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 Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  The teachers, the pupils, the principal, everyone at school knew: Teddy and Trevor, thick as thieves. Teddy’s mom worked as a domestic for a family in Linksfield, a wealthy suburb near school. Linksfield was a long walk from my house, nearly forty minutes, but still doable. Walking around was pretty much all I did back then, anyway. I couldn’t afford to do anything else, and I couldn’t afford to get around any other way. If you liked walking, you were my friend. Teddy and I walked all over Johannesburg together. I’d walk to Teddy’s house and we’d hang out there. Then we’d walk back to my house and hang out there. We’d walk from my house down to the city center, which was like a three-hour hike, just to hang out, and then we’d walk all the way back. Friday and Saturday nights we’d walk to the mall and hang out. The Balfour Park Shopping Mall was a few blocks from my house. It’s not a big mall, but it has everything—an arcade, a cinema, restaurants, South Africa’s version of Target, South Africa’s version of the Gap. Then, once we were at the mall, since we never had any money to shop or watch movies or buy food, we’d just wander around inside. One night we were at the mall and most of the shops were closed, but the cinema was still showing movies so the building was still open. There was this stationery shop that sold greeting cards and magazines, and it didn’t have a door, so when it closed at night there was only a metal gate, like a trellis, that was pulled across the entrance and padlocked. Walking past this shop, Teddy and I realized that if we put our arms through the trellis we could reach this rack of chocolates just inside. And these weren’t just any chocolates—they were alcohol-filled chocolates. I loved alcohol. Loved loved loved it. My whole life I’d steal sips of grown-ups’ drinks whenever I could. We reached in, grabbed a few, drank the liquor inside, and then gobbled down the chocolates. We’d hit the jackpot. We started going back again and again to steal more. We’d wait for the shops to start to close, then we’d go and sit against the gate, acting like we were just hanging out. We’d check to make sure the coast was clear, and then one of us would reach in, grab a chocolate, and drink the whiskey. Reach in, grab a chocolate, drink the rum. Reach in, grab a chocolate, drink the brandy. We did this every weekend for at least a month, having the best time. Then we pushed our luck too far. It was a Saturday night. We were hanging out at the entrance to the stationery shop, leaning up against the gate.

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

  Nevertheless, when the heavens cease to move, and the elements cease to generate and corrupt, their substance will remain, because God’s goodness is unchangeable. For He created things that they might be: wherefore things that have an aptitude for perpetuity will remain for ever. The heavenly bodies have this aptitude both in whole and in part: whereas the elements have it in whole but not in part, since, in part, they are corruptible: and men have it in part, but not in whole; since the rational soul is incorruptible, whereas the composite is corruptible. Accordingly, those things will remain, in their substance, in that last state of the world, which in any way whatever have an aptitude for perpetuity: for God, by His power, will supply what is lacking to them through their own infirmity. Other things, animals, plants and mixed bodies, which are entirely corruptible, both in whole and in part, will nowise remain in the state of incorruption. Thus then are we to understand the words of the Apostle (1 Cor. 7:31), The fashion of this world passeth away, because the present outward appearance of the world will pass away, while its substance will remain. In the same sense we are to understand the saying of Job (14:12), Man, when he is fallen asleep, shall not awake till the heavens be broken, that is, until the present disposition of the heavens ceases, whereby the heavens move and cause movement in other things. Moreover, since of all the elements fire is the most active, and the most destructive of corruptible things, the destruction of those things which will not remain in the future state, will be fittingly brought about by fire. Wherefore it is of faith that the world will be finally cleansed by fire, not only from corruptible bodies, but even from the contamination which this world has contracted through being the abode of sinners. Thus it is said (2 Pet. 3:7): The heavens and the earth, by the same word are kept in store, reserved unto fire against the day of judgement: where by the heavens, we are to understand, not the firmament wherein are the stars, whether fixed or planets, but the atmosphere contiguous to the earth. Since then the corporeal creature is disposed of finally in a manner that is in keeping with man’s state, and man himself will not only be delivered from corruption, but also clothed in glory, as we have stated; it follows that even the corporeal creature will acquire a certain glory of brightness befitting its capacity. Wherefore it is said (Apoc. 21:1): I saw a new heaven and a new earth: and (Isa. 65:17, 18): I create new heavens, and a new earth, and the former things shall not be in remembrance, and they shall not come upon the heart. But you shall be glad and rejoice for ever. AMEN. THE SUMMA THEOLOGICACOMPLETE EDTITION SAINT THOMAS AQUINAS COPYRIGHT © 2015 BY AETERNA PRESS . ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  My mouth opened and a long, thin groan joined the nasty sounds echoing around the cab. Juicy slaps. Soft, masculine grunts. Short, metallic creaks. Coming faster as he pounded toward my core. Release, when it came, roared through me. Toes curling, I snapped open my legs as wide as they could go, arched my back and sank my nails into his backside, trying to hold onto the moment because it was so damn perfect. When my peak began to wane, he jerked, stroking in short, sharp bursts. Then he dug deeper at the last moment. His head fell back, his mouth opening around a loud, aching groan. The sight of him, all primal male, chest and belly quivering, his cock still lodged deep inside me, was oh so gratifying. At last, he gave a deep sigh and collapsed over me, my legs still wedged high, trapping his arms in the bend of my knee. I couldn’t help it. I laughed. His head jerked up. His gaze met mine, and his lips twitched. “Think I didn’t do that on purpose?” “Losin’ circulation yet?” He ducked and mashed his lips against mine, then backed up on his knees. His arms slid from under my legs, and I eased them down, stretching them on either side of his kneeling frame. “So, I hear you’re leavin’.” “Word gets around.” “Movin’ out of town?” I nodded. “To Prescott. I have another job. But how’d you know? I asked Cooter to keep it quiet.” His mouth widened. “Your new job. Dispatch for Ragland?” I eyed him warily. “That’s it. Just a good guess?” He shook his head slowly, his smile never dimming. Warmth centered in my chest. I ran my palms over his belly and scratched my fingernails down toward his groin. He came out of me, and I rolled the wet latex slowly down his length. “Lemme guess. You drive for them.” “Uh huh. Owner said this hot as hell woman from HT was hirin’ on, and did I know you.” I pulled his cock hard, just to get his attention. “You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” He came over me, bracing his torso on his arms, a wicked glint in his gray eyes. “And have you spoil one fine-as-hell good-bye?” ONCE UPON A DINNER DATE Saskia Walker Samuel set the steaming platter of food down on the table with a flourish, intent on making an impression on his guest. “This looks delicious,” Cassie said, eyeing the food hungrily. He was just about to move away when she reached out and grabbed his hand. “Is this a proper date?” Her fingers meshed with his as she asked the question.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He’d seen me, too. He smiled as he straightened and started toward me. He was still slender, his muscles still moving with the same quiet strength beneath his dark linen suit. His hairline had receded a bit, the style well cut, but not military short anymore. A light blue shirt set off the color of his eyes and crows’ feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes. And oh, he was smiling. I’d so missed his smile. I met him halfway, my hands out to take his. But when his arms slid around me, somehow it was right. I slipped into his embrace like I’d never left, and we stood there in the middle of the lobby, tears streaming down my face as we clung to each other. “Oh, baby, I’ve missed you. It’s so good to see you again.” His voice wavered, and I smiled into the warmth of his chest. “I’ve missed you, too.” My laugh was shaky. “It’s a good thing I’m not wearing mascara, or I’d have ruined your shirt.” He inhaled as my mouth opened—I could almost hear the words between us. Then the shirt would have to come off. But neither one of us spoke. Instead he led me to a quiet corner where I could dry my eyes and blow my nose. I tried to excuse myself to go to the ladies room, to splash cold water on my face, but Eric shook his head, trailing the side of his knuckle down my cheek. “You’re beautiful just the way you are. I don’t want to waste another minute without you.” He nodded toward the door. “My car’s outside. Let’s go to dinner.” He held out his hand. His eyes held mine, and they didn’t look away. In that moment, I knew I’d made up my mind. I squared my shoulders, put my hand in his, and we left. The restaurant was only a few blocks away, still on the waterfront. The sun was setting. Lights twinkled on the boats moving slowly past the restaurant’s huge bay windows. “On the recommendation of a friend,” Eric ordered swordfish and delicate pasta, the perfectly steamed house vegetables, and a light white wine. We each had a single glass, and spumoni for dessert. I knew dinner was delicious. But my attention was riveted to the mesmerizing voice of the man whose absence, I was quickly realizing, had been a hole in my life for almost twenty years. Each laugh, each stroke of his finger over the back of my hand or along my palm, was like a salve seeping in to fill the voids inside me with color and sound and even the damn aromas of the appetizer samples he held out to me on the end of his fork.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Her hand stilled and settled over his heart. “You’re not ready, Paul. I wish you were.” “The counselor I’ve been talking to says otherwise.” Robin’s heartbeat skipped. “Counselor?” He nodded. “I’ll need to keep seeing him for a while, but I know enough about what losing Curt did to me to have my head on straight again.” Her heart ached for the tragedy he’d suffered. She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to outlive your child. His fingers linked with hers. “I should have talked to someone a lot sooner, most especially after I started seeing you. It wasn’t fair to you that I didn’t.” “You can’t take all the blame,” she said softly. “When we started out, our arrangement was perfect for me, too. No strings, hot sex, and a guy who listened to me ramble on about jewelry. Things were fine until I changed my expectations.” He reached over with his free hand and opened the nightstand drawer. She thought he might be reaching for a condom, and her pulse quickened. Then a dark blue velvet box appeared in her line of vision, and her heart stopped altogether. Paul set the box on his washboard abs and took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to buy an engagement ring for a jewelry designer who’s kicked your ass to the curb?” Unable to help herself, she reached for the box. “Wait,” he said, staying her. “Going back to the list of things I need from you...I need you to marry me, Robin. The next time we leave this room, I want us to come back to it as man and wife. I promise you’ll have the wedding of your dreams, with our friends and family and doves and swans and whatever the hell you want, but I’d really like the vows now—today—and getting married here in Vegas feels like it fits us.” Us. She looked at him with wide eyes, her mind telling her how crazy that was. There were so many courtship steps they were skipping. What they’d had in their year together—not counting the four miserable months apart—was emails, phone calls, six days a month of the hottest sex of her life... ...and a sharp, pure feeling of connection that had hit them both like lightning the moment they’d laid eyes on each other. “I know it’s crazy,” he said, reading her mind, as he so often did. “But we’ve been crazy over each other from the start. I’m lovesick over you, baby. I swear you’ll never regret taking a chance on me. I’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been in your life.” Swallowing hard, she thumbed open the box. “Oh, Paul,” she breathed, her fingers shaking. “Do you like it?” His rich, deep voice was laced with a rare note of anxiety. “We can exchange it if you don’t. You can pick out whatever you want. Something more traditional maybe—”

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

  Objection 5: Further, Augustine says (De Trin. xiii, 5) that “happy is he who has whatever he desires, and desires nothing amiss.” And a little further on (6) he adds: “He is most happy who desires well, whatever he desires: for good things make a man happy, and such a man already possesses some good—i.e. a good will.” Therefore happiness consists in an act of the will. On the contrary, Our Lord said (Jn. 17:3): “This is eternal life: that they may know Thee, the only true God.” Now eternal life is the last end, as stated above (A[2], ad 1). Therefore man’s happiness consists in the knowledge of God, which is an act of the intellect. I answer that, As stated above (Q[2], A[6]) two things are needed for happiness: one, which is the essence of happiness: the other, that is, as it were, its proper accident, i.e. the delight connected with it. I say, then, that as to the very essence of happiness, it is impossible for it to consist in an act of the will. For it is evident from what has been said ([1007]AA[1],2; Q[2], A[7]) that happiness is the attainment of the last end. But the attainment of the end does not consist in the very act of the will. For the will is directed to the end, both absent, when it desires it; and present, when it is delighted by resting therein. Now it is evident that the desire itself of the end is not the attainment of the end, but is a movement towards the end: while delight comes to the will from the end being present; and not conversely, is a thing made present, by the fact that the will delights in it. Therefore, that the end be present to him who desires it, must be due to something else than an act of the will. This is evidently the case in regard to sensible ends. For if the acquisition of money were through an act of the will, the covetous man would have it from the very moment that he wished for it. But at the moment it is far from him; and he attains it, by grasping it in his hand, or in some like manner; and then he delights in the money got. And so it is with an intelligible end. For at first we desire to attain an intelligible end; we attain it, through its being made present to us by an act of the intellect; and then the delighted will rests in the end when attained. So, therefore, the essence of happiness consists in an act of the intellect: but the delight that results from happiness pertains to the will. In this sense Augustine says (Confess. x, 23) that happiness is “joy in truth,” because, to wit, joy itself is the consummation of happiness.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Sometimes when it was too hot they brought the celesta or the little organ into the garden (and a keg of beer, naturally) and we’d sit around in the dark laughing and singing—until the neighbors forced us to stop. Sometimes the music was going on all through the house at once, on every floor. It was really crazy then, intoxicating, and if there had been women around it would have spoiled it. Sometimes it was like watching an endurance contest—Ed Bauries and George Neumiller at the grand piano, each trying to wear the other out, changing places without stopping, crossing hands, sometimes falling away to plain chopsticks, sometimes going like a Wurlitzer. And always something to laugh about all the time. Nobody asked what you did, what you thought about, and so forth. When you arrived at Ed Bauries’ place you checked your identification marks. Nobody gave a fuck what size hat you wore or how much you paid for it. It was entertainment from the word go—and the sandwiches and the drinks were on the house. And when things got going, three or four pianos at once, the celesta, the organ, the mandolins, the guitars, beer running through the halls, the mantelpieces full of sandwiches and cigars, a breeze coming through from the garden, George Neumiller stripped to the waist and modulating like a fiend, it was better than any show I’ve ever seen put on and it didn’t cost a cent. In fact, with the dressing and undressing that went on, I always came away with a little extra change and a pocketful of good cigars. I never saw any of them between times—only Monday nights throughout the summer, when Ed held open house. Standing in the garden listening to the din I could scarcely believe that it was the same city. And if I had ever opened my trap and exposed my guts it would have been all over. Not one of these bozos amounted to anything, as the world reckons. They were just good eggs, children, fellows who liked music and who liked a good time. They liked it so much that sometimes we had to call the ambulance. Like the night Al Burger twisted his knee while showing us one of his stunts. Everybody so happy, so full of music, so lit up, that it took him an hour to persuade us he was really hurt. We try to carry him to a hospital but it’s too far away and besides, it’s such a good joke, that we drop him now and then and that makes him yell like a maniac.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Joanna drew a constricted breath that barely seemed real. She was doing it. She was getting fucked by Tom Wolburn. Another elevator might arrive at any moment, or someone might emerge from the hall into the lobby, but she was beyond caring. His first few strokes were slow, testing, and amazingly smooth. She savored every inch, her nerves blooming beyond physical stimulation but into something so intense it seemed almost artificial, like some glorious drug that dulled mundane cares and magnified bliss. The beat increased rapidly, his cock splitting her, taking her, marking her, a precise pattern of stretching nerves and tearing lust that left her powerless to do anything other than brace her arms on the seat of the sofa and take it. Her clit bumped and bumped against the edge of the sofa, adding another layer of pleasure and as orgasm rose in her, she squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip against the scream so near to utterance. Gold walls melted to crystal. Her ears rang with the scuff of the sofa as Tom’s thrust pushed it into the coffee table. The shudder began at her knees and overwhelmed her body as the orgasm rocketed through her. Her locked elbows buckled, and her face met the back cushion of the couch. She just knew her muffled scream could be heard down in the main lobby. He pulled her back against him and gave three more hard, rapid pumps before he huffed, made a sound that resembled a gurgle, then folded over her, panting into her spine. She couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He kissed her back at the edge of her disheveled blouse, his hand reaching around her middle to hug her, a contented, but possessive hold that frosted the fading edges of her orgasm, sweet and rich. He started to shake, then his chuckle cut through her fuzzy curiosity. “Fuck.” She grinned into the cushion. “Accurate.” “No. I forgot my suitcase at the front desk.” He pulled out of her, his softened cock leaving her suddenly hollow. She stood up, her muscles protesting after her prolonged half-crunch. She turned, pulling her shirt and skirt down and watched him wrap the used condom in his handkerchief. She pushed at her hair and grinned at him. “No problem. Go on to your room. I’ll bring your luggage up.” She stepped up to him and gave him a playful kiss. “And, of course, I’ll see about that turn-down service.” He squeezed her waist and grinned. “Hurry.” And she did, riding back down to the lobby, her heart racing, the glow at her center far more than just the result of good sex. Maybe this was what nerve felt like, the illumination of possibility, the reward worth any risk. She found his suitcase at the desk, gave Martin a wink, and caught the elevator back up. All the way to the top. MEMORIES FOR SALE Andrea Dale Bella knew this was a bad idea.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  She nodded. “Well, then it has a little twist when I say that, doesn’t it? Alright, Pll make you red meat. But I warn you, I’m going to expand your appetite.” What a wonderful offer! But why was she being nice to me now? I shopped that afternoon for new chinos and a dress shirt. I stopped at the farmer’s market and 276 = Leslie Feinberg bought Queen Anne’s Lace jelly, just because I loved the way it sounded. I found fat blueberries at Balducci’s and a Miles Davis tape at Tower Records that I was sure she didn’t have. Ruth laughed with pleasure at the small shower of gifts. “These blueberries are going to be our dessert. And I think Pll use a spoonful of this jelly for our tea. But how did you know I wanted this concert tape?” I smiled shyly. “I’m your neighbor.” Ruth laughed. “That you are. Sit down.” Her kitchen was layered with smells. Ruth set a huge salad in front of me. There were yellow-and- orange blossoms in the bowl along with greens I'd never seen before. My eyes filled with tears. “Ruth, there’s flowers in my salad.” Ruth smiled. “Those are nasturtiums. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” “Can I eat them?” She nodded. I shook my head. “‘T hate to eat this. It’s like a work of art.” Ruth sat down next to me. “That’s part of how starved you’ve been. I think you’re afraid this is the last beautiful thing that’s going to happen to you, and you want to hold onto it.” “How did you know that?” Ruth smiled. “Pm your neighbor. It’s a wonderful salad, Jess. I made it just for you to enjoy. But the next one will be luscious, too.” I blushed and put down my fork. “You know when your leg falls asleep how it hurts when the citculation starts again? I’m not sure I want to hope. I don’t want to get disappointed again.” Ruth patted my arm. “We both already know all about disappointment. Let’s not anticipate it.” She got up and put on the music I’d brought her. As Tate the salad, tears ran down my cheeks for no apparent reason. Ruth smiled. “It’s balsamic vinegar. Isn’t it wonderful?” How could I explain why the tastes of nasturtium and balsamic vinegar on my tongue made me cry? “I’m sorry,” I wiped my eyes. “This is just why you didn’t want to let me in, isn’t it? Why are you being so nice to me now?” Ruth put down her fork and covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry I was so cold. I misunderstood you. I thought you were frightened and confused and I was afraid you’d sap my strength. After you backed off I realized I couldn’t figure you out—that’s a very attractive quality in my book. You seemed to be much stronger and calmer than Id first given you credit for. So I changed my mind.” Ruth smiled, “It’s a woman’s prerogative.”

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  IT WAS ALMOST A YEAR before I got up the nerve to call telephone information for the address of Tifka’s. Finally I stood on the street in front of the bar, scared to death. I wondered what made me think this was the place I could fit. And what if I didn’t? I wore my blue-and-red striped shirt, a navy blue jacket to hide my breasts, black pressed chinos, and black Keds high-tops, because I had no dress shoes. When I stepped inside, it was just a bar. Through the haze of smoke I saw faces glance over and look me up and down. There was no turning back, and I didn’t want to. For the first time I might have found my people. I just didn’t know how to penetrate this society. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a Genny. “How old are you?” the bartender asked. “Old enough,” I countered and put my money down. A round of smirks rolled around the bar. I sipped the beer and tried to act cool. An older drag queen studied me carefully. I picked up my beer and walked toward the smoke-filled backroom. What I saw there released tears I’d held back for years: strong, burly women, wearing ties and suit coats. Their hair was slicked back in perfect DAs. They were the handsomest women Id ever seen. Some of them were wrapped in slow motion dances with women in tight dresses and high heels who touched them tenderly. Just watching made me ache with need. This was everything I could have hoped for in life. “You ever been in a bar like this before?” the drag queen asked me. “Lots of times,” I answered quickly. She smiled. Then I wanted to ask her something so badly I forgot to keep up my lie. “Can I really buy a woman a drink or ask her to dance?” “Sure, honey,’ she said, “but only the femmes.” She laughed and told me her name was Mona. I focused on a woman sitting at a table alone. God, she was beautiful. I wanted to dance with her. The Four Tops were singing, Baby, I need your loving. 1 wasn’t sure I knew how to slow dance, but I made a beeline for her before I lost my nerve. “Would you dance with me?” I asked. Mona and the bouncer picked me up and practically carried me into the front bar and set me on a stool. Mona put her hand on my shoulder and looked me dead in the eyes. “Kid, there’s a few things I should tell you. It’s my fault. I told you it was OK to ask a woman to dance. But the first thing you should know is—don’t ask Butch Al’s woman!”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Eric turned toward the parking structure. I put my hand on his arm and said, “Valet. Now.” He whipped the wheel to the left and into the circle in front of the main entrance. I released my seat belt, braced my hand on his thigh, and leaned over him until my lips were just above his. “I love you, too. Yes, I’ll marry you. I’m out of my fucking mind, but it’s true, and I’m scared to death. Take me upstairs and make love to me until I’m not afraid anymore.” I fell back in the seat, shaking like a leaf. If I looked anything like he did, the valet was getting one hell of an education in what “deer in the headlights” looked like. “Fair enough,” he choked. And tripped trying to get out of the car without taking his seatbelt off. I don’t remember getting to the elevator. I was in his arms when the door closed, our tongues tangling coffee and mint- laced kisses as he ground his erection into my belly. “Security cameras,” he gasped as he came up for air. I wrapped my leg around him, the wet silk of my dress rubbing against my pussy. “Don’t care.” Then we were kissing again. The bell dinged and he broke free, panting as the elevator door opened. He pulled me down the empty hall, pressing me against the wall as he slid the keycard through the slot. Suddenly his hand was beneath the back of his jacket, the butt of a gun showing at his waist. “Wait here.” He ducked quickly inside, scanning the room, checking the bathroom and under the bed before he pulled me in behind him. Then he shoved the door closed and threw all the locks. “What the hell is your job!” I demanded. I was shocked to realize I didn’t really care. I just wanted to know. “FBI, fifteen years,” he growled, tearing his jacket off, throwing it onto the nightstand. He stripped off the weapon harness, checked the safety, and tossed it down on his jacket. “Are you okay with that?” “It’s better than blowing up crap in the desert,” I sighed. “I’ll still worry. Are you okay with that?” “Yup. I’m not doing as much field work these days. I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. It’s a lot more than we could, back then.” Eric was looking out the window, still breathing hard, his gaze calculating. He pulled a straight-backed chair out from the desk and set it in front of the window. I have no idea where the condom came from, but there was one on the seat of the chair. He turned on a low light in front of the window and held out his hand to me. “I want to see you this first time.

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

  GREGORY. (Hom. xv. in Evang.) Abraham saw the day of the Lord even then, when he entertained the three Angels, a figure of the Trinity. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. liv. 2) They are aliens from Abraham if they grieve over what he rejoiced in. By this day perhaps He means the day of the cross, which Abraham prefigured by the offering up of Isaac and the ram: intimating hereby that He did not come to His passion unwillingly. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xliii. 16) If they rejoiced to whom the Word appeared in the flesh, what was his joy, who beheld in spiritual vision the light ineffable, the abiding Word, the bright illumination of pious souls, the indefectible wisdom, still abiding with God the Father, and sometime to come in the flesh, but not to leave the Father’s bosom. 8:57–5957. Then said the Jews unto him. Thou art not yet fifty years old, and hast thou seen Abraham? 58. Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am. 59. Then took they up stones to cast at him: but Jesus hid himself, and went out of the temple, going through the midst of them, and so passed by. GREGORY. (Hom. xviii. in Evang.) The carnal minds of the Jews are intent on the flesh only; they think only of His age in the flesh: Then said the Jews unto Him, Thou art not fifty years old, and hast Thou seen Abraham? that is to say, Many ages have passed since Abraham died; and how then could he see thy day? For they took His words in a carnal sense. THEOPHYLACT. Christ was then thirty-three years old. Why then do they not say, Thou art not yet forty years old, instead of fifty? A needless question this: they simply spoke as chance led them at the time. Some however say that they mentioned the fiftieth year on account of its sacred character, as being the year of jubilee, in which they redeemed their captives, and gave up the possessions they had bought. GREGORY. (ut sup.) Our Saviour mildly draws them away from their carnal view, to the contemplation of His Divinity; Jesus said unto them, Verily, verily, I say unto you, Before Abraham was, I am. Before is a particle of past time, am, of present. Divinity has no past or future, but always the present; and therefore He does not say, Before Abraham was, I was: but, Before Abraham was, I am: (Exod. 3:14) as it is in Exodus, I am that I am. Before and after might be said of Abraham with reference to different periods of his life; to be, in the present, is said of the truth only. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. xliii. 18) Abraham being a creature, He did not say before Abraham was, but, before Abraham was made. Nor does He say, I am made; because that, in the beginning WAS. the Word.

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

  AUGUSTINE. (Tr. cxi. 1) These are they whom He has received from the Father, whom He also chose out of the world; as He saith at the beginning of this prayer, Thou hast given Him power over all flesh, i. e. all mankind, That He should give eternal life to as many as Thou hast given Him. Wherein He shews that He had received power over all men, to deliver whom He would, and to condemn whom He would. Wherefore it is to all His members that He promises this reward, that where He is, they may be also. Nor can that but be done, which the Almighty Son saith that He wishes to the Almighty Father: for the Father and the Son have one will, which, if weakness prevent us from comprehending, piety must believe. Where I am: so far as pertains to the creature, He was made of the seed of David according to the flesh: He might say, Where I am, meaning where He was shortly to be, i. e. heaven. In heaven then, He promises us, we shall be. For thither was the form of a servant raised, which He had taken from the Virgin, and there placed on the right hand of God. GREGORY. (Moral.) What means then what the Truth saith above, No man hath ascended into heaven, but He that came down from heaven, even the Son of man which is in heaven. (John 3:13) Yet here is no discrepancy, for our Lord being the Head of His members, the reprobates excluded, He is alone with us. And therefore, we making one with Him, whence He came alone in Himself, thither He returns alone in us.

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

  Objection 3: Further, judgment of the effect from its cause is more certain than judgment of cause from effect. Now goodness or malice of operation is the cause of goodness or malice of pleasure: because “those pleasures are good which result from good operations, and those are evil which arise from evil operations,” as stated in Ethic. x, 5. Therefore pleasures are not the rule and measure of moral goodness and malice. On the contrary, Augustine, commenting on Ps. 7:10 “The searcher of hearts and reins is God,” says: “The end of care and thought is the pleasure which each one aims at achieving.” And the Philosopher says (Ethic. vii, 11) that “pleasure is the architect,” i.e. the principal, “end [*St. Thomas took “finis” as being the nominative, whereas it is the genitive—{tou telous}; and the Greek reads “He” (i.e. the political philosopher), “is the architect of the end.”], in regard to which, we say absolutely that this is evil, and that, good.” I answer that, Moral goodness or malice depends chiefly on the will, as stated above ([1298]Q[20], A[1]); and it is chiefly from the end that we discern whether the will is good or evil. Now the end is taken to be that in which the will reposes: and the repose of the will and of every appetite in the good is pleasure. And therefore man is reckoned to be good or bad chiefly according to the pleasure of the human will; since that man is good and virtuous, who takes pleasure in the works of virtue; and that man evil, who takes pleasure in evil works. On the other hand, pleasures of the sensitive appetite are not the rule of moral goodness and malice; since food is universally pleasurable to the sensitive appetite both of good and of evil men. But the will of the good man takes pleasure in them in accordance with reason, to which the will of the evil man gives no heed. Reply to Objection 1: Love and desire precede pleasure in the order of generation. But pleasure precedes them in the order of the end, which serves a principle in actions; and it is by the principle, which is the rule and measure of such matters, that we form our judgment. Reply to Objection 2: All pleasures are uniform in the point of their being the repose of the appetite in something good: and in this respect pleasure can be a rule or measure. Because that man is good, whose will rests in the true good: and that man evil, whose will rests in evil. Reply to Objection 3: Since pleasure perfects operation as its end, as stated above ([1299]Q[33], A[4]); an operation cannot be perfectly good, unless there be also pleasure in good: because the goodness of a thing depends on its end. And thus, in a way, the goodness of the pleasure is the cause of goodness in the operation.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Brynn’s body went taut and still, her hair loose around her shoulders now as she arched her back and pressed down on Paul’s hand. Then she opened her mouth and let out a moan that rose to echo off the bathroom walls. Months of pent-up emotion and suppressed desire exploded from her in that scream. It was like watching a mythical banshee unleashed, and Paul could only watch and marvel at her beauty. Wiggling his fingers inside her, he kept the pressure on her clit and rode out her orgasm. He stared at Brynn, as sexy as any woman he’d ever seen—coming, because of him. For him. Brynn’s orgasm seemed to last for minutes, and she gasped and panted as if she were in labor. Paul’s heart nearly stopped at that thought, but Brynn showed no signs of pain—only pleasure so intense Paul felt like they had never shared anything quite like this before. Finally, slowly, the moans faded to soft whimpers, and Brynn’s eyes fluttered open. Her radiant smile was a sight to behold, and Paul forgot all about his own barely controlled desire. He’d done this—he had made Brynn smile like this. Brynn opened her mouth, started to say something, and then shook her head. “Wow.” They both laughed, Paul’s fingers still inside Brynn, most of the bath water on the tile floor. Brynn shivered and grimaced as she tried to sit up. Paul gently slid his cramped fingers free. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” he asked, feeling a pang of remorse. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed Brynn so hard. Brynn laughed. “Did you mean it?” “What?” “That I’m beautiful like this.” Paul ran a finger over the light purple mark that ran down Brynn’s rounded belly. “Every inch of you, every curve, every mark. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” “I believe you.” Brynn covered Paul’s hand on her stomach. “Now get me out of this tub and take me to bed so you can fuck me properly.” Paul grinned. “Anything you want, beautiful.” DAWN CHORUS Nikki Magennis Of course it’s not possible to stuff an entire duck-down pillow into the small shell-shaped hole of one’s ear, but John was trying nonetheless. Not that cotton and duck feathers would be enough of a muffler. He doubted that pouring cement in his ears, wrapping his head in deep pile carpet, and lead-lining the walls would be enough. The thump of the bass was the worst—he could feel it vibrate in the marrow of his bones—that regular, predictable bludgeoning kick. Pounding through the floor, rattling the glass in the window frames, making his whole body throb with a surround-sound headache. And then that jarring, jangling noise. Just after the out-of-tune wailing of the third chorus. He didn’t know the title, but he knew the song by heart—every riff, lick, and drum roll.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  You have to come and meet her.” I knew Tom was full of shit, but the thing that makes a con man successful is that he never gives you nothing. He delivers just enough to keep you believing. Tom had introduced me to many beautiful women. He was never dating them, but he talked a good game, and was always around them. So when he said he had a girl, I didn’t doubt him. The two of us jumped on a bus and headed into the city. The girl lived in a run-down block of flats downtown. We found her building, and a girl leaned over the balcony and waved us inside. That was the girl’s sister Lerato, Tom said. Come to find out, he’d been trying to get with Lerato, and setting me up with the sister was his way in—of course, Tom was working an angle. It was dark in the lobby. The elevator was busted, so we walked up several flights. This girl Lerato brought us into the flat. In the living room was this giant, but I mean really, really enormous, fat woman. I was like, Oh, Tom. I see what you’ve done here. Nicely played. Tom was a big joker as well. “Is this my date?” I asked. “No, no, no,” he said. “This is not your date. This is her older sister. Your date is Babiki. Babiki has three older sisters, and Lerato is her younger sister. Babiki’s gone to the store to buy groceries. She’ll be back in a moment.” We waited, chatted with the older sister. Ten minutes later the door opened and the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life walked in. She was...good Lord. Beautiful eyes, beautiful golden yellow-brown skin. It was like she glowed. No girl at my high school looked anything like her. “Hi,” she said. “Hi,” I replied. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea how to talk to a girl that beautiful. She was shy and didn’t speak much, either. There was a bit of an awkward pause. Luckily Tom’s a guy who just talks and talks. He jumped right in and smoothed everything over. “Trevor, this is Babiki. Babiki, Trevor.” He went on and on about how great I was, how much she was looking forward to the dance, when I would pick her up for the dance, all the details. We hung out for a few, and then Tom needed to get going so we headed out the door. Babiki turned and smiled at me and waved as we left. “Bye.” “Bye.” We walked out of that building and I was the happiest man on earth. I couldn’t believe it. I was the guy at school who couldn’t get a date.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  He was Abel, the good brother, the good son, a name straight out of the Bible. And he lived up to it as well. He was the firstborn, dutiful, took care of his mother, took care of his siblings. He was the pride of his family. But Abel was his English name. His Tsonga name was Ngisaveni. It means “Be afraid.” — Mom and Abel got married. There was no ceremony, no exchange of rings. They went and signed the papers and that was it. A year or so later, my baby brother, Andrew, was born. I only vaguely remember my mom being gone for a few days, and when she got back there was now this thing in the house that cried and shat and got fed, but when you’re nine years older than your sibling, their arrival doesn’t change much for you. I wasn’t changing diapers; I was out playing arcade games at the shop, running around the neighborhood. The main thing that marked Andrew’s birth for me was our first trip to meet Abel’s family during the Christmas holidays. They lived in Tzaneen, a town in Gazankulu, what had been the Tsonga homeland under apartheid. Tzaneen has a tropical climate, hot and humid. The white farms nearby grow some of the most amazing fruit—mangoes, lychees, the most beautiful bananas you’ve ever seen in your life. That’s where all the fruit we export to Europe comes from. But on the black land twenty minutes down the road, the soil has been decimated by years of overfarming and overgrazing. Abel’s mother and his sisters were all traditional, stay-at-home moms, and Abel and his younger brother, who was a policeman, supported the family. They were all very kind and generous and accepted us as part of the family right away. Tsonga culture, I learned, is extremely patriarchal. We’re talking about a world where women must bow when they greet a man. Men and women have limited social interactions. The men kill the animals, and the women cook the food. Men are not even allowed in the kitchen. As a nine-year-old boy, I thought this was fantastic. I wasn’t allowed to do anything. At home my mom was forever making me do chores— wash the dishes, sweep the house—but when she tried to do that in Tzaneen, the women wouldn’t allow it. “Trevor, make your bed,” my mom would say. “No, no, no, no,” Abel’s mother would protest. “Trevor must go outside and play.” I was made to run off and have fun while my girl step-cousins had to clean the house and help the women cook. I was in heaven. My mother loathed every moment of being there. For Abel, a firstborn son who was bringing home his own firstborn son, this trip was a huge deal.

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

  Objection 2: Further, the end is proportionate to the beginning. But Christ ended His life in pain, according to Is. 53:4: “Surely . . . He hath carried our sorrows.” Therefore it seems that His nativity was not without the pains of childbirth. Objection 3: Further, in the book on the birth of our Saviour [*Protevangelium Jacobi xix, xx] it is related that midwives were present at Christ’s birth; and they would be wanted by reason of the mother’s suffering pain. Therefore it seems that the Blessed Virgin suffered pain in giving birth to her Child. On the contrary, Augustine says (Serm. de Nativ. [*Supposititious]), addressing himself to the Virgin-Mother: “In conceiving thou wast all pure, in giving birth thou wast without pain.” I answer that, The pains of childbirth are caused by the infant opening the passage from the womb. Now it has been said above ([4189]Q[28], A[2], Replies to objections), that Christ came forth from the closed womb of His Mother, and, consequently, without opening the passage. Consequently there was no pain in that birth, as neither was there any corruption; on the contrary, there was much joy therein for that God-Man “was born into the world,” according to Is. 35:1,2: “Like the lily, it shall bud forth and blossom, and shall rejoice with joy and praise.” Reply to Objection 1: The pains of childbirth in the woman follow from the mingling of the sexes. Wherefore (Gn. 3:16) after the words, “in sorrow shalt thou bring forth children,” the following are added: “and thou shalt be under thy husband’s power.” But, as Augustine says (Serm. de Assumpt. B. Virg., [*Supposititious]), from this sentence we must exclude the Virgin-Mother of God; who, “because she conceived Christ without the defilement of sin, and without the stain of sexual mingling, therefore did she bring Him forth without pain, without violation of her virginal integrity, without detriment to the purity of her maidenhood.” Christ, indeed, suffered death, but through His own spontaneous desire, in order to atone for us, not as a necessary result of that sentence, for He was not a debtor unto death. Reply to Objection 2: As “by His death” Christ “destroyed our death” [*Preface of the Mass in Paschal-time], so by His pains He freed us from our pains; and so He wished to die a painful death. But the mother’s pains in childbirth did not concern Christ, who came to atone for our sins. And therefore there was no need for His Mother to suffer in giving birth.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  If the police get you, the police don’t love you. When I beat you, I’m trying to save you. When they beat you, they’re trying to kill you.” My favorite thing to eat as a kid, and still my favorite dessert of all time, was custard and jelly, what Americans would call Jell-O. One Saturday my mom was planning for a big family celebration and she made a huge bowl of custard and jelly and put it in the fridge. It had every flavor: red, green, and yellow. I couldn’t resist it. That whole day, every time I walked past the fridge I’d pop my head in with a spoon and sneak a bite. This was a giant bowl, meant to last for a week for the whole family. I finished it in one day by myself. That night I went to bed and I got absolutely butchered by mosquitoes. Mosquitoes love to feast on me, and when I was a kid it was bad. They would destroy me at night. I would wake up covered with bites and feel ill to my stomach and itchy all over. Which was exactly what happened this particular Sunday morning. Covered with mosquito bites, my stomach bloated with custard and jelly, I could barely get out of bed. I felt like I was going to vomit. Then my mom walked in. “Get dressed,” she said. “We’re going to church.” “I don’t feel well.” “That’s why we’re going to church. That’s where Jesus is going to heal you.” “Eh, I’m not sure that’s how it works.” My mom and I had different ideas about how Jesus worked. She believed that you pray to Jesus and then Jesus pitches up and does the thing that you need. My views on Jesus were more reality-based. “Why don’t I take medicine,” I said, “and then pray to Jesus to thank him for giving us the doctors who invented medicine, because medicine is what makes you feel better, not Jesus.” “You don’t need medicine if you have Jesus. Jesus will heal you. Pray to Jesus.” “But is medicine not a blessing from Jesus? And if Jesus gives us medicine and we do not take the medicine, are we not denying the grace that he has given us?” Like all of our debates about Jesus, this conversation went nowhere. “Trevor,” she said, “if you don’t go to church you’re going to get worse. You’re lucky you got sick on Sunday, because now we’re going to church and you can pray to Jesus and Jesus is going to heal you.” “That sounds nice, but why don’t I just stay home?” “No. Get dressed. We’re going to church.” MY MOTHER’S LIFE Once I had my hair cornrowed for the matric dance, I started getting attention from girls for the first time. I actually went on dates. At times I thought that it was because I looked better.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  He’d always been proud of me. Circumstance had pulled us apart, but he was never not my father. I walked out of his house that day an inch taller. Seeing him had reaffirmed his choosing of me. He chose to have me in his life. He chose to answer my letter. I was wanted. Being chosen is the greatest gift you can give to another human being. Once we reconnected, I was overcome by this drive to make up for all the years we’d missed. I decided the best way to do it was to interview him. I realized very quickly that that was a mistake. Interviews will give you facts and information, but facts and information weren’t really what I was after. What I wanted was a relationship, and an interview is not a relationship. Relationships are built in the silences. You spend time with people, you observe them and interact with them, and you come to know them—and that is what apartheid stole from us: time. You can’t make up for that with an interview, but I had to figure that out for myself. I went down to spend a few days with my father, and I made it my mission: This weekend I will get to know my father. As soon as I arrived I started peppering him with questions. “Where are you from? Where did you go to school? Why did you do this? How did you do that?” He started getting visibly irritated. “What is this?” he said. “Why are you interrogating me? What’s going on here?” “I want to get to know you.” “Is this how you normally get to know people, by interrogating them?” “Well...not really.” “So how do you get to know people?” “I dunno. By spending time with them, I guess.” “Okay. So spend time with me. See what you find out.” So we spent the weekend together. We had dinner and talked about politics. We watched F1 racing and talked about sports. We sat quietly in his backyard and listened to old Elvis Presley records. The whole time he said not one word about himself. Then, as I was packing up to leave, he walked over to me and sat down. “So,” he said, “in the time we’ve spent together, what would you say you’ve learned about your dad?” “Nothing. All I know is that you’re extremely secretive.” “You see? You’re getting to know me already.” When Dutch colonists landed at the southern tip of Africa over three hundred years ago, they encountered an indigenous people known as the Khoisan. The Khoisan are the Native Americans of South Africa, a lost tribe of bushmen, nomadic hunter-gatherers distinct from the darker, Bantu-speaking peoples who later migrated south to become the Zulu, Xhosa, and Sotho tribes of modern South Africa.