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

  Mostly I think an appropriate first reaction is to think that you don’t. But in a little while it may strike you as a small miracle that you have someone in your life, whose taste you admire (after all, this person loves you and your work), who will tell you the truth and help you stay on the straight and narrow, or find your way back to it if you are lost. I always show my work to one of two people before sending a copy to my editor or agent. I feel more secure and connected this way, and these two people get a lot of good work out of me. They are like midwives; there are these stories and ideas and visions and memories and plots inside me, and only I can give birth to them. Theoretically I could do it alone, but it sure makes it easier to have people helping. I have girlfriends who had their babies through natural childbirth—no drugs, no spinal, no nothing—and they secretly think they had a more honest birth experience, but I think the epidural is right up there with the most important breakthroughs in the West, like the Salk polio vaccine and salad bars in supermarkets. It’s an individual thing. What works for me may not work for you. But feedback from someone I’m close to gives me confidence, or at least it gives me time to improve. Imagine that you are getting ready for a party and there is a person at your house who can check you out and assure you that you look wonderful or, conversely, that you actually do look a little tiny tiny tiny bit heavier than usual in this one particular dress or suit or that red makes you look just a bit like you have sarcoptic mange. Of course you are disappointed for a moment, but then you are grateful that you are still in the privacy of your own home and there is time to change. One of the best writers I know has a wife who reads everything he writes and tells him when she loves it and when she doesn’t, why it does or doesn’t work for her. She is almost like an equal partner in the process. Two other writers I know use each other. As I said, I have two people who read my stuff. One is another writer, who is one of my best friends and probably the most neurotic, mentally ill person in my galaxy. Another is a librarian who reads two or three books a week but has never written a word. What I do is to work over a piece until it feels just about right, and then I send it to one of these two friends, who have agreed in advance to read it. I always send my work Federal Express, because I am too impatient to wait for the mail to deliver it.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  BY THE FOLLOWING summer, Mom and Dad were heading into their third year on the streets. They’d figured out how to make it work for them, and I gradually came around to accepting the notion that whether I liked it or not, this was how it was going to be. “It’s sort of the city’s fault,” Mom told me. “They make it too easy to be homeless. If it was really unbearable, we’d do something different.” In August, Dad called to go over my course selection for the fall semester. He also wanted to discuss some of the books on the reading lists. Since he’d come to New York, he’d been borrowing my assigned books from the public library. He read every single one, he said, so he could answer any questions I might have. Mom said it was his way of getting a college education along with me. When he asked me what courses I had signed up for, I said, “I’m thinking of dropping out.” “The hell you are,” Dad said. I told him that while most of my tuition was covered by grants and loans and scholarships, the school expected me to contribute two thousand dollars a year. But over the summer, I had been able to save only a thousand dollars. I needed another thousand and had no way to come up with it. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Dad asked. Dad called a week later and told me to meet him at Lori’s. When he arrived with Mom, he was carrying a large plastic garbage bag and had a small brown paper bag tucked under his arm. I assumed it was a bottle of booze, but then he opened the paper bag and turned it upside down. Hundreds of dollar bills—ones, fives, tens, twenties, all wrinkled and worn—spilled into my lap. “There’s nine hundred and fifty bucks,” Dad said. He opened the plastic bag, and a fur coat tumbled out. “That there’s mink. You should be able to pawn it for fifty, at least.” I stared at the loot. “Where did you get all this?” I finally asked. “New York City is full of poker players who wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.” “Dad,” I said, “you guys need this money more than I do.” “It’s yours,” Dad said. “Since when is it wrong for a father to take care of his little girl?” “But I can’t.” I looked at Mom. She sat down next to me and patted my leg. “I’ve always believed in the value of a good education,” she said. So, when I enrolled for my final year at Barnard, I paid what I owed on my tuition with Dad’s wadded, crumpled bills.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  And to my father, Rex S. Walls, for dreaming all those big dreams. Very special thanks also to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, for her compassion, wit, tenacity, and enthusiastic support; to my editor, Nan Graham, for her keen sense of how much is enough and for caring so deeply; and to Alexis Gargagliano for her thoughtful and sensitive readings. My gratitude for their early and constant support goes to Jay and Betsy Taylor, Laurie Peck, Cynthia and David Young, Amy and Jim Scully, Ashley Pearson, Dan Mathews, Susan Watson, and Jessica Taylor and Alex Guerrios. I can never adequately thank my husband, John Taylor, who persuaded me it was time to tell my story and then pulled it out of me. More from the Author [image "Cover image" file=Image00013.jpg] [image "Cover image" file=Image00014.jpg] The Silver Star Half Broke Horses Keep reading for a preview of The Silver Star [image "The Silver Star Cover" file=Image00015.jpg] by Jeannette Walls 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?"

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

  And what are those reasons again? my students ask. Because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don’t get in real life—wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean. Aren’t you? I ask. Most of them nod. This is why they are here: they love to read, they love good writing, they want to do it, too. But a few of the students are still looking at me with a sense of betrayal or hopelessness, as if they are thinking of hanging themselves. Too late for a refund, I tell them cheerfully, but I have something even better. Next are the two single most helpful things I can tell you about writing. Short AssignmentsThe first useful concept is the idea of short assignments. Often when you sit down to write, what you have in mind is an autobiographical novel about your childhood, or a play about the immigrant experience, or a history of—oh, say—say women. But this is like trying to scale a glacier. It’s hard to get your footing, and your fingertips get all red and frozen and torn up. Then your mental illnesses arrive at the desk like your sickest, most secretive relatives. And they pull up chairs in a semicircle around the computer, and they try to be quiet but you know they are there with their weird coppery breath, leering at you behind your back. What I do at this point, as the panic mounts and the jungle drums begin beating and I realize that the well has run dry and that my future is behind me and I’m going to have to get a job only I’m completely unemployable, is to stop. First I try to breathe, because I’m either sitting there panting like a lapdog or I’m unintentionally making slow asthmatic death rattles. So I just sit there for a minute, breathing slowly, quietly.

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

  The people in Anne Lamott’s real life are like beloved characters in a favorite series for her readers—her friend Pammy, her son Sam, and the many funny and wise folks who attend her church are all familiar. Lamott’s faith isn’t about easy answers, which endears her to believers as well as nonbelievers. Against all odds, she comes to believe in God and then, even more miraculously, in herself. Religion [image file=Image00007.jpg] ANCHOR BOOKS Available wherever books are sold. www.randomhouse.com [image "Penguin Random House publisher logo." file=Image00010.jpg] What’s next on your reading list?Discover your next great read! Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author. Sign up now. _145615074_

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  Tertullian in The Apology writes: ‘If there happen to be any in the mines, or banished to the islands, or shut up in prisons for nothing but their fidelity to the cause of God’s Church, they become the nurslings of their confession.’ Aristides the Athenian orator said of the Christians: ‘If they hear that any one of their number is imprisoned or in distress for the sake of their Christ’s name, they all render aid in his necessity and, if he can be redeemed, they set him free.’ When Origen was young, it was said of him: ‘Not only was he at the side of the holy martyrs in their imprisonment and until their final condemnation but, when they were led to death, he boldly accompanied them into danger.’ Sometimes, Christians were condemned to the mines – which was almost like being sent to Siberia in the former Soviet Union. The Apostolic Constitutions laid it down: ‘If any Christian is condemned for Christ’s sake to the mines by the ungodly, do not overlook him but from the proceeds of your toil and sweat send him something to support himself and to reward the soldier of Christ.’ The Christians sought out their fellow Christians even in the remotest parts. There was actually a little Christian church in the mines at Phaeno. Sometimes, Christians had to be ransomed from robbers and bandits. The Apostolic Constitutions laid it down: ‘All monies accruing from honest labour do ye appoint and apportion to the redeeming of the saints ransoming thereby slaves and captives and prisoners, people who are sore abused or condemned by tyrants.’ When the Numidian robbers carried off their Christian friends, the Church at Carthage raised sufficient money to ransom them and promised more. There were actually cases where Christians sold themselves as slaves to find money to pay the ransom for their friends. They were even prepared to bribe their way into prison. The Christians became so notorious for their help to those in prison that, at the beginning of the fourth century, the Emperor Licinius passed new legislation that ‘no one was to show kindness to sufferers in prison by supplying them with food and that no one was to show mercy to those starving in prison’. It was added that those who were discovered to be doing this kind of thing would be compelled to suffer the same fate as those they tried to help. These instances are taken from Adolf von Harnack’s book The Expansion of Christianity, and many others could be added. In the early days, no Christians who found themselves in trouble for the faith were ever neglected or forgotten by their fellow Christians.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “I guess you don’t want your presents, either,” I said to Mom. “Oh, no,” she said. “I love getting presents.” BY THE FOLLOWING summer, Mom and Dad were heading into their third year on the streets. They’d figured out how to make it work for them, and I gradually came around to accepting the notion that whether I liked it or not, this was how it was going to be. “It’s sort of the city’s fault,” Mom told me. “They make it too easy to be homeless. If it was really unbearable, we’d do something different.” In August, Dad called to go over my course selection for the fall semester. He also wanted to discuss some of the books on the reading lists. Since he’d come to New York, he’d been borrowing my assigned books from the public library. He read every single one, he said, so he could answer any questions I might have. Mom said it was his way of getting a college education along with me. When he asked me what courses I had signed up for, I said, “I’m thinking of dropping out.” “The hell you are,” Dad said. I told him that while most of my tuition was covered by grants and loans and scholarships, the school expected me to contribute two thousand dollars a year. But over the summer, I had been able to save only a thousand dollars. I needed another thousand and had no way to come up with it. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Dad asked. Dad called a week later and told me to meet him at Lori’s. When he arrived with Mom, he was carrying a large plastic garbage bag and had a small brown paper bag tucked under his arm. I assumed it was a bottle of booze, but then he opened the paper bag and turned it upside down. Hundreds of dollar bills—ones, fives, tens, twenties, all wrinkled and worn—spilled into my lap. “There’s nine hundred and fifty bucks,” Dad said. He opened the plastic bag, and a fur coat tumbled out. “That there’s mink. You should be able to pawn it for fifty, at least.” I stared at the loot. “Where did you get all this?” I finally asked. “New York City is full of poker players who wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.” “Dad,” I said, “you guys need this money more than I do.” “It’s yours,” Dad said. “Since when is it wrong for a father to take care of his little girl?” “But I can’t.” I looked at Mom. She sat down next to me and patted my leg. “I’ve always believed in the value of a good education,” she said. So, when I enrolled for my final year at Barnard, I paid what I owed on my tuition with Dad’s wadded, crumpled bills. A MONTH LATER, I got a call from Mom. She was so excited she was tripping over her own words.

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

  And what are those reasons again? my students ask. Because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don’t get in real life—wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean. Aren’t you? I ask. Most of them nod. This is why they are here: they love to read, they love good writing, they want to do it, too. But a few of the students are still looking at me with a sense of betrayal or hopelessness, as if they are thinking of hanging themselves. Too late for a refund, I tell them cheerfully, but I have something even better. Next are the two single most helpful things I can tell you about writing. Short AssignmentsThe first useful concept is the idea of short assignments. Often when you sit down to write, what you have in mind is an autobiographical novel about your childhood, or a play about the immigrant experience, or a history of—oh, say—say women. But this is like trying to scale a glacier. It’s hard to get your footing, and your fingertips get all red and frozen and torn up. Then your mental illnesses arrive at the desk like your sickest, most secretive relatives. And they pull up chairs in a semicircle around the computer, and they try to be quiet but you know they are there with their weird coppery breath, leering at you behind your back. What I do at this point, as the panic mounts and the jungle drums begin beating and I realize that the well has run dry and that my future is behind me and I’m going to have to get a job only I’m completely unemployable, is to stop. First I try to breathe, because I’m either sitting there panting like a lapdog or I’m unintentionally making slow asthmatic death rattles. So I just sit there for a minute, breathing slowly, quietly.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  NotesPREFACE (1999)1 At this printing, there are French publishers considering the translation of this work, but only because Didier Eribon and others have inserted the arguments of the text into current French political debates on the legal ratification of same-sex partnerships.2 I have written two brief pieces on this issue: “Afterword” for Butch/Femme: Inside Lesbian Gender, ed. Sally Munt (London: Cassell, 1998), and another Afterword for “Transgender in Latin America: Persons, Practices and Meanings,” a special issue of the journal Sexualities, Vol. 5, No. 3, 1998.3 Catharine MacKinnon, Feminism Unmodified: Discourses on Life and Law (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), pp. 6–7.4 Unfortunately, Gender Trouble preceded the publication of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s monumental Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991) by some months, and my arguments here were not able to benefit from her nuanced discussion of gender and sexuality in the first chapter of that book.5 Jonathan Goldberg persuaded me of this point.6 For a more or less complete bibliography of my publications and citations of my work, see the excellent work of Eddie Yeghiayan at the University of California at Irvine Library: http://sun3.lib.uci.edu/~scctr/Wellek/index.html.7 I am especially indebted to Biddy Martin, Eve Sedgwick, Slavoj Žižek, Wendy Brown, Saidiya Hartman, Mandy Merck, Lynne Layton, Timothy Kaufmann-Osborne, Jessica Benjamin, Seyla Benhabib, Nancy Fraser, Diana Fuss, Jay Presser, Lisa Duggan, and Elizabeth Grosz for their insightful criticisms of the theory of performativity.8 This notion of the ritual dimension of performativity is allied with the notion of the habitus in Pierre Bourdieu’s work, something which I only came to realize after the fact of writing this text. For my belated effort to account for this resonance, see the final chapter of Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative (New York: Routledge, 1997).9 Jacqueline Rose usefully pointed out to me the disjunction between the earlier and later parts of this text. The earlier parts interrogate the melancholy construction of gender, but the later seem to forget the psychoanalytic beginnings. Perhaps this accounts for some of the “mania” of the final chapter, a state defined by Freud as part of the disavowal of loss that is melancholia. Gender Trouble in its closing pages seems to forget or disavow the loss it has just articulated.10 See Bodies that Matter (New York: Routledge, 1993) as well as an able and interesting critique that relates some of the questions raised there to contemporary science studies by Karen Barad, “Getting Real: Technoscientific Practices and the Materialization of Reality,” differences, Vol. 5, No. 2, pp. 87–126.11 Saidiya Hartman, Lisa Lowe, and Dorinne Kondo are scholars whose work has influenced my own. Much of the current scholarship on “passing” has also taken up this question. My own essay on Nella Larsen’s “Passing” in Bodies That Matter sought to address the question in a preliminary way.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Very special thanks also to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, for her compassion, wit, tenacity, and enthusiastic support; to my editor, Nan Graham, for her keen sense of how much is enough and for caring so deeply; and to Alexis Gargagliano for her thoughtful and sensitive readings. My gratitude for their early and constant support goes to Jay and Betsy Taylor, Laurie Peck, Cynthia and David Young, Amy and Jim Scully, Ashley Pearson, Dan Mathews, Susan Watson, and Jessica Taylor and Alex Guerrios. I can never adequately thank my husband, John Taylor, who persuaded me it was time to tell my story and then pulled it out of me. More from the Author [image "Cover image" file=Image00013.jpg] [image "Cover image" file=Image00014.jpg] The Silver Star Half Broke Horses Keep reading for a preview of The Silver Star [image "The Silver Star Cover" file=Image00015.jpg] by Jeannette Walls 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.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  text in ways that would require a thorough unraveling of the text itself to be understood, and of course there would be no guarantee that that unraveling would ever stop. Although I have offered a childhood story to begin this preface, it is a fable irreducible to fact. Indeed, the purpose here more generally is to trace the way in which gender fables establish and circulate the misnomer of natural facts. It is clearly impossible to recover the origins of these essays, to locate the various moments that have enabled this text. The texts are assembled to facilitate a political convergence of feminism, gay and lesbian perspectives on gender, and poststructuralist theory. Philosophy is the predominant disciplinary mechanism that currently mobilizes this author-subject, although it rarely if ever appears separated from other discourses. This inquiry seeks to affirm those positions on the critical boundaries of disciplinary life. The point is not to stay marginal, but to participate in whatever network or marginal zones is spawned from other disciplinary centers and that, together, constitute a multiple displacement of those authorities. The complexity of gender requires an interdisciplinary and postdisciplinary set of discourses in order to resist the domestication of gender studies or women studies within the academy and to radicalize the notion of feminist critique. The writing of this text was made possible by a number of institutional and individual forms of support. The American Council of Learned Societies provided a Recent Recipient of the Ph.D. Fellowship for the fall of 1987, and the School of Social Science at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton provided fellowship, housing, and provocative argumentation during the 1987–1988 academic year. The George Washington University Faculty Research Grant also supported my research during the summers of 1987 and 1988. Joan W. Scott has been an invaluable and incisive critic throughout various stages of this manuscript. Her commitment to a critical rethinking of the presuppositional terms of feminist politics has challenged and inspired me. The “Gender Seminar” assembled at the Institute for Advanced Study under Joan Scott’s direction helped me to clarify and elaborate my views by virtue of the significant and provocative divisions in our collective thinking. Hence, I thank Lila Abu-Lughod, Yasmine Ergas, Donna Haraway, Evelyn Fox Keller, Dorinne Kondo, Rayna Rapp, Carroll Smith-Rosenberg, Louise Tilly. My students in the seminar “Gender, Identity, and Desire,” offered at Wesleyan University and at Yale in 1985 and 1986, respectively, were indispensable for their willingness to imagine alternatively gendered worlds. I also appreciate the variety of critical responses that I received on presentations of parts of this work from the Princeton Women’s Studies Colloquium, the Humanities Center at Johns Hopkins University, the University of Notre Dame, the University of Kansas, Amherst College, and the Yale University School of Medicine. My acknowledgment also goes to Linda Singer, whose persistent radicalism has been invaluable, Sandra Bartky for her work and her timely words of encouragement, Linda Nicholson for her editorial and critical advice, and Linda Anderson for her acute political intuitions. I also thank the following individuals, friends, and colleagues who shaped and supported my thinking: Eloise Moore Aggar, Inés Azar, Peter Caws, Nancy F. Cott, Kathy Natanson, Lois Natanson, Maurice Natanson, Stacy Pies, Josh Shapiro, Margaret Soltan, Robert V. Stone, Richard Vann, and Eszti Votaw. I thank Sandra Schmidt for her fine work in helping to prepare this manuscript, and Meg Gilbert for her assistance. I also thank Maureen MacGrogan for encouraging this project and others with her humor, patience, and fine editorial guidance. As before, I thank Wendy Owen for her relentless imagination, keen criticism, and for the provocation of her work.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘I will explain it to you now,’ she replied. ‘You know that man has three faculties of the mind, namely, memory, imagination and judgement. So in the divine being there are three persons distinct and equal.’ Then she began to preach to Tiburce about the coming of Christ and told him of his passion and crucifixion. She explained that Christ came to earth in order to save mankind, and to lift the burden of sin and woe derived from the original fault of Eve. When she had explained these things to her brother in faith, Tiburce was happy to accompany Valerian into the presence of Pope Urban. Urban gave thanks to God for their conversion, and gladly taught Tiburce the principles of the Christian faith before baptizing him. He had become a knight of God. He was filled with such grace that he saw the angel, too, each day. Whatever he prayed for, he was granted. It would be impossible to say how many miracles Christ wrought for them. Yet there came a day when the bailiff of Rome found them and arrested them. Then he brought them before the prefect of the city, Almachius, who was well known to be an enemy of all Christians. He soon divined their faith, and ordered them to go and worship at the temple of Jupiter. He turned to his officers. ‘I order you,’ he said, ‘to take off the head of anyone who does not bow down before the image of the god.’ One of these officers, Maximus, bound the two martyrs and then, weeping with pity, he led them through the city of Rome. Maximus heard the teaching of Valerian and Tiburce, and was moved by it. He was given leave by the other officers to take them to his own house, where the two saints preached to him and to his family. All the officers were present, too, and all were converted to the true faith by the holy words of the gospel. Cecilia herself came to the house late that night, accompanied by priests who baptized all those assembled there. Afterwards, at break of day, she spoke to them in a clear calm voice. ‘You are all now warriors of Christ Jesus our Saviour. Renounce the works of darkness. Put on the bright armour of righteousness. You have fought a battle against the devil, and you have won it. Your course is almost done, and you have preserved your faith. Now take up the crown of eternal life. God Almighty will place it on your heads, as the reward you deserve.’ When she had finished, some officers of the court arrived to take Valerian and Tiburce to the temple of Jupiter.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  this wrong. Let me have a go. I do feel sorry for you, too, sweating like a pig. Here. Take my handkerchief. Dry your face.’ While the priest was wiping his eyes, the canon quickly slipped the coal into the middle of the crucible. It was soon burning away merrily, just like all the others. ‘Let us stop for a drink,’ the canon said. ‘We deserve it. All will be well now, I know it. Sit down for a moment and rest.’ When the hollow coal was ablaze, of course, the silver filings blended together and flowed into the bottom of the crucible. The priest knew nothing of the trick, and assumed that all the coals were alike. He could not see the deception the canon had practised on him. Now the alchemist saw his opportunity. ‘Come over here, sir,’ he said, ‘and stand by me. I know very well that you do not have a mould for the metal. Can you go outside, and find or purchase a block of chalk. I will carve it into the proper shape. At the same time can you bring with you a bowl or pan of cold water? Then you will witness the wonderful workings of the art. I know you trust me but, to be doubly sure, I will not leave your sight. I will accompany you everywhere you go.’ So they left the chamber, carefully locking it behind them. They found the materials and, to make a long story short, the canon carved the chalk into the shape of an oblong mould. How did he know how to mould it? When the priest was not looking he took a bar of silver from the sleeve of his gown and fashioned the mould around it; then he concealed the silver in his sleeve once more. It weighed no more than an ounce. You will hear more about this bar later on. For his next trick the canon poured the material from the fire into the mould, and then plunged it into cold water. He turned to the priest, and asked him to feel the interior of the mould. ‘You will find silver there, I believe.’ Of course he did. These were the silver filings hidden in the coal of beech, now fired into one ingot. What else could they be? So the priest did as he was requested. Lo and behold, he brings out a rod of fine silver. ‘God’s love be yours,’ he told the canon. ‘Mary, Mother of God, and all the saints bless you! Let their curse strike me if I do not become your servant and assistant. Teach me the subtleties of this noble craft. I will be your man for ever.’ ‘Hold on, sir priest. Let us try this a second time. Once you have learned the details, you will be able to repeat the experiment on your own.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Quiero que te quedes —continúa—. Me gusta tenerte aquí. Es agradable volver a casa y tener vida en ella. Tener gente con quien hablar. Es agradable tener ayuda, y… —Aprieta la mandíbula, pareciendo enfadado—. Y no deberías haber tenido que dormir sobre una maldita mesa de billar. Te quedarás aquí mientras lo necesites, ¿entiendes? No quiero que te vayas. Me tiembla la barbilla. Y no puedo evitarlo, las lágrimas se derraman, agacho la cabeza para ocultarlo. —Por favor, no llores de nuevo —suplica—, o tendré que quitar la piscina y construirte un gazebo5 o alguna mierda así. Estallo en carcajadas, sorbiendo por la nariz y secándome los ojos. —No, no quites la piscina. Me gusta la piscina. Acercándome al nuevo jardín, admiro lo grande que es y cuánto trabajo debió tomar. Esto no hace correcto su comportamiento, pero ayuda saber que se esforzó en algo que pensó que me haría feliz. Nadie ha hecho algo así por mí. Quiero decir, mi hermana me ha comprado ropa y me ha llevado a comer, pero Pike ha hecho algo que sabía que yo amaría. Algo que es mucho para mí. —Esto es increíble —aseguro, diciéndolo en serio—. Pero realmente creo que es mejor si simplemente me voy. —Esta es tu casa —me dice—. Quédate mientras quieras. Tú y Cole pueden invitar a sus amigos, poner tu música, encender tus velas… —¿Cobertores de retretes? —bromeo. —Maldición, no. Intercambiamos una risa y vuelvo a mirar la tierra. Podemos cultivar muchos vegetales aquí. —Compré un montón de semillas —indica, tomando una bolsa, y removiéndola a puñados—. Pero no estoy seguro de cómo se planta todo, o cómo se reparte el espacio para cada vegetal, así que pensé ¿que tal vez quieras plantarlo? Me encuentro con su mirada y ambos nos observamos por un momento. Creo que tal vez me quiere cerca más de lo que deja saber. Tal vez como si fuera una intermediaria entre él y Cole, y como dijo, está disfrutando el tener gente en casa. Pone la bolsa de semillas en mi mano y lentamente me quita la maleta de la mano. 5Gazebo: Es un pabellón de planta simétrica, generalmente hexagonal o circular, que comúnmente se encuentra en los parques, jardines, y en áreas públicas. —Pondré esto en el garaje —dice—. Voy a tomar una ducha. ¿Tal vez podamos comenzar a plantar por la mañana? Su mirada parece buscar la mía, y me quedo sin respiración por un momento ante su mirada. Finalmente asiento, dándome la vuelta. Camina de nuevo hacia la casa y luego escucho su voz detrás de mí. —Y si necesitamos más suministros, solo avísame. De todos modos mañana tengo que ir a Home Depot6. —Está bien —susurro. Y luego lo miro sobre el hombro. —Y no eres viejo, ¿sabes? —grito. Me mira, con diversión en su mirada. —Lo suficientemente viejo como para tener mi propia opinión. Y eso estuvo mal de mi parte. —Gracias.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  Of course, Homi Bhabha’s work on the mimetic splitting of the postcolonial subject is close to my own in several ways: not only the appropriation of the colonial “voice” by the colonized, but the split condition of identification are crucial to a notion of performativity that emphasizes the way minority identities are produced and riven at the same time under conditions of domination. 12 The work of Kobena Mercer, Kendall Thomas, and Hortense Spillers has been extremely useful to my post-Gender Trouble thinking on this subject. I also hope to publish an essay on Frantz Fanon soon engaging questions of mimesis and hyperbole in his Black Skins, White Masks. I am grateful to Greg Thomas, who has recently completed his dissertation in rhetoric at Berkeley, on racialized sexualities in the U.S., for provoking and enriching my understanding of this crucial intersection. 13 I have offered reflections on universality in subsequent writings, most prominently in chapter 2 of Excitable Speech. 14 See the important publications of the Intersex Society of North America (including the publications of Cheryl Chase) which has, more than any other organization, brought to public attention the severe and violent gender policing done to infants and children born with gender anomalous bodies. For more information, contact them at http://www.isna.org. 15 I thank Wendy Brown, Joan W. Scott, Alexandra Chasin, Frances Bartkowski, Janet Halley, Michel Feher, Homi Bhabha, Drucilla Cornell, Denise Riley, Elizabeth Weed, Kaja Silverman, Ann Pellegrini, William Connolly, Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Ernesto Laclau, Eduardo Cadava, Florence Dore, David Kazanjian, David Eng, and Dina Al-kassim for their support and friendship during the Spring of 1999 when this preface was written. 1 SUBJECTS OF SEX/GENDER/DESIRE 1 See Michel Foucault, “Right of Death and Power over Life,” in The History of Sexuality, Volume I, An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage, 1980), originally published as Histoire de la sexualité 1: La volonté de savoir (Paris: Gallimard, 1978). In that final chapter, Foucault discusses the relation between the juridical and productive law. His notion of the productivity of the law is clearly derived from Nietzsche, although not identical with Nietzsche’s will-to-power. The use of Foucault’s notion of productive power is not meant as a simple-minded “application” of Foucault to gender issues. As I show in chapter 3, section ii, “Foucault, Herculine, and the Politics of Sexual Discontinuity,” the consideration of sexual difference within the terms of Foucault’s own work reveals central contradictions in his theory. His view of the body also comes under criticism in the final chapter. 2 References throughout this work to a subject before the law are extrapolations of Derrida’s reading of Kafka’s parable “Before the Law,” in Kafka and the Contemporary Critical Performance: Centenary Readings, ed. Alan Udoff (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987). 3 See Denise Riley, Am I That Name?: Feminism and the Category of ‘Women’ in History (New York: Macmillan, 1988). 4 See Sandra Harding, “The Instability of the Analytical Categories of Feminist Theory,” in Sex and Scientific Inquiry, eds.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Then, after the meal was over, John took the merchant to one side and spoke to him very seriously. ‘Dear cousin Peter,’ he said, ‘I know that you are about to take horse and travel to Bruges. God be with you and speed you on your journey. Ride carefully. And be careful of what you eat. Your health may be at risk in this hot weather. Be temperate in all things. What am I saying? There is no need for elaborate courtesies between cousins like ourselves. Farewell. God protect you! That’s all I need to say. If there is anything I can do for you, by day or night, just let me know. I am always here to help you.’ He was much affected, and put the sleeve of his habit to his eyes. ‘Oh. There is one other thing. 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.

• 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 Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘You must also swear another oath. You must swear not to complain or criticize. When I have chosen, I have chosen. You are asking me to give up my liberty, after all. So I must be allowed to follow my own inclination. Unless you assent to my proposals, I will have nothing more to do with the matter.’ So unanimously they agreed to all of the marquis’s conditions. No one dissented. Before they departed, however, they begged their lord to name the day of the wedding as soon as possible. They feared, you see, that in the end he might not marry at all. He did name a day, as they asked. On that particular day, he declared, he would be faithfully married in compliance to their wishes. They all kneeled down before him, and pledged their obedience. He thanked them for the respect and affection they had shown to him, and sent them on their way. They filed out of the hall, and went to their own homes. Then Walter summoned the officers of his court and asked them to prepare a feast; he ordered the members of his private household to make all the arrangements for the bridal day. They busied themselves about the preparations with a good will, each of them wanting to make a success of the occasion. PART TWO Not far from this great palace, where the marquis was making ready for the feast, there was a hamlet nestling in very pleasant scenery. The poor folk of the neighbourhood lodged, and kept their cattle, here. They laboured in the fields, and the fields were often fruitful. Among these poor people was one fellow who was reckoned to be the poorest of them all. Yet was not the Son of God born in a simple manger? God’s grace can reach an ox’s stall. The name of this poor man was Janiculus. He had a beautiful young daughter, whose name was Griselda. To speak of virtue, and of beauty, she was in every sense one of the fairest in the world. She had been brought up in honest poverty, and there was no trace of greed or sensuality in her nature. She drank water more often than she drank wine. She embraced labour rather than idleness. Griselda was still of a young age, and a virgin, but in her heart were genuine ardour and courage. She looked after her poor and elderly father with tenderness and affection. She watched the sheep in the pasture, and in the cottage was busy at the spinning-wheel. She did not stop working until she retired to bed. When she came home from the fields she brought with her cabbages and other vegetables, which she cut up and cooked to make a modest meal. Her bed was hard. There were no feathers in her pillow. But she always cared for her father, and treated him with all the reverence and obedience he could possibly desire.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In 2005, she was appointed by Kofi Annan to take part in the United Nations initiative the Alliance of Civilizations, sponsored by the prime ministers of Spain and Turkey to counter the “clash of civilizations” theory; its object was to give practical guidelines to member states about how to stem the rising tide of extremism. She was one of the members of the High Level Group, a panel of twenty people from every region of the world who did not represent their countries but had been chosen for their expertise in this matter. Karen Armstrong is now a UN ambassador for the Alliance. She is increasingly invited to speak in Muslim countries. In 2007 she was awarded a medal by the Egyptian government for her services to Islam under the auspices of the prestigious Al-Azhar madrassa, the first foreigner to have been awarded this decoration. In the summer of 2007, she was invited by the Malaysian government to speak in Kuala Lumpur (even though her books are banned there!) and gave the Muis Lecture in Singapore. She also spoke at the Young Presidents’ Organization in Istanbul and later that year gave the keynote address at an international conference on Islamophobia there. In January 2008, she visited Pakistan, where she gave lectures on Islam in Lahore, Islamabad, and Karachi to packed audiences. Karen Armstrong was awarded the Four Freedoms Award for Freedom of Worship by the Franklin & Eleanor Roosevelt Institute (2008) and the Dr. Leopold Lucas Prize, Tubingen University (2009). She is a Trustee of the British Museum and a Fellow of the Royal Academy of Literature. In February 2008, she was awarded the TED Prize and is currently working with TED on a major international project to create, launch, and propagate a Charter for Compassion, created online by the general public, crafted by leading thinkers in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam as well as in Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism, which will be signed in the fall of 2009 by one thousand religious and secular leaders. THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF AND ALFRED A. KNOPF CANADA Copyright © 2009 by Karen Armstrong All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. www.aaknopf.com www.randomhouse.ca Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. Knopf Canada and colophon are trademarks. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Armstrong, Karen, [date] The case for God / Karen Armstrong. — 1st ed. p. cm. 1. God—History of doctrines. 2. Religious life—History. 3. God (Christianity)—History of doctrines. 4. Christian life—History. 5. Apologetics. I. Title. BL473.A76 2009 211—dc22 2009014044 Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Armstrong, Karen, [date] The case for God / Karen Armstrong. 1. God—History of doctrines. 2. Religious life—History. 3. God (Christianity)—History of doctrines. 4. Christian life—History. 5. Apologetics. I. Title. BL473.A75 2009 211 C2009-902600-7 Ebook ISBN 9780307272928 v3.0_r1 What’s next on your reading list? Discover your next great read! Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author. Sign up now.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Be strong. Let her usurp your place. Take back the dowry you brought with you. I give you my permission. What was it, in any case? Return to your father’s cottage. No man or woman can enjoy uninterrupted prosperity. With tranquil heart I urge you to endure the blows of chance and fickle Fortune.’ Griselda answered him in a clear, calm voice. ‘My lord, I know and I have always known that there is no comparison between your wealth and magnificence and my poverty. There is no denying my low degree. I never believed myself worthy of being your chambermaid, let alone your wife. ‘I swear, as God is my witness, that I never deemed myself to be the mistress of your household or to be a lady worthy of such a lord. I am your servant. I always have been, and I always will be. I have no other aim in life than to please you. ‘God knows that you have treated me generously and nobly, when I never deserved such consideration. I thank you for your kindness to me. Now take it back. Renounce it. I will return gladly to my father, and live with him until the end of my life. ‘I grew up in that little cottage, and am happy to remain there until my death. I will be a widow in mind and heart and deed. Ever since that time I yielded my virginity to you, I have been a true and faithful wife. That is how I will remain. I have been married to a prince among men. God forbid that I should ever take another man as a husband. ‘I pray to God that your new wife brings you happiness and prosperity. I willingly give up to her my place, even though it was a source of bliss to me. You were, and are, my lord. Since you desire me to leave, I will leave whenever you wish. ‘You asked me about the dowry I brought with me. I know well enough that all I possessed were rags and wretched scraps of clothes. I do not think that I will be able to find them again. Good God! When I think of your bounty to me on that day - how you looked at me, what you said to me - I still marvel. ‘There is a saying that, for me at least, has proved to be true: “Love grown old is not the same as new love.” But whatever happens to me, sir, even if it were death itself, I will never repent of my love for you. Never in this world. ‘You know well enough, lord, that you took the poor clothes off my back and decked me in finery. I brought nothing to you but faith and modesty and maidenhead. I will give you back all of the rich clothing you presented to me. I will return my wedding ring.