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.

Page 32 of 47 · 20 per page

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “I guess I’m an exception to the rule.” “You surprise me. I always thought you’d wind up married to him with a houseful of kids by the time you were thirty ... leading an incredibly boring, ordinary life.” “How could I? I signed the NBO pact, remember?” Caitlin laughed. “NBO or die! So you’re really over him?” “Yes, totally!” She was pleased at how sure of herself she sounded, considering that she’d called him just weeks ago, on a night she’d felt so blue, so alone, she could hardly bear it. Her hands had trembled and her mouth had gone dry when he’d answered. She should have hung up right away. Instead, haunted by the idea that he thought Harvard had turned her into an elitist, she’d said, “Just so you know ... I hate snobs!” She regretted it the second the words were out of her mouth. “Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?” he asked. When she didn’t respond he said, “Victoria?” “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Do me a favor ... don’t call again.” By the time she said, “I won’t,” he’d hung up the phone. That night Caitlin danced for her decked out in full flamenco—red and black dress cut down to reveal the tops of her breasts, a slit up to her crotch, her hair pulled back, a flower tucked behind her ear—heels and castanets clicking. A fiery, seductive dance that ended with her body on the floor ... hands outstretched to her audience of one. When the music stopped Caitlin waited for her to make the next move. Finally, Vix cleared her throat and said, “I think we should go out ...” “You’re sure?” “I’m sure.” “So that was Caitlin,” Maia said when Vix got back from the Carlyle on Sunday afternoon. She and Paisley were painting the kitchen cabinets a deep blue. “It doesn’t take a shrink to see she’s jealous of us ... of Paisley and me. She doesn’t want anyone in your life to be more important than her.” “You saw all that in ten minutes?” Vix asked, tossing her overnight bag on her bed. “I saw it the second she walked in. And the way she turned up her nose at the wine Paisley offered ...” “Caitlin’s complicated,” Vix said, changing into a T-shirt and sweatpants. “We’re all complicated,” Maia said. “And we’ve all had friends like her.” “I don’t think so,” Vix said, coming into the kitchen where she picked up a paintbrush, dipped it into the tray of blue paint, and got to work. “Oh, please ...” Maia said. “There’s a Caitlin in every junior high. You have to get over her and get on with your life.” “I am getting on with my life.”

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  It was his capacity for anarchy and corruption that gave him at times the expression of a man capable of anything, and that kept awake in Elena a mistrust of him. At the same time, he was fully aware of her own attraction to the demonic and the sordid, to the pleasure of falling, of desecrating and destroying the ideal self. But because of his love for her, he would not let her live out any of this with him. He was afraid to initiate her and lose her to one vice or another, to some sensation he could not give her. So this door upon the corrupt element of their natures was seldom opened. She did not want to know what his body had done, his mouth, his sex. He feared to uncover the possibilities in her. “I know,” he said, “that you are capable of many loves, that I will be the first one, that from now on nothing will stop you from expanding. You’re sensual, so sensual.” “You can’t love so many times,” she answered. “I want my eroticism mixed with love. And deep love one does not often experience.” He was jealous of her future, and she of his past. She became aware that she was twenty-five and he was forty, that he had experienced many things he was already tired of and she had not yet known. When the silence grew long and Elena did not see on Pierre’s face an expression of innocence, but on the contrary, a hovering smile, a certain contempt in the outline of the lips, then she knew he was remembering the past. She lay at his side looking at his long eyelashes.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  They sat at a humble café table. The waitress spilled the vermouth. Annoyed, he demanded that the table be wiped, as if Elena were a princess. Elena said, “I feel a little like the moon who took possession of you for a moment and then returned your soul to you. You should not love me. One ought not to love the moon. If you come too near me, I will hurt you.” But she saw in his eyes that she had already hurt him. He walked stubbornly beside her, almost to the very door of Pierre’s apartment house. She found him with a ravaged face. He had seen them in the street, had followed them from the little café. He had watched every gesture and expression that had passed between them. He said, “There were quite a few emotional gestures between you.” He was like a wild animal, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes haggard. For an hour he was dark, beside himself with anger and doubt. She pleaded, pleaded with love, took his head and laid it on her breast, lulling him. Out of sheer exhaustion he fell asleep. She then slid out of the bed and stood by his window. The charm of the sculptor had faded. Everything faded beside the depth of Pierre’s jealousy. She thought of Pierre’s flesh, his flavor, the love they had, and at the same time she heard Jean’s adolescent laughter, trusting, sensitive, and she saw the potent charm of Leila. She was afraid. She was afraid because she was no longer securely tied to Pierre but to an unknown woman lying down, yielding, open, spreading. Pierre awakened. He stretched out his arms and said, “It is over now.” Then she wept. She wanted to beg him to keep her imprisoned, to let no one lure her away. They kissed passionately. He answered her desire by locking her in his arms with such a force that her bones cracked. She laughed and said, “You’re suffocating me.” She lay dissolved, then, by a maternal feeling, a feeling that she wanted to protect him from pain; he, on the other hand, seemed to feel he could possess her once and for all. His jealousy incited him to a kind of fury. The sap rose in him with such vigor that he did not wait for her pleasure. And she did not want this pleasure. She felt herself as a mother receiving a child into herself, drawing him in to lull him, to protect him. She felt no sexual urge but the urge to open, to receive, to enfold only.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Chapter 18 I n the days and weeks following Florence’s sad disclosure I became aware that things at Quilter Street were rather changed. Florence herself seemed gayer, lighter - as if, in telling me her history, she had rid herself of some huge burden, and was now flexing limbs that had been cramped and numbed, straightening a back that had been bowed. She was still gloomy, sometimes, and she still went off for walks, alone, and came back wistful. But she did not try to hide her melancholy now, or to disguise its cause - letting me know, for example, that her trips were (as I might have guessed) to Lilian’s grave. In time she even began to speak of her dead friend, quite routinely. ‘How Lilian would have laughed to hear of that!’ she would say; or, ‘Now, if Lily were only here, we might ask her, and she’d be sure to know.’ Her new, sweeter mood had an effect upon us all. The atmosphere of our little house - which I had always thought easy enough, before, but which I now saw to have been quite choked with the memory of Lilian, and with Ralph and Florence’s sorrow - seemed to clear and brighten: it was as if we were passing not into the fogs and frosts of winter, but into springtime, with all its mildnesses and balms. I would see Ralph gazing at his sister as she smiled or hummed or caught at Cyril and tickled him, and his gaze would be soft, and he would sometimes lean to kiss her cheek, in pleasure. Even Cyril himself seemed to feel the change, and to grow bonnier and more content. And I, in contrast, became ever more pinched and secretive and fretful. I could not help it. It was as if, in casting off her own old load, Florence had burdened me with a new one; my feelings - which had been stirred, on the night of her confession, into such a curious mixture - only seemed to grow queerer and more contradictory as the weeks went by. I had been sorry for her, and was as glad as her brother to see her rather lighter-hearted now; I was also pleased and touched that she had confided in me at last, and told me all. But oh, how I wished her story had been different! I could never learn to like the tragic Lilian, and had to bite back my crossness when she was spoken of so reverently. Perhaps I pictured her as Kitty - it was certainly Walter’s face I saw, whenever I thought of her cowardly man-friend; but it made me hot and giddy to think of her, commanding Florence’s passion, sleeping beside her night after night - and never so much as turning he face to her friend, to kiss her mouth.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  He walked in like he owned the place, checking out the fridge, helping himself to the leftovers from last night’s dinner. “Hey, Baumer …” he said, pronouncing it bomber and doing a one-two punch. “How’s it going?” “Since you got here,” Daniel said, punching him back and smiling for the first time, “things are definitely looking up.” AbbySHE’LL BE DAMNED if she’s going to let the kids spoil this. Never mind the hatred in Caitlin’s eyes. It was a mistake to walk into her life unannounced and unexpected. She should have known better. It might take some time but she’ll win her over. She’s always wanted a daughter and this one looks like she could use some mothering. Besides, in less than ten years the children will be grown. But why is she thinking this way? She and Lamb have known each other just four months. Before they met she’d been thinking about having another child. She’s just thirty-seven. There’s still time. Yet now that it looks serious between her and Lamb—at least she hopes it’s serious—she’s less sure. Three surly teenagers seem like more than she’d bargained for. Of course, a baby would be something else. A baby could bind them together. But she knows from experience it can also drive a wedge between a couple. It was never the same between her and Marty after Daniel was born. She’d never expected him to be jealous of the baby, to compete with him for her affections, making demands she couldn’t possibly meet, but there it was. In the year since she’s left him she’s grown stronger, more confident. She’s not afraid to put her foot down now and she’s sure she can see the respect in Daniel’s eyes. Truth is, she hadn’t planned on falling in love so soon. Too soon, her friends say. But is she supposed to walk away from the best man she’s ever known because it’s too soon? How ironic, to meet him now, when she’s determined never to be dependent on a man again. She tries not to think about the old hippie girlfriend on the boat, even when Caitlin drops hints. Trisha bakes the best muffins, and she’s got incredible breasts . Imagine this twelve-year-old child talking to her about breasts! She’d had to bite her tongue. They have sex together … fellatio and cunnilingus. Ask Lamb if it’s not true . She’d wanted to belt her that time. Instead, she’d said, This is not an appropriate subject . Why not? Because it isn’t . She’d walked away but could feel Caitlin’s pleasure. She’d gone to Lamb in a jealous rage. This thing between you and Trisha … There hasn’t been a thing between Trisha and me for a long time . Why does Caitlin think there is? Caitlin’s twelve, Ab. What does she know? But she told me … She’s just trying to ruffle your feathers . She talked about fellatio and cunnilingus . What? My feelings exactly . He started laughing.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  “The woman never ceased looking at me. Would she make a sign? Did it excite her to watch me? It must have. The next day I awaited her appearance with anxiety. She emerged at the same hour, sat on her balcony and looked towards me. From this distance I could not tell if she was smiling or not. I lay on my bed again. “We did not try to meet in the street, though we were neighbors. All I remember was the pleasure I derived from this, which no other pleasure ever equaled. At the mere recollection of these episodes, I get excited. Marianne gives me somewhat the same pleasure. I like the hungry way she looks at me, admiring, worshiping me.” When Marianne read this, she felt she would never overcome his passivity. She wept a little, feeling betrayed as a woman. Yet she loved him. He was sensitive, gentle, tender. He never hurt her feelings. He was not exactly protective, but he was fraternal, responsive to her moods. He treated her like the artist of the family, was respectful of her painting, carried her canvases, wanted to be useful to her. She was a monitor in a painting class. He loved to accompany her there in the morning with the pretext of carrying her paints. But soon she saw that he had another purpose. He was passionately interested in the models. Not in them personally, but in their experience of posing. He wanted to be a model. At this Marianne rebelled. If he had not derived a sexual pleasure from being looked at, she might not have minded. But knowing this, it was as if he were giving himself to the whole class. She could not bear the thought. She fought him. But he was possessed by the idea and finally was accepted as a model. That day Marianne refused to go to the class. She stayed at home and wept like a jealous woman who knows her lover is with another woman. She raged. She tore up her drawings of him as if to tear his image from her eyes, the image of his golden, smooth, perfect body. Even if the students were indifferent to the models, he was reacting to their eyes, and Marianne could not bear it. This incident began to separate them. It seemed as if the more pleasure she gave him, the more he succumbed to his vice, and sought it unceasingly. Soon they were completely estranged. And Marianne was left alone to type our erotica.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Camina de regreso a la cocina hacia el refrigerador, y noto que todavía usa la camiseta azul marino y los jeans de antes con sus botas de trabajo todavía puestas. No está ni un poco desnudo, así que es una buena señal. —Lo siento si fue incómodo —me dice, sacando un refresco—. De hecho, acabamos de llegar por nuestra cuenta. Ella se detuvo para... —Es tu casa. No me importa —le digo, fingiendo estar concentrada en mi tarea—. Haz lo que quieras. —¿Estás segura? —pregunta con tono divertido—. Estabas golpeando las puertas de la lavadora y secadora y poniendo la música a todo volumen a las diez de la noche. Pareces... irritada. Sacudo la cabeza, encogiéndome de hombros. —Por supuesto que no. No esperaría que cambies tu estilo de vida solo porque estoy aquí. Adelante. Guarda silencio, y puedo verlo por el rabillo del ojo por un momento, simplemente allí de pie. Ahora, me siento mal por estar eufórica de que vaya a la cama solo. Quiero que él tenga a alguien. Alguien que lo ame y lo haga sentir bien. Pero... No ella. Y nadie más, en realidad. Me estoy enamorando de él. Quiero que me tenga a mí. Y es tan terco, que hizo eso esta noche solo para probar lo mucho que no me desea. —Pero creí que tendrías mejor gusto, por el amor de Dios —comento, pegando más césped debajo del árbol falso. —¿Disculpa? Levanto la mirada. —¿Sabías que terminó con el matrimonio de Marcus Weathers? —le pregunto—. Ella merodea por el bar, esperando ver quién la llevará a su casa una noche determinada, y no es exigente. Casados, tomados, lo que sea... —Lo bueno es que no estoy tomado entonces —replica—. No hay problema. Bajo la mirada y vuelvo a tomar el pegamento, dándome cuenta que perdí esa ronda. —Puedes conseguir algo mejor —murmuro finalmente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Qué te hace pensar que todavía no tengo una mujer, Jordan? Su voz es burlona, y puedo sentirlo hasta los pies. Mi boca se seca. —¿La tienes? —pregunto. Quiero decir, solo estaba bromeando. ¿No sería incómodo tener a dos mujeres caminando por la casa? Ya tengo mis quehaceres, y hago la mayor parte de la cocina. Esa isla con bloques de carnicero y yo tenemos una relación ahora. Podría ponerme un poco celosa si otra mujer la toca. —No me has conocido desde hace mucho tiempo —dice juguetón—. Debo ocuparme de mis necesidades de vez en cuando. Soy humano, después de todo. Se me revuelve el estómago y frunzo las cejas. ¿Sus necesidades? Una imagen de cómo se ve cuando tiene que satisfacer esas necesidades destella en mi mente. La aparto. Mmm, sí. Bueno. De repente, se ríe. —Estoy bromeando —dice—. Sí, salgo de vez en cuando, pero no veo a nadie ahora. No tienes que preocuparte por encontrarte con una mujer que no conoces en la casa. —O mujeres —digo—. ¿Cierto? Se burla, y solo puedo imaginar su rostro. —¿De verdad me ves siendo capaz de hacer malabares con más de una mujer? ¿Alguna vez? —No, te gusta tomarte tu tiempo. —Exactamente. Mi corazón se calienta y sabía que estaba en lo cierto. La madre de Cole lo alimentó con tonterías para que su hijo rivalizara con su padre. Está en la punta de mi lengua decir algo sobre Cole, pero si Pike lo confronta, con las mentiras que probablemente le contó su madre, Cole lo verá como que traicioné su confianza. Y podría avergonzar a Pike. Ellos no son mi familia No es mi lugar. Un bostezo estira mi rostro, y dejo escapar un pequeño gemido, mis ojos se vuelven más pesados. —Bueno, supongo que te dejaré ir —dice Pike—. Diviértanse, ¿de acuerdo? Cuídate. —Lo haremos. —Mis párpados se cierran, su voz persiste en mi oreja—. Y recuerda —le digo—, presiona el botón dos veces. Resopla. —Sí, señora. —Hasta luego —digo. Se detiene un momento antes de contestar. —Buenas noches, Jordan. Cuelga, y dejo mi teléfono, bostezando nuevamente y sin molestarme en volver a encender la aplicación del ventilador. Una sonrisa estira las comisuras de mis labios. ¿Cómo puede un hombre de treinta y ocho años no saber cómo hacer palomitas de maíz para microondas? Es literalmente a prueba de idiotas. Me río, mis párpados se vuelven pesados y somnolientos mientras me olvido de Jay y Cole, de lo incómoda que es esta mesa de billar o lo exhausta que probablemente estaré mañana. Pike recorre mi mente y todo lo que dijo, lo profunda que era su voz cuando me dijo “buenas noches, Jordan”, y cómo se me puso la piel de gallina en los brazos. Y que esta es la tercera noche, de esta semana, en que él ha sido la última persona con quien hablo antes de dormirme por la noche.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I told another friend, and she read me some lines by a Lakota Sioux: “Sometimes I go about pitying myself. And all the while I am being carried on great winds across the sky.” That is so beautiful, I said; and I am so mentally ill. Those lines, however, offered the beginning of a solution. They made the first tiny crack in my prison wall. I was waiting for the kind of solution where God reaches down and touches you with his magic wand and all of a sudden I would be fixed, like a broken toaster oven. But this was not the way it happened. Instead, I got one angstrom unit better, day by day. Another piece of the solution came when a poem by Clive James, called “The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered,” appeared one Sunday in The New York Times Book Review . “The book of my enemy has been remaindered,” it begins, “And I am pleased.” It helped more than words can say. Oh, what blessed relief for someone to be as jealous and spiteful as me and to make those feelings funny. I called everyone whose advice I had sought and read it to them. Everybody howled with recognition. Yet another piece of the solution dropped into place when my friend Judy said that the problem was trying to stop the jealousy and competitiveness, and that the main thing was not to let it fuel my self-loathing. She said it was nuts for me to try to be happy for this other writer. I cannot tell you how much this helped. I was raised in a culture that promotes this competitiveness, this insatiability, this fantasy of needing hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, and then, in the next breath, shames you for any feelings of longing or envy or fear that it will always be someone else’s turn. I was only doing what I had been groomed to do. So I started getting my sense of humor back. I started telling myself that if you want to know how God feels about money, look at whom she gives it to. This cheered me up no end, even though my closest friends have lots of money. I told myself that historically when people do too well too quickly, they are a Greek tragedy waiting to happen. I, who did not do too well too quickly and who was in fact not doing too well over time, was actually in the catbird seat. I was not going to end up the cocky heroine in an ugly hubris drama.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I’d say, “How could I not be supportive? It’s just so darn gright.” But I always wanted to ask, “Could I have the names and numbers of some of your other friends?” Sometimes I would get off the phone and cry. After a while I started asking people for help. One person reminded me of what Jean Rhys once wrote, that all of us writers are little rivers running into one lake, that what is good for one is good for all, that we all collectively share in one another’s success and acclaim. I said, “You are a very, very angry person.” My therapist said that jealousy is a secondary emotion, that it is born out of feeling excluded and deprived, and that if I worked on those age-old feelings, I would probably break through the jealousy. I tried to get her to give me a prescription for Prozac, but she said that this other writer was in my life to help me heal my past. She said this writer had helped bring up a lifetime’s worth of feeling that other families were happier than ours, that other families had some owner’s manual to go by. She said it was once again that business of comparing my insides to other people’s outsides. She said to go ahead and feel the feelings. I did. They felt like shit. My friend, the writer I was so jealous of, would call and say, like some Southern belle, “I just don’t know why God is giving me so much money this year.” And I would do my Lamaze for a moment, and say, “Isn’t that gright?” I have never felt like such a loser in my life. I called a very wise writer I know who’s been in Alcoholics Anonymous for years, who spends half his time helping others get sober. I asked him what he would tell a newcomer who was in the throes of insanity or, say hypothetically, jealousy. “I just listen,” he said. “They all tell me these incredibly long, self-important, convoluted stories. And then I say one of three things: I say, ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, ‘Hmmm,’ I say, Too bad.’ ” I laughed. Then I started telling him about this awful friend I had who was doing so well. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Uh-huh.” Next I talked to my slightly overweight alcoholic gay Catholic priest friend. I said, “Do you get jealous?” He said, “When I see a man my own age in great shape, and I feel all conflicted, wishing I were that thin and yet at the same time wanting to lick him, is that jealousy or is that appreciation?” It was hard to get anyone to say anything that would make the jealousy go away or change into something else. I felt like the wicked stepsister in a fairy tale.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  And the three women met, driven inside of the same café on a day of heavy rain: Leila, perfumed and dashing, carrying her head high, a silver fox stole undulating around her shoulders over her trim black suit; Elena, in a wine-colored velvet; and Bijou, in her streetwalker’s costume, which she could never abandon, the tight-fitting black dress and high-heeled shoes. Leila smiled at Bijou, then recognized Elena. Shivering, the three sat down before aperitifs. What Elena had not expected was to be completely intoxicated with Bijou’s voluptuous charm. On her right sat Leila, incisive, brilliant, and on her left, Bijou, like a bed of sensuality Elena wanted to fall into. Leila observed her and suffered. Then she set about courting Bijou, which she could do so much better than Elena. Bijou had never known women like Leila, only the women who worked with her, who, when the men were not there, indulged with Bijou in orgies of kisses, to compensate for the brutality of the men—sitting and kissing themselves into a hypnotic state, that was all. She was susceptible to Leila’s subtle flattery, but at the same time she was spellbound with Elena. Elena was a complete novelty for her. Elena represented to men a type of woman who was the opposite of the whore, a woman who poetized and dramatized love, mixed it with emotion, a woman who seemed made of another substance, a woman one imagined created by a legend. Yes, Bijou knew men well enough to know this was also a woman they were incited to initiate to sensuality, whom they enjoyed seeing become enslaved by sensuality. The more legendary the woman, the greater the pleasure in desecrating, eroticizing her. Deep down, she was, under all the dreaminess, another courtesan, living also for the pleasure of man. Bijou, who was the whore of whores, would have liked to exchange places with Elena. Whores always envy women who have the faculty of arousing desire and illusion as well as hunger. Bijou, the sex organ walking undisguised, would have liked to have the appearance of Elena. And Elena was thinking how she would have liked to change places with Bijou, for the many times when men grew tired of courting and wanted sex without it, bestial and direct. Elena pined to be raped anew each day, without regard for her feelings; Bijou pined to be idealized. Leila alone was satisfied to be born free of man’s tyranny, to be free of man. But she did not realize that imitating man was not being free of him. She paid her court suavely, flatteringly, to the whore of whores. As none of the three women abdicated, they finally walked out together. Leila invited Elena and Bijou to her apartment.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La mira. —Hola. Y después, para mi sorpresa, su mirada regresa a mí por un momento antes de mirar el correo sobre el mostrador y comienza a hojearlo como si no estuviéramos aquí. Parpadeo, un poco confundida. Cam es una atracción de feria. Puede que sea más joven que él, pero sin duda es una mujer, y la mayoría de los hombres dejan que sus ojos se detengan sobre ella, sus largas piernas y los pechos turgentes y grandes que tiene debajo de esa camiseta sin mangas. Él no. —Sí, encantada de conocerte —dice—. Gracias por recibirla. Nos lanza una mirada rápida y una media sonrisa antes de tomar todos los sobres y meterlos en un cajón del correo. Cam comienza a salir de la cocina, y la sigo mientras entra al cuarto de lavado. Una vez que está fuera de su línea de visión, gira, diciéndome con un brillo travieso en sus ojos abiertos: —Oh, Dios mío. Aprieto la mandíbula, sacudiendo mi barbilla para que siga caminando. Ahora va a estar aquí todos los días coqueteando con él. Escucho a Pike detrás de mí, abriendo uno de los hornos, y me doy vuelta. —Estaba preparando la cena —le digo—. Para nosotros tres. ¿Está bien? Cierra el horno, y veo un atisbo de alivio en su rostro. —Sí, eso es genial, en realidad. —Suspira—. Gracias. Estoy hambriento. —Estará lista en quince minutos. Alcanza el refrigerador y saca una Corona, mete la tapa debajo de un abridor clavado debajo de la isla y la quita, dejando caer la tapa en la basura. —Suficiente tiempo para ducharme —responde, mirándonos—. Disculpen. Y luego sale de la cocina, con la botella colgando de sus dedos mientras sale con solo medio paso. Me detengo, y de nuevo caigo en cuenta de lo alto que es. Esta es una casa de buen tamaño, también, pero sería imposible no notarlo en una habitación. —Ahora lo entiendo —me susurra mi hermana con burla al oído—. Y aquí estaba yo, preocupada porque sufrieras avances indeseados de un viejo sudoroso y gordo. —Cállate. —Cierro los ojos con exasperación. Escucho que se abre la puerta trasera y el humor se adueña de su voz mientras bromea: —Ahora cuídate de tus hombres. Me giro para cerrarle la puerta de golpe en el rostro, pero grita, cerrándola antes que tenga oportunidad.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Jealousy is such a direct attack on whatever measure of confidence you’ve been able to muster. But if you continue to write, you are probably going to have to deal with it, because some wonderful, dazzling successes are going to happen for some of the most awful, angry, undeserving writers you know—people who are, in other words, not you. This is going to happen because the public herd mentality is not swayed by the magic that happens when mind and heart and muse and hand and paper work together. Rather, it is guided by talk shows and movie producers and TV commercials. Still, you’d probably like the caribou herd to run in your direction for a while. Most of us secretly want this. But maybe the herd is going to stuff itself on lichen and then waddle after some really undeserving writers instead. Those writers will get the place on the best-seller list, the movie sales, the huge advances, and the nice big glossy pictures in the national magazines where the photo editors have airbrushed out the excessively long eyeteeth, the wrinkles, and the horns. The writer you most admire in the world will give them rave reviews in the Times or blurbs for the paperback edition. They will buy houses, big houses, or second houses that are actually as nice, or nicer, than the first ones. And you are going to want to throw yourself down the back stairs, especially if the person is a friend. You are going to feel awful beyond words. You are going to have a number of days in a row where you hate everyone and don’t believe in anything. If you do know the author whose turn it is, he or she will inevitably say that it will be your turn next, which is what the bride always says to you at each successive wedding, while you grow older and more decayed. It can wreak just the tiniest bit of havoc with your self-esteem to find that you are hoping for small bad things to happen to this friend—for, say, her head to blow up. Or for him to wake up one morning with a pain in his prostate, because I don’t care how rich and successful someone is, if you wake up having to call your doctor and ask for a finger massage, it’s going to be a long day. You get all caught up in such fantasies because you feel, once again, like the kid outside the candy-store window, and you believe that this friend, this friend whom you now hate, has all the candy. You believe that success is bringing this friend inordinate joy and serenity and security and that her days are easier. She’s going to live to be one hundred and twenty, he’s never going to die—the people who are going to die are the good people, like you. But this is not true.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  I’d say, “How could I not be supportive? It’s just so darn gright.” But I always wanted to ask, “Could I have the names and numbers of some of your other friends?” Sometimes I would get off the phone and cry. After a while I started asking people for help. One person reminded me of what Jean Rhys once wrote, that all of us writers are little rivers running into one lake, that what is good for one is good for all, that we all collectively share in one another’s success and acclaim. I said, “You are a very, very angry person.” My therapist said that jealousy is a secondary emotion, that it is born out of feeling excluded and deprived, and that if I worked on those age-old feelings, I would probably break through the jealousy. I tried to get her to give me a prescription for Prozac, but she said that this other writer was in my life to help me heal my past. She said this writer had helped bring up a lifetime’s worth of feeling that other families were happier than ours, that other families had some owner’s manual to go by. She said it was once again that business of comparing my insides to other people’s outsides. She said to go ahead and feel the feelings. I did. They felt like shit. My friend, the writer I was so jealous of, would call and say, like some Southern belle, “I just don’t know why God is giving me so much money this year.” And I would do my Lamaze for a moment, and say, “Isn’t that gright?” I have never felt like such a loser in my life. I called a very wise writer I know who’s been in Alcoholics Anonymous for years, who spends half his time helping others get sober. I asked him what he would tell a newcomer who was in the throes of insanity or, say hypothetically, jealousy. “I just listen,” he said. “They all tell me these incredibly long, self-important, convoluted stories. And then I say one of three things: I say, ‘Uh-huh,’ I say, ‘Hmmm,’ I say, Too bad.’ ” I laughed. Then I started telling him about this awful friend I had who was doing so well. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Uh-huh.” Next I talked to my slightly overweight alcoholic gay Catholic priest friend. I said, “Do you get jealous?” He said, “When I see a man my own age in great shape, and I feel all conflicted, wishing I were that thin and yet at the same time wanting to lick him, is that jealousy or is that appreciation?” It was hard to get anyone to say anything that would make the jealousy go away or change into something else. I felt like the wicked stepsister in a fairy tale.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Después de un momento, toca su brazo y apenas respiro mientras la observo inclinar su cuello, inspeccionando sus tatuajes. Luego, rápidamente, se endereza y levanta su brazo, mostrándole el gran fénix negro que tiene en el costado de su torso. Él observa mientras ella se levanta su camiseta blanca sin mangas y los tirantes de su sujetador, y mi estómago se hunde, esperando que él se sonroje o luzca incómodo, porque incómodo es algo que le sucede a Pike, pero no lo hace. En cambio, la observa mientras ella habla animadamente, emocionada y luego repentinamente, él sonríe, su cuerpo temblando con una risa ante lo que sea que le esté diciendo. Algo tira desde el fondo de mi garganta y no me siento bien. Sigue mirándola. Sus ojos apenas se han apartado de ella desde que salió ahí fuera. ¿La desea? ¿Lo excita? Quiero decir, quiero que le guste, solo no que la desee. No está bien. No quiero escucharla gimiendo y jadeando al fondo del pasillo durante toda la noche. Además, a ella no le gustará. Es demasiado serio. Bastante aburrido, en realidad. Pero definitivamente lo haría sentirse bien durante un rato. Cierro mis ojos, un peso de cinco toneladas sobre mis hombros. Ella se gira y comienza a recoger ramas del suelo y él regresa a cortar, trabajando juntos en feliz simultaneidad. Pero la veo girarse para articular algo hacia mí con una pequeña sonrisa engreída. Me lleva un momento registrar lo que dijo. ¿Ya estás celosa? No puedo evitar el gruñido que se me escapa mientras le muestro mi dedo medio y luego me doy la vuelta, alejándome de la ventana. Maldita sea. No hará nada. Piensa que me gusta. Simplemente está intentando hacerme enojar. Tiro del cuello de mi camiseta para alejarla de mi cuerpo, sintiendo cada centímetro de mi piel irritada. Necesito un descanso. Caminando hacia la estufa, apago el fuego y salgo de la cocina, subiendo las escaleras rápidamente. Entro en la habitación de Cole y mía, saco algo de ropa limpia de los cajones y salgo, cruzando el pasillo hacia nuestro baño. Pero en cuanto entro, me detengo, viendo el desastre que Pike ha hecho. La bañera está arrancada, las válvulas están desconectadas del lavabo y hay escombros por todo el suelo blanco de baldosas. Todavía lo está renovando. Lo olvidé.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Es bastante increíble. Cole ha estado ocupado con los autos de todos menos el mío, aunque sospecho que es solo una excusa para salir de la casa. Un foco cuelga del capó, Pike rodea el VW y se inclina, desenroscando algo. Ha estado ahí afuera desde después de la cena. Quería la ayuda de Cole, pero por supuesto, está fuera de nuevo. Creo que está esperándolo. Un par de mujeres caminan por la acera, vestidas con ropa de ejercicio, y se detienen, sonriendo y diciéndole algo a Pike. La morena de la izquierda trota en el mismo lugar, incluso aunque hace un momento caminaba velozmente, mientras la pelirroja pone sus manos en sus caderas y le da una sonrisa coqueta. ―¿En serio? ―murmuro. ¿Quién diablos sale a caminar a estas horas de la noche?―. Que inteligentes, señoras. Muy inteligentes. Como si no vieran a Pike trabajando aquí a través de las ventanas de sus cocinas, sin camisa, flexionando sus músculos contra su piel bronceada, todavía luciendo como el chico malo sexy por el que babeaban en la secundaria, probablemente. Entonces se llaman para trazar un plan para ponerse su ropa deportiva y luego “pasan por su casa” ¿cierto? Quiero decir, después de todo sería grosero no saludar, ¿cierto? Pongo los ojos en blanco. Las amas de casa de los suburbios, aburridas de sus esposos, intentando provocar a Pike Lawson, es una parada rápida para emocionarlas. Suelto las persianas y retrocedo. Estoy siendo tan mala. Entonces, están coqueteando. ¿Y eso, qué? Me enorgullece el hecho de ser una persona tranquila y sensata, pero mi comportamiento ha sido errático últimamente. La mudanza, las cuentas, Cole... Estoy fuera de mí, insegura, y confundida. No me gusta. Comienzo una lista de reproducción en mi teléfono, Pity Party zumbando para que coincida con mi enojado humor cuando la puerta del dormitorio se cierra detrás de mí. Dejo de peinar mi cabello, girando mi cabeza. Cole está de repente de pie en mi habitación, inclinado contra la puerta, y mirándome con una mirada en sus ojos que conozco demasiado bien. ¿Cuándo llegó a casa? El calor se eleva en mi piel, y aprieto mi toalla, pero no sé por qué.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Money won’t guarantee these writers much of anything, except that now they have a much more expensive set of problems. The pressure on their lives has actually intensified. Good, fine, you think. I’m into intensity; those are the problems I want. But do you really? Yes. I really do. But some of the loneliest, most miserable, neurotic, despicable people we know have been the most successful in the world. Right—but it would be different for me. I would not fall for my own press clippings. I would not mention my achievements all the time. I would not say things like “Boy, you think it’s raining hard today? I remember one day—I think it was the year I got the Guggenheim—it really rained hard.” You’d never do that, unlike other people you could mention. That’s very nice. It’s all going to happen to somebody else anyway. Bank on it. Jealousy is one of the occupational hazards of being a writer, and the most degrading. And I, who have been the Leona Helmsley of jealousy, have come to believe that the only things that help ease or transform it are (a) getting older, (b) talking about it until the fever breaks, and (c) using it as material. Also, someone somewhere along the line is going to be able to make you start laughing about it, and then you will be on your way home. I went through a very bad bout of jealousy last year, when someone with whom I am (or rather was) friendly did extremely well. It felt like every few days she’d have more good news about how well her book was doing, until it seemed that she was going to be set for life. It threw me for a loop. I am a better writer than she is. A lot of my writer friends do very well, hugely well, and I’m not jealous of them. I do not know why that is, but it’s true. But when it happened for her, I would sit listening to her discuss her latest successes over the phone, praying that I could get off the line before I started barking. I was literally oozing unhappiness, like a sump. My deepest belief is that to live as if we’re dying can set us free. Dying people teach you to pay attention and to forgive and not to sweat the small things. So every time this friend called, I tried to will myself into forgiving both of us. I had been around someone from the South that summer who was always exclaiming, “Isn’t that great?”—only she made it almost rhyme with “bright.” So when my friend would call with her lastest good news, always presented humbly like some born-again-Christian Miss America contestant, I’d say, “Isn’t that gright, huh? Isn’t that gright?” She would say, “You are so supportive. Some of my other friends are having trouble with this.”

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Desenrosco la tapa, trago la mitad del agua, respiro profundamente y trago dos sorbos más. Queda solo un par de centímetros más, así que la meto en el bolsillo de mi chaqueta para terminármela después. —Hola, Jordan —llama una voz alegre, pasando junto a mí. Veo a April Lester poniéndose un par de guantes de trabajo y bajando por las rocas hacia Pike, vestida en jeans que abrazan cada centímetro de sus piernas y una linda camiseta de camuflaje y un sombrero. Una cola de caballo negra cuelga del agujero en la parte trasera. Se ve linda y tierna. Estoy tan acostumbrada a verla en su ropa “para salir” en el bar. Saco un saco de arena de la caja de carga del camión y llevo el saco de dieciocho kilos hacia el siguiente hombre en la fila y giro de nuevo hacia el camión, repitiendo la tarea. Cada saco hace su camino de un par de manos al siguiente hasta que llega a su lugar a la orilla del río. Noto a April en otra fila de ensamblaje, justo frente a Pike y está hablando con él. Intento mantener mis ojos alejados porque no es asunto mío, pero me encuentro lanzando miradas de soslayo y no sé por qué. Calor líquido recorre mi pecho y siento un sudor frío aparecer en mi frente. ¿La conoce? ¿Alguna vez han hablado? No creo que hayan salido alguna vez. No pueden haber salido. Pike es como un sacerdote. Es tan estirado y esa mujer viene más fuerte que un martillo a la cabeza. Lo asustaría. Humedezco mis labios, pasando otro saco y no puedo evitar mirarlos. Ella dice algo y sonríe brillantemente, y él le echa un vistazo, escuchando con diversión. Le muestra una de sus extrañas sonrisas espectaculares y hermosas y mi corazón deja de latir. Frunzo el ceño y tomo otro saco. ¿Está malditamente ruborizándose? En realidad luce un poco tímido, pero no luce como si estuviera ignorando su coqueteo. Gruño. Supéralo. Es un hombre. Uno aún joven y estoy segura que también es uno saludable. Ha tenido sexo con mujeres, Cole es una prueba de ello. Es irreal pensar que se está privando de eso. En algún momento traerá una mujer a la casa. Todo el mundo tiene necesidades. Dejo caer mis ojos a su torso, donde la delgada chaqueta de lluvia negra se moldea a su cuerpo como una segunda piel. Sus mangas están subidas, mostrando sus antebrazos y juro que puedo ver la lluvia cayendo por su cuello desde aquí. Es tan alto y ancho y me encanta la forma en que se ajusta su camiseta y como lleva esos jeans. Cuando un hombre luce así de bien con ropa, sabes que luce bien sin ella. Y si se veía la mitad de bien en la preparatoria, todas las chicas deben haberlo deseado. Tengo curiosidad por saber cómo era él en ese entonces, pero luego hay algunas cosas que tampoco quiero saber.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  This is not to be underestimated. My nerves are shot as it is; the last thing I need would be an onslaught of thunder and silent screams, with cymbals, fangs, winds pushing forest fires across the land; I mean, who needs it? Then I started to write about my envy. I got to look in some cold dark corners, see what was there, shine a little light on what we all have in common. Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic—jealousy especially so—but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned. Now I felt like I was getting somewhere, after all those weeks of emotionally swimming the English Channel, cold and afraid. Then I saw a documentary on TV about a couple with AIDS. And all the pieces of the solution finally came together. There was a lot of footage in that movie of ravaged bodies, the sorts of bodies we usually recoil from. One of the men in the couple had an emaciated back entirely purple with Kaposi’s. But once you, the viewer, got to know the spirit inside, you could see the beauty of that sick person lying under the mounds of quilts that friends had made. You could see the amazing fortitude of people going through horror with grace, looking right into the pit and seeing that this is what you’ve got, this disease, or maybe even this jealousy. So you do as well as you can with it. And this ravaged body or wounded psyche can and should still be cared for as softly and tenderly as possible. The more I wrote about it and the more I thought of the movie, the angrier I got at how often this writer friend mentioned her money to me, because that summer Sam and I had almost none, and she knew this. I kept writing about my childhood, about how often I had longed for what other girls had and for what other families seemed to be about. I taped Hillel’s line to the wall by my desk: “I get up. I walk. I fall down. Meanwhile, I keep dancing.” The way I dance is by writing. So I wrote about trying to pay closer attention to the world, about taking things less seriously, moving more slowly, stepping outside more often. Eventually what I was writing got funnier and compassion broke through, for me and also for my writer friend. And at this point I told her, as kindly as possible, that I needed a sabbatical from our friendship.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  So focus on character. What happens in Faulkner’s books, for instance, arises from the nature of his characters, and even though his characters are not necessarily people you want to date, they compel us because we believe that they exist and we believe that the things they do are true to who they are. We read Faulkner for the beauty of his horrible creations, the beauty of the writing, and we read him to find out what life is about from his point of view. He expresses this through his characters. All you can give us is what life is about from your point of view. You are not going to be able to give us the plans to the submarine. Life is not a submarine. There are no plans. Find out what each character cares most about in the world because then you will have discovered what’s at stake. Find a way to express this discovery in action, and then let your people set about finding or holding onto or defending whatever it is. Then you can take them from good to bad and back again, or from bad to good, or from lost to found. But something must be at stake or you will have no tension and your readers will not turn the pages. Think of a hockey player—there had better be a puck out there on the ice, or he is going to look pretty ridiculous. This is how it works for me: I sit down in the morning and reread the work I did the day before. And then I wool-gather, staring at the blank page or off into space. I imagine my characters, and let myself daydream about them. A movie begins to play in my head, with emotion pulsing underneath it, and I stare at it in a trancelike state, until words bounce around together and form a sentence. Then I do the menial work of getting it down on paper, because I’m the designated typist, and I’m also the person whose job it is to hold the lantern while the kid does the digging. What is the kid digging for? The stuff . Details and clues and images, invention, fresh ideas, an intuitive understanding of people. I tell you, the holder of the lantern doesn’t even know what the kid is digging for half the time—but she knows gold when she sees it. Your plot will fall into place as, one day at a time, you listen to your characters carefully, and watch them move around doing and saying things and bumping into each other. You’ll see them influence each other’s lives, you’ll see what they are capable of up and doing, and you’ll see them come to various ends. And this process of discovering the story will often take place in fits and starts. Don’t worry about it. Keep trying to move the story forward. There will be time later to render it in a smooth and seamless way.