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 Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 9: The natural inclination in the appetitive power follows the natural concept in the cognitive power. And since it is not so much opposed to the natural concept for a man to have several wives as for a wife to have several husbands, it follows that a wife’s love is not so averse to another sharing the same husband with her, as a husband’s love is to another sharing the same wife with him. Consequently both in man and in other animals the male is more jealous of the female than “vice versa.” Whether it was ever lawful to have several wives?Objection 1: It would seem that it can never have been lawful to have several wives. For, according to the Philosopher (Ethic. v, 7), “The natural law has the same power at all times and places.” Now plurality of wives is forbidden by the natural law, as stated above [5012](A[1]). Therefore as it is unlawful now, it was unlawful at all times. Objection 2: Further, if it was ever lawful, this could only be because it was lawful either in itself, or by dispensation. If the former, it would also be lawful now; if the latter, this is impossible, for according to Augustine (Contra Faust. xxvi, 3), “as God is the founder of nature, He does nothing contrary to the principles which He has planted in nature.” Since then God has planted in our nature the principle that one man should be united to one wife, it would seem that He has never dispensed man from this. Objection 3: Further, if a thing be lawful by dispensation, it is only lawful for those who receive the dispensation. Now we do not read in the Law of a general dispensation having been granted to all. Since then in the Old Testament all who wished to do so, without any distinction, took to themselves several wives, nor were reproached on that account, either by the law or by the prophets, it would seem that it was not made lawful by dispensation. Objection 4: Further, where there is the same reason for dispensation, the same dispensation should be given. Now we cannot assign any other reason for dispensation than the multiplying of the offspring for the worship of God, and this is necessary also now. Therefore this dispensation would be still in force, especially as we read nowhere of its having been recalled. Objection 5: Further, in granting a dispensation the greater good should not be overlooked for the sake of a lesser good. Now fidelity and the sacrament, which it would seem impossible to safeguard in a marriage where one man is joined to several wives, are greater goods than the multiplication of the offspring. Therefore this dispensation ought not to have been granted with a view to this multiplication.

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

  21:23–2723. And when he was come into the temple, the Chief Priests and the elders of the people came unto him as he was teaching, and said, By what authority doest thou these things? and who gave thee this authority? 24. And Jesus answered and said unto them, I also will ask you one thing, which if ye tell me, I in like wise will tell you by what authority I do these things. 25. The baptism of John, whence was it? from heaven, or of men? And they reasoned with themselves, saying, If we shall say, From heaven; he will say unto us, Why did ye not then believe him? 26. But if we shall say, Of men; we fear the people; for all hold John as a prophet. 27. And they answered Jesus, and said, We cannot tell. And he said unto them, Neither tell I you by what authority I do these things. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. The Priests were tormented with jealousy, because they had seen Christ entering the Temple in great glory. And not being able to master the fire of jealousy which burnt in their breasts, they break forth in speech. CHRYSOSTOM. Forasmuch as they could not detract from His miracles, they bring matter of blame from His forbidding to sell in the Temple. As though they had said, Hast Thou assumed the seat of authority? Hast Thou been anointed Priest, that Thou exertest this power? PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. By that they add, Or who gave thee this authority? they shew that there be many persons who give power to men, whether corporal or spiritual! as though they had said, Thou art not come of a priestly family; the Senate has not conferred on Thee this power, neither has Cæsar granted it. But had they believed that all power is from God, they would never have asked, Who gave thee this authority? For every man judges of others by himself. The fornicator thinks that none are chaste; the chaste does not readily suspect any of fornication; he who is not a Priest of God, thinks no man’s Priesthood to be of God. JEROME. Or in these words they urge the same cavil as above, when they said, He casteth out demons through Beelzebub the Prince of the demons. (Mat. 12:24.) For when they say, By what authority doest thou these things? they doubt concerning the power of God, and would have it understood that the things He does are of the Devil. But when they add, Who gave thee this authority? they most clearly deny the Son of God, whom they suppose to work miracles, not by His own, but by others’ strength. The Lord could have confuted the calumny of His tempters by a simple answer, but He put a question to them of such skilful contrivance, that they must be condemned either by their silence or their knowledge; Jesus answered and said unto them, I also will ask you one question.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  I was surprised at how pleased Paula seemed by my invitation, but as soon as we met—this time at the Stanford Faculty Club, which serves no Hula sandwiches—her agenda became clear. She could talk of nothing but Dr. Kingsley. According to Paula, Dr. Kingsley’s cotherapist had invited her to address their group, but as soon as she had begun speaking, Dr. Kingsley had accused her of taking too much time. “You’ve got to reprimand her,” Paula said urgently. “You know teachers can and should be held responsible for the unprofessional behavior of their students.” But Dr. Kingsley was my colleague, not my student, and I had known her for years. Not only was her husband a close friend but she and I had led many groups together: knowing her to be a superb therapist, I was certain that Paula’s account of her behavior was greatly distorted. Slowly, far too slowly, it dawned on me that Paula was jealous: jealous of the attention and affection I bestowed on Dr. Kingsley; jealous of my alliance with her and with all the members of the research staff. Naturally Paula had resisted the consultation workshop; naturally she had discouraged any collaboration with other researchers. She would resist any change. All she wanted was to revert to the time when she and I had been alone with our little flock. What could I do? Her insistence that I choose between her and Dr. Kingsley placed me in an impossible dilemma. “I care for both you and Dr. Kingsley, Paula. How can I maintain my own integrity and my collegiality and friendship with Dr. Kingsley without your feeling, once again, abandoned by me?” Though I reached out to her in every way possible, the distance between us grew greater. I could find no proper words; there seemed to be no safe topics. I no longer had the right to ask her personal questions, nor did she evince any interest in my life. All through lunch she told me stories about terrible mistreatment by her doctors: “They ignore my questions; their medications do more harm than good.” She also warned me about a psychologist who was talking to some of the cancer patients who had been in our group: “He’s stealing our findings to use in his own book. You’d better protect yourself, Irv.” Paula was obviously deeply troubled, and I was alarmed and saddened by her paranoia. I think my distress must have showed because as I moved to leave, she asked me to stay a few minutes more. “I have a story for you, Irv. Sit back and let me tell you about the coyote and the locust.” She knew I loved stories. Especially her stories. I listened expectantly.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  Paul’s eschatological vision of God’s great cleanup of the world was for Jews and Gentiles to combine into one ultimate community in the sequence “the Jew first and also the Greek” (1:16; 2:9–10). But God, says Paul, has reversed that process. Now it is first the Gentiles and only then the Jews who receive the message: “So I ask, have they stumbled so as to fall? By no means! But through their stumbling salvation has come to the Gentiles, so as to make Israel jealous” (11:11). In other words, “a hardening has come upon part of Israel, until the full number of the Gentiles has come in” (11:25). What is most striking in this whole section is the solemn warning to “you Gentiles” with which Paul concludes his entire exposition (11:13–36). He warns them sternly and lengthily, for example, against boasting and self-confidence with a striking image of Israel as an ancient and domesticated olive tree into which they are but wild and newly grafted branches (11:17–24). He emphasizes that all of this is a divine “mystery” (11:25), but today, after two thousand years, we can and must speak even more fully than Paul ever could. He said to the Gentiles, “As regards the gospel they [non-Christian Jews] are enemies of God for your sake; but as regards election they are beloved, for the sake of their ancestors; for the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (11:28–29). We now say what Paul never imagined. There are two covenants, one Jewish and one Christian, both free gifts of divine grace, both accepted initially and lived fully by faith. That is the only way, today, to reread what Paul called God’s “mystery” in the face of continuing history. Human problem. Paul’s emphasis on the (non)unity of Jews and Christians as a divine mystery in 9:1–29 and 11:1–36 deliberately frames his discussion of it as a human problem in 9:30–10:21. We are back once again with that problem of faith (with works) versus works (without faith). Is Paul accusing all non-Christian Jews of externalism, of expecting righteousness and justification to derive simply from fulfilling legal requirements? If he were, it would be simply crude polemics; any opposing theologian would have told him, as seen already, that righteousness and justification come from the grace of an internal covenantal relationship and the law is its necessary external manifestation. So should the section in 9:30–10:21 be dismissed as simple polemics? No, because it is time to recall—and probably reread—the sections on those gentile “God-worshipers” from Chapter 3.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  When I got back to our Passage, the celebrations had already begun. I was disappointed, though my pockets were stuffed with money. Our apartment, emptied of its furniture, was full of guests who were calling on my mother before going on to the party on the terrace. Whatever compliments were made had to be very carefully worded, and many guests said outright that the twins were a pain in the eye. But they winked toward my mother while making such statements for they were merely a trick to fool the Evil Eye. To have two children at one and the same time might easily arouse murderous envies and the ill will of the demons who had thereby been defied. The women spat on the floor, assured everyone loudly that nobody on earth would want to have such little runts; after which they laughed silently among themselves, the only human witnesses. As for me, I felt that the babies really didn’t deserve so much attention. They were still as ugly, red, and round as blood sausages, with mouths that took up all their gnomelike faces. My mother, unable to control her expressions, didn’t seem happy. My father had refused to ask Uncle Aroun to be the godfather. Uncle Aroun had already enjoyed the honor of being my own godfather, but he had failed after that to show any generosity. What is the use of such a godfather? Offended and especially disappointed at having failed to obtain a blessing that always brings children to the one who accepts it, my uncle had then decided not to attend the ceremony. He had gone away, his head thrust forward, far ahead of him like that of a hasty giraffe. My mother wept bitter tears as a result of this, and my father lost his temper once more over his wife’s partiality for her own family. I could feel jealousy tearing at my heart as I sat and waited for my share of the congratulations, my hair glued flat with brilliantine, swarthy and thin and goatlike in my dark suit. But most of our guests seemed to forget that our party was in my honor too. Twins are indeed an unusual event. I made fun of their absurd play in front of the babies as they tried to make them laugh, rolling their eyes like clowns and grunting. A few guests remembered me too and uttered some kind remarks, but I felt, quite unjustly, that they were being hypocritical or condescending.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I tried desperately to speak this language which wasn’t mine, which perhaps will never be entirely mine, but without which I would never be able to achieve self-realization. Our local dialect was only just able to satisfy the daily needs of eating and drinking. Could I tell my schoolmates that my mother not only spoke no European language at all, but barely managed to carry on in her own dialect? I never told them, or anyone, anything; I hated them, pretended to despise them, made a show of all my own failings, and rolled my r’s even louder than before. All the same, I envied them. I’m not trying to give a flattering picture of myself, nor to justify my behavior; I’m trying here to get rid of what’s on my stomach and to vomit what I cannot digest and forget. I was jealous, envious, even spiteful, and soon unbearable to all those who were ready to like me. I had every fault that’s generally condemned. But could I have been otherwise? Each morning, my classmates smiled, were confident, smelled of eau de Cologne and of good toilet soaps. I supposed, not without astonishment, that they washed from top to toe every morning. It was only much later that I understood why some people have an unpleasant odor and others no odor at all. Most frustrating of all, I was completely excluded from their community. Both inside and outside the school, they continued to live as a group, sitting near one another in class, telling stories I couldn’t really follow; their tongues glided too rapidly over their words and I often failed to understand them at all. They all belonged to one and the same civilization which remained merely theoretical in my eyes as long as I myself had no share in it. At the school gates, they shook hands cordially and politely, and then began to exchange news about an unknown planet: “Did you hear Duke Ellington on Monte Carlo at eight-thirty?” I guessed that this had something to do with the radio, but I would have allowed myself to be killed rather than ask a question. Who was Duke Ellington? “Did you see the forty-cent Washington? Terrific!” This had some connection with postage stamps. “I’m backing Bagheera on Sunday.” Bagheera: yes, race-track talk. Generally, however, their chatter escaped me completely. Social distinctions are as profound as religious differences, and I was not a member of their class. They enjoyed means and luxuries that were far beyond me and of which I had not even heard. “I’ll phone you at four and you can tell me if our homework is tough.”

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I hastened to open the tin that was rattling with the only sound of my single coin and handed him the two-penny piece that was intended for my sandwich. Saul was thus able to complete the required sum, bought the last Nestlé bar, tore the wrapping, and exclaimed to me, in disgust: “What? Another fish? Well, I have no luck today.” It seemed to me that nobody had any luck at all that day. The street was deserted and Graziani was shaking his head with a sad expression, acting as if he were about to close the gate. We rushed in through the opening that was scarcely wide enough to allow a cat to pass. “Ragazzi! Ragazzi!” the old Italian grumbled affectionately. The massive door shut loudly behind us. We went to our seats in the first-year class and sat still. The crowd was now transmuted into an organized little society that respected order, and silence followed the earlier clamor. It was then that my stomach chose to rumble loud and long as I realized that I would get no breakfast. I felt that I had been imposed upon. Up till then, I had never experienced the revelation of jealousy and envy. I had envied Saul his fine clothes and his pocket money, but it had been without any true bitterness or animosity. Later, I began to hate the Sauls of life, but the power of the rich, at that time, still inspired in me some respect, as if I were witnessing a constant and almost magical run of luck. I still saw no relationship between their riches and my own poverty, but Saul’s self-centered lack of any awareness established the first link between the two. He could take away from me the two pennies for my breakfast in order to purchase himself an unnecessary Nestlé bar, and then was able to throw away the chocolate that I could not afford. Saul never remembered to repay me my two pennies, which was quite natural, for it was such a small sum... ~ 5. THE SUMMER CAMP ~ I felt for my father a kind of admiration that included respect and some fear. His big and heavy hands were, in my eyes, the symbol of strength and skill. On one of our wonderful Saturdays I was running along beside him, with my tiny fist deep in his big hand where I could feel the horny skin and the scars. I wanted to dispose of some last doubt in my mind and asked: “Who is the more powerful, the saddler or the policeman?”

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  Jacques, being then returned to Paris, thought of nothing but how to renew his intimacy with the mercer, in order to traffic in the choicest of his wares under pretext of pure friendship. As Frangoise had beauty and sprightliness, and had long been marriageable, she had several suitors during the absence of Jacques ; but whether it was that her father was stingy, or that, hav- ing but that one child, he wished to establish her well, he had not made much account of any of these suitors. As people do not wait nowadays before talking scan- dal until they have just grounds for it, especially where the honour of our sex is concerned, this set people talk- ing ill of Frangoise. Her father, not choosing to do like many others, who, instead of reproving tl\e faults of their wives and children, seem, on the contrary, to in- cite them thereto, did not shut his ears or his eyes to the popular opinion, but watched his daughter so closely that even those who sought her with no other intention than marriage saw her but rarely, and then only in her mother's presence. It need not be asked whether or not such vigilance was irksome to Jacques, who could not conceive that they should treat her so rigorously without some important reason to him unknown. This Fifth day\ QUEEN OF NA VARRE. 383 conjecture distressed him, and distracted his feelings be tween love and jealousy. Resolved at all cost to know what might be this mysterious reason, he proposed to ascertain in the first place if she still retained the same tender sentiments towards him ; and he went about so assiduously that at last he found means one morning at mass to place him- self near her, when he perceived from her manner that she was as glad to see him as he her. As he knew that the mother was not so strict as the father, he sometimes took the liberty, when he met them on their way to church, to accost them familiarly and with ordinary politeness ; and this as if he had met them by mere chance, the whole being with a view to prepare matters for the design he meditated.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  They continued then to live together on the santfe terms as before, until, after some time, the husband's jealous fit came upon him more strongly than ever, and he ordered his wife no longer to show his friend the same fair countenance. She immediately informed the friend of this, and begged him not to speak to her, as she was forbidden to speak to him. The friend, seeing from this and from certain grimaces of his comrade that he had not kept his word, said to him in great indigna- tion, " If you are jealous, my friend, that is a natural thing ; but after the oaths you have sworn to me, I cannot help telling you that I am aggrieved by your having concealed it so long. I had always believed that between your heart and mine there was no medium or obstacle ; but I see with regret, and without any fault of mine, that I have not succeeded so well as I had hoped, since not only are you jealous of your wife and me, but you furthermore want to make a mystery of it, in order that your malady may endure so long that it may turn into hatred, and the closest friendship which has been seen in our day be succeeded by the most mortal enmity. I have done what I could to prevent this mischief, but since you believe me to be so wicked, 4o8 THE HEPTAMERON OF THE \Navel 47. and the reverse of all I have ever been, I solemnly vow to you that I will be such as you take me to be, and that I will never rest until I have had from your wife what you imagine I am striving for : and I warn you henceforth to be on your guard against me. Since suspicion has made you renounce my friendship, resent- ment makes me renounce yours." The husband tried to make him believe that it was all a mistake, but the other would not listen to him. The furniture and property they had in common were divided, and this division was accompanied by that of their hearts, which had always been so united. The unmarried gentleman kept his word, and never rested until he made his friend a cuckold. So be it, ladies, to all those who distrust their wives without cause. A woman of honour sooner suffers her- self to be overcome by despair than by all the pleasures in the world, and many husbands who are unjustly jealous behave so that at last they have just cause for jealousy, and make their wives do what they suspect them of. Some say that jealousy is love : I deny it ; for though it issues from love as ashes from fire, just so it kills it, just as ashes smother the flame.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  " But was it not a monstrous inconsistency in this brother," said Longarine, " to have persisted so long in praising this young gentleman to his sister .'' It seems to me that it would be a great folly, not to say cruelty, in a man who had charge of a fountain to praise its water to one who gazed on it, parched with thirst, and then to kill him for offering to drink of it." " The fire of his encomiums on the young man," said Parlamente, " unquestionably kindled the fire of love in the lady's heart, and he was wrong to put out with his sword a fire he himself had lighted by his sweet words." " I am surprised," said Saffredent, " that it should be taken amiss that a simple gentleman, by dint of court- ship alone, and not through any false pretences, should come to marry a lady of so illustrious a house, since the philosophers maintain that the least of men is vvorthiei than the greatest and most virtuous of women." " The reason is," said Dagoucin, " that in order to preserve the public tranquillity, regard is only had to the 350 THE HEPTAMEROX OF THE S^Novel i,o. degree of the families, the age of the persons, and the laws, men's love and virtue being counted as nothing, in order not to confound the monarchy. Thence it comes that in the marriages which take place between equals, and in accordance with the judgment of men and of the relations, the persons are often so different in heart, temperament, and disposition, that instead of entering into an engagement which leads to salvation, they throw themselves into the confines of hell." " Instances have also been seen," said Geburon, " of persons who have married for love, with hearts, disposi- tions and temperaments mutually conformable, without concerning themselves about difference of birth, and who have, nevertheless, repented of what they have done. In fact, a great but indiscreet love often changes into jeal- ousy and fury." " To me it seems," said Parlamente, " that neither the one course nor the other is commendable, and that those persons who submit to the will of God regard neither glory, nor avarice, nor voluptuousness. They alone are to be commended, who, actuated by virtuous love, sanctioned by the consent of their relations, desire to live in the married state as God and nature ordain. Though there is no condition without its troubles, I have yet seen these latter run their course without repenting that they had entered upon it. The present company is not so unhapjDy as not to number in it married persons of this class."

• From Henry and June (1986)

  Henry awakens. He is amused to find me naked at the window. We play again. Hugo may be at the ball, I think. When I gave him his liberty, I know he planned to go. Hugo is at the ball with a woman in his arms, and I am in a hotel room with Henry, with red light shining through the window, a summer night filled with the cries and laughter of the students. I have run naked to the window twice. All this is a dream now. At the time it happened I had a feeling in my body as before a cloudburst. My body remembers the hotness and fever of Henry’s caresses. A story. I must write it a hundred times. But now it brings me pain. In self-protection I will have to detach myself from Henry. I cannot bear this. I hold on while Henry flows carelessly from woman to woman. Today for a moment I softened: It does not matter. Let him have his ordinary little women if it makes him happy. The relief of opening one’s hand and letting go was immense. But soon after, I tightened again. A desire for revenge, a strange revenge. I give myself to Hugo with such feelings against Henry that I experience a great physical pleasure. My first infidelity to Henry. What subtle forces act on the sensual being. A small hurt, a moment of hatred, and I can enjoy Hugo completely, frenziedly, as much as I have enjoyed Henry himself. I cannot bear jealousy. I must kill it by balance. For every one of Henry’s whores I will avenge myself but in a more terrible way. He has often said that of the two of us, I, in a sense, commit by far the more profane acts. Behind my own drunkenness there is always a certain consciousness, enough to make me refuse to answer Henry’s questions and doubts about me. I do not try to make him jealous, but neither do I admit my stupid fidelity. It is in this way women are pushed into war with men. There is no possibility of absolute confidence. To confide is to put yourself in someone else’s hands and to suffer. Oh, tomorrow, how I will punish him! Already I am glad that when Hugo came back from London I let him kiss me for a long while and carry me in his arms, to the back of the garden, among the mock orange bushes.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  “But meanwhile,” says Henry, “it is Fred who has written three wonderful pages about you. He raves about you, he worships you. I am jealous of those three pages. I wish I had written them.” “You will,” I say confidently. “For example, your hands. I had never noticed them. Fred gives them so much importance. Let me look at them. Are they really as beautiful as that? Yes, indeed.” I laugh. “You appreciate other things, perhaps.” “What?” “Warmth, for instance.” I’m smiling, but there are so many fine lacerations that Henry’s words open. “When Fred hears me talk about June, he says I do not love you.” Yet he won’t let me go. He calls out to me in his letters. His arms, his caresses, and his fucking are voracious. He says, with me, that no amount of thinking (Proust’s words, or Fred’s, or mine) will stop us from living. And what is living? The moment when he rings at Natasha’s door (she is away and I have her place) and immediately desires me. The moment when he tells me he has had no thoughts of whores. I am so idiotically fair and loyal to June in every word I utter about her. How can I deceive myself about the extent of Henry’s love when I understand and share his feelings about June? He sleeps in my arms, we are welded, his penis still in me. It is a moment of real peace, a moment of security. I open my eyes, but I do not think. One of my hands is on his gray hair. The other hand is spread around his leg. “Oh, Anaïs,” he had said, “you are so hot, so hot that I can’t wait. I must shoot into you quickly, quickly.” Is how one is loved always so important? Is it so imperative that one should be loved absolutely or greatly? Would Fred say of me that I can love because I love others more than I love myself? Or is it Hugo who loves when he goes three times to the station to meet me because I have missed three trains? Or is it Fred, with his nebulous, poetic, delicate comprehension? Or do I love most when I say to Henry, “The destroyers do not always destroy. June has not destroyed you, ultimately. The core of you is a writer. And the writer is living.” “Henry, tell Fred we can go and get the curtains tomorrow.” “I’ll come, too,” said Henry, suddenly jealous. “But you know Fred wants to see me, to talk with me.” Henry’s jealousy pleased me. “Tell him to meet me at the same place as last time.” “About four o’clock.”

• From Henry and June (1986)

  Yet I dreamed of June last night. June had suddenly returned. We shut ourselves up in a room. Hugo, Henry, and other people were waiting for us to dress and have dinner together. I wanted June. I begged her to undress. Piece by piece I discovered her body, with cries of admiration, but in the nightmare I saw the defects of it, strange deformations. Still, she seemed altogether desirable. I begged her to let me see between her legs. She opened them and raised them, and there I saw flesh thickly covered with hard black hair, like a man’s, but then the very tip of her flesh was snow-white. What horrified me was that she was moving frenziedly, and that the lips were opening and closing quickly like the mouth of the goldfish in the pool when he eats. I just watched her, fascinated and repulsed, and then I threw myself on her and said, “Let me put my tongue there,” and she let me but she did not seem satisfied while I flicked at her. She seemed cold and restless. Suddenly she sat up, threw me down, and leaned over me, and as she lay over me I felt a penis touching me. I questioned her and she answered triumphantly, “Yes, I have a little one; aren’t you glad?” “But how do you conceal it from Henry?” I asked. She smiled, treacherously. All through the dream there was a sense of great disorder, of movements which accomplished nothing, of everything being late, of everybody waiting, restless and defeated. And yet I am jealous of all the suffering Henry experiences with her. I feel that I am sinking away from all wisdom and all understanding, that my instincts are howling like jungle animals. When I remember the afternoons with Henry in the Hotel Anjou, I suffer. Two afternoons which are branded on my body and on my mind. When I came home from Eduardo yesterday I took refuge in Hugo’s arms. I was loaded down with feelings of anxiety for Eduardo and yearning for Henry, and at the same time, lying in Hugo’s arms and merely kissing his mouth and neck, I found a feeling so sweet and so profound that it seemed to conquer all the darkness and baseness of life. I felt as if I were a leper and that his strength was so great he could heal me instantly by a kiss. I loved him last night with a sincerity that surpasses all the climaxes my fever makes me crave. Proust writes that happiness is something from which fever is absent. Last night I knew happiness and I recognized it, and I can truly say that only Hugo has ever given it to me, and it runs undefeated by the leapings of my fevered body and mind.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  To my taste, they all spoke far too much about my potential partner in all this glory. I was jealous of this possible brother who prevented me from being the uncontested hero of a ceremony that would occur only once in my lifetime. I realized that even the date of my bar mitzvah had been left undecided, to be determined according to the date of his birth. And so I waited for him. My parents had repeated to me often enough, in spite of all, that I was their first great joy, the only boy and the future head of the family. Now, I learned that I had only just escaped not being what I was. Before me, my parents had had another boy, born with all his fingers joined together, webbed like a duck’s foot: “That was a bad omen, but I looked after him well in spite of it all,” my mother used to say, “though I knew all the time that something would happen to him.” And it did happen, for he died in infancy. On the eve of his death, one of the women next door had heard an owl hoot quite close to our house. As Monsieur Touitou, our teacher, had told us that this superstition was meaningless, I explained firmly to my mother that owls do not kill infants but that the latter die for lack of proper care. The harbinger of death kills nobody; on the contrary, it’s a useful bird. That was exactly what Monsieur Touitou had explained to us. My mother was furious and answered me that I was a fool, a very small rat who thought he had a very long tail; and if school taught me only to make fun of my parents, she would prevent my going there. I thus learned to distinguish more clearly what was right and proper at school from what was right and proper at home, though much to the advantage of school; and I acquired the habit of speaking as little as possible to my parents about what I did at school.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I was rather fond of Mina because of her very realistic views about other girls. She was the daughter of a tradesman who had made good, but she could still remember what life had been like before her father had struck it rich, and she now observed her new social background with a very lucid mind. Her sarcasm was pitiless but always smiling, and her own rather sickly health was certainly at the root of much of her bitterness. Her rather pleasant venom may also have acted upon me as a revenge for some of my own jealousy that I was never ready to confess. “By the way,” she suddenly confided rather knowingly, “let me congratulate you. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Ginou talk like that about any boy. She’s a reasonable girl, and one who is well aware of her own charm. That’s why she never does anything silly. Well, she mentioned your name to me six times in six days of summer camp, and even told me all about how she had dreamed about you. I think she would be ready to allow you to sit in the front row, just beyond the footlights of the stage where she gives her personal appearances.” I knew how much Mina enjoyed all kinds of go-between business. It gave her a chance to exercise her catty tongue and her foxy mind. That was why everyone was a bit scared of her but quite willing to use her services once in a while. So although I only shrugged my shoulders, I decided that she couldn’t be inventing all of it. True, she helped people to fall into each other’s arms, but she never brought couples together at random. Anyhow, I was too much interested and flattered by what she hinted at, and that alone excited me, though I tried to force myself to act as if I didn’t care much. So I threw the ball back toward her, carelessly at that, so that it fell without much of a splash on the crest of a lazy wave, borne almost to the shore, and then immediately lost again in the light foam. The sea was like us, content to play languidly with the tips of its fingers. But Mina insisted: “Still, Ginou’s a wonderful kid. You know, she’s my best friend, and she really dreamed about you.” Ginou, also called Jeannette, was playing ball over the breakwater just beyond ours; she was the only girl there, in a crowd of five boys.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I came home and threw myself on the couch; I found it hard to breathe. In answer to Eduardo’s plea I met him early this morning. He had spent two days feeling jealous of Henry, realizing that he, the narcissist, was at last possessed by another. “How good it is to come out of one’s self! I have thought of you continuously for two days, have slept badly, have dreamed that I struck you hard, oh, so hard and that your head fell off and I carried it about in my arms. Anaïs, I am going to have you all day. You promised me. All day.” All I want is to dart out of the café. I tell him so. His pleadings, softness, intensity vaguely stir my old love and my pity, the Richmond Hill love, with its vague expectancies, the old habit of thinking: of course I want Eduardo. I fear he might shut himself up again in narcissism because he cannot bear pain. “To think I have come to worship your very bones, Anaïs!” I am faintly, faintly stirred, yet I want most of all to run away from him. I don’t know why, I obey him, follow him. I feel hurt while reading Albertine disparue , because it is marked by Henry, and Albertine is June. I can follow each amplification of his jealousies, his doubts, his tenderness, his regrets, his horror, his passion, and I am invaded by a burning jealousy of June. For the moment this love, which had been so balanced between Henry and June that I could not feel any jealousy, this love is stronger for Henry, and I feel tortured and afraid.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The women spat on the floor, assured everyone loudly that nobody on earth would want to have such little runts; after which they laughed silently among themselves, the only human witnesses. As for me, I felt that the babies really didn’t deserve so much attention. They were still as ugly, red, and round as blood sausages, with mouths that took up all their gnomelike faces. My mother, unable to control her expressions, didn’t seem happy. My father had refused to ask Uncle Aroun to be the godfather. Uncle Aroun had already enjoyed the honor of being my own godfather, but he had failed after that to show any generosity. What is the use of such a godfather? Offended and especially disappointed at having failed to obtain a blessing that always brings children to the one who accepts it, my uncle had then decided not to attend the ceremony. He had gone away, his head thrust forward, far ahead of him like that of a hasty giraffe. My mother wept bitter tears as a result of this, and my father lost his temper once more over his wife’s partiality for her own family. I could feel jealousy tearing at my heart as I sat and waited for my share of the congratulations, my hair glued flat with brilliantine, swarthy and thin and goatlike in my dark suit. But most of our guests seemed to forget that our party was in my honor too. Twins are indeed an unusual event. I made fun of their absurd play in front of the babies as they tried to make them laugh, rolling their eyes like clowns and grunting. A few guests remembered me too and uttered some kind remarks, but I felt, quite unjustly, that they were being hypocritical or condescending. So I moved to the terrace where my father and my aunts took turns, on the threshold, at greeting our guests. An imaginary line divided into two parts, with all the young people on one side and their elders on the other, separated as oddly as too different fluids in one and the same container. The young people, all thin, stood about, not very firmly rooted to the ground, and danced according to an exact and almost mechanical pattern; while their stout elders, on the other half of the terrace, sat together in a crowd that had no conventions, eating pickled kidney beans and spitting out the skins onto the floor, all talking loudly and at the same time. Nobody paid any attention to me: I belonged to neither group and understood none of their games. The younger men had set up a phonograph on a chair and were dancing in a kind of frenzy, cutting in all the time on the same few girls and trying to have all the fun they could during the evening.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  “If you dropped me now, I would suffer as a doctor from not succeeding in my cure of you, and I would suffer personally because you are interesting. So you see, in a way, I need you as much as you need me. You could hurt me by dropping me. Try to understand that in all relationships there is dependency. Don’t be afraid of dependency. It is the same with the question of domination. Don’t try to tip the scales. The man must be the aggressor in the sexual act. Afterwards he can become like a child and depend on the woman and need her like a mother. You are not domineering intrinsically, but in self-defense—against pain, against the fear of abandonment, which perpetually recalls to you your father’s abandonment of you—you try to conquer, to dominate. I see that you do not use your power for evil or cruelty, but just to satisfy yourself of its effectiveness. You have conquered your husband, Eduardo, and now Henry. You do not want weak men, but until they have become weak in your hands you are not satisfied. Be careful of this: drop your defensive attitude, drop, above all, your fears. Let go.” Henry writes me a thoughtless letter about the little nineteen-year-old Paulette Fred has brought to Clichy to live with him. Henry is joyous because she is doing the housekeeping and urges Fred to marry her because she is adorable. This letter tore into my flesh. I visualized Henry playing with Paulette while Fred went to work. Oh, I know my Henry. I withdrew into myself like a snail, I didn’t want to write in my journal, I refused to think, but I must cry out. If this is jealousy, I must never again inflict it on Hugo, on anyone. Paulette, in Clichy; Paulette, free to do everything for Henry, eating with him, spending the evenings with him while Fred is at work. A summer evening. Henry and I are eating in a small restaurant wide open to the street. We are part of the street. The wine that runs down my throat runs down many other throats. The warmth of the day is like a man’s hand on one’s breast. It envelops both the street and the restaurant. The wine solders us all, Henry and me, the restaurant and the street and the world. Shouts and laughter from the students preparing for the Quatz Arts Ball. They are in barbaric costumes, red-skinned, feathered, overflowing from buses and carts. Henry is saying, “I want to do everything to you tonight. I want to lay you on this very table and fuck you before everybody. I’m nuts about you, Anaïs. I’m crazy about you. After dinner we’re going to the Hotel Anjou. I’ll teach you new things.”

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Graziani, the gateman, then appeared in the entrance, clapped his hands and began to push open the heavy door. The group around Birdie slowly dispersed. Out of a feeling of friendship, I waited for Saul who was now fumbling in his satchel. He finally spoke to me, asking me with great affability: “Can you lend me two pennies?” I was his last chance, and I didn’t hesitate long. To be sure, I didn’t have much time to think it over and the whole situation was too new for me. Poor little rich boy Saul needed my money, my two pennies. I was vaguely and stupidly proud of this. Perhaps, too, I would have been ashamed to say no, and I later felt more resentful toward him because of this feeling of shame than of anything else. Saul had offered me, from time to time, chocolate or candy, but I had never offered him anything. I knew exactly where my own money was tucked away. But as I always hid it in a tobacco tin, well concealed beneath my apron, in the breast pocket of my shirt, and as Saul was now in a hurry, I fumbled around with my fingers in the pleats of the shirt and Saul became impatient. “Hurry up!” he exclaimed. I hastened to open the tin that was rattling with the only sound of my single coin and handed him the two-penny piece that was intended for my sandwich. Saul was thus able to complete the required sum, bought the last Nestlé bar, tore the wrapping, and exclaimed to me, in disgust: “What? Another fish? Well, I have no luck today.” It seemed to me that nobody had any luck at all that day. The street was deserted and Graziani was shaking his head with a sad expression, acting as if he were about to close the gate. We rushed in through the opening that was scarcely wide enough to allow a cat to pass. “Ragazzi! Ragazzi!” the old Italian grumbled affectionately. The massive door shut loudly behind us. We went to our seats in the first-year class and sat still. The crowd was now transmuted into an organized little society that respected order, and silence followed the earlier clamor. It was then that my stomach chose to rumble loud and long as I realized that I would get no breakfast. I felt that I had been imposed upon. Up till then, I had never experienced the revelation of jealousy and envy. I had envied Saul his fine clothes and his pocket money, but it had been without any true bitterness or animosity. Later, I began to hate the Sauls of life, but the power of the rich, at that time, still inspired in me some respect, as if I were witnessing a constant and almost magical run of luck.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  She sat there filled with champagne. She talked about hashish and its effects. I said, “I have known such states without hashish. I do not need drugs. I carry all that in myself.” At this she was a little angry. She did not realize that I achieved those states without destroying my mind. My mind must not die, because I am a writer. I am the poet who must see. I am not just the poet who can get drunk on June’s beauty. It was her fault that I began to notice discrepancies in her stories, childish lies. Her lack of coordination and logic left loopholes, and when I put the pieces together, I formed a judgment, a judgment which she fears always, which she wants to run away from. She lives without logic. As soon as one tries to coordinate June, June is lost. She must have seen it happen many times. She is like a man who is drunk and gives himself away. We were talking about perfumes, their substance, their mixtures, their meaning. She said casually, “Saturday, when I left you, I bought some perfume for Ray.” (Ray is a girl she has told me about.) At the moment I did not think. I retained the name of the perfume, which was very expensive. We went on talking. She is as affected by my eyes as I am by her face. I told her how her bracelet clutched my wrist like her very fingers, holding me in barbaric slavery. She wants my cape around her body. After lunch we walked. She had to buy her ticket for New York. First we went in a taxi to her hotel. She brought out a marionette, Count Bruga, made by Jean. He had violet hair and violet eyelids, a prostitute’s eyes, a Pulcinella nose, a loose, depraved mouth, consumptive cheeks, a mean, aggressive chin, murderer’s hands, wooden legs, a Spanish sombrero, a black velvet jacket. He had been on the stage. June sat him on the floor of the taxi, in front of us. I laughed at him. We walked into several steamship agencies. June did not have enough money for even a third-class passage and she was trying to get a reduction. I saw her lean over the counter, her face in her hands, appealing, so that the men behind the counter devoured her with their eyes, boldly. And she so soft, persuasive, alluring, smiling up in a secret way at them. I was watching her begging. Count Bruga leered at me. I was only conscious of my jealousy of those men, not of her humiliation. We walked out. I told June I would give her the money she needed, which was more than I could afford to give, much more.