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 Henry and June (1986)

  “But,” I said, laughing, “if I become happy and banal, the art of costuming, which owes its existence purely to a sense of inferiority, will be mortally affected.” The pathological basis of creation! What will become of the creator if I become normal? Or will I merely gain in strength, so as to live out my instincts more fully? I will probably develop different and more interesting illnesses. Allendy said that what was important was to become equal to life. My happiness hangs in suspense, and what happens now is determined by June’s next move. Meanwhile I wait. I am overcome with a superstitious fear of starting another journal. This one is so full of Henry. If I should have to write on the first page of the new one, “June is here,” I will know that I have lost my Henry. I will be left with only a small purple-bound book of joy, that is all, so quickly written, so quickly lived. Love reduces the complexity of living. It amazes me that when Henry walks towards the café table where I wait for him, or opens the gate to our house, the sight of him is sufficient to exult me. No letter from anyone, even in praise of my book, can stir me as much as a note from him. When he is drunk, he becomes sentimental in such a human, simple way. He begins to visualize our life together, I as his wife: “You will never seem as beautiful as when I see you roll up your sleeves and work for me. We could be so happy. You would fall behind in your writing!” Oh, the German husband. At this, I laugh. So, I fall behind in my writing and I become the wife of a genius. I had wanted this, among other things, but no housework. I would never marry him. Oh, no. I know that he is delighted with the liberty I give him but that he is extremely jealous and would not let me act as freely. Yet when I see him so childishly happy with my love, I hesitate at playing the game of worrying him, deceiving him, tormenting him. I do not even want to arouse his jealousy too painfully. It is Fred’s role, unconsciously, to poison my happiness. He points to the inadequacies of Henry’s love. I do not deserve a half love, he says. I deserve extraordinary things. Hell, Henry’s half love is worth more to me than the whole loves of a thousand men. I imagined for a moment a world without Henry. And I swore that the day I lose Henry I will kill my vulnerability, my capacity for true love, my feelings by the most frenzied debauch. After Henry I want no more love. Just fucking, on the one hand, and solitude and work on the other. No more pain.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I was so upset that I could scarcely pretend that all this was only normal, and I would have made a fool of myself with endless apologies if she had merely frowned. But Ginou answered my hesitant invitation quite simply: “Yes! O.K., for Saturday.” My heart beat so fast that I felt I might faint. I stared tenderly in her direction and tried to find, in her own eyes, some inkling of her complicity. But she evaded my appeal or failed to understand what I was after. Still, I was so happy! I might have dared to kiss her then and there, not out of sensuality but out of sheer affection. So I took my fill of the sight of her, of the sky, the hills, the Mediterranean sea that seemed to love us. I felt that Ginou and the whole universe had signified their acceptance of me, their full confidence. I left her there and went off to swim all by myself, going against the waves with clean strokes of my arms, thrusting my chest forward and head on. The following Saturday, I could scarcely conceal my impatience to see my parents leave. The long Sabbath lunch seemed to me to be literally endless, and I could barely stand it as I watched the kids receiving their weekly pocket money. As for Aunt Maissa who had come with her sad nun’s face to swell the crowd, she drove me nearly insane. Finally, however, the house was silent. Once the door had closed on the last of them all, I leaped from the couch where I lay trying to read, and feverishly began to do my best to make our dining-room tidy. Actually, I limited my efforts to kicking all stray shoes beneath the furniture and stuffing the clothes just anyhow into the sideboard. On the table, I spread again our Friday night’s white tablecloth and set two chairs side by side. Then I left the door ajar, so that Ginou need not wait till I came and opened it, thus she would avoid being seen by any of the neighbors. But it was still too early and I was so impatient that the time seemed to go by very slowly. So I went back to the couch and again tried to read, but in vain for my eyes somehow failed to come to grips with the text. All the joys that I was anticipating were too illicit, too new, too mysterious, too rich in promises.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  No matter how much I found excuses for them and pitied them, their company bored me. They were females destined only to be housewives, so ignorant and lacking in any culture that they were completely cut off from me. As for the other women, those who used lipstick with discretion, whose perfume was enchantingly light, whose flesh was clean and fresh, who flirted in a manner that I found, deep within me, quite wonderful, well, these girls all come from middle-class homes and I believed I was cut off from them just as definitely, but by my own poverty. The absence of any feminine companionship was not the least of the reasons that made my adolescence quite morbidly austere, with a stifling quality about it of which I was actually rather proud. As a matter of fact, I never did anything for the mere pleasure of relaxation. Every one of my gestures had a purpose that was calculated in terms of what it was worth. I studied because I wanted to assure myself of fame in the future, or I worked to make money. When at last I was too tired and allowed myself to write or to devote some of my time to social life, which was also work in my eyes, I brought to either of these occupations the same kind of earnestness. I was really a very serious young man. But I managed, in spite of all this, to experience the kind of adventure that is unique and entirely wonderful. One of the girls of the kind that I admired and believed to be quite inaccessible accepted my admiration and even encouraged me. Now, I can understand it better: she fell in love with my earnestness. But here, at last, I was tasting of happiness. As an adolescent, I was never very happy nor very unhappy. I had no time for such states of being; on the contrary, I was always busy learning, changing, being active. In the light of individual incidents of this constant struggle, I was also indignant, revolted, or exultant. But my adventure with Ginou revealed to me that, although I had been unfortunate enough to be born into an impossible moment of history, life could still leave a taste of honey in my mouth. One day, I was playing volleyball in the sun, wearing only my bathing trunks, with Mina, a scout-mistress. The sky was a pale blue, all of one spotless color, above a sea that was exquisitely warm and green. While she was busy throwing and catching the ball across a low breakwater that lay between us, Mina continued to tell me, with much sarcastic humor, details of their last summer camp.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

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

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Certainly, they were not altogether wrong. In order to get in for the three o’clock show, we had to queue up at one, be jostled and elbowed and attacked by kids of our own age, older boys, and even adults, until the box office opened. Often the queue grew too long and dissolved into sudden confusion; by the time things had straightened out, we had lost our places. Once, our tickets were torn out of my hand before I could identify the thief; Bissor in his rage couldn’t refrain from railing at me while I burst into tears. So we went to complain to the manager and he allowed us into the theater despite his mistrust. On one of our movie Saturdays, Bissor was unexpectedly called in for an additional assignment on his newspaper route. We decided that I’d go alone to buy the tickets and leave one with the cashier for Bissor to pick up as soon as he was free to join me. It was anguish for me to stand in line without Bissor; I was a weakling, and I don’t know how many humiliations his presence saved me. I got to the Kursaal long before the box office opened, but there was already a big crowd. To my delight, a policeman was there lording it over the whole square. The Sicilian laborers who composed our aristocracy, with slicked-down hair and bright ties; the ragged bootblacks who were its lowest class and had gathered the price of a ticket by collecting cigarette butts; the fritter-vendors in their greasy fezzes; the Maltese cabbies with their cap visors coquettishly broken; the porters with professional ropes thrown over their shoulders; all these people, so brutal and dishonest in past weeks, were now miraculously orderly, almost polite, waiting under the eyes of the Mohammedan policeman, an enormous fellow with a pock-marked face and a pointed black mustache. I felt happy being where I was: the façade of the Kursaal, built to look like a dragon’s head, spat out its flames; there were colored posters glued to the monster’s cheeks, and the crowd itself was disturbing but full of living joy; all this contributed to give me each time the same glow of happiness. On this particular day, there was also the promise of security. The posters on the dragon’s cheeks announced two Tom Mix films and one Rin-Tin-Tin. We were used to this, but we never tired of exulting in the triumphs of our wonderful cowboy. We joined him in his pursuit of the stagecoach that contained the gold and the exquisite blond heroine and was being driven away by bandits.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I could now afford a chocolate bar every other day, if I wanted, as I needed to spend only one of my pennies on the intervening day and could save the second for the morrow. It was difficult to breakfast off bread and a single penny, but I had found a compromise: I bought a chocolate-flavored candy that I placed between my cheek and my lower jaw. I bit into my bread without touching the candy, which then melted slowly, giving me the impression that I was eating my bread with chocolate. I repeated this experiment several times and, for the days of celebration when I could afford a Nestlé bar, I also had a technique of my own for consuming my treat just as I had a plan for purchasing it. First, I economized carefully, eating my bread in large mouthfuls with as little chocolate as possible. Once I had swallowed my bread and assuaged my hunger, I then hesitated a while before suddenly gulping down all the chocolate that was left, I mean more than half the bar. All my mouth would then participate in this orgasm, with chocolate all over my gums, the lining of my cheeks, and my palate. This lasted thirty seconds, but thirty seconds of total bliss, almost making me feel nausea. But today, I had not yet had any morning breakfast, so that there could be no question of saving. The sandwich that Chaoul, the janitor, prepared for me would scarcely be enough. Saul felt reassured and went ahead, buying his daily ration of Nestlé. Unlike Garsia, he bought his bars one by one and tore the wrappings slowly, like one of those gamblers who uncover their cards one at a time, a millimeter at a time. He kept all of us on tenterhooks, crowding round him in silence. But he too had no luck. One after the other, he drew a bird, then a second bird, and a fish, all of them run-of-the-mill cards of which he already owned several copies. Saul had thus spent twenty-one pennies and now searched the pockets of his pants and of his overall apron, to find there only a top, some marbles, a piece of string, a two-penny piece, and a single penny, and that was all. On his face there began to appear the signs of a spoiled child’s tantrum, and he almost made me pity him. He shook out his crumpled handkerchief: another coin fell out of it. We all rushed to pick it up, another two-penny piece. We were interested in watching the last efforts of the luckless gambler, and only Birdie seemed to remain impassive, watching it all with a kind and paternal look in his eyes.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I leave him completely shattered. And today I receive my true love, Henry, with great joy, and ardent commingling. How we flash! And then I realize I can only love fully when I have confidence. I am sure of Henry’s love, and so I abandon myself. Then Henry tells me, because he has been jealous and worried, that he has read about those hysterical women who are capable of loving two or three men profoundly at the same time. Is this what I am? The only thing psychoanalysis achieves is to make one more conscious of one’s misfortunes. I have gained a clearer and more terrifying knowledge of the dangers in my course. It has not taught me to laugh. I sit here tonight as somberly as I sat when I was a child. Henry alone, the most alive of all men, has the power to make me blissful. I had a stupendous scene with Allendy. I brought him two pages of “explanations,” which at first bewildered him. I stressed two moments which made me withdraw from him: one, when he said, “And what is to become of poor Hugo if I let myself go? If he finds out I have betrayed him, his cure will be impossible.” Scruples. Like John’s scruples. They are unbearable to me, because I have suffered too much from scruples, and so I love Henry’s unscrupulousness. June’s. They create a balance which puts me at ease. But, as Allendy points out, balance is not to be sought by association with others; it must exist within one’s self. I should be free enough of scruples not to need to be swept off my feet by the unscrupulousness of another. The second complaint: Allendy’s great tenderness, aroused by a reading of my childhood journal. I hate all semblance of tenderness, because it reminds me of Eduardo’s and Hugo’s treatment of me, which nearly wrecked me. Here, Allendy was angry because he misinterpreted my words. Was I comparing him to Eduardo and Hugo? But I had enough presence of mind, although I was weeping, to say how aware I was that my reaction deformed the true sense of tenderness, that there was no weakness in him but, rather, an abnormal craving for aggressiveness and reassurance in me. He talked softly then, explaining how a separation of the erotic and the sentimental was no solution, that although my experience with love, before Henry, had been a failure, I would get no happiness from a purely erotic connection. At first he wandered in the maze of ramifications I had created. I wanted to confuse him, to elude the exact truth. To my great surprise he suddenly discarded everything I had been saying and said, “You were under the impression last time, because I talked quietly about Hugo and my work,

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I would see her, in full daylight, advance out of the crowd. Could it be possible? I was afraid that I would stand there exactly as I had stood in other places, watching a crowd and knowing no June would ever appear because June was a product of my imagination. I could hardly believe she would arrive by those streets, cross such a boulevard, emerge out of a handful of dark, faceless people, walk into that place. What a joy to watch that crowd scurrying and then to see her striding, resplendent, incredible, towards me. I hold her warm hand. She is going for mail. Doesn’t the man at American Express see the wonder of her? Nobody like her ever called for mail. Did any woman ever wear shabby shoes, a shabby black dress, a shabby dark blue cape, and an old violet hat as she wears them? I cannot eat in her presence. But I am calm outwardly, with that Oriental placidity of bearing that is so deceptive. She drinks and smokes. She is quite mad, in a sense, subject to fears and manias. Her talk, mostly unconscious, would be revealing to an analyst, but I cannot analyze it. It is mostly lies. The contents of her imagination are realities to her. But what is she building so carefully? An aggrandizement of her personality, a fortifying and glorifying of it. In the obvious and enveloping warmth of my admiration she expands. She seems at once destructive and helpless. I want to protect her. What a joke! I, protect her whose power is infinite. Her power is so strong that I actually believe it when she tells me her destructiveness is unintentional. Has she tried to destroy me? No, she walked into my house and I was willing to endure any pain from her hands. If there is any calculation in her, it comes only afterwards, when she becomes aware of her power and wonders how she should use it. I do not think her evil potency is directed. Even she is baffled by it. I have her in myself now as one to be pitied and protected. She is involved in perversities and tragedies she cannot live up to. I have at last caught her weakness. Her life is full of fantasies. I want to force her into reality. I want to do violence to her. I, who am sunk in dreams, in half-lived acts, see myself possessed by a furious intention: I want to grasp June’s evasive hands, oh, with what strength, take her to a hotel room and realize her dream and mine, a dream she has evaded facing all her life. I went to see Eduardo, tense and shattered by my three hours with June. He saw the weakness in her and urged me to act out my strength. I could hardly think clearly because in the taxi she had pressed my hand.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  At the dinner my happiness made me feel natural. In my mind I was lying on the grass with Henry over me; I beamed at the poor ordinary people around the table. They all felt something—even the women, who wanted to know where I shopped for my clothes. Women always think that when they have my shoes, my dress, my hairdresser, my make-up, it will all work the same way. They do not conceive of the witchcraft that is needed. They do not know that I am not beautiful but that I only appear to be at certain moments. “Spain,” said my dinner partner, “is the most wonderful country in the world, where women are really women!” I was thinking, I wish Henry could taste this fish. And the wine. But Hugo felt something, too. Before the banquet we were to meet at the Gare St. Lazare. Henry was supposed to have come to Louveciennes to help me with my novel. When Henry and I arrived at the station together, Hugo was not happy. He began to talk quickly, severely about Osborn, “the child prodigy.” Poor Hugo, and I could still smell the grass of the forest. I walked with him so lightly. And where was Henry? Was he missing me already? Sensitive Henry, who has a fear of being disliked, despised, a fear that Hugo should “know everything” or that I will be ashamed of him before people. Not understanding why I love him. I make him forget humiliations and nightmares. His thin knees under the threadbare suit arouse my protective instincts. There is big Henry, whose writing is tempestuous, obscene, brutal, and who is passionate with women, and there is little Henry, who needs me. For little Henry I stint myself, save every cent I can. I cannot believe now that he ever terrified me, intimidated me. Henry, the man of experience, the adventurer. He is afraid of our dogs, of snakes in the garden, of people when they are not le peuple. There are moments when I see Lawrence in him, except that he is healthy and passionate. I wanted to tell my dinner partner last night, “You know, Henry is so passionate.” I failed to go to my last appointment with Allendy. I was beginning to depend on him, to be grateful to him. Why did I stop for a week, he asks. To stand on my own feet again, to fight alone, to take myself back, to depend on nobody. Why? The fear of being hurt. Fear that he should become a necessity and that, when my cure was finished, our relationship would end and I would lose him. He reminds me that it is part of the cure to make me self-sufficient. But by not trusting him, I have shown that I am still ill. Slowly he will teach me to do without him.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  Ugly, unimaginative, dead people surround us. We are blind to them. I look at June, in black velvet. June rushing towards death. Henry cannot rush on with her because he fights for life. But June and I together do not hold back. I follow her. And it is an acute joy to go along, giving in to the dissolution of the imagination, to her knowledge of strange experiences, to our games with Count Bruga, who bows to the world with the weeping willowness of his purple hair. It is all over. In the street, June says regretfully, “I had wanted to hold you and caress you.” I put her in a taxi. She sits there about to leave me and I stand by in torment. “I want to kiss you,” I say. “I want to kiss you,” says June, and she offers her mouth, which I kiss for a long time. When she left, I just wanted to sleep for many days, but I still had something to face, my relationship with Henry. We asked him to come to Louveciennes. I wanted to offer him peace and a soothing house, but of course I knew we would talk about June. We walked off our restlessness, and we talked. There is in both of us an obsession to grasp June. He has no jealousy of me, because he said I brought out wonderful things in June, that it was the first time June had ever attached herself to a woman of value. He seemed to expect I would have power over her life. When he saw that I understood June and was ready to be truthful with him, we talked freely. Yet once I paused, hesitant, wondering at my faithlessness to June. Then Henry observed that although truth, in June’s case, had to be disregarded, it could be the only basis of any exchange between us. We both felt the need of allying our two minds, our two different logics, in understanding the problem of June. Henry loves her and always her. He also wants to possess June the character, the powerful, fictionlike personage. In his love for her he has had to endure so many torments that the lover has taken refuge in the writer. He has written a ferocious and resplendent book about June and Jean. He was questioning the lesbianism. When he heard me say certain things he had heard June say, he was startled, because he believes me. I said, “After all, if there is an explanation of the mystery it is this: The love between women is a refuge and an escape into harmony. In the love between man and woman there is resistance and conflict. Two women do not judge each other, brutalize each other, or find anything to ridicule. They surrender to sentimentality, mutual understanding, romanticism. Such love is death, I’ll admit.”

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

  The sifting of Peter, 22:31, 32. The healing of Malchus, 22:50, 51. 2. Original Parables: The two Debtors, 7:41–43. The good Samaritan, 10:25–37. The importunate Friend, 11:5–8. The rich Fool, 12:16–21. The barren Fig-tree, 13:6–9. The lost Drachma, 15:8–10. The prodigal Son, 15:11–32. The unjust Steward, 16:1–13. Dives and Lazarus, 16:19–31. The importunate Widow, and the unjust Judge, 18:1–8. The Pharisee and the Publican 18:10–14. The ten Pounds, 19:11–28 (not to be identified with the Parable of the Talents in Matt. 25:14–30). III. In the history of the Crucifixion and Resurrection The lament of the women on the way to the cross, Luke 23:27–30. The prayer of Christ for his murderers, 23:3 His conversation with the penitent malefactor and promise of a place in paradise, 23:39–43. The appearance of the risen Lord to the two Disciples on the way to Emmaus, 24:13–25; briefly mentioned also in the disputed conclusion of Mark, 16:12, 13. The account of the ascension, Luke 24:50–53; comp. Mark 16:19, 20; and Acts 1:3–12. Characteristic Features of Luke. The third Gospel is the Gospel of free salvation to all men.1004 This corresponds to the two cardinal points in the doctrinal system of Paul: gratuitousness and universalness of salvation. 1. It is eminently the Gospel of free salvation by grace through faith. Its motto is: Christ came to save sinners. "Saviour" and "salvation" are the most prominent ideas1005 Mary, anticipating the birth of her Son, rejoices in God her "Saviour" (Luke 1:47); and an angel announces to the shepherds of Bethlehem "good tidings of great joy which shall be to all the people "(2:10), namely, the birth of Jesus as the "Saviour" of men (not only as the Christ of the Jews). He is throughout represented as the merciful friend of sinners, as the healer of the sick, as the comforter of the broken-hearted, as the shepherd of the lost sheep. The parables peculiar to Luke—of the prodigal son, of the lost piece of money, of the publican in the temple, of the good Samaritan—exhibit this great truth which Paul so fully sets forth in his Epistles. The parable of the Pharisee and the publican plucks up self-righteousness by the root, and is the foundation of the doctrine of justification by faith. The paralytic and the woman that was a sinner received pardon by faith alone. Luke alone relates the prayer of Christ on the cross for his murderers, and the promise of paradise to the penitent robber, and he ends with a picture of the ascending Saviour lifting up his hands and blessing his disciples. The other Evangelists do not neglect this aspect of Christ; nothing can be more sweet and comforting than his invitation to sinners in Matthew 11, or his farewell to the disciples in John; but Luke dwells on it with peculiar delight. He is the painter of Christus Salvator and Christus Consolator.

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

  The condition and manners of the Christians in this age are most beautifully described by the unknown author of the "Epistola ad Diognetum" in the early part of the second century.3 "The Christians," he says, "are not distinguished from other men by country, by language, nor by civil institutions. For they neither dwell in cities by themselves, nor use a peculiar tongue, nor lead a singular mode of life. They dwell in the Grecian or barbarian cities, as the case may be; they follow the usage of the country in dress, food, and the other affairs of life. Yet they present a wonderful and confessedly paradoxical conduct. They dwell in their own native lands, but as strangers. They take part in all things as citizens; and they suffer all things, as foreigners. Every foreign country is a fatherland to them, and every native land is a foreign. They marry, like all others; they have children; but they do not cast away their offspring. They have the table in common, but not wives. They are in the flesh, but do not live after the flesh. They live upon the earth, but are citizens of heaven. They obey the existing laws, and excel the laws by their lives. They love all, and are persecuted by all. They are unknown, and yet they are condemned. They are killed and are made alive. They are poor and make many rich. They lack all things, and in all things abound. They are reproached, and glory in their reproaches. They are calumniated, and are justified. They are cursed, and they bless. They receive scorn, and they give honor. They do good, and are punished as evil-doers. When punished, they rejoice, as being made alive. By the Jews they are attacked as aliens, and by the Greeks persecuted; and the cause of the enmity their enemies cannot tell. In short, what the soul is in the body, the Christians are in the world. The soul is diffused through all the members of the body, and the Christians are spread through the cities of the world. The soul dwells in the body, but it is not of the body; so the Christians dwell in the world, but are not of the world. The soul, invisible, keeps watch in the visible body; so also the Christians are seen to live in the world, but their piety is invisible. The flesh hates and wars against the soul, suffering no wrong from it, but because it resists fleshly pleasures; and the world hates the Christians with no reason, but that they resist its pleasures. The soul loves the flesh and members, by which it is hated; so the Christians love their haters. The soul is inclosed in the body, but holds the body together; so the Christians are detained in the world as in a prison; but they contain the world. Immortal, the soul dwells in the mortal body; so the Christians dwell in the corruptible, but look for incorruption in heaven. The soul is the better for restriction in food and drink; and the Christians increase, though daily punished. This lot God has assigned to the Christians in the world; and it cannot be taken from them."

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  20 Now to Joseph in the land of Egypt were born Manasseh and Ephraim, whom Asenath, the daughter of Potiphera, priest of On (Heliopolis in Egypt), bore to him. 21 And the sons of c Benjamin: Bela, Becher, Ashbel, Gera, Naaman, Ehi, Rosh, Muppim, Huppim, and Ard. 22 These are the sons of Rachel, who were born to Jacob; [there were] fourteen persons in all [two sons and twelve grandchildren]. 23 The son of Dan: Hushim. 24 The sons of Naphtali: Jahzeel, Guni, Jezer, and Shillem. 25 These are the sons of Bilhah, [the maid] whom Laban gave to Rachel his daughter [when she married Jacob]. And she bore these to Jacob; [there were] seven persons in all [two sons and five grandchildren]. 26 All the persons who came with Jacob into Egypt—who were his direct descendants, not counting the wives of [Jacob or] Jacob’s sons, were sixty-six persons in all, 27 and the sons of Joseph, who were born to him in Egypt, were two. All the persons of the house of Jacob [including Jacob, and d Joseph and his sons], who came into Egypt, were seventy. 28 Now Jacob (Israel) sent Judah ahead of him to Joseph, to direct him to Goshen; and they came into the land of Goshen. 29 Then Joseph prepared his chariot and went up to meet Israel his father in Goshen; as soon as he presented himself before him (authenticating his identity), he fell on his [father’s] neck and wept on his neck a [very] long time. 30 And Israel said to Joseph, “Now let me die [in peace], since I have seen your face [and know] that you are still alive.” 31 Joseph said to his brothers and to his father’s household, “I will go up and tell Pharaoh, and say to him, ‘My brothers and my father’s household, who were in the land of Canaan, have come to me; 32 and the men are shepherds, for they have been keepers of livestock; and they have brought their flocks and their herds and all that they have.’ 33 “And it shall be that when Pharaoh calls you and says, ‘What is your occupation?’ 34 you shall say, ‘Your servants have been keepers of livestock from our youth until now, both we and our fathers [before us],’ in order that you may live [separately and securely] in the land of Goshen; for every shepherd is repulsive to the Egyptians.” Genesis 47 Jacob’s Family Settles in Goshen 1 T hen Joseph came and told Pharaoh, “My father and my brothers, with their flocks and their herds and all that they own, have come from the land of Canaan, and they are in the land of Goshen.” 2 He took five men from among his brothers and presented them to Pharaoh.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Collins was saying: ‘Interfere with your child? Oh, no, Mrs. Bingham, never! I hope I knows my place better than that — Miss Stephen herself showed me them dirty nails; she said: “Collins, just look, aren’t my nails awful dirty!’ And I said: “ You must ask Nanny about that, Miss Stephen.” Is it likely that Id interfere with your work? I’m not that sort, Mrs. Bingham.’ Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funny alluring smile! Stephen’s own eyes grew wide with amaze- ment, then they clouded with sudden and disillusioned tears, for - far worse than Collins’ poorness of spirit was the dreadful in- justice of those lies — yet this very injustice seemed to draw her to Collins, since despising, she could still love her. For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins’ unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wanted Collins, and whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quite unable, in her turn, to muster the courage to frown her innate disapproval. And Collins smiled too, if the nurse was not looking, and she held up her plump red fingers, pointing to her nails and making a grimace at the nurse’s retreating figure. Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed, not so I2 THE WELL OF LONELINESS much for herself as for Collins; and this feeling increased, so that thinking about her made Stephen go hot down her spine. In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen managed to get her alone. ‘ Collins,’ she whispered, * you told an untruth — I never showed you my dirty nails! ’ ‘Course not!’ murmured Collins, ‘ but I had to say some- thing — you didn’t mind, Miss Stephen, did you?’ And as Stephen looked doubtfully up into her face, Collins suddenly stooped and kissed her. Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her doubts swept completely away. At that moment she knew noth- ing but beauty and Collins, and the two were as one, and the one was Stephen — and yet not Stephen either, but something more vast, that the mind of seven years found no name for. The nurse came in grumbling: ‘ Now then, hurry up, Miss Stephen! Don’t stand there as though you were daft! Go and wash your face and hands before tea— how many times must I tell you the same thing? ’ ‘I don’t know —’ muttered Stephen. And indeed she did not; she knew nothing of such trifles at that moment. 2

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

  Leading Thoughts: He who began a good work in you will perfect it (1:6). If only Christ is preached, I rejoice (1:13). To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain (1:21). Have this mind in you, which was also in Christ Jesus: who emptied himself, etc. (2:5 sqq.). God worketh in you both to will and to work (2:13). Rejoice in the Lord alway; again I will say, Rejoice (3:1; 4:1). I count all things to be loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ (3:8). I press on toward the goal unto the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus (3:14). Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things (4:8). The peace of God passeth all understanding (4:7). § 98. The Epistle to Philemon. Of the many private letters of introduction and recommendation which Paul must have written during his long life, only one is left to us, very brief but very weighty. It is addressed to Philemon, a zealous Christian at Colossae, a convert of Paul and apparently a layman, who lent his house for the religious meetings of the brethren.1187 The name recalls the touching mythological legend of the faithful old couple, Philemon and Baucis, who, in the same province of Phrygia, entertained gods unawares and were rewarded for their simple hospitality and conjugal love. The letter was written and transmitted at the same time as that to the Colossians. It may be regarded as a personal postscript to it. It was a letter of recommendation of Onesimus (i.e., Profitable),1188 a slave of Philemon, who had run away from his master on account of some offence (probably theft, a very common sin of slaves),1189 fell in with Paul at Rome, of whom he may have heard in the weekly meetings at Colossae, or through Epaphras, his fellow-townsman, was converted by him to the Christian faith, and now desired to return, as a penitent, in company with Tychicus, the bearer of the Epistle to the Colossians (Col. 4:9). Paul and Slavery. The Epistle is purely personal, yet most significant. Paul omits his official title, and substitutes the touching designation, "a prisoner of Christ Jesus," thereby going directly to the heart of his friend. The letter introduces us into a Christian household, consisting of father (Philemon), mother (Apphia), son (Archippus, who was at the same time a "fellow-soldier," a Christian minister), and a slave (Onesimus). It shows the effect of Christianity upon society at a crucial point, where heathenism was utterly helpless. It touches on the institution of slavery, which lay like an incubus upon the whole heathen world and was interwoven with the whole structure of domestic and public life.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  The principal then paused, with some solemnity. He still had to ask me my opinion, whether I was prepared to continue my studies. The Jewish community of Tunis, on the recommendation of the Alliance Israélite Universelle, would undertake to finance my studies, at first my high-school years, then the university too. What had I to say? The principal was already asking me what I had to say! Here I was, already acquiring importance. Did I want to study? Good God, did I want to continue my studies... “Well,” the principal concluded by himself, “you’ve agreed. Of course, we first had to get the approval of your father, and it has meant his accepting a heavy sacrifice and agreeing to carry on without any help from you until you have received your final diplomas.” The principal thus revealed to me that my father had already been consulted several days earlier, and that nothing had then been said to me, to avoid any possible disappointment. Only that same morning had my father at last given a favorable answer. So, my father had accepted! How could he possibly have said no! I was utterly aghast, full of revolt against the mere possibility of my father’s objecting. Obscurely, I imagined an argument with my father, but he never would have been able to prevent me from choosing the path toward glory. Monsieur Louzel continued to speak in his dictatorial tone, and I continued to remain silent. Still, I had an answer for every question, repartee came spontaneously to my lips, I was bubbling over with promises, gratitude, and dreams. I reacted to every one of his sentences with gestures that were born of my whole body, approving, denying, committing me. There had been some hesitation, Monsieur Louzel confided in me, between choosing Lévy, the son of the widow, and myself. His financial status deserved more consideration, but I was the better student. I nodded, with an expression that wished to convey deep sympathy for Lévy Isidro; but my joy was too great to allow any qualification, except that of retrospective anguish. “Well, you have deserved your luck,” concluded the principal. “Now you must go back to your classroom to fetch your things and go at once to see Monsieur Bismuth, who has been appointed your sponsor. He wants to see you at once, as he has to leave town this afternoon. So, you had better go... But wait, I haven’t told you anything about Monsieur Bismuth.”

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I nodded, with an expression that wished to convey deep sympathy for Lévy Isidro; but my joy was too great to allow any qualification, except that of retrospective anguish. “Well, you have deserved your luck,” concluded the principal. “Now you must go back to your classroom to fetch your things and go at once to see Monsieur Bismuth, who has been appointed your sponsor. He wants to see you at once, as he has to leave town this afternoon. So, you had better go... But wait, I haven’t told you anything about Monsieur Bismuth.” We were already going ahead with the application of our plans and biting into the future. I assumed an attentive and preoccupied look, ready to rush wherever he would send me. Monsieur Bismuth, the well-known druggist, was going to be, it seemed, my paying sponsor. Yes, I knew his drugstore well, though I had never met Monsieur Bismuth: a modern storefront, spacious display windows, with neon lighting at night. A stout thread of gold now bound me to the city. The principal began to speak to me in detail about my sponsor; a son of poor parents, who had been a courageous and hard worker, with the community scholarship coming to bring recognition to his merits, and here he was a wealthy man, an honored member of the community, the owner of the finest drugstore in our part of the country. “Let him be your inspiration,” concluded Monsieur Louzel. “Your destinies have much in common, and I hope, for you, that they’ll continue to have as much in common.” Abandoning his histrionic manner to become almost paternal, the principal then asked me: “What do you want to be?” “A physician,” I answered, without any hesitation. “Well, if you continue to study as hard as you have been, we’ll make a physician of you.” He then dismissed me, and I went again across the three stages, opened the glass-paneled door, closed it carefully. To me, it seemed as if I were awakening from a dream. But unlike those awakenings when one is seized with the irresistible desire to check on the real existence of one’s treasure, my own gold was here with me: magically, my dream had acquired a body. The school principal, Monsieur Bismuth, the influential druggist, the Alliance Israélite Universelle, the whole of the Jewish community of Tunis had decided that it must come true. This was no time for self-satisfied jubilation. My destiny pushed me ahead: I was expected. So I hurried across the yard, without paying any attention to the benevolent eucalyptus trees, to the big bronze bell that waited there, patient and almost motherly, to the sidelong glances of all my classmates indoors. I climbed the old wooden staircase four steps at a time. As I feverishly gathered my things together, I felt on me the gaze of all my classmates.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  But we were lost in any case. If, by luck, we escaped the gunfire, we would certainly be recaptured by the Italians even sooner than we thought, for we could hear voices like hallucinations in the pale unborn dawn. Had it been worth so much trouble and pain? It did not occur to us to run or to fight. Heavy as oxen, unable to move swiftly, we stopped and awaited our pursuers. But our mistake was full of pleasant surprises: the voices were only those of our comrades on their way back from the danger zone. In spite of our dejection, a ray of joy pierced our armor of fatigue. We congratulated each other; the idea that they had been lost and found again made them dearer to us, each one of them more vividly present as a member of the group, reducing for a moment each man’s growing sense of loneliness. I suggested to the leader that we stop this exhausting march which only led us back to the Italians. We should hide in the bushes of the countryside and let two men watch on the road for a ride: “If our guards arrive before they hitch a ride, our friends can then lie and say they have left us and are alone. If something comes along before the Italians, they will get a ride to Tunis and come back with one of our community trucks.” He thought this over at length and finally agreed. The men disappeared behind the thorny Arabian acacia bushes that lined the road, while Picchonero and I sat on the ground and awaited any vehicle that might show up. “I warn you,” said the little shoemaker, “if I get there I’m not coming back. You don’t need me to recognize the spot.” We waited at least half an hour before the first car turned up. As the day advanced there began to appear, from the other direction, an occasional big munitions truck marked with the yellow flag: explosives, danger. The Germans evidently intended to stop the Allies somewhere nearby. In a few hours we would be in the middle of the fight. At last, there came a truck bound for Tunis. We rushed for it, as fast as our stiff legs permitted; but the driver hardly even looked at us. It would be better to stand on the edge of the road, so we decided to take turns at this so as to be visible from a distance. Time passed. I was tense, my head empty, with one arm stiffly held in the hitchhiker’s gesture. The few drivers who were going toward Tunis stared curiously at us but did not answer our signals that grew more and more frantic.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  Hugo tells me his instinct assures him there is nothing between Henry and me. Last night when I slipped Henry’s letter under my pillow, I wondered if the paper would crackle and Hugo would hear it, if he would read the letter while I lay asleep. I am taking great risks, with exhilaration. I want to make big sacrifices for my love. My husband, Louveciennes, my beautiful life—for Henry. Allendy says, “Give yourself wholly to one person. Depend. Lean. Have confidence. Have no fear of pain.” I think I have, with Henry. And yet I still feel alone and divided. He left me at the Gare St. Lazare last night. I began to write in the train, to balance the seven-leagued-boot leaping of my life with the ant activity of the pen. The ant words rushed back and forth carrying crumbs: such heavy crumbs. Bigger than the ants. “Have you enough heliotrope ink?” Henry asked. I should not be using ink but perfume. I should be writing with Narcisse Noir, with Mitsouko, with jasmine, with honeysuckle. I could write beautiful words that would exhale the potent smell of woman’s honey and man’s white blood. Louveciennes! Stop. Hugo is waiting for me. Retrogression. The past: The train to Long Beach. Hugo in a golf suit. His legs stretched out near mine arouse me. I have brought iodine because he gets sudden toothaches. I wear an organdy dress, stiff and fresh, and a picture hat with cherries dangling on the right, in a dip of the large soft wing. The Sunday crowd is flushed, sunburnt, tattered, ugly. I return loaded with my first true kiss. In the train again—this time to meet Henry. When I ride this way, with my pen and my journal, I feel extraordinarily secure. I see the hole in my glove and a mend in my stocking. All because Henry must eat. And I am happy that I can give Henry security, food. At certain moments, when I look into his unreadable blue eyes, I have a sensation of such torrential happiness that I feel emptied. Eduardo and I were going to spend the whole afternoon together. We began with an abundant lunch in the Rotisserie de la Reine Pedaque, a place which makes one hungry. Malicious, psychoanalytical conversation. Fresh strawberries. Eduardo warming, melting, desirous. So I say, “Let’s go to the movies. I know one we should see.” He is obstinate. But there is no more pity or weakness in me. I am just as obstinate. Eduardo with the Hotel Anjou in mind. I with Henry’s blood in my veins. All during the lunch I thought how much I would like to bring Henry to the place. Give him food out of those enormous, fairy-tale banquet dishes. Eduardo is very angry, in a chill way. He says, “I’ll take you to the Gare St. Lazare. You can make the two-twenty-five.”

• From Henry and June (1986)

  “Do you think liberty simply means that we are growing apart?” he asked anxiously. This, I denied. Certainly I have grown away from him sexually, and if there is any jealousy in me now, it is not due to physical passion for him but to sheer possessiveness. And since I do not give him my body in the complete sense, he has a full right to his liberty and more. It would only be fair if he should find elsewhere the same joys I have found with Henry. If what Allendy says is true, both of us must find passion outside of our love. Naturally, this costs me an effort. I could keep Hugo for myself. The idea of liberty had not occurred to him. It is I who have suggested it. Natasha would call me a fool. What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again. Henry and I lie fully dressed under the coarse blanket of his bed. He talks about his own profound joy. “I can’t let you go tonight, Anaïs, I want you the whole night. I feel that you belong to me.” But later, as we sit close together in a café, he reveals his lack of confidence, his doubts. The red journal made him sad. He read about his sensual power over me. “Is that all, is that all?” he wants to know. Is he only that for me? Then it will soon be over, a passing infatuation. Sexual desire. He wants my love. He needs the security of my love. I tell him I have loved him since I spent those few days with him in Clichy. “At the beginning, yes, it was perhaps purely sensual. Not now.” It seems to me I cannot love him more than I do. I love him as much as I desire him, and my desire is immense. Every hour I spend in his arms could be the last. I give myself to it with frenzy. At any moment, before I see him again, June could return. How does June love Henry?—how much, how well? I ask myself in torment. When people are surprised to find him soft and timid, I am amused. I, too, bowed to the brutality of his writing, but my Henry is vulnerable, sensitive. How humbly he seeks to make Hugo like him, how pleased he is when Hugo is kind to him. Last night Hugo went to a movie, enjoyed the novelty of the experience, danced in a cabaret with a Martinique girl, felt nostalgia for me when he heard the music, as if we were very far away from each other, and came home eager to possess me.