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

  God made every fiber and every nerve of our bodies, and He can satisfy every fiber and nerve as well. He knows how you feel and what you need better than you know yourself. He knows what will truly satisfy you—and it’s not orgasm, particularly orgasm achieved through masturbation and impure thoughts. It may feel good for the moment, but it doesn’t bring lasting satisfaction. That can only be found in relationship. God wants a close, intimate relationship with you. Once you allow Him to prove Himself in this area, you will understand that self-gratification was really never any gratification at all. Striving for God-gratification instead of self-gratification will ensure that your body, mind, heart, and spirit remain pure. Who may ascend the hill of the LORD? Who may stand in his holy place? [She] who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up [her] soul to an idol or swear by what is false. (Psalm 24:3-4) MYTH 6 Because I feel so sexually tempted, I must already be guilty, so why bother resisting? Satan’s favorite strategy for convincing women to cross the line between temptation and sin is false guilt. If sexual integrity is a battle you are entrenched in, you’ve probably had some of these thoughts rolling around in your head until you can no longer think straight: • You can’t deny that you want him! You may as well go after him! • You know you’ll never be able to be faithful to one man forever! • You’ve already gone this far, what’s one step further? • You’ve thought about this moment for months! Don’t back out now! • If you want to keep him, you are going to have to give him what he wants! These lies are temptations from the enemy, not evidence that you are already guilty! I call this false guilt because temptation, in and of itself, is not sin. There’s nothing to feel guilty about when you are tempted. If you don’t believe me, maybe you will believe the writer of Hebrews when he says: For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need. (Hebrews 4:15-16)

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

  “But how could you have been tempted if you were happily married?” you might ask. Because I had been sowing the seeds of compromise in most of the ways I’ve warned against in this book. I had compared my husband to John over and over in my mind. I had entertained fantasies of further, more intimate conversations with John. Had I exercised firmer mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical boundaries, John never would have felt the freedom to say the things he did, nor would I have felt so drawn to him emotionally. In hindsight, I can see how I carelessly raced through the green-light levels of attention and attraction, zoomed through to the yellow-light level of affection, right into the red-light level of emotional arousal and attachment by engaging in an emotional affair. While it would have been easy to place the blame on John, I knew in my heart that I couldn’t. You teach people how to treat you, and I had gradually taught John that he could be overly friendly, perhaps even forward with me, and get away with it. The private car rides, occasional lunches, discussing of intimate details of our marriages and ministries, and bantering back and forth with sly jokes and romantic innuendos had paved the way. I’m just thankful that God provided a detour, just as He promised to in 1 Corinthians 10:13: “No temptation has seized you except what is common to [woman]. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it” (emphasis added). God’s way out way for me came in the form of an actual detour. Desperate for direction, I accepted a female mentor’s invitation to run away for a sabbatical to seek God’s will for this increasingly awkward situation. As we were driving, we accidentally missed the exit and continued driving an hour farther down the interstate before we realized we had gone too far. We stopped to ask directions and have lunch in Lindale, Texas. As my friend blessed our burritos, I clearly heard God say to my heart, “Move here.”

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

  If you choose to test this squirrel-and-nut theory yourself, please understand that it’s not intended to be another manipulation game. By letting go of your expectations for your husband to meet your emotional needs and redirecting your focus on meeting his needs instead (whether those needs be for plenty of sleep or for physical pleasure), you are serving him. In this way, his desire will eventually be to serve you as well. He’ll recognize your desire to meet his needs and that desire will be contagious if you do not abort the process by becoming impatient or expecting too much too soon. Just like intimacy, wholehearted service is inspired, not required. When I speak of serving your husband, I’m not referring to the kind of serving you do in tennis, where you hit the ball to him and then claim, “Hey, the ball’s in your court! It’s your turn to serve me!” I’m referring to serving your husband’s needs out of deep love and committed friendship, with no hidden motive and expecting nothing in return. Jesus referred to this type of service in the following passage: My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that [she] lay down [her] life for [her] friends. (John 15:12-13) Ask yourself, “Do I consider my husband my friend?” I confess that I was guilty of not treating my husband as respectfully as I would a friend. I prided myself on being more verbal than he is, and I could win any argument hands down. When my husband told me, “You would have made a great lawyer,” I thought his comment was a reflection of my intellect, but his comment was no compliment. He was right about one thing: I certainly never lost an argument. But I lost something far more important—true intimacy with the man I love. Fortunately, Greg recognized that this “win my case at all cost” attitude was affecting our relationship, and he lovingly called me on it one day. I was arguing with him rather sarcastically. Then he asked me sincerely, “Shannon, would you talk to your best friend the way you are talking to me right now?” Ouch. I was expecting my husband to take everything I was dishing out, not realizing that he deserves best-friend treatment and common courtesy as much if not more so than anyone else in my life. I had been like Jekyll and Hyde—oozing smiles and sweetness to everyone outside our home while venting my frustrations on those within it. I’ve since come to realize that who I really am isn’t the Shannon the world sees, but the person my family sees. Keeping this in mind has helped me act lovingly to my husband and children more consistently and has been like water and sunshine to help intimacy in our marriage blossom to its full potential.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He lit a cigarette and threw the pack and the matches to Rufus. “You should have got in touch with somebody, you should have let somebody know what was happening.” “I—couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” “We’re supposed to be friends, you and me.” He stood up, holding an unlit cigarette, and walked around the small room, touching things. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He lit the cigarette. “I know what I did to Leona. I’m not dumb.” “So do I know what you did to Leona. Neither am I dumb.” “I guess I just didn’t think—” “What?” “That anyone would care.” In the silence that hung in the room then, Vivaldo rose and went to his phonograph. “You didn’t think Ida would care? You didn’t think I would care?” He felt as though he were smothering. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.” Vivaldo said nothing. His face was pale and angry and he concentrated on looking through his records. Finally he put one on the machine; it was James Pete Johnson and Bessie Smith batting out Backwater Blues. “Well,” said Vivaldo, helplessly, and sat down again. Besides Vivaldo’s phonograph, there wasn’t much else in his apartment. There was a homemade lamp, brick-supported bookshelves, records, a sagging bed, the sprung easy chair, and the straight-backed chair. There was a high stool before Vivaldo’s worktable on which Vivaldo teetered now, his coarse, curly black hair hanging forward, his eyes somber, and his mouth turned down. The table held his pencils, papers, his typewriter, and the telephone. In a small alcove was the kitchen in which the overhead light was burning. The sink was full of dirty dishes, topped by a jaggedly empty and open tin can. A paper sack of garbage leaned against one of the kitchen table’s uncertain legs. There’s thousands of people, Bessie now sang, ain’t got no place to go, and for the first time Rufus began to hear, in the severely understated monotony of this blues, something which spoke to his troubled mind. The piano bore the singer witness, stoic and ironic. Now that Rufus himself had no place to go—’cause my house fell down and I can’t live there no mo’, sang Bessie—he heard the line and the tone of the singer, and he wondered how others had moved beyond the emptiness and horror which faced him now. Vivaldo was watching him. Now he cleared his throat and said, “Maybe it would be a good idea for you to make a change of scene, Rufus. Everything around here will just keep reminding you—sometimes it’s better just to wipe the state clean and take off. Maybe you should go to the Coast.” “There’s nothing happening on the Coast.” “A lot of musicians have gone out there.” “They’re on their ass out there, too.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Hear, O God. Alas, for man’s sin! So saith man, and Thou pitiest him; for Thou madest him, but sin in him Thou madest not. Who remindeth me of the sins of my infancy? for in Thy sight none is pure from sin, not even the infant whose life is but a day upon the earth. Who remindeth me? doth not each little infant, in whom I see what of myself I remember not? What then was my sin? was it that I hung upon the breast and cried? for should I now so do for food suitable to my age, justly should I be laughed at and reproved. What I then did was worthy reproof; but since I could not understand reproof, custom and reason forbade me to be reproved. For those habits, when grown, we root out and cast away. Now no man, though he prunes, wittingly casts away what is good. Or was it then good, even for a while, to cry for what, if given, would hurt? bitterly to resent, that persons free, and its own elders, yea, the very authors of its birth, served it not? that many besides, wiser than it, obeyed not the nod of its good pleasure? to do its best to strike and hurt, because commands were not obeyed, which had been obeyed to its hurt? The weakness then of infant limbs, not its will, is its innocence. Myself have seen and known even a baby envious; it could not speak, yet it turned pale and looked bitterly on its foster-brother. Who knows not this? Mothers and nurses tell you that they allay these things by I know not what remedies. Is that too innocence, when the fountain of milk is flowing in rich abundance, not to endure one to share it, though in extremest need, and whose very life as yet depends thereon? We bear gently with all this, not as being no or slight evils, but because they will disappear as years increase; for, though tolerated now, the very same tempers are utterly intolerable when found in riper years.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 187: _Sic_; but the past tense "loved" is probably intended, as the pretended pilgrim had not yet discovered Tedaldo to be alive.] This, then, is the sin that Divine justice, the which with a just balance bringeth all its operations to effect, hath willed not to leave unpunished; and even as you without reason studied to withdraw yourself from Tedaldo, so on like wise hath your husband been and is yet, without reason, in peril for Tedaldo, and you in tribulation. Wherefrom an you would be delivered, that which it behoveth you to promise, and yet more to do, is this; that, should it ever chance that Tedaldo return hither from his long banishment, you will render him again your favour, your love, your goodwill and your privacy and reinstate him in that condition wherein he was, ere you foolishly hearkened to yonder crack-brained friar.' The pilgrim having thus made an end of his discourse, the lady, who had hearkened thereto with the utmost attention, for that his arguments appeared to her most true and that, hearing him say, she accounted herself of a certainty afflicted for the sin of which he spoke, said, 'Friend of God, I know full well that the things you allege are true, and in great part by your showing do I perceive what manner of folk are these friars, whom till now I have held all saints. Moreover, I acknowledge my default without doubt to have been great in that which I wrought against Tedaldo; and an I might, I would gladly amend it on such wise as you have said; but how may this be done? Tedaldo can never more return hither; he is dead; wherefore I know not why it should behove me promise that which may not be performed.' 'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'according to that which God hath revealed unto me, Tedaldo is nowise dead, but alive and well and in good case, so but he had your favour.' Quoth the lady, 'Look what you say; I saw him dead before my door of several knife-thrusts and had him in these arms and bathed his dead face with many tears, the which it may be gave occasion for that which hath been spoken thereof unseemly.' 'Madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'whatever you may say, I certify you that Tedaldo is alive, and if you will e'en promise me that [which I ask,] with intent to fulfil your promise, I hope you shall soon see him.' Quoth she, 'That do I promise and will gladly perform; nor could aught betide that would afford me such content as to see my husband free and unharmed and Tedaldo alive.'

• From Another Country (1962)

  What am I to tell our sons?” The question hung in the air between them; sluggishly (it was ten past seven) it struck echoes in him of Ida’s tone and Ida’s eyes when they quarreled. Oh. All you white boys make me sick. You want to find out what’s happening, baby, all you got to do is pay your dues! Was there, in all that rage, a plea? “I’ll buy you one more drink,” he said. “Yes. Let me go home or do whatever I’m going to do with just a tiny hint of drunkenness. Excuse me a moment.” Jauntily, she signaled the waiter; then gathered up her great handbag and walked to the ladies’ room. All you got to do is pay your dues . He sat, islanded by the vague hum, the meaningless music, of the cocktail lounge, and recalled lapses and errors from his life with Ida which, at the time, he had blamed on her. Their first quarrel had occurred about a month after she had moved in, in April. His mother had called, one Sunday afternoon, to remind him of a birthday party, the following week, for his younger brother, Stevie. His mother assumed that he would not want to come, that he would try to get out of it, and this made her voice, before he could say anything, querulous and complaining. This he could not bear, which made his tone sharp and hostile. And there they were, then, the aging, frightened woman and her grown son, acting out their kindergarten drama. Ida, in the kitchen, watched and listened. Vivaldo, watching her, suddenly laughed and before he realized what he was saying, he asked, “Do you mind if I bring a girl friend?” And, as he said this, he felt Ida stiffen and become absolutely concentrated with rage. “If she’s a nice girl,” his mother was saying. “You know we love to meet your friends.” 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.

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

  Most of us become desensitized to what we see or hear. I’ve demonstrated this through an experiment I conduct when teaching about sexuality during weekend retreats for youth groups. I once recorded two hours of prime-time television shows such as Friends and Seinfeld, then edited the tape down to a twelve-minute clip including only the sexual innuendos (anything visual or auditory related to inappropriate sexual conduct). As I show this video clip, I challenge the audience to keep count during these twelve minutes of how many sexual messages they see or hear, giving me a sign (placing their thumb on their nose) to indicate that they recognize each one. As many times as I have conducted this experiment, I’m amazed at how the same thing happens every time. They catch maybe the first three or four innuendos, but then become so engrossed in the funny scenes that they forget to give me the sign or to keep count. At the end of the twelve minutes, I ask, “How many did you count?” The average response? Eleven or twelve. The actual number of visual or verbal innuendos? Forty-one. Even the adults in the room do not usually recognize more than 50 percent of these innuendos because they are so accustomed to crass humor. As a society, we have become so desensitized by sexual messages that we often unscrew our heads, put them under the Lazy-Boy recliner, and tolerantly allow the television to fill our minds with worldly scripts. Once our minds are corrupted, our hearts memorize these scripts, and then they seep into our lives. Jesus taught his disciples this principle in the gospel of Luke when He said: “The good [woman] brings good things out of the good stored up in [her] heart, and the evil [woman] brings evil things out of the evil stored up in [her] heart” (6:45). Everything you choose to take in through your mind can be stored up in your heart, and it is your heart that determines the direction you will take and the choices you will make in the future when confronted with temptation. If you fill your mind with images of sexually compromising comments and situations, you will become desensitized to similar scenarios in your own life. A good rule of thumb is never to watch a movie or television program or read a book that you wouldn’t want others to know about. If you have to keep it a secret, chances are it’s going to greatly intensify your battle for sexual integrity and undermine your ultimate fulfillment.

• 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)

  Ou ce qu’ils éprouvent. » Yngve donne un petit coup de coude à Wallace, et Wallace n’arrive pas à savoir si c’est pour dire que c’est lui qui a tout déclenché, ou bien pour signifier qu’il soupçonne qu’il se passe quelque chose entre lui et Miller. Quelle que soit l’implication, il est pétrifié. Alors il hausse les épaules, et Yngve pousse un nouveau rire. Ce n’est pas un rire goguenard, agressif et féroce. Ni un rire entièrement insinuant, ironique. Au bout de quelques instants, Wallace s’aperçoit que c’est simplement de Miller qu’il se moque. « Écoute-moi ce vieux sage. — La ferme », réplique Miller, mais sans se départir de son sourire en coin. « Vous croyez qu’ils vont se séparer ? demande Wallace, plus par culpabilité qu’autre chose. Vous croyez vraiment qu’ils vont se séparer pour ça ? — Non, c’était une broutille, fait Miller. Je suis sûr que ça va s’arranger. Ils sont rentrés ensemble. — Ah bon ? Quand ? demande Wallace. Putain. Merde. Je regrette de n’avoir pas pu leur dire un mot avant qu’ils s’en aillent. — Tu en as assez dit », fait observer Yngve, toujours souriant. Il passe un bras autour du cou de Wallace et l’attire contre lui. « Le petit Wally s’est suffisamment impliqué pour la soirée, je crois. » Miller acquiesce d’un hmm hmm, et ça lui fait un bref coup au cœur. Mais ils ont raison, il le sait. Rien de ce qu’il aurait pu dire n’aurait pu arranger les choses entre eux. N’empêche qu’il s’est éclipsé avec Miller au lieu de rattraper les dégâts qu’il avait causés. Il s’est laissé emmener et réconforter. Mais était-ce un vrai réconfort ? De parler avec Miller, se sentant un peu plus mal à chaque mot prononcé ? C’est le plus bizarre, se dit-il. Il a commencé à raconter cette histoire pour se faire du bien, ou pour s’éclaircir les idées, il a commencé parce que ça semblait être à sa portée ; Miller lui avait posé la question, et il était content de lui donner satisfaction. Mais Wallace ne se sent pas mieux d’avoir raconté tout ça à Miller. Il ne se sent ni plus heureux ni plus rassuré. Peut-être que c’est mieux ainsi, après tout. Une espèce de justice. « Ils sont partis quand ? Tous ? — Il y a un petit moment. Tu dormais. — Vous avez disparu, tous les deux, c’est vrai, dit Yngve. — J’ai fait un malaise », explique Wallace. Yngve ne le regarde pas, il regarde Miller. « Ah bon ? — Et je lui devais bien un coup de main. Hier soir, c’est lui qui m’a tiré d’affaire. — Vous êtes comme cul et chemise, tous les deux, ces jours-ci. — Je le déteste », fait Wallace. Yngve lui pince la nuque. « Raconte pas de bobards. T’as pas besoin.

• From Little Women (1868)

  John always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said, "A bargain, I assure, you, ma'am." She answered, "I'll take it," and it was cut off and paid for, and Sallie had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after her. When she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn't become her, after all, and the words 'fifty dollars' seemed stamped like a pattern down each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the 'bank', when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously... "You haven't seen my private expense book yet." John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife. The little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word... "John, dear, I'm ashamed to show you my book, for I've really been dreadfully extravagant lately.

• From Little Women (1868)

  No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing." Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney. "I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the Professor, coming back with a relieved air. Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be very good and proper now." "I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead. As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay. "They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of money. I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?" Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze. "Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes. But when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages. "I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She started to wake him, but left him there, and tiptoed into the room where Paul and Michael slept. Paul lay on his belly, the sheet tangled at his feet, and his arms thrown up. With a shock, she saw how heavy he was, and how tall: he was already at the outer edge of his boyhood. It had happened so fast, it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. She looked at the sleeping head and wondered what thoughts it contained, what judgments, watched one twitching leg and wondered what his dreams were now. Gently, she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. She looked at the secretive Michael, curled on his side like a worm or an embryo, hands hidden between his legs, and the hair damp on his forehead. But she did not dare to touch his brow: he woke too easily. As quietly as possible, she retrieved his sheet from the floor and lay it over him. She left their room and walked into the bathroom. Then she heard, in the living room, Richard’s feet hit the floor. She washed her face, combed her hair, staring at her weary face in the mirror. Then she walked into the living room. Richard sat on the sofa, the glass of vodka in his hands, staring at the floor. “Hello,” she said, “What made you fall asleep in here?” She had left her handbag in the bathroom. She walked to the bar and picked up a package of cigarettes and lit one. She asked, mockingly, “You weren’t, were you, waiting up for me?” He looked at her, drained his glass, and held it out. “Pour me a drink. Pour yourself a drink, too.” She took his glass. Now, his face which in sleep had looked so young, looked old. A certain pain and terror passed through her. She thought, insanely, as she turned her back on him, of Cleopatra’s lament for Antony: His face was as the heavens. Was that right? She could not remember the rest of it. She poured two drinks, vodka for him, whiskey for her. The ice bucket was empty. “Do you want ice?” “No.” She handed him his drink. She poured a little water into her whiskey. She looked, covertly, at him again—her guilt began. His face was as the heavens, Wherein were set the stars and moon. “Sit down, Cass.” She left the bar and sat down in the easy chair facing him. She had left the cigarettes on the bar. Which kept their course and lighted, This little O, the earth. He asked, in a friendly tone, “Where are you just coming from, Cass?” He looked at his watch. “It’s past two o’clock.”

• From Little Women (1868)

  Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo." "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her. "To the devil!" was the consoling answer. For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "John is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about the truth—a good trait, though you call him 'fussy'. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like ours—one flash and then all over—but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret." These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart. She glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking, "I will be the first to say, 'Forgive me'", but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it, then came the thought, "This is the beginning. I'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly... "It was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!" But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar. After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly, that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home. In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg.

• From Little Women (1868)

  I don't believe you've got any heart." "I wish I hadn't." There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!" Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. "I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly. "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea. "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel—we can't help it even now, you see—and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!" "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man." "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic. "Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us—so now!" That speech was like gunpowder.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking. Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch. She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word. She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret. But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He looked first in one direction and then in the other; then, his hands in his pockets, head lowered and shoulders raised, he walked the long block, hugging the sides of buildings. Vivaldo watched him till he turned the corner. Then he turned back into the room, pale with assessments, with guilt deliciously beginning to gnaw at the rope with which he had tied it, sharpening its teeth for him. And yet, at the same time, he felt radiantly, wonderfully spent. He poured himself another small drink and sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he dialed his number. The receiver was lifted almost at once, and Ida’s voice came at him: with the force of an electric shock. “Hello?” In the background, he heard Billie Holiday singing Billie’s Blues. “Hello, sugar. This is your man, checking on his woman.” “Do you know what time it is? Where the hell are you?” “I’m at Eric’s. We passed out here. I’m just pulling myself together.” There was a peculiar relief in her voice. He was aware of it because she tried to hide it. “You’ve been there all night? ever since I left you?” “Yes. We came on over here and started talking and finished up Eric’s whiskey. And he had quite a lot of whiskey—so, you see.” “Yes, I know you think it’s against the law to stop drinking as long as there’s anything left to drink. Listen. Has Cass called?” “Yes.” “Did you talk to her?” “No. Eric did.” “Oh? What did Eric tell you?” “What do you mean, what did Eric tell me?” “I mean, what did Cass say?” “She said she was in trouble. Richard’s found out about them.” “Isn’t that awful? What else did she say?” “Well—I think that that sort of cluttered up her mind. She doesn’t seem to have said anything else. Did you know anything about all this?” “Yes. Richard was here. Has he been there?” “No.” “Oh, Vivaldo, it was awful. I felt so sorry for him. I thought that you might be at Eric’s, but I said you’d gone off to see your family in Brooklyn and I didn’t have the phone number or the address. It’s very sad, Vivaldo, he’s very bitter, he wants to hurt you. He feels that you betrayed him—” “Yes, well, I think it may be easier for him to feel that way. How long was he there?” “Not long. Only about ten minutes. But it seemed longer. He said some terrible things—” “I’m sure. Does he still want to see me?” “I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Are you coming home now?” “Yes, right away. Are you going to be there?” “I’ll be here. Come on. Oh. Where’s Eric?” “He’s gone—uptown—” “To meet Cass?” “Yes.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.” They both thought, It doesn’t matter yet. He kissed her again. “I wish you could spend the night,” he said. He laughed again. “We were just beginning to get started, I hope you know that.” “Oh, yes,” she said, “I can tell.” He placed his rough cheek next to hers. “But I’ve got to go now.” “Shall I walk you to a taxi?” “Oh, Eric, don’t be silly. There’s just no point to that at all.” “I’d like to. I’ll only be a minute.” He jumped out of bed and entered the bathroom. She listened to the water splashing and flushing and looked around his apartment, which already seemed terribly familiar. She would try to get down and clean it up sometime in the next few days. It would be difficult to get away in the daytime, except, perhaps, on Saturdays. Then it occurred to her that she needed a smoke screen for this affair and that she would have to use Vivaldo and Ida. Eric came out of the bathroom and pulled on his shorts and his trousers and his T-shirt. He stuck his feet into his sandals. He looked scrubbed and sleepy and pale. His lips were swollen and very red, like those of heroes and gods of antiquity. “All ready?” he asked. “All ready.” He picked up her bag and gave it to her. They kissed briefly again, and walked down the stairs into the streets. He put his arm around her waist. They walked in silence, and the street they walked was empty. But there were people in the bars, gesticulating and seeming to howl in the yellow light, behind the smoky glass; and people in the side streets, loitering and skulking; dogs on leashes, sniffing with their masters. They passed the movie theater, and were on the Avenue, facing the hospital. And in the shadow of the great, darkened marquee, they smiled into each other’s faces. “I’m glad you called me,” he said. “I’m so glad.” She said, “I’m glad you were home.” They saw a cab coming crosstown and Eric put up his hand. “I’ll call you in a few days,” she said, “around Friday or Saturday.” “All right, Cass.” The cab stopped and he opened the door and put her in, leaned in and kissed her. “Be good, little gal.” “You, too.” He closed the door on her, and waved. The cab began to move, and she watched him move, alone, into the long, dark street. There were no phone booths on deserted Fifth Avenue and Vivaldo walked the high, silent block to Sixth Avenue and entered the first bar he came to, heading straight for the phone booth. He rang the number of the restaurant and waited quite a while before an irritated male voice answered. He asked for Miss Ida Scott.” “She didn’t come in tonight. She called in sick.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He watched Vivaldo. “Do you think you should have told him?” Vivaldo put out his cigarette. “What a wild idea. I’m nobody’s goddam Boy Scout. Besides, you and Cass are my friends, not Richard.” “Well, he didn’t know that; you’ve known him much longer than you’ve known me, and—Richard doesn’t really like me very much—so he’d naturally expect you to be loyal to him.” Vivaldo sighed. “There’s a hell of a lot that Richard doesn’t know and that’s too bad but it’s not my fault. And he’s being dishonest. He knows that we haven’t really been friends for a long time. And I won’t be made to feel guilty.” Then he grinned. “I’ve got enough to feel guilty about.” “Do you feel guilty?” They stared at each other for a moment. Vivaldo laughed. “That wasn’t what I had in mind. But, no, I don’t feel guilty and I hope to God that I never feel guilty again. It’s a monstrous waste of time.” Eric looked down. “Yes, Cass says that Richard may try to see you today.” “Sounds just like him. Well, I’m not at home.” Suddenly, he laughed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Richard came here?” “And found you here, you mean?” They laughed, rolling in the bed like children. “I wonder what he’d think.” “Poor man. He wouldn’t know what to think.” They looked at each other and began to laugh again. “We certainly aren’t giving him an awful lot of sympathy,” Eric said. “That’s true.” Vivaldo sat up and lit two cigarettes, giving one to Eric. “The poor bastard must really be suffering; after all, he doesn’t know what hit him.” They were silent. “And I’m sure Cass isn’t laughing.” “No. Not at Richard, not at anything. She sounded half out of her mind.” “Where was she calling from?” “Home. Richard had just gone out.” “I wonder if he really did go to my house. Maybe I should call and see if Ida’s there.” But he did not move toward the phone. “It’s all just about as messy as it can possibly be,” Eric said, after a moment, “Richard’s talking about suing for divorce and getting custody of the children.” “Yes, and he’s probably gone out shopping for a brand with the letter A on it and if he could, he’d arrange for Cass to peddle her ass in the streets and drop dead of syphilis. Slowly. Because the cat’s been wounded, man, in his self-esteem.” “Well,” said Eric, slowly, “he has been wounded. You haven’t got to be—admirable—in order to feel pain.” “No. But I think that perhaps you can begin to become admirable if, when you’re hurt, you don’t try to pay back.” He looked at Eric and put one hand on the back of Eric’s neck. “Do you know what I mean? Perhaps if you can accept the pain that almost kills you, you can use it, you can become better.”