Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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

  The emperor died after a short illness, and after receiving the holy communion, Jan. 28, 814, in the 71st year of his age, and the 47th of his reign, and was buried on the same day in the cathedral of Aix-la-Chapelle "amid the greatest lamentations of the people."248 Very many omens, adds Eginhard (ch. 32), had portended his approaching end, as he had recognized himself. Eclipses both of the sun and the moon were very frequent during the last three years of his life, and a black spot was visible on the sun for seven days. The bridge over the Rhine at Mayence, which he had constructed in ten years, was consumed by fire; the palace at Aix-la-Chapelle frequently trembled; the basilica was struck by lightning, the gilded ball on the roof shattered by a thunderbolt and hurled upon the bishop’s house adjoining; and the word Princeps after Karolus inscribed on an arch was effaced a few months before his decease. "But Charles despised, or affected to despise, all these things as having no reference whatever to him." The Charlemagne of Poetry. The heroic and legendary poetry of the middle ages represents Charles as a giant of superhuman strength and beauty, of enormous appetite, with eyes shining like the morning star, terrible in war, merciful in peace, as a victorious hero, a wise lawgiver, an unerring judge, and a Christian saint. He suffered only one defeat, at Roncesvalles in the narrow passes of the Pyrenees, when, on his return from a successful invasion of Spain, his rearguard with the flower of the French chivalry, under the command of Roland, one of his paladins and nephews, was surprised and routed by the Basque Mountaineers (778).249 The name of "the Blessed Charles" is enrolled in the Roman Calendar for his services to the church and gifts to the pope. Heathen Rome deified Julius Caesar, Christian Rome canonized, or at least beatified Charlemagne. Suffrages for the repose of his soul were continued in the church of Aix-la-Chapelle until Paschal, a schismatical pope, at the desire of Frederic Barbarossa, enshrined his remains in that city and published a decree for his canonization (1166). The act was neither approved nor revoked by a regular pope, but acquiesced in, and such tacit canonization is considered equivalent to beatification. Notes. I. Judgments on the Personal Character of Charlemagne. Eginhard (whose wife Emma figures in the legend as a daughter of Charlemagne) gives the following frank account of the private and domestic relations of his master and friend (chs. 18 and 19, in Migne, Tom. XCVII. 42 sqq.):

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Madame," I said to her on the morrow of my last interview with the Count, "Madame, I have something of the highest importance to reveal, but however vital its interest to you, I shall not broach it unless, beforehand, you give me your word of honor to bear no resentment against your nephew for what Monsieur has had the audacity to concert.... You will act, Madame, you will take the steps prudence enjoins, but you will say not a word. Deign to give me your promise; else I am silent." Madame de Bressac, who thought it was but a question of some of her nephew's everyday extravagances, bound herself by the oath I demanded, and I disclosed everything. The unhappy woman burst into tears upon learning of the infamy.... "The monster!" she cried, "have I ever done anything that was not for his good? Had I wished to thwart his vices, or correct them, what other motive than his own happiness could have constrained me to severity! And is it not thanks to me he inherits this legacy his uncle has just left him ?

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I fall backwards. For the first time I feel my mother in the fall. She chose to save herself. She couldn’t bear the weight of love—not even for her own flesh and blood. And in that fall, I feel her decision to leave me. It rocks my heart and breaks it all over again. The first person you are connected to is your mother. By a cord composed of two arteries and a vein. She keeps you alive by sharing her blood and her warmth and her very life. When you are born, and the doctor severs that cord, a new one is formed. An emotional cord. My mother held me and fed me. She brushed my hair gently, and told me stories about fairies that lived in apple trees. She sang me songs, and baked me lemon cakes with rose frosting. She kissed my face when I cried and made little circles on my skin with her fingertips. And then she abandoned me. She walked out like none of that meant anything. Like we were never connected by a cord with two arteries and a vein. Like we were never connected by our hearts. I was disposable. I could be left. I was a broken- hearted little girl. Isaac broke the spell she put me under. He taught me what it was to not be left. A stranger who fought to keep me alive. I scream aloud. I roll to my side and grab my shirt, bringing the material up to my face, pressing it against my eyes and nose and mouth. I cry ungracefully, my heart hurting so exquisitely I cannot hold in the ugly noises that rise from my throat. I once read that there is an invisible thread that connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break. As the drugs dull me, I can feel that cord. I close my eyes, choking on my own spit and tears, and I can almost feel it tug and pull as she takes Isaac. Please don’t let it break, I silently plead to him. I need to know that some cords can’t be cut. Then the drugs take me. [image file=image41.jpg] Acceptance

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Her voice was low and throaty, her gray eyes almost colorless in the sun’s glare. The XX tattoo on her forehead stood out livid against her pale skin. “I was impressed.” Ramona remembered the screams. She remembered the shhhhhwip-thunk of the arrow whipping over Teach’s head to bury itself in Annie’s shoulder, just above and to the right of her collarbone, and the screams of the men pouring down the eroded slope of the gully along which the trannies had fled. “Shoulder to shoulder,” she said, almost automatically. “That’s the only way the sisterhood survives. Ma’am.” Teach laughed softly, pulling her high-backed chair out from her desk. She sat and gestured for Ramona to do the same. “We haven’t seen much of each other,” she said. She seemed never to blink. Ramona, perched on her folding metal chair, fought the urge to blush under her gaze. “No, ma’am.” “You’re a Hollywood girl, aren’t you?” Teach pulled open the desk’s bottom drawer and drew out a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet and two paper cups. She poured, then pushed one toward Ramona across the weighted-down maps. “How’d you wind up in Baltimore?” “Just for a few years.” She sipped her scotch, the peaty, smoky liquor burning the back of her throat. “My dad lived out there, after he and my mom split. She got diagnosed with lung cancer April of twenty eighteen and I moved back to PA to take care of her. So, a few months before T-Day.” She could almost hear her mother’s rattling, phlegmy wheeze coming from the next room, faint over the sound of The View or Days of Our Lives playing on the gigantic nineties TV set. “She died in the blackouts. My brothers…” A great amorphous mass of sadness heaved up suddenly from the depths of her stomach, beaching itself inside her. She blinked her tears back furiously, short of breath. “I’m sorry.” Nut up. Fucking nut up and stop crying like a little bitch. Those big, pale eyes moved over Ramona like searchlights cutting fog. “It was a bad time for all of us, Pierce,” Teach said softly, tapping a finger against the rim of her waxed paper cup. “Why don’t you tell me how you joined the Legion?” Ramona felt an overpowering sense of gratitude toward the other woman. She finished her drink in one quick swallow, relishing the warm, mellow bite as it rolled down her throat into her belly. She sniffed. “I saw you speak, ma’am. In Philly, two years after.”

• From Between Us

  Some of his most difficult interactions were with his master, who did not do much to teach him the art of shopkeeping: “I thought it sad for me to be ingaged 9 yeares . . . to sell my Master’s ware . . . and get no knowledge.” When his master promises and then refuses to give him a new set of clothes, he also describes his feelings as grief: “soe I would have none and parted with grieve.” Grief is also his go-to emotion in situations with equals: A woman starts some malicious gossip about him, and he is “in some greefe” about it. Lowe does not see himself as angry, because anger was not “right.” God could be angry, but ordinary citizens could not. Entitlement and nonacceptance were not acceptable relationship acts. Instead, Roger Lowe and his contemporaries pray to the Lord to help them “walk humbly.” In many contemporary cultures remote from our own, especially in tightly knit communities and societies, anger is also considered “wrong.” It would be nearly impossible to play the anger card if you were an Utku Inuit, a Buddhist Tibetan, an Ifaluk, or even a Japanese individual. In these cultures, communal and relational harmony prevail over individual goals and rights. Entitlement and nonacceptance conflict with the central goals of keeping relationships smooth. Anger is barely seen in any of these cultures, and also much less reported. The Utku Inuit, the same who were “never in anger,” valued equanimity and generosity, and disruptions thereof were considered childish and dangerous (see chapter 3). Similarly, Buddhist Tibetans consider lung lang (roughly translated as “being angry”) to be an extremely destructive emotion, harmful to both self and others. Anger is motivated by a desire to harm another sentient being, and therefore at odds with the Buddhist emphasis on compassion and the ethical code of speaking, acting, and living in non- harmful ways. The Ifaluk, the Polynesian group that hosted anthropologist Catherine Lutz, also condemned anger in their everyday lives. The irritability that accompanies sickness, the frustration that builds up over the succession of minor unwanted things, or the annoyance at relatives not living up to their obligations: all of these varieties of anger were perceived to be immoral and undignified. When relational harmony is prioritized over individual autonomy, entitlement and nonacceptance are wrong. As a result, interpersonal anger is not much seen. Philosopher Owen Flanagan contrasts the acceptance of many types of anger in Western traditions to the complete condemnation of anger by, for instance, Buddhist and Stoic traditions.

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

  Nor could this leadership have fallen into better hands. For Beza, although inferior to Calvin in theological acquirements and acumen, was his superior in knowledge and experience of court life and in grace of manner. He was eminently fitted to be the host of the Protestant scholars and martyrs, who flocked or fled to Geneva from every quarter. And so the theological school became under him the most famous of its kind in the world, and the little republican city was the virtual capital of Continental Protestantism. Incessantly occupied as he was by public affairs, but bearing his burdens with courage and faith, he was suddenly called upon to transact delicate business of a private nature. In 1568 the plague entered Geneva and carried off his stepbrother Nicolas,1299 who had succeeded his father as bailiff of Vezelay, joined the Huguenots, and come as a fugitive to Geneva with his wife, Perrette Tribolé, when Vezelay fell into Roman Catholic hands. He had been only a few days in the city when he died. Beza felt it incumbent upon him to go to Burgundy to see whether he could not save at least a part of their inheritance for his two nephews; and this errand, after a great deal of trouble, he accomplished successfully. In 1571, after an absence of some eight years, he was again summoned to France, this time by Coligny and the young Prince de Béarn, to attend the seventh national Synod of the Reformed Church of France convened in La Rochelle. The Venerable Company of Pastors would not part with him without a protest, but yielded to the express wish of the Syndics of the Republic. Beza himself was reluctant to go, and indeed had declined a previous summons; but the crisis demanded an authoritative expression of the views of the Swiss Churches upon the proposed reforms in the discipline of the Church, and so he went. The Synod lasted from the 2d to the 17th of April. He was elected its moderator. A revised Confession of Faith was drawn up, and a vigorous reply made to the demand for increased authority on the part of the temporal chiefs. On his way back to Geneva he took part in another Synod, held at Nismes, and was specially charged with the refutation of the opponents to the established discipline. On St. Bartholomew’s Day, Sunday, Aug. 24, 1572, very many Protestants were murdered in Paris, and for days thereafter the shocking scenes were repeated in different parts of France.1300 On the 1st of September the first company of fugitives, many covered with wounds, made their appearance in Geneva. A day of fasting and prayer was ordered, and Beza exhorted his Swiss hearers to stand firm and to provide all needed help to their stricken brethren. Four thousand livres were collected in Geneva, and the wants of the crowd of sufferers attended to.1301

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I had another question on the tip of my tongue, but I held it there when the nurse walked in. Isaac stood up and I knew our conversation was over. In my mind, I replayed the beat he’d played on my wrist as the nurse fit a cap over my hair. I wondered what song it belonged to. If it was one of the ones he’d left on my windshield. “I’m going to walk you through the procedure,” he said, lowering my gown. “Then Sandy is going to take you to surgery.” He morphed from Isaac the man to Isaac the doctor in just a few seconds. He told me where he was going to make the incisions, outlining them on my breasts with a black marker. He spoke about what he was going to be looking for. His voice was steady, professional. While he spoke tears streamed down my face and fell into my hair in a silent but torrid emotional cacophony. It was the first time I’d cried since my childhood. I hadn’t cried when my mother left, or when I was raped, or when I found out cancer was eating at my body. I hadn’t even cried when I made the decision to cut out the very essence of what made me a woman. I cried when Isaac played drums on my pulse and told me he had to give it up before they destroyed him. Go figure. Or maybe that statement had just broken it all open. My cry felt anticlimactic. Like something more profound should have kicked the last stone out of the dam before it burst open. He saw my tears, but he didn’t acknowledge them. I was so, so grateful. They wheeled me into the OR and the anesthesiologist greeted me by name. I was asked to count backwards from ten. The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Isaac, staring intently into my eyes. I thought he was telling me to live. “Senna … Senna…” I heard his voice. My eyes felt weighted. When I opened them Isaac was standing over me. It was an alarming comfort to see him. “Hi,” he said softly. I blinked at him, trying to clear my vision. “Everything went well. I need you to rest. I’ll be back later to talk to you about the surgery.” “Is it gone?” My voice was just a scratch. He smelled like coffee when he leaned down. He spoke into my ear as if he were telling me a secret. “I got it all.” I could barely nod before I closed my eyes again. I drifted off wanting coffee and wishing my eyelids weren’t so heavy so I could see his face a little longer.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  We lie like that for hours. Until the fire burns out its last flame and I know the night has curved into day, even though day no longer shows her face. Until I want to sob from relief and grief. Until I remember all of the ineffable hurt from years ago that he salved with the tender way he loves. We are going to die. But at least I’ll die with someone who loves me. Isaac is touch. Why have I ever thought anything different? He held me once to soothe me from my nightmares, and now he is holding me to protect me from the cold. He touches right where it hurts, and then all of a sudden it doesn’t hurt. Yes, Isaac is touch. I see the pink spade again. I can feel the grit of coffee grounds as I work them between my teeth. Then I see The Great Wall of China, and I know my brain is short circuiting, passing along images of things that are in my subconscious. When I see the table flash in my mind—the carved up, heavy, wooden table from the kitchen downstairs—I feel something true. It’s like when I sleep and my brain tells me what to write. What is it about the table…? Then I see it, but I’m so tired I can’t keep my eyes open. Don’t forget, I tell myself. You have to remember the table… The fire goes. Our hearts are slowing. We are resolute. When I wake Isaac isn’t there. I weigh my panic against the pain. I can only focus on one at a time. I choose my pain because it won’t loosen its grip on my brain. I am familiar with heart pain—intense, excruciating heart pain, but I’ve never experienced a physical pain quite this exquisite. Heart pain and physical pain are only comparable in that neither relinquish their hold on you once they get rolling. The heart releases a dull ache when it is broken; the pain in my leg so acute and sharp it’s hard to breathe. I wrestle with the pain for a minute … two, before I discard it. I broke my body and there is no way to fix it. I don’t care. I need to find Isaac. And that’s when I think it: Oh God. What if the zookeeper came while I was passed out and did something to him? I roll slightly onto my side until I have some leverage, and try to drag myself up using my good leg. That’s when I see my leg. The lower half of my pants has been cut away. The place where the bone was sticking out has been wrapped in thin gauze. I feel liquid running down to my foot as I move. I hold my hand over my mouth and breathe through my nose. Who was here? Who did this? The fire is burning.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  My hand is shaking as I reach down to touch the words. I go for the V, slicing it in half. It has dried, but some of it chips away on the tip of my finger. I place my finger in my mouth, the flecks of red clinging to my tongue. All this, and Isaac has been a statue behind me. When I bend over, letting my crutch drop away, moaning in some sort of grief, I feel his arms circle my waist. He pulls me back into the house and kicks the door closed. “Noooooo! It’s blood, Isaac. It’s blood. Let me go!” He holds me from behind as I twist to get away from him. “Hush,” he says into my ear. “You’re going to hurt your leg. You can sit on the sofa, Senna. I’ll bring it to you.” I stop fighting. I’m not crying, but somehow my nose is running. I reach up and wipe it as Isaac carries me to the living room and sits me down. The couch is barely a couch. We hacked parts of it away to burn when we discovered that there was a wooden frame underneath the stuffing. The cushions are gouged; they sink beneath me. The back of the sofa is gone; there is nowhere to rest my back. I sit straight, my leg poking out in front of me. My anxiety climbs every second that Isaac is gone. My ears follow him to the door, where his breath hitches as he lifts the box. It’s heavy. The door closes again. When he walks back into the room he’s carrying it like a body, his arms stretched around its sides. There is no coffee table to set it on—we hacked that up too—so he places it at the floor by my feet, and steps back. “What’s MV, Senna?” I stare at the blood, the part of the V that I smudged with my finger. “It’s me,” I say. He tilts his head forward. It feels like he’s lining up our eyes. Truth. I’m going to have to feed him some truth. “Mud Vein. I’m Mud Vein.” My mouth feels dry. I want to purge it with a gallon of snow. His eyes flicker. He’s remembering. “The dedication in his book.” Our eyes are connected, so I don’t need to nod. “Would he…?” “I don’t know anything anymore.” “What does it mean?” he asks. I lower my eyes away from his, and to the blood letters. For MV “What’s inside?” I ask. “I’ll open it when you tell me why the zookeeper addressed that box to Mud Vein.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “I wish this song would stop playing.” I pick up my plate and start eating. These are Isaac’s plates. Or were his plates. I only ate at his house once. He probably has the type of china now that married people have. I think about his wife. Small and pretty, eating off her china alone because her husband is missing. She doesn’t feel like eating, but she’s doing it anyway because of the baby. The baby they tried and tried for. I blink the image of her away. She helped save my life. I wonder if they’ve tied our disappearances together? Daphne knew some of what happened with Isaac and me. They had been seeing each other when he met me. He put everything on hold with her during those months he was keeping me alive. “Senna,” he says. I don’t lift my head. I’m trying not to crack. There is rice on my plate. I count the grains. “It took me a long time…” he pauses. “To stop feeling you everywhere.” “Isaac, you don’t have to. Really. I get it. You want to be with your family.” “We’re not good at this,” he says. “The talking.” He sets his plate down. I hear the clatter of silverware. “But I want you to know one thing about me. Want being the key word, Senna. I know you don’t need words from me.” I brace myself against the rice; it’s all that stands between me and my feelings. Rice. “You’ve been silent your whole life. You were silent when we met, silent when you suffered. Silent when life kept hitting you. I was like that too, a little. But not like you. You are a stillness. And I tried to move you. It didn’t work. But that doesn’t mean you didn’t move me. I heard everything you didn’t say. I heard it so loudly that I couldn’t shut it off. Your silence, Senna, I hear it so loudly.” I set my plate down and wipe my palms on my pant legs. I have yet to look at him, but I hear the angst in his voice. I have nothing to say. I don’t know what to say. That proves his point, and I don’t want him to be right. “I hear you still.” I stand up. I upset my plate; it topples. “Isaac, stop.” But he doesn’t. “It’s never that I don’t want to be with you. It’s that you don’t want to be with me.” I bolt for the ladder. I don’t even bother using the rungs. I jump … land on my haunches. I feel feral. “The life you choose to live is the essence of who you arrre.” I am an animal, bent on surviving. I let nothing in. I let nothing out. [image file=image28.jpg] Depression

• From Going Clear (2013)

  For a moment, Lola was frozen in place, wonderstruck by the hellish glory of a force so mighty, a force that threatened even the will to survive. Into her consciousness came a sound—high, keening, hysterical—it was Mary Lou Miller, the ten-year-old. “Coco! Coco!” Mary Lou cried. “Momma, Coco’s in there!” Jeannette was struggling to get the toddler into the car seat while holding on to Mary Lou. “Let me go!” Mary Lou screamed, writhing in her mother’s grasp. “Mary Lou, the barn’s full of hay, it’ll go up in a minute,” Jeannette said, forcing herself to be calm and firm. “There’s nothing to be done. Now get in the truck, we gotta save ourselves!” As Lola watched, Mary Lou broke away and ran into the burning barn. “Mary Lou! Mary Lou!” Jeannette cried, and then she rushed after her daughter, still carrying the baby. Without a second to think, Lola raced after Jeannette and blocked her. Fires are made even more dangerous by the panic they spread, and running after one child with another on her shoulder could only magnify the tragedy. Jeannette knew this. The horror was written on her face as she sank into Lola’s iron embrace. A blast of heat surrounded them like a furnace and the flames painted them in a brilliant orange glow. The hay in the barn suddenly ignited and the bales exploded. Jeannette sank to her knees. It was then that Lola saw Sonny run into the barn. His silhouette was black against the flames and then he disappeared right through them. The air itself seemed to be ablaze. Sonny could barely breathe there was so little oxygen left in the barn. He heard the girl on the other side of the fire before he saw her. She wasn’t screaming now. She was trying to calm a horse that was making sounds that Sonny had never heard a horse make. An Appaloosa mare. She spun about and pawed the air, bucking frantically, dangerously close to Mary Lou. “Coco, Coco, stop, I’m here!” Mary Lou cried in an oxygen-starved whisper. “I’ll save you!” The girl had gotten the stall door open, but the mare was berserk, seeing nothing but fire everywhere. Her whinnying turned into an eerie wail. In her frenzy, Coco kicked in the gate of the stall, then spun about and came down hard on Mary Lou. Sonny waited until the horse reared again then grabbed Mary Lou before the hooves landed on her. She was barely conscious and didn’t have any struggle left. Sonny tucked her face into his fire jacket and ran through the flames with his eyes closed and his head down. A timber crashed behind them, drawing another deathly scream from Coco. Sonny gasped and drank in the air the moment he got out of the barn. He saw Lola holding Jeannette and the look on their faces. When Mary Lou got her breath, she began sobbing, her face wrenched in agony. It wasn’t pain, it was grief.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  The basement dive where Molly had taken them seemed like a normal pub, underlit and earthy. She glanced at the worn, polished bar and thought for a terrible throat-closing instant of all the men who’d sat there, year after year, or stood behind it mixing drinks and pulling drafts. Her father had died in a place like this. A heart attack in a booth. No one had even noticed until the owner came over to kick him out at close. Was he cold? How long does it take for a body to turn cold? “It’s just a lot of people make that mistake. They see the sign and think—” Ramona slid out of the booth. “Bathroom,” she grunted at Sadie’s quizzical expression, and without waiting for an answer she struck out across the crowded floor, sidling past Karin where the other woman stood slumped against the bar on her elbows, sipping from a shot glass, and between the Legionnaires jostling around the pool tables. One of Molly’s girls, a hatchet-faced woman a little older than Ramona, the hair on the left side of her skull shaved to peach fuzz and the other side left coarse and shaggy, clapped her on the shoulder in passing. “Good work out there.” A lopsided smile from the battle-axe. Behind her, two women swaying on the water-stained tiles. Undercut pulled Ramona close and whispered in her ear. “You want an attagirl, chief said to tell you there’s one waiting upstairs in 1B.” Feather’s hazy stare and the soft circle of their open mouth. Their pink tongue lapping at her fingers. Ramona made herself return the other woman’s smile. “Good to know.” The bathrooms lay on the far side of the bar, past the jukebox and the broken Pac-Man machine. Some wit had Sharpied a skirt and a long, pendulous penis onto the little figure on the MEN’S plaque. Ramona ducked into the women’s, pushing past Jules and Piper where they were necking on the edge of the dance floor and pulling the door shut behind her. She threw the bolt and leaned her forehead against the rough wood, counting her breaths until her heartbeat slowed. The muffled music thrummed through the door against her skin. Get it together, you fucking infant. She went to the sink and ran the faucet. No hot water, but after a few seconds the cloudy brown flow cleared enough that she could splash it on her face. Her reflection swam in the cracked and spotted mirror. The green dress she’d picked up from her locker at the precinct building they’d been using as a headquarters. Numbers written on the tile walls. Spiraling blooms of graffiti. A rat breastfeeding its teeming young. Lurid green and purple outlines. A cock and balls. The Cool S. She slapped herself across the face hard enough to make her right ear ring.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  This correct and sensible young man expresses the deepest gratitude for the service I have just so kindly rendered him, he takes an interest in my misfortunes, and proposes to alleviate them with the bestowal of his hand. "I am only too happy to be able to make you restitution for the wrongs fortune has done you, Mademoiselle," says he; "I am my own master, dependent upon no one, I am going on to Geneva to make a considerable investment with the funds your timely warning has saved me from losing; accompany me to Switzerland; when we arrive there I shall become your husband and you will not appear in Lyon under any other title, or, if you prefer, Mademoiselle, if you have any misgivings, it will only be in my own country I will give you my name." Such an offer, so very flattering, was one I dared not refuse; but it did not on the other hand become me to accept it without making Dubreuil aware of all that might cause him to repent it; he was grateful for my delicacy and only insisted the more urgently... unhappy creature that I was! 'twas necessary that happiness be offered me only in order that I be more deeply penetrated with grief at never being able to seize it! it was then ordained that no virtue could be born in my heart without preparing torments for me! Our conversation had already taken us two leagues from the city, and we were about to dismount in order to enjoy the fresh air along the bank of the Isere, when all of a sudden Dubreuil told me he felt very ill.... He got down, he was seized by dreadful vomitings; I had him climb into the carriage at once and we flew back posthaste to Grenoble. Dubreuil is so sick he has to be borne to his room; his condition startles his associate whom we find there and who, in accordance with instructions, has not stirred from the chamber; a doctor comes, Just Heaven! Dubreuil has been poisoned!

• From Austerlitz (2001)

  him under the chin, they never touched the ground again. As night fell they would rise two or three miles in the air and glide there, banking now to one side, now to the other, and moving their outspread wings only occasionally, until they came back down to us at break of day.—Austerlitz had been so deeply immersed in his Welsh tale, and I in listening to him, that we did not notice how late it had grown. The last rounds had long since been poured, the last guests were gone except for the two of us. The barman had collected the glasses and ashtrays, wiped the tables with a cloth, and was now waiting to lock up after us with his hand on the light switch by the door. The way in which he wished us Good night, gentlemen, with his eyes clouded by weariness and his head tilted slightly to one side, struck me as an extraordinary mark of distinction, almost like an absolution or a blessing. And Pereira, the business manager of the Great Eastern, was equally civil and courteous when we entered the hotel foyer directly afterwards. He seemed positively expectant as he stood behind the reception desk in his starched white shirt and gray cloth waistcoat, with his hair immaculately parted, one of those rare and often rather mysterious people, as I thought on seeing him, who are infallibly to be found at their posts, and whom one cannot imagine ever feeling any need to go to bed. After I had made an appointment to meet Austerlitz the next day Pereira, having inquired after my wishes, led me upstairs to the first floor and showed me into a room containing a great deal of wine-red velvet, brocade, and dark mahogany furniture, where I sat until almost three in the morning at a secretaire faintly illuminated by the street lighting—the cast-iron radiator clicked quietly, and only occasionally did a black cab drive past outside in Liverpool Street—writing down, in the form of notes and disconnected sentences, as much as possible of what Austerlitz had told me that evening. Next morning I woke late, and after breakfast I sat for some time reading the newspapers, where I found not only the usual home and international news, but also the story of an ordinary man who was overcome by such deep grief after the death of his wife, for whom he had cared devotedly during her long and severe illness, that he decided to end his own life by means of a guillotine which he had built himself in the square concrete area containing the basement steps at the back of his house in Halifax. As a craftsman, and having taken careful stock of other possible methods, he thought the guillotine the most reliable way of carrying out his plan, and sure enough, as the short report said, he had finally been found lying with his head cut off by such an instrument of decapitation. It was of uncommonly sturdy construction, with every tiny detail neatly finished, and a slanting blade which, as the reporter remarked, two strong men could scarcely have lifted. The pincers with which he had cut through the wire operating it were still in his rigid hand. Austerlitz had come to fetch me

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  69. Kawai, Kawai. (My dear, my dear)The firefly singing not Burns in silence; She suffers more Than the loud insect who says: 'Kawai, kawai!' Why have I given all my soul To a man without sincerity? I regret it, I rather regret it. 70. Notes taken in my Bedroom.It must be late Autumn night The moon falls Wind is cold. My dwarf harp, my little koto Is by me on the pillow, Lying lightly. I flutter a chord On the seven strings. I hear the first wild goose crying: 'We have come back, come back.' It is very late. 71. Wanting to Write a Letter.I want to send him a letter But do not know what to write. Tell me something, White paper. 72. Heat.Noon on feet of felt Has come into the city. Not a leaf airs. On the rope of the temple bell A butterfly is sleeping. 73. Bindweed.Every morning You flower with new colours And garland the well bucket, Your petals are eyes Blinded with dew. You are delightful. Flower long, flower differently, Emerald cup. 74. Faith.I am the ordinary cherry tree Whose flower is single. It blossoms in the plain. I am not one of those double Cherry trees. 75. If you Promise.If you promise, do it lightly. Look at the maple leaves. The light resist, The heavy break away And fall. Is that not so? 76. South-East Quarter.Light affairs become frivolous At Fukagawa, My body is frivolous. A thin, uncoloured chord on the samisen. In intimate Nakatcho Street Affairs are private, And the news of our love Spreads gallantly, The way of the South-East. Two lovers are in the little room And the screen has double hinges. We pretend worldly fidelity, Painting moles on each other. Perhaps We shall know in heaven. 77. Dew and Rush.The dew pretends she Loves the love of the rush, The rush that he loves no dew. But the rush will blossom And both understand. 78. Wonder.If I think she loves me The snow is light On my umbrella. Crying plovers, Dishevelled wind. 79. Joy.Visitor this evening We run up the long corridor Clicking of clogs. Only one man, Only one person to be loved. I go back to my room, Retreat, honour, Lacquered pillow, Silence. I hear the watchman's rattle, Laughter in the next room. 80. Under Snow.Flowers under the snow Scarcely betray their colour. We meet and she smiles and is silent. 'If I must die/ she is thinking, 'I will die of love As the snow dies.' 81. Before my Birds.I moan for love Before my birds. They also are in a cage. My small complaints Are sorry like mouse cries. The birds hop forward to tease me And I like it, Being so shut in. The sake is cold Because my torment Makes me inefficient. There is such a thing as great grief, Such a thing as Being shut in. 82. Getting out of Bed.He rises and goes. There are Rather dark clouds.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Just then the clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. Teleny shrugged his shoulders. "'Come,' said he, 'there is no time to lose.' "He snatched up his portmanteau, and we hurried downstairs. "I accompanied him to the terminus, and before leaving him when he alighted from the carriage, my arms were clasped round him, and our lips met in a last and lingering kiss. They clung fondly to one another, not with the fever of lust, but with a love all fraught with tenderness, and with a sorrow that gripped the muscles of the heart. "His kiss was like the last emanation of a withering flower, or like the sweet scent shed at evening tide by one of those delicate white cactus blossoms that open their petals at dawn, follow the sun in its diurnal march, then droop and fade away with the planet's last rays. "At parting from him I felt as if I had been bereft of my soul itself. My love was like a Nessus shirt, the severing of which was as painful as having my flesh torn from me piecemeal. It was as if the joy of my life had been snatched away from me. "I watched him as he hurried away with his springy step and feline grace. When he had reached the portal he turned round. He was deathly pale, and in his despair he looked like a man about to commit suicide. He waved a last farewell, and quickly disappeared. "The sun had set for me. Night had come over the world. I felt ⁠'like a soul belated; In hell and heaven unmated;' and, shuddering, I asked myself, what morn would come out of all this darkness? "The agony visible on his face struck a deep terror within me; then I thought how foolish we both were in giving each other such unnecessary pain, and I rushed out of the carriage after him. "All at once a heavy country lout ran up against me, and clasped me in his arms. "'Oh, ——!' I did not catch the name he said—'what an unexpected pleasure! How long have you been here?' "'Let me go—let me go! You are mistaken!' I screamed out, but he held me fast. "As I wrestled with the man, I heard the signal bell ring. With a strong jerk I pushed him away, and ran into the station. I reached the platform a few seconds too late, the train was in motion, Teleny had disappeared.

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

  " ’Finally, I again entreat you to pardon my infirmities, which I acknowledge and confess before God and His angels, and also before you, my much respected lords.’ "Having thus spoken, and prayed to Almighty God that He would crown them more and more with His gifts, and guide them by His Holy Spirit, for the safety of the whole Republic, giving his right hand to each, he left them in sorrow and tears, all feeling as if they were taking a last farewell of their common parent." Calvin’s Farewell to the Ministers of Geneva, April 28, 1564. From Beza’s Vita Calvini. The Latin text in Opera, XXI. 166 sq. Translation by Henry Beveridge for "The Calvin Translation Society," Edinburgh, 1844 (I. xciii), from the Latin text. There is another report, in French, by minister Jean Pinaut, dated May 1, which is fuller as regards Calvin’s persecutions, and the confession of his infirmities, which always displeased him and for which he asks forgiveness. It also makes grateful mention of Farel, Viret, and Beza, and an unpleasant allusion to Bern, which always more feared than loved Calvin. It is printed in Opera, vol. IX. 891, 892, and in the Letters of John Calvin by Jules Bonnet, transl. by Gilchrist, vol. IV. 372–377. "On the 28th of April, when all of us in the ministry of Geneva had gone to him at his request, he said:—

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Some people had a stronger will than others, they only looked lovingly into The Doughnut Hole’s window before racing to their cars. Their cars were mostly hybrids. Generally, hybrid drivers had a nose in the air to things that weren’t good for them. But most couldn’t resist the temptation. It seemed like a cruel joke, really. I counted twelve people who resisted the call to be healthy and followed the smell of white flour and sticky glaze. I liked those people better—the hypocrites. I could relate. When the meal was over, Isaac slipped his credit card out of his wallet. “No,” I said. “Let me…” He looked ready to kick up a fuss. Some men don’t like female gendered credit cards. I gave him a fierce look, and after about five seconds he tucked his wallet back into his back pant pocket. I handed over my card. It was a power move and I’d won—or he’d let me. It’s good to have a little power either way. When he saw me staring across the street at the doughnut shop, he asked if I wanted one. I nodded. He led me to the store and bought a half dozen. When he handed me the bag it was hot … greasy. My mouth started to water. I ate one as he drove me home and we listened to the rest of the Finding Neverland soundtrack. I didn’t even like doughnuts; I just wanted to see what turned all of those people into hypocrites. When we pulled into my driveway I wasn’t sure if he was going to come in or leave me at the door. The rules changed tonight. I willingly went somewhere with him. It felt datish or, at the very least, friendish. But when I opened the front door he followed me inside and turned the deadbolt. I was headed up the stairs when I heard his voice. “I lost a patient today.” I stopped on the fourth stair, but I didn’t turn around. I should have. Something like that was worth turning around for. His voice was clotted. “She was only sixteen. She coded on the table. We couldn’t bring her back.” My heart was racing. I gripped the banister until the veins in my hands popped and I thought the wood was going to snap beneath the pressure. I waited for him to say more, and when he didn’t I climbed the rest of the stairs. Once I was in my bedroom I shut the door and leaned with my back against it. Almost as quickly I turned around and pressed my ear against the wood. I couldn’t hear any movement. I took seven reverse steps up until the backs of my knees were touching the bed, then I spread my arms wide and fell backwards.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  “She wanted to see what love would do if put to the test.” Love doesn’t leave. It bears all things. I don’t know why Saphira wanted to test love. If it was to show me something, or to show herself. I wonder about that. Who she was. Who the man who built the house was to her. But she played with our lives, and I hate her for that. Isaac missed his daughter’s birth, months of her life because of what Saphira did. We almost died because of what she did. But it changed me. The change that Isaac started, before I filed a restraining order to keep him out, Saphira Elgin finished in that house in the snow. A part of me is grateful to her, and it makes me feel sick to admit that. [image file=image46.jpg] On the day I am scheduled to leave, I find a brown envelope on my windshield. I briefly think that I received a parking ticket somewhere, and failed to notice it until now. But when I lift my wiper and pull it away the paper is crisp, not something that’s been sitting outside in the wet, Seattle air. It’s also heavyish. My universe tilts. I spin in a circle looking for him in the trees and down the driveway. I know he’s not here. I know that. But he was, and I can feel him. Everything is boxed up in my house, including my sound system, so I turn the car on and push the silver disc into the car radio. It has just started to snow, so I open all of the windows and blast my heat so I can have the best of both worlds. I hit play, and hold on to the steering wheel. I’m about to careen off a cliff. I know it. I can hardly breathe as I listen to the last song that Isaac will ever give me. I listen to it while my breath freezes and smokes into the air. And while snow flies into the car windows. And while my heart beats, and then aches, and then beats. I listen to my soulmate’s heart with saltwater seeping out of my eyes. He’s speaking to me through a song. Like he always has. It’s a hard thing to know that I’m never going to see him again or hear his music, which woke me up from a long, restless sleep. The shadows still chase me. And I know that when I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, he won’t be there to climb in bed behind me and command them away with the complex way he loves me. The song crushes me. Our cosmic love, our cosmic connection.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Help!' "On the stairs my voice sounded like thunder. "The porter was out of his lodge in an instant. "I heard doors and windows opening. I again screamed out, 'Help!' and then, snatching up a bottle of cognac from the dining-room sideboard, I hurried back to my friend. "I moistened his lips; I poured a few spoonfuls of brandy, drop by drop, down his mouth. "Teleny opened his eyes again. They were veiled and almost dead; only that mournful look he always had, had increased to such an intensity that his pupils were as gloomy as a yawning grave; they thrilled me with an unutterable anguish. I could hardly stand that pitiful, stony look; I felt my nerves stiffen; my breath stopped; I burst out into a convulsive sobbing. "'Oh, Teleny! why did you kill yourself?' I moaned. 'Could you have doubted my forgiveness, my love?' "He evidently heard me, and tried to speak, but I could not catch the slightest sound. "'No, you must not die, I cannot part with you, you are my very life.' "I felt my fingers pressed slightly, imperceptibly. "The porter now made his appearance, but he stopped on the threshold frightened, terrified. "'A doctor—for mercy's sake, a doctor! Take a carriage—run!' I said, imploringly. "Other people began to come in. I waved them back. "'Shut the door. Let no one else enter, but for God's sake fetch a doctor before it is too late!' "The people, aghast, stood at a distance, staring at the dreadful sight. "Teleny again moved his lips. "'Hush! silence!' I whispered, sternly. 'He speaks!' "I felt racked at not being able to understand a single word of what he wanted to say. After several fruitless attempts I managed to make out,— "'Forgive!' "'If I forgive you, my angel? But I not only forgive you, I'd give my life for you!' "The dreary expression of his eyes had deepened, still, grievous as they were, a happier look was to be seen in them. Little by little the heartfelt sadness teemed with ineffable sweetness. I could hardly bear his glances any longer; they were torturing me. Their burning fire sank far into my soul. "Then he again uttered a whole phrase, the only two words of which I guessed rather than heard were— "'Briancourt—letter.' "After that his waning strength began to forsake him quite. "As I looked at him I saw that his eyes were getting clouded, a faint film came over them, he did not seem to see me any more. Yes, they were getting ever more glazed and glassy. "He did not attempt to speak, his lips were tightly shut. Still, after a few moments, he opened his mouth spasmodically; he gasped. He uttered a low, choking, raucous sound. "It was his last breath. Death's awful rattle. "The room was hushed. "I saw the people cross themselves. Some women knelt, and began to mumble prayers.