Jealousy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam, re-established in pride and self-respect, she was able to contemplate the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation, was able for the moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite brought her a sense of well- being. She discovered that at heart she was neither so courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined, that like many another woman before her, she was well content to feel herself protected; and gradually as the weeks went by, she began to forget her bitter resentment. One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen’s refusal to accompany her when she went to Passy; she could not understand it, so must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour who had met and disliked Martin’s aunt at one time, indeed the dislike, it seemed, had been mutual. Thus the vague resentment that Valérie had inspired in the girl, began to grow much less vague, until Stephen realized with a shock of surprise that Mary was jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so absurd and preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only be passing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were so fully taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quite restored he was talking of going home in the autumn, and every free moment that he could steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend with Stephen and Mary. When he spoke of his departure, Stephen sometimes fancied that a shade of sadness crept into Mary’s face, and her heart misgave her, though she told herself that naturally both of them would miss Martin. Then too, never had Mary been more loyal and devoted, more obviously anxious to prove her love by a thousand little acts of devotion. There would even be times when by contrast her manner would appear abrupt and unfriendly to Martin, when she argued with him over every trifle, backing up her opinion by quoting Stephen —yes, in spite of her newly restored gentleness, there were times when she would not be gentle with Martin. And these sudden and unforeseen changes of mood would leave Stephen feeling uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spoke rather anxiously: ‘Why were you so beastly to Martin this evening?’ But Mary pretended not to understand her: ‘How was I beastly? I was just as usual.’ And when Stephen persisted, Mary kissed her scar: ‘Darling, don’t start working now, it’s so late, and besides . . .’ Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl to her roughly: ‘How much do you love me? Tell me quickly, quickly!’ Her voice shook with something very like fear. ‘Stephen, you’re hurting me—don’t, you’re hurting!

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  3Stupid with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephen found herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured, insolent and triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not waned with his manhood. Roger was no fool; he put two and two together and his masculine instinct deeply resented this creature who might challenge his right of possession. Moreover, that masculine instinct was outraged. He would stare at Stephen as though she were a horse whom he strongly suspected of congenital unsoundness, and then he would let his eyes rest on Angela’s face. They would be the eyes of a lover, possessive, demanding, insistent eyes—if Ralph did not happen to be present. And into Angela’s eyes there would come an expression that Stephen had seen many times. A mist would slowly cloud over their blueness; they would dim, as though they were hiding something. Then Stephen would be seized with a violent trembling, so that she could not stand any more but must sit with her hands clasped tightly together, lest those trembling hands betray her to Roger. But Roger would have seen already, and would smile his slow, understanding, masterful smile. Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could help—not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red—one never knew whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle for a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a little the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully united in the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn would hate. 4It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that Christmas was a time of recriminations. Angela’s infatuation was growing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger’s handwriting, and Stephen, half crazy with jealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be refused, and a scene would ensue. ‘That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!’ ‘How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no business of yours.’ ‘Will you show me that letter?’ ‘I will not.’ ‘It’s from Roger.’ ‘You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  I shall let her have a try at typing my work, as she’s asked to, it will make her feel independent; otherwise, of course, she’ll be perfectly free—if it’s not a success she can always leave me—but I rather hope it will be a success. She’s companionable, we like the same things, anyhow she’ll give me an interest in life. . . .’ Puddle thought: ‘She’s not going to tell me.’ Stephen took out her cigarette case from which she produced a clear little snapshot: ‘It’s not very good, it was done at the front.’ But Puddle was gazing at Mary Llewellyn. Then she looked up abruptly and saw Stephen’s eyes—without a word she handed back the snapshot. Stephen said: ‘Now I want to talk about you. Will you go to Paris at once, or stay here until we come home from Orotava? It’s just as you like, the house is quite ready, you’ve only got to send Pauline a postcard; they’re expecting you there at any moment.’ And she waited for Puddle’s answer. Then Puddle, that small but indomitable fighter, stood forth all alone to do battle with herself, to strike down a sudden hot jealousy, a sudden and almost fierce resentment. And she saw that self as a tired old woman, a woman grown dull and tired with long service; a woman who had outlived her reason for living, whose companionship was now useless to Stephen. A woman who suffered from rheumatism in the winter and from lassitude in the summer; a woman who when young had never known youth, except as a scourge to a sensitive conscience. And now she was old and what had life left her? Not even the privilege of guarding her friend—for Puddle knew well that her presence in Paris would only embarrass while unable to hinder. Nothing could stay fate if the hour had struck; and yet, from the very bottom of her soul, she was fearing that hour for Stephen. And—who shall presume to accuse or condemn?—she actually found it in her to pray that Stephen might be granted some measure of fulfilment, some palliative for the wound of existence: ‘Not like me—don’t let her grow old as I’ve done.’ Then she suddenly remembered that Stephen was waiting. She said quietly: ‘Listen, my dear, I’ve been thinking; I don’t feel that I ought to leave your mother, her heart’s not very strong—nothing serious, of course—still, she oughtn’t to live all alone at Morton; and quite apart from the question of health, living alone’s a melancholy business. There’s another thing too.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he could never wrench Stephen’s arms backwards like Violet’s; he could never make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at games, a fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket much straighter than he could; she climbed trees with astonishing skill and prowess, and even if she did tear her skirts in the process it was obviously cheek for a girl to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees; she stood at the bottom admiring the courage of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as a kind of rival, a kind of intruder into his especial province; he was always longing to take her down a peg, but being slow-witted he was foolish in his methods—no good daring Stephen, she responded at once, and usually went one better. As for Stephen, she loathed him, and her loathing was increased by a most humiliating consciousness of envy. Yes, despite his shortcomings she envied young Roger with his thick, clumping boots, his cropped hair and his Etons; envied his school and his masculine companions of whom he would speak grandly as: ‘all the other fellows!’; envied his right to climb trees and play cricket and football—his right to be perfectly natural; above all she envied his splendid conviction that being a boy constituted a privilege in life; she could well understand that conviction, but this only increased her envy. Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite as loudly when she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his most strenuous torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the fact that she suspected that Violet almost enjoyed those torments. ‘He’s so dreadfully strong!’ she had confided in Stephen, with something like pride in her voice. Stephen had longed to shake her for that: ‘I can pinch quite as hard as he can!’ she had threatened, ‘If you think he’s stronger than I am, I’ll show you!’ At which Violet had rushed away screaming.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  THE writer to the Hebrews begins his roll of honour of the faithful with the name of Abel, whose story is in Genesis 4:1–15. Cain tilled the ground and brought to God an offering of the fruits of the ground; Abel was a shepherd and brought to God an offering from his flocks. God preferred the gift of Abel to the gift of Cain, who, moved to bitter jealousy, murdered his brother and became an outcast upon the earth. In the original, the meaning of the story is difficult. There is no indication why God preferred the gift of Abel to the gift of Cain. It may well be that the only offering which anyone can properly bring to God is that person’s most precious possession. This is life itself; and, to the Jews, blood always stood for life. We can well understand that – because, when the blood flows away, life ebbs away. On that principle, the only true sacrifice to God was a sacrifice of blood. Abel’s sacrifice was of a living creature, Cain’s was not; therefore Abel’s was the more acceptable.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  I was impatient to see you, for life is so uncertain that we do not know whether we shall live till the morrow, and if I could not see you on that night, perhaps I should never see you again. Therefore, in spite of my disordered dress and the late hour, I managed to come out and creep as far as your house. You heard, by the little noise I made, that I was under the window of your room. You were speaking to someone inside, and there was a light in your room. But, as soon as you heard my Step, you put out the light and Stopped talking. You were cruel to me then. I should like to know who was the person to whom you were talking on that evening. 'Last spring I wrote, without taking much trouble, the famous poem, "My sleeves are ever wet with tears, for my love is hopeless," on the back of a fan painted with flowers by the celebrated Uneme Kano. You gave me great pleasure by your compliment: " A lover in pain would easily pass the summer with this fan." And you also wrote underneath the poem: " He who inscribed this is waiting his lover." But you gave the fan to your servant Kitjisuke. "You had a lark which you bought from Jiubei the bird-seller. You loved it very much, and when I asked you to give it to me, you refused. But later you gave it to Syohatji Kitamura, the prettiest boy of all our company. I am very jealous because of that. 'On the eleventh of last April, the whole country was called together on horseback by the Lord. Tarozayemon Setsubara then detained me and said: "Your skirt is spotted with mud." And he brushed it. You were just behind me, but pretended to be unconcerned. You even laughed at me with Tarozayemon, instead of drawing my attention to the splashes. I think that you did not ad well in this, since you had been my lover for so many years. 'On the eighteenth of May I Stayed talking to Kanya Osasawara late in the evening, and you were very angry about it. But, as I explained to you then, I had gone to him with my companions Magosaburo and Tomoya Matsubara for our singing lesson. Kanya is too young to have a love affair with me. Magosaburo is my own age. You know Tomoya well. Even if we were to meet every evening, there could be no scandal or amorous association between us. But you always suspected me, and have made frequent insinuations concerning that affair, which have caused me much suffering. Even to-day I cannot forget my sorrow at your unreasonable suspicion. 'Often, after our meetings, you could have accompanied me nearly home; but you always turned back at the house of Sodayon Murase. Only twice during all our long love have you come the full way with me, as far as my house.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  But later you gave it to Syohatji Kitamura, the prettiest boy of all our company. I am very jealous because of that. 'On the eleventh of last April, the whole country was called together on horseback by the Lord. Tarozayemon Setsubara then detained me and said: "Your skirt is spotted with mud." And he brushed it. You were just behind me, but pretended to be unconcerned. You even laughed at me with Tarozayemon, instead of drawing my attention to the splashes. I think that you did not ad well in this, since you had been my lover for so many years. 'On the eighteenth of May I Stayed talking to Kanya Osasawara late in the evening, and you were very angry about it. But, as I explained to you then, I had gone to him with my companions Magosaburo and Tomoya Matsubara for our singing lesson. Kanya is too young to have a love affair with me. Magosaburo is my own age. You know Tomoya well. Even if we were to meet every evening, there could be no scandal or amorous association between us. But you always suspected me, and have made frequent insinuations concerning that affair, which have caused me much suffering. Even to-day I cannot forget my sorrow at your unreasonable suspicion. 'Often, after our meetings, you could have accompanied me nearly home; but you always turned back at the house of Sodayon Murase. Only twice during all our long love have you come the full way with me, as far as my house. I am sure that, if I had really been your true love, you would have borne me company at least beyond the field where the tigers and wolves can be heard howling. 'I have many other things with which to reproach you, but am feeling infinitely sad. And even now I cannot help loving you. I do nothing but weep for my unhappy passion. I beg you to pray, only just once, for the safety of my soul after my death. This world is vain and uncertain; its contents are but a dream! I will finish my farewell letter with a poem: 'Tie morning flowers were born in their beauty. But the wind rose and carried them away Even before night. 'I have Still much to write, but evening is drawing near, and I must cease. To my dear Gonkuro from his Jinnosuke. May 26th, in the seventh year of Kuanbun(a.d. 1667),' He sealed the letter and gave it to his servant, Dengoro, saying: 'Take this letter to Gonkuro this evening when it is dark.'And, as soon as twilight came, he went to the place fixed for the duel. He dressed himself sumptuously, for he thought that it would be his very last costuming. His under-garments were of white silk, and his over-garment was purple with cherry blossoms embroidered on the hips. His emblem was the Jinko, * and his sleeves were long, as they were worn by pages.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  In the case of Abel and Cain, Adam tried to change this and planned to give the twin sister of Cain to Abel. Cain was bitterly dissatisfied. To settle the matter, Adam said to them: ‘Go, my sons, sacrifice to the Lord; and he whose sacrifice is accepted shall have the young girl. Take each of you offerings in your hand and go, sacrifice to the Lord and he will decide.’ So Abel, who was a shepherd, took his best lamb to the place of sacrifice; but Cain, who was a tiller of the ground, took the poorest sheaf of corn he could find and laid it on the altar. Thereupon, fire descended from heaven and consumed Abel’s offering so that not even the cinders were left, while Cain’s was left untouched. Adam then gave the girl to Abel, and Cain was very angry. One day, Abel was asleep on a mountain; and Cain came upon him and took a stone and crushed his head. Then he threw the dead body on his back and carried it about because he did not know what to do with it. He saw two crows fighting and one killed the other, then dug a hole with its beak and buried it. Cain said: ‘I have not the sense of this bird. I, too, will lay my brother in the ground,’ and he did so. The Jews had another story to explain the first murder. Cain and Abel could not agree as to what they should possess. So, Abel devised a scheme whereby they might bring an end to the disagreement. Cain took the earth and everything that did not move; Abel took everything that moved. But in Cain’s heart there was still bitter envy. One day, he said to his brother: ‘Remove your foot; you are standing on my property; the plain is mine.’ Abel ran to the hills but Cain pursued him, saying: ‘The hills are mine.’ Abel took refuge on the mountains, but Cain still pursued him, saying: ‘The mountains, too, are mine.’ And so, in his envy, he hunted his brother until he killed him. Behind this story lie two great truths. First, there is envy . Even the Greeks saw its horror. The great orator and statesman Demosthenes said: ‘Envy is the sign of a nature that is altogether evil.’ Euripides, the dramatist, said: ‘Envy is the greatest of all diseases.’ There was a Greek proverb which said: ‘Envy has no place in the choir of God.’ Envy leads to bitterness, bitterness to hatred, and hatred to murder. Envy is that poison which can poison all life and kill all goodness. Second, there is this strange and eerie thought that Cain had discovered a new sin. One of the old Greek fathers said: ‘Up to this time, no one had died so that Cain should know how to kill. The devil instructed him in this in a dream.’

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  Let us have mercy, and pardon him at least this time.' They released the man and returned to their houses, rejoicing at this easy capture. And they tied the birds to plum tree branches. But Sasanosuke, pretending that his foot hurt him, Stayed behind and, when the others were out of sight, insistently questioned the man: 'I shall not let you go until you tell me why you and your accomplice hid yourselves in this place. Be frank, and confess that something Strange underlies the matter.' The terrified man at once confessed: 'I am the slave of Hayemon Banno. My master escaped before you seized me.' 'I know Hayemon. He is, in fad:, known everywhere. Why did he run away? It is very Strange.' The slave answered: 'My master said to me this morning: "To-day Sasanosuke Yamawaki will come this way to hunt birds; but, after all the samurai who have birded here lately, he will find them very scarce and be disappointed. I am going to provide his sport with some of my own birds." That is why my master and I loosed these birds for your pleasure.' 'This young man is very fortunate,' said Sasanosuke, 'to be so appreciated by such a man as Hayemon. I should like to be that youth.' And, taking off his robe, he gave it to the slave for a present. But the slave would have preferred the garment to have been a great bottle full of wine. Afterwards, this fellow became the messenger between Hayemon and Sasanosuke, and enabled them to enjoy their loves, for they were both brave and honourable men. But one autumn the tree in the garden of the temple Saimenji on Mount Nayata bloomed for the second time. The samurai assembled at the temple to enjoy this spectacle, and made a noble pleasure party, feasting on delicious foods and wines. This caused them to forget both the flowers and themselves, and they remained till evening. There were among them several of the Lord's pages. Hayemon had also come to see the flowers and to enjoy himself with the other samurai. Itjisaburo Igarashi, one of the pages, gave him a cup of wine to drink, the half of which he had already drained himself. Hayemon thanked him with most flattering compliments, saying: 'You are a truly pretty boy. I delight in your beauty even while I am drinking.' And he let Itjisaburo fill the cup again with heady wine. When he was drunk he took his pleasure with Itjisaburo; but, on going away, he did not forget his two swords. These are the soul of a samurai. Someone told Sasanosuke of Hayemon's con-dud with Itjisaburo, and he was shaken by anger and jealousy. The next day the weather changed suddenly, it grew cold, and a furious gale began to blow. Sasanosuke waited for Hayemon at the door of his house and, when he arrived, impatiently took him by the hand and led him to a little inner court.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  'This young man is very fortunate,' said Sasanosuke, 'to be so appreciated by such a man as Hayemon. I should like to be that youth.' And, taking off his robe, he gave it to the slave for a present. But the slave would have preferred the garment to have been a great bottle full of wine. Afterwards, this fellow became the messenger between Hayemon and Sasanosuke, and enabled them to enjoy their loves, for they were both brave and honourable men. But one autumn the tree in the garden of the temple Saimenji on Mount Nayata bloomed for the second time. The samurai assembled at the temple to enjoy this spectacle, and made a noble pleasure party, feasting on delicious foods and wines. This caused them to forget both the flowers and themselves, and they remained till evening. There were among them several of the Lord's pages. Hayemon had also come to see the flowers and to enjoy himself with the other samurai. Itjisaburo Igarashi, one of the pages, gave him a cup of wine to drink, the half of which he had already drained himself. Hayemon thanked him with most flattering compliments, saying: 'You are a truly pretty boy. I delight in your beauty even while I am drinking.' And he let Itjisaburo fill the cup again with heady wine. When he was drunk he took his pleasure with Itjisaburo; but, on going away, he did not forget his two swords. These are the soul of a samurai. Someone told Sasanosuke of Hayemon's con-dud with Itjisaburo, and he was shaken by anger and jealousy. The next day the weather changed suddenly, it grew cold, and a furious gale began to blow. Sasanosuke waited for Hayemon at the door of his house and, when he arrived, impatiently took him by the hand and led him to a little inner court. Then he locked the door and also every way out of the house, and left Hayemon in that yard. Hayemon thought that Sasanosuke was making ready a love meeting, and waited for some time in the court. But the snow, which had begun to fall in the early evening, was getting thicker. At first Hayemon shook the snow from his shoulders and sleeves; but soon, although he had sheltered under an old paulownia, he began to suffer greatly. In a husky voice he called to his lover: 'Sasanosuke, I shall die of this cold.' But Sasanosuke mockingly answered him from the first-floor room, where he was amusing himself with the servant: 'I am sure that you are Still sufficiently warmed by the wine that pretty page poured out for you.' Hayemon groaned: 'You are teaching me a lesson this evening. I shall be very discreet in future. I will not look at a single other pretty boy. Forgive me, Sasanosuke. 'But Sasanosuke was unyielding. 'If you are in earnest, pass me your two swords to prove it. Only so shall I believe you.' And Hayemon passed him his two swords.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “Lucy, he is my child! You have to tell me when anything like this happens. Are you able to give him the care he needs? What did the vet say specifically? Should I come home?” “No, no, don’t come home. The vet said he is going to be totally okay as long as we adjust this insulin to the new amount. I can do that. It’s easy.” “I still think he looks depressed,” she said. “I’ll take him to group.” The vet hadn’t exactly said it would all be fine, but she didn’t seem particularly concerned either. I felt strangely jealous that Annika would come home to see the dog. After my mother died, I longed for my sister to take some time off from college to be with me. I verbalized this one time, a few days after the funeral, that maybe she might delay her return to school. She was sitting on my bed behind me, playing with my hair, which was something my mother used to do every night before I went to sleep. It was very quiet; the only sound I could hear was the gentle brush of her fingers against my scalp. “Please stay with me,” I said. “I need you.” But she told me she had exams, and while she wanted to stay with me, she had to go back or she wouldn’t complete the semester. I felt totally rejected, but I did not judge her. I looked up to her, and my world had already been so destroyed by the death of my mother that I couldn’t afford to be angry with her. But it hurt, nonetheless. So instead I judged myself. I made myself wrong for needing someone, for revealing that need. I needed more than the universe could give me. Clearly my feelings were too big for the universe to hold, too disgusting. I would not put them out there like that again. I didn’t even want to have to feel them myself. Well, now I was feeling again and I did not want Annika coming home. If she returned there was no way I could just wander out to the ocean alone at night. I guess I could still go to the rocks and not tell her where I was going—I could lie and say I was going across town or to a café to see some acoustic guitar bullshit. But if she saw me out the window, what would I say I was doing? She would start asking questions. Also, I had a new fantasy. I wanted to ask Theo if he would maybe come with me to the house and stay for a night. I didn’t know how I would get him there. Certainly he couldn’t drag himself across the beach. I doubted he would want me to carry him. But maybe I could get one of those little sand-wagon things, or a bicycle with a wagon on the back.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  'The distance between your house and mine is too great. I have traversed that long road three hundred and twenty-seven times during the three years in which our love has lasted; and every evening I encountered some kind of obstacle or difficulty. I had to hide myself from vigilant people, from guards and watchmen. Often I had to disguise myself as a servant, as an adult with a long lantern. At other times I have travestied myself as a priest. It was not easy for me to perform such humiliating actions, although you may not think so very much of them. 'Last year, on the twentieth of November, my mother lingered in my room and I could not come. I was impatient to see you, for life is so uncertain that we do not know whether we shall live till the morrow, and if I could not see you on that night, perhaps I should never see you again. Therefore, in spite of my disordered dress and the late hour, I managed to come out and creep as far as your house. You heard, by the little noise I made, that I was under the window of your room. You were speaking to someone inside, and there was a light in your room. But, as soon as you heard my Step, you put out the light and Stopped talking. You were cruel to me then. I should like to know who was the person to whom you were talking on that evening. 'Last spring I wrote, without taking much trouble, the famous poem, "My sleeves are ever wet with tears, for my love is hopeless," on the back of a fan painted with flowers by the celebrated Uneme Kano. You gave me great pleasure by your compliment: " A lover in pain would easily pass the summer with this fan." And you also wrote underneath the poem: " He who inscribed this is waiting his lover." But you gave the fan to your servant Kitjisuke. "You had a lark which you bought from Jiubei the bird-seller. You loved it very much, and when I asked you to give it to me, you refused. But later you gave it to Syohatji Kitamura, the prettiest boy of all our company. I am very jealous because of that. 'On the eleventh of last April, the whole country was called together on horseback by the Lord. Tarozayemon Setsubara then detained me and said: "Your skirt is spotted with mud." And he brushed it. You were just behind me, but pretended to be unconcerned. You even laughed at me with Tarozayemon, instead of drawing my attention to the splashes. I think that you did not ad well in this, since you had been my lover for so many years.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  One night, when we were lying on the sofa tangled up together, after a day of lovemaking, I asked him how many other women who lived on land he had been with. “There have been a few,” he said. He told me about a woman named Alexis with long black hair who was a heroin addict. He had licked her menstrual blood too, the first he ever tasted, and watched her shoot dope. She would come to the rocky shore in Monterey every night, when he lived farther north, already slurring her words. He never knew whether she believed he was real, or a side effect of the drugs. But he stayed with her as she sat by the ocean and nodded in and out. Then she stopped coming to the ocean entirely. He feared she had died, until one night, he heard her singing in an old wooden boathouse some feet from the shore. He dragged himself into the boathouse and stayed with her that night. In the boathouse were a few old blankets on the ground and a suitcase full of clothes. He realized then that she was homeless. He wished he could walk on land and bring her food. He would bring her fish, but their raw, dead bodies only nauseated her and he didn’t know how to build a fire to cook them. So he gave her licks of seawater and bites of seaweed. “I began to understand,” he said. “The humans and I were not all that different. I didn’t know that people on land were filled with so much yearning. I thought you all had it figured out, were satisfied.” “Hardly,” I said. “It was a beautiful realization,” he said. “So what happened?” “One day she just disappeared.” “Did she die?” “I don’t know what happened to her,” he said. “All of her things remained in the boathouse. But she never came back.” I could not take hearing all of that. I didn’t like that it was she who had left him, even for death, and that he would always long for her. And perhaps as punishment or to regain control of the narrative—that I might be like her and have a moment like that, the beloved vanisher—I confessed. “I suppose it won’t matter with me,” I said. “Now that you’ve been through it in such a sad way.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, I guess you will be okay when I leave here.” “What do you mean ‘leave’?” “I’ll be going away soon.” “For how long?” “Well, for good.” I told him everything: that I was from a place where there was no ocean and would be leaving in three weeks to return there, permanently. I asked him if he knew what the desert was. He only stared at me. Immediately I knew that I had hurt him. “Do you think—” I started to say.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen’s refusal to accompany her when she went to Passy; she could not understand it, so must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour who had met and disliked Martin’s aunt at one time, indeed the dislike, it seemed, had been mutual. Thus the vague resentment that Valérie had inspired in the girl, began to grow much less vague, until Stephen realized with a shock of surprise that Mary was jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so absurd and preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only be passing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were so fully taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quite restored he was talking of going home in the autumn, and every free moment that he could steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend with Stephen and Mary. When he spoke of his departure, Stephen sometimes fancied that a shade of sadness crept into Mary’s face, and her heart misgave her, though she told herself that naturally both of them would miss Martin. Then too, never had Mary been more loyal and devoted, more obviously anxious to prove her love by a thousand little acts of devotion. There would even be times when by contrast her manner would appear abrupt and unfriendly to Martin, when she argued with him over every trifle, backing up her opinion by quoting Stephen—yes, in spite of her newly restored gentleness, there were times when she would not be gentle with Martin. And these sudden and unforeseen changes of mood would leave Stephen feeling uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spoke rather anxiously: ‘Why were you so beastly to Martin this evening?’ But Mary pretended not to understand her: ‘How was I beastly? I was just as usual.’ And when Stephen persisted, Mary kissed her scar: ‘Darling, don’t start working now, it’s so late, and besides . . .’ Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl to her roughly: ‘How much do you love me? Tell me quickly, quickly!’ Her voice shook with something very like fear. ‘Stephen, you’re hurting me—don’t, you’re hurting! You know how I love you—more than life.’ ‘You are my life . . . all my life,’ muttered Stephen. CHAPTER 541F ate, which by now had them well in its grip, began to play the game out more quickly. That summer they went to Pontresina since Mary had never seen Switzerland; but the Comtesse must make a double cure, first at Vichy and afterwards at Bagnoles de l’Orne, which fact left Martin quite free to join them. Then it was that Stephen perceived for the first time that all was not well with Martin Hallam.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Roger would have seen already, and would smile his slow, understanding, masterful smile. Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could help—not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red—one never knew whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle for a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a little the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully united in the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn would hate. 4 It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that Christmas was a time of recriminations. Angela’s infatuation was growing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger’s handwriting, and Stephen, half crazy with jealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be refused, and a scene would ensue. ‘That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!’ ‘How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no business of yours.’ ‘Will you show me that letter?’ ‘I will not.’ ‘It’s from Roger.’ ‘You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.’ ‘What am I to think?’ Then because of her longing, ‘Angela, for God’s sake don’t treat me like this—I can’t bear it. When you loved me it was easier to bear—I endured it for your sake, but now—listen, listen. . . .’ Stark naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they confessed: ‘Angela, listen. . . .’ And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that are always lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wires through her body, causing a constant and ruthless torment, so that the sudden closing of a door or the barking of Tony would fall like a blow on her shrinking flesh. At night in her bed she must cover her ears from the ticking of the clock, which would sound like thunder in the darkness. Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another—she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress. ‘Well then, let me come with you.’ ‘Good heavens, why? I’m only going to the dentist!’ ‘All right, I’ll come too.’ ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind.’ Then Stephen would know why Angela was going. All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But now when she sat alone at their table, lighting one cigarette from another, uncomfortably conscious of the interest she aroused by reason of her clothes and her isolation—when she glimpsed the girl in Martin’s arms, and heard her laugh for a moment in passing, Stephen would know a queer tightening of her heart, as though a mailed fist had closed down upon it. What was it? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she would feel at this possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honest friendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling and flushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also. She would say: ‘I’ve been thinking how well you two dance—’ And when Mary once asked rather timidly: ‘Are you sure you’re not bored, sitting there by yourself?’ Stephen answered: ‘Don’t be so silly, darling; of course I’m not bored—go on dancing with Martin.’ But that night she took Mary in her arms—the relentless, compelling arms of a lover. On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary and she had so frequently done during their first spring months in Paris. Very often now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved to walk in the forest. And there he must start to talk about trees, his face glowing with its curious inner light, while Mary listened half fascinated. One evening she said: ‘But these trees are so small—you make me long to see real forests, Martin.’ David loved these excursions—he also loved Martin, not being exactly disloyal to Stephen, but discerning in the man a more perfect thing, a more entirely fulfilling companion. And this little betrayal, though slight in itself, had the power to wound out of all proportion, so that Stephen would feel very much as she had done when ignored years ago by the swan called Peter. She had thought then: ‘Perhaps he thinks I’m a freak,’ and now she must sometimes think the same thing as she watched Martin hurling huge sticks for David—it was strange what a number of ridiculous trifles had lately acquired the power to hurt her. And yet she clung desperately to Martin’s friendship, feeling herself to be all unworthy if she harboured so much as a moment’s doubt; indeed they both loyally clung to their friendship. He would beg her to accept his aunt’s invitations, to accompany Mary when she went to Passy: ‘Don’t you like the old thing? Mary likes her all right—why won’t you come? It’s so mean of you, Stephen. It’s not half as much fun when you’re not there.’ He would honestly think that he was speaking the truth, that the party or the luncheon or whatever it might be, was not half as much fun for him without Stephen. But Stephen always made her work an excuse: ‘My dear, I’m trying to finish a novel. I seem to have been at it for years and years; it’s growing hoary like Rip Van Winkle.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Lady Massey went further than this in her enthusiastic proffers of friendship—Stephen and Mary must stay with her in Cheshire; she was going to give a house party at Branscombe Court for Christmas; they must certainly come to her for Christmas. Mary, who seemed elated at the prospect, was for ever discussing this visit with Stephen: ‘What sort of clothes shall I need, do you think? Agnes says it’s going to be quite a big party. I suppose I’ll want a few new evening dresses?’ And one day she inquired: ‘Stephen, when you were younger, did you ever go to Ascot or Goodwood?’ Ascot and Goodwood, just names to Stephen; names that she had despised in her youth, yet which now seemed not devoid of importance since they stood for something beyond themselves—something that ought to belong to Mary. She would pick up a copy of The Tatler or The Sketch, which Lady Massey received from England, and turning the pages would stare at the pictures of securely established, self-satisfied people—Miss this or that sitting on a shooting stick, and beside her the man she would shortly marry; Lady so-and-so with her latest offspring; or perhaps some group at a country house. And quite suddenly Stephen would feel less assured because in her heart she must envy these people. Must envy these commonplace men and women with their rather ridiculous shooting sticks; their smiling fiancés; their husbands; their wives; their estates, and their well cared for, placid children. Mary would sometimes look over her shoulder with a new and perhaps rather wistful interest. Then Stephen would close the paper abruptly: ‘Let’s go for a row on the lake,’ she might say, ‘it’s no good wasting this glorious evening.’ But then she would remember the invitation to spend Christmas with Lady Massey in Cheshire, and would suddenly start to build castles in the air; supposing that she herself bought a small place near Branscombe Court—near these kind new friends who seemed to have grown so fond of Mary? Mary would also have her thoughts, would be thinking of girls like Agnes Massey for whom life was tranquil, easy and secure; girls to whom the world must seem blessedly friendly. And then, with a little stab of pain, she would suddenly remember her own exile from Morton. After such thoughts as these she must hold Stephen’s hand, must always sit very close to Stephen. 3 That autumn they saw a good deal of the Masseys, who had taken their usual suite at the Ritz, and who often asked Mary and Stephen to luncheon.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I didn’t come. I never did from fucking. Jamie’s lack of initiative in going down on me was a source of contention between us, always. He was willing but not ravenous for it. But his mouth on my mouth as he fucked me felt in a way like he had his mouth on my vagina. He didn’t stay the night. Then Rochelle called. “The girl he is seeing is a scientist,” she said. “She’s blond.” “He’s seeing someone?” “I thought you knew,” she said. Apparently the woman’s name was Megan and she was five years younger than me. Rochelle knew nothing more about her. She had bumped into them at a Chinese restaurant. “Well, can you find out?” “I’ll try,” said Rochelle. I could tell she was getting sick of me. Or more than sick of me, actually, she was scared of me. She had always thought we were both safe from the crazy-woman disease: that desperation and need. But now I had fallen into it, fallen all the way under, and she saw how a person could just go. One minute you were playfully complaining to friends about a man’s farts and the next minute you would kill to have the farts back. Could she catch the disease from me? Was her own contentment in danger? I texted her three times to get the info but she just wrote back: rly busy I wanted to tell her I was pissed off, that I felt she had abandoned and betrayed me. I wanted to say that the only reason she had any confidence in her Brillo-self—the only reason she was “okay”—was that there was too much inertia in her relationship for her husband to leave. I wanted to say that this wasn’t a reason for confidence, or something to be proud of. As I had seen, that inertia could be disturbed at any moment by an accidental slip of the tongue. But I didn’t want her to quarantine me entirely. I might need her. So I wrote my own narratives. Megan was not only a scientist but an award-winning geologist. They hiked together and discussed the reproduction of cacti. They fucked on a rock. Nothing is more beautiful than the sex your ex-boyfriend is having with his new lover. Nothing more magical and full of gasps. Meanwhile I was in Hersheyland. I could no longer play it cool. One night I parked down the street from his house until I saw him pull in to the driveway and get out of his car. He was alone. I waited until the lights turned on. Then I got out of the car. Walking down his driveway I realized that I had butterflies for the first time in years. Maybe this was what it took to maintain butterflies in your partner’s driveway? A blond scientist named Megan. I rang the bell. He took a minute, did not ask who it was, then opened the door. “Lucy,” he said.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I will never fight you. I will never pull you under harder than you want to go. In the past, with the others, this is how I always did it. I need to feel you are there of your own will.” “The others?” I asked. I knew that there had been others on land. Alexis in the boathouse and who knew what else? But I hadn’t known any others had gone under. This made me hurt instantly. Then I felt stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I didn’t want to think of it. He had such a want for me, a desperation that I go under. He had wanted so badly that it be my own want that brought me under, that was how vulnerable and powerless he was over his own feelings. His need was so big that he couldn’t own it. He needed it to be my need. But this didn’t mean I was the only one. I never considered that whoever came before me might also be under there. Now I shuddered. Who was he? An incubus needing so many women to want him? Needing so many women to die for him? How many women? In my own desire to feel chosen by this beautiful creature, I had never thought to ask if others had gone before. It had seemed impossible that his need to be wanted by others was more ravenous than mine. Sexually, I had encountered that kind of need amongst the playboys and assholes. But theirs was purely a physical desire. They sought nothing from me but sex, especially not love. They didn’t want my life. It was me who forced it on them. Now here was a man who needed my love and my life. But my love and my life, and the lives of how many other women? I felt a stinging in my eyes. I was crying. “The others?” He looked away. “How many are there, Theo?” “Some,” he said. “How many?” I demanded. He looked down at his hands. “How many bodies are under there?” He paused for a moment. I could see he was trying to decide whether to lie or not. “Just tell me the truth,” I said. “Seventeen,” he said finally. So he had a harem. Of what I was not sure. Maybe it was just their bones that were left, or whatever didn’t decay in the saltwater. I was not a scientist. But whether they were alive or dead, sand or flesh, I needed to maintain my singularity. What was I going to do now? Suddenly I thought of what Chickenhorse had said. Whatever it is you’re doing, you don’t have to do it. But I did have to do it.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  10.But in the morning the beach was filled with tourists and the amethyst was just a rock. The quiet was gone again and replaced with nothingness. The candle had melted all over the deck and I spent a good half hour scraping wax, which was congealing—thinly—in the sun. I decided I would take Dominic for a walk over to the Santa Monica farmers’ market, try to be like other humans on a Sunday. Maybe buy some fruit and be swept away in some bullshit of the day. Maybe I could just be a woman and her dog buying fruit. The farmers’ market was full of families. I don’t like families. There was a band doing covers of Crosby, Stills & Nash and children getting pony rides. It made me want to never eat anything organic again. By the locally farmed corn I ran into Claire, the redhead from group. She smiled and waved. I guess she was a little better. At least, she was no longer crying. “I’m never going back to that group again,” she said. “Fuck them and their shite, they know fuck-all about me. I don’t believe in love addiction. I don’t believe in withdrawal or taking time off from dating or anything that puritanical or black and white can fix my problem.” “Yeah, they’re pretty depressing.” “The worst,” she said. “And I just had a date with a hot younger man. His name is David, a total crumpet. I’m already enamored, probably on the road to obsession. But I think that if I can just keep them coming—you know, have more than one boy I’m fucking, maybe two or three—then I won’t get so fixated on one of them.” “That seems smart,” I said. “I’m already interviewing a harem. I’ve been going to polyamory events. I met this one guy, Trent, at an event in Topanga. He is a little older, did porn. He has a ponytail and I can’t tell if it’s scraggly or scrummy, but I think scrummy. He has a wife. She has boyfriends. I’m going to fuck him tomorrow night. I also met this other guy named Orion; he’s, like, barely eighteen, very twee. He was wearing a kilt. He’s pansexual. We made out all night. But he lives in Vermont and already went back, so I’m still looking for a third. I might shag this guy who works at Best Buy. We’ve fucked in the past. He’s a Jamaican guy, super cut, really nice to me.” “Are they all poly? Is David poly too?” “No, he’s, like, I don’t know what. A computer programmer. Might be on the spectrum. Does yoga, though. Huge cock.” “So fun,” I said. “I’m jealous.” “You should really be doing Tinder,” she said. “Or come with me to these poly things.” “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m worried about getting obsessed with someone else. And Dr. Jude said—”