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 6 of 216 · 20 per page

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

  of thoughts and actions, to shew forth, display, exhibit, νοήματα 1]. 18. 295; ἀρετήν Od. 8. 2373; deumetas 20. 309; βίην Hes. Th. 689; evpaxaviay Pind. 1. 4. 4 (3. 20); εὔνοιαν Hdt. 3. 36; ὕβριν Ib. 127; ὀργάς Aesch, Cho. 326. b. to make clear, explain, expound, λόγον Hdt.1.116,117; τριφασίας λόγων ὁδούς Id. 95; but, φ. τὰ λαμπρ᾽ ἔπη to make them good, Soph. O. C, 721. 4. in Att. to inform against one, to indict, impeach, φανῶ σε τοῖς πρυτάνεσι Ar. Ach. 300, 824 sq., cf. Soph. Ant. 325 :—to inform of a thing as contraband, Ar. Ach. 542, 819, al.; φαίνειν πλοῖον Dem. 1324.20; τὰ φανθέντα articles informed against as contraband, Id. 1323. 28., 1325. fin. :—absol. to give infor- mation, Isocr. 375 B, Xen, Cyr. 1. 2, 14, etc.: cf. pao. 5. φαί- νειν φρουράν, v. sub φρουρά 11. 2. ΤΙ. absol. to give light (ch. φάω, φαέθω, pacivw, ὑποφαίνω 111), paivovres νύκτας .. δαιτυ- μόνεσσι Od. 7. 102, cf. 19, 25:—so of the sun, moon, etc., φ. Twi Ar. Nub. 586; φ. εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν Plat. Tim. 39 B, cf. Arist. Probl. 15. 11, 3; ἀλλά, σελάνα, φαῖνε καλόν Theocr. 2. 11; of λύχνοι >. ἧττον Theophr. Ign. 11; οἵ. @dw:—hence the planet Saturn is called Φαίνων (v. sub voc.):—so, ἦρι μὲν φαίνοντι in spring when it shines JSorth, Aesch. Fr. 305. 4: so of the Dioscuri shining in mid-air, Eur. ΕἸ. 1234 (where Seidl. takes it=qatvoya, but needlessly) ; and, metaph., ἀγανὴ φαίνουσ᾽ ἐλπίς soft shining hope, Aesch. Ag. 101.—In all these seeming intr, usages we may supply the cognate acc. φῶς, III. Hom. uses the ion. aor. φάνεσκε really intr. appeared, μετὰ πρώ- τοισι φάνεσκε Il. 11..64; ὑπένερθε δὲ γαῖα φάνεσκε Od. 12. 241, cf. 11. 586, Hes. Fr. 22 (30). 2. pf. 2 πέφηνα is also used intr., Soph. O. C. 329, etc.; rarely in Prose, Hdt. 9. 120, Dem. 34. 22; cf. ἀνα--, ἐκ-πέφηνα.

• From The Battle for God (2000)

  Since they could no longer cooperate with mainstream Zionism, which seemed committed to radical secularism, they were prepared to throw in their lot with Agudat Israel, which soon had branches in both eastern and western Europe. But the members of Agudat in the West saw the movement in a very different light from the Russian and Polish Jews, who still felt very cautious about direct activism. 74 The Jews of Russia and Poland saw Agudat as a defensive organization only; its task was simply to safeguard Jewish interests at this crucial time when the governments of eastern Europe were trying to modernize. They kept their activism to a minimum, worked to improve the lot of Jews within a modern political framework, abjured Zionism, and professed loyalty to the Polish state. But in the West, where modernization was far advanced, Jews were ready for something different. Most Agudat members in the West were Neo-Orthodox, which was itself a modernized form of Judaism. They were now accustomed to the modern world, and no longer sought simply to contain the shock of the new but wanted to change it. Instead of seeing their party as a defensive organization, some wanted Agudat to go on the offensive and were developing an incipient fundamentalism. For Jacob Rosenheim (1870–1965), the founding of Agudat was not simply a slightly regrettable necessity, as it was for the eastern Jews, but a cosmic event. For the first time since 70 CE, Jews had “a unified and will-determining centre.” 75 Agudat symbolized God’s rule over Israel and should become the central organization of the Jewish world. Nevertheless, Rosenheim still felt slightly queasy about politics, and wanted Agudat to confine its activities to maintaining Jewish schools and protecting Jews’ economic rights. Younger members were more radical, and were closer in spirit to Protestant fundamentalists. Isaac Breuer (1883–1946) wanted Agudat to take the initiative and start a campaign for the reform and sacralization of Jewish society. Like the premillennialists, he could see “signs” of God’s activity in the world. The Great War and the Balfour Declaration were the “footsteps of the Messiah.” Jews must reject the corrupt values of bourgeois society, cease to cooperate with the governments of Europe, and create their own sacred enclave in the Holy Land, where they would build a theocratic, Torah-based state. Jewish history had gone awry; Jews had defected from sacred tradition; it was now time to put Jewish history back on track and, if Jews took the first step, made the exodus from the corrupt Diaspora, and returned to their original values, living according to the Torah in their Land, God would send the Messiah. 76 The Jewish scholar Alan L. Mittelman notes that the early experience of Agudat shows the way fundamentalism works.

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

  παρακύπτω, poet. παρκύπτω, 70 stoop sideways, of the attitude of a bad harp-player, Ar. Ach. 16. II. to stoop for the purpose of looking at, and so, 1. to look sideways at, cast a careless glance on a thing, παρακύψαντα ἐπὶ τὸν τῆς πόλεως πόλεμον Dem. 46. 27. 2. to peep out of a door or window, like Horace’s despicere, x θυρίδος Ar. Thesm. 797, cf. 799, Vesp. 178; π. ὥσπερ γαλῆ Id. Eccl. 924; of girls peeping after a lover, Id. Pax 982,985; π. τὸν ἐραστὴν ἰδεῖν so as to see him, Plut. 2. 766 D:—metaph., σωτηρία παρέκυψε a hope of safety peeped out, Ar. Eccl. 202: foll. by a relat. clause, to peep out and see, π. Tis ἄνεμος πνεῖ Arr. Epict. 1. 1, 16 :—Pass., θυρίδες παρακυπτόμεναι, prob., out of which people look, LXXx (3 Regg. 6. 4). 3. of persons outside a place, to peep in, look in, κατ᾽ ἄντρον παρκύπτοισα Theocr. 3. 7; παρέκυψεν εἰς τὸ μνημεῖον Ev. Jo. 20. 11; παρακύψας βλέπει Ib. 5, Luc. 24.12; 6 παρακύψας εἰς νόμον τέλειον Ep. Jacob. 1. 25 ; π. εἰς TA ὑμέτερα Luc. Pisc. 30, cf. τ Ep. Petr. 1. 12. παρακυρόω, to annul, Symm. Κ΄. Τὶ παρακύρω, fut. κύρσω. = napatvyxavw, Q. Sm. 11. 423. παράκυψις, ews, 7, a stooping to one side, peeping in:—Proverb., ὄνου π. like our ‘ bull in a china shop,’ Menand. Ἵερ. 1, cf. Paroemiogr. παρακωμῳδέω, to satirise incidentally in a comedy, Ath. 525 A. παρακωχῇ, f. 1. for παροκωχή, q. ν. παραλᾶλέω, to talk at random, cf. Meineke Menand, Incert. 17. παραλαμβάνω, fut. -λήψομαι, Ion. -λάμψομαι. To receive from another, being, like παραδέχομαι, correl. to παραδίδωμι, of persons suc- ceeding to an office, 7. τὴν βασιληίην Hdt. 2.120; τὴν βασιλείαν παρὰ τοῦ πατρός C.1. 4697. 1; so, τοῖς παραλαμβάνουσι (sc. τὴν βασιλείαν) the successors, Arist. Pol. 3. 14. 12; also, 7. τὴν ἀρχήν Plat. Legg. 698 E; τῆς πόλεως τὰ πράγματα Ar. Eccl. 107; τὴν ἐπιμέλειάν τινος Aeschin. 20. 13; τὴν τριηραρχίαν Dem. 1148. 21; so, π. πόλιν ἀνάστατον Andoc. 14. 35, cf. Thuc. 1. 9; etc.; π. νόμον, opp. to τιθέναι, Thuc. 5. 105, cf. Isocr. 180 A; of inherited rites or customs, Hdt. 2. 51 :—also of persons succeeding by inheritance, Eur. lon 814, Lys. 116. 31; παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς πολλὴν οὐσίαν π. Dem. 565.21; opp. to ἐπικτᾶσθαι, Plat. Rep. 330 A; π. ἀράς to inherit curses, Eur. Phoen. 1611 :—of officers, to receive things as stated in an inventory from their predecessors, C.I. 123. 53., 145, 146, al.; τὰ μὲν παρειληφότα τὰ δ᾽ αὐτὸν εὑρηκότα Isocr. Antid. § 208. 2. to take upon oneself, undertake, πρᾶγμά τι Ar. Eq. 344; | τὰ παραλαμβανόμενα undertakings, Hdt. 1. 38: to take to one’s self, admit, employ, π. ἐν ταῖς μάχαις τὸν θυμόν Plut. 2. 988 E; and in Pass., 3. to take in pledge, Hat. 3. 136; also, to take by force or treachery, seize, get possession of, οὐδὲν ἐδυ-

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

  πῖθᾶνολογία, 7, the use of probable arguments, as opp. to demonstra- tion (ἀπόδειξις), Plat. Theaet. 163 A, Ep. Col. 2. 4:—7) πιθανολογικῆ, the art of doing so, Arr. Epict. 1. 8, 7. πιθᾶνο-λόγος, ον, speaking so as to persuade, Schol. Ar. Ran. gt. πὶθἄνο-ποιέω, 20 sharpen the wits of one, Hesych. niGaves, 7, ov, (4/11LO, πείθω) calculated to persuade; and so, 1 of persons, persuasive, having the power of persuasion, influential, plausible, esp. of popular speakers, 7. τοῖς πολλοῖς Thuc. 6. 35; τῷ δήμῳ Tapa πολὺ... πιθανώτατος, of Cleon, Id. 3. 36, cf. 4. 21: 7. ἐν ὄχλῳ Plat. Gorg. 458 E; πιθανώτατος πάντων ἀνθρῴπων Dem. 980 23; πιθα- νώτεροι of ἀπαίδευτοι τῶν ἀπαιδεύτων ἐν τοῖς ὄχλοις Arist. Rhet. 2. 22, 3; πιθανώτατοι οἱ ἐν τοῖς πάθεσιν Id, Poét. 17, 3;—7. καὶ πανουργός Plut. 2. 26 A, etc.:—c. inf., πιθανώτατος λέγειν Plat. Gorg. 479C; π. περιβαλεῖν τινα κακῷ apt at.., Eur. Or. go6; πιθανώτατος στρατηγῆσαί τε καὶ προσαγαγέσθαι App. Hisp. 15, etc.: with a Prep., π. ἐς στρατηγίαν Id. Mithr. 51, cf. Pun. 108, etc. 2. of arguments, Ar. Thesm. 464; λέγειν mOavwrar’ Id. Eq. 629; λόγος, φωναὶ π. Plat. Phaedo 88 D, etc. ; λόγοι θαυμασίως ws 7. Dem. 928. 14: τὸ περὲ τοὺς λόγους π. --πιθανότης, Plat. Theaet. 178 E; often in Arist. Rhet., as I. 2, 10., 2. 18, 1; μόνον ἐφρόντισαν τοῦ π. τοῦ πρὸς αὑτούς Id. Metaph. 2. 4, 12, etc. 3. of manners, persuasive, winning, plau- sible, Xen. Mem. 3.10, 3: τὸ π. ἰσχὺν τῆς ἀληθείας ἔχει μείζω Menand. Incert. 78; οὐ π. ἔσχεν τὸ ἦθος Plut. Phoc. 2. 4. of reports, and the like, plausible, specious, credible, probable, likely, Hdt. τ. 214., 2. 123; 7. τινι Plat. Legg. 677 A; c. inf., πιστεύεσθαι πιθανά Ib. 782 Ὁ: —mdavov [ἐστι], c. inf., it is probable that., Arist. Top. 6. 14, 2. 5. of works of art, producing illusion, true to nature, natural, Xen. Mem. Bulow 7s II. pass. easy to persuade, credulous, Aesch. Ag. 485, cf. Heind. Plat. Parm. 133 B. 2. obedient, docile, Xen. Cyr. 2. 2, 16; π. λόγῳ Id. Occ. 13,9 TIT. Adv. -νῶς, persuasively, plausibly, Ar. Thesm. 268, Plat. Phaedr. 269 C, al.; Comp. -wrepov, Id. Phaedo 63 B. Gorg. 456 C. πιθανότης, τος, ἡ, persuasiveness, plausibility, of persons, Polyb. 23. 18, 2, Plut. 2. 1040 B; πιθανότητα λαμβάνειν to gain credit and belief, Polyb. 27. 13, 9. 2. of arguments, Plat. Legg. 839 D, Crat. 402 A; π. τινα ἔχει ὁ λόγος Arist. Eth. N. 1. 6, 15. πιθἄνουργιικός, ἡ, dv, having the faculty of persuasion, Numen. ap. Eus. P. Ε. 7290 :--ἡ -κή (sc. τέχνη), the art or faculty of persuasion, Plat. Soph. 222 Csq. πῖθανουργός, dv, making probable, τῶν ἀπιθάνων, Walz Rhett. 7. 218. miOavow, (πιθανός) to make probable, Arist. Rhet. 3.7, 4. πιϑάριον, τό, Dim. of πίθος, Hesych., E. M. | λεοντῇ πίθηκον ὑποστέλλειν Luc. Philops. 5; 7. ἐν πορφύρᾳ Diogen. ! πικρίζω,

• From Shunned (2018)

  No one seemed to mind. I’d been drawn to come that particular day after calling a prerecorded number for service times and learning the sermon was about the Lord’s Prayer. I hadn’t prayed since I’d left Portland, and wondered what this group might have to say about it. The senior pastor turned out to be female, something you would never see at the Kingdom Hall, where women were not allowed to speak “before the congregation.” I’d come to see that prohibition as wasteful of rich talents and neglecting an essential feminine perspective. The pastor asked the first-time visitors to raise their hands, and the audience was peppered with a few other hands beside my own. “Welcome,” she said, and I believed her. What stood out most was the absence of any dire predictions for the future or judgmental comments about nonbelievers. The pastor’s language was uplifting, hopeful, and inclusive. She described prayer as a compact formula for attuning the attitude and dwelled for a long time on the expression “Our Father,” showing that we are not alone even when we pray alone. “Our” can always remind us of the whole. “We’re all in this together,” she said. “It is a fact of metaphysics that we are interconnected. Every thought, every action, affects the whole.” She went on to discuss the role of self-responsibility. “There is really only one of us here.” I found solace in that idea, which was revolutionary to my way of thinking. She went on to describe the church as a family and a hotbed of humanity, how through living it is only natural that we will bump up against each other with our patterns and problems, how we are always presented with the choice to grow in our capacity to be in relationship. She didn’t spend a lot of time quoting Scripture and verse, but everything she said felt sane and Christlike. More than that, it felt grounded in love and acceptance. As she spoke of the challenges people encounter in relationships, she said something completely foreign to me: “There is no such thing as bad people, only unskillful behavior.” It didn’t make anyone wrong or assign blame or shame. I thought about all the ways I’d been pissy and unskillful with my family, and they with me, as I’d struggled to find my way, and I knew we had all done the best we could with one another. Tears filled my eyes as I realized anew the widening philosophical gap between my family and I, wishing with my whole being that they could open to this new way of thinking, too, not needing us to be part of the same religion to be together. Even if they insisted on rejecting my beliefs and lifestyle, did they have to reject me?

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  It was his one eccentricity. The pantyhose, he said, had the properties of a good-luck charm. He liked putting his nose into the nylon and breathing in the scent of his girlfriend's body; he liked the memories this inspired; he sometimes slept with the stockings up against his face, the way an infant sleeps with a flannel blanket, secure and peaceful. More than anything, though, the stockings were a talisman for him. They kept him safe. They gave access to a spiritual world, where things were soft and intimate, a place where he might someday take his girlfriend to live. Like many of us in Vietnam, Dobbins felt the pull of superstition, and he believed firmly and absolutely in the protective power of the stockings. They were like body armor, he thought. Whenever we saddled up for a late-night ambush, putting on our helmets and flak jackets, Henry Dobbins would make a ritual out of arranging the nylons around his neck, carefully tying a knot, draping the two leg sections over his left shoulder. There were some jokes, of course, but we came to appreciate the mystery of it all. Dobbins was invulnerable. Never wounded, never a scratch. In August, he tripped a Bouncing Betty, which failed to detonate. And a week later he got caught in the open during a fierce little firefight, no cover at all, but he just slipped the pantyhose over his nose and breathed deep and let the magic do its work. It turned us into a platoon of believers. You don't dispute facts. But then, near the end of October, his girlfriend dumped him. It was a hard blow. Dobbins went quiet for a while, staring down at her letter, then after a time he took out the stockings and tied them around his neck as a comforter. "No sweat," he said. "The magic doesn't go away." Church

• From Shunned (2018)

  What did it matter, if we were all one anyway? It’s a grievous and harmful thing, I thought, to shun another person. It’s a sort of emotional terrorism, the worst sort of coercion, at least the worst form I’d ever experienced. The sermon was a sharp, bitter contrast with how I was treated. I felt the aspiration of this community to practice a living compassion and remembered Jesus’s barometer of wise teaching—recognizable by its fruits. As the pastor concluded her sermon, every molecule of my heart felt tender and malleable. Old hurts had been stirred and mended, and I was being reconfigured somehow—stirred up, electrified, and relieved to discover a church like this existed. “Finally, my friends,” the pastor said, “I’d like to ask Jean and her group to stand up for an acknowledgment.” About twenty people stood up, many arm in arm, including the two women who had danced during the first song. “This group will be representing our congregation next week in the gay pride parade, marching through the streets, right behind Mayor Daly’s car, spreading peace and tolerance and love. If you get a chance, please go down and show your support. Remember, we’re all family and we’re all in this together.” The applause grew riotous. This level of acceptance was too much to absorb, and my tears came quickly. I was stunned to find a house of worship that didn’t concern itself with what people did in their bedrooms. There was a call to prayer. I grabbed a tissue from my purse and bowed my head, relieved for some privacy. I was too full to hear more, so I anchored my feet and breathed into the place in my heart that was swirling with emotion. When the program was over, I was reluctant to leave and sat alone in my seat for a while, enjoying the parade of people around me. Lying in bed that night, I prayed for the first time in a long while. It was more like releasing a balloon into the ether, launching wishes and gratitude, whispering my request for wisdom, trusting it would be heard somehow. Even if my higher self and I were the only ones listening, that was enough. I drifted off to sleep in the middle of it but didn’t feel guilty for leaving God hanging, as I might have done in days gone by. And I took heart in knowing that the separation gripping my family was only an illusion—on some bigger playing field, we were still connected. Chapter 20 Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. —Rumi Just home from a day’s work, I stood on the porch of my brownstone building, flipped open the rusty mailbox, and reached in for the solitary letter.

• From The Historical Jesus (2000)

  Scope: In this lecture, we will explore the traditions of Jesus’ widespread rejection and some of his controversies with the Pharisees, especially over the meaning of the commandment of Scripture to keep the Sabbath day holy and the Pharisaic rules concerning tithing. We will then consider whether Jesus’ radical emphasis on the command to love led him to violate the Scriptural demands for ritual purity, especially with regard to kosher food laws. Outline I. The past lectures clarify why Jesus would acquire a following. A. To people who were suffering, he brought a message of hope, that God would soon intervene in the world to relieve their suffering and reward their faithfulness. 1. The Romans and other evil forces would be removed from power. 2. The poor, oppressed, and outcast would be brought into God’s kingdom and pain, injustice, poverty, disease, and death would no longer exist. B. His followers had already begun to form a tightly knit community organized around the principles of love, as taught by God in the Jewish Scriptures. C. Jesus was thought to have done great miracles that showed that the kingdom had already begun to appear. D. Many, perhaps most, people today assume Jesus had thousands of avid followers and only a few powerful enemies. This was not the case. II. Traditions of Jesus’ rejection cover most of those with whom he came in contact: his own family, his townspeople, people living in surrounding towns and villages, the Jewish religious leaders, the aristocracy in Jerusalem, and of course, the Roman overlords. A. The tradition that Jesus’ own family rejected him is firmly rooted. This may seem hard to accept for those who know about the annunciation story in the Gospel of Luke (where the angel Gabriel ©2000 The Teaching Company. 118

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  34 The Sweet Hereafter I n 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. Bingo, she says. You’re not serious. That’s so puerile. Childish things for stubborn children, she says. I’m teaching again with some ease, and the writing started in the hospital plows forward. Warren and I exist like kindly intentioned siblings, though he’s putting forth more effort. On my birthday, he stuns me by gathering friends at a restaurant to holler surprise , but when he reaches for me the next morning, I roll away. The prospect scares me. Never, I think, could I kiss that handsome mouth. Whatever his reaction stays shut inside him. I follow the old advice of St. Jack of the Tinfoil, who’d counseled me to fulfill my contract unless otherwise guided. Right before I hit a year sober, Joan suggests starting a women’s group for gab of some spiritual variety—think quilting bee where we stitch on each other’s souls, autopsy where the corpses take turns carving. In my office at Radcliffe on Sunday nights, we meet—about four or five sober women trying to stay that way. Nobody operates from a formal religious construct, no church ladies or temple mavens. Joan rustles up a list of discussion topics she used in a similar group, and we start off talking about prayer. When Deb claims her regular prayer is for a joyous day filled with serenity, I say, You can ask for that? Nights I put Dev to bed, the St. Francis prayer becomes part of our ritual, in the form of call and response. I say, Where there is hatred, let me sow , and he shouts out, Love . I say, Where there is conflict , and he hollers, Pardon . Afterward, if I have trouble sleeping, I lie in a hot bath with a washcloth over my face, saying prayers I hardly believe but take blind comfort from. I’m still given to cussing any traditional notion of God. What god would deny you children? I say to Deb, for she’s en during torturous in vitro hormones trying to conceive.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  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)

  I hadn’t. I’d met all manner of strange individuals. But other than a tripped-out guitar player who’d told everybody he was Moses, I’d never met anybody whose stated identity I questioned. How, I asked Mother, had she come to this? Well, she said, he’ll be telling a story, and he’ll say, “The guy said to me, ‘Bill…’” And I’ll say, “But your name’s not Bill; it’s Ben.” At that time the sheriff in our town was a guy I used to steal watermelons with named Stooge. On the phone, Stooge didn’t sound overexercised. Ben Barker’s truck was registered legal in the name he’d given Mother. Stooge doubted the guy was some lost gangster. Lecia told me the guy seemed too well spoken, too well read, to be outright dangerous. (Which, I now think, fails to take Ted Bundy into account.) Another morning the phone rang early, and Mother whispered that Bill was in the shower, but she’d gotten his license out and his name wasn’t, in fact, Ben Barker. It was Wilbur Fred Bailey, she said. And his ID was from—let’s say—Kentucky. At this point Toby interrupts to comment on the poetic perfection of the guy’s actual name. Wilbur Fred Bailey, Toby repeats. It has a Faulkneresque ring. I notice the rest of the table has gone quiet. The agent has her hand on a glass of water. Toby’s editor is leaning forward. Fred’s the ideal middle name for the guy, Lux says, who’s heard the story before. Fred has that foreshortened, temporary feel to it. A real trailer-park name. So what’d your mother do? Toby asks. I briefly stall like an arid engine, for it’s different telling the story sober—and to these people. But Lux gives my elbow the slightest tap, and, since the current of the story has me in its grip, I start right up. The morning Mother found the license, I told her to run to the library and xerox it, then drop it by Stooge’s office. She did copy it but changed her mind about the sheriff, because—it turned out—Wilbur Fred was paying all her bills. Which pissed me off, since I was paying her gas bill and grocery bill. As was, it turned out, my sister. I made Lecia go down there and call me with Mother on the line, so we could confront this bookkeeping inconsistency. Mother elided it by saying, Oh, Ben doesn’t pay those. He helps me out all kinds of ways. Helps you out how? I wanted to know. How? Lecia said. Well, he cuts the grass, Mother said. I pay Sweet to cut the grass, I said, referring to an old pal of my dead daddy’s. I pay Sweet to cut the grass! Lecia said. The agent said, Hilarious. Triple-dipping. What a woman. Lecia said, Let’s you and me talk after this.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I want to know. For what? she said. I don’t even know you. Well, I say, I’m not married, and I aspire to be sexually active again some day. She says, I’m not naive. But Jesus might ask: Should you be vulnerable to a man without some spiritual commitment? Is that God’s dream for you ? God has a dream for me? I say. I love that idea. It sounds like a Disney movie. I know, Margaret says. Her pale round face opens up. Everybody uses the phrase God’s will or plan . That has a neo-Nazi ring to it. I like the Disney version. I feel you, she says, and I sit for a minute silently disbelieving she’s a nun. She adjusts her heavy glasses, and her eyes once again magnify. Let’s eat a cookie and pray for each other’s disordered attachments, she says. Mine involves pride and cookies. Mine, I say, involves pride and good-looking men. Together we bow our heads.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I was gonna spirit away our rusting car to a town called, metaphorically enough, Marblehead—the very name seemed apt—like I have a big, swirly marble on my shoulders where a human face should sit. There I’d suck off a garden hose purchased for that purpose. We can take care of the insomnia starting tonight, she says. I don’t want any barbiturates, I say. Nothing addictive. No valium. No ambien . I’m almost crying again. It’s as if some paper-thin membrane in my head holds back this flood, and any discomfort tears through, cranking the sob machine to full bore. The nurse looks up from her notes to describe some old antidepressant I can take as a sleeping pill—only if I need to. Not addictive at all. No side effects other than dry mouth in the morning. She sets down her pen, saying people who are sober take it all the time. (She pronounces it sobah , in the manner of the inner-city Bostonians at the halfway house.) Do you mind if I talk to somebody about it? I mean even tonight—on the phone. Before I take it. She fixes me with her almond eyes, and the calm she gives off reaches me. Maybe it’s some pregnancy hormone juju, for her skin is dewy in the manner of the seriously knocked up. But just sitting there, I sense a warm light the color of faded violets settling around us. She asks, Are you in some kind of recovery? Nine months, I say, digging into my purse side pocket for the little medallion I’d gotten. I suddenly notice that the hand holding the medallion has a plastic wrist bracelet. I tell her I’m not exactly a poster child for the sober. You’re laughing at yourself, she says. That’s good. Were you depressed before you quit drinking? A thousand times worse then. That’s the nutty part. I’m actually better now, but look where I am. She’d twisted her black hair up the back of her head, but it’s that frazzly kind of hair that could tear loose any instant. She asks, Do you have a higher power yet?—pronouncing it hi-yah powah in a way that loosens the knots in my shoulders. Telling her about the few sentences of prayer I march through morning and night, I notice around her neck a small gold cross. She says, So nothing changed with the praying? It sounds so fake to say it, but only after I started praying was I able to put sober days together . The nurse is looking at me with a steady gaze. You know what’s amazing? she says. Even planning a suicide, you didn’t pick up drugs or alcohol. I knew they didn’t work anymore, or I would have. Which is both miraculous and true. I tell her how many people helped me, how drinking or doping would feel like letting them down. When I ask what I should call her, she tells me her name is the same as mine.

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

  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. We had barely made it through the Scandinavian countries, the smiling blond dolls, with their headscarves, aproned dresses, and wooden shoes, waving at us and singing, “It’s a world of laughter / A world of tears / It’s a world of hope / And a world of fears... ” when Ray made a loud choking noise. He and Theresa were sitting in front of Sara and me. Alarmed, I leaned forward in my seat to see what was wrong with him. His shoulders shook and he dug into his pocket, producing one of his linen handkerchiefs, and he blew his nose loudly, exclaiming in the same choking voice, “This is so beautiful.” Theresa placed her hand on Ray’s arm, and he turned to give her a long sappy look. Sara snorted and I ducked my head, hoping this was the extent of his emotional outburst.

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

  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 TwoA Memoir of Learning To Live Outside The Synanon CultChapter OneThe Valley of Hearts Delight–––––––––––––––––––– Not even two weeks had passed since our family had left the Synanon cult, where we had collectively spent over thirty years under the dictates of its founder, Chuck Dederich, and already my parents were talking of joining another commune. “Commune shopping, ” my mother, Theresa, called it, as if to imply some sort of fun. But I wasn’t fooled. One shopped for shoes, clothes, and groceries, not insular bizarre private societies to devote years of one’s life to. During our last days in Synanon, the cult had threatened to keep my stepsister Sara and me after our parents had made their announcement to management that they were leaving. The threats of custody claims by VIPs on the school board were broadcast over The Wire , the Synanon radio station. We’d waited and worried for weeks about what our fate might be, but in the end it was all bluster and hot air.

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

  ἐπιβοάω : fut. - βοήσομαι, Ion. and Ep. --βώσομαι (v. infr.), later How (as in Justin. M.). To call upon or to, cry out to, ἐπ. τινὶ ὅτι... Thue. 5.65; ἐπιβ. τινί c. inf. to call on one to do.., Id. 4. 20., 7. 70:—_ of hounds, fo give tongue, Xen. Cyn. 6, 19. 2. to utter or sing aloud over, τινί τι, as, μέλος χέρνιβι ἐπιβοᾶν Ar. Av. 898 :—to shriek out besides, στέρν᾽ ἄρασσε κἀπιβῶ τὸ Μύσιον Aesch. Pers. 1054 (as Dind., metri grat., for Kam Bda, cf. ἔβωσα for ἐβόησαν; ἔγχει, κἀπιβόα τρίτον παιῶνα Pherecr. Περσ. 2. 3. to cry out against, Luc. D. Meretr. 121 :—Pass., τὰ ἴδια ἐπιβοώμενος cried out against because of private matters, Thuc. 6. 16. 4. in good sense, ¢o cry up, Arr. Epict. 4-1, 14 :—cf. ἐπιβόητος. II. to invoke, call upon, θεοὺς ἐπιβώσομαι Od. 1. 378., 2.143; σὲ yap πρώτην .. ἐπιβωσύμεθ᾽ (cf. ἐπιδίδωμι 11) 1]. 10. 463; so in tenses which must be regarded as Med., τὸν ᾿Απόλλωνα ἐπιβώσασθαι Hdt. 1. 87; ἐπιβοᾶται Θέμιν Eur. Med. 168 ; θεοὺς . . ἐπι- βοώμενοι, πατέρων τάφους ἐπ. Thuc. 3.59, 67 :—to call to aid, τὴν ἄλ- Anv στρατιὴν ἐπεβώσαντο Hat. g. 23, cf. 5. 1:—c. inf., émB. [τινα] μὴ ποιεῖν Thuc, 8. 92. 2. in Med. also, c. acc. rei, to call out, Id. 7. 69. Em Bon, ἡ, -- ἐπιβόησις, Diog. L. 5. go. ἐπιβοήθεια, ἡ, a coming to aid, succour, Thuc. 3.51, Xen. Cyr. 5. 4, 47. ἐπιβοηθέω, Ion, - βωθέω, fo come to aid, to succour, Tr Hat. 3. 146., 7. 207, Thuc. 3. 69., 4. 29, al.; ἐπί τινα against an enemy, Xen. Hell. 7. 5, 24; absol., Thuc. 3. 96, al. ἐπιβόημα, τό, (€mBoaw) a call or cry to one, Thuc. 5. 65. ἐπιβόησις, ews, 7, a calling to, Dion. H. de Rhet. 3, Plut. Arat. 23. ἐπιβόητος, Ion. —Bwros, ον, cried out against, ill spoken of, περί τινος Thuc. 6.16; ἐπίβωτος ἀνθρώποις Aeschrio ap. Ath. 335 C, cf. Anacr. 60. Cf. ἐπιβοάω 1. 3. ἐπιβόθριος, ov, (βόθρος) in or at the trench, Aristid. 1. 296. ἐπίβοιον, τό, -- τὸ ἐπὶ Bot θῦμα. a sacrifice of a sheep to Pandrosos after an ox offered to Athena, Philoch. 32. ἐπιβόλαιον, τό, acovering, wrapper, garment, LXX (Ezek. 13. 18 and 21).

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

  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 ranch easily lent itself to my imagining what Laura Ingalls Wilder’s pioneer life had been like. In Synanon, adult members often hunted deer. The heads of the bucks with their crowns of antlers were saved and mounted on buildings all over the ranch property. The bike-shed walls were also lined with heads, their glass eyes glittering in the dim lighting. In the Little House books, Pa kept a pig or two all year for slaughter in the fall, and Laura remembered with fondness being given the pig’s bladder filled with air for use as a kind of balloon that she and her sister Mary played with. The pig’s tail was roasted and given to the girls as a crackling treat. Every year in Synanon we slaughtered our own pigs. Sitting on the fence of the corral, I watched as each got a bullet in its head, its neck slit and its body hung on a hook for bleeding and gutting. Later in the morning, we children were fed fresh sausages. Laura Ingalls rode horses bareback with a cousin, galloping over the hills and through the meadows, the wind in her hair and a sense of freedom that thrilled me to imagine. The commune kept horses, and learning to ride them was mandatory. Laurie, who still went by the nickname “Spike,” sometimes had the chore of searching for stray horses in the hills and bringing them back to the corral. After reading about Laura Ingalls’s thrills of horseback riding, I asked Laurie if I could go with her one morning to scout out the horses. “If you want,” she’d said.

• 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.]