Hope

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 Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  By staying in close contact with the cult member, and pooling information gathered by other family members and friends on the rescue team, you can create effective strategic messages. For example, a cult member tells an old friend that they really miss skiing, and that friend tells the other team members. The cult member’s family might then plan a family ski trip, and invite both the cult member and the friend. The cult member may think it is coincidental, or perhaps even spiritually destined. Even if the cult doesn’t allow them to go, the invitation will stir a strong desire within them. Whenever you communicate with the cult member, always concentrate on just one or two points each time. It is better to make one point thoroughly than to try a shotgun approach. Follow-up is critical. For example, suppose you hear one of the group’s leaders say on television that members can go home to visit whenever they want. You might e-mail the cult member a message like this: Hey, remember a few months ago when people told you that it would bad to ask permission to visit? I just saw Rev. Josiah on TV and he said anyone could go home to visit at any time. I’m so happy about this—and so glad he said it publicly. So when can you come visit? If they don’t respond to this point in their next phone call or letter, ask them about it again. Gently but firmly point out the contradiction: Was Rev. Josiah being untruthful? Did you misunderstand? Help me understand, because I’m confused. In a non-threatening tone, force the cult member to have to think about the contradiction. Too many people make really good points but don’t follow up with them. Perhaps they find it difficult to ask the follow-up question in a non-threatening tone—one that forces the cult member to have to think about the contradiction. Above all, don’t send the cult member unsolicited articles that are critical of their group, as Roger Marlowe did. This typically does more harm than good. Remember to be yourself—stay in character. The person will be suspicious if you act differently from your usual self. In any case, why should you act differently? You are gathering information, but you are also maintaining your relationship with someone you care about. Do your best, and don’t worry about making mistakes. If you feel like you’re walking on eggshells, or that you have to weigh your every word and action, you will incapacitate yourself. Mostly be yourself, keep your eyes and ears open, and pay attention to what you see and hear. If you do make some mistakes, keep learning from them, and over time you will be effective.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  “That would never work. You’re always at the office, Daddy. Last summer we were in the same house three months and I didn’t spend more than an hour with you altogether. You slept all day. I was working the Addressograph machine. No, what I want is to go to a boarding school. I want to live with a bunch of guys my own age and just, well, learn sports”—could he tell how much I was lying? I ended on a rehearsed phrase—“and be with the fellows. You know.” “Don’t say ‘you know.’ Poorly educated people say it all the time. It becomes a habit.” “Yes, sir.” I could imagine him lighting a new cigar, twirling the brown baton for an even fire, filling the room with thick smoke that engulfed the fussy Herr Pogner on her perch, her gold eyes squinting through that noxious cloud. “I don’t want to make a decision over the phone. Put it all in writing. Can you type?” “No, sir.” “You must learn. There are only two useful things to be learned in school, typing and public speaking. Before you’re graduated I want you to study both. So, print your letter. I want it to be very neat, as neat and businesslike as you can manage, and in it you should present all your arguments for going away to school. Then go to the public library and read through the guide to private schools and pick one. Got it? I’m not promising anything but I’ll consider your proposal carefully.” The guide devoted a page to each school. In each case it presented black-and-white photographs of the grounds and buildings, a portrait of the headmaster and a brief description of the “philosophy” of the institution. For hours I’d muse over this volume of future lives, weighing one possibility against another. Did I want to be a senator? Should I attend a school in Washington? A general? Military academy? A monk? I read of a school where each student served as an acolyte at least once a week, since all the priests (the teachers) had to say Mass daily. I pictured a long row of side chapels in a ruined priory on the coast of New England, the aisles invaded at vespers by mist as dense as wool and by sheep as white as mist, sea gulls cooing on the hundred altars, hungrily darting forward to snatch at the Host, the surf pounding out a solemn “Dies Irae” as the funeral procession of a dead brother wound its way over fallen columns up toward the marine cemetery. Or did I need the permissiveness of a Quaker school, all plain wood in clear light, the patrician simplicity that only money can buy?

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  behold the Baron for whose sake, down below, they seek Galicia.” 4 As when a dove taketh his place near his companion, and one poureth out his love for the other, circling round murmuring, so did I see one great chieftain glorious received by the other, praising the food which there above doth feast them. But when the greeting was fulfilled, silent before me each one fixed himself, so kindled that it subdued my countenance. Smiling then Beatrice said: “Illustrious life, by whom the generosity of our court was chronicled, 5 make hope be sounded in this height; thou knowest that all those times thou figurest it when Jesus gave more light unto the three.” 6 “Uplift thy head, and see thou reassure thee, for whatso cometh from the mortal world up hither, behoves it ripen in our rays.” Such exhortation from the second flame came to me; whereat I lifted up mine eyes unto the mountains, which had before down-bowed them with excess of weight. “Since of his grace our Emperor willeth that ere thy death thou be confronted with his Counts in his most secret hall; that, having seen the truth of this court, thou mayst thereby strengthen in thyself and mo’ the hope that upon earth enamoureth folk of good; say what thing it is, and how thy mind is therewith enflowered, and say whence unto thee it cometh”, so followed on the second light. And that tender one who guided the feathers of my wings to so lofty flight, thus foreran me in answer: “Church militant hath not a child richer in hope, as is written in the sun who o’errayeth all our host; therefore was it granted him to come from Egypt to Jerusalem, to look on her, e’er the prescribed limit of his soldiery. 7 Those two other points—asked not that thou mayst learn, but that he may bear back word how much this virtue is held in pleasure by thee.— 8 to him I leave; for they will not be hard, nor boastful matter, to him; so let him thereto answer, and may the grace of God concede this to him.” As the pupil who followeth the teacher, eager and glad, in that wherein he is expert, in order that his excellence may be revealed; “Hope,” said I, “is a certain expectation of future glory, the product of divine grace and precedent merit. 9 From many stars cometh this light to me; but he first distilled it into my heart who was the supreme singer of the supreme leader. Let them hope in thee, 10 in his divine song he saith, who know thy name; and who knoweth it not, having my faith? Thou then didst drop it on me with his dropping, in thine Epistle, 11 so that I am full and pour again your shower upon others.” Whilst I was speaking, within the living bosom of that flame trembled a flash sudden and dense like unto lightning.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  “That would never work. You’re always at the office, Daddy. Last summer we were in the same house three months and I didn’t spend more than an hour with you altogether. You slept all day. I was working the Addressograph machine. No, what I want is to go to a boarding school. I want to live with a bunch of guys my own age and just, well, learn sports”—could he tell how much I was lying? I ended on a rehearsed phrase—“and be with the fellows. You know.” “Don’t say ‘you know.’ Poorly educated people say it all the time. It becomes a habit.” “Yes, sir.” I could imagine him lighting a new cigar, twirling the brown baton for an even fire, filling the room with thick smoke that engulfed the fussy Herr Pogner on her perch, her gold eyes squinting through that noxious cloud. “I don’t want to make a decision over the phone. Put it all in writing. Can you type?” “No, sir.” “You must learn. There are only two useful things to be learned in school, typing and public speaking. Before you’re graduated I want you to study both. So, print your letter. I want it to be very neat, as neat and businesslike as you can manage, and in it you should present all your arguments for going away to school. Then go to the public library and read through the guide to private schools and pick one. Got it? I’m not promising anything but I’ll consider your proposal carefully.” The guide devoted a page to each school. In each case it presented black-and-white photographs of the grounds and buildings, a portrait of the headmaster and a brief description of the “philosophy” of the institution. For hours I’d muse over this volume of future lives, weighing one possibility against another. Did I want to be a senator? Should I attend a school in Washington? A general? Military academy? A monk? I read of a school where each student served as an acolyte at least once a week, since all the priests (the teachers) had to say Mass daily. I pictured a long row of side chapels in a ruined priory on the coast of New England, the aisles invaded at vespers by mist as dense as wool and by sheep as white as mist, sea gulls cooing on the hundred altars, hungrily darting forward to snatch at the Host, the surf pounding out a solemn “Dies Irae” as the funeral procession of a dead brother wound its way over fallen columns up toward the marine cemetery. Or did I need the permissiveness of a Quaker school, all plain wood in clear light, the patrician simplicity that only money can buy?

• From Escape (2007)

  With no hope of getting subsidized housing for at least eighteen months, I knew that all of my income was going to be used for rent. I started every month knowing I didn’t have any money to pay utilities or purchase anything except food. Patrick was having a play at school and needed a sword. I promised him I would try my best to figure something out. But this was going to be hard to pull off. Patrick got more and more agitated as the days went by. After two weeks his counselor took me aside and said that the sword was a big emotional issue for him. The counselor said she felt that the sword would make Patrick feel more secure about his life and my ability to take care of him. I told her I didn’t know where to get one and didn’t have the money. She said I could pick up a sword at Wal-Mart for five dollars. I had six dollars to my name. I’d been saving that for laundry soap, but now I realized the sword came first. We stopped at Wal-Mart on the way home. We bought the sword. Patrick acted as though the weight of the world had disappeared from his little soul. It had been fun to buy it for him. But now what did I do for laundry detergent? The next day, Connie, the homeless-shelter coordinator who’d helped register my children in school, stopped by to check on us. She brought along a box of laundry soap samples that she’d picked up from the shelter. “I knew with all your children you could probably use this.” Connie also gave me some gas vouchers. What a relief. I could do my laundry, but I was still not going to make it through the month. Then Leenie called me and said a costume director from HBO was in town and was looking for someone who could help design clothes for the series Big Love. Leenie thought I could make some money by sewing at home. I leaped at the opportunity and got hired to sew several pairs of long underwear. I sewed like mad and finished the order in a few weeks. The job was a godsend. It gave me enough money to pay my utilities through the summer. On the appointed day, I arrived at the courthouse at 9 A.M. I was scared but also hopeful. Rod Parker was not going to be there and had arranged for a substitute attorney to take his place. The guardian ad litem was not there, either. But my attorney was, and the small courtroom was filled with my supporters. Merril looked a little taken aback. For once he didn’t act as though he was holding all the cards.

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  Richard raced to cover Damian with Stan’s robe. “Do you have a wallet? Any kind of ID?” “They locked it in their safe.” “Forget it. Let’s go.” As they left Los Angeles on I-10, Damian kept letting Stan’s robe fall open. Richard wouldn’t have minded, but he reached over to cover the younger man. He didn’t want trouble with the police. “Where are we going?” Damian was still worried and periodically looked at the cars behind them. “What if Bob and Stan find out who you are and come after you?” “We’ll be fine. We’ll put some distance between us and your captors, find a store and get you some clothes and then get out of the state.” “But where will we go? I thought you said you didn’t have much money.” “I said I didn’t have much money in the bank. I do have a lot of property, including a small ranch in New Mexico. Hey, there’s a strip mall up ahead. What size shoes should I get? What size shirts and pants?” Damian smiled and slid open his robe again. “For you, I wouldn’t mind being nude all the time.” Richard smirked. “Yeah, but what if I want to take you to dinner? What if you want to take a college class?” Damian’s eyes widened. “You’d seriously help me with that?” Richard’s eyes glistened, and he interlaced the fingers of his right hand with Damian’s. “I’ve wanted to help you for so long. I want to be your man.” Damian felt the warmth and affection radiating from Richard as they held hands. “I promise, from now on there’s only going to be one Daddy in Damian.” Richard squeezed his hand. “That’s right, handsome. And just you wait, this Daddy’s gonna make everything all right.” SETTLING IN: LETTER TO JACK Dominic Santi Dear Jack, There’s been a lot going on here in the backwoods of Wisconsin. As you may have heard, this summer Eric and I finally moved into a new place—together. I know, I know, after five years, it’s about damn time. I admit that most of the holding out was my own doing. It’s not just the age thing, though with me being twenty years older, sometimes I feel like his dad even when I’m not being his Dad, if you know what I mean. I swear, some days he’s twenty-six going on thirteen. But we’ve worked out the age difference part pretty well.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  It was blurry, hazy from the night and from the phone’s weak zoom lens. Grayed out, slashed through with black and white. He texted the photo to Igor and Grigori. He watched for a moment, until dots appeared below it, suggesting that they were typing, and then disappeared. They appeared again and again they disappeared. The snow was still falling. It landed on his fingers and the screen. Melted as the dots rose and fell. They were like a score. He could hear a kind of music to them. Each time they punctured the silence, it was a different note they played. He walked home and sat for a little while in the living room without turning on the light. Igor texted him: nice. Alek texted back, thx. U alright? Ok Nice U? Good School okay? Yeah U? Good Nice Coming home? Maybe. Expensive Me too Maybe Christmas? Nice Haha U happy out there? U? Haha. Nice ANNE OF CLEVES ON THEIR FIRST DATE, SIGRID ASKED MARTA WHICH OF HENRY VIII’S WIVES SHE MOST IDENTIFIED WITH, AND MARTA CHOKED ON HER WHITE WINE. Sigrid repeated the question, slowly, and with a dawning chill, Marta realized that she was serious. “I don’t know much about that,” Marta said, and Sigrid pressed her lips together in what looked like a condescending grin. Marta didn’t know much about history. She didn’t know much about dating women, either. She had recently broken up with a man named Peter, after he asked her to marry him and move to Belize. Every time he kissed her, she could feel a part of herself looking away from him, toward something else that she could not then make out. But when, after three years together, he had asked her to marry him, two things suddenly resolved into sharper focus—that she had been with him only because being with him was easier than no longer being with him, and that she’d been waiting for a moment when this would no longer be the case. Sigrid lifted her glass and examined it, but she didn’t seem like she was in a rush to change the subject. She had the sturdy, upright patience of an elementary-school teacher. Her eyes were very green, Marta noticed. “You’re not much of an Anne Boleyn,” Sigrid said, and the name darted through Marta’s mind like a swift silver fish. There was something there, a glimmer of recognition—or, no, maybe just a desire to have the conversation over with. She had not thought much about history in some time, in years, really. She had studied chemical engineering as an undergraduate and now she worked at a waste-processing plant in Baraboo. She might have told Sigrid this, except that the look on Sigrid’s face, with its precise concentration, wedged inside her like a splinter. “Definitely not Catherine Howard.” “I don’t know who they are, but I’ll take your word for it,” Marta said. The wine was too sweet for her. She didn’t much like wine.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  At last the captain heard my knock and came to the door. He had a whole tent to himself, I could see, and he was still awake with a mystery novel and a bottle of Scotch. He appeared confused—at least he didn’t know who I might be. When he’d unraveled my identity and figured out I was ill, he urged me to spend the rest of the night with him. We’d go to the infirmary first thing in the morning, he said to me. We’d go together. He’d take care of me. I had to insist over and over again on the urgency of my seeing a nurse now (“I’m really sick, sir, it can’t wait”) before he finally relented and led me to the infirmary. Even as I was pleading with him I was wondering what it would be like to live in this spacious tent with him. But why hadn’t he noticed me before? Why hadn’t he tried to rub me? Was I inferior to my roommate in some way? Less handsome? At least I wasn’t abnormal, I said to myself, glancing over at his haggard unshaven face, at his profile with its shelf of eyebrows in the darkness bright with mercury. The next summer I refused to go to camp until my mother lied and told me I’d be a junior counselor in charge of dramatics at a lovely place in the northern woods where practically no discipline existed and what there was would be waived in my case. I rode up north before the season began with the owner of the camp, who humored me (“Yes, well, you’ll have to decide which plays you’ll want to stage—you are the dramatics department”). After he said such things, he seemed to choke on his own generosity; his mouth would contract into an acidic kiss.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  This intransigence had now given way to a new optimism and tenderness and a gracious, civilized uncertainty. “I don’t know what to say about homosexuality,” he said to me as we kicked our way down a long hillside of autumn leaves that crackled like the bright, cast-off shells of boiled crustaceans. “But at least you have some sort of sexuality. And you’ve actually had some sex. Which is neat, if you think about it. Not many kids can claim as much.” We were heading toward a Japanese stone lantern half mossed over beside a bridge wreathed in mists rising from the stream that fed into the man-made pond, empty now but in warm weather the home of corpulent, whiskered white fish freckled with pale brown spots. “Now, as to these High Church Scotts of yours, they seem like fanatics to me. Of course, they’re fascinating, I can see why you like them.” He compared them to characters in Proust, but the names meant nothing to me. I envied him his Olympian sureness in placing people according to the typology of classic fiction. I, too, would read Proust someday, but only after I’d mastered Pound, Moore, Eliot, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Donne, Dante and all the other poets the Scotts discussed every night. The talk with the Scotts was not exclusively literary. When we were alone, Rachel would confide in me how much she despised DeQuincey, how unworthy of her he was and how she longed to escape him and to remove little Tim from his debilitating influence. “DeQuincey’s just a creep, weak, ineffectual. You can see it for yourself. I hate him.” She lowered her head and her eyelids fluttered disquietingly as she spoke; she was ashamed of both her husband and her spleen.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “To Leah and Henry. Terrible things can happen in this life but being in love changes everything. It gives you something to hold on to. From now on only good times, good health, good news!” Then he leaned over and kissed Irene on the cheek. Yes, Miri thought, being in love changes everything. [image "Elizabeth Daily Post" file=Image00019.jpg] [image "Elizabeth Daily Post" file=Image00019.jpg] WINTER BREAK PRESIDENT TRUMAN VISITS LITTLE WHITE HOUSEJAN. 21 (UPI) — The President flew to Key West, Florida, yesterday for a lengthy visit to his “Little White House” retreat on the Navy base at the southernmost point of the United States. His arrival was greeted with full presidential courtesies — simultaneous 21-gun salutes from USS Gilmore and USS Yosemite in the harbor, and the playing of ruffles and flourishes followed by the national anthem by the Marine drum and bugle corps. The President is able to continue working at this remote location thanks to thrice-weekly mail courier service from Washington. The USS Williamsburg, equipped with duplex radio teletype equipment, was dispatched ahead of the President’s visit and moored at the Navy base. It will provide a classified circuit to the Navy Department and the White House. This morning President Truman enjoyed his daily walk to the beach one mile away, where he swam in the Atlantic Ocean and watched his staff engage in a vigorous volleyball match. The movie “The Model and the Marriage Broker” will be shown in the living room this evening. Mrs. Truman remained in Washington at the bedside of her mother, who is ill, and was unable to join her husband. They spoke on the telephone last night, which they will do every evening. He also spoke on the phone with his daughter, Margaret, who is performing in Birmingham. 14 [image "image" file=Image00005.jpg] [image file=Image00005.jpg] KathyOn Tuesday afternoon, January 22, Kathy Stein sat at her desk finishing her final exam in English lit, stealing glances at her watch, praying she’d finish in time to make her plane from Syracuse to Newark. She had a taxi lined up to deliver her to the airfield, and the second she turned in her blue book she raced out of Slocum Hall, taking the steps two at a time, never mind the ice, and was relieved to see the cab waiting. She tossed her bag into the backseat and told the driver to step on it. He handed her a line about the weather. “You want to get there in one piece, or not?” Well, yes, she wanted to get there in one piece, but she wanted to get there. The driver had the heat turned up to what felt like 100 degrees but there was nothing to do about that but roll down her window. “It’s not enough I have a sore throat?” The driver coughed to make his point. “You want me to get pneumonia?” She paid him, leapt out before he’d come to a full stop and ran for the field.

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

  I think that’s the secret. I began to realize that it’s now, not then, that matters. And I realized that I’m me, not them. I can do what I want, not what they did. I learned to take responsibility for myself and my life.” Then she said, “I know we live in a culture of divorce and that many people have given up on the idea that you can find a partner for life. But I still believe that marriage can be a wonderful thing. I like to think that mine is. But to make it work, you need the right understanding and the right tools. I hope that Maya and the children in her generation will be able to marry for love with no hang-ups.” In expressing her hopes and fears, I believe Karen speaks for us all. I SIX Setting an Example n Chapter 4, we saw that despite his parent’s personal unhappiness, Gary was raised by a mother and father who were good parents. They provided love, protection, and a moral compass to their children. Not only were they able to give priority to the children but they were able to work together on their behalf. When one of their sons got into trouble in high school, they went hand in hand to the school counselor for advice. They devised a plan where each took turns waiting up at night for the errant boy until his acting out subsided. Despite their anger and distrust of each other and disappointment in the marriage, they presented their children with a united front. Gary’s parents are like millions of American couples who have serious, hurtful problems with each other but who nevertheless give priority to their children. So we can ask: Did their many problems affect Gary when he went in search of a life mate? Are there residues from their unhappy relationship that Gary brought to his own marriage? Or did their shared commitment to parenting make a more powerful impression? How did the tensions of his parents’ marriage affect Gary’s identity as husband and father? And what is his relationship like today with his parents? Gary had hinted that his parents’ marriage influenced his own. It was time to hear more about his life with Sara. I leaned toward him and said, “Talk to me about your marriage.” “Meeting Sara really turned my life around,” he answered, warming to the change of subject. “But first let me give you the full perspective. I’d graduated from college and spent two years in the Peace Corps. When I got back, I was thinking of going into business with my dad but I wasn’t enthused about it. So I started working for a friend who started a small software business. I was living at that time with Tanya. She was a beautiful and passionate woman. We fell madly in love and things were just great until I got to know her better.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  You were serious about PNB?” “I need a job, Sophie.” “Or it’s back to the paper mill,” she said, slapping his chest. Then, looking back at Lionel, she said, “Charlie comes from paper folk.” “Why are you being such a bitch today?” Charles said. Sophie got off his lap. The table rocked from her motion. “I’m not,” she said. “You’re the one who intruded on my coffee date with Lionel.” “Oh, I’m intruding ?” Charles made a big show of looking between Lionel and Sophie, and Lionel once again pulled his coat from the back of his chair. “He’s fine, actually,” Lionel said. Sophie ignored this. “Yes, you’re intruding,” she told Charlie. “We were having a very intimate conversation before you arrived and invited yourself.” “About what?” Charles asked, looking directly at Lionel then. “What were you talking about?” “Lionel’s proctoring. He did a history test today.” “About what?” “French something-something,” Sophie said. “Absolutism,” Lionel said. “What’s that?” “I don’t know. I just did the test,” Lionel said. “And then collected the blue books.” “And that’s so important?” “For some people, you know, tests are everything,” Lionel said. He stood up, looped his scarf around his neck. “I didn’t mean to make a mess here.” “No, stay. I’m being a dick. I’m just burned out,” Charles said. “Yeah, he’s being a dick,” Sophie added. They were both looking at him then, each of them knowing something a little different about him. He should go. He should leave. But they were looking at him as if they wanted him to stay, really wanted him to sit with them, and it had been a long time since Lionel felt that anyone really wanted him around or needed him. Distantly, remotely, he felt a click, a little alleviation of pressure in his head. Something had been determined. Something was now opening. He sat again, and at that very moment, he felt one foot glide along the outside of his right leg. And he felt a reassuring pressure against his left ankle. They were both touching him. They were both moving against him. “All right,” he said. “All right.” MASS Aleksander Igorevich Shapovalov—Sasha to those who loved him most in the world and Alek to everyone else, including himself—stared at the radiographic scans presented to him by his doctor in the intimate corner examination room and tried to think of what he’d tell his mother. “There’s a good chance it’ s nothing,” Dr. Ngost said. “But you’ll have to get a biopsy.” “A biopsy,” Alek said. “Yes. We’ll take a small piece of the mass and examine it. Then we’ll know more.” “But I don’t feel sick,” Alek said. “I just came because of this cough. I don’t feel sick.” “There’s a chance that you aren’t. There’s a chance it’s just a mass that we can take out. It happens sometimes. The body is full of odd turns.” “Full of odd turns,” Alek repeated—a nonsense phrase, too casual.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  I had decided to bleach my hair late Monday night; on Tuesday I’d no longer answer the description my father would put out in his frantic search for me. Perhaps I’d affect an English accent as well; I’d coached my stepmother in the part of Lady Bracknell before she performed the role with the Emerald City Players and I could now say cucumber sandwich with scarcely a vowel after the initial fluty u . As an English blond I’d evade not only my family but also myself and emerge as the energetic and lovable boy I longed to be. Not exactly a boy, more a girl, or rather a sturdy, canny, lavishly devout tomboy like Joan of Arc, tough in battle but yielding before her visionary Father. I wouldn’t pack winter clothes; surely by October I’d be able to buy something warm. A new spurt of hot water as I retraced my steps to the kitchen, clipped the order to the cook’s wire or flew out the swinging doors, smiling, acted courteously and won the miraculously large tip. And there, seated at a corner table by himself, is the English lord, silver-haired, recently bereaved; my hand trembles as I give him the frosted glass. In my mind I’d already betrayed the hillbilly with the sideburns who sobbed with dignity as I delivered my long farewell speech. He wasn’t intelligent or rich enough to suit me. When I met him on Monday at six beside the fountain and presented him with the four ten-dollar bills, he struck me as ominously indifferent to the details of tomorrow’s adventure which I’d elaborated with such fanaticism. He reassured me about the waiter’s job and my ability to do it, told me again where he’d pick me up in the morning—but, smiling, dissuaded me from peroxiding my hair tonight. “Just pack it—we’ll bleach you white whin we git whar we goan.” We had a hamburger together at the Grasshopper, a restaurant of two rooms, one brightly lit and filled with booths and families and waitresses wearing German peasant costumes and white lace hats, the other murky and smelling of beer and smoke—a man’s world, the bar. I went through the bar to the toilet. When I came out I saw Alice, the woman I’d worked with, in a low-cut dress, skirt hiked high to expose her knee, hand over her pearl necklace. Her hair had been restyled. She pushed one lock back and let it fall again over her eye, the veronica a cape might pass before an outraged bull: the man beside her, who now placed a grimy hand on her knee.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  I had decided to bleach my hair late Monday night; on Tuesday I’d no longer answer the description my father would put out in his frantic search for me. Perhaps I’d affect an English accent as well; I’d coached my stepmother in the part of Lady Bracknell before she performed the role with the Emerald City Players and I could now say cucumber sandwich with scarcely a vowel after the initial fluty u . As an English blond I’d evade not only my family but also myself and emerge as the energetic and lovable boy I longed to be. Not exactly a boy, more a girl, or rather a sturdy, canny, lavishly devout tomboy like Joan of Arc, tough in battle but yielding before her visionary Father. I wouldn’t pack winter clothes; surely by October I’d be able to buy something warm. A new spurt of hot water as I retraced my steps to the kitchen, clipped the order to the cook’s wire or flew out the swinging doors, smiling, acted courteously and won the miraculously large tip. And there, seated at a corner table by himself, is the English lord, silver-haired, recently bereaved; my hand trembles as I give him the frosted glass. In my mind I’d already betrayed the hillbilly with the sideburns who sobbed with dignity as I delivered my long farewell speech. He wasn’t intelligent or rich enough to suit me. When I met him on Monday at six beside the fountain and presented him with the four ten-dollar bills, he struck me as ominously indifferent to the details of tomorrow’s adventure which I’d elaborated with such fanaticism. He reassured me about the waiter’s job and my ability to do it, told me again where he’d pick me up in the morning—but, smiling, dissuaded me from peroxiding my hair tonight. “Just pack it—we’ll bleach you white whin we git whar we goan.” We had a hamburger together at the Grasshopper, a restaurant of two rooms, one brightly lit and filled with booths and families and waitresses wearing German peasant costumes and white lace hats, the other murky and smelling of beer and smoke—a man’s world, the bar. I went through the bar to the toilet. When I came out I saw Alice, the woman I’d worked with, in a low-cut dress, skirt hiked high to expose her knee, hand over her pearl necklace. Her hair had been restyled. She pushed one lock back and let it fall again over her eye, the veronica a cape might pass before an outraged bull: the man beside her, who now placed a grimy hand on her knee.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  On a night the great priest appeared unto me ina dream presenting his lap full of treasure, and whenI demanded what it signified, he answered that this portion was sent me from the country of Thessaly, and that a servant of mine named Candidus was thence arrived likewise. When I was awaked,I mused in myself what this vision should portend, consider- ing 1 never had any servant called by that name: but whatsoever it did signify, this I verily thought, 571 21 LUCIUS APULEIUS porrigeret, lucrum certum modis omnibus significari partium oblatione credebam. Sic anxius et in pro- ventum prosperiorem attonitus templi matutinas apertiones opperiebar: ac dum, velis candentibus reductis in diversum, deae venerabilem conspectum apprecamur, et per dispositas aras circumiens sacerdos, rem divinam procurans supplicamentis sollemnibus, de penetrali fontem petitum spondeo libat, rebus iam rite consummatis inchoatae lucis salutationibus re- ligiosi primam nuntiantes horam perstrepunt. Et ecce superveniunt Hypata! quos ibi reliqueram famulos, cum me Fotis malis incapistrasset erroribus, cognitis scilicet fabulis meis, necnon et equum quoque illum meum reducentes, quem diverse dis- tractum notae dorsualis agnitione recuperaverant. Quare sollertiam somni tum mirabar vel maxime, quod praeter congruentiam lucrosae pollicitationis argumento servi Candidi equum mihi reddidisset colore candidum. Quo facto idem sollicitius sedulum colendi frequen- tabam ministerium spe futura beneficiis praesentibus pignerata; nec minus in dies mihi magis magisque accipiendorum sacrorum cupido gliscebat, summisque precibus primarium sacerdotem saepissime | con- veneram, petens ut me noctis sacratae tandem arca- nis initiaret. At ille, vir alioquin gravis et sobriae 1 The MSS have de patria, which, according to Bursian, would be a gloss that shouldered the true reading Hypata out of the text, 572 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK XI

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  But one night I soared. My brain, which ordinarily had too much resonance in it so that every thought boomed and echoed muzzily without definition, tonight had acquired an acoustical sharpness; I could actually hear my thoughts as they rose and fell. And it seemed I hovered energetically over myself, ready to play my mind as a nervous but competent pianist might do, fingers flexing hungrily above the keys. But the real difference was one of attitude: I’d decided to take the very futility I so often felt, the vacant hum, the sense of subsisting outside whatever was vibrant and to equate precisely this secular emptiness with the sacred void, to make of my shame a jewel, to call my poverty wealth. If most of the time I saw myself as my sister’s despicable little brother, the nerd who smelled bad and walked and talked funny, tonight I stumbled on the happy idea of, yes, redefining this same insufficiency as a proof of salvation: the famous emptiness of the Buddha. Of course I admitted that Nirvana was rest and what I knew was torment, that Gautama wanted nothing and I everything, that I was crawling with desire—but couldn’t this very excruciation reverse itself and suddenly become peace? Once I accepted my extravagant mendicancy I stumbled upon the sober, intelligent little boy I had once been. This was the kid with the sweet smile and an interest in all sorts of things, the boy with brushed hair and cloudless eyes, the child so whole he could forget himself: the birthday boy. Tonight as I sat cross-legged on my cot I could see shining out from within me that boy who’d been entranced by the marionette show: his smaller, sweeter body burned through this neglected exile I’d become. Or was I simply at fifteen learning to love myself at four as now so many years later I like the fifteen-year-old (even desire him), self-approval never accompanying but always trailing experience, retrospection three parts sentimental and one part erotic? Perhaps this composite self, older cherishing younger, provided me with some companionship. At least tonight my attention wasn’t out wandering the corridors. A warmth welled up out of the solar plexus, which, true to its name, I pictured as plaited sunlight, sensitive bands reaching out into the most remote points of my body, even the cold tip of my nose and freezing toes. Like a heated square of pavement in an otherwise snowy sidewalk, the child burned through the adolescent and, luminous within the child, glowed this shifting cat’s cradle of sensation, whether spiritual or physical I’m unable to say.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  LUCIUS APULEIUS sitae convallis sublucidum lucum prospicit fanum sollerti fabrica structum, nec ullam vel dubiam spei melioris viam volens omittere, sed adire cuiuscumque dei veniam, sacratis foribus proximat. Videt dona pretiosa ac lacinias auro litteratas ramis arborum postibusque suffixas, quae cum gratia facti nomen deae cui fuerant dicata testabantur. Tunc genu nixa et manibus aram tepentem amplexa, detersis ante 4 lacrimis, sic apprecatur: ‘Magni Iovis germana et coniuga, sive tu Sami, quae sola partu vagituque et alimonia tua gloriatur, tenes vetusta delubra; sive celsae Carthaginis, quae te virginem vectura leonis caelo commeantem percolit, beatas sedes frequentas ; sive prope ripas Inachi, qui te iam nuptam Tonantis et reginam dearum memorat, inclitis Argivorum praesides moenibus; quam cunctus oriens Zygiam veneratur et omnis occidens Lucinam appellat; sis meis extremis casibus Iuno Sospita, meque in tantis exanclatis laboribus defessam imminentis periculi metu libera. Quod sciam, soles praegnatibus pericli- tantibus ultro subvenire.' Ad istum modum suppli- canti statim sese Iuno cum totius sui numinis augusta dignitate praesentat, et protinus ‘Quam vellem ' 254 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK VI valley a temple standing within a glimmering forest, fair and curiously wrought ; and minding to overpass no place whither better hope did direct her, although it might be uncertain, and to the intent she would desire the pardon of every god, she approached nigh to the sacred doors. Where she saw precious riches and vestments engraven with letters of gold, hanging upon branches of trees and the posts of the temple, testifying the name of the goddess Juno to whom they were dedicated and the reason of their offering. Then she kneeled down upon her knees, and em- bracing the altar (which was yet warm) with her hands, and wiping her tears away, began to pray in this sort: ‘ O dear spouse and sister of the great god Jupiter, which art adored among the great temples of Samos alone made famous by thy birth, and infant crying, and nurture; or worshipped at high and happy Carthage, as a maid, being carried through heaven by a:lion; or whether the rivers of the flood Inachus do celebrate thee, ruling over the notable walls of Argos, and know that thou art the wife of the great thunderer and the goddess of goddesses : all the east part of the world hath thee in veneration as Zygia, all the west world calleth thee Lucina: I pray thee to be mine advocate and Saviour * in my tribulations; deliver me from the great peril which pursueth me, and save me that am wearied with so long labours and sorrow, for I know that it is thou that succourest and helpest such women as are with child and in danger.’ Then Juno, hearing the prayers of Psyche, appeared unto her in all the royal dignity of her godhead, saying: ‘ Certes, Psyche, I would gladly

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  Then they called together all their friends, and thus it was concluded: one said, that I should be closed in a stable and never worke, but continually to be fedde and fatted with fine and chosen barly and beanes and good littour, howbeit another prevailed, who wishing my liberty, perswaded them that it was better for me to runne in the fields amongst the lascivious horses and mares, whereby I might engender some mules for my Mistresse: then he that had in charge to keepe the horse, was called for, and I was delivered unto him with great care, insomuch that I was right pleasant and joyous, because I hoped that I should carry no more fardels nor burthens, moreover I thought that when I should thus be at liberty, in the spring time of the yeere when the meddows and fields were greene, I should find some roses in some place, whereby I was fully perswaded that if my Master and Mistresse did render to me so many thanks and honours being an Asse, they would much more reward me being turned into a man: but when he (to whom the charge of me was so straightly committed) had brought me a good way distant from the City, I perceived no delicate meates nor no liberty which I should have, but by and by his covetous wife and most cursed queane made me a mill Asse, and (beating me with a cudgill full of knots) would wring bread for her selfe and her husband out of my skinne. Yet was she not contented to weary me and make me a drudge with carriage and grinding of her owne corne, but I was hired of her neighbours to beare their sackes likewise, howbeit shee would not give me such meate as I should have, nor sufficient to sustaine my life withall, for the barly which I ground for mine owne dinner she would sell to the Inhabitants by. And after that I had laboured all day, she would set before me at night a little filthy branne, nothing cleane but full of stones. Being in this calamity, yet fortune worked me other torments, for on a day I was let loose into the fields to pasture, by the commandement of my master.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  Then breathed forth: “The love whence I am still aflame to-ward that virtue which followed me even to the palm and issuing from the field, 12 willeth that I breathe on thee who dost delight thee in her; and further, ’tis my pleasure that thou tell the thing which hope doth promise thee.” And I: “The new and the ancient scriptures set down the symbol, which again doth point me to the thing itself. Of the souls which God hath made his friends Isaiah saith that each one shall be c ? ad with double garb in its own land, and its own land is this sweet life. And more worked out by far, doth thy brother, where he treateth of the white robes, set forth this revelation to us.” 13

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  While I devised these things, I brake the halter wherewith I was tyed and ran away with all my force, howbeit I could not escape the kitish eyes of the old woman, for shee ran after me, and with more audacity then becommeth her kind age, caught me by the halter and thought to pull me home: but I not forgetting the cruell purpose of the theeves, was mooved with small pity, for I kicked her with my hinder heeles to the ground and had welnigh slaine her, who (although shee was throwne and hurled downe) yet shee held still the halter, and would not let me goe; then shee cryed with a loud voyce and called for succour, but she little prevayled, because there was no person that heard her, save onely the captive gentlewoman, who hearing the voice of the old woman, came out to see what the matter was, and perceiving her hanging at the halter, tooke a good courage and wrested it out of her hand, and (entreating me with gentle words) got upon my backe. Then I began to runne, and shee gently kicked mee forward, whereof I was nothing displeased, for I had as great a desire to escape as shee: insomuch that I seemed to scowre away like a horse. And when the Gentlewoman did speake, I would answere her with my neighing, and oftentimes (under colour to rub my backe) I would sweetly kisse her tender feet. Then shee fetching a sigh from the bottome of her heart, lifted up her eyes to the heavens, saying: O soveraigne Gods, deliver mee if it be your pleasure, from these present dangers: and thou cruell fortune cease thy wrath, let the sorrow suffice thee which I have already sustained. And thou little Asse, that art the occasion of my safety and liberty, if thou canst once render me safe and sound to my parents, and to him that so greatly desireth to have me to his wife, thou shalt see what thankes I will give: with what honour I will reward thee, and how I will use thee. First, I will bravely dresse the haires of thy forehead, and then will I finely combe thy maine, I will tye up thy rugged tayle trimly, I will decke thee round about with golden trappes, in such sort that thou shalt glitter like the starres of the skie, I will bring thee daily in my apron the kirnels of nuts, and will pamper thee up with delicates; I will set store by thee, as by one that is the preserver of my life: Finally, thou shalt lack no manner of thing. Moreover amongst thy glorious fare, thy great ease, and the blisse of thy life, thou shalt not be destitute of dignity, for thou shalt be chronicled perpetually in memory of my present fortune, and the providence divine.