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.

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• From Educated (2018)

  A middle-aged woman handed out tests and strange pink sheets I’d never seen before. “Excuse me,” I said when she gave me mine. “What is this?” “It’s a bubble sheet. To mark your answers.” “How does it work?” I said. “It’s the same as any other bubble sheet.” She began to move away from me, visibly irritated, as if I were playing a prank. “I’ve never used one before.” She appraised me for a moment. “Fill in the bubble of the correct answer,” she said. “Blacken it completely. Understand?” The test began. I’d never sat at a desk for four hours in a room full of people. The noise was unbelievable, yet I seemed to be the only person who heard it, who couldn’t divert her attention from the rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pencils on paper. When it was over I suspected that I’d failed the math, and I was positive that I’d failed the science. My answers for the science portion couldn’t even be called guesses. They were random, just patterns of dots on that strange pink sheet. I drove home. I felt stupid, but more than stupid I felt ridiculous. Now that I’d seen the other students—watched them march into the classroom in neat rows, claim their seats and calmly fill in their answers, as if they were performing a practiced routine—it seemed absurd that I had thought I could score in the top fifteen percent. That was their world. I stepped into overalls and returned to mine. —THERE WAS AN UNUSUALLY hot day that spring, and Luke and I spent it hauling purlins—the iron beams that run horizontally along the length of a roof. The purlins were heavy and the sun relentless. Sweat dripped from our noses and onto the painted iron. Luke slipped out of his shirt, grabbed hold of the sleeves and tore them, leaving huge gashes a breeze could pass through. I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing anything so radical, but after the twentieth purlin my back was sticky with sweat, and I flapped my T-shirt to make a fan, then rolled up my sleeves until an inch of my shoulders was visible. When Dad saw me a few minutes later, he strode over and yanked the sleeves down. “This ain’t a whorehouse,” he said. I watched him walk away and, mechanically, as if I weren’t making the decision, rerolled them. He returned an hour later, and when he caught sight of me he paused mid-step, confused. He’d told me what to do, and I hadn’t done it. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then crossed over to me, took hold of both sleeves and jerked them down. He didn’t make it ten steps before I’d rolled them up again. I wanted to obey. I meant to. But the afternoon was so hot, the breeze on my arms so welcome. It was just a few inches. I was covered from my temples to my toes in grime.

• From Educated (2018)

  It was like getting beaten by a zombie, I write. Like he couldn’t hear me . Shawn knocks. I slide my journal under the pillow. His shoulders are rounded when he enters. He speaks quietly. It was a game, he says. He had no idea he’d hurt me until he saw me cradling my arm at the site. He checks the bones in my wrist, examines my ankle. He brings me ice wrapped in a dish towel and says that next time we’re having fun, I should tell him if something is wrong. He leaves. I return to my journal. Was it really fun and games? I write. Could he not tell he was hurting me? I don’t know. I just don’t know. I begin to reason with myself, to doubt whether I had spoken clearly: what had I whispered and what had I screamed? I decide that if I had asked differently, been more calm, he would have stopped. I write this until I believe it, which doesn’t take long because I want to believe it. It’s comforting to think the defect is mine, because that means it is under my power. I put away my journal and lie in bed, reciting this narrative as if it is a poem I’ve decided to learn by heart. I’ve nearly committed it to memory when the recitation is interrupted. Images invade my mind—of me on my back, arms pressed above my head. Then I’m in the parking lot. I look down at my white stomach, then up at my brother. His expression is unforgettable: not anger or rage. There is no fury in it. Only pleasure, unperturbed. Then a part of me understands, even as I begin to argue against it, that my humiliation was the cause of that pleasure. It was not an accident or side effect. It was the objective. This half-knowledge works in me like a kind of possession, and for a few minutes I’m taken over by it. I rise from my bed, retrieve my journal, and do something I have never done before: I write what happened. I do not use vague, shadowy language, as I have done in other entries; I do not hide behind hints and suggestion. I write what I remember: There was one point when he was forcing me from the car, that he had both hands pinned above my head and my shirt rose up. I asked him to let me fix it but it was like he couldn’t hear me. He just stared at it like a great big jerk. It’s a good thing I’m as small as I am. If I was larger, at that moment, I would have torn him apart. —“ I DON’T KNOW WHAT you’ve done to your wrist,” Dad told me the next morning, “but you’re no good on the crew like that.

• From City of Night (1963)

  Unpredictably occasionally she comes on with crazy Southern sounds cultivated, you will learn, all the way from northern Pennsylvania. “Oh my dear!” she exclaims now, fluffing out her “rair,” “here I am talking all about my Sex life, and we have not been Properly Introduced!... Im Miss Destiny, dear—and let me hasten to tell you before you hear it wrong from othuh sources that I am famous even in Los gay Angeles—why, I went to this straight party in High Drag (and I mean High , honey—gown, stockings, ostrich plumes in my flaming rair), and—” “An you know who she was dancing with?” Chuck interrupted. “The Vice, my dear,” Miss Destiny said flatly, glowering at Chuck. “An she was busted, man—for ah mas—mask—...” “Masquerading, dear.... But how was I to know the repressed queer was the vice squad—tell me?...” And she goes on breathlessly conjuring up the Extravagant Scene.... (Oh shes dancing like Cinderella at the magic ball in this Other World shes longingly invading, and her prince-charming turns out to be: the vice squad. And oh Miss Destiny gathers her skirts and tries to run like in the fairytale, but the vice grabs her roughly and off she goes in a very real coach to the glasshouse, the feathers trembling now nervously. Miss Destiny insists she is a real woman leave her alone. (But oh, oh! how can she hide That Thing between his legs which should belong there only when it is somebody else’s?)... All lonesome tears and Humiliation, Miss Destiny ends up in the sex tank: a wayward Cinderella ....) “Now, honey,” she says with real indignation, “I can see them bustin me for Impersonating a man—but a woman!— really! ...” And you will notice that Miss Destiny like all the other swinging queens in the world considers herself every bit a Lady. “But nevuh mind,” she went on, “I learned things in the countyfawm I didnt know before—like how to make eyeshadow out of spit and bluejeans—and oh my dear the kites I flew!—I mean to say, no one can say I didnt send my share of invitations out!... Of course, I do have to go regularly to the county psychiatrist (thats a mind doctor, dears)—to be (would you believe it? this is what they actually told me:) ‘cured’!

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  It was not a quim or a cunt she had between her legs - indeed, in all our nights together, I don’t believe we ever gave a name to it all ... Only let her see me now, I thought, as I lay beside Diana, making the necklace of pearls more secure about the dildo; and Diana herself would reach to stroke her box again, and then lean and stroke me. ‘Only see what I’m mistress of!’ she would say with a sigh. ‘Only see - only see what I own!’ I would draw on the cigarette till the bed seemed to tilt; then I’d lie and laugh, while she clambered upon me. Once I let a fag fall on the silken counterpane, and smiled to see it smoulder as we fucked. Once I smoked so much I was sick. Diana rang for Blake and, when she came, cried: ‘Look at my tart, Blake, resplendent even in her squalor! Did you ever see a brute so handsome? Did you?’ Blake said that she had not; then dipped a cloth in water, and wiped my mouth. It was Diana’s vanity, at last, that broke the spell of my confinement. I had passed a month with her - had left the house only to stroll about the garden, had set not so much as the toe of my boot upon a London street in all that time - when she declared one night at supper that I ought to be barbered. I looked up from my plate, thinking she meant to take me into Soho for it; in fact, she only rang for the servants: I had to sit in a chair with a towel about me, while Blake held the comb and the housekeeper plied the scissors. ‘Gently with her, gently!’ called Diana, looking on. Mrs Hooper came close to trim the hair above my brow, and I felt her breath, quick and hot, upon my cheek. But the hair-cut turned out to be only the prelude to something better. Next morning I woke in Diana’s bed to find her dressed, and gazing at me with her old enigmatic smile. She said, ‘You must get up. I have a treat for you today. Two treats, indeed. The first is in your bedroom.’ ‘A treat?’ I yawned; the word had lost its charge for me, rather. ‘What is it, Diana?’ ‘It’s a suit.’ ‘What kind of suit?’ ‘A coming-out suit.’ ‘Coming-out -?’

• From Educated (2018)

  Dad’s expectations were so high, and Richard’s fear of disappointing him so intense, it seemed possible that Richard might not take the ACT at all. — THE SHOP IN FRANKLIN was ready to roof, so two days after Christmas I forced my toe, still crooked and black, into a steel-toed boot, then spent the morning on a roof driving threading screws into galvanized tin. It was late afternoon when Shawn dropped his screw gun and shimmied down the loader’s extended boom. “Time for a break, Siddle Liss,” he shouted up from the ground. “Let’s go into town.” I hopped onto the pallet and Shawn dropped the boom to the ground. “You drive,” he said, then he leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. I headed for Stokes. I remember strange details about the moment we pulled into the parking lot—the smell of oil floating up from our leather gloves, the sandpaper feel of dust on my fingertips. And Shawn, grinning at me from the passenger seat. Through the city of cars I spy one, a red jeep. Charles. I pass through the main lot and turn into the open asphalt on the north side of the store, where employees park. I pull down the visor to evaluate myself, noting the tangle the windy roof has made of my hair, and the grease from the tin that has lodged in my pores, making them fat and brown. My clothes are heavy with dirt. Shawn sees the red jeep. He watches me lick my thumb and scrub dirt from my face, and he becomes excited. “Let’s go!” he says. “I’ll wait in the car.” “You’re coming in,” Shawn says. Shawn can smell shame. He knows that Charles has never seen me like this—that every day all last summer, I rushed home and removed every stain, every smudge, hiding cuts and calluses beneath new clothes and makeup. A hundred times Shawn has seen me emerge from the bathroom unrecognizable, having washed the junkyard down the shower drain. “You’re coming in,” Shawn says again. He walks around the car and opens my door. The movement is old-fashioned, vaguely chivalrous. “I don’t want to,” I say. “Don’t want your boyfriend to see you looking so glamorous?” He

• From Educated (2018)

  I fled the mountain with my bags half packed and did not retrieve anything that was left behind. I went to Salt Lake and spent the rest of the holidays with Drew. I tried to forget that night. For the first time in fifteen years, I closed my journal and put it away. Journaling is contemplative, and I didn’t want to contemplate anything. After the New Year I returned to Cambridge, but I withdrew from my friends. I had seen the earth tremble, felt the preliminary shock; now I waited for the seismic event that would transform the landscape. I knew how it would begin. Shawn would think about what Dad had told him on the phone, and sooner or later he would realize that my denial—my claim that Dad had misunderstood me—was a lie. When he realized the truth, he would despise himself for perhaps an hour. Then he would transfer his loathing to me. It was early March when it happened. Shawn sent me an email. It contained no greeting, no message whatsoever. Just a chapter from the Bible, from Matthew, with a single verse set apart in bold: O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? It froze my blood. Shawn called an hour later. His tone was casual, and we talked for

• From City of Night (1963)

  All it says is that she was escorted by a young actor.” “Yeah,” says Skipper, “but it was Me....” The fatman returns the clippings to him. Now Skipper shoves the pictures at him, they scatter on the table, among the bottles and the glasses and the smoked cigarette butts. “Thats Me!” he says. The figure of a youngman—Skipper—lies among the debris on the table: the almost-naked body caught gleamingly young by the camera. The fatman stares at the pictures indifferently. “You werent wearing much, were you?” “They were in the body magazines,” Skipper said. “I even made a movie for them—and there was more pictures—you could order enlargements, even—pay for them—and—” The skinny man drunkenly reaches for the pictures. He studies them carefully. “Why—this looks like—isnt this the same—?” he started. And the fatman interrupts him abruptly: “Give him back his pictures!” he shouted angrily. “Yes—it looks like—just like the picture youve got framed in your room—the big one!” the skinny man said to the fatman. “It is—it’s the same pic— “ “Give him back his pictures!” the fatman commands, snatching them from the skinny man.... And now, his motives discovered, the fatman turns with undisguised ferocity on Skipper. “You were much younger then,” he said. “I was!... I had just got outta the marines—I told you—I—when—see—” “Thats a hell of a long time ago!” the fatman shouts. I see Skipper’s face turned down again toward the table in crushed defeat—and I hear the fatman say to him: “I’ll give you ten bucks—and I dont want you myself—I’ll buy you for that one—” He points at the skinny man, who recoils from the fatman’s finger extended pitilessly toward him.... “Ten bucks—for you—... and the pictures....” the fatman says pitilessly, trying now, by degrading even the memory of Skipper’s youth, recorded in the photographs, to erase his own years-long desire. “Not the pictures,” Skipper muttered. “No deal then,” the fatman announces victoriously. He still holds the photographs in his hand. Suddenly Skipper lunges across the table, snatches the photographs from him. “Take your filthy hands off them!” he shouts. The pictures scatter on the floor. The fatman looks with undisguised cold hatred at Skipper. He organizes his spilling flesh, to rise—ripping his gaze away from Skipper. Skipper gets up unsteadily now. In one swift unexpected motion, he shoves the fatman into the booth, the leather creating a sucking protesting sound as the fatman’s form sinks into it. Skippers shouts: “Sit down— fatso!” In an instant the demonic composure of the fatman shatters like a wall crumbling under the impact of a wrecker. “You son of a bitch!—dont call me that!” he whines. The people in the bar, sensing excitement, crowd about the booth.

• From Educated (2018)

  She sang him a Mormon hymn called ‘O My Father.’ When she finished singing, her father had tears in his eyes. He said that any religion with music so beautiful must be the work of God. They were baptized together.” After Anna Mathea converted her parents, the family felt called by God to come to America and meet the prophet Joseph. They saved for the journey, but after two years they could bring only half the family. Anna Mathea was left behind. The journey was long and harsh, and by the time they made it to Idaho, to a Mormon settlement called Worm Creek, Anna’s mother was sick, dying. It was her last wish to see her daughter again, so her father wrote to Anna, begging her to take what money she had and come to America. Anna had fallen in love and was to be married, but she left her fiancé in Norway and crossed the ocean. Her mother died before she reached the American shore. The family was now destitute; there was no money to send Anna to her fiancé, to the marriage she had given up. Anna was a financial burden on her father, so a bishop persuaded her to marry a rich farmer as his second wife. His first wife was barren, and she flew into a jealous rage when Anna became pregnant. Anna worried the first wife might hurt her baby, so she returned to her father, where she gave birth to twins, though only one would survive the harsh winter on the frontier. Mark was still waiting. Then he gave up and mumbled the words I was supposed to say, that he didn’t understand fully, but that he knew polygamy was a principle from God. I agreed. I said the words, then braced myself for a wave of humiliation —for that image to invade my thoughts, of me, one of many wives standing behind a solitary, faceless man—but it didn’t come. I searched my mind and discovered a new conviction there: I would never be a plural wife. A voice declared this with unyielding finality; the declaration made me tremble. What if God commanded it? I asked. You wouldn’t do it, the voice answered. And I knew it was true. I thought again of Anna Mathea, wondering what kind of world it was in which she, following a prophet, could leave her lover, cross an ocean, enter a loveless marriage as a second mistress, then bury her first child, only to have her granddaughter, in two generations, cross the same ocean

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The university and chapter of Paris, convents, cities, and towns placed themselves on the king’s side.22 One more step the pope was about to take when a sudden stop was put to his career. He had set the eighth day of September as the time when he would publicly, in the church of Anagni, and with all the solemnities known to the Church, pronounce the ban upon the disobedient king and release his subjects from allegiance. In the same edifice Alexander III. had excommunicated Barbarossa, and Gregory IX., Frederick II. The bull already had the papal signature, when, as by a storm bursting from a clear sky, the pope’s plans were shattered and his career brought to an end. During the two centuries and a half since Hildebrand had entered the city of Rome with Leo IX., popes had been imprisoned by emperors, been banished from Rome by its citizens, had fled for refuge and died in exile, but upon no one of them had a calamity fallen quite so humiliating and complete as the

• From H Is for Hawk (2014)

  Soon after he leaves a cyclist skids to a halt and asks politely if he can look at the bird. He is absurdly handsome. He stands there with his Antonio Banderas hair, and his expensive technical jacket and titanium bike beaded with rain, and admires the hell out of her. ‘She is beautiful,’ he says. He is trying to find another word but it evades him. Beautiful will have to do. He says it again. Then he thanks me over and over again for the hawk. ‘So close!’ he says. ‘I have never seen a hawk so close.’ In Mexico he has only seen wild ones, and only far away. ‘I like to watch them because they are . . .’ And he makes a movement with one hand as if it were something lifting into the air. ‘Free,’ I say. He nods, and I do too, and in some wonder, because I am beginning to see that for some people a hawk on the hand of a stranger urges confession, urges confidences, lets you speak words about hope and home and heart. And I realise, too, that in all my days of walking with Mabel the only people who have come up and spoken to us have been outsiders: children, teenage goths, homeless people, overseas students, travellers, drunks, people on holiday. ‘We are outsiders now, Mabel,’ I say, and the thought is not unpleasant. But I feel ashamed of my nation’s reticence. Its desire to keep walking, to move on, not to comment, not to interrogate, not to take any interest in something peculiar, unusual, in anything that isn’t entirely normal. I’m in an expansive, celebratory mood. Today Mabel flew four feet to my fist from the back of a chair in my front room. ‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ I tell her. ‘Time for a walk. Let’s go and meet my friend’s kids. They’ll love you.’ A few minutes later I knock on a door and my friend’s husband opens it. My hawk flinches. So do I: this man was exceptionally rude to me once. But whatever. It doesn’t matter. Maybe he was having a bad day. Forgive, forget. My friend isn’t in. I stand before the door and tell him about the hawk. I tell him her age, her sex, her species, her name. I tell him that I’d thought her taming would be the kind of agonising battle I’d read about in The Goshawk. ‘But it’s been a total surprise,’ I say. ‘There’s been no battle at all. Which isn’t my doing, I’m sure. She’s a freakishly calm hawk.’ And the man inclines his head to one side, and smiles. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’ll be a gendered thing.’ ‘Gendered?’ ‘Yes. You’re a woman, and she’s female. Of course you get on,’ he says. He seems deadly serious. I stare at his curled hand on the doorframe and heat rises in my face. This is mockery.

• From Educated (2018)

  and buy him a Snickers at the dime store. She seemed pleased that he would ask and hurried out the door, but when she returned a few minutes later and gave him the bar, he said, “What is this shit? I asked for a Milky Way.” “You didn’t,” she said. “You said Snickers.” “I want a Milky Way.” Sadie left again and fetched the Milky Way. She handed it to him with a nervous laugh, and Shawn said, “Where’s my Snickers? What, you forgot again?” “You didn’t want it!” she said, her eyes shining like glass. “I gave it to Charles!” “Go get it.” “I’ll buy you another.” “No,” Shawn said, his eyes cold. His baby teeth, which usually gave him an impish, playful appearance, now made him seem unpredictable, volatile. “I want that one. Get it, or don’t come back.” A tear slid down Sadie’s cheek, smearing her mascara. She paused for a moment to wipe it away and pull up her smile. Then she walked over to Charles and, laughing as if it were nothing, asked if she could have the Snickers. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, then watched her walk back to Shawn. Sadie placed the Snickers in his palm like a peace offering and waited, staring at the carpet. Shawn pulled her onto his lap and ate the bar in three bites. “You have lovely eyes,” he said. “Just like a fish.” — SADIE’S PARENTS WERE DIVORCING and the town was awash in rumors about her father. When Mother heard the rumors, she said now it made sense why Shawn had taken an interest in Sadie. “He’s always protected angels with broken wings,” she said. Shawn found out Sadie’s class schedule and memorized it. He made a point of driving to the high school several times a day, particularly at those times when he knew she’d be moving between buildings. He’d pull over on the highway and watch her from a distance, too far for her to

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She grew tired of gentlemen’s suits; she took to displaying me in masquerade - had me set up, behind a little velvet curtain in the drawing-room. This would happen about once a week. Ladies would come for dinner and I would eat with them, in trousers; but while they lingered over their coffee and the trimming of their fags I would leave them, and slip up to my room to change my gear. By the time they made their way into the drawing-room I would be behind the curtain, striking some pose; and when she was ready, Diana would pull a tasselled cord and uncover me. I might be Perseus, with a curved sword and a head of the Medusa, and sandals with straps that were buckled at the knee. I might be Cupid, with wings and a bow. I was once St Sebastian, tied to a stump - I remember what a job it was to fasten the arrows so they would not droop. Then, another night I was an Amazon. I carried the Cupid’s bow, but this time had one breast uncovered; Diana rouged the nipple. Next week - she said I had shown one, I might as well show both - I was the French Marianne, with a Phyrgian cap and a flag. The week after that I was Salome: I had the Medusa head again, but on a plate, and with a beard stuck on it; and while the ladies clapped I danced down to my drawers. And the week after that - well, that week I was Hermaphroditus. I wore a crown of laurel, a layer of silver greasepaint - and nothing else save, strapped to my hips, Diana’s Monsieur Dildo. The ladies gasped to see him. That made him quiver. And as the quiver did its usual work on me, I thought of Kitty. I wondered if she was still wearing suits and a topper, still singing songs like ‘Sweethearts and Wives’. Then Diana came, and put a pink cigarette between my lips, and led me amongst the ladies and had them stroke the leather. I cannot say if it was Kitty I thought of then, or even Diana herself. I believe I thought I was a renter again, in Piccadilly - or, not a renter, but a renter’s gent. For when I twitched and cried out there were smiles in the shadows; and when I shuddered, and wept, there was laughter. I could help none of it. It was all Diana’s doing. She was so bold, she was so passionate, she was so devilishly clever. She was like a queen, with her own queer court - I saw it, at those parties. Women sought her out, and watched her. They brought presents, ‘for your collection’ - her collection was talked about, and envied! When she made a gesture, they raised their heads to catch it.

• From The Four Vision Quests of Jesus (2015)

  This vision quest would establish balance for all of humanity, but for that to happen the “I” had to become the “we”; Jesus had to literally embody the spirit of the whole tribe of the human beings. The “he” had to also be the “she.” The finely tuned lines of demarcation between us as the children of God had to be so perfectly calibrated that both spirits are present at once. Perfect harmony is achieved. In the person of Jesus, all of humanity is drawn together. The sacred balance is perfected. What has been out of balance in our relationships in the past now has a chance of returning to a holy equilibrium. Racism, misogyny, classism, homophobia, exploitation, and injustice of any kind now can be reconciled through the Native Messiah. His healing vision, his Good Medicine, can reach the whole human family, but only if it is no longer “his,” but “ours.” In the Native Covenant, the fundamental priority for maintaining balance in all relationships creates a vision of community where the “we” is always more important than the “I.” By becoming a Two-Spirit Messiah on the cross, Jesus physically embodies that principle. He is male; he is female; he is both spirits combined. The transition he makes is one that no other single male or female could make. He enters a vision so powerful that through it he becomes what the Greeks called the Christ. In Native American theology, that sense of Christology, of universal inclusiveness, is what we mean by the Two-Spirit Messiah. It is a crucial transition because it explains both the nature and the purpose of this final vision quest. In order to be the universal Christ, Jesus must take into himself the fullness of humanity on the cross. He must become humanity. On the cross, he is male and female; he is Two Spirit. In this way, he takes into himself the nature and experience of every person, including our experience of deep pain. As a Two Spirit Messiah, Jesus experiences the exploitation and abuse suffered by human beings who are targeted by the societies in which they live. During his crucifixion he is, for example, a Native woman; he feels what it means to be called a squaw. The fact that Jesus becomes the marginalized person, the targeted person, explains why Matthew’s story contains so many instances of Jesus being mocked on his way to the cross. During his interrogation and torture he is mocked by the soldiers when they put a robe and crown of thorns on him. They spit on him. He is mocked with the sign “this is the king of the Jews” placed over his head on the cross. Matthew is careful to record each and every instance of this humiliation.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  A few weeks after September 11, in an article entitled “This Is a Religious War,” the American journalist Andrew Sullivan quoted from Bin Laden’s Declaration of War: The call to wage war against America was made because America spearheaded the Crusade against the Islamic nation, sending thousands of troops to the Land of the Two Holy Mosques, over and above its meddling in Saudi affairs and its politics, and its support of the oppressive, corrupt, and tyrannical regime that is in control. 57 Sullivan alerted his readers to the use of the word Crusade, “an explicitly religious term,” and pointed out that “bin Laden’s beef is with American troops defiling the land of Saudi Arabia, ‘the land of the Two Holy Mosques’ in Mecca and Medina.” 58 The words Crusade and holy mosques were enough to persuade Sullivan that this really was a religious war, whereupon he felt free to embark on a paean to the Western liberal tradition. Way back in the seventeenth century, the West had understood how dangerous it was to mix religion and politics, Sullivan reasoned, but the Muslim world, alas, had yet to learn this important lesson. Yet Sullivan failed to discuss or even dwell upon the two highly specific and clearly political aspects of American foreign policy mentioned by Bin Laden in the quoted extract: its interference in the internal affairs of Saudi Arabia and its support for the despotic Saudi regime. 59 Even the “explicitly religious” terms— Crusade and holy mosques —in fact had political and economic connotations. Since the early twentieth century, the Arabic al-salibiyyah (“crusade”) has become an explicitly political term, applied routinely to colonialism and Western imperialism. 60 The deployment of American troops in Saudi Arabia was not only a violation of sacred space but also a humiliating demonstration of the kingdom’s dependence on the United States and of America’s domination of the region. The American troops involved the kingdom in expensive arms deals; its Saudi base gave the United States easy access to Saudi oil and had enabled the U.S. military to launch air strikes against Sunni Muslims during the Gulf War. 61 The hijackers themselves certainly regarded the 9/11 atrocities as a religious act but one that bore very little resemblance to normative Islam. A document found in Ata’s suitcase outlined a program of prayer and reflection to help them through the ordeal. 62 If psychosis is “an inability to see relationships,” this is a deeply psychotic document.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I said, if only Bo Holliday were here, she might confirm it for us, for she was thick with the Hindoos in her years in Hindoostan.’ ‘It is not true of Indian girls,’ said another lady then. ‘But it is of the Turks. They are bred like it, that they might pleasure themselves in the seraglio.’ ‘Is that so?’ said Maria, stroking her beard. ‘Yes, it is certainly so.’ ‘But it is true also of our own poor girls!’ said someone else. ‘They are brought up twenty to a bed. The continual frotting makes their clitorises grow. I know that for a fact.’ ‘What rubbish!’ said the Sappho with the cigar. ‘I can assure you it is not rubbish,’ answered the first lady hotly. ‘And if we only had a girl from the slums amongst us now, I would pull her drawers down and show you the proof!’ There was laughter at her words, and then the room grew rather quiet. I looked at Diana; and as I did so, she slowly turned her head to gaze at me. ‘I wonder...’ she said thoughtfully, and one or two other ladies began to study me, as she did. My stomach gave a subtle kind of lurch. I thought, She wouldn‘t! And as I thought it, a quite different lady said: ‘But Diana, you have just the creature we need! Your maid was a slum-girl, wasn’t she? Didn’t you have her from a prison or a home? You know what the women get up to in prison, don’t you? I should think they must frot until their parts are the size of mushrooms!’ Diana turned her eyes from me, and drew on her pink-tipped fag; and then she smiled. ‘Mrs Hooper!’ she called. ‘Where is Blake?’ ‘She is in the kitchen, ma’am,’ answered the housekeeper from her station at the bowl of wine. ‘She is loading her tray.’ ‘Go and fetch her.’ ‘Yes ma’am.’ Mrs Hooper went. The ladies looked at one another, and then at Diana. She stood very calm and steady beside the bust of cold Antinous; but when she raised her glass to her lip, I saw that her hand was trembling slightly. I shifted from one foot to the other, my briefly flaring lust all faded. In a moment, Mrs Hooper had returned, with Zena. When Diana called to her, Zena walked blinkingly into the centre of the room. The ladies parted to let her pass, then stepped together again at the back of her. Diana said, ‘We have been wondering about you, Blake.’ Zena blinked again. ‘Ma’am?’ ‘We have been wondering about your time at the reformatory.’ Now Zena coloured. ‘We have been wondering how you filled your hours.

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  tabs n.f. daughter-in-law, bride ;—abs. ב'‎ Jeo®+14t.; sf. ind3 Gn 117 +5 t.; mnbs גוו‎ 1% + 2 t., ete.; pl. sf. mrs Ru r’s, mnibs es ּלוּתִיהֶם‎ Ho 41%*;---1. daughter-in-law, in ref. to husband’s father Gn 38" (J), ef. 1 Ch 2% ז‎ ₪ 45 Ez 22" Mi7® Gn "זז‎ (P), Ly 18% 20” (both H); husband’s mother Ru 177995 27°? 4”. 2. bride, usu. a. just before marriage 18 49% 61" 62° Je 2" (all in sim,, etc.), || [0 ב 2510 "לד ל‎ 102% Of ל‎ ae b. also just after marriage=young wife Ho 4%; rd. הַפַּלָה‎ likewise 2 5 17° (for MT D3), 6 We Dr Klo Kit Bu. n.f. betrothal; — only pl.‏ [בְּלוּלְה] (cf. ‘espowsals’) Je 2? thy betrothal-time‏ ְּלוּלתָיךּ .)7702 ||( T bbs n.pr.m. one of those whotook strange wives Ezr10*, G ,גא‎ A Xadnd, GL 8 vb. only Niph. Hoph. be humi-‏ [כלם]ז TAT pdan טא‎ 129; 2 fs. dan 1854% 3 mpl. 1292) 18 41" +5 >; 2 mpl. תִבַלְמוּ‎ Is 45"; Imv. mpl. 12937) Ez 36”; Inf. estr. pdan Jeg® 8"; Pe. np) W747; mpl. p39 2S10°+2t.; fpl. i293) Ez ד‎ 67 ;—be humiliated, ashamed, put to shame, dishonoured, confounded: 1. be hu- miliated, ashamed, before men Nu 12" (E), 28 10° =1Chiog*, 2S 10% cf. » 74"; before enemies (by defeat, etc.) Is 45” (|| ,(בוש‎ 50° 54° )|| (חפר , בוש‎ ; before God, sq. 5 inf,, ‘MDD 3 POS 1B OTP HON Ezr 9' ;(בוש|)‎ Je 3* ₪ 165% (|| mp2 NBD), 43° (all +] caus.) 16%, so prob. Levites, at Hezekiah’s reforms 2 Ch 30°. 2. be put to shame, dishonoured, con- founded, by judgments of ’, all || :בוש‎ Je 22” כזן)‎ of cause), Ez 36% (2d.), Je 31" (°3 of cause), 8” Is 41% 45" ) +718223 27), חפר + ;697 35 ץ‎ ש‎ 40" 70%. Hiph. Pf. 3 ms. sf. P30 הת‎ 3 mpl. sf. ז (108%%*5*5)) הָבְלַמְנוּם‎ ₪ 25°; Impf. p>: Pr 287; 2 ms. sf. תַכְלִימָנוּ‎ 44"; 2 mpl. גד‎ 2 כלמה sf. ‘YODA Ib 19%, גוו מו‎ 2; Inf. 6. DDI Je 6 Pras’; Pt. מִכְּלִים‎ Ju 187 (but v. infr.), p30 Jb 11°;—1. put to shame = insult, hu- miliate, 0. acc. 18 20" 257 (cf. Hoph. v®) Ru 2° Jb19*; humiliate by rebuke Jb11°; hu- miliate by defeat Pr 25° 44"; cause shame to Pr 28’;—Ju 187 is erpt. (see Be VB GFM; Be מַחָסוּר כלהדבר.קסיוץ‎ there was no lack of any- thing, for MT. ד'‎ 0°93; GFM conjectures 8930 27) there is no one to restrain (us) from any- thing in the land). 2. exhibit shame Je 6” .(בוש|)‎ Hoph. 2% 1. ז‎ pl. wndan לא‎ :8 25° we were not insulted, humiliated (cf. Hiph. 1). 2. 3 pl Tapa 16 *4ד‎ they were put to shame, dishonoured, confounded || (בוש‎

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Zena looked on, all the time casting fearful glances towards the door. When she saw the dildo, however, she coloured again, but seemed unable to tear her eyes from it. I felt a drunken surge of power and pride. ‘Stand up,’ I said — I sounded almost like Diana. ‘Stand up, and fasten the buckles.’ When she had done that, I led her to the looking-glass. I winced, to see my face all red and swollen, and still with crumbs of blood caught in its creases; but the sight of Zena - gazing at herself with the dildo jutting from her, placing a hand upon the shaft of it, and swallowing, to feel the motion of the leather - proved more distracting than the bruise. At last I turned her and placed my hands upon her shoulders, and nudged the head of the dildo between my thighs. If my quim had had a tongue, it could not have been more eloquent; and if Zena’s quim had had one, it would now have licked its lips. She gave a cry. We stumbled to the bed and fell, crosswise, upon the satin. My head hung from it - the blood rushed to my cheek and made it ache - but now Zena had the shaft inside me and, as she began to wriggle and thrust, I found myself compelled to lift my mouth and kiss her. As I did so, I heard a noise, quite distinct, above the shuddering of the bed-posts and the pounding of the pulse inside my ears. I let my head fall, and opened my eyes. The door of the room was open, and it was full of ladies’ faces. And the face, pale with fury, at the centre of them all, was Diana’s. For a second I lay quite frozen; I saw what she must see - the open trunk, the tangle of limbs upon the bed, the pumping, leather-strapped arse (for Zena, alas, had her eyes tight shut, and still thrust and panted even as her outraged mistress gazed on). Then I placed my hands on Zena’s shoulders and gripped them hard. She opened her eyes, saw what I saw, and gave a squeal of fright. Instinctively, she tried to rise, forgetful of the shaft which pinned her sweating hips to mine. For a moment we floundered together inelegantly; she let out a burst of nervous laughter, more jarring than her first thin shriek of fear. At last she gave a wriggle; there was - monstrously distinct in the sudden silence, and horribly incriminating - a kind of sucking sound; then she was free. She stood at the side of the bed, the dildo bobbing before her. One of the ladies at Diana’s side said, ‘She has a prick, after all!’ And Diana answered: ‘That prick is mine. These little sluts have stolen it!’

• From A Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament (BDB) (1907)

  crouch (N H 00.2 TelAm. gahdhu (Wkl**™ oo prostrate oneself, prob. Canaanism; As. Sahdhu is oppress, torment) ; - 1 Pf. 3 ms. consec. nv שחתי % ש שחותי יפ 2 ב‎ 5% 3 pl. שתחוּ‎ Jb es שחו‎ Hb 3° Pr14"; 7787: 3 ms. ne y ro!, 3 mpl. MW Tb 38", שחו‎ y 107”; Inf_estr. (=abs., as adv., Ges 84 KG" 82h sed cf. also BaX®') שחו‎ 6 60%;—1. be bowed down, prostrated, humbled, by %, Is 277 (both | bavi) Hb 3° (of hills), Jbg® (8 van), roy” (+ (מָעַט‎ ; by man 10”. 2. bow in homage, "IB? pers. Pr 4”; inv ebay 3290 | Is 60" (| MMA). | 3. bow, of mourner (17), ¥ 35" 38. 4. crouch, of wild beast in lair Jb 38". Niph. [mpf. be prostrated, humbled ; DIS NB Is 2° (|| BY) = 3 )|| d.); be reduced, 00 הָשִיר‎ Nad ישו‎ Ee 12%; = = proceed humbly, of words “Dy Ts 29° (|| של‎ Hiph. prostrate, lay low, city, walls, etc.; Pf. 3 ms. השח‎ Is 25” ₪ from (שוח‎ = שח Hithpo’. be cast down,‏ .(הַשָפִּיל || (both‏ 26° fr.‏ 2 42 ש despairing : Impf. 3 fs. NMR‏ .(נפש' vo? 43° (all 6. subj.‏ תַּשָתוּחְחִי שחדעינים .08 --; adj. low, lowly‏ שחז Jb 22” lowly of eyes, humble.‏ 1 Lames] n.pr.m. in Simeon (mng.?) ;— 7) 1Ch 4%; 1000000, 1600. vb. slaughter, beat (orig. beat,‏ | שחט flay? cf. As. Sahdtu, flay, take off dress; Ar. bs‏ slay (but ~=h; 18 this loan-word in Ar. 5‏ NH=BBH, esp. in ritual) ;—Qal Pf. 3 ms. ’v‏ Je39°+, sf. iON consec. Ly 3°, etc.; Impf.‏ Ez 16%, 3 mE‏ וַתִּשָחֶסִי.8 2 ,44 ms. DAY Ly‏ 3 sf. ON) Jur2°; Imv. mpl. sony Ex 127‏ Ch 35°; Inf. abs. DAW Is 22; estr. By‏ 2 Gn 22”, pj- Ez 40%, sf. pone (Ges) ככ ל‎ | Pt. act. שוּחט‎ 15 66% 660.; pass. שָחוּט‎ 1 K +"סז‎ etce.;—slaughter: 1. beast for food 1 149% Is 2219 (||229), ef. Lv 175%, for blood Gn37*' (E). 2. usu. (51 t.; Hex only P, 38 t.) term. techn. of killing sacrifice vee aco AY 08D?) ease Ex 29" Ly 1°" 4™ 9° גוא‎ 19% 2 Ch 29"*"*+ ; abs. Ez 40% Ow loc.) ; bird Ly 14°**°*!; beast in illicit sacrifice Is66*; 6. acc. of sacrifice (Adiy,

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  89 “We have fought for the cause of liberty and for the peace of the world,” he told the assembled troops. “Because of you, the tyrant is fallen and Iraq is free.” In this political message too were the overtones of a holy war. This war of the American nation was directed by God himself. “All of you—all in this generation of our military—have taken up the highest calling of history,” he proclaimed, quoting the Prophet Isaiah: “And wherever you go, you carry a message of hope—a message that is ancient and ever new. To the captives, ‘come out’—and to those in darkness ‘be free.’ ” 90 Use of this biblical verse, which Jesus had quoted to describe his own mission, 91 revealed the messianic streak of the Bush administration. It was ironic that Bush announced the liberation of captives. In October 2003, the media published photographs of U.S. military police abusing Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib, Saddam’s notorious prison; later, almost identical cruelty was shown to have taken place in British-run prisons. These photographs were a cruder vision of the official U.S. media presentation of the Iraq War. Hooded, naked, writhing on the ground, the Iraqis were depicted as dehumanized, craven, bestial, and utterly dominated by America’s superior power. The cocky stance of the low-ranking GIs implied: “We are high, they are low; we are clean, they are dirty; we are strong and brave, they are weak and cowardly; we are lordly, they are virtually animals; we are God’s chosen, they are estranged from everything divine.” 92 “The photos are us,” the late Susan Sontag declared. Nazis were not the only people to commit atrocities; Americans do so too, “when they are led to believe that the people they are torturing belong to an inferior, despicable race or religion.” 93 Clearly the GIs saw nothing untoward in their behavior and had no fear of punishment. “It was just for fun,” said Private Lynndie England, who had appeared in the photographs walking a prisoner on a leash like a dog. They behaved in this way, the official investigation concluded, “simply because they could.” 94 Within a month of Bush’s carrier speech, Iraq had descended into chaos. Most Iraqis gave no credence to Bush’s exalted rhetoric; instead they were convinced that the United States simply wanted their oil and intended to use their country as a military base from which to defend Israel. They may have been glad to get rid of Saddam, but they did not regard the American and British troops as liberators. “They’re walking over my heart,” said one Baghdad resident. “Liberate us from what?” demanded another. “We have [our own] traditions, morals, customs.”

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Above our heads there were more footsteps: the baby had been woken by the noise, and begun to cry. I turned the key, and opened the door. Mrs Best, clad in a night-dress and a tartan wrap, pushed past me, into the room. Behind her, in a shirt and nightcap, stood her son. He had a terrible complexion. I turned to the landlady. She was gazing about her in frustration. ‘I know there is a gentleman in here somewhere!’ she cried. She pulled the covers from the bed, then stopped to look beneath it. At last, of course, she headed for the alcove. I darted to stop her, and she curled her lip in satisfaction. ‘Now we’ll have him!’ she said. She reached past me and tweaked the curtain back, then stepped away with a gasp. There were about four suits there, as well as the one that I had just taken off. ‘Why, you little strumpet!’ she cried. ‘I believe you was planning a regular horgy!’ ‘A horgy? A horgy?’ I folded my arms. ‘They’re bits of mending, Mrs Best. It’s not a crime, is it, to take in sewing, for gentlemen?’ She picked up the pair of underthings that I had so recently kicked off, and sniffed at them. ‘These drawers are still warm!’ she said. ‘From the heat of your needle, I suppose you’ll be telling me? From the heat of his needle, more like!’ I opened my mouth - but could find no answer to make her. While I hesitated she stepped to the window and looked out of it. ‘This, I suppose, is where they made their escape. The villains ! Well, they won’t get far, that’s for sure, in their birthday suits!’ I looked again at her son. He was gazing at my ankles where they showed beneath my night-gown. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Best,’ I said. ‘I won’t do it again, I promise you!’ ‘You certainly shan’t do it again, in my house! I want you out of here, Miss Astley, in the morning. I’ve always found you a very peculiar tenant, I don’t mind admitting - and now, to go and try and play the hussy on me like this! I won’t have it; no, certainly I won’t! I warned you when you moved in.’ I bowed my head; she turned on her heel. Behind her, her son at last gave me a sneer. ‘Tart,’ he said. Then he spat, and followed his mother into the darkness. Being not exactly overburdened with articles to pack, I was out of the house next morning just as soon as I had washed. Mrs Best curled her lip as I passed by her.