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)

  In this form it accompanied the Levitical priesthood and the Davidic dynasty down to the Babylonish captivity, survived this catastrophe, and directed the return of the people and the rebuilding of the temple; interpreting and applying the law, reproving abuses in church and state, predicting the terrible judgments and the redeeming grace of God, warning and punishing, comforting and encouraging, with an ever plainer reference to the coming Messiah, who should redeem Israel and the world from sin and misery, and establish a kingdom of peace and righteousness on earth. The victorious reign of David and the peaceful reign of Solomon furnish, for Isaiah and his successors, the historical and typical ground for a prophetic picture of a far more glorious future, which, unless thus attached to living memories and present circumstances, could not have been understood. The subsequent catastrophe and the sufferings of the captivity served to develop the idea of a Messiah atoning for the sins of the people and entering through suffering into glory. The prophetic was an extraordinary office, serving partly to complete, partly to correct the regular, hereditary priesthood, to prevent it from stiffening into monotonous formality, and keep it in living flow. The prophets were, so to speak, the Protestants of the ancient covenant, the ministers of the spirit and of immediate communion with God, in distinction from the ministers of the letter and of traditional and ceremonial mediation. The flourishing period of our canonical prophecy began with the eighth century before Christ, some seven centuries after Moses, when Israel was suffering under Assyrian oppression. In this period before the captivity, Isaiah ("the salvation of God"), who appeared in the last years of king Uzziah, about ten years before the founding of Rome, is the leading figure; and around him Micah, Joel, and Obadiah in the kingdom of Judah, and Hosea, Amos, and Jonah in the kingdom of Israel, are grouped. Isaiah reached the highest elevation of prophecy, and unfolds feature by feature a picture of the Messiah—springing from the house of David, preaching the glad tidings to the poor, healing the broken-hearted, opening the eyes to the blind, setting at liberty the captives, offering himself as a lamb to the slaughter, bearing the sins of the people, dying the just for the unjust, triumphing over death and ruling as king of peace over all nations—a picture which came to its complete fulfilment in one person, and one only, Jesus of Nazareth. He makes the nearest approach to the cross, and his book is the Gospel of the Old Testament. In the period of the Babylonian exile, Jeremiah (i.e. "the Lord casts down") stands chief. He is the prophet of sorrow, and yet of the new covenant of the Spirit. In his denunciations of priests and false prophets, his lamentations over Jerusalem, his holy grief, his bitter persecution he resembles the mission and life of Christ.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Well, I have, and that’s why I hate cantaloupe. So, I woke up from this dream, this nightmare, just as my dad drove the car up to our house. “We’re here,” he said. “My sister is dead,” I said. “Yes.” “I was hoping I dreamed that,” I said. “Me, too.” “I dreamed about that time I got stung by the wasp,” I said. “I remember that,” Dad said. “We had to take you to the hospital.” “I thought I was going to die.” “We were scared, too.” My dad started to cry. Not big tears. Just little ones. He breathed deep and tried to stop them. I guess he wanted to be strong in front of his son. But it didn’t work. He kept crying. I didn’t cry. I reached out, wiped the tears off my father’s face, and tasted them. Salty. “I love you,” he said. Wow. He hardly ever said that to me. “I love you, too,” I said. I never said that to him. We walked into the house. My mom was curled into a ball on the couch. There were, like, twenty-five or thirty cousins there, eating all of our food. Somebody dies and people eat your food. Funny how that works. “Mom,” I said. “Oh, Junior,” she said and pulled me onto the couch with her. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.” “Don’t leave me,” she said. “Don’t ever leave me.” She was freaking out. But who could blame her? She’d lost her mother and her daughter in just a few months. Who ever recovers from a thing like that? Who ever gets better? I knew that my mother was now broken and that she’d always be broken. “Don’t you ever drink,” my mother said to me. She slapped me. Once, twice, three times. She slapped me HARD. “Promise me you’ll never drink.” “Okay, okay, I promise,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. My sister killed herself with booze and I was the one getting slapped. Where was Leo Tolstoy when I needed him? I kept wishing he’d show up so my mother could slap him instead. Well, my mother quit slapping me, thank God, but she held on to me for hours. Held on to me like I was a baby. And she kept crying. So many tears. My clothes and hair were soaked with her tears. It was, like, my mother had given me a grief shower, you know? Like she’d baptized me with her pain. Of course, it was way too weird to watch. So all of my cousins left. My dad went in his bedroom. It was just my mother and me. Just her tears and me. But I didn’t cry. I just hugged my mother back and wanted all of it to be over. I wanted to fall asleep again and dream about killer wasps. Yeah, I figured any nightmare would be better than my reality. And then it was over. My mother fell asleep and let me go.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  She thought I’d been murdered. “I’m okay,” I said. “Just a little dizzy.” “But your hydrocephalus,” she said. “Your brain is already damaged enough.” “Gee, thanks, Mom,” I said. Of course, I was worried that I’d further damaged my already damaged brain; the doctors said I was fine. Mostly fine. Later that night, Coach talked his way past the nurses and into my room. My mother and father and grandma were asleep in their chairs, but I was awake. “Hey, kid,” Coach said, keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t wake my family. “Hey, Coach,” I said. “Sorry about that game,” he said. “It’s not your fault.” “I shouldn’t have played you. I should have canceled the whole game. It’s my fault.” “I wanted to play. I wanted to win.” “It’s just a game,” he said. “It’s not worth all this.” But he was lying. He was just saying what he thought he was supposed to say. Of course, it was not just a game. Every game is important. Every game is serious. “Coach,” I said. “I would walk out of this hospital and walk all the way back to Wellpinit to play them right now if I could.” Coach smiled. “Vince Lombardi used to say something I like,” he said. “It’s not whether you win or lose,” I said. “It’s how you play the game.” “No, but I like that one,” Coach said. “But Lombardi didn’t mean it. Of course, it’s better to win.” We laughed. “No, I like this other one more,” Coach said. “The quality of a man’s life is in direct proportion to his commitment to excellence, regardless of his chosen field of endeavor.” “That’s a good one.” “It’s perfect for you. I’ve never met anybody as committed as you.” “Thanks, Coach.” “You’re welcome. Okay, kid, you take care of your head. I’m going to get out of here so you can sleep.” “Oh, I’m not supposed to sleep. They want to keep me awake to monitor my head. Make sure I don’t have some hidden damage or something.” “Oh, okay,” Coach said. “Well, how about I stay and keep you company, then?” “Wow, that would be great.” So Coach and I sat awake all night. We told each other many stories. But I never repeat those stories. That night belongs to just me and my coach. Because Russian Guys Are Not Always Geniuses After my grandmother died, I felt like crawling into the coffin with her. After my dad’s best friend got shot in the face, I wondered if I was destined to get shot in the face, too. Considering how many young Spokanes have died in car wrecks, I’m pretty sure it’s my destiny to die in a wreck, too. Jeez, I’ve been to so many funerals in my short life. I’m fourteen years old and I’ve been to forty-two funerals. That’s really the biggest difference between Indians and white people. A few of my white classmates have been to a grandparent’s funeral.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  For the first time he saw that I was serious, but he didn’t want me to be serious. “You’ll never do it,” he said. “You’re too scared.” “I’m going,” I said. “No way, you’re a wuss.” “I’m doing it.” “You’re a pussy.” “I’m going to Reardan tomorrow.” “You’re really serious?” “Rowdy,” I said. “I’m as serious as a tumor.” He coughed and turned away from me. I touched his shoulder. Why did I touch his shoulder? I don’t know. I was stupid. Rowdy spun around and shoved me. “Don’t touch me, you retarded fag!” he yelled. My heart broke into fourteen pieces, one for each year that Rowdy and I had been best friends. I started crying. That wasn’t surprising at all, but Rowdy started crying, too, and he hated that. He wiped his eyes, stared at his wet hand, and screamed. I’m sure that everybody on the rez heard that scream. It was the worst thing I’d ever heard. It was pain, pure pain. “Rowdy, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.” He kept screaming. “You can still come with me,” I said. “You’re still my best friend.” Rowdy stopped screaming with his mouth but he kept screaming with his eyes. “You always thought you were better than me,” he yelled. “No, no, I don’t think I’m better than anybody. I think I’m worse than everybody else.” “Why are you leaving?” “I have to go. I’m going to die if I don’t leave.” I touched his shoulder again and Rowdy flinched. Yes, I touched him again. What kind of idiot was I? I was the kind of idiot that got punched hard in the face by his best friend. Bang! Rowdy punched me. Bang! I hit the ground. Bang! My nose bled like a firework. I stayed on the ground for a long time after Rowdy walked away. I stupidly hoped that time would stand still if I stayed still. But I had to stand eventually, and when I did, I knew that my best friend had become my worst enemy. [image "The illustration depicts a person with spiky hair, standing amidst several speech bubbles that read ‘I HATE YOU’, ‘YOU SUCK’, and ‘YOU WHITE LOVER’." file=image_rsrc4S4.jpg] How to Fight Monsters [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] The next morning, Dad drove me the twenty-two miles to Reardan. “I’m scared,” I said. “I’m scared, too,” Dad said. He hugged me close. His breath smelled like mouthwash and lime vodka. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can always go back to the rez school.” “No,” I said. “I have to do this.” Can you imagine what would have happened to me if I’d turned around and gone back to the rez school? I would have been pummeled. Mutilated. Crucified. You can’t just betray your tribe and then change your mind ten minutes later. I was on a one-way bridge. There was no way to turn around, even if I wanted to.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  It all made me cry for my sister. It made me cry for myself. But I was crying for my tribe, too. I was crying because I knew five or ten or fifteen more Spokanes would die during the next year, and that most of them would die because of booze. I cried because so many of my fellow tribal members were slowly killing themselves and I wanted them to live. I wanted them to get strong and get sober and get the hell off the rez. It’s a weird thing. Reservations were meant to be prisons, you know? Indians were supposed to move onto reservations and die. We were supposed to disappear. But somehow or another, Indians have forgotten that reservations were meant to be death camps. I wept because I was the only one who was brave and crazy enough to leave the rez. I was the only one with enough arrogance. I wept and wept and wept because I knew that I was never going to drink and because I was never going to kill myself and because I was going to have a better life out in the white world. I realized that I might be a lonely Indian boy, but I was not alone in my loneliness. There were millions of other Americans who had left their birthplaces in search of a dream. I realized that, sure, I was a Spokane Indian. I belonged to that tribe. But I also belonged to the tribe of American immigrants. And to the tribe of basketball players. And to the tribe of bookworms. And the tribe of cartoonists. And the tribe of chronic masturbators. And the tribe of teenage boys. And the tribe of small-town kids. And the tribe of Pacific Northwesterners. And the tribe of tortilla chips-and-salsa lovers. And the tribe of poverty. And the tribe of funeral-goers. And the tribe of beloved sons. And the tribe of boys who really missed their best friends. It was a huge realization. And that’s when I knew that I was going to be okay. But it also reminded me of the people who were not going to be okay. It made me think of Rowdy. I missed him so much. I wanted to find him and hug him and beg him to forgive me for leaving. Talking About Turtles The reservation is beautiful. I mean it. Take a look. There are pine trees everywhere. Thousands of ponderosa pine trees. Millions. I guess maybe you can take pine trees for granted. They’re just pine trees. But they’re tall and thin and green and brown and big. Some of the pines are ninety feet tall and more than three hundred years old. Older than the United States. Some of them were alive when Abraham Lincoln was president. Some of them were alive when George Washington was president. Some of them were alive when Benjamin Franklin was born. I’m talking old.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  It would have been operable if she had come to them sooner, the doctors said. Desperate to get Gillham the auditing she still thought she needed, Taylor went to the financial banking officer and begged her for the funds to send her friend to Flag. “ If she wants to go to Flag, she can take the fucking Greyhound,” the officer responded. “You’re Yvonne’s assassin!” Taylor shouted. When Hubbard found out Yvonne Gillham was dying, he sent her a telex asking if she wanted to keep her body or move on to the next cycle. She decided it would be quicker just to let go, but she still wanted the auditing. Hubbard agreed to let her travel to Clearwater, to do an “end of cycle on her hats”—meaning that she would brief her successor at the Celebrity Centre before she died. Hana Eltringham was stationed at Flag, and she was shocked at the sight of her dear friend. Yvonne was dizzy and frequently lost her balance, and her thoughts trailed away. She refused to take pain medication because it would interfere with her auditing. She tearfully blamed herself for the terrible “overt” of dying and deserting Hubbard. She was desperate to see her children, to say good-bye, but they were kept away. Hubbard designated Catherine Harrington, one of Yvonne’s closest friends, to talk to her about the celebrities in her care—who was a reliable speaker, who was good at recruiting other celebrities. Yvonne talked about various people—some television actors, a Mexican pop singer, the producer Don Simpson, Karen Black, Chick Corea, and Paul Haggis, among others—but she was particularly worried about Travolta. “ Please help him. He’s especially sensitive,” she said. She advised Harrington to deal with the celebrities the same way she treated Hubbard—very delicately, and with an open mind. Gillham died in January 1978. For her impertinence in complaining about Gillham’s treatment, Taylor was sentenced to RPF. Her new baby daughter, Vanessa, was taken away and placed in the Child Care Org, the Scientology nursery. There were thirty infants crammed into a small apartment with wall-to-wall cribs, with one nanny for every twelve children. It was dark and dank and the children were rarely, if ever, taken outside. When she got the news, Taylor cried, “ You can’t do that now !” She was thinking of Travolta. He had just called her the day before, saying that he was arriving on an Air France flight after his appearance at a film festival in Deauville, where he was promoting Saturday Night Fever . Despite his triumph, Travolta appeared depressed and withdrawn. During the filming of Saturday Night Fever his girlfriend, Diana Hyland, had died in his arms. She was two decades older than he—she played his mother in a made-for-TV movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble —and had already had a double mastectomy when they met. Their romance was doomed when her cancer recurred.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I stood and walked into the kitchen. I was way hungry but my cousins had eaten most of our food. So all I had for dinner were saltine crackers and water. Like I was in jail. Man. Two days later, we buried my sister in the Catholic graveyard down near the powwow ground. I barely remember the wake. I barely remember the funeral service. I barely remember the burial. I was in this weird fog. No. It was more like I was in this small room, the smallest room in the world. I could reach out and touch the walls, which were made out of greasy glass. I could see shadows but I couldn’t see details, you know? And I was cold. Just freezing. Like there was a snowstorm blowing inside of my chest. But all of that fog and greasy glass and snow disappeared when they lowered my sister’s coffin into the grave. And let me tell you, it had taken them forever to dig that grave in the frozen ground. As the coffin settled into the dirt, it made this noise, almost like a breath, you know? Like a sigh. Like the coffin was settling down for a long, long nap, for a forever nap. That was it. I had to get out of there. I turned and ran out of the graveyard and into the woods across the road. I planned on running deep into the woods. So deep that I’d never be found. But guess what? I ran full-speed into Rowdy and sent us both sprawling. Yep, Rowdy had been hiding in the woods while he watched the burial. Wow. Rowdy sat up. I sat up, too. We sat there together. Rowdy was crying. His face was shiny with tears. “Rowdy,” I said. “You’re crying.” “I ain’t crying,” he said. “You’re crying.” I touched my face. It was dry. No tears yet. “I can’t remember how to cry,” I said. That made Rowdy sort of choke. He gasped a little. And more tears rolled down his face. “You’re crying,” I said. “No, I’m not.” “It’s okay; I miss my sister, too. I love her.” “I said I’m not crying.” “It’s okay.” I reached out and touched Rowdy’s shoulder. Big mistake. He punched me. Well, he almost punched me. He threw a punch but he MISSED! ROWDY MISSED A PUNCH! His fist went sailing over my head. “Wow,” I said. “You missed.” “I missed on purpose.” “No, you didn’t. You missed because your eyes are FILLED WITH TEARS!” That made me laugh. Yep, I started laughing like a crazy man again. I rolled around on the cold, frozen ground and laughed and laughed and laughed. I didn’t want to laugh. I wanted to stop laughing. I wanted to grab Rowdy and hang on to him. He was my best friend and I needed him. But I couldn’t stop laughing. I looked at Rowdy and he was crying hard now.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Come on, Randy! What were you thinking? I did not receive the news about Randy’s death until the next morning. I had been writing and, as usual, ignoring my cell phone. But then my sister called my home landline at the same moment Randy’s sister-in-law sent an urgent e-mail. I immediately called Randy’s sister-in-law, and she told me the terrible news. I had not spoken to Randy in many years. I had not seen him in an even longer period. But I was instantly transported back in time, and I wept and wailed like a twelve-year-old boy whose best friend had just died. I was Sherman Alexie Jr., mourning the sudden death of Randy Peone. And I was Arnold Spirit Jr., mourning the sudden death of Rowdy. My real and fictional lives blended in torturous ways. “Oh my God,” I said to his sister-in-law. “I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.” Five days later, I stood beside his open coffin in the funeral home. I kissed Randy on the forehead. I put my hand on his chest. Randy had always been short, only five four as an adult, but he’d always been built like a wolverine. Thick and muscular. But in his coffin, Randy looked skinny. In my memory, Randy was a vibrant teenager, a fullback, point guard, and fastball pitcher. And now, in the present, he was a forty-nine-year-old man—killed in a car wreck—who’d dealt with the typical and atypical health problems of a middle-aged Native American. Age had turned him smaller and darker. He’d always been handsome—a blue-eyed Indian—and he was still handsome, dressed in a white shirt and Indian-design vest, as he rested in his coffin. I turned away from Randy so I could address the gathered mourners. So I could memorialize him. I saw dozens of Indians I had known for my whole life, and I saw their children, who I didn’t know at all. I’d been in kindergarten with some of those Indians. One of those Indians had been my favorite babysitter. I saw Randy’s brothers and sisters, and his mother and father, and his children. I saw my brothers and sisters sitting in the back row of seats. And then I spoke. I hadn’t written anything down. I hadn’t prepared. I spoke directly from the heart, partly as the reservation boy I used to be, the skinny and unknown Indian kid named Junior. And partly as the urban Indian named Sherman, who’d somehow become an unskinny and famous writer. I felt unreal. Like I had been transported into one of my own books. But the characters in books live forever. And real people die.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  She told me I was vulnerable. My big sister was dead. Of course I was vulnerable. I was a reservation Indian attending an all-white school and my sister had just died some horrible death. I was the most vulnerable kid in the United States. Miss Warren was obviously trying to win the Captain Obvious Award. “I’m waiting outside,” I said. “I’ll wait with you,” she said. “Kiss my ass,” I said and ran. Miss Warren tried to run after me. But she was wearing heels and she was crying and she was absolutely freaked out by my reaction to the bad news. By my cursing. She was nice. Too nice to deal with death. So she just ran a few feet before she stopped and slumped against the wall. I ran by my locker, grabbed my coat, and headed out-side. There was maybe a foot of snow on the ground already. It was going to be a big storm. I suddenly worried that my father was going to wreck his car on the icy roads. Oh, man, wouldn’t that just be perfect? Yep, how Indian would that be? Imagine the stories I could tell. “Yeah, when I was a kid, just after I learned that my big sister died, I also found out that my father died in a car wreck on the way to pick me up from school.” So I was absolutely terrified as I waited. I prayed to God that my father would come driving up in his old car. “Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy. Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy. Please, God, please don’t kill my daddy.” Ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes went by. I was freezing. My hands and feet were big blocks of ice. Snot ran down my face. My ears were burning cold. “Oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please, oh, Daddy, please.” Oh, man, I was absolutely convinced that my father was dead, too. It had been too long. He’d driven his car off a cliff and had drowned in the Spokane River. Or he’d lost control, slid across the centerline, and spun right into the path of a logging truck. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” And just when I thought I’d start screaming, and run around like a crazy man, my father drove up. I started laughing. I was so relieved, so happy, that I LAUGHED. And I couldn’t stop laughing. I ran down the hill, jumped into the car, and hugged my dad. I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. “Junior,” he said. “What’s wrong with you?” “You’re alive!” I shouted. “You’re alive!” “But your sister—,” he said. “I know, I know,” I said. “She’s dead. But you’re alive. You’re still alive.” I laughed and laughed. I couldn’t stop laughing. I felt like I might die of laughing.

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

  My maiden name was Frances Hill. I was born at a small village near Liverpool, in Lancashire, of parents extremely poor, and, I piously believe, extremely honest. My father, who had received a maim on his limbs, that disabled him from following the more laborious branches of country drudgery, got, by making nets, a scanty subsistence, which was not much enlarged by my mother’s keeping a little day-school for the girls in her neighborhood. They had had several children; but none lived to any age except myself, who had received from nature a constitution perfectly healthy. My education, till past fourteen, was no better than very vulgar: reading, or rather spelling, an illegible scrawl, and a little ordinary plain work, composed the whole system of it; and then all my foundation in virtue was no other than a total ignorance of vice, and the shy timidity general to our sex, in the tender age of life, when objects alarm or frighten more by their novelty than anything else. But then, this is a fear too often cured at the expense of innocence, when Miss, by degrees, begins no longer to look on a man as a creature of prey that will eat her. My poor mother had divided her time so entirely between her scholars and her little domestic cares, that she had spared very little to my instruction, having, from her own innocence from all ill, no hint or thought of guarding me against any. I was now entering on my fifteenth year, when the worst of ills befell me in the loss of my fond, tender parents, who were both carried off by the small-pox, within a few days of each other; my father dying first, and thereby by hastening the death of my mother: so that I was now left an unhappy friendless orphan (for my father’s coming to settle there, was accidental, he being originally a Kentisrman).

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  Even though it is set in an earlier time, the epic probably reflects the period after Ashoka’s death in 232 BCE, when the Mauryan Empire began its decline and India entered a dark age of political instability that lasted until the rise of the Gupta dynasty in 320 CE. 105 There is, therefore, an implicit assumption that empire—or in the poem’s terms, “world rule”—is essential to peace. And while the poem is unsparing about the ferocity of empire, it poignantly recognizes that nonviolence in a violent world is not only impossible but can actually cause himsa (“harm”). Brahmin law insisted that the king’s chief duty was to prevent the fearful chaos that would ensue if monarchical authority failed, and for this, military coercion (danda) was indispensable. 106 Yet while Yudishthira is divinely destined to be king, he hates war. He explains to Krishna that even though he knows that it is his duty to regain the throne, warfare brings only misery. True, the Kauravas usurped his kingdom, but to kill his cousins and friends—many of them good and noble men—would be “a most evil thing.” 107 He knows that every Vedic class has its particular duty—“The shudra obeys, the vaishya lives by trade.... The Brahmin prefers the begging bowl”—but the Kshatriyas “live off killing,” and “any other way of life is forbidden to us.” The Kshatriya is therefore doomed to misery. If defeated, he will be reviled, but if he achieves victory by ruthless methods, he incurs the taint of the warrior, is “deprived of glory and reaps eternal infamy.” “For heroism is a powerful disease that eats up the heart, and peace is found only by giving it up or by serenity of mind,” Yudishthira tells Krishna. “On the other hand if final tranquillity were ignited by the total eradication of the enemy that would be even crueler.” 108 To win the war, the Pandavas have to kill four Kaurava leaders who are inflicting grave casualties on their army. One of them is the general Drona, whom the Pandavas love dearly because he was their teacher and initiated them in the art of warfare. In a council of war, Krishna argues that if the Pandavas want to save the world from total destruction by establishing their rule, they must cast virtue aside. A warrior is obliged to be absolutely truthful and keep his word, but Krishna tells Yudishthira that he can kill Drona only by lying to him. In the midst of the battle, he must tell him that his son Ashwatthaman has died so that, overcome with grief, Drona will lay down his weapons.

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

  On the day of his death he spoke with less difficulty. He fell peacefully asleep with the setting sun towards eight o’clock, and entered into the rest of his Lord. "I had just left him," says Beza, "a little before, and on receiving intimation from the servants, immediately hastened to him with one of the brethren. We found that he had already died, and so very calmly, without any convulsion of his feet or hands, that he did not even fetch a deeper sigh. He had remained perfectly sensible, and was not entirely deprived of utterance to his very last breath. Indeed, he looked much more like one sleeping than dead."1258 He had lived fifty-four years, ten months, and seventeen days. "Thus," continues Beza, his pupil and friend, "withdrew into heaven, at the same time with the setting sun, that most brilliant luminary, which was the lamp of the Church. On the following night and day there was immense grief and lamentation in the whole city; for the Republic had lost its wisest citizen, the Church its faithful shepherd, the Academy an incomparable teacher—all lamented the departure of their common father and best comforter, next to God. A multitude of citizens streamed to the death-chamber and could scarcely be separated from the corpse. Among them were several foreigners, as the distinguished Ambassador of the Queen of England to France, who had come to Geneva to make the acquaintance of the celebrated man, and now wished to see his remains. At first all were admitted; but as the curiosity became excessive and might have given occasion to calumnies of the enemies,1259 his friends deemed it best on the following morning, which was the Lord’s Day, to wrap his body in linen and to enclose it in a wooden coffin, according to custom. At two o’clock in the afternoon the remains were carried to the common cemetery on Plain Palais (Planum Palatium), followed by all the patricians, pastors, professors, and teachers, and nearly the whole city in sincere mourning."1260 Calvin had expressly forbidden all pomp at his funeral and the erection of any monument over his grave. He wished to be buried, like Moses, out of the reach of idolatry. This was consistent with his theology, which humbles man and exalts God. Beza, however, wrote a suitable epitaph in Latin and French, which he calls "Parentalia" (i.e. offering at the funeral of a father):— "Shall honored Calvin to the dust return, From whom e’en Virtue’s self might learn; Shall he—of falling Rome the greatest dread, By all the good bewailed, and now (tho’ dead) The terror of the vile—lie in so mean, So small a tomb, where not his name is seen? Sweet Modesty, who still by Calvin’s side Walked while he lived, here laid him when he died. O happy tomb with such a tenant graced! O envied marble o’er his ashes placed!"1261

• From Going Clear (2013)

  On five or six occasions she received what was the standard treatment of the day, electroshock therapy. In September 1962, when Mark was five, his mother’s body was found floating in San Francisco Bay. Her car was parked on the Golden Gate Bridge. Mark turned into a restless young man. He went to college to study creative writing but dropped out in order to experience the real world. In 1976 he was living in a camp of migrant workers, hoping to become the next Jack London, when he learned that his brother Bruce had become catatonic and had been committed to a state hospital in Oregon. Mark hitchhiked to Portland to oversee Bruce’s care. He carried around a backpack full of books on Buddhism and the works of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Although it is easy to see in hindsight that the nineteen-year-old Mark Rathbun was primed, because of his troubled background and questing philosophy, to become a part of the Church of Scientology, it wasn’t clear to him at the time. His current spiritual mentor, Krishnamurti, preached against the idea of messiahs, but he also stated that every individual has the responsibility for discovering the causes of his own limitations in order to attain universal spiritual and psychological freedom. That resonated with Hubbard’s aim of “clearing the planet.” Psychotherapy had evolved somewhat from the indignities that had been inflicted on their mother; it had moved into pharmacology. But drugs didn’t seem to offer a solution to Bruce’s problems; in Mark’s opinion, his brother was just being warehoused, held in a chemical straitjacket. Rathbun got a job as a short-order cook at Dave’s Deli, and each day, when he went to the bus stop in downtown Portland on his way to the hospital, he would pass the Scientology mission on Salmon Street. He would banter with the Scientology recruiters and soon got to know them by name. One day, he told a recruiter, “I’ve got ten minutes. Why don’t you give me your best shot?” The Scientologist started pitching the Hubbard communications course, which at the time cost fifty dollars. It immediately appealed to Rathbun. “The problem is, I’ve only got twenty-five bucks to my entire name,” he said. The recruiter let him take the course, and threw in a copy of Dianetics as well. In that first course, Rathbun went exterior. It was completely real to him. All the Eastern philosophy he had absorbed had been leading to this moment. He finally realized that he was separate from his body. Hadn’t this been the point of the Buddha’s teachings—to isolate the spirit and end the repetitive cycle of life and death? From that moment on, Rathbun never looked back. He was transformed. Another recruiter persuaded Rathbun that he would be better able to deal with his brother’s problems if he had more training, which he could afford if he joined the Sea Org.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  He later took his life by jumping off a bridge on Pacific Coast Highway near Big Sur.4 The biggest financial scandal involving church members was a Ponzi scheme operated by Reed Slatkin; he was one of the co-founders, with Paul Haggis’s friend Sky Dayton, of EarthLink. Slatkin’s massive fraud involved more than half a billion dollars in investments; much of the initial “profit” was returned to Scientology investors, such as Daniel and Myrna Jacobs, who earned nearly $3 million on a $760,500 “investment.” According to Marty Rathbun, Slatkin’s Scientology investors included Anne Archer and Fox News commentator Greta Van Susteren. Later investors were not so lucky. Slatkin was convicted of defrauding $240 million; it is still not known how much of that money went directly to the church, although the court found that about $50 million was funneled to the church indirectly by investors with massive gains. In 2006, groups affiliated with the Church of Scientology, including the Celebrity Centre, agreed to pay back $3.5 million. IN JULY 2004 Miscavige hosted Tom Cruise’s forty-second birthday party aboard the Scientology cruise ship Freewinds . The Golden Era Musicians, including Miscavige’s father on trumpet, played songs from Cruise’s movies as film clips flickered on the giant overhead screens installed especially for the occasion. Cruise himself danced and sang “Old Time Rock and Roll,” reprising a famous scene in Risky Business , the movie that firmly established him as a star. Occasionally, the Freewinds is used to confine those Sea Org members that the church considers most at risk for flight. Among the crew on the ship during Cruise’s birthday party was Valeska Paris, a twenty-six-year-old Swiss woman. Paris had grown up in Scientology and joined the Sea Org when she was fourteen. Three years later, her stepfather, a self-made millionaire, committed suicide, leaving a diary in which he blamed the church for fleecing his fortune. When Valeska’s mother denounced the church on French television, Valeska was isolated at the Clearwater base in order to keep her away from her mother. The next year, at the age of eighteen, she was sent to the Freewinds . She was told she would be on the ship for two weeks. She was held there against her will for twelve years. Shortly before Cruise arrived, Paris developed a cold sore, which caused Miscavige to consign her to a condition of Treason, so she wasn’t allowed to go to the birthday party, but she later did wind up serving Cruise and his girlfriend at the time, the Spanish actress Penélope Cruz. In October, Miscavige acknowledged Cruise’s place in Scientology by awarding him the Freedom Medal of Valor. Miscavige called Cruise “ the most dedicated Scientologist I know” before an audience of Sea Org members who had spent much of their lives working for the church for a little more than seven dollars a day. Then he hung the diamond-encrusted platinum medallion around the star’s neck.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  And it’s not like my mother and father were born into wealth. It’s not like they gambled away their family fortunes. My parents came from poor people who came from poor people who came from poor people, all the way back to the very first poor people. Adam and Eve covered their privates with fig leaves; the first Indians covered their privates with their tiny hands. Seriously, I know my mother and father had their dreams when they were kids. They dreamed about being something other than poor, but they never got the chance to be anything because nobody paid attention to their dreams. Given the chance, my mother would have gone to college. She still reads books like crazy. She buys them by the pound. And she remembers everything she reads. She can recite whole pages by memory. She’s a human tape recorder. Really, my mom can read the newspaper in fifteen minutes and tell me baseball scores, the location of every war, the latest guy to win the Lottery, and the high temperature in Des Moines, Iowa. [image "An illustration showing two figures representing the artist’s parents. One figure is holding books and dressed in professional clothing. The other figure is playing a saxophone, wearing casual clothes and a hat." file=image_rsrc4RP.jpg] Given the chance, my father would have been a musician. When he gets drunk, he sings old country songs. And blues, too. And he sounds good. Like a pro. Like he should be on the radio. He plays the guitar and the piano a little bit. And he has this old saxophone from high school that he keeps all clean and shiny, like he’s going to join a band at any moment. But we reservation Indians don’t get to realize our dreams. We don’t get those chances. Or choices. We’re just poor. That’s all we are. It sucks to be poor, and it sucks to feel that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that you’re poor because you’re stupid and ugly. And then you start believing that you’re stupid and ugly because you’re Indian. And because you’re Indian you start believing you’re destined to be poor. It’s an ugly circle and there’s nothing you can do about it. Poverty doesn’t give you strength or teach you lessons about perseverance. No, poverty only teaches you how to be poor. So, poor and small and weak, I picked up Oscar. He licked my face because he loved and trusted me. And I carried him out to the lawn, and I laid him down beneath our green apple tree. “I love you, Oscar,” I said. He looked at me and I swear to you that he understood what was happening. He knew what Dad was going to do. But Oscar wasn’t scared. He was relieved. But not me. I ran away from there as fast as I could.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “So, anyway,” he said. “I was reading this book about old-time Indians, about how we used to be nomadic.” “Yeah,” I said. “So I looked up nomadic in the dictionary, and it means people who move around, who keep moving, in search of food and water and grazing land.” “That sounds about right.” “Well, the thing is, I don’t think Indians are nomadic anymore. Most Indians, anyway.” “No, we’re not,” I said. “I’m not nomadic,” Rowdy said. “Hardly anybody on this rez is nomadic. Except for you. You’re the nomadic one.” “Whatever.” “No, I’m serious. I always knew you were going to leave. I always knew you were going to leave us behind and travel the world. I had this dream about you a few months ago. You were standing on the Great Wall of China. You looked happy. And I was happy for you.” Rowdy didn’t cry. But I did. “You’re an old-time nomad,” Rowdy said. “You’re going to keep moving all over the world in search of food and water and grazing land. That’s pretty cool.” I could barely talk. “Thank you,” I said. “Yeah,” Rowdy said. “Just make sure you send me postcards, you asshole.” “From everywhere,” I said. I would always love Rowdy. And I would always miss him, too. Just as I would always love and miss my grandmother, my big sister, and Eugene. Just as I would always love and miss my reservation and my tribe. I hoped and prayed that they would someday forgive me for leaving them. I hoped and prayed that I would someday forgive myself for leaving them. “Ah, man,” Rowdy said. “Stop crying.” “Will we still know each other when we’re old men?” I asked. “Who knows anything?” Rowdy asked. Then he threw me the ball. “Now quit your blubbering,” he said. “And play ball.” I wiped my tears away, dribbled once, twice, and pulled up for a jumper. Rowdy and I played one-on-one for hours. We played until dark. We played until the streetlights lit up the court. We played until the bats swooped down at our heads. We played until the moon was huge and golden and perfect in the dark sky. We didn’t keep score. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more. [image "Two circles containing the white letters L and B, representing Little Brown and Company." file=image_rsrc4RH.jpg] [image "Book cover of ‘The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, 10th Anniversary Edition’ by Sherman Alexie." file=image_rsrc4TF.jpg] Contents [image file=image_rsrc4TG.jpg] A NOTE FROM SHERMAN ALEXIE PERSONAL PHOTOS FROM SHERMAN ROWDY, ROWDY, ROWDY A LETTER FROM AN EDUCATOR FAN ARTWORK WATER ON THE BRAIN JESS WALTER INTERVIEWS SHERMAN ALEXIE INTERVIEW WITH ELLEN FORNEY DISCUSSION GUIDE

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  The sky was blue. Visibility was good. Rowdy was alone in his car, so nobody knows for sure why he drifted across the center line and struck a car in the opposite lane. One of his brothers suspects that Randy might have been distracted by his phone. He liked to text and drive. The other drivers were hospitalized for their injuries but survived. There were also three children in the other cars, but they were not injured. Randy sustained massive head and internal injuries and died that night without ever regaining consciousness. He had not been wearing his seat belt. In 2016, what kind of foolish, impulsive, and risk-embracing idiot refuses to wear his seat belt? Come on, Randy! What were you thinking? I did not receive the news about Randy’s death until the next morning. I had been writing and, as usual, ignoring my cell phone. But then my sister called my home landline at the same moment Randy’s sister-in-law sent an urgent e-mail. I immediately called Randy’s sister-in-law, and she told me the terrible news. I had not spoken to Randy in many years. I had not seen him in an even longer period. But I was instantly transported back in time, and I wept and wailed like a twelve-year-old boy whose best friend had just died. I was Sherman Alexie Jr., mourning the sudden death of Randy Peone. And I was Arnold Spirit Jr., mourning the sudden death of Rowdy. My real and fictional lives blended in torturous ways. “Oh my God,” I said to his sister-in-law. “I loved him. I loved him. I loved him.” Five days later, I stood beside his open coffin in the funeral home. I kissed Randy on the forehead. I put my hand on his chest. Randy had always been short, only five four as an adult, but he’d always been built like a wolverine. Thick and muscular. But in his coffin, Randy looked skinny. In my memory, Randy was a vibrant teenager, a fullback, point guard, and fastball pitcher. And now, in the present, he was a forty-nine-year-old man—killed in a car wreck—who’d dealt with the typical and atypical health problems of a middle-aged Native American. Age had turned him smaller and darker. He’d always been handsome—a blue-eyed Indian—and he was still handsome, dressed in a white shirt and Indian-design vest, as he rested in his coffin. I turned away from Randy so I could address the gathered mourners. So I could memorialize him. I saw dozens of Indians I had known for my whole life, and I saw their children, who I didn’t know at all. I’d been in kindergarten with some of those Indians. One of those Indians had been my favorite babysitter. I saw Randy’s brothers and sisters, and his mother and father, and his children. I saw my brothers and sisters sitting in the back row of seats. And then I spoke. I hadn’t written anything down. I hadn’t prepared.

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

  Just when the expulsion of Harald Klak compelled Ansgar to give up the Danish mission, at least for the time being, an embassy was sent by the Swedish king, Björn, to the emperor, Lewis the Pious, asking him to send Christian missionaries to Sweden. Like the Danes, the Swedes had become acquainted with Christianity through their wars and commercial connections with foreign countries, and with many this acquaintance appears to have awakened an actual desire to become Christians. Accordingly Ansgar went to Sweden in 829, accompanied by Witmar. While crossing the Baltic, the vessel was overtaken and plundered by pirates, and he arrived empty handed, not to say destitute, at Björkö or Birka, the residence of King Björn, situated on an island in the Maelarn. Although poverty, and misery were very poor introduction to a heathen king in ancient Scandinavia, he was well received by the king; and in Hergeir, one of the most prominent men at the court of Birka, he found a warm and reliable friend. Hergeir built the first Christian chapel in Sweden, and during his whole life he proved an unfailing and powerful support of the Christian cause. After two years’ successful labor, Ansgar returned to Germany; but he did not forget the work begun. As soon as he was well established as bishop in Hamburg, he sent, in 834, Gautbert, a nephew of Ebo, to Sweden, accompanied by Nithard and a number of other Christian priests, and well provided with everything necessary for the work. Gautbert labored with great success. In Birka he built a church, and thus it became possible for the Christians, scattered all over Sweden, to celebrate service and partake of the Lord’s Supper in their own country without going to Duerstede or some other foreign place. But here, as in Denmark, the success of the Christian mission aroused the jealousy and hatred of the heathen, and, at last, even Hergeir was not able to keep them within bounds. An infuriated swarm broke into the house of Gautbert. The house was plundered; Nithard was murdered; the church was burnt, and Gautbert himself was sent in chains beyond the frontier. He never returned to Sweden, but died as bishop of Osnabrück, shortly before Ansgar. When Ansgar first heard of the outbreak in Sweden, he was himself flying before the fury of the Danish heathen, and for several years he was unable to do anything for the Swedish mission. Ardgar, a former hermit, now a priest, went to Sweden, and in Birka he found that Hergeir had succeeded in keeping together and defending the Christian congregation; but Hergeir died shortly after, and with him fell the last defence against the attacks of the heathen and barbarians.

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

  And this argument is pure sophistry: in return for the small amount of good I receive at the hands of others thanks to the virtue they practice, my obligation to practice virtue in my turn causes me to make a million sacrifices for which I am in no wise compensated. Receiving less than I give, I hence conclude a very disadvantageous bargain, I experience much more ill from the privations I endure in order to be virtuous, than I experience good from those who do it to me; the arrangement being not at all equitable, I therefore must not submit to it, and certain, by being virtuous, not to cause others as much pleasure as I receive pain by compelling myself to be good, would it not be better to give up procuring them a happiness which must cost me so much distress? There now remains the harm I may do others by being vicious and the evil I myself would suffer were everyone to resemble me. Were we to acknowledge an efficient circulation of vices, I am certainly running a grave danger, I concede it; but the grief experienced by what I risk is offset by the pleasure I receive from causing others to be menaced: and there! you see, equality is re-established: and everyone is more or less equally happy: which is not the case and cannot be the case in a society where some are good and others are bad, because, from this mixture, perpetual pitfalls result! and no pitfalls exist in the other instance.

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

  Ah, you have accomplished what you desired! I hate you!’ “Then she grew delirious. She was frightened, and cried: “‘Fire, I do not fear . . . but strike them all . . . He has gone. . . . He has gone.’ . . . “The delirium continued. She no longer recognized the children, not even little Lise, who had approached. Toward noon she died. As for me, I was arrested before her death, at eight o’clock in the morning. They took me to the police station, and then to prison, and there, during eleven months, awaiting the verdict, I reflected upon myself, and upon my past, and I understood it. Yes, I began to understand from the third day. The third day they took me to the house.” . . . Posdnicheff seemed to wish to add something, but, no longer having the strength to repress his sobs, he stopped. After a few minutes, having recovered his calmness, he resumed: “I began to understand only when I saw her in the coffin.” . . . He uttered a sob, and then immediately continued, with haste: “Then only, when I saw her dead face, did I understand all that I had done. I understood that it was I, I, who had killed her. I understood that I was the cause of the fact that she, who had been a moving, living, palpitating being, had now become motionless and cold, and that there was no way of repairing this thing. He who has not lived through that cannot understand it.” We remained silent a long time. Posdnicheff sobbed and trembled before me. His face had become delicate and long, and his mouth had grown larger. “Yes,” said he suddenly, “if I had known what I now know, I should never have married her, never, not for anything.”