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 World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  136 Lecture 19: Religious Developments of the Exile o We then hear the Israelite god tell Cyrus who he is: “I am Yahweh, and there is no other; besides me, there is no god” (Isa. 45:5). This statement and several others like it in Second Isaiah are the closest articulation we get to monotheism in the Bible. Polytheism in the Bible • We have already seen several biblical and archaeological examples demonstrating that the Israelites and Judeans worshipped multiple gods. A few additional examples also suggest the polytheistic roots of ancient Israelite religion. • The generic word for “god” in Hebrew is elohim. Whenever the word “god” appears in an English translation of the Bible, this Hebrew word is behind it. Interestingly, this term is plural. The singular form is El, which is the name of the high god in the Canaanite pantheon. When the Bible uses the plural form, Elohim, to designate the single Israelite god, it may reflect a history when Israelites and their precursors worshipped a plurality of gods. • We see this plurality of the Israelite god through the concept of a “divine council,” which appears in multiple texts. o For example, in Genesis 1, we read of the creation of the world in six days followed by a day of rest. In this story, God’s decision to create human beings is stated in the plural: “Let us make humankind in our own image, according to our likeness” (Gen. 1:26), suggesting that he is not alone in his heavenly dwelling. o We find the same use of the plural in the commissioning of Isaiah in chapter 6 of that book. Here, the 8 th -century prophet Isaiah stands in the temple and overhears a divine council meeting in which God inquires of other divine beings, “Whom shall I send, who will go for us?” o The Book of Job opens with a very developed scene of a divine council, in which the Israelite god questions lower-level gods about the happenings in his domain (Job 1:6).

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Father,’ she cried, ‘I suppose it is quite unnecessary for me to tell you about my reckless behaviour and about the tragedy that has befallen me, for I am sure you will already have been informed about these things. My sole request – and it is one that I make in all humility – is that you should pardon my transgression in taking as my husband, and without your knowledge, the man who was more pleasing to me than any other. Nor do I crave this forgiveness in order that my life shall be spared, but so that I may die as your daughter and not as your enemy.’ She thereupon collapsed in tears at his feet, and Messer Negro too began to cry, for he was by nature generous and affectionate, and he was getting on in years. And so, with tears in his eyes, he helped her tenderly to her feet, saying: ‘My daughter, it was always my dearest wish that you should marry a man whom I considered worthy of you; and if you did indeed choose such a man, and he was pleasing to you, then I could have wished for nothing better. All the same, I am saddened to think that you did not trust me sufficiently to tell me about him, the more so on discovering that you have lost him even before I had any inkling of the matter. But still, since this is the way of it, I intend that he should be paid the same respect, now that he is dead, that I would willingly have paid to him for your sake if he were still alive; in other words, I intend to honour him as my son-in-law.’ And, turning to his sons and kinsfolk, he instructed them to see that suitably splendid and honourable arrangements were put in hand for Gabriotto’s funeral. News of what had happened had meanwhile reached the ears of the young man’s kinsfolk, who had now arrived upon the scene together with nearly all the men and women in the city. The body was therefore laid upon Andreuola’s piece of silk cloth in the midst of all her roses and placed in the centre of the courtyard, where it publicly received the tears, not only of Andreuola and of Gabriotto’s kinswomen, but of nearly all the women in the city and many of the men. And it was from the palace yard, in the style not of a plebeian but of a patrician, that his remains were taken with very great reverence to their burial, borne on the shoulders of the highest nobles in the land. After the funeral, the chief magistrate repeated his previous offer and Messer Negro talked the matter over with his daughter, but she would have nothing to do with it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Genoa with all their captives. When the spoils were divided between the owners of the galley, it turned out that Madonna Beritola’s nurse and the two children were assigned, along with a quantity of goods, to a certain Messer Guasparrino d’Oria, 6 who sent the woman and the two boys to his house with the intention of employing them as slaves on household duties. Being exceedingly distressed by the loss of her mistress and by the sorry state to which she saw herself and the two children reduced, the nurse wept over and over again. But she was a sensible and prudent woman despite her lowly station in life, and once she had realized that her tears were not going to help in freeing them all from slavery, she did all she could to comfort the children. Considering where they were, she thought it quite possible that the two boys would be molested if their identity were discovered. And moreover, she was hoping that sooner or later their luck would change, in which case, provided they were still alive, the children might regain the positions of honour they had lost. So she resolved not to tell anybody who they were until a suitable occasion presented itself, and meanwhile, whenever she was questioned on the matter, she would claim that the children were her own. Renaming the older boy Giannotto di Procida instead of Giusfredi and leaving the younger boy’s name unaltered, she explained very carefully to Giusfredi why she had changed his name and how dangerous it might be for him if he were recognized. And she drummed this into him so often and with so much persistence, that, being an intelligent boy, he followed the instructions of his wise nurse to the letter. And so the two boys and their nurse, badly clothed and worse shod, continued for many years in Messer Guasparrino’s house, patiently performing all the most menial tasks it is possible to imagine. But Giannotto was made of sterner stuff than slaves are made of, and by the time he was sixteen the baseness of a servile existence had become so repugnant to him that he abandoned Messer Guasparrino’s household and enlisted as a seaman on galleys plying between Genoa and Alexandria, after which he travelled far and wide without however finding a single opportunity for advancement. Finally, when he had almost lost hope of a change of fortune, his wanderings led him to Lunigiana, where he chanced to enter the service of Currado Malespina, whom he attended, to the latter’s no small satisfaction, with considerable efficiency. It was now some three or four years since his departure from Messer Guasparrino’s and he had grown into a well-built, handsome young man. He had meanwhile heard that his father, whom he had supposed to be dead, was still alive, but languishing under heavy guard in one of King Charles’s dungeons.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  171 Loss and Restoration—Two Biblical Stories Lecture 24 A s we have learned, the Bible was compiled and preserved by a remnant of Judeans who saw themselves as the memory holders for “all Israel.” On the one hand, it is a book written by and for a literate elite—the “winners” of this history. On the other hand, it is also a story of national loss—of land, family, sacred sites, and political and economic stability. It is the story of a displaced people who never fully regained a sense of home. Thus, in this closing lecture, we will look at two famous biblical stories of loss and recovery: Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son Isaac and Job’s loss of his children, his wealth, and his health. The Binding of Isaac • One of the first things that we learn about the patriarch Abraham is that his wife, Sarah, is barren. In the ancient world, children were considered a blessing from God, but they were also needed to assist in farming and household tasks and to care for their parents in old age. • For these reasons, the miraculous birth of Isaac to an aging Sarah and Abraham was greeted with incredulity and joy. But in the story known as the Binding of Isaac (Gen. 22), God directs Abraham to take his son to the mountains and sacrifice him as a burnt offering. Only the intervention of an angel at the last moment causes Abraham to stop the sacrifice. • This story evades a simple explanation or theological interpretation. In its ancient setting, it may echo known practices of child sacrifice, or it may teach the lesson of total obedience to one’s god. If, however, we read this story from the perspective of the community that ultimately preserved it—those who had experienced conquest and exile—it takes on added levels of meaning.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor the garden where she had heard the cuckoo with the dawning understanding of a child, nor the lakes where she had kissed Angela Crossby for the first time—full on the lips as a lover. The good, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid cattle, she was going to leave them; and the hills that protected poor, unhappy lovers—the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepy dog-roses at evening; and the little, old township of Upton-on-Severn with its battle-scarred church and its yellowish river; that was where she had first seen Angela Crossby. . . . The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bringing strong, clean winds to the open common. The spring would come sweeping across the whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills right up to the Malverns; bringing daffodils by their hundreds and thousands, bringing bluebells to the beech wood down by the lakes, bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to protect; bringing sunshine to warm the old bricks of the house—but she would not be there any more in the spring. In summer the roses would not be her roses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn, nor the beautiful winter forms of the beech trees: ‘And on evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter. . . .’ No, no, not that memory, it was too much—‘when you and I come and stand here in the winter. . . .’

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

  From these two confessions should be distinguished the Anglican Church, which the continental historians from defective information usually count with the Reformed Church, but which stands midway between evangelical Protestantism and Roman Catholicism, and may therefore be called Anglo-Catholic. She is indeed moderately Reformed in her doctrinal articles,39 but in polity and ritual she is much more conservative than the Calvinistic and even the Lutheran confession, pays greater deference to the testimony of the ancient fathers, and lays stress upon her unbroken episcopal succession. The confessional division in the Protestant camp arose very early. It was at first confined to a difference of opinion on the eucharistic presence, which the Marburg Conference of 1529 could not remove, although Luther and Zwingli agreed in fourteen and a half out of fifteen articles of faith. Luther refused any compromise. Other differences gradually developed themselves, on the ubiquity of Christ’s body, predestination, and baptismal regeneration, which tended to widen and perpetuate the split. The union of the two Confessions in Prussia and other German states, since 1817, has not really healed it, but added a third Church, the United Evangelical, to the two older Confessions which, still continue separate in other countries. The controversies among the Protestants in the sixteenth century roused all the religious and political passions and cast a gloom over the bright picture of the Reformation. Melanchthon declared that with tears as abundant as the waters of the river Elbe he could not express his grief over the distractions of Christendom and the "fury of theologians." Calvin also, when invited, with Melanchthon, Bullinger and Buzer, in 1552, by Archbishop Cranmer to Lambeth Palace for the purpose of framing a concensus-creed of the Reformed churches, was willing to cross ten seas for the cause of Christian union.40 But the noble scheme was frustrated by the stormy times, and still remains a pium desiderium. Much as we must deplore and condemn sectarian strife and bitterness, it would be as unjust to charge them on Protestantism, as to charge upon Catholicism the violent passions of the trinitarian, christological and other controversies of the Nicene age, or the fierce animosity between the Greek and Latin Churches, or the envy and jealousy of the monastic orders of the Middle Ages, or the unholy rivalries between Jansenists and Jesuits, Gallicans and Ultramontanists in modern Romanism. The religious passions grow out of the selfishness of depraved human nature in spite of Christianity, whether Greek, Roman, or Protestant., and may arise in any denomination or in any congregation. Paul had to rebuke the party spirit in the church at Corinth. The rancor of theological schools and parties under one and the same government is as great and often greater than among separate rival denominations. Providence overrules these human weaknesses for the clearer development of doctrine and discipline, and thus brings good out of evil.

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

  He was deeply grieved by the early death of his favorite daughter Lena (Magdalen), a pious, gentle, and affectionate girl of fourteen, with large, imaginative eyes, and full of promise.598 "I love her very much," he prayed; "but, dear God, if it is thy holy will to take her hence, I would gladly leave her with Thee." And to her he said, "Lena dear, my little daughter, thou wouldst love to remain here with thy father: art thou willing to go to that other Father?"—"Yes, dear father," she replied, "just as God wills." And when she was dying, he fell on his knees beside her bed, wept bitterly, and prayed for her redemption. As she lay in her coffin, he exclaimed, "Ah! my darling Lena, thou wilt rise again, and shine like a star,—yea, as a sun. I am happy in the spirit, but very sorrowful in the flesh." He wrote to his friend Jonas: "You will have heard that my dearest child is born again into the eternal kingdom of God. We ought to be glad at her departure, for she is taken away from the world, the flesh, and the devil; but so strong is natural love, that we cannot bear it without anguish of heart, without the sense of death in ourselves." On her tomb he inscribed these lines: — "Here do I Lena, Luther’s daughter, rest, Sleep in my little bed with all the blessed. In sin and trespass was I born; Forever would I be forlorn, But yet I live, and all is good — Thou, Christ, didst save me with thy blood." Luther was simple, regular, and temperate in his habits. The reports to the contrary are slanders of enemies. The famous and much-abused adage, — "Who does not love wife, wine, and song, Remains a fool his whole life long,"599- is not found in his works, nor in any contemporary writing, but seems to have originated in the last century, on the basis of some mediaeval saying.600 He used beer601 and common wine according to the general custom of his age and country; but he abhorred intemperance, and justly complained of the drink-devil (Saufteufel) of the Germans.602 Melanchthon, his daily companion, often wondered (as he reports after Luther’s death) how a man with such a portly frame could live on so meager a diet; for he observed that Luther sometimes fasted for four days when in good health, and was often contented for a whole day with a herring and a piece of bread. He preferred "pure, good, common, homely fare." Occasionally he received a present of game from the Elector, and enjoyed it with his friends.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Following her feelings had led Anaïs to the trauma of adult incest, whereas denying my feelings had separated and estranged me from myself and from men. We each paid, in different ways, for our fathers’ abandonment. She was my reverse reflection, the puzzle of a mirror reflected in a mirror, reflected in a mirror—the narcissist’s funhouse. As she had sought twinship with her father, I had sought twinship with her, sought a glorified version of myself in her, and therefore could not abide our differences. I had lauded her bigamy because it partook of the bravado I admired in myself, whereas I demonized her incest, because I could not find myself in it. Nor could I forgive her insane act of incest until, in writing this book, I could forgive my own psychological breakdown in Indiana. I could not forgive her being such a flawed mentor until I could forgive myself for losing myself in her. I could not forgive her helplessness at the end—spoon-fed, carried from bed to chair, terrified by old ghosts—until I forgave myself for turning from her then. A swell hit my face. The waves had become turbulent, and I wished the pain from their slap would overcome that of my remorse. I had lost precious time with her because of my resentments, my judgments, my fear. The water in my smarting eyes was indistinguishable from that of the briny ocean, but the clutch of my stomach and my jagged gasps for air told me that grief had found me. I heaved in waves of it, mourning for a world without her, for an era now gone forever. Never again would she enter a room and make me feel so not alone. Never again would I rush to her house to be met at the door by the marvelous. When at last the fist jerking on my ribs released, I floated, drifted; for how long, impossible to tell. No distance now between thought and feeling, no dissonance between my desire to be Anaïs and her desire for me to be me. No struggle now, just the motion of the sea, rocking like a woman keening, swinging like an infant in her mother’s arms.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  176 Lecture 24: Loss and Restoration—Two Biblical Stories The Restorations • For many readers, the restoration at the end of the Book of Job seems hollow. Job gets no real answers. The same is true of the story of Abraham and Isaac. How do father and son have a relationship after the horror of Abraham lifting the knife over Isaac? • Let’s return to the question we asked at the beginning of this course: Who and what is biblical Israel? o As you recall, the first time we encounter Israel is in the story of Jacob. Here, Jacob must flee his brother and dwell in exile for two decades. Like the later exiles, Jacob put down roots and built a family and wealth. o Before he could return to the Promised Land and become “Israel,” Jacob, too, had to pass a divine test. He wrestled with God, and like Job, he would not give up. He demanded a blessing, and God gave him a new name: Israel. o But at the end of this encounter, Jacob, now Israel, is wounded. Even in his restoration to the land and his receipt of a new name, he bears the permanent physical marker of a struggle with God. • In many ways, the history of the ancient Israelite people parallels that of Jacob. They endured decades in exile and bore the yoke of the Babylonians. When they returned to their homeland, their restoration was both glorious and painful. They were permanently marked by their experience of loss. • Like Job and his friends, the community that reassembled itself in Judah during the Persian Empire was fractured by debate. Like Abraham, Jacob, and Job, the Judeans realized that their restoration did not fully compensate for what they had lost. They looked at the rebuilt temple and wept over its former glory. • The Bible as a historical library produced and preserved by this restored community in many ways heeds the advice of the Book 177 of Job. It preserves multiple voices; it records debates; it allows its god to appear in multiple forms. It either fails or refuses to provide singular answers. Instead, it opens multiple entry points into the history of ancient Israel and its people, allowing the careful reader to catch glimpses of what life was like in biblical Israel. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son. Newsom, The Book of Job. 1. What can we learn about the Bible and the community that produced it from the dialogue of Job and his friends? 2. What kind of power does God have in the stories of Abraham and Job? How does he exercise this power? 3. What is the significance of the Bible’s frequent reference to trauma- induced silences? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider maps 178 maps 179

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  176 Lecture 24: Loss and Restoration—Two Biblical Stories The Restorations • For many readers, the restoration at the end of the Book of Job seems hollow. Job gets no real answers. The same is true of the story of Abraham and Isaac. How do father and son have a relationship after the horror of Abraham lifting the knife over Isaac? • Let’s return to the question we asked at the beginning of this course: Who and what is biblical Israel? o As you recall, the first time we encounter Israel is in the story of Jacob. Here, Jacob must flee his brother and dwell in exile for two decades. Like the later exiles, Jacob put down roots and built a family and wealth. o Before he could return to the Promised Land and become “Israel,” Jacob, too, had to pass a divine test. He wrestled with God, and like Job, he would not give up. He demanded a blessing, and God gave him a new name: Israel. o But at the end of this encounter, Jacob, now Israel, is wounded. Even in his restoration to the land and his receipt of a new name, he bears the permanent physical marker of a struggle with God. • In many ways, the history of the ancient Israelite people parallels that of Jacob. They endured decades in exile and bore the yoke of the Babylonians. When they returned to their homeland, their restoration was both glorious and painful. They were permanently marked by their experience of loss. • Like Job and his friends, the community that reassembled itself in Judah during the Persian Empire was fractured by debate. Like Abraham, Jacob, and Job, the Judeans realized that their restoration did not fully compensate for what they had lost. They looked at the rebuilt temple and wept over its former glory. • The Bible as a historical library produced and preserved by this restored community in many ways heeds the advice of the Book 177 of Job. It preserves multiple voices; it records debates; it allows its god to appear in multiple forms. It either fails or refuses to provide singular answers. Instead, it opens multiple entry points into the history of ancient Israel and its people, allowing the careful reader to catch glimpses of what life was like in biblical Israel. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son. Newsom, The Book of Job. 1. What can we learn about the Bible and the community that produced it from the dialogue of Job and his friends? 2. What kind of power does God have in the stories of Abraham and Job? How does he exercise this power? 3. What is the significance of the Bible’s frequent reference to trauma- induced silences? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider maps 178 maps 179

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  59 raised up by the Israelite god, and with his god’s help, he will be able to achieve the military victory he needs over the Ammonites. o Jephthah seeks further assurance of victory by making a vow to his god; he promises that if he returns victorious, whoever first comes from his house to meet him will be given to the Lord as a burnt offering. o Of course, Jephthah defeats the Ammonites and returns home victorious, only to be met by his daughter. She agrees to submit to the terms of the vow but asks for a reprieve of two months so that she and her female companions can go to the mountains to bewail her virginity. When she returns, Jephthah “did with her according to his vow” (Judg. 11:39). • The closing note on Jephthah’s career as judge is that he judged Israel for six years and then died and was buried in Gilead. • From Jephthah’s tenure as a judge, we learn that the primary function of this office was to deliver Israel militarily from its enemies. It is this military deliverance that, in almost all cases, inaugurates a person’s status as judge. Because the office of the judge is brought on by the onrush of the spirit of the Lord and comes to a close at the person’s death, this type of leadership is often called “charismatic leadership.” Judges gives us a brief note supporting the existence of a women’s pilgrimage ritual in memory of the daughter of Jephthah. ©Andreagrossmann/Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As we have almost grown tired of repeating, the woman had the body of an angel and a temperament to match, and the two young masters of the vessel fell so violently in love with her that they could concentrate on nothing else except how best they might make themselves useful and agreeable to her, at the same time taking care not to let Marato see what they were up to. On discovering that they were both in love with the same woman, they talked the matter over in secret and agreed to make the lady’s conquest a mutual affair, as though love were capable of being shared out like merchandise or profits. For some time their plans were thwarted because they found that Marato kept a close watch on her. But one day, when the ship was sailing along like the wind and Marato was standing on the stern facing seaward without the least suspicion of their intentions, they both crept up on him, seized him quickly from behind, and hurled him into the sea. By the time anybody so much as noticed that Marato had fallen overboard, they had already sailed on for over a mile, and the lady, hearing what had happened and seeing no way of going to his rescue, began to fill the whole ship with the sounds of her latest affliction. The two gallants immediately rushed to her assistance, and with the aid of honeyed words and extravagant promises, few of which she understood, they attempted to pacify her. What she was bemoaning was not so much the loss of Marato as her own sorry plight, and so after she had listened to a stream of fine talk, repeated twice over, she seemed considerably less distraught. The two brothers then got down to a private discussion to decide which of them was to take her off to bed. Each man claimed priority over the other, and having failed to reach any agreement on the matter they began to argue fiercely between themselves. Nor did their quarrel stop with the exchange of verbal abuse. Losing their tempers, they reached for their knives and hurled themselves furiously upon one another, and before the ship’s crew could separate the pair, they had both inflicted a number of stab-wounds, from which one man died instantly whilst the other emerged with serious injuries to various parts of his body. The lady was sorely distressed by all this, for she could see that she was now alone on the ship with nobody to turn to for help or advice, and she was greatly afraid lest the relatives and companions of the two men should vent their rage upon her. However, partly because of the injured man’s pleas on her behalf, partly because they soon arrived at Corinth, the danger to her person was short-lived.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  At the police station, the officer who looked up the man’s record discovered that he had committed six other so-called “armed robberies” over the past fifteen year s, all of them at 6:30 in the morning on July 5! Upon learning that the man was a Vietnam veteran, the police surmised that this event was more than mere coincidence. They took him to a nearby VA hospital, where Dr. Van der Kolk had the opportunity to speak with him. Van der Kolk asked the man directly: “What happened to you on July 5th at 6:30 in the morning?” He responded directly. While he was in Vietnam, the man’s platoon had been ambushed by the Viet Cong. Everyone had been killed except for himself and his friend, Jim. The date was July fourth. Darkness fell and the helicopters were unable to evacuate them. They spent a terrifying night together huddled in a rice paddy surrounded by the Viet Cong. At about 3:30 in the morning, Jim was hit in the chest by a Viet Cong bullet; he died in his friend’s arms at 6:30 on the morning of July 5. After returning to the States, every July 5 (that he did not spend in jail), the man had re-enacted the anniversary of his friend’s death. In the therapy session with Van der Kolk, the vet experienced grief over the loss of his friend. He then made the connection between Jim’s death and the compulsion he felt to commit the robberies. Once he became aware of his feelings and the role the original event had played in driving his compulsion, the man was able to stop re-enacting this tragic incident. What was the connection between the robberies and the Vietnam experience? By staging the “robberies,” the man was recreating the firefight that had resulted in the death of his friend (as well as the rest of his platoon). By provoking the police to join in the re-enactment, the vet had orchestrated the cast of characters needed to play the role of the Viet Cong. He did not want to hurt anyone, so he used his fingers instead of a gun. He then brought the situation to a climax and was able to elicit the help he needed to heal his psychic wounds. He was then able to resolve his anguish, grief, and guilt about his buddy’s violent death and the horrors of war. If we look at this man’s behaviors without knowing anything about his past, we might think he was mad. However, with a little history, we can see that his actions were a brilliant attempt to resolve a deep emotional scar. His re-enactment took him to the very edge, again and again, until he was finally able to free himself from the overwhelming nightmare of war.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And Raftery stood there looking at Stephen, and his eyes were as soft as an Irish morning, yet as brave as the eyes that looked into his. Then it seemed to Stephen that he had spoken, that Raftery had said: ‘Since to me you are God, what have I to forgive you, Stephen?’ She took a step forward and pressed the revolver high up against Raftery’s smooth, grey forehead. She fired, and he dropped to the ground like a stone, lying perfectly still by the mighty hedge that had set the seal on his youthful valour. But now there broke out a great crying and wailing: ‘Oh, me! Oh, me! They’ve been murderin’ Raftery! Shame, shame, I says, on the ‘and what done it, and ‘im no common horse but a Christian. . . .’ Then loud sobbing as though some very young child had fallen down and hurt itself badly. And there in a small, creaky, wicker bath-chair sat Williams, being bumped along over the paddock by a youthful niece, who had come to Morton to take care of the old and now feeble couple; for Williams had had his first stroke that Christmas, in addition to which he was almost childish. God only knew who had told him this thing; the secret had been very carefully guarded by Stephen, who, knowing his love for the horse, had taken every precaution to spare him. Yet now here he was with his face all twisted by the stroke and the sobs that kept on rising. He was trying to lift his half-paralysed hand which kept dropping back on to the arm of the bath-chair; he was trying to get out of the bath-chair and run to where Raftery lay stretched out in the sunshine; he was trying to speak again, but his voice had grown thick so that no one could understand him. Stephen thought that his mind had begun to wander, for now he was surely not screaming ‘Raftery’ any more, but something that sounded like: ‘Master!’ and again, ‘Oh, Master, Master!’ She said: ‘Take him home,’ for he did not know her; ‘take him home. You’d no business to bring him here at all—it’s against my orders. Who told him about it?’ And the young girl answered: ‘It seemed ’e just knowed—it was like as though Raftery told ’im. . . .’ Williams looked up with his blurred, anxious eyes. ‘Who be you?’ he inquired. Then he suddenly smiled through his tears. ‘It be good to be seein’ you, Master—seems like a long while. . . .’ His voice was now clear but exceedingly small, a small, far away thing. If a doll had spoken, its voice might have sounded very much as the old man’s did at that moment.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2During those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in on Stephen as never before how wide was the gulf between her and her mother, how completely they two must always stand divided. Yet looking at Anna’s quiet ageing face, the girl would be struck afresh by its beauty, a beauty that seemed to have mollified the years, to have risen triumphant over time and grief. And now as in the days of her childhood, that beauty would fill her with a kind of wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so complete—then her mother’s deep eyes, blue like distant mountains, and now with that far-away look in their blueness, as though they were gazing into the distance. Stephen’s heart would suddenly tighten a little; a sense of great loss would descend upon her, together with the sense of not fully understanding just what she had lost or why she had lost it—she would stare at Anna as a thirsty traveller in the desert will stare at a mirage of water. And one evening there came a preposterous impulse—the impulse to confide in this woman within whose most gracious and perfect body her own anxious body had lain and quickened. She wanted to speak to that motherhood, to implore, nay, compel its understanding. To say: ‘Mother, I need you. I’ve lost my way—give me your hand to hold in the darkness.’ But good God, the folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such a confession! Angela delivered over, betrayed—the unthinkable folly, the madness of it. Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at the misty Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the sea and the calling of sea-gulls the one to the other—as they sat there together it would seem to Stephen that her heart was so full of Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all the sweetness of her, that the mother-heart beating close by her own must surely, in its turn, be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once sheltered under that heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that now she must often find Anna’s cool hand and hold it a moment or two in her own, trying to draw from it some consolation.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  117 The Valley of Dry Bones • We have not recovered carved images of siege and deportation from Babylonia like the ones found in abundance from the palaces of the Assyrians. Still, the devastation that Judean exiles would have witnessed as they were marched from their cities would be similar to that depicted by the Assyrians. o Piles of corpses, many dismembered and mutilated, would be scattered in the streets, on the city walls, and outside the city. o Not being able to bury their loved ones would have added to the experience of trauma and loss the exiles experienced as they were led out of their devastated cities. o Thus, it is not surprising that Ezekiel focuses on issues of inability to mourn, inability to speak, and inability to bury one’s dead. • Throughout the Bible, the lack of a proper burial constitutes a curse and a punishment. In the book of Deuteronomy, one of the curses that will befall anyone who does not obey the statutes of the covenant involves military conquest and death without burial (Deut. 28:26). Deuteronomy describes a scene that would have been similar to what the Judeans confronted as they marched out of their fallen cities. • To understand how the exiles would have felt leaving their dead unburied, we need to know something about Judean burial practices during normal times and the beliefs concerning an afterlife. o Ancient Israelites and Judeans did not have a concept of heaven and hell. Instead, those who died were thought to be in a kind of sleep. The place for the dead was called Sheol, but this was not an active place like heaven or hell. It was imagined as an underworld, often called “the pit.” o People were buried in family tombs, usually caves, that were laid out in a similar manner to the pillared houses. Burials were often a two-staged process. In the first stage, the corpse was

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

  An Exposition of Psalm XLIV1359 It was written for the nuns of Soissons, to whom he owed his life, and the dedication to them is an integral part of the first of its four books. It is allegorical and very diffuse, but edifying. 3. An Exposition of the Lamentations of Jeremiah.1360 This was the fruit of his old age, and once more, as in his early manhood, he deplored the vices, both lay and clerical, which disgraced his times. His allusion to the Norman incursions in the neighborhood of Paris,1361 which took place in 857, proves that he must have written the work after that date. In his prologue, Radbertus states that he had never read a commentary on Lamentations written by a Latin author. Hence his information must have been derived from Greek sources, and he was unacquainted with the similar work by Rabanus Maurus. He distinguished a triple sense, a literal, spiritual, and a moral, and paid especial regard to types and prophecies, as he considered that there were prophecies in Lamentations which referred to his own day. 4. Faith, Hope and Love.1362 This work is preceded by an acrostic poem, the first letters of each line forming the name "Radbertus Levita." Each of the three books is devoted to one of the Christian virtues. Radbertus wrote the treatise at the request of abbot Wala, for the instruction of the younger monks. The book on faith is remarkable for its statement that faith precedes knowledge, thus antedating the scholastics in their assertion, which is most pregnantly put in the famous expression of Anselm, Credo ut intelligam.1363 The third book, On Love, is much later than the others on account of the author’s distractions. 5. Life of Adalhard,1364 the first abbot of New Corbie. It is a panegyric rather than a strict biography, but contains much interesting and valuable information respecting the abbot and the founding of the German monastery of Corbie. The model for the work is the funeral oration of Ambrose upon Valentinian II. Its date is 826, the year of Adalhard’s death. It contains much edifying matter. 6. Life of Wala,1365 the brother of Adalhard at Old Corbie, and his successor. It is in the peculiar form of conversations. In the first book the interlocutors are Paschasius, as he calls himself, and four fellow Corbie monks—Adeodatus, Severus, Chremes, Allabicus; and in the second, Paschasius, Adeotatus and Theophrastus. These names are, like Asenius, as he calls Wala, manifestly pseudonyms. He borrowed the idea of such a dialogue from Sulpicius Severus, who used it in his life of St. Martin of Tours. The date of the book is 836, the year of Wala’s death. 7. The Passion of Rufinus and Valerius,1366 who were martyrs to the Christian faith, at or near Soissons, in the year 287. In this work he uses old materials, but weakens the interest of his subject by his frequent digressions and long paraphrases. § 174. Patramnus. I.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And whilst he occasionally saw his mother, who was in attendance on Currado’s lady, he never recognized her, nor she him, for they had both changed a great deal in the period that had elapsed since they had last seen one another. Now, whilst Giannotto was in Currado’s service, it happened that a daughter of Currado’s, whose name was Spina, was left a widow by a certain Niccolò da Grignano, and returned to her father’s house. Being a beautiful and very graceful girl of little more than sixteen, she began to take an interest in Giannotto, and he in her, with the result that they fell madly in love with one another. Their love was soon consummated, and since it continued for several months undetected, they became excessively confident and were less cautious than they should have been. And one day, while out walking in a fine, thickly wooded forest, Giannotto and the girl, forging on ahead of their companions, came to a delectable spot all covered with grass and flowers and surrounded by trees, and, thinking they had left the others far behind, they began to make love. So great was their enjoyment that they lost all track of time, and they had been together for ages when the girl’s mother arrived on the scene, to be followed a moment later by Currado. Dismayed beyond measure by what he saw, 7 he ordered three of his servants, without giving any reasons, to seize the pair of them, bind them, and march them off to one of his castles. Then he stalked away, seething with distress and anger, and intent on having them ignominiously put to death. The girl’s mother was extremely upset, and regarded no punishment as too severe for her daughter’s lapse. But she could not stand passively aside and allow them to suffer the kind of fate which, on piecing together certain of Currado’s remarks, she realized he was intending to inflict on the culprits. So she hurried to catch up with her irate husband, and began pleading with him not to ruin his old age by killing his own daughter in a sudden fit of frenzy and soiling his hands with the blood of one of his servants. He could, she insisted, find some other way of placating his anger, such as having them incarcerated, so that, as they languished in prison, they would have a chance of repenting in full for their sinful behaviour. The saintly woman pressed these views and many others upon him with so much urgency, that she dissuaded him from killing them. And he ordered each of them to be imprisoned in different places, where they were to be closely guarded, receive a minimum of food, and suffer the maximum of discomfort, until such time as he decided otherwise. These instructions were promptly carried out, and I leave you to imagine the sort of life they led in their captivity, weeping incessantly and almost starving to death.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In Bologna, then, that illustrious city in the Lombard plain, there once lived a gentleman called Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi,1 distinguished for his valour and noble blood, who whilst still in his youth became enamoured of a gentlewoman, Madonna Catalina by name, who was the wife of a certain Niccoluccio Caccianimico. But because his love for the lady was ill-requited he almost despaired of it and went away to Modena, where he had been appointed to the office of podestà. At the time of which we are speaking, Niccoluccio was absent from Bologna, and his wife, being pregnant, was staying at an estate of his, some three miles distant from the city, where she had the misfortune to contract a sudden and cruel malady, whose effects were so powerful and serious that all sign of life in her was extinguished, and consequently she was adjudged, even by her physicians, to be dead. Since her closest women relatives claimed to have heard from her own lips that she had not been pregnant sufficiently long for the unborn creature to be perfectly formed, they troubled themselves no further on that score, and after shedding many tears, they buried her, just as she was, in a tomb in the local church. The news of the lady’s demise was immediately reported to Messer Gentile by one of his friends, and despite the fact that she had never exactly smothered him with her favours, he was quite overcome with sorrow. But at length he said to himself: ‘So, Madonna Catalina, you are dead! You never accorded me so much as a single glance when you were alive; but now that you are dead, and cannot reject my love, I am determined to steal a kiss or two from you.’ Night had already fallen, and having made arrangements to depart in secret, he took horse with one of his servants, riding without pause2 till he came to the place where the lady was buried. Having opened up the tomb, he made his way cautiously inside, and lying down beside her, he drew his face to hers and kissed her again and again, shedding tears profusely as he did so. But as every woman knows, no sooner does a man obtain one thing, especially if he happens to be in love, than he wants something else; and just as Messer Gentile had made up his mind to tarry there no longer, he said to himself: ‘Ah! why should I not place my hand gently on her breast, now that I am here? I have never touched her before, and I shall never have another opportunity.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  For a long time now, the fair lady had been a plaything in the hands of Fortune, but the moment was approaching when her trials would be over. When she espied Antigono, she recalled having seen him in Alexandria, where he once occupied a position of some importance in her father’s service. Knowing that her merchant was away, and being suddenly filled with the hope that there might be some possibility of returning once more to her regal status with the help of this man’s advice, she sent for him at the earliest opportunity. When he called upon her, she shyly asked whether she was right in thinking him to be Antigono of Famagusta. Antigono said that he was, adding: ‘I have an idea, ma’am, that I have seen you before, but I cannot for the life of me remember where. Pray be good enough, therefore, if you have no objection, to remind me who you are.’ On hearing that this was indeed the man she had assumed him to be, the lady burst into tears and threw her arms round his neck, and presently she asked her highly astonished visitor whether he had ever seen her in Alexandria. No sooner had she put the question than Antigono recognized her as the Sultan’s daughter Alatiel, whom everybody believed to be drowned at sea, and he prepared to make her the ceremonial bow that was her due. But she would not allow this and asked him instead to come and sit down with her for a while. Complying, Antigono asked her in reverential tones how, when and whence she had come to Cyprus, and told her that the whole Egyptian nation had been convinced, for many years, that she had been drowned at sea. ‘I wish to goodness they were right,’ said the lady, ‘and I think my father would share my opinion if he were ever to discover the sort of life I have led.’ And so saying, she started crying prodigiously all over again, whereupon Antigono said to her: ‘My lady, it is too soon for you to go upsetting yourself like this. Tell me about your misfortunes, if you like, and about the life you have been living. Possibly we shall find that the point has been reached where we shall be able, with God’s help, to devise some happy outcome to your dilemma.’ ‘Antigono,’ the fair lady replied, ‘the other day, when I first saw you, it was as if I was seeing my own father. Prompted by the love and tenderness that I have an obligation to bear him, I revealed my presence to you, when I could have remained concealed. Yours is the first familiar face I have encountered for many years, and there are few people I could possibly be so contented to see. To you, therefore, as though you were my father, I shall reveal the story of my appalling misfortunes, which I have never related to anyone before.