Grief

Passages

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

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• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘I know all about wailing and lamenting,’ said the Merchant. ‘I am acquainted with grief. Many married men can tell the same story, I am sure of it. I have learned by experience. I have the worst wife in the world, you see. If she were married to the devil, she would get the better of him. I won’t bore you with all the details of her malice. Suffice to say that she is a complete bitch. There could not be a greater difference between her cruelty and the patience of Griselda. If I were free again, I would never fall into the same trap. A burned husband fears the fire. You know I am telling the truth. It may not be the case for all husbands. God forbid. But it is true of the majority. ‘I have been married only for two months, I admit, but I have been tormented every day by my wife. No bachelor could possibly understand the pain I have endured. Even if he were knifed, or whipped, he would not suffer half as much as I have done. She is a wicked woman.’ Harry Bailey clapped him on the back. ‘Well, sir Merchant,’ he said, ‘since you are such an expert on the woes of marriage, tell us all about them.’ ‘Willingly, sir. But I will say no more about my own plight. I am too depressed about it.’ And, heaving a sigh, he began his story. [image file=images/ackr_9781101155639_oeb_008_r1.jpg] The Merchant’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Marchantes Tale Once upon a time there dwelled in Lombardy a worthy knight. He lived in Pavia, where he was prosperous and well respected. He had in fact been a bachelor for sixty years, but he enjoyed himself with any number of women. He was highly sexed, I believe, as are many unmarried men. His name was January. When he had just passed his sixtieth year he either went mad or he repented of his sinfulness. He decided to get married, in other words. He went around looking for a likely wife, beseeching the Lord God all the time that he might for once experience the bliss that lies in married life. I am not making this up. He was determined to live under that holy bond, that gracious union, that blessed state in which God determined that the first man and woman should dwell. ‘No other life,’ he announced, ‘is worth anything. Wedlock is so pure. Wedlock is so easy. Wedlock is paradise on earth.’ So said this wise and worthy knight.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  So on his deathbed he sent for Emily, and for Palamon, and whispered to them his dying words. ‘The woeful spirit in my heart cannot begin to tell my grief to you, sweet lady, whom I love most. I am about to die. Now that my life is over I bequeath to you above all others, lady, the service of my spirit. What is this woe? What are the pains so strong that I have suffered for you? And for so long? What is this death that comes for me? Alas, Emily, from whom I must depart for ever! You are the queen of my heart, my wife, my sweetheart, and the ender of my life. What is this life? What do men know of it? We are in love and then we are in the cold grave; there we lie alone, without any company. Farewell my sweet enemy, my Emily! Yet before I leave you take me softly in your arms, for love of God, and listen to what I say. My dear cousin, Palamon, is with us. For a long time there was strife and anger between us. We fought each other for the right to claim you. But I pray to Jupiter now to give me the power to portray him properly; to depict, that is to say, his truth and honour; to celebrate his wisdom and humility; to applaud his nobility of character; to describe his noble lineage, and his devotion to all the knightly virtues. He is a servant, too, in the cause of love. So by the great gods I recommend him to you, Emily, to be your lover and your husband. There is no one on earth more worthy. He will serve you for the rest of his life. If you do decide to marry, do not forget this gentle man.’ At this point the speech of Arcite began to fail. The cold of death had travelled from his feet to his chest; his limbs grew weak and pale from loss of vital strength. Only his intellect remained. But that, too, was dimmed when his heart grew feeble and felt the approach of death. His eyes began to close, and his breath was weak. Yet still he gazed at Emily. His last words were ‘Have pity, Emily!’ And then his soul changed house. I do not know where it travelled. I have never been to that distant country. I am not a theologian. I can say nothing. And why should I repeat the speculations of those who profess to know? There is nothing about souls in the volume where I found this old story. Arcite is dead. That is all I can tell you. May his god, Mars, guide his spirit.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The two sons of Cenobia were always dressed in regal garments, as the legal heirs of their father. Their names were Hermanno and Thymalao. But in fact Cenobia ruled. Yet there came a time when sweet Fortune turned sourly against her. The queen was not mistress of her destiny. She was doomed to fall from sovereign power and to experience sorrow and disgrace. This is how it happened. When the emperor Aurelianus donned the imperial purple at Rome, he decided to take vengeance upon the queen of Palmyra for all the insults the empire had suffered at her hands. So he marched with his legions into her lands. She fled from him, but eventually he caught up with her and captured her. He put her in chains, together with her two sons, and rode back with them to Rome in triumph. He carried with him her chariot of gold, richly jewelled, and ordered that it should be driven in his victory procession so that every Roman might see it. Then Cenobia herself was led before the people, wearing her crown but pinioned with chains of gold. This is the wheel of Fortune. The noble queen, once the terror and the wonder of the world, was now on display to the mob. She who had led her troops in mighty battles, and who had conquered castles and cities, was brought low. She had once borne a sceptre, but now she carried a distaff with which to wind wool. Peter, king of Spain Oh worthy Peter, noble king, the glory of Spain! Fortune raised you so high. But now you are remembered only for your miserable death. Your own brother chased you from your realm. And then you were betrayed by your enemies and led into his tent, where he killed you with his own hands. He took over your kingdom and your possessions. He was as black as an eagle in a snow-white field. Peter, king of Cyprus Oh noble Peter, worthy king, who won by your mastery the great city of Alexandria. You vanquished many heathens in the course of your career! You were so triumphant that some of your own subjects envied you. They killed you in your bed for no other reason than your nobility. Thus does Dame Fortune turn the wheel, and bring men from glory to distress. Bernabo of Lombardy I sing of you, Bernabo Visconti, lord of Milan, scourge of Lombardy, lover of ease and delight. Why should I not recount your misfortunes? You were raised high, only to be brought down by your brother’s son. Your nephew cast you into prison, and there you died. I do not know the reason. I do not know the killer. Ugolino, count of Pisa

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  As the bird spoke the princess was bathed in tears; she was weeping so piteously that the falcon bid her to be still and stop her sobbing. Then with a sigh she began her tale. ‘I was born - God curse the day - and brought up on a rock of grey marble. I was raised so tenderly that nothing in the world ailed me. I knew nothing of adversity until the time when I first sailed high into the air. Close to me dwelled a tercelet, the male of my species. He seemed noble and honourable, but in fact he was filled with treachery and falseness. He seemed so cheerful and so humble that he fooled everyone; he was always so eager to please. Who could have known that it was all an act? As we birds say, he had dyed his feathers. He was like the snake who conceals himself beneath sweet-smelling flowers, the easier to bite and wound. He was the hypocrite of love, all smiles and bows, obeying all the rules and customs of courtly romance. A tomb is raised out of shining white marble, nicely carved, but there is a rotting corpse within; so did this hypocrite display himself on every occasion. He was all front. Only the devil knew his true purpose. He was always crying on my feathers. He was always bewailing the miserable life of a lover. He courted me year after year until, finally, I relented. My heart was too soft. I was too gullible. I knew nothing of his malice, of course, and in fact I was afraid that he might die of love. So I made him utter a solemn oath. I would grant him my love on condition that my honour and good name were not tarnished; I wished to be blameless, both in private and in public. So I gave him all my heart, and all my hopes. I thought that he deserved them. When he agreed on oath to respect me, then I took him as my own true love.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Vigils always finished at dawn with a meditation on the end of humanity’s estrangement from the divine. Kabbalists practiced disciplines of concentration (kawwanoth) that evoked from the farthest reaches of the psyche a wonder and delight that they had not known they possessed. Compassion was a crucial Lurianic virtue, and there were severe penances for faults that injured others: Jews who had suffered so much themselves must not increase the sum of grief in the world. 10 After the disaster of 1492, many Jews had retreated from the falsafah that had been so popular in Spain and found that the new mythos and its rituals enabled them to make contact with the deeper roots of their grief and to discover a source of healing. 11 But in the new world that was coming into being in Europe, this type of creative mythos would soon be a thing of the past. Other European countries were in the throes of the same transformation as Spain, even though at this early stage few were aware of its magnitude. By the sixteenth century, the people of the West had started to create an entirely new and unprecedented type of civilization that depended on a radical change in the economic base of society. Instead of relying, like every premodern economy, on a surplus of agricultural produce with which they could trade in order to fund their cultural achievements, the modern economy rested on the technological replication of resources and the constant reinvestment of capital, which provided a source of wealth that could be renewed indefinitely. This freed it from many of the constraints of premodern societies, where the economy could not expand beyond a certain point and eventually outran its resources. Consequently, these agrarian societies tended to be conservative, because they simply could not afford the constant replication of the infrastructure that has come to characterize modernity. Original thought was not encouraged, because it could lead to frustration and social unrest, since fresh ideas could rarely be implemented and projects that required too large a financial outlay were usually shelved. It seemed preferable, therefore, to concentrate on preserving what had already been achieved. 12 Now, however, Western people were gradually acquiring the confidence to look to the future instead of the past. Where the older cultures had taught men and women to remain within carefully defined limits, pioneers such as Columbus were encouraging them to venture beyond the confines of the known world, where they discovered that, thanks to their modern technology, they not only survived but prospered. By the sixteenth century, therefore, a complex process was at work in Europe that was slowly changing the way people thought and experienced the world. Inventions were occurring simultaneously in many different fields; none seemed particularly momentous at the time, but their cumulative effect would be decisive.

• From City of Night (1963)

  I was usually alone. I had only one friend: a wild-eyed girl who sometimes would climb the mountain with me. We were both 17, and I felt in her the same wordless unhappiness I felt within myself. We would walk and climb for hours without speaking. For a brief time I liked her intensely—without ever telling her. Yet I was beginning to feel, too, a remoteness toward people—more and more a craving for attention which I could not reciprocate: one-sided, as if the need in me was so hungry that it couldnt share or give back in kind. Perhaps sensing this—one afternoon in a boarded-up cabin at the base of the mountain—she maneuvered, successfully, to make me. But the discovery of sex with her, releasing as it had been merely turned me strangely further within myself. Mutually, we withdrew from each other. And it was somewhere about that time that the narcissistic pattern of my life began. From my father’s inexplicable hatred of me and my mother’s blind carnivorous love, I fled to the Mirror. I would stand before it, thinking: I have only Me!... I became obsessed with age. At 17, I dreaded growing old. Old age is something that must never happen to me. The image of myself in the mirror must never fade into someone I cant look at. And even after a series of after-school jobs, my feeling of isolation from others only increased. Then the army came, and for months I hadnt spoken to my father. (We would sit at the table eating silently, ignoring each other.) And when I left, that terrible morning, I kissed my mother. And briefly I looked at my father. His eyes were watering. Mutely he held out the ruby-ring which once, long ago, he had given me and then taken back. And I took it wordlessly. And in that instant I wanted to hold him— because he was crying, because he did feel something for me, because, I was sure, he was overwhelmed at that moment by the Loss I felt too. I wanted to hold him then as I had wanted to so many, many times as a child, and if I could have spoken, I know I would have said at last: “I love you.” But that sense of loss choked me—and I walked out without speaking to him.... Only a few weeks later, in Camp Breckenridge, Kentucky, I received a telegram that he was very sick. And I came back to El Paso. I felt certain that this time it would be different. I reached our house, in the government projects we had moved into from that house with the winged cockroaches, and I got in with the key I had kept. There is no one home. I called my brother. My father was dead.

• From City of Night (1963)

  I hang up the telephone and I know that now Forever I will have no father, that he had been unfound, that as long as he had been alive there was a chance, and that we would be, Always now, strangers, and that is when I knew what Death really is—not in the physical discovery of the Nothingness which the death of my dog Winnie had brought me (in the decayed body which would turn into dirt, rejected by Heaven) but in the knowledge that my Father was gone, for me —that there was no way to reach him now—that his Death would exist only for me, who am living. And throughout the days that followed—and will follow forever—I will discover him in my memories, and hopelessly—through the infinite miles that separate life from death—try to understand his torture: in searching out the shape of my own. The army passed like something unreal, and I returned to my Mother and her hungry love. And left her, standing that morning by the kitchen door crying, as she always would be in my mind, and I was on my way now to Chicago, briefly—from where I would go to freedom: New York!—embarking on that journey through nightcities and nightlives—looking for I dont know what—perhaps some substitute for salvation. MR. KING: Between Two Lions 1 34TH STREET IN New York City hurries urgently from river to river, and on that street, east, is the soul-squashing building where a few days later (not yet) I will add to the shadows in that cavern of halls, rooms, community kitchens, yellow-mirrored bathrooms (and whatever light entered the maze from outside squeezed in reluctantly through grimecoated windows at the ends of each hall), and at one corner was the Armory like an Errol Flynn movie, and on the next Lexington Avenue rushes determinedly past bars and stores and checkertabled Italian restaurants; and everywhere, gray steel buildings stab the sky—and beyond the Armory, past technicolor Kress’s, is the goodbye Greyhound station, where I arrived from Chicago one weepy day in September, welcomed by banner headlines warning of a female hurricane—and I think suddenly for the first time: My God! Im on an island!

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  No tears are enough to lament your fall. In you died honour and nobility. You conquered the world, and yet that empire was not large enough for you. Are there words enough to describe false fortune and the horror of poisoning? I don’t think so. Julius Caesar By dint of labour, of wisdom, and of strength, Caesar rose up from humble beginnings to the highest power. He was the conqueror of the Western world, by force or by treaty. All the nations were tributaries of Rome at the time Caesar became emperor. But then Dame Fortune’s wheel turned. Mighty Caesar fought in Thessaly against his father-in-law, Pompey the Great. Pompey had a vast force, made up of all the Eastern nations as far as the rising of the sun. Yet the valour and strength of Caesar conquered that Eastern army. Only a few soldiers, with Pompey himself, escaped from the battlefield. So Caesar became the object of awe in the East. Fortune was then his friend. May I take a moment to lament the fate of Pompey himself? He fled the battle, as I said, but one of his men proved to be a foul traitor. He cut off Pompey’s head and presented it to Caesar in order to win favour. The conqueror of the East was humiliated in death. Fortune had found another victim. Caesar returned in triumph to Rome, where wreathed in laurels he led the victory procession. Yet there were two Romans, Brutus and Cassius, who had always envied his high estate; they entered a conspiracy against Caesar, and chose a place where they could easily assassinate him with hidden knives. Caesar went in procession to the Capitol one morning, as he was wont to do, where he was surrounded by his enemies and struck many times by their blades. He lay there, dying in his own blood, but he did not groan at any of the blows against him - except, perhaps, for one or two from those once closest to him. Caesar was so proud, and so manly, that he maintained his honour even in death. He placed his toga over his waist so that no one might see his private parts. As he lay dying, and knew that his fate was drawing near, he would not be shamed. I recommend that you read this story in Lucan’s Pharsalia, or else in Suetonius. They will tell you how Dame Fortune first favoured, and then failed, the two great conquerors Caesar and Alexander. You cannot trust her smile. Keep an eye on her. Look what happened to all these heroes. Croesus Croesus, once king of Lydia and enemy of Cyrus the Great, was taken up in his pride and carried to the stake where he was to be burned to death; but then there descended a great rain from the heavens that quenched the flames. Croesus escaped, but he did not pay proper respect to Dame Fortune until he was suspended on the gallows.

• From City of Night (1963)

  At the top of the sheet was his name—and then: “RESUME,” was printed beneath it: It listed his years at Yale, his many degrees—including honorary ones. “Read it all!” he shouted at me; he trembles. “Go on!”... The list continued: foreign service appointments, honorary titles, publications in scholarly reviews, foreign publications, books he had written, citations awarded him.... I looked up from the list and saw the man who had accomplished all this: And the balloon face, pitiably tilted like a sad dog’s, is staring at me with something that could be only racking pain.... “That is me too!” he shouts at me. “I am Respected, Admired, listened to, read!—but what do you care about that? You see only the ridiculous man who made you stand by the bed with your pants down. But do you know the rest?” The transformation was sudden and incredible. His great head was thrust forward toward me, almost beseechingly, like that of a great wounded animal, the eyes almost popping from his face behind the glasses. “The angels who drained my life!” he said contemptuously. I watch his eyes in fascination, wondering if the tears that may emerge will be giant tears coming from the giant eyes in the giant face. “The angels! The voracious angels!” he shouts. “The ones who drained me—who never knew Me! —never respected Me. Love? Bought! Bought for the prospect of a trip to America, a wedding ring which I would never wear, pairs of shoes and bottles of wine— bought! Bought for $7.50 an hour! Bought!... for a hundred dollars... which was... cunningly... expected... when the word... Love... was spoken....” There were no tears, the eyes had already run dry. The malenurse rushes in. “Professor!” he calls urgently, reaching for pills, water. The Professor continues sobbing. The malenurse hugs him to him, closely, tenderly, sheltering him, rocking his head in his arms like a baby, soothing him—his lips kissing the shaved head.... The malenurse glares at me suddenly, eyes brimming with hatred. “What Did You Do To Him?” He shoots the words at me like bullets. “Leave him alone,” the Professor sighs, freeing himself from the youngman’s sheltering embrace. The malenurse marches out. “Larry—” the Professor says, the sobs slowly subsiding, “—Larry is not—... an angel....” And now, spent, he leans back in the propped-up bed. He reaches for a cigarette, shuffling through the box; he finds a black gold-banded one, puts it into his mouth; sighs calmly now: “Forgive me, child. My nerves. It’s lying here so long. I spoke rashly. We all do at times. I had no right to—... And actually,” he said sadly, “actually I dont—really like—... to kiss.... And after all—the terms—were made—at the beginning—of the interviews.... They were, in fact, made long, long ago....

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Midrash was not a solitary exercise; rather, like the Socratic dialogue, it was a joint enterprise. The rabbis had retained the ancient reverence for oral communication and in the early days at Yavneh did not commit their traditions to writing but learned them by heart. Graduates of the academy were called tannaim, “repeaters,” because they recited the Torah aloud and developed their midrash together in conversation. The House of Studies was not like a hushed modern library but was noisy with clamorous debate. As the political situation deteriorated in Palestine, however, the rabbis decided that they needed a written record of these discussions, and between 135 and 160 they compiled an entirely new scripture, which they called the Mishnah, an anthology of the oral teachings collected at Yavneh. The Mishnah was deliberately constructed as a replica of the lost temple, its six sections (sederim) supporting the literary edifice like pillars.66 By studying the laws and ordinances now tragically rendered obsolete, students could still honor the divine Presence in the post-temple world. It had been one thing for the early Pharisees to base their lives on an imaginary temple when Herod’s temple was still a fully functioning reality, but quite another when it had been reduced to a pile of charred rubble. In the Mishnah, the rabbis amassed thousands of new rulings that regulated the lives of Jews down to the smallest detail to help them become aware of the Shekhinah’s continued presence in their midst. They had no interest in “beliefs” but focused on practical behavior. If all Jews were to live as if they were priests serving the Holy of Holies, how should they deal with gentiles? How could each household observe the purity laws? What was the role of women in the home that was now a temple? The rabbis would never have been able to persuade the people to accept this formidable body of law had it not yielded a satisfying spirituality.

• From City of Night (1963)

  In a world as ingrown as that of the bars, it is not rare for two people who have just met to pour out the intimate details of their lives; and Randy says: “See, man, I was going with Lance—more or less going with him, thats about the only way you can describe it with Lance. And we used to go out to Laguna Beach that summer. Well, man, someone told him something about this Esmeralda Drake—this old auntie whod kept him. Someone told him Esmeralda Drake had just had a heart attack or some other fuckin thing; got taken to the hospital. Well, hell, Lance never gave a damn about that poor old bastard—he took that auntie for every cent, then he threw him out of the house he’d given him. Well, we were on the beach with Chick and them, and Lance had a great tan—always in the sun—but when he hears about how Esmeralda Drake just had a stroke, he turned yellow, like he was painted or something, and he says, ‘Ive got to go to him right away.’ I said what the fuck’s the matter with you? that poor old sonofabitch doesnt want to see you, after what you did to him. Man, Lance locked that bastard out, called the cops that he was breaking in. Anyway, Lance says: ‘Youre right, he wouldnt want to see me.’ And thats when it started—like suddenly it wasnt Lance any more. He began cruising up and down the beach like some hung-up fairy that hasnt had any dick in months. He went in swimming, splashing around, showing off. He’d never done that—he didnt have to show off. He was so greatlooking, man, everyone came to him; he didnt have to say a word. He could be in a bar, alone—not talk to anyone, just glance at who he wanted and sit there and wait, and you couldnt take a bet in that bar that in five minutes he wouldnt have the cat he was after. But, Christ, that day, at Laguna, hes talking to everyone, rushing into the bar by the beach, drinking. And Lance didnt drink, man—thats the truth. I said, ‘What the hell’s wrong, you wanna get drunk?’ He says, ‘Yes, I wanna get drunk.’ I said, ‘Why?’ ‘To celebrate,’ he says—he actually said that: To celebrate! And, man, all this cruising is bugging me. Like I say, I hadnt been strictly gay then, but Lance is a charmer—he was bringing me out fast—wowee!... Now there I was with him, and that motherfucker is cruising up a steaming storm. Well, it got real late, the sun was going down, and it got cold, and we went into the bar—that queer bar on the beach. And Lance is still drinking. I tried to get him to come back to the hotel. But he wouldnt, he kept saying, ‘The celebration isn’t over!’—and, yeah, he keeps saying something about his new life is starting....

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  And welcome.’ ‘You have always been kind to me,’ he replied. ‘But can I beg your pardon in advance? I would like to have a quiet word with your husband. Do you mind leaving us for a moment? These parish priests are slow and negligent in their duties, particularly those of confession and absolution. I am a preacher, as you know. Preaching is my profession. I am well versed in the words of Peter and of Paul. Like them, I fish for men’s souls. I render Christ Jesus His due. I spread abroad His message to the world.’ ‘Scold Thomas well then, my good sir. He deserves it. He gets as angry as a red ant, even though he has everything he could possibly want. Although I cover him at night and make him warm - although I give him a good cuddle - he still moans like the old boar in our sty. I don’t get any enjoyment out of him at all. There’s no pleasure in it.’ ‘Oh Thomas, Thomas,’ Friar John said. ‘Listen to me. This must be amended. This is the work of the devil himself. God forbad anger as a sin. I will have to have a word with you about this.’ ‘Before I leave you two alone,’ his wife added, ‘let me ask you something. What would you like for your dinner, good friar? I can prepare it while you talk.’ ‘Oh good woman, my wants are very simple. Just the merest taste of chicken’s liver, perhaps, and some soft white bread to go with it. And then perhaps a pig’s head? I don’t want you to kill a pig on my behalf, of course. That would be sinful. But a head would suit me. I am a man of small appetite, as you know. I am nourished by the Bible. I am so used to mortification and penance that my appetite is all but destroyed.’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Do not be annoyed with me, good wife. I am taking you into my confidence. I am baring my soul to you. There are very few people I can trust these days.’ ‘There is one last thing I must tell you,’ she replied. ‘My little child died two weeks ago, just after you had left the town.’ ‘I knew it! I saw his death in a vision! I was lying in the dormitory, when I saw him before me. It was probably less than a hour after he expired. I saw him being transported to heaven, so help me God! Our sacristan and our infirmarian saw him, too, and they have been holy friars for fifty years or more. They have reached the age when they may walk about in the world alone, God bless them. As soon as I saw your child in bliss, I got up from my bed. The tears were running down my cheeks. Lord. My eyes were waterspouts.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Without the special rituals devised by Luria, this myth would have remained a senseless fiction. Weeping and rubbing their faces in the dust, Kabbalists made night vigils in order to confront their sorrow; they lay awake all night, calling out to God in their abandonment, and took long hikes in the Galilean countryside to act out their sense of homelessness. But there was no wallowing: Kabbalists were required to work through their pain in a disciplined, stylized manner until it gave way to a measure of joy. Vigils always finished at dawn with a meditation on the end of humanity’s estrangement from the divine. Kabbalists practiced disciplines of concentration (kawwanoth) that evoked from the farthest reaches of the psyche a wonder and delight that they had not known they possessed. Compassion was a crucial Lurianic virtue, and there were severe penances for faults that injured others: Jews who had suffered so much themselves must not increase the sum of grief in the world.10 After the disaster of 1492, many Jews had retreated from the falsafah that had been so popular in Spain and found that the new mythos and its rituals enabled them to make contact with the deeper roots of their grief and to discover a source of healing.11 But in the new world that was coming into being in Europe, this type of creative mythos would soon be a thing of the past.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La sala de estar está a oscuras y camino hasta la oscura escalera y me detengo, escuchando. Ningún ruido proviene de la parte de arriba, así que Pike y Cole probablemente estén dormidos. Intentando ser lo más silenciosa posible, camino de puntillas hasta la cocina y tomo un vaso de la alacena, colocándolo bajo el dispensador de agua del refrigerador. Pero cuando levanto la mirada, veo a Cole en el patio trasero y me quedo inmóvil. Aparto la mano del dispensador, el vaso volcándose y el agua en él salpicando todo el suelo de madera. El calor sube por mi cuello, mis pulmones se quedan sin aire y no puedo apartar la mirada. Todo me golpea a la vez y siento como si estuviera fuera de mí, observándome mirándolo. Cole. Trago dos veces, apenas capaz de humedecer mi garganta. Elena Barros está en la piscina con él, sus codos apoyados detrás de ella sobre el borde, mientras él se inclina sobre ella, su frente apoyada sobre la de ella como hace conmigo. El cuerpo desnudo de ella brilla con el agua y se mueve en una ola, igualando el ritmo de él mientras la toma del trasero y la folla, sus pechos rozan el pecho de él una y otra vez. Ausentemente, doy un paso, acercándome al fregadero y continúo intentando procesar lo que estoy viendo. Cole nunca me haría esto. No es mi ex. No es como mis padres. Mi pecho se desploma, demasiado pesado para tomar más aire. Las náuseas ruedan por mi estómago y la bilis sube por mi garganta. Él le sujeta el rostro y la besa, su cuerpo se mueve constante y fuerte y se sostienen la mirada mientras él entra en ella una y otra vez. No puedo escuchar sus gemidos, pero sé que lo está disfrutando. Lágrimas llenan mis ojos, tenso mi mano alrededor del vaso y aprieto mis dientes. Estoy más enojada conmigo que con él. Debí haber sido la que terminara con esto cuando nos desalojaron de nuestro apartamento. Sabía que solo me quería porque no quería estar solo. Pude sentirlo entonces. Pero ahora aquí estamos y él ha tenido la última palabra, ¿cierto? Mi barbilla tiembla y las lágrimas se derraman. Mi mamá, Jay, Cole... siempre soy la persona más jodidamente patética que conozco. Sigo deseando que la gente más terrible me quiera. ¿Por qué? —Hola —dice alguien, pero la voz suena distante—. En casa temprano, ¿eh? Me alegro de que no lleves puesto el corsé. ¿Lo quemaste por mí? El refrigerador se abre y la luz se derrama mientras alguien busca y saca algo, pero sigo mirando por la ventana, algo frío y pegajosos cubre mi estómago lentamente como el sirope. Puedo cambiar en el momento en que decida. —¿Jordan? —Escucho decir a Pike—. ¿Estás bien? Finalmente soy consciente de que él está de pie junto a mí. La puerta del refrigerador se cierra y me giro para mirarlo, las lágrimas todavía están húmedas en mis mejillas.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Who can relate the suffering of Ugolino, count of Pisa? There was a dark tower, a little way out of the city, to which he was consigned. He was imprisoned there with his three children, the oldest of whom was only five years old. What cruel Fortune shut these little birds within a cage? He was destined to die in that prison. The bishop of Pisa, Roger Ubaldini, had borne false witness and had stirred up the people against him; so Ugolino was confined, with so little meat and drink that he despaired of his life. There was a certain time each day when the gaoler brought his food into the cell. Ugolino was waiting for him at that time when, suddenly, he heard the great door of the tower closing. He heard the sound clearly, but he said not a word to his children. But he knew in his heart that they would all now starve to death. ‘I wish that I had never been born,’ he said to himself. And he wept. His youngest son, three years old, crept upon his lap. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘why are you crying? When will the gaoler bring us our food? Do you not have any bread for us? I am so hungry that I cannot sleep. I wish that I could sleep for ever. Then I would never be hungry! Please give me bread!’ So the poor child grew weaker and weaker each day. Eventually he climbed into his father’s lap and whispered to him, ‘Farewell, Father. I must go now.’ The little boy kissed him on the cheek, laid down his head, and died. When Ugolino saw that his son was dead he gnawed his arms with grief, lamenting the faithlessness of Fortune. ‘I am bound upon the wheel,’ he said. His two surviving children were convinced that he was gnawing on his flesh out of hunger rather than grief. The eldest of them implored him. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘do not eat your own flesh. Eat us, instead. You gave us life. You have the right to take it from us. Our flesh is yours.’ Within a day or two, both of the little boys were dead. In his despair Ugolino also laid down and died. So ended the life of the mighty count of Pisa, drawn down into grief from high estate. If you wish to read more about this tragedy, you will find it in the pages of the great poet of Italy known as Dante. He has written a detailed account of the last days of Ugolino. His words will live for ever. Nero The emperor Nero was as great a fiend as any that dwells in hell. Yet, as Suetonius tells us in his Lives of the Caesars, he was the master of the world, from east to west and from north to south. His robes were of the purest white silk, and were covered with fine jewels. He delighted in diamonds and in sapphires.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When they were led before the image of the god they refused to make any sacrifice to it. They declined to bow down before it or offer incense to the idol. Instead they fell to their knees and prayed to the true God. So they were beheaded on the spot, and their souls rose into heaven. Maximus was present at their execution, and afterwards related that he had seen the souls of the two saints ascending to paradise in the company of bright angels. He wept many times as he told this story to others, but his tears converted them all to the true faith. When he heard of this, Almachius ordered that he should be whipped to death with cords of lead. Saint Cecilia then took up his body and buried it beside the graves of Valerian and Tiburce, where they shared a simple stone. But then Almachius struck. He ordered that the virgin should herself be taken to the temple of Jupiter, where she would be obliged to venerate the idol with incense. But the officers of his court had been converted by her preaching. They wept aloud, and proclaimed their belief in the Christian faith. ‘We believe that Christ is the son of God,’ they told him. ‘We believe that He was God in human form. We know this to be true. The holy maid is His servant. We swear to this, even if we are condemned to death.’ When the prefect of the city heard of these things, he ordered that Cecilia should be brought before him. He asked her first about her rank and degree. ‘I was born and raised a gentlewoman, ’ she told him. ‘Now let me know this,’ Almachius replied. ‘What religion do you espouse? What are your beliefs?’ ‘That is a foolish question, sir. You are asking me two things at once. That’s silly.’ ‘Why are you so impudent to me?’ Almachius asked her. ‘Why? Because I have a clear conscience. Because I have come here in good faith.’ ‘Do you have no respect for my power?’ ‘Your power is very small. The authority of any man is no more than a bladder filled with wind. The point of a pin will puncture it. Then there is nothing.’ ‘You began in the wrong tone. Now you are being offensive. Do you not know that the rulers of the land have ordained that all Christians will be arrested and punished. But, if they renounce their so-called faith, they will escape any penalty?’ ‘Your rulers are mistaken. You and the other nobles are also wrong. You make us guilty by passing a foolish law. You know very well that we are innocent of any crime. We are Christians, who honour the name of Christ. That is all. Where is our offence? We will never renounce the cause that we know to be true and just.’ ‘You have a choice,’ Almachius replied. ‘Renounce your faith or suffer death. There is no other way.’

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  Left thus alone, absolutely destitute and friendless I began then to feel most bitterly the severity of this separation, the scene of which had passed in a little room in the inn; and no sooner was her back turned, but the affliction I felt at my helpless strange circumstances, burst out into a flood of tears, which infinitely relieved the oppression of my heart; though I still remained stupified, and most perfectly perplexed how to dispose of myself. One of the drawers coming in, added yet more to my uncertainty, by asking me, in a short way, if I called for anything? to which I replied innocently: “No.” But I wished him to tell me where I might get a lodging for that night. He said he would go and speak to his mistress, who accordingly came, and told me drily, without entering in the least into the distress she saw me in, that I might have a bed for a shilling, and that, as she supposed I had some friends in town (there I fetched a deep sigh in vain!), I might provide for myself in the morning. It is incredible what trifling consolations the human mind will seize in its greatest afflictions. The assurance of nothing more than a bed to lie on that night, calmed my agonies; and being ashamed to acquaint the mistress of the inn that I had no friends to apply to in town, I proposed to myself to proceed, the very next morning, to an intelligence office, to which I was furnished with written directions on the back of a ballad, Esther had given me. There I counted on getting information of any place that such a country girl as I might be fit for, and where I could get into any sort of being, before my little stock should be consumed; and as to a character, Esther had often repeated to me, that I might depend on her managing me one; nor, however affected I was at her leaving me thus, did I entirely cease to rely on her, as I began to think, good-naturedly, that her procedure was all in course, and that is was only my ignorance of life that had made me take it in the light I at first did. Accordingly, the next morning I dressed myself as clean and as neat as my rustic wardrobe would permit me; and having left my box, with special recommendation, with the landlady, I ventured out by myself, and without any more difficulty than can be supposed of a young country girl, barely fifteen, and to whom every sign or shop was a gazing trap, I got to the wished for intelligence office. It was kept by an elderly woman, who sat at the receipt of custom, with a book before her in great form and order, and several scrolls made out, of directions for places.

• From We Were Here (2011)

  WE WERE HERE CaptionMax Page 19 3/23/2011 Army. Like I was really, for the first time other than being super involved in my family, I was involved in something else. Like I rolled up my sleeves and I wanted to be a part of this. The AIDS ward was a, it was a terrible and beautiful place at the same time. My primary role was to be one of the Shanti counselors there, which was someone who is trained to be able to sit and be and witness and have conversations and support people through their process there. I worked with people there who were like eighteen years old. We had people there who were in their sixties. But in general, they were sexually active, gay men. People were coming into the hospital with diseases like toxoplasmosis, which you can get from a potted plant or a canary cage. I mean, people were extremely susceptible to any number of things. So there had to be like a controlled environment. There was this idea that we were there to cure and heal and- and not to minimize any of that, but- but- but really, back then what people were doing is they were dying of AIDS, and we were trying to help them as best we could. You could go a couple days, and uh, no one would die. And then in one day, like six people would die. We saw many l- lover couples come in. One would die. The other, you know, the partner would be there, go through the whole process. Some time would pass, and then the next lover would come in. There was a mom who came to five-A, and one, two, three times she lost her boys there. I would stand in the hallway, a gay man myself in my mid-thirties, visiting and talking to a mother and father who had just stepped out of a room, who had just found out that their son had pneumocystis and had three months to live or whatever. And the father would stand there and go, “You know, (smacks lips) it’s harder for me to find out that my son is a fag than to find out that he’s gonna be dyin’ soon.” And there I would be, like trying to comfort him. 1:45:23 DANIEL (VO/ON) When Steve died, my friends were there for me. I felt so supported. My family was very, very much there for me. Also, I had other friends who were sick, and so I r- It pulled me out of myself ‘cause I could go help take care of them. And I think I mentioned Peter, who was one of my (sighs) dearest friends. He’s one of the first people I met when I moved to San Francisco. He was tall and handsome and grew up in a trailer park, and he was-- He called him-- He- he used to keep these diaries, and he always wanted them published after he died as Diaries of

• From We Were Here (2011)

  WE WERE HERE CaptionMax Page 37 3/23/2011 2:24:55 ED (VO/ON) You know, it’s like the AIDS epidemic is not over. I still have friends who are living with HIV. Every once in a while, someone I know becomes infected. I mean, it continues. What has stopped continuing, at least in San Francisco and in most of the- of the developed world, is the- the- the vast amount of sickness and death. I would really like to be able to live long enough to know like how does the epidemic actually come to an end. Like will the treatments come and- and finally and effectively stop people from becoming sicker? And- and will the vaccine come and- and stop people from being able to transmit and acquire it? And- and will it all just finally, finally just stop? 2:26:03 DANIEL You know, when people say how did you get through it, it’s like I don’t know. You know, you just do, and everybody does. I mean, anybody who’s got cancer or AIDS, and there’s like, oh, you’re-- You know, so amazing you’ve- you’ve gotten through this. It’s like, do I have a choice? You know, I want to stay alive and I’m gonna take care of myself the best I can. And you just do it. And it’s not heroic. You just do it. And same thing with losing a partner. It’s, you know, so many, you know-- Most people in the world lose partners, you know, at one time in their lives or another. And you just- you live through it, and it’s horrible, but you do live through it. I know I have so many friends who died so young. That’s-- I mean, that’s-- That, to me, is the most painful part. Wh- what would the world be like now if they were alive? It would be different. It would be very different. Um, so many powerful people, talented people (sighs)… I miss. (sighs) I miss a lot of them. A lot. 2:27:31 CLOSING CREDITS We Were Here Produced and directed by David Weissman Editor/ co-director Bill Weber Director of Photography Marsha Kahm WE WERE HERE CaptionMax Page 38 3/23/2011 Location Sound Lauretta Molitor Music Holcombe Waller In Order of Appearance: Ed Wolf Paul Boneberg Daniel Goldstein Guy Clark Eileen Glutzer Additional Music Doug Hilsinger Post Production Supervisor Bill Weber Audio Post-Production James LeBrecht - Berkeley Sound Artists Color Correction Gary Coates Project Consultants Irene Taylor Brodsky Gail Silva Post Production Services Spy Post Video Arts Camera and Lighting Equipment Robert Dockendorff Archival Research Gerard Koskovich Elizabeth Pepin Silva Archival Support Alex Cherian San Francisco Bay Area Television Archive Rebekah Kim

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

  (III.) Th. Förster: De Doctrina et Sententiis Dionysii Magni Episcopi Alex. Berl. 1865. And in the "Zeitschrift für hist. Theol." 1871. Dr. Dittrich (R.C.): Dionysius der Grosse von Alexandrien. Freib. i. Breisg. 1867 (130 pages). Weizsäcker in Herzog2 III. 61, 5 sq. Westcott in Smith and Wace I. 850 sqq. Dionysius Of Alexandria —so distinguished from the contemporary Dionysius of Rome—surnamed "the Great,"1486 was born about A.D. 190,1487 of Gentile parents, and brought up to a secular profession with bright prospects of wealth and renown, but be examined the claims of Christianity and was won to the faith by Origen, to whom he ever remained faithful. He disputes with Gregory Thaumaturgus the honor of being the chief disciple of that great teacher; but while Gregory was supposed to have anticipated the Nicene dogma of the trinity, the orthodoxy of Dionysius was disputed. He became Origen’s assistant in the Catechetical School (233), and after the death of Heraclas bishop of Alexandria (248). During the violent persecution under Decius (249–251) he fled, and thus exposed himself, like Cyprian, to the suspicion of cowardice. In the persecution under Valerian (247), he was brought before the praefect and banished, but he continued to direct his church from exile. On the accession of Gallienus he was allowed to return (260). He died in the year 265. His last years were disturbed by war, famine and pestilence, of which he gives a lively account in the Easter encyclical of the year 263.1488 "The present time," he writes, "does not appear a fit season for a festival ... All things are filled with tears, all are mourning, and on account of the multitudes already dead and still dying, groans are daily heard throughout the city ... There is not a house in which there is not one dead ... After this, war and famine succeeded which we endured with the heathen, but we bore alone those miseries with which they afflicted us ... But we rejoiced in the peace of Christ which he gave to us alone ... Most of our brethren by their exceeding great love and affection not sparing themselves and adhering to one another, were constantly superintending the sick, ministering to their wants without fear and cessation, and healing them in Christ." The heathen, on the contrary, repelled the sick or cast them half-dead into the street. The same self-denying charity in contrast with heathen selfishness manifested itself at Carthage during the raging of a pestilence, under the persecuting reign of Gallus (252), as we learn from Cyprian.