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 On Beauty (2005)

  He rolled his eyes because I dressed up as Salome´. Now is that something to roll your eyes about?’ Just before an oncoming lamp-post their little chain of three dissolved itself, and Claire and Warren merged into each other again. ‘ Claire , I wouldn’t have rolled my eyes, honey – you should have said something.’  On Beauty ‘It was utterly last minute, Keeks, really it was,’ said Warren. ‘You think I would have married this woman if I’d had time to think about it? She called me up and said it’s the birthday of St John the Baptist, let’s do it, and we did it.’ ‘Again, please,’ said Kiki, although this aspect of the couple, their locally celebrated ‘eccentricity’, was not really attractive to her. ‘So I have this Salome´ dress – red, sequinned, I knew when I saw it that it was my Salome´ dress, I bought it in Montreal. I wanted to get married in my Salome´ dress and take a man’s head with me. And, goddamn it, I did. And it’s such a sweet head,’ said Claire, pulling it gently towards her. ‘So full of facts,’ said Kiki. She wondered how many times this exact routine would be repeated to well-wishers in the coming weeks. She and Howard were just the same, especially when they had news. Each couple is its own vaudeville act. ‘ Yes ,’ said Claire, ‘so full of genuine facts . And I never had that before, someone who knew anything real at all . Apart from ‘‘art is truth’’ – you can’t move for people in this town who know that. Or think they know it.’ ‘Mom.’ Jerome, in all his gloomy Jeromeity, had joined them. The ill-pitched greetings that compassionate age sings to mysterious youth rang out; hair was almost tousled and then wisely not, the eternal unanswerable question was met with a new and horrible answer (‘I’m dropping out.’ ‘He means he’s taking a little time out.’). For a moment it seemed that the world had drained itself of all possible subjects that might be gently discussed on a hot day in a pretty town. Then the glorious news of matrimony was recalled and joyfully repeated only to be met with the dispiriting request for specifics (‘Oh, well, it’s actually my fourth , Warren’s second’). Through all this Jerome continued to unwrap, very slowly, a silver foil package in his hand. At last the top of a volcanic burrito was revealed; it then promptly erupted in his hand and down his wrist. Their little circle took a collective step back.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  * By and by she commanded Zephyrus by the ap- pointment of her husband to bring them down; neither did he delay, for with gentle blasts he re- tained them up, and laid them softly in the valley : I am not able to express the often embracing, kissing, and greeting which was between them three; and » those tears which had been then laid apart sprang forth again for joy. * Come in,' quoth Psyche, * Into our house with gladness and refresh your afflicted minds with me yoursister.' After this she shewed them the storehouses of treasure, she caused them to hear the great company of voices which served her, the fair bath was made ready, and she entertained them richly with dainty meats of her celestial table, and when they had eaten and filled themselves with divine delicacies they conceived great envy within their hearts: and one of them being very curious in every point, did not-cease to demand what her hus- band was, and who was the lord of so precious a house; but Psyche, remembering the promise which she made to her husband, did not let it go forth from the secret places of her heart, but with timely colour feigned that he was a young man of comely stature with soft down, rather than a beard, just beginning to shadow his cheeks, and had great de- light in hunting in the hills and dales hard by: and : 211 LUCIUS APULEIUS bus occupatum, et ne qua sermonis procedentis labe consilium tacitum proderetur, auro facto gemmosis- que monilibus onustas eas statim vocato Zephyro tradit reportandas. _ 9 Quo protenus perpetrato sorores egregiae domum redeuntes, iamque gliscentis invidiae felle flagrantes multa secum sermonibus mutuis perstrepebant: sic denique infit altera : * En orba et saeva et iniqua For- tuna! Hocine tibi complacuit, ut utroque parente prognatae diversam sortem sustineremus? Et nos quidem, quae natu maiores sumus, maritis advenis ancillae deditae, extorres et Lare et ipsa patria de- gamus longe parentum velut exulantes, haec autem novissima, quam fetu satiante postremus partus effudit, tantis opibus et deo marito potita sit, quae nec uti recte tanta bonorum copia novit? Vidisti, soror, quanta in domo iacent et qualia monilia, quae praenitent vestes, quae splendicant gemmae, quantum praeterea passim caleatur aurum: quod si maritum etiam tam formosum tenet, ut affirmat, nulla nune in orbe toto felicior vivit. Fortassis tamen procedente consuetudine et affectione roborata deam quoque illam deus maritus efficiet. Sic est Hercule, sic se gerebat ferebatque : iam iam sursum respicit et deam spirat mulier, quae voces ancillas habet et ventis ipsis imperitat. | At ego misera primum patre meo seniorem maritum sortita sum, dein cucurbita calviorem et 212 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK V lest by her long talk she should be found to trip or fail in her words and betray her secret counsel, she filled their laps with gold and ornaments of jewels, and commanded Zephyrus to carry them away.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Daisy liked eighties romantic comedies and Kevin Bacon and thrift-store handbags. Hannah was red-headed and freckled, rational, hard-working, mature. She liked Ezra Pound and making her own clothes. Here were people. Here were tastes and buying habits and physical attributes. ‘Where’s Claire?’ asked Zora, looking around them. ‘ ’Cross the street,’ said Ron, holding his hand against his hip. ‘With Eddie and Lena and Chantelle and everybody – most of the class came. Claire’s loving it, naturally.’ ‘She sent you over?’ ‘I guess. Ooooh, Dr Belsey. Do you smell trauma?’ Happily, Zora rose to the bait. By virtue of who she was she had information other students could not hope to have. She was their vital link to the inner life of professors. She had no qualms about sharing all she knew.  the anatomy lesson ‘Are you serious ? She totally can’t look me in the eye – even in class, when I’m reading she’s nodding at the window.’ ‘I think she’s just ADD,’ drawled Daisy. ‘Attention Dick Deficiency,’ said Zora, because she was extremely quick. ‘If it doesn’t have a dick, it’s basically deficient.’ Her little audience guffawed, pretending to a worldliness none of them had earned. Ron gripped her chummily round the shoulders. ‘The wages of sin, etcetera,’ he said as they began to walk, and then, ‘Whither morality?’ ‘Whither poetry?’ said Hannah. ‘Whither my ass?’ said Daisy, and nudged Zora for one of her cigarettes. They were smooth and bright, and their timing was wonderful, and they were young and hilarious. It was really something to see, they thought, and this was why they spoke loudly and gestured, inviting onlookers to admire. ‘ Tell me about it,’ said Zora, and flicked open the carton. And so it happened again, the daily miracle whereby interiority opens out and brings to bloom the million-petalled flower of being here, in the world, with other people. Neither as hard as she had thought it might be nor as easy as it appeared. The Bus Stop was a Wellington institution. For twenty years it had been a cheap and popular Moroccan restaurant, attracting students, the aged hippies of Kennedy Square, professors, locals and tourists. A first-generation Moroccan family ran it and the food was very good, unpretentious and flavoursome. Although there was no Moroccan diaspora in Wellington to appreciate the authenticity of the lamb tagine or the saffron couscous, this had never tempted the Essakalli family into Americanization. They served what they themselves enjoyed eating and waited for the Wellingtonians to acclimatize, which they did.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] NEITHER DID our speech make the going, nor the going, more slow; but, talking we went bravely on, even as a ship driven by a fair wind. And the shades, that seemed things twice dead, drew in wonderment at me through the pits of their eyes, aware of my being alive. And I, continuing my discourse, said: “Perchance he goeth upward more slowly than he would do, for another’s sake. But tell me, if thou knowest, where Piccarda1 is; tell me if I see any person to be noted among this people who gaze so at me.” “My sister, who, whether she were more fair or more good I know not, now triumphs, rejoicing in her crown on high Olympus.” Thus spake he at first, and then: “Here ’tis not forbidden to name each one, since our features are so wrung by abstinence. This (and he showed with his finger) is Bonagiunta, Bonagiunta of Lucca;2 and that visage, beyond him, shrivelled more than the others, held Holy Church within its arms: from Tours sprang he, and by fasting purges the eels of Bolsena and the sweet wine.”3 Many others he named to me, one by one, and all did seem glad at the naming, so that I saw therefore not one black look. I saw Ubaldino della Pila4 using his teeth for very hunger on the void; and Boniface5 who pastured many peoples with the rook. I saw Messer Marchese,6 who once had leisure to drink at Forlì with less thirst, and yet was so craving that he never felt sated. But as he doth who looks, and then esteems one more than another, so did I to him of Lucca who seemed to have most knowledge of me. He was muttering, and something like “Gentucca,” I heard there where he was feeling the wounds of Justice, which so doth pluck them. “O soul,” said I, “that seemeth yearning so to talk with me, speak so that I may understand thee, and satisfy me and thee with thy speech.” “A woman is born and wears not yet the wimple,” he began, “who will make my city pleasing to thee, however man may rebuke it. Thou shalt go hence with this prophecy; if thou hast taken my muttering in error, the real facts will make it yet clear to thee.7 But tell if I see here him who invented the new rhymes beginning: ‘Ladies that have intelligence of Love.’ ”8 And I to him: “I am one who, when Love inspires me take note, and go setting it forth after the fashion which he dictates within me.” “O brother,” said he, “now I see the knot which kept back the Notary, and Guittone, and me, short of the sweet new style that I hear.9 Truly I see how your pens follow close after him who dictates, which certainly befell not with ours.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  [image file=image_rsrcA64.jpg] CENTRAL ITALY IN DANTE’S TIME C A N T O X X XWhen the car arrests itself, all the elders who had preceded it, turn and face round to it; and when one of them invokes the bride of Lebanon, blessed spirits rise up around it, as men shall rise at the last day. Flowers are flung in a cloud from their hands as they utter blessings, culled from Christian and Gentile scriptures; and a form clad in the colours of the three theological virtues rises like the sun in their midst. Dante without further testimony from his eyes, recognizes the tokens of the ancient flame, and like a terrified child turns round to ask comfort and support from Virgil. But Virgil has gone, and not even the joys of the Earthly Paradise can prevent Dante’s cheeks, though cleansed by the mountain dew, from darkening again with tears. But the sense of outward loss when bereft of Virgil is soon swallowed up in the sense of inward loss caused by his own faithlessness and sin; for Beatrice sternly recalls him to face his own insulted and outraged ideal. Bereft of Virgil’s support when he looks around, encountering his own image in the stream when he looks down, like a child before an angered mother, Dante feels his heart at first frozen by reproaches, then melted by the pleading intercession of the angels. But Beatrice is still unbending; and turning to the angelic presences she rehearses the promise of Dante’s youth and the unworthiness of his manhood, the gracious and fleeting beauty of his early vows, the pursuit of false good to which he then surrendered himself, her own unavailing pleadings with him, and his fall, so deep that naught save the vision of the region of the lost, won for him by her prayers and tears, could avail to save him. The deep fate of God were broken should he taste of the higher joys, access to which she had won for him, without paying some scot of penitential tears. [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] WHEN THE WAIN of the first heaven which setting nor rising never knew, nor veil of other mist than of sin, and which made there each one aware of his duty, even as the lower wain guides him who turns the helm to come into port,1 had stopped still, the people of truth, who had first come between the griffin and it,2 turned them to the car as to their peace; and one of them as if sent from heaven “Veni sponsa de Libano“3 did shout thrice in song, and all the others after him. As the saints at the last trump shall rise ready each one from his tomb, with re-clad voice singing Halleluiah, such on the divine chariot rose up a hundred ad vocem tanti senis, ministers and messengers of life eternal.4 All were saying: “Benedictus qui venis”;5 and, strewing flowers above and around, “Manibus o date lilia plenis.”6

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  The body whence it was chased forth, lieth down below in Cieldauro,12 and itself from martyrdom and exile came unto this peace. See flaming next the glowing breath of Isidor, of Bede, and of Richard,13 who, in contemplating, was more than man. The one from which thy glance returneth unto me, is the light of a spirit who, in weighty thoughts, him seemed went all too slowly to his death; it is the light eternal of Sigier who, lecturing in the Vicus Straminis, syllogized truths that brought him into hate.”14 Then as the horologue, that calleth us, what hour the spouse of God15 riseth to sing her matins to her spouse that he may love her, wherein one part drawing and thrusting other, giveth a chiming sound of so sweet note, that the well-ordered spirit with love swelleth; so did I see the glorious wheel revolve and render voice to voice in harmony and sweetness that may not be known except where joy maketh itself eternal.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  We park the car on the Rue des Ecoles (the nearest parking place we can find) and leave all our gear in the car. For a moment I hesitate because there’s no way to lock up our things—the Triumph only has a canvas flap—but after all, what do I care about permanence or possessions? Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose—right? We make for a café on the Place St. Michel, babbling to each other about how great it is to be back in Paris, how Paris never changes, how the cafés are always right where you left them, and the streets are always right where you left them, and Paris is always right where you left it. Two beers each and we are kissing ostentatiously in public. (Anyone would think we were the world’s greatest lovers in private.) “The superego is soluble in alcohol,” says Adrian, becoming again the self-confident flirt he was in Vienna. “My superego is soluble in Europe,” I say. And we both laugh rather too loudly. “Let’s never go home,” I propose. “Let’s stay here forever and be delirious every day.” “The grape is the only true existentialist,” Adrian answers, holding me close. “Or the hops. Is it hops or hop? I’m never sure.” “Hops,” he says authoritatively, taking another belt of beer. “Hops,” I say, doing the same. We skip through Paris in a beery blur. We eat couscous for lunch and oysters for supper, and in between we drink innumerable beers and make innumerable stops to pee; we skip through the Jardin des Plantes and around the Pantheon and through the narrow streets near the Sorbonne. We skip through the Jardin du Luxembourg. Finally we rest on a bench near the Fontaine de l’Observatoire. We are happily stewed. We watch the great bronze horses rearing out of the fountain. I have that strange sense of invulnerability which alcohol gives and I feel that I am living in the midst of a romantic movie. I feel so relaxed and loose and giddy. New York is farther away than the moon. “Let’s find a hotel room and go to bed,” I say. Not a strong wave of lust, but just a friendly wish to consummate this romantic giddiness. We might try once more. Just one perfect fuck to remember him by. All our attempts have been somehow disappointing. It seems such a shame that we’ve been together all this time and have risked so much for so little.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Without ever becoming intimates, she felt she could honestly say that she and Kiki had always been fond of each other. Never had she resented Kiki or wished her ill. And here Claire emerged out of herself; refocused on Zora’s features so that hers was again a sovereign face and not a blur of colour and personal thoughts. It was not possible to make the last leap – to consider what it was Kiki now thought of Claire. To do that was to become subhuman before yourself, the person cast out beyond pity, a Caliban. Nobody can cast themselves out. A commotion was going on by the stage. The next act was waiting for Doc Brown to finish his introduction. The group was huge. Nine, ten boys? They were the kind of boys who make three times as much noise as their actual number. They jostled each other, shoulder to shoulder, on the way up the steps, and struggled to reach a collection of five or so microphones on stands in front of them – there would not be enough for all. One of them was Levi Belsey. ‘Looks like your brother’s up,’ said Claire, poking Zora lightly in the back. ‘Oh, God,’ said Zora, peeking through a gap in her fingers. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky – maybe he’s just the hype man.’ ‘Hype man?’ ‘Like a cheerleader. But for rap,’ explained Daisy helpfully. Finally all the boys were on the stage. The band was dismissed.  On Beauty This group had their own tape: a heavy Caribbean beat and jangly keyboards over the top. They all began to speak at once in a loud Creole. That wasn’t working. Further jostling decided that one guy should begin. A skinny guy in a hoodie came forward and gave it his all. The language barrier had an interesting effect. The ten boys were clearly eager that their audience understand what was being said; they jumped and whooped and leaned into the crowd, and the crowd could not help but respond, although most understood nothing bar the beat. Levi was indeed the hype man, picking up his microphone every few bars and shouting ‘YO!’ into it. Some of the younger black kids in the audience rushed the stage in response to the sheer energy of this performance, and here Levi came into his own, encouraging them in English. ‘Levi doesn’t even speak French,’ said Zora frowning at the performance. ‘I don’t think he has any idea what he’s hyping.’ But then came the chorus – sung by everyone together, including Levi, in English: ‘AH-RIS-TEED, CORRUPTION AND GREED, AND SO WE ALL SEE, WE STILL AIN’T FREE!’ ‘Nice rhymes,’ said Chantelle, laughing. ‘Nice and basic.’ ‘Is this political ?’ asked Daisy with distaste. After two outings, the chorus thankfully dropped back into the manic Creole of the verse. Claire struggled to simultaneously translate for her class. She soon gave it up under the weight of too many unfamiliar terms.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  But nobody laughed. ‘I’m out,’ said Levi and bounced off his stool. Levi’s family turned to him in surprise. ‘I gotta go,’ he reiterated. ‘Back to school?’ asked Jerome, looking at his own watch. ‘Uh-huh,’ said Levi because there was no point in worrying people unnecessarily. He made his farewells, pulling on his Michelin Man coat, thumping first sister and then brother hard between their shoulder blades. He pressed play on his iPod (the earphones of these had never left his ears). He got lucky. It was a beautiful song by the fattest man in rap: a -pound, Bronx-born, Hispanic genius. Only twenty-five years old when he died of a coronary, but still very much alive to Levi and millions of kids like Levi. Out of the coffee shop and down the street Levi bounced to the fat man’s ingenious boasts, similar in their formality (as Erskine had once tried to explain) to those epic boasts one finds in Milton, say, or in  On Beauty the Iliad . These comparisons meant nothing at all to Levi. His body simply loved this song; he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was dancing down the street, the wind at his back making him as fleet of foot as Gene Kelly. Soon he could see the church steeple and then, as he got a block closer, a flash of the wash-white bed-sheets, knotted to black railings. He wasn’t so late. A few of the guys were still unpacking. Felix – who was the ‘leader’, or at least the guy who held the purse strings – waved. Levi jogged up to meet him. They knocked fists, clasped hands. Some people’s hands are sweaty, most are moist, and then there are a few rare souls like Felix whose hands are as dry and cool as stone. Levi wondered whether it was something to do with his blackness. Felix was blacker than any black man Levi ever met in his life. His skin was like slate. Levi had this idea that he would never say out loud and that he knew didn’t make sense, but anyway he had this idea that Felix was like the essence of blackness in some way. You looked at Felix and thought: This is what it’s all about, being this different; this is what white people fear and adore and want and dread. He was as purely black as – on the other side of things – those weird Swedish guys with translucent eyelashes are purely white. It was like, if you looked up black in a dictionary . . . It was awesome. And, as if to emphasize his singularity, Felix didn’t goof off like the other guys, he didn’t joke. He was all business. The only time Levi had seen him laugh was when Levi asked Felix that first Saturday whether he had a job going.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  [image file=image_rsrcA5N.jpg] WHEN HE who doth illumine all the world descendeth so from our hemisphere that day on every side is done away, the heaven which before is kindled by him only, now straightway maketh itself reappear by many lights wherein the one regloweth.1 And this act of heaven came to my mind when the ensign of the world and of its leaders within its blessed beak was silent; because all those living lights, far brightlier shining, began songs which from my memory must slip and fall. O sweet love, smile-bemantled, how glowing didst thou seem in those flute holes breathed on only by sacred ponderings!2 When the dear and shining stones, whereby I saw the sixth heaven gemmed, had imposed silence on the angelic chimes, meseemed to hear the murmuring of a river which drop-peth clear from rock to rock and showeth the abundance of its source. And as the sound taketh its form in the lute-neck, or at the opening of the pipes the wind that entereth, so, delay of expectation done away, that murmuring of the eagle rose up through its neck as it were hollow; there it became a voice and issued thence, out from its beak, in form of words, such as the heart awaited, whereon I wrote them. “That part in me which seeth and which doth endure the sun in mortal eagles,” it began to me, “must now fixedly be gazed upon, for of the fires wherefromout I make my figure, those with which the eye sparkleth in my head, of all their ranks are chief. He who shineth midmost, as the pupil, was the singer of the Holy Spirit who bore the ark from city unto city; now knoweth he the merit of his song, in so far as ’twas the effect of his own counsel,3 by the remuneration like unto it. Of the five who make the eyebrow’s arch, he who doth neighbour closest on the beak consoled the widow for her son;4 now knoweth he how dear it costs Christ not to follow, by his experience of this sweet life and of the opposite. And he who followeth on the circumference whereof I tell, upon the upper arch, death did delay by his true penitence;5 now knoweth he that the eternal judgment is not transmuted when a worthy prayer giveth unto to-morrow upon earth what was to-day’s. The next who followeth, with the laws and me, with good intention that bore evil fruit, to give place to the pastor, made himself a Greek; now knoweth he that the ill deduced from his good deed hurteth not him though the world be destroyed thereby.6 And him thou seest on the down-sloping arch was William, whom that land deploreth which weepeth for that Charles and Frederick live; now knoweth he how heaven is enamoured of the righteous king, and by the semblance of his glow he maketh it yet seen.7

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  He transformed his voice and his face to suit his moods. Sometimes he was Edward G. Robinson as Al Capone, sometimes Basil Rathbone as Sherlock Holmes, sometimes Grimfalcon the Elf (a character we invented together), sometimes Shakewoof (another imaginary friend: part Shakespeare, part snuggly sheepdog—a sort of poetry-writing hound)…. Our long days and nights together were a series of routines, impersonations, playlets—with Brian doing most of the playing. I was such a good audience! We could walk and walk and walk and walk—from Columbia to the Village, across the Brooklyn Bridge (reciting Hart Crane, of course) and then all the way back to Manhattan—and never be bored. We never sat at a restaurant table in silence like grim young married couples do. We were always talking and laughing. Until we got married that is. Marriage ruined everything. Four years of being lovers and best friends and Shakespearean scholars together—and we blew it by getting married. I never wanted to. Marriage always seemed to be something I’d have plenty of time for in the future. The distant future. But Brian wanted to own my soul. He was afraid I’d fly away. So he gave me an ultimatum. Marry me or I’ll leave you. And I was scared of losing him, and I wanted to get away from home, and I was graduating from college and didn’t know what the hell else to do—so I married him.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Golly gee. Bo diddley.’ The orchestra sat on a small stage on the other side of the pond. It was clear to Howard – the only non-myopic member of his family  kipps and belsey – that every male musician was wearing a tie with a ‘musical notes’ design upon it. The women had this same motif printed on a cummerbund-like sash they wore around their waists. From an enormous banner behind the orchestra, a profile of Mozart’s miserable, pouchy hamster face loomed out at him. ‘Where’s the choir?’ asked Kiki, looking about her. ‘They’re underwater. They come up in like a . . .’ said Howard, miming a man emerging with a flourish from the sea. ‘It’s Mozart in pond. Like Mozart on ice. Fewer fatalities.’ Kiki laughed lightly, but then her face changed and she held him tightly by his wrist. ‘Hey . . . ah, Howard, baby?’ she said warily, looking across the park. ‘You want good news or bad news?’ ‘Hmm?’ said Howard, turning round and finding both kinds of news were approaching from across the green and waving at him: Erskine Jegede and Jack French, the Dean of the Humanities Faculty. Jack French on his long playboy legs in their New England slacks. How old was this man? The question had always troubled Howard. Jack French could be fifty-two. He could just as easily be seventy-nine. You couldn’t ask him and if you didn’t ask him you’d never know. It was a movie-idol face Jack had, cut-glass architecture, angled like a Wyndham Lewis portrait. His sentimental eyebrows made the shape of two separated sides of a steeple, always gently perplexed. He had skin like the kind of dark, aged leather you find on those fellows they dig out, after  years, from a peat bog. A thin yet complete covering of grey silk hair hid his skull from Howard’s imputations of extreme old age and was cut no differently than it would have been when the man was twenty-two, balanced on the lip of a white boat looking out at Nantucket through one sun-shading hand, wondering if that was Dolly stood square on the pier with two highballs in her hand. Compare and contrast with Erskine: his shining, hairless pate, and those story-book freckles that induced in Howard an unreasonable feeling of joy. Erskine was dressed this evening in a three-piece suit of the yellowest of yellows, the curves of his bumptious body naturally resisting all three pieces. On his small feet he wore a pair of pointed Cuban-heeled shoes. The effect was of a bull doing his initial  On Beauty two-step dance towards you.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  “Good,” he said, fondling my knee. So instead, he proceeded to tell me about the other women he’d fucked. Some bargain. First there was May Pei, the Chinese girl Bennett reminded him of. “She may pay and then she may not pay,” I said. “Don’t think that wasn’t thought of.” “I’m sure it was. But the question is—did she pay?” “Well, I did. She fucked me up for years after that.” “You mean, after she stopped seeing you, she still fucked you. Some trick. The phantom fuck. You could patent that, you know. Arrange to get people fucked by famous figures of the past: Napoleon, Charles II, Louis XIV…sort of like Dr. Faustus fucking Helen of Troy….” I loved being silly with him. “Shut up, cunt—and let me finish about May…” and then, turning to me amid a screeching of brakes: “God—you’re beautiful….” “Keep your fucking eyes on the road,” I said, delighted. — My conversations with Adrian always seemed like quotes from Through the Looking Glass. Like: Me: “We seem to be going around in circles.” Adrian: “That’s just the point.” or: Me: “Will you carry my briefcase?” Adrian: “As long as you agree not to carry anything for me just yet.” or: Me: “I divorced my first husband principally because he was crazy.” Adrian (furrowing his Laingian brows): “That would seem to me to be a good reason to marry someone, not divorce him.” Me: “But he watched television every night.” Adrian: “Oh, then I see why you divorced him.” — Why had May Pei fucked up Adrian’s life? “She left me in the lurch and went back to Singapore. She had a child there living with its father and the child was in a car crash. She had to go back, but she could have at least written. For months I walked around feeling that the world was made up of mechanical people. I’ve never been so depressed. The bitch finally married the pediatrician who took care of her kid—an American bloke.” “So why didn’t you go after her if you cared so much?” He looked at me as if I were crazy, as if such a thing had never occurred to him. “Go after her? Why?” (He burned rubber around a corner, taking another wrong turn.) “Because you loved her.” “I never used that word.” “But if you felt that way, why didn’t you go?” “My work is like keeping chickens,” he said. “Someone’s got to be there to shovel the shit and spread the corn.” “Bullshit,” I said. “Doctors always use their work as an excuse for not being human. I know that routine.” “Not bullshit, ducks, chickenshit.” “Not very funny,” I said, laughing. After May Pei there was a whole UN Assembly of girls from Thailand, Indonesia, Nepal. There was an African girl from Botswana and a couple of French psychoanalysts, and a French actress who’d “spent time in a bin.” “A what?” “A bin—you know, a madhouse. In a mental hospital, I mean.”

• From On Beauty (2005)

  On Tuesday we all went to the theatre (the whole clan is home now) and saw a South African dance troupe, and then, going back on the ‘tube’, we started to hum one of the tunes from the show, and this became full-blown singing,  On Beauty with Carlene leading (she’s got a terrific voice) and even Monty joined in, because he’s not really the ‘self-hating psychotic’ you think he is. It was really kind of lovely, the singing and the train coming above ground and then walking through the wet back to this beautiful house and a curried chicken home-cooked meal. But I can see your face as I type this, so I’ll stop. Other news: Monty has honed in on the great Belsey lack: logic. He’s trying to teach me chess, and today was the first time in a week when I wasn’t beaten in under six moves, though I was still beaten of course. All the Kippses think I’m muddle-headed and poetic – I don’t know what they would say if they knew that among Belseys I’m practically Wittgenstein. I think I amuse them, though – and Carlene likes to have me around the kitchen, where my cleanliness is seen as a positive thing, rather than as some kind of anal-retentive syndrome . . . I have to admit, though, I do find it a little eerie in the mornings to wake up to this peaceful silence (people whisper in the hallways so as not to wake up other people) and a small part of my backside misses Levi’s rolled-up wet towel, just as a small part of my ear doesn’t know what to do with itself now Zora’s no longer screaming in it. Mom mailed me to tell me that Levi has upped the headwear to four (skullcap, baseball cap, hoodie, duffel hood) with earphones on – so that you can only see a tiny, tiny bit of his face around the eyes. Please kiss him there for me. And kiss Mom for me too, and remember that it’s her birthday a week from tomorrow. Kiss Zora and ask her to read Matthew 24. I know how she just loves a bit of Scripture every day. Love and peace in abundance, Jerome xxxxx P.S. in answer to your ‘polite query’, yes, I am still one . . . despite your evident contempt I’m feeling quite fine about it, thanks . . . twenty is really not that late among young people these days, especially if they’ve decided to make their fellowship with Christ. It was weird that you asked, because I did walk through Hyde Park yesterday and  kipps and belsey thought of you losing yours to someone you had never met before and never would again. And no, I wasn’t tempted to repeat the incident . . .

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  Back in Beirut, we made plans to go home. Lalah and Chloe had a charter flight to New York, so they had to leave together, and I had my old Alitalia roundtrip from Beirut to Rome to JFK. I stopped in Rome as I’d planned and took one more week in Florence before going home to face the music with Charlie. Even in hot, crowded August, Florence remained one of my favorite cities in the world. There I took up with Alessandro again and this time we had an almost perfect, if loveless, six-day affair. At my request, he forsook his mania for dirty words, and we found a charming room at an inn in Fiesole where we could make love from one to four every afternoon (a very civilized lunch-hour custom). Maybe it was because of my fury at Charlie, or perhaps Pierre had really turned me on, but my lovemaking with Alessandro was inspired. It was the only time in my life when I was able to have exuberant, affectionate sex with someone without convincing myself that I was in love. A kind of six-day truce between my id and superego. When Alessandro went home to his wife in the evenings, I was on my own. I attended concerts at the Pitti, saw a few of the other characters from my previous visit and was hotly pursued once more by Professor “Michelangelo” (Karlinsky) of the flaming beard. Despite the heat and the motley assortment of boyfriends, I loved Florence and there were moments when I hardly wanted to leave at all. But a depressing teaching job and a Ph.D. program I hated were waiting for me in New York, and I was still too much of a superego-ridden schoolgirl not to choose something I hated over something I loved. Or maybe it was really Charlie: I was outraged by his betrayal, but I couldn’t wait to see him again.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  But what was their judgement now? Howard looked at the men. The men looked at Howard. Howard looked at the men. The men looked at Howard. Howard pressed the ‘zoom’ option on his screen. Zoom, zoom, zoom until he was involved only with the burgundy pixels of the Turkey rug. ‘Hey, Dad – what’s up? Daydreaming?’ ‘Christ! Don’t you knock?’ Levi pulled the door to behind himself. ‘Not for family, no . . . can’t say I do.’ He perched on the end of Howard’s desk and reached out a hand for his father’s face. ‘You OK? You sweating, man. Your forehead’s all wet. You feel OK?’ Howard batted Levi’s hand away. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. Levi shook his head disapprovingly but laughed. ‘Oh, man . . . that’s real cold. Just because I come to see you, you think I want something!’ ‘Social call, is it?’ ‘Well, yeah. I like to see you at work, see what’s going on with you, you know how it is, being all intellectual in college land. You’re like my role model and all that.’ ‘Right. How much is it, then?’ Levi shrieked with laughter. ‘Oh, man . . . you’re cold! I can’t believe you!’ Howard looked at the little clock in the corner of his screen. ‘School? Shouldn’t you be in school?’ ‘Well . . .’ said Levi, stroking his chin. ‘Technically, yeah. But see they got this rule – the city has a rule that you can’t be in class if  On Beauty the temperature in the room is below a certain, like, temperature – I don’t know what it is, but that kid Eric Klear knows what it is – he brings this thermometer in? And if it drops below that specific temperature, then – well, basically, we all just go home. Not a thing they can do about it.’ ‘Very enterprising,’ said Howard. Then he laughed and looked at his son with fond wonder. What a period this was to live through! His children were old enough to make him laugh. They were real people who entertained and argued and existed entirely independently from him, although he had set the thing in motion. They had different thoughts and beliefs. They weren’t even the same colour as him. They were a kind of miracle. ‘This isn’t traditional filial behaviour, you know,’ said Howard jovially, already reaching for his back pocket. ‘This is being mugged in your own office.’ Levi slipped off the desk and went to look out of the window. ‘Snow’s melting. Won’t last, though. Man,’ he said, turning around. ‘As soon as I have my own greens and my own life, I’m moving somewhere so hot . I’m moving to, like, Africa . I don’t even care if it’s poor. Long as I’m warm, that’s cool with me.’ ‘Twenty . . . six, seven, eight – that’s all I have,’ said Howard holding up the contents of his wallet.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Besides, it’s not just an anniversary party. And between me and you,’ she added faux confidentially to Carl, ‘we could do with a few more brothers at this party.’ It had not escaped anybody’s attention that Kiki was flirting. Brothers? thought Zora crossly, since when does Kiki say brothers ? ‘I got to be going,’ said Carl. He passed a flat hand over his forehead, smearing the droplets of sweat. ‘I got your man Levi’s number – we might hang out some time, so – ’ ‘Oh, OK . . .’ They all waved vaguely at his back and said bye quietly, but there was no denying he was walking away from them as fast as he could. Zora turned to her mother and opened her eyes wide. ‘What the hell? Rubens? ’ ‘Nice boy,’ said Kiki sadly. ‘Let’s get in the car,’ said Levi. ‘Not bad-looking either, huh?’ said Kiki and watched Carl’s retreating figure turn a corner. Howard stood on the other side of the road, one hand on the open mini-van door, the other sweeping from the ground to the sky, ushering his family inside.  kipps and belsey  The Saturday of the Belseys’ party arrived. The twelve hours before a Belsey party were a time of domestic anxiety and activity; a watertight excuse was required to escape the house for the duration. Luckily for Levi, his parents had provided him with one. Hadn’t they gone on and on about his getting a Saturday job? And so he had got one, and so he was going to it. End of discussion. With joy in his heart he left Zora and Jerome polishing doorknobs and set off for his sales associate position in a Boston music mega-store. The job itself was no occasion for joy: he hated the corny baseball cap he had to wear and the bad pop music he was compelled to sell; the tragic loser of a floor manager who imagined he was the king of Levi; the moms who couldn’t remember the name of the artist or the single, and so leaned over the counter to tunelessly hum a little bit of the verse. All it was good for was giving him a reason to get out of the toy-town that was Wellington and a bit of money to spend in Boston once he got there. Every Saturday morning he caught a bus to the nearest T-stop and then the subway into the only city he had ever really known. It was not New York, sure, but it was the only city he had, and Levi treasured the urban the same way previous generations worshipped the pastoral; if he could have written an ode he would have. But he had no ability in that area (he used to try – notebook after notebook filled with false, cringing rhymes).

• From On Beauty (2005)

  . . . Sometimes it was like: Are we rich or aren’t we? We live in this big ass house – why do I have to beg for ten dollars? A long green leaf, not yet crisp, hung near Levi at eye level. He pulled it down and began discreetly making a skeleton of it, pulling strips of flesh away from its spine. And but the thing was, if he didn’t get his measly thirty-five dollars a week, then there was no money to escape Wellington on a Saturday night, no chance to dance with all those kids, all those girls who didn’t give a fuck who the hell Gram-ski was or why whoever – Rem-bran – was no good. Sometimes he felt that those thirty-five dollars were the only thing that kept him half normal, half sane, half black . Levi held his leaf up to the light for a minute to admire his own handiwork. Then he screwed it into a damp green ball in his hand and dropped it to the floor. ‘Par don , par don , par don , par don .’ It was a gruff French accent coming from a tall skinny guy. He was edging Levi off his day-dreaming spot by the railings, and now there were half a dozen other guys or more, bustling, laying down huge bed sheets stuffed with goods and knotted at the top like plum puddings; now untying them, revealing CDs, DVDs, posters and, incongruously, handbags. Levi stepped off the sidewalk and watched them, at first absently and then with interest. One of them pressed play on a big boom-box, and summery hip-hop, out of place but welcome on this chill autumn day, blew up into the passing shoppers. Many people tutted; Levi smiled. It was a joint he knew and loved. Slipping effortlessly between the high hat and the drum or whatever machine it is that makes those noises these days, Levi began to nod his head and watch the activity of the men, itself a visual expression of the frantic bass line. Like a patchwork quilt knitting together a zillion computer-generated colours, the DVD covers were lined up in rows, each title more scandalously recent than the last, less likely to be legal. One of the guys swiftly hung the bags off the railings, and these new announcements of colour brought a rush of delight to Levi, so strong because so unexpected, so queerly timed. The men sang and  On Beauty

• From On Beauty (2005)

  No harm in asking.’ She stuck her tongue out and ate some snowflakes. ‘Oh . . . well – I mean, if you’d like me to go, I will, of course,’ began Howard, turning to her tentatively, but Vee was still eating snow. ‘But . . . are you sure you wouldn’t feel . . . well, obligated to take your father, maybe? I wouldn’t want to step on any toes,’ said Howard rapidly. It was a tribute to the power of the girl’s charm that it didn’t for a moment occur to Howard that he had obligations of his own. ‘Oh, God , no. He’s already been asked by about a million different students. Plus I’m a bit stressed that he’ll say Grace at the table. Actually, I know he will, which would be . . . interesting .’ She was already developing the woozy transatlantic accent of Howard’s own children. It was a shame. He liked that North London voice, touched by the Caribbean and, if he was not mistaken, equally touched by an expensive girls’ school. Now they stopped walking. This was Howard’s turn-off, up the stairs to the  On Beauty library. They stood facing each other, almost the same height thanks to her towering boots. Vee hugged herself and plaintively pulled her lower lip under her large front teeth, the way beautiful girls sometimes pull goofy faces, without any fear that the effects will be permanent. In response Howard put on an extremely serious face. ‘My decision would depend very much . . .’ ‘On what?’ She clapped her snowy mittens together. ‘. . . on whether there will be a glee club in attendance.’ ‘A what? I don’t know . . . I don’t even know what that is.’ ‘They sing. Young men,’ said Howard, wincing slightly. ‘They sing. Very close harmony singing.’ ‘I don’t think so. Nobody mentioned it.’ ‘I can’t go to anything with a glee club. It’s very important. I had an unfortunate episode.’ Now it was Vee’s turn to wonder if fun was being made of her. As it happened, Howard was serious. She squinted at him and chattered her teeth. ‘But you’ll come?’ ‘If you’re sure you’d like me to.’ ‘I’m completely sure. It’s just after Christmas, ages away, basically – January tenth.’ ‘No glee club,’ said Howard as she began to walk away. ‘No glee club!’ It was always the same, Claire’s poetry class, and it was always a pleasure.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  But these boys were not of that type. Swaying and clicking and winking were just how they got warmed up . Tonight this glee club had chosen as their opener ‘Pride (In the Name of Love)’ by U, which they had taken the trouble to transform into a samba. They swayed, they clicked, they winked. They did coordinated spins. They switched places with each other. They moved forward, they moved back – always retaining their formation. They smiled the kind of smile you might employ when trying to convince a lunatic to quit holding a gun to your mother’s head. One of the boys, with his lungs, began to reproduce the bass line on the record. And now Howard could hold out no longer. He began to shudder, and, making a choice between tears and noise, he chose tears. In a few seconds his face was soaked. His shoulders were rolling. The effort of not making noise was turning his face purple. One of the boys stepped out of his formation to do the moonwalk. Howard held a thick cotton serviette to his face. ‘ Stop it!’ whispered Victoria and pinched his knee. ‘Everybody’s looking .’ It surprised Howard that a girl so used to being looked at should hate so much this other kind of stare. Howard apologetically removed the handkerchief, but this had the effect of releasing the noise. A squealing laugh announced itself in the room. It drew  On Beauty the attention of Howard’s own table and the four tables beside it. It even reached Monty’s table, where all of the diners turned their heads, seeking – but not yet able to locate – the insolent disturbance. ‘What are you doing ? Are you serious? Stop it!’ Howard mimed incapacity. His squeal turned to a honk. ‘Excuse me,’ said a dour female professor on the table behind him whom he did not know, ‘but you’re being very rude.’ But Howard could not find a place to put his face. He could either turn to look at the glee club or turn to face his own dining companions, all of whom were now trying to disassociate themselves from him, leaning far back in their chairs, doggedly focusing on the stage. ‘Please,’ said Victoria urgently, ‘this isn’t funny. You’re actually embarrassing me.’ Howard turned to look at the glee club. He tried to think of unfunny things: death, divorce, taxes, his father. But something about the fat guy’s handclaps pushed Howard over the brink. He lurched from his chair, knocked it over, picked it up and escaped down the middle aisle. When Howard got home, he was in that middling state of drunken-ness. Too drunk for work, not drunk enough to sleep. The house was empty. He went into the living room.