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 189 of 299 · 20 per page

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  When I heard these divine commandements, I greatly rejoyced: and arose before day to speake with the great Priest, whom I fortuned to espie comming out of his chamber: Then I saluted him, and thought with my selfe to aske and demand his counsell with a bold courage, but as soone as he perceived me, he began first to say: O Lucius now know I well that thou art most happy and blessed, whom the divine goddesse doth so greatly accept with mercy, why dost thou delay? Behold the day which thou desiredst when as thou shalt receive at my hands the order of religion, and know the most pure secrets of the gods, whereupon the old man tooke me by the hand, and lead me to the gate of the great temple, where at the first entrie he made a solempne celebration, and after morning sacrifice ended, brought out of the secret place of the temple books, partly written with unknown characters, and partly painted with figures of beasts declaring briefly every sentence, with tops and tailes, turning in fashion of a wheele, which were strange and impossible to be read of the prophane people: There he interpreted to me such things as were necessary to the use and preparation of mine order. This done, I gave charge to certaine of my companions to buy liberally, whatsoever was needfull and convenient, then he brought me to the next bains accompanied with all the religious sort, and demanding pardon of the goddesse, washed me and purified my body, according to custome. After this, when noone approached, he brought me backe againe to the temple, presented me before the face of the goddesse, giving a charge of certaine secret things unlawfull to be uttered, and commanding me, and generally all the rest, to fast by the space of ten continuall daies, without eating of any beast, or drinking any wine, which thing I observed with a marvellous continencie. Then behold the day approached, when as the sacrifice should be done, and when night came there arrived on every coast, a great multitude of Priests, who according to their order offered me many presents and gifts: then was all the Laity and prophane people commanded to depart, and when they had put on my back a linnen robe, they brought me to the most secret and sacred place of all the temple. You would peradventure demand (you studious reader) what was said and done there, verely I would tell you if it were lawfull for me to tell, you should know if it were convenient for you to heare, but both thy eares, and my tongue shall incur the like paine of rash curiositie: Howbeit, I will content thy mind for this present time, which peradventure is somewhat religious and given to some devotion, listen therefore and beleeve it to be true: Thou shalt understand that I approached neere unto Hell, even to the gates of Proserpina, and after that, I was ravished throughout all the Element, I returned to my proper place: About midnight I saw the Sun shine, I saw likewise the gods celestiall and gods infernall, before whom I presented my selfe, and worshipped them: Behold now have I told thee, which although thou hast heard, yet it is necessarie thou conceale it; this have I declared without offence, for the understanding of the prophane.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  They lived in a little white house near her grandmother’s place. “You’ll be able to wave to me,” she told her young nieces, “the way I used to wave to the planes.” “Will you wave back?” one of the girls asked. “Of course I will.” Gaby chose National Airlines, in part because she’d read that American received 20,000 applications the year before, for just 347 stewardess positions. Not that she doubted her qualifications, not for a minute, but Gaby went for National anyway, and was accepted, the only applicant out of 29 being interviewed on the same day. She was jubilant. Hard work and a positive attitude paid off. She’d been careful about dating after high school, not wanting to get serious with some local boy who’d expect her to give up her dreams for his, produce two babies, preferably one of each sex, wear an apron over her shirtwaist dress and have dinner on the table every night at 6 p.m. No thank you. There was a young doctor at the hospital but he was almost as dangerous as the others. If she confided her dream to him he’d drop her like a hot potato. Still, she went out with him, not that he had much time off, but she never told her mother. And sometimes, when their breaks coincided, they’d get into his car and kiss until the windows steamed up. She’d stop him when he tried to get his hand under her skirt. “Please,” he begged. “Just this once. I’m a doctor. Doesn’t that count for something?” Ha! Gaby had a goal, and no doctor or anyone else was going to dissuade her. She knew there would be plenty of nurses for him to flirt with once she was out of the picture. Nurses who would let him get under their skirts. She couldn’t worry about that. If some other nurse got him to put a ring on her finger while Gaby was flying, well, so be it. “Oh, Gabrielle,” her mother cried as she’d packed her bag to head for training in Newark. “I’d hoped you’d meet a handsome doctor at the hospital and give up this crazy idea of flying.” Now, eighteen months later, she had no regrets about leaving Dayton or young Dr. Larsen. She loved her job. As far as she was concerned it was the best job in the world. In the stewardesses’ dressing room at Newark Airport Gaby applied her makeup as she’d been taught in her program. A good base over the face and throat. Heavy enough to hide imperfections in the skin but light enough to look almost natural, a hint of color to the cheeks, brows penciled in, mascara to upper lashes only, no more high school lipstick. This month she was using Revlon’s Love That Red.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  The sun burned hotter and hotter, as if someone were holding a magnifying glass over me. I took off my T-shirt and felt the sweat flow down my sides to my stomach as I bent over to pick blueberries from low bushes. The ground was wet. A huge bee hung buzzing, motionless, in the air. I was so happy alone and in the woods, away from the dangers posed by other people. At first I wanted to tell someone else how happy I was; I needed a witness. But as the great day revolved slowly above me, as the scarlet tanager flew overhead on his black wings to the distant high trees, as an owl, hidden and remote, sounded a hoot as melancholy as winter, as the leaves, ruffled by the wind, tossed the sun about as though they were princesses at play with a golden ball, as the smell of sweet clover, of bruised sassasfras leaves, of the mulch of last year’s duff flowed over me, as I crushed the hot, sweet blueberries between my teeth and then chewed on an astringent needle from a balsam, as I sensed the descent of the sun and the slow decline of summer—oh, I was free and whole, safe from everyone, as happy as with my books. For I could thrive in the expressive, inhuman realm of nature or the expressive, human realm of books—both worlds so exalted, so guileless—but I felt imperiled by the hidden designs other people were drawing around me. The tender white bells of the flower by the rotting stump, the throbbing distillation of blue in the fringed gentian, the small, bright-green cone of the Scots pine—these were confidences nature placed in me, wordless but as trusting as a dog’s eyes. Or the pure, always comprehensible and sharply delineated thoughts and emotions of characters in fiction—these, too, were signs I could read, as one might read a marionette’s face. But the vague menace of Ralph with his increasingly haggard face, this boy at once pitiable and dangerous, who had already been caught twice this summer attempting to “hypnotize” younger campers and was now in danger of expulsion, who studied me at meals not with curiosity, much less with sympathy, but with crude speculation (Can I get him to do it? Can he relieve me?)—this menace was becoming more and more intense. After the other campers appeared and the summer’s activities had been under way for a week, I understood that I’d been betrayed. There wouldn’t be any plays for me to put on, and I had exhausted myself for no good reason with all-night fantasies of the rehearsals, the performances, the triumphs. My mother’s promises had just been a way of getting me out of the house for the summer. A few miles away my sister—shy to the point of invisibility in the winter, unpopular, pasty, overweight—had emerged once again into her estival beauty.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  The fruit is the summum bonum, peace with God, as opposed to the many false ideals of men on earth. Cf. Par. xi and Conv. iv. 12.12. Note that Virgil’s mission is over when he has brought Dante to the Earthly Paradise, which is the immediate goal of the souls in Purgatory. Some difficulty has been found in the last lines of the canto, because it is said that Virgil cannot make Dante bishop as well as king of himself; but we learn from the De Mon. iii. 5, that in Dante’s opinion man would not have needed the Church, as an organized institution, any more than the Empire, had he not fallen from the state of innocence. Accordingly, when he recovers that state he is absolved from the spiritual as well as from the temporal rule. The institutions of the Empire and the Church are, of course, to be distinguished from the human and divine reason, or Philosophy and Revelation, of which they ought to be guardians and exponents. The concluding chapter of the De Mon. shows us very clearly the distinction between the essential means of temporal and spiritual blessedness (human reason as developed by the philosophers, and Revelation as declared by the writers of Scripture) on the one hand, and the external institutions or regimens on the other, founded to check the perversity which perpetually drives mankind out of the true path thus indicated.C A N T O X X V I I IDante enters the Garden of Eden from the west, facing the rising sun, and meeting a sweet breeze laden with the odours of Paradise and full of the song of birds to which the leaves of the divine forest murmur a pedal bass. On the opposing bank of a stream that flows pure under the forest shade, he perceives a lady gathering flowers and singing, as enamoured. It is Matilda, the genius of Eden; and in answer to Dante’s petition she approaches the stream with downcast eyes, the song on her lips growing ever more articulate. Then, her hands still busy with the flowers, she flings upon him the blaze of her laughing eyes. As a responsive rapture awakes in Dante’s heart, she initiates him into the frank and innocent love and joy of Eden, and proffers all further service he may desire. In answer to his question she confirms what Statius had already said as to the higher regions of the mount above the gate being unaffected by meteorological phenomena. The stream and the breeze, therefore, are not such as those on earth. The breeze is caused by the sweep of the atmospheric envelope of the earth, from east to west, with the primum mobile; and it bears with it germs from the divine forest; which may explain the seeming spontaneous generation of wondrous plants on earth.

• 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 A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Peter stumbled out of his clothes, which he left in a puddle on the floor. His shoulders were bony, his waist tiny, his penis a pale blue snail peeping up out of its rounded shell. He mumbled something about the cold sheets and turned his face to the wall. Kevin and I, at either end of the long, narrow room, undressed more deliberately, said nothing and scarcely looked at each other. Lights out. Then the long wait for Peter’s breathing to slow and thicken. The silence was thoughtful, like a pulse heard in an ear pressed to the mattress. Peter said, “Because I don’t want to … squirrel … yeah, but you …” and was gone. Still Kevin waited, and I feared he too had gone to sleep. But no, here he was, floating toward me, the ghost T-shirt on his torso browner from today’s sun. With the Vaseline jar in hand. The cold jelly with its light medicinal odor, which warms quickly to body temperature. As I went in him, he said straight out, as clear as a bell, “That feels really great.” It had never occurrred to me before that sex between two men can please both of them at the same time. The next afternoon my father, painfully patient but haggard from these unusual daytime hours, took us kids water-skiing. Again I walked on the lacquered deck, pushing us away from the dock with the long pole, my movements stiff, almost arthritic with fright. Again my father shouted orders that betrayed his own anxiety: “Kids, I smell something burning. The engine’s on fire! Goddamn it, quick, young fellow, open those doors.” “Nothing, sir, everything’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes sir. Positive.” “Sure?” “Yes.” I was clinging to the windshield with claws of fear—and I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Peter smirking at each other. They thought my father and I were fools. Skiing off the boat wasn’t simple. The velocity of such a massive, powerful vessel almost pulled your arms out of your sockets. The wake fanning out on either side of you once you were aloft seemed mountainous and to jump over it foolhardy, if not suicidal. Kevin, of course, handled it all beautifully, though he’d never skied before. Soon he was clowning around and lifting first one ski and then the other, and he raced over the wake from side to side with great speed. I was in the bucket seat watching him. If we lost him I was supposed to signal Peter up ahead, who was to relay the message to the captain—but Kevin fell only once. We went past the diving raft and its company of teenage swimmers; I was pleased that our boat was pulling someone as athletic as Kevin. In our family the virtues were all invisible to a stranger’s eye. My stepmother’s social eminence, my dad’s dough—they couldn’t be seen.

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  Up until this point, she’s spent a lot of time around Michael’s older sister, but she hasn’t met his parents or even been to the family home. Michael describes his mom and dad as “a little stuffier” than Katherine’s, but “basically they’re good guys.” Still, she’s hesitant to come over, even though Michael assures her that his parents will be out until midnight. “We don’t have to do anything… we can just go there and talk,” Michael tells her. This time though, the charade has been dropped and Katherine isn’t even pretending to fall for it. “I think I’ve heard that before!” she jokes. Once she’s through the door, Katherine is fascinated by what she sees. The furniture downstairs is “big, heavy and dark.” She has fun inspecting Michael’s bedroom, where he displays his team pennants and trophies. She even goes through his medicine cabinet, laughing that he “use[s] more junk” than she does and has “at least six different kinds of aftershave.” They banter back and forth about it until Katherine raises the stakes. “Do you ever put it on your balls?” she asks. Michael says no, and then wonders if she would like to do it for him. Katherine accepts the challenge, then boldly inspects Ralph in the light of the bathroom. They have sex right there, though Katherine remains unsatisfied. But an hour later, they try again, this time in Michael’s bed. For the first time, he’s able to last a little longer, giving Katherine a chance to get into it. “I grabbed his backside with both hands, trying to push him deeper and deeper into me,” Katherine says. “I spread my legs as far as I could—and I raised my hips off the bed—and I moved with him, again and again and again—and at last, I came.” Katherine isn’t ashamed. Far from it—she’s celebratory. “I actually came,” she tells Michael afterward. “I’ve never felt so close to you before.” Then, “Can we do it again?” Michael says he needs to rest. They go out for hamburgers and Michael brings her home, where they sit in the den for a while. “I thought how nice it would be if we could go upstairs, to bed, together,” Katherine says. “I was hoping we’d make love again but Michael said he was kind of exhausted.” By this point, Katherine’s sexuality has been fully awakened. In the logic of the novel she’s done everything right, and her reward is getting to enjoy her intimate experiences. The next time they have sex, after Michael’s high school graduation, she doesn’t just let herself go—she actively pursues pleasure. Back in the den, Michael notes that she’s being “aggressive” as she kisses him all over his body. She straddles him and asks if it’s okay to do it “this way,” with her on top. “Any way you want,” Michael answers. Katherine describes finding the rhythm between their bodies and savoring every moment. “I couldn’t control myself anymore,” she says. “I came before he did.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  We were under way. The speedboat lunged forward with so much force that we were pressed back against our seats. Peter, Kevin’s seven-year-old brother, was in the rumble seat, his hair streaming under the rippling flag, his mouth open to scream with delighted fear, though the sound was lost behind gales of wind. He waved a skinny arm and with his other hand clutched a chromium grip beside him; even so, he was posting high as we spanked over someone else’s wake. Our own was thrown back from the prow. The night, intent seamstress, fed the fabric of water under the needle of our hull, steadily, firmly, except the boat wasn’t stitching the water together but ripping it apart into long white shreds. Along the shore a few house lights here and there peered through the pines, as fleeting as stars glimpsed through the moving clouds above. We shot past an anchored boat of fishermen and their single kerosene lamp; one of them shook his fist at us. The lake narrowed. Over to the right lay the nine-hole golf course (I knew it was there, though I couldn’t see it) with its ramshackle clubhouse and wicker armchairs painted green, its porch swing on creaking chains. Once a month we showed up there late for Sunday supper, our clothes not right, our talk too distant and forthright, the cigar a foul smudge pot set out to ward off the incoming social frost. Now Dad’s cigar had gone out and he stopped the boat to relight it. From our high windy perch we drifted down, engine cut to a mild churning. When the exhaust pipe dipped above water level, it blatted rudely. “Boy, I’m soaked!” Peter was screaming in his soprano. “I’m freezing. Gee, you sure let me have it!” “Too much for you, young fellow?” my father asked, chuckling. He winked at me. The children of visitors (and sometimes their fathers) were usually called “young fellow,” since Dad could never remember their names. Old Boy, who had been squinting into the wind, his head stuck out beyond and around the windshield, was now prancing happily across the cushions to receive a pat from his master. Kevin, sitting just behind my father, said, “Those fishermen were mad as hell. I’d’ve been, too, if some guy in a big fat-ass powerboat scared off my fish.” My father winced, then grumbled something about how they had no business … He was hurt.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  By ten, the intoxication of all this bon vivant business had reached Howard’s petite ears, which were quite red with joy. It seemed to him an especially successful little party. In truth it was a typical Wellington affair: always threatening to fill up but never quite doing so. The Black Studies Department’s graduate crowd were out in force, mostly because Erskine was well loved by them and they were, anyway, by the far the most socialized people at Wellington, priding themselves on their reputation for being the closest replicas on campus to normal human beings. Along with large talk they had small talk; they had a Black Music Library in their department; they knew, and could speak eloquently of, the latest trash television. They were invited to all the parties and came to all of them too. But the English Department was less well represented tonight: only Claire, that Marxist Joe, Smith and a few female Cult of Claire groupies who, Howard was amused to see, were throwing themselves at Warren, one after another, like lemmings. Warren had clearly joined the list of things of which Claire approved – therefore they wanted him. A circle of strange young anthropologists Howard didn’t think he knew remained in the kitchen all night, hovering by the food, fearful of going anywhere where there was not an abundance of props – glasses, bottles, canapeś – with which to fiddle. Howard left them to it and adjourned to the garden. He walked the rim of the pool, happily holding on to his empty glass, as the summer moon passed behind blushing clouds and all about rose the agreeable animal sound of outdoor conversation. ‘Strange date for it, though,’ he heard somebody say. And then the usual response: ‘Oh, I think it’s a wonderful date for a party. You know it’s their actual anniversary, so . . . And if we don’t reclaim the day, you know . . . then it’s like they’ve won. It’s a reclaiming, absolutely.’ This was the most popular conversation of the night. Howard had had it himself at least four times since the clock struck ten and the wine really kicked in. Before that no one liked to mention it. Every twenty seconds or so, Howard admired a pair of feet as they thrust up through the skin of the water; the curved back that  On Beauty followed, and then the slim brown form in the water doing another speedy, almost silent lap. Levi had evidently decided that if he must stay at this party, he might as well get a work-out. Howard could not figure out exactly how long Levi’d been in the pool, but, as his own speech had ended and the applause faded, everyone had noticed at the same time that there was a lone swimmer, and then almost everyone had asked their neighbour whether they recalled Cheever’s story. Academics lack range.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  answered the door and said that Mrs Kipps had just left for the Amherst house and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. In a bit of a panic Kiki jogged as best she could to the bus stop; gave up on the bus, walked to the crossroads and managed to hail a cab. At the station she found Carlene buying a hot chocolate and preparing to board the train. ‘Kiki!’ ‘I want to come – I’d love to – if you’ll still have me.’ Carlene put one gloved hand to Kiki’s hot cheek in a manner that unexpectedly made her want to weep. ‘You’ll stay over. We’ll eat in town and spend all tomorrow in the house. You’re such a funny woman. What a thing to do!’ They were just walking arm in arm up the platform when they heard Carlene’s name cried out several times: ‘Mum! Hey, Mum!’ ‘Vee! Michael! But this is . . . hello, my darlings! Monty!’ ‘Carlene, what on earth are you doing here? Come here, let me kiss you, you silly old thing – what about this! So you’re feeling better, then.’ Here Carlene nodded like a happy child. ‘Hello,’ said Monty to Kiki, frowning as he did so, and shaking her hand briefly before turning back to his wife. ‘We had a New York nightmare – the incompetent running that church – it’s either incompetence or criminality – anyway, we’re back early, and very pleased about it – not a chance Michael’s getting married in that place, I can tell you that – not a chance – but what are you – ’ ‘I was heading up to Eleanor’s house,’ said Carlene, beaming, accepting hugs on either side from her two children, one of whom, Victoria, was looking over at Kiki like a jealous lover. Another young girl, plainly dressed, with a blue polo neck and pearls at her throat, held Michael’s spare arm. His fianceé, Kiki assumed. ‘Kiki, I think we shall have to postpone our trip.’ ‘The man claimed to know nothing – nothing – of the last four letters we sent him about the school in Trinidad. He’d washed his hands of it! Shame he didn’t tell anyone at our end.’ ‘And his accounts were so dodgy. I went through them. Something was definitely not right there,’ added Michael. Kiki smiled. ‘Sure thing,’ she said. ‘Rain check – another day.’  the anatomy lesson ‘Do you need a lift?’ Monty asked Kiki gruffly, as the family turned to go. ‘Oh – thank you, no . . . there’s four of you, and a cab wouldn’t . . .’ The happy clan bustled away back down the platform, laughing and speaking over each other, as the Amherst train pulled away and Kiki stood with Carlene’s hot chocolate in her hand. on beauty and being wrong When I say I hate time, Paul says how else could we find depth of character, or grow souls? Mark Doty 

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “I didn’t want to go.” “So now you won’t have to leave me because I’m going, too.” He hugged her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Irene was right—some things were bashert, meant to be. Out of all the places in the world, she and Mason were going to wind up in Las Vegas together. She started to laugh. “But are you sure Jack is going?” “Everything depends on Dr. O. If he goes, then Christina is going, and if Christina goes, Jack will go, and if Jack goes…” He lifted her off the ground and swung her around. Then he turned serious. “So long as Jack doesn’t get called up. He says if he does, he could try to claim me as a dependent but he’s not sure if that’ll work or not. Christina wants him to try. We’d have to go to court.” “You mean Jack might have to go to Korea?” Mason nodded. “He’s 1-A.” “But Eisenhower says if he’s elected he’ll end the war.” “That’s only if he wins. We don’t even know if he’s running yet. The election’s not until November. He’s not sworn in until January. And it could be somebody else. Joey Pol says it could be Adlai Stevenson.” “Joey Pol?” “The guy from the bowling alley. Joey Politics. He says Stevenson’s an egghead. Who knows what he’d do?” “Uncle Henry says Stevenson is brilliant.” “Don’t take this wrong, but your family leans to the left.” “Are you calling my family Communists?” “Nothing like that. They’re the best family I know.” “Then please take that back, about leaning to the left.” “Okay. I take it back.” They were interrupted by a little boy who ran at Mason, grabbing hold of his leg. “Come see new house.” “I will,” Mason told him. “Later.” “No, now!” “Later, Stash. Okay?” The door to the apartment house opened, and Polina came out, holding Fred on a leash. “Sorry so late,” she told Mason. Her lipstick was bright red and her dress didn’t leave much to the imagination, as if she were trying to look like Marilyn Monroe on the recent cover of Life magazine, beauty mark and all, one she didn’t have when she was making pancakes for the kids at Janet. “We are very happy here,” Polina said. “A beautiful place.” “You should thank Miri,” Mason said. “It’s because of her you got the apartment.” “Mr. Ben’s granddaughter?” Polina asked. “I’m not exactly his granddaughter.” “But close to it,” Mason said. “Thank you and thank Mr. Ben,” she said to Miri, right before she threw her arms around Mason. “Oh, this wonderful boy. I don’t want to lose. I’ll miss too much. Maybe we should go, too. What you think, Stash? Should we go with Mason, far away?” She knew, too? Stash said, “No, Mama. I like it here.” “He loves new apartment.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  She assured him it would grow quickly, an inch a month, she’d heard, and just to be sure she’d already started to gently tug it, the way she did a pair of dungarees that had shrunk in the wash. She expected to be halfway there by summer, by the time of Henry and Leah’s wedding. She was waiting until invitations went out to ask if she could invite Mason to be her date. Mason pointed to a barrel-chested man, bowling in the next lane. “Joey Politics,” he said. “He knows everybody and everything.” The girls looked over for a minute but really, what did they care about somebody called Joey Politics. She told Mason about meeting Polina at Dr. O’s office. “My mother’s going to ask Ben Sapphire if he can find her and Stash a place to live.” “That’d be good.” And just like that, he leaned in and kissed her, the first time they’d kissed in public, in front of Suzanne, Eleanor, Robo and Natalie. Then he kissed her again, until his boss called, “Enough, lover boy. You got a line waiting for shoes and I need a pin boy in lane six.” The girls teased her, humming the wedding march. “Have you set the date yet?” Robo asked. “Stop!” Miri shouted, louder than she’d meant to, and they laughed, all but Natalie. “It’s freezing in here,” Natalie said, wrapping a wool scarf around her neck. She was swathed in sweaters, and had her coat draped over her shoulders. “If you bowled you’d be boiling,” Suzanne told her, stripping down to a cotton shirt with her name embroidered across the pocket, like the ladies who played in leagues. Miri threw her first strike that night, which she took as a sign that every day something good can happen. And today was a bonanza—new shoes, Mason’s kisses and a strike. Later, before Eleanor’s father picked them up, Natalie took her aside. “Come to my house tomorrow morning. I have something to show you.” “Is it the surprise your father talked about?” “He told you about the surprise?” “Only that you have one. So what is it?” “If I tell you it won’t be a surprise. And don’t say anything to the other girls, okay? I’m not ready to tell them yet.” Miri remembered the last time she’d gone to Natalie’s, just her, and it turned out to be the worst day of her life. —THE SURPRISE WAS the finished basement. It had been transformed into a dance studio, with a mirrored wall, a barre and a wood floor. The jukebox still stood in the corner but instead of Nat King Cole and Patti Page, it held the kind of music you hear in movie musicals. Blue skies smilin’ at me… “Isn’t it fabulous?” Natalie asked. “The floor is genuine maple, the best for tap.” She hummed and did a couple of warm-up steps, then stopped and looked at Miri.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  One drop of rare honey, however, that Thursday did hold in its acorn cup. Haze was to drive her to the camp in the early morning. Upon sundry sounds of departure reaching me, I rolled out of bed and leaned out of the window. Under the poplars, the car was already athrob. On the sidewalk, Louise stood shading her eyes with her hand, as if the little traveler were already riding into the low morning sun. The gesture proved to be premature. “Hurry up!” shouted Haze. My Lolita, who was half in and about to slam the car door, wind down the glass, wave to Louise and the poplars (whom and which she was never to see again), interrupted the motion of fate: she looked up—and dashed back into the house (Haze furiously calling after her). A moment later I heard my sweetheart running up the stairs. My heart expanded with such force that it almost blotted me out. I hitched up the pants of my pajamas, flung the door open: and simultaneously Lolita arrived, in her Sunday frock, stamping, panting, and then she was in my arms, her innocent mouth melting under the ferocious pressure of dark male jaws, my palpitating darling! The next instant I heard her—alive, unraped—clatter downstairs. The motion of fate was resumed. The blond leg was pulled in, the car door was slammed—was re-slammed—and driver Haze at the violent wheel, rubber-red lips writhing in angry, inaudible speech, swung my darling away, while unnoticed by them or Louise, old Miss Opposite, an invalid, feebly but rhythmically waved from her vined veranda. 16The hollow of my hand was still ivory-full of Lolita—full of the feel of her pre-adolescently incurved back, that ivory-smooth, sliding sensation of her skin through the thin frock that I had worked up and down while I held her. I marched into her tumbled room, threw open the door of the closet and plunged into a heap of crumpled things that had touched her. There was particularly one pink texture, sleazy, torn, with a faintly acrid odor in the seam. I wrapped in it Humbert’s huge engorged heart. A poignant chaos was ’welling within me—but I had to drop those things and hurriedly regain my composure, as I became aware of the maid’s velvety voice calling me softly from the stairs. She had a message for me, she said; and, topping my automatic thanks with a kindly “you’re welcome,” good Louise left an unstamped, curiously clean-looking letter in my shaking hand.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “I’m Mason.” His voice was gravelly, as if maybe he had a sore throat. “Mason.” She tried it out. She’d never known anyone named Mason. “Mason McKittrick.” McKittrick. Miri tried to hide her disappointment. He wasn’t Jewish. Irene wouldn’t approve. Okay, she wouldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t tell anyone. He would be another of her secrets. She was beginning to enjoy having secrets from her family. While Natalie danced to every song with Winky Herkovitz, the best dancer in ninth grade, who dipped her, flipped her from knee to knee and twirled her, while Suzanne, the shiksa the Jewish boys loved, danced to every song with a different partner, while Eleanor, who still had braces on her teeth and refused to smile for photos, had a deep conversation with a chaperone, a teacher Uncle Henry’s age and Robo, well developed and athletic, made out in the cloakroom with Pete Wolf, who believed in Martians, Miri danced only with Mason. After a while he led her outside so he could have a smoke. She’d been right. He did smoke, and his brand was Luckies. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco. He offered one to her. She shook her head. She’d tried it once and had almost choked to death. Almost vomited in front of everyone. But she liked the way he held the cigarette between his teeth. When he’d had enough he tossed it to the ground and stepped on it, crushing it like a bug. He kissed her then, outside the Y in the freezing-cold December night air, with neither of them wearing a coat. Her teeth were chattering but she wasn’t going to suggest they go back inside, not as long as he was holding her that way, not as long as he was kissing her that way and she was kissing him back. They kissed a second time and her legs turned to jelly. She’d heard that expression a million times, but until now she hadn’t understood it. She’d never been kissed by a boy like Mason. No sloppy tongue shoved halfway down her throat, no washing out her ear. Just perfect kisses. Two, three, four—she lost count. If she died then she was sure she’d die happy. They went back inside for the last dance. The lights had been dimmed and she and Mason danced cheek to cheek, thanks to her mother’s heels, their arms wrapped around one another. In the meadow we can build a snowman… She was glad it wasn’t “Goodnight, Irene,” often the last song at a dance. She loved her grandmother but she didn’t want to think about her tonight. “Can I walk you home?” Mason asked while they, and everyone else, scrambled for their coats. Miri nodded. “I just have to tell my friends.” Outside, Robo’s father was waiting for them. The girls had already piled into the car. “I’m walking home with Mason,” she told them. “Who’s Mason?” Natalie asked.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  As soon as Thelyphron had told his tale they which sat at the table, replenished with wine, laughed heartily ; and while they cried for a toast after their fashion to Laughter, Byrrhaena spoke to me and said: “From the first foundation of this city, we alone of all men have had a custom to celebrate with joyful and pleasant rites the festival day of the god S. 97 32 LUCIUS APULEIUS efficies gratiorem; atque utinam aliquid de proprio lep- ore laetificum honorando deo comminiscaris,quo magis pleniusque tanto numini litemus.” “Bene” inquam * Et fiet ut iubes. Et vellem Hercule materiam rep- perire aliquam, quam deus tantus affluenter indueret." Post haec monitu famuli mei, qui noctis admone- bat, iam et ipse crapula distentus, protinus exsurgo et appellata prospere Byrrhaena titubante vestigio domuitionem capesso. Sed cum primam plateam in- vadimus, vento repentino lumen, quo nitebamur, ex- tinguitur, ut vix improvidae noctis caligine liberati, digitis pedum detunsis ob lapides, hospitium defessi rediremus, dumque iam iunctim proximamus, ecce tres quidam vegetes et vastulis corporibus fores nos< iras ex summis viribus irruentes ac ne praesentia quidem nostra tantilum conterriti, sed magis cum aemulatione virium crebrius insultantes, ut nobis ac mihi potissimum non immerito latrones esse, et quidem saevissimi, viderentur. Statim denique gla- dium, quem veste mea contectum ad hos usus ex- tuleram, sinu liberatum arripio, nee cunctatus medios latrones involo ac singulis, ut quemque colluctantem offenderam, altissime demergo, quoad tandem ante ipsa vestigia mea vastis et crebris perforati vulneribus spiritus eflaverint. Sic proeliatus, iam tumultu eo Fotide suscitata, patefactis aedibus anhelans et su- dore perlutus irrepo, meque statim utpote pugna trium! latronum in vicem Geryoneae caedis fatigatum, lecto simul et somno tradidi. 1 Thecertain emendation, independently made by Salmasius and Rohde, of the MSS’ pugnariwm. à 98 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK II Laughter, and to-morrow is the feast, when I pray you to be present to set out the same more honour- ably, and I would with all my heart that you could find or devise somewhat merry of yourself, that you might the more honour so great a god.” To whom I answered : “ Verily, cousin, I will do as you com- mand me, and right glad would I be if I might invent any laughing or merry matter to please or satisfy Laughter withal.” Then at the warning of my servant, who told me the night was late, being also well drunken with wine, I rose from the table, took leave of Byrrhaena, and departed with tottering steps on my homeward way.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Peter stumbled out of his clothes, which he left in a puddle on the floor. His shoulders were bony, his waist tiny, his penis a pale blue snail peeping up out of its rounded shell. He mumbled something about the cold sheets and turned his face to the wall. Kevin and I, at either end of the long, narrow room, undressed more deliberately, said nothing and scarcely looked at each other. Lights out. Then the long wait for Peter’s breathing to slow and thicken. The silence was thoughtful, like a pulse heard in an ear pressed to the mattress. Peter said, “Because I don’t want to … squirrel … yeah, but you …” and was gone. Still Kevin waited, and I feared he too had gone to sleep. But no, here he was, floating toward me, the ghost T-shirt on his torso browner from today’s sun. With the Vaseline jar in hand. The cold jelly with its light medicinal odor, which warms quickly to body temperature. As I went in him, he said straight out, as clear as a bell, “That feels really great.” It had never occurrred to me before that sex between two men can please both of them at the same time. The next afternoon my father, painfully patient but haggard from these unusual daytime hours, took us kids water-skiing. Again I walked on the lacquered deck, pushing us away from the dock with the long pole, my movements stiff, almost arthritic with fright. Again my father shouted orders that betrayed his own anxiety: “Kids, I smell something burning. The engine’s on fire! Goddamn it, quick, young fellow, open those doors.” “Nothing, sir, everything’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes sir. Positive.” “Sure?” “Yes.” I was clinging to the windshield with claws of fear—and I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Peter smirking at each other. They thought my father and I were fools. Skiing off the boat wasn’t simple. The velocity of such a massive, powerful vessel almost pulled your arms out of your sockets. The wake fanning out on either side of you once you were aloft seemed mountainous and to jump over it foolhardy, if not suicidal. Kevin, of course, handled it all beautifully, though he’d never skied before. Soon he was clowning around and lifting first one ski and then the other, and he raced over the wake from side to side with great speed. I was in the bucket seat watching him. If we lost him I was supposed to signal Peter up ahead, who was to relay the message to the captain—but Kevin fell only once. We went past the diving raft and its company of teenage swimmers; I was pleased that our boat was pulling someone as athletic as Kevin. In our family the virtues were all invisible to a stranger’s eye. My stepmother’s social eminence, my dad’s dough—they couldn’t be seen.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  He seemed surprised and hurt but didn’t linger on it. “This is a really happy day for me. Nothing can really spoil getting your freedom back.” “Well, y’all should talk at some point,” I urged. I went upstairs to find Tommy Chapman waiting for me in the courtroom. “After we’re done, I’d like to shake his hand,” he told me. “Would that be all right?” “I think he’d appreciate that.” “This case has taught me things I didn’t even know I had to learn.” “We’ve all learned a lot, Tommy.” There were deputy sheriffs everywhere. When Bernard arrived, we consulted briefly at the counsel table before a bailiff asked us to go back to the judge’s chambers. Judge Norton had retired weeks before the ruling from the Court of Criminal Appeals. The new judge, Pamela Baschab, greeted me warmly. We made small talk and then discussed what would happen during the hearing. Everyone was strangely pleasant. “Mr. Stevenson, if you’ll just present the motion and provide a brief summary, I don’t need any arguments or statements, I intend to grant the motion immediately so you all can get home. We can get this done quickly.” We went into the courtroom. There seemed to be more black deputies in the courtroom for this hearing than I’d ever seen in my appearances in that courthouse. There was no metal detector, no menacing dog. The courtroom was packed with Walter’s family members and supporters. There were more cheering black folks outside the courthouse who couldn’t get in. A horde of television cameras and journalists spilled out of the crowded courtroom. They finally brought Walter into the courtroom wearing the black suit and white shirt I’d brought him. He looked handsome and fit, like a different man. The deputies didn’t handcuff Walter or shackle him, so he walked into court waving to family and friends. His family had not seen him dressed in anything but his white prison uniform since the trial six years earlier, and many in the crowd gasped when he walked into the courtroom in a suit. For years Walter’s family members and supporters had been confronted with menacing stares and threats of expulsion whenever they expressed some spontaneous opinion during court proceedings, but today the deputies accepted their expressive cheerfulness in silence. The judge took the bench, and I stepped forward to speak. I gave a brief history of the case and informed the court that both the defendant and the State were moving the court to dismiss all charges. The judge quickly granted the motion and asked if there was anything further. All of sudden, I felt strangely agitated. I’d expected to be exuberant. Everyone was in such a good mood.

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

  Hereby is refuted the error of the Epicureans who ascribed man’s happiness to pleasures of this kind: in their person Solomon says (Eccles. 5:17): This therefore hath seemed good to me, that a man should eat and drink, and enjoy the fruit of his labour … and this is his portion: and (Wis. 2:9): Let us everywhere leave tokens of joy: for this is our portion, and this is our lot. The error of the Cerinthians is also refuted: for they pretended that, in the state of final happiness, after the resurrection Christ will reign for a thousand years, and men will indulge in the carnal pleasures of the table: wherefore they are called ‘Chiliastae,’ or believers in the Millennium. The fables of the Jews and Mohammedans are also refuted: who pretend that the reward of the righteous consists in suchlike pleasures: for happiness is the reward of virtue. CHAPTER XXVIII THAT HAPPINESS DOES NOT CONSIST IN HONOURSFROM the foregoing it is also clear that neither does man’s supreme good, or happiness, consist in honours. For man’s ultimate end and happiness is his most perfect operation, as we have shown above. But man’s honour does not consist in something done by him, but in something done to him by another who shows him honour. Therefore man’s happiness must not be placed in honours. Again. That which is on account of another good and desirable thing is not the last end. Now such is honour: for a man is not rightly honoured, except on account of some other good in him. For this reason do men seek to be honoured, as though wishing to have a voucher for some good that is in them: so that they rejoice more in being honoured by the great and the wise. Therefore we must not assign man’s happiness to honours. Besides. Happiness is obtained through virtue. Now virtuous deeds are voluntary, else they were not praiseworthy. Therefore happiness must be a good obtainable by man through his will. But it is not in a man’s power to secure honour, rather is it in the power of the man who pays honour. Therefore happiness is not to be assigned to honours. Moreover. Only the good can be worthy of honour: and yet it is possible even for the wicked to be honoured. Therefore it is better to become worthy of honour, than to be honoured. Therefore honour is not man’s supreme good. Furthermore. The supreme good is the perfect good. Now the perfect good is incompatible with any evil. But that which has no evil in it cannot possibly be evil. Therefore that which is in possession of the supreme good cannot be evil. Yet it is possible for an evil person to receive honour. Therefore honour is not man’s supreme good. CHAPTER XXIX THAT MAN’S HAPPINESS CONSISTS NOT IN GLORYWHEREFORE it is evident also that man’s supreme good does not consist in glory which is the recognition of one’s good name.

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

  I. On the first head it is to be noted that the Name of God is to be used on five occasions—(1) In walking—Ps. 20:7, “We will remember the Name of the Lord our God.” (2) In praying—S. John 16:23, “Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My Name, He will give it you.” (3) In speaking; (4) in working—of these two, the text. (5) In hoping—Ps. 39:5 (Vulg.), “Blessed is the man whose trust is in the Name of the Lord.” II. On the second head it is to be noted that the Name of God is to be used in five ways. (1) It is to be retained in the heart, and so become a cause of joy—Is. 26:8, “The desire of our soul is to Thy Name.” (2) It is to be heard by the ear, and so cause delight—Job 29:11, “When the ear heard me, then it blessed me.” (3) It is to be carried in the hand, and so be a lever of strength—Prov. 18:10, “The Name of the Lord is a strong tower.” (4) It is to be written on the forehead, as a mark of honour; it will make a man (Isa. 58:13) “holy of the Lord, honourable.” III. On the third head it is to be noted that the manifold virtue of this Name is expressed in eight particulars in the text—(1) In It were all things created. (2) By It are the demons put to flight. (3) By It were all infirmities healed. (4) Through It were sinners justified. (5) By It are the sad made joyful. (6) By It are the tempted helped. (7) Through It are the just increased in grace. (8) All who call upon It are saved. Note, that this Name enlightens the reason; soothes anger; delights the desire. The inhabitants of the world unseen, fear It; of the earth, adore It; of Heaven, praise It. It spoils Hades; It liberates the earthly; It exalts the heavenly. HOMILY X THE TARES AND THE WHEAT FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY.—(FROM THE GOSPEL)“Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them; but gather the wheat into my barn.”—S. Matt. 13:30. IN these words five things are noted—Firstly, the sin of the wicked, “tares.” Secondly, their punishment, “bind them in bundles to burn them.” Thirdly, the goodness of the righteous, “the wheat.” Fourthly, their glory, “gather into My barn.” Fifthly, the abundance of God’s “barn.”

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  But I don't know if it would suit me." But Negro men are intimida ted in another way altogether, ha,·ing despised women with kinky hair for so long. And they are told, Yott been so brainwashed by the white man, yott even want ed your womm to look white! And this is not quite true, of course, so many of "our" women having been fairly white when they got here, but, on the other hand, it is true enough. And to ward what standard of beauty ought black people now turn, especially as they exemplify, in themselves, so many different standards. The entire scene is rich and funnv and sad, and both bound and free, like the heavy and resplendent matron wearing a complete Easter outfit, from head almost to toe, OTH ER ES SAYS but with her shoes in her hand and her slippers on her feet. She had the shoes and she wanted everyone to know it; but her feet hurt. And she didn't care who knew that. The atmosphere of a Harlem nightclub is cu riously mis leading � a use of the simplicity of the white world's assump tions. t�for anyof}e�vho _us�j�,.QrJ.�__g��g_ by it, is a most ��!nplc�1.£_?,Jcula _!_ e�i_�nq __ qang�__ r_o us _ _ phen2!!!.£!!Q_n. One will probably find more color in Smalls' Paradise, for example, even on an off night, than I, anyway, have usually managed to encounter in any nightclub downtown. It is not that the music is intrinsically so much better -always-but the people playing it and the people hearing it have more fun with it, and with each other. They know, on one level, everything concerning each other that there is to know: they are all black. And this produces an atmosphere of freedom which is exactly as real as the limits which have made it necessary. And what they don't know about each other, like who works where, or who sleeps with whom, doesn't matter. No one gives a damn, and this allows everyone to be himself-at i:hc club. No one gives ad amri-because they know exactly how rough it is out there, when the club gates close. And while they are dancing and listening to the music and drinking and joking and laugh ing, with all their finery on, and looking so bold and free, they know who enters, who leaves, and on what errands: they are aware of the terrible and unreachable forces which yet rule their lives. In years past, and sometimes even now, musicians said for them what they themselves could not say, and helped them to endur e the unendurable. But nothing is static. Now, unless R.•y Charles or Nina Simone is down the street at the Apollo, one will have to go downtown to hear them.