Humiliation

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 12 of 38 · 20 per page

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  "You're just one generation away from the South, you know. You'll find," he added, kindly, "that people will be willing to talk to you . . . if they don't feel that you look down on them just because you're from the North." !87 t88 NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME The first Negro I encountered, an educator, didn't give me any opponunity to look down. He forced me to admit, at once, that I had never been to college; that Nonhern Negroes lived herded together, like pigs in a pen; that the campus on which we met was a tribute to the industry and determination of Southern Negroes. "N egroes in the South form a com mzmity." My humiliation was complete with his discovery that I couldn't even drive a car. I couldn't ask him anything. He made me feel so hopeless an example of the general Nonhern spinelessness that it would have seemed a spiteful counter attack to have asked him to discuss the integration problem which had placed his city in the headlines. At the same time, I felt that there was nothing which both ered him more; but perhaps he did not really know what he thought about it; or thought too many things at once. His campus risked being very difierent twenty years from now. Its special function would be gone-and so would his position, arrived at with such pain. The new day a-coming was not for him. I don't think this fact made him bitter but I think it frightened him and made him sad; for the future is like heaven--everyone exalts it but no one wants to go there now. And I imagine that he shared the attitude, which I was to encounter so often later, toward the children who were help ing to bring this future about: admiration before the general spectacle and skepticism before the individual case. That evening I went to visit G., one of the "integrated" children, a boy of about fifteen. I had al ready heard something of his first day in school, the peculiar problems his presence caused, and his own ext raordinary bearing. He seemed extraordinary at first mainly by his silence. He was tall t(Jr his age and, typically, seemed to be constructed mainly of sharp angles, such as el bows and knees. Dark gin gerbread son of coloring, with ordinary hair, and a face dis quietingly impassive, save tcJr his very dark, very la rge eyes. I got the impression, each time that he raised them, not so much that they spoke but that they registered volumes; each time he dropped them it was as though he had retired into the li brary. We sat in the living room, his mother, younger brother and A FLY IN BUTTERMILK sister, and I, while G. sat on the sota, doing his homework.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  On the other hand, they were allowed to choose their beverage: tea or cotlcc or soda pop. Hca\'cn only knows what prompted Mrs. Branson Price to gi\'c a party at this point. Perhaps the campaign was going extraordinarily well; perhaps Fraziers' Catc, where the party was held , was in need of a little extra revenue as well as the knowledge that its adoption of the Party would help to bring about a better world; perhaps Mrs. Price merely longed to be a gracious hostess once again. In any case, on a Sunday night she gave a party to which everyone was invited. My brother, who at this point was much concerned with tood, observed glumly, "We had icc-cream." The quartet sat at a table by itself� robbed, however, of the presence of Mr. Warde, who was invited to sit at Mrs. Price's table: "she said it would be an honor," my correspondent notes, tililing, however, to say for whom. "There was a man there called a fol k-singer," says David with venom, "and, nat urally, everybody had to hear some folk songs." Eventually, the t<>lksy aspect of the evening was exh austed and the quartet was invited to sing. They sang four selections, apparently to c\'cryonc's delight t<>r they had to be quite adamant about not singing a fifi:h. The strain of continual singing in the open air had done their voices no good and it had made one of them extremely hoarse. So they refused, over loud protests, and apologized. "This displeased Mrs. Price." JOURNEY TO ATLANTA 6r Indeed, it had. She was not in the least accustomed to hav ing her suggestions, to say nothing of her requests, refused. Early Monday morning she called Mr. Warde to her office to inquire who those black boys thought they were? and deter mined to ship them all back that same day in a car. Mr. Warde, who, considering the honors of the evening before, must have been rather astounded, protested such treatment, to be warned that she might very well ship them off without a car; the six of them might very well be forced to take to the road. This is not a pleasant mode of traveling for a Negro in the North and no Negro in Atlanta, particularly no Northern Ne gro, is lik ely to get very far. Mr. Warde temporized: they could not leave on such short notice; for one thing, the boys had clothes at the cleaners which would not be ready tor a while and which they could hardly aftord to lose. Mrs. Price, every aristocratic vein pounding, did not wish to be concerned with such plebeian matters and, finally, losing all patience, com manded Mr. Warde to leave her otfice: Had he forgotten that he was in Georgia? Didn't he know better than sit in a white woman's office? Mr. Warde, in whose bowels last night's bread of fellowship must have acquired the weight of rock, lef t the office.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  Hca\'cn only knows what prompted Mrs. Branson Price to gi\'c a party at this point. Perhaps the campaign was going extraordinarily well; perhaps Fraziers' Catc, where the party was held, was in need of a little extra revenue as well as the knowledge that its adoption of the Party would help to bring about a better world; perhaps Mrs. Price merely longed to be a gracious hostess once again. In any case, on a Sunday night she gave a party to which everyone was invited. My brother, who at this point was much concerned with tood, observed glumly, "We had icc-cream." The quartet sat at a table by itself� robbed, however, of the presence of Mr. Warde, who was invited to sit at Mrs. Price's table: "she said it would be an honor," my correspondent notes, tililing, however, to say for whom. "There was a man there called a folk-singer," says David with venom, "and, nat urally, everybody had to hear some folk songs." Eventually, the t< >lksy aspect of the evening was exhausted and the quartet was invited to sing. They sang four selections, apparently to c\'cryonc's delight t< >r they had to be quite adamant about not singing a fifi:h. The strain of continual singing in the open air had done their voices no good and it had made one of them extremely hoarse. So they refused, over loud protests, and apologized. "This displeased Mrs. Price." JOURNEY TO ATLANTA 6r Indeed, it had. She was not in the least accustomed to hav ing her suggestions, to say nothing of her requests, refused. Early Monday morning she called Mr. Warde to her office to inquire who those black boys thought they were? and deter mined to ship them all back that same day in a car. Mr. Warde, who, considering the honors of the evening before, must have been rather astounded, protested such treatment, to be warned that she might very well ship them off without a car; the six of them might very well be forced to take to the road . This is not a pleasant mode of traveling for a Negro in the North and no Negro in Atlanta, particularly no Northern Ne gro, is likely to get very far. Mr. Warde temporized: they could not leave on such short notice; for one thing, the boys had clothes at the cleaners which would not be ready tor a while and which they could hardly aftord to lose. Mrs. Price, every aristocratic vein pounding, did not wish to be concerned with such plebeian matters and, finally, losing all patience, com manded Mr. Warde to leave her otfice: Had he forgotten that he was in Georgia? Didn't he know better than sit in a white woman's office? Mr. Warde, in whose bowels last night's bread of fellowship must have acquired the weight of rock, left the office. Then the quartet attempted to secure an audience; to be met with implacable refusal and the threat of the police.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  You'll find," he added, kindly, "that people will be willing to talk to you . . . if they don't feel that you look down on them just because you're from the North." !8 7 t88 NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME The first Negro I encountered, an educator, didn't give me any opponunity to look down. He forced me to admit, at once, that I had never been to college; that Nonhern Negroes lived herded together, like pigs in a pen; that the campus on which we met was a tribute to the industry and determination of Southern Negroes. "Negroes in the South form a com mzmity." My humiliation was complete with his discovery that I couldn't even drive a car. I couldn't ask him anything. He made me feel so hopeless an example ofthe general Nonhern spinelessness that it would have seemed a spiteful counter attack to have asked him to discuss the integration problem which had placed his city in the headlines. At the same time, I felt that there was nothing which both ered him more; but perhaps he did not really know what he thought about it; or thought too many things at once. His campus risked being very difierent twenty years fr om now. Its special function would be gone-and so would his position, arrived at with such pain. The new day a-coming was not for him. I don't think this fact made him bitter but I think it frightened him and made him sad; for the future is like heaven--everyone exalts it but no one wants to go there now. And I imagine that he shared the attitude, which I was to encounter so often later, toward the children who were help ing to bring this future about: admiration before the general spectacle and skepticism before the individual case. That evening I went to visit G., one of the "integrated" children, a boy of about fifteen. I had already heard something of his first day in school, the peculiar problems his presence caused, and his own extraordinary bearing. He seemed extraordinary at first mainly by his silence. He was tall t(Jr his age and, typically, seemed to be constructed mainly of sharp angles, such as elbows and knees. Dark gin gerbread son of coloring, with ordinary hair, and a face dis quietingly impassive, save tc Jr his very dark, very large eyes. I got the impression, each time that he raised them, not so much that they spoke but that they registered volumes; each time he dropped them it was as though he had retired into the li brary. We sat in the living room, his mother, younger brother and A FLY IN BUTTERMILK sister, and I, while G. sat on the sota, doing his homework. The father was at work and the older sister had not vet come ho me.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  When this was done, and all my things brought into the Chamber, I walked towards the Baines; but first I went to the market to buy some victuals for my supper, whereas I saw great plenty of fish set out to be sould: and so I cheapened part thereof, and that which they at first held at an hundred pence, I bought at length for twenty. Which when I had done, and was departing away, one of myne old acquaintance, and fellow at Athens, named Pithias, fortuned to passe by, and viewing me at a good space, in the end brought me to his remembrance, and gently came and kissed mee, saying, O my deare friend Lucius, it is a great while past since we two saw one another, and moreover, from the time that wee departed from our Master Vestius, I never heard any newes from you. I pray you Lucius tell me the cause of your peregrination hither. Then I answered and sayd, I will make relation thereof unto you tomorrow: but I pray you tell me, what meaneth these servitors that follow you, and these rods or verges which they beare, and this habit which you wear like unto a magistrate, verily I thinke you have obtained your own desire, whereof I am right glad. Then answered Pithias, I beare the office of the Clerke of the market, and therfore if you will have any pittance for your supper speake and I will purvey it for you. Then I thanked him heartily and sayd I had bought meat sufficient already. But Pithias when hee espied my basket wherein my fish was, tooke it and shaked it, and demanded of me what I had payd for all my Sprots. In faith (quoth I), I could scarce inforce the fishmonger to sell them for twenty pence. Which when I heard, he brought me backe again into the market, and enquired of me of whom I bought them. I shewed him the old man which sate in a corner, whome by and by, by reason of his office, hee did greatly blame, and sayd, Is it thus you serve and handle strangers, and specially our friends? Wherefore sell you this fish so deare, which is not worth a halfepenny? Now perceive I well, that you are an occasion to make this place, which is the principall city of all Thessaly, to be forsaken of all men, and to reduce it into an uninhabitable Desart, by reasone of your excessive prices of victuals, but assure yourself that you shall not escape without punishment, and you shall know what myne office is, and how I ought to punish such as offend. Then he took my basket and cast the fish on the ground, and commanded one of his Sergeants to tread them under his feet.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  I knew he meant it. If I hung around too long, he'd find a way. And so I got some change together, and I hauled ass." I knew a blond girl in the Village a long time ago, and, eventually, we never walked out of the house together. She was far safer walking the streets alone than when walking with me-a brutal and hu miliating fact which thoroughly destroyed whatever relationship this girl and I might have been able to achieve. This happens all the time in America, but Americans have yet to realize what a sinister fact this is, and what it says about the m. When we walked out in the evening, then, she would leave ahead of me, alone. I would give her about five minutes, and then I would walk out alone, taking another route, and meet her on the subway platf orm. We would not acknowledge each other. We would get into the same subway car, sitting at opposite ends of it, and walk, separately, through the streets of the free and the brave, to wherever we were TO BE BAP TIZED 4-1 9 going-a friend's house, or the movies. There was only one restaurant, eventually, in which we ever ate together, and it was run by a black woman. We were fighting for our lives, and we were very young. As for the police, our protectors, we would never have dreamed of calling one. Our connection caused us to be menaced by the police in ways indescribable and nearly inconceivable; and the police egged on the popu lace, stood laughing and talking while we were spit on, and cursed. When with a girl, I never ran, I couldn 't: except once, when a girl I had been sleeping with slapped me in the face in the middle of Washington Square Park. She was pulling rank, she was crying Rape!-and then I ran. I still remember the day and the hour, and the sunlight, the faces of the people, and the girl's face-she had short red hair-and I will never forgive that girl. I am astonished until today that I have both my eyes and most of my teeth and functioning kidneys and my sexual equipment: but small black boys have the advantage of being able to curl themselves into knots, and roll with the kicks and the punches. Of course, I was a target for the police. I was black and visible and helpless and the word was out to "get" me, and so, soon, I, too, hauled ass.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  My father wanted me to do the same. I refused, even though I no longer had any illus ions about what an education could do for me; I had already en count ered too many college-graduate handymen. My friends were now "downtown," busy, as they put it, "fighting the man." They began to care less about the way they looked, the way they dress ed, the things they did; presently, one found them in twos and threes and fours, in a hallway, sharing a jug of wine or a bottle of whiskey, talking, cur sing, fighting, sometimes weeping: lost, and unable to say what it was that oppressed them, except that they knew it was "the man" the white man. And there seemed to be no way whatever to remove this cloud that stood between them and the su n, be tween them and love and life and power, between them and whatever it was that they wanted. One did not have to be very bright to realize how little one could do to change one's sit uation; one did not have to be abnormally sensitive to be worn down to a cutting edge by the incessant and gratuitous hu miliation and danger one encount ered every working day, all day long. The humiliation did not apply merely to working days, or workers; I was thirteen and was crossing Fifth Avenue on my way to the Forty-second Street library, and the cop in the middle of the street mut tered as I passed him, "Why don't you niggers stay upt own where you belong?" When I was ten, and didn't look, certainly, any older, two policemen amused themselves with me by frisking me, making comic (and terri fYing) speculations concerning my ancestry and probable sex ual prowess, and for good measure, leaving me flat on my back in one of Harlem's empty lots. Just before and then during the Second World War, many of my friends fled into the ser vice, all to be changed there, and rarely for the better, many to be ruined, and many to die. Other s fled to other states and DOWN AT THE CROSS 299 cities-that is, to other ghettos. Some went on wine or whis key or the needle, and are still on it. And others, like me, fled into the church.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  School began to reveal itself, therefore, as a child's game that one could not win, and boys dropped out of school and went to work. My fa ther wanted me to do the same. I refused, even though I no longer had any illusions about what an education could do fo r me; I had already en countered too many college-graduate handymen. My fr iends were now "downtown," busy, as they put it, "fighting the man." They began to care less about the way they looked, the way they dressed, the things they did; presently, one fo und them in twos and threes and fo urs, in a hallway, sharing a jug of wine or a bottle of whiskey, talking, cursing, fighting, sometimes weeping: lost, and unable to say what it was that oppressed them, except that they knew it was "the man" the white man. And there seemed to be no way whatever to remove this cloud that stood between them and the sun, be tween them and love and life and power, between them and whatever it was that they wanted. One did not have to be very bright to realize how little one could do to change one's sit uation; one did not have to be abnormally sensitive to be worn down to a cutting edge by the incessant and gratuitous hu miliation and danger one encountered every working day, all day long. The humiliation did not apply merely to working days, or workers; I was thirteen and was crossing Fifth Avenue on my way to the Forty-second Street library, and the cop in the middle of the street muttered as I passed him, "Why don't you niggers stay uptown where you belong?" When I was ten, and didn't look, certainly, any older, two policemen amused themselves with me by fr isking me, making comic (and terri fYing) speculations concerning my ancestry and probable sex ual prowess, and fo r good measure, leaving me flat on my back in one of Harlem's empty lots. Just before and then during the Second World War, many of my friends fled into the ser vice, all to be changed there, and rarely fo r the better, many to be ruined, and many to die. Others fled to other states and DOWN AT THE CROSS 299 cities-that is, to other ghettos. Some went on wine or whis key or the needle, and are still on it.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  Some thought my hair was the color of tar, that it had the texture of wire, or the texture of cotton. It was jocularly suggested that I might let it all grow long and make myself a \\inter coat. If I sat in the sun tor more than fi.Ye minutes some daring creature was certain to come along and gingerly put his fingers on my hair, as though he were afraid of an electric shock, or put his hand on my hand, aston ished that the color did not rub oft'. In all of this, in which it must be conceded there was the charm of genuine wonder and in which there was certainly no element of intentional unkindness, there was yet no suggestion that I was human: I was simply a liYing wonder. I knew that they did not mean to be unkind, and I know it now; it is necessary, ne\·ertheless, tor me to repeat this to myself each time that I walk out of the chalet. The children who shout Neger! ha\·e no way of kno\\ing the echoes this sound raises in me. They are brimming \\ith good humor and the more daring swell \\ith pride when I stop to speak with th em. Just the same, there are days when I cannot pause and smile, when I ha,·e no heart to play \\ith them; when, indeed, I mutter sourlv to mvselt� exactk as I muttered on the streets of a city these . childr � n have ne\' � r seen, when I was no bigger than these children are now: Your mother was a n i.._qger. Joyce is right about history being a nightmare-but it may be the nightJilare trom_ which no one-can awake11:_ Peo��traJW.ed- in historY and historv is tra ed in - e . is a custom ·m the \illage-1 am told it is repeated in 120 NOTES OF A NATIVE SON many villages-of "buying" African natives for the purpose of converting them to Christianity. There stands in the church all year round a small box with a slot for money, decorated with a black figurine, and into this box the villagers drop their francs. During the em-naval which precedes Lent, two village children have their faces blackened-out of which bloodless darkness their blue eyes shine like icc-and fantastic horsehair wigs arc placed on their blond heads; thus disguised, they solicit among the villagers for money f(>r the missionaries in Africa. Between the box in the church and the blackened chil dren, the village "bought" last year six or eight African na tives.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  BEDE. He fell upon his face, because he blushes with shame when he remembers the evils he had committed. And he is commanded to rise and walk, because he who, knowing his own weakness, lies lowly on the ground, is led to advance by the consolation of the divine word to mighty deeds. But if faith made him whole, who hurried himself back to give thanks, therefore does unbelief destroy those who have neglected to give glory to God for mercies received. Wherefore that we ought to increase our faith by humility, as it is declared in the former parable, so in this is it exemplified in the actions themselves. 17:20–2120. And when he was demanded of the Pharisees, when the kingdom of God should come, he answered them and said, The kingdom of God cometh not with observation: 21. Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA. Because our Saviour, in His discourses which He addressed to others, spake often of the kingdom of God, the Pharisees derided Him; hence it is said, And when he was asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God should come. As though they said tauntingly, “Before the kingdom of God come, which Thou speakest of, the death of the cross will be Thy lot.” But our Lord testifying His patience, when reviled reviles not again, but the rather because they were evil, returns not a scornful answer; for it follows, He answered and said, The kingdom cometh not with observation; as if he says, “Seek not to know the time when the kingdom of heaven shall again be at hand. For that time can be observed neither by men nor angels, not as the time of the Incarnation which was proclaimed by the foretelling of Prophets and the heraldings of Angels.” Wherefore He adds, Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, Lo there! Or else, They ask about the kingdom of God, because, as is said below, they thought that on our Lord’s coming into Jerusalem, the kingdom of God would be immediately manifested. Therefore our Lord answers, that the kingdom of God will not come with observation. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA. Now it is only for the benefit of each individual that He says that which follows, For behold the kingdom of God is within you; that is, it rests with you and your own hearts to receive it. For every man who is justified by faith and the grace of God, and adorned with virtues, may obtain the kingdom of heaven. GREGORY OF NYSSA. (lib. de prop. sec. Deum.) Or, perhaps, the kingdom of God being within us, means that joy that is implanted in our hearts by the Holy Spirit. For that is, as it were, the image and pledge of the everlasting joy with which in the world to come the souls of the Saints rejoice.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  We all react to and, to whatever extent, become what that eye sees. This judgment begins in the eyes of one's parents (the crucial, the definitive, the all-but-e verlasting judgment), and so we move, in the vast and claustrophobic gallery of Others, on up or down the line, to the eye of one's enemy or one's friend or one's lover. It is virtually impossible to trust one's human value without the collaboration or corroboration of that eye- which is to say that no one can live without it. One can, of course, in struct that eye as to what to see, but this effort, which is nothing less than ruthless intimidation, is wounding and ex hausting: While it can keep humiliation at bay, it confirms the fact that humiliation is the central danger of one's lif e. And since one cannot risk love without risking humiliation, love becomes impossible. I hit the streets when I was about six or seven, like most black kids of my generation, running errands, doing odd jobs. This was in the black world-my turf- which means that I felt protected. I think that I really was, though poverty is pov erty and we were, if I may say so, among the truly needy, in spite of the tins of corned beef we got from home relief every week, along with prunes. (C atsup had not yet become a veg etable; indeed, I don't think we had ever heard of it. ) My mother fried corned beef, she boiled it, she baked it, she put potatoes in it, she put rice in it, she disguised it in corn bread, she boiled it in soup(!) , she wrapped it in cloth, she beat it with a hammer, she banged it against the wall, she threw it onto the ceiling. Finally, she gave up, for nothing could make us eat it anymore, and the tins reproachfully piled up on the shelf above the bathtub--along with the prunes, which we also couldn't eat anymore. While I won't speak for my broth ers and sisters, I can't bear corned-beef hash or prunes even today. Poverty. I remember one afternoon when someone dropped a dime in front of the subway station at 125th Street and Lenox Avenue and I and a man of about 40 both scram- 8J8 OTHER ESS AYS bled for it. The man won, giving me a cheerful goodbye as he sauntered down the subway steps. I was bitterly disap pointed, a dime being a dime, but I laughed, too. The truly needy.

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  524 Lecture 77: James Joyce frail, vulnerable innocence of the boy and the brutality of the world around him—which he successfully challenges. Before the episode, Stephen has been knocked down on the cinderpath. As a result, his glasses have been shattered. For this reason, his Latin teacher has excused him from writing with the rest of the class. Rejecting his excuses, Father Dolan beats him for being idle. Though Stephen explains why he can’t work, Father Dolan suspects him of playing a trick. He calls him a loafer and beats him. Stung with pain and humiliation, Stephen gets his fi rst bitter taste of injustice. Unlike Rousseau, Stephen successfully protests against being beaten. In The Confessions, Rousseau recalls being mercilessly beaten in childhood for refusing to confess to something he didn’t do. After Father Dolan threatens to beat Stephen every time he fails to do his lessons, Stephen stops the beatings by protesting to the rector of the school. By the time Portrait appeared, Joyce was fully committed to the life of writing. Born in Dublin, he was educated in a series of schools run by Jesuit priests. Though his family sank into debt as he grew older, Joyce received a good education. He made his way partly by winning prizes and scholarships. He attended the same schools that the fi ctional Stephen Dedalus attends in Portrait—right up through University College. On January 7, 1904, he wrote the autobiographical essay that became the germ of Portrait. In the years that followed, it was fi rst rewritten as a bulky, unfi nished story called Stephen Hero. He then cut and reshaped it into the fi ve-chapter Portrait. Meanwhile, Joyce settled in Europe with Nora Barnacle and produced other work. After meeting Nora on a Dublin street in June 1904, he eloped with her to the Continent four months later. They settled in Trieste, Italy, where Joyce taught English and where they lived for most of the next 10 years. During this time, he fi nished Portrait, published a volume of poetry, completed the stories in Dubliners (published in 1914), and started writing Ulysses.

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  198 Lecture 27: El Cid envoys to King Alfonso bearing rich gifts and assurances that he is a loyal vassal of his king. After the fall of Valencia, Alfonso agrees to send the Cid’s wife and daughters to him, promises pardons to all those who have gone off to join the Cid, and indicates his intention to pardon the Cid himself. At the court, the Infantes of Carrión (Diego and Fernando) begin to scheme to win the Cid’s daughters (Doña Elvira and Doña Sol) as their wives. The king accepts the plan, as does the Cid, but with misgivings. The Infantes travel to Valencia, and the marriage is celebrated amidst joy and celebration. One night in the Cid’s palace, a pet lion escapes and the Infantes show themselves to be complete cowards. A little later, in the face of battle, the Infantes again prove to be cowards. The Infantes now ask to return home to Carrión with their wives, but actually, they plan to humiliate and repudiate them because of the (self-in fl icted!) affronts to their honor. In the forest of Corpes the Infantes send everyone on ahead, then strip their wives, brutally beat them, and leave them for dead. A relative saves them and brings them back to Rodrigo. Instead of seeking blood revenge, the Cid appeals to the king, arguing that the Infantes have proved to be traitorous because it had been the king who actually gave Doña Elvira and Doña Sol in marriage. Abetted by the duplicitous Count García, the Carrión faction argues that they had made an unequal marriage and that they had a perfect right to repudiate their wives, arguing that doing so, and even the way they did so, brought them honor. Alfonso is deeply aggrieved and summons a great court to meet in Toledo to adjudicate the matter. In richly detailed legal proceedings, the judges satisfy one request after another by the Cid, fi nally insisting that there is to be a trial by battle. The king guarantees everyone’s security, the battle is joined, and the Infantes are dealt a humiliating defeat. The Cid returns to Valencia, and his daughters marry the sons of the kings of Navarre and Aragon. The poet built his story around several key themes. To do so, he took license with historical reality: Many key characters are invented (Cid’s friend Martín Antolínez is surely an invention and so too, probably, is his faithful “sidekick” Álvar Fáñez); Count García is real, but he was less a sneaky plotter than a man humiliated by the Cid after a battle; the “marriage plot”

• From Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  303 various poetic forms, bringing together Christian and classical themes. His 1629 poem, “On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity,” is an interesting example of Christian humanism. Like Dante, Milton had a political career that ended badly and that proved to be an enormous infl uence on his literary works. The interplay between the active and contemplative life is an overt theme in much of Milton’s poetry. Milton’s was a strong and active voice on the side of the Parliamentarians against the Monarchists and against the established Church. Milton worked for the Protectorate, holding the title of Secretary of Foreign Tongues to the Council of State. After the Restoration, Milton was released from government service and brie fl y imprisoned. Milton’s sense of the awareness of the difference between a divine plan and human striving is part of the texture of Paradise Lost. The idea of Christian heroism as an acceptance of humiliation took on a powerful existential meaning to the poet and is refl ected in the narrative voice of Paradise Lost. Milton’s epic, Paradise Lost, retells the story of the fall of Adam and Eve as told in the beginning of the book of Genesis in the Bible. His theme is no less than “asserting eternal providence” to “justify the ways of God to men.” Paradise Lost accepts the epic convention of starting In Medias Res. Books I and II show the aftermath of the war in Heaven, with Satan and his angels plotting to avenge themselves by attacking humans. Book III shows God tracking the progress of Satan and the Son volunteering to become incarnate. Book IV involves Satan spying in the Garden of Eden. In Book V , Eve recounts a dream to Adam and God sends the angel Raphael to warn the couple of impending trouble. In Book VI, Raphael gives the couple an account of the war in Heaven. In Book VII, Raphael gives the couple an account of creation. In Book VIII, Adam recalls meeting Eve and their subsequent marriage. Book IX is the retelling of the fall and, by many accounts, the climax of the epic and of Milton’s poetic corpus. In Book X, the Father sends the Son to Milton rewrites both Dante and Virgil. In Book I, a good deal of the description of Hell comes from Dante.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  This smile-and-t he world-smiles-with-you routine worked about as well in this situation as it had in the situation for which it was designed, which is to say that it did not work at all. �o one, after all, can be liked whose hu man weight and complexity cannot be, or has not bee n, admitted. i\ly smile was simply another un heard-of phenomenon which allowed them to see my teeth they did not, really, see my smile and I began to think that, should I take to snarling, no one would notice any difference. All of the physical characteristics of the �egro which had caused me, in America, a \'cry difterent and almost torgotten pain were nothing less than miraculous-or infernal-in the eyes of the Yillage people. Some thought my hair was the color of tar, th at it had the texture of wire, or the texture of cotton. It was jocula rly suggested that I might let it all grow long and make myself a \\inter coat. If I sat in the sun tor more than fi.Ye minutes some daring creature was certain to come along and gingerly put his fingers on my hair, as though he were afraid of an electric shock, or put his hand on my hand, aston ished that the color did not rub oft'. In all of this, in which it must be conceded there was the charm of genuine wonder and in which there was certainly no element of intentional unkindness, there was yet no suggestion that I was human: I was simply a liYing wonder. I knew that they did not mean to be unkind, and I know it now; it is necessary, ne\·ertheless, tor me to repeat this to myself each time that I walk out of the chalet. The children who shout Neger! ha\·e no way of kno\\ing the echoes this sound raises in me. They are brimming \\ith good humor and the more daring swell \\ith pride when I stop to speak with them. Just the same, there are days when I cannot pause and smile, when I ha,·e no heart to play \\ith th em; when, indeed, I mutter sourlv to mvselt� exactk as I muttered on the streets of a city these .childr�n have ne\'�r seen, when I was no bigger than these children are now: Your mother was a ni.._qger. Joyce is right about history being a nightmare-but it may be the nightJilare trom_ which no one- can awake11:_ Peo� �traJW.ed- in historY and historv is tra ed in - e . is a custom ·m the \il lage-1 am told it is repeated in 120 NO TES OF A NA TIVE SON many villages-of "buying" African natives for the purpose of converting them to Christianity. There stands in the church all year round a small box with a slot for money, decorated with a black figurine, and into this box the villagers drop their francs.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  It wasn’t until 1967… When the Virginia legislature passed the Racial Integrity Act in 1924, authorizing the forced sterilization of black women thought to be defective or dangerous and criminalizing marriage between a black person and white person, people in Caroline County took these pronouncements very seriously. Decades later, when a young white man, Richard Loving, fell in love with a black woman named Mildred Jeter, the young couple decided to get married after learning that Mildred was pregnant. They went to Washington, D.C., to “get legal,” knowing that it wouldn’t be possible in Virginia. They tried to stay away but got homesick and returned to Caroline County after the wedding to be near their families. Word about the marriage got out, and some weeks later the sheriff and several armed deputies stormed into their home in the middle of the night to arrest Richard and Mildred for miscegenation. Jailed and humiliated, they were forced to plead guilty and were told that they should be grateful that their prison sentences would be suspended as long as they agreed to leave the county and not return for “at least twenty-five years.” They fled the state again but this time decided to fight the law in court with a lawsuit filed with the assistance of the American Civil Liberties Union. In 1967, after years of defeats in lower courts, the U.S. Supreme Court struck down miscegenation laws, declaring them unconstitutional. “The legislature shall never pass any law”… Even though the restriction could not be enforced under federal law, the state ban on interracial marriage in Alabama continued into the twenty-first century. In 2000, reformers finally had the votes to get the issue on the statewide ballot, where a majority of voters chose to eliminate the ban, although 41 percent voted to keep it. A 2011 poll of Mississippi Republicans found that 46 percent supported a legal ban on interracial marriage, 40 percent opposed such a ban, and 14 percent were undecided. Nearly a dozen people had been lynched… The names of the people lynched are as follows: October 13, 1892: Burrell Jones, Moses Jones/Johnson, Jim Packard, and one unknown (brother of Jim Packard). Tuskegee University, “Record of Lynchings in Alabama from 1871 to 1920,” compiled for the Alabama Department of Archives and History by the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute, Alabama Dept. of Archives and History Digital Collections, available at http://digital.archives.alabama.gov/​cdm/​singleitem/​collection/​voices/​id/​2516, accesssed September 18, 2009; also, “Four Negroes Lynched,” New York Times (October 14, 1892); Stewart Tolnay, compiler, “NAACP Lynching Records,” Historical American Lynching Data Collection Project, available at http://people.uncw.edu/​hinese/​HAL/​HAL%20Web%20Page.htm#Project%20HAL, accessed April 30, 2014. October 30, 1892: Allen Parker. Tuskegee University Archives; Tolnay, “NAACP Lynching Records.” August 30, 1897: Jack Pharr. Tuskegee University Archives; Tolnay, “NAACP Lynching Records.” September 2, 1897: Unknown. Tuskegee University Archives. August 23, 1905: Oliver Latt. Tuskegee University Archives. February 7, 1909: Will Parker. Tuskegee University Archives.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  I wanted him to fire me. I would have suggested it, but I was struck silent. I sat and stared at the letter while he yelled. “What’s wrong with you!” “I’m sorry,” I said. He stood quietly for a moment. Then he said, “Come into my office. And bring that letter.” I followed him into his office. “Put that letter on my desk,” he said. I did. “Now bend over so that you are looking directly at it. Put your elbows on the desk and your face very close to the letter.” Shaken and puzzled, I did what he said. “Now read the letter to yourself. Keep reading it over and over again.” I read: “Dear Mr. Garvy: I am very grateful to you for referring…” He began spanking me as I said “referring.” The funny thing was, I wasn’t even surprised. I actually kept reading the letter, although my understanding of it was not very clear. I began crying on it, which blurred the ink. The word “humiliation” came into my mind with such force that it effectively blocked out all other words. Further, I felt that the concept it stood for had actually been a major force in my life for quite a while. He spanked me for about ten minutes, I think. I read the letter only about five times, partly because it rapidly became too wet to be legible. When he stopped he said, “Now straighten up and go type it again.” I went to my desk. He closed the office door behind him. I sat down, blew my nose and wiped my face. I stared into space for several minutes, every now and then dwelling on the tingling sensation in my buttocks. I typed the letter again and took it into his office. He didn’t look up as I put it on his desk. I went back out and sat, planning to sink into a stupor of some sort. But a client came in, so I couldn’t. I had to buzz the lawyer and tell him the client had arrived. “Tell him to wait,” he said curtly. When I told the client to wait, he came up to my desk and began to talk to me. “I’ve been here twice before,” he said. “Do you recognize me?” “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” He was a small, tight-looking middle-aged man with agitated little hands and a pale scar running over his lip and down his chin.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  I wanted him to fire me. I would have suggested it, but I was struck silent. I sat and stared at the letter while he yelled. “What’s wrong with you!” “I’m sorry,” I said. He stood quietly for a moment. Then he said, “Come into my office. And bring that letter.” I followed him into his office. “Put that letter on my desk,” he said. I did. “Now bend over so that you are looking directly at it. Put your elbows on the desk and your face very close to the letter.” Shaken and puzzled, I did what he said. “Now read the letter to yourself. Keep reading it over and over again.” I read: “Dear Mr. Garvy: I am very grateful to you for referring...” He began spanking me as I said “referring.” The funny thing was, I wasn’t even surprised. I actually kept reading the letter, although my understanding of it was not very clear. I began crying on it, which blurred the ink. The word “humiliation” came into my mind with such force that it effectively blocked out all other words. Further, I felt that the concept it stood for had actually been a major force in my life for quite a while. He spanked me for about ten minutes, I think. I read the letter only about five times, partly because it rapidly became too wet to be legible. When he stopped he said, “Now straighten up and go type it again.” I went to my desk. He closed the office door behind him. I sat down, blew my nose and wiped my face. I stared into space for several minutes, every now and then dwelling on the tingling sensation in my buttocks. I typed the letter again and took it into his office. He didn’t look up as I put it on his desk. I went back out and sat, planning to sink into a stupor of some sort. But a client came in, so I couldn’t. I had to buzz the lawyer and tell him the client had arrived. “Tell him to wait,” he said curtly. When I told the client to wait, he came up to my desk and began to talk to me. “I’ve been here twice before,” he said. “Do you recognize me?” “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” He was a small, tight-looking middle-aged man with agitated little hands and a pale scar running over his lip and down his chin. The scar didn’t make him look tough; he was too anxious to look tough. “I never thought anything like this would ever happen to me,” he said. “I never thought I’d be in a lawyer’s office even once, and I’ve been here three times now. And absolutely nothing’s been accomplished. I’ve always hated lawyers.”

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  blow against the all-powerful spell that held men in the thrall of women. If you were sucking a woman’s cunt, you were sac rificing yourself for her, and yet she was in your power. As I matured, I naturally discovered that things weren’t quite so dramatic. Women weren’t all-knowing creatures after all, and they weren’t the enemy. They were subject to base de sires and cravings just like men. But like so many things that affect us strongly when we are young and malleable, my fixa tion remained long after the worldview that shaped it had shifted. I still craved the act of joining my mouth and tongue to a woman’s secret musky inner regions. It was submission and power combined, and it was my constant fantasy. But lying there alone in the dim bedroom, I was having sec ond thoughts. Some fantasies should remain just that, and I was almost relieved that no women were taking me up on the offer. A few more minutes and I could rip off the blindfold and claim a political victory. There was a thump outside the door, barely audible over the bass vibration from the big speakers downstairs. Two fe male voices, each trying to shush the other. The door opened, brightening the room, and I swallowed hard. Drunk female laughter, and then the door closed again. “He’s in there!” “I told you. Now go on . ..” The rest was muffled. This is humiliating, I thought. I’m out of here. The door opened again, and this time they came in and shut it behind them. I could hear their heavy breathing as they looked at me. “Hi,” I said. “Party Girl here wants to sit on your face,” said one. “I’m just her chaperone.” This struck them as funny, and they both broke into choked laughter. “Is that what you want?” asked Party Girl. “I mean . . . really?” “I lost a bet.” “Oh ... okay. So it’s not like you really want to ... ” It would be easy to say something that would get me off the hook. Even through a haze of alcohol, she was hesitant about inflicting her cunt on a stranger. “No, I want to. Besides, I can’t settle the bet until I actually get a bunch of women to sit on my face.” “Shit, what the hell, then. Is the door locked?” “Yep,” said the chaperone. I heard the rustling of clothing, and then the bed shifted sharply. Through the crack in the blindfold I could see she was wearing a short skirt, which she had rolled up around her waist. All she had taken off were her panties, and maybe her shoes. Her thighs nestled on either side of my head, and I caught the first whiff of her pussy. It was pungent, with a faint undertone of urine, but not unpleasant. She had probably showered before the party, but had of course been dancing and drinking since then.

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  The words devastated Susan. On the spot, she knew she’d never forget them. But something about that incident steeled Susan’s spine. From the day Frank began dating her, he sensed an undergirding of strength in Susan. This girl, he thought, can handle anything. As high school drew to a close, Frank needed to decide on a future. He wanted to be a fighter pilot—a perfect way to combine flying and defense of his country. World War II had ended nearly a year earlier, but already tensions were building with the Soviet Union. No less an expert in looming tyranny than Winston Churchill now warned that “an iron curtain” had descended across Europe. Frank believed him. After scoring high on admissions exams, Frank enrolled at the United States Military Academy at West Point in the fall of 1946. Cadet Borman was all baby face and golden hair compared to his classmates. Many had already attended college, and at least half were veterans of World War II. In early fall, Borman tried out for the plebe (first year) football team. He’d been a star high school quarterback, but at this level he didn’t have the necessary arm strength. He joined anyway, as the varsity team’s assistant manager, in charge of gathering dirty socks and sweaty jockstraps. It was thrilling for Borman, who got to observe head coach Earl Blaik’s legendary intensity and to watch one of the young assistant coaches, Vince Lombardi, develop his own military coaching style. Borman fell in love with West Point. The rules, the order, the discipline—it all seemed designed to tune out distraction and allow a man to get on with what really mattered. As a kid, he’d already been different from his peers—he went after the things that were important to him, as if he were on a mission. At West Point, nothing mattered but the mission. He pledged himself to the academy’s motto—Duty, Honor, Country. It seemed to Borman that a person who believed in anything less wouldn’t get where he needed to go. All the while, Borman and Susan continued dating, if only by U.S. mail. She was still in Tucson, and they were separated by more than two thousand miles. West Point did not allow furloughs for plebes, even for holidays. Fearing he’d receive a breakup letter from Susan, Borman struck first, sending a letter to Susan saying they needed to cool their relationship. It only made sense, in light of their distance, his commitment to West Point, and the focus he’d need to make his new