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 Filthy Animals (2021)

  At a party the previous year, Charles had seen Farnland whispering in Viktor’s ear, his hand at the small of Viktor’s back, pulling at the oversize burgundy silk shirt he wore. Viktor with a plastic cup of champagne, giggling, his hand on Farnland’s chest. Charles had seen it, and the Farnland had seen him see it. But what was there to do about it? “Nothing to miss,” Charles said. “He hates you,” Mats said with glee. “He hates you so much.” “You run over his cat or what?” Alek asked pointedly. “Keep me out of the splash zone.” “Maybe he wants to fuck,” Mats said. “Oh, most definitely,” Alek said. “And to skin Charlie alive. Maybe it’s a Buffalo Bill thing. He wants to wear you.” “I’m not his type,” Charles said, but then, his eyes falling on Viktor at the front of the room, he felt a bit of regret. “You did show up late.” “Smelling like last night’s garbage.” “It wasn’t garbage, trust me,” Charles said, turning to look over his shoulder at Alek. “Oh, Sophie is going to love that.” “Say more. Don’t leave us hanging.” Mats moaned. “Don’t tell me about Sophie,” Charles said to Alek. “You don’t know anything.” They lapsed into silence. Charles could feel Alek’s pointed stare, the heat stabbing him between the shoulders. There was a time during the summer when Alek had made a go at Sophie, all earnest kisses and declarations. They had gone to a movie and then a concert in the park, standing close together, she wearing one of Charles’s old flannels and Alek holding on to her hand as they swung around in a slow circle. Then they had drunk beer in the woods around a fire as the air was settling down and getting cooler, and Sophie had been on Alek’s lap. Charles came to the same gathering with a friend, and at first Alek blushed when they saw each other, but then he wrapped himself around Sophie.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  For the first minute she had been offended at his jealousy; she was angry that the slightest amusement, even the most innocent, should be forbidden her; but now she would readily have sacrificed, not merely such trifles, but everything, for his peace of mind, to save him from the agony he was suffering. “You must understand the horror and comedy of my position,” he went on in a desperate whisper; “that he’s in my house, that he’s done nothing improper positively except his free and easy airs and the way he sits on his legs. He thinks it’s the best possible form, and so I’m obliged to be civil to him.” “But, Kostya, you’re exaggerating,” said Kitty, at the bottom of her heart rejoicing at the depth of his love for her, shown now in his jealousy. “The most awful part of it all is that you’re just as you always are, and especially now when to me you’re something sacred, and we’re so happy, so particularly happy—and all of a sudden a little wretch.... He’s not a little wretch; why should I abuse him? I have nothing to do with him. But why should my, and your, happiness....” “Do you know, I understand now what it’s all come from,” Kitty was beginning. “Well, what? what?” “I saw how you looked while we were talking at supper.” “Well, well!” Levin said in dismay. She told him what they had been talking about. And as she told him, she was breathless with emotion. Levin was silent for a space, then he scanned her pale and distressed face, and suddenly he clutched at his head. “Katya, I’ve been worrying you! Darling, forgive me! It’s madness! Katya, I’m a criminal. And how could you be so distressed at such idiocy?” “Oh, I was sorry for you.” “For me? for me? How mad I am!... But why make you miserable? It’s awful to think that any outsider can shatter our happiness.” “It’s humiliating too, of course.” “Oh, then I’ll keep him here all the summer, and will overwhelm him with civility,” said Levin, kissing her hands. “You shall see. Tomorrow.... Oh, yes, we are going tomorrow.” Chapter 8

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “You know it came to me almost like an inspiration,” she said. “Why wait here for the divorce? Won’t it be just the same in the country? I can’t wait any longer! I don’t want to go on hoping, I don’t want to hear anything about the divorce. I have made up my mind it shall not have any more influence on my life. Do you agree?” “Oh, yes!” he said, glancing uneasily at her excited face. “What did you do? Who was there?” she said, after a pause. Vronsky mentioned the names of the guests. “The dinner was first rate, and the boat race, and it was all pleasant enough, but in Moscow they can never do anything without something _ridicule_. A lady of a sort appeared on the scene, teacher of swimming to the Queen of Sweden, and gave us an exhibition of her skill.” “How? did she swim?” asked Anna, frowning. “In an absurd red _costume de natation;_ she was old and hideous too. So when shall we go?” “What an absurd fancy! Why, did she swim in some special way, then?” said Anna, not answering. “There was absolutely nothing in it. That’s just what I say, it was awfully stupid. Well, then, when do you think of going?” Anna shook her head as though trying to drive away some unpleasant idea. “When? Why, the sooner the better! By tomorrow we shan’t be ready. The day after tomorrow.” “Yes ... oh, no, wait a minute! The day after tomorrow’s Sunday, I have to be at maman’s,” said Vronsky, embarrassed, because as soon as he uttered his mother’s name he was aware of her intent, suspicious eyes. His embarrassment confirmed her suspicion. She flushed hotly and drew away from him. It was now not the Queen of Sweden’s swimming-mistress who filled Anna’s imagination, but the young Princess Sorokina. She was staying in a village near Moscow with Countess Vronskaya. “Can’t you go tomorrow?” she said. “Well, no! The deeds and the money for the business I’m going there for I can’t get by tomorrow,” he answered. “If so, we won’t go at all.” “But why so?” “I shall not go later. Monday or never!” “What for?” said Vronsky, as though in amazement. “Why, there’s no meaning in it!” “There’s no meaning in it to you, because you care nothing for me. You don’t care to understand my life. The one thing that I cared for here was Hannah. You say it’s affectation. Why, you said yesterday that I don’t love my daughter, that I love this English girl, that it’s unnatural. I should like to know what life there is for me that could be natural!”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  In the morning she was waked by a horrible nightmare, which had recurred several times in her dreams, even before her connection with Vronsky. A little old man with unkempt beard was doing something bent down over some iron, muttering meaningless French words, and she, as she always did in this nightmare (it was what made the horror of it), felt that this peasant was taking no notice of her, but was doing something horrible with the iron—over her. And she waked up in a cold sweat. When she got up, the previous day came back to her as though veiled in mist. “There was a quarrel. Just what has happened several times. I said I had a headache, and he did not come in to see me. Tomorrow we’re going away; I must see him and get ready for the journey,” she said to herself. And learning that he was in his study, she went down to him. As she passed through the drawing-room she heard a carriage stop at the entrance, and looking out of the window she saw the carriage, from which a young girl in a lilac hat was leaning out giving some direction to the footman ringing the bell. After a parley in the hall, someone came upstairs, and Vronsky’s steps could be heard passing the drawing-room. He went rapidly downstairs. Anna went again to the window. She saw him come out onto the steps without his hat and go up to the carriage. The young girl in the lilac hat handed him a parcel. Vronsky, smiling, said something to her. The carriage drove away, he ran rapidly upstairs again. The mists that had shrouded everything in her soul parted suddenly. The feelings of yesterday pierced the sick heart with a fresh pang. She could not understand now how she could have lowered herself by spending a whole day with him in his house. She went into his room to announce her determination. “That was Madame Sorokina and her daughter. They came and brought me the money and the deeds from maman. I couldn’t get them yesterday. How is your head, better?” he said quietly, not wishing to see and to understand the gloomy and solemn expression of her face. She looked silently, intently at him, standing in the middle of the room. He glanced at her, frowned for a moment, and went on reading a letter. She turned, and went deliberately out of the room. He still might have turned her back, but she had reached the door, he was still silent, and the only sound audible was the rustling of the note paper as he turned it. “Oh, by the way,” he said at the very moment she was in the doorway, “we’re going tomorrow for certain, aren’t we?” “You, but not I,” she said, turning round to him. “Anna, we can’t go on like this....” “You, but not I,” she repeated. “This is getting unbearable!”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Theresa needed a root canal, but she couldn’t get any overtime at the university. So when the temp agency offered me a triple shift at the electronics plant, I jumped at the chance. Theresa wondered if the emergency production at the factory had something to do with the war. In any case, we needed the money so I took it. I started the triple on Thursday evening. What a killer. By the end of the third shift I could scarcely feel the wires as I soldered. I kept burning my index finger with the red-hot iron. Theresa was out when I got home Friday night. I left her a note, stumbled into bed, and lost consciousness. When I woke up, she was lying next to me, smoking one of my cigarettes. I knew something was up. She didn’t smoke. Theresa left the room and Stone Butch Blues 133 came back with ointment and bandaids for my finger. “Did you hear Dr. King was killed?” she asked me. I lit a cigarette and lay back down. “Yeah, I heard about it Thursday night at work. What day is today, anyway?” “Tt’s Saturday afternoon,” she said. “There’s been rioting all over the place. And Jess,” Theresa sighed, “there was real trouble at the bar last night.” I felt a pang of jealousy. “You went without me?” Theresa smoothed my hair. “It was Grant’s birthday, remember?” I smacked my forehead. “Fuck, I forgot. How was the party?” Theresa reached for another one of my cigarettes. I grabbed her hand. “Whoa! What’s going on?” “There was a big fight last night. A fist fight,” she said. I frowned. “Are you OK?” Theresa nodded. “Cops?” I asked. She shook her head. “Well, what happenede” Theresa took a deep breath. “The Army notified Grant’s family Thursday night that her brother got killed. Grant was already drunk when she showed up to the party. At first everyone was consoling her. 134 = Leslie Feinberg Then some of the older butches who did hitches in the service started talking about the war. Some of the things they were saying didn’t sit right with everyone.” I listened quietly. “Grant said we ought to drop an A-bomb on Vietnam. She said no one would miss them. Ed told Grant she was a racist and said we should bring all the soldiers home. Ed said she felt like Muhammad Ali, that she didn’t have any beef with the people over there. Grant called her a communist.” I shook my head and started to speak. Theresa put her finger against my lips. “It got much worse, honey,” she said. “Grant said some terrible things about King being killed, about the riots. She wouldn’t stop. So Ed hit her.” I crushed out my cigarette. “Oh shit.”

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  Although the look will be a little too direct and held a little too long, it still will not last more than a second or two. It is usually followed with a strained, fake smile. Often you will see the look by accident, as you suddenly turn your head their direction, or you will feel their eyes burning into you without directly looking at them. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788–1860) devised a quick way to elicit these looks and test for envy. Tell suspected enviers some good news about yourself—a promotion, a new and exciting love interest, a book contract. You will notice a very quick expression of disappointment. Their tone of voice as they congratulate you will betray some tension and strain. Equally, tell them some misfortune of yours and notice the uncontrollable microexpression of joy in your pain, what is commonly known as schadenfreude. Their eyes light up for a fleeting second. People who are envious cannot help feeling some glee when they hear of the bad luck of those they envy. If you see such looks in the first few encounters with someone, as Mary did with Jane, and they happen more than once, be on the lookout for a dangerous envier entering your life. Poisonous praise: A major envy attack is often preceded by little envy bites—offhand comments expertly designed to get under your skin. Confusing, paradoxical praise is a common form of this. Let us say you have completed a project—a book, a film, some creative venture—and the initial response from the public is quite positive. Enviers will make a comment praising the money you will now be making, implying that that is the main reason you have worked on it. You want praise for the work itself and the effort that went into it, and instead they imply that you have done it for the money, that you have sold out. You feel confused—they have praised you, but in a way that makes you uncomfortable. These comments will also come at moments chosen to cause maximum doubt and damage, for instance just when you have heard the good news and feel a flush of joy. Similarly, in noting your success, they may bring up the least likable parts of your audience, the kinds of fans or consumers who do not reflect well on you. “Well, I’m sure Wall Street executives are going to love this.” This is thrown in among other normal comments, but the guilt by association lingers in your mind. Or they will praise something once you have lost it—a job, a house in a nice neighborhood, a spouse who has left you. “That was such a beautiful house. What a shame.” It’s all said in a way that seems compassionate but has a discomforting effect. Poisonous praise almost always indicates envy. They feel the need to praise, but what dominates is the underlying hostility. If they have a habit of praising

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  * When this was done these worthy sisters took their ways homeward to their own houses, and the poison of envy that they bare against Psyche grew hot within them, so that they murmured with much talk between them ; and one began: ‘Behold a cruel and contrary fortune! Doth it please thee that we (born all of one parent) have divers des- tinies, but especially we, that are the elder two, be married to strange husbands, made as handmaidens, and as it were banished from our country and friends; whereas our younger sister, last born, which is ever the weakest, hath so great abundance of treasure and gotten a god to her husband, but hath no skill how to use so great plenty of riches. Saw you not, sister, what was in the house? What great store of jewels, what glittering robes, what gems, yea, what gold we trod on? So that if she have a goodly hus- band according as she affirmeth there is none that liveth this day more happy in all the world than she. And so it may come to pass that at length, if the great affection and love which he beareth unto her do continually inerease, he may make ‘her a goddess, for (by Hercules) such was her port, so she behaved herself. Now already she holds up her countenance, now she breathes the goddess, that as a woman hath voices to serve her, and lays her commands upon the winds. But I, poor wretch, have first married a husband older than my father, more bald than a coot, more weak than 1 The Latin uses another comparison: “ balder than a pumpkin." 218 LUCIUS APULEIUS quovis puero pusilliorem, cunctam domum seris et catenis obditam custodientem.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “But you are upset about something? What have you come for?” asked Dolly. “What’s going on there?” And in the tone of her question Levin heard that it would be easy for him to say what he had meant to say. “I’ve not been in there, I’ve been alone in the garden with Kitty. We’ve had a quarrel for the second time since ... Stiva came.” Dolly looked at him with her shrewd, comprehending eyes. “Come, tell me, honor bright, has there been ... not in Kitty, but in that gentleman’s behavior, a tone which might be unpleasant—not unpleasant, but horrible, offensive to a husband?” “You mean, how shall I say.... Stay, stay in the corner!” she said to Masha, who, detecting a faint smile in her mother’s face, had been turning round. “The opinion of the world would be that he is behaving as young men do behave. _Il fait la cour à une jeune et jolie femme_, and a husband who’s a man of the world should only be flattered by it.” “Yes, yes,” said Levin gloomily; “but you noticed it?” “Not only I, but Stiva noticed it. Just after breakfast he said to me in so many words, _Je crois que Veslovsky fait un petit brin de cour à Kitty_.” “Well, that’s all right then; now I’m satisfied. I’ll send him away,” said Levin. “What do you mean! Are you crazy?” Dolly cried in horror; “nonsense, Kostya, only think!” she said, laughing. “You can go now to Fanny,” she said to Masha. “No, if you wish it, I’ll speak to Stiva. He’ll take him away. He can say you’re expecting visitors. Altogether he doesn’t fit into the house.” “No, no, I’ll do it myself.” “But you’ll quarrel with him?” “Not a bit. I shall so enjoy it,” Levin said, his eyes flashing with real enjoyment. “Come, forgive her, Dolly, she won’t do it again,” he said of the little sinner, who had not gone to Fanny, but was standing irresolutely before her mother, waiting and looking up from under her brows to catch her mother’s eye. The mother glanced at her. The child broke into sobs, hid her face on her mother’s lap, and Dolly laid her thin, tender hand on her head. “And what is there in common between us and him?” thought Levin, and he went off to look for Veslovsky. As he passed through the passage he gave orders for the carriage to be got ready to drive to the station. “The spring was broken yesterday,” said the footman. “Well, the covered trap, then, and make haste. Where’s the visitor?” “The gentleman’s gone to his room.” Levin came upon Veslovsky at the moment when the latter, having unpacked his things from his trunk, and laid out some new songs, was putting on his gaiters to go out riding.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  In the middle of their conversation they heard the snorting of horses and the sound of wheels on the gravel. Dolly had not time to get up to go and meet her husband, when from the window of the room below, where Grisha was having his lesson, Levin leaped out and helped Grisha out after him. “It’s Stiva!” Levin shouted from under the balcony. “We’ve finished, Dolly, don’t be afraid!” he added, and started running like a boy to meet the carriage. “_Is ea id, ejus, ejus, ejus!_” shouted Grisha, skipping along the avenue. “And someone else too! Papa, of course!” cried Levin, stopping at the entrance of the avenue. “Kitty, don’t come down the steep staircase, go round.” But Levin had been mistaken in taking the person sitting in the carriage for the old prince. As he got nearer to the carriage he saw beside Stepan Arkadyevitch not the prince but a handsome, stout young man in a Scotch cap, with long ends of ribbon behind. This was Vassenka Veslovsky, a distant cousin of the Shtcherbatskys, a brilliant young gentleman in Petersburg and Moscow society. “A capital fellow, and a keen sportsman,” as Stepan Arkadyevitch said, introducing him. Not a whit abashed by the disappointment caused by his having come in place of the old prince, Veslovsky greeted Levin gaily, claiming acquaintance with him in the past, and snatching up Grisha into the carriage, lifted him over the pointer that Stepan Arkadyevitch had brought with him. Levin did not get into the carriage, but walked behind. He was rather vexed at the non-arrival of the old prince, whom he liked more and more the more he saw of him, and also at the arrival of this Vassenka Veslovsky, a quite uncongenial and superfluous person. He seemed to him still more uncongenial and superfluous when, on approaching the steps where the whole party, children and grown-up, were gathered together in much excitement, Levin saw Vassenka Veslovsky, with a particularly warm and gallant air, kissing Kitty’s hand. “Your wife and I are cousins and very old friends,” said Vassenka Veslovsky, once more shaking Levin’s hand with great warmth. “Well, are there plenty of birds?” Stepan Arkadyevitch said to Levin, hardly leaving time for everyone to utter their greetings. “We’ve come with the most savage intentions. Why, maman, they’ve not been in Moscow since! Look, Tanya, here’s something for you! Get it, please, it’s in the carriage, behind!” he talked in all directions. “How pretty you’ve grown, Dolly,” he said to his wife, once more kissing her hand, holding it in one of his, and patting it with the other. Levin, who a minute before had been in the happiest frame of mind, now looked darkly at everyone, and everything displeased him. “Who was it he kissed yesterday with those lips?” he thought, looking at Stepan Arkadyevitch’s tender demonstrations to his wife. He looked at Dolly, and he did not like her either.

• From Querelle (1953)

  "Two brothers who love each other so much that they look alike . . . there's one of those veils. There it is. It's moving, gently, unfurled by two naked arms with closed fists, clenched tight inside me. And now it is like a coil. It is sliding. Another one comes to meet it, and it is black too, but of a different texture. And this new veil means : two brothers who look so alike that they love each other . . . And it, too, slides down into the vat, covers the other one . . . No, it is the same one, only turned over . . . Another pjece of material, of another shade of black. And it means : I love one of the brothers, only one . . . Another veil : If I love one of the brothers, I love the other one, too· . . . I have to go into all this, I have to put my finger on it. But it's impossible to get them out. Do I love Robert? I certainly do, or we wouldn't have stayed together these six months. But that, evidently, doesn't mean a thing. I love Robert. I don't love Jo. Why not? Perhaps I do. They adore each other. Nothing I can do about that. They adore each other: does that mean they make love, as well? But where? Where? They're never together. But that's just it, they take care not to be seen. Where then? In other regions . . . And they've both had that boy . . . That kid, he's their love-boy . . . I'm an idiot, what does one of those dresses matter compared to my veils-but I better give Germaine a piece of my mind for sweeping the floor with her dress. It is a matter of principle. How is it that a woman like me never gets to experience a little · peace and quiet?" Madame Lysiane had waited for love a long time. Males had never excited her a great deal. Only after she had turned fortv 217 I QUERELLE she developed an appetite for muscular young men . But exactly at a time when she could have achieved happiness, she began to be consumed by a jealousy she was unable to demonstrate to anyone. No 9ne would have understood her. She loved Robert. \Vhen she thought of his hair, the nape of his neck, his thighs, her nipples hardened as they were moving forward to their reunion with the evoked image, and all day long, in the feverish joy of an only barely restrained desire, Madame Lysiane prepared herself for nights of love. Her man! Robert was her man.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Charles felt her staring at him very intently. There was no anger in the gaze. She knew the truth already, where he’d gone and what he’d done—there had been no mystery to it—but what she wanted was confirmation of the act. Say it: I went home with Lionel. “What?” Sophie leaned back onto her hands. She arched her back and let her head hang. “You’re such a shitty liar,” she said. “Why must you lie?” “I’m not.” “How boring, Charlie.” “I’m sorry for boring you.” “How was it?” “How was what?” “Jesus, Charlie.” Sophie stood up and stretched, at first one way and then another, making her body as long as she possibly could. She was full of lines. Everywhere she turned, a line, a new way forward. The tips of her fingers were on a line from her shoulder: arms straight, legs straight, toes pointed even in the large boots she wore. “It was fine,” Charles said at last. “That’s disappointing, isn’t it?” she said, and she wrapped her arm around herself and rotated her hips. “All that work for ‘fine.’ ” “All what work?” “Well, picking a fight with me. Finding out where he lived. Going there. All that work.” “We didn’t fight.” “Didn’t we?” she asked. She was looking out the window. That hadn’t been a fight. That hadn’t been an argument. They’d just been standing in the corner after Lionel left, talking quietly, and she had said: Go, you obviously want him. Go. And he had said, No, I don’t, stop being ridiculous. We’re here. We’re having a good time. They’d even left together, she and Charles. They had gone down the porch steps in the freshly falling snow, with the world perfectly still all around them, gone to the car and smiled at each other. But on the way, she started again: “I saw the way you looked at him.” “I didn’t look at him in any way.” “I saw it,” she said. “I saw it and I knew.” “What does it matter?” “It doesn’t. I don’t care what you do. But don’t lie to me about it.”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But Kitty took not the slightest interest in discussing the drinking habits of the peasants. She saw that he blushed, and she wanted to know why. “Well, and then where did you go?” “Stiva urged me awfully to go and see Anna Arkadyevna.” And as he said this, Levin blushed even more, and his doubts as to whether he had done right in going to see Anna were settled once for all. He knew now that he ought not to have done so. Kitty’s eyes opened in a curious way and gleamed at Anna’s name, but controlling herself with an effort, she concealed her emotion and deceived him. “Oh!” was all she said. “I’m sure you won’t be angry at my going. Stiva begged me to, and Dolly wished it,” Levin went on. “Oh, no!” she said, but he saw in her eyes a constraint that boded him no good. “She is a very sweet, very, very unhappy, good woman,” he said, telling her about Anna, her occupations, and what she had told him to say to her. “Yes, of course, she is very much to be pitied,” said Kitty, when he had finished. “Whom was your letter from?” He told her, and believing in her calm tone, he went to change his coat. Coming back, he found Kitty in the same easy chair. When he went up to her, she glanced at him and broke into sobs. “What? what is it?” he asked, knowing beforehand what. “You’re in love with that hateful woman; she has bewitched you! I saw it in your eyes. Yes, yes! What can it all lead to? You were drinking at the club, drinking and gambling, and then you went ... to her of all people! No, we must go away.... I shall go away tomorrow.” It was a long while before Levin could soothe his wife. At last he succeeded in calming her, only by confessing that a feeling of pity, in conjunction with the wine he had drunk, had been too much for him, that he had succumbed to Anna’s artful influence, and that he would avoid her. One thing he did with more sincerity confess to was that living so long in Moscow, a life of nothing but conversation, eating and drinking, he was degenerating. They talked till three o’clock in the morning. Only at three o’clock were they sufficiently reconciled to be able to go to sleep. Chapter 12

• From Escape (2007)

  The late prophet had about fourteen wives, and Cathleen was the youngest. She had dark hair and green eyes and was thin and attractive. I immediately thought that Merril would probably want to develop a relationship with her, which meant he might ignore me. Even though I hadn’t wanted to marry him and didn’t love him, let alone like him, I still believed in the FLDS doctrines and wanted to uphold them. I still believed Merril was the revelation the prophet had received for me. I was destined to bear his children and love and serve Merril Jessop without question until the day he died. [image file=image_rsrc3JH.jpg] Linda and I are sitting on the doorstep of our home in Colorado City. I’m on the right and about three years old. Linda is five. [image file=image_rsrc3JJ.jpg] Here I am with my two sisters after we moved back to the community from Salt Lake City. I’m on the left, Linda’s in the middle, and Annette is to her right. [image file=image_rsrc3JK.jpg] This is my beloved sister Nurylon at two, a few months before she was killed in an auto accident. [image file=image_rsrc3JM.jpg] Here I am at fourteen. [image file=image_rsrc3JN.jpg] This is my high school graduation in 1985. I’m holding my newest brother, Carl. [image file=image_rsrc3JP.jpg] My college graduation in 1989, a proud day! I am also pregnant with my second child. [image file=image_rsrc3JR.jpg] This is my father with his two wives. Rosie is on his right and my mother, Nurylon, is on his left. I’m third from the right on the back row and pregnant. This was taken four years after I married Merril. [image file=image_rsrc3JS.jpg] My mother, Nurylon, is in the middle. My sister Linda is on the left. I’m pregnant with Betty. [image file=image_rsrc3JT.jpg] Here I am at twenty-two, feeding Betty. [image file=image_rsrc3JU.jpg] Arthur and I together when he was four years old. [image file=image_rsrc3JV.jpg] Harrison and I had just come home from the hospital with his feeding tube. [image file=image_rsrc3JW.jpg] Betty, LuAnne, and Merrilee at the motel in Caliente. [image file=image_rsrc3JX.jpg] My first child, Arthur, holds his baby brother, Bryson, my eighth child and my last. [image file=image_rsrc3JY.jpg] My karate crew after we escaped. From left to right: Andrew, Merrilee, Patrick, and LuAnne. [image file=image_rsrc3JZ.jpg] Betty (on the left) and LuAnne skiing in Salt Lake City. [image file=image_rsrc3K0.jpg] Princess Merrilee’s first birthday party ever. [image file=image_rsrc3K1.jpg] Betty, at seventeen, on a hiking trip we took to Donut Falls. [image file=image_rsrc3K2.jpg] Here I am with Brian, the love of my life. This was taken during the intermission of Hairspray, the first Broadway musical I ever saw!

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  The air had smelled of pine needles and burning wood, which made him think of home in rural Maine, and all those hours of light, and the water, so much of it everywhere, lakes and rivers and streams and creeks. So much water. “Oh, you know.” “I know,” she said, and there was a smile, a smile for him. “Come over tonight?” he asked, letting himself pout a little. She looked up at him with a shocked expression, because they never made designs on each other this way, never intruded when the other was out, never asked unless there was a necessity. He knew that he was doing too much, changing the rules of the game, but he’d hated the satisfied look on Alek’s face, so sure of himself, so pleased. He half expected her to turn him down, but she sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can if you want,” she said. “I do,” he had said, realizing he meant it, because as he said it, something in him hurt, and for a dancer, pain is always the way you know something is true. “Yes, I want you to.” “Okay,” she said, and she kissed his chest and went back to Alek. That poor fool, though. If he got hurt, it was only his fault because he should know the score, and besides, Sophie was an adult, free to come and go as she pleased. She made dates. She messed around. It was known. Alek still resented him, even now. It was obvious in the way he had suggested that Charles had been out rolling in garbage instead of being at home with Sophie. But it was really, truly none of Alek’s business, so Charles put a little smugness in his turnout, let his hips roll and snap as he lifted into the air. He wouldn’t be bullied. • • • AT THE END OF THE CLASS, Charles was putting his arms into his flannel when Farnland approached him. “Charles,” he said. “A word.” “All right.” Charles was soaked with sweat. Pins and needles ran down the outside of his leg to his toes. The afternoon light was brilliant through the windows. Their shadows stretched across the floor. “You were late. You smell like a distillery. And you dance like a bowlegged ox.” “That’s more than a word,” Charles said. He did try to look apologetic. “You are setting a terrible example. Think of the younger dancers,” he said, and Charles flinched. “You are a senior member of this program. Don’t make me regret fighting for you.” Think of the younger dancers, Charles repeated in his mind.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  There was a through line, and you could follow it no matter how complex the combination. She had the same thing Misty Copeland had, which wasn’t pristine Russian technique, but substance. And he felt like he knew that about her. That his talent was for recognizing her talent and knowing he’d get out of her way when the time came. Sophie had lifted herself from Alek’s lap and spun herself around, letting her arms rise above her head. She swayed to the music, animating the song, some formless acoustic indie number full of haunting melodies and high, piercing voices, by a band with a name like a ghost story. And then she left Alek and came toward him, skirting around their other friends, dancing, smiling, until she wrapped her arms around him. “Hey,” she said, “I missed you.” “Hey,” he said, “long time no see.” “Long time,” she said, drawing out the first word, letting it turn indistinct and gravelly at the back of her throat. “What’re you doing here?” Charles sighed and shrugged. The air had smelled of pine needles and burning wood, which made him think of home in rural Maine, and all those hours of light, and the water, so much of it everywhere, lakes and rivers and streams and creeks. So much water. “Oh, you know.” “I know,” she said, and there was a smile, a smile for him. “Come over tonight?” he asked, letting himself pout a little. She looked up at him with a shocked expression, because they never made designs on each other this way, never intruded when the other was out, never asked unless there was a necessity. He knew that he was doing too much, changing the rules of the game, but he’d hated the satisfied look on Alek’s face, so sure of himself, so pleased . He half expected her to turn him down, but she sighed and rolled her eyes. “I can if you want,” she said. “I do,” he had said, realizing he meant it, because as he said it, something in him hurt, and for a dancer, pain is always the way you know something is true. “Yes, I want you to.” “Okay,” she said, and she kissed his chest and went back to Alek. That poor fool, though. If he got hurt, it was only his fault because he should know the score, and besides, Sophie was an adult, free to come and go as she pleased. She made dates. She messed around. It was known. Alek still resented him, even now. It was obvious in the way he had suggested that Charles had been out rolling in garbage instead of being at home with Sophie.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  Mats moaned. “Don’t tell me about Sophie,” Charles said to Alek. “You don’t know anything.” They lapsed into silence. Charles could feel Alek’s pointed stare, the heat stabbing him between the shoulders. There was a time during the summer when Alek had made a go at Sophie, all earnest kisses and declarations. They had gone to a movie and then a concert in the park, standing close together, she wearing one of Charles’s old flannels and Alek holding on to her hand as they swung around in a slow circle. Then they had drunk beer in the woods around a fire as the air was settling down and getting cooler, and Sophie had been on Alek’s lap. Charles came to the same gathering with a friend, and at first Alek blushed when they saw each other, but then he wrapped himself around Sophie. You can’t hold on to her, he had wanted to say to Alek then. The world had blasted away every other part of her life: her parents were dead, her sister was dead, nothing remained to tether her to the world as they knew it. She had only herself and dance. Alek could never hold on to her. No one could. Charles felt proud of her talent. Not that it had anything to do with him. But he felt proud that he could recognize it and what it meant. Yeah, there would be shitty years of auditions and open calls. But nobody who watched Sophie dance could say she didn’t have real charisma. She danced in that way that made it seem natural. Improvised almost. But never sloppy. There was a through line, and you could follow it no matter how complex the combination. She had the same thing Misty Copeland had, which wasn’t pristine Russian technique, but substance. And he felt like he knew that about her. That his talent was for recognizing her talent and knowing he’d get out of her way when the time came. Sophie had lifted herself from Alek’s lap and spun herself around, letting her arms rise above her head. She swayed to the music, animating the song, some formless acoustic indie number full of haunting melodies and high, piercing voices, by a band with a name like a ghost story. And then she left Alek and came toward him, skirting around their other friends, dancing, smiling, until she wrapped her arms around him. “Hey,” she said, “I missed you.” “Hey,” he said, “long time no see.” “Long time,” she said, drawing out the first word, letting it turn indistinct and gravelly at the back of her throat. “What’re you doing here?” Charles sighed and shrugged.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  They’d known each other since they were little boys and had attended the same prep schools. Their parents knew one another, belonged to the same African American Ivy League associations. Mats and Octavius were as close as one could come to an arranged marriage in this country. The two of them were in love with each other, but seemed not to know it yet, or so Alek thought. Mainly because they never seemed to be in love with each other at the same time, seemed to always be pointed past one another. In the fall, Mats could think of nothing other than Octavius, his kindness, his body, his winning shyness. But that fall, Octavius was in love with a white boy named James from one of his poetry seminars. And in the spring, Mats had moved on to Charles, and Octavius fell in love with the space left when Mats lost interest. That is, Octavius found Mats to be indifferent to him for the first time in his life, so he reacted by falling deeply in love with him. They each, in different ways and on different days, spoke to Alek about the other. Octavius is so stupid. Why doesn’t he get it? I’m in his room all the time. I’m lying here, half naked, basically wide open to him, and he does nothing, nothing. Why? Or, Mats is so cold to me these days. Why is he like this? He’s always gone now. He’s always out. What’s going on with him and Charles? “Can you believe it?” “Charlie and Sophie, you mean?” Alek asked, leaning back on his palms. He flexed his leg from left to right. Mats sat down next to him and started to stretch, too. Octavius took the spot on the other side of Alek. “They’re back together,” Mats said over Alek’s head to Octavius, who let out a whistle. “I mean, it was pretty obvious, but consider it confirmed.” “I guess some people can’t make up their minds,” Alek said flatly, meaning nothing at all by it, but then Mats turned to look at him with a gleaming hurt in his eyes, and he realized he’d strayed too close to the bone. “Oh, I’m sorry.” “It’s fine,” Mats said, voice leaping. “It’s so fine. Don’t even worry about it.” “About what?” Octavius said, cutting his eyes across the two of them. “Please,” Mats said, rolling his eyes, this time putting a fine point at the end of the word. Alek coughed into the crook of his arm, and the noise overrode everything else. “You said you’d go to the doctor.” “I did,” Alek said. “I went.” “And?” “It’s nothing,” he said, tossing it off as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “It’s fine.” “It’s been weeks? Months?

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  17 “Tune Psyche vel maxime sensit ultimas fortunas suas et velamento reiecto ad promptum exitium sese compelli manifeste comperit: quidni, quae suis pedibus ultro ad Tartarum Manesque commeare cogeretur? Nec cunctata diutius pergit ad quam- piam turrim praealtam indidem sese datura prae- cipitem ; sic enim rebatur ad inferos recta atque pulcherrime se posse descendere. Sed turris pro- rumpit in vocem subitam, et ‘Quid te’ inquit * Praecipitem, o misella, quaeris extinguere ? Quid- que iam novissimo periculo laborique isto temere succumbis? Nam si spiritus corpore tuo semel fuerit seiugatus, ibis quidem profecto ad imum Tartarum, sed inde nullo pacto redire poteris, 1 The MSS here read minantes or potantes, showing signs of erasure and alteration. Permittentes is due to Bluemner, who 272 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK VI willingly that he might depart unharmed: for he feigned that he sought it by the command of Venus, and so was his coming made somewhat more easy Then Psyche, being very joyful thereof, took the full bottle and quickly presented it to Venus. Nor would the furious goddess even yet be appeased, but menacing more and more, and smiling most cruelly, said: ‘What? Thou seemest unto me a very witch and a most deep enchantress, thou hast so nimbly obeyed my commands. Howbeit thou shalt do one thing more, my poppet; take this box and go to Hell and the deadly house of Orcus, and desire Proserpina to send me a little of her beauty, as much as will serve me the space of one day, and say that such as 1 had is consumed away in tending my son that is sick : but return again quickly, for I must dress myself therewithal. and go to the theatre of the gods.’ __ “Then the poor Psyche clearly perceived the end of all her fortune, seeing that all pretence was thrown off, and manifestly she was being driven to present destruction; and not without cause, as she was compelled to go upon her own feet to the gult and furies of Hell. Wherefore without any further delay, she went up to ahigh tower to throw herself down headlong (thinking that it was the next and readiest way to Hell): but the tower (as inspired) spake suddenly unto her, saying: ‘O poor wretch, why goest thou about to slay thyself? Why dost thou rashly yield unto thy last peril and danger? Know thou that if thy spirit be once separate from thy body thou shalt surely go to Hell, but never to return again ; wherefore hearken to me. Lace- ppt Se) liars rye eer pis eee eee also wished to change innoxius to innoxia : Helm suggested praestantes. S 218 LUCIUS APULEIUS

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  At inspection stations on highways entering Arizona or California, a policeman’s cousin would peer with such intensity at us that my poor heart wobbled. “Any honey?” he would inquire, and every time my sweet fool giggled. I still have, vibrating all along my optic nerve, visions of Lo on horseback, a link in the chain of a guided trip along a bridle trail: Lo bobbing at a walking pace, with an old woman rider in front and a lecherous rednecked dude-rancher behind; and I behind him, hating his fat flowery-shirted back even more fervently than a motorist does a slow truck on a mountain road. Or else, at a ski lodge, I would see her floating away from me, celestial and solitary, in an ethereal chairlift, up and up, to a glittering summit where laughing athletes stripped to the waist were waiting for her, for her. In whatever town we stopped I would inquire, in my polite European way, anent the whereabouts of natatoriums, museums, local schools, the number of children in the nearest school and so forth; and at school bus time, smiling and twitching a little (I discovered this tic nerveux because cruel Lo was the first to mimic it), I would park at a strategic point, with my vagrant schoolgirl beside me in the car, to watch the children leave school—always a pretty sight. This sort of thing soon began to bore my so easily bored Lolita, and, having a childish lack of sympathy for other people’s whims, she would insult me and my desire to have her caress me while blue-eyed little brunettes in blue shorts, copperheads in green boleros, and blurred boyish blondes in faded slacks passed by in the sun. As a sort of compromise, I freely advocated whenever and wherever possible the use of swimming pools with other girl-children. She adored brilliant water and was a remarkably smart diver. Comfortably robed, I would settle down in the rich postmeridian shade after my own demure dip, and there I would sit, with a dummy book or a bag of bonbons, or both, or nothing but my tingling glands, and watch her gambol, rubber-capped, bepearled, smoothly tanned, as glad as an ad, in her trim-fitted satin pants and shirred bra. Pubescent sweetheart! How smugly would I marvel that she was mine, mine, mine, and revise the recent matitudinal swoon to the moan of the mourning doves, and devise the late afternoon one, and slitting my sun-speared eyes, compare Lolita to whatever other nymphets parsimonious chance collected around her for my anthological delectation and judgment; and today, putting my hand on my ailing heart, I really do not think that any of them ever surpassed her in desirability, or if they did, it was so two or three times at the most, in a certain light, with certain perfumes blended in the air—once in the hopeless case of a pale Spanish child, the daughter of a heavy-jawed nobleman, and another time—mats je divague.

• From Querelle (1953)

  "Two brothers who love each other so much that they look alike . . . there's one of those veils. There it is. It's moving, gently, unfurled by two naked arms with closed fists, clenched tight inside me. And now it is like a coil. It is sliding. Another one comes to meet it, and it is black too, but of a different texture. And this new veil means : two brothers who look so alike that they love each other . . . And it, too, slides down into the vat, covers the other one . . . No, it is the same one, only turned over . . . Another pjece of material, of another shade of black. And it means : I love one of the brothers, only one . . . Another veil : If I love one of the brothers, I love the other one, too· . . . I have to go into all this, I have to put my finger on it. But it's impossible to get them out. Do I love Robert? I certainly do, or we wouldn't have stayed together these six months. But that, evidently, doesn't mean a thing. I love Robert. I don't love Jo. Why not? Perhaps I do. They adore each other. Nothing I can do about that. They adore each other: does that mean they make love, as well? But where? Where? They're never together. But that's just it, they take care not to be seen. Where then? In other regions . . . And they've both had that boy . . . That kid, he's their love-boy . . . I'm an idiot, what does one of those dresses matter compared to my veils-but I better give Germaine a piece of my mind for sweeping the floor with her dress. It is a matter of principle. How is it that a woman like me never gets to experience a little · peace and quiet?" Madame Lysiane had waited for love a long time. Males had never excited her a great deal. Only after she had turned fortv 217 I QUERELLE she developed an appetite for muscular young men . But exactly at a time when she could have achieved happiness, she began to be consumed by a jealousy she was unable to demonstrate to anyone. No 9ne would have understood her. She loved Robert. \Vhen she thought of his hair, the nape of his neck, his thighs, her nipples hardened as they were moving forward to their reunion with the evoked image, and all day long, in the feverish joy of an only barely restrained desire, Madame Lysiane prepared herself for nights of love. Her man! Robert was her man.