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 126 of 299 · 20 per page

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

  On the other hand, if by thirst or desire we understand the mere intensity of the emotion, that excludes distaste, thus more than all others spiritual pleasures cause thirst or desire for themselves. Because bodily pleasures become distasteful by reason of their causing an excess in the natural mode of being, when they are increased or even when they are protracted; as is evident in the case of pleasures of the table. This is why, when a man arrives at the point of perfection in bodily pleasures, he wearies of them, and sometimes desires another kind. Spiritual pleasures, on the contrary, do not exceed the natural mode of being, but perfect nature. Hence when their point of perfection is reached, then do they afford the greatest delight: except, perchance, accidentally, in so far as the work of contemplation is accompanied by some operation of the bodily powers, which tire from protracted activity. And in this sense also we may understand those words of Ecclus. 24:29: “They that drink me shall yet thirst”: for, even of the angels, who know God perfectly, and delight in Him, it is written (1 Pet. 1:12) that they “desire to look at Him.” Lastly, if we consider pleasure, not as existing in reality, but as existing in the memory, thus it has of itself a natural tendency to cause thirst and desire for itself: when, to wit, man returns to that disposition, in which he was when he experienced the pleasure that is past. But if he be changed from that disposition, the memory of that pleasure does not give him pleasure, but distaste: for instance, the memory of food in respect of a man who has eaten to repletion. Reply to Objection 1: When pleasure is perfect, then it includes complete rest; and the movement of desire, tending to what was not possessed, ceases. But when it is imperfect, then the desire, tending to what was not possessed, does not cease altogether. Reply to Objection 2: That which is possessed imperfectly, is possessed in one respect, and in another respect is not possessed. Consequently it may be the object of desire and pleasure at the same time. Reply to Objection 3: Pleasures cause distaste in one way, desire in another, as stated above. Whether pleasure hinders the use of reason?Objection 1: It would seem that pleasure does not hinder the use of reason. Because repose facilitates very much the due use of reason: wherefore the Philosopher says (Phys. vii, 3) that “while we sit and rest, the soul is inclined to knowledge and prudence”; and it is written (Wis. 8:16): “When I go into my house, I shall repose myself with her,” i.e. wisdom. But pleasure is a kind of repose. Therefore it helps rather than hinders the use of reason.

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

  ATHANASIUS. (Orat. in Pass. et cruce Domini.) But now through the power of Christ boys make a mock at pleasure, which formerly led away the aged, and virgins stedfastly trample upon the desires of serpentine pleasure. Some also tread upon the very sting of the scorpion, that is, of the devil, namely death, and fearing not destruction, become witnesses of the word. But many giving up earthly things walk with a free step in heaven, dreading not the prince of the air. TITUS BOSTRENSIS. But because the joy with which He saw them rejoice savoured of vain-glory, for they rejoiced that they were as it were exalted, and were a terror to men and evil spirits, our Lord therefore adds, Notwithstanding in this rejoice not, that the spirits are subject unto you, &c. BEDE. They are forbidden to rejoice in the subjection of the spirits to God, since they were flesh; for to cast out spirits and to exercise other powers is sometimes not on account of his merit who works, but is wrought through the invocation of Christ’s name to the condemnation of those who mock it, or to the advantage of those who see and hear. CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA. Why, O Lord, dost not Thou permit men to rejoice in the honours which are conferred by Thee, since it is written, In thy name shall they rejoice all the day? (Ps. 89:16.) But the Lord raises them up by greater joys. Hence He adds, But rejoice that your names are written in heaven. BEDE. As if he said, It becomes you to rejoice not in the putting down of the evil spirits, but in your own exaltation. But it would be well for us to understand, that whether a man has done heavenly or earthly works, he is thereby, as if marked down by letter, for ever fixed in the memory of God. THEOPHYLACT. For the names of the saints are written in the book of life not in ink, but in the memory and grace of God. And the devil indeed fell from above; but men being below have their names inscribed above in heaven. BASIL. (in Esai. 4.) There are some who are written indeed not in life, but according to Jeremiah in the earth, (Jer. 17:13.) that in this way there might be a kind of double enrolment, of the one indeed to life, but of the other to destruction. But since it is said, Let them be blotted out of the book of the living, (Ps. 69:28.) this is spoken of those who were thought worthy to be written in the book of God. And in this way a name is said to be put down in writing or blotted out, when we turn aside from virtue to sin, or the contrary.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  I HAD A MIND FULL of useless things, I had always thought, or useless since graduate school, where they had been a kind of currency, the old stories and stray facts that were all that remained of the years in which I had wanted to be a scholar. The books I had read! But in the churches of Venice I found a use for them, I could read the paintings for R., or not the paintings but the stories they told: Joseph of Arimathea, Mary and Martha, Sebastian nursing his arrows. In churches in Bulgaria the paintings were more or less mute to me, but here they made a story I could read, and as I told it to him I saw the pleasure R. took in it, the way he looked at me and then at the painting, I loved to see it. I have a crush on teacher, he said, whispering, and then he smiled his smile that meant happiness, his whole face beaming, turning toward the painting now though I knew the smile was for me. Later, back in Bologna, where we arrived on the last train after all the restaurants had closed—we ate shrink-wrapped sandwiches and chocolate, shared a little bottle of prosecco, all of it from a twenty-four-hour shop near the station—he asked me to tell him more, it didn’t matter what. Tell me a story, he said, stretched out in bed as I lay beside him, running my hands across his chest and stomach, feeling his cock grow thick when I grabbed it, tell me another story. I WOKE A FEW HOURS LATER too hot, stifling in the bedclothes. I switched on the lamp beside the bed. R. slept so deeply I never had to worry about waking him on the nights I couldn’t sleep, when I spent hours beside him reading or writing. But this time he did wake, or half wake, as I lay with a book propped on my stomach; he turned toward me and linked his arm through mine before settling back into sleep, his face pressed against my shoulder. I looked at him for a long time before going back to my book. They could make a whole life, I thought, surprised to think it, these moments that filled me up with sweetness, that had changed the texture of existence for me. I had never thought anything like it before.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  AN EVENING OUTZ. had emptied half the carton of juice, and now I was holding it as he poured the vodka into the plastic funnel at the top. We had laughed at the way he threw his head back and drank, sucking the juice down even as he grimaced at the taste, which was sickly sweet. He refused to dump it in the gutter: My grandfather was Russian, he said, we never waste anything. And that too had made us laugh, though he was serious now as he poured, tilting the plastic flask to let the barest ribbon of liquid thread perfectly into the carton. He didn’t want to waste that, either, and I was so absorbed in holding the carton still—and absorbed in Z., too, who stood close to me, our shoulders almost touching—that I had nearly forgotten about N. when I heard the click of his phone as it took a picture of us. What are you doing, I said, and I’m sure there was a note in my voice of real concern at the thought of the image shared with others, but we had already drunk enough that the concern was distant, and N. laughed it off. I’m sorry, he said, it’s just too epic, we’ve been waiting for this for so long. He laughed again when I warned him not to post it on Facebook. I’ll hunt you down, I said, one of the phrases I had used often in my seven years as a teacher. He held up his hands, smiling broadly. Don’t worry, he said, I won’t, I just want to remember this forever.

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

  No kidding?” She struck a pose with the rifle. I waited while my mother joked around with the men, laughing, trading mild insults, flushed with cold and the pleasure of being admired. Then she said good-bye and we walked toward the car. I said, “I didn’t know you were a member of the NRA.” “I’m a little behind in my dues,” she said. Dwight and Pearl were sitting in the front seat with the ham between them. Neither of them spoke when we got in. Dwight pulled away fast and drove straight back to the house, where he clomped down the hall to his room and closed the door behind him. We joined Norma and Skipper in the kitchen. Norma had taken the turkey out of the oven, and the house was rich with its smell. When she found out that my mother had won, she said, “Oh boy, now we’re really in for it. He thinks he’s some kind of big hunter.” “He killed a deer once,” Pearl said. “That was with the car,” Norma said. Skipper got up and went down the hall to Dwight’s room. A few minutes later they both came back, Dwight stiff and awkward. Skipper teased him in a shy, affectionate way, and Dwight took it well, and my mother acted as if nothing had happened. Then Dwight perked up and made drinks for the two of them and pretty soon we were having a good time. We sat down at the beautiful table Norma had laid for us, and we ate turkey and dressing and candied yams and giblet gravy and cranberry sauce. After we ate, we sang. We sang “Harvest Moon,” “Side by Side,” “Moonlight Bay,” “Birmingham Jail,” and “High above Cayuga’s Waters.” I got compliments for knowing all the words. We toasted Norma for cooking the turkey, and my mother for winning the turkey shoot. My mother was still flushed, expansive. All the talk about turkey reminded her of a Thanksgiving she and my brother and I had spent on a turkey farm in Connecticut after the war. Housing was scarce, and we were broke, so my father had boarded us with these turkey farmers while he went down to work in Peru. The turkey farmers were novices. Before Thanksgiving they’d butchered their birds in an unheated shed, and all the blood froze in their bodies and turned them purple. The local butcher came out for a look. He suggested that the birds be kept in a warm bath for a few days—maybe that would loosen things up and turn them pink. The bath they used was ours. For almost two weeks we had these bumpy blue carcasses floating in the tub. Dwight was quiet after my mother told her story. Then he told one of his own about a Thanksgiving he’d spent in the Philippines, when starving Japanese soldiers ran out of the jungle and grabbed food right off the chow line, and nobody even tried to shoot them.

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

  I bounced on the branch and flapped my arms. Then I put my hands in my pockets and strolled out along the branch until it broke. I didn’t feel myself land, but I heard the wind leave me in a rush. I was rolling sideways down the hillside with my hands still in my pockets, rolling around and around like a log, faster and faster, picking up speed on the steep cement. The cement ended in a drop where the earth below had washed away. I flew off the edge and went spinning through the air and landed hard and rolled downhill through the ferns, bouncing over rocks and deadfall, the ferns rustling around me, and then I hit something hard and stopped cold. I was on my back. I could not move, I could not breathe. I was too empty to take the first breath, and my body would not respond to the bulletins I sent. Blackness came up from the bottom of my eyes. I was drowning, and then I drowned. WHEN I OPENED my eyes I was still on my back. I heard voices calling my name but I did not answer. I lay amidst a profusion of ferns, their fronds glittering with raindrops. The fronds made a lattice above me. The voices came closer and still I did not answer. I was happy where I was. There was movement in the bushes all around me, and again and again I heard my name. I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t laugh and give myself away, and finally they left. I spent the night there. In the morning I walked down to the main road and thumbed a ride home. My clothes were wet and torn, but except for a certain tenderness down the length of my back I was unhurt, just creaky from my night on the ground. Dwight was at the kitchen table when I came in. He looked me over and said—quietly, he knew he had me this time—“Where were you last night?” I said, “I got drunk and fell off a cliff.” He grinned in spite of himself, just as I knew he would. He let me off with a lecture and some advice about hangovers while my mother stood by the sink in her bathrobe, listening without expression. After Dwight dismissed me she followed me down the hall. She stopped in my doorway, arms crossed, and waited for me to look at her. Finally she said, “You’re not helping anymore.” NO, BUT I was happy that night, listening to them search for me, listening to them call my name. I knew they wouldn’t find me. After they went away I lay there smiling in my perfect place. Through the ferns above me I saw the nimbus of the moon in the dense, dark sky. Cool beads of water rolled down the ferns onto my face.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  But now N. interrupted his lecture, saying here he was, telling us about the town, it was hard work, and he was a professional, he shouldn’t work for free. I want money, he said, making us laugh, American money, does someone have a quarter, and someone did, it was fished out of a pocket and handed over. George Washington, he cried, a sudden change of tone, I love George Washington, he is my favorite person. We laughed again and he looked up, Why are you laughing, he asked, which made us laugh more. Look, he said, holding up the coin, it says here Liberty, it is the most beautiful thing, most beautiful word, it is for this I love George Washington. He fights for freedom, like us, Bulgarians fight for freedom too. For five hundred years we are slaves to the Turks, but now we are free. It is the most important thing, Liberty. Hear hear! someone said, an American, and we all raised our cups to N., though most of them were empty already. He seemed pleased by this, he gave a quick bow, at which our toast turned more raucous, Nazdrave, we cried, the Bulgarian toast, Nazdrave. He hopped down from his perch, motioning us to be quiet, We are not drunk Romanians, he said. Then he held the quarter up, looking at it anew, and with a tone of real wonder asked What do I do with this money, which set us laughing again. Keep it, D. said, from the back of our circle where the priest stood too close to her, it means someone in America loves you. Ah, said N., beaming at her, pleased beyond words, and he slid the coin into his breast pocket and cupped his hands over it. I keep it forever, he said.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  At Orlov Most, the protesters turned onto the boulevard that runs alongside the canal. This left much of the bridge free, and protesters had set up a little carnival there, coloring with chalk on the pavement, painting flags on children’s cheeks. At the far end of the bridge a man with a tuba played a jaunty bass line as another man, in a T-shirt and jeans and an NYC baseball cap, chanted or sang; I couldn’t quite catch the words, but whatever they were they made the people gathered around him laugh and cheer. I paused to watch them, leaning against the rail of the bridge (the Perlovska passed a couple of meters below, a muddy stream), when I felt a hand tentative on my shoulder. I startled a little, I had been lost in my thoughts, and M. smiled at me apologetically when I turned. But I was happy to see her, I surprised myself by greeting her with a hug, though I almost never hugged my students; I could see that she was surprised too, surprised and pleased, she was smiling when I pulled away. She was a senior, a short, lovely girl with auburn hair that hung in curls around her cheeks, a serious student, though she didn’t care much for literature; her heart was in science, she said, in the laboratory, in arcane things I couldn’t begin to understand and that she would study next year in Berlin. Gospodine, she said to me now, isn’t this amazing, and she made a gesture that took in everything, the marchers, the tuba, the gray of the bridge, the slow trudge of the Perlovksa, it’s so good that you’re here. The crowd of protesters flowing past the end of the bridge had thinned, and as we approached them to join the march again M. pointed down the stretch of Tsar Osvoboditel we had walked up, where now three figures with push brooms were gathering litter into large plastic bags, which they piled at each corner for pickup. Can you believe it, she said, they’re making sure the city doesn’t have anything to complain about, have you ever seen the streets so clean? It’s so inspiring, what they’re doing, she said. We joined the march again, which was quieter here in the back; most of the shouting was ahead of us, the drums at the front of the crowd were a distant sound. The tuba on the bridge blurted a few last notes, then stopped. I’ve come here every day, M. said, walking beside me, it makes me so happy to be here. Some people walking nearby began shouting Ostavka, picking up a chant that had migrated from the front of the march, and M. joined them for a few rounds, looking at me a little sheepishly. I didn’t join in, I hadn’t joined in any of the chants, even though I felt moved to; it wasn’t my country, I kept saying to myself, it wasn’t my place, but I was sorry when M. fell silent too. We walked a little faster, moving back into the middle of the boulevard, headed toward NDK, the Palace of Culture. One side of the street was lined with apartment buildings, the gray of their façades broken by large flags draped from the balconies, on almost all of which people stood watching, elderly men and women, many of them waving, as if to say they would be with us if they could. On the other side of us the trees lining the canal were catching the last of the light, the new leaves incandescent, Sofia was more beautiful to me then than I had ever seen it.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  A young woman walked over to us, holding a tray above her head as she angled her way through the crowd. She wore a white blouse several sizes too small, exposing her navel and buttoned just barely above her breasts, which she allowed to touch Z., casually erotic, as she leaned over and brought her face to his. She shouted something into his ear as she placed three glasses and a small bucket of ice on the table. He reciprocated her gesture, putting an arm around her shoulder, and N. and I looked at each other and laughed. Z. was always theatrical with women, a cartoon Lothario at sixteen who had grown into real seduction; it was like he breathed sex as he exchanged comments with the server, they could almost have been kissing as they moved mouth to ear. But then Z. drew back, letting his arm fall from her shoulder, and looked at her in disbelief. He jerked his head in a single vertical motion, a decided no. He started to turn toward N. but the waitress pressed her hand to his chest and gestured for him to come back. She spoke longer this time, her hand on his chest, balancing the empty tray on the table. Now Z. did turn to N., shouting into his ear, and N. shouted to me in turn that to stay at the table we had to buy the gin. Okay, I shouted back, how much, and when he told me 160 leva, 80 euro, I burst out laughing, making Z. and N. laugh, too. But the woman didn’t laugh, she shrugged, all her seductiveness gone. It’s crazy, Z. shouted, but the alternative was to stand in the packed space between the bar and the booths, where you could hardly breathe, what would be the point of that, and so I pulled out my billfold. One night, I said, my throat already raw with shouting and with smoke, and they smiled and pulled out their wallets. No no, I said, wagging my forefinger, I didn’t want them to spend their money. I had gone to the bankomat earlier that day, my wallet was full of bills, and I drew out several to hand to the woman, who smiled again, opening the gin and a can of tonic and pouring us our first drinks before she spun away.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Whilst these words were saying, Caterina let go the nightingale and covering herself, fell to weeping sore and beseeching her father to pardon Ricciardo, whilst on the other hand she entreated her lover to do as Messer Lizio wished, so they might long pass such nights together in security. But there needed not overmany prayers, for that, on the one hand, shame of the fault committed and desire to make amends for it, and on the other, the fear of death and the wish to escape,--to say nothing of his ardent love and longing to possess the thing beloved,--made Ricciardo freely and without hesitation avouch himself ready to do that which pleased Messer Lizio; whereupon the latter borrowed of Madam Giacomina one of her rings and there, without budging, Ricciardo in their presence took Caterina to his wife. This done, Messer Lizio and his lady departed, saying, 'Now rest yourselves, for belike you have more need thereof than of rising.' They being gone, the young folk clipped each other anew and not having run more than half a dozen courses overnight, they ran other twain ere they arose and so made an end of the first day's tilting. Then they arose and Ricciardo having had more orderly conference with Messer Lizio, a few days after, as it beseemed, he married the damsel over again, in the presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her with great pomp to his own house. There he held goodly and honourable nuptials and after went long nightingale-fowling with her to his heart's content, in peace and solace, both by night and by day." THE FIFTH STORY [Day the Fifth] GUIDOTTO DA CREMONA LEAVETH TO GIACOMINO DA PAVIA A DAUGHTER OF HIS AND DIETH. GIANNOLE DI SEVERINO AND MINGHINO DI MINGOLE FALL IN LOVE WITH THE GIRL AT FAENZA AND COME TO BLOWS ON HER ACCOUNT. ULTIMATELY SHE IS PROVED TO BE GIANNOLE'S SISTER AND IS GIVEN TO MINGHINO TO WIFE All the ladies, hearkening to the story of the nightingale, had laughed so much that, though Filostrato had made an end of telling, they could not yet give over laughing. But, after they had laughed awhile, the queen said to Filostrato, "Assuredly, if thou afflictedest us ladies yesterday, thou hast so tickled us to-day that none of us can deservedly complain of thee." Then, addressing herself to Neifile, she charged her tell, and she blithely began to speak thus: "Since Filostrato, discoursing, hath entered into Romagna, it pleaseth me on like wise to go ranging awhile therein with mine own story.

• From Fragments (7)

  A LOVE SONG (41) Upon our temples let us place Garlands of fragrant roses wound; With wine let us our spirits brace; Let joyous laughter here resound. A graceful maid performs a dance. And, stepping to the lyre, she holds Two rustling thyrsi in her hands. Which ivy foliage enfolds. A youth with soft luxurious hair In sweet shrill song his voice doth raise ; His breath doth fragrant perfume bear, While on his harp he gaily plays. Eros, the god with hair of gold, Fair Cytherea, and Bacchus too. Our gladsome revels all behold. Which e'en the aged with pleasure view. TO THE ROSE (42) The rose, which red with Cupids glows, With vines we'll interlace; 144 Anacreontea The beauteous-leaved, the fragrant rose Well o*er our temples place; Of joyful laughter let us think, And let us cheer our hearts with drink. Thou, rose, which of flowers dost most delight, Spring's favor hast thou won ; The gods take pleasure in thy sight, And Cytherea's son. With Graces dancing, e'er doth crown With wreaths of rose his hair's soft down. Now wreathe me too — Til play the lyre, And with a maid, whose gown In deep folds falls, do I desire In Bacchus' shrine to crown With wreaths of rose again hiy hair, And in hilarious dancing share. TO WINE (43) Whene'er myself in wine I steep. My cares and sorrows go to sleep. Why should I groan and troubles bear? Why burdened be with anxious care? He too must die who Death abhors. Why stray at random o'er life's course? In Bacchus' company divine, Pray, let us therefore drink our wine. Whene'er ourselves in wine we steep. Our cares and sorrows go to sleep. 145 Lyric Songs of the Greeks TO SPRING (44) Spring IS here : the Graces see With red roses teeming; See the billows of the sea, How they are calmly gleaming. On the mirrored waters* plane See how ducks are diving; See how journeys there the crane, From the South arriving. Now the sunlight brightly beams; Breezes drive the shadows Of the clouds; for mortals gleam Houses, fields, and meadows. Olive branches downward bend; Grapes with wine- juice swelling Down from leaves and twigs extend. Of our Bromius telling. TO HIMSELF (45) I now am very old, 'tis true, Yet more I drink than young men do. And when to dance I would commence. Then will I rush Into the crush, Then like Silenus will I dance. 146 Anacreontea A wine-bag then my staff shall be; For nothing means a wand to me. The one to whom *tis dear to fight, May ever fight with all his might. To me a cup be brought by thee, O boy; I enjoin, Sweet honeyed wine Mix in it and bring here to me. I now am very old, 'tis true. Yet more I drink than young men do. TO A LOVER OF DRINK (46) When Bacchus here is present, My cares are put to sleep;

• From On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous (2019)

  I sat on the kitchen tiles and watched Lan scoop two steaming mounds of rice into a porcelain bowl rimmed with painted indigo vines. She grabbed a teapot and poured a stream of jasmine tea over the rice, just enough for a few grains to float in the pale amber liquid. Sitting on the floor, we passed the fragrant, steaming bowl between us. It tasted the way you’d imagine mashed flowers would taste—bitter and dry, with a bright and sweet aftertaste. “True peasant food.” Lan grinned. “This is our fast food, Little Dog. This is our McDonald’s!” She tilted to one side and let out a huge fart. I followed her lead and let one go myself, prompting us to both laugh with our eyes closed. Then she stopped. “Finish it.” She pointed with her chin at the bowl. “Every grain of rice you leave behind is one maggot you eat in hell.” She removed the rubber band from her wrist and tied her hair in a bun. They say that trauma affects not only the brain, but the body too, its musculature, joints, and posture. Lan’s back was perpetually bent—so much so that I could barely see her head as she stood at the sink. Only the knot of tied-back hair was visible, bobbing as she scrubbed. She glanced at the pantry shelf, empty save for a lone half-eaten jar of peanut butter. “I have to buy more bread.” — One night, a day or two before Independence Day, the neighbors were shooting fireworks from a rooftop down the block. Phosphorescent streaks raked up the purple, light-polluted sky and shredded into huge explosions that reverberated through our apartment. I was asleep on the living room floor, wedged between you and Lan, when I felt the warmth of her body, which was pressed all night against my back, vanish. When I turned, she was on her knees, scratching wildly at the blankets. Before I could ask what was wrong, her hand, cold and wet, grabbed my mouth. She placed her finger over her lips. “Shhh. If you scream,” I heard her say, “the mortars will know where we are.” The streetlight in her eyes reflecting jaundiced pools on her dark face. She grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the window, where we crouched, huddled under the sill, listening to the bangs ricochet above us. Slowly, she guided me into her lap and we waited.

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

  I’m not accusing you of anything, but if you hear something you can use, so much the better.” He smiled and made a steeple of his fingers. “I used to smoke cigarettes. I started smoking in college because of peer pressure, and before I knew it I was up to a couple of packs a day. Those were real cigarettes, too, not with the filters like you have now. The first thing I would do when I woke up in the morning was reach for a cigarette, and I always had a cigarette before I went to bed at night. “Well, one night I went to have my cigarette and lo and behold, the pack was empty. I had run completely out. It was late, too late to wake up anyone else in the dorm. Normally I would have just taken a couple of butts out of the ashtray, but it so happened that when I finished studying I had emptied the ashtray into my wastebasket and dumped it down the incinerator shaft. So there I was, without my nightly cigarette.” He paused, contemplating his outrageous youthful self. “You know what I did? I’ll tell you. I started walking in circles with my heart beating a mile a minute. ‘What’ll I do? What’ll I do?’ I kept asking myself. What I ended up doing was, I ended up running downstairs to the lounge. The ashtrays were empty. Then I started going through the garbage cans in the hallway. At last I found one with butts in it. But as I reached down—right down into a garbage can—I suddenly thought, ‘Whoa. Hold on right there, buster.’ And I did. I went back to my room and to this day I haven’t smoked another cigarette.” He looked up at me. “But you know what I did? Every day I saved the exact amount of money I would have spent on cigarettes. Just as an experiment. Then last year I put it all together, and you know what I bought?” I shook my head. “I took that money and I bought a Nash Rambler.” My mother burst out laughing. The principal sat back and smiled uncertainly. My mother was sniffing and searching in her purse. She found a Kleenex and blew her nose as if she had some kind of cold that made her shriek. “Think about it,” the principal said. “That’s all I’m saying—just think about it.” My mother let the principal maunder on for a time, then brought him back to business. He became restless and uncomfortable. He said he would prefer that the vice-principal decide this question. My mother refused. She told him that the the vice-principal had manhandled me while I was sick. The school nurse had seen him do it. If she had to, my mother said, she was prepared to talk to a lawyer. She didn’t want to, but she would. The principal saw no reason why it had to come to that. Not over one obscenity.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  But the crowd wouldn’t let them leave, they pressed themselves against the bus, began rocking it back and forth, and then there were balaclavaed men with bottles and metal pipes, and in a clip repeated again and again on the news one of them leapt up and struck one of the windows, shattering it. This escalation seemed to give the crowd pause, it was as if there were an indrawn breath, a hesitation that might have been the prelude to real violence except that it gave the line of police reinforcements a chance to break through, using their shields to push the protesters back, opening a path for the bus to escape. Probably it had something to do with the weather, the fact that the most recent protests had remained peaceful; Sofia is wonderful in springtime, and even with the unseasonable heat it was a glorious spring. At Orlov Most the little vendor stalls were heaped with flowers and with cherries, swollen and voluptuously red; old women brought them from their villages, they were the most delicious cherries I had ever tasted. I bought some now from a round squat woman who called out sladki, sladki , promising they were sweet. She put great handfuls in a plastic sack, a bread bag turned inside out—I saw she had a whole heap of these sacks next to her in a garbage bag, she must have been collecting them all winter. The bag she handed me was half full, more than I wanted, she had filled it before I could tell her to stop. She was wearing a thin, formless housedress with a floral pattern, almost a nightgown, the kind of thing my own grandmother wore, and her hair was the same, too, cut short and curled; probably the resemblance was why I stopped, though her hair wasn’t my grandmother’s gray but dyed a bright shade of red I had only ever seen in the Balkans. She weighed the cherries on an old balance scale, as she did so trying to sell me her flowers, that was all she had on her table, cherries and country flowers, daisies and black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace, laid out in piles and also in prebundled bouquets, one of which she held out to me. For your girlfriend, she said, go on, she will be so happy. I laughed, thanking her but not taking the flowers, and she shrugged, disappointed. But she smiled again when I handed her a bill for five leva, telling her to keep the change, and she insisted I take a single black-eyed Susan, which I did, I would feel awkward carrying it through the streets but it would have been rude to refuse.

• From Stripped: Las Vegas (2021)

  So a lot of times, I prefer to just relax, smoke some weed, allow my body to recuperate, not really force it to do so much. - Just sleep, that's the best thing is sleep. [upbeat music] Just being here with my daughter, ultimately being a mom, it's everything that I live for. I got her a puppy almost two years ago now, and her name is Sugar. She has a very big personality for such a little dog. She thinks she's a pit bull. I think Sugar helped my daughter a lot with not feeling alone. - My little babies, this right here is Arya. I have three cats altogether. I also have a snake and a gecko, my little scaly babies [laughs]. They definitely have helped me to stay grounded and just kind of have something nice, and soft, and so sweet to come home and cuddle up to. [cat yelling] [cat thumping] [cat mewing] - Denali [whistles]. Oh, well. [upbeat music] Huskies are really human like. They are almost like monkey status. Denali played a huge role with the pandemic and my support system, because she's so human like, that I almost felt like she heard me and she understood me. I don't think I chose Denali, I think Denali chose me. - So, I live with two boys [laughs]. Where are they at, boys [laughs]? They're brothers, I love them so much. They bring me a lot of company, they bring me a lot of joy, and it's really nice having them around, even though they fuck everything up [laughs]. You're so dirty, I feel so bad. [Yasmine yelling] - Blake, Blake, Blake, Blake, Blakey, he is my puppy, he's six months. Just looking at him and how happy he is, it really makes my heart smile. [Yasmine laughing] - Bailey, shake, shake, nice to meet you. We had horses when I was younger. And the connection that I've had with Bailey has been so special. [placid music] Good girl. We've kind of grown together. We were both kids when I first got her and we were both teenagers at the same time. And we both have angsty, bitchy personalities. [hooves thumping] [birds chirping] We just grew up together. And so we would be running down the beach, bare back in bikinis, and we would go in the water, and we would go swimming afterwards. And she was enjoying every single minute of it. Zoey. [placid music] - [Brooklyn] I've never had stability growing up. - [Realtor] So, we already talked about this prior to coming here, but that's three bedrooms, two baths. All right, so come on in, we have an open floor plan, and then there is a next gen suite. - [Brooklyn] It doesn't even look that big from outside. - [Realtor] Yeah, I know, it's kind of a longer one. I used to be in the industry, I used to be a cocktail waitress at [mumbles].

• From Cleanness (2020)

  VENICE WAS TWO HOURS AWAY by train, another unmissable chance. We wouldn’t stay the night, the hotel in Bologna was already paid for, we would spend a few hours exploring and then come back. On the train I stared at the fields we passed, which were laid out neatly, in lines I realized I had never seen in Bulgaria; the fields alongside the train from Sofia to the coast were shaggy, inexactly drawn, like the fields I remembered from my childhood, my family’s fields in Kentucky, nothing like this clean geometry. I stared at them, hypnotized, and turned away only when I felt R.’s hand on my ankle, calling me back. We were facing each other, I had my foot on the empty seat beside him, and he had hooked his fingers underneath the cuff of my jeans and was stroking me softly, privately, not looking up from his book. But I knew he wasn’t reading, he was smiling just slightly, his eyes on the page, he was basking in how I looked at him.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  And then, in a broad, cartoonish Slavic accent, another classroom trick, I said Tonight I make exception, and drank deeply. Bravo, Z. said, that’s the way, and N. said again This is so epic, and then, this is the best night of my life, which made all three of us laugh. I hadn’t been paying attention to where Z. was leading us, and I was surprised when we arrived at the Doctor’s Garden, a little tree-filled park just west of the university. I had been there often, I loved it during the day, and at night it filled like all the parks with young people drinking. Let’s stop for a minute, Z. said, pulling out his phone and making the little screen light up, we still had some time to kill before we needed to be at the club. Z. turned off the path almost as soon as we entered the park, taking us into a section of trees and grass that was filled with dozens of fragments of marble, broken pillars and bits of cornices. This part of the garden was dark, and the stones glowed faintly, reflecting the light from the paths and playgrounds. I had looked at these fragments before, in the daytime, reading the plaques laid in the ground with information about their provenance, the various archaeological digs where they were found, translations of their inscriptions. Z. chose a pillar the right height and sat the carton on top of it, making me suck my breath between my teeth. What, he asked, and I said something about its antiquity, how it was thousands of years old and he was using it as his table. N. laughed. All this time in Bulgaria, he said, and you’re still such an American. We have stuff like this everywhere, he said, if we couldn’t touch it we couldn’t live. And besides, Z. said, don’t you think it’s better out here than in a museum, I think it likes it, and he ran his hand down the length of the stone, a strangely sensual gesture, I think it likes us to touch it. Go ahead, he said, you touch it too, and when I hesitated, he took my arm just above the wrist and pulled it to the stone. I laughed, surrendering, and stroked it as he had done, the stone warmer than the air, it must have soaked in the late sun, and pocked, not smooth at all, or smooth only where letters had been chiseled into it, the slanted edges of the cut still perfectly polished.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  Merchants were walking through the crowds, hawking toys for children, spinning tops that burst into LED color as they helicoptered up. All that was new there was evanescent, the toys, the tourists, R. and I; all that was lasting was old, worn dull with looking though still I wondered to look at it, the centuries-old basilica, the bells, the gold lion on its pedestal, the sea that would swallow it; and everywhere also the books I had read, so that look, there, I could almost convince myself of it, Aschenbach stepping from uncertain water to stone. I HAD A MIND FULL of useless things, I had always thought, or useless since graduate school, where they had been a kind of currency, the old stories and stray facts that were all that remained of the years in which I had wanted to be a scholar. The books I had read! But in the churches of Venice I found a use for them, I could read the paintings for R., or not the paintings but the stories they told: Joseph of Arimathea, Mary and Martha, Sebastian nursing his arrows. In churches in Bulgaria the paintings were more or less mute to me, but here they made a story I could read, and as I told it to him I saw the pleasure R. took in it, the way he looked at me and then at the painting, I loved to see it. I have a crush on teacher, he said, whispering, and then he smiled his smile that meant happiness, his whole face beaming, turning toward the painting now though I knew the smile was for me. Later, back in Bologna, where we arrived on the last train after all the restaurants had closed—we ate shrink-wrapped sandwiches and chocolate, shared a little bottle of prosecco, all of it from a twenty-four-hour shop near the station—he asked me to tell him more, it didn’t matter what. Tell me a story, he said, stretched out in bed as I lay beside him, running my hands across his chest and stomach, feeling his cock grow thick when I grabbed it, tell me another story. I WOKE A FEW HOURS LATER too hot, stifling in the bedclothes. I switched on the lamp beside the bed. R. slept so deeply I never had to worry about waking him on the nights I couldn’t sleep, when I spent hours beside him reading or writing. But this time he did wake, or half wake, as I lay with a book propped on my stomach; he turned toward me and linked his arm through mine before settling back into sleep, his face pressed against my shoulder. I looked at him for a long time before going back to my book. They could make a whole life, I thought, surprised to think it, these moments that filled me up with sweetness, that had changed the texture of existence for me. I had never thought anything like it before.

• From Branded: Brainwashed Inside NXIVM (2020)

  [Robin] These workshops cost thousands of dollars for self-improvement, self-awareness. [Rick] Keith Raniere is acting like you're privileged. This is a wonderful thing. You are going to learn tools for your success. These are self-improvement seminars that will change your life. And then that evolved into, we're going to change the world. And Keith Raniere has the formula. He has the philosophy that will change the planet. Thank you. [Audience members] Thank you. [Narrator] Soon, Raniere and Salzman rebrand their organization with a name destined for infamy-- NXIVM. NXIVM is a word in Greek for slave, or indentured person. [Dr. Joseph] The fact that Keith is so brazen about the way that he names the cult NXIVM, it shows that he is hiding in plain sight. [Narrator] It's an ominous harbinger of the next step in Raniere's plan [Rick] It emerges quickly that to be in NXIVM is to live in a world based on the beliefs of Keith Raniere, who can come across very charming to a lot of people. You don't see the power behind the throne that a lot of these women in NXIVM are going to be subjected to-- cruelty, shame, and punishment. And it's with a twisted sense of pleasure, in some ways. [Robert] NXIVM was a quote unquote, you know, "human development company." In layman's terms, a self-help group-- an organization that promised human potential. The tools we use in ESP are designed... in a way that really helps us understand ourselves better. [Robert] The NXIVM curriculum was based on the teachings and the philosophies of Keith Raniere. You would pay thousands of dollars for courses to increase your potential. Nancy Salzman is the face of it, and is able to sell this with a smile on her face. [Narrator] Raniere and Salzman even adopt new names for their leadership positions. [Paige] Nancy, his number two at that point, is the Prefect, which essentially is head student. [Armando] She is the senior student who's authorized to give discipline. Keith was only to be referred to as Vanguard. [Paige] Much like in Scientology, LRH was the Commandant or the Admiral. Raniere is Vanguard. Everyone is underneath him. [Dr. Joseph] If he's called by the birth name, then he's just a mere mortal. But a one-word name or a mysterious symbol, what this does on an unconscious level is it tells the members that they are merely human and this person is special. And so it's really a form of psychological manipulation for him to transform and evolve into this new title of Vanguard. [Narrator] NXIVM's classes attract those looking to excel in their career, or simply get more out of life. I had been seeking the answer to how to be a better person, how to be more enlightened. I felt like I was really missing something. And then someone introduced me to NXIVM. And I thought, okay, well, I'll try that, why not? [Narrator] Kelly signs up for a five-day session.

• From Cleanness (2020)

  You can be like this. AN EVENING OUT Z. had emptied half the carton of juice, and now I was holding it as he poured the vodka into the plastic funnel at the top. We had laughed at the way he threw his head back and drank, sucking the juice down even as he grimaced at the taste, which was sickly sweet. He refused to dump it in the gutter: My grandfather was Russian, he said, we never waste anything. And that too had made us laugh, though he was serious now as he poured, tilting the plastic flask to let the barest ribbon of liquid thread perfectly into the carton. He didn’t want to waste that, either, and I was so absorbed in holding the carton still—and absorbed in Z., too, who stood close to me, our shoulders almost touching—that I had nearly forgotten about N. when I heard the click of his phone as it took a picture of us. What are you doing, I said, and I’m sure there was a note in my voice of real concern at the thought of the image shared with others, but we had already drunk enough that the concern was distant, and N. laughed it off. I’m sorry, he said, it’s just too epic, we’ve been waiting for this for so long. He laughed again when I warned him not to post it on Facebook. I’ll hunt you down, I said, one of the phrases I had used often in my seven years as a teacher. He held up his hands, smiling broadly. Don’t worry, he said, I won’t, I just want to remember this forever. Z. took the carton from me and screwed the lid back on, shaking it vigorously and for far too long, making us laugh again. It was the second flask of vodka, the second carton of juice, the second time Z. had taken in hand the mixing of our drinks. He would have poured for us if we had had anything to use as cups; instead we drank straight from the carton, which he handed to me first and then to N. before drinking from it himself. We were on a narrow street in the city center, standing beneath a streetlamp in front of the little twenty-four-hour shop where we had bought our supplies. It was already late, but we had an hour or so before the concert at the club that was our real destination. Sofia is famous for these clubs, where the city’s wealthy dance and drink; they’re called chalgoteki , after the pop-folk music they play. I had never been to one before. But now, since I was leaving Sofia, Z. had insisted that at least once I should have what he called a real Bulgarian night out, and the lure of him had overcome all my aversion to drunkenness and noise.