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 193 of 263 · 20 per page

• From Another Country (1962)

  The snow which had been predicted for the day before Thanksgiving did not begin to fall until late in the evening—slow, halfhearted flakes, spinning and gleaming in the darkness, melting on the ground. All day long a cold sun glared down on Manhattan, giving no heat. Cass woke a little earlier than usual, and fed the children and sent them off to school. Richard ate his breakfast and retired into his study—he was not in a good mood. Cass cleaned the house, thinking of tomorrow’s dinner, and went out in the early afternoon to shop and to walk for a little while alone. She was gone longer than she had intended, for she loved to walk around this city. She was chilled when at last she started home. They lived just below Twenty-third Street, on the West Side, in a neighborhood that had lately acquired many Puerto Ricans. For this reason it was said that the neighborhood was declining; from what previous height it would have been hard to say. It seemed to Cass very much as it always had, run-down, and with a preponderance of very rough-looking people. As for the Puerto Ricans, she rather liked them. They did not impress her as being rough; they seemed, on the contrary, rather too gentle for their brutal environment. She liked the sound of their talk, soft and laughing, or else violently, clearly, brilliantly hostile; she liked the life in their eyes and the way they treated their children, as though all children were naturally the responsibility of all grownups. Even when the adolescents whistled after her, or said lewd things as she passed and laughed among themselves, she did not become resentful or afraid; she did not feel in it the tense New York hostility. They were not cursing something they longed for and feared, they were joking about something they longed for and loved. Now, as she labored up the outside steps of the building, one of the Puerto Rican boys she had seen everywhere in the neighborhood opened the door for her with a small, half-smile. She smiled at him and thanked him as forthrightly as she could, and stepped into the elevator. There was something in Richard’s face as he closed the door behind her, and in the loud silence of the apartment. She looked at him and started to ask about the children—but then she heard them in the living room. Richard followed her into the kitchen and she put down her packages. She looked into his face. “What is it?” she asked. Then, after the instant in which she checked off all the things it wasn’t, “Rufus,” she said, suddenly, “you’ve got news about Rufus.” “Yes.” She watched the way a small vein in his forehead fluttered. “He’s dead, Cass. They found his body floating in the river.” She sat down at the kitchen table. “When?” “Sometime this morning.” “How long—how long ago—?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I mean”—he was watching her; she sat down again, playing with the glass of whiskey—“a man meets a woman. And he needs her. But she uses this need against him, she uses it to undermine him. And it’s easy. Women don’t see men the way men want to be seen. They see all the tender places, all the places where blood could flow.” She finished the whiskey. “Do you see what I mean?” “No,” he said, frankly, “I don’t. I don’t believe all this female intuition shit. It’s something women have dreamed up.” “You can say that—and in such a tone!” She mimicked him: “Something women have dreamed up. But I can’t say that—what men have ‘dreamed up’ is all there is, the world they’ve dreamed up is the world.” He laughed. She subsided. “Well. It’s true.” “What a funny girl you are,” he said. “You’ve got a bad case of penis envy.” “So do most men,” she said, sharply, and he laughed. “All I meant, anyway,” she said, soberly, “is that I had to try to fit myself around you and not try to make you fit around me. That’s all. And it hasn’t been easy.” “No.” “No. Because I love you.” “Ah!” he said, and laughed aloud, “you are a funny girl. I love you, too, you know that.” “I hope you do,” she said. “You know me so well and you don’t know that? What happened to all that intuition, all that—specialized—point of view?” “Beyond a certain point,” she said, with a sullen smile, “it doesn’t seem to work so well.” He pulled her up from the table and put both arms around her, bending his cheek to her hair. “What point is that, my darling?” Everything, his breath in her hair, his arms, his chest, his odor—was familiar, confining, unutterably dear. She turned her head slightly to look out of the kitchen window. “Love,” she said, and watched the cold sunlight. She thought of the cold river and of the dead black boy, their friend. She closed her eyes. “Love,” she said, again, “love.” Richard stayed with the children Saturday, while Cass and Vivaldo went uptown to Rufus’ funeral. She did not want to go but she could not refuse Vivaldo, who knew that he had to be there but dreaded being there alone. 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.

• From Another Country (1962)

  You were miserable then. We all wondered—I wondered—what would become of you. But you aren’t miserable now.” “No,” he said, and, under her scrutiny, blushed. “I’m not miserable any more. But I still don’t know what’s going to become of me.” “Growth,” she said, “is what will become of you. It’s what has become of you.” And she gave him again her oddly intimate, rueful smile. “It’s very nice to see, it’s very—enviable. I don’t envy many people. I haven’t found myself envying anyone for a long, long time.” “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.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Don’t you think that hurts me? You lock me out. And all I want is for you to be a part of me, for me to be a part of you. I wouldn’t give a damn if you were striped like a zebra.” She laughed. “Yes, you would, really. But you say the cutest things.” Then, “If I lock you out, as you put it, it’s mainly to protect you—” “Protect me from what? and I don’t want to be protected. Besides——” “Besides?” “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe that’s why. You want to protect yourself. You want to hate me because I’m white, because it’s easier for you that way.” “I don’t hate you.” “Then why do you always bring it up? What is it?” She stirred the rice, which was almost ready, found a collander, and placed it in the sink. Then she turned to face him. “This all began because I said that you people—” “Listen to yourself. You people!” “—didn’t know anything about Rufus—” “Because we’re white.” “No. Because he was black.” “Oh. I give up. And, anyway, why must we always end up talking about Rufus?” “I had started to tell you something,” she said, quietly; and watched him. He swallowed some more of his whiskey, and lit a cigarette. “True. Please go on.” “Because I’m black,” she said, after a moment, and sat at the table near him, “I know more about what happened to my brother than you can ever know. I watched it happen—from the beginning. I was there. He shouldn’t have ended up the way he did. That’s what’s been so hard for me to accept. He was a very beautiful boy. Most people aren’t beautiful, I knew that right away. I watched them, and I knew. But he didn’t because he was so much nicer than I.” She paused, and the silence grumbled with the sound of the frying pan and the steady sound of the rain. “He loved our father, for example. He really loved him. I didn’t. He was just a loudmouthed, broken-down man, who liked to get drunk and hang out in barber shops—well, maybe he didn’t like it but that was all he could find to do, except work like a dog, for nothing—and play the guitar on the week ends for his only son.” She paused again, smiling. “There was something very nice about those week ends, just the same. I can still see Daddy, his belly hanging out, strumming on that guitar and trying to teach Rufus some down-home song and Rufus grinning at him and making fun of him a little, really, but very nicely, and singing with him. I bet my father was never happier, all the days of his life, than when he was singing for Rufus. He’s got no one to sing to now.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: 'Madam, since it pleased God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive myself therefor.' So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon's feathers and feet and beak.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He walked up and down behind the altar, behind the bier. “I know there ain’t nothing I can say to you that sit before me—his mother and father, his sister, his kinfolks, his friends—to bring him back or to keep you from grieving that he’s gone. I know that. Ain’t nothing I can say will make his life different, make it the life that maybe some other man might have lived. It’s all been done, it’s all written down on high. But don’t lose heart, dear ones—don’t lose heart. Don’t let it make you bitter. Try to understand. Try to understand. The world’s already bitter enough, we got to try to be better than the world.” He looked down, then over to the front row. “You got to remember,” he said, gently, “he was trying. Ain’t many trying and all that tries must suffer. Be proud of him. You got a right to be proud. And that’s all he ever wanted in this world.” Except for someone—a man—weeping in the front row, there was silence all over the chapel. Cass thought that the man must be Rufus’ father and she wondered if he believed what the preacher said. What had Rufus been to him?—a troublesome son, a stranger while living and now a stranger forever in death. And now nothing else would ever be known. Whatever else had been, or might have been, locked in Rufus’ heart or in the heart of his father, had gone into oblivion with Rufus. It would never be expressed now. It was over. “There’re some friends of Rufus’s here,” said Reverend Foster, “and they going to play something for us and then we going to go.” Two young men walked up the aisle, one carrying a guitar, one carrying a bass fiddle. The thin dark girl followed them. The black-robed boy at the piano flexed his fingers. The two boys stood directly in front of the covered corpse, the girl stood a little away from them, near the piano. They began playing something Cass did not recognize, something very slow, and more like the blues than a hymn. Then it began to be more tense and more bitter and more swift. The people in the chapel hummed low in their throats and tapped their feet. Then the girl stepped forward. She threw back her head and closed her eyes and that voice rang out again: Oh, that great getting-up morning, Fare thee well, fare thee well! Reverend Foster, standing on a height behind her, raised both hands and mingled his voice with hers: We’ll be coming from every nation, Fare thee well, fare thee well! The chapel joined them, but the girl ended the song alone: Oh, on that great getting-up morning, Fare thee well, fare thee well!

• From Another Country (1962)

  She walked away and another, older and plainer girl, who was also, however, very carefully dressed and made-up, came over to Cass, wearing a very different smile: a bawdy, amused smile, full of complicity and contempt. Cass felt herself blushing. The girl pulled out boxes of scarves. They all seemed sleazy and expensive, but she was in no position to complain. She took one, paid for it, tied it around her head, and left. Her knees were shaking. She managed to find a cab at the corner and, after fighting a small duel with herself, gave the driver the address of the chapel: she had really wanted to tell him to take her home. The chapel was small and there were not many people in it. She entered as silently as she could, but heads turned at her entrance. An elderly man, probably an usher, hurried silently toward her, but she sat down in the first seat she saw, in the very last row, near the door. Vivaldo was sitting further up, near the middle; the only other white person, as far as she could tell, in the place. People sat rather scattered from each other—in the same way, perhaps, that the elements of Rufus’ life had been scattered—and this made the chapel seem emptier than it was. There were many young people there, Rufus’ friends, she supposed, the boys and girls who had grown up with him. In the front row sat six figures, the family: no amount of mourning could make Ida’s proud back less proud. Just before the family, just below the altar, stood the bier, dominating the place, mother of pearl, closed. Someone had been speaking as she came in, who now sat down. He was very young and he was dressed in the black robes of an evangelist. She wondered if he could be an evangelist, he did not seem to be much more than a boy. But he moved with great authority, the authority indeed of someone who has found his place and made his peace with it. As he sat down, a very thin girl walked up the aisle and the boy in black robes moved to the piano at the side of the altar.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Elle aussi a atteint la limite de son vocabulaire. Elle n’a pas moyen de le réconforter pour les choses qu’il n’a pas moyen d’exprimer, et ils font du mieux qu’ils peuvent. Il entend son cœur qui bat fort. Elle a une odeur sucrée, avec un relent de popcorn. Son corps est doux et chaud. Il y a des mouettes au-dessus d’eux, qui font des cercles en se laissant dériver sur les courants d’air, ce qui met Wallace mal à l’aise. « En tout cas, maintenant que tu es au courant, pardonne-moi de ne pas te l’avoir dit plus tôt. — Mon dieu, Wallace. Quand a-t-il été enterré ? — Oh, il y a des semaines. — Tu n’y es pas allé ? — Non, c’était trop loin, ça ne valait pas le coup. » Brigit laisse passer cette remarque sans commentaire, et il lui en est reconnaissant. Elle se remet à manger des pop-corns. Il boit son eau, qui est devenue tiède. Le groupe joue une mélodie solitaire, un peu fausse, noyée dans la reverb. Lui ayant dit pour son père, il n’éprouve pas le besoin de lui en raconter davantage. Ça lui semble suffisant, en un sens, c’est la partie qui révèle le tout. Ils s’affaissent dans leurs sièges, qui grincent un peu tandis que leurs cuisses glissent sur le métal. Le son les fait rire, comique en cet instant. Leur rire dépasse son contexte, jusqu’à se faire disproportionné, jusqu’à ce qu’ils cessent de rire et se mettent à pleurer à chaudes larmes. Wallace laisse échapper le gémissement hideux, hoquetant d’un petit enfant, ou de quelqu’un qui s’est oublié lui-même. Tout remonte : les larmes, la frustration, la difficulté. Il se convulse, frissonne, larmes, morve et toux, sanglots, les mains à plat contre ses yeux, grelottant, brûlant, tellement brûlant, trempé. Et Brigit pleure doucement sur son épaule, un son en staccato, comme les animaux dans les buissons, ce chuintement frêle. Cette nuit-là, en Alabama, une fois que l’homme a quitté sa maison, Wallace a pleuré. Son père s’est penché, l’a pris par la taille, et lui a demandé : Pourquoi tu pleures ? Mais pourquoi tu pleures ? La réponse avait paru évidente à Wallace, mais plus son père lui posait la question, plus Wallace s’interrogeait sur le sens de ses larmes, et au bout d’un moment il avait cessé. Son père avait fait un tour de magie, converti la certitude en doute, sans plus d’effort qu’il n’en fallait pour demander : Pourquoi tu pleures ? Pourquoi pleurait-il ? Pourquoi ? Mais ici, avec Brigit, la raison s’affûte, se fait d’une clarté terrifiante. Il pleure parce qu’il n’arrive plus à se reconnaître, parce que la route devant lui est indiscernable, parce qu’il n’y a rien qu’il puisse dire ou faire qui lui apporterait le bonheur. Il pleure parce qu’il est coincé entre cette vie et la suivante, et pour la première fois il ne sait pas s’il vaut mieux partir ou rester.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  It will give an idea both of the time he devoted to my education and of the incalculable debt which I owe him when I say that together we read through most of three of the four principal Tannaitic midrashim, several Mishnah and Tosefta tractates, and portions of the minor Tannaitic midrashim. The read- ing was necessarily rapid, but it gave me the opportu- nity of coming to grips with Tannaitic literature in a way which would otherwise have been impossible. Dr. Kamrat’s untimely death in 1970 deprived the world of a man of great learning and prodigious ability, but of even greater heart and spirit. My research assistants at McMaster University have made material contributions to the work. Dr. Manfred Brauch prepared a survey of research on the phrase dikaiosynēdikaiosynē theoutheouwhich has led to an appendix to chapter V. Dr. Phil Shuler checked the references to the Dead Sea PAUL AND PALESTINIAN JUDAISM xxxvi Scrolls. Dr. Benno Przybylski checked the references to Rabbinic literature and also gave me notes on the chapter which clarified some points. He has also spent dozens of laborious hours in proof-reading. Phyllis Koetting made last-minute corrections in the typescript, typed several revised pages, prepared the bibliography, helped prepare the indices, and assisted in proofreading. I am grateful to them all for their careful work. The principal burden of preparing the manuscript for the press was carried by Susan Phillips. Between 1969 and late 1975 she helped organize and carry out my adminis- trative duties so that I would have time for research and writing, typed almost countless drafts of various parts of the manuscript, conformed the footnote and manu- script style to the requirements of the press, checked the English language quotations in chapter I and chapter III, and finally prepared, in the first twenty days of Sep- tember 1975, an almost flawless typescript of some 1100 pages. For these things alone I would have recorded my warmest admiration, respect and gratitude. But, when she died, we had been looking forward to a long and happy life together; this book is offered as a memorial to her and that hope. *** This second impression has given me the opportunity to correct typographical and other minor errors, but the text is otherwise unaltered. Dr. Robert Huebsch called my attention to several errors, and Mr. G. W. Hilborn proofread the entirety with extraordinary care and patience. I am grateful to them both.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, having learned from a neighbour how her house stood, one evening that she and her husband were gone to keep wake with their neighbours, he entered therein by stealth and hiding himself behind certain tent cloths that were spread there, waited till, the twain having returned and gotten them to bed, he knew her husband to be asleep; whereupon he came whereas he had seen Salvestra lay herself and putting his hand upon her breast, said softly, 'Sleepest thou yet, O my soul?' The girl, who was awake, would have cried out; but he said hastily, 'For God's sake, cry not, for I am thy Girolamo.' She, hearing this, said, all trembling, 'Alack, for God's sake, Girolamo, get thee gone; the time is past when it was not forbidden unto our childishness to be lovers. I am, as thou seest, married and it beseemeth me no more to have regard to any man other than my husband; wherefore I beseech thee, by God the Only, to begone, for that, if my husband heard thee, even should no other harm ensue thereof, yet would it follow that I might never more avail to live with him in peace or quiet, whereas now I am beloved of him and abide with him in weal and in tranquility.' The youth, hearing these words, was grievously endoloured and recalled to her the time past and his love no whit grown less for absence, mingling many prayers and many great promises, but obtained nothing; wherefore, desiring to die, he prayed her at last that, in requital of so much love, she would suffer him couch by her side, so he might warm himself somewhat, for that he was grown chilled, awaiting her, promising her that he would neither say aught to her nor touch her and would get him gone, so soon as he should be a little warmed. Salvestra, having some little compassion of him, granted him this he asked, upon the conditions aforesaid, and he accordingly lay down beside her, without touching her. Then, collecting into one thought the long love he had borne her and her present cruelty and his lost hope, he resolved to live no longer; wherefore, straitening in himself his vital spirits,[252] he clenched his hands and died by her side, without word or motion. [Footnote 252: _Ristretti in sè gli spiriti._ An obscure passage; perhaps "holding his breath" is meant; but in this case we should read "_lo spirito_" instead of "_gli spiriti_."]

• From Another Country (1962)

  He was a bright kid and he was full of the devil and weren’t no way in the world of keeping up with him. He got into a lot of trouble, all of you know that. A lot of our boys get into a lot of trouble and some of you know why. We used to talk about it sometimes, him and me—we was always pretty good friends, Rufus and me, even after he jumped up and went off from here and even though he didn’t never attend church service like I—we—all wanted him to do.” He paused again. “He had to go his way. He had his trouble and he’s gone. He was young, he was bright, he was beautiful, we expected great things from him—but he’s gone away from us now and it’s us will have to make the great things happen. I believe I know how terrible some of you feel. I know how terrible I feel—ain’t nothing I can say going to take away that ache, not right away. But that boy was one of the best men I ever met, and I been around awhile. I ain’t going to try to judge him. That ain’t for us to do. You know, a lot of people say that a man who takes his own life oughtn’t to be buried in holy ground. I don’t know nothing about that. All I know, God made every bit of ground I ever walked on and everything God made is holy. And don’t none of us know what goes on in the heart of someone, don’t many of us know what’s going on in our own hearts for the matter of that, and so can’t none of us say why he did what he did. Ain’t none of us been there and so don’t none of us know. We got to pray that the Lord will receive him like we pray that the Lord’s going to receive us. That’s all. That’s all. And I tell you something else, don’t none of you forget it: I know a lot of people done took their own lives and they’re walking up and down the streets today and some of them is preaching the gospel and some is sitting in the seats of the mighty. Now, you remember that. If the world wasn’t so full of dead folks maybe those of us that’s trying to live wouldn’t have to suffer so bad.” He walked up and down behind the altar, behind the bier. “I know there ain’t nothing I can say to you that sit before me—his mother and father, his sister, his kinfolks, his friends—to bring him back or to keep you from grieving that he’s gone. I know that. Ain’t nothing I can say will make his life different, make it the life that maybe some other man might have lived. It’s all been done, it’s all written down on high. But don’t lose heart, dear ones—don’t lose heart.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Les obsèques ont lieu quand ? — Il y a des semaines », dit-il, et cette information eut l’air de la sidérer complètement. « Quoi ? — Tu y es allé ? — Non. J’avais du travail. — J’y crois pas. La diablesse a refusé ? » Wallace rit, et sa voix ricocha sur l’eau devant eux. Quelle idée. Qu’il ait pu le dire à sa directrice de recherche, et qu’elle ait pu lui interdire de s’y rendre. C’était tentant de laisser croire à Emma que Simone avait fait une chose pareille, car elle en aurait été capable. Mais ça finirait sans doute par revenir à ses oreilles, et il serait alors forcé de rétablir la vérité. « Non, dit-il. Elle n’est pas si méchante que ça, tu sais. Elle n’était même pas là à ce moment-là. » Simone était grande et impressionnante, une femme d’une intelligence terrifiante. Elle n’était pas spécialement diabolique. Elle ressemblait plutôt à un constant vent chaud qui, à force, épuisait Wallace. « Ne la défends pas, gronda Emma, plissant les yeux. Putain, elle a osé dire que tu ne pouvais pas aller à l’enterrement de ton propre père ? C’est dingue. — Non », dit-il. Sans cesser de rire, il se courba en deux et se prit le ventre à deux mains. « C’est pas ça. J’avais pas le temps, c’est tout. — C’était ton père , Wallace », fit Emma. Le rire de Wallace s’éteignit dans sa gorge. Il se sentit un peu humilié par ses mots. Oui, c’était son père. Il le savait. Mais le problème avec ces gens, avec ses amis, avec le monde, c’était qu’ils pensaient que les choses devaient être d’une certaine façon, avec la famille. Ils pensaient qu’on devait éprouver quelque chose pour ses parents, et de préférence la même chose que tout le monde, sans quoi c’était qu’on s’y prenait mal. Comment pouvait-il rire à l’idée de n’être pas allé à l’enterrement de son père ? Était-il si bizarre que ça ? Wallace ne se pensait pas bizarre. Il ne pensait pas qu’il avait tort de rire, ni que c’était mal, non plus, mais il se composa un masque de tristesse silencieuse, calme. « Putain de merde », dit Emma. Elle était en colère pour lui. Elle donna un coup de pied dans l’eau, faisant gicler des gouttes vif-argent qui se fondirent dans la nuit noire. Puis elle passa son autre bras autour de lui et le serra. Il ferma les yeux et poussa un soupir. Emma se mit à pleurer un peu, et il l’entoura à son tour de ses bras et l’attira tout contre lui. « Là, là », murmura-t-il, mais les sanglots de son amie ne firent que s’intensifier et elle secoua la tête. Elle l’embrassa sur la joue et l’étreignit plus ardemment. « Je suis vraiment navrée, Wallace. Putain. Je voudrais pouvoir changer ça.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I remember Rufus,” the girl said, “from when he was a big boy and I was just a little girl—” and she tried to smile at the front-row mourners. Cass watched her, seeing that the girl was doing her best not to cry. “—me and his sister used to sit around trying to console each other when Rufus went off with the big boys and wouldn’t let us play with him.” There was a murmur of amusement and sorrow and heads in the front row nodded. “We lived right next door to each other, he was like a brother to me.” Then she dropped her head and twisted a white handkerchief, the whitest handkerchief Cass had ever seen, between her two dark hands. She was silent for several seconds and, once again, a kind of wind seemed to whisper through the chapel as though everyone there shared the girl’s memories and her agony and were willing her through it. The boy at the piano struck a chord. “Sometimes Rufus used to like me to sing this song,” the girl said, abruptly. “I’ll sing if for him now.” The boy played the opening chord. The girl sang in a rough, untrained, astonishingly powerful voice: I’m a stranger, don’t drive me away. I’m a stranger, don’t drive me away. If you drive me away, you may need me some day, I’m a stranger, don’t drive me away. When she finished she walked over to the bier and stood there for a moment, touching it lightly with both hands. Then she walked back to her seat. There was weeping in the front row. She watched as Ida rocked an older, heavier woman in her arms. One of the men blew his nose loudly. The air was heavy. She wished it were over. Vivaldo sat very still and alone, looking straight ahead. Now, a gray-haired man stepped forward from behind the altar. He stood watching them for a moment and the black-robed boy strummed a mournful hymn.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She threw back her head and closed her eyes and that voice rang out again: Oh, that great getting-up morning , Fare thee well, fare thee well! Reverend Foster, standing on a height behind her, raised both hands and mingled his voice with hers : We’ll be coming from every nation , Fare thee well, fare thee well! The chapel joined them, but the girl ended the song alone: Oh, on that great getting-up morning , Fare thee well, fare thee well! Then Reverend Foster prayed a brief prayer for the safe journey of the soul that had left them and the safe journey, throughout their lives and after death, of all the souls under the sound of his voice. It was over. The pallbearers, two of the men in the front row, and the two musicians, lifted the mother-of-pearl casket to their shoulders and started down the aisle. The mourners followed. Cass was standing near the door. The four still faces passed her with their burden and did not look at her. Directly behind them came Ida and her mother. Ida paused for a moment and looked at her—looked directly, unreadably at her from beneath her heavy veil. Then she seemed to smile. Then she passed. And the others passed. Vivaldo joined her and they walked out of the chapel. For the first time she saw the hearse, which stood on the Avenue, facing downtown. “Vivaldo,” she asked, “are we going to the cemetery?” “No,” he said, “they don’t have enough cars. I think only the family’s going.” He was watching the car behind the hearse. Ida’s parents had already entered the car. She stood on the sidewalk. She looked around her, then walked swiftly over to them. She took each of them by one hand. “I just wanted to thank you,” she said, quickly, “for coming.” Her voice was rough from weeping and Cass could not see her face behind the veil. “You don’t know what it means to me—to us.” Cass pressed Ida’s hand, not knowing what to say. Vivaldo said, “Ida, anything we can do—anything I can do— anything —!” “You’ve done wonders. You been wonderful. I’ll never forget it.” She pressed their hands again and turned away. She got into the car and the door closed behind her. The hearse slowly moved out from the curb, and the car, then a second car, followed. Others who had been at the funeral service looked briefly at Cass and Vivaldo, stood together a few moments, and then began to disperse. Cass and Vivaldo started down the Avenue. “Shall we take a subway?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The damsel, doing without cease after this wise, was sundry times seen of her neighbours, who to her brothers, marvelling at her waste beauty and that her eyes seemed to have fled forth her head [for weeping], related this, saying, 'We have noted that she doth every day after such a fashion.' The brothers, hearing and seeing this and having once and again reproved her therefor, but without avail, let secretly carry away from her the pot, which she, missing, with the utmost instance many a time required, and for that it was not restored to her, stinted not to weep and lament till she fell sick; nor in her sickness did she ask aught other than the pot of basil. The young men marvelled greatly at this continual asking and bethought them therefor to see what was in this pot. Accordingly, turning out the earth, they found the cloth and therein the head, not yet so rotted but they might know it, by the curled hair, to be that of Lorenzo. At this they were mightily amazed and feared lest the thing should get wind; wherefore, burying the head, without word said, they privily departed Messina, having taken order how they should withdraw thence, and betook themselves to Naples. The damsel, ceasing never from lamenting and still demanding her pot, died, weeping; and so her ill-fortuned love had end. But, after a while the thing being grown manifest unto many, there was one who made thereon the song that is yet sung, to wit: Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be, That stole my pot away?" etc.[244] [Footnote 244: The following is a translation of the whole of the song in question, as printed, from a MS. in the Medicean Library, in Fanfani's edition of the Decameron. Alack! ah, who can the ill Christian be, That stole my pot away, My pot of basil of Salern, from me? 'Twas thriv'n with many a spray And I with mine own hand did plant the tree, Even on the festal[A] day. 'Tis felony to waste another's ware. 'Tis felony to waste another's ware; Yea, and right grievous sin. And I, poor lass, that sowed myself whilere A pot with flowers therein, Slept in its shade, so great it was and fair; But folk, that envious bin, Stole it away even from my very door. 'Twas stolen away even from my very door. Full heavy was my cheer, (Ah, luckless maid, would I had died tofore!) Who brought[B] it passing dear, Yet kept ill ward thereon one day of fear. For him I loved so sore, I planted it with marjoram about. I planted it with marjoram about, When May was blithe and new; Yea, thrice I watered it, week in, week out, And watched how well it grew: But now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en.

• From Jesus and His Jewish Influences (2015)

  22 -HVXVDQG+LV-HZLVK,QÀXHQFHV ƔThe passage continues: “Moreover he brought the Asherah from the house of the Lord outside Jerusalem to the Kidron Valley and burned it at the Kidron Valley and ground to powder and cast the powder of it upon the graves of the common people. Furthermore, he tore down the houses of the devotees of the fertility cult, which were in the house of the Lord, where the women wove tunics for the Asherah.” ƔAsherah is an enigmatic term debated by scholars. Some think that the Asherah refers to a female consort of the God of Israel. It was, of course, typical in antiquity for male deities to have female companions. ƔThe centerpiece of Josiah’s reform was the discovery, or reputed discovery, of a book of law, which came to be called the Book of Deuteronomy, during work on the temple building in Jerusalem. This law is called a “Second Law” because it basically UHIRUPXODWHVDQGUHVWDWHVPDQ\RIWKHODZVWKDWDUHLQWKH¿UVW four books of Moses. Therefore, Josiah’s reform is called the Deuteronomistic reform. $UPDJHGGRQ ƔJosiah’s assertion of the centrality of Jerusalem served to unify the country and strengthened the central government. Unfortunately, however, Josiah died an untimely death, at the hands of the Egyptians. ƔIn the ancient Near East, Babylonia was an emerging power; and, at the time of Josiah, Assyria, Egypt, and Babylonia were jockeying for position. The Egyptians were trying to bolster the weaker power, Assyria, against the stronger, emerging power, Babylonia; thus, the Egyptians sent an army out to support the Assyrians. To travel to Assyria, the Egyptians had to pass through the area where Josiah’s kingdom was located. ƔAccording to the biblical account, “In the year 609 B.C., the Egyptian pharaoh Necho II set out with a large army and

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Oh my God,” said Vivaldo, and he stood up, looking very tall and helpless. She put down her drink and went to the door. The girl who faced her was fairly tall, sturdy, very carefully dressed, and somewhat darker than Rufus. She wore a raincoat, with a hood, and carried an umbrella; and beneath the hood, in the shadows of the hall, the dark eyes in the dark face considered Cass intently. There was a hint of Rufus in the eyes—large, intelligent, wary—and in her smile. “Cass Silenski?” Cass put out her hand. “Come in. I do remember you.” She closed the door behind them. “I thought you were one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.” The girl looked at her and Cass realized, for the first time, that a Negro girl could blush. “Oh, come on, now, Mrs. Silenski—” “Give me your things. And please call me Cass.” “Then you call me Ida.” She put the things away. “Shall I make you a drink?” “Yes, I think I need one,” Ida said. “I been scouring this city, I don’t know how long, looking for that no-good brother of mine——” “Vivaldo’s inside,” Cass said, quickly, wishing to say something to prepare the girl but not knowing what to say. “Will you have bourbon or Scotch or rye? and I think we’ve got a little vodka—” “I’ll have bourbon.” She sounded a little breathless; she followed Cass into the kitchen and stood watching her while she made the drink. Cass handed her the glass and looked into Ida’s eyes. “Vivaldo hasn’t seen him since last night,” she said. Ida’s eyes widened, and she thrust out her lower lip, which trembled slightly. Cass touched her elbow. “Come on in. Try not to worry.” They walked into the living room. Vivaldo was standing exactly as she had left him, as though he had not moved at all. Richard rose from the hassock; he had been clipping his nails. “This is my husband, Richard,” Cass said, “and you know Vivaldo.” They shook hands and murmured salutations in a silence that began to stiffen like the beaten white of an egg. They sat down. “Well!” Ida said, shakily, “it’s been a long time.” “Over two years,” Richard said. “Rufus let us see you a couple of times and then he hustled you out of sight somewhere. Very wise of him, too.” Vivaldo said nothing. His eyes, his eyebrows, and his hair looked like so many streaks of charcoal on a dead white surface. “But none of you,” said Ida, “know where my brother is now?” And she looked around the room. “He was with me last night,” Vivaldo said. His voice was too low; Ida strained forward to hear. He cleared his throat. “We all saw him,” Richard said, “he was fine.”

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

  Among these confessors and martyrs were not wanting those in whom the pure, quiet flame of enthusiasm rose into the wild fire of fanaticism, and whose zeal was corrupted with impatient haste, heaven-tempting presumption, and pious ambition; to whom that word could be applied: "Though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing." They delivered themselves up to the heathen officers, and in every way sought the martyr’s crown, that they might merit heaven and be venerated on earth as saints. Thus Tertullian tells of a company of Christians in Ephesus, who begged martyrdom from the heathen governor, but after a few had been executed, the rest were sent away by him with the words: "Miserable creatures, if you really wish to die, you have precipices and halters enough." Though this error was far less discreditable than the opposite extreme of the cowardly fear of man, yet it was contrary to the instruction and the example of Christ and the apostles,63 and to the spirit of true martyrdom, which consists in the union of sincere humility and power, and possesses divine strength in the very consciousness of human weakness. And accordingly intelligent church teachers censured this stormy, morbid zeal. The church of Smyrna speaks thus: "We do not commend those who expose themselves; for the gospel teaches not so." Clement of Alexandria says: "The Lord himself has commanded us to flee to another city when we are persecuted; not as if the persecution were an evil; not as if we feared death; but that we may not lead or help any to evil doing." In Tertullian’s view martyrdom perfects itself in divine patience; and with Cyprian it is a gift of divine grace, which one cannot hastily grasp, but must patiently wait for. But after all due allowance for such adulteration and degeneracy, the martyrdom of the first three centuries still remains one of the grandest phenomena of history, and an evidence of the indestructible divine nature of Christianity. No other religion could have stood for so long a period the combined opposition of Jewish bigotry, Greek philosophy, and Roman policy and power; no other could have triumphed at last over so many foes by purely moral and spiritual force, without calling any carnal weapons to its aid. This comprehensive and long-continued martyrdom is the peculiar crown and glory of the early church; it pervaded its entire literature and gave it a predominantly apologetic character; it entered deeply into its organization and discipline and the development of Christian doctrine; it affected the public worship and private devotions; it produced a legendary poetry; but it gave rise also, innocently, to a great deal of superstition, and undue exaltation of human merit; and it lies at the foundation of the Catholic worship of saints and relics.

• From Little Women (1868)

  She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to Grandpa. She never thought of a will." Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble, but she only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?" "Yes, 'codicils', they call them." "Put one in mine then, that I wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it, but I want it done though it will spoil my looks." Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?" "I'm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear." And Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting. When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister. CHAPTER TWENTY CONFIDENTIAL I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had 'dished up' an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold. What a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door.

• From Wild (2012)

  “You do? Thanks. That’s nice to hear. Usually Dave’s the only one who thinks that.” She looked down at my legs. “You need a shave, girl!” she bellowed, then laughed in the same raucous way she had when she’d said how big my pack was. “Nah,” she said, blowing smoke from her mouth. “I’m just giving you shit. I think it’s neat you do what you want. Not enough chicks do that, if you ask me—just tell society and their expectations to go fuck themselves. If more women did that, we’d be better off.” She took a drag and blew the smoke out in a hard line. “Anyway, after all that stuff about my son getting killed? After that happened, I died too. Inside.” She patted her chest with the hand that held the cigarette. “I look the same, but I’m not the same in here. I mean, life goes on and all that crap, but Luke dying took it out of me. I try not to act like it, but it did. It took the Lou out of Lou, and I ain’t getting it back. You know what I mean?” “I do,” I said, looking into her hazel eyes. “I thought so,” she said. “I had that feeling about you.” I said goodbye to them, crossed the intersection, and walked to the road that would take me to Old Station. The heat was so potent it rose in visible waves from the ground. When I got to the road, I saw three figures undulating in the distance. “Stacy!” I shouted. “Trina!” They saw me and waved their arms. Odin barked hello. [image file=image_rsrc2VM.jpg] Together we hitched a ride to Old Station—another tiny village that was more a gathering of buildings than a town. Trina walked to the post office to mail a few things home while Stacy and I waited for her in the air-conditioned café, drinking soda pop and discussing the next section of the trail. It was a slice of the Modoc Plateau called Hat Creek Rim—desolate and famous for its lack of shade and water, a legendary stretch on a trail of legends. Dry and hot, it was scorched clean by a fire in 1987. The Pacific Crest Trail, Volume 1: California informed me that although there was no reliable water source from Old Station to Rock Springs Creek thirty miles away, when the book went to print in 1989, the Forest Service was about to install a water tank near the ruins of an old fire lookout tower, fifteen miles in. The book cautioned that this information should be verified and that even if it was installed, such tanks can’t always be relied upon because of vandalism in the form of bullet holes.