Guilt

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 Giovanni's Room (1956)

  1 wish, anyway/ 1 said at last, 'that you'd be- lieve me when I say that, if I was lying, I wasn't lying to you* She turned toward me with a terrible face. 7 was the one you were talking to. I was the one you wanted to come with you to this terrible house in the middle of nowhere. I was the one you said you wanted to marry T 1 mean/ I said, 1 was lying to myself/ 'Oh/ said Hella, 1 see. That makes every- thing different, of course.' 1 only mean to say,' I shouted, 'that whatever I've done to hurt you, I didn't mean to doT T)on't shout/ said Hella. TU soon be gone. Then you can shout it to those hills out there, shout it to the peasants, how guilty you are, how you love to be guilty 1' She started moving back and forth again, GIOVANNI'S ROOM 217 more slowly, from the suitcase to the chest of drawers. Her hair was damp and fell over her forehead, and her face was damp. I longed to reach out and take her in my arms and comfort her. But that would not be comfort anymore, only torture, for both of us. She did not look at me as she moved, but kept looking at the clothes she was packing, as though she were not sure they were hers. 'But I knew' she said, 1 knew. This is what makes me so ashamed. I knew it every time you looked at me. I knew it every time we went to bed. If only you had told me the truth then. Don't you see how unjust it was to wait for me to find it out? To put all the burden on me? I had the right to expect to hear from you— women are always waiting for the man to speak. Or hadn't you heard?' I said nothing. 1 wouldn't have had to spend all this time in this house; I wouldn't be wondering how in the name of God I'm going to stand that long trip back. I'd be home by now, dancing with some man who wanted to make me. And I'd let him make me, too, why not?' And she smiled be- wilderedly at a crowd of nylon stockings in her hand and carefully crushed them in the suitcase. 'Perhaps I didn't know it then. I only knew I had to get out of Giovanni's room.' 'Well,' she said, *you're out. And now I'm getting out. It's only poor Giovanni who's—lost his head.' 21S James Baldwin It was an ugly joke and made with the inten- tion of wounding me; yet she couldn't quite manage the sardonic smile she tried to wear.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  •What are you doing all the time? And why do you say nothing? You are evil, you know, and sometimes when you smiled at me, I hated you. I wanted to strike you. I wanted to make you bleed. You smiled at me the way you smiled — — James Baldwin 182 at everyone, you told me what you told every- one— and you tell nothing but lies. What are you always hiding? And do you think I did not know when you made love to me, you were making love to no one? No one! Or everyone but not me, certainly. I am nothing to you, nothing, and you bring me fever but no delight.** I moved, looking for a cigarette. They were in my hand. I lit one. In a moment, I thought, I will say something. I will say something and then I will walk out of this room forever. Tou know I cannot be alone. I have told you. What is the matter? Can we never have a life together?' He began to cry again. I watched the hot tears roll from the comers of his eyes onto the dirty pillow. If you cannot love me, I will die. Before you came I wanted to die, I have told you many times. It is cruel to have made me want to live only to make my death more bloody.' I wanted to say so many things. Yet, when I opened my mouth, I made no sound. And yet I do not know what I felt for Giovanni. I felt nothing for Giovanni. I felt terror and pity and a rising lust. He took my cigarette from my lips and puffed on it, sitting up in bed, his hair in his eyes again. 1 have never known anyone like you before. I was never like this before you came. Listen. In Italy I had a woman and she was very good to me. She loved me, she loved me, and she

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  Repentance and supplication for forgiveness were thus an integral part of the existence of the faithful and of the life of the community before Hermas had the angel, to whom he had been entrusted, announce the establishment of another penance. It shouldn’t be forgotten that metanoia is not just a change of attitude necessary to baptism—it is not simply a conversion of the soul that the Holy Spirit produces at the moment it descends into it. Through baptism, one is called “to metanoia,”11 which is both a starting point and a general form of Christian life. The repentance to which the texts of the Didache, and those of Clement or Barnabas, call Christians is the same repentance that had accompanied baptism: its prolongation, its sustained movement. So the problem posed by The Shepherd is not that of a Church of perfect practitioners transitioning to a community recognizing the existence of sinners within it and adjusting to that. And it’s doubtless not even the transition from a rigorism accepting only baptismal penance to a more indulgent practice. What is involved, rather, is a mode of institutionalization of this repentance after baptism and the possibility of re-enacting—fully or partially—the procedure of purification (and even redemption) that baptism had occasioned a first time. In fact, it concerns nothing more or less than the problem of repetition, in an economy of salvation, of illumination, of access to the true life, which by definition only knows one axis of irreversible time informed by a decisive and singular event. I will leave aside the history of this institutionalization itself, and the theoretical and pastoral debates to which it gave rise. I will limit myself to considering the forms taken, starting in the third century, by “canonical” penance; that is, by the ritual measures arranged under the authority of the Churches for those who have committed serious sins and for which forgiveness cannot be obtained by their repentance and prayers alone. How can baptized persons obtain anew their forgiveness if they have violated the commitments they have made and turned away from the grace they received?

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  200 James Baldwin Isighed. Toor, poor,poorGiovanni/ 'Do youbelievehe did it?' 1 don't know. It certainlylooks as though he didit. Hewastherethat night. People saw him goupstairs before the bar closedand they don't remember seeinghim comedown.' *Was heworking there thatnight?' 'Apparently not. He wasjust drinking. He and Guillaume seemed tohave become friendly again.' Tou certainly madesome peculiar friends while Iwas away.' They wouldn't seem sodamn peculiar if one ofthem hadn't gotmurdered. Anyway, none of them weremy friends —except Giovanni.' Tou lived withhim. Can't you tell whether he'd commit murder or not?' 'How? Youlive with me. Can I commit a murder?' Tou? Of course not/ 'How do you know that? You don't know that. Howdo youknow I'mwhatyou see?' 'Because — ' she leanedoverandkissed me— 1 love you.' 'Ah I Iloved Giovanni — ' 'NotasIlove you/ said Hella. 1 might havecommitted murder already, for allyouknow. How do you know?' 'Why are yousoupset?' •Wouldn'tyou beupsetif a friend ofyours was accused of murderandwashiding some- where? What do youmean,why am I soupset? GlOVANNrS ROOM 201 What do you want me to do, sing Christmas carols?' TDon't shout. It's just that I never realized he meant so much to you/ 'He was a nice man/ I said finally. 1 just hate to see him in trouble.' She came to me and put her hand lightlyon my arm. 'We'll leave this city soon, David. You won't have to think about it anymore. People get into trouble, David. But don't actas though it were, somehow, your fault. It's not yourfault/ 7knowif8 not my fault 1' Butmy voice, and HeUa's eyes, astounded me into silence. I felt, with terror,thatI was about to cry. Giovanni stayed at large nearly a week. As I watched, fromHella's window, each night creep- ing over Paris,I thought of Giovanni some- where outside,perhaps under one of those bridges, frightenedand cold andnot knowing where to go.I wonderedif he had,perhaps, found friends to hide him — it was astonishing that inso smallandpoliced a cityheshould prove sohard to find. I feared,sometimes,that hemight come to findme —tobegme to help himortokillme.Then Ithought that he prob- ablyconsidered it beneath him toask me for help; henodoubt felt by now that I was not worth killing. Ilooked toHellafor help. I tried to buryeachnight, inher, allmy guilt and ter- ror.The need toact was hke a fever in me, the only actpossible was the actof love. He wasfinallycaught, very early one mom-

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  You must know that the Body of our Lord has a twofold effect: an effect of goodness on the good, and an effect of severity on the bad. That Body is indeed changeless, and always good in itself; but by the just judgment of God its effect is changed in those who make a bad use of it. St. Augustin says, ‘Holy things can injure the wicked, for he who eats the Body of the Lord unworthily eats judgment to himself, not that the thing itself is bad, but because he is bad who receives badly that which is good. You have an example of this in the sun and in wine. The same light of the sun, which gladdens and strengthens an eye that is whole, pains and injures an eye that is weak. So wine delights and strengthens a healthy man; but if it be taken by one in a fever it makes him worse, and perhaps kills him.’ Thus three evils follow presumptuous communicants: 1, great guilt; 2, the offence of God; 3, a manifold wound. 1. First, there is great guilt. St. Isidore says, ‘They who live wickedly in the Church of God, and keep on going to Communion, thinking that thus they may be cleansed, should know that this can give them no help toward newness of life. When the prophet speaks of those who sin in the house of God, and says that holy meats do not take away their sins, he means that all this increases their sin.’ There is a threefold reason for this: a. There is a triple root or principle of every voluntary action, that is to say, nature or virtue or lust. Every action of which the root is nature or virtue is good; but every action of which the root is lust is bad. But if any one, being knowingly in mortal sin, take the Body of Jesus, the principle of his action cannot be nature, nor could virtue by any means lead him to put in a filthy place or vessel anything so precious and adorable as the Lord’s Body. Hence the root of action in a sinner who receives Jesus with defiled lips and a defiled body is lust; that is, a darkened will in seeking for earthly gain, or vain-glory, or some other deception. b. The second reason for this guilt is the transgression of the commandment of God. For as God gave our first parents in the state of innocence the tree of life for food, but forbade them to touch it in the state of guilt and death, so our Lord’s Body is given to us for food when we are in a state of grace, but forbidden to us when we are in mortal sin.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  One ten-year-old in this group got up regularly with her insomniac mother at midnight to watch television and drink beer. She frequently stayed home from school to make sure that her mother would not become depressed and suicidal or take the car out when she was drinking. A father told me how his twelve-year-old daughter had packed his clothing, helped him to find an apartment, and arranged to do his shopping. She called him nightly to make sure that he had gotten home safely, and to beg him to stop smoking. Although most caregivers are girls, we’ve seen several dramatic instances of boys who undertook similar roles. One fourteen-year-old boy, whose mother abandoned the family, stopped going to school and undertook all of his mother’s responsibilities, including shopping, cooking, cleaning, and caring for his father who was in a state of collapse. Such children soon sacrifice their friends, school activities, and, most important, their sense of being children—childhood itself. In return, they gain a sense of pride and the feeling that they have saved a parent’s life. When there are siblings at home, the caretaker child moves forthrightly into the parental role and takes charge of running the house, making dinners, seeing that homework is done, putting little ones to bed, cleaning bathrooms late at night. Karen was well suited for this caretaking job and quickly learned to keep her own feelings under tight control. To her great credit, Karen had enormous compassion for both of her parents and was especially comforting to her mother, who in turn acknowledged how much she depended on her ten-year-old. With no hint of embarrassment, Mrs. James told me, “Karen takes care of me. She understands me without words.” Like most parents who come to rely heavily on their children, she had little or no awareness of the child’s heavy sacrifice of her own playtime and friendships. She wasn’t aware of the fact that Karen was missing school and not paying attention to classroom work. Instead, she spoke as if Karen were an adult or even a much older person. “When she sees me sitting alone in the evening, she knows that I feel sad and she puts her arms around me. She is also very wise. She told me to get rid of my boyfriend. ‘He will only hurt you,’ she said. I’ve learned to listen to her.” And who, I wondered, does Karen turn to for soothing words? Who does she have to comfort her in the years following divorce? Or does she gradually learn to block her own feelings and needs because they are too painful? Karen told me how she liked to sit alone in her grandmother’s garden where it was quiet and she felt safe.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  For various reasons I find it inordinately hard to speak about my other brother. That twisted quest for Sebastian Knight (1940), with its gloriettes and self-mate combinations, is really nothing in comparison to the task I balked in the first version of this memoir and am faced with now. Except for the two or three poor little adventures I have sketched in earlier chapters, his boyhood and mine seldom mingled. He is a mere shadow in the background of my richest and most detailed recollections. I was the coddled one; he, the witness of coddling. Born, caesareanally, ten and a half months after me, on March 12, 1900, he matured earlier than I and physically looked older. We seldom played together, he was indifferent to most of the things I was fond of—toy trains, toy pistols, Red Indians, Red Admirables. At six or seven he developed a passionate adulation, condoned by Mademoiselle, for Napoleon and took a little bronze bust of him to bed. As a child, I was rowdy, adventurous and something of a bully. He was quiet and listless, and spent much more time with our mentors than I. At ten, began his interest in music, and thenceforth he took innumerable lessons, went to concerts with our father, and spent hours on end playing snatches of operas, on an upstairs piano well within earshot. I would creep up behind and prod him in the ribs—a miserable memory. We attended different schools; he went to my father’s former gimnasiya and wore the regulation black uniform to which, at fifteen, he added an illegal touch: mouse-gray spats. About that time, a page from his diary that I found on his desk and read, and in stupid wonder showed to my tutor, who promptly showed it to my father, abruptly provided a retroactive clarification of certain oddities of behavior on his part. The only game we both liked was tennis. We played a lot of it together, especially in England, on an erratic grass court in Kensington, on a good clay court in Cambridge. He was left-handed. He had a bad stammer that hampered discussions of doubtful points. Despite a weak service and an absence of any real backhand, he was not easy to beat, being the kind of player who never double-faults, and returns everything with the consistency of a banging wall. In Cambridge, we saw more of each other than anywhere before and had, for once, a few friends in common. We both graduated in the same subjects, with the same honors, after which he moved to Paris where, during the following years, he gave lessons of English and Russian, just as I did in Berlin.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (de Con. Evan. 4. 6) Here truly it appears that they who do acts of devotedness in the name of Christ, even before they have joined themselves to the company of Christians, and have been washed in the Christian Sacraments, are more useful than those who though already bearing the name of Christians, by their doctrine drag their followers with themselves into everlasting punishment; whom also under the name of members of the body, He orders, as an offending eye or hand, to be torn from the body, that is, from the fellowship itself of unity, that we may rather come to everlasting life without them, than with them go into hell. But the separation of those who separate themselves from them consists in the very circumstance of their not yielding to them, when they would persuade them to evil, that is, offend them. If indeed their wickedness becomes known to all the good men, with whom they are connected, they are altogether cut off from all fellowship, and even from partaking in the heavenly Sacraments. If however they are thus known only to the smaller number, whilst their wickedness is unknown to the generality, they are to he tolerated in such a way that we should not consent to join in their iniquity, and that the communion of the good should not be deserted on their account. BEDE. (ubi sup.) But because the Lord had three times made mention of the worm and the fire, that we might be able to avoid this torment, He subjoins, For every one shall be salted with fire. For the stink of worms always arises from the corruption of flesh and blood, and therefore fresh meat is seasoned with salt, that the moisture of the blood may be dried off, and so it may not breed worms. And if, indeed, that which is salted with salt, keeps off the putrefying worm, that which is salted with fire, that is, seasoned again with flames, on which salt is sprinkled, not only casts off worms, but also consumes the flesh itself. Flesh and blood therefore breed worms, that is, carnal pleasure, if unopposed by the seasoning of continence, produces everlasting punishment for the luxurious; the stink of which if any man would avoid, let him take care to chasten his body with the salt of continence, and his mind with the seasoning of wisdom, from the stain of error and vice. For salt means the sweetness of wisdom, and fire, the grace of the Holy Spirit. He says therefore, Every one shall be salted with fire, because all the elect ought to be purged by spiritual wisdom, from the corruption of carnal concupiscence. Or else, the fire is the fire of tribulation, by which the patience of the faithful is proved, that it may have its perfect work.

• From Self (1996)

  -75- BEST COPY AVAILABLE am satisfied to be just what am...... am just as nice as Ishould be ......ccceees GOGDINO INVERT ccc ccc eet eeeneeas am satisfied with my family relationships .. . understand my family as well as I should | should trust my family more Lam as sociavle as | want to be I trv to please others, but I don’t overdo it | aim no vood at all from a social standpoint I do not ike evervone I know. . . Once in a while, lL laugh at a dirty joke... im neither too tall nor too s yort don't {. el as well as I should PRGUTE MEWS GROTO GOL GUO ccc cc ice eee eteceeeneeeeeeeee am as religious as I want to be wish | could be more trustworthy shouldn't tell so many lies am as sinart as | want to be = po | = 7 _ > Vv a 7 ~ ~ = — < <= A - — a -~ > = ~ — ® I am too sensitive to things my family say I should love my family more I am satisfied with the way I treat other people I should be more polite toothers ......... I ought to get along better with other people I gossip a little at times \t times | feel like swearing. ........ | take good care of myself physically | try to be careful about my appearance l often act like | am “all thumbs” lam true to mv religion in my ever day life i trv to change when | know I’m doing things that are wror Ll sometimes do verv bad things I can always take care of myself in any situation I take the blame for things without getting mad do things without thinking about them first try to play fair with my friends and family I take a real interest in my family I give in to my parents.( Use past tense if parents are not living) I try to understand the other fellow’s point of view I get along well with other people I do not forgive others easily I would rather win than lose in a game I feel good most of the time I do poorly in sports and games lam a poor sleeper I do what is right most of the time I sometimes use unfair means to yet ahead [ have trouble doing the things that are nght I solve my problems quite easily : I chanve mv mind alot I trv to run away from my problems {do mv share of work at home | rre| with my family ldo not act like my familv thinks I should ee good points in all the people | meet 1O Hot feel at ease with other people | find it iiard to talk with strangers _ Once ina while | put off until tomorrow what | ought to do today } ee STUDENT OPINION QUESTIONNAIRE

• From The Hours (1998)

  “Let’s see.” Clarissa goes to the cooler and chooses flowers, which Barbara pulls from their containers and holds, dripping, in her arms. In the nineteenth century she’d have been a country wife, gentle and unremarkable, dissatisfied, standing in a garden. Clarissa chooses peonies and stargazer lilies, cream-colored roses, does not want the hydrangeas (guilt, guilt, it looks like you never outgrow it), and is considering irises (are irises somehow a little . . . outdated?) when a huge shattering sound comes from the street outside. “What was that?” Barbara says. She and Clarissa go to the window. “I think it’s the movie people.” “Probably. They’ve been filming out there all morning.” “Do you know what it is?” “No,” she says, and she turns away from the window with a certain elderly rectitude, holding her armful of flowers just as the ghost of her earlier self, a hundred years ago, would have turned from the rattle and creak of a carriage passing by, full of perfectly dressed picnickers from a distant city. Clarissa remains, looking out at the welter of trucks and trailers. Suddenly the door to one of the trailers opens, and a famous head emerges. It is a woman’s head, quite a distance away, seen in profile, like the head on a coin, and while Clarissa cannot immediately identify her (Meryl Streep? Vanessa Redgrave?) she knows without question that the woman is a movie star. She knows by her aura of regal assurance, and by the eagerness with which one of the prop men speaks to her (inaudibly to Clarissa) about the source of the noise. The woman’s head quickly withdraws, the door to the trailer closes again, but she leaves behind her an unmistakable sense of watchful remonstrance, as if an angel had briefly touched the surface of the world with one sandaled foot, asked if there was any trouble and, being told all was well, had resumed her place in the ether with skeptical gravity, having reminded the children of earth that they are just barely trusted to manage their own business, and that further carelessness will not go unremarked. Mrs. Woolf Mrs. Dalloway said something (what?), and got the flowers herself. It is a suburb of London. It is 1923.

• From The Hours (1998)

  Her daughter must make jokes about it to her friends. But to have friends like Mary Krull! “I’m all right,” Julia says. “You look wonderful,” Clarissa says in cheerful desperation. At least she’s been generous. She’s been a mother who compliments her child, gives her confidence, doesn’t carp about her own worries. “Thank you,” Julia says. “Did I leave my backpack here yesterday?” “You did. It’s right there on the peg by the door.” “Good. Mary and I are going shopping.” “Where are you meeting her?” “Actually, she’s here. She’s outside.” “Oh.” “She’s smoking a cigarette.” “Well, maybe when she’s finished with her cigarette, she’d like to come in and say hello.” Julia’s face darkens with contrition and something else—is her old fury returning? Or is it just ordinary guilt? A silence passes. It seems that some force of conventionality exerts itself, potent as the gravitational pull. Even if you’ve been defiant all your life; if you’ve raised a daughter as honorably as you knew how, in a house of women (the father no more than a numbered vial, sorry, Julia, no way of finding him)—even with all that, it seems you find yourself standing one day on a Persian rug, full of motherly disapproval and sour, wounded feelings, facing a girl who despises you (she still must, mustn’t she?) for depriving her of a father. Maybe when she’s finished with her cigarette, she’d like to come in and say hello. But why shouldn’t Mary be held to a few of the fundamental human decencies? You don’t wait outside somebody’s apartment, no matter how brilliant and furious you are. You enter, and say hello. You get through it. “I’ll get her,” Julia says. “It’s all right.” “No, really. She’s just out there smoking. You know how she is. There’s cigarettes, and then there’s everything else.” “Don’t haul her in here. Honestly. Go, I set you free.” “No. I want you two to know each other better.” “We know each other perfectly well.” “Don’t be afraid, Mother. Mary is a sweetheart. Mary is utterly, utterly harmless.” “I’m not afraid of her. For god’s sake.” Julia produces an infuriatingly knowing smile, shakes her head, and leaves. Clarissa bends over the coffee table, moves the vase an inch to the left. She has an urge to hide the roses. If only it were someone other than Mary Krull. If it were anyone else. Julia returns, with Mary in her wake.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  He's obsessing over this share of the house compensation… No, no, Jean, not yet… Maybe tonight, before bed…” "To do what?" repeated the Consul, shaking his bowed head. "I've wanted to beg papa often enough myself to give in... I don't want it to appear as if I, the stepbrother, had lodged myself with my parents and plotted against Gotthold... I also have to avoid the appearance of this role to my father. But if I'm to be honest... I'm an Associé after all. And then Bethsy and I pay a regular rent for the second floor for the time being... As for my sister in Frankfurt, well, that's arranged. Your husband is already getting a compensation payment while Papa is still alive, just a quarter of the purchase price of the house... That's a advantageous business which papa has done very smoothly and well, and which is most gratifying for the company. And when papa is so dismissive of Gotthold, that’s…” 'No, nonsense, Jean, your relationship to the matter is clear. But Gotthold believes that I, his stepmother, care only for my own children and deliberately alienate his father from him. That's the sad thing..." "But it's his fault!" the Consul shouted almost loudly, and then softened his voice with a glance at the dining room. 'It's his fault, this sad relationship! Judge for yourself! Why couldn't he be reasonable! Why did he have to marry this demoiselle Stuwing and run the . . . shop . 'It's a weakness, father's dislike of the shop; but Gotthold should have respected this petty vanity..." "Oh, Jean, it would be best if papa gave in!" "But can I advise that?" the Consul whispered, waving his hand excitedly to his forehead. 'I'm personally interested, so I'd have to say: father, pay. But I'm also an associate, I have to represent the interests of the company, and if Papa doesn't think he has an obligation to a disobedient and rebellious son to withdraw the sum from the working capital ... It's more than eleven thousand Kuranttaler. That's good money... No, no, I can't advise...but I can't advise against either. I don't want to know anything about it. Only the scene with papa is désagréable to me ... " 'Late at night, Jean. Come on, we're waiting..." The Consul tucked the paper in his breast pocket, offered his mother his arm, and side by side they crossed the threshold into the brightly lit dining room, where the party had just finished being seated around the long table. Against the sky-blue background of the wallpaper, white images of gods emerged almost three-dimensionally between slender columns. The heavy red window curtains were drawn, and in every corner of the room eight candles were burning on a tall gilded candelabrum, apart from the silver ones candelabra stood on the table. Above the massive sideboard, opposite the landscape room, hung an extensive painting, an Italian Golf, whose hazy blue tone was extraordinarily effective in this light.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  have known that no one could keep my secret better than myself? The duke was more justifiable in telling his secret to his wife than I in telling mine to him. I am the only guilty one, the only one who deserves to be punished for the greatest crime ever committed between friends. I ought to have suffered him to throw me into the river as he threatened. You at least, dear one, would then be alive, and I should have closed my life with the glory of having observed the rule prescribed by true friendship; but having broken it, I live still, and you are dead for having perfectly loved. Your pure heart could not know the baseness of mine, and live. O my God, why didst thou create me with a love so friv- olous and a heart so ignorant } Why was I not the little dog that faithfully served its mistress "> Alas ! my little friend, I used to feel joy at the sound of your barking; but that joy is turned into sorrow, for having been the cause of another besides us two hearing your voice. Yet, sweetheart, neither love of the duchess nor of any other woman ever made me vary, though the wicked duchess has often solicited me to love her; but Ignorance has undone me, for I thought by what I did to insure our intimacy for ever. But that ignorance does not make me the less guilty. I have revealed my mis- tress's secret, I have broken my word, and therefore it is that she is dead before me. Alas, sweetheart, will death be less cruel to me than to you, who have died only for having loved 1 Methinks death would not deign to touch my faithless and miserable heart. The loss of honour, and the memory of her I have lost through my fault, are more insupportable to me than ten thousand deaths. If anyone had cut short your days through mischance or malice, I should use my sword to avenge you. It is not reasonable, then, that I 540 THE HEPTAMERON OF THE [Navel -jo,

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  I used to say that I believed it was important to tell people about Jesus, but I never did. Andrew very kindly explained that if I do not introduce people to Jesus, then I don’t believe Jesus is an important person. It doesn’t matter what I say. Andrew said I should not live like a politician, but like a Christian. Like I said, Andrew is a simple thinker. A friend of mine, a young pastor who recently started a church, talks to me from time to time about the new face of church in America—about the postmodern church. He says the new church will be different from the old one, that we will be relevant to culture and the human struggle. I don’t think any church has ever been relevant to culture, to the human struggle, unless it believed in Jesus and the power of His gospel. If the supposed new church believes in trendy music and cool Web pages, then it is not relevant to culture either. It is just another tool of Satan to get people to be passionate about nothing. Tony asked me one time if there was anything I would die for. I had to think about it for a long time, and even after thinking about it for a couple of days I had a short list. In the end there weren’t very many principles I would die for. I would die for the gospel because I think it is the only revolutionary idea known to man. I would die for Penny, for Laura and Tony. I would die for Rick. Andrew would say that dying for something is easy because it is associated with glory. Living for something, Andrew would say, is the hard thing. Living for something extends beyond fashion, glory, or recognition. We live for what we believe, Andrew would say. If Andrew the Protester is right, if I live what I believe, then I don’t believe very many noble things. My life testifies that the first thing I believe is that I am the most important person in the world. My life testifies to this because I care more about my food and shelter and happiness than about anybody else. I am learning to believe better things. I am learning to believe that other people exist, that fashion is not truth; rather, Jesus is the most important figure in history, and the gospel is the most powerful force in the universe. I am learning not to be passionate about empty things, but to cultivate passion for justice, grace, truth, and communicate the idea that Jesus likes people and even loves them. 11 Confession Coming Out of the Closet

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  Curt leaned over the big arm of his recliner and with a Jack Nicholson grin on his face said, “Oh, you don’t worry about that, big boy. That’s God’s money, and He’s gonna get it. I’ve never stolen a dime from God, and I’m never gonna start.” I honestly couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I go over to Curt’s house to watch South Park, and I get a guilt trip from a fundamentalist. Curt went down about two weeks later and turned all his money in to a church secretary. More than three thousand dollars. I started feeling so guilty I couldn’t sleep. I met with Rick after that and confessed I was not giving any money to Imago-Dei. Rick had come over to the house, and we were lying about how much we could bench-press, and then I just blurted it out, “I am not giving any money to the church, Rick. Not a dime.” “Okay,” he said. “Interesting way to change the conversation. Why?” he asked. “Why aren’t you giving any money to the church?” “Because I don’t have any money. Everything goes to rent and groceries.” “That sounds like a tough situation,” he said, very compassionately. “So am I exempt?” I asked. “Nope,” he said. “We want your cash.” “How much?” I asked. “How much do you make?” “I don’t know. About a thousand a month, maybe.” “Then we want a hundred. And you should also know how much you make. Part of the benefit of giving a portion of your money is it makes you think about where your money goes. God does not want us to be sloppy with our finances, Don.” “But I need money for rent.” “You also need to trust God.” “I know. I just think it would be easier to trust God if I had extra money to trust Him with.” “That would not be faith, then, would it?” “No.” “Well, bud, I just want you to know I hate this part of the job, ‘cause it sounds like I am asking for your money. I don’t care whether or not we have your money. Our needs are met. I want to tell you that you are missing out on so much, Don.” “So much what?”

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  “Who in the world is storing their savings on your dresser?” I pointed toward his bedroom. “Well” —he smiled, sort of embarrassed—“it’s God’s.” “God’s?” I shouted. “Yeah, that’s my tithe!” he shouted back. I was a little shocked, to be honest. Like I said before, he didn’t seem like the tithing type. I don’t think he even went to church nine out of ten Sundays, and when he did he just grumbled about it. “Well, why don’t you take it down to the church and give it to them?” I asked. “I haven’t been to church in a while, that’s why.” “Curt,” I told him, “you are the most interesting person I know.” “Thank you, Don. You want a beer?” “Yes.” Curt went over to the fridge and opened a couple of Henry’s. “You tithe, Don?” I just looked at him. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to get a lecture on tithing from a guy who probably subscribed to Bikes and Babes magazine. “Well, Curt, I guess I don’t.” After I said this, Curt shook his head in disappointment. I started feeling really guilty. “It’s a shame, Don.” Curt tilted back a bottle as he spoke, punctuating the sentence with a post-swig burp. “You are missing out. I’ve been tithing since I was a kid. Wouldn’t miss a payment to save my life.” “Am I dreaming this?” I asked him. “Dreaming what, Don?” “This conversation.” When I said this I was pointing back and forth between he and I. “Don, let me tell you. You should be tithing. That is not your money. That is God’s money. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Stealing from God and all. You write Christian books and everything, and you’re not even giving God’s money back to Him.” “Well, you don’t have to go making me feel all bad about it. You haven’t exactly given your money to God either. It’s right there on your dresser.” Curt leaned over the big arm of his recliner and with a Jack Nicholson grin on his face said, “Oh, you don’t worry about that, big boy. That’s God’s money, and He’s gonna get it. I’ve never stolen a dime from God, and I’m never gonna start.” I honestly couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I go over to Curt’s house to watch South Park, and I get a guilt trip from a fundamentalist. Curt went down about two weeks later and turned all his money in to a church secretary. More than three thousand dollars. I started feeling so guilty I couldn’t sleep. I met with Rick after that and confessed I was not giving any money to Imago-Dei. Rick had come over to the house, and we were lying about how much we could bench-press, and then I just blurted it out, “I am not giving any money to the church, Rick. Not a dime.” “Okay,” he said. “Interesting way to change the conversation. Why?” he asked.

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  Do I want social justice for the oppressed, or do I just want to be known as a socially active person? I spend 95 percent of my time thinking about myself anyway. I don’t have to watch the evening news to see that the world is bad, I only have to look at myself. I am not browbeating myself here; I am only saying that true change, true life-giving, God-honoring change would have to start with the individual. I was the very problem I had been protesting. I wanted to make a sign that read “I AM THE PROBLEM!” That night, after Tony and I talked, I rode my motorcycle up to Mount Tabor, this dormant volcano just east of the Hawthorne District. There is a place near the top where you can sit and look at the city at night, smoldering like coals and ashes beneath the evergreens, laid out like jewels under the moon. It is really something beautiful. I went there to try to get my head around this idea, this idea that the problem in the universe lives within me. I can’t think of anything more progressive than the embrace of this fundamental idea. [image "9780785263708_0034_002" file=Image00006.jpg] There is a poem by the literary critic C. S. Lewis that is more or less a confession. The first time I read it I identified so strongly with his sentiments, I felt as though somebody were calling my name. I always come back to this poem when I think soberly about my faith, about the general precepts of Christian spirituality, the beautiful precepts that indicate we are flawed, all of us are flawed, the corrupt politician and the pious Sunday school teacher. In the poem C. S. Lewis faces himself. He addresses his own depravity with a soulful sort of bravery: All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you. I never had a selfless thought since I was born. I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through; I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn. Peace, reassurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek, I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin; I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek— But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.I sat there above the city wondering if I was like the parrot in Lewis’s poem, swinging in my cage, reciting Homer, all the while having no idea what I was saying. I talk about love, forgiveness, social justice; I rage against American materialism in the name of altruism, but have I even controlled my own heart? The overwhelming majority of time I spend thinking about myself, pleasing myself, reassuring myself, and when I am done there is nothing to spare for the needy. Six billion people live in this world, and I can only muster thoughts for one. Me. I know someone who has twice cheated on his wife, whom I don’t know.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  “For Christians, they are twice as likely as all others to feel a sense of guilt when they use porn (34 percent vs. 15 percent) and say they are currently trying to stop using porn (19 percent vs. 7 percent). Married adults are three times more likely than single adults to say porn sometimes hurts their relationships (6 percent vs. 2 percent) and that they are currently trying to stop using porn (10 percent vs. 3 percent). Forty-two percent of single adults who use porn say none of the people in their lives know about their porn use (compared to 27 percent of married adults). “Porn addiction is ultimately an intimacy disorder. People who are more avoidant in their attachment style may find closeness with another person uncomfortable. It can be much easier to bond with a virtual sex partner because there is no need for intimacy. Many sex addicts end up depriving their spouses or partners of sexual intimacy for three reasons: 1) They have difficulty achieving an erection or otherwise having intercourse without the constant visual stimulation pornography provides. 2) They have already masturbated and taken care of themselves while using porn. 3) There is nothing left to give to their spouse, leaving the spouse feeling very alone.2 “These issues lead to low self-esteem, comparisons, and depression. Again, God created us for human connections and when a person is deprived of that relationship, especially in a marriage, it leads to an attachment protest—anger, clinging, depression, and eventually detachment—as it rightly should. I think, naively and foolishly, the Baby Boomers didn’t really think through their sexual choices or the impact those choices would have on the generations to follow. There was little understanding of neuroscience and the impact sexuality has on the brain. We certainly didn’t understand neurochemicals. Now we know pornography changes our brains, and frequent use of porn damages the relational, courting center of our brain. It’s no wonder fewer and fewer Americans are marrying, and, when they do, they are doing so at a much later age. “Sexual boredom is cited repeatedly as a reason for using porn. It’s true porn is highly arousing, but the question has to be asked, What is it arousing you to? The images on the screen are arousing you, not your spouse, or another human being. This is why the porn user eventually stops making love to their spouse; he or she doesn’t arouse them anymore. Their sexual appetites have been reshaped by porn. What once was arousing is no longer a turn-on. A man making love to his wife has now become boring and dull; it has for her as well. Sex for this couple has become mostly mechanical, if they have sex at all. There can be intercourse and orgasm, but with little emotional connection; so sex becomes uninteresting and passion dies.

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  He would knock on my door while I was reading, come in and sit down in a chair opposite me, and then he would want to talk, he would want to hear about my day. I couldn’t believe it. The audacity to come into my room, my soundstage, and interrupt the obvious flow of the story with questions about how I am. I would give Tuck little signals that I didn’t want to talk like eye rolls or short answers to his questions. I would stare into space so he thought I was crazy or snore so he would think I had fallen asleep. I think I hurt his feelings. He would get very frustrated with me, go upstairs, and wonder why I was acting that way. He only did this a few times before he dismissed me as a jerk. I almost lost the friendship, to be honest. I didn’t like the feeling of having to work with people. We would have a community meeting and talk about who wasn’t doing their chores or who was leaving dirty dishes in the sink, and if I felt accused I would lash back at whoever accused me. I was confident I was right and they were wrong. I could not see, at the time, that I was being rude. There were a few times when Trevor actually stood up and walked out of the room. It was always because of me. The other guys had lived with people before. They knew all about people. Living in community made me realize one of my faults: I was addicted to myself. All I thought about was myself. The only thing I really cared about was myself. I had very little concept of love, altruism, or sacrifice. I discovered that my mind is like a radio that picks up only one station, the one that plays me: K-DON, all Don, all the time. I did not understand the exchange that takes place in meaningful dialogue, when two people sit down and tune their radios, if only for a moment, to the other person’s station. It must have been painful for Tuck to try so desperately to catch my station, and for me to brush him off. Having had my way for so long, I became defensive about what I perceived as encroachments on my rights. My personal bubble was huge. I couldn’t have conversations that lasted more than ten minutes. I wanted efficiency in personal interaction, and while listening to one of my housemates talk, I wondered why they couldn’t get to the point. What are you trying to tell me? I would think. Do we really have to stand here and make small talk? Tuck told me later that in the first few months of living with me he felt judged, as though there was something wrong with him. He felt unvalued any time he was around me.

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  I would give Tuck little signals that I didn’t want to talk like eye rolls or short answers to his questions. I would stare into space so he thought I was crazy or snore so he would think I had fallen asleep. I think I hurt his feelings. He would get very frustrated with me, go upstairs, and wonder why I was acting that way. He only did this a few times before he dismissed me as a jerk. I almost lost the friendship, to be honest. I didn’t like the feeling of having to work with people. We would have a community meeting and talk about who wasn’t doing their chores or who was leaving dirty dishes in the sink, and if I felt accused I would lash back at whoever accused me. I was confident I was right and they were wrong. I could not see, at the time, that I was being rude. There were a few times when Trevor actually stood up and walked out of the room. It was always because of me. The other guys had lived with people before. They knew all about people. Living in community made me realize one of my faults: I was addicted to myself. All I thought about was myself. The only thing I really cared about was myself. I had very little concept of love, altruism, or sacrifice. I discovered that my mind is like a radio that picks up only one station, the one that plays me: K-DON, all Don, all the time. I did not understand the exchange that takes place in meaningful dialogue, when two people sit down and tune their radios, if only for a moment, to the other person’s station. It must have been painful for Tuck to try so desperately to catch my station, and for me to brush him off. Having had my way for so long, I became defensive about what I perceived as encroachments on my rights. My personal bubble was huge. I couldn’t have conversations that lasted more than ten minutes. I wanted efficiency in personal interaction, and while listening to one of my housemates talk, I wondered why they couldn’t get to the point. What are you trying to tell me? I would think. Do we really have to stand here and make small talk? Tuck told me later that in the first few months of living with me he felt judged, as though there was something wrong with him. He felt unvalued any time he was around me. The most difficult lie I have ever contended with is this: Life is a story about me. God brought me to Graceland to rid me of this deception, to scrub it out of the gray matter of my mind. It was a frustrating and painful experience.