Joy

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 Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I tell him I am struggling through an old Michael Chabon novel; he tells me he tried that one but couldn’t get through it. We talk about how we ended up in this area and marvel when we realize that not only did we grow up in the same suburban town, we even attended the same elementary school. He is three years older than me, so we don’t know many of the same people but we land on one or two in common. He seems familiar to me, not that I know him, but I feel like I could. Our conversation meanders and is thoroughly enjoyable; he is witty, charming, and attentive. My conversations with #1 and 2 were fun and flirty, but this is something different – he feels like a friend. We’ve passed a couple of hours without running out of steam, but it’s just us and the bartender now and I suggest that we should probably let him close up, so we reluctantly get up to leave. The rain has stopped, but the air outside is heavy and damp. “I would love to see you again if you want to share your number with me?” he asks. “Yes, that would be lovely,” I respond, and he puts my number into his phone. We are standing at my car already so it’s do-or-die time. “When are you available?” he asks. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to get away with your kids at home.” I raise my eyebrows. I don’t have an easy answer to this question: tomorrow, Georgia will return from sleepaway camp and then I’ve got kids home for the rest of the summer. “Well,” I say very slowly, “I’m available right now.” The meaning of my words sinks in and he chuckles softly. “That’s a more literal answer than I was expecting,” he says. “Just grabbing the bull by the horns,” I say with a soft laugh. “And the question of my future availability is anyone’s guess.” “What are you thinking about doing with your current availability?” he asks. “Going back to my house or yours,” I say, letting my forwardness float between us. “I’m not sure,” he says hesitantly. “I wasn’t expecting this tonight. My girlfriend and I broke up a few months ago and I haven’t been with anyone since.” “It’s OK,” I say. “I don’t have any expectations, it’s just that I’m not sure when I’ll be free again, so …” He leans down toward me and kisses me. He’s tall, and I lean forward onto my toes to reach him. His kiss is soft and gentle. “OK,” he says, pulling back. “Let’s go to my house. It’s closer than yours plus I have to walk my dog.” Another dog , I think, my heart sinking. I follow him along dark winding roads. He knows the area well and drives fast; I have to concentrate to keep up.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now Mary need no longer sigh with unrest, need no longer lay her cheek against Stephen’s shoulder; for her rightful place was in Stephen’s arms and there she would be, overwhelmed by the peace that comes at such times to all happy lovers. They would sit together in a little arbour that looked out over miles upon miles of ocean. The water would flush with the after-glow, then change to a soft, indefinite purple; then, fired anew by the African night, would gleam with that curious, deep blue glory for a space before the swift rising of the moon. ‘Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise; but after the moon there cometh the sun.’ And Stephen as she held the girl in her arms, would feel that indeed she was all things to Mary; father, mother, friend and lover, all things; and Mary all things to her—the child, the friend, the belovèd, all things. But Mary, because she was perfect woman, would rest without thought, without exultation, without question; finding no need to question since for her there was now only one thing—Stephen. 2Time, that most ruthless enemy of lovers, strode callously forward into the spring. It was March, so that down at the noisy Puerto the bougainvilleas were in their full glory, while up in the old town of Orotava bloomed great laden bushes of white camellias. In the garden of the villa the orange trees flowered, and the little arbour that looked over the sea was covered by an ancient wisteria vine whose mighty trunk was as thick as three saplings. But in spite of a haunting shadow of regret at the thought of leaving Orotava, Stephen was deeply and thankfully happy. A happiness such as she had never conceived could be hers, now possessed her body and soul—and Mary also was happy. Stephen would ask her: ‘Do I content you? Tell me, is there anything you want in the world?’ Mary’s answer was always the same; she would say very gravely: ‘Only you, Stephen.’ Ramon had begun to speculate about them, these two Englishwomen who were so devoted. He would shrug his shoulders—Dios! What did it matter? They were courteous to him and exceedingly generous. If the elder one had an ugly red scar down her cheek, the younger one seemed not to mind it. The younger one was beautiful though, as beautiful as the santa noche . . . some day she would get a real man to love her. As for Concha and the cross-eyed Esmeralda, their tongues were muted by their ill-gotten gains. They grew rich thanks to Stephen’s complete indifference to the price of such trifles as sugar and candles. Esmeralda’s afflicted eyes were quite sharp, yet she said to Concha: ‘I see less than nothing.’

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  All that’s missing is the worry that I will be found out by my parents in their bedroom two flights up from the basement and the nubby wool of the plaid sofa. Being intimate with Jack is surprising in all the best ways: fun, sensual, even transporting. It is liberating to give up control and stop dictating what end of the spectrum between making love and fucking our intercourse will be. The fact that he doesn’t know me and thus has no expectation of how my body will respond allows me to be whoever I want to be sexually at this moment in time. I had worried that I would miss Michael like a stabbing pain during whatever my first encounter would be, but having shed self-consciousness and assumptions of who I am once my clothes come off is profoundly freeing, giving me a reprieve from the sexual identity I steadfastly adhered to over the course of almost three decades with Michael. As Jack works his way back up my body, he places one hand on my stomach and reaches the other hand up to gently place his palm on one of my nipples. His touch on my stomach is the one that feels decidedly intimate; I’ve always equated arousing touches with private parts of the body that are reserved for sex, but his interest in the more mundane parts of my body – my calves, thighs, stomach – enthralls me. “You’re in great shape,” he says. “It’s hard to believe you have three kids.” “Thank you,” I say. “But yes, they’re all mine. I’ve got some stretching and sagging to prove it.” Immediately I regret saying this: learn just to say thank you , I think for the second time tonight. If he’s not noticing where I’ve lost my elasticity, it’s not my job to draw a map for him. He playfully squeezes my arm muscles, admiring them. I feel aglow from these compliments. He’s not saying that I’m lithe or I’m voluptuous, words I associate with sexiness – he’s saying I’m strong. I know that no one can create strength in another person and that you can’t fake strength, which means I can take full credit for this aspect of myself. I realize that’s exactly what I want – to be a little badass, a little unexpected, willing and able to take care of myself. He reaches over for the condom that he had earlier placed on the nightstand, but I catch his forearm and say, “Wait.” I roll over so that I am straddling him and I put my hands on his bare, buff chest. His skin is soft and smooth, not a hair in sight. I take my index finger and trace the tattoo on his left bicep. It’s the size of my fist, a large bird with Latin words underneath. “What does this mean?” I ask. “It’s a long story. I got it during a stint in the military a long time ago,” he says.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  By the way, I’m in my own flat again now; I hope you’ll bring Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.’ He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through Stephen’s. ‘Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;’ he murmured, and his sharp grey eyes had grown almost gentle: ‘I hope you’ll be very, very happy.’ Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise: ‘Happy? Thank you, Brockett,’ she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette. 3 They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said: ‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?’ And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’ Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers. Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie? And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very profound expression in their depths—at that moment they were calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life—one might almost have said the eyes of a mother. A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all through the evening. CHAPTER 41 1 B urton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen had found work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris, loudly demanding a brand-new motor. ‘The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks—peculiar—all tucked up in the bonnet;’ he declared. So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little landaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest fun; Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while it stood in the showroom. ‘Is it comfortable?’ Stephen must keep on asking, ‘Do you want them to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure you like the grey whip-cord? Because if you don’t it can be re-upholstered.’ Mary laughed: ‘I’m climbing in and out from sheer swank, just to show that it’s mine. Will they send it soon?’ ‘Almost at once, I hope,’ smiled Stephen. Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of birds—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: ‘Look at us, look at us! We’re happy, Stephen!’ And Stephen’s heart shouted back: ‘So are we. Look at us, look at us, look at us! We’re happy!’ When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a grin: ‘Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears that you wish to kill me!’ The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: ‘She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so graceful.’ Which considering all things was generous of Buisson. But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: ‘More than seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom!

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Finally, when even my head feels like it’s detached from my body and is gently floating in space, I let out an ecstatic sigh, arch back and then collapse forward onto him. I am still, again. Now my other favorite part: I take his hand, place it over my pounding heart, and then I put my hand over his. We stay like this, hand over hand over heart, until my breath calms and I become aware again of where I am. I allow myself these few moments to revel in what feels like an epiphany in my body before turning my attention back to him. He likes to wait to come until I have and the more times I can orgasm before he does, the happier he is, but I have become much more interested in the quality of my orgasms than the quantity. The ones that move up my body and consume it in its entirety – those are the ones I want, not just the ones in which I can feel the release but I’m otherwise largely unmoved. These bodily orgasms are life-affirming and transporting to the degree that when I open my eyes, I am often shocked to find myself in #6’s room or in my own bed with my head hanging off the side across from where I thought I was. I appreciate that he wants to please me all the time, but I also want to please him. I stand up and reach down for his hand, ready to leave the now-chilly water. We quickly pat ourselves dry and land dripping on my bed. I straddle him again and kiss his inner thighs, then move my tongue up the shaft of his penis and flick my tongue against the head, which is a recent trick I’ve picked up from Cosmopolitan magazine. “You’re teasing me again,” he says and I laugh, but – and here’s where a blow job really comes in handy – I don’t have to say anything because my mouth is full and I can’t talk! One of the surprises of sex with #6 is that it’s not linear, it’s not just a means to an end. He loves the process and sometimes wears himself out before he can come; whereas I worry that makes the sex a failure, he doesn’t judge it by this one set of criteria. I am such a goal-oriented person, so have to adjust my thinking: if an orgasm is not the goal, then what is? Touch, words, sensuality, exploration, intimacy, vulnerability. I am learning that there is no bottom line in sex as I thought there was. “You make me crazy, Laura,” he says, as I climb on top of him, his rhythm becoming more persistent until he takes in a deep breath and pulses inside of me. “Thank you,” he says, when we have quieted down.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s already clear to me that I had been silly to worry about his being too genteel to be an ardent lover. Soon I am lying on the couch and he lifts the blouse over my head, then runs his finger along my clavicle, down my breastbone to my navel, slowly but finally landing at the button to my jeans, which he easily opens with one hand. He slides my jeans down my legs, taking his time to kiss the soft spot of skin where my thong touches my bikini line, along the inside of my upper thighs and then down my legs, delicately lifting my feet to free me of my jeans. I watch wordlessly as he puts my toe into his mouth, gently sucking on it as I arch my back and let out a long, slow breath. He rises from the couch, then takes my hand and leads me to his bedroom. His bedroom is small but his bed is hotel-quality, with a crisp white duvet covering a fluffy down quilt and copious pillows with matching white pillowcases and navy blue piping. It is elegant and enticing, but also masculine without signs of the bachelor beds I’ve seen haphazardly thrown together and usually covered in dog hair up until now; decidedly metrosexual, which hits my sweet spot. I lie back against the pillows and he kneels between my legs, saying, “I’m dying to taste you.” He pulls my thong down, his thumbs hooked around the lace waistband, and slowly runs his fingers down my legs. When he puts his head between my legs, he inhales deeply and says, “Your smell is intoxicating.” With these words, I’m at a loss. Am I supposed to respond? And what exactly would an appropriate response be – a delighted, why thank you? A sidebar that the smell is deeply indebted to expensive Parisian rose oil that never goes on sale so he’s lucky I used some of it for his benefit? A sultry and absurd, “You know it baby”? Flummoxed, I remain silent and hope my silence will be a hint that I’m all action and no conversation once I’m in bed. I am not quite so lucky though, as it appears that #6 is going to take the time and effort to observe every detail of our sexual encounter and verbalize these observations. “You are so wet and so sweet,” he says, and my mouth twists so that I am biting the corner of my lip. He’s kind of far away so if I do speak I’m going to have to do it in a loud voice, which means I’m going to have to really assert myself, say whatever I can muster up with some degree of gumption. I am running through all the possible responses, trying to come up with one that registers I hear him but offers only the most banal words so that I’m not forced to follow up with even more words.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I was wearing terrible, grandmotherly cotton underpants. He breathed on my pussy through the fabric and it felt warm and wet. Then he licked the skin on the sides of my undies, kissing back into the center and out again, moaning with his warm mouth open on the fabric. He pulled my underpants to one side and gave me a long lick, starting with my hole and slowly tracing over my clit. He did this again, back and forth, bringing the moisture from inside me over my clit. I was shaking. I looked up at the sky. It felt so good, but I was nervous. “Theo,” I said. “It might take me a little while. Is that okay? Will you tell me if you get tired?” He took his head out from under my skirt. “I want you to take as long as you need,” he said. “Take the whole night. Take forever.” I lay back down. The stars were beautiful but I closed my eyes. I focused on the feeling in my pussy entirely and not what was going on around us or even him. It was a sustained goodness and I felt that in my sexual relationships with others I had missed the point. Had it ever been solely about pleasure for me? Maybe I had missed the point of what having a pussy was for entirely. It was not for having babies or pissing, but simply a locus of pleasure—its own purpose. Now a growing confidence was there, like a crystal inside it or maybe a whole ocean. Perhaps the crystal had always been there without me seeing or knowing. Had I always glowed from there but never realized? Right above my pussy, my whole pelvis felt full—not of piss or pain—but self-sustaining, pulsing. I felt glad to be alive. Or not even glad, just alive. I was in my is-ness and was not going to fight it. So this was joy. Like my pussy, this part of my pelvis felt like it had existed forever but had disappeared years ago. I remembered feeling something like this as a young child, but somehow that feeling had been eclipsed and forgotten until now. It had been eclipsed by all the matter on Earth. I saw that all of that matter was just emptiness. It accrued and accrued to nothing. My chest, too, was warm, as though it sought to open, like a light in there was pushing through rusty doors. This I resisted. I was scared, afraid to let the doors swing open fully. But my throat felt like the throat I had known as a child, when all language was new and words hadn’t hurt so much. In the past when I made sex sounds, I tried to imitate what I saw in porn. But now what I heard was way deeper, guttural, without the formation of my mouth. It didn’t resemble syllables and definitely not words. It was the sound of the planet rotating.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  When he suggests that it’s too late at night for me to drive back to the city and I should spend the night, I cock my head to the side to mull the option over, pretending that I hadn’t thrown a pair of glasses and clean underwear into my bag just in case this option arose. Back at his apartment, he offers me a T-shirt to sleep in but I decline it and strip down to my underwear to lie in bed next to him. We have sex – quick again, given that he got me started an hour ago at the bar, but intense and deeply satisfying – and then I hear his breathing change as he falls asleep. I lie awake, hearing the metallic tapping of water from the air conditioner from the apartment above drip onto his air conditioner. It is amazing how jarring and noisy just one drop of water can be when it hits metal from a distance of ten feet, and I try to relax to the pattern of drips so that I can fall asleep, but there’s no rhyme or reason to it so I remain frustrated and very much awake. #5 gently snores next to me and I think of kicking him as I would have kicked Michael, but we aren’t anywhere near the point in which I am free to nudge him so I listen to the drips and the snores, the tapping and the breathing, and wonder if I will ever get used to sleeping with another man again. When the sun finally spills through the slats of the blinds in the morning, I rise exhausted while Scott bounces out of bed, hurrying to get ready for a race he’s running with his firemen buddies. “Walk of shame,” he says as he walks me, outfitted back in my skimpy ruffled dress and high heeled sandals, to my car. “Strut of success,” I counter back, shooting him a coquettish smile. We start talking every day after that, kicking the day off with sunshine emoji texts and catching up over phone calls as he drives home from work. Sometimes he calls late at night as I lie in bed reading, and he almost always makes me laugh. He enjoys provoking me so that I work myself up into heated, impassioned arguments about everything from politics to childrearing and then he backpedals his staunch stance, teasing me that it’s easy and fun to get me riled up. Once a week he goes to fire training classes and I hang onto all the details of what he has to carry while battling smoke and intense heat, and how many of the other volunteers couldn’t make it to the end as he did.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I leave the table to use the restroom and when I return, I am alarmed all over again. “This might be TMI,” I say, furrowing my brows, “but I think #8 broke me. I’m bleeding.” Ana bursts into peals of laughter, shrieking “TMI? TMI? Now it’s TMI? You passed that so long ago! TMI went out the window the minute you told me you thought you peed in #8’s bed.” We laugh long and hard, drawing a few looks from the waiter who normally witnesses us huddled in the corner, me wiping away tears while Ana reaches out to put her hand over mine. Now we are like hyenas, cackling and doubled over, crying with laughter. It’s obvious to both of us that we have crossed the border into a land where bodies are just bodies and what they can do is a common experience, no reason to keep it to ourselves. * True to my prediction, #6 is wildly jealous that another man has located my G-spot and becomes obsessed with finding it himself. I suggest that he go down one of the research rabbit holes I’m so famous for to figure it out. “Now you’re definitely going to see #8 again. Why wouldn’t you?” he says mournfully. “Actually, he texted me already to make another date and I declined,” I say. “I told him that as much as I enjoyed my time with him, I have been dating someone for whom I am developing real feelings and thus it is starting to feel strange to sleep with other men.” “And what did he say?” he asks, though I was hoping he would respond to the part in which I declared vague but real feelings for him. “He said he was happy for me,” I say. “So now the pressure is really on for me to find the mystery spot,” he says. “I’m parking my LLT for a while. I’m going to see what it feels like to date just you,” I say. He laughs; I know the way I said it made it sound like I was slumming it with him as my sole sex partner. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I have limited free time and I would like to spend the free time I do have with you. My sexual curiosity is calming down – I think I’ve got it now, and honestly, I’m exhausted. I like having sex with you, I like being with you, so my liberation train is going on hiatus,” I say. “What do you think about that?” “I don’t know, I feel jealous when you’re with other men but it’s also a huge turn-on. I think you should do what feels right to you,” he says. “Better step up your game if you’re going to be my only sexual partner,” I say. “I have to update my will,” he says lightheartedly, but I can tell that he is relieved.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  My chest, too, was warm, as though it sought to open, like a light in there was pushing through rusty doors. This I resisted. I was scared, afraid to let the doors swing open fully. But my throat felt like the throat I had known as a child, when all language was new and words hadn’t hurt so much. In the past when I made sex sounds, I tried to imitate what I saw in porn. But now what I heard was way deeper, guttural, without the formation of my mouth. It didn’t resemble syllables and definitely not words. It was the sound of the planet rotating. I didn’t even think about Theo. For once I was not thinking. Maybe for the first time ever. I felt space in my mind, in my skull, which I had never felt before. Had that too always been there? If it had always been there, then life, it seemed, could have always been beautiful, redeemable, sacred. But if it had always been there, it was strange that I had never found it before. If something so beautiful and pure existed right between your ears, why wouldn’t you stay there forever? Why wouldn’t you live there? —I started to laugh. I couldn’t tell if I was coming, or if I had already come. But then the laughter subsided and I felt a darkness crawl over me—a cool darkness that was dead serious—and I realized that I had not come yet and was going to. His tongue was like a dog’s tongue—a little rough—so unlike my fingers or vibrator. It was like a magic carpet or something, in that I came and came and came. It was like the orgasm began, then stopped, then started a couple of times and I felt that I was able to control it, before I rode the carpet all the way up to where it crested and then exploded. I stayed in it longer than I had ever experienced. And just as I came I became aware of him again. I said his name out loud, I heard myself say it. But I also felt a connectedness between me and something bigger—beyond him—as though there were a split screen. He was on one side of the screen and the universe was on the other. I felt love for both of them. I lay there on the rock and stared up at the sky, silent, for a long time. He kept his face in between my thighs and I hugged his head with my knees. “Would you like me to come out of the water?” he asked. “What?” He took his head out from under my skirt, looked me in the eye, and smiled. “I said, ‘Would you like me to come out of the water?’ ” “So much,” I said. “More than anything. More than anything I would like you to come out of the water.” “I’m scared,” he said.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  He had said in his Autobiography that "every lover is a martyr,"483 and here the Eternal Wisdom declares that if all hearts were become one heart, that heart could not bear the least reward he has chosen to give in eternity as a compensation for the least suffering endured out of love for himself .... This is an eternal law of nature that what is true and good must be harvested with sorrow. There is nothing more joyous than to have endured suffering. Suffering is short pain and prolonged joy. Suffering gives pain here and blessedness hereafter. Suffering destroys suffering—Leiden tödtet Leiden. Suffering exists that the sufferer may not suffer. He who could weigh time and eternity in even balances would rather he in a glowing oven for a hundred years than to miss in eternity the least reward given for the least suffering, for the suffering in the oven would have an end, but the reward is forever.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Fisher of men To Christ [the] King, Who are saved, Holy reward Catching the chaste fishes For the doctrine of life. With sweet life Let us sing together, From the hateful wave Sing in simplicity Of a sea of vices. To the mighty Child. O choir of peace, Guide [us], Shepherd The Christ begotten, Of rational sheep; O chaste people Guide harmless children, Let us praise together O holy King. The God of peace." This poem was for sixteen centuries merely a hymnological curiosity, until an American Congregational minister, Dr. Henry Martyn Dexter, by a happy reproduction, in 1846, secured it a place in modern hymn-books. While preparing a sermon (as He. informs me) on "some prominent characteristics of the early Christians" (text, Deut. 32:7, "Remember the days of old"), he first wrote down an exact translation of the Greek hymn of Clement, and then reproduced and modernized it for the use of his congregation in connection with the sermon. It is well known that many Psalms of Israel have inspired some of the noblest Christian hymns. The 46th Psalm gave the key-note of Luther’s triumphant war-hymn of the Reformation: "Ein’ feste Burg." John Mason Neale dug from the dust of ages many a Greek and Latin hymn, to the edification of English churches, notably some portions of Bernard of Cluny’s De Contemptu Mundi, which runs through nearly three thousand dactylic hexameters, and furnished the material for "Brief life is here our portion." "For thee, O dear, dear Country," and "Jerusalem the golden." We add Dexter’s hymn as a fair specimen of a useful transfusion and rejuvenation of an old poem. 1. Shepherd of tender youth, None calls on Thee in vain; Guiding in love and truth Help Thou dost not disdain— Through devious ways; Help from above. Christ, our triumphant King, We come Thy name to sing; 4. Ever be Thou our Guide, Hither our children bring Our Shepherd and our Pride, To shout Thy praise! Our Staff and Song! Jesus, Thou Christ of God 2. Thou art our Holy Lord, By Thy perennial Word The all-subduing Word, Lead us where Thou hast trod, Healer of strife! Make our faith strong. Thou didst Thyself abase, That from sin’s deep disgrace 5. So now, and till we die, Thou mightest save our race, Sound we Thy praises high, And give us life. And joyful sing: Infants, and the glad throng 3. Thou art the great High Priest; Who to Thy church belong, Thou hast prepared the feast Unite to swell the song Of heavenly lov § 67. Division of Divine Service. The Disciplina Arcani. Richard Rothe: De Disciplinae Arcani, quae dicitur, in Ecclesia Christ. Origine. Heidelb. 1841; and his art. on the subject in the first ed. of Herzog (vol. I. 469–477). C. A. Gerh. Von Zezschwitz: System der christl. kirchlichen Katechetik. Leipz. 1863, vol. I. p. 154–227. See also his art. in the second ed. of Herzog, I. 637–645 (abridged in Schaff’s "Rel. Enc."). G. Nath. Bonwetsch (of Dorpat): Wesen, Entstehunq und Fortgang der Arkandisciplin, in Kahnis’ "Zeitschrift für Hist. Theol." 1873, pp. 203 sqq. J. P. Lundy: Monumental Christianity. N. York, 1876, p. 62–86. Comp. also A. W. Haddan in Smith & Cheetham, I. 564–566; Wandinger, in Wetzer & Welte, new ed. vol. I. (1882), 1234–1238. Older dissertations on the subject by Schelstrate (1678), Meier (1679), Tenzell (1863), Scholliner (1756), Lienhardt (1829), Toklot (1836), Frommann (1833), Siegel (1836, I. 506 sqq.).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘Almost at once, I hope,’ smiled Stephen. Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was singing of birds—challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: ‘Look at us, look at us! We’re happy, Stephen!’ And Stephen’s heart shouted back: ‘So are we. Look at us, look at us, look at us! We’re happy!’ When they were not driving into the country, or amusing themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep herself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that Buisson would sometimes say with a grin: ‘Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost appears that you wish to kill me!’ The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: ‘She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and so graceful.’ Which considering all things was generous of Buisson. But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: ‘More than seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles, we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful—they love us so much that they spit in our faces!’ And quite often this mood would be vented on Stephen. To Mary, however, he was usually polite: ‘You like our Paris? I am glad—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope you prevent her injurious smoking.’ And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his interest in Stephen’s fencing. 2One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in serenely: ‘Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that I love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than meets the eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once—I shall lay my head down on her bosom and weep. . . .’ He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep arm-chair in the corner. Stephen said: ‘Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.’ Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The generation of the eternal Son in the soul brings joy which no man can take away. A prince who should lose his kingdom and all worldly goods would still have fulness of joy, for his birth outweighs everything else.455 God is in the soul, and yet He is not the soul. The eye is not the piece of wood upon which it looks, for when the eye is closed, it is the same eye it was before. But if, in the act of looking, the eye and the wood should become one, then we might say the eye is the wood and the wood is the eye. If the wood were a spiritual substance like the eyesight, then, in reality, one might say eye and wood are one substance.456 The fundament of God’s being is the fundament of my being, and the fundament of my being is the fundament of God’s being. Thus I live of myself even as God lives of Himself.457 This begetment of the Son of God in the soul is the source of all true life and good works. One of the terms which Eckart uses most frequently, to denote God’s influence upon the soul, is durchbrechen, to break through, and his favorite word for the activity of the soul, as it rises into union with God, is Abgeschiedenheit, the soul’s complete detachment of itself from all that is temporal and seen. Keep aloof, abgeschieden, he says, from men, from yourself, from all that cumbers. Bear God alone in your hearts, and then practise fasting, vigils and prayer, and you will come unto perfection. This Abgeschiedenheit, total self-detachment from created things,458 he says in a sermon on the subject, is "the one thing needful." After reading many writings by pagan masters and Christian teachers, Eckart came to consider it the highest of all virtues,—higher than humility, higher even than love, which Paul praises as the highest; for, while love endures all things, this quality is receptiveness towards God. In the person possessing this quality, the worldly has nothing to correspond to itself. This is what Paul had reference to when he said, "I live and yet not I, for Christ liveth in me." God is Himself perfect Abgeschiedenheit. In another place, Eckart says that he who has God in his soul finds God in all things, and God appears to him out of all things. As the thirsty love water, so that nothing else tastes good to them, even so it is with the devoted soul. In God and God alone is it at rest. God seeks rest, and He finds it nowhere but in such a heart. To reach this condition of Abgeschiedenheit, it is necessary for the soul first to meditate and form an image of God, and then to allow itself to be transformed by God.459

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I can’t believe his dick is inside me, I kept thinking, that it is his dick inside me, that it’s your dick inside me. A beautiful look came across his face: flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, lips wet and full. He looked intoxicated, and I felt so proud to be the one intoxicating him. Or was it simply being in a pussy, a wet pussy—not dry-wet from seawater, but wet with secretions—that made him look so drunk? Could it be anyone’s pussy? I wanted to believe it was me and that he felt about my pussy like I felt about his cock: amazed, because of who it belonged to. It was me alone: my body and my spirit that made this beautiful creature look so high. In that way I felt that I was beautiful now too. And then his expression changed again. Now he looked more pained, or perhaps engulfed in a pleasure that overwhelmed him. He was moaning “ungh, ungh” into my mouth, but not like the guys in porn saying stupid, phony lines like “Fuck me, bitch.” This was pure sound. It was as though his mouth emitted pure nature. His mouth was like a shell that you could put to your ear. Or maybe we were nature together? Were we shells or were we animals? Or one shell and one animal? No, we were two fish swimming in circles around each other, playful and spared of memory, unaware that we had ever been born and that we would ever die. We were connected now not only with all of human history—all the human lovers of the past—but with animal history as well. I’d been having sex for years. I’d had it hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, but now it was like I finally understood what sex was. There were only so many things in our lives that connected us to all of our ancestors, to all of humanity and to the animals. Poetry was one thing that bridged generations. But this was the big thing. This encompassed every species. Otherwise what was there? There was birth and death. There was eating food, drinking fluid, pissing and taking shits. There was this.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  full account of baptism and the holy Supper, to which we shall refer again, he continues: "On Sunday369 a meeting of all, who live in the cities and villages, is held, and a section from the Memoirs of the Apostles (the Gospels) and the writings of the Prophets (the Old Testament) is read, as long as the time permits.370 When the reader has finished, the president,371 in a discourse, gives all exhortation372 to the imitation of these noble things. After this we all rise in common prayer.373 At the close of the prayer, as we have before described,374 bread and wine with water are brought. The president offers prayer and thanks for them, according to the power given him,375 and the congregation responds the Amen. Then the consecrated elements are distributed to each one, and partaken, and are carried by the deacons to the houses of the absent. The wealthy and the willing then give contributions according to their free will, and this collection is deposited with the president, who therewith supplies orphans and widows, poor and needy, prisoners and strangers, and takes care of all who are in want. We assemble in common on Sunday because this is the first day, on which God created the world and the light, and because Jesus Christ our Saviour on the same day rose from the dead and appeared to his disciples." Here, reading of the Scriptures, preaching (and that as an episcopal function), prayer, and communion, plainly appear as the regular parts of the Sunday worship; all descending, no doubt, from the apostolic age. Song is not expressly mentioned here, but elsewhere.376 The communion is not yet clearly separated from the other parts of worship. But this was done towards the end of the second century. The same parts of worship are mentioned in different places by Tertullian.377 The eighth book of the Apostolical Constitutions contains already an elaborate service with sundry liturgical prayers.378 § 66. Parts of Worship. 1. The reading of Scripture lessons from the Old Testament with practical application and exhortation passed from the Jewish synagogue to the Christian church. The lessons from the New Testament came prominently into use as the Gospels and Epistles took the place of the oral instruction of the apostolic age. The reading of the Gospels is expressly mentioned by Justin Martyr, and the Apostolical Constitutions add the Epistles and the Acts.379 During the Pentecostal season the Acts of the Apostles furnished the lessons. But there was no uniform system of selection before the Nicene age. Besides the canonical Scripture, post-apostolic writings, as the Epistle of Clement of Rome, the Epistle of Barnabas, and the Pastor of Hermas, were read in some congregations, and are found in important MSS. of the New Testament.380 The Acts of Martyrs were also read on the anniversary of their martyrdom. 2.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I imagined him standing, how or if that could ever happen. I would have to prop something up for him, almost like a frame or a podium. I wondered how much weight his tail could withstand. “Guess what?” “What?” he asked, kissing my cheek. “I have my period,” I said, dejected. “I know,” he said. “What do you mean you know?” I laughed. “I just know. I know because I just intuited it. I could feel it. I’m in sync with your vagina. We’re always in contact,” he said. We were both laughing but his eyes seemed serious. “Also, don’t forget,” he said. “I’m an oceanic creature. I’m always with the moon. I can tell these things.” “Well, I guess we won’t be able to fool around for a while,” I said. “Oh, I don’t care. I’d be happy to be covered in your blood.” “You would?” “Yeah, I want your blood all over me. I want your blood on my face and in my hair.” “You’re crazy,” I said. “No, it’s true.” And with that he began to kiss me down my body, lying between my legs with his face up my skirt. I felt scared. Did I smell? Jamie had never gone down on me with my period, and certainly no one before him. I had a tampon in and no blood was on the outside of me, but even still. I was shocked. But after a minute or so he sighed. “I can’t eat you the way I want to with this rock under me. And I’m certainly not going to be able to fuck you here. It’s cutting me up,” he said. I could see that some of the scales near his sash looked irritated and misshapen, like a fish that had been packed at the bottom of a full grocery bag. “What should we do?” I asked. “Do you want to get back in the water?” “No,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess you’d better get the wagon.” “Oh my God, really?” I squealed. “Yes,” he said. “But keep that creature in there under full lockup. And throw away the key.” “Of course,” I said. “I’ll be right back!” I went skipping away. Or maybe I was running. My joy of having him again, being near him, was unabashed. You could not separate me from it. I was the happiness and the happiness was me. The nothingness was nowhere near. It couldn’t touch me. I felt no need to be or do anything other than the way I felt. And if I did, it wouldn’t have been possible anyway. I tripped on a dune and skinned my knee running across the beach. I cut it on a shard of shell. That made me pause for a moment. Was it a sign that being with Theo was deeply misguided?

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The psalter was first enriched by the inspired hymns which saluted the birth of the Saviour of the world, the Magnificat of Mary, the Benedictus of Zacharias, the Gloria in Excelsis of the heavenly host, and the Nunc Dimittis of the aged Simeon. These hymns passed at once into the service of the Church, to resound through all successive centuries, as things of beauty which are "a joy forever." Traces of primitive Christian poems can be found throughout the Epistles and the Apocalypse. The angelic anthem (Luke 2:14) was expanded into the Gloria in Excelsis, first in the Greek church, in the third, if not the second, century, and afterwards in the Latin, and was used as the morning hymn.387 It is one of the classical forms of devotion, like the Latin Te Deum of later date. The evening hymn of the Greek church is less familiar and of inferior merit. The following is a free translation: "Hail! cheerful Light, of His pure glory poured, Who is th’ Immortal Father, Heavenly, Blest, Holiest of Holies—Jesus Christ our Lord! Now are we come to the Sun’s hour of rest, The lights of Evening round us shine, We sing the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost Divine! Worthiest art Thou at all times, to be sung With undefiled tongue, Son of our God, Giver of Life alone! Therefore, in all the world, Thy glories, Lord, we own."388 An author towards the close of the second century389 could appeal against the Artemonites, to a multitude of hymns in proof of the faith of the church in the divinity of Christ: "How many psalms and odes of the Christians are there not, which have been written from the beginning by believers, and which, in their theology, praise Christ as the Logos of God?" Tradition says, that the antiphonies, or responsive songs; were introduced by Ignatius of Antioch. The Gnostics, Valentine and Bardesanes also composed religious songs; and the church surely learned the practice not from them, but from the Old Testament psalms. The oldest Christian poem preserved to us which can be traced to an individual author is from the pen of the profound Christian philosopher, Clement of Alexandria, who taught theology ill that city before A.D. 202. It is a sublime but somewhat turgid song of praise to the Logos, as the divine educator and leader of the human race, and though not intended and adapted for public worship, is remarkable for its spirit and antiquity.390

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Without creatures, God would not be God. God is in all things and all things are God—Nu sint all Ding gleich in Gott und sint Got selber.447 Thomas Aquinas made a clear distinction between the being of God and the being of created things. Eckart emphasized their unity. What he meant was that the images or universals exist in God eternally, as he distinctly affirmed when he said, "In the Father are the images of all creatures."448 As for the soul, it can be as little comprehended in a definition as God Himself.449 The soul’s kernel, or its ultimate essence, is the little spark, Fünkelein, a light which never goes out which is uncreated and uncreatable.450 Notwithstanding these statements, the German theologian affirms that God created the soul and poured into it, in the first instance, all His own purity. Through the spark the soul is brought into union with God, and becomes more truly one with Him than food does with the body. The soul cannot rest till it returns to God, and to do 80 it must first die to itself, that is, completely submit itself to God.451 Eckart’s aim in all his sermons, as he asserts, was to reach this spark. It is one of Eckart’s merits that he lays so much stress upon the dignity of the soul. Several of his tracts bear this title.452 This dignity follows from God’s love and regenerative operation. Passing to the incarnation, it is everywhere the practical purpose which controls Eckart’s treatment, and not the metaphysical. The second person of the Trinity took on human nature, that man might become partaker of the divine nature. In language such as Gregory of Nyssa used, he said, God became man that we might become God. Gott ist Mensch worden dass wir Gott wurden. As God was hidden within the human nature so that we saw there only man, so the soul is to be hidden within the divine nature, that we should see nothing but God.453 As certainly as God begets the Son from His own nature, so certainly does He beget Him in the soul. God is in all things, but He is in the soul alone by birth, and nowhere else is He so truly as in the soul. No one can know God but the only begotten Son. Therefore, to know God, man must through the eternal generation become Son. It is as true that man becomes God as that God was made man.454 The generation of the eternal Son in the soul brings joy which no man can take away. A prince who should lose his kingdom and all worldly goods would still have fulness of joy, for his birth outweighs everything else.455 God is in the soul, and yet He is not the soul. The eye is not the piece of wood upon which it looks, for when the eye is closed, it is the same eye it was before.