Grief

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 Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  TWENTY-ONE EVANGELINE My mother was born into a world of early twentieth-century Mormon Utah—a place that, in many respects, was dramatically different from the America that surrounded it. The Mormons had long possessed a strong and spectacular sense of otherness and unity: They saw themselves not only as God’s modern chosen people, but also as a people whose faith and identity had been forged by a long and bloody history, and by outright banishment. They were a people apart—a people with its own myths and purposes, and with a history of astonishing violence. MIKAL GILMORE, SHOT IN THE HEART For more than fifteen years—ever since Rulon Jeffs became leader of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—the inhabitants of Colorado City were sustained by their conviction that he was the “one mighty and strong,” the Lord’s anointed emissary on earth, a prophet whom God had granted eternal life. But Uncle Rulon had been gravely ill for a long time, and on September 8, 2002, his heart stopped beating and a physician pronounced him dead. That was four days ago; now, as the reality of their leader’s death has begun to sink in, the town’s residents are desperately trying to reconcile their faith in his immortality with the inescapable fact that he is deceased. Today, on a warm and cloudless Thursday afternoon, more than five thousand people— mostly devout fundamentalists, but a few Gentiles and mainline Mormons as well—have assembled in Colorado City from as far away as Canada and Mexico to pay their respects and bury Uncle Rulon. The men and boys somberly filing out of the funeral service that has just concluded in the LeRoy Johnson Meeting House are dressed in their Sunday

• From Post Office (1971)

  Are you all right, Hank?” “Why don’t you come by and console me?” “I’d have to bring Paul.” Paul was her husband. “Forget it.” So there we were on our way to half a funeral. Larry looked up from his coffee. “I’ll write you about a headstone later. I don’t have any more money now.” “All right,” I said. Larry paid for the coffees, then we went out and climbed into the Mercedes-Benz. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What is it?” asked Larry. “I think we forgot something.” I walked back into the cafe. “Marcia.” She was still sitting at the table. “We’re leaving now, Marcia.” She got up and followed me out. The priest read his thing. I didn’t listen. There was the coffin. What had been Betty was in there. It was very hot. The sun came down in one yellow sheet. A fly circled around. Halfway through the halfway funeral two guys in working clothes came carrying my wreath. The roses were dead, dead and dying in the heat, and they leaned the thing up against a nearby tree. Near the end of the service my wreath leaned forward and fell flat on its face. Nobody picked it up. Then it was over. I walked up to the priest and shook his hand, “Thank you.” He smiled. That made two smiling: the priest and Marcia. On the way in, Larry said again: “I’ll write you about the headstone.” I’m still waiting for that letter. 11I went upstairs to 409, had a stiff scotch and water, took some money out of the top drawer, went down the steps, got in my car and drove to the racetrack. I got there in time for the first race but didn’t play it because I hadn’t had time to read the form. I went to the bar for a drink and I saw this high yellow walk by in an old raincoat. She was really dressed down but since I felt that way, I called her name just loud enough for her to hear as she walked by: “Vi, baby.” She stopped, then came on over. “Hi, Hank. How are you?” I knew her from the central post office. She worked another station, the one near the water fountain, but she seemed more friendly than most. “I’ve got the low blues. Third funeral in two years. First my mother, then my father. Today, an old girl friend.” She ordered something. I opened the Form. “Let’s catch this second race.” She came over and leaned a lot of leg and breast against me. There was something under that raincoat. I always look for the non-public horse who could beat the favorite. If I found nobody could beat the favorite, I bet the favorite. I had come to the racetrack after the other two funerals and had won. There was something about funerals. It made you see things better. A funeral a day and I’d be rich.

• From Post Office (1971)

  11 I went upstairs to 409, had a stiff scotch and water, took some money out of the top drawer, went down the steps, got in my car and drove to the racetrack. I got there in time for the first race but didn’t play it because I hadn’t had time to read the form. I went to the bar for a drink and I saw this high yellow walk by in an old raincoat. She was really dressed down but since I felt that way, I called her name just loud enough for her to hear as she walked by: “Vi, baby.” She stopped, then came on over. “Hi, Hank. How are you?” I knew her from the central post office. She worked another station, the one near the water fountain, but she seemed more friendly than most. “I’ve got the low blues. Third funeral in two years. First my mother, then my father. Today, an old girl friend.” She ordered something. I opened the Form. “Let’s catch this second race.” She came over and leaned a lot of leg and breast against me. There was something under that raincoat. I always look for the non-public horse who could beat the favorite. If I found nobody could beat the favorite, I bet the favorite. I had come to the racetrack after the other two funerals and had won. There was something about funerals. It made you see things better. A funeral a day and I’d be rich. The 6 horse had lost by a neck to the favorite in a mile race last time out. The 6 had been overtaken by the favorite after a two-length lead at the head of the stretch. The 6 had been 35/1. The favorite had been 9/2 in that race. Both were coming back in the same class. The favorite was adding two pounds, 116 to 118. The 6 still carried 116 but they had switched to a less popular jock, and also the distance was a mile and a 16th. The crowd figured that since the favorite had caught the 6 at a mile, then surely it would catch the 6 with the extra 16th of a mile to run. That seemed logical. But horse racing doesn’t run to logic. Trainers enter their horses in what seems unfavorable conditions in order to keep the

• From Fragments (7)

  I am of Baucis the bride; but thou, who passest this grave-stone, This I ask thee to tell Hades who dwells 'neath the earth: " Hades, malignant thou art " ; to him who sees this fine tomb-stone It doth clearly relate Baucis' most heart-rending fate, How the maiden for whom they sang Hymenaeus with torches. Was on the funeral-pyre burnt by her relative instead. Thou too, now Hymenaeus, the tuneful song of her wedding Fit to the mournful sound of her sad funeral dirge. 172 NOTES SAPPHO Numbers 9, 16, 17, 24, 25, 28, 35, 38, 44. 46, 64, 66, 72, 87, 93, and 103 are not expressly attributed to Sappho in the ancient writers who quote the re- spective fragments, but are assigned to her by con- jecture of some modern scholar. 3. A badly mutilated fragment of the Oxyrhyn- chus Papyri. The text followed is the tentative restoration of Wilamowitz-Moel- lendorff, Neue Jahrbiicher vol. 38 p. 228. 4. A Berlin fragment (no. 9722 p. 4), with vari- ous doubtful places both as to readings and interpretation. 5. The " Julian " fragment. The text as in J. M. Edmonds, Sappho in the added Light of the New Fragments, Cambridge 191 2. 6. A Berlin fragment (no. 5006), as restored by Blass and others. Possibly the person ad- dressed is Charaxus, the brother of Sappho referred to in the two following fragments. 7. From the Oxyrhynchus Papyri (ed. Grenfell and Hunt), vol. 10 no. 1231. For Cha- raxus and Doricha, the Rhodopis of Hero- dotus, see p. 13. 8. From the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. i no. 7. The last stanza is much mutilated, the translation representing the uncertain res- toration of Blass. 173 Lyric SonffS of the Greeks 9. .Possibly Cleis is not a daughter, but a girl friend. However, that Sappho had a daughter, is also claimed by Maximus Tyrius, who says that fragment 68 was addressed to her daughter on her death- bed. 10. From the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. 10 no. 1 23 1. The fourth stanza is uncertain be- cause of doubtful readings, and the last stanza is merely a tentative restoration. 11. A Berlin fragment (no. 9722 p. 2). 12. Also in the Berlin Museum (no. 9722 p. 4). Text and interpretation according to Wila- mowitz-Moellendorff. 13. From the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, vol. 10 no. 1 23 1. Gongyle is also mentioned in 4. 14-25. Atthis is also mentioned in 12. Other names of girl friends occurring in the longer fragments are: Gongyle (4, 13), Anac- toria (10), Arignota (12). 16. For Andromeda, a rival of Sappho's, cf. 53f. 20. Most probably Dice is here a clip name for Mnesidice of the last fragment, although some think that the goddess of Justice is thus addressed ! 23. Perhaps addressed rather to a friendly com- petitor, although the future makes it look more like a prophecy of success for one of Sappho's pupils.' 24f. These fragments, as Hartung thought, may refer to Atthis (cf. 16).

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  If I should try to describe it, I could only say it was a pain like that of a person who waits one bright midday for the roar of the noon-gun and, when the time for the gun's sounding has passed in silence, tries to discover the waiting emptiness somewhere in the blue sky. His is the rending impatience of waiting for a longed-for thing that is overdue, the horrible doubt that it may never come after all. He is the only man in the world who knows that the noon-gun did not sound promptly at noon. "It's all over, it's all over," I muttered to myself. My grief resembled that of a fainthearted student who has failed an examination: I made a mistake! I made a mistake! Simply because I didn't solve that X, everything was wrong. If only I'd solved that X at the beginning, everything would have been all right. If only I had used deductive methods like everyone else to solve the mathematics of life. To be half-clever was the worst thing I could have done. I alone depended upon the inductive method, and for that simple reason I failed. My mental turmoil was so apparent that the two passengers who sat in the facing seat began eyeing me suspiciously. One of them was a Red Cross nurse wearing a dark-blue uniform, and the other a poor farm-woman who seemed to be the nurse's mother. Becoming conscious of their stares, I glanced at the nurse and saw a fat girl, with a complexion as red as a winter-cherry. I surprised her looking directly at me; to cover her confusion she began to coax her mother: "Please, I'm so hungry." "No, it's too early yet." "But I'm hungry, I tell you. Please, please." "Don't be so demanding." But at last the mother yielded and got out their lunch box. The poverty of its contents made their lunch even more dreadful than the food we received at the arsenal. There was only boiled rice, heavily mixed with taro-root and garnished with two slices of pickled radish, but the girl began eating it with gusto. Somehow the habit of eating had never before appeared so ridiculous to me, and I rubbed my eyes.Presently I realized that my point of view came from having completely lost the desire to live. When I arrived at the house in the suburbs that night I seriously contemplated suicide for the first time in my life.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “Yes!” she swore. “Then lie back and close your eyes,” he instructed. Snow White did this, and within seconds she once again felt the small hands of all seven men upon her body. She gasped and jumped up. What on earth could they be thinking? she wondered. “Be calm, for we could never harm you, Snow White,” Doc quieted her, adding sadly, “it is enough that you still do not trust us.” And with that the seven little men left her quite alone. The matter was again forgotten and, as the months passed and the cool winds brought snow into the forest, Snow White and the seven dwarfs grew closer than ever in the cozy little cottage. And yet, poor Snow White lamented the absence of a prince of her own to love, for all princesses cannot help but yearn for a prince. And soon the dwarfs were once again troubled by the sound of her tears. They immediately rushed to her side, much as they had done before. She told them yet again of her desire for a princely lover. And again Doc swore he knew a cure for her loneliness. “Do you trust your loyal dwarfs?” he asked her, just as he had before. “With all my heart!” Snow White cried. “Then lie back and close your eyes,” said he. This she did, and just like before she felt the light touches of the dwarfs hands, as soft as mere breaths, descending upon her face and body. She did not jump up this time, but trusted that they would not bring her to any harm. Snow White willed her body to relax and, as she did so, warmth crept steadily over her, enveloping her in heat, and a strange tingling sensation began to stir up from within her. The fingers soon gave way to soft, moist lips that sought hers. At the first kiss to touch her lips Snow White opened her eyes, and standing before her she beheld the most beautiful prince she had ever seen. He held her hand while a second kiss claimed her lips and, there, before her gaping eyes, appeared an even more handsome prince, and then another, and still another, until the seven dwarfs had all regained their princely form, each more magnificent than the last. Every prince was uniquely different from the others, yet all of them were striking in their masculinity and physical perfection. One had flaxen hair and eyes of blue, while another had russet colored hair and dark eyes. One chest was covered in manly curls, while another remained as smooth as silk. Even the color of their skin was singular and unique amid them, for the flesh of one prince was as black as coal, while another’s was the color of stained walnut, and still another had skin that was exceedingly fair. In short, there was not one masculine characteristic, no matter how minute, lacking among the seven men.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Snow White approached Doc then and, closing her eyes, gently kissed his lips. She opened her eyes to see her beautiful blond gentle prince standing before her. Then she went to where Grumpy stood and kissed his lips. There stood her dark, rougher prince. A tingle went through her as she kissed one dwarf after another and discovered their true identities. She led the princes to the bedroom and allowed them to slowly remove her clothing. She was shaking with desire as she stood naked before her seven princely lovers. She moved into the circle of princes and allowed herself to be drowned in pleasure. Night after night Snow White spent with the seven princes, and time passed quickly by. Now and then word would come to her from the castle of the queen, but this did not concern Snow White, for she was convinced that the dwarfs would keep all harm from her. One day, a servant came to deliver a message from the queen, who now claimed to have much remorse and distress over the past injustices done to Snow White. The servant presented Snow White with a gift from the queen, to prove her change of heart. But this servant had been fooled by the queen, for she still wished for Snow White’s death. Snow White accepted the gift with misgivings. She did not question the dubious nature of the queen’s offering, as she should have, but rather, was frightened by the prospect of leaving her handsome princes, should the queen demand that Snow White return to the castle. Thoughtfully, Snow White opened the queen’s gift. She started with delight when she saw the beautiful silk corset within. Thinking only of her princes and how they would react when they beheld her in the exotic little frippery, she rushed to try it on. But the moment it touched her skin, the corset, which was cursed by an evil spell, suddenly began to close in around her body, tightening of its own accord until Snow White could no longer draw a single breath. She fell to the floor in a swoon, and remained there, still as death. When the seven dwarfs returned to the cottage later that day, they found Snow White where she had fallen, seemingly dead. Overcome with grief, the dwarfs laid Snow White upon one of the beds, and then set out to build her a beautiful coffin of carved mahogany. The coffin took many days to finish, but at last, when the time came to bury her, she still looked so beautiful and full of life that none of them could bear to close the lid. They made her another coffin of glass, and into this they placed Snow White. Every day without fail the dwarfs visited her to pay homage, gazing upon her rapturously and grieving miserably for their untimely loss.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The next morning, the queen once again plucked one of the roses from its vine as she left the little cottage, and she began her journey home with a light heart. But old habits die hard and, no sooner had the latch clicked in the door upon the prince’s departure, than the queen raced up to her bedchamber to learn what she would from the mirror. And a single glance in that glass caused the poor queen such anguish and disappointment that she collapsed on her bed in a heap, sobbing. After she recovered from this outburst the queen faced the mirror once more, with the following words: “Mirror, mirror, know I will— Is my lover faithless still? Did not the hairs upon the comb, Prove Snow White is in her tomb?” The mirror delayed not in responding: “Snow White lives on, with beauty rare. Her life could buy you years to spare. You must weave her death of ilk Into corset strings of silk!” The queen was delighted with this new opportunity and immediately set to work, so that by the time the prince arrived at her doorstep later that afternoon she had the corset, with its deadly laces, ready and wrapped for her victim. But on this occasion the queen did not confide her true intentions to the prince. Instead, she convinced him that she had repented of her former behavior toward Snow White and wished him to deliver this present as way of an apology. The prince, completely unable to see any evil in his beloved queen, immediately took himself off to the woods to do as she bade him, after abstracting from her the promise to spend yet another evening in his cottage. Snow White received the gift with great joy, and the prince, not suspecting any treachery from the queen, did not linger there but set forth immediately to make his return. As for Snow White, she could not resist the beautiful corset and nearly ripped her old clothes to shreds in her eagerness to try the elegant frippery on. But no sooner had the corset touched her skin, than the stays, of their own accord, began to tighten, forcing a gasp from Snow White’s lips and continuing until she was unable to take a single breath. She fell to the floor in a swoon and remained there, quite lifeless, until later that day, when she was discovered and placed in a beautiful glass coffin. But the remainder of Snow White’s tale will have to wait until another time, for the prince is about to return to his queen, and I am certain that you would like to know what became of that poor lady.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  Ron’s apparent contentment, however, masked troubles that had been churning just beneath the surface since childhood. Although his father’s violent outbursts scarred all the Lafferty children to some degree, Ron—who had an especially close relationship with his perpetually downtrodden mother—seems to have suffered the greatest emotional damage. According to Richard Wootton, a psychologist who has examined Ron extensively over his nineteen years in prison, Ron remembers “seeing his mother hit by his father and being so mad that he wished he could have been big enough to have kicked his father’s ass. . . . I think that stayed with him. And it became a pattern by which he kind of handled difficult, mistrustful situations.” Ron’s anguish wasn’t apparent to outsiders. As a child, he had been popular with other kids in the community and brought home decent, if unspectacular grades. He was also an outstanding athlete who starred on his high school football team and was captain of the wrestling squad. Throughout adolescence and young adulthood he appeared to thrive. As was expected of high achievers in the Mormon faith, after graduating from high school and completing a stint in the army, he went on a two-year mission for the church, eager to spread the gospel so that others might experience the incomparable joy of being a Latter- day Saint. There is nothing easy about being a Mormon missionary. Missionaries must pay their own way, and they are required to go wherever in the world the church decides they are needed. In Ron’s case, after four weeks of indoctrination at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, he was called upon to save souls in Georgia and Florida. As an obedient Saint, he had already pledged not to drink, smoke, take illegal drugs, ingest caffeine, masturbate, or engage in premarital sex. * As a missionary, he was now also forbidden to read anything but LDS literature or listen to any music not produced by the church. Movies, television, newspapers, and magazines were strictly off-limits. He was permitted to write letters home just once per week, and he could phone his family only on Christmas and Mother’s Day. Ron dutifully followed these rules, for the most part, but he had a rebellious streak that emerged from time to time. Perhaps not surprisingly, given the warped relationship he had with his father, figures of authority provoked a complicated emotional response in Ron. Part of him was desperately eager to

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “Now I must go to the castle that is east of the sun and west of the moon, and marry the dreadful princess,” he told her. She wept bitterly when she heard this, but neither tears nor pleading could change their fate, and they spent that evening clinging miserably to each other in the dark. The next morning the wretched lady woke up alone. The castle and the prince had both disappeared. The only thing that remained was the little bundle of rags that she had brought with her on her very first journey there. She cried until every tear she possessed was lost forever. “I must find him and get him back,” she decided at last. But where was the castle that was east of the sun and west of the moon? She picked up her bundle and set out on the nearest road. After traveling only a short distance she came upon an old woman sitting by the roadside. She asked the ragged-looking woman if she knew how to get to the castle that was east of the sun and west of the moon. “Are you the true love of the prince from there?” asked the woman knowingly. “Why yes,” replied the startled girl. “Do you know the way there?” “No,” cackled the hag, thinking it a great joke. But then she added more kindly, “Take this golden apple, it may be of use to you in your travels.” So the girl took the golden apple from the woman and continued down the road. In a short time she chanced to meet another old woman on the side of the road. This one she also approached for directions to the castle. “You must be the true love of the prince,” the old woman surmised, just as the other had. “I am she,” owned the girl. “Please can’t you tell me the way to his castle?” But this old woman could offer no more information on the location of the prince’s castle than the other. She gave the girl an enchanted hair comb, instructing her to wear it if she found the prince, as it would bring her good luck to do so. With still not the slightest idea of how to find her prince, the heartbroken girl continued doggedly on and, at length, met with yet another old woman along the road. With this woman she shared a similar exchange as she had with the other two. This woman advised her to seek the East Wind for the information she desired and, giving her a magic feather, instructed her to thrust it out before her and follow it to the home of the East Wind.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  NINE HAUN’S MILL Bearing persecution became the distinctive badge of membership in the church; it was the test of faith and of one’s chosenness. By the end of their stay in Missouri, Mormons had accumulated a long list of trials to commemorate. . . . Opposition gives value to struggle and inculcates self-confidence. . . . It is difficult to imagine a successful Mormon Church without suffering, without the encouragement of it, without the memory of it. Persecution arguably was the only possible force that would have allowed the infant church to prosper. R. LAURENCE MOORE, RELIGIOUS OUTSIDERS AND THE MAKING OF AMERICANS When Mormonism made its debut, Joseph Smith’s embryonic religion was not welcomed with open arms by everyone. The very first review of The Book of Mormon, published in the Rochester Daily Advertiser on April 2, 1830—four days before Joseph’s church was even legally incorporated—typified reaction to the new faith among many in western New York. The review began, “The Book of Mormon has been placed in our hands. A viler imposition was never practiced. It is an evidence of fraud, blasphemy, and credulity, shocking both to Christians and moralists.” Joseph’s widespread reputation as a charlatan, along with a rash of malicious rumors about his “gold Bible,” had fueled animosity throughout the Palmyra region. In December 1830 Joseph received a revelation in which God, noting the hostility in the New York air, commanded him to move his flock to Ohio. So the Latter-day Saints packed up and resettled just east of present-day Cleveland, in a

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “I know I am a beautiful woman. I have dedicated my entire life to beauty! But that is not enough to satisfy the editors of the women’s, ha, women’s—” she paused over the word for emphasis before continuing “—magazines. How women can bear to read them is beyond me. “Anyway, I found that I was not—indeed none of us were—good enough to grace the pages of those militant catalogs of female delusion and torture. Before I could even be accepted as a candidate I discovered that I would have to submit to a number of surgical alterations and virtually stop eating. All of this I did, and at last I was chosen for the magazine of which you spoke. But would you believe, even after all I had suffered and endured, in the end I was still not beautiful enough, and the picture was altered in the final draft.” There were tears in her eyes as she looked at her youngest sister. “That picture is not one of me, but of a specter—the very same specter that is being held up before women to keep them racing after perfection.” She looked around sadly at her sisters, and added, “It is the same specter that has ruined the lives of each and every one of us.” For some reason this brought their youngest sister to their attention. Almost simultaneously the women turned to her. “What has life been like for you?” asked her oldest sister. “Well, I am certainly satisfied with it,” she answered humbly, not wishing in the least to gloat over her own happiness in light of what she had just heard. “You continued your education, didn’t you?” another sister asked. “What was it you studied?” Timidly she began to tell her sisters about her studies, never at a loss for words when she spoke of the things she had learned. Yet their silence intimidated her, and her voice trailed off. No doubt they would think her life ridiculous. But her older sisters did not mock her or laugh. They questioned her with interest and, at length, she told them about her many interests and her marriage and her little daughter. Feeling guilty over her own good fortune and happiness, she refrained from telling them about the many little joys in her life; like how her husband worked so hard to keep himself in tiptop shape for her, or how he never lost interest in making love to her. The sisters were too astute not to see these things in her face, however, and could not help feeling envy for the accomplishments of their youngest sibling, despite her supposed physical defects. The third-eldest sister, being the bitterest of the four, could not help remarking, “It seems as if we would all have been better off to have been born ugly!” The eldest sister immediately jumped to her youngest sister’s defense, saying, “You’re just jealous.”

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  But even if it had been otherwise, and he had opposed the movement, I should still have esteemed his opposition as a privilege and an education for myself. We had our differences of opinion always, but they never led to bitterness. He always allowed me to believe that the ties between us were of the closest. Even as I write these lines, the circumstances of his death stand forth vividly before my mind’s eye. It was about the hour of midnight, when Patwardhan, who was then working with me, conveyed over the telephone the news of his death. I was at that time surrounded by me companions. Spontaneously the exclamation escaped my lips, ‘My strongest bulwark is gone.’ The non- co-operation movement was then in full swing, and I was eagerly looking forward to encouragement and inspiration from him. What his attitude would have been with regard to the final phase of non-cooperation will always be a matter of speculation, and an idle one at that. But this much is certain that the deep void left by his death weighed heavily upon everybody present at Calcutta. Everyone felt the absence of his counsels in that hour of crisis in the nation’s history 169AT NAGPURThe resolutions adopted at the Calcutta special ses- sion of the Congress were to be confirmed at its annual session at Nagpur. Here again, as at Calcutta there was a great rush of visitors and delegates. The number of delegates in the Congress had not been lim- ited yet. As a result, so far as I can remember, the figure on this occasion reached about fourteen thousand. La- laji pressed for a slight amendment to the clause about the boycott of schools, which I accepted. Similarly some amendments were made at the instance of the Deshabandhu, after which the non-co- operation resolution was passed unanimously. The resolution regarding the revision of the Congress constitution too was to be taken up at this session of the Congress. the sub- committee’s draft was presented at the Calcutta special session. The matter had therefore been thoroughly ventilated and thrashed out. At the Nagpur session, where it came up for final disposal, Sjt. C. Vijayaraghavachariar was the President. The Subjects Committee passed the draft with only one important change. In my draft the number of delegates had been fixed, I think, at 1,500 ; the Subjects Committee substituted in its place the figure 6,000. In my opinion this increase was the result of hasty judgment, and experience of all these years has only confirmed me in my view. I hold it to be an utter delusion to believe that a large number of delegates is in any way a help to the better conduct of the business, or that it safeguards the principle of democracy. Fifteen hundred delegates, jealous of the interests of the people, broad-minded and truthful, would any day be a better safeguard for democracy than six thousand irresponsible men chosen anyhow.

• From A Theology for the Social Gospel (1918)

  7. This idea would also satisfy our Christian faith in the redeeming mercy of God. In this ascending scale of beings none would be so high that he could not be drawn still closer to God, and none so low that he would be beyond the love of God. God would still be teaching and saving all. If we learned in heaven that a minority were in hell, we should look at God to see what he was going to do about it; and if he did nothing, we should look at Jesus to see how this harmonized with what he taught us about his Father; and if he did nothing, some- thing would die out of heaven. Jonathan Edwards ^ Prof. William Adams Brown, in the closing pages of his “ Christian Theology in Outline,” points out the need for progress, and explains the hold which the doctrine of purgatory has on Catholics. 234 A THEOLOGY FOR THE SOCIAL GOSPEL demanded that we should rejoice in the damnation of those whom the sovereign election of God abandoned to everlasting torment. Very justly, for we ought to be able to rejoice in what God does. But we can not rejoice in hell. It can’t be done. At least by Christians. The more Christian Christ has made a soul, the more it would mourn for the lost brothers. The conception of a permanent hell was tolerable only while God was con- ceived as an autocratic sovereign dealing with his sub- jects; it becomes intolerable when the Father deals with his children. To-day many Protestants are allowing the physical fires of hell to go out, and make the pain of hell to consist in the separation from God. They base the continuance of hell, not on the sovereign decree of God but on the progressive power of sin which gradually ex- tinguishes all love of good and therewith all capacity for salvation. But this remains to be proven. Who has ever met a man that had no soft spot of tenderness, no homesick yearning after uprightness left in him? If God has not locked the door of hell from the outside, but men remain in it because they prefer the darkness, then there is bound to be a Christian invasion of hell. All the most Christian souls in heaven would get down there and share the life of the wicked, in the high hope that after all some scintilla of heavenly fire was still smouldering and could be fanned into life. And they would be headed by Him who could not stand it to think of ninety-nine saved and one caught among the thorns. The idea of two fixed groups does not satisfy any real requirement. Men justly feared the earlier Universal- ESCHATOLOGY 235

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  5. Peace: settled, calm, and expectant David spends several more verses talking about God’s power, faithfulness, and love. By the end of the psalm, he is in a completely different headspace and heartspace than when he began. He is confident and full of faith, with peace in his soul. That doesn’t mean anything changed in the outside world, but everything had changed in his inside world. That was what mattered most. These five things—pain, processing, prayer, proclamation, peace—are intuitive parts of prayer. They don’t always happen in this order, and they are often cyclical, not linear: you cry out, then you ask for help, then you come to a place of trust and rest . . . and then another wave of pain crashes over you, and the cycle repeats. But with each cycle, you find more stability and peace, like an upward spiral out of the depths. Again, your prayers don’t have to follow this pattern. They definitely don’t have to include so many metaphors and poetic language. But they will almost always involve some sort of process, some sort of progression. You’ll come out on the other side with greater clarity and strength than before. EMOTIONALLY HEALTHY PRAYERS Peter Scazzero writes in his book Emotionally Healthy Spirituality , “Christian spirituality, without an integration of emotional health, can be deadly—to yourself, your relationship with God, and the people around you.”1 He’s right. It’s not enough to just have faith or to pursue holiness or to study theology. We also have to be healthy on the inside, particularly in regard to our emotions. We are wholistic beings: body, soul, and spirit. Mind, will, and emotions. If one part of our self is hurting, sooner or later it will affect the others. Sometimes Christians are the worst at admitting emotional needs. We tend to think that faith means always being up and never being down. We don’t give ourselves space to grieve, to emote, to vent, to rage, to hurt, to cry. Life has a lot of trauma, though. If we don’t process that trauma, it can deposit layers of hurt in our souls. We often create defense mechanisms or survival techniques just to keep it all together. But deep inside, we are not in a good place. And God knows it. Here’s the thing, though: He’s not disappointed in us; He just wants to help us. We must learn to take those difficult, dark things to God in prayer. Things like pain. Guilt. Fear. Shame. Anger. Betrayal. Addictions. Abuse. Trauma. I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of seasons like those. Maybe you’re in one right now. Learn to process your feelings in prayer. To sit with them and to sit with God at the same time, allowing Him to walk you through the hidden recesses of your heart and bring healing. Side note: You might want to try writing out your prayers. I do that sometimes, and it can be so clarifying.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  it to ourselves and to your mother — she’s been very patient with my unusual methods — I’m going to stand trial now, and she’ll be my judge. Help me, I’m going to need all your help; if you fail then I fail, we shall go down together. But we’re not going to fail, you’re going to work hard when your new governess comes, and when you’re older you’re going to become a fine woman; you must, dear — I love you so much that you can’t disappoint me.’ His voice faltered a little, then he held out his hand: ‘< and Stephen, come here—look me straight in the eyes—what is honour, my daughter? ’ She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: “ You are honour,’ she said quite simply. 5 Wuen Stephen kissed Mademoiselle Duphot good-bye, she cried, for she felt that something was going that would never come back — irresponsible childhood. It was going, like Mademoiselle Duphot. Kind Mademoiselle Duphot, so foolishly loving, so easily coerced, so glad to be persuaded; so eager to believe that you were doing your best, in the face of the most obvious slacking. Kind Mademoiselle Duphot who smiled when she shouldn’t, who laughed when she shouldn’t, and now she was weeping — but weeping as only a Latin can weep, shedding rivers of tears and sobbing quite loudly. ‘ Chérie — mon bébé, petit chou!’ she was sobbing, as she clung to the angular Stephen. The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle’s tippet, and they wet the poor fur which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged together, turning black with those tears, so that Mademoiselle tried to wipe it. But the more she wiped it the wetter it grew, since her handkerchief only augmented the trouble; nor was Stephen’s large handkerchief very dry either, as she found when she started to help. The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove THE WELL OF LONELINESS 65 up, and the footman seized Mademoiselle’s luggage. It was such meagre luggage that he waved back assistance from the driver, and lifted the trunk single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out into English — heaven only knew why, perhaps from emotion. “It’s not farewell, it shall not be for ever —’ she sobbed. ‘ You come, but I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more, Stévenne, my poor little baby, when you grow up bigger, we two meet once more —’ And Stephen, already taller than she was, longed to grow small again, just to please Mademoiselle. Then, because the French are a practical people even in moments of real emo- tion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in its depths she produced a half sheet of paper. ‘ The address of my sister in Paris,’ she said, snuffling; ‘ the address of my sister who makes little bags — if you should hear of anyone, Stévenne — any lady who would care to buy one little bag —’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid her face against Angela’s knee, and the tears that had never so much as once fallen during all the hard weeks of their separation, gushed out of her eyes. She cried like a child, with her face against Angela’s knee. Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear- stained face and kissed it: ‘ Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the world — it’s a horrible place full of horrible people, but it’s all there is, and we live in it, don’t we? So we’ve just got to do as the world does, my Stephen.’ And because it seemed strange and rather pathetic that this creature should weep, Angela was stirred to something very like love for a moment: * Don’t cry any more - don’t cry, honey,’ she whispered, ‘ we’re together; nothing else really matters.’ And so it began all over again. 5 STEPHEN stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. Hie came home a good two hours before teatime to find them to- gether among his roses; they had followed the shade when it left the herb-garden. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and his voice was so naively disappointed, so full of dismay at her reappearance, that just for a second she felt sorry for him. ‘ Yes, it’s me —’ she replied, not quite knowing what to say. He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which he was soon amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he re- mained a good surgeon, cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, for the man was fond of his roses. And knowing this Stephen must play on that fondness, since now it was her business to cajole him into friendship. A degrading business, but it had ta THE WELL OF LONELINESS 177 be done for Angela’s sake, lest she suffer through loving. Un- thinkable that — ‘ Could you marry me, Stephen? ’ “Ralph, look here;’ she called, ‘Mrs. John Laing’s got broken! We may be in time if we bind her with bass.’ ‘ Oh, dear, has she? ° He came hurrying up as he spoke, ‘ Do go down to the shed and get me some, will you? ’ She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink- cheeked, full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing. ‘ There,’ he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage, “that ought to set your leg for you, madam! ’ Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praised her luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: ‘ He likes one to praise his roses.’

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Even Mr. Ohba, whom we had met by appointment at the station, seemed a different person and held his tongue. Everyone had the air of having been taken prisoner by the feeling commonly called "love of one's own flesh and blood"; it was as though the emotions one normally keeps hidden within had been turned inside out and were smarting painfully with rawness. They had met their sons, brothers, grandsons, with a showing of naked hearts—it was all they had to show —and now, on top of this, they probably realized it had all been nothing but a futile outpouring of blood before each other. As for me, I was still pursued by the vision of those pitiful hands. It was almost dusk, almost time for lights to be turned on, when our train reached the station on the outskirts of Tokyo where we were to transfer to the elevated. Here for the first time we were brought face to face with positive evidence of the damage that had been done in the air raid the night before. The passageway over the tracks was filled with victims of the raid. They were wrapped up in blankets until one could see nothing but their eyes or, better said, nothing but their eyeballs, for they were eyes that saw nothing and thought nothing. There was a mother who seemed to intend to rock the child in her lap eternally, never varying by so much as a hairsbreadth the length of the arc through which she swayed her body, back and forth, back and forth. A girl was sleeping, leaning against a piece of wicker luggage, still wearing scorched artificial flowers in her hair. As we went along the passageway we did not receive even so much as a reproachful glance. We were ignored. Our very existence was obliterated by the fact that we had not shared in their misery; for them, we were nothing more than shadows. In spite of this scene something caught fire within me. I was emboldened and strengthened by the parade of misery passing before my eyes. I was experiencing the same excitement that a revolution causes. In the fire these miserable ones had witnessed the total destruction of every evidence that they existed as human beings. Before their eyes they had seen human relationships, loves and hatreds, reason, property, all go up in flame. And at the time it had not been the flames against which they fought, but against human relationships, against loves and hatreds, against reason, against property.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Such must have been the case because presently my ambition was transferred with those same emotions to the operators of hana-densha—those streetcars decorated so gaily with flowers for festival days—or again to subway ticket-punchers. Both occupations gave me a strong impression of "tragic lives" of which I was ignorant and from which it seemed I was forever excluded. This was particularly true in the case of the ticket-punchers: the rows of gold buttons on the tunics of their blue uniforms became fused in my mind with the odor which floated through the subways in those days—it was like the smell of rubber, or of peppermint and readily called up mental associations of "tragic things." I somehow felt it was "tragic" for a person to make his living in the midst of such an odor. Existences and events occurring without any relationship to myself, occurring at places that not only appealed to my senses but were moreover denied to me—these, together with the people involved in them, constituted my definition of "tragic things." It seemed that my grief at being eternally excluded was always transformed in my' dreaming into grief for those persons and their ways of life, and that solely through my own grief I was trying to share in their existences.If such were the case, the so-called "tragic things" of which I was becoming aware were probably only shadows cast by a flashing presentiment of grief still greater in the future, of a lonelier exclusion still to come. . . . There is another early memory, involving a picture book. Although I learned to read and write when I was five, I could not yet read the words in the book. So this memory also must date from the age of four. I had several picture books about that time, but my fancy was captured, completely and exclusively, only by this one—and only by one eye-opening picture in it. I could dream away long and boring afternoons gazing at it, and yet when anyone came along, I would feel guilty without reason and would turn in a flurry to a different page. The watchfulness of a sicknurse or a maid vexed me beyond endurance. I longed for a life that would allow me to gaze at that picture all the day through. Whenever I turned to that page my heart beat fast. No other page meant anything to me. The picture showed a knight mounted on a white horse, holding a sword aloft. The horse, nostrils flaring, was pawing the ground with powerful forelegs. There was a beautiful coat of arms on the silver armor the knight was wearing. The knight's beautiful face peeped through the visor, and he brandished his drawn sword awesomely in the blue sky, confronting either Death or, at the very least, some hurtling object full of evil power. I believed he would be killed the next instant: if I turn the page quickly, surely I can see him being killed.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Eh, but tha'rt nice, tha'rt nice!" he said, suddenly rubbing his face with a snuggling movement against her warm belly. And she put her arms round him under his shirt, but she was afraid, afraid of his thin, smooth, naked body, that seemed so powerful, afraid of the violent muscles. She shrank, afraid. And when he said, with a sort of little sigh: "Eh, tha'rt nice!" something in her quivered, and something in her spirit stiffened in resistance: stiffened from the terribly physical intimacy, and from the peculiar haste of his possession. And this time the sharp ecstacy of her own passion did not overcome her; she lay with her hands inert on his striving body, and do what she might, her spirit seemed to look on from the top of her head, and the butting of his haunches seemed ridiculous to her, and the sort of anxiety of his penis to come to its little evacuating crisis seemed farcical. Yes, this was love, this ridiculous bouncing of the buttocks, and the wilting of the poor insignificant, moist little penis. This was the divine love! After all, the moderns were right when they felt contempt for the performance; for it was a performance. It was quite true, as some poets said, that the God who created man must have had a sinister sense of humour, creating him a reasonable being, yet forcing him to take this ridiculous posture, and driving him with blind craving for this ridiculous performance. Even a Maupassant found it a humiliating anticlimax. Men despised the intercourse act, and yet did it. Cold and derisive her queer female mind stood apart, and though she lay perfectly still, her impulse was to heave her loins, and throw the man out, escape his ugly grip, and the butting overriding of his absurd haunches. His body was a foolish, impudent, imperfect thing, a little disgusting in its unfinished clumsiness. For surely a complete evolution would eliminate this performance, this "function." And yet when he had finished, soon over, and lay very very still, receding into silence, and a strange, motionless distance, far, farther than the horizon of her awareness, her heart began to weep. She could feel him ebbing away, ebbing away, leaving her there like a stone on a shore. He was withdrawing, his spirit was leaving her. He knew. And in real grief, tormented by her own double consciousness and reaction, she began to weep. He took no notice, or did not even know. The storm of weeping swelled and shook her, and shook him. "Ay!" he said, "It was no good that time. You wasn't there." So he knew! Her sobs became violent. "But what's amiss?" he said. "It's once in a while that way." "I ... I can't love you," she sobbed, suddenly feeling her heart breaking. "Canna ter? Well, dunna fret! There's no law says as tha's got to. Ta'e it for what it is."