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 Story of O (1954)

  Then, to help her off the stool, Sir Stephen offered her his right hand, in which she placed hers, he finally addressing her directly by observing that she had hands that were made to wear irons, so becoming was iron to her. But as he said it in English, there was a trace of ambiguity in his words, leaving one in some doubt as to whether he was referring to the metal alone or whether he were not also, and perhaps even specifically, referring to iron chains. In the room downstairs, which was a simple whitewashed cellar, but cool and pleasant, there were in fact only four tables, one of which was occupied by guests who were finishing their meal. On the walls had been drawn, like a fresco, a gastronomical and tourist map of Italy, in soft, ice-cream colors: vanilla, raspberry, and pistachio. It reminded O that she wanted to order ice cream for dessert, with lots of almonds and whipped cream. For she was feeling light and happy, René’s knee was touching her knee beneath the table, and whenever he spoke she knew he was talking for her ears alone. He too was observing her lips. They let her have the ice cream, but not the coffee. Sir Stephen invited O and René to have coffee at his place. They had all dined very lightly, and O realized that they had been careful to drink very little, and had kept her virtually from drinking at all: half a liter of Chianti for the three of them. They had also dined very quickly: it was barely nine o’clock. “I sent the chauffeur home,” said Sir Stephen. “Would you drive, René. The simplest thing would be to go straight to my house.” René took the wheel, O sat beside him, and Sir Stephen was next to her. The car was a big Buick, there was ample room for three people in the front seat.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  What did the crowd do now? What did we do? For a fraction of a second we all hesitated in silence and surprise, then burst out laughing, began to roll on the floor, all of us, big and small in a tangle, beating one another with our fists, climbing onto the benches, upsetting them, in an uproar of shouts and insults, insulting the victim too, still pale as he was from fear as he smiled and trembled in a corner of the synagogue, his eyes glistening with tears. The stupid urchin had really taken the whole farce seriously and been afraid of a mere piece of tin! A good joke indeed, and what fun it was to play at being grownups! ~ 8. GINOU ~ Mature women had no place in my world of feminine ideals, and the girls that peopled it could be divided into two categories: those that I dreamed of at night, wishing I could approach them but believing them to be inaccessible, and those that I knew well, who might have accepted me but who left me cold. It would have been impossible for me to kiss a girl from my own background. All my neighbors and relatives made themselves up badly, using too much rouge; their hair was reddish from cheap permanents, and they wore dresses that were poorly cut, always longer at the front than at the back, with gaudy colors and too many ornaments, pleats and frills and furbelows; most of the time they looked as if they had been bundled into their clothes and tied together carelessly. The mere thought of them and their very presence failed to inspire in me the tender and exquisite emotion that made my heart beat faster. No matter how much I found excuses for them and pitied them, their company bored me. They were females destined only to be housewives, so ignorant and lacking in any culture that they were completely cut off from me. As for the other women, those who used lipstick with discretion, whose perfume was enchantingly light, whose flesh was clean and fresh, who flirted in a manner that I found, deep within me, quite wonderful, well, these girls all come from middle-class homes and I believed I was cut off from them just as definitely, but by my own poverty.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  Philippians 2:1–11 speaks of what life “in Christ” is to be like and it emphasizes “Christ crucified” and “Jesus Christ is Lord.” It also contains what most scholars think is a hymn, written by either Paul or a predecessor. We think it probably comes from Paul; but even if it was written by a predecessor, it is evidence for the nature of Paul’s thought, for Paul obviously used it approvingly. And whether written by Paul or a predecessor, it is of special interest because it is the earliest Christian hymn we have. The text begins with a series of counsels about behavior for those who are “in Christ”: If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. (2:1–4) The text continues by grounding the mind they are to have—the mind they are to have in Christ—in what they see in Jesus: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus” (2:5). And what mind is that? Then the text quotes or echoes the hymn—this is the mind that they are to have. We display the hymn in three parts, without presuming that they correspond to stanzas: Who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (2:6–11)This is a hymnic summary of the story of Jesus. Of course, there is much in the story of Jesus as we know it from the gospels that is not here. But what is here encapsulates Paul’s most central convictions about Jesus. The second and third parts (stanzas?) emphasize “Christ crucified” and “Jesus Christ is Lord”—which, not coincidentally, are the titles of two of our chapters. Note that in part two, when Paul refers to Jesus becoming “obedient to the point of death,” he adds specifically, “even death on a cross.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  That exact same metaphor was used over a half century later by Ignatius of Antioch in his Epistle to the Romans —and possibly used in imitation of Paul. “From Syria to Rome I am fighting with wild beasts, by land and sea, by night and day bound to ten ‘leopards’ [that is, a company of soldiers], and they become worse for kind treatment” (5:1). As he traveled to martyrdom in Rome, Ignatius was—like Paul—free to receive support and assistance from fellow Christians, free to write seven letters to churches along his route, but always chained to one or another of that military squad known as the “Leopards.” And so, after that explanatory detour, we return to Paul’s letter to Philemon. After the names of sender and recipient, the protocols of an ancient letter required a greeting: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. (3) In this greeting, the “you” is plural. But that phrase “grace and peace” appears as in the greeting of every single one of Paul’s seven authentic letters. We will, therefore, leave it for now, but return to consider it in much greater detail in Chapter 4. After the greeting Paul continues with his usual thanksgiving element: When I remember you in my prayers, I always thank my God because I hear of your love for all the saints and your faith toward the Lord Jesus. I pray that the sharing of your faith may become effective when you perceive all the good that we may do for Christ. I have indeed received much joy and encouragement from your love, because the hearts of the saints have been refreshed through you, my brother. (4–7) Paul’s thanksgiving verses usually interweave recipient, God, and Christ. Read, for example, what he says in 1 Thessalonians 1:2–3 and 1 Corinthians 1:4–9. And when Paul writes, for example, to the Philippians from the Ephesian prison, he says, “I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now” (1:3–5). At a first glance, therefore, this thanksgiving element in Philemon is not at all unusual. The “you” in the greeting is plural, but in this thanksgiving the “you” is singular, focusing on Philemon himself. Although the letter involves a personal matter, it is not a private one. It also involves the twice mentioned “saints” (5, 7). What makes this thanksgiving strikingly unusual is what comes immediately after it. What follows it turns the thanksgiving into what Latin rhetoric calls captatio benevolentiae (“capturing your benevolence”) and we might call “laying it on thick.” It is like the fulsome praise of a person’s generosity that precedes a request for a loan. For a moment think of yourself in Philemon’s place.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I got back to work while I waited to learn when my interview would take place. With difficulty I got together a few books and I made up for the lack of textbooks that were out of print by studying more collateral readings and other compilations. In order not to be distracted during study, I gave up taking my temperature. It was a good idea: soon I experienced once more a long-forgotten happiness. With delight, I discovered that my mind had not gone to seed, in fact this period of lying fallow had done it good. When I tired of taking notes, I rushed around town to prepare for my trip. Owing to the confusion in government agencies and the suspicions that were a hangover from the state of siege, it was difficult to get travel orders. But I was optimistic and resolute. I experienced such a pleasure in wandering freely in the liberated city, without always having to fear a German dragnet, that I even discovered a liking for purposeless roaming, as though I were renewing acquaintance with my own city. In short, I was a new man. On the appointed day I was ushered into a big office, rather like a government department. The desk stood in the middle of a carpet of thick blue wool with black squares. Behind the desk, on this magnificent Gabes rug, was my little principal. The heads of Oriental agencies take great care to stage a princely setting and I was accustomed to this. But the frail silhouette of Monsieur Marouzeau, with his sparse short-cropped hair and his pants too short above his socks, seated here in the proud surroundings of his predecessor, this was indeed very funny. When he saw me, he rose in a very friendly manner and greeted me without any ceremony. “Good morning, Benillouche, take a chair...” He had read my letter. So I was resuming my studies! Very good! I was wise to do it immediately, and he could but encourage me heartily. He had always known I would succeed. Besides, he would help me as much as he could. I was grateful to him for his simplicity in still treating me as a former pupil; this allowed me more freedom. As he chattered on without coming to the object of my visit, I reminded him of it. “Ah, yes! You’ve made a fine mess of it, you know. I’m told that you’re no longer a government employee.” I did not quite see what he meant. I felt only that very bad news was coming. “You might have obtained the delay you asked for, and I would have helped you. But when I was shown that letter of yours I could obviously do nothing. The chief of personnel was final about it: you resigned and you were not thrown out like the rest of your colleagues. As a point of law...”

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I dozed, then came my turn to watch, and when I was relieved I dozed off again. I closed my eyes, but for a long time I followed the lights and colors from under my eyelids. Three bombs dropped so close that we were showered with sulphur. At last, as the tired night receded, the war again became wary and silent. We made the best of the truce and marched on. I did not feel rested. Sleep, which had not for a moment been deep, only reduced my weariness to a general torpor; in the same way, dawn veiled the landscape and obliterated the contours of hills and the ragged olive trees, softened the harsh brown earth and the dry green of the cactus hedges. We trudged silently ahead step by step, for centuries, it seemed. I have no recollection of this dead and shapeless time when nothing existed but the monotonous and independent movement of our clogs. Nothing, I imagine, could have made me more tired, and I no longer had either memory or desire. But I stopped once more to drink. Beside the road, a clay-red stream wound along the bottom of an eroded bed, and I rediscovered my thirst which made my tongue cling to my palate. The water was muddy and tasted of iron. The early morning did not bring the violence of the day before. The front seemed to have become stabilized. The traffic started again, calm and scattered. If the front moved back a little, hitchhiking would become possible again. The men took to the fields again, and four of us stayed by the road to watch for a ride. Without moving, we let two German armored cars go past, only too relieved not to be questioned. We waved down a big truck driven by a civilian. He slowed down, rolled by, and stopped. We ran after him, an Italian civilian, probably a paid volunteer. We started vaguely explaining to him and ended up by being more explicit. Yes, he would take us, but he risked getting himself into a great deal of trouble, a great deal... We wasted no breath. Among Mediterraneans there was no need to beat about the bush — with a German we would never have dared — how much? He hesitated. We proposed five hundred francs. He accepted, protesting with his hand that it was not the money that influenced him; he would get into trouble anyway. As soon as we had struck the bargain we yelled with all our might, as much to show our joy as to call the others. They were not far off and were inside the truck as soon as we were. Never has a machine seemed more miraculous to me. In less than an hour we had left an unreal world and entered a familiar one. Now the men re-enacted their outward journey, but their painful memories were tinged with joy.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  It had been so long! The master screwed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead hard against the beam, trying to halt a flood of regret and bitterness. His body shuddered with joy. He prayed that the stranger’s arm would not wear out too soon. How many years ago had he given up? It had been hard to accept the fact that he would never meet a sadist who would greet his masochism with joy, as the stuff of which great art is made. So he had moved to a new city to make it easier to complete his own work of art, creating a living, breathing replica of the man he had always hungered to please, whose hands and eyes he could envision perfectly. Someone (even if it could not be him) should pass under those deft hands, be stripped and dissected by those merciless eyes. Then he had discovered, to his chagrin, that the true masochist is nearly as rare as the genuine sadist. He was often as alone and disappointed standing behind the whipping post as he had been when he hugged it to his breast and waited for the perfect blow that never came. But these blows were like balm. Physical pain was so much easier to bear than ennui and self-hatred. When the man behind him stopped, he could not turn around because he was ashamed of his own excitement and did not want anyone else to see it. His cock was up, flushed and eager, the head so sensitive he almost came from feeling it rub against the fly-seam of his jeans. The thought of how obvious his erection was only made it come back against his belly in a full brace, instead of merely standing at rigid attention. “Stop,” he said faintly, dishonestly, as if the whipping had not stopped already. “But we aren’t finished yet,” the spoiler said, taking control in his sweetest, softest, most reasonable voice. ‘And I never will be,’ he thought, as the master kept his broad shoulders level, flexed in front of him, both booted feet flat on the floor. There was no evasion in that body, only attentiveness, receptivity. ‘I love what you are, beautiful and frustrated, a stallion in a herd of geldings, a sexual athlete surrounded by men too spoiled and lazy to pull their own puds, the last Roman gladiator in a world of puling Christians. I will never break you down or damage you. How could I, when this is exactly what you want and need more than food or sleep or your next deep breath?’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The king, who was a wise prince, was pleased with Martuccio's counsel and punctually following it, found himself thereby to have won his war. Wherefore Martuccio became in high favour with him and rose in consequence to great and rich estate. The report of these things spread over the land and it came presently to Costanza's ears that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long deemed dead, was alive, whereupon the love of him, that was now grown cool in her heart, broke out of a sudden into fresh flame and waxed greater than ever, whilst dead hope revived in her. Therewithal she altogether discovered her every adventure to the good lady, with whom she dwelt, and told her that she would fain go to Tunis, so she might satisfy her eyes of that whereof her ears had made them desireful, through the reports received. The old lady greatly commended her purpose and taking ship with her, carried her, as if she had been her mother, to Tunis, where they were honourably entertained in the house of a kinswoman of hers. There she despatched Carapresa, who had come with them, to see what she could learn of Martuccio, and she, finding him alive and in great estate and reporting this to the old gentlewoman, it pleased the latter to will to be she who should signify unto Martuccio that his Costanza was come thither to him; wherefore, betaking herself one day whereas he was, she said to him, 'Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee privily there; wherefore, not to trust to others, I have myself, at his desire, come to give thee notice thereof.' He thanked her and followed her to her house, where when Costanza saw him, she was like to die of gladness and unable to contain herself, ran straightway with open arms to throw herself on his neck; then, embracing him, without availing to say aught, she fell a-weeping tenderly, both for compassion of their past ill fortunes and for present gladness.

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  With that, we are ready to return to Luke’s story. When we left it a moment ago, the two disciples were on the road to Emmaus with the risen Jesus, who was offering a radical redefinition of Israel’s hope and explaining that this hope had, in fact, been accomplished through his death and resurrection. But when we look at the whole sweep of Luke’s two books, the gospel and Acts, we see the same kind of redefinition going on throughout. The hope of Israel is not abandoned: it is affirmed, but, as with many other Jewish groups of the time, the early Christians saw this affirmation as involving a redefinition around actual people, particularly of course Jesus himself. The redefinition begins, however, not with Jesus, but with John the Baptist. Zechariah, John’s father, produces a hymn of praise to Israel’s God. We cannot suppose that Luke has set this out so graphically for the purpose of saying that Zechariah was misguided, that Israel had hoped for the wrong thing. On the contrary, the old man has glimpsed a strange fulfillment: Blessed be the Lord, Israel’s God! He’s come to his people and bought them their freedom. He’s raised up a horn of salvation for us In David’s house, the house of his servant, Just as he promised, through the mouths of his prophets, The holy ones, speaking from ages of old: Salvation from our enemies, rescue from hatred, Mercy to our ancestors, keeping his holy covenant. He swore an oath to Abraham our father, To give us deliverance from fear and from foes, So we might worship him, holy and righteous, Before his face to the end of our days. (1:68–75) This large-scale vision of national redemption then focuses specifically on the vocation of the baby John: You, child, will be called the prophet of the Highest One. Go ahead of the Lord, preparing his way, Letting his people know of salvation, Through the forgiveness of all their sins. (1:76–77) There we have it again: “forgiveness of sins” is one of the key ways of referring to the fulfillment of the ancient promises, promises whose practical outworking would not be “going to heaven,” but rather the great, long-awaited national deliverance. That is the goal toward which the notion of “forgiveness of sins” and “in accordance with the Bible” are pointing. And in the New Testament, exactly as in some strands of Israel’s scriptures themselves, this goal will extend not only to the Jews, but also to the whole world. The shorter poem that Luke ascribes to Simeon, greeting the boy Jesus in the Temple, makes this clear: These eyes of mine have seen your salvation, Which you made ready in the presence of all peoples: A light for revelation to the nations, And glory for your people Israel. (2:30–32)

• From The Day the Revolution Began (2016)

  41:8–10) It is out of this context that there emerges a new promise: the covenant love that YHWH has for Israel is to be extended to the nations. I am YHWH, I have called you in righteousness, I have taken you by the hand and kept you; I have given you as a covenant to the people, a light to the nations, to open the eyes that are blind, to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sit in darkness. (Isa. 42:6–7) In other words, non-Jewish peoples too are to have their own Exodus! This is revolutionary indeed, and it transforms the exclusive note of the earlier passages about the divine love. It now appears that this love is not only the divine love for Israel, but the divine love through Israel, resulting in the worldwide appeal of Isaiah 55: Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. . . . Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live. I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David. (55:1–3) On the way to that conclusion, the message comes from one angle after another and always with the reassurance of the powerful and unshakeable divine love: Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing! For YHWH has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones. But Zion said, “YHWH has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.” Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me. (49:13–16) For YHWH will comfort Zion; he will comfort all her waste places, and will make her wilderness like Eden, her desert like the garden of YHWH; joy and gladness will be found in her, thanksgiving and the voice of song.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  She smiled with great tenderness as we reached the gate of the park. The tall trees at the entrance bore mauve-colored blossoms, like flowers pinned in a girl’s hair. We were no longer by ourselves for there were other people around us. I was so happy and excited that I wanted to have her all to myself, to hold her tight in my arms. So I suggested that we turn back into the park. No, she felt it was too late; we ought to be more reasonable, she thought, and refused. I barely touched her cheek as I kissed her, but still she withdrew. I knew how worried she always was about her own reputation, so I didn’t insist now and walked her home. All the while, she spoke in an even voice, very reasonably, in the tones of a housewife organizing her household chores. She asked me not to mention anything yet to anyone, not a word of our secret. We would have to wait until I had been admitted to the medical profession as her parents would never accept a son-in-law who had neither job nor profession. So I promised her everything she asked for and would have been ready to promise her, had she wanted it, the moon too. All the same, I rushed to Henry’s place as I had to share my happiness with someone. On the way there, without any loss of enthusiasm, I began to think too that I would have to make a lot of money. Ginou was accustomed to certain luxuries, but one more element in my defiance of fate no longer scared me at all and I was sure I would be successful. When I got to Henry’s, I found him fixing his bicycle. Every Saturday evening, he cycled fifty kilometers to go and whistle a serenade beneath his girl friend’s window. I told him my whole story at once and he congratulated me: “She’s a very attractive girl.” Then he added, jokingly: “But what the hell, is it you or the physician that she wants as a husband?” I answered quite seriously that she was right and that her decision proved that she had sound common sense. She was the kind of wife I wanted. But I was disappointed when I saw that Henry failed to appreciate the full extent of my happiness. I decided that great joys, like great losses, can never be shared. ~ 9. THE PARTY ~

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The absence of any feminine companionship was not the least of the reasons that made my adolescence quite morbidly austere, with a stifling quality about it of which I was actually rather proud. As a matter of fact, I never did anything for the mere pleasure of relaxation. Every one of my gestures had a purpose that was calculated in terms of what it was worth. I studied because I wanted to assure myself of fame in the future, or I worked to make money. When at last I was too tired and allowed myself to write or to devote some of my time to social life, which was also work in my eyes, I brought to either of these occupations the same kind of earnestness. I was really a very serious young man. But I managed, in spite of all this, to experience the kind of adventure that is unique and entirely wonderful. One of the girls of the kind that I admired and believed to be quite inaccessible accepted my admiration and even encouraged me. Now, I can understand it better: she fell in love with my earnestness. But here, at last, I was tasting of happiness. As an adolescent, I was never very happy nor very unhappy. I had no time for such states of being; on the contrary, I was always busy learning, changing, being active. In the light of individual incidents of this constant struggle, I was also indignant, revolted, or exultant. But my adventure with Ginou revealed to me that, although I had been unfortunate enough to be born into an impossible moment of history, life could still leave a taste of honey in my mouth. One day, I was playing volleyball in the sun, wearing only my bathing trunks, with Mina, a scout-mistress. The sky was a pale blue, all of one spotless color, above a sea that was exquisitely warm and green. While she was busy throwing and catching the ball across a low breakwater that lay between us, Mina continued to tell me, with much sarcastic humor, details of their last summer camp. I was rather fond of Mina because of her very realistic views about other girls. She was the daughter of a tradesman who had made good, but she could still remember what life had been like before her father had struck it rich, and she now observed her new social background with a very lucid mind. Her sarcasm was pitiless but always smiling, and her own rather sickly health was certainly at the root of much of her bitterness. Her rather pleasant venom may also have acted upon me as a revenge for some of my own jealousy that I was never ready to confess.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  And this life is the result of a Spirit transplant. PAUL’S FAREWELL LETTER We conclude with two texts from Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Though it was probably not the last letter he wrote, we call it his farewell letter because Paul imagines that it could be. Paul wrote it from prison, quite possibly during the same imprisonment in Ephesus that produced the letter to Philemon (see Chapter 2). Paul doesn’t say why he was in prison, but we know from the letter that it was an imperial prison and that he was aware that his confinement could end in execution (1:12–26). Philippi in northern Greece was the first city in Europe in which Paul created a community. His relationship with the Philippians seems to have been free of difficulties. No troubles are reported, no pressing questions are addressed; rather, the letter is filled with affection. Because he knew that this might be his final farewell to a community that he loved, his words carry extra weight. The possibility of death has a sobering effect. Given this, the letter’s dominant tone of thanksgiving, joy, and lack of worry is remarkable. We turn to our first text, from near the end of the letter: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice…. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (4:4, 6–7) Paul follows this with a concise description of the kind of life he wishes for them—the life of those who are “in Christ.” It includes a list of virtues and concludes with a description of the kind of life he himself had found “in Christ”: Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you. I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him [Christ] who strengthens me. (4:8–9, 11–13) This is who Paul had become because of his life in Christ. It is an enviable state: he had learned to be content with whatever came his way, with being hungry or well fed, with having plenty or being in need, in any and all circumstances. Paul’s Spirit transplant had been successful.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I reached the Parents’ Association Hall in a sweat, and the crowd was already streaming out of it as I ran up the four steps to the entrance. In the middle of the hall, the long table, still littered with glasses and bottles, had been abandoned. The celebration was over and only a few small groups, probably parents of those who had won prizes, were still gossiping, with all sorts of polite intonations in their voices and gestures of their hands, of their whole plump little bodies that seemed to be brimful of foolish happiness and pride. Nobody has ever come along with me, I said to myself, but I’ve always managed to come out ahead of their children. Now, I hesitated in the doorway, not knowing a soul in the hall. By failing to appear on time, I had missed celebrity and now stood there in an undeserved and insuperable incognito, with nobody to recognize me. Still, I couldn’t call out to them: “Hi, there! I’m the honors prize-winner, the boy whose name you heard called out, with all his credits, a little while ago!” In a corner, I spotted our school principal, his hair carefully trimmed in a crew-cut, but his pants too short as always, surrounded by parents who were all putting on an act for him. Theirs were indeed the grace and the lightness of a dancing bear. Devoid of any hope, I circled this fort that was being besieged, hoping to catch his eye, though effectively barred by the backs of the crowd. At long last, he caught sight of me and beckoned me to come closer: “Ah, there’s Benillouche, our honors prize-winner!” A wave of happiness came over me as all these people whom I despised now turned to stare at me, perhaps with indifference or even jealousy. The principal was talking to a little man I had failed to notice because he was concealed by the crowd. His glasses framed in black, like those of a comic actor, were the only element of self-affirmation in his otherwise sickly body, modest appearance and characterless clothes. “Come, come here, Benillouche,” insisted the principal. He then introduced me to the little man, who — none other than the Chief of Public Education for Tunisia — held out his hand and smiled in a friendly manner. I felt very guilty about being late and mumbled that I had been prevented from coming earlier, which seemed to interest nobody at all. “What are your plans for the coming school year?” the Chief asked me politely. “I want to study philosophy,” I answered with assurance. By affirming it now in public, I gave myself the impression that all discussion of the matter, within myself, was now closed. My own answer did me good and reassured me. “That’s perfect,” he replied. “We need teachers. Study hard and we can give you a job.”

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  From the beginning she knew he was the man she had been seeking. I marveled at her certainty—her prescience. I thought of all those impossible, ridiculous standards she had set. Well, he met every single one of them, and then some. Youth, perfect health, sensitivity—he was even a member of the society of the secretly bereaved. His wife had died a year previously, and he and Irene fully understood and empathized with each other’s mourning. Everything clicked immediately, and I was overjoyed for Irene—and for my own liberation. Before she met Kevin, she had entirely regained her high level of functioning in the outside world, but there had remained a deep and almost inexpressible inner sadness and resignation. Now that too had rapidly resolved. Had she improved as a result of meeting Kevin? Or had she been able to be open to him because she had improved? Some of each? I could never be certain. And now she was bringing Kevin to meet me. Here they come, through the café entrance. They’re walking toward me. Why am I nervous? Look at that man: he’s gorgeous—tall, powerful, looks like he does a triathlon every day before breakfast, and that nose . . . unbelievable . . . where do you buy noses like that? Enough, Kevin, let go of her hand. Enough already! There’s got to be something not to like about this guy. Oops, I’m going to have to shake hands with him. Why are my hands sweating so? Will he notice? Who cares what he notices? “Irv,” I heard Irene say, “this is Kevin. Kevin, Irv.” I smiled, held out my hand, and greeted him through clenched jaws. Damn you, I thought, you’d better take good care of her. And, goddamnit, you’d better not die. Afterword to the Perennial Edition Are these six psychotherapy tales true? Or fictional? The first story (“Momma and the Meaning of Life”) is a true autobiographical fantasy—that is, the dream and the events in the story are true, the precise conversation is a fantasy. The next three (“Southern Comfort,” “Seven Advanced Lessons,” and “Travels with Paula”) are pure nonfiction flecked only with fiction to conceal the patients’ identities. And the final two (“Double Exposure” and “The Hungarian Cat Curse”) contain a nonfictional nucleus around which I constructed a fictional tale. But a confusion inheres in any fiction-nonfiction codification. Not only does fiction have its own truth, but every story, no matter how “true,” is a lie because it omits so much. In each narrative I have eliminated the quotidian details of the therapy encounter. Not only is such close-cropping required for dramatic impact, but for vision as well. As Nietzsche put it, we must blind ourselves to many things in order to see the one thing. Hence, to uncover underlying truths we must clear away obscuring distractions.

• From The First Paul: Reclaiming the Radical Visionary Behind the Church's Conservative Icon (2009)

  Though it was probably not the last letter he wrote, we call it his farewell letter because Paul imagines that it could be. Paul wrote it from prison, quite possibly during the same imprisonment in Ephesus that produced the letter to Philemon (see Chapter 2). Paul doesn’t say why he was in prison, but we know from the letter that it was an imperial prison and that he was aware that his confinement could end in execution (1:12–26). Philippi in northern Greece was the first city in Europe in which Paul created a community. His relationship with the Philippians seems to have been free of difficulties. No troubles are reported, no pressing questions are addressed; rather, the letter is filled with affection. Because he knew that this might be his final farewell to a community that he loved, his words carry extra weight. The possibility of death has a sobering effect. Given this, the letter’s dominant tone of thanksgiving, joy, and lack of worry is remarkable. We turn to our first text, from near the end of the letter: Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice…. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (4:4, 6–7) Paul follows this with a concise description of the kind of life he wishes for them—the life of those who are “in Christ.” It includes a list of virtues and concludes with a description of the kind of life he himself had found “in Christ”: Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you. I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him [Christ] who strengthens me. (4:8–9, 11–13) This is who Paul had become because of his life in Christ. It is an enviable state: he had learned to be content with whatever came his way, with being hungry or well fed, with having plenty or being in need, in any and all circumstances. Paul’s Spirit transplant had been successful. The second text from Philippians is perhaps the fullest concise distillation of the theology of the radical Paul.

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  I placed the round head on my clit, adjusting so the small hole would rest atop it. The first thing I thought was wow. The second thing I thought was wowwwwwwwwwww. The sensation on my clit was distinct from anything I’d ever felt with a vibrating toy; in fact, it wasn’t vibration at all. As DiCarlo had explained to an unbelieving me, the air-powered motion was more like sucking. It felt like the best oral sex I’d never had. Warmed up within seconds, I inserted the other end until it felt snug and turned on the “come-hither” motion. The dual sensations bordered on overwhelming, but were still deeply pleasurable. Its whirring sound marked a stark contrast from the dainty “whisper-quiet” trend in sex toys, and I sort of respected that, even though Bucatina, now taking shelter under the couch, did not. I orgasmed within a few minutes. I procrastinated using the Tilt. A week passed. The day finally arrived for me to travel to Italy, where I planned to finish this book, so I placed the item in its cute little pouch and packed it in my suitcase, praying that it wouldn’t come to life on the plane. Once I arrived at my quaint apartment, nestled in the heart of an ancient Umbrian village, I realized I’d forgotten the lube. Oops, I can’t try it yet, I thought, doing a bad job of convincing myself that I was disappointed. I peered out my window and watched an elderly woman hang laundry on the balcony of her brick home. I wonder if this town has lubricant. Convinced that experimenting with unfamiliar pleasure points would help me grow as a sexual being, I had no choice but to venture to the town’s one supermarket to buy genital gel. Shockingly enough, there was no lube in the personal care corner, just pads and “intimate liquid” for cleaning your vagina. Exhausted by the ordeal of having tried to buy lubricant in a small Italian supermarket, I walked home to rest. Besides, it was 2:30 P.M., national nap time. My hands were tied. I would try the farmacia the next day. I tried the farmacia the next day. As is custom outside of Italian pharmacies, the windows were plastered with outlandish adverts for anti-cellulite creams, but inside, these stores mean business, stocking a dizzying number of over-the-counter medicines that their pharmacists are extensively trained to assist you with. I kept my eyes down to avoid the helpful interrogation I am used to from Italian pharmacists, which is good when I have confusing diarrhea but not when I’m perusing lubes.

• From This Boy's Life: A Memoir (1989)

  I didn’t know what to say. “What are you gonna call her?” I told him I didn’t know. “How about Mrs. Huff?” he said. “How about Mrs. Gerald Lucius Huff?” When he saw how I looked at him, he held up his right hand and said, “Gospel, Wolfman. I shit you not.” “Huff? Huff’s marrying Tina?” Chuck started to answer but suddenly bent over, coughing and snorting. Canadian Club ran out of his nose. I pounded him on the back. I heard myself cawing harshly. Something was breaking loose in me, some hysterical heartless tide of joy. I could hardly breathe. My face twitched. I was shaking with relief and joy and cruel pleasure, for the truth was I didn’t like Huff and felt no pity for Tina. To me she was just The Flood and now I saw Huff trapped in its grip, paddling feebly on its broad heaving surface, pummeled and smothered, going under and bobbing up again somewhere else with his hairy arms churning and his pompadour agleam.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  She unfolded it against her thigh and put her finger to her lips. She clutched her white kimono, her skin bare underneath. It was Barry, calling her. “Ingrid!” “How dare he,” she said. “He cannot simply appear on my doorstep without an invitation.” She jerked the door open. Barry was wearing a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt and carrying a bottle of wine and a bag that smelled of something wonderful. “Hi,” he said. “I was just in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by.” She stood in the doorway, the open blade still against her thigh. “Oh, you did.” Then she did something I would never have imagined. She invited him in, closing the knife against her leg. He looked around at our big room, elegantly bare. “Just move in?” She said nothing. We had lived there over a year. THE SUN was hot through the screens when I woke up, illuminating the milky stagnant air wrapped like a towel around the morning. I could hear a man singing, the shower pipes clanking as he turned the water off. Barry had stayed the night. She was breaking her rules. They weren’t stone after all, only small and fragile as paper cranes. I stared at her as she dressed for work, waiting for an explanation, but she just smiled. After that night, the change was startling. Sunday, we went together to the Hollywood farmer’s market, where she and Barry bought spinach and green beans, tomatoes and grapes no bigger than the head of a thumbtack, papery braids of garlic, while I trailed behind them, mute with amazement at the sight of my mother examining displays of produce like it was a trip to a bookstore. My mother, for whom a meal was a carton of yogurt or a can of sardines and soda crackers. She could eat peanut butter for weeks on end without even noticing. I watched as she bypassed stands full of her favorite white flowers, lilies and chrysanthemums, and instead filled her arms with giant red poppies with black stains in the centers. On the walk home, she and Barry held hands and sang together in deep croony voices old songs from the sixties, “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” and “Waterloo Sunset.” SO MANY THINGS I would never have imagined. She wrote tiny haiku that she slipped into his pockets. I fished them out whenever I got a chance, to see what she had written. It made me blush to read them: Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battleground. One morning at the magazine, she showed me a picture in the weekly throwaway Caligula’s Mother , taken at a party after a play’s opening night. They both looked bombed. The caption dubbed her Barry’s new lady love. It was exactly the kind of thing she hated the most, a woman as a man’s anything. Now it was as if she’d won a contest. Passion. I never imagined it was something that could happen to her.

• From White Oleander (1999)

  Inside was a faceted lavender jewel on a gold chain. “Every girl needs a little jewelry,” he said. Claire clipped it around my neck. “Amethyst is a great healer,” she whispered as she put it on me, kissing me on the cheek. “Only good times now.” Ron leaned forward and I let him kiss me too. I felt tears coming. They surprised me. The food arrived and I watched them while we ate, Claire’s dark glossy hair falling against her cheek, her large soft eyes. Ron’s smooth man’s face. I pretended that they were really my parents. The steak and the wine went to my head, and I imagined being the child of Claire and Ron Richards. Who was I, the real Astrid Richards? Doing well in school, of course I was going to college. I listened as they laughed, something about their days at Yale together, though I knew Ron was married to somebody else then, that he dumped his wife for Claire. I imagined myself at Yale, knee-deep in crisp fall leaves, in a thick camel’s hair coat. I sat in dark paneled lecture halls looking at slides of Da Vinci. I was going to study in Tuscany my junior year. On Parents’ Day, Claire and Ron came to visit, Claire wearing her pearls. She showed me where her dorm was. I touched the amethyst around my neck. Only good times now… RON WAS GONE most of the summer. He came home and she did his laundry and cooked too much food. He made phone calls, worked on his laptop computer, had meetings, checked his messages, and then he was gone again. It threw Claire when he came and then went so soon, but at least she didn’t pace at night anymore. She worked in her garden almost every day, wearing gloves and an enormous straw Chinese hat. Tending her tomatoes. She’d planted four different kinds—yellow and red cherry, Romas for spaghetti sauce, Beefsteaks big as a baby’s head. We faithfully watched a TV show on Saturday mornings that told her how to grow things. She staked the tall delphiniums, debudded the roses for the biggest flowers. She weeded every day, and watered at dusk, filling the air with the scent of wet hot earth. Her peaked hat moved in the beds like a floating Balinese temple. Sometimes I helped her, but mostly I sat under the Chinese elm and drew. She sang songs she learned when she was my age, “Are You Going to Scarborough Fair?” and “John Barleycorn Must Die.” Her voice was trained, supple as leather, precise as a knife thrower’s blade. Singing or talking, it had the same graceful quality, and an accent I thought at first was English, but then realized was the old-fashioned American of a thirties movie, a person who could get away with saying “grand.” Too classic, they told her when she went out on auditions. It didn’t mean old.