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 21 of 263 · 20 per page

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I shook my head and whispered back, “Nothing.” When she saw me crying the next day, she nudged me with her elbow, mouthing the words. “What’s happened? Please tell me.” I kept silent for a while, but finally replied, “I’m not allowed to tell you anything.” “What do you mean?” she asked. “Sister Catherine said I can’t tell anyone.” But Mary Catherine, now sixteen and no longer the frightened Little Sister she’d been for so many years, took matters into her own hands. The next day, she cornered me down at the barn and said, “I went to Sister Catherine and asked her why you’re always crying, and she told me that you’ll be leaving when you graduate. She said you don’t have a vocation.” She paused and then added, “I don’t want you to go.” She spoke as my younger sister, not as a postulant. She wanted me to be there for her as I had for so long. It broke my heart to realize I was abandoning her. “I don’t want to go, either,” I said, swallowing hard so as not to cry. “But I have to.” “Will you be able to come back and visit?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders to indicate I didn’t know. That was a question I’d never dared ask Sister Catherine, too fearful of the answer. The notion of abandoning Mary Catherine, my little sister, was unbearable. I thought about the many ways she’d depended on me to help her. We’d shared so many secrets. I knew her fears, her joys, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else either because they wouldn’t listen or because they couldn’t understand. I’d eaten her meals for her when she couldn’t. She hated the color yellow, so I had secretly swapped her yellow curtains for my pink ones. I had taped a piece of black construction paper to her window to block out the light of moon, which scared her. I was the one who’d taught her to read music when she wanted to play the trombone. I did her French homework because Sister Maria Crucis, the French tutor, was so strict that Mary Catherine could learn nothing in class. The constant worry about her caused me to lose my appetite, and as my final days approached, I was barely eating at all. Although Mary Catherine had matured into a vocal and opinionated postulant, she was still frail. For several days each month, she was confined to bed, causing her to miss tutoring. On other mornings, she was allowed to sleep well past second breakfast. When I asked Sister Teresa what was wrong with her, she simply replied, “She needs her sleep.” But fifteen hours a day? I thought. I was afraid for her and felt immense guilt at leaving her. To whom will she turn when I’m gone? What will she do without me? ” [image file=Image00030.jpg] My father as Brother James Aloysius, around the time of my graduation from high school.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  I am marked, in so many ways, by what I went through. I survived it, but that isn’t the whole of the story. Over the years, I have learned the importance of survival and claiming the label of “survivor,” but I don’t mind the label of “victim.” I also don’t think there’s any shame in saying that when I was raped, I became a victim, and to this day, while I am also many other things, I am still a victim. It took me a long time, but I prefer “victim” to “survivor” now. I don’t want to diminish the gravity of what happened. I don’t want to pretend I’m on some triumphant, uplifting journey. I don’t want to pretend that everything is okay. I’m living with what happened, moving forward without forgetting, moving forward without pretending I am unscarred.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Through my sobs I whispered, “When did she die?” “A week ago, sweetheart, on April 12. She’s in heaven now and is looking down on you. And she still loves you.” I had been inconsolable for days, crying myself to sleep—out of sight of Sister Matilda, who I was sure would consider my emotion to be a sign of weakness. Now, one year later, I was determined not to let the anniversary pass without finding Brother James Aloysius and letting him know that I remembered. For once, the rule about not speaking to the adults would not stand in my way. I was on a mission. Kneeling in the chapel that morning during First Breakfast, I prayed to Grandma Walsh to let it be possible for me to see Brother James Aloysius that day. I plotted all the ways I might “bump into him” during the day. He wouldn’t be working in the garage, because it was Saturday. But he might be filling in for Brother Pascal on the porter’s desk, as he often did on the weekends. If so, I could catch his eye and say a quick word. But he wasn’t in any of the obvious places. I loitered in the porter’s room and took circuitous routes to St. Ann’s House—but no Brother James Aloysius. For a moment I wondered. Does he remember what day it is today? Does he know I’m looking for him? Of course he does , I reassured myself. It was late afternoon when I spied him heading toward the giant bell that rang the Angelus three times a day. My heart skipped a beat, and I rushed up the stone path by the front of St. Ann’s House, heedless of the possible consequences but reassured with the knowledge that Sister Catherine had already left to be home with her family. He saw me, stopped, and his eyes lit up. Without giving him an opportunity to say a word, I spoke as fast as I could, well aware of the danger I was courting. “This is the day Grandma died,” I said. “I remembered her at First Breakfast. I wanted you to know that.” His expression spoke to me before his words, which were soft and tender, and uttered as though he was amazed. “How wonderful of you to remember, my little princess.” I dared not stay a second longer. I blew him a kiss and then turned and ran back down the walkway in a state of euphoria. 24 Surprises, Good and Bad 1958 I t was a snowy afternoon in February, only weeks after we’d moved from Cambridge, when Sister Catherine showed up unexpectedly in the Little Sisters’ corridor. She had a surprise for us, she said, and with that she unboxed twenty life-sized baby dolls, selecting one for each of us so that they matched our own hair and eye color. They were dressed identically in a white blouse and blue jumper, the same as our own uniform.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  But with Sister Catherine’s demise and the subsequent internal feud, it struck me that she alone had been the glue that kept nearly one hundred highly intelligent human beings together as members of a religious order. Had it been out of their respect, their fear, or their love for her? I could only surmise, but, if their blind obedience to her had been grounded in deep spirituality, why would it fall apart so catastrophically when she was gone? I thought back to the rules Sister Catherine instituted that forced separation between men and women, boys and girls. I remembered how she had told us Little Sisters that we must never trust a man. Now as the place I had called home for so long seemed on the edge of disintegration, I wondered if it wasn’t she herself who had planted the seeds of its destruction. Within days of Sister Catherine’s burial, my brother David, who was seventeen and completing his junior year in high school, and my youngest sister, Veronica, who was about to finish middle school, informed Sister Teresa (Sister Catherine’s successor as overseer of the children) that they wished to leave and move to Cambridge with my mother and me. Over the course of the next twelve months, my father decided that if his children wanted to leave, it was his obligation to accompany them into the world. [image file=Image00033.jpg] My father with my Grandmother McKinley, on the day of my brother’s graduation from high school, just hours before he left the Center as Brother James Aloysius and became once again Jim Walsh–June 1969. I myself was becoming increasingly secure in my role as a worldly woman, provided, that is, no mention was made of my past. I had a nice Irish Catholic boyfriend, a couple of years older than I was, whose family lived on Long Island. He was in the Navy and said he was hoping to attend the police academy when he was discharged. Polite and soft spoken, he was courteous to my parents when he joined us for Sunday dinners, and he was blissfully romantic when I could be alone with him. He was my first true love out in the world. We talked of marriage, and he brought me to visit his family, but something inside me kept saying, “No—you need someone who is more intellectual. You will become bored with him.” I spoke only of going to college and of all the places in the world I wanted to visit. He’d laugh, not out of disrespect but more in disbelief, as though I was too much for him, not likely to be the kind of wife he needed. When we broke up, I was hurt but not damaged—he was almost too good for me, and I too adventurous for him.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  March turned into April, and I began a countdown to the twelfth of the month, the first anniversary of Grandma Walsh’s death. One year before, while we were still in Cambridge, on the morning of Good Friday, we were standing in line in the basement of St. Francis Xavier’s House preparing to cross the yard to go to chapel, when Sister Elizabeth Ann hurried down the stairs. Walking straight up to me, she gently took me by the hand and brought me to a quiet corner of the basement. Kneeling down so that she was at my eye level and holding both my hands, she said, “Darling, I have something to tell you.” She paused for a moment. “Your Grandma Walsh has died.” I was speechless. My grandma, my adored, gentle, soft-spoken grandma was gone. I’d never see her again. My dreams of our next visit were annihilated. As tears rolled down my cheeks, Sister Elizabeth Ann pulled out her handkerchief and wiped them away. Through my sobs I whispered, “When did she die?” “A week ago, sweetheart, on April 12. She’s in heaven now and is looking down on you. And she still loves you.” I had been inconsolable for days, crying myself to sleep—out of sight of Sister Matilda, who I was sure would consider my emotion to be a sign of weakness. Now, one year later, I was determined not to let the anniversary pass without finding Brother James Aloysius and letting him know that I remembered. For once, the rule about not speaking to the adults would not stand in my way. I was on a mission. Kneeling in the chapel that morning during First Breakfast, I prayed to Grandma Walsh to let it be possible for me to see Brother James Aloysius that day. I plotted all the ways I might “bump into him” during the day. He wouldn’t be working in the garage, because it was Saturday. But he might be filling in for Brother Pascal on the porter’s desk, as he often did on the weekends. If so, I could catch his eye and say a quick word. But he wasn’t in any of the obvious places. I loitered in the porter’s room and took circuitous routes to St. Ann’s House—but no Brother James Aloysius. For a moment I wondered. Does he remember what day it is today? Does he know I’m looking for him? Of course he does, I reassured myself. It was late afternoon when I spied him heading toward the giant bell that rang the Angelus three times a day. My heart skipped a beat, and I rushed up the stone

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  When I picked up the phone again, he kept saying, “Hello, hello, hello . . .” This went on for a long time. He wouldn’t stop saying hello. It was like he knew it was me, like he had been waiting too, and then after a long time he stopped saying hello and we sat there in silence and I kept waiting for him to hang up but he didn’t and neither did I so we just listened to each other breathing. I was paralyzed. I wonder if he thinks of me, of what I gave him before he took what I did not. I wonder if he thinks of me when he makes love to his wife. Is he disgusted with himself? Does he get turned on when he thinks of what he did? Do I disgust him? I wonder if he knows I think of him every day. I say I don’t, but I do. He’s always with me. Always. There is no peace. I wonder if he knows I have sought out men who would do to me what he did or that they often found me because they knew I was looking. I wonder if he knows how I found them and how I pushed away every good thing. Does he know that for years I could not stop what he started? I wonder what he would think if he knew that unless I thought of him I felt nothing at all while having sex, I went through the motions, I was very convincing, and that when I did think of him the pleasure was so intense it was breathtaking. I wonder if he is familiar with the Sword of Damocles. He is always with me, every night, no matter whom I’m with, always. If I were to track him down, I could pretend to be a client looking for what he deals in. I know how to move in his circles. I could make an appointment to have him show me things. I can afford to be in the same room as him even though I doubt he would have ever imagined that. I have a fancy title too. I could sit across from him in what must be a corner office with a view. I have no doubt his desk is huge and imposing and compensating for something. I wonder how long we would have to sit there before he recognized me. I wonder if he would even remember me. My eyes haven’t changed. My lips haven’t changed. If he remembered me, would he admit it, or would he pretend he didn’t to try to feel me out, figure out my endgame? I wonder how long I would sit there. I wonder how long I could sit there. I wonder if I would tell him what I became, what I made of myself, what I made of myself despite him. I wonder if he would care, if it would matter.

• From Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

  When I got home at night, I generally went straight to my computer, where I wrote story after story, mostly about women and their hurt because it was the only way I could think of to bleed out all the hurt I was feeling. I frequented newsgroups and chat rooms for survivors of sexual assault. Though I couldn’t tell anyone in my real life what had happened, I unburdened myself to strangers on the Internet. I blogged, mostly about the minutiae of my life, hoping, I think, to be seen and heard. I loved and craved the freedom of being online and being free from my life and my body. I ate and ate and ate but rarely was any of the food I ate memorable for any reason but the quantity. I ate mindlessly, just to fill the gaping wound of me or to try to fill the gaping wound of me. No matter how much I ate, I still hurt and I was still terrified of other people and the memories I couldn’t escape. I managed to put together a collection of short stories for my thesis, entitled How Small the World, and successfully defended my thesis and then I was done with school and I had no idea what to do so I got a job working at the university as a writer for the College of Engineering. I tried to do what was expected of me. Some days, I tried really hard. 28As I spent more time working at the College of Engineering, I realized that when I had dreamed of making a living as a writer, I probably should have been more specific about what, exactly, I meant by that. And still, every day I got to write. I had my own office and a computer on which I could play solitaire and work on my own writing. I mostly wrote articles about faculty research—things that I knew nothing about and that the faculty were more than eager to explain to me—on robotic construction equipment, aerogels that could be used in space, defenses against bioterrorism, innovative uses for RFID chips. The job was fine, by far the best job I had ever had, making the most money I had ever made even though I was not making much money at all. I had a great, encouraging supervisor named Constance, who made me a much better writer. I learned how to use the Adobe Creative Suite. I worked with undergraduate engineering students as the adviser of their magazine.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 8—Violence and Kindness in the Promised Land 59 outward is now turned inward. The threat to the people of Israel’s well-being comes not from foreign oppressors but from the cycles of violence within their own society. The triumphant picture of conquest we saw in Joshua is gone. Judges could celebrate Deborah’s victory on the battlefield, but by the end, patterns of brutality are destroying Israel’s own society. Ruth ‹ The story of Ruth introduces us to a man named Elkanah and his wife, Naomi. They live in the town of Bethlehem in the southern part of Israel. But because a famine is taking place, they are moving to the land of Moab. There, they are the foreigners, yet they find a place to live, and their sons marry women from Moab. ‹ As time passes, Elkanah and his sons die, and Naomi and her two daughters-in- law, Ruth and Orpah, become widows. Naomi decides to return to Bethlehem in the hope of finding help from her extended family there. ‹ As she prepares to leave, her daughters-in-law are grief stricken. They have a close bond with Naomi and insist that they want to come along with her. But Naomi tells them to return to their families in the hope that they might eventually marry again. The young women face the dilemma of what to do. ‹ Orpah honors Naomi’s wishes and turns back to her people. But Ruth clings to Naomi and refuses to go. In the narrative, she says, “For where you go, I will go and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die; and there I will be buried. I will stand under the judgment of God if even death separates me from you.” ‹ It’s a moment in the story that taps into the human experience of grief and loss. It shows us the depth of loyalty and devotion and turns the plot in a direction of hope. Now, Naomi and Ruth journey together to Bethlehem. ‹ They reach the field of a man named Boaz, a relative of Naomi’s dead husband. Boaz is impressed with Ruth’s hard work and the way she cares for Naomi, and ultimately, he and she are married.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation14 assumes they’ll reach beyond the limits again and take from the tree of life, to once again seize immortality for themselves. Thus, God sends them out of the garden. ‹ As literature, the Genesis story is set at the dawn of time, but it’s designed to shape perspectives on the world as it is. It shows the contrast between the harmony God intends and the disruption human beings have created. On the one hand, God intends that people care for the earth and its creatures and that women and men be partners in that work. On the other hand, the earth and relationships within it have been damaged by human action. Noah and the Flood ‹ The narrative thus far has gone from harmony to disruption, but with the story of the flood (Gen. 6–9), Noah brings it to a point of renewal. As a favorite in children’s literature, the plot of this story is usually simplified into a few major elements: God’s warning to Noah, Noah’s need to build an ark and gather the animals, the 40 days and nights of rain, and ultimately, the appearance of a rainbow—a sign that God will never again send a flood. In its basic outline, it’s a wonderful story of deliverance and renewal. ‹ But when we look more closely, the story becomes troubling. It seems inexplicable that God brings about this disaster. After all, Genesis introduces God as the creator. For God to send the flood means that the creator has become the destroyer. In the simplified version, all attention centers on Noah and the animals, who ride safely in the ark. But in Genesis itself, we look outside the ark, at the people and animals who drown in the deluge. When we ask how the creator could do such a thing, there is no easy answer. ‹ The portrayal of God is surprisingly complex. In Genesis 6:5, the story starts with divine grief. God created the world to be good, but he sees that human beings have given in to evil. God comes to regret that he ever created humankind and decides to blot them out. ‹ Yet this creates a dilemma for God. Simply blotting out all life would turn the creator into the destroyer. This is where Noah plays a role.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 10—David and Nation Building 71 ● Nathan forgives David, but forgiveness does not mean that David’s actions have no consequences. Nathan warns that David has set in motion a pattern of violence that will continue into the next generation. T o be sure, David repents of what he has done, but he cannot control what his children will do. And the last part of 2 Samuel tells of the violent pattern that David has set in motion being followed by one of his sons, Absalom. The Story of Absalom ‹ In 2 Samuel 15, we learn that Absalom, like David, has both ambition and ability and is brilliant at currying favor with the public. Eventually, Absalom has enough support to launch his bid for kingship, which he does in the city of Hebron, just as David had done years before. And just as David then captured Jerusalem to make it his capital, Absalom sets out to capture Jerusalem. He succeeds and sets out after David, in what promises to be a decisive battle. ‹ Underneath this political and military maneuvering, the personal side of the story moves toward a heartbreaking conclusion. Although Absalom has rebelled, David still loves him. Thus, as the time for battle approaches, David tells his men, “Deal gently with the young man Absalom.” But that does not prove to be easy during the chaos of war, and Absalom is killed. A messenger brings the news to David. ‹ At the end of chapter 18, when David gets the news of Absalom’s death, he is deeply moved. In grief, he weeps: “O my son Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would that I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son.” David’s words express the willingness of a parent to sacrifice his or her own life for the sake of a child. The scene captures the heartrending sorrow of someone whose child has set out on a destructive path, from which not even the most devoted love can save him. ‹ It may also be that David weeps not only for Absalom but also for himself. After all, his son is simply following in his father’s footsteps. David’s life set a pattern in motion, a pattern of violence and abuse that continued to play out in the life of Absalom. In the affair with Bathsheba and its aftermath, David ruined the lives of others to satisfy his own desires. David grieves not only as someone who has lost a child but as someone whose own moral failings set the pattern that led to the loss.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 32—Paul’s Letters to a Community in Conflict 219 ‹ In chapter 2, he refers to the painful visit that had occurred, but he does not want the past to define the future. Paul is grateful that those in Corinth took the situation seriously, confronting the person who made the cutting remarks, but he also knows that more needs to be done to bring healing. Thus, he urges forgiveness. He understands that if what was done in the past determines the future, then there is no future. The damage persists. In the face of that, forgiveness offers the prospect of renewed relationship. ‹ In chapter 4, Paul speaks of this message of renewal as the treasure people have received from God. Yet he pictures that treasure being held by human beings, who are like jars made of clay—fragile and breakable. ● As we read Paul’s letters, we are confronted repeatedly with human beings who are as fallible as clay jars. That meant that community could never be created once and for all. There were misplaced loyalties, disputes over spiritual experiences, and questions about the meaning of death itself. ● For this reason, Paul understood that community must be created and re- created. It is a dynamic, ongoing process. At the end of 2 Corinthians 5, he describes it as the ministry of reconciliation. Suggested Reading Cousar, The Letters of Paul. Hays, First Corinthians. Questions to Consider 1. According to the lecture, why were “spiritual things” an issue at Corinth? T o what extent did Paul challenge the perspectives of his readers? T o what extent did he affirm their perspectives? How are perspectives on spiritual things today similar to or different from those reflected in 1 Corinthians? 2. The lecture summarized some of the ancient perspectives on death and the afterlife. How was Paul’s perspective similar to and different from other perspectives of his time? How is it similar to and different from the perspectives that people have about death and the afterlife today?

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  Luke was the author of some portions of the Acts of the Apostles as well as the gospel. He too was anxious to show that Jesus and his followers were devout Jews but he also emphasized that the gospel was for everybody: Jews and gentiles; women as well as men; the poor; tax collectors; the good Samaritan and the prodigal son. Luke gives us a precious glimpse of the spiritual experience that their pesher exegesis gave to early Christians. He told an emblematic story of two of Jesus’s disciples, who were walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus three days after the crucifixion.90 Like many of the Christians in Luke’s own time they were distraught and despondent, but on the road they fell in with a stranger, who asked them why they were so troubled. They explained that they were followers of Jesus and had been certain that he was the messiah. But he had been crucified and, to make matters worse, the women in their company were spreading wild tales of an empty tomb and a vision of angels. The stranger gently rebuked them: had they not realized that the messiah must suffer before entering his glory? Starting with Moses, he began to expound ‘the full message’ of the prophets. When the disciples arrived at their destination that evening, they begged the stranger to lodge with them, and when he broke bread at dinner they suddenly realized that all along they had been in the presence of Jesus, but their ‘eyes had been held’ from recognizing him. As he vanished from their sight, they recalled how their hearts had ‘burned’ within them when he had ‘opened the scriptures’. Christian pesher was a spiritual discipline, rooted in grief and bewilderment, which spoke directly to the heart and set it alight. Christians would gather ‘in twos and threes’ and discuss the relationship of the Law and the prophets to Jesus. As they conversed together, the texts ‘opened’ and yielded a momentary illumination. This would pass, just as Jesus vanished as soon as he had been recognized, but afterwards apparent contradictions locked together in a numinous intimation of wholeness. The stranger played a crucial role. When they confided in somebody they had never seen before, the disciples made an act of trust (pistis). In Luke’s ekklesia, Jews and gentiles found that by reaching out to the ‘other’, they experienced the Shekhinah, which, increasingly, they identified with their christos.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  The six Orders were constructed like a temple.43 The first and last Orders – Zeraim and Tohoroth – dealt respectively with the holiness of the land and the holiness of the people. The two innermost Orders – Nashim and Niziqin – legislated for the private, domestic lives of Jews and their business relationships. But the subject of the second and the fifth Orders – Moed (‘Festivals’) and Qodeshim (‘Holy Things’) was the temple. These two Sederim, which were compiled almost entirely at Usha,44 were like two equidistant, load-bearing pillars on which the whole edifice depended. They lovingly recalled the homely details of life in the lost temple: what each room was used for and where the high priest kept his wine. How did the night-watch comport themselves? What happened if a priest fell asleep on duty? In this way, the temple would live on in the minds of Jews and would remain the centre of Jewish life. Studying the obsolete temple laws set forth in the Mishnah was equivalent to actually performing the rites.45 It had been one thing for the early Pharisees to live as priests while the temple was still standing, but quite another when all that remained were a few charred ruins. The new spirituality demanded a heroic exegetical denial. But the Mishnah did not simply look back to the past. Thousands of entirely novel rulings worked out the implications of the temple’s virtual presence. If Jews were to live like priests, how should they deal with gentiles? What was the role of women, who now had the priestly task of supervising the purity rules in the house? The rabbis would never have been able to persuade the people to observe this formidable body of law if it had not given them a satisfying spiritual experience. About fifty years after the Mishnah had been completed, a new text provided this oral tradition with a spiritual pedigree that went back to Mount Sinai.46 The author of Pirke Avoth (‘Chapters of the Fathers’) traced the line of transmission from the rabbis of Usha and Yavneh, back to R. Johanan ben Zakkai, who had learned the Torah from Hillel and Shammai. He then showed how the teaching had passed through generations of distinguished sages of the Second Temple period, ending with the men of ‘the Great Assembly’,47 who had received the Torah from the prophets; the prophets had been instructed by the ‘elders’ who had conquered the Promised Land,48 the elders by Joshua, Joshua by Moses, and Moses, the source of the tradition, had received the Torah from God himself.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  Johanan and R. Eliezer – just as it descended upon Jesus’s disciples at Pentecost – while they were engaged in horoz, linking the scriptural verses together. 36 At this stage, the rabbis had not yet committed their insights to writing. It seems that they learned the traditions they were accumulating by heart and transmitted them orally, although R. Akiba and R. Meir arranged the material in blocks that made them easier to memorize. 37 It seemed risky to write down this precious lore. A book could be burned like the temple or fall into the hands of the Christians, and would be safer in the minds and hearts of the sages. But the rabbis also valued the spoken word for its own sake. Graduates of Yavneh, who had managed to learn these oral texts by rote, were called tannaim, ‘repeaters’. They spoke the Torah aloud and developed their midrash in conversation. The House of Studies was noisy with lively discussion and clamorous debate. But by 135 the rabbis felt the need for a more permanent written record. In an attempt to drag the Jews into the modern Graeco-Roman world, the emperor Hadrian announced that he intended to plough the ruins of Jerusalem into the ground and build a modern city on the sacred site. Circumcision, the training of rabbis and the teaching of Torah were all forbidden by law. The hard-headed Jewish soldier Simeon bar Koseba led a revolt against Rome and when he managed to oust the Tenth Legion from Jerusalem, R. Akiba hailed him as the messiah. R. Akiba himself refused to stop teaching and, it is said, was executed by the Roman authorities. Eventually Bar Koseba’s rebellion was brutally quashed by Hadrian in 135. 38 Thousands of Jews had died; the new city was built, though the temple ruins remained; Jews were forbidden to reside in Judah and were confined to the north of Palestine. The academy at Yavneh was disbanded and the rabbinic cadre dispersed. But the situation improved under the emperor Antoninus Pius (158–161), who relaxed the anti- Jewish legislation, and the rabbis regrouped at Usha in Lower Galilee. The disastrous outcome of the Bar Koseba rebellion had horrified the rabbis. A few radicals, such as the mystic R. Simeon ben Yohai, continued to campaign against Rome, but most withdrew from politics. The rabbis were now wary of messianism and discouraged the practice of mysticism, preferring a disciplined life of study to dangerous flights of the spirit. At Usha they settled the canon of the Hebrew Bible, by making a final selection of the Writings (Kethuvim) of the Second Temple period.

• From The Bible: A Biography (2007)

  If, as Galileo suggested, there was life on the moon, how had these people descended from Adam? How could the revolutions of the earth be squared with Christ’s ascension to heaven? Scripture said that the heavens and the earth had been created for man’s benefit, but how could this be so if the earth was just another planet revolving round an undistinguished star? 31 The old allegorical exegesis would have made it much easier for Christians to cope with their changing world. 32 But the increasing emphasis on the literal meaning of scripture was the product of early modernity: the scientific bias of early modern thought required people to see truth as conforming to the laws of the external world. It would not be long before some Christians would conclude that unless a book was historically or scientifically demonstrable it could not be true at all. * The Jewish people had not yet succumbed to this enthusiasm for the literal: in 1492 they had suffered a disaster, which made many turn to the mystical consolations of Kabbalah. In 1492, Ferdinand and Isabella, the Catholic monarchs of Aragon and Castile, had conquered the kingdom of Granada, the last Muslim stronghold in Europe. Jews and Muslims were given the option of conversion to Christianity or deportation. Many Jews chose exile and took refuge in the new Ottoman empire where a significant number settled in Palestine, which was now an Ottoman province. In Safed in northern Galilee, the saintly mystic Isaac Luria (1534–72) developed a kabbalastic myth that bore no resemblance to the first chapter of Genesis, and yet by the mid-seventeenth century Lurianic Kabbalah had a mass following in Jewish communities from Poland to Iran. 33 Exile had been a central preoccupation for Jews since their deportation to Babylonia. For the Spanish Jews – the Sephardim – the loss of their homeland was the worst disaster to have befallen their people since the destruction of the temple. They felt that everything was in the wrong place and that their entire world had collapsed. Snatched forever from places that were saturated in memories essential to their identity, exiles can feel that their very existence is in jeopardy. When exile is also associated with human cruelty, it raises urgent problems about the nature of evil in a world supposedly created by a just and benevolent God. In Luria’s new myth, God began the creative process by going voluntarily into exile. How could the world exist if God was everywhere? Luria’s answer was the myth of zimzum (‘withdrawal’): the infinite En Sof had, as it were, to evacuate a region within itself to make room for the cosmos. This cosmology was punctuated by accidents, primal explosions and false starts, quite different from the orderly, peaceful creation described in P. But to the Sephardim, Luria’s myth seemed a more accurate appraisal of their unpredictable, fragmented world.

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  [image file=image_rsrc2PS.jpg] I had learned a resilient, matter-of-fact approach to my childhood from the early women’s movement. I had learned how important it was to be frank about rape and violation, self-hatred and shame. My knowledge was hard won, and it had taken me years to figure out how to stand in a room with people who knew my story and not collapse or try to hide or to lie. But that was separate from the stories I wrote. I might not have ever had the courage to write those stories without that experience, that training ground in how to look at one’s own life and see it as a story. But thinking about the grim and painful things I had experienced in the real made me more appreciative of the books and stories I had read that rescued characters from that reality. What I loved were books that heightened the sense of life’s wonders without denying the complexity and horror that sometimes accompanied those wonders. I loved books that showed women and men surviving what seemed almost impossible to survive, and coming out the other side with a sense of worth that redeemed suffering and grief. Memoir did not seem to me to be able to shape in that direction the way I wanted the story to shape, at least not any memoir I could write. If story is about a well-told lie, then that seemed to me what I needed. I didn’t need to hold my mother up to ridicule or condemnation. I understood too much about the decisions she had been forced to make to keep her girls alive. I thought her life a tragic, painful story, a lesson in why the women’s movement, and rape counseling, and battered women shelters were so vital. I wanted the world to have been different for her. I wanted it to be different for women who came after her—me and my sisters and all my cousins—and for all those I thought of as my tribe: raped children, working-class girls, and those raised to both love and hate their own as I had been.

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  Bastard Out of Carolina 17 R eese had never been to a funeral before, and I was unsure how we were supposed to behave. Reese was just worried about what we were going to wear. “Don’t we have to go buy black dresses?” she kept asking. “Mama, when we gonna go get our black dresses?” She sounded as if she was already thinking about going to school the day after the funeral in her new black dress. Not so long ago that was what I would have been thinking. Now all I could think about was Aunt Ruth and the way she had talked to me all last summer. When Mama shushed Reese and told her she could just wear her dark blue skirt and a white blouse, I went off to sit on the porch steps, hugging my knees to my chest. There was a tight painful place inside me that squeezed me, not my heart, but just above my heart. I remembered the way Aunt Ruth had looked when she smiled at me, how thin she had been with her bird fingers and feverish eyes. But most of all I remembered the way she had laughed with Earle and then stared off into the distance all those long hours in the hot afternoons. “Can we talk to each other or not?” she had asked me. I had tried, but in the end I had lied. I hadn’t told her that she was dying, hadn’t told her the truth about my fear of Daddy Glen. I hadn’t told her that I knew what he was thinking when he looked at me, that I could see in his eyes not only confusion and anger but something hotter and meaner still. I hadn’t told her about the way he had touched me. I had been too ashamed. Mama thought that keeping me out of the house and away from Daddy Glen was the answer, that being patient, loving him, and making him feel strong and important would fix everything in time. But nothing changed and nothing was really fixed, everything was only delayed. Every time his daddy spoke harshly to him, every time he couldn’t pay the bills, every time Mama was too tired to flatter or tease him out of his moods, Daddy Glen’s eyes would turn to me, and my blood would turn to ice. I had never said that to Aunt Ruth, never said it to anyone. I didn’t know how. My head ached so bad I didn’t even hear Daddy Glen shout. I was still curled up on the porch when he stepped through the front door. “I was calling you, girl.” He grabbed me by the shoulder. He hadn’t had time to shower yet, and his face was still sweaty, his uniform smelling of spilled milk. I looked up at him with hatred and saw the pupils of his eyes go small and hard. “I didn’t hear you,” I said plainly, coldly. “You damn well did.”

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  A little Hank Williams, the Monroe Brothers, Hazel Cole, and—who was that?—yeah, Blind Alfred Reed, right? Bet she even got out ‘Wabash Cannonball,’ and ‘Where the Soul of Man Never Dies.’” “’Pistol Packin’ Mama.’” I reached under Butch’s seat for the Pabst bottle, took it up, and drained it. He stared at me, unbelieving. “She really loved that one. We sang it together all one afternoon.” I set the empty bottle back under his chair. His face crumpled slowly. “Goddam,” he whispered. “I forgot that one. Shit.” He dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. I watched his shoulders tighten, feeling far off and a little numb, the liquor like cotton batting all along my nervous system. “Christ damn,” Butch cursed, and stood up. “I hate this.” He kicked his chair over, kicked it again and knocked it a couple of feet away, went after it, and gave it another kick. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. When I talked to Deedee, we both swore we weren’t gonna act like this, and there she is up in Mama’s bedroom now, crying like her heart’s broke, like she lost her best friend in the world. And hell,” he almost shouted, turning back to me, “she and Mama couldn’t barely stand each other.” I nodded. “It don’t make sense, does it? I always thought Deedee hated Aunt Ruth, she talked so bad about her. But this morning…” I paused to wipe my face. “It all looked different.” “Goddam, you’re drunk.” Butch walked over to me, tilted my face back, and put his down close to mine. His lips pressed my lips, his tongue slipped in and pushed at my tongue, I pulled my head away in surprise. “How old are you now, Bone?” he asked. “I’ll be thirteen in May,” I told him. “Thirteen.” Butch nodded. “I always liked you,” he whispered. “Still do. You an’t always a damn fool like everybody else.” He straightened back up. “So don’t go making more out of this than there is.” I got to my feet carefully. The back of my skirt was stuck to my legs. I pulled it free with one hand and felt one of the scabs tear loose. I winced, but Butch had bent down to retrieve the beer bottle and didn’t see. I went back inside, walking slowly, placing one foot deliberately in front of the other. It was kind of interesting being drunk. I liked the numb part. In the overheated house, there seemed to be no good air left. The kitchen was full of women standing around talking and watching over the stove. Mama and Alma were sitting at the table, Alma leaning on Mama’s shoulder. Carr was over at the counter, slicing ham and laying it out on a platter. Temple and Mollie were with her, helping to put more food out.

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  “Whoa, Bone! Girl, you been growing up while I been gone? Drinking beer and stealing whiskey?” I drained his cup and handed it back. “They still should have had music. Aunt Ruth loved music.” “Yeah.” Butch knocked the cup against his knuckles, making a low hollow sound. “Yeah. She did. Used to love to play those scratchy old records. Kept them even after D.W. broke her record player. Always planned to buy her another one, but I never seemed to have any extra money. Couple of times I borrowed Earle’s record player for her just so she could listen to it.” “Earle loaned it to her last summer while I was there. We played a bunch of her stuff.” Butch smiled. “Don’t tell me. ‘Gospel Train,’ right? A little Hank Williams, the Monroe Brothers, Hazel Cole, and—who was that?—yeah, Blind Alfred Reed, right? Bet she even got out ‘Wabash Cannonball,’ and ‘Where the Soul of Man Never Dies.’” “’Pistol Packin’ Mama.’” I reached under Butch’s seat for the Pabst bottle, took it up, and drained it. He stared at me, unbelieving. “She really loved that one. We sang it together all one afternoon.” I set the empty bottle back under his chair. His face crumpled slowly. “Goddam,” he whispered. “I forgot that one. Shit.” He dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. I watched his shoulders tighten, feeling far off and a little numb, the liquor like cotton batting all along my nervous system. “Christ damn,” Butch cursed, and stood up. “I hate this.” He kicked his chair over, kicked it again and knocked it a couple of feet away, went after it, and gave it another kick. “I didn’t think I’d feel like this. When I talked to Deedee, we both swore we weren’t gonna act like this, and there she is up in Mama’s bedroom now, crying like her heart’s broke, like she lost her best friend in the world. And hell,” he almost shouted, turning back to me, “she and Mama couldn’t barely stand each other.” I nodded. “It don’t make sense, does it? I always thought Deedee hated Aunt Ruth, she talked so bad about her. But this morning…” I paused to wipe my face. “It all looked different.” “Goddam, you’re drunk.” Butch walked over to me, tilted my face back, and put his down close to mine. His lips pressed my lips, his tongue slipped in and pushed at my tongue, I pulled my head away in surprise. “How old are you now, Bone?” he asked. “I’ll be thirteen in May,” I told him. “Thirteen.” Butch nodded. “I always liked you,” he whispered. “Still do. You an’t always a damn fool like everybody else.” He straightened back up. “So don’t go making more out of this than there is.”

• From Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)

  The sun was so bright, and that boy just grinned so.” The old man wouldn’t stop looking back over to where Lyle lay still on the edge of the road. Lyle lay uncovered for a good twenty minutes. Everybody kept expecting him to get up. There was not a mark on him, and his face was shining with that lazy smile. But the back of his head flattened into the gravel, and his palms lay open and damp in the spray of the traffic the patrolmen diverted around the wreck. Mama was holding Reese when the sheriff’s car pulled up at Aunt Alma’s, and she must have known immediately what he had come to tell her, because she put her head back and howled like an old dog in labor, howled and rocked and squeezed her baby girl so tight Aunt Alma had to pinch her to get Reese free. Mama was nineteen, with two babies and three copies of my birth certificate in her dresser drawer. When she stopped howling, she stopped making any sound at all and would only nod at people when they tried to get her to cry or talk. She took both her girls to the funeral with all her sisters lined up alongside of her. The Parsonses barely spoke to her. Lyle’s mother told Aunt Alma that if her boy hadn’t taken that damn job for Mama’s sake, he wouldn’t have died in the road. Mama paid no attention. Her blond hair looked dark and limp, her skin gray, and within those few days fine lines had appeared at the corners of her eyes. Aunt Ruth steered her away from the gravesite while Aunt Raylene tucked some of the flowers into her family Bible and stopped to tell Mrs. Parsons what a damn fool she was. Aunt Ruth was heavily pregnant with her eighth child, and it was hard for her not to take Mama into her arms like another baby. At Uncle Earle’s car, she stopped and leaned back against the front door, hanging on to Mama. She brushed Mama’s hair back off her face, looking closely into her eyes. “Nothing else will ever hit you this hard,” she promised. She ran her thumbs under Mama’s eyes, her fingers resting lightly on either temple. “Now you look like a Boatwright,” she said. “Now you got the look. You’re as old as you’re ever gonna get, girl. This is the way you’ll look till you die.” Mama just nodded; it didn’t matter to her anymore what she looked like. A year in the mill was all Mama could take after they buried Lyle; the dust in the air got to her too fast.