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.

Page 149 of 263 · 20 per page

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  He said to the Jews, “Look, your King!” 15 But they shouted, “Away with Him, away with Him, crucify Him!” Pilate said to them, “Shall I crucify your King?” The chief priests answered, “We have no king but Caesar!” The Crucifixion 16 Then he handed Him over to them to be crucified. 17 So they took Jesus, and He went out, h bearing His own cross, to the place called i the Place of the Skull, which is called in Hebrew, Golgotha. [Matt 27:33–44 ; Mark 15:22–32 ; Luke 23:33–43 ] 18 There they crucified Him, and with Him two others, one on either side, and Jesus between them. [Is 53:12 ] 19 Pilate also wrote an inscription [on a placard] and put it on the cross. And it was written: “JESUS THE NAZARENE, THE KING OF THE JEWS.” [Matt 27:33–44 ; Mark 15:22–32 ; Luke 23:33–43 ] 20 And many of the Jews read this inscription, for the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city; and it was written in Hebrew, in Latin, and in Greek. 21 Then the chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, “Do not write, ‘The King of the Jews’; but, ‘He said, “I am King of the Jews.” ’ ” 22 Pilate replied, “What I have written I have written [and it remains written].” 23 Then the soldiers, when they had crucified Jesus, took His outer clothes and made four parts, a part for each soldier, and also the tunic. But the j tunic was seamless, woven [in one piece] from the top throughout. [Matt 27:35 ; Mark 15:24 ; Luke 23:34 ] 24 So they said to one another, “Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it, to decide whose it will be.” This was to fulfill the Scripture, “THEY DIVIDED MY OUTER CLOTHING AMONG THEM , AND FOR MY CLOTHING THEY CAST LOTS .” [Ps 22:18 ] 25 So the soldiers did these things. B ut standing by the cross of Jesus were His mother, His mother’s sister [k Salome], l Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. [Mark 15:40 ] 26 So Jesus, seeing His mother, and the m disciple whom He loved (esteemed) standing near, said to His mother, “[Dear] woman, look, [here is] your son!” 27 Then He said to the disciple (John), “Look! [here is] your mother [protect and provide for her]!” From that hour the disciple took her into his own home. 28 After this, Jesus, knowing that all was now finished, said in fulfillment of the Scripture, “I am thirsty.” [Ps 69:21 ] 29 A jar full of n sour wine was placed there; so they put a sponge soaked in the sour wine on [a branch of] hyssop and held it to His mouth.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  11 “He has also kindled His wrath [like a fire] against me And He considers and counts me as one of His adversaries. 12 “His troops come together And build up their way and siege works against me And camp around my tent. 13 “He has put my brothers far from me, And my acquaintances are completely estranged from me. 14 “My relatives have failed [me], And my intimate friends have forgotten me. 15 “Those who live [temporarily] in my house and my maids consider me a stranger; I am a foreigner in their sight. 16 “I call to my servant, but he does not answer; I have to implore him with words. 17 “My breath is repulsive to my wife, And I am loathsome to my own brothers. 18 “Even young children despise me; When I get up, they speak against me. 19 “All the men of my council hate me; Those I love have turned against me. 20 “My bone clings to my skin and to my flesh, And I have escaped [death] by the skin of my teeth. 21 “Have pity on me! Have pity on me, O you my friends, For the hand of God has touched me. 22 “Why do you persecute me as God does? Why are you not satisfied with my flesh (anguish)? Job Says, “My Redeemer Lives” 23 “Oh, that the words I now speak were written! Oh, that they were recorded in a scroll! 24 “That with an iron stylus and [molten] lead They were engraved in the rock forever! 25 “For I know that my Redeemer and Vindicator lives, And at the last He will take His stand upon the earth. [Is 44:6 ; 48:12 ] 26 “Even after my [mortal] skin is destroyed [by death], Yet from my [immortal] flesh I will see God, 27 Whom I, even I, will see for myself, And my eyes will see Him and not another! My heart faints within me. 28 “If you say, ‘How shall we [continue to] persecute him?’ And ‘What pretext for a case against him can we find [since we claim the root of these afflictions is found in him]?’ 29 “Then beware and be afraid of the sword [of divine vengeance] for yourselves, For wrathful are the punishments of that sword, So that you may know there is judgment.” Job 20 Zophar Says, “The Triumph of the Wicked Is Short” 1 T HEN ZOPHAR the Naamathite answered and said, 2 “Therefore my disquieting thoughts make me answer, Because of the uneasiness that is within me. 3 “I have heard the reproof which insults me, But the spirit of my understanding makes me answer. 4 “Do you not know this from the old days, Since the time that man was placed on the earth, 5 That the triumphing of the wicked is short, And the joy of the godless is only for a moment?

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  [Matt 27:48 , 50 ; Mark 15:36f ; Luke 23:36 ] 30 When Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” And He bowed His head and [voluntarily] o gave up His spirit. Care of the Body of Jesus 31 Since it was the day of Preparation [for the Sabbath], in order to prevent the bodies from hanging on the cross on the Sabbath (for that Sabbath was a high holy day) the Jews asked Pilate to have their legs p broken [to hasten death] and the bodies taken away. 32 So the soldiers came and broke the legs of the first man, and of the other who had been crucified with Him. 33 But when they came to Jesus and saw that He was already dead, they did not break His legs. 34 But one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came [flowing] out. 35 And he (John, the eyewitness) who has seen it has testified, and his testimony is true; and he knows that he is telling the truth, so that you also [who read this] may believe. 36 For these things took place to fulfill the Scripture, “NOT A BONE OF HIS SHALL BE BROKEN .” [Ex 12:46 ; Num 9:12 ; Ps 34:20 ] 37 And again another Scripture says, “THEY SHALL LOOK AT HIM WHOM THEY HAVE PIERCED .” [Zech 12:10 ] 38 And after this, Joseph of Arimathea—a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of the Jews—asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus; and Pilate gave him permission. So he came and took away His body. [Matt 27:57–61 ; Mark 15:42–47 ; Luke 23:50–56 ] 39 Nicodemus, who had first come to Him at night, also came bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, [weighing] about a hundred [Roman] q pounds. 40 So they took Jesus’ body and bound it in linen wrappings with the fragrant spices, as is the burial custom of the Jews. 41 Now there was a garden at the place where He was crucified, and in the garden a new tomb [cut out of solid rock] in which no one had yet been laid. 42 Therefore, because of the Jewish day of Preparation, and since the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there. John 20 The Empty Tomb 1 N OW ON the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw the stone [already] removed from the [groove across the entrance of the] tomb. [Matt 28:1–8 ; Mark 16:1–8 ; Luke 24:1–10 ] 2 So she ran and went to Simon Peter and to the a other disciple (John), whom Jesus loved (esteemed), and said to them, “They have taken away the Lord out of the tomb, and b we do not know where they have laid Him!” 3 So Peter and the other disciple left, and they were going to the tomb.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  After examining Him before you, I have found no guilt in this Man regarding the charges which you make against Him. 15 “No, nor has Herod, for he sent Him back to us; and indeed, He has done nothing to deserve death. 16 “Therefore I will punish Him [to teach Him a lesson] and release Him.” 17 b [ Now he was obligated to release to them one prisoner at the Feast.] 18 But they [loudly] shouted out all together, saying, “Away with this Man, and release Barabbas to us!” [Matt 27:15–26 ; Mark 15:6–15 ; John 18:39–19:16 ] 19 (He was one who had been thrown into prison for an insurrection that happened in the city, and for murder.) 20 Pilate addressed them again, wanting to release Jesus, 21 but they kept shouting out, “Crucify, crucify Him!” 22 A third time he said to them, “Why, what wrong has He done? I have found no guilt [no crime, no offense] in Him demanding death; therefore I will punish Him [to teach Him a lesson] and release Him.” 23 But they were insistent and unrelenting, demanding with loud voices that Jesus be crucified. And their voices began to prevail and accomplish their purpose. 24 Pilate pronounced sentence that their demand be granted. 25 And he released the man they were asking for who had been thrown into prison for insurrection and murder, but he handed over Jesus to their will. Simon Bears the Cross 26 When they led Him away, they seized a man, c Simon of d Cyrene, who was coming in [to the city] from the country, and e placed on him the cross to carry behind Jesus. [Matt 27:32 ; Mark 15:21 ] 27 Following Him was a large crowd of the people, including women who were mourning and wailing for Him. 28 But Jesus, turning toward them, said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. 29 “For behold, the days are coming when they will say, ‘Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that have not given birth, and the breasts that have never nursed.’ 30 “Then they will begin TO SAY TO THE MOUNTAINS , ‘F ALL ON US !’ AND TO THE HILLS , ‘C OVER US !’ [Is 2:19 , 20 ; Hos 10:8 ; Rev 6:16 ] 31 “ f For if they do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?” 32 Two others also, who were criminals, were being led away to be executed with Him. [Is 53:12 ] The Crucifixion 33 When they came to the place called g The Skull, there they crucified Him and the criminals, one on the right and one on the left. [Matt 27:33–44 ; Mark 15:22–32 ; John 19:17–24 ] 34 h And Jesus was saying, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots, dividing His clothes among themselves.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  That is ok too. Take Care of Yourself It is undeniable that this sort of interaction will take an emotional toll on you. If you do have the conversation, it can be emotionally draining and uncomfortable. Be aware of the fact that you might need a break or that you might even need to call it quits for the day in order to get some rest and some distance from the situation. Using some of the strategies to stay calm, discussed in chapter 7 , might be really important here. At the same time, if the person doesn’t respond and you never have the conversation, it can be emotionally draining and painful in a different way. Them making the decision that they no longer want you in their life, regardless of what led to them making that decision, will likely be hurtful and distressing. You might blame yourself and feel ashamed and responsible for the problem. It’s important to do what you can to take care of yourself, stay resilient, and learn from the experience. ANGER FACT A damaged relationship is one of the most common consequences of maladaptive anger, with most Anger Project survey respondents saying they have harmed at least one relationship in the past month because of their anger.61 The Hostility of the Internet The outcome for Anne was not such a pleasant one. Anne reached out to her friend via email, asking for an opportunity to talk about what had happened and even issuing an apology for her part of it. What she got back from her friend was an exceedingly hostile response, making it clear – maybe even a little too clear – that she did not wish to be friends anymore. Anne was hurt and therapy quickly shifted from “How can I repair this friendship?” to “How can I get over this loss?” It does open up a really interesting question, though, about how to deal with an angry email. Or, more broadly, how do we deal with various forms of “e-anger” (social media, texting, dating apps, and so on)? Much of the anger we experience isn’t face to face, but screen to screen. What are some effective strategies for navigating the hostility of the internet? The next chapter is all about that. * I will admit to being pleasantly surprised by the amount of research that’s been done on “ghosting.” There’s about 20 research articles in the past decade, which is a good amount considering it’s a relatively new topic. I was not disappointed with the titles either which ranged from the punny (When your boo becomes a ghost ) to the excessively jargony (Disappearing in the age of hypervisibility: Definition, context, and perceived psychological consequences of social media ghosting ). * The internet is of two minds on this topic.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  I saw a woman who I first thought was my mother. I felt a sudden—and novel—rush of tenderness for her and felt mortified and guilty for having criticized her in these pages. Like my mother, the woman in the photo seemed uneducated, frightened, hardworking, and just trying to survive and raise her family in a strange new culture. My life has been so rich, so privileged, so safe—largely because of the hard work and generosity of my mother. I sat there in this deli weeping as I looked into her eyes and the eyes of all those refugees. I’ve had a lifetime of exploring, analyzing, and reconstructing my past, but I’m realizing now there is a vale of tears and pain in me I may never be done with. S ince I took early retirement from Stanford in 1994 my daily schedule has remained the same: I write for three to four hours every morning, usually six or seven days weekly, and five times a week I see patients later in the day. I’ve lived for over fifty years in Palo Alto, and my office is a separate building fifty meters from my home. About thirty-five years ago I bought a flat on Russian Hill in San Francisco with a beautiful view of the city and bay, and I see patients there on Thursday and Friday afternoons. Marilyn joins me Friday evenings and we generally spend weekends in San Francisco, a city that I find endlessly interesting. T HE AUTHOR IN HIS P ALO A LTO OFFICE , 2010. I chide myself about my faux retirement. “How many eighty-five-year-old psychiatrists are working as hard as I do?” Am I, like my patient Howard, continuing to work in order to stave off senility and death? Such questions jolt me, but I have my arsenal of answers. “I still have a lot to offer.… My aging makes me more able to understand and comfort people my age.… I am a writer and intoxicated by the writing process, so why give it up?” Yes, I confess: I have terrible qualms about arriving at this last paragraph. I’ve always had a stack of books waiting in the back of my mind to be written, but no longer. Once I finish this work, I feel certain there are no more books waiting for me. My friends and colleagues groan when they hear me say this. They’ve heard it many times before. But I fear this time is different. I always ask my patients to explore regrets and urge them to aspire to a regret-free life. Looking back now, I have few regrets. I’ve had an extraordinary woman as my life partner. I have loving children and grandchildren. I’ve lived in a privileged part of the world with ideal weather, lovely parks, little poverty or crime, and Stanford, one of the world’s great universities. And I receive letters every day reminding me that I’ve been helpful to someone in a distant land.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  ] ” 22 When they were gathering together in Galilee, Jesus said to them, “The Son of Man is going to be betrayed and handed over to men [who are His enemies]; 23 and they will kill Him, and He will be raised [from death to life] on the third day.” And they were deeply grieved and distressed. The Tribute Money 24 When they arrived in Capernaum, the collectors of the e half-shekel [temple tax] went up to Peter and said, “Does not your teacher pay the half-shekel?” [Ex 30:13 ; 38:26 ] 25 Peter answered, “Yes.” And when he came home, Jesus spoke to him first, saying, “What do you think, Simon? From whom do earthly rulers collect duties or taxes, from their sons or from strangers?” 26 When Peter said, “From strangers,” Jesus said to him, “Then the sons are exempt [from taxation]. 27 “However, so that we do not offend them, go to the sea and throw in a hook, and take the first fish that comes up; and when you open its mouth, you will find a shekel. Take it and give it to them [to pay the temple tax] for you and Me.” Matthew 18 Rank in the Kingdom 1 A T THAT time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” [Mark 9:33–37 ; Luke 9:46–48 ] 2 He called a little child and set him before them, 3 and said, “I assure you and most solemnly say to you, unless you repent [that is, change your inner self—your old way of thinking, live changed lives] and become like children [trusting, humble, and forgiving], you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. 4 “Therefore, whoever a humbles himself like this child is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. 5 “Whoever receives and welcomes one b child like this in My name receives Me; 6 but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble and sin [by leading him away from My teaching], it would be better for him to have a heavy millstone [as large as one turned by a donkey] hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea. [Mark 9:42 ; Luke 17:2 ] Stumbling Blocks 7 “Woe (judgment is coming) to the world because of stumbling blocks and temptations to sin! It is inevitable that stumbling blocks come; but woe to the person on whose account or through whom the stumbling block comes! [Luke 17:1 ] 8 “If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble and sin, cut it off and throw it away from you [that is, remove yourself from the source of temptation]; it is better for you to enter life crippled or lame, than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into everlasting fire.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘You will find the rest of the jewellery in my bedchamber, safely stored. I came naked out of my father’s house, and naked I will return. I will follow your orders in everything. But may I ask you this, sir? Is it your intention that I should actually leave your palace without clothes? ‘It would be a great dishonour to you, and to me, if the belly in which your children lay was paraded before the people. Let me not go as naked as a worm upon its way. Remember, sir, that, unworthy though I be, I was still once your wife. ‘So in requital for the virginity I gave you, and which can never be restored to me, I plead with you to let me have as my reward a simple smock. Just like the smock I used to wear before I met you. I would then be able to cover up the womb of the woman who was once your wife. Now I will bid farewell to you, sir, in case I have angered you.’ ‘Keep the smock you are wearing now,’ he said to her. ‘Take it back with you.’ That was all he said. He could say no more. Overwhelmed by sorrow and by pity, he went on his way. So Griselda removed her other garments, in front of the whole court, and then returned to her father’s cottage in the simple smock. She walked back with bare head and with bare feet, accompanied by many people bewailing her fate and cursing the misadventures of Fortune. But Griselda did not cry. She never shed a tear. And she never said a word. Her father, on the other hand, wept and cursed when he heard the news. He did not want to live a day longer. In fact the poor old man had always harboured doubts about the marriage. He had always suspected that the marquis would get rid of his daughter as soon as he had had enough of her. He believed that the lord would regret having wed a poor woman, and would banish her from his court. So he hastened out of doors to meet Griselda, alerted by the noise of the crowd, and covered her smock with an old coat that he had brought with him. He was weeping. Yet the coat did not fit her. It was old and coarse and out of date. She was not the same slim young girl she had been at the time of her marriage. So for a while Griselda dwelled with her father. She was still a model of loyalty and patience, never complaining, never explaining, never lamenting. She did not show, to her father or to anyone else, any grief at her treatment. She did not mention her previous life as the wife of a great lord. She said nothing. She looked content. What else would you expect? Even when she lived in great state she had always retained her deep humility.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She rose and returned to the stove and took the rice off the fire and poured it into the collander and ran water over it; put water in the saucepan and put it back on the fire, placing the collander on top of it and covering the rice with a towel. She turned the chops over. Then she sat down. “When we saw Rufus’s body, I can’t tell you. My father stared at it, he stared at it, and stared at it. It didn’t look like Rufus, it was—terrible—from the water, and he must have struck something going down, or in the water, because he was so broken and lumpy—and ugly. My brother. And my father stared at it—at it—and he said, They don’t leave a man much, do they? His own father was beaten to death with a hammer by a railroad guard. And they brought his father home like that. My mother got frightened, she wanted my father to pray. And he said, he shouted it at the top of his lungs, Pray? Who, pray? I bet you, if I ever get anywhere near that white devil you call God, I’ll tear my son and my father out of his white hide! Don’t you never say the word Pray to me again, woman, not if you want to live. Then he started to cry. I’ll never forget it. Maybe I hadn’t loved him before, but I loved him then. That was the last time he ever shouted, he hasn’t raised his voice since. He just sits there, he doesn’t even drink any more. Sometimes he goes out and listens to those fellows who make speeches on 125th Street and Seventh Avenue. He says he just wants to live long enough—long enough——.” Vivaldo said, to break the silence which abruptly roared around them, “To be paid back.” “Yes,” she said. “And I felt that way, too.” She walked over to the stove again. “I felt that I’d been robbed. And I had been robbed—of the only hope I had. By a group of people too cowardly even to know what they had done. And it didn’t seem to me that they deserved any better than what they’d given me. I didn’t care what happened to them, just so they suffered. I didn’t really much care what happened to me. But I wasn’t going to let what happened to Rufus, and what was happening all around me, happen to me. I was going to get through the world, and get what I needed out of it, no matter how.” He thought, Oh, it’s coming now, and felt a strange, bitter relief. He finished his drink and lit another cigarette, and watched her. She looked over at him, as though to make certain that he was still listening. “Nothing you’ve said so far,” he said, carefully, “seems to have much to do with being black. Except for what you make out of it. But nobody can help you there.”

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  But what speak I of these things? for now is no time to question, but to confess unto Thee. Wretched I was; and wretched is every soul bound by the friendship of perishable things; he is torn asunder when he loses them, and then he feels the wretchedness which he had ere yet he lost them. So was it then with me; I wept most bitterly, and found my repose in bitterness. Thus was I wretched, and that wretched life I held dearer than my friend. For though I would willingly have changed it, yet was I more unwilling to part with it than with him; yea, I know not whether I would have parted with it even for him, as is related (if not feigned) of Pylades and Orestes, that they would gladly have died for each other or together, not to live together being to them worse than death. But in me there had arisen some unexplained feeling, too contrary to this, for at once I loathed exceedingly to live and feared to die. I suppose, the more I loved him, the more did I hate, and fear (as a most cruel enemy) death, which had bereaved me of him: and I imagined it would speedily make an end of all men, since it had power over him. Thus was it with me, I remember. Behold my heart, O my God, behold and see into me; for well I remember it, O my Hope, who cleansest me from the impurity of such affections, directing mine eyes towards Thee, and plucking my feet out of the snare. For I wondered that others, subject to death, did live, since he whom I loved, as if he should never die, was dead; and I wondered yet more that myself, who was to him a second self, could live, he being dead. Well said one of his friend, “Thou half of my soul”; for I felt that my soul and his soul were “one soul in two bodies”: and therefore was my life a horror to me, because I would not live halved. And therefore perchance I feared to die, lest he whom I had much loved should die wholly.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “It’s mighty funny,” he said, “that you should envy me.” He rose from the sofa, and walked to the window. Behind him, beneath the mighty lament of the music, a heavy silence gathered: Cass, also, had something to talk about, but he did not want to know what it was. You can’t trust nobody, you might as well be alone. Staring out over the water, he asked, “What was Rufus like—near the end?” After a moment, he turned and looked at her. “I hadn’t meant to ask you that—but I guess I really want to know.” Her face, despite the softening bangs, grew spare and contemplative. Her lips twisted. “I told you a little of it,” she said, “in my letter. But I didn’t know how you felt by that time and I didn’t see any point in burdening you.” She put out her cigarette and lit another one. “He was very unhappy, as—as you know.” She paused. “Actually, we never got very close to him. Vivaldo knew him better than—than we did, anyway.” He felt a curious throb of jealousy: Vivaldo! “We didn’t see much of him. He became very involved with a Southern girl, a girl from Georgia—–” Found my long lost friend, and I might as well stayed at home! “You didn’t tell me that,” he said. “No. He wasn’t very nice to her. He beat her up a lot—–” He stared at her, feeling himself grow pale, remembering more than he wanted to remember, feeling his hope and his hope of safety threatened by invincible, unnamed forces within himself. He remembered Rufus’ face, his hands, his body, and his voice, and the constant humiliation. “Beat her up? What for?” “Well—who knows? Because she was Southern, because she was white. I don’t know. Because he was Rufus. It was very ugly. She was a nice girl, maybe a little pathetic—” “Did she like to be beaten up? I mean—did something in her like it, did she like to be—debased?” “No, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. Well, maybe there’s something in everybody that likes to be debased, but I don’t think life’s that simple. I don’t trust all these formulas.” She paused. “To tell the truth, I think she probably loved Rufus, really loved him, and wanted Rufus to love her.” “How abnormal,” he said, “can you get!” He finished his drink. A very faint, wry amusement crossed her face. “Anyway, their affair dragged on from bad to worse and she was finally committed to an institution—” “You mean, a madhouse?” “Yes.” “Where?” “In the South. Her family came and got her.” “My God,” he said. “Go on.” “Well, then, Rufus disappeared—for quite a long time, that’s when I met his sister, she came to see us, looking for him—and came back once, and—died.” Helplessly, she opened one bony hand, then closed it into a fist.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “This just came,” she said. “I thought it might be important.” “Thank you,” he said. She, too, hoped that it might be the money he was waiting for, but she closed her door behind her. It was nearly suppertime and she was cooking; in fact, the entire street seemed to be cooking, and his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He did not look carefully at the outside of the envelope because his mind was entirely occupied by the recalcitrant check, and he was not expecting a check from America, which was where the letter came from; and he crumpled it up, unread, in his trench-coat pocket and crossed the courtyard and went upstairs to his room. There, he put the letter on the table, dried himself, and undressed and got under the covers. Then he lay the cigarettes out to dry, lit the driest one, and looked at the letter again. It seemed a very ordinary letter, until the paragraph beginning We were all very fond of him, and I know that you were, too—yes, it must have been Cass who wrote. Rufus was dead, and by his own hand. Rufus was dead. Boys like me? Yves had teased. How could he tell the boy who lay beside him now anything about Rufus? It had taken him a long while to realize that one of the reasons Yves had so stirred his heart, stirred it in a way he had almost forgotten it could be stirred, was because he reminded him, somehow, somewhere, of Rufus. And it had taken him almost until this very moment, on the eve of his departure, to begin to recognize that part of Rufus’ great power over him had to do with the past which Eric had buried in some deep, dark place; was connected with himself, in Alabama, when I wasn’t nothing but a child; with the cold white people and the warm, black people, warm at least for him, and as necessary as the sun which bathed the bodies of himself and his lover now. Lying in this garden now, so warm, covered, and apprehensive, he saw them on the angular, blazing streets of his childhood, and in the shuttered houses, and in the fields. They laughed differently from other people, so it had seemed to him, and moved with more beauty and violence, and they smelled like good things in the oven.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  The third section, “The Author at Work,” attempts to show, in a small way, the methods Henry Miller used in preparing his books. The fourth section, “Writing and Obscenity,” contains the most important writings by Henry Miller on obscenity and its relation to his own idea of the artist as writer. I think it is very important for an understanding of Henry Miller’s works. I was fortunate in being able to obtain the help of Henry Miller in the final selection of the passages. To conclude, I feel that, first of all, the selections will be found enjoyable reading. I also know that they will be an inspiration and a stimulus to those who are, or ever hope to be, writers. THOMAS H. MOORE … I proved to my satisfaction that, like any other mortal, I too could write. But since I wasn’t really meant to be a writer all that was permitted me to give expression to was this business of writing and being a writer; in short, my own private struggles with this problem. My grief, in other words. Out of the lack I made my song. Very much as if a warrior, challenged to mortal combat and having no weapons, must first forge them himself. And in the process, one that takes all his life, the purpose of his labors gets forgotten or sidetracked. —Art and Outrage I The “Literary” Writer My Anchorage—Tropic of CapricornDuring this period when I was drifting from door to door, job to job, friend to friend, meal to meal, I did try nevertheless to rope off a little space for myself which might be an anchorage; it was more like a life-buoy in the midst of a swift channel. To get within a mile of me was to hear a huge dolorous bell tolling. Nobody could see the anchorage—it was buried deep in the bottom of the channel. One saw me bobbing up and down on the surface, rocking gently sometimes or else swinging backwards and forwards agitatedly. What held me down safely was the big pigeon-holed desk which I put in the parlor. This was the desk which had been in the old man’s tailoring establishment for the last fifty years, which had given birth to many bills and many groans, which had housed strange souvenirs in its compartments, and which finally I had filched from him when he was ill and away from the establishment, and now it stood in the middle of the floor in our lugubrious parlor on the third floor of a respectable brown-stone house in the dead center of the most respectable neighborhood in Brooklyn. I had to fight a tough battle to install it there, but I insisted that it be there in the midmost midst of the shebang. It was like putting a mastodon in the center of a dentist’s office.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric turned back to the window. “A Southern girl,” he said. He felt a very dull, very distant pain. It all seemed very long ago, that gasping and trembling, freezing and burning time. The pain was distant now because it had scarcely been bearable then. It could not really be recollected because it had become a part of him. Yet, the power of this pain, though diminished, was not dead: Rufus’ face again appeared before him, that dark face, with those dark eyes and curving, heavy lips. It was the face of Rufus when he had looked with love on Eric. Then, out of hiding, leapt his other faces, the crafty, cajoling face of desire, the remote face of desire achieved. Then, for a second, he saw Rufus’ face as he stared on death, and saw his body hurtling downward through the air: into that water, the water which stretched before him now. The old pain receded into the home it had made in him. But another pain, homeless as yet, began knocking at his heart—not for the first time: it would force an entry one day, and remain with him forever. Catch them. Don’t let them blues in here. They shakes me in my bed, can’t sit down in my chair. “Let me fix you a fresh drink,” Cass said. “Okay.” She took his glass. As she walked to the bar, he said, “You knew about us, I guess? I guess everybody knew—though we thought we were being so smart, and all. And, of course, he always had a lot of girls around.” “Well, so did you,” she said. “In fact, I vaguely remember that you were thinking of getting married at one point.” He took his drink from the bar, and paced the room. “Yes. I haven’t thought of her in a long time, either.” He paused and grimaced sourly. “That’s right, I certainly did have a few girls hanging around. I hardly even remember their names.” As he said this, the names of two or three old girl friends flashed into his mind. “I haven’t thought about them for years.” He came back to the sofa, and sat down. Cass watched him from the bar. “I might,” he said, painfully, “have had them around just on account of Rufus—trying to prove something, maybe, to him and to myself.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  But now there was nothing to see, the street was empty, dark, and still, though an echo of voices, diminishing, floated back. “One of the last times I saw Rufus,” Vivaldo said, abruptly—and stopped. He had not thought about it since that moment; in a way, he had never thought about it at all. “Yes?” He could barely make out Eric’s face in the darkness. He turned away from Eric and sat down on the bed again, and lit a cigarette. And in the tiny flare, Eric’s face leapt at him, then dropped back into darkness. He watched the red-black silhouette of Eric’s head against the dim glow of the Venetian blinds. He remembered that terrible apartment again, and Leona’s tears, and Rufus with the knife, and the bed with the twisted gray sheet and the thin blanket: and it all seemed to have happened many, many years ago. But, in fact, it had only been a matter of months. “I never told this to anybody before,” he said, “and I really don’t know why I’m telling you. It’s just that the last time I saw Rufus, before he disappeared, when he was still with Leona”—he caught his breath, he dragged on his cigarette and the glow brought the room back into the world, then dropped it again into chaos—“we had a fight, he said he was going to kill me. And, at the very end, when he was finally in bed, after he’d cried, and after he’d told me—so many terrible things—I looked at him, he was lying on his side, his eyes were half open, he was looking at me. I was taking off my pants, Leona was staying at my place and I was going to stay there, I was afraid to leave him alone. Well, when he looked at me, just before he closed his eyes and turned on his side away from me, all curled up, I had the weirdest feeling that he wanted me to take him in my arms. And not for sex, though maybe sex would have happened. I had the feeling that he wanted someone to hold him, to hold him, and that, that night, it had to be a man. I got in the bed and I thought about it and I watched his back, it was as dark in that room, then, as it is in this room, now, and I lay on my back and I didn’t touch him and I didn’t sleep. I remember that night as a kind of vigil.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “No. No, I hadn’t meant to suggest that.” He tried to smile. “He was very wrapped up in his music, he was very much—himself. I was younger then, I may not always have—understood.” He felt sweat in his armpits, on his forehead, between his legs. “Oh.” She looked at him from very far away. “You may have wanted more from him than he could give. Many people did, men and women.” She allowed this to hang between them for an instant. Then, “He was terribly attractive, wasn’t he? I always think that that was the reason he died, that he was too attractive and didn’t know how—how to keep people away.” She sipped her drink. “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love. Then, when you’re dead, when they’ve killed you by what they made you go through, they say you didn’t have any character. They weep big, bitter tears—not for you. For themselves, because they’ve lost their toy.” “That’s a terribly grim view,” he said, “of love.” “I know what I’m talking about. That’s what most people mean, when they say love.” She picked up a cigarette and waited for him to light it. “Thank you. You weren’t here, you never saw Rufus’s last girl friend—a terrible little whore of a nymphomaniac, from Georgia. She wouldn’t let him go, he tried all kinds of ways of getting away from her. He even thought of running away to Mexico. She got him so he couldn’t work—I swear, there’s nothing like a Southern white person, especially a Southern woman, when she gets her hooks into a Negro man.” She blew a great cloud of smoke above his head. “And now she’s still living, the filthy white slut, and Rufus is dead.” He said, hoping that she would really hear him but knowing she would not, perhaps could not, “I hope you don’t think I loved your brother in that terrible way that you describe. I think we really were very good friends, and—and it was an awful shock for me to hear that he was dead. I was in Paris when I heard.” “Oh! I’m not accusing you. You and I are going to be friends. Don’t you think so?” “I certainly hope so.” “Well, that settles it, as far as I’m concerned.” Then, smiling, with her eyes very big, “What did you do in Paris all that time?” “Oh”—he smiled—“I tried to grow up.” “Couldn’t you have done that here? Or didn’t you want to?” “I don’t know. It was more fun in Paris.” “I’ll bet.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Have you grown up?” “I don’t know,” he said, “any longer, if people do.” She grinned. “You’ve got a point there, Buster.” Vivaldo came back to the table. She looked up at him. “Well? How are the kids?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Somebody said, “What did I tell you?”—triumphantly; there was a brief spatter of applause, presumably for the dead Rufus; and the drummer bowed his head and did an oddly irreverent riff on the rim of his drum: klook-a-klook, klook-klook, klook-klook! Ida sang: Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand. Her eyes were closed and the dark head on the long dark neck was thrown back. Something appeared in her face which had not been there before, a kind of passionate, triumphant rage and agony. Now, her fine, sensual, free-moving body was utterly still, as though being held in readiness for a communion more total than flesh could bear; and a strange chill came into the room, along with a strange resentment. Ida did not know how great a performer she would have to become before she could dare expose her audience, as she now did, to her private fears and pain. After all, her brother had meant nothing to them, or had never meant to them what he had meant to her. They did not wish to witness her mourning, especially as they dimly suspected that this mourning contained an accusation of themselves—an accusation which their uneasiness justified. They endured her song, therefore, but they held themselves outside it; and yet, at the same time, the very arrogance and innocence of Ida’s offering compelled their admiration. Hear my cry, hear my call, Take my hand, lest I fall, Precious Lord! The applause was odd—not quite unwilling, not quite free; wary, rather, in recognition of a force not quite to be trusted but certainly to be watched. The musicians were now both jubilant and watchful, as though Ida had abruptly become their property. The drummer adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, saying, “You been perspiring, don’t you let yourself catch cold”; and, as she started off the stand, the piano- player rose and, ceremoniously, kissed her on the brow. The bass-player said, “Hell, let’s tell the folks her name.” He grabbed the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been listening to Miss Ida Scott. This is her first—exposure,” and he mopped his brow, ironically. The crowd laughed. He said, “But it won’t be her last.” The applause came again, more easily this time, since the role of judge and bestower had been returned to the audience. “We have been present,” said the bass-player, “at an historic event.” This time the audience, in a paroxysm of self-congratulation, applauded, stomped, and cheered. “Well,” said Vivaldo, taking both her hands in his, “it looks like you’re on your way.” “Were you proud of me?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  “What?” Richard turned, the sunlight full on his face, revealing the lines in his forehead, around and under his eyes, and around his mouth and chin. The face was full of lines; it was a tough face, a good face, and Vivaldo had loved it for a long time. Yet, the face lacked something, he could not have said what the something was, and he knew his helpless judgment was unjust. He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Richard, we talked about the book and I told you what I thought, I told you that it was a brilliant idea and wonderfully organized and beautifully written and—” He stopped. He had not liked the book. He could not take it seriously. It was an able, intelligent, mildly perceptive tour de force and it would never mean anything to anyone. In the place in Vivaldo’s mind in which books lived, whether they were great, mangled, mutilated, or mad, Richard’s book did not exist. There was nothing he could do about it. “And you yourself said that the next book would be better.” “What are you crying about?” “What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.” “Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course we’re friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?” They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.” Richard laughed. “I won’t bug you any more, you stupid bastard.” Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.” They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair. Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced.

• From Another Country (1962)

  It was a morning funeral, and Rufus was to be driven to the graveyard immediately afterward. Early on that cold, dry Saturday, Vivaldo arrived, emphatically in black and white: white shirt, black tie, black suit, black shoes, black coat; and black hair, eyes, and eyebrows, and a dead-white, bone-dry face. She was struck by his panic and sorrow; without a word, she put on her dark coat and put her hand in his; and they rode down in the elevator in silence. She watched him in the elevator mirror. Sorrow became him. He was reduced to his beauty and elegance—as bones, after a long illness, come forward through the flesh. They got into a taxi and started uptown. Vivaldo sat beside her, his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. She watched the streets. Traffic was heavy, but rolling; the cab kept swerving and jerking, slowing down and speeding up but managing not to stop. Then, at Thirty- fourth Street, the red light brought it to a halt. They were surrounded by a violence of cars, great trucks, green buses lumbering across town, and boys, dark boys, pushing wooden wagons full of clothes. The people on the sidewalks overflowed into the streets. Women in heavy coats moved heavily, carrying large packages and enormous handbags—for Thanksgiving was over but signs proclaimed the dwindling number of shopping days to Christmas. Men, relatively unburdened, pursuing the money which Christmas cost, hurried around and past the women; boys in ducktail haircuts swung over the cold black asphalt as though it were a dance floor. Outside the window, as close to her as Vivaldo, one of the colored boys stopped his wagon, lit a cigarette, and laughed. The taxi could not move and the driver began cursing. Cass lit a cigarette and handed it to Vivaldo. She lit another for herself. Then, abruptly, the taxi jerked forward. The driver turned on his radio and the car was filled suddenly with the sound of a guitar, a high, neighing voice, and a chorus, crying, “love me!” The other words were swallowed in the guttural moans of the singer, which were nearly as obscene as the driver’s curses had been, but these two words kept recurring. “My whole family thinks I’m a bum,” said Vivaldo. “I’d say they’ve given me up, except I know they’re scared to death of what I’ll do next.” She said nothing. He looked out of the cab window. They were crossing Columbus Circle. “Sometimes—like today,” he said, “I think they’re probably right and I’ve just been kidding myself. About everything.” The walls of the park now closed on either side of them and beyond these walls, through speed and barren trees, the walls of hotels and apartment buildings. “My family thinks I married beneath me,” she said. “Beneath them.” And she smiled at him and crushed out her cigarette on the floor. “I don’t think I ever saw my father sober,” he said, “not in all these years.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Hear my cry, hear my call, Take my hand, lest I fall, Precious Lord! The applause was odd—not quite unwilling, not quite free; wary, rather, in recognition of a force not quite to be trusted but certainly to be watched. The musicians were now both jubilant and watchful, as though Ida had abruptly become their property. The drummer adjusted her shawl around her shoulders, saying, “You been perspiring, don’t you let yourself catch cold”; and, as she started off the stand, the piano-player rose and, ceremoniously, kissed her on the brow. The bass-player said, “Hell, let’s tell the folks her name.” He grabbed the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been listening to Miss Ida Scott. This is her first—exposure,” and he mopped his brow, ironically. The crowd laughed. He said, “But it won’t be her last.” The applause came again, more easily this time, since the role of judge and bestower had been returned to the audience. “We have been present,” said the bass-player, “at an historic event.” This time the audience, in a paroxysm of self-congratulation, applauded, stomped, and cheered. “Well,” said Vivaldo, taking both her hands in his, “it looks like you’re on your way.” “Were you proud of me?” She made her eyes very big: the curve of her lips was somewhat sardonic. “Yes,” he said, after an instant, gravely, “but, then, I’m always proud of you.” Then she laughed and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “My darling Vivaldo. You ain’t seen nothing yet.” “I’d like,” said Eric, “to add my voice to the general chorus of joy and gratitude. You were great, you really were.” She looked at him. Her eyes were still very big and something in her regard made him feel that she disliked him. He brushed the thought away as he would have brushed away a fly. “I’m not great yet,” she said, “but I will be,” and she raised both hands and touched her earrings. “They’re very beautiful,” he said, “your earrings.” “Do you like them? My brother had them made for me—just before he died.” He paused. “I knew your brother a little. I was very sorry to hear about his—his death.” “Many, many people were,” said Ida. “He was a very beautiful man, a very great artist. But he made”—she regarded him with a curious, cool insolence—“some very bad connections. He was the kind who believed what people said. If you told Rufus you loved him, well, he believed you and he’d stick with you till death. I used to try to tell him the world wasn’t like that.” She smiled. “He was much nicer than I am. It doesn’t pay to be too nice in this world.” “That may be true. But you seem nice—you seem very nice—to me.” “That’s because you don’t know me. But ask Vivaldo!” And she turned to Vivaldo, putting her arm on his.