Jealousy

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 The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  Thank heavens at least no crass, unforgettable words had been spoken. ‘Darling, whisky’ was my own first utterance—and I thought, none of your namby-pamby Caribbean aphrodisiac nonsense. James was eating scrambled eggs standing up and listening to some fathomlessly gloomy music. ‘Bad day, dear?’ he enquired maritally. ‘The last twenty-four hours have actually been quite extraordinarily hideously awful.’ ‘Oh, darling.’ ‘I thought I was just about managing it until half an hour ago, when I went up to Phil’s room at the hotel—I don’t know why, just on some sentimental whim, I thought I’d put on some of his clothes and lie there for a bit and just be him, you know—he having arranged to go off drinking with some of his appalling friends. Well, they may not be appalling, I’ve never met them. I say, we couldn’t possibly take this music off? It’s driving me insane.’ ‘It’s Shostakovich’s viola sonata,’ said James pettishly. ‘Exactly … That’s better. And the drink?’ He poured a generous Bell’s. ‘Dearest—thank you. So I opened the door, to which as you know I have a key, and find Phil in there with old Bill Hawkins, from the Corry, messing around stark naked, etc, etc.’ ‘Fucking hell.’ ‘I do find it very terrible actually.’ I flopped onto the sofa and gulped at my drink. ‘I mean, I absolutely hate the thought of Phil going with someone else. But one would understand if it were just some spur-of-the-moment fling—some sexy guy staying in the hotel or something. To go with Bill, who is anyway a pal of mine and what? three times his age …’ ‘No?’ ‘Well, just about.’ I stared at James, through him, as I realised how slow I had been. ‘You know, I should have been on to this. I’ve seen Bill hanging around near the Queensberry before now—and of course I knew he was sweet on Phil, sweet on him before I was. Indeed it was really Bill’s interest in him that got me going, made me see how good he was. And then last week, when I took Phil to the Shaft, I knew something funny was going on. We were sort of horsing around outside the BM and I realised someone was watching us from across the road. I don’t think Phil saw him, but I’m convinced it was Bill.’ ‘Kind of creepy, n’est-ce pas?’ said James, wandering off and looking out of the window. He was my only friend but I knew that he would take a kind of wistful satisfaction in things having at last— at last: it was what? two months?—gone awry. ‘This needn’t mean it’s all over, though, surely?’ he said. I stared some time into my glass. ‘I don’t know. No, it needn’t.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  Charles puffed and muttered something about a tifty. ‘Come and have a drink,’ I said to both of them, and I took Charles’s wrist to lead them through the crowd. I could see, as I swivelled round to pass Norman a glass of wine, that he would always be recognisable. His broad cheekbones, large mouth, grey eyes and blond hair, now indistinctly grey, were elements in a formula of beauty, whatever disappointments and desertions might have taken place. Charles was politely inscrutable, but I sensed that he was pained to be disabused. He turned away from the ‘grocer’s boy’ who had needlessly returned to destroy the sentimental poetry with which he had been invested. I felt sorry for them both. And then, drunk again, hated the past and all going back. ‘I share a house with my sister,’ Norman was explaining to me. ‘It’s very near the middle of Beckenham, quite convenient for the station and the shops.’ ‘You should have brought her today,’ said Charles loftily. Norman flushed at this, and looked around hectically at the straining torsos and ecstatic mouths upon the wall. ‘Can I come and see you soon, Charles?’ I asked. ‘I’ve been picking my way through the books, and I’ve almost got up to the end. I need some briefing.’ ‘Briefing, tomorrow?’ His eye had been caught by Staines, and I watched his attention waver and then switch abruptly away. Staines reached a ringed hand to him and I heard Charles saying ‘… splendid evening, most memorable …’ I kept up with him and squeezed his arm: ‘I’ll come for tea, as before’—and he patted my hand. Then I was talking to the thick-set man, laughing overmuch so as to charm, and with my shirt half unbuttoned, running my hand over my chest. He was keen on photography, had his reservations about Staines—I agreed with him brutally—but liked Whitehaven. I told him Whitehaven had photographed me, but I saw that he thought I was taking a rise out of him. ‘Well, have you done any modelling?’ I asked. Aldo came up and said, ‘Oh, let’s be going.’ He looked tipsy and abandoned. It was only when the three of us were virtually through the door that I realised his words had been addressed to the thick-set man rather than to me. ‘Nice meeting you,’ said the thick-set man; and other perfectly pleasant remarks were exchanged before the two of them strolled away, arm in arm. I lurched off furiously to the hotel. 11‘Sugar?’ ‘I don’t, thank you.’ ‘I rather do these days. I’ve given in.’ Charles discarded the tongs, and shovelled up roughly half a dozen sugar-lumps in his bowed, flat fingers. We sat and sipped as Graham came in again with more hot water, and Charles watched his manservant with confident gratitude. At Skinner’s Lane everything was running like clockwork. ‘I have my own teeth,’ he added.

• From What Belongs to You (2016)

  He was friendly when I opened the door and seemed well enough, but I was worried by the state of him; his clothes, about which he was usually so fastidious, were dirty, and as he walked past me I could smell it had been days since he had bathed. We had just sat down on the couch, he had just smiled at me in invitation and I had laid my head on his chest, inhaling his sour smell, when there was a knock at the door. I had forgotten about my dinner with C., a friend who lived on the floor above me and also taught at the American College; he had come to pick me up on the way to a restaurant nearby. Mitko was delighted to see this friend, whom he had met before on one of his visits and with whom he was clearly smitten, as was nearly everyone who met C., who had an effortless, ingratiating charm and was nonetheless entirely indifferent to the needs and desires of others, so that he seemed always to be receding while still inviting pursuit. Mitko hardly took his eyes off him and touched him whenever he could, always robust and friendly touches, a physical language he used to compensate for their inability to speak to each other; and yet touches that, though there was nothing at all seductive about them, I knew would at the slightest sign of permission or desire have taken on a sexual heat. At dinner, Mitko ordered far more than he could consume, as he always did, food and drink and cigarettes. I was soon exhausted by my attempts to translate, and we settled into a silence interrupted by Mitko’s sallies at conversation, nearly all of them directed, through me, to C. Maybe it was out of jealousy, then, that I suddenly asked Mitko whether he liked his life among his priyateli , putting the question as baldly as that. Ne , he answered with the same bluntness, showing his usual reticence to discuss anything unpleasant, especially about his past or how he had reached his present. I pressed him, unsure whether I was motivated by cruelty or interest or concern, and, entirely neglecting my friend, who was unable to follow even my halting Bulgarian, I asked Mitko why then he chose to live as he did. I knew the question was naïve, or not even that; it was unfair, it presumed a freedom of choice that implied a judgment I had no business making. Sudba , Mitko said, fate, the single word serving to dismiss at a stroke all choice and consequence.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I felt a mixture of shame and cruel pleasure in this, that my little Philibuster was not giving anyone else a foothold on his hard, soap-slippery self-possession. And the unvoiced envy, vainly denied in the disparagement of Phil’s cock, came through good and clear. I worked back to the evening of Billy Budd with a masochistic sense that I wouldn’t come out of it well, though I was sure there would be very beautiful and insightful stuff about the music. It began: ‘Billy Budd—box—Beckwiths—bloody! Not the music, but W. impossible. What poor Ld B thought I don’t know—he, of course, urbane & charming, tho’ at moments somehow steely & abstracted: one wdn’t want to be on the wrong side of him, & so one becomes faintly sycophantic (but that I’m not sure he likes either). W. has taken up with some boy at the Corry—it sounds to me as if it’s that gorgeous little tough with red trunks I’m half-crazy about. He told me as soon as we met & so ensured an evening of tortuous envy, regret & failure for me, which the music both soothed & inflamed à la fois. There was something rather infuriatingly consoling about the opera—struck by the mystery that comes from its not being about love but about goodness, and the way Britten channelled what he felt about love away into some obscurer, less appealing theatre of debate. We kind of mentioned this in the interval—Ld B it turns out knew EMF—perhaps quite well. For the first time ever I got the sense that he might like to talk about these things which are so difficult for people of his age and standing. As usual one was all discipline & good manners—unlike Miss W., who smirked & simmered & did her “Great Lover” number. Home. Miserable supper of old tofu-burgers; listened op. 117 & felt much worse. And then, what are these affairs? I thought of W. doubtless already back with his boy & made myself madly rational about it all, how it wdn’t last, how it was just sex, how yet again he had picked on someone vastly poorer & dimmer than himself—younger, too. I don’t think he’s ever made it with anyone with a degree. It’s forever these raids on the inarticulate. Appallingly tired, but cdn’t sleep. Lay there longing for someone poor, young and dim to hold me tight …’

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

  AMBROSE. But he who receives Christ into his inner chamber, is fed with the greatest delights of overflowing pleasures. The Lord therefore willingly enters, and reposes in his affection; but again the envy of the treacherous is kindled, and the form of their future punishment is prefigured; for while all the faithful are feasting in the kingdom of heaven, the faithless will be cast out hungry. Or, by this is denoted the envy of the Jews, who are afflicted at the salvation of the Gentiles. AMBROSE. At the same time also is shewn the difference between those who are zealous for the law and those who are for grace, that they who follow the law shall suffer eternal hunger of soul, while they who have received the word into the inmost soul, refreshed with abundance of heavenly meat and drink, can neither hunger nor thirst. And so they who fasted in soul murmured. 5:33–3933. And they said unto him, Why do the disciples of John fast often, and make prayers, and likewise the disciples of the Pharisees; but thine eat and drink? 34. And he said unto them, Can ye make the children of the bridechamber fast, while the bridegroom is with them? 35. But the days will come, when the bridegroom shall be taken away from them, and then shall they fast in those days. 36. And he spake also a parable unto them; No man putteth a piece of a new garment upon an old; if otherwise, then both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken out of the new agreeth not with the old. 37. And no man putteth new wine into old bottles; else the new wine will burst the bottles, and be spilled, and the bottles shall perish. 38. But new wine must be put into new bottles; and both are preserved. 39. No man also having drunk old wine straightway desireth new: for he saith, The old is better.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There was once, then, in Arezzo, a rich man called Tofano and he was given to wife a very fair lady, by name Madam Ghita, of whom, without knowing why, he quickly waxed jealous. The lady, becoming aware of this, was despited thereat and questioned him once and again of the reason of his jealousy; but he was able to assign her none, save such as were general and naught; wherefore it occurred to her mind to cause him die of the disease whereof he stood without reason in fear. Accordingly, perceiving that a young man, who was much to her taste, sighed for her, she proceeded discreetly to come to an understanding with him and things being so far advanced between them that there lacked but with deeds to give effect to words, she cast about for a means of bringing this also to pass; wherefore, having already remarked, amongst her husband's other ill usances, that he delighted in drinking, she began not only to commend this to him, but would often artfully incite him thereto. This became so much his wont that, well nigh whensoever it pleased her, she led him to drink even to intoxication, and putting him to bed whenas she saw him well drunken, she a first time foregathered with her lover, with whom many a time thereafter she continued to do so in all security. Indeed, she grew to put such trust in her husband's drunkenness that not only did she make bold to bring her gallant into the house, but went whiles to pass a great part of the night with him in his own house, which was not very far distant.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  But in spite of this, a thin ice of uneasiness formed here and there over the surface of my heart. It was more than uneasiness: it was a sort of masochistic conviction, a conviction as firm as though founded on divine revelation, a conviction that made me tell myself: "Never in this world can you resemble Omi." In the woodblock prints of the Genroku period one often finds the features of a pair of lovers to be surprisingly similar, with little to distinguish the man from the woman. The universal ideal of beauty in Greek sculpture likewise approaches a close resemblance between the male and female. Might this not be one of the secrets of love? Might it not be that through the innermost recesses of love there courses an unattainable longing in which both the man and the woman desire to become the exact image of the other? Might not this longing drive them on, leading at last to a tragic reaction in which they seek to attain the impossible by going to the opposite extreme? In short, since their mutual love cannot achieve a perfection of mutual identity, is there not a mental process whereby each of them tries instead to emphasize their points of dissimilarity—the man his manliness and the woman her womanliness—. and uses this very revolt as a form of coquetry toward the other? Or if they do achieve a similarity, it unfortunately lasts for only a fleeting moment of illusion. Because, as the girl becomes more bold and the boy more shy, there comes an instant at which they pass each other going in opposite directions, overshooting their mark and passing on beyond to some point where the mark no longer exists. Viewed in this light, my jealousy—jealousy fierce enough to make me tell myself I had renounced my love—was all the more love. I had ended by loving those "things like Omi's" that, by slow degrees, diffidently, were budding in my own armpits, growing, becoming darker and darker. . .. Summer vacation arrived. Although I had looked forward to it impatiently, it proved to be one of those between-acts during which one does not know what to do with himself; although I had hungered for it, it proved to be an uneasy feast for me. Ever since I had contracted a light case of tuberculosis in infancy, the doctor had forbidden me to expose myself to strong ultraviolet rays. When at the seacoast, I was never allowed to stay out in the direct rays of the sun more than thirty minutes at a time. Any violation of this rule always brought its own punishment in a swift attack of fever. I was not even allowed to take part in swimming practice at school. Consequently I had never learned to swim. Later, this inability to swim gained new significance in connection with the persistent fascination the sea came to have for me, with those occasions on which it exercised such turbulent power over me.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  tailored men; pretty, smartly dressed women who laughed and talked very conscious of sex and its vast importance — in a word, normal women. Or perhaps they would go to Claridge’s for tea or to Ciro’s for dinner, and then on to supper at an equally fashionable restaurant, of which Mary discovered there were many in Paris. And although people still stared a little at Stephen, Mary fancied that they did so much less, because of the protective presence of Martin. At such places of course, it was out of the question for a couple of women to dance together, and yet every one danced, so that in the end Mary must get up and dance with Martin. He had said: ‘ You don’t mind, do you, Stephen? ” She had shaken her head: ‘ No, of course I don’t mind.’ And indeed she had been very glad to know that Mary had a good partner to dance with. But now when che sat alone at their table, lighting one cigarette from another, uncomfortably conscious of the interest she aroused by reason of her clothes and her isolation — when she glimpsed the girl in Martin’s arms, and heard her laugh for a moment in passing, Stephen would know a queer tightening of her heart, as though a mailed fist had closed down upon it. What was it? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she would feel at this possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honest ` friendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling and flushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also. She would say: ‘I’ve been thinking how well you two dance —’ And when Mary once asked rather timidly: ‘ Are you sure you’re not bored, sitting there by yourself? ’ Stephen answered: ‘ Don’t be so silly, darling; of course I’m not bored — go on dancing with Martin.’ But that night she took Mary in her arms — the relentless, compelling arms of a lover. On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary and she had so frequently done during their first spring months in Paris. Very often now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved THE WELL OF LONELINESS 483 to walk in the forest. And there he must start to talk about trees, his face glowing with its curious inner light, while Mary listened half fascinated. One evening she said: ‘ But these trees are so small — you make me long to see real forests, Martin.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The latter grew up and became as fair a damsel as any in the city, ay, and as virtuous and well bred as she was fair; wherefore she began to be courted of many, but especially two very agreeable young men of equal worth and condition vowed her a very great love, insomuch that for jealousy they came to hold each other in hate out of measure. They were called, the one Giannole di Severino and the other Minghino di Mingole; nor was there either of them but would gladly have taken the young lady, who was now fifteen years old, to wife, had it been suffered of his kinsfolk; wherefore, seeing her denied to them on honourable wise, each cast about to get her for himself as best he might. Now Giacomino had in his house an old serving-wench and a serving-man, Crivello by name, a very merry and obliging person, with whom Giannole clapped up a great acquaintance and to whom, whenas himseemed time, he discovered his passion, praying him to be favourable to him in his endeavour to obtain his desire and promising him great things an he did this; whereto quoth Crivello, 'Look you, I can do nought for thee in this matter other than that, when next Giacomino goeth abroad to supper, I will bring thee whereas she may be; for that, an I offered to say a word to her in thy favour, she would never stop to listen to me. If this like thee, I promise it to thee and will do it; and do thou after, an thou know how, that which thou deemest shall best serve thy purpose.' Giannole answered that he desired nothing more and they abode on this understanding. Meanwhile Minghino, on his part, had suborned the maidservant and so wrought with her that she had several times carried messages to the girl and had well night inflamed her with love of him; besides which she had promised him to bring him in company with her, so soon as Giacomino should chance to go abroad of an evening for whatever cause.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  [Footnote 352: Boccaccio writes carelessly "for _aught_" (_altro_), which makes nonsense of the passage.] Presently the lady came back from church and saw plainly enough from her husband's looks that she had given him an ill Christmas; albeit he studied, as most he might, to conceal that which he had done and what himseemed he had learned. Then, being inwardly resolved to lie in wait near the street-door that night and watch for the priest's coming, he said to the lady, 'Needs must I sup and lie abroad to-night, wherefore look thou lock the street-door fast, as well as that of the midstair and that of thy chamber, and get thee to bed, whenas it seemeth good to thee.' The lady answered, 'It is well,' and betaking herself, as soon as she had leisure, to the hole in the wall, she made the wonted signal, which when Filippo heard, he came to her forthright. She told him how she had done that morning and what her husband had said to her after dinner and added, 'I am certain he will not leave the house, but will set himself to watch the door; wherefore do thou find means to come hither to me to-night by the roof, so we may lie together.' The young man was mightily rejoiced at this and answered, 'Madam, leave me do.' Accordingly, the night come, the jealous man took his arms and hid himself by stealth in a room on the ground floor, whilst the lady, whenas it seemed to her time,--having caused lock all the doors and in particular that of the midstair, so he might not avail to come up,--summoned the young man, who came to her from his side by a very privy way. Thereupon they went to bed and gave themselves a good time, taking their pleasure one of the other till daybreak, when the young man returned to his own house. Meanwhile, the jealous man stood to his arms well nigh all night beside the street-door, sorry and supperless and dying of cold, and waited for the priest to come till near upon day, when, unable to watch any longer, he returned to the ground floor room and there fell asleep. Towards tierce he awoke and the street door being now open, he made a show of returning from otherwhere and went up into his house and dined. A little after, he sent a lad, as he were the priest's clerkling that had confessed her, to the lady to ask if she wot of were come thither again. She knew the messenger well enough and answered that he had not come thither that night and that if he did thus, he might haply pass out of her mind, albeit she wished it not. What more should I tell you? The jealous man abode on the watch night after night, looking to catch the priest at his entering in, and the lady still had a merry life with her lover the while.

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

  Reply to Objection 2: Avarice, considered as a special kind of sin, is the immoderate greed of temporal possessions which serve the use of human life, and which can be estimated in value of money; to these demons are not at all inclined, any more than they are to carnal pleasures. Consequently avarice properly so called cannot be in them. But if every immoderate greed of possessing any created good be termed avarice, in this way avarice is contained under the pride which is in the demons. Anger implies passion, and so does concupiscence; consequently they can only exist metaphorically in the demons. Sloth is a kind of sadness, whereby a man becomes sluggish in spiritual exercises because they weary the body; which does not apply to the demons. So it is evident that pride and envy are the only spiritual sins which can be found in demons; yet so that envy is not to be taken for a passion, but for a will resisting the good of another. Reply to Objection 3: Under envy and pride, as found in the demons, are comprised all other sins derived from them. Whether the devil desired to be as God?Objection 1: It would seem that the devil did not desire to be as God. For what does not fall under apprehension, does not fall under desire; because the good which is apprehended moves the appetite, whether sensible, rational, or intellectual; and sin consists only in such desire. But for any creature to be God’s equal does not fall under apprehension, because it implies a contradiction; for it the finite equals the infinite, then it would itself be infinite. Therefore an angel could not desire to be as God. Objection 2: Further, the natural end can always be desired without sin. But to be likened unto God is the end to which every creature naturally tends. If, therefore, the angel desired to be as God, not by equality, but by likeness, it would seem that he did not thereby sin. Objection 3: Further, the angel was created with greater fulness of wisdom than man. But no man, save a fool, ever makes choice of being the equal of an angel, still less of God; because choice regards only things which are possible, regarding which one takes deliberation. Therefore much less did the angel sin by desiring to be as God. On the contrary, It is said, in the person of the devil (Is. 14:13,14), “I will ascend into heaven . . . I will be like the Most High.” And Augustine (De Qu. Vet. Test. cxiii) says that being “inflated with pride, he wished to be called God.”

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

  Objection 3: Further, sorrow is caused by a defect, wherefore those who are in great defect are inclined to sorrow, as stated above ([2639]FS, Q[47], A[3]) when we were treating of the passions. Now those who lack little, and who love honors, and who are considered wise, are envious, according to the Philosopher (Rhet. ii, 10). Therefore envy is not a kind of sorrow. Objection 4: Further, sorrow is opposed to pleasure. Now opposite effects have not one and the same cause. Therefore, since the recollection of goods once possessed is a cause of pleasure, as stated above ([2640]FS, Q[32], A[3]) it will not be a cause of sorrow. But it is a cause of envy; for the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 10) that “we envy those who have or have had things that befitted ourselves, or which we possessed at some time.” Therefore sloth is not a kind of sorrow. On the contrary, Damascene (De Fide Orth. ii, 14) calls envy a species of sorrow, and says that “envy is sorrow for another’s good.” I answer that, The object of a man’s sorrow is his own evil. Now it may happen that another’s good is apprehended as one’s own evil, and in this way sorrow can be about another’s good. But this happens in two ways: first, when a man is sorry about another’s good, in so far as it threatens to be an occasion of harm to himself, as when a man grieves for his enemy’s prosperity, for fear lest he may do him some harm: such like sorrow is not envy, but rather an effect of fear, as the Philosopher states (Rhet. ii, 9). Secondly, another’s good may be reckoned as being one’s own evil, in so far as it conduces to the lessening of one’s own good name or excellence. It is in this way that envy grieves for another’s good: and consequently men are envious of those goods in which a good name consists, and about which men like to be honored and esteemed, as the Philosopher remarks (Rhet. ii, 10). Reply to Objection 1: Nothing hinders what is good for one from being reckoned as evil for another: and in this way it is possible for sorrow to be about good, as stated above.

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

  Reply to Objection 3: According to the Philosopher (Rhet. ii, 9), envy is contrary both to {nemesis} and to pity, but for different reasons. For it is directly contrary to pity, their principal objects being contrary to one another, since the envious man grieves over his neighbor’s good, whereas the pitiful man grieves over his neighbor’s evil, so that the envious have no pity, as he states in the same passage, nor is the pitiful man envious. On the other hand, envy is contrary to {nemesis} on the part of the man whose good grieves the envious man, for {nemesis} is sorrow for the good of the undeserving according to Ps. 72:3: “I was envious of the wicked, when I saw the prosperity of sinners” [*Douay: ‘because I had a zeal on occasion of the wicked, seeing the prosperity of sinners’], whereas the envious grieves over the good of those who are deserving of it. Hence it is clear that the former contrariety is more direct than the latter. Now pity is a virtue, and an effect proper to charity: so that envy is contrary to pity and charity. Whether envy is a capital vice?Objection 1: It would seem that envy is not a capital vice. For the capital vices are distinct from their daughters. Now envy is the daughter of vainglory; for the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 10) that “those who love honor and glory are more envious.” Therefore envy is not a capital vice. Objection 2: Further, the capital vices seem to be less grave than the other vices which arise from them. For Gregory says (Moral. xxxi, 45): “The leading vices seem to worm their way into the deceived mind under some kind of pretext, but those which follow them provoke the soul to all kinds of outrage, and confuse the mind with their wild outcry.” Now envy is seemingly a most grave sin, for Gregory says (Moral. v, 46): “Though in every evil thing that is done, the venom of our old enemy is infused into the heart of man, yet in this wickedness the serpent stirs his whole bowels and discharges the bane of spite fitted to enter deep into the mind.” Therefore envy is not a capital sin. Objection 3: Further, it seems that its daughters are unfittingly assigned by Gregory (Moral. xxxi, 45), who says that from envy arise “hatred, tale-bearing, detraction, joy at our neighbor’s misfortunes, and grief for his prosperity.” For joy at our neighbor’s misfortunes and grief for his prosperity seem to be the same as envy, as appears from what has been said above [2647](A[3]). Therefore these should not be assigned as daughters of envy. On the contrary stands the authority of Gregory (Moral. xxxi, 45) who states that envy is a capital sin and assigns the aforesaid daughters thereto.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  But as I thought about it, the idea became exceedingly tiresome, and I finally decided it would be a ludicrous business. I had an inherent dislike of admitting defeat. Moreover, I told myself, there's no need for me to take such decisive action myself, not when I'm surrounded by such a bountiful harvest of so many types of death—death in an air raid, death at one's post of duty, death in the military service, death on the battlefield, death from being run over, death from disease—surely my name has already been entered in the list for one of these: a criminal who has been sentenced to death does not commit suicide. No—no matter how I considered it, the season was not auspicious for suicide. Instead I was waiting for something to do me the favor of killing me. And this, in the final analysis, is the same as to say that I was waiting for something to do me the favor of keeping me alive. Two days after my return to the arsenal I received an impassioned letter from Sonoko. There was no doubt that she was truly in love. I felt jealous. Mine was the unbearable jealousy a cultured pearl must feel toward a genuine one. Or can there be such a thing in this world as a man who is jealous of the woman who loves him, precisely because of her love? . . .She wrote that after parting from me at the station she got on her bicycle and went to work. But she was so absentminded that her fellow workers asked if she felt well. She made many errors in filing the papers. Then she went home to lunch, but as she was returning to work after lunch she made a detour by way of the golf course, where she stopped. She looked around and saw where the yellow camomile lay trampled just as we had left it. Then, as the fog dissolved, she saw the flanks of the volcano shining brightly with the color of burnt ochre, looking as though the mountain had been washed. She also saw traces of dark fog arising from the gorges in the mountain, and saw the two silver birch, like loving sisters, their leaves trembling as with some faint premonition. . . . And at that very time I had been on the train, cudgeling my brain for a way to escape the very love which I myself had implanted in Sonoko! . . . And yet there were moments in which I felt reassured, surrendering myself to a plea of self-justification that, however pitiful, was probably nearest the truth. This was the plea that I had to escape from her for the very reason that I did love her.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Mr. Wolfe was Mr. Fox’s dearest friend and fiercest rival. Since childhood, whenever any single thing had captured the attention of one, it immediately became a matter of supreme interest to the other, also. It was no different when Mr. Fox first noticed Mrs. Fox. Throughout their courtship Mr. Wolfe had been scandalously flirtatious, taking every opportunity to tempt and tease Mrs. Fox with brazen overtures. He was often slipping a moist tongue into a seemingly polite kiss on her hand, or leaving a steamy breath lingering salaciously in her ear behind an otherwise civil remark. While these little forbidden intimacies were unwanted and to all appearances ignored by Mrs. Fox, they always left her slightly atremble. Of course, once the Foxes were married, the rivalry had ended. Mr. Wolfe had accepted his defeat good-naturedly, and he even married soon thereafter, so that the matter was quite forgotten by everyone. Everyone, that is, except Mrs. Fox. Now Mrs. Wolfe was as simple and sweet as Mrs. Fox was passionate and complex. In truth, she was a much more suitable match for Mr. Wolfe’s fiery, impulsive nature. And Mrs. Fox certainly did not wish to be married to Mr. Wolfe, even if her thoughts did occasionally wander in the direction of the darker, more volatile man, sometimes even developing into wild speculations about how he performed his husbandly duties in the bedchamber. It did not signify anything lacking in her own marriage, for there was nothing amiss in her husband’s treatment of her, and no single action of his with which she could find fault. On the contrary, Mr. Fox was as clever and skillful in the bedroom as he was in everything else. He knew exactly how to locate each and every nerve ending in Mrs. Fox’s anatomy and, more important, what to do with them when he found them. He never took his own satisfaction before making quite sure of hers. To come to the point, Mr. Fox was everything Mrs. Fox could wish for in a lover. Except, of course, that he was not Mr. Wolfe. And aside from all of this, Mrs. Wolfe had come to be as dear a friend as Mrs. Fox could have. She genuinely enjoyed the company of sweet Mrs. Wolfe, in spite of the secret hunger for any little tidbit of information about the Wolfes’ private life lurking within her. Mrs. Fox would simply compensate for this by boasting shamelessly about her own husband. She would go to great lengths to brag about the many admirable charms of Mr. Fox, all of which were absolutely true of course, but which nevertheless had lost some of their appeal simply because they were so readily available to her (unlike the forbidden charms of Mr. Wolfe). Mrs. Wolfe did not appear to notice this eccentricity in her friend, for she always seemed too absorbed by her own thoughts.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  As he began the pull-up, the muscles of his arms bulged out hard, and his shoulders swelled like summer clouds. The thickets of his armpits were folded into dark shadows, gradually becoming invisible. And at last his chest rubbed high against the iron bar, trembling there delicately. With a repetition of these same motions, he did a rapid series of pull-ups. Life-force—it was the sheer extravagant abundance of life-force that overpowered the boys. They were overwhelmed by the feeling he gave of having too much life, by the feeling of purposeless violence that can be explained only as life existing for its own sake, by his type of ill-humored, unconcerned exuberance. Without his being aware of it, some force had stolen into Omi's flesh and was scheming to take possession of him, to crash through him, to spill out of him, to outshine him. In this respect the power resembled a malady. Infected with this violent power, his flesh had been put on this earth for no other reason than to become an insane human-sacrifice, one without any fear of infection. Persons who live in terror of infection cannot but regard such flesh as a bitter reproach. . . . The boys staggered back, away from him. As for me, I felt the same as the other boys—with important differences. In my case—it was enough to make me blush with shame—I had had an erection, from the first moment in which I had glimpsed that abundance of his. I was wearing light-weight spring trousers and was afraid the other boys might notice what had happened to me. And, even leaving aside this fear, there was yet another emotion in my heart, which was certainly not unalloyed rapture. Here I was, looking upon the naked body I had so longed to see, and the shock of seeing it had unexpectedly unleashed an emotion within me that was the opposite of joy. It was jealousy. . . . Omi dropped to the ground with the air of a person who had accomplished some noble deed. Hearing the thud of his fall, I closed my eyes and shook my head. Then I told myself that I was no longer in love with Omi. It was jealousy. It was jealousy fierce enough to make me voluntarily forswear my love of Omi. Probably the need I began to feel about this time for a Spartan course in self-discipline was involved in this situation. (The fact that I am writing this book is already one example of my continued efforts in that direction.) Due to my sickliness and the doting care which I had received ever since I was a baby, I had always been too timid even to look people directly in the eye.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The princess turned her body so that she was lying beside the maid, but facing the opposite direction. Both were new to the experience but each, as if by instinct, easily found her position before the other. With a quiver of anticipation, they first examined, then gently opened and tentatively licked the delicate flesh of the other. Soft moans escaped their lips as they discovered with delight the pleasure they could give each other in this way. As their passion grew they clung more fervently to each other, and their hips undulated wildly against the tongues that worked at them with such eagerness. So fierce was their embrace that they appeared from a distance more like one creature than two, and their cries echoed through the forest while their horses silently looked on. All too soon it was over, but the princess and her maid continued to hold each other, trembling, and whispering sentiments of love to each other. Later that night, the maid was awakened by a hard object that was lodged in the bedding beneath her. Feeling around in the tangled blankets she discovered the royal ring, which had fallen from the princess’s neck during their lovemaking. She quickly snatched up the ring and hid it within her garments. A terrible plot, meanwhile, was slowly taking shape in her mind. The maid knew that she should be pleased with her position as companion to the princess, for a kinder mistress could not be found in any kingdom. In fact, the princess treated her more like a sister than a servant. Perhaps it was this very benevolence of the princess’s that caused the maid such discontent. Whatever the reason, the maid was intensely jealous of the princess, and coveted her many possessions and her lofty position. Most of all, she was envious that the princess was about to marry a prince. For the maid, marriage to a prince would once and for all give her the freedom and power she longed for. She would be a princess and have anything she desired. Once the idea to betray her mistress had been conceived, it grew quickly, taking control of the maid’s mind and forbidding all other thoughts to interfere. She ignored any feelings of sympathy for the princess, and even when it occurred to her that she may have to threaten the princess’s life in order to realize her dream, she did not back down, though she shuddered at the thought. But she loved her own ambition far more than she loved the gentle princess. Still, she resolved to do all in her power not to harm the princess, as she once again went over the details of her plot in her mind, all the while clinging to the royal ring. On the following day, the maid did not immediately reveal her intentions to the princess. Instead she brooded miserably throughout the morning as they resumed their travels.

• From 50 Shades Uncovered (2015)

  Let's take a look and see if it fits within our collection. So that's what the sticky notes are. Um, we found some areas in it that-- that we think pretty much supported its description as erotica. We do not collect erotica at Gwinnett County Public Library. Um, that's part of our materials management collection policy. So E.L. James' three books in the trilogy fit that description, so we have looked at that and are aware of the-- the buzz and the fact that they're bestsellers. But at this point they don't fit within our collection policy, so we don't have them here on the basis of the fact that they're erotic. A lot of critics say the three books weren't very well written. Literary critics are quite right to knock this trilogy. I love this grandiose term "trilogy." Anytime somebody becomes largely successful, there's going to be a level of envy. There is always envy in the literary world at somebody's success. Whether the book was good, not good, you know, brilliant, whether the writer is nice, not nice, you know, American, British, doesn't matter. If somebody's very successful, there's envy. It's typical. Eclair: Even J.K. Rowling gets a lot of stick because she's had such a massive success with "Harry Potter," and people really can't bear the fact that she might sell a lot of her other books, her adult fiction. There is bitterness amongst writing because it's so hard to have a success. So there are a lot of furious people in the industry, seething, absolutely seething, and I'm one of them. Narrator: Aside from their untraditional sex lives, the main characters in "Fifty Shades of Grey" are close to romance novel archetypes. Josephine: The appeal of Christian Grey is everything women want, and then they want to dominate him. We need the damaged hero and bit of a dark past. He is the ideal man in lots of ways. Hopkins: I think Christian Grey is an utter nutter. It's like a scientific thing that you'll go for masculinity, you want someone who's powerful and strong. Hodson: He's got fingers to die for. He plays this woman as if she's a Stradivarius. He's powerful and independent, and I think all women look for that in a man. Eclair: The idea of being taken out for dinner you know, your male partner choosing your food for you. No. Can you imagine? You enter a restaurant and your partner says, "The lady will have the Dover sole and a side salad." "No, she won't. "I think you'll find the lady will have the steak and chips, you (bleep)." I think it's absolutely essential that Christian Grey's a billionaire control freak. The fact he's got loads of cash but doesn't seem to actually put in a full day's work at any juncture makes me really question his values. Can you imagine Christian Grey being able to fix a leaking tap? Can you imagine Christian Grey clearing up a child's vomit?

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Quite, Hammond, quite! But if someone starts making love to Julia, you begin to simmer; and if he goes on, you are soon at boiling point."... Julia was Hammond's wife. "Why, exactly! So I should be if he began to urinate in a corner of my drawing-room. There's a place for all these things." "You mean you wouldn't mind if he made love to Julia in some discreet alcove?" Charlie May was slightly satirical, for he had flirted a very little with Julia, and Hammond had cut up very roughly. "Of course I should mind. Sex is a private thing between me and Julia; and of course I should mind anyone else trying to mix in." "As a matter of fact," said the lean and freckled Tommy Dukes, who looked much more Irish than May, who was pale and rather fat: "As a matter of fact, Hammond, you have a strong property instinct, and a strong will to self-assertion, and you want success. Since I've been in the army definitely, I've got out of the way of the world, and now I see how inordinately strong the craving for self-assertion and success is in men. It is enormously over-developed. All our individuality has run that way. And of course men like you think you'll get through better with a woman's backing. That's why you're so jealous. That's what sex is to you ... a vital little dynamo between you and Julia, to bring success. If you began to be unsuccessful you'd begin to flirt, like Charlie, who isn't successful. Married people like you and Julia have labels on you, like travellers' trunks. Julia is labelled _Mrs. Arnold. B. Hammond_ ... just like a trunk on the railway that belongs to somebody. And you are labelled Arnold. B. Hammond, _C/o Mrs. Arnold. B. Hammond_. Oh, you're quite right, you're quite right! The life of the mind needs a comfortable house and decent cooking. You're quite right. It even needs posterity. But it all hinges on the instinct for success. That is the pivot on which all things turn." Hammond looked rather piqued. He was rather proud of the integrity of his mind, and of his _not_ being a timeserver. None the less, he did want success. "It's quite true, you can't live without cash," said May. "You've got to have a certain amount of it to be able to live and get along ... even to be free to _think_ you must have a certain amount of money, or your stomach stops you. But it seems to me you might leave the labels off sex. We're free to talk to anybody; so why shouldn't we be free to make love to any woman who inclines us that way?" "There speaks the lascivious Celt," said Clifford.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that said it to her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of jealous folk, gave credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his story certain things that had already befallen; then, fired with sudden anger, she answered that she would certainly do as he counselled,--it was no such great matter,--and that assuredly, if Filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it should still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. Ricciardo, well pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair way of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to say that she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her troth. Next morning, Ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the bagnio he had named to Catella, and telling her what he purposed to do, prayed her to further him therein as most she might. The good woman, who was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and agreed with him what she should do and say. Now in the house where the bagnio was she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave thereon by which the light might enter. This chamber she made ready and spread a bed there, as best she might, wherein Ricciardo, as soon as he had dined, laid himself and proceeded to await Catella. The latter, having heard Ricciardo's words and giving more credence thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full of despite, to her house, whither Filippello also returned and being by chance full of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness. When she saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself, 'Forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh to take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to pass.' An in this thought she abode well nigh all that night, considering how she should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him [in the bagnio].