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 The Erotic Mind (1995)

  As a college student in the 1970s, she embraced feminism and sexual freedom, rejected Catholicism, and found a supportive network of friends who shared her ethic of unfettered self-expression. As Nancy put it, “I thought of myself as a free thinker and rebel. Mom’s disapproval made me guilty but it also inspired me.” During that same period she discovered that a glass or two of wine helped relax deep-rooted inhibitions that weren’t changing as readily as her ideas. Sex with Burt was exciting and satisfying before they got married. “We were so experimental with each other,” Nancy explained, “I actually enjoyed the guilt. I thought of us as coconspirators, saboteurs of a dying morality. We had a ball.” But after they married, Nancy’s strict upbringing suddenly reasserted itself. She established a closer connection with her mother and a renewed sense of loyalty to the expectations and ideals with which she had been raised. The two glasses of wine that once had calmed her inhibitions no longer did the job. The increasing physical tolerance that marks the biochemistry of addiction was abetted by a mounting psychological conflict that required ever greater doses of alcohol to quell. Although Burt knew little of Nancy’s inner struggle, he was painfully aware that sex between them was losing its spark. He interpreted Nancy’s sagging desire as confirmation of his lack of attractiveness. He became so distraught that even though he worried about Nancy’s drinking, he sometimes encouraged her to drink because once in a while she would let go and become her old fun self again. Their problems escalated when they started discussing having a baby. They both knew the risks associated with drinking during pregnancy, but Nancy couldn’t stop. Eventually, their marriage was wracked by drunken disagreements. The alcohol that had first entered the picture as beneficial gradually made everything worse. On the brink of separation they went to their first AA meeting together. Burt found it relatively easy to stop drinking. Nancy too felt much better after a few weeks of sobriety. Their fighting mostly stopped, and she looked forward to the day when they could finally have a baby. Yet as her commitment to recovery took hold she felt increasingly sexless, which in turn forced her to examine her eroticism with an honesty she had never attempted before.4

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Luckily, Margot had paid more attention. Yours, Anne FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1943 Dearest Kitty, Oh my, another item has been added to my list of sins. Last night~ was lying in bed, waiting for Father to tuck me in an say my prayers with me, when Mother came into the room, sat on my bed and asked very gently, “Anne, Daddy isn’t ready. How about if I listen to your prayers tonight?” “No, Momsy,” I replied. Mother got up, stood beside my bed for a moment and then slowly walked toward the door. Suddenly she turned, her face contorted with pain, and said, “I don’t want to be angry with you. I can’t make you love me!” A few tears slid down her cheeks as she went out the door. I lay still, thinking how mean it was of me to reject her so cruelly, but I also knew that I was incapable of answering her any other way. I can’t be a hypocrite and pray with her when I don’t feel like it. It just doesn’t work that way. I felt sorry for Mother -- very, very sorry -- because for the first time in my life I noticed she wasn’t indifferent to my coldness. I saw the sorrow in her face when she talked about not being able to make me love her. It’s hard to tell the truth, and yet the truth is that she’s the one who’s rejected me. She’s the one whose tactless comments and cruel jokes about matters I don’t think are funny have made me insensitive to any sign of love on her part. Just as my heart sinks every time I hear her harsh words, that’s how her heart sank when she realized there was no more love between us. She cried half the night and didn’t get any sleep. Father has avoided looking at me, and if his eyes do happen to cross mine, I can read his unspoken words: “How can you be so unkind? How dare you make your mother so sad!” Everyone expects me to apologize, but this is not something I can apologize for, because I told the truth, and sooner or later Mothjr was bound to find out anyway. I seem to be indifferent to Mother’s tears and Father’s glances, and I am, because both of them are now feeling what I’ve always felt. I can only feel sorry for Mother, who will have to figure out what her attitude should be all by herself. For my part, I will continue to remain silent and aloof, and I don’t intend to shrink from the truth, because the longer it’s postponed, the harder it will be for them to accept it when they do hear it! Yours, Anne TUESDAY, APRIL 27, 1943 Dearest Kitty, The house is still trembling from the aftereffects of the quarrels. Everyone is mad at everyone else: Mother and I, Mr. Van Daan and Father, Mother and Mrs. van D.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  COPING WITH TROUBLESOME TURN-ONSEach individual’s CET evolves in response to the challenges and conflicts of early life. The erotic mind attempts to gain mastery over these problems by using the obstacles they present to stimulate desire and arousal. You can see how everyone in this chapter except Janet had learned to use long-standing conflicts quite successfully as turn-ons. But while most found plenty of excitation, they also discovered that their erotic scripts ultimately perpetuated the very problems they were trying to resolve. If you identify with any of the troublesome turn-ons described in this chapter, the best thing you can do is to use the understanding you have gained thus far to help you recognize how your patterns of arousal are working against you. Without this awareness you must blindly follow the established path wherever it leads you. Now is a good time to conduct a simple reassessment of your eroticism to see if you might be affected by any of the three types of erotic problems we’ve explored in this chapter: Feeling side effects Troublesome attractions Love-lust conflicts First, reconsider the emotions most prominent in your CET. You already realize that the full range of human emotions can energize your turn-ons and that some feelings—especially anxiety and guilt—can disrupt your body’s ability to function sexually. Consequently, if you’re grappling with a sexual dysfunction, pay careful attention to the emotional aspects of your CET. Keep in mind that, like Nancy and Burt, you may not easily recognize how guilty you actually feel, especially if you regularly rely on alcohol or other drugs to calm your inhibitions. Or, like Brian, you may have become so accustomed to anxiety in your sex life that you hardly even notice it. If you’ve been unlucky in a string of relationships, could it be that you are reenacting frustrating or painful relationships from the past? Make a list of each of the people to whom you’ve been most strongly attracted in your life. What characteristics do they have in common? Can you identify difficulties from your early life that you’re still trying to fix or otherwise play out through your current relationships? Unresolved feelings from historically significant relationships, particularly those within the family, are natural aspects of attraction, so there’s no need to feel ashamed if you recognize them within yourself. The important thing is to notice if you keep trying to reverse a painful relationship from the past by unwittingly selecting partners with whom you are doomed to repeat it. This dilemma can only be resolved when you are willing to bring your motivations into consciousness.

• From Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (1989)

  Both of these changes complicate the simpler "Socratic" model accor d ing to w h ich we alwa ys act for t he good we see; and above all, the second introduces a potential conflict between vision and desire. This is not to say that the will is declared quite independent of knowledge, or that Augustine believed in the possibili ty that we mi gh t s ee in fu ll clari ty th e glory of Go d and not respond in love. This kind of limit cas e is invo k ed, of course, in th e Judaeo-Christian legend of L uc ifer, but it has never been attributed by Christ ian theology as a power to humans. It does mean, however, that in th e zone in which we live, of half-understanding and contrary desires, the wi i l i s as much the independent variable, determinin g what we can know, as it is th e dependent one, shaped by what we see. The causality is circular and n o t linear. F or the linear theories which descend from Socrates, as well as for m o d e r n ratio nalists, the phenomenon of weakness of the will-'akrasia'-is a maj o r intel lectual problem; for Augustine, it was no p roblem, but rather the c en tr al crisis of moral ex p erience. That is why he seized so eagerly on the pas sa g e from St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans (7:19-2.5): "For the good that I w o u l d I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do", as he relates in t h e Confessions. 2 4 In Augustine's Christian outl ook, as we saw, t he perve rsi ty in the will can never be sufficiently ex plained by our lack of insight int o t h e good; on the contrary, it makes us act below and against our insig ht, a n d prevents this from becoming fuller and purer. This perversity can be described as a drive to make ourselv es the ce nt re o f our world, to relate everything to o urselves, to dominate an d poss ess t h e "In lnteriore Homine" · 139 t h i n g s whi ch surround us. This is both ca use and consequence of a kind of sl a v e ry , a c ondition in w hic h we are in turn dominated, captured by our own o b se s si o ns and fascination with the sensible. So we can see that evil cannot be e x p l a in e d simp l y by lack of vis � on but inv � l � es _ something also i n the d i m e ns io n of the soul's sense of itself.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  “OK, well we have been, which I had thought was pretty noticeable and we decided that we need some time apart, temporarily, to try to fix things between us,” I said. “Are you getting divorced?” Hudson asked, panic rising in his voice. “No, but we’re separating. We need some time apart,” I said. What I wouldn’t have given to be airlifted out of this disaster zone, the agonized and confused expressions on my children’s faces. Was it too late to backpedal and assure them we would be in tiptop form in a week and not to worry? “One of you is having an affair,” said Daisy, suddenly and pointedly. “There is no other possible explanation for this. It’s too quick. Why isn’t Dad here talking to us too?” I had already decided that I wouldn’t lie to the older kids if they asked. I recalled having been cornered like this years earlier when the kids demanded to know if Michael and I were Santa, and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and Cupid and Petal, their special summer fairy, knowing that the second I confirmed it the sweet, innocent chapter of their childhoods that I had so assiduously protected would come to a swift conclusion. Now I was going to close yet another chapter with the information that their parents were not indomitable and that the safety of the family life they had known and relied on was gone, just like that. My silence spoke volumes before I could summon the courage to respond. “Oh my God, Mom. Just tell us,” Daisy cried. “It wasn’t me,” I said quietly. Mayhem ensued. If I had thought my life had already fallen apart, this moment proved to me that I was in fact just in the introductory phase. The panicked reactions of my kids were devastating on a whole new level than I had yet experienced. Daisy sobbed, Hudson quietly raged. They asked me questions I could not answer about what had happened and what would happen next. Daisy called Michael, who could barely hear her as he was pulled over on the side of the road with a flat tire, and screamed at him until she exhausted herself and hung up. Watching my kids suffer this way was brutal, the fury I felt at Michael all-consuming. My friend Sarah came to my rescue, offering her mother’s pied-à-terre around the corner for Michael to stay in for a few weeks to give us a chance to regroup. He was angry that I wouldn’t let him return home, but now even if I could bear it, I had the additional rage of the children to manage. Daisy was like an erupting volcano, her fury and grief a molten lava that could burn anyone in her path. Michael and I had given her a happy family and he had single-handedly taken it away, and now she understood that trust – even in her parents – was conditional.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  For now Stephen knew the cause of their quarrels, and she recognized the form of the shadow that had seemed to creep in between them at Christmas, and knowing, she stretched out her arms to Morton for comfort: ‘My Morton, where are you? I need you.’ Grim and exceedingly angry grew Puddle, that little, grey box of a woman in her schoolroom; angry with Anna for her treatment of Stephen, but even more deeply angry with Sir Philip, who knew the whole truth, or so she suspected, and who yet kept that truth back from Anna. Stephen would sit with her head in her hands. ‘Oh, Puddle, it’s my fault; I’ve come in between them, and they’re all I’ve got—they’re my one perfect thing—I can’t bear it—why have I come in between them?’ And Puddle would flush with reminiscent anger as her mind slipped back and back over the years to old sorrows, old miseries, long decently buried but now disinterred by this pitiful Stephen. She would live through those years again, while her spirit would cry out, unregenerate, against their injustice. Frowning at her pupil, she would speak to her sharply: ‘Don’t be a fool, Stephen. Where’s your brain, where’s your backbone? Stop holding your head and get on with your Latin. My God, child, you’ll have worse things than this to face later—life’s not all beer and skittles, I do assure you. Now come along, do, and get on with that Latin. Remember you’ll soon be going up to Oxford.’ But after a while she might pat the girl’s shoulder and say rather gruffly: ‘I’m not angry, Stephen—I do understand, my dear, I do really—only somehow I’ve just got to make you have backbone. You’re too sensitive, child, and the sensitive suffer—well, I don’t want to see you suffer, that’s all. Let’s go out for a walk—we’ve done enough Latin for to-day—let’s walk over the meadows to Upton.’ Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drowning man will cling to a spar. Puddle’s very hardness was somehow consoling—it seemed concrete, a thing you could trust, could rely on, and their friendship that had flourished as a green bay-tree grew into something more stalwart and much more enduring. And surely the two of them had need of their friendship, for now there was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and Anna were deeply unhappy—degraded they would feel by their ceaseless quarrels. Sir Philip would think: ‘I must tell her the truth—I must tell her what I believe to be the truth about Stephen.’ He would go in search of his wife, but having found her would stand there tongue-tied, with his eyes full of pity. And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no reason except that she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not caring why he pitied, she wept, so that all he could do was to console her. They clung together like penitent children. ‘Anna, forgive me.’

• From The Pisces (2018)

  You could give him up just to give him up.” “Why?” “Well, for one thing, it might behoove you to sit with yourself for a while.” Who was this talking? “So that’s it? Just give him up and sit?” “None of these wankers are worth the pain,” she said. “You have to dump them on the roadside and let them rot there.” “You don’t understand,” I said. “He didn’t fuck me over. It was me who hurt him. It was me who lied to him, not the other way around. This isn’t like the other ones. This time I’m in control. Sort of.” “You asked my advice and I’m giving it to you.” “I can’t do that,” I said. “I need love. Or if it’s not love, then the power of that feeling. I love it. I love love. It’s the only thing I have.” “Oh, Lucy,” she said. “You have a lot. It’s like your tits.” “What?” “Your tits. You always say that you have no tits. But really, your breasts are ample. They’re more than enough.” “I want a D cup. Metaphorically.” “And I want a thousand giant cocks. Or I think I do. But it’s a lie. Because even a thousand cocks would never be enough. And it’s crazy to think that they would. The fantasy is a lie.” “But I am crazy. And I don’t want to live without the fantasy,” I said. “You can do it. We can do it together.” “I don’t want to.” “Suit yourself,” she said. “Can I just tell you one more thing?” “What is it?” “Jamie got that woman pregnant. They’re moving in together.” “No! The scientist?” “It’s true.” “How the hell did that happen?” “They were fucking.” “No, I mean—oh Lucy, I’m so sorry.” “I know. How can I go back to Phoenix and face them?” “You can and you shall. Let’s just pray it totally destroys her pussy.” “She better get fat as hell.” “Well, now he’ll really be pining after you.” “Yeah?” “Oh yes. Nothing brings out a man’s quest for escape like a lactating woman with somebody else doing the sucking.” 51. I got into the bathtub and ran the water, soaking and scrubbing away Chase’s semen, which had formed a crust on my thigh. I could see it leaking out of me too in the bathwater, like passing clouds. Really, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be a person who was content to just lie around and watch the clouds, without trying to consume anything? Was there something wrong with just being alive? Why was I so defective? Then again, it wasn’t my fault we were put on the planet and left to make our own meaning. I was making mine and doing the best I could. Drying off, I put on one of my sister’s silk kimonos, then went downstairs and got a glass of white wine. Was I cool?

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  “There’s a weekend in September when I have the whole weekend free. Maybe you can arrange not to have your kids that weekend and we can do something?” “Sure, great,” he says. “Hang on, let me see which weekend it is,” I say, scrolling through the calendar on my phone. When I give him the dates, he nods but doesn’t note it in his own calendar. “OK, we’ll figure it out,” he says. On the walk back to his car after dinner, I text #3 to tell him I am running late and will head over soon. #4 drives me back to his house, opens the front door and we head inside. I assume I am back inside for a quickie before I head out and I gather my long sundress in my hands and start climbing the staircase. “Oh sweetie, no,” he says, stopping me dead in my tracks. “I’m sorry, but it’s late and I have to be up early.” Luckily I am still facing forward and he is behind me, so he cannot see me wince in embarrassment at my overly forward misstep. His addressing me as “sweetie” is the worst part – condescending, like I’m a child trying to stay up past her bedtime. “Oh, OK, no problem, sorry, I just assumed,” I say, hastily thanking him for dinner before making my exit. Something between us just turned but I cannot figure out what exactly or why, and I’m distracted anyway by trying to assuage myself of the guilt I feel as I set my GPS to guide me the half-hour drive to #3’s house. Am I going to now sleep with #3 too? Is that obligatory? Two men inside me within hours of each other? I don’t feel dirty exactly – I mean, I did shower, after all, using copious amounts of #4’s daughter’s coconut body wash – but I do feel deceitful. I’m “all honesty all the time”, but I certainly can’t tell this kind, gentle man who I’ve been texting all day long for the past few weeks how bottomless I really am, how deep my need is right now that it can’t be met by just one man. What is too much? I wonder. Is this empowering or an indication that I’m unfillable, that the hole inside of me is so vast that I could throw more men into the mix and it would be like tossing Band-Aids at a life-threatening injury? I let myself in through the screen door and find #3 in his kitchen, cleaning up after a late dinner. I sit at the counter and we talk while his cats jump on the counter only to get gently nudged off, over and over again. He tells me about his day and a meeting he had with a client. I feel a twinge of sadness at the feeling of cozy domesticity this scene elicits, two adults catching up at the end of their day.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Stan had reached out with an apologetic one-thousand-word email declaring his love. He also sent her a bouquet of carnations. Of course, Sara was allergic to them and gave them to a neighbor, but that wasn’t the point. “He’s been staying with me for the past two days. And I know what you’re thinking! Bad idea, he’s just going to hurt me again. But this time something truly seems different. He still isn’t ready for marriage or an engagement or even to call me his girlfriend or commit to monogamy, but he’s showing up for me in a way that he never has before. He’s truly present.” “I see,” said Dr. Jude. She was wearing what looked like a pair of silk pajamas. “What do you think was the impetus for the change?” “I think he realized I was serious this time. That I wasn’t going to take him back.” “But you did take him back,” said Chickenhorse. “No, I know. I mean before that. I think he realized the gravity of his error,” she said. “Also, he lost his job at the hospital and has nowhere else to go. He’s been living in his car.” “What?” We all balked. I struggled to keep from laughing. Compared to the rest of them I was actually doing well. “I can’t forbid you from seeing him,” said Dr. Jude. “But I want you to remember the state you were in when you came in here, how much you were suffering. In my experience these sorts of relationships only get worse, never better.” “I know.” Sara sniffed. “And I know you’re all going to judge me. And Dr. Jude, I know I broke our deal. But he needs me. At the ‘Opening the Heart’ workshop they said that we can only recover from the past by coming to terms with our core truths. Well, he’s been sleeping on a mat in the resting area of the Korean spa. And I’m a compassionate person. And I want him to be with me. So that’s my core truth.” I glanced over at Diana, the newest member of the group. She looked horrified. Diana was a Brentwood mommy—a gorgeous, fuckable mother in Lululemon—whose husband was a very new-moneyed TV producer. Apparently he wasn’t paying her any attention anymore. It’s not that he was bad in bed or turned her off sexually, but after they made love, a progressively less-frequent occasion now, he no longer connected with her. He no longer looked her in the eyes. It was like he could barely see her. Also, sometimes he had a difficult time getting it up.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Two of them a day, pages and pages. He doesn’t even mail them; he comes here and drops them off for me. It’s like the more suicidal I am, the more he wants me. When I get out we are going to try and live together. Arnold is going to get full custody of the kids in the divorce and I can’t be arsed to give a fuck. So I’m too crazy to be a mother? Well then, that’s fine. I didn’t make myself this way. It is what it is.” “You sound…good,” I said. “I’m great,” she said, tugging at her hospital gown. “And what about you?” “I’m a mess. I think I may have poisoned my sister’s dog.” “Oh my God.” She giggled. “You did what?” “It’s not funny. He’s dead.” “That beast you brought to my house? You poisoned him? With what, bad Alpo?” “No. Tranquilizers.” “Oh shit.” “Yeah.” “A junkie dog. Jesus, who would have thought? You know, I could tell he had a drug problem. He tried to steal my TV.” She snorted. Now it wasn’t comforting at all to have the old Claire back. Why was she laughing? She was like one of those young boys who shoots animals with a BB gun and then has no remorse. Except I was the one who had killed Dominic. I wondered if we were both inherently evil people. Bad women. Were we? Evil people rarely know they’re evil. Someone had told me that once. What if we were put on the planet to fill some purpose but that purpose was bad? Maybe this was why we had to die. “He was such a sweet dog,” I said. “It’s horrible. My sister is going to be destroyed. I don’t think she will ever forgive me.” “Listen,” she said, “it’s not your fault he couldn’t handle his shit. Never trust an addict, Lucy, not even a dog.” “Stop it. I feel irredeemably awful.” “Well, you’re not.” “Do you ever feel that way? Like you’re the worst one and there is no hope for you?” “Darling, I know I’m the worst one,” she said. “And of course there’s no hope.” I began to cry. “Oh, love, don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m guessing it wasn’t intentional.” “No, of course it wasn’t intentional. And he had diabetes. So maybe it was that.” “It probably was.” “I really fucked up this time.” “Listen,” she said, and put her hand on my shoulder. “Your sister can find another dog. But there’s only one Lucy.” I wanted to believe her. I kept trying to wriggle out of the reality of the situation, find some way to prove to myself that I wasn’t a dog killer. But no matter how I looked at it I was a murderer, third degree at the very least. I wanted to see myself the way Claire saw me.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  At first she had blinded herself to this truth, sustained by the passionate stress of the battle, by her power to hold in despite of the man, by the eager response that she had awakened. Yet the day came when she was no longer blind, when nothing counted in all the world except this grievous unhappiness that was being silently borne by Mary. Martin, if he had wished for revenge, might have taken his fill of it now from Stephen. Little did he know how, one by one, Mary was weakening her defences; gradually undermining her will, her fierce determination to hold, the arrogance of the male that was in her. All this the man was never to know; it was Stephen’s secret, and she knew how to keep it. But one night she suddenly pushed Mary away, blindly, scarcely knowing what she was doing; conscious only that the weapon she thus laid aside had become a thing altogether unworthy, an outrage upon her love for this girl. And that night there followed the terrible thought that her love itself was a kind of outrage. And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent respect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy, not even the long years of persecution—an added burden it was, handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. She must pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had made her feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which she had divined in the love that existed between her parents. Never before had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to Mary Llewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhaps never to return, with the passing of Martin—children, a home that the world would respect, ties of affection that the world would hold sacred, the blessèd security and the peace of being released from the world’s persecution. And suddenly Martin appeared to Stephen as a creature endowed with incalculable bounty, having in his hands all those priceless gifts which she, love’s mendicant, could never offer. Only one gift could she offer to love, to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin. In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she now moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this dream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened. And this dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all that she did seemed clearly pre-destined; she could not have acted otherwise, nor could she have made a false step, although dreaming. Like those who in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost all sense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the brink of her fate, having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what she must do to give Mary her freedom.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken control of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl’s tenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers. Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel in this ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary’s obvious misgivings, she went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so that gradually, as the days slipped by, Mary’s mind became a prey to suspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperately wounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the pain of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. But even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that Stephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered; with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was powerless, it seemed, to strike them from her. Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turned upon Stephen, pale and accusing: ‘Can’t you understand? Are you utterly blind—have you only got eyes now for Valérie Seymour?’ And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen’s lips remained closed and she answered nothing. Then Mary wept and cried out against her: ‘I won’t let you go—I won’t let you, I tell you! It’s your fault if I love you the way I do. I can’t do without you, you’ve taught me to need you, and now . . .’ In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand there and plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen to such pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized it she had said: ‘But for you, I could have loved Martin Hallam!’ Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: ‘But for me, you could have loved Martin Hallam.’ Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: ‘No, no! Not that, I don’t know what I’m saying.’ 3 The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary’s young cherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches. Then Martin wrote: ‘Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don’t mind, because of Mary.’ She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du Vieux Logis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the following evening. When she left the house without saying a word, Mary thought she was going to Valérie Seymour. Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin’s coming—she herself was early.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  That turkey, zucchini, and peas dish I left the recipe for out on the counter. He loves it. Vegetables are good for his blood sugar.” “Will do.” “I hate being separated from him for so long. You don’t think I’m a bad mother, do you?” “No, it’s the twenty-first century, don’t be a helicopter parent.” “But—” “That’s just patriarchal guilt. Enjoy your trip, Aunt Lucy is taking great care of him.” When we hung up I felt like an asshole. Annika had always tried to be a good sister to me. By the time my mother died she was already in college, out of the house, but she tried her best. She called often to check in on me and never made me feel like I had been forgotten. She sent me mix tapes, weed, and makeup, so that I could feel cool in high school. Before she was even rich she paid for the abortion I had at nineteen so I wouldn’t have to ask my father for the money. How was I repaying her? By neglecting the most beloved thing in her life for strangers on the Internet. I looked around the living room. There were pictures of Dominic everywhere: Dominic on the beach in Malibu with his ears blowing back, Dominic dressed as a bumblebee on Halloween, Annika cradling Dominic as a little puppy, her face serene and dreamlike. Dominic himself now had his head in my lap and was looking up at me from under his dog brow. “I’m going to do better,” I said to him, scratching his white diamond. “I promise. From now on it’s only going to be you and me. As soon as I get back from this date.” 17. I got to the Ace at five and had time to kill. I decided I would go up to the roof and maybe try to think about my book a little bit. Once again, I’d somehow shoved Sappho under a man: multiple men this time. I’d come to Venice to purge the influence of dick on my life and had wound up becoming Helen of Troy. What would Sappho think? The advisory committe said the thesis draft was due by fall semester. Did that mean the beginning of the semester? Day one? I knew that it did. But I pretended I had some wiggle room: that I could just pop in there on Halloween, draft in hand, like, Sorry for the delay! and my funding would go on. I’d always been scared not to finish the thesis but maybe even more scared to finish it. What would happen then? Would I apply for teaching jobs in other cities?

• From The Pisces (2018)

  We can get him some food.” “I know,” I said. “But his medicine is at home.” “I’ll give you money for a car to go back and pick it up.” The thing was, I could easily do that. I didn’t want to tell her that I was abandoning her for the swimmer. If anyone would understand that I was shirking the duties of friendship over a boy, Claire would understand. But in this situation maybe she wouldn’t. Also, I didn’t want to hear myself say it. “I don’t think that will work,” I said. “I’m sorry.” 32. Dominic was not doing well. He had started peeing indoors no matter how often I took him outside. I didn’t know if it was because he was sick or because he was angry at me for being away so much. I was afraid to tell Annika what was going on, but just to be safe I took him to the vet. The vet ran some blood tests and said that it was further issues related to his pancreas and kidneys, and that his blood sugar was very high. His insulin dose would have to be increased. I emailed Annika, in part to relay the news, but also because I couldn’t afford to pay the $1,300 vet bill. I was scared. Immediately my phone lit up. “Where is he? Put him on,” she said. “He’s right here,” I said, aiming the phone at his face. “Oh no, I can see it in his eyes. Something is not right.” “They gave me a higher dose of insulin to give him.” “I mean besides that. He looks depressed. Hold on, I’m looking up depression symptoms in dogs. Okay. Is he lethargic? Has he been sleeping excessively or showing signs of clinginess?” “No, that’s just me,” I said. “Lucy! I’m serious. Loss of appetite?” “Definitely not.” “Weight loss?” “No, it’s just been the peeing. That’s it. Which I think is directly related to the insulin.” “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me that something was wrong right away?” “Only a few days. And I didn’t want to worry you.” “Lucy, he is my child! You have to tell me when anything like this happens. Are you able to give him the care he needs? What did the vet say specifically? Should I come home?” “No, no, don’t come home. The vet said he is going to be totally okay as long as we adjust this insulin to the new amount. I can do that. It’s easy.” “I still think he looks depressed,” she said. “I’ll take him to group.”

• From The Pisces (2018)

  And perhaps as punishment or to regain control of the narrative—that I might be like her and have a moment like that, the beloved vanisher—I confessed. “I suppose it won’t matter with me,” I said. “Now that you’ve been through it in such a sad way.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, I guess you will be okay when I leave here.” “What do you mean ‘leave’?” “I’ll be going away soon.” “For how long?” “Well, for good.” I told him everything: that I was from a place where there was no ocean and would be leaving in three weeks to return there, permanently. I asked him if he knew what the desert was. He only stared at me. Immediately I knew that I had hurt him. “Do you think—” I started to say. I was going to backtrack, to ask him what could be possible. Could I take him with me? Could he ever exist in a desert? But he put his hands over his face and began moaning. “Theo,” I said. He wouldn’t answer me and seemed to be in a trance. It was like he’d become a Siren. As Homer said, the Sirens had gorgeous, melodic voices, but they could also howl with pain and agony. It was not pain as I had romanticized it: him beautifully bereft with aching for me. It was not the Sirens as we humans imagined them, armed with divine power. This was vulnerability, a bit of madness even, and what it revealed was that he truly loved me, and that love could be grotesque. Dominic woke up in the other room and began barking along with Theo’s moaning. “Please calm down,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I told him that maybe I could work something out. Maybe I could stay after all. I hadn’t known how much he cared. But he said it was too late. “You lied to me,” he said. “I was going to keep coming to see you on land. I had even wanted to ask you to come join me under the water, seriously. And here you have been set to abandon me all along.” I didn’t know exactly what “under the water” meant. Was he more delusional than I was? Did he know I couldn’t live under there? “Theo, no, it isn’t like that. I really am in love with you. I want to stay with you forever.” “That you would think of leaving me,” he said. “That you would let me grow so close to you and never tell me it was finite. It breaks my heart. It’s humiliating too.” “I was afraid that if I told you there was an end date you would see me differently. I liked the way you saw me. I didn’t want anything to change. And then it was too late, you knew me the way you knew me.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  That Sunday, as we clean up after a lunch of tuna niçoise salad at #6’s apartment, he asks if I want to walk to the international grocery store where I love to peruse the aisles and get dinner ideas for the kids. I tell him that I can’t, that I actually have to leave soon to meet a friend. He rattles off a list of my friends, asking who I am going to see: Lauren? Mara? Jessica? I shake my head. “Ah, I see. A friend,” he says slowly. “A date?” “Well, yes,” I say sheepishly. “And she’s off!” he says with a bemused smile. I give him a quick kiss goodbye before we have a chance to launch into further conversation. I feel equal parts guilty and empowered, but my honesty has prevented me from being in the uncomfortable position of having to lie. The sun is starting to go down, if it ever really came up at all – it’s one of those winter days that feels like snow is about to blanket the city. I sit at a darkly lit tapas bar, order a glass of mulled wine, and contemplate how it is that I came to be sitting at a bar in the middle of a Sunday afternoon with a glass of wine, having just left one man’s apartment to go and meet another. Where are my children? I should be home drinking hot apple cider, eating popcorn and playing an epic game of Risk with them. A year ago my life was perfectly ordinary, deceptively steady, centered around my family life that in actuality was only weeks away from combusting. Thankfully #8 dashes in before I can get totally lost in my thoughts, which will swallow me whole if I give them room to grow. I am struck again by how large his physical presence is, how much of the small room both his solid build and dazzling smile take up. He rushes over, apologizing for being late, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek and explaining that he has to go to a party after this and couldn’t decide what to wear. I note his deep blue cashmere sweater and pressed jeans. “So this is pretty weird, but the party I’m going to is actually a sex party and I’ve never been to one so I had no idea what would be appropriate to wear,” he says. “It seems to me that if you’re going to a sex party, what you wear is totally beside the point, but OK, do tell,” I say, my eyes popping open. He admits that he is nervous about the party and not sure what to expect, but that he has been dating a woman who is in an open marriage and that she has been trying to get him to come to one of these parties she and her husband host every month.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  The harsh, even cruel, Dark Age practice of inordinate penance not only gave credibility to the idea of salvation; in a way, it gave credibility to the whole of Christian society. The brutal scourging of a naked king or archbishop was exciting evidence of spiritual equality before God, and man. But once the clerical experts found mechanical means to erode the full penitential rigours, a yawning hole began to appear in the fabric of Christian conviction. Such means were all too easily discovered: the real evil of canon law was that it constantly chipped away – rather like modern tax-lawyers – at the egalitarian provisions in Christianity. It rebuilt hierarchies and pyramids on democratic spiritual foundations, and introduced the cash nexus into the supposed world to come. The canon lawyer was always engaged in a struggle with Death the Leveller, and always beat him – at least to the satisfaction of the papal curia. It is in the seventh century that we first hear of men undertaking to perform the penances of others, in return for payment. This was forbidden; indeed, at first the Church opposed any form of commutation. The first loop-hole allowed was vicarious penance without pay. A man might perform another’s penance from motives of love (or fear; or hope of future favour). Thus we find an early case where a powerful man got through a seven-year fasting penance in three days with the help of 840 followers. And once vicarial penance in any form was admitted, it proved impossible to keep money out of it. Was not alms-giving a form of penance? There, it was argued, the payment was to God, or to God’s servants to perform God’s purposes, and could not, therefore, be reprehensible. The Church at first opposed penitential alms-giving, too, as an easy way to Heaven for the rich man. But it soon found justificatory texts: ‘The ransom of a man’s life are his riches’ (Proverbs, 13:8); and ‘Make unto yourselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, that when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations.’ This last passage was particularly useful; it might almost have been framed by an ingenious canon lawyer for his professional purposes. Thus the penitential system was quite quickly transformed into a means whereby the wealth of the sinful rich could be diverted into ecclesiastical endowments. An early case was that of the Anglo-Saxon Wulfin, who slew six priests; he went on a penitential trip to Rome, and was there told to endow a foundation for seven monks to pray for him for ever. Another case, from the tenth century, was Eadwulf, King Edgar’s Chancellor. He loved his little son so much that he had him sleep between himself and his wife; one night, both were drunk and the son was suffocated. Eadwulf proposed to walk to Rome as a barefoot pilgrim; but he was told to repair a church instead.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  We sat down at the kitchen table. She was tan from the Roman sun and smelled like orange blossoms. Her ass had gotten bigger under her yoga pants and she wore a blousy shirt to cover it. I sat with my hands under me, clenched in fists, and squeezed them hard every time she spoke. “What am I going to do now? I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?” “Do you want me to go out and get you something to eat?” I asked. “Eat?” she looked up at me. “Oh no, I can’t eat.” “Okay.” “I wanted so many more years with him. There was so much life we had left together. I mean, I would have eventually outlived him. But not for so many more years. He wasn’t even old. And to me he was still a puppy. He will always be my puppy.” “Annika, I’m so sorry,” I said. But she didn’t blame me. She didn’t say, “How could you have let this happen?” Instead she stared blankly, her full lips slightly parted, as though she too now knew the nothingness. Maybe it was the first time she could see it. Even when we lost our father she hadn’t had this look. This was the face of a mother who had lost her child. It made me think about my mother. I wondered, if my mother hadn’t died—if it had been me who died instead and my mother had lived—was this what she would have looked like? Steve came over and put his hands on her shoulders. He said that they were going to have Dominic cremated, because California law would not allow them to bury a body so close to the beach. The vet tech would come pick him up in the morning. With that Annika began to sob. She went inside the pantry. I followed her to the door and saw her lie down on the floor with her dead dog, her hair fanned out beside him. He was hers, the creature she loved most, and I had taken him from her. I could smell him from the doorway. Neither Annika nor Steve said anything about the smell, but the scent of death was wafting up from his body and through the glass house. —After Steve had gone to bed and Annika fell asleep on the floor of the pantry, I crept out to the rocks in the dark to see Theo. He hadn’t come out of the water and was resting his arms on one of the rocks, bobbing in the waves. “You’re late,” he said, looking up at me. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming.” “I know, I’m sorry. But I’ll always come. And tomorrow, the water.” “I’m glad,” he said without smiling.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Was this what the eve of one’s wedding was like? I felt that we were being held on the rock by Aphrodite herself. Tomorrow she would drop me into the water, but maybe the water was only her lap. What if I would only be dropping to a warmer, deeper embrace? I moved against him again and again. As I moved, I imagined us beside a giant underwater sand castle. The walls of the castle were made of coral and sea crystals of all colors, textures, and sizes: peach, silver, pastel mint, cyan pieces embedded in translucent white chunks, big slabs made of thousands of tiny sparkling dark-green crystals, rusted gold rocks, transparent indigo pyramids, rosy sea glass, neon-orange honeycombs of coral. The castle had tall turrets and spires, and Theo and I were beside it, preparing to enter. But then I began to come and, as I did, the castle melted slowly to the ground. He and I clung together as the castle vanished, eclipsed by a wave of pleasure, disappearing from my inner vision. I didn’t stop moving until I rode over the peak of that orgasm. If anyone had looked at the rocks they would have seen a woman, thirty-eight years old, hopefully a little younger-looking, writhing against what looked like a large fish. Or maybe they would have seen her just riding the air. I wasn’t sure which was crazier. —When I got back to the house Steve was awake at the kitchen table, eating cereal, wearing a pair of blue striped pajamas, hairs sticking out from his balding head. I was drenched with sea spray and grime. He looked at me sternly. “Late-night swim?” he asked. “Just a beach walk,” I said. “I don’t know what went on while we were gone,” he said calmly. “But why is it that every time you come here, disaster strikes?” “Don’t worry, I’m leaving tomorrow night,” I said. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not telling you to leave. I only mean—your sister just wants to be good to you. She only wants you to be happy.” “I know.” “But you can’t not make a mess.” “I guess I can’t.” “If it were up to me, we would have hired a dog sitter. But Annika wanted to give you the time here. You know she’d do anything for you.” “Would she?” I asked. “Yes!” he said, as though it were crazy that I didn’t know. But the truth was, I didn’t. “Whose blood is that? What happened?” he asked, pointing to the sofa. He had turned over the pillows. “It’s—” But just as I was about to answer, he cut me off. “No, you know what? I don’t know what happened and I don’t want to know.” “Okay,” I said. “But it’s my blood. There was no one else here but me.”

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I am consumed with feelings of guilt, terrified that if I let myself thrive in my life outside of motherhood I am sacrificing my children. Friends and books keep telling me I must grab the oxygen mask first for myself and second for the kids, but it sounds like validation for selfish behavior. On a rational level, I know that I am equating being a good mother with being a martyr, but on an emotional level, I am having a hard time letting go of this vestige of my previous life. I’ve been having sex with various men for months now, but the thought of having sex while on a family trip suggests that I am fully establishing myself as an independent human being outside of my relationship with my children. Sleeping with Blaze is a fantasy, yes, but it’s also proof that I have given myself full permission to have a private life. I have proven in so many ways to myself over the past year that I am strong, resilient, adventurous, curious, passionate and open, but it turns out I have one last thing to prove to myself, that I can be a mother and a fulfilled woman and that the two are not mutually exclusive. Sandy, sticky and freckled from the sun by early evening, I luxuriate in a long shower, scrubbing myself clean with the coconut-scented bath products the resort has provided. I shimmy into my favorite dress, the bright orange Indian- print halter I wore on one of my dates with #4, knowing this is the easiest access piece of clothing I own. I tuck a condom into my small straw clutch purse and then the four of us head out to dinner. Michael snaps a picture of me, Georgia and Hudson sitting on the back of a tuk tuk, bouncing along the narrow road to the beach restaurant. Georgia is squished in the middle, one hand on my leg and the other on Hudson’s, and his hand is wrapped over hers. In the photo, they are smiling widely, filled with joy to be in their happy place and, for Georgia, being with both of her parents at the same time. I have a small smile and am looking not at the camera but sideways at them, cherishing this moment and, as I’ve done a million times before, feeling gratitude for their extraordinary relationship. Georgia worships Hudson and he is attentive and kind to her, even now in the peak of his teenage years when no one could rightfully expect such tenderness. My kids are alright and I am on my way to being alright too. I think guiltily of the condom hidden inside my purse, trying to persuade myself that it’s OK that it’s there, that all of this – my thriving and my kids thriving – goes hand in hand.