Nathan, provided the professional leadership and vision that made what we have achieved possible. We are also profoundly grateful to the San Francisco Foundation, which, under the direction of former executive director Martin Paley, established in 1980 the Judith Wallerstein Center for the Family in Transition—a nonprofit, free-standing agency that brings together a range of educational and counseling services along with research and advocacy projects aimed at helping divorced and remarried families. The Center, which has served over six thousand children and their parents, is a tribute to Mr. Paley’s enlightened leadership and remains the only such facility in the world. We have been enormously helped throughout the writing of the book by eminent demographers and sociologists who have been generous with their knowledge. We are especially grateful to Norval Glenn, Ashbel Smith, Professor of Sociology at the University of Texas at Austin; to Larry Bumpass, professor of sociology, Center for Demography and Ecology, University of Wisconsin, Madison; and to Nicholas Wolfinger, assistant professor of sociology at the University of Utah. Colleagues and friends in different disciplines have read the manuscript and given us the benefit of their expertise and recommendations. We are especially grateful to Jan Blakeslee, whose comments were wonderfully supportive and instructive in the final stages of the book; Janet Johnston, executive director of the Judith Wallerstein Center and associate professor of sociology in the administration of justice department at San Jose State University; and to Mary Ann Mason, professor of social welfare at the University of California at Berkeley. All gave excellent advice on different sections of the book.

• From Hillbilly Elegy (2016)

  My mother and, increasingly, the entire neighborhood embodied another: consumerist, isolated, angry, distrustful. There were (and remain) many who lived by my grandparents’ code. Sometimes you saw it in the subtlest of ways: the old neighbor who diligently tended her garden even as her neighbors let their homes rot from the inside out; the young woman who grew up with my mom, who returned to the neighborhood every day to help her mother navigate old age. I say this not to romanticize my grandparents’ way of life—which, as I’ve observed, was rife with problems—but to note that many in our community may have struggled but did so successfully. There are many intact families, many dinners shared in peaceful homes, many children studying hard and believing they’ll claim their own American Dream. Many of my friends have built successful lives and happy families in Middletown or nearby. They are not the problem, and if you believe the statistics, the children of these intact homes have plenty of reason for optimism. I always straddled those two worlds. Thanks to Mamaw, I never saw only the worst of what our community offered, and I believe that saved me. There was always a safe place and a loving embrace if ever I needed it. Our neighbors’ kids couldn’t say the same. One Sunday, Mamaw agreed to watch Aunt Wee’s kids for several hours. Aunt Wee dropped them off at ten. I had to work the dreaded eleven A.M. to eight P.M . shift at the grocery store. I hung out with the kids for about forty-five minutes, then left at ten-forty-five for work. I was unusually upset—devastated, even—to leave them. I wanted nothing more than to spend the day with Mamaw and the babies. I told Mamaw that, and instead of telling me to “quit your damn whining” like I expected, she told me she wished that I could stay home, too. It was a rare moment of empathy. “But if you want the sort of work where you can spend the weekends with your family, you’ve got to go to college and make something of yourself.” That was the essence of Mamaw’s genius. She didn’t just preach and cuss and demand. She showed me what was possible—a peaceful Sunday afternoon with the people I loved—and made sure I knew how to get there. Reams of social science attest to the positive effect of a loving and stable home. I could cite a dozen studies suggesting that Mamaw’s home offered me not just a short-term haven but also hope for a better life. Entire volumes are devoted to the phenomenon of “resilient children”—kids who prosper despite an unstable home because they have the social support of a loving adult. I know Mamaw was good for me not because some Harvard psychologist says so but because I felt it. Consider my life before I moved in with Mamaw.