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 The Decameron (1353)

  To leave the country and return to the city, what more can be said save that such and so great was the cruelty of heaven (and in part, peradventure, that of men) that, between March and the following July, what with the virulence of that pestiferous sickness and the number of sick folk ill tended or forsaken in their need, through the fearfulness of those who were whole, it is believed for certain that upward of an hundred thousand human beings perished within the walls of the city of Florence, which, peradventure, before the advent of that death-dealing calamity, had not been accounted to hold so many? Alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses, how many noble mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies, abode empty even to the meanest servant! How many memorable families, how many ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain without lawful heir! How many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how many sprightly youths, whom, not others only, but Galen, Hippocrates or Æsculapius themselves would have judged most hale, breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends and that same night supped with their ancestors in the other world!

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  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 When 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 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 emotion, 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—’ ‘Yes, yes, I’ll remember,’ muttered Stephen. At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive and finally turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrust from the window, a wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not Stephen Gordon . . . oh, no, surely not . . . Stephen Gordon was dead; she had died last night: “A Pheure de notre mort . . .” Many people had spoken those prophetic words quite a short time ago — perhaps they had been thinking of Stephen Gordon. Yet now some one was slowly climbing the stairs, then pausing upon the landing to listen, then opening the door of Mary’s bedroom, then standing quite still and staring at Mary. It was some one whom David knew and loved well; he sprang forward with a sharp little bark of welcome. But Mary shrank back as though she had been struck - Mary pale and red-eyed from sleeplessness - or was it because of excessive weeping? 504 THE WELL OF LONELINESS When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: ‘ Where were you last night? ’ ‘With Valérie Seymour. I thought you’d know somehow . . . It’s better to be frank . . . we both hate lies . . .’ Came that queer voice again: ‘ Good God — and I’ve tried so hard not to believe it! Tell me you’re lying to me now; say it, Stephen! ? Stephen — then she wasn’t dead after all; or was she? But now Mary was clinging — clinging. * Stephen, I can’t believe this thing — Valérie! Is that why you always repulse me . . . why you never want to come near me these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say some- thing, for Christ’s sake! Don’t stand there dumb . . .’ A mist closing down, a thick black mist. Some one pushing the girl away, without speaking. Mary’s queer voice coming out of the gloom, muffled by the folds of that thick black mist, only a word here and there getting through: * All my life I’ve given . . . you've killed . . . I loved you . . . Cruel, oh, cruel! You’re unspeakably cruel . . .” Then the sound of rough and pitiful sobbing. No, assuredly this was not Stephen Gordon who stood there unmoved by such pitiful sobbing. But what was the figure doing in the mist? It was moving about, distractedly, wildly. All the while it sobbed it was moving about: ‘I’m going . . .’ Going? But where could it go? Somewhere out of the mist, somewhere into the light? Who was it that had said . . . wait, what were the words? ‘ To give light to them that sit in dark ness! .:', jas.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And then would come tears, and the tears would go splashing down on to the paper, blotting the poor inadequate lines that meant little or nothing as their author well knew, to her own added desolation. There she would sit like a woebegone child, and Puddle would think how childish she seemed in this her first encounter with grief, and would marvel because of the physical strength of the creature, that went so ill with those tears. And because her own tears were vexing her eyes she must often speak rather sharply to Stephen. Then Stephen would go off and swing her large dumb-bells, seeking the relief of bodily movement, seeking to wear out her muscular body because her mind was worn out by sorrow. August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephen would sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising of the horses, but in spite of this the old man’s heart misgave him, she seemed strangely averse to discussing the hunting. He would think: ‘Maybe it’s ’er father’s death, but the instinct be pretty strong in ’er blood, she’ll be all right after ’er’s ’ad ’er first gallop.’ And perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery. ‘Look, Miss Stephen, did ever you see such quarters? ’E’s a mighty fine doer, keeps ’imself fit on grass! I do believe as ’e does it on purpose; I believe ’e’s afraid ’e’ll miss a day’s huntin’.’ But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing. Hounds met at the very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to send those orders to the stables for which Williams was anxiously waiting. Then one morning in March he could bear it no longer, and he suddenly started reproaching Stephen: ‘Yer lettin’ my ’orses go stale in their boxes. It’s a scandal, Miss Stephen, and you such a rider, and our stables the finest bar none in the county, and yer father so almighty proud of yer ridin’! And then: ‘Miss Stephen—yer’ll not give it up? Won’t yer’ hunt Raftery day after to-morrow? The ’ounds is meetin’ quite near by Upton—Miss Stephen, say yer won’t give it all up!’ There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so to console him she answered briefly: ‘Very well then, I’ll hunt the day after to- morrow.’ But for some strange reason that she did not understand, this prospect had quite ceased to give her pleasure. 2 On a morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen rode Raftery into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the river Severn, and on to the Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind her came jogging her second horseman on one of Sir Philip’s favourite youngsters, a raw- boned, upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now all eyes and ears for what might be coming; but beside her rode only memory and heart-ache.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Oh, the existence of multiple religions, children starving. The problem of evil—it’s how people talk about going bankrupt, right? It’s gradual, then it happens all at once. Trampling leaves, we walked toward Platt Hall. It must have been so hard, though, she said, expanding. She intended to sympathize, I could tell, and it was true: I’d tried not to leave the faith. I’d had such purpose, living in single-minded pursuit of the God I loved, until the afternoon I knelt in my bedroom, asking one last time for a sign. White gauze curtains rippled. I waited, but I heard nothing else. Muscles stiff, I got up. I should, I think, have told Phoebe how cut open I felt since then, with a God-shaped hole I didn’t know how to fill. If I was sick of Christ, it was because I hadn’t been able to stop loving Him, this made-up ghost I still grieved as though He’d been real. For a while, train tracks had pulled. So had guns, pills, but already I wished I hadn’t brought this up. I didn’t want Phoebe pitying me. To change the subject, I asked about the hired help, the nervous blond girl. Tess, Phoebe said. No, she wasn’t hired. She lives with them. They all rotate serving meals. I had more questions, but the door to Phoebe’s hall slammed open. Girls in high heels clattered out; she caught the knob before it could swing closed. She asked if I wanted to come in. I walked into the stone stairwell. Steps echoing, we climbed. We passed through the suite living room, into Phoebe’s single. Silence rushed between us. The tip of Phoebe’s tongue brightened her lips. It was the first time she’d invited me in. I have gin, she said. Do you want a drink? If you will. I can, I said. Sure. She stepped down from her heels. While she cracked out ice cubes, I shook off my oxfords. I wandered the small room. There wasn’t much to see: she’d left the walls blank. A tall pile of textbooks lay unopened, the plastic wrap shining. She passed me a fizzing glass with a lime slice split across its rim, then tapped laptop keys. A bass hiss drifted from the speakers. It’s a Spanish band, she said. Did I like it? I said I did, and she began swaying to the song’s loose beat. Bare shoulders rolled. She snapped her fingers overhead, imitating castanets.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When the day came and Girolamo was found dead before his own door, great was outcry, especially on the part of his mother, and the physicians having examined him and searched his body everywhere, but finding no wound nor bruise whatsoever on him, it was generally concluded that he had died of grief, as was indeed the case. Then was the body carried into a church and the sad mother, repairing thither with many other ladies, kinswomen and neighbours, began to weep without stint and make sore moan over him, according to our usance. What while the lamentation was at it highest, the good man, in whose house he had died, said to Salvestra, 'Harkye, put some mantlet or other on thy head and get thee to the church whither Girolamo hath been carried and mingle with the women and hearken to that which is discoursed of the matter; and I will do the like among the men, so we may hear if aught be said against us.' The thing pleased the girl, who was too late grown pitiful and would fain look upon him, dead, whom, living, she had not willed to pleasure with one poor kiss, and she went thither. A marvellous thing it is to think how uneath to search out are the ways of love! That heart, which Girolamo's fair fortune had not availed to open, his illhap opened and the old flames reviving all therein, whenas she saw the dead face it[254] melted of a sudden into such compassion that she pressed between the women, veiled as she was in the mantlet, and stayed not till she won to the body, and there, giving a terrible great shriek, she cast herself, face downward, on the dead youth, whom she bathed not with many tears, for that no sooner did she touch him than grief bereaved her of life, even as it had bereft him. [Footnote 254: _i.e._ her heart.]

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘ But I want to know why were not going to Branscombe.’ And Mary reached out and snatched the letter. She read it through to the very last word, then she sat down abruptly and burst out crying. She cried with the long, doleful sobs of a child whom some one has struck without thyme or reason: ‘Oh . . . and I thought they were fond of us . à she sobbed, ‘I thought that perhaps . . . they understood, Stephen.’ Then it seemed to Stephen that all the pain that had so far been thrust upon her by existence, was as nothing to the un- endurable pain which she must now bear to bear that sobbing, to see Mary thus wounded and utterly crushed, thus shamed and humbled for the sake of her love, thus bereft of all dignity and protection. She felt strangely helpless: ‘ Don’t — don’t,’ she implored; while tears of pity blurred her own eyes and went trickling slowly down her scarred face. She had lost for the moment all sense of proportion, of perspective, seeing in a vain, tactless woman a kind of gigantic destroying angel; a kind of scourge laid upon her and Mary. Surely never before had Lady Massey loomed so large as she did in that hour to Stephen. Mary’s sobs gradually died away. She lay back in her chair, a small, desolate figure, catching her breath from time to time, until Stephen went to her and found her hand which she stroked with cold and trembling fingers — but she could not find words of consolation. 5 Tat night Stephen took the girl roughly in her arms. ‘ I love you — I love you so much . . .’ she stammered; and she kissed Mary many times on the mouth, but cruelly so that her kisses were pain — the pain in her heart leapt out through her lips: ‘ God! It’s too terrible to love like this — it’s hell — there are times when I can’t endure it! ’ She was in the grip of strong nervous excitation; nothing 428 THE WELL OF LONELINESS seemed able any more to appease her. She seemed to be striving to obliterate, not only herself, but the whole hostile world through some strange and agonized merging with Mary. It was terrible indeed, very like unto death, and it left them both completely exhausted. The world had achieved its first real victory. CHAPTER 47 I HEIR Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Folco and Ughetto (and from them their ladies) had privy notice from the duke why Ninetta had been taken, the which was exceeding grievous to them and they used their every endeavour to save her from the fire, whereto they doubted not she would be condemned, as indeed she richly deserved; but all seemed vain, for that the duke abode firm in willing to do justice upon her. However, Maddalena, who was a beautiful young woman and had long been courted by the duke, but had never yet consented to do aught that might pleasure him, thinking that, by complying with his wishes, she might avail to save her sister from the fire, signified to him by a trusty messenger that she was at his commandment in everything, provided two things should ensue thereof, to wit, that she should have her sister again safe and sound and that the thing should be secret. Her message pleased the duke, and after long debate with himself if he should do as she proposed, he ultimately agreed thereto and said that he was ready. Accordingly, one night, having, with the lady's consent, caused detain Folco and Ughetto, as he would fain examine them of the matter, he went secretly to couch with Maddalena and having first made a show of putting Ninetta in a sack and of purposing to let sink her that night in the sea, he carried her with him to her sister, to whom on the morrow he delivered her at parting, in payment of the night he had passed with her, praying her that this,[236] which had been the first of their loves, might not be the last and charging her send the guilty lady away, lest blame betide himself and it behove him anew proceed against her with rigour. [Footnote 236: _i.e._ that night.]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Gisippus looked and seeing that it was Titus, perceived full well that he did this to save him, as grateful for the service aforetime received from him; wherefore, weeping for pity, 'Varro,' quoth he, 'indeed it was I slew him and Titus his solicitude for my safety is now too late.' Titus on the other hand, said, 'Prætor, do as thou seest, this man is a stranger and was found without arms beside the murdered man, and thou mayst see that his wretchedness giveth him occasion to wish to die; wherefore do thou release him and punish me, who have deserved it.' Varro marvelled at the insistence of these two and beginning now to presume that neither of them might be guilty, was casting about for a means of acquitting them, when, behold, up came a youth called Publius Ambustus, a man of notorious ill life and known to all the Romans for an arrant rogue, who had actually done the murder and knowing neither of the twain to be guilty of that whereof each accused himself, such was the pity that overcame his heart for the innocence of the two friends that, moved by supreme compassion, he came before Varro and said, 'Prætor, my fates impel me to solve the grievous contention of these twain and I know not what God within me spurreth and importuneth me to discover to thee my sin. Know, then, that neither of these men is guilty of that whereof each accuseth himself. I am verily he who slew yonder man this morning towards daybreak and I saw this poor wretch asleep there, what while I was in act to divide the booty gotten with him whom I slew. There is no need for me to excuse Titus; his renown is everywhere manifest and every one knoweth him to be no man of such a condition. Release him, therefore, and take of me that forfeit which the laws impose on me.'

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile, the kinsmen and kinswomen of the young man, hearing the news, had flocked thither, and with them well nigh all the men and women in the city. Therewith, the body, being laid out amiddleward the courtyard upon Andrevuola's silken cloth and strewn, with all her roses, was there not only bewept by her and his kinsfolk, but publicly mourned by well nigh all the ladies of the city and by many men, and being brought forth of the courtyard of the Seignory, not as that of a plebeian, but as that of a nobleman, it was with the utmost honour borne to the sepulchre upon the shoulders of the most noble citizens. Some days thereafterward, the Provost ensuing that which he had demanded, Messer Negro propounded it to his daughter, who would hear nought thereof, but, her father being willing to comply with her in this, she and her maid made themselves nuns in a convent very famous for sanctity and there lived honourably a great while after." THE SEVENTH STORY [Day the Fourth] SIMONA LOVETH PASQUINO AND THEY BEING TOGETHER IN A GARDEN, THE LATTER RUBBETH A LEAF OF SAGE AGAINST HIS TEETH AND DIETH. SHE, BEING TAKEN AND THINKING TO SHOW THE JUDGE HOW HER LOVER DIED, RUBBETH ONE OF THE SAME LEAVES AGAINST HER TEETH AND DIETH ON LIKE WISE Pamfilo having delivered himself of his story, the king, showing no compassion for Andrevuola, looked at Emilia and signed to her that it was his pleasure she should with a story follow on those who had already told; whereupon she, without delay, began as follows: "Dear companions, the story told by Pamfilo putteth me in mind to tell you one in nothing like unto his save that like as Andrevuola lost her beloved in a garden, even so did she of whom I have to tell, and being taken in like manner as was Andrevuola, freed herself from the court, not by dint of fortitude nor constancy, but by an unlooked-for death. And as hath otherwhile been said amongst us, albeit Love liefer inhabiteth the houses of the great, yet not therefor doth he decline the empery of those of the poor; nay, whiles in these latter he so manifesteth his power that he maketh himself feared, as a most puissant seignior, of the richer sort. This, if not in all, yet in great part, will appear from my story, with which it pleaseth me to re-enter our own city, wherefrom this day, discoursing diversely of divers things and ranging over various parts of the world, we have so far departed.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I’m sure Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, John Rechy, John Preston, Edmund White, Alan Dershowitz, and a bunch of ACLU attorneys would agree. Anti-porn feminists are rejoicing that my gender transition invalidates the critique of their movement that I pioneered—even if no cisgendered man would take part in that debate using the language and concepts that I used. Anti-S/M feminists have frequently said that my defense of this sexuality just proves that it’s male violence—male violence that polluted the lesbian community at my instigation, as a sort of double agent of the patriarchy. This sets aside hundreds of thousands of women-born-women who make up the modern lesbian leather community. Thank goodness, whether you like what I’ve done with my life or not, you can still benefit from the work of authors like Carol Queen, Tristan Taormino, and their compatriots. The explosion of well-written, sexually explicit fiction that followed the Feminist Sex Wars is still taking place, and everybody with an open mind and some open pages is better off for it. I knew that this would happen when I decided to transition. It made the whole process many times harder than it would otherwise have been. I felt as if I were pouring gasoline on a lifetime of work and lighting it on fire. But after spending decades urging others to come out about their sexuality, to be honest about their desires, and to bring their fantasies into reality, how could I live a lie myself, just to preserve that legacy? It was a double-bind that continues to torture me. I wish I could say that I never have second thoughts, but of course I do. Any major life change requires you to pick something you’ll gain—and give up other things. I have grieved the loss of my dyke identity more bitterly than any of my readers or friends. All I can tell you is that I never intended to deceive anybody. I had no hidden agenda around seducing lesbians to accept sexual values that were secretly contaminated with maleness. I think the political debates I’ve entered and won stand on their own merits, regardless of the gender of the speaker. At every phase of my life, I’ve been as honest as I could about who I was, what motivated me, and what I intended or wanted for the important people in my life. But feminism is no cure for transsexuality. In my late forties, I realized that I just couldn’t do it any more. Thanks to the gender-fuck ethos of BDSM, I had kept a portion of my maleness alive in sexual role-playing, but I was tired of being male only in the bedroom. I wanted an identity that was a better fit. And the conviction of my childhood about who I was kept haunting me. If anything, it got stronger, the older I became.

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  l e Ct Ure 19 | h o W sC holars s t Udy Psalms 119 Parallelism works in one of two ways. In synonymous parallelism, the same thought is echoed. For example, in Psalm 113:7, take this echoed thought: “He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap.” On the other hand, one can express an opposing thought in the second line. This is called antithetic parallelism. Consider Psalm 126:5: “Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy.” It’s metaphorical. Metaphor is a major part of what makes the psalms poetry. This isn’t about literal sowing and reaping. It’s about planning and enjoying the results. The psalm authors are very skilled at using parallelism to map out large patterns in a psalm. For instance, the first verse may not correspond to the second. Imagine that the first verse corresponds to the last verse, and the second verse corresponds to the penultimate verse. This is called a chiasm. In Psalm 22, verses 1 and 11, there are words that correspond to each other in some way. Both verses are pleas to God to not abandon the one praying. Verses 1 and 11 are in parallelism with each other. That means that the entire unit of verses 1 through 11 is designated by inclusion. There are other examples of inclusion throughout the book of Psalms. A Difficult Passage Understanding parallelism can also help with difficult passages. For instance, the final stanza of Psalm 137 is addressed to Babylon. It is in the context of the exile of Jews in Babylon after the Babylonians conquered Jerusalem in 586 BCE: “Blessed shall be he who takes your little children and dashes them against the rocks.” At first, it seems Israel is calling for the massacre of innocent children. However, the true reading lies in parallelism. The prior verse is this: “Blessed shall be he who repays you what you have done to us.” The phrase “your little children and dashes them against the rocks” stands in poetic parallelism with “repays you what you have unto us.” This isn’t about Babylonian babies and all. It’s about Israelite babies. It is about coming to terms with what happened in the conquest of Jerusalem in 586. This is a way Israel can say, “You massacred our infants,” without saying it directly. The point is not a wish against Babylon; the point is articulating the pain.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid with stupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful heart; and he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the making of one great and terrible effort: ‘ Anna — it’s Stephen — listen.” They were holding his hands. ‘ It’s — Stephen — our child — she’s, she’s — it’s Stephen — not like — ° His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still upon Anna’s bosom. Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stooped and was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing his lips, as though to breathe back the life into his body. And none might be there to witness that thing, save God — the God of death and affliction, Who is also the God of love. Turning away she stole out of their presence, leaving them alone in the darkening study, leaving them alone with their deathless devotion —hand in hand, the quick and the dead. BOOK TWO CHA PL ER 15 I Sz Priip’s death deprived his child of three things; of com- panionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart barrier between her and the world, and above all of love — that faithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for her sake, in order to spare her suffering. Stephen, recovering from the merciful numbness of shock and facing her first deep sorrow, stood utterly confounded, as a child will stand who is lost in a crowd, having somehow let go of the hand that has always guided. Thinking of her father, she realized how greatly she had leant on that man of deep kindness, how sure she had felt of his constant protection, how much she had taken that protection for granted. And so together with her constant grieving, with the ache for his presence that never left her, came the knowledge of what real loneliness felt like. She would marvel, remembering how often in his lifetime she had thought herself lonely, when by stretching out a finger she could touch him, when by speaking she could hear his voice, when by raising her eyes she could see him before her. And now also she knew the desolation of small things, the power to give infinite pain that lies hidden in the little inanimate objects that persist, in a book, in a well-worn garment, in a half-finished letter, in a favourite arm-chair. She thought: ‘ They go on — they mean nothing at all, and yet they go on,’ and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always touch them. ‘ How queer, this old arm-chair has out- lived him, an old chair —’ And feeling the creases in its leather, the dent in its back where her father’s head had lain, she would hate the inanimate thing for surviving, or perhaps she would love it and find herself weeping.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I’ll drive, I said. Inside the car, its abrupt hush, I could still feel the last piano notes thrum, radiant: a faint light, haloing the quiet. I switched on the ignition. I hadn’t studied an instrument. For years, though, while eluding the devil’s influence, I’d listened to classical music. I owned piano recordings I loved. Lupu, for instance. Gould. Uchida. Wasn’t it Liszt, what she’d played? I was trying to establish bona fides. Once, while hiking with my parents, I’d watched a starling flock in motion, the confusion of birds mobbing about like nets full of fish until they’d lifted, all at once, shape-shifting into a braided coil that flung, agile, whip-tight, into the horizon. Pests, my father said—practical, as usual. But I’d thought it an astonishing sight, God’s design made visible, and that was what Phoebe’s playing felt like: the flight of notes rising into shape, a large purpose made plain. You should be onstage, I said. If I had a gift like that, I’d— You’d live for it, she said. You, Will Kendall, would be a celebrated pianist, a high priest of music. I don’t know why you’re laughing. No, it’s, I tried. I wanted to be a pianist. I’m not sure that’s what it is, a gift. By the time I quit, I realized I’d rather have no talent than just enough to know how much I lacked. I played tonight because he insisted. That’s all. He was telling me about his time in the gulag, and I— “He” being John, I started saying, my voice overlapping hers. I couldn’t turn him down— The gulag? Oh, she said. He was in a gulag. Oh, Will. – In the spring, two years ago— (so Phoebe explained, turned toward me, a hand hot on my thigh as I sped through emptied Noxhurst streets, past the stoplights staining the night) —John Leal had gone to live in Yanji, a Chinese city next to North Korea. He worked with an activist group, with Americans who helped North Koreans in hiding get out of China, into Seoul. It was a long, roundabout trip that required walking through the Laotian jungle, so hazardous they relied on opium mules as guides. Then, one night, he was seized by North Korean spies who took him across the border, throwing him into a gulag. He still couldn’t talk much about what he witnessed. Lives thrown out like trash, he said. A five-year-old child hanged for stealing a little rice. Gang rapes. Everyone was starving. Deprived of rations, a man had eaten the shit-soiled rags used to wipe latrines. One corpse was found stashed in ice, his missing parts marked with human teeth. He watched prison guards kicking a pregnant girl in the stomach. She curled around the swollen belly, trying to protect it. They left the girl bleeding on the ground.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The only question was, when would it start again, and how? She hung her head, weeping, in fact blinded by tears, slobbering and sweating, her nose dripping snot, every pore and orifice opened up, wet, and slack. If it were not for her tit clamps and the steel circlets around her wrists, she would have slid to the floor and passed out. His hands were lifting the swollen masses of her buttocks, moving them to one side of the bar that divided them, his fingertips admiring this or that particularly purple spot. “Say that you love me,” he said, intense and tender. “I love you,” she sobbed. What broken-hearted prisoner does not love her torturer after a beating stops? “Say that you’re sorry.” “I—I’m sorry.” She was blubbering now. God, how disgusting. His questing fingers removed the butt plug—or rather, received it as it fell out of her. They probed—tentatively—and the by-now familiar feel of his rubber-clad erection against her raw cleft replaced his fingers. “Say you want me.” “I want you, sir.” “To do what?” Surrender. Quivering. Bowing to the inevitable. “To fuck my ass, sir.” “That’s good. That’s very good. I’d really like to.” The leather-gloved hand was moving up and down his cock. She had never met a man who loved handling himself so much. The back of his moving hand pressed against her, making obscene insinuations. “Persuade me, cunt. Talk me into it. If you make it sound sweet enough, maybe I will … put this inside of you. But hurry. If you don’t make it fast, I might come in my fist, and all this good hot stuff would go to waste. Talk to me, darlin’.” Talk to him? And why was this harder (well, just as hard) as squirming on a butt-plug to heat herself up for his cock? It was another barrier—but this time she recognized the danger, refused to postpone her pleasure or invite more punishment, and pushed the words out of her mouth as fast as she could. It was not a very elegant confession, but it was effective. A few vulgar sentences, interrupted by her last few sobs and soft cries of pain when he pressed his big hands into her bruised hindquarters, persuaded him to push his thumbs, side-by-side, into her ass. Lubrication followed.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  334 THE WELL OF LONELINESS belonged to a past that was better forgotten, but now she would sometimes wonder about him. Perhaps he was dead, smitten down where he stood, for many had perished where they stood, like the orchards. It was strange to think that he might have been here in France, have been fighting and have died quite near her. But perhaps he had not been killed after all — she had never told Mary about Martin Hallam. All roads of thought seemed to lead back to Mary; and these days, in addition to fears for her safety, came a growing distress at what she must see — far more terrible sights than the patient wounded. For everywhere now lay the wreckage of war, sea- wrack spued up by a poisonous ocean — putrefying, festering in the sun; breeding corruption to man’s seed of folly. Twice lately, while they had been driving together, they had come upon sights that Stephen would have spared her. There had been that shat- tered German gun-carriage with its stiff, dead horses and its three dead gunners — horrible death, the men’s faces had been black like the faces of negroes, black and swollen from gas, or was it from putrefaction? There had been the deserted and wounded charger with its fore-leg hanging as though by a rag. Near by had been lying a dead young Uhlan, and Stephen had shot the beast with his revolver, but Mary had suddenly started sobbing: ‘ Oh, God! Oh, God! It was dumb — it couldn’t speak. It’s so awful somehow to see a thing suffer when it can’t ask you why!’ She had sobbed a long time, and Stephen had not known how to console her. And now the Unit was creeping forward in the wake of the steadily advancing Allies. Billets would be changed as the base was moved on slowly from devastated village to village. There seldom seemed to be a house left with a roof, or with anything much beyond its four walls, and quite often they must lie staring up at the stars, which would stare back again, aloof and un- troubled. At about this time they grew very short of water, for most of the wells were said to have been poisoned; and this short- age of water was a very real torment, since it strictly curtailed the luxury of washing. Then what must Bless do but get herself hit THE WELL OF LONELINESS 335 while locating the position of a Poste de Secours which had most inconsiderately vanished. Like the Allied ambulance driver she was shot at, but in her case she happened to stop a bullet — it was only a flesh wound high up in the arm, yet enough to render her useless for the moment. She had had to be sent back to hospital, so once again the Unit was short-handed.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Mademoiselle Duphot shed a few tears: ‘I find you only to lose you, Stévenne. Ah, but how many friends will be parted, perhaps for ever, by this terrible war — and yet what else could we do? Weare blameless! ’ In Berlin people were also saying: ‘ What else could we do? We are blameless! ° Julie’s hand lingered on Stephen’s arm: * You feel so strong,’ she said, sighing a little, “it is good to be strong and courageous these days, and to have one’s eyes — alas, I am quite useless.’ ‘ No one is useless who can pray, my sister,’ reproved Made- moiselle almost sternly. And indeed there were many who thought as she did, the churches were crowded all over France. A great wave of piety swept through Paris, filling the dark confessional boxes, so that the priests had now some ado to cope with such shoals of penitent people — the more so as every priest fit to fight had been sum- moned to join the army. Up at Montmartre the church of the Sacré Coeur echoed and re-echoed with the prayers of the faithful, while those prayers that were whispered with tears in secret, hung like invisible clouds round its altars. 308 THE WELL OF LONELINESS ‘Save us, most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Have pity upon us, have pity upon France. Save us, oh, Heart of Jesus! ’ So all day long must the priests sit and hear the time-honoured sins of body and spirit; a monotonous hearing because of its sameness, since nothing is really new under the sun, least of all our manner of sinning. Men who had not been to Mass for years, now began to remember their first Communion; thus it was that many a hardy blasphemer, grown suddenly tongue-tied and rather sheepish, clumped up to the altar in his new army boots, having made an embarrassed confession. Young clericals changed into uniform and marched side by side with the roughest Poilus, to share in their hardships, their hopes, their terrors, their deeds of supremest valour. Old men bowed their heads and gave of the strength which no longer animated their bodies, gave of that strength through the bodies of their sons who would charge into battle shouting and singing. Women of all ages knelt down and prayed, since prayer has long been the refuge of women. ‘ No one is useless who can pray, my sister.” The women of France had spoken through the lips of the humble Mademoiselle Duphot. Stephen and Puddle said good-bye to the sisters, then went on to Buisson’s Academy of Fencing, where they found him en- gaged upon greasing his foils.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  In the news, I would read that the baby was ten feet tall, assembled from cloth and foam by protest organizers, and that the crowd was rallying against an abortion clinic that had opened in downtown Noxhurst; for now, as I strained, I could make out overtly Christian placards. Depictions of the cross, mentions of God. I watched the protest pass, sick with longing. Such a lot of people who still believed they were picked to be God’s children. The unreal baby jiggled its fists, as in the divine visions I once hoped to have, the marvels I’d thought possible. The nephilim at hand, radiant galaxies pirouetting at God’s command. Faith-lifted mountains. Miracles. Healings. I turned Christian in junior high, the first time my mother fell ill. It’s a crack across the brain, she explained. It let sadness in. Pills helped, like a patch, but the usual medicine had stopped working. Lying in bed, she gazed at the ceiling fan. She didn’t wash. Each morning, I left a glass of milk on the bedside table. She ignored it, and the milk curdled. My father came home late, stumbling. He broke lamps; he slept in the living room. So, I prayed. I was devoted. A kid evangelist, and a pain in the ass. I traipsed through town in ironed khakis, pocket Bible in hand, testifying. I made it a personal mission to save my parents, as well: I didn’t want paradise unless I could bring them along. Though my father laughed at my improvised lectures, my mother let me talk. In bed, pallid, she listened. I proselytized until the June afternoon, five months into my campaign, when I stood witness at her baptism. She waded into the lake in a yellow poplin dress, and I shook with pride. The pastor put his hands on her shoulders. She plunged in, submerged so long I panicked, thinking she’d drown, but then he let go. She came up flailing, smiling to break her mouth. The lake healed itself around her hips. In a dress like the sun, she splashed out. She picked me up, spattering lake silt. I touched my mother’s head, the hair wet, sanctified. I, I, I—I thought I’d saved her life. – Close to noon, as I left my suite, Phoebe called to tell me she’d talked to John Leal. He’d invited us both to dinner, Monday at 8:00. Litton Street. Did I have plans then? I didn’t. Would I still be willing to go, in that case? I would, I said. I asked if she’d enjoyed the night. She had. It had gone late. The birthday boy had rented lions. Lions? Well, they were caged, she explained. Phoebe’s words lagged, catching in her throat. I asked if she’d just gotten up. Oh, she said, up would be a lie. I’m still in bed.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  Your tendrils [of influence] stretched across the sea, Reaching [even] to the sea of Jazer. The destroyer has fallen On your summer fruits and your [season’s] crop of grapes. 33 “So joy and gladness are taken away From the fruitful field and from the land of Moab. And I have made the wine cease from the wine presses; No one treads the grapes with shouting. Their shouting is not joyful shouting [but is instead, a battle cry]. 34 “From the outcry at Heshbon even to Elealeh, even to Jahaz they have raised their voice, from Zoar even to Horonaim and Eglath-shelishiyah; for even the waters of Nimrim will become desolations. 35 “Moreover, I will cause to cease in Moab,” says the LORD , “the one who ascends and offers sacrifice in the high place and the one who burns incense to his gods. 36 “Therefore My heart moans and sighs for Moab like flutes, and My heart moans and sighs like flutes for the men of Kir-heres (Kir-hareseth); therefore [the remnant of] the abundant riches they gained has perished. 37 “For every head is [shaven] bald and every beard cut off; there are cuts (slashes) on all the hands and sackcloth on the f loins [all expressions of mourning]. [Is 15:2 , 3 ] 38 “On all the housetops of Moab and in its streets there is lamentation (expressions of grief for the dead) everywhere, for I have broken Moab like a vessel in which there is no pleasure,” says the LORD . 39 “How it is broken down! How they have wailed! How Moab has turned his back in shame! So Moab will become a laughingstock and a [horrifying] terror to all who are around him.” 40 For thus says the LORD : “Behold, one (Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon) will fly swiftly like an eagle And spread out his wings against Moab. [Ezek 17:3 ] 41 “Kerioth [and the cities] has been taken And the strongholds seized; And the hearts of the warriors of Moab in that day Shall be like the heart of a woman in childbirth. 42 “Moab will be g destroyed from being a nation (people) Because he has become arrogant and magnified himself against the LORD . 43 “Terror and pit and snare are before you, O inhabitant of Moab,” says the LORD . [Is 24:7 ] 44 “The one who flees from the terror Will fall into the pit, And the one who gets up out of the pit Will be taken and caught in the trap; For I shall bring upon it, even upon Moab, The year of their punishment,” says the LORD . 45 “In the shadow of Heshbon The fugitives stand powerless [helpless and without strength], For a fire has gone out from Heshbon, A flame from the midst of Sihon; It has destroyed the forehead of Moab And the crowns of the heads of [the arrogant Moabites] the ones in tumult. 46 “Woe (judgment is coming) to you, O Moab!

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  3 Then Abraham stood up before his dead [wife’s body], and spoke to the b sons of Heth (Hittites), saying, 4 “I am a stranger and a sojourner (resident alien) among you; give (sell) me property for a burial place among you so that I may bury my dead [in the proper manner].” 5 The Hittites replied to Abraham, 6 “Listen to us, my lord; you are a prince of God [a mighty prince] among us; bury your dead in the choicest of our graves; none of us will refuse you his grave or hinder you from burying your dead [wife].” 7 So Abraham stood up and bowed to the people of the land, the Hittites. 8 And Abraham said to them, “If you are willing to grant my dead a [proper] burial, listen to me, and plead with Ephron the son of Zohar for me, 9 so that he may give (sell) me the cave of Machpelah which he owns—it is at the end of his field; let him give it to me here in your presence for the full price as a burial site [which I may keep forever among you].” 10 Now Ephron was present there among the sons of Heth; so within the hearing of all the sons of Heth and all who were entering the gate of his city, Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham, saying, 11 “No, my lord, hear me; I c give you the [entire] field, and I also give you the cave that is in it. In the presence of the men of my people I give (sell) it to you; bury your dead [there].” 12 Then Abraham bowed down before the people of the land. 13 He said to Ephron in the presence of the people of the land, “If you will only please listen to me and accept my offer. I will give you the price of the field; accept it from me and I will bury my dead there.” 14 Ephron replied to Abraham, 15 “My lord, listen to me. The land [you seek] is worth four hundred shekels of silver; what is that between you and me? So bury your dead.” 16 So Abraham listened to Ephron [and agreed to his terms]; and he weighed out for Ephron the [amount of] silver which he had named in the hearing of the Hittites: four hundred shekels of silver, according to the weights current among the merchants. 17 So the field of Ephron in Machpelah, which was to the east of Mamre (Hebron)—the field and the cave which was in it, and all the trees that were in the field and in all its borders around it—were deeded over [legally] 18 to Abraham as his possession in the presence of the Hittites, before all who were entering at the gate of his city.