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.

Page 120 of 299 · 20 per page

• 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)

  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 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 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 The Pisces (2018)

  I lay down on one of them in the fetal position. When I awoke it was after one a.m. and the tide was rising higher. My body was coated in salt and ocean foam. I felt like I was part of the rock and part of the ocean, and I wondered if this is how Sappho felt, even in her deepest desperation, part of the earth, like that desperation or longing or eternal cosmic want was something to be celebrated—something natural—holy even, or at least, not just something to be endured. What if everything was natural? What if there was no wrong or right action in terms of who you loved, who you wanted, or who you were drawn to? If the will of the universe was the will of the universe, and if everything was happening as it was, then wasn’t everything you could possibly do all right? I was almost ready to give up, when I saw him in the distance swimming toward me. I started laughing and some tears came to my eyes. “Hi!” he called. “Hello!” I giggled. “It’s good to see you. I was afraid you weren’t coming back.” I felt emboldened by how excited he seemed to see me. “Do you want to get out of the water and sit on the rock with me?” I asked. “No, you come closer to the water,” he said. “If I get out it will be too cold for me to get back in again.” “I can’t sit on the water,” I said. “No, just come closer to the edge. Put that blanket down on the rock. Lie down on it and just face me. Please? If you don’t mind.” I did what he said. I watched myself. Was this natural, what I should be doing? Or was I so sick that I would do anything that this strange boy asked? He couldn’t even bother to get out of the water to meet me. Was that a bad sign? But he was so kind in other ways, so attentive and present. “Now what? “Do you want to hug me?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, laughing. “I do want to hug you.”

• From The Pisces (2018)

  “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? My knee hurt and there was sand in the cut. But all I wanted was for him to take care of my knee. I wanted to show it to him and be babied.

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

  We have a few descriptions of Christian homes from the ante-Nicene age, one from an eminent Greek father, another from a married presbyter of the Latin church. Clement of Alexandria enjoins upon Christian married persons united prayer and reading of the Scriptures,643 as a daily morning exercise, and very beautifully says: "The mother is the glory of her children, the wife is the glory of her husband, both are the glory of the wife, God is the glory of all together."644 Tertullian, at the close of the book which he wrote to his wife, draws the following graphic picture, which, though somewhat idealized, could be produced only from the moral spirit of the gospel and actual experience:645 "How can I paint the happiness of a marriage which the church ratifies, the oblation (the celebration of the communion) confirms, the benediction seals, angels announce, the Father declares valid. Even upon earth, indeed, sons do not legitimately marry without the consent of their fathers. What a union of two believers—one hope, one vow, one discipline, and one worship! They are brother and sister, two fellow-servants, one spirit and one flesh. Where there is one flesh, there is also one spirit. They pray together, fast together, instruct, exhort, and support each other. They go together to the church of God, and to the table of the Lord. They share each other’s tribulation, persecution, and revival. Neither conceals anything from the other; neither avoids, neither annoys the other. They delight to visit the sick, supply the needy, give alms without constraint, and in daily zeal lay their offerings before the altar without scruple or hindrance. They do not need to keep the sign of the cross hidden, nor to express slyly their Christian joy, nor to suppress the blessing. Psalms and hymns they sing together, and they vie with each other in singing to God. Christ rejoices when he sees and hears this. He gives them his peace. Where two are together in his name, there is he; and where he is, there the evil one cannot come." A large sarcophagus represents a scene of family worship: on the right, four men, with rolls in their hands, reading or singing; on the left, three women and a girl playing a lyre. For the conclusion of a marriage, Ignatius646 required "the consent of the bishop, that it might be a marriage for God, and not for pleasure. All should be done to the glory of God." In Tertullian’s time,647 as may be inferred from the passage just quoted, the solemnization of marriage was already at least a religious act, though not a proper sacrament, and was sealed by the celebration of the holy communion in presence of the congregation. The Montanists were disposed even to make this benediction of the church necessary to the validity of marriage among Christians.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  From early dawn the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob had been in a flutter—Pauline preparing the déjeuner de noces, Pierre garnishing and sweeping their sitting-room, and both of them pausing from time to time to embrace the flushed cheeks of their happy daughter. Stephen had given the wedding dress, the wedding breakfast and a sum of money; Mary had given the bride her lace veil, her white satin shoes and her white silk stockings; David had given a large gilt clock, purchased for him in the Palais Royal; while Burton’s part was to drive the bride to the church, and the married pair to the station. By nine o’clock the whole street was agog, for Pauline and Pierre were liked by their neighbours; and besides, as the baker remarked to his wife, from so grand a house it would be a fine business. ‘They are after all generous, these English,’ said he; ‘and if Mademoiselle Gordon is strange in appearance, one should not forget that she served la France and must now wear a scar as well as ribbon.’ Then remembering his four sons slain in the war, he sighed—sons are sons to a king or a baker. David, growing excited, rushed up and down stairs with offers to help which nobody wanted, least of all the flustered and anxious bride at the moment of putting on tight satin slippers . ‘Va donc! Tu ne peux pas m’aider, mon chou, veux tu te taire, alors!’ implored Adèle. In the end Mary had had to find collar and lead and tie David up to the desk in the study, where he brooded and sucked his white satin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grateful. But at long last Adèle was arrayed to be wed, and must show herself shyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing with her good, honest face; with her round, bright eyes like those of a blackbird. Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her heart, this girl who had waited so long for her mate—had so patiently and so faithfully waited. 2 In the church were a number of friends and relations; together with those who will journey for miles in order to attend a funeral or wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress suit, and Stephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy and warm it smelt, although scented.

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

  In the narrower sense, the Renaissance may be confined to the recovery of the culture of Greece and Rome and the revival of polite literature and art, and it is sometimes designated the Revival of Letters. After having been taught for centuries that the literature of classic antiquity was full of snares and dangers for a Christian public, men opened their eyes and revelled with childlike delight in the discovery of ancient authors and history. Virgil sang again the Aeneid, Homer the Iliad and Odyssey. Cicero once more delivered his orations and Plato taught his philosophy. It was indeed an intellectual and artistic new birth that burst forth in Italy, a regeneration, as the word Renaissance means. But it was more. It was a revolt against monastic asceticism and scholasticism, the systems which cramped the free flow of bodily enthusiasm and intellectual inquiry.985 It called man from morbid self-mortifications as the most fitting discipline of mortal existence here below, and offered him the satisfaction of all the elements of his nature as his proper pursuit. Beginning in Italy, this new enthusiasm spread north to Germany and extended as far as Scotland. North of the Alps, it was known as Humanism and its representatives as Humanists, the words being taken from literae humanae, or humaniores, that is, humane studies, the studies which develop the man as the proprietor of this visible sphere. In the wider sense, it comprehends the revival of literature and art, the development of rational criticism, the transition from feudalism to a new order of social organization, the elevation of the modern languages of Europe as vehicles for the highest thought, the emancipation of intelligence, and the expansion of human interests, the invention of the printing-press, the discoveries of navigation and the exploration of America and the East, and the definition of the solar system by Copernicus and Galileo,—in one word, all the progressive developments of the last two centuries of the Middle Ages, developments which have since been the concern of modern civilization. The most discriminating characterization of this remarkable movement came from the pen of Michelet, who defined it as the discovery of the world and man. In this twofold aspect, Burckhardt, its leading historian for Italy, has treated the Renaissance with deep philosophical insight.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She found herself becoming acutely observant, and now she discovered all manner of wonders; the network of veins on the leaves, for instance, and the delicate hearts of the wild dog-roses, the uncertain shimmering flight of the larks as they fluttered up singing, close to her feet. But above all she rediscovered the cuckoo—it was June, so the cuckoo had changed his rhythm—she must often stand breathlessly still to listen: ‘Cuckoo-kook, cuckoo-kook,’ all over the hills; and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes. Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that she and Martin had visited together, only now she could think of him with affection, with toleration, with tenderness even. In a curious way she now understood him as never before, and in consequence condoned. It had just been some rather ghastly mistake, his mistake, yet she understood what he must have felt; and thinking of Martin she might grow rather frightened—what if she should ever make such a mistake? But the fear would be driven into the background by her sense of well-being, her fine exultation. The very earth that she trod seemed exalted, and the green, growing things that sprang out of the earth, and the birds, ‘Cuckoo-kook,’ all over the hills—and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes. She became much more anxious about her appearance; for five mornings she studied her face in the glass as she dressed—after all she was not so bad looking. Her hair spoilt her a little, it was too thick and long, but she noticed with pleasure that at least it was wavy—then she suddenly admired the colour of her hair. Opening cupboard after cupboard she went through her clothes. They were old, for the most part distinctly shabby. She would go into Malvern that very afternoon and order a new flannel suit at her tailor’s. The suit should be grey with a little white pin stripe, and the jacket, she decided, must have a breast pocket. She would wear a black tie—no, better a grey one to match the new suit with the little white pin stripe. She ordered not one new suit but three, and she also ordered a pair of brown shoes; indeed she spent most of the afternoon in ordering things for her personal adornment. She heard herself being ridiculously fussy about details, disputing with her tailor over buttons; disputing with her bootmaker over the shoes, their thickness of sole, their amount of broguing; disputing regarding the match of her ties with the young man who sold her handkerchiefs and neckties—for such trifles had assumed an enormous importance; she had, in fact, grown quite long-winded about them.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taught Stephen to appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil a really fine judgment, a great feeling for balance in sentences and words. A vast tract of new interest was thus opened up, and Stephen began to excel in composition; to her own deep amazement she found herself able to write many things that had long lain dormant in her heart—all the beauty of nature, for instance, she could write it. Impressions of childhood—gold light on the hills; the first cuckoo, mysterious, strangely alluring; those rides home from hunting together with her father—bare furrows, the meaning of those bare furrows. And later, how many queer hopes and queer longings, queer joys and even more curious frustrations. Joy of strength, splendid physical strength and courage; joy of health and sound sleep and refreshed awakening; joy of Raftery leaping under the saddle, joy of wind racing backward as Raftery leapt forward. And then, what? A sudden impenetrable darkness, a sudden vast void all nothingness and darkness; a sudden sense of acute apprehension: ‘I’m lost, where am I? Where am I? I’m nothing—yes I am, I’m Stephen—but that’s being nothing—’ then that horrible sense of apprehension. Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowing out of deep waters, it was like the lifting of a load from the spirit; it brought with it a sense of relief, of assuagement. One could say things in writing without feeling self-conscious, without feeling shy and ashamed and foolish—one could even write of the days of young Nelson, smiling a very little as one did so. Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading and re-reading Stephen’s strange compositions; frowning, or smiling a little in her turn, at those turbulent, youthful outpourings. She would think: ‘Here’s real talent, real red-hot talent—interesting to find it in that great, athletic creature; but what is she likely to make of her talent? She’s up agin the world, if she only knew it!’ Then Puddle would shake her head and look doubtful, feeling sorry for Stephen and the world in general. 3This then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom, and at seventeen was not only athlete but student. Three years under Puddle’s ingenious tuition, and the girl was as proud of her brains as of her muscles—a trifle too proud, she was growing conceited, she was growing self-satisfied, arrogant even, and Sir Philip must tease her: ‘Ask Stephen, she’ll tell us. Stephen, what’s that reference to Adeimantus, something about a mind fixed on true being—doesn’t it come in Euripides, somewhere? Oh, no, I’m forgetting, of course it’s Plato; really my Greek is disgracefully rusty!’ Then Stephen would know that Sir Philip was laughing at her, but very kindly. In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen still talked quite often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and had grown much in wisdom himself, so he listened with care and attention.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And finally: ‘How old were you when you knew him?’ ‘Let me think—I must have been just eighteen.’ ‘How old was he?’ ‘Twenty-two—very young—I only knew him for quite a short time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But I liked him so much—we were very great friends—so I’m hoping that you’re going to like him too, darling.’ ‘Stephen, you are strange. Why haven’t you told me that you once had a very great friend—a man? I’ve always thought that you didn’t like men.’ ‘On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven’t seen Martin for years and years. I’ve hardly ever thought about him until I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don’t want the poor man to starve—you really must go off and try to find Pauline.’ When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful and rather uncertain fingers. 2 He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the same clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and the charming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched from much riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple was a deep little scar—it must have been a near thing, that bullet. He said: ‘My dear, it is good to see you.’ And he held Stephen’s hand in his own thin brown ones. She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years dropped away. ‘I’m so glad you wrote, Martin.’ ‘So am I. I can’t tell you how glad I am. And all the time we were both in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I’ve found you, we’ll cling like grim death, if you don’t mind, Stephen.’ As Mary came into the room they were laughing. She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, or perhaps it was that her dress became her—she was always at her best in the evening. Stephen said quite simply: ‘This is Martin, Mary.’ They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then they stared at each other for a moment, almost gravely. He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not seem surprised that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress of Stephen’s home; he just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet he let it be tacitly understood that he had grasped the exact situation. After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badly injured? His eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the history of the trouble at full length, going into details with the confidence displayed by most children and lonely people. He had got his knock-out in 1918. The bullet had grazed the optic nerve. At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as soon as he could he had come to Paris to be treated by a very celebrated man.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And by restoring him to me in the way you describe, you would in some measure be rekindling my lost hopes.’ She then stopped and burst into tears, and Currado turned to his lady, saying: ‘And what would you say, my dear, if I were to present you with such a son-in-law?’ ‘If it were pleasing to you,’ the lady replied, ‘I would not object to a vagrant for a son-in-law, let alone a man who is of noble birth.’ ‘Within a few days,’ said Currado, ‘I hope to have good news for you both.’ Meanwhile, the two young people were gradually putting flesh on their bones, and when Currado saw that they had quite recovered, he had them dressed in fine clothes, and turned to Giusfredi, saying: ‘Would it not add greatly to your happiness to see your mother in this place?’ ‘My mother suffered such appalling misfortunes,’ replied Giusfredi, ‘that I cannot believe she has survived them. But if she has, I would be very glad indeed to see her, for with her advice I believe I could largely repair my fortunes in Sicily.’ Currado then summoned the two ladies, and they both smothered the new bride with affection, at the same time wondering what had happened to soften Currado’s heart to the extent of uniting her in wedlock with Giannotto. With Currado’s words fresh in her memory, Madonna Beritola had meanwhile begun to stare intently at the young man. Suddenly, some occult force stirred within her, causing her to recollect the boyish features of her son’s face. And without awaiting further proof of his identity, she rushed towards him and flung her arms about his neck. Her feelings of maternal joy and affection were so intense that she was unable to utter a word: on the contrary, she lost all the power of her five senses and collapsed in the arms of her son as though she were dead. Giannotto, for his part, was filled with amazement, for he could remember having seen her on many previous occasions in that same castle without ever having recognized her. Nevertheless, he now knew instinctively that she was his mother, and, bursting into tears and reproaching himself for his former indifference, he received her in his arms and kissed her with tenderness. Shortly afterwards, with the loving assistance of Spina and Currado’s lady, who applied cold water and other remedies, Madonna Beritola recovered her senses and embraced her son all over again, weeping copiously and uttering a stream of gentle endearments. And, giving vent to her maternal affection, she kissed him a thousand times or more whilst he held her in his arms and gazed at her in awe and reverence.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The victims of the plague included Perrot’s master and mistress, their son, and several of his master’s brothers, grandchildren and other relatives, so that only a daughter of marriageable age survived, together with some members of the household, among them Perrot. Once the plague had abated somewhat, the young woman, knowing Perrot to be strong and capable, and having received encouragement and advice from her few surviving neighbours, made him her husband and proclaimed him master of all the goods and property she had inherited. Nor was it long before the King of England, having heard of the Marshal’s death and knowing the worth of Perrot the Picard, appointed him his marshal in the dead man’s place. And that, in brief, was what happened to the two innocent children of the Count of Antwerp after he was forced to abandon them. More than eighteen years had elapsed since his hurried departure from Paris when the Count, who was now an old man and still living in Ireland, having led a truly wretched life and endured all manner of hardships, was seized by a longing to discover what had become of his children. His physical appearance, as he could see for himself, had changed beyond all recognition, but because of the years he had spent in manual toil he felt much fitter now than when he was young and living a life of leisure. And so, very poor and badly dressed, he left the person in whose household he had served for all those years, returned to England, 4 and made for the place where he had left Perrot. Much to his delight and amazement, he discovered that his son was now a marshal and a great lord, and that he was a vigorous, fine-looking fellow. But he did not want to reveal himself before learning what had become of Jeannette. He therefore set out once more, and never stopped until he arrived in London, where he made discreet inquiries about the lady with whom he had left his daughter and the life she was now leading. On discovering that Jeannette was married to the lady’s son, he almost wept for joy. And now that he had traced both his children and found them so comfortably established, he forgot about all of his earlier misfortunes. Being anxious to see her, he began to loiter near her house in the guise of a pauper, until one day he was noticed by Jeannette’s husband, whose name, by the way, was Jacques Lamiens. Seeing how poor and decrepit he looked, Jacques took pity on the old man and ordered one of his servants to bring him into the house and provide him with something to eat for charity’s sake, which the servant readily did. Jeannette had already presented Jacques with several children, of whom the eldest was no more than eight, and they were the prettiest and most delightful infants imaginable.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When he heard this, Salabaetto was the happiest man who ever lived, and taking the ring, he brushed it against his eyelids, kissed it, and put it on his finger, telling the good woman that Madonna Jancofiore’s love was fully reciprocated, since he loved her more than his very life, and that he was ready to meet her wherever and whenever she pleased. The go-between returned with this answer to her mistress, and soon afterwards Salabaetto was informed that he was to wait for her at a certain bagnio on the following day after vespers. Without giving the slightest hint to anyone about where he was going, Salabaetto swiftly made his way to the bagnio at the appointed hour, and found that it was reserved for the lady. He had not been there long before two slave-girls arrived, one of whom was carrying a fine big feather mattress on her head, whilst the other had a huge basket filled with this, that, and the other. And having laid the mattress on a bed in one of the rooms of the bagnio, they covered it with a pair of sheets, fine as gossamer and edged all round with silk, over which they placed a quilt of whitest Cyprian buckram, together with two exquisitely embroidered pillows. They then undressed, got into the bath, and washed and scrubbed it all over until it gleamed. Nor was it long before the lady herself arrived at the bagnio, attended by two more slave-girls. She no sooner saw Salabaetto than she rushed ecstatically forward to greet him, flung her arms round his neck, and smothered him with kisses; and after heaving several deep sighs, she said: ‘My fascinating Tuscan, I know of no other man who could have brought me to do this. My heart is all on fire because of you.’ She then undressed, bidding him do the same, and they both stepped naked into the bath, attended by two of the slave-girls. Nor would she allow either of the girls to lay a hand upon him, but she herself washed Salabaetto from head to toe with marvellous care, using soap that was steeped in musk and cloves; and finally, she had herself washed and rubbed down by the two slave-girls. This operation completed, the slave-girls fetched two sheets, white as snow and very finely woven, from which there came the fragrant smell of roses, so powerful that it seemed the bagnio was filled with roses and nothing else. Having wrapped Salabaetto in one of these and their mistress in the other, the slave-girls took them up and conveyed them both to the bed, where, when they had ceased to perspire, the sheets enfolding them were removed and they found themselves lying naked between the sheets of the bed.

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

  There seems to be no beginning or ending to this sex, just a middle chapter that stretches on. He is six years younger than me and his virility is matched by my insatiable curiosity and thrill at being desired. Of the four men I’ve slept with since I’ve started this journey, this is the most physically satisfying sex I’ve had. He laughs with enthusiasm when I sigh deeply and tell him in a grave voice that I really love sex. He seems to know exactly how and where to touch me, and I can’t get enough of his hard, sleek body. It’s as if I’m being cracked open again and again; it’s not explosive so much as a feeling of being totally present in my body and with his. It feels good to be wanted, to want, to be appreciated, to know that I am quenching someone’s thirst, to know my body is capable of both giving and receiving, to match his vigor with my own. When we have finally expended our sexual energy, we lie wrapped around each other. As much as I am shocked to discover how much I love touching and being touched, I am surprised by how nourishing I find this part, this calm after the storm. I feel completely enveloped as our hearts return to their regular rhythms and we lie, exhausted but sated, in the aftermath of the intimacy we have shared. Why, I wonder, do I feel I could stay in this spot for hours but when I was married, instead of reveling in the physical connection, I ran from it? Within seconds of having sex, I was already rolling back to curl in a ball on my side of the bed, so relieved that this obligation could be checked off my list and I could go back in my corner to be left alone. I usually orgasmed and I enjoyed sex once I mustered up the energy, but I could take it or leave it – and the affection that came with it I recoiled from, believing myself to be a physically unaffectionate person. The desire I have now to be touched – not just sexually, but any kind of physical connection – is potent and primal and proving wrong everything I thought I understood about myself and my physical needs. If I crave being touched, hugged and held, and if my sexual desires and curiosity are endlessly piqued, why wasn’t that a part of my life with the man I shared my bed with for 27 years? I allow myself a few minutes to soak up this feeling of warmth and then, much as I hate to extricate myself, tell him I have to go home as I know Hudson is probably wondering where I am.

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

  Didn’t all those years glued to my kids’ sides entitle me to VIP privileges now when I want them? Then comes my silver lining: a text from #3 suggesting that if I’m still available tomorrow, he will pack a picnic and we can head over to Tanglewood to listen to classical music and read the Sunday NYTimes. I am astonished. I’ve never been with a man who cooked or prepared food for me. The idea that someone would take care of this aspect of an outing is a wonderful novelty. To add to that the suggestion of having this kind of adult time, to be with someone in a companionable way coexisting as we listen to music and read the newspaper without children around: mind-blowing. I check the weather report and am dismayed to see that the heatwave we are in the midst of has a couple more days in its clutches. Now instead of picturing us leisurely reading side by side on a grassy lawn, I am worrying about the lack of shade at Tanglewood, how we’ll be smudged from the newsprint that will rub off on our sweaty fingers and smacking at mosquitoes that will be feasting on us. I confess my practical concerns to him despite the fact that his plan represents my idea of a perfect day, and he proposes a compromise: we will picnic by the river on his property, where we will be guaranteed a shady spot, while listening to the Tanglewood concert on the radio, and he will provide me with a hazmat suit for the bugs. I am practically swooning. We set a date for the next afternoon. In the meantime, I have been invited to a dinner party tonight by a mom I recently met at Georgia’s camp. Since Michael is going to be with Georgia until he leaves for the city Sunday evening, on goes a bright orange floor-length strapless sundress I recently scored at a thrift shop, a flat pair of silver sandals, and some of my lucky rose oil just in case. When I arrive, the party is in full swing in a beautiful enclosed porch at the side of a rambling farmhouse. I hesitate at the entryway, noting the six couples who are already there. Being the odd man out and conspicuously single is still new to me. So far, on the few occasions I’ve shown up to parties alone, it’s been in the presence of close friends who have instinctively encircled me. This is my first time flying completely solo, and I wonder if there is some behavior that is expected of me: party roamer, double-fisted cocktail taker, spirited floozy? Or is the expectation the opposite: stay quiet and demure, don’t come too close, signal in some way that I’m not a threat to anyone? Head high, I remind myself, you’re alone and that’s the beginning and end of it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘It will then be four days since we came to stay here, and in order to avoid being joined by others, 2 I think it advisable for us to move elsewhere. I have already thought of a place for us to go, and made the necessary arrangements. ‘Our discourse today has taken place within very broad limits. But by the time we assemble after our siesta on Sunday afternoon at our new abode, you will have had more time for reflection, and I have therefore decided, since it will be all the more interesting if we restrict the subject-matter of our stories to a single aspect of the many facets of Fortune, that our theme should be the following: People who by dint of their own efforts have achieved an object they greatly desired or recovered a thing previously lost. Let each of us, therefore, think of something useful, or at least amusing, to say to the company on this topic, due allowance being made for Dioneo’s privilege.’ The queen’s speech met with general approval, and her proposal was unanimously adopted. She then summoned her steward, and having explained where he should place the tables for that evening, instructed him fully concerning his duties for the remainder of her reign. This done, she rose to her feet, her companions followed her example, and she gave them leave to amuse themselves in whatever way they pleased. And so the ladies made their way with the three young men to a miniature garden, where they whiled away their time agreeably before supper. They then had supper, in the course of which there was much laughter and merriment, and when they had risen from table, at the queen’s request Emilia began to dance whilst Pampinea sang the following song, the others joining in the chorus: ‘If’twere not I, what woman would sing, Who am content in everything? ‘Come, Love, the cause of all my joy, Of all my hope and happiness, Come let us sing together: Not of love’s sighs and agony But only of its jocundness And its clear-burning ardour In which I revel, joyfully, As if thou wert a god to me. ‘Love, the first day I felt thy fire Thou sett’st before mine eyes a youth Of such accomplishment Whose able strength and keen desire And bravery could none, in truth, Find any complement. With thee I sing, Lord Love, of this, So much in him lies all my bliss. ‘And this my greatest pleasure is: That he loves me with equal fire, Cupid, all thanks to thee; Within this world I have my bliss And I may in the next, entire, I love so faithfully, If God who sees us from above Will grant this boon upon our love.’ When this song was finished, they sang a number of others, dances many dances and played several tunes. But eventually the queen decided it was time for them to go to bed, and they all retired to their respective rooms, carrying torches to light them on their way. For the next two days, they attended to those matters about which the queen had spoken earlier, and looked forward eagerly to Sunday. Here ends the Second Day of the Decameron