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.

Page 34 of 216 · 20 per page

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Absolutely. Karate or no karate. You’re twice his size. He’s out the door when he turns and hollers back, You swear I won’t get in trouble? If you hit first, you’ve lost TV for a month. That afternoon he comes in shucking off his backpack. He’d run for about a block before turning to face the pack. Dan had said he was gonna karate Dev’s block off, and Dev had said, You go ahead and hit me first, adding, When I hit you, you’re gonna topple like a pine. End of discussion. Come March, after I’ve been praying for a solution to our transportation woes, a professor I’ve met once or twice through mutual friends approaches me in the quad. She’s going to Italy and heard I needed a car. Maybe I could keep hers through the summer; she’d consider it a favor. And that’s how hard that was. Such unearned gifts feed the growing faith that some mystery is carrying me. The snow’s just melting when I take out the fourth credit card I can’t pay—one with a five-hundred-dollar limit and a fat percentage interest rate. That same week the university flies the creative writing profs to New York for a program fund-raiser. Once the dinner’s over, the writers cross the street to the Pierre Hotel to hang out. With its checkerboard floor and ornate armchairs, it’s like entering a Fred Astaire movie. That night Toby and his pals sing in loud harmony the old seventies hit “Helpless,” swaying side to side like a grade-school choir. I’m just finishing my Coke when who should come kneel at my seat but Toby’s agent from almost a year back. Where, she says with both charm and entitlement, is my damn memoir? I’m shocked she remembered me and even more shocked when I hear myself tell her the truth: I’m in the middle of a divorce and haven’t done that much—less than ten pages. She says, Send me a proposal. Maybe we can get you an advance. Here’s where grace comes in. Had I been drinking, I would’ve pretended to know what a proposal was, then lived in crouched fear, maybe trying to find out or not—being too afraid in my drinking form to fail at a proposal. Instead, I hear my mouth spill another truth: I don’t know the first thing about writing a proposal. She waves her hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world, saying, Maybe a hundred pages. Three or four chapters. In a poet’s mind, a hundred pages sounds like two thousand. I haven’t published a hundred pages in twenty years. How long do you think, she asks, before I can get those chapters? My head’s scrambling. I figure when Dev goes to stay with his dad mid-June, I’ll have a month to work, so I say, Mid-July. Great, she says. Then just add a letter saying what else you might put in the book. I must have a stunned look on my face.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Somebody has given me a copy of a prayer attributed to St. Francis, and beginning that day, I set my dull mind to memorizing it. The prayer—which Jack of the Tinfoil Helmet first said that night going home from the meeting—now rivers through, sometimes dozens of times a day: Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love…The first time I said it, I bridled against the phrase “O Divine Master” and the last two lines about eternal life, which I thought were horseshit. O Divine Master, ask that I not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying to self that we are reborn to eternal life. As I slow down inside, the world’s metronome seems to speed up, for without keen, self-centered focus on your own inward suffering, clock hands spin. Days get windstormed off the calendar. Rather than thinking about spiritual practices, arguing them out in my head, I almost automatically try them. That, I suppose, is surrender. My final few days at the hospital whipped past, so I recount them here in rough outline. I prayed to get to go to my Radcliffe meeting, and—without being asked—Mary offered to escort me on her day off. On a steaming August day, I attended my first scholars’ sherry hour wearing a plastic wrist bracelet I tried to hide under the sleeve of my gabardine jacket. Shortly after that, Warren ran into a friend of ours who was a shrink, and I called to ask if he could get me the fuck out of the bin, and he waved a wand that made Alice in Wonderland disappear like the ghost she was. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Then I was stepping through the door of my own house. Then my son’s smooth arms were around my neck. 34The Sweet HereafterIn the loony bin, I surrendered—not full bore, the way saints do, once and for all, blowing away my ego in perfect service to God—not even close. But watching the world through chicken wire convinced me that my unguided thought process would no doubt swerve me into concrete. Before, I’d feared surrender would sand me down to nothing. Now I’ve started believing it can bloom me more solidly into myself. So once home, I take suggestions I’d carped about before with a new zeal, albeit with the occasional snotty look on my face. I sit squirmy in prayer while conflicting thoughts zip through my skull like so many simultaneously slammed tennis balls. Before, prayer had involved bouncing on and off my knees so fast it resembled a break dance move. Make a daily gratitude list, Joan said, using every letter of the alphabet to delineate what you’re grateful for. Like J for Joan the Bone.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἔλπω, (v. sub fin. ), Causal, only in pres. to make to hope, πάντας μέν p ἔλπει she feeds all with hope, Od. 2. 91., 13. 380. II. elsewhere in Med. ἔλπομαι, Ep. ἐέλπομαι: 3 sing. impf. ἔλπετο and ἐέλπ--, with augm. only once in Hom., Od. 9. 419: also pf. ἔολπα 1]. 22. 216, Od. 5. 379, Hes. Op. 271; 3 sing. plqpf. ἐώλπει Il. 19. 328, Od. 20. 328, etc. To hope or expect, indulge hope or expectation, often in Hom. and Pind., once in Hes. (I. c.), and i in Hdt. (though the latter as often uses the Att. form ἐλπίζω, 4. ν.) :—Construct., like ᾿“ἐλπίξω: but mostly in Hom. with acc. and inf, fut., Il. 13. 8, etc. ; of aor., 7. 1993 of pf., 15.110: sometimes also c. acc. rei, 13. 609., 15. 5393 but sometimes the inf, must be sup- plied, ἐκτελέσας μέγα ἔργον ὃ οὔ ποτε ἔλπετο θυμῷ (sc. ἐκτελέσειν) Od. 3. 275 :—Hom. is fond of the pleon. phrases, ἔλπετο θυμῷ Il. 17. 404, etc.; ἔλπετο γὰρ κατὰ θυμόν το. 355; ἐέλπετο ὃν κατὰ θ. 13.8; also, μάλα δή σφισιν ἔλπετο θυμός 17. 4953 ἔλπετο θυμὸς ἐνὶ orhOecow ἑκάστου 15. 701; ἤλπετ᾽ ἐνὶ φρεσί Od. g. 419. 2. to expect anxiously, to fear, with the same constr., Hom. ; ἐλπόμενος τί οἱ κακὸν εἶναι to have a foreboding tht ice tlds Ὁ. 113. 3. generally, to think, deem, suppose, ov ποθι ἔλπομαι οὕτως δεύεσθαι re -"Axacods Il. 13. 3093; ἔπην ἡμέας ἔλπῃ ποτὶ δώματ᾽ ἀφῖχθαι Od. 6 2973 5 οὐ γὰρ bY ἀθανάτων τίν᾽ ἐέλπετο... Τρώεσσιν ἀρηξέμεν Il. 13. 8, cf. 7. 199., 15. 110, Orac. ap. Hdt. τ. 65. (From 4/FEATI, as appears from the forms ἐέλπομαι, ἔολπα ; hence also ἐλπίς, ἐλπίζω, ἐλπωρή, and ἔπ-αλπ- νος, ἄλπ-νιστος ; cf. Lat. volup, volupe (Plaut.), volup-tas.) ἐλπωρή, 7, Ep. form of ἐλπίς, ο. inf. fut. et aor. ἐλπωρὴ. ὑπάλυξιν ἔσεσθαι Od, 23. 287; ἐλπ. φίλους ἰδέειν 6. 314., 7.76: Ap. Rh, 3. 1255. ἔλσαι, inf. ἔλσας, part. aor. I of εἴλω (4. V.). éhon, ἔλσοιμι, ἐλσών, Lacon. for ἐλθ--, Ar. Lys. 105, 118, 1081. €ADpa, τό, (€Adw) the tree or stock of the plough, on which the share was fixed, Lat. dentale, Hes. Op. 428, 484; cf. Buttm. Lexil. 5. v. εἰλύω 3, and v. γύης. ἔλύμος, ὅ, (ἐλύω) a case, quiver, Hesych. II. a kind of Phrygian pipe, made of box-wood, with a horn tip, ἔλυμοι αὐλοί Soph. Fr. 398, Callias Πεδ. 7; used by the Cyprians, Cratin. Jun. Θηρ. vie Til. a kind of grain, elsewhere μελίνη, panic or millet, Hipp. 638. 2, Ar. Fr. 351, Polyb. 2.15, 2. [ὕ, Draco p. 68, 15.]

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I bought her a bus ticket back to San Diego then, and I never saw her again, though she and Mother talked sometimes by phone. But I took to my easygoing brother, Tex, right off. He was slim and wiry with hair dark as mine. Finding Mother explained to him the artist streak his engineer father had shipped him off to military school to get rid of. After the service, Tex had gone on a tear with drugs and alcohol, but he’d been in active recovery some decades. It tantalized me to think his sobriety might spill over onto Mother, especially when he decided to relocate his photography business to Texas. Daddy greeted Tex like a lost army buddy, but he’d grown tired of the story long ago, so—after a few hours sitting around the living room catching up—Daddy drifted off to watch some game . In movie versions of traumatic secrets, the family walks arm in arm into a field of poppies while the sun paints them gold, which scenario I had faith in. With Tex there, a lot of infection drained off pretty fast. Into the night, Mother sat in the rocking chair in her studio, poking at the wood fire, reviewing the tale for some shifting configuration of Lecia and Tex and me. With each version, a new detail emerged—the snow in her hair as she came into the cleared house; the photo of Tex in a sailor suit she’d hoarded; how thick the custody papers were as she tore them—her hands were sore for days. For decades we’d watched her portraits start with fluid ocher streaks, marveling as each layer of paint drew from the violent slashes a particular shrimp boat, say, down to its last bolt. So for a week or so, with every retelling, Mother herself got more real. Before I left after ten days or so, she’d moved way closer to the front of her face. Back in the Midwest, I bounced into Tom Sawyer’s office like somebody who’d thrown down her crutches to start tap-dancing. He’d been so right. It wasn’t my fault, Mother’s madness. Cured, I declared myself. Not long after, the low-residency grad school in Vermont I hadn’t believed existed took me on probation, no doubt due to puffed-up references from Walt and Etheridge. I kept living in Minneapolis, teaching there. But twice per year I went to Vermont for a few weeks—poetry camp, I called it. Age twenty-three, I walked into a decrepit mansion on a campus approaching bankruptcy. (The college would officially fold the year I graduated.) The chintz sofas were faded. The French-pleat drapes were missing a few hooks. The white wine came from a gallon jug and left the taste of pennies in your mouth. To get there, I’d drawn from a grubstake I’d cobbled together trucking crawfish from Louisiana for my sister’s newly acquired farmer husband—the Rice Baron, I called him.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  27 The Untuned Instrument Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. —Samuel Beckett O n the appointed Thursday, I sit in a parking lot in the pissy, indifferent rain you get in New England autumns, versus the open-firehose storms the Gulf had once dragged over us back home. After what seems an eternity, I feel a pair of high beams arc over my face like prison searchlights, then this big silver ship of a car lunges into place. I climb out, holding a newspaper over my head. A few knocks on the side window, and the heavy door swings open. No sooner does the door slam shut than I inhale—through the cigarette smoke—the stinging juniper scent of gin. It brings me up short. Maybe somebody spilled gin in his car? You must be Mary, James says, We’re waiting for three other guys. He has a bald, remarkably flat head, which he’s combed a few russet strands across—plus a beaverish overbite. He asks how much time I have, and I confess it’s taken me a year to put together my first two months. Maybe not gin, I think, but shaving lotion. Or I have gin on the brain . Big accomplishment, he says, those first few months. Mind if I smoke? The automatic windows hum down an inch, and he pats around his pockets for a cigarette. His overbite makes him look very eager for it. That coming in and out of sobriety? Hard. He depresses the lighter in its socket. You detox over and over. You never get to the good part. I’m ready for the good part. The lighter pops, and he presses it to the end of his smoke. I have to admit, I say, I do feel better since I started taking Joan’s suggestions. As James goes to replug the cigarette lighter in the hole, you can see how—from his perspective—the hole keeps edging side to side to thwart him. His head sways a little as he jabs at the dashboard three or four times. Despite the lighter’s having gone cold, he presses it again to the end of his burning stogie, sending sparks all over his lap. Finally, he just drops the lighter in the ashtray like it belongs there. This, I think, is as drunk a motherfucker as I’ve ever seen, fixing to steer the car I’m in. As a kid, I was trained to give the shitfaced room. Small white droplets of rain tap on the windshield when a knock on the back car door makes me startle. In climbs big-footed David, red bandana around his head, along with a guy from our group named Jack. Jack of the red curly hair, skittery-eyed Jack, who—on being introduced to me first—explained that he had a little touch of the schizophrenia, as he held index finger one inch from thumb. Mostly he stays medicated enough to hold down a job at the box factory.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἕλος, eos, τό, low ground by rivers, marsh-meadows, ἵπποι ἕλος κάτα βουκολέοντο 1]. 20, 221: generally a marsh, ἂν δόνακας καὶ ἕλος Od. 14.474; then in Hdt.1.191, Thuc.1.110,etc. (From 4/fEA, cf. the Gr. Colony “YéAn or ’Edéa (Velia), also the Velia at Rome, which Dion. H. says was called from ἕλος (1. 20), Velitrae (on the edge of the Pontine marshes), and vallis.) ἔλοψ, v. sub ἔλλοψ. ἐλόωσι, v. sub ἐλαύνω. ἐλπὶδο-δώτης, ov, 6, giver of hope, Anth. P. 9. 525. ἐλπῖδο-κοπέω, to lead by false hopes, ἐπιθυμίας Sext. Emp. M. 6. 26. ἐλπὶδο-ποιέω, to raise hopes, Hesych. ἐλπίζω : fut. Att. 7 first in Lxx and N. T. (ἐλπίσω in Aesch. Cho. 187 is aor. subj.): aor. ἤλπισα Hdt. 8.24, Soph., etc.: pf. ἤλπικα (προ--)} Posidipp. Incert.1.8: plqpf. ἠλπίκειν Hdn.8.5:—Med., App. Pun. 115 :— Pass., aor. ἠλπίσθην Soph.: pf. ἤλπισμαι Dion. H. 5. 40. Att. form of ἔλπομαι, used also by Hdt., ¢o hope for, or rather (in earlier writers) to look for, expect :—Construct.: c. acc., Aesch. Theb. 589, Cho. 539, etc., cf. βούλησις; τι παρά τινος Xen. Mem. 4. 3,17, Dem. 374. 1:—but often with a dependent clause in inf. to hope to do, or to hope or expect that.., with inf. fut., ἐλπ. μιν ἀποθανέεσθαι Hdt. 1.143, cf. Thuc. 4.71; aor. inf. with ἄν, οὐδαμὰ ἐλπίζων ἂν ἡμίονον τεκέειν Hdt. 3. 151, Soph. Ph. 629, Antipho 118. 28, Thuc. 2. 53; but also without ἄν, ἐλπ. ποτε δεῖξαι Soph. Ph. 629; ἐλπίζων τὴν Ἑὐρώπην δουλώσασθαι (v.1. -σεσθαι) Lys. 192.273; ἤλπιζον ἑλεῖν, Xen. Ages. 7,6; the inf. may be omitted, ἔκλυον dy .., οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἤλπισ᾽ αὐδὰν (sc. κλυεῖν) Soph. ΕἸ. 1281 ;—so also, ἐλπ. ὅπως or ws .., with fut., Eur. Heracl. 1051, cf. Soph. O. C. 385, El. 963 :— Pass., τὸ μηδαμὰ ἐλπισθὲν ἥξειν Id. Ο. C. 1105. 2. of evils, to look for, fear, in same constr., δύστανον ἐλπ. αἶσαν Soph. Tr. 111, cf. Aj. 799; τουτὶ... τὸ κακὸν οὐδέποτ᾽ ἤλπισα Ar. Αν. 956; ἐλπ. πάγχυ ἀπολέεσθαι Hdt. 8. 12; but also, like δέδοικα, with μή foll. by aor. subj., οὐδαμὰ ἐλπίσας, μή κοτε ἐλάσῃ Id. 1.77; οὐκ ἤλπισε, μή κοτέ TIS ἀναβαίη 14. 8. 53. 3. with inf. pres. it means little more than fo ¢hink, deem, suppose, believe that .., (as in old English, “1 hope he wol be ded,’ Chaucer), ἐλπίζων εἶναι... ὀλπιώτατος Hdt: 1.30; ἐλπίζων σιτόδειάν τε εἶναι ἰσχυρὴν .. καὶ τὸν ληὸν τετρῦσθαι Id. 1.22; οἵ. 27, 75» Aesch. Theb. 76, Cho. 187; βοῦν ἢ λέοντ᾽ ἤλπιζες ἐκτείνειν Eur. Andr. 720; ἐλπίζει δυνατὸς εἶναι ἄρχειν Plat. Rep. 5723 C; τίς .. ἐλπίζει θεοὺς .. χαίρειν ἀπαρχαῖς; Com. Anon. 41 ;—so, sometimes, of future events, τίς ἤλπισεν ἁμαρτήσεσθαί τινα τῶν πολιτῶν τοιαύτην ἁμαρτίαν ; Lys. 189. 24; οὐδὲν .. ποιήσειν ἐλπίζων Dem, 42. 12. 4. ς. dat. to hope in.., τῇ τύχῃ Thuc. 3. 97 ; so, ἐλπ. eis τινα Ev. Jo. 5. 45, al.; ἐπί τινι Ep. Rom. 15. 12, al.; ἐπί τινα τ Ep. Petr. 3. 5.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἐλευθερόω, to free, set free, Tas ᾿Αθήνας Hdt. 5. 62, cf. 4. 1373 ἐλευ- θεροῦτε πατρίδα Aesch. Pers. 403, Cho. 1046; ἐλευθερῶσαι τὴν πόλιν Dem. 561. 18; ἐλ. τὸν ἔσπλουν fo set the entrance free, clear it, Thuc. 3. 31: to release a debtor, Hdt. 6. 59: τό γ᾽ εἰς ἑαυτὸν πᾶν ἐλευθεροῖ στόμα he keeps his tongue altcgether free, i.e. does not commit himself by speech, Soph. O. T. 706: to free from blame, acquit, τινα Xen. Hell. 1.7, 26:—Pass. to be set free, Hdt. 1.95, 127, al.: to indulge in licence, Plat. Rep. 575 A. 2. c. gen. to set free, loose or release from, φόνου Eur. Hipp.1449; χρεῶν Plat. Rep. 566 Ε; so, ἐλευθεροῦντες ἐκ δρασμῶν πόδα, i.e. ceasing to flee, Eur. H. F. τοῖο :—Pass., τῶνδε τῶν τόπων ἐλ. Plat. Phaedo 114 B; ἀπὸ τῶν πλουσίων Id. Rep. 569 A. ἐλευθέρωσις, ews, 7, a freeing, setting free, Hdt. 9. 45; ἀπό τινος Thuc. 3. 10; δούλων ἐλ. ποιεῖσθαι Arist. Pol. 5. 11, 32. II. licence, Plat. Rep. 561 A. ἐλευθερωτέον, verb. Adj. one must set free, quoted from Polyb. ἐλευθερωτής, οὔ, 6, a liberator, Luc. Vit. Auct. 8, Dio C. 41. 57. ᾿Ελευθώ, dos contr. οὖς, ἡ, -- Εἰλείθυια, Pind. O. 6. 71. *Edevoivos, a, ov, of Eleusis, h. Hom. Cer. 266, Hdt., etc. ; esp. as epith. of Demeter and Cora. IL. ᾿Ελευσίνιον, τό, their temple at Eleusis, Andoc. 15.1, Inscrr, of Brit. Mus. 11. 111. ’EAevoina, τά, their festivals, Paus. 4. 33,5; of these there were two, the greater and the less, Dict. of Antiqq. [ot, except in ἢ. Hom. 1. c., Soph. Ant. 1120. ] *Edevots, ivos, 4, Eleusis, an old city of Attica, sacred to Demeter and Cora (Proserpine), first in h. Hom. Cer.: the form Ἔλευσίν only occurs in late Mss., as in Strabo 395, but ᾿Ελευσίς in 397 (bis); so Σαλαμίν is a late form for Σαλαμίς. II. Advs., EAevotve at Eleusis, Andoc. 15. 6, Lys. 103. 24, Xen., etc. (in late and incorrect writers, ἐν ’EA., v. Cobet. V. LL. p. 201): Ἐλευσίνἄδε, Adv. to Eleusis, Lys. 125.6, Xen. Hell. 2. 4, 24: Ἐλευσινόθεν, from Eleusis, Andoc. 15. 4, Lys. 107. 12. ἔλευσις, ews, 4, a coming, arrival, Dion. H. 3. 59. 2. the Advent of our LORD, N.T. ἐλεύσομαι, fut. of ἔρχομαι, Hom. ἐλευστέον, verb. Adj. of ἔρχομαι, one must come, LXx (2 Macc. 6. 17). ἐλεφαίρομαι, old Ep. Dep. (of dub. origin), to cheat with empty hopes, said of the false dreams that come through the ivory gate, οἱ μέν κ᾽ ἔλθωσι διὰ πριστοῦ ἐλέφαντος, οἵ ῥ᾽ ἐλεφαίρονται Od. 19. 565, (where observe the play of words between ἐλέφας, ἐλεφαίρομαι, as between κέρας, kpaivey, in speaking of the ¢rue dreams which come through the orn gate, of δὲ bia ξεστῶν κεράων ἔλθωσι θύραζε, οἵ ῥ᾽ ἔτυμα κραίνουσι) :— generally, to cheat, overreach, éAepnpapevos .. Τυδείδην Il. 23. 388. II. in Hes., of the Nemean lion, ἐλεφαίρετο φῦλ᾽ ἀνθρώπων he used to destroy them, Th. 330.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  εὔελπις, 6, ἡ, neut. εὔελπι :—of good hope, hopeful, cheerful, Thuc. 4. 10, 62, Xen., etc.; ἐπὶ rots δεινοῖς Thuc. 1. 70; περὶ τῆς ψυχῆς Plat. Hipp. Mi. 364 A; πρὸς τὸν θάνατον Id. Apol. 41C; τοῦ κρατήσειν Diod. Excerpt. Vat. p. 76. 2. c. acc. et inf. fut., eveAmis εἰμί σε ἰσχύσειν Aesch. Pr. 509; εὔελπις σωθήσεσθαι in good hope to be saved, Thuc. 6. 24, cf. Plat. Phaedo 63 C:—76 εὔελπι cheerfulness, Plut. 2. 1101 Ὁ, Dio C. 42.1, etc.; so, ev. λαλιά cheerful talk, Polyb. 1. 32, 6. II. pass. well hoped of, the subject of hope, Lxx (Prov. το. 18). εὐελπιστέω, to be of good hope, Charito p. 79. 22, Nicet. Ann. 415 B: —eveAmotia, 7, hopefulness, Polyb. 11. 3, 6 :---εὐέλπιστος, ov, hope- ful: in Adv. -τως, Byz. εὐέμβἄτος, ov, easy to get into, Hipp. Acut. 395, Chio Epist. 15. εὐέμβλητος, ov, easy to put in, of dislocated joints, Hipp. Art. 833. evep Boros, ov, exposed to invasion, χώρα Arist. Pol. 7. 11, 10, II. =foreg., Hipp. Fract. 777. εὐέμετος or εὐήμετος, ov, easily made sick, Hipp. Art. 805. evepns, és, (ἐμέω) vomiting readily, Hipp. 645. 35; ἵνα εὐεμὲς ἢ (sic Cod. Urb.) that vomiting may be easy, Theophr. H. P. 9. 10, 2.—A form εὐημήϑς occurs in Hipp. Aph. 1249 B, cf. Lob. Phryn. 706. εὐεμπτωσία, 7, liability to a thing, proclivity, Stob. Ecl. 2. 182 :—in Medic. an illness to which people are commonly liable, such as colds, Posidon, ap. Galen. 5. p. 157 B, Diog. L. 7. 115. εὐέμπτωτος, ov, easily falling, εἴς or πρός te Galen. 5.157 A, Jo. Chrys. Adv. -τως, Galen, εὐέμφρακτος — εὔζυγος. εὐέμφρακτος, ov, easy to block up, Galen. 6. 497, 2. εὐένδοτος, ov, easily yielding, yn Strabo 740. εὐέντευκτος, ov, affable, Poll. 5.138. Ady. - τως, Ib. 139. εὐέντρεπτος, ov, feeling much fear, Ptolem. Tetrab. p. 159. eveEdywyos, ov, easy of export, Strabo 222. εὐεξάλειπτος, ov, easy to wipe out, Xen. Hell. 2. 3, 53. εὐεξανάλωτος, ον, easy of digestion, Hipp. 383. το. εὐεξαπάτητος, ov, easily deceived, Plat.Rep. 409 A, Xen. Eq. Mag. 7, 15. εὐέξαπτος, ov, easily kindled or lighted, M. Anton. 9. 9, Galen. εὐεξέλεγκτος, ov, easy to refute, Plat. Hipp. Ma. 293 Ὁ. εὐεξέλικτος, ov, skilful in deploying troops, Strabo 154. εὐεξέταστος, ov, easy to examine or detect, Arist. de An. 1. 4, 4. εὐεξία, ἡ, (εὐέκτης) a good habit of body, good state of health, high health, opp. to καχεξία, Hipp. Aph.1242; σαρκός Eur. Fr.200; εὐεξία τῶν σωμάτων καὶ καχεξία Plat. Gorg. 450 A, cf. Arist. Eth. N. 5. 1, 53 εὐεξ. καὶ ὑγίεια Plat. Gorg. 559 A; in pl. Isocr. 41 A, Aeschin. 26. 43; εὐεξίαι τῶν σωμάτων Plat. Prot. 354 B. IT. generally, vigour, good condition, τῆς ψυχῆς Id. Rep. 444 D; τῆς πολιτείας Xen. Lac. 8,1; πολιτική Arist. Pol. 7. 16, 12; φωνῆς Plut. 2. 804 Β, etc.; ev. ἐν τοῖς πολεμικοῖς ability in war, Polyb. 3. 6, 12. εὐεξίλαστος, ov, placable, Schol. Ap. Rh. 4. 148.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Were Warren laboring over this story, I’d no doubt appear drunkenly shrieking; spending every cent I could get my mitts on; alternately crowding his scholar’s home with revelers, then starting to vanish nights into a kind of recovery cult—none of this entirely untrue. I would’ve preferred that my ex vet this manuscript and correct the glaring flaws. Wisely, he balked—I’d have hated to see his version, too. How to write it without self deceit? I set out to forge a family, but it fell apart. Know any divorcée who ever stops weighing fault for a marriage’s implosion on some divine scales? There’s also a psychological phenomenon that messes with my ability to depict our nuptial collapse—the normally crisp film of my memory has, in this period, more mysterious blanks than the Nixon tapes. Maybe the agony of our demise was too harrowing for my head to hold on to, or my maternal psyche is shielding my son from the ugly bits. Or I was too shitfaced at the end. Whatever the case, those years only filter back through the self I had at the time, when I was most certainly—even by my yardstick then—a certain species of crazy. But inside that was a girl starving for stability and in love with a shy, brilliant man fleeing the aristocracy he was born to. Decades ago, I trained myself to mistrust that girl’s perceptions. No doubt she projected as many pixels onto the world’s screen as she took in. So while I trust the stories I recall in broad outline, their interpretation through my old self is suspect. Forget reporting the external events right, try judging them when you’re an alumna of custodial care. When I reach to grasp a solid truth from that time, smoke pours through my fingers. Yet driving east with all my belongings wedged into Warren’s small white car, I feel swept off my feet as any storybook maiden by her champion. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and the holiday burger taken at a roadside diner is a feast. We move into a bleached-out neo-ghetto apartment, which we pack with books and our two rickety desks laden with separate typewriters. December, a potted fern going brown gets hung with cardboard angels we cover in foil. On their heads I glue faces torn out of newspaper or off postcards—the Three Stooges, a poet or two, movie stars. On one, I fix Cary Grant, for that’s who Warren is to me—the preoccupied professor in Bringing Up Baby, ignorant of how his patrician profile could make Katharine Hepburn trail him down the street in her convertible, holding her hat on with one kid-gloved hand. The weak spots in our union are there from the git-go—aren’t they always? But every difference lures me, for if I can yield to Warren’s way of being, his cool certainty can replace my ragtag—intermittently drunken—lurching around.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  (This an unbeliever might call self-hypnosis; a believer might say it’s the presence of God. Let’s call it a draw and concede that the process of listing my good fortune stopped my scrambling fear, and in relinquishing that, some solid platform slid under me.) I know people needier and way more deserving have prayed far harder for stuff they needed more: to feed starving children, say, to get a negative biopsy result. Nonetheless, it’s a stone fact that—within a week or so of my starting to pray—a man I don’t know calls me from the Whiting Foundation to give me a thirty-five-thousand-dollar prize I hadn’t applied for. Some anonymous angel had nominated me and sent in both my poems and a hunk of a crappy autobiographical novel about my kidhood—maybe pinched from the writing group I’d once been in. But the call brings no celebration. If anything, I call Warren feeling awful I got the prize instead of him. Plus, the foundation insists on flying me to New York to pick up the check at a ceremony flanked by two mandatory cocktail parties—a small one before, a large one after. I know with clammy certainty that I won’t last fifteen minutes at a cocktail party without imbibing. Later, I cackle like a madwoman when Joan suggests my quote-unquote higher power orchestrated this. Horse dookey, I say. Surely you don’t believe that. The foundation probably started considering me back when I was drinking. With neck tipped to keep the phone against my ear, I scoop out Dev’s second helping of mac and cheese—plop—into his ABC bowl. You going to the meeting tonight? she asks. Warren’s got school, I say. Well, bring Dev. In fact, I’ll meet you both in the park across from the street in fifteen minutes. I start to argue, then remember my new Navy SEAL of Sobriety pledge and say okay. In the park, the wind is howling like around Dracula’s castle, the sky yellowing with dusk. Dev’s never out this time of day, and his face has the wonder of a scuba diver. He points overhead to charcoal-colored clouds mounting. We find Joan bundled in a navy peacoat and beret. She’s taken a seat on the merry-go-round, its candy-apple red barely visible in the waning light. Dev hops onto the sitting post opposite her, and I give the wheel a spin. Preach to me, I say to Joan. You have to consider prayer a factor in the grant. Oh, horseshit, I say, adding, Those wheels must’ve started to turn when I was still drinking like a fish. Joan and Dev rotate around one slow loop as she says, But the vote was taken the day before they called you, around the time you’d started praying your ass off. Wheeling past me, she leans back and asks, You’re certain you’d still have gotten the grant—prayer or no prayer? Faster, Mom, Dev hollers. Of course, I say.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  suspenseful part of the tale came when Raggedy Ann and Andy were captured by a wizard or witch who lived in the “deep, deep woods” and wanted to cut Ann open and steal her magical candy heart. Raggedy Ann’s compassion for her wicked captors knew no bounds. In one story she chided Raggedy Andy for purposely distracting a witch who was trying to remember the spell to render Raggedy Ann unconscious so she could then destroy the doll. These villains always burst into tears of frustration when their spells didn’t work, and Raggedy Ann would comfort them by telling them that all the magic they needed was right there inside of them and that if they would just clear the cobwebs of sorrow and selfishness from their minds, rays of goodness and kindliness would light up their souls. These enlightened words and a soft hug were all that was needed to forever transform the deranged creatures into beings of love and generosity. After reading Raggedy Ann for a few years, I decided I wouldn’t hit other kids unless they hit me first. I imagined Raggedy Ann somehow knew about this promise I made to myself and smiled up from the pages with approval. I blew through the Ramona Quimby books and everything else written by Beverly Cleary. I strongly related to Judy Blume’s coming-of- age stories, and The Chronicles of Prydain, a fantasy series by Lloyd Alexander, had me reading into the early-morning hours. I also discovered Roald Dahl’s stories featuring authoritarian schoolteachers and cruel caregivers and other books with similar antagonists, like the headmistress in The Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett or Joan Aiken’s The Wolves of Willoughby Chase. In these stories, little girl protagonists were kidnapped and shut away in a school run by mean-spirited women who forced them to keep their hair short. The children always escaped their circumstances and won out in the end. I read these books over and over. It was, however, the Little House on the Prairie books in which, like the television show, I found the greatest parallels to my life. Living on a

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Tubman, who also was born a slave and escaped.” Escape. The word always caught my attention. The children in Hansel and Gretel escaped the wicked witch’s house after their father and stepmother abandoned them in a forest. The Little Match Girl escaped poverty through death and joined her grandmother in heaven. “But Harriet did something different,” Pilar said. “She returned to the plantations to help her friends and family escape from slavery, too. She also had others who worked with her. Some of them were white people who wanted slavery to end. They helped Harriet by hiding runaways in their homes as they traveled toward the Northern states, where black people were legally free.” Pilar stretched out her hands. “The route they took, including the string of homes used as hiding places, was known by the slaves as ‘The Underground Railroad.’” I was enthralled and a little terrified. No one had ever told me about this history. I wanted to read the books right away. Questions raced through my mind: When did all this take place? Was I in danger of becoming a slave at some point? “It is important to know your history,” Pilar said, “and where you come from. When you understand history, you gain a better understanding of the world we currently live in and the people in it. A lot of us are fighting for justice in our own way.” When she finished talking, Pilar removed her black clothes, then put on a long, white cotton nightgown, knit cap and woolen socks. We climbed into her bed and I opened the first page of Harriet Tubman’s story. I became absorbed in a world where people were owned like objects or ranch animals and were treated far worse. I read The Underground Railroad several times that night, as well as Frederick Douglass’s story before I finally succumbed to the drowsiness that tugged at my eyes. Cuddling next to Pilar’s warm body, I drifted off to sleep. On our next trip to the Petaluma Public Library, I asked the librarian where I could find more books about Frederick Douglass and Harriet

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  convince doubters that it was in their best interest to stay. Often people caved under that pressure, but there was another way: I could run away in the night. Runaways were called “splittees,” and a plan to split between two or more people was called a “contract,” which was what I ended up making with another woman and a man. Our plan was to leave in the middle of the night and walk to the nearest town, Marshall, and from there catch a bus to San Francisco. But it never happened because the other woman started to feel guilty, and she broke our contract during a game. After that, I was subjected to a series of teardown games and was told I wasn’t good enough for boot camp. Management sent me back to Oakland. I still wanted to leave and probably would have if I hadn’t met Barbara. Barbara was an older woman with some status in the community, and she took a special interest in me. When I first met her, she said, “Honey, I’ve got my eye on you and I’m going to make it my mission to get you to stay here. You have too much potential for us to lose you.” It was the first time since I’d come to Synanon that I felt somebody cared about me. I told Barbara how much I missed you and how hard it was for me being separated from my child. Barbara told me that if I worked hard and truly embraced the Synanon way that I would be reunited with you, and she promised to help me make that happen. The more vested in the community I became, the more unattractive the outside world began to look. Sometimes when we had games or seminars in which the subject of mainstream living was brought up and we discussed how it destroys people, I’d remember how vulnerable and helpless I felt when I was on my own. Those thoughts hardened my resolve in doing the good work and to finally bring you into the community. It was in Oakland, where I met most of the people who would become my closest friends throughout my time in the community and after. What really put a fire under me, though, was when I discovered the Kidsnatchers club, a kind of support group for parents working to bring their children into Synanon. The Kidsnatchers really gave me something to strive for, and I developed a Synanon zeal in the group. Once I became involved in Kidsnatchers, I started to get a lot of approval and encouragement from upper management. I finally began to feel on track with the movement. Barbara breathed new life into me, and I became inspired all over again with Synanon, only this time instead of only going through the motions, I began to put in real effort to be the best Synanon citizen I could be.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὀχέω : impf. ὥχουν Eur. Hel. 277, Ion. ὀχέεσκον Hom.: fut. ὀχήσω Aesch., Eur.: aor. @ynoa-Call. Jov. 23:—Med. and Pass., impf. ὠχέετο Hdt., -e’ro Xen.: fut. ὀχήσομαι 1]. : Ep. aor. ὀχήσατο Od.; also aor. ὀχηθῆναι Hipp. 4. 250 Littré, Luc.:—in Att. Prose, only used in pres. and impf.: Hom. never uses the augm.: [the first syll. is made long in Pind. O. 2. 121, Lyc. 64, 1049, where it is written ὀγχέω, ν. ὄφις sub fin.] (From ὄχος.) Frequent. of ἔχω, as φορέω of φέρω (ἔχειν τε καὶ ὀχεῖν Plat. Crat. 400 A), to uphold, sustain, ἄγκυρα δ᾽ ἥ μου τὰς τύχας ὥχει (sic leg., v. Dind.) Eur. Hel. 277. b. to endure, suffer, ὀχέοντας ὀϊζύν Od. 7. 211; κακὸν μόρον .. , ὅνπερ ἔγὼν ὀχέεσκον 11. 619; ἄτην ὀχέων 21. 301; ἀπροσόρατον ὀγχέοντι πόνον Pind. O. 2. 121; ἄχθος ὀχ. Hipp. Fract. 758; τἀγαθὰ μὴ .. ὀχ. εὐπόρως to bear prosperity not with moderation, Democr. ap. Stob. 55. 47. c. to continue, keep doing, νηπιάας ὀχέειν to keep playing childish tricks, like ἔχειν, ἄγειν Od. 1. 297 ; φρουρὰν ἄζηλον 6x now will maintain an unenvi- able watch, Aesch, Pr. 143. 2. to carry, χερσὶ λύρην Theogn. 534; τινα Eur. Or. 802; φιάλην Xen. Cyr. 1. 3,8; of the legs, to carry the body, Hipp. Art. 819. 8. to let another ride, to mount, αὐτὸς Badifw.., τοῦτον δ᾽ ὀχῶ Ar. Ran. 23; so of a general, fo let the men ride, Xen. Eq. Mag. 4, I. II. much more often in Med. and Pass. to be borne or carried, have oneself borne, ὀχήσατο κύμασιν ‘Epyjs Od. 5.543 νηυσὶν ὀχήσονται 1]. 24. 731; ἵπποισιν ὀχεῖτο h. Ven. 218; so, ἐφ᾽ ἁμάξης ὀχεῖσθαι Hdt. 1. 31, Ar. Pl. 1013; ἐφ᾽ ἵππων Xen. Cyr. 4. 5,583 ἐφ᾽ ἅρματος Plat. Lys. 208 A; ἐν ἁρμαμάξῃ Xen. Cyr. 7. 3, 4: δελφῖνος περὶ νώτοις Opp. H. 5. 449; ἐπὶ θατέρου σκέλους ὀχεῖσθαι τὸ σῶμα to let its weight lean on.., Plut. 2. 967 C. 2. absol. (with- out the dat. ἵππῳ, νηί, etc.), just like the kindred Lat. vehi (sub. equo, curru, navi), to drive, ride, sail, etc., [ἵπποι] ἀλεγεινοὶ .. ὀχέεσθαι difficult to use ix a chariot, Il. 10. 403., 17. 77, cf. Ar. Ran. 25, Dem. 570.5; of a dislocated bone, which rides on the edge of another instead of resting in the socket, Hipp. Art. 818. 3. of a ship, to ride at anchor, metaph., λεπτή τις ἐλπίς ἐστ᾽ ἐφ᾽ ἧς ὀχούμεθα 'tis but a slender hope on which we ride at anchor, Ar. 4. 1244; ἐπὶ λεπτῶν ἐλπίδων ὠχεῖσθ᾽ Id. Fr. 198. 11, cf. Plat. Legg. 699 B; so, ἐπ᾽ ἀσθενοῦς ῥώμης Eur. Or. 69, ubi v. Pors.; ἐπὶ τούτου τοῦ λόγου, ὥσπερ ἐπὶ σχεδίας Plat. Phaedo 85 D:—of Delos, οὗ νᾶσος ὀχεῖται rides at anchor, floats, Orac. ap. Dion. H. I. 19: cf. ὁρμέω. IIT. Arat. 1070 uses it for ὀχεύομαι.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  She had no place in our relationship and Theresa had no right to request this of me. My temper tantrum over the suggestion won out and I had a day and a night away from our contrived little family. By the end of the visit with my father, I begged him to let me live with him, but he shook his head and said he was in no position to have me. “Next year will be better,” he promised. “There’s some deals I’m working on and if they come through I stand to make a lot of money and when that happens I’m going to send for you. One day I’m going to be wealthy, Celena, you can count on that. And when that day comes, you will be too. I’m going to buy a mansion in Beverly Hills and you’ll be sitting pretty.” I hung on his every word. Ray’s comment that my father didn’t really want me had reactivated a deep fear I’d recently developed. Why didn’t my father insist I stay with him even if he was poor? Ray and Theresa had nothing, yet they held no qualms about raising not one, but two children. I clung to my father’s claims that he was working on it, but Ray’s lash out stung as he had intended it to. Since we had left Synanon, Theresa frequently talked up Disneyland to Ray and Sara, who had never been there. She spoke glowingly about what a magical place the theme park was and its most marvelous attraction “It’s a Small World.” “There are dolls that represent people from various countries all over the world and they are singing while you float past on these little boats.” Ray’s eyes always grew shiny with emotion when Theresa spoke about this particular ride. “I would love to see that,” he’d say and Theresa would nod her head emphatically. “Oh you will. It’s going to knock your socks off.” We arrived at Disneyland in the late morning, Theresa clearly in charge of the expedition. She had meticulously mapped out our entire day the night before. While Ray counted out his money to buy our tickets, a grin spread across his face, the first time I had ever seen him smile when paying for anything. His eyes blinked rapidly and after the man behind the booth handed us our tickets, my stepfather walked as if in a daze behind Theresa, who marched forward, turning to look at us now and then, her bottom lip tucked under her front teeth. We made our way straight to the “It’s a Small World” ride, where we waited in line for half an hour before it was our turn to step into one of the little boats.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Melissa’s complaint prompted another ban on my spending time with Theresa and discussion among the demonstrators about whether she and Ray were mentally fit enough for children to be around. An official complaint was made to management. Ray’s things were confiscated, and he was sent to work camp for a week. During the evening hours when Theresa and Ray were alone in their room, they began to discuss their growing dissatisfaction with Synanon and the possibility of leaving. To leave the community was an undertaking that seemed insurmountable to many of the residents. Living in such an insulated society for so many years and being told regularly that it would be almost impossible to survive outside of Synanon made many people afraid to leave. To leave meant severing ties with close friends and sometimes children if one parent left while the other stayed. There were also restrictions against taking money or items of value. Synanon management purposely made leaving difficult, thereby quashing any incentive to start a new life and inciting fear of the world outside of Synanon . Management wanted community members to see leaving not as a positive beginning, but a punishment. Even with the squeeze, it was still hoped that the Synanite would make the right decision and do what was necessary to remain in the commune. Ray and Theresa had had enough. They talked to each other about how disreputable Synanon had become in their eyes. While the majority of community members lived by strict rules of austerity, a select group of VIPs lived a different life at the Home Place in Visalia, a life of unbridled luxury, with gourmet meals, regular spa treatments and personal servants. Shocking pictures of Chuck, his wife, Ginny, and daughter Jady boozing it up on a beach in Italy circulated through the community. Many of the VIPs had stopped cutting their hair and sported longer tresses while the rest of us maintained the military hairstyles. The rise in violence and Chuck’s increasingly sordid demands upon community members finally pushed Ray and Theresa to admit, if just to themselves and each other, that Synanon had become corrupt. My mother also missed seeing me on a regular basis; she missed being a mom. I was growing up, and while she spent the majority of her time with Gwyn, she saw little of her own child. A Sunday newspaper prompted Theresa and Ray to action when Ray discovered a small ad placed by a community called University of the Trees in Santa Cruz, California. The ad stated that the community was looking for new members. Bolstered by this inkling of hope, a decision was reached. “Congratulations. I just heard,” one of my peers, Sue, said to me. Her greeting stopped me in my tracks. “Congratulations for what?” She scrutinized me, then her eyebrows shot up. “You mean you don’t know?” “Know what? What are you talking about?” “You’re leaving Synanon.” Her words seemed to hang in the air. Was she putting me on?

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  decision and do what was necessary to remain in the commune. Ray and Theresa had had enough. They talked to each other about how disreputable Synanon had become in their eyes. While the majority of community members lived by strict rules of austerity, a select group of VIPs lived a different life at the Home Place in Visalia, a life of unbridled luxury, with gourmet meals, regular spa treatments and personal servants. Shocking pictures of Chuck, his wife, Ginny, and daughter Jady boozing it up on a beach in Italy circulated through the community. Many of the VIPs had stopped cutting their hair and sported longer tresses while the rest of us maintained the military hairstyles. The rise in violence and Chuck’s increasingly sordid demands upon community members finally pushed Ray and Theresa to admit, if just to themselves and each other, that Synanon had become corrupt. My mother also missed seeing me on a regular basis; she missed being a mom. I was growing up, and while she spent the majority of her time with Gwyn, she saw little of her own child. A Sunday newspaper prompted Theresa and Ray to action when Ray discovered a small ad placed by a community called University of the Trees in Santa Cruz, California. The ad stated that the community was looking for new members. Bolstered by this inkling of hope, a decision was reached. “Congratulations. I just heard,” one of my peers, Sue, said to me. Her greeting stopped me in my tracks. “Congratulations for what?” She scrutinized me, then her eyebrows shot up. “You mean you don’t know?” “Know what? What are you talking about?” “You’re leaving Synanon.” Her words seemed to hang in the air. Was she putting me on? We stood next to some picnic benches, which were semi-protected by a canopy of thick plastic. She leaned against one of the aluminum pillars, watching me, waiting for my reaction. Leaving Synanon was a dream for most of us kids and had been a

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  violent stage as a result of Chuck’s growing paranoia of anything or anyone that wasn’t part of Synanon. The fact that he had walled himself off in his self-created society, immune from any criticism from “his people,” led him to become ever more delusional and Orwellian in his thoughts and ideas for what a Synanon lifestyle should be. The school had devolved into an orphanage of sorts. Parents by then were encouraged to stay away and give up their children completely to the community. Amid the expensive lawsuits Synanon was fighting at the time, and due to the expense required to care for the children, Chuck began to view us as useless. Synanon children, Chuck complained, could not be put to work like the teenagers of the cult, yet we ate and took up space, contributing nothing of value while using community resources. Instead of the best and brightest teachers, adults were sometimes assigned haphazardly to different positions in the school, teaching academic subjects in which they had no training. Rules and lessons were often random, incongruous with principles of developmental growth. The Synanon school’s style was a paradox of militaristic rigidity and strict rules infused with intermittent periods of autonomy absent of adult oversight altogether. For me, the “school” created a dissociative independent type of personality. To cope with the constant barrage of verbal attacks, whether directed at me, heard in passing, or on the Wire, the Synanon radio, I became adept at mentally detaching myself from my environment. Despite Synanon’s ambition to destroy the parent-child bond, my mother in bits and pieces, through letters and sometimes clandestine visits, communicated her affections to me, emotional inoculations that helped to foster a sense of strength and hope within myself that the cult could not conquer. There has been quite a lot written about Synanon. They are memoirs, historical and philosophical literature, and scores of articles; however, the point of view is almost always from that of an adult who came to the community of his or her volition looking to escape the ills of modern American society. Of the children raised in Synanon, there is little written on what it was like for us growing up in the commune. Here I offer my own story. I do not speak for all children raised in the community; this is a memoir of my journey. For the sake of privacy and respect for others, I have changed most of the names. SYNANON KID GROWS UP: BOOK TWO A MEMOIR OF LEARNING TO LIVE OUTSIDE THE SYNANON CULT

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  You should write a memoir, the agent says, and across the table, she hands me her creamy card, which I resist pinning to my dress like a merit badge. No way is the card a ticket to ride. It is a chance, though. For years I’ve circled Boston agents like a horsefly on the off chance they might drop a card. On the way back to the hotel, Toby says, Don’t be disappointed if my agent doesn’t sign you. She’s never taken anybody I’ve recommended. That worries me not at all, since I’m so unable to get a pen to traverse a white sheet, I doubt I’ll ever have a single page of anything to send her. But a small part of me wonders if prayer wrought that whole series of wonders. Joan tells me without it that I’d never have gotten (a) sober, (b) the grant, and (c) the invitation to the table where the agent solicited me and not the other way round. Nor would I have d) dared tell Mother’s goofball story without Toby drawing it out of me, for I’d have been too busy trying to pass for an East Coast swell with an Ivy League hookup instead of the cracker I was. That may be so, I tell Joan. But I’ve also prayed to write as well as Wallace Stevens, prayed to be five-ten, and not had those prayers answered. As Emile Zola once noted: The road to Lourdes is littered with crutches, but not one wooden leg.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Ninety meetings in ninety days, she says. I don’t complain but must’ve pulled a face. It’s like you have cancer, she says, and coming here is really chemo. It’s not a luxury. It’s not a help. It’s what stands between you and going insane or winding up in the boneyard. Ninety meetings in ninety days, I say. Consider me the Navy SEAL of sobriety. All yes ma’ams. You have to start giving the higher-power thing a try—it’s the one suggestion you skirted. You didn’t pray. Jenny doesn’t pray, I say, and she’s been sober twenty years. (Jenny is one of the sober ladies I’m getting to know.) And Jenny’s disposition? Mean as a snake, I confirm. You might find sober people who don’t pray, but all the happy ones have some kind of regular meditative or spiritual practice. There are humungous dark trees in the hospital yard, and I gaze into the torn-out spaces between them at a few sequiny stars. I’ve never felt anything even faintly mystical in my life and tell her so. Faith is not a feeling, she says. It’s a set of actions. By taking the actions, you demonstrate more faith than somebody who actually has experienced the rewards of prayer and so feels hope. Fake it till you make it. Didn’t you fake half your life drinking? Wouldn’t any god be pissed that I only show up now, with machine-gun fire on my ass? First off—can’t you see this?—you have a concept of God already. It’s one who’s pissed at you. Which is oddly true, given my godless upbringing. Where had that come from? She must see the slack look on my face, for she goes on, Let’s say your kid falls down and bloodies himself, or he picks up a butcher knife and hurts himself with it. Are you mad at him? Course not. Well, drinking is like the butcher knife. You have to put it down before you can let God in. It’s like you have to break up with the guy who’s beating the crap out of you before you can scan the room and find the nice guy who’s got a crush on you. I’m trying to start hearing the word God without some reflexive flinch that coughs out the word idiot. Maybe, as somebody suggested, I’d have to practice internally repeating God-specific sentences to hear them in my own voice. She tucks a few wisps of dark hair into her chignon. An ambulance screams by. After a while, she says, You should be dead tonight. We both should be. My mouth’s dry. I nod. It’s a striking concept. Mostly I’ve thought of life as my right and death as an unfair aberration, but inverting the formula is no less valid. Life is a blessed aberration, a gift, and death isn’t my business yet. I wonder aloud how many hours I’ve squandered fearing death. You were saved for something, she says. Don’t die before you find out what.