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 The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Besides, who would I be if he were not my father? Not me. Not me writing this. No, sir. So, in the end, I’m grateful. After all, I wouldn’t want to be my unwounded self; she might not like ass-fucking and then where would she be? Certainly not in my privileged position, propped on Pink Square, ass in the air several afternoons a week. She’d probably be doing four loads of laundry for her husband and three children at about that same time and wondering about how to fill that emptiness she feels. I’ve only ever met one woman who said that she not only had always adored her father, but that he adored her, always had, and she proudly stated that he was the most beloved man in her life. All the men wanted this woman. She had no hurt, no anger, and no edge. Eventually she married an insanely wealthy entrepreneur. But the rest of us are hurt, angry, and very edgy. Time bombs. Defusing the bomb is a challenge to the feminist man, and arrogance makes him think he can succeed. He can’t. It’s my hurt, my pain, and who are you to take it from me? I don’t need rescuing, I don’t need pity, I don’t need opinions, I need fucking—and maybe a nice little spanking for indulging my anger. I have always embraced David Copperfield’s challenge to be the heroine of my own life. I just always thought it would involve great public deeds or heart-wrenching sacrifices, but no, it’s not like that at all. When I suck his cock and he fucks me in the ass, I am that heroine. It is the deep and sure knowledge that finally, finally, I have really loved a man with no agenda except to love. After my daddy, that is miracle indeed. He has unwound my wound. My ass began life as the tiny pale recipient of Daddy’s angry hand. It was the place of shame, the site of humiliation, the area to hide from The Hand. It received the proof of my shameful badness, my seemingly unavoidable wrongness. I was Bad and I was Punished. And now that same ass—older but wiser—is the coveted arena of a lover’s pleasure where I am naughty and rewarded. And so my ass remains the strongest point of contact with the most important men in my life. It holds my deepest and oldest emotional nerve endings. Is there a direct connection between getting spanked on the bottom, as I was as a child, and my inclination to being anally penetrated? Possibly. If every father who spanked his little girl thought he might be creating a hungry little sodomite, well, that might be a deterrent.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Then followed some straight-on clit licking, for as long as it took while I tried to hold out. During this time I indulged all my fantasies, flipping randomly through my Rolodex. Of A-Man watching this other guy lick me and being amused at my outrageous indulgence, approving, and saying to him: “You keep doing that till she’s had enough, then I’ll fuck her ass.” Then I fantasized that A-Man was licking my clit relentlessly—but that was way too exciting, so I had to stop. Then I imagined all the men I’ve been with, and dumped, in a lineup, outside my bedroom window, watching. I displayed my pleasure and my juice like a whore. On and on with the fantasies until the final one, the finishing one: Reality. This man, for reasons I don’t really understand—could it be love?—is willing to be slave to my orgasm, licking until I have had enough (and enough for me, of course, is a lot). This overwhelming experience of abundance pushed me, unexpectedly, into a state of gratitude that manifested in a full body, curved, deep, silent orgasm that took twenty minutes to return from. The Hound, dear, darling Hound, left me quietly, so I could bask in the enormity of the blessedness of my life and the peace of power returned: his submission to me balancing mine to A-Man. Now I’m ready to be fucked in the ass again. I’ll do whatever it takes to be ready for A-Man. This is a measure of my devotion—and, I suppose, of the Hound’s, too. RAZING THE BARRE Training as a classical ballet dancer, as I did, is surely the most intense physical training possible for a young body—day in, day out, hour after hour of meticulous sculpting, shaping, and coercing the body, the belly, and the limbs into shapes, angles, and lines that reach far, far beyond one’s natural physical state. Always going for more of everything, more length, more turns, more turnout, more strength, more-more-more. It takes both body and mind into a place of existence that is beyond normal experience. I learned from the age of four to experience my life through my body, inside my body, always on the brink of perpetual endurance. All this, I believe, prepared me for getting fucked in the ass. It answers the call of my physical masochism. It re-creates the physical extremism of dancing, the discipline, the striving for perfection. It is my being in extremis. Now that I am retired from dancing all of life has a dull edge—except this. A-Man calls it “the Hard Edge of Truth.”

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero comienza a reírse de nuevo, y luego vuelve su atención a la aspiradora, y me uno a él para subirla. —Escucha —dice—, quería hacerme mi primer tatuaje antes que este trabajo comience. Estaba pensando que podríamos hacernos uno juntos. ¿Te gustaría? —Me mira con nerviosismo, y puedo decir que le fue difícil preguntar—. Como ¿el próximo fin de semana? ¿Un tatuaje? El último que me hice, él tenía dos años, creo. Realmente ya no es algo que me guste, pero definitivamente lo haría por él. Estoy agradecido que incluso pida hacer algo conmigo. —Sí. —Asiento—. Suena bien. Incluso sé lo que quiero hacerme, también, la idea aparece en mi cabeza tan rápido. —Vamos. —Me da un empujoncito, tirando de la aspiradora—. Te ayudaré con esto, y luego me reuniré con unos amigos, ¿de acuerdo? —Sí. —Tomo lo último del tubo y la aspiradora que drena el agua emerge. De hecho, también tengo un pequeño encargo que hacer. **** Ni siquiera creo que se le permita entrar en este lugar a nadie menor de veintiún años, a menos que sea un empleado, y mejor que Jordan no lo sea. Tengo un pensamiento fugaz, en el camino, de llamar y reportar a Mick Chan por permitir que una chica de diecinueve años entre en su club de striptease, pero tampoco es que no me haya aprovechado de los indulgentes propietarios de bares cuando tenía diecinueve años. Además, solo enojaría más a Jordan. Puedo escucharla ahora. Oh, soy lo suficientemente mayor para que puedas estar sobre mí pero ¿no lo suficiente como para tomar una copa? Bueno, sí, legalmente hablando. Si quiere ser técnica al respecto, de todos modos. Deslizando mis llaves en mi bolsillo, me dirijo al estacionamiento y abro la puerta de The Hook. La música rebota en las paredes y vibra bajo mis pies, y aspiro el olor familiar del champú con aroma a orquídea que Mick siempre usa para las alfombras. Huele como la avalancha de perfume que sientes al entrar en un casino de gama alta, que intenta ocultar el olor a cigarrillos. Ha pasado mucho tiempo desde que vine aquí, pero de repente, tengo diecinueve años otra vez. Pago la entrada y entro, deteniéndome al pasar el bar y ver el mar de gente en el lugar. Chicos jóvenes, hombres mayores, algunas mujeres y parejas, luces moradas bajo el escenario blanco e hilos de humo flotando en el aire desde los extremos anaranjados de los cigarrillos. La aprehensión se afianza. No debí haber venido aquí. Debería irme antes que me vea. Es un adulto, se cuidó bien por mucho tiempo, y esa pequeña voz en mi cabeza tiene razón. Si puedo llevarla a la cama y mantenerla despierta la mitad de la noche, entonces es lo suficientemente mayor como para tomar sus propias decisiones. Debería poder salir con sus amigos. Quiero que salga con sus amigos.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  We are very happy after. We usually don’t speak, just eyes in eyes. I used to like discussing the event once I regained my voice. What is it? What is it really about? Why does it happen? What, in fact, is happening? On and on. We don’t discuss it now, because I know I shall never really understand. Now I am just grateful. Now I just want a three-hour ass-fuck where I give him all my power, he takes it, and takes me to visit God. That’s all I need. Over and over and over. I want to die with him in my ass. #246 Last night I am home from a three-week trip. He is over, and we are silent. He fucks my mouth and my pussy both, long and hard. Then, in my newly virgin ass, slow, deep, one plunge to the hilt. When all in, with my ass suctioning about his cylinder, he finally speaks. “Welcome home.” “Welcome home,” I echo, sucking him in. Later, tired, jet-lagged, overwhelmed, I start to cry—though nothing is particularly wrong. He looks at me weeping and tells me how wonderful my life is and then places my clenched little hand over his crotch, saying, “And I’ve got this big cock here for you—you can hold it if you like.” I break from my self-pity and grab in his shorts, finding his cock in the folds, the gearshift that drives my life. I look up to his face in the shadows and see his eyes are glistening. Then a drop runs slowly down his cheek . . . and another. Astonished, I ask why he is crying. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. Almost 250 ass-fucks got us here, into the essence of unspoken sweetness. THE BOX A beautiful, tall, round, hand-painted Chinese lacquered box. Black and gold. Shiny. A pussycat with long white whiskers on the lid. The collection. The collection of the collection. The condoms. Used. Filled. Hundreds. Latex, sealed with K-Y. Evidence. My mortality. His immortality. DNA. The X and the Y. The Code. Forever. My homage. My altar. My treasure. His life. PARADISE I have learned a few things, by now, about Paradise. Paradise is not that thing in the nebulous, far-off future, in another place, or another world, or another galaxy. It is not a state of mind, or a place in the mind. Nor is it the exquisite sexual pleasure of pulsing blood and moaning desire. Paradise is not achieved only after great suffering. There may well be great suffering before or after Paradise, but it is not the requirement for entry. Wounded ego and rampant narcissism demand suffering. Paradise is just there, here, if you really want it. I am sitting on the threshold. Perhaps this is the final paradox of God’s paradoxical machinations: my ass is my very own back door to heaven. The Pearly Gates are closer than you think. Sacred and profane united in one hole. Paradise is free.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  He kisses my belly, inside my thighs, my pubic hair. Eventually with a very soft, very gentle tongue, contact is made with my pussy, my clit. My eyes open. I see his lovely eyes, looking at me, mouth buried in my cunt. My knees drop open 180 degrees, my feet press on the sides of his chest, my pussy is pushed into his mouth, contact, contact, contact. He is there a long time. I have many small, very intense orgasms. He moves his tongue and mouth quickly side to side, then stops on the tip, on my center, a tiny pinpoint where my whole being of emotion, power, and love are centered. Legs and belly convulse, contract, vibrate. Through these releases I know it’s not over, not finished. Possessed, I explode. My torso rises off the table over and over, his tongue works furiously, my legs are all over, my arms flailing. I am crying, whimpering, never before so conscious of tears of joy, that someone had been so kind to me. Every time I called, the pleasure was given and received. His tongue held close and soft and fast on my clitoris became the center of the world. And fingers everywhere—fingers on my clit, fingers in my pussy, fingers up my ass—how many tendrils can one man have? I stopped tipping him. But I did buy a series of ten massages at a reduced rate. He insisted, for his own moral welfare (and perhaps mine), that he always give me a massage—although on more than one occasion the massage came after we did. I was surprised at how much I liked sucking his cock. It was because he had shown me love first, and filled with gratitude, I headed down. I gave this guy the first good blow job I had ever given, one that came from my guts and brought tears into my eyes. It was the first time I was that grateful to a man. We never saw each other outside of the room in my apartment. We stayed in the bedroom, only going to the kitchen for liquids and the bathroom for rinses. The bedroom was the world. No dinners, no dates, only phone calls to make an appointment. Because my damaged hip had ended my dance career, the massages were paid for by insurance. Insurance for the resurrection of my deeply injured sexual desire.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  We are very happy after. We usually don’t speak, just eyes in eyes. I used to like discussing the event once I regained my voice. What is it? What is it really about? Why does it happen? What, in fact, is happening? On and on. We don’t discuss it now, because I know I shall never really understand. Now I am just grateful. Now I just want a three-hour ass-fuck where I give him all my power, he takes it, and takes me to visit God. That’s all I need. Over and over and over. I want to die with him in my ass. #246 Last night I am home from a three-week trip. He is over, and we are silent. He fucks my mouth and my pussy both, long and hard. Then, in my newly virgin ass, slow, deep, one plunge to the hilt. When all in, with my ass suctioning about his cylinder, he finally speaks. “Welcome home.” “Welcome home,” I echo, sucking him in. Later, tired, jet-lagged, overwhelmed, I start to cry—though nothing is particularly wrong. He looks at me weeping and tells me how wonderful my life is and then places my clenched little hand over his crotch, saying, “And I’ve got this big cock here for you—you can hold it if you like.” I break from my self-pity and grab in his shorts, finding his cock in the folds, the gearshift that drives my life. I look up to his face in the shadows and see his eyes are glistening. Then a drop runs slowly down his cheek . . . and another. Astonished, I ask why he is crying. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. Almost 250 ass-fucks got us here, into the essence of unspoken sweetness. THE BOX A beautiful, tall, round, hand-painted Chinese lacquered box. Black and gold. Shiny. A pussycat with long white whiskers on the lid. The collection. The collection of the collection. The condoms. Used. Filled. Hundreds. Latex, sealed with K-Y. Evidence. My mortality. His immortality. DNA. The X and the Y. The Code. Forever. My homage. My altar. My treasure. His life. PARADISE I have learned a few things, by now, about Paradise. Paradise is not that thing in the nebulous, far-off future, in another place, or another world, or another galaxy. It is not a state of mind, or a place in the mind. Nor is it the exquisite sexual pleasure of pulsing blood and moaning desire. Paradise is not achieved only after great suffering. There may well be great suffering before or after Paradise, but it is not the requirement for entry. Wounded ego and rampant narcissism demand suffering. Paradise is just there, here, if you really want it. I am sitting on the threshold. Perhaps this is the final paradox of God’s paradoxical machinations: my ass is my very own back door to heaven. The Pearly Gates are closer than you think. Sacred and profane united in one hole.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Dr. Kimberly Coffey deserves special note, for it is her quantitative talents that make PEP Lab discoveries ever more powerful. I offer special heartfelt thanks to Ann Firestine, for her legendary drive and talent to do whatever it takes to superbly manage our various PEP Lab projects. Since the day she joined us, she has single-handedly elevated PEP Lab productivity to new heights. Of course, the research that streams out of the PEP Lab would not have been possible without the many people who’ve donated their time and thoughts to science as participants in our studies. I thank each of them for being the bedrock of this book. Nor would this work have emerged without those at the U.S. National Institutes of Health who have found sufficient merit in my hypotheses to award grant funds to support their test. Over the years, my lab has been the fortunate recipient of grants awarded by the National Institute of Mental Health and the National Institute of Nursing Research, and now also the National Cancer Institute. My work has also been supported by the James Graham Kenan Foundation for Distinguished Professors at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and, more generally, I am grateful for the support I’ve long received from colleagues, administrators, and staff at UNC–CH. These people are what make Carolina an astoundingly congenial and productive place to work. Go, Heels! The path toward getting these new ideas on love from my mind into yours began when Brian McCorkle invited me to serve as a Templeton Research Fellow for a series on religious and psychological well-being at the Danielsen Institute at Boston University. With funding from the Metanexus Institute and the John Templeton Foundation, the Danielsen Institute invited me to deliver a series of six lectures at BU in early 2010. With appreciation, then, I acknowledge Brian and my hosts at the Danielsen Institute for planting the seeds for this book and supporting me to write it. Richard Pine, of Inkwell Management, is my agent and so much more. He stepped in to serve as my initial editor, helping me to shave off the excesses of academic language and theory. Love 2.0 would not exist without him. Also of Inkwell, I thank Lyndsey Blessing and Charlie Olsen, for helping get my ideas translated for foreign language readers. Caroline Sutton, of Hudson Street Press and the Penguin Group, has been an extraordinary editor. She was quick to see my strengths and weaknesses as a writer and to work with them with respectful equanimity. Also of Hudson Street Press and the Penguin Group, I thank John Fagan, Liz Keenan, Courtney Nobile, Ashley Pattison, and Brittney Ross for shaping and promoting Love 2.0 in their various ways. It’s one thing to study love and another thing to live it in the moment, wholeheartedly. I humbly admit to being more novice than expert when it comes to putting these ideas into action.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  His remains were removed in a golden coffin by a procession of distinguished civilians and the whole army, from Nicomedia to Constantinople, and deposited, with the highest Christian honors, in the church of the Apostles,54 while the Roman senate, after its ancient custom, proudly ignoring the great religious revolution of the age, enrolled him among the gods of the heathen Olympus. Soon after his death, Eusebius set him above the greatest princes of all times; from the fifth century he began to be recognized in the East as a saint; and the Greek and Russian church to this day celebrates his memory under the extravagant title of "Isapostolos," the "Equal of the apostles."55 The Latin church, on the contrary, with truer tact, has never placed him among the saints, but has been content with naming him "the Great," in just and grateful remembrance of his services to the cause of Christianity and civilization. § 3. The Sons of Constantine. A.D. 337–361. For the literature see § 2 and § 4. With the death of Constantine the monarchy also came, for the present, to an end. The empire was divided among his three sons, Constantine II., Constans, and Constantius. Their accession was not in Christian style, but after the manner of genuine Turkish, oriental despotism; it trod upon the corpses of the numerous kindred of their father, excepting two nephews, Gallus and Julian, who were saved only by sickness and youth from the fury of the soldiers. Three years later followed a war of the brothers for the sole supremacy. Constantine II. was slain by Constans (340), who was in turn murdered by a barbarian field officer and rival, Magnentius (350). After the defeat and the suicide of Magnentius, Constantius, who had hitherto reigned in the East, became sole emperor, and maintained himself through many storms until his natural death (353–361).

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  A heartfelt, humble thank-you to all the clients I have worked with over the years. It is a privilege to witness your fears grow smaller and your lives grow bigger. And of course, deepest thanks to family, near and far. The village who supported this book opened their hearts, schedules, and houses, especially Sharon and Dan Hendriksen and Suzanne Park. Nicolas Currier had unwavering faith in me, even in those moments when I questioned the validity of this whole undertaking. He is an endless source of strength, love, and necessary silliness. References Please note that some of the links referenced throughout this work are no longer active. Prologue the following twenty-five situations cribbed from two widely used social anxiety questionnaires. Liebowitz, M. R. (1987). Liebowitz social anxiety scale for social phobia. Modern Problems of Pharmacopsychiatry, 22, 141–73. Mattick, R. P., and Clarke, J. C. (1998). Development and validation of measures of social phobia scrutiny fear and social interaction anxiety. Behavior Research and Therapy, 36, 455–70. A study out of the University of Pittsburgh Primack, B. A., Shensa, A., Escobar-Viera, C. G., Barrett, E. L., Sidani, J. E., Colditz, J. B., and James, A. E. (2017). Use of multiple social media platforms and symptoms of depression and anxiety: A nationally-representative study among U.S. young adults. Computers in Human Behavior, 69, 1–9. Cartoon courtesy of Gemma Correll. http://www.agoodson.com/illustrator/gemma-correll/. somewhere between the ages of eight and fifteen American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (5th ed.). Arlington, VA: American Psychiatric Publishing. at some point in life 13 percent of Americans Kessler, R. C., McGonagle, K. A., Zhao, S., Nelson, C. B., Hughes, M., Eshleman, S.,… Kendler, K. S. (1994). Lifetime and twelve-month prevalence of DSM-III-R psychiatric disorders in the United States. Results from the National Comorbidity Survey. Archives of General Psychiatry, 51, 8–19. third most common psychological disorder, Kessler et al. (1994). 21 percent of capital-S Socially Anxious folks for whom nerves manifest as anger and irritability, Kashdan, T. B., McKnight, P. E., Richey, J. A., and Hofmann, S. G. (2009). When social anxiety disorder co-exists with risk-prone, approach behavior: Investigating a neglected, meaningful subset of people in the National Comorbidity Survey-Replication. Behavior Research and Therapy, 47, 559–68. Up to 15-30 percent of the population find themselves chronically isolated. Heinrich, L. M., and Gallon, E. (2009). The clinical significance of loneliness: A literature review. Clinical Psychology Review, 26, 695–718. Theeke, L. A. (2009). Predictors of loneliness in U.S. adults over age sixty-five. Archives of Psychiatric Nursing, 23, 387–96. It kills our sleep quality, our mood, our optimism, and our self-esteem. Hawley, L. C., and Cacioppo, J. T. (2010). Loneliness matters: A theoretical and empirical review of consequences and mechanisms. Annals of Behavioral Medicine, 40, 218–27. Chronic loneliness has been linked to an increased risk of heart disease, Alzheimer’s disease, even mortality.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Thascius Caecilius Cyprianus, bishop and martyr, and the impersonation of the catholic church of the middle of the third century, sprang from a noble and wealthy heathen family of Carthage, where he was born about the year 200, or earlier. His deacon and biographer, Pontius, considers his earlier life not worthy of notice in comparison with his subsequent greatness in the church. Jerome tells us, that he stood in high repute as a teacher of rhetoric.1553 He was, at all events, a man of commanding literary, rhetorical, and legal culture, and of eminent administrative ability which afterwards proved of great service to him in the episcopal office. He lived in worldly splendor to mature age, nor was he free from the common vices of heathenism, as we must infer from his own confessions. But the story, that he practised arts of magic arises perhaps from some confusion, and is at any rate unattested. Yet, after he became a Christian he believed, like Tertullian and others, in visions and dreams, and had some only a short time before his martyrdom. A worthy presbyter, Caecilius, who lived in Cyprian’s house, and afterwards at his death committed his wife and children to him, first made him acquainted with the doctrines of the Christian religion, and moved him to read the Bible. After long resistance Cyprian forsook the world, entered the class of catechumens, sold his estates for the benefit of the poor,1554 took a vow of chastity, and in 245 or 246 received baptism, adopting, out of gratitude to his spiritual father, the name of Caecilius.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  In collaboration with my colleague Sara Algoe, for instance, I’ve explored how kindness and appreciation flow back and forth in couples, creating tender moments of positivity resonance that also serve to nourish intimacy and relationship growth. In particular, we’ve examined how people habitually express appreciation to their partners. We learned from this work that some people tend to say “thanks” better than others. Genuine feelings of appreciation or gratitude, after all, well up when you recognize that someone else went out of his or her way to do something nice for you. Another way to say this is that the script for gratitude involves both a benefit, or kind deed, and a benefactor, the kind person behind the kind deed. Whereas many people express their appreciation to others by shining a spotlight on the benefit they received—the gift, favor, or the kind deed itself—we discovered that, by contrast, the best “thank-yous” simply use the benefit as a springboard toward shining a spotlight on the good qualities of the other person, their benefactor. Done well, then, expressing appreciation for your partner’s kindness to you can become a kind gesture in return, one that conveys that you see and appreciate in your partner’s actions his or her good and inspiring qualities. How did we know that this is the best way to convey appreciation? Because compared to expressions that merely focus on benefits, those that also focus on benefactors make the partner who hears that “thanks” feel understood, cared for, and validated. And this good feeling—the feeling that their partner really “gets” them and cherishes them—allows people to walk around each day feeling better about themselves and better about their relationship. And in six months’ time, it forecasts becoming even more solid and satisfied with their relationship. Saying “thanks” well then isn’t just a matter of being polite, it’s a matter of being loving, and becoming a stronger version of what together you call “us.” Becoming Resilient. How do you handle stress and strain? Do you at times feel shattered by adversity? Crushed during hard times? After an emotional hurricane hits, do you wallow in negativity or stumble about to pick up the pieces of your former self? Or perhaps, based on past experience, you’ve tried to steel yourself against any future emotional disasters by increasing the heft of your defensive armor. Maybe you find the prospects of being shattered so disturbing that you’ve striven to be bulletproof.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  At last, at around eleven o’clock, she shuffled her papers together and passed her hand over her face. When she saw me she gave a start: I really believe that, in her industry, she had forgotten me. Now, remembering, she first blushed, then frowned. ‘I had better go up, Miss Astley,’ she said. ‘You won’t mind sleeping in here, I hope? I’m afraid there’s nowhere else for you.’ I smiled. I did not mind - though I thought there must be an empty room upstairs, and wondered, privately, why she did not put me in it. She helped me push the two armchairs together, then went to fetch a pillow, a blanket and a sheet. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ she asked then. ‘The privy is out the back, as you know. There’s a jug of clean water kept in the pantry, if you’re thirsty. Ralph will be up at six or so, and I shall follow him at seven - or earlier, if Cyril wakes me. You’ll have to leave at eight, of course, when I do.’ I nodded quickly. I wouldn’t think about the morning, just yet. There was an awkward silence. She looked so tired and ordinary I had a foolish urge to kiss her cheek good-night, as Ralph had. Of course, I did not; I only took a step towards her as she nodded to me and prepared to make her way upstairs, and said, ‘I am more grateful to you, Mrs Banner, than I can say. You have been very kind to me - you, who hardly know me; and more especially your husband, who doesn’t know me at all.’ As I spoke she turned to me, and blinked. Then she placed her hand on a chair-back, and smiled a curious smile. ‘Did you think he was my husband?’ she said. I hesitated, suddenly flustered. ‘Well, I -’ ‘He ain’t my husband! He’s my brother.’ Her brother! She continued to smile at my confusion, and then to laugh: for a moment she was the pert girl I had spoken with in Green Street, all those months before... But then the baby, in the room above us, gave a cry, and we both raised our eyes to the sound, and I felt myself blush. And when she saw that, her smile faded. ‘Cyril ain’t mine,’ she said quickly, ‘though I call him mine. His mother used to lodge with us, and we took him on when she - left us. He is very dear to us, now...’ The awkward way she said it showed there was some story there - perhaps the mother was in prison; perhaps the baby was really a cousin‘s, or a sister’s, or a sweetheart’s of Ralph’s. Such things happened often enough in Whitstable families: I didn’t think much of it.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Both have their types - their ingénues and grandes dames, their rising stars, their falling stars, their bill-toppers, their hacks ... All this I learned, slowly but steadily, in the first few weeks of my apprenticeship, just as I had learned my music-hall trade at Kitty’s side. Luckily for me, I found a friend and adviser - a boy with whom I fell into conversation late one night, as we sheltered together from a sudden shower in the doorway of a building on the edge of Soho Square. He was a very girlish type - what they call a true mary-anne - and, like many of them, he gave himself a girl’s name: Alice. ‘That’s my sister’s name!’ I said, when he told me, and he smiled: it was his sister’s name, too - only his sister, he said, was dead. I said I didn’t know if mine was dead or not, and didn’t care; and this did not surprise him. This Alice was, I guessed, about my age. He was as pretty as a girl - prettier, indeed, than most girls (including me), for he had glossy black hair and a heart-shaped face, and eye-lashes impossibly long and dark and thick. He had rented, he said, since he was twelve; renting, now, was the only life he knew, but he liked it well enough. ‘It’s better, anyway,’ he said, ‘than working in an office or a shop. I believe that, if I had to work in the same little room all day, perched on the same little stool and staring at the same dull faces, I would go mad, just mad!’ When he asked for my history, I told him that I had come up to London from Kent, that I had been treated rather badly by someone, and was now forced to find my living on the streets; all of which was true enough, in its way. I believe he felt sorry for me - or maybe it was just the coincidence of our sisters’ names that warmed him to me - anyway, he began to look out a little for me, and to give me tips and cautions.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Bueno, sí. Sería bueno no tener que depender. Por un tiempo, al menos. —Gracias —les digo y luego miro a Dutch—. ¿Qué puedo hacer por ti? ¿Emparedado? ¿Cerveza? ¿Cuidado de niños gratis? Él solo se ríe. —Aw, está bien. Vi lo bonita que se ve la casa, así que Pike ya debe estar aprovechándose duro de ti. —Oh, no tienes idea —bromeo—. Últimamente estoy sudando mucho más allá de mi hora de dormir. La llave inglesa en la mano de Pike se tambalea, y pierde el control del cerrojo, mirándome. Oculto mi sonrisa entre mis dientes y doy la vuelta, subiendo los escalones y desapareciendo dentro de la casa. Llevo mi bolso a la cocina, lo coloco junto a mi modelo sobre la mesa, y luego saco una botella de agua del refrigerador y me dirijo al piso de arriba. Saco una toalla del armario del pasillo, camino por la habitación de Pike y me dirijo a su baño privado. El baño principal está terminado, pero aún no he sacado mis cosas, y no tengo planes de hacerlo. Cerrando la puerta, me desvisto hasta quedar en sujetador y bragas, inicio la aplicación en mi teléfono, reproduciendo Hurts So Good, y mojo mi cepillo de dientes antes de ponerle un poco de pasta dental. La puerta se abre, y me incorporo, momentáneamente sobresaltada hasta que veo que es Pike. Cierra detrás de él. —Eso no fue divertido —dice, mirándome severamente. —No estaba tratando de hacerte reír —murmuro sobre el cepillo de dientes. Sus labios se curvan con leve diversión mientras viene detrás de mí, dándome la vuelta y empujándome hacia el fregadero. —¿Tratando de sacarme de mi zona de confort entonces? Sonrío. —Lo haces con mucha frecuencia —acusa, pero sé que no está enojado. Pike levanta sus ojos. —Pronto.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —El teatro está a la vuelta de la esquina —indico—. Llegaré en diez segundos si corro como si estuviera siendo entrenada en la milicia. Le doy una palmadita en la espalda a Grady mientras me voy, el cabello gris de su cola de caballo se mece mientras se gira para guiñarme un ojo. —Adiós, niña —se despide. —Buenas noches. —Jordan, espera —grita Shel sobre la máquina de discos, y giro mi cabeza para mirarla. Observo mientras saca una caja del refrigerador junto con una caja de vino de una sola botella y las empuja sobre la barra hacia mí. —Feliz cumpleaños —dice, sonriéndome como si supiera que pude haber pensado que se olvidó. Esbozo una sonrisa, levanto la pequeña caja de Krispy Kreme y veo media docena de donas. —Fue todo lo que pude recoger a toda prisa —explica. Oye, es pastel. Más o menos. No me estoy quejando. Cierro la caja y levanto la solapa de mi bolsa de cuero, escondiendo mi botín, vino y todo. Por supuesto, no esperaba que alguien me diera algo, pero aun así es agradable ser recordado. Cam, mi hermana, sin duda me sorprenderá con una linda camisa o sexy par de pendientes, mañana cuando la vea, y mi padre probablemente me llame en algún momento de esta semana. Sin embargo, Shel sabe cómo hacerme reír. Tengo edad suficiente para trabajar en un bar, pero no tengo edad para beber. Darme un poco de vino que pueda disfrutar fuera del local será mi pequeña aventura de esta noche. —Gracias —contesto y salto sobre la barra, plantando un beso en su mejilla. —Cuídate —dice. Asiento y me doy vuelta, saliendo por la puerta de madera y hacia la acera. La puerta se cierra tras de mí, la música en el interior ahora es un sordo zumbido, y mi pecho se hunde, liberando la respiración que no sabía que había estado conteniendo. La quiero, pero desearía que no se preocupara por mí. Me mira como si fuera mi madre y quisiera arreglarlo todo. Supongo que debería sentirme afortunada al tener una madre como ella.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Others quit altogether, judging themselves to be incapable of it. Making matters worse, in traditional LKM formats, the self is an early, or even the first, focus. Before moving on to offering loving-kindness to others, the traditional sequence is to first offer loving-kindness to oneself. For many, this becomes a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Noting this, Sharon offers a story about the first time she met His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. It was back in 1979 on his first trip to the West. As part of his visit, he came to her center in Barre and gave a talk to the group of students who’d been sitting a meditation retreat there. One student raised his hand to confess that he’d been practicing LKM for some weeks and had come to the conclusion that he was incapable of directing love to himself. Sharon recounted how stunned and puzzled His Holiness was. “You’re wrong!” he told the student, albeit in his characteristic light and loving tone. “You have Buddha nature!” he proclaimed, referring to the possibility of awakening that is ever-present in all people. The ability to direct warmth and tenderness to the self was apparently a nonissue for him and to those he most frequently taught. Sharon also tells me that the reason that the traditional Buddhist practice of LKM begins with the self is because the self is presumed to be an easy target for love. Indeed, wishing oneself well was thought to be as natural as breathing, or as seeking out food when hungry or water when thirsty. Having practiced the skill of cultivating loving-kindness for the easy targets, like a cherished teacher or mentor, a dear friend, or oneself, students will then have developed key skills before they approach the harder targets, like unknown or difficult people. The logic is not to slam those new to the practice with the hardest parts first, but rather to build their skills gradually, starting with easy targets and working up to the more difficult ones. Accordingly, if you find that directing love toward yourself is especially problematic, you might consider whether to practice with easier people first. Perhaps start with a teacher or mentor to whom you feel especially grateful, or a friend who the mere thought of can melt your face into a smile. After you’ve spent considerable time—perhaps even weeks—practicing cultivating warm and tender feelings for these people, then you can begin experimenting with cultivating warm and tender feelings for yourself. You may in fact be your own most “difficult” person on which to focus in the next stage of your practice. If so, you’re in good company. That’s a common experience.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Sin embargo, no parece necesitar pensar en ello. —No. —Sacude la cabeza, cuadrando los hombros—. No valdría la pena. Tendré mi propio lugar pronto de todos modos. —¿En serio? —Ahora estoy preocupado. Este nuevo trabajo parece demasiado bueno para ser verdad—. Me estás poniendo nervioso de nuevo —le digo. Pero comienza a reírse de nuevo, y luego vuelve su atención a la aspiradora, y me uno a él para subirla. —Escucha —dice—, quería hacerme mi primer tatuaje antes que este trabajo comience. Estaba pensando que podríamos hacernos uno juntos. ¿Te gustaría? —Me mira con nerviosismo, y puedo decir que le fue difícil preguntar—. Como ¿el próximo fin de semana? ¿Un tatuaje? El último que me hice, él tenía dos años, creo. Realmente ya no es algo que me guste, pero definitivamente lo haría por él. Estoy agradecido que incluso pida hacer algo conmigo. —Sí. —Asiento—. Suena bien. Incluso sé lo que quiero hacerme, también, la idea aparece en mi cabeza tan rápido. —Vamos. —Me da un empujoncito, tirando de la aspiradora—. Te ayudaré con esto, y luego me reuniré con unos amigos, ¿de acuerdo? —Sí. —Tomo lo último del tubo y la aspiradora que drena el agua emerge. De hecho, también tengo un pequeño encargo que hacer. **** Ni siquiera creo que se le permita entrar en este lugar a nadie menor de veintiún años, a menos que sea un empleado, y mejor que Jordan no lo sea. Tengo un pensamiento fugaz, en el camino, de llamar y reportar a Mick Chan por permitir que una chica de diecinueve años entre en su club de striptease, pero tampoco es que no me haya aprovechado de los indulgentes propietarios de bares cuando tenía diecinueve años. Además, solo enojaría más a Jordan. Puedo escucharla ahora. Oh, soy lo suficientemente mayor para que puedas estar sobre mí pero ¿no lo suficiente como para tomar una copa? Bueno, sí, legalmente hablando. Si quiere ser técnica al respecto, de todos modos. Deslizando mis llaves en mi bolsillo, me dirijo al estacionamiento y abro la puerta de The Hook. La música rebota en las paredes y vibra bajo mis pies, y aspiro

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I have a favour to ask of you before you go. Can you lend me one hundred francs, just for a week or two? I have to purchase some cattle for the monastery. Our stock is getting low. I will repay you promptly. You have my word as a monk on it. But can we keep the matter to ourselves? I have to buy the cattle today, you see, and I don’t want to be forestalled. Now farewell again, dear cousin Peter. Thank you for your kindness. And for the hundred francs.’ ‘That is nothing,’ the merchant replied. ‘Consider it done. My gold is at your disposal, dear cousin John. In fact everything I have is yours. Take your pick. God forbid that I should deny you anything. I must tell you one thing, however. For us merchants money is the staff of life. We can get credit while our reputation is good. But to be without money - well, that is disastrous. Pay me back any time you like. There is no hurry. I want to help you in any way I can.’ So the merchant takes one hundred francs out of one of his chests, and gives the money secretly to the monk. The only people who knew of the loan were the lender and the borrower. Then they relaxed and enjoyed themselves until it was time for John to return to the monastery. On the following morning Peter mounted his horse and, in the company of his apprentice, made his way to Bruges. He arrived safely, and at once got down to business. He dealt in cash and credit; he bought and sold. He did not dice. He did not drink or dance. He paid attention only to profit and to loss. He behaved exactly as a merchant should. So I will leave him in the market place. On the Sunday following the merchant’s departure, dear cousin John presented himself at Saint-Denis. He was freshly shaven, smelling of soap; even his tonsure had been clipped. Everyone in the house saw him, and welcomed him. Even the serving-boys greeted him. But who was most pleased to see him? You have guessed. I will come straight to the point. The wife had agreed that, in exchange for the hundred francs, she would spend the night with him. She promised that she would give him value for money; and so she did, throughout the night. The monk was exhausted, but he was happy. He left at dawn, wishing a merry good day to the entire household. No one had the least suspicion of him. So he rode off to the monastery, as free from rumour as any innocent. There we will lose sight of him for the moment. The merchant, having successfully completed his business at the fair in Bruges, came back home to Saint-Denis. He was greeted fondly by his wife, and together they celebrated his return.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I want to mention once again that I do not think I’d even be alive today if not for the people of St. Andrew Presbyterian Church, Marin City, California. Sam said to me the other day, “I love you like 20 tyrannosauruses on 20 mountaintops,” and this is the exact same way in which I love him. IntroductionI grew up around a father and a mother who read every chance they got, who took us to the library every Thursday night to load up on books for the coming week. Most nights after dinner my father stretched out on the couch to read, while my mother sat with her book in the easy chair and the three of us kids each retired to our own private reading stations. Our house was very quiet after dinner—unless, that is, some of my father’s writer friends were over. My father was a writer, as were most of the men with whom he hung out. They were not the quietest people on earth, but they were mostly very masculine and kind. Usually in the afternoons, when that day’s work was done, they hung out at the no name bar in Sausalito, but sometimes they came to our house for drinks and ended up staying for supper. I loved them, but every so often one of them would pass out at the dinner table. I was an anxious child to begin with, and I found this unnerving. Every morning, no matter how late he had been up, my father rose at 5:30, went to his study, wrote for a couple of hours, made us all breakfast, read the paper with my mother, and then went back to work for the rest of the morning. Many years passed before I realized that he did this by choice, for a living, and that he was not unemployed or mentally ill. I wanted him to have a regular job where he put on a necktie and went off somewhere with the other fathers and sat in a little office and smoked. But the idea of spending entire days in someone else’s office doing someone else’s work did not suit my father’s soul. I think it would have killed him. He did end up dying rather early, in his mid-fifties, but at least he had lived on his own terms. So I grew up around this man who sat at his desk in the study all day and wrote books and articles about the places and people he had seen and known. He read a lot of poetry. Sometimes he traveled. He could go anyplace he wanted with a sense of purpose.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  My sister saved my life when I was just a baby. Here's what happened. After a fight with her family, Mom decided to leave home in the middle of the night, taking us with her. She put me in the infant carrier and set it on the roof of the car while she stashed some things in the trunk, then she settled Liz, who was three, in the backseat. Mom was going through a rough period at the time and had a lot on her mind: craziness, craziness, craziness, she'd say later. Completely forgetting about me—I was only a few months old—Mom drove off. Liz shrieked my name and pointed to the roof of the car. At first Mom didn't understand what Liz was saying, then she realized what she'd done and slammed on the brakes. The carrier slid forward onto the hood, but since I was strapped in, I was all right. In fact, I wasn't even crying. In the years afterward, whenever Mom told the story, which she found hilarious and acted out in dramatic detail, she liked to say thank goodness Liz had her wits about her, otherwise that carrier would have flown right off and I'd have been a goner. Liz remembered the whole thing vividly, but she never thought it was funny. She had saved me. That was the kind of sister Liz was. And that was why, the night the whole mess started, I wasn't worried that Mom had been gone for four days. I was more worried about the chicken potpies. I really hated it when the crust on our chicken potpies got burned, but the timer on the toaster oven was broken, and so that night I was staring into the oven's little glass window because, once those pies began turning brown, you had to watch them the entire time. Liz was setting the table. Mom was off in Los Angeles, at some recording studio auditioning for a role as a backup singer. "Do you think she'll get the job?" I asked Liz. "I have no idea," Liz said. "I do. I have a good feeling about this one." Mom had been going into the city a lot ever since we had moved to Lost Lake, a little town in the Colorado Desert of southern California. Usually she was gone for only a night or two, never this long. We didn't know exactly when she'd be back, and