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 How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  and then those guilty feelings motivate you to address that error. It helps motivate you to repair damage you may have caused in those cases when you actually have done something wrong. TIP Pay attention to the origin of that guilt you might be feeling. Is it rooted in real and reasonable expectations or are you expecting too much of yourself? But just like anger (another emotion that signals there’s a problem), it isn’t always rooted in the reality of a situation. Just as those unreasonable other- directed shoulds might lead to anger, unreasonable self-directed shoulds might lead to guilt (I should put their needs before my own). It’s quite possible this guilt is one of the things that’s been preventing you from leaving this relationship. Be aware of that and plan for it. If you find yourself feeling guilty, try to assess whether that guilt is rooted in real responsibilities you are neglecting or unreasonable expectations you are putting on yourself. It is also possible that the guilt isn’t coming from your expectations but from what the other person has put on you. They consistently send the message that you should be there for them and you’ve internalized those expectations. The guilt you feel is the result of the unreasonable expectations they have of you to help manage their emotions. TIP It is hard to tell when you’re being gaslit, as that’s the entire nature of gaslighting. It’s a complex manipulation tactic, but if you have concerns about it, you should seek help from a professional. A Skill that Requires Practice and Thoughtfulness The nine strategies, including the current one, that I’ve described for you so far don’t happen on their own. In most circumstances, you can’t expect to do just one thing and hope it resolves the situation. The experiences and interactions we have with angry people are emotionally and socially complicated. Navigating them means putting a variety of strategies together in nuanced ways. It means staying calm while you think about your goals, reflecting on the other person’s anger and your response to it, dealing with people who don’t necessarily want to deal with you, and more. Being successful at dealing with angry people is a skill that requires practice and thoughtfulness. Most importantly, it requires a desire to work through these situations in a healthy and positive way. In the next chapter, we’ll discuss how to do build that desire and implement strategies together.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I never told this to anybody before,” he said, “and I really don’t know why I’m telling you. It’s just that the last time I saw Rufus, before he disappeared, when he was still with Leona”—he caught his breath, he dragged on his cigarette and the glow brought the room back into the world, then dropped it again into chaos—“we had a fight, he said he was going to kill me. And, at the very end, when he was finally in bed, after he’d cried, and after he’d told me—so many terrible things—I looked at him, he was lying on his side, his eyes were half open, he was looking at me. I was taking off my pants, Leona was staying at my place and I was going to stay there, I was afraid to leave him alone. Well, when he looked at me, just before he closed his eyes and turned on his side away from me, all curled up, I had the weirdest feeling that he wanted me to take him in my arms. And not for sex, though maybe sex would have happened. I had the feeling that he wanted someone to hold him, to hold him, and that, that night, it had to be a man. I got in the bed and I thought about it and I watched his back, it was as dark in that room, then, as it is in this room, now, and I lay on my back and I didn’t touch him and I didn’t sleep. I remember that night as a kind of vigil. I don’t know whether he slept or not, I kept trying to tell from his breathing—but I couldn’t tell, it was too choppy, maybe he was having nightmares. I loved Rufus, I loved him, I didn’t want him to die. But when he was dead, I thought about it, thought about it—isn’t it funny? I didn’t know I’d thought about it as much as I have—and I wondered, I guess I still wonder, what would have happened if I’d taken him in my arms, if I’d held him, if I hadn’t been—afraid. I was afraid that he wouldn’t understand that it was—only love. Only love. But, oh, Lord, when he died, I thought that maybe I could have saved him if I’d just reached out that quarter of an inch between us on that bed, and held him.” He felt the cold tears on his face, and he tried to wipe them away. “Do you know what I mean? I haven’t told Ida this, I haven’t told anyone, I haven’t thought about it, since he died. But I guess I’ve been living with it. And I’ll never know. I’ll never know.” “No,” said Eric, “you’ll never know. If I had been there, I’d have held him—but it wouldn’t have helped. His little girl tried to hold him, and that didn’t help.” He sat down on the bed beside Vivaldo. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Richard, we talked about the book and I told you what I thought, I told you that it was a brilliant idea and wonderfully organized and beautifully written and—” He stopped. He had not liked the book. He could not take it seriously. It was an able, intelligent, mildly perceptive tour de force and it would never mean anything to anyone. In the place in Vivaldo’s mind in which books lived, whether they were great, mangled, mutilated, or mad, Richard’s book did not exist. There was nothing he could do about it. “And you yourself said that the next book would be better.” “What are you crying about?” “What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.” “Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course we’re friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?” They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.” Richard laughed. “I won’t bug you any more, you stupid bastard.” Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.” They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair. Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced. There was a hammer knocking in his throat as she stepped into his arms with a friendly smile, one hand in his hand, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He held her lightly at the waist. His fingers, at her waist, seemed to have become abnormally and dangerously sensitive, and he prayed that his face did not show the enormous, illicit pleasure which entered him through his fingertips.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Et Yngve. — Mais tu n’es pas en colère ? C’est mieux, non ? — Je ne sais pas si c’est mieux. Je ne sais pas du tout si c’est mieux. — Pourquoi pas ? — Parce que je crois que si je ne suis pas en colère, ça pourrait vouloir dire que j’ai l’impression d’avoir gagné quelque chose. Genre obtenu un truc que je voulais. Mais je ne devrais pas le vouloir du tout. Tu vois ? — Non. » Miller pose la bière dans l’herbe à côté de lui et prend les jambes de Wallace dans ses deux mains. « Dis-moi. » Wallace descend ses mains des cheveux de Miller à son front, qu’il presse fort de son pouce si bien que ses rides de concentrations s’aplatissent et se lissent. « Je me sens soulagé parce que je ne voulais pas penser à toi en train de désirer quelqu’un d’autre. Mais je ne veux pas non plus me sentir soulagé. Je ne veux pas en avoir quelque chose à faire. — Mais et si moi, je veux que tu en aies quelque chose à faire ? — Les mecs hétéros, fait Wallace avec un petit rire, ils veulent toujours ce qu’ils veulent jusqu’au moment où ils n’en veulent plus. — Ce n’est pas juste. On est amis. — C’est précisément pour ça que c’est une idée catastrophique. — Je ne trouve pas. » Une voix les appelle dans l’obscurité grandissante. Les doigts de Miller le pressent puis le relâchent. « Cette conversation n’est pas terminée, prévient Miller. — Qu’est-ce qu’il y a à ajouter ? » Ils se tournent vers la voix qui les appelle. C’est Yngve, la main au-dessus des yeux. « On va manger sans vous, fait-il. Dépêchez-vous. Et où est notre musique, Miller ? » Miller s’extrait de la chaise pliante et les deux garçons retraversent la pelouse côte à côte, sans se regarder. Wallace sent les doigts de Miller effleurer l’extérieur des siens, et pendant un instant, ils sont reliés. Le contact se dissout presque aussi vite qu’il s’est noué, et la soudaineté de sa dissolution aiguise l’impression qu’il a donnée à Wallace : l’espace de ces quelques secondes, il a eu la sensation que du verre en fusion passait en lui comme du liquide dans un petit vaisseau. Ils montent les quelques marches pour entrer dans la maison, et se retrouvent parmi leurs amis une fois de plus. La table est peut-être le seul vrai meuble pour adultes de toute la maison. Lukas l’a rapportée de chez ses grands-parents dans le nord du Wisconsin. En général, elle est appuyée contre le mur du fond, où elle supporte leurs objets usuels : vaisselle, linge, journaux, livres, articles, carnets, outils, câbles et tout ce qui peut être mis de côté et oublié. Mais aujourd’hui, ils l’ont écartée du mur pour la mettre au centre de la grande pièce ouverte qui donne sur la cuisine.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus sat on the edge of the sprung easy chair, watching Vivaldo gravely. “Do you blame me for what happened to Leona?” “Rufus, what good would it do if I did blame you? You blame yourself enough already, that’s what’s wrong with you, what’s the good of my blaming you?” He could see, though, that Vivaldo had also hoped to be able to avoid this question. “Do you blame me or don’t you? Tell the truth.” “Rufus, if I wasn’t your friend, I think I’d blame you, sure. You acted like a bastard. But I understand that, I think I do, I’m trying to. But, anyway, since you are my friend, and, after all, let’s face it, you mean much more to me than Leona ever did, well, I don’t think I should put you down just because you acted like a bastard. We’re all bastards. That’s why we need our friends.” “I wish I could tell you what it was like,” Rufus said, after a long silence. “I wish I could undo it.” “Well, you can’t. So please start trying to forget it.” Rufus thought, But it’s not possible to forget anybody you were that hung up on, who was that hung up on you. You can’t forget anything that hurt so badly, went so deep, and changed the world forever. It’s not possible to forget anybody you’ve destroyed. He took a great swallow of his bourbon, holding it in his mouth, then allowing it to trickle down his throat. He would never be able to forget Leona’s pale, startled eyes, her sweet smile, her plaintive drawl, her thin, insatiable body. He choked slightly, put down his drink, and ground out his cigarette in the spilling ashtray. “I bet you won’t believe this,” he said, “but I loved Leona. I did.” “Oh,” said Vivaldo, “believe you! Of course I believe you. That’s what all the bleeding was about.” He got up and turned the record over. Then there was silence, except for the voice of Bessie Smith. When my bed get empty, make me feel awful mean and blue, “Oh, sing it, Bessie,” Vivaldo muttered. My springs is getting rusty, sleeping single like I do. Rufus picked up his drink and finished it. “Did you ever have the feeling,” he asked, “that a woman was eating you up? I mean—no matter what she was like or what else she was doing—that that’s what she was really doing?” “Yes,” said Vivaldo. Rufus stood. He walked up and down. “She can’t help it. And you can’t help it. And there you are.” He paused. “Of course, with Leona and me—there was lots of other things, too——” Then there was a long silence. They listened to Bessie. “Have you ever wished you were queer?” Rufus asked, suddenly. Vivaldo smiled, looking into his glass. “I used to think maybe I was. Hell, I think I even wished I was.” He laughed. “But I’m not. So I’m stuck.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  “It’s easier to hustle men,” I defended myself quickly, at the same time trying to put him down—but, although that is true on the streets, it had sounded weak and I knew it. I had merely mouthed one of the many rationalized legends of that world. “I think it’s something else,” he went on relentlessly. “Even a wayward revenge on your own sex—your father’s sex....” I winced. He had aimed too cruelly. “You sound like a damn headshrinker,” I hit at him. But, automatically, I had begun to twist the ring my father had given me that lost morning; and Im remembering, out of that gray-shaded world of childhood—out of those moments of tattered happiness—the times when he would ask me for “a thousand”—when I would jump on his lap, when he would fondle me intimately—and then give me a penny, a nickel... reassuring me, in that strange way—so briefly!—that he did... want me. But... somehow... that was much too easy. “I cant blame my father—for anything,” I said sharply, sitting up. And having said that, I was amazed by the certainty, the ease, with which I had been able to vindicate my Father. “Im sorry,” Jeremy retreated. And he went on cautiously but again unexpectedly: “Some people tell themselves they want to be... wanted... when, actually, they wish, very much, they could want someone back. And notice I said ‘could.’” Suddenly I heard myself saying: “If I ever felt that I had begun to need anyone, I would—...” I stopped. “Run away,” he finished. I stood up, walked to the window. Against the shutters, restlessly moving shadows of people along the balcony seem to grapple, struggle, creating swallowing shapes in outline, as if to invade this room. I returned to the bed. Not only the fear of facing the streets—or the prolonging of the recurring anticipation—keeps me here, I admit now. It has something to do with Jeremy’s words. “I saw a dragshow in a bar once,” he was saying. “A beautiful queen was singing. She didnt do the actual singing, though. She merely mimed the words from a woman’s record. The queen looked very much like a sure woman. But when the record ended, and she was deprived of the female voice that had completed her for those moments, she broke down crying—and the sound of her crying was distinctly that of a man.” Wanting to ward off the mysterious implications of the story he had told me (is he referring to the forced stripping of any sustaining pose?), I said defiantly: “Hell, I knew a queen who was so sure she was a woman that she came to the door once, from taking a bath, covering her ‘breasts’ with a towel; she even pissed sitting down.” I had expected him to be annoyed at this attempt to explode his seriousness. But he laughed. “Is that a joke, or true?” “True,” I said.

• From City of Night (1963)

  If I was to resist these lulling echoes, within this very city I had to usurp those memories.... Once, years ago, El Paso had been a crossroads, between the Eastcoast and the Westcoast, for the stray fairies leaving other cities for whatever restless reason. As a young boy, crossing San Jacinto Plaza (sleepy crocodiles in a round pond, then, so tired and sleepy they wouldnt even wake up when little kids grabbed them by their tails and flipped them into the water), I had seen the giggling groups of birls camping with the soldiers. I had walked quickly past that park.... Now the inevitable smalltimecity roundup had come. The cops had swooped jealously on the fairies and to jail they went—and from jail: Away Again. Still, in this plaza, stray hunters turn up. But I couldnt remain there long. I went to a movie theater in South El Paso—resolved, that night, to slaughter those seducing memories in this way: The man followed, me to the head, propositioned me there. I pretended I was a transient, reverting to the poses learned in New York. I told him I needed money. He agreed. In a parked car, in a dark section of this childhood city, I made it. Crushing into my pocket the ten-dollar bill he had given me: rather than feeling liberated as I had expected, I felt a scorching horrendous guilt. And I knew that no matter how long I would be in El Paso, I would never again allow that other life of New York to touch me here. The next day, with my mother, I went to the cemetery where my father was buried. There was only a tiny weather-faded marker over his grave. Memories of his pride at having once been so widely recognized swarmed over me. (And when he had died, as if the world had chosen belatedly to nod once more to him, his picture had appeared with the notice of his death on the front page of the newspaper, and my mother had received telegrams from as far as Mexico City.)... But that tiny marker over his grave seemed to acknowledge what life had done to him. When we left the cemetery, we went across the street, and we chose a marble stone for his grave. A few days later, I returned to the cemetery, alone. The tiny marker had been replaced by the marble stone. Within that ground, his body had decayed. He lived only in my thoughts of him. I looked at the childhood-coveted ring which he had given me the last time I had seen him alive. To a great extent, for me, it was all that was left of him. Now I drove around the city in my brother’s car, still retracing those early years. I stopped before the house where Winnie had died, where I had grown up. The porch no longer slanted. The skeleton vine was gone. The walls had been painted white.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He felt immediate contrition, seeing, in his mind’s eye, her bewildered face, knowing how she wondered why her eldest son should cause, and appear to wish to cause her, so much pain. At the same time he was aware of Ida’s ominous humming in the kitchen. “She’s a very nice girl,” he said, promptly, sincerely. Then he faltered, involuntarily stealing a glance at Ida. He did not know how to say, Mama, she’s a colored girl, knowing that his mother, and who on earth could blame her? would immediately decide that this was but one more attempt on his part to shock and humiliate his family. “I want you two to meet one day, I really do.” And this sounded totally insincere. He was thinking, I guess I really am going to have to tell them, I’m going to have to make them accept it. And then, at once, Oh, fuck it, why? He glanced again at Ida. She was smoking a cigarette and leafing through a magazine. “Well,” said his mother, doubtfully, more than willing, albeit in her fashion, to come flying down the road to meet him, “try to bring her to the party. Everybody will be here and they all ask about you, we haven’t seen you in so long. I know your father misses you though he’ll never say a thing and Stevie misses you, too, and we all do, Danny.” They called him Danny at home. Everybody: his sister and his brother-in-law, his brother and father and mother, the uncles and aunts and cousins, and the resulting miasma of piety and malice and suspicion and fear. The invincible chatter of people, concerning people, who had no reality for him, the talk about money, of children’s illnesses, of doctor’s bills, of pregnancies, of unlikely and unlovely infidelities occurring between ciphers and neuters in a vacuum, the ditchwater-dull, infantile dirty stories, and the insane talk about politics. They should, really, all of them, still be living in stables, with horses and cows, and should not be expected to tax themselves with matters beyond their comprehension. He hated himself for the sincerity of this reflection and was baffled, as always, by the particular and dangerous nature of its injustice. “Okay,” he said, trying to stop his mother’s flow. She was telling him that his father’s stomach trouble had returned. Stomach trouble, my ass. He just hasn’t got any liver left any more, that’s all. One of these days he’s just going to spatter all over those walls, and what a stench. “Are you going to bring your girl friend?” “I don’t know. I’ll see.” He could just see Ida with all of them. He, alone, was bad enough; he, alone, distressed and frightened them enough. Ida would reduce them to a kind of speechless hysteria and God knew what his father would say under the impression that he was putting the dark girl at her ease.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Sometimes I saw Vivaldo, sometimes I saw Vivaldo with Ida, sometimes I just walked around, sometimes I went to the movies.” “Till two o’clock in the morning?” “Sometimes I’ve come in at midnight, sometimes I’ve come in at four! Leave me alone! Why is it so important to you now? I’ve lived in this house like a ghost for months, half the time you haven’t known I was here—what does it matter now?” His face was wet and white and ugly. “I have lived here like a ghost, not you. I’ve known you were here, how could I not know it?” He took one step toward her. He dropped his voice. “Do you know how you made your presence known? By the way you look at me, by the contempt in your eyes when you look at me. What have I done to deserve your contempt? What have I done, Cass? You loved me once, you loved me, and everything I’ve done I’ve done for you.” She heard her voice saying coldly, “Are you sure? For me?” “Who else? who else? You are my life. Why have you gone away from me?” She sat down. “Let’s talk about this in the morning.” “No. We’ll talk about it now.” He walked about the room—in order, she sensed, not to come too close to her, not to touch her; he did not know what would happen if he did. She covered her face with one hand. She thought of the ginger-colored boy and the Puerto Rican, Eric blazed up in her mind for a moment, like salvation. She thought of the field of flowers. Then she thought of the children, and her stomach contracted again. And the pain in her stomach somehow defeated lucidity. She said, and knew, obscurely, as she said it, that she was making a mistake, was delivering herself up, “Stop torturing yourself about Vivaldo—we have not been sleeping together.” He came close to the chair she sat in. She did not look up. “I know that you’ve always admired Vivaldo. More than you admire me.” There was a terrible mixture of humility and anger in his tone, and her heart shook; she saw what he was trying to accept. She almost looked up to reach out to him, to help him and comfort him, but something made her keep still. She said, “Admiration and love are very different.” “Are they? I’m not so sure. How can you touch a woman if you know she despises you? And if a woman admires a man, what is it, really, that she admires? A woman who admires you will open her legs for you at once, shell give you anything she’s got.” She felt his heat and his presence above her like a cloud; she bit one knuckle. “You did—you did, for me, don’t you remember?

• From Another Country (1962)

  Cass began to be angry; and she asked herself, Why? She said, “No. Long before I met Richard, I knew that that wasn’t the life for me.” And this was true, and yet her voice lacked conviction. And Ida, relentlessly, put Cass’ unspoken question into words. “And what would have happened if Richard hadn’t come?” “I don’t know. But this is silly. He did come. I did leave.” Now the air thickened between them, as though they were on opposite sides of a chasm in the mountains, trying to discern each other through the cloud and the fog, but terribly frightened of the precipice at their feet. For she had left Richard, or had, anyway, betrayed him—and what did that failure mean? And what was she doing, now, with Eric, and where was the meaning there? She began, dimly and unwillingly, to sense the vast dimensions of Ida’s accusation at the same time that her ancient, incipient guilt concerning her life with Richard nosed its way, once more, into the front hall of her mind. She had always seen much farther than Richard, and known much more; she was more skillful, more patient, more cunning, and more single-minded; and he would have had to be a very different, stronger, and more ruthless man, not to have married her. But this was the way it always had been, always would be, between men and women, everywhere. Was it? She threw her cigarette out of the window. He did come. I did walk out. Had she, indeed? The cab was approaching Harlem. She realized, with a small shock, that she had not been here since the morning of Rufus’ funeral. “But, imagine,” Ida was saying, “that he came, that man who’s your man—because you always know, and he damn sure don’t come every day—and there wasn’t any place for you to walk out of or into, because he came too late. And no matter when he arrived would have been too late—because too much had happened by the time you were born, let alone by the time you met each other.” I don’t believe that, Cass thought. That’s too easy. I don’t believe it. She said, “If you’re talking of yourself and Vivaldo—there are other countries—have you ever thought of that?” Ida threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, yes! And in another five or ten years, when we get the loot together, we can pack up and go to one of those countries.” Then, savagely, “And what do you think will have happened to us in those five years? How much will be left?” She leaned toward Cass. “How much do you think will be left between you and Eric in five years—because I know you know you’re not going to marry him, you’re not that crazy.” “We’ll be friends, we’ll be friends,” said Cass. “I hope we’ll be friends forever.” She felt cold; she thought of Eric’s hands and lips; and she looked at Ida again.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Hirsch: To answer your letter of January 19th requesting a statement of me which might be used in the Supreme Court trial to be conducted in March or April of this year…. It is difficult to be more explicit than I was in my letter of September 19th, 1957, when the case against my book Sexus was being tried in the lower courts of Oslo. However, here are some further reflections which I trust will be found à propos. When I read the decision of the Oslo Town Court, which you sent me some months ago, I did so with mingled feelings. If occasionally I was obliged to roll with laughter—partly because of the inept translation, partly because of the nature and the number of infractions listed—I trust no one will take offense. Taking the world for what it is, and the men who make and execute the laws for what they are, I thought the decision as fair and honest as any theorem of Euclid’s. Nor was I unaware of, or indifferent to, the efforts made by the Court to render an interpretation beyond the strict letter of the law. (An impossible task, I would say, for if laws are made for men and not men for laws, it is also true that certain individuals are made for the law and can only see things through the eyes of the law.) I failed to be impressed, I must confess, by the weighty, often pompous or hypocritical, opinions adduced by scholars, literary pundits, psychologists, medicos and such-like. How could I be when it is precisely such single-minded individuals, so often wholly devoid of humor, at whom I so frequently aim my shafts? Rereading this lengthy document today, I am more than ever aware of the absurdity of the whole procedure. (How lucky I am not to be indicted as a “pervert” or “degenerate,” but simply as one who makes sex pleasurable and innocent!) Why, it is often asked, when he has so much else to give, did he have to introduce these disturbing, controversial scenes dealing with sex? To answer that properly, one would have to go back to the womb—with or without the analyst’s guiding hand. Each one—priest, analyst, barrister, judge—has his own answer, usually a ready-made one. But none go far enough, none are deep enough, inclusive enough. The divine answer, of course, is: first remove the mote from your own eye! If I were there, in the dock, my answer would probably be—“Guilty! Guilty on all ninety-seven counts! To the gallows!” For when I take the short, myopic view, I realize that I was guilty even before I wrote the book. Guilty, in other words, because I am the way I am.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  It seemed that all the young men I knew, all the sons of Jewish immigrants from Europe arriving after World War I, deemed medicine to be the ideal profession. If one could not get into medical school, then there was dental school, law school, veterinary school, or, lastly and least desirable for the idealists among us, going into business with one’s father. A popular joke of those days: a Jewish male had two options—either become a doctor or a failure. My parents were not involved in my decision to attend GW. We were not in close communication in those days: the store was about a thirty-minute drive from the house and I saw little of my parents except on Sundays. Even then we rarely spoke about anything consequential. I had hardly spoken to my mother for years, ever since she had accused me of causing my father’s heart attack. I made a decision to protect myself by keeping my distance. I would have liked more closeness with my father, but he and my mother were too tightly attached. I remember driving my mother to the store as a senior in high school. Just as we reached the area of the Soldiers Home Park only five minutes from the store, she asked about my future plans. I told her I was going to start college next year and that I had decided to try to get into medical school. She nodded her head and seemed extremely pleased, but that was the end of it. We didn’t speak of my future plans again. When I think about it now, I wonder whether she and my father might have somehow been intimidated by me, whether they felt they could no longer relate to me, and had already lost me to a culture they didn’t understand. Nonetheless, I took it for granted they would pay my tuition and all other expenses throughout college and medical school. Regardless of the state of our relationships, it would have been unthinkable in my parents’ culture for them to act otherwise, and I have followed their example with my own children. Thus, for me and for my closest friends, undergraduate school was no dreamed-of destination: it was an obstacle to be overcome as quickly as possible. Ordinarily, students entered medical school after four undergraduate years and a bachelor’s degree, but, on occasion, medical schools accepted outstanding applicants after only three years of undergraduate work, provided they had taken all the required classes. I, along with my peers, opted for that plan and consequently took almost nothing but required pre-med courses (chemistry, physiology, biology, physics, vertebrate anatomy, and German). What do I remember of my college days? During my three years of college I took only three electives, all of them literature courses. I lived at home and followed a brutal routine: hard work, memorization, laboratory experiments, staying up all night to prepare for exams, studying seven days a week. Why such a frenzy? Why such a rush?

• From Another Country (1962)

  This sentiment had sometimes seemed to stare out at him from the eyes of Rufus. He had refused to see it, for he had insisted that he and Rufus were equals. They were friends, far beyond the reach of anything so banal and corny as color. They had slept together, got drunk together, balled chicks together, cursed each other out, and loaned each other money. And yet how much, as it turned out, had each kept hidden in his heart from the other! It had all been a game, a game in which Rufus had lost his life. All of the pressures that each had denied had gathered together and killed him. Why had it been necessary to deny anything? What had been the point of the game? He turned into the room again and lit a cigarette and walked up and down. Well, perhaps they had been afraid that if they looked too closely into one another each would have found—–he looked out of the window, feeling damp and frightened. Each would have found the abyss. Somewhere in his heart the black boy hated the white boy because he was white. Somewhere in his heart Vivaldo had feared and hated Rufus because he was black. They had balled chicks together, once or twice the same chick—why? And what had it done to them? And then they never saw the girl again. And they never really talked about it. Once, while he was in the service, he and a colored buddy had been drunk, and on leave, in Munich. They were in a cellar someplace, it was very late at night, there were candles on the tables. There was one girl sitting near them. Who had dared whom? Laughing, they had opened their trousers and shown themselves to the girl. To the girl, but also to each other. The girl had calmly moved away, saying that she did not understand Americans. But perhaps she had understood them well enough. She had understood that their by-play had had very little to do with her. But neither could it be said that they had been trying to attract each other—they would never, certainly, have dreamed of doing it that way. Perhaps they had merely been trying to set their minds at ease; at ease as to which of them was the better man. And what had the black boy thought then? But the question was, What had he thought? He had thought, Hell, I’m doing all right. There might have been the faintest pang caused by the awareness that his colored buddy was doing possibly a little better than that, but, indeed, in the main, he had been relieved. It was out in the open, practically on the goddamn table, and it was just like his, there was nothing frightening about it.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Et Enid, au fait, qu’est-ce qu’elle est devenue ? Elle n’était pas censée rester dormir ? — Elle a dû raccompagner Zoe. — Très sympa de sa part. — T’as pas répondu à mes textos. — Je dormais. — Bon, bon. — Très bien. — Je savais pas que tu rentrais pas, c’est tout. J’ai attendu. On s’est servi de ta vapoteuse, avec Miller. » Lukas hausse les épaules, et Miller pousse un petit rire pour dissiper la tension. Yngve et Lukas ne se disputent jamais vraiment. Ce ne sont que des égratignures superficielles. Les cheveux de Lukas brillent au soleil d’été, et il a tellement de taches de rousseur qu’on le dirait bronzé. Entièrement cuivré. Miller donne un petit coup de coude à Lukas. « T’es bien silencieux, dit Emma à Wallace, ce qui le fait sursauter. — Bah, je mange, c’est tout. — Tout va bien ? — Hmm, hmm. » Il lui sourit, mais elle ne se laisse pas duper. Elle pose la main sur sa jambe. « T’es sûr ? », insiste-t-elle, plus bas, de sorte que lui seul puisse l’entendre. Qu’est-il censé répondre à ça ? Qu’il va bien, mais pas bien, qu’il est ici, mais absent, qu’il préférerait être chez lui ? « Je suis juste crevé. — T’es rentré à quelle heure ? » lui demande Vincent et, à son regard direct, même à travers les lunettes de soleil, Wallace comprend qu’il s’est fait griller. « Ce matin, dit-il faute de mieux. Je suis rentré à pied. — Ouais, parce qu’on était tous dehors, et tu as disparu. Ce qui est un peu bizarre vu que tout… ce qui s’est passé hier soir a commencé à cause de toi. » Wallace lèche le sucre au coin de ses lèvres et prend une inspiration pour se rééquilibrer. « Ah bon, c’était à cause de moi ? Je croyais que ça avait un rapport avec toi et Cole. — Non, non, c’était toi, Wallace. — Vincent, fait Cole. — T’as ouvert ta grande gueule et t’as décidé – zut, je ne sais pas ce que tu as décidé, mais tout d’un coup, paf, tu disparais. Pourquoi ça, Wallace ? — Je ne cherchais pas à déclencher quoi que ce soit. Je suis désolé que ça se soit passé comme ça, mais je n’avais pas l’intention de déclencher une crise. — Ah non ? » La voix de Vincent le transperce. « Tu n’essayais pas de déclencher une crise parce que tu es malheureux ? Parce que tu es en colère ? Parce que tu ne sais pas ce que tu veux ? C’est pas ça ? — Non », répond Wallace, mais d’une toute petite voix. « Je pense que tu ferais mieux de t’occuper de tes affaires, Wallace.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Une fille avec une carapace. Elle pourrait bien disparaître dedans et les abandonner tous. Son insulte ne touche pas Wallace car son filet de voix grêle sous son ton faussement désinvolte cache mal sa feinte grossière. « Je peux faire quelque chose pour toi, Dana ? Je suis occupé », réplique-t-il en se retournant vers sa paillasse. Il dispose les lames à côté de son microscope. Il a perdu sa motivation. Ses mains ont perdu leur régularité. Un léger tremblement parcourt ses doigts. Il a mal aux articulations. « Allez, sois pas vache. » Un rire froid. Wallace s’étire les doigts. L’odeur de gaz, la faible flamme bleue qui continue de brûler. « Je suis pas spécialement vache, Dana. Je suis juste occupé. La recherche, t’en as peut-être entendu parler ? Ça demande du travail ? Tu connais peut-être ces termes ? — Tu parles comme Brigit. Vous formez une vraie petite secte bizarre, à vous deux. — L’amitié , Dana. Ça aussi, c’est peut-être un concept qui ne t’est pas familier. — Admets-le, insiste-t-elle. Vous faites bande à part. C’est tout juste si vous adressez la parole aux autres. Vous vous comportez comme si vous étiez seuls dans le labo. Et vous n’arrêtez pas de baver sur tout le monde. — On est amis, Dana. On prend plaisir à se parler. — J’ai entendu ce que vous disiez. Je sais de quoi vous parlez quand je ne suis pas là », ajoute-t-elle calmement. Wallace fait pivoter son fauteuil de manière à se placer de nouveau face à elle. Il est surpris de la voir les yeux baissés sur l’espace entre ses cuisses. Son cuir chevelu est rouge, sec. C’est une drôle de position pour elle. On dirait un animal en peluche abandonné sur une étagère. La mollesse vacante de son corps. Il éprouve un soupçon de sympathie en repensant à la veille – quand ils ont fait d’elle un sujet de conversation, un objet de fascination commune. « Même si on a bien parlé de toi. Comment le saurais-tu ? », dit-il, même si la réponse est évidente. Les racontars, ça circule dans les deux sens. Les loyautés varient. Il n’est pas le seul à avoir des alliés. Dana ne relève pas. Elle a recommencé à se ronger les ongles. Wallace sent ses mains le picoter rien qu’à la regarder. « Je ne pense pas que tu aies bousillé mes cultures, si c’est ce qui t’inquiète. » Un bref silence. La flamme siffle et vacille dans les courants d’air. C’est un son doux, entrecoupé, le feu qui se retourne sur lui-même. Le silence est si profond en cet instant qu’il peut entendre les impuretés du gaz qui brûle. Mais à ce moment-là, il se produit un phénomène étrange : une secousse animatronique agite les épaules, les bras, les jambes de Dana, comme si une décharge électrique ranimait séparément les différentes parties de son corps. Tout bas, d’abord, un murmure mais presque aussitôt plus fort : un rire.

• From Another Country (1962)

  I just thought—well, nobody’s likely to overhear us, and I—I just couldn’t think of any other place.” He had been about to suggest that they leave, but her white face and the fact of the rain checked him. “It’s all right,” he said. He took her arm, they started aimlessly up the steps. He realized that he was terribly hungry. “I can’t stay with you very long, because I left the kids alone. But I told Richard that I was coming out—that I was going to try to see you today.” They reached the first of a labyrinthine series of rooms, shifting and crackling with groups of people, with bright paintings above and around them, and stretching into the far distance, like tombstones with unreadable inscriptions. The people moved in waves, like tourists in a foreign graveyard. Occasionally, a single mourner, dreaming of some vanished relationship, stood alone in adoration or revery before a massive memorial—but they mainly evinced, moving restlessly here and there, the democratic gaiety. Cass and Eric moved in some panic through this crowd, trying to find a quieter place; through fields of French impressionists and cubists and cacophonous modern masters, into a smaller room dominated by an enormous painting, executed, principally, in red, before which two students, a girl and a boy, stood holding hands. “Was it very bad, Cass? last night?” He asked this in a low voice as they stood before a painting in cool yellow, of a girl with a long neck, in a yellow dress, with yellow hair. “Yes.” Her hood obscured her face; it was hot in the museum; she threw the hood back. Her hair was disheveled on the brow and trailing at the neck: she looked weary and old. “At first, it was awful because I hadn’t realized how much I’d hurt him. He can suffer, after all,” and she looked at Eric quickly, and looked away. They moved away from the yellow painting and faced another one, of a street with canals, somewhere in Europe. “And—no matter what has happened since, I did love him very much, he was my whole life, and he’ll always be very important to me.” She paused. “I suppose he made me feel terribly guilty. I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t think it could— but—it did.” She paused again, her shoulders sagging with a weary and proud defeat. Then she touched his hand. “I hate to tell you that— but I must try to tell you all of it. He frightened me, too, he frightened me because I was suddenly terribly afraid of losing the children and I cannot live without them.”

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  As Carol bowed her head with her hands clasped on the tabletop, she felt Steve’s strong hands envelop hers and she listened as he poured out his heart in prayer. “Lord, help my wife to see what she could be if she would just sober up. Help her to be more patient and kind and caring…like Carol.” Months later, Carol still spends time imagining becoming even more intimate with Steve. As a matter of fact, things between her and Chris have gotten tense, as Carol often becomes angry or depressed for no apparent reason. “It just seems like every time I hear Steve speak in Sunday school, I hang on to every word and wonder what else I can do to ease his pain without causing any suspicion that I have developed strong feelings for him. Some days I tell myself that I need to confess this to Chris and to our pastor and remove myself from the marriage mentoring program for a while. However, there are many other days that I think, I’m not doing anything to compromise my marriage, so stop feeling guilty! Just because I find Steve attractive doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t try to help him. [image file=image_rsrc244.jpg] Twenty-eight and single, Sandra has been masturbating often for over fifteen years. Her struggle began at age twelve, when she found one of her mother’s Harlequin romance novels. A voracious reader, Sandra was soon devouring several novels per week, becoming sexually aroused and often masturbating to get “relief.” Sandra confesses: By the time I was out of high school, I was regularly holding a book in one hand and stimulating myself with the other. While I felt in my heart that what I was doing was wrong, I could always justify it. After all, the Bible did not expressly forbid it. God had made my body to be responsive, so He surely wouldn’t deny me this pleasure, would He? Since He had not given me a husband, I felt it was my right. Surely He couldn’t expect me to wait that long, could He? And who was I hurting? No one else was involved. However, I have always felt as if there is this barrier between me and God. I have sensed Him calling me to stop this behavior, to turn away from it, but the desire is so strong. I stopped reading the romance novels several years ago, but I still fantasize when I am lying in bed by myself, and I usually end up masturbating. I always say to myself, “I’ll be obedient tomorrow or next week, but for right now, I just need the release.” Sometimes I even get angry with God and think, If you would give me a husband, I wouldn’t have this problem!

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  I beseech Thee, my God, I would fain know, if so Thou willest, for what purpose my baptism was then deferred? was it for my good that the rein was laid loose, as it were, upon me, for me to sin? or was it not laid loose? If not, why does it still echo in our ears on all sides, “Let him alone, let him do as he will, for he is not yet baptised?” but as to bodily health, no one says, “Let him be worse wounded, for he is not yet healed.” How much better then, had I been at once healed; and then, by my friends’ and my own, my soul’s recovered health had been kept safe in Thy keeping who gavest it. Better truly. But how many and great waves of temptation seemed to hang over me after my boyhood! These my mother foresaw; and preferred to expose to them the clay whence I might afterwards be moulded, than the very cast, when made. In boyhood itself, however (so much less dreaded for me than youth), I loved not study, and hated to be forced to it. Yet I was forced; and this was well done towards me, but I did not well; for, unless forced, I had not learnt. But no one doth well against his will, even though what he doth, be well. Yet neither did they well who forced me, but what was well came to me from Thee, my God. For they were regardless how I should employ what they forced me to learn, except to satiate the insatiate desires of a wealthy beggary, and a shameful glory. But Thou, by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered, didst use for my good the error of all who urged me to learn; and my own, who would not learn, Thou didst use for my punishment—a fit penalty for one, so small a boy and so great a sinner. So by those who did not well, Thou didst well for me; and by my own sin Thou didst justly punish me. For Thou hast commanded, and so it is, that every inordinate affection should be its own punishment.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  The heart is literally and figuratively the core of all you are and all you experience in life, so when God says to guard it above all else, He is saying, “Protect the source of your life—the physical, spiritual, and emotional source of your well-being.” Just as a lake will not be pure if its source is not pure, neither will our thoughts, words, and actions be pure if our hearts are not pure. Purity begins in our hearts. I like how The Message puts it: You know the next commandment pretty well, too: “Don’t go to bed with another’s spouse.” But don’t think you’ve preserved your virtue simply by staying out of bed. Your heart can be corrupted by lust even quicker than your body. Those leering looks [or thoughts] you think nobody notices—they are also corrupt. (Matthew 5:27-28, MSG, emphasis added). Obviously, your heart needs to be a primary concern if you hope to be a woman of sexual and emotional integrity. It’s one thing to determine how far is too far physically in a premarital or extramarital relationship, but it’s another to answer how far is too far emotionally. What are the emotional boundaries? To help women better understand where the emotional boundaries are when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex, I developed the following models—one for single women and the other for married women. (See Figure 6.1 on the below.) IDENTIFYING GREEN, YELLOW, AND RED LEVELS OF EMOTIONAL CONNECTION These models will help you identify five stages of emotional connection: (1) attention, (2) attraction, (3) affection, (4) arousal and attachment, and (5) affairs and addiction. Once you learn how to identify these stages, you can know with confidence where it’s okay to let your heart go (represented by the green-light level), when to proceed only with great caution (the yellow-light level), and when you must stop and run in the opposite direction (the red-light level). While God intends for us to enjoy our emotional connections, He did not intend for us to cross the line into a stage that would undermine our sexual and emotional integrity. Let’s look more closely at each of these levels. GREEN-LIGHT LEVEL OF EMOTIONAL CONNECTION Attention We’ve all had one of those moments when some guy catches our eye for whatever reason. Perhaps you recognize that there is a handsome man in the car next to yours at an intersection, or maybe you noticed one walking with long, steady strides down the street. Perhaps you have even experienced a certain amount of guilt for taking notice of these men, especially if you are married. [image file=image_rsrc24D.jpg] Figure 6.1: Identifying Green, Yellow, and Red Levels of Emotional Connection

• From Another Country (1962)

  She blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “It’s funny the way things work. If it hadn’t been for you, I don’t think Ellis would ever have got so hung up on me. He saw, better than I did, that I really liked you and that meant that I could really like somebody and so why not him, since he could give me so much more? And I thought so, too, that it was a kind of dirty trick for life to play on me, for me to like you better than I liked him. And, after all, the chances of its lasting were just about equal, only with him, if I played it right, I might have something to show for it when it was all over. And he was smart, he didn’t bug me about it, he said, Sure, he wanted me but he was going to help me, regardless, and the one thing had nothing to do with the other. And he did—he was very nice to me, in his way, he was as good as his word, he was nicer to me than anyone had ever been before. He used to take me out to dinner, to places where nobody would know him or where it wouldn’t matter if they did. A lot of the time we went up to Harlem, or if he knew I was sitting in somewhere, he’d drop in. He didn’t seem to be trying to hype me, not even when he talked about his wife and his kids—you know? He sounded as though he really was lonely. And, after all, I owed him a lot—and—it was nice to be treated that way and to know the cat had enough money to take you anywhere, and—ah! well, it started, I guess I’d always known it was going to start, and then, once it started, I didn’t think I could stand it but I didn’t know how to stop it. Because it’s one thing for a man to be doing all these things for you while you’re not having an affair with him and it’s another thing for him to be doing them after you’ve stopped having an affair with him. And I had to go on, I had to get up there on top, where maybe I could begin to breathe. But I saw why he’d never been upset about you. He really is smart. He was glad I was with you, he told me so; he was glad I had another boy friend because it made it easier for him. It meant I wouldn’t make any scenes, I wouldn’t think I’d fallen in love with him. It gave him another kind of power over me in a way because he knew that I was afraid of your finding out and the more afraid I got, the harder it was to refuse him. Do you understand that?” “Yes,” he said, slowly, “I think I understand that.”