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 Another Country (1962)

  “These men can get drunk, too, if we keep them waiting too long. I’ll help you, we can get it done in no time.” She followed Cass to the doorway. With one foot on the step, she turned. “Now, I’m going to hold you to your promise, Richard. About that book, I mean.” “I’m going to hold you to yours. You’re the one who got the dirty end of this deal.” She looked at Vivaldo. “Oh, I don’t know. I might think of something.” “I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Cass said. “I don’t like that look on Vivaldo’s face at all.” Ida laughed. “He is kind of simple-looking, I declare. Come on. I’ll tell you about it in the kitchen.” “Don’t believe a word Cass says about me,” Vivaldo called. “Oh, you mean she knows something about you? Come on, Cass, honey, we going to get down to the knitty-gritty this afternoon.” And they disappeared. “You’ve always had a thing about colored girls, haven’t you?” Richard asked, after a moment. There was something curiously wistful in his voice. Vivaldo looked at him. “No. I’ve never been involved with a colored girl.” “No. But you used to do a lot of tomcatting up in Harlem. And it’s so logical, somehow, that you should be trying to make it with a colored girl now—you certainly scraped the bottom of the white barrel.” Against his will, Vivaldo was forced to laugh. “Well. I don’t think Ida’s color has a damn thing to do with it, one way or the other.” “Are you sure? Isn’t she just another in your long line of waifs and strays and unfortunates?” “Richard,” Vivaldo said, and he put his glass down on the bar, “are you trying to bug me? What is it?” “Of course I’m not trying to bug you,” Richard said. “I just think that maybe it’s time you straightened out—settled down—time you figured out what you want to do and started doing it instead of bouncing around like a kid. You’re not a kid.” “Well, I think it’s time you stopped treating me like one. I know what I want to do and I am doing it. All right? And I’ve got to do it my own way. So get off my back.” He smiled, but it was too late. “I didn’t think I was on your back,” said Richard. “I’m sorry.” “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you know that.” “Let’s just forget it, okay?” “Well, hell, I don’t want you mad at me.” “I’m not mad at you.” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out. With his back to Vivaldo, he said, “You didn’t really like my book much, did you?” “So that’s it.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  He thought, bleakly, Le plus dur reste à faire. Then he joined the line, and moved slowly toward the door. The hostesses stood there, smiling and saying good-bye. The sun was bright on their faces, and on the faces of the disembarking passengers; they seemed, as they turned and disappeared, to be stepping into a new and healing light. He held his newspapers under one arm, shifted his package from hand to hand, straightened his belt, trembling. The hostess with whom he had flirted was nearest the door. “Au revoir,” she said, with the bright and generous and mocking smile possessed by so many of his countrywomen. He suddenly realized that he would never see her again. It had not occurred to him, until this moment, that he could possibly have left behind him anything which he might, one day, long for and need, with all his heart. “Bon courage,” she said. He smiled and said, “Merci, mademoiselle. Au revoir!” And he wanted to say, Vous êtes très jolie, but it was too late, he had hit the light, the sun glared at him, and everything wavered in the heat. He started down the extraordinary steps. When he hit the ground, a voice above him said, “Bonjour, mon gar. Soyez le bienvenue.” He looked up. Eric leaned on the rail of the observation deck, grinning, wearing an open white shirt and khaki trousers. He looked very much at ease, at home, thinner than he had been, with his short hair spinning and flaming about his head. Yves looked up joyously, and waved, unable to say anything. Eric. And all his fear left him, he was certain, now, that everything would be all right. He whistled to himself as he followed the line which separated him from the Americans, into the examination hall. But he passed his examination with no trouble, and in a very short time; his passport was eventually stamped and handed back to him, with a grin and a small joke, the meaning but not the good nature of which escaped him. Then he was in a vaster hall, waiting for his luggage, with Eric above him, smiling down on him through glass. Then even his luggage belonged to him again, and he strode through the barriers, more high-hearted than he had ever been as a child, into that city which the people from heaven had made their home. Istanbul, Dec. 10, 1961 JAMES BALDWIN James Baldwin was born in 1924. He is the author of more than twenty works of fiction and nonfiction. Among the awards he received are a Eugene F.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  In case you are wondering, “What would I do on a retreat with God?” (that’s the Martha in us all, feeling like we have to do something), here are some ideas to get your creative juices flowing. Remember, think like Mary (see Luke 10:38-42)! This is an incredible opportunity to get away from it all and bask in Jesus’ presence, although some of these ideas will suit both the Mary (the worshiper) and the Martha (the busy doer) in you. Any of these ideas can be adapted to fit your schedule, whether you manage to carve out three days, one day, or only a few hours. “Past, Present, and Future” Retreat Break up your time into three segments. During the first segment, think about your childhood or recent past. Are there people you need to forgive? Are there people you need to ask forgiveness of? Take time to write letters to those people, clearing your conscience and speaking a blessing over them. Next, examine your present. Make a list of how you spend your time each day and see if you are investing in your true priorities or simply putting out fires day by day. Ask God to show you how to restructure your time each day to accomplish those things and invest in those relationships most important to you. Finally, focus on your future. What are your ultimate goals in life spiritually, relationally, professionally, and/or financially? Ask God to show you how to meet those goals and how to become the best steward possible of the precious time He’s blessed you with here on earth. Hobby Retreat What do you enjoy doing most? Painting? Reading? Writing? Make some time to do just that alone with God. Whatever it is, pack up your tools or books or whatever you’ll need and run away. Paint with passion, dedicating your masterpiece to the glory of God. Take a good Christian living or Christian fiction book and read voraciously without apology. Take a huge stack of index cards to jot down ideas and a laptop computer. Seek His direction and brainstorm things you could creatively write about that would glorify God. “Prayer, Praise, and Pampering” Retreat

• From Another Country (1962)

  Vivaldo took his turn, while the others watched him. It was a kind of community endeavor, as though he were a baby just learning to use the potty or just learning how to walk. They all but applauded when he passed it on to Lorenzo, who took his turn and passed it on to Belle. “Ooh,” said Lorenzo, “I’m flying,” and leaned back with his head in Belle’s lap. Vivaldo turned over on his back, head resting on his arms, knees pointing to the sky. He felt like singing. “My chick’s a singer,” he announced. The sky looked, now, like a vast and friendly ocean, in which drowning was forbidden, and the stars seemed stationed there, like beacons. To what country did this ocean lead? for oceans always led to some great good place: hence, sailors, missionaries, saints, and Americans. “Where’s she singing?” asked Lorenzo. His voice seemed to drop gently from the air: Vivaldo was watching heaven. “She’s not, right now. But she will be soon. And she’s going to be great.” “I’ve seen her,” Belle said, “she’s beautiful.” He turned his head in the direction of the voice. “You’ve seen her? Where?” “In the restaurant where she works. I went there with somebody—not with Lorenzo,” and he heard her giggle, “and the cat I was with told me she was your girl.” There was a silence. Then, “She’s very tough.” “Why do you say that?” “Oh, I don’t know. She just seemed—very tough, that’s all. I don’t mean she wasn’t nice. But she was very sure of herself, you could tell she wasn’t going to take any shit.” He laughed. “Sounds like my girl, all right.” “I wish I looked like her,” Belle said. “My!” “I like you just the way you are,” said Lorenzo. Out of the corner of his eye, and from far away, Vivaldo watched his arms go up and saw Belle’s dark hair fall. Just above my head. That was a song that Ida sometimes sang, puttering inefficiently about the kitchen, which always seemed sandy with coffee grinds and vaguely immoral with dead cigarettes on the burnt, blistered paint of the shelves. Perhaps the answer was in the songs. Just above my head, I hear music in the air. And I really do believe There’s a God somewhere. But was it music in the air, or trouble in the air? He began whistling another song: Trouble in mind, I’m blue, But I won’t be blue always, ’Cause the sun’s going to shine In my back door someday. Why back door? And the sky now seemed to descend, no longer phosphorescent with possibilities, but rigid with the mineral of choices, heavy as the weight of the finite earth, onto his chest. He was being pressed: I’m pressing on, Ida sometimes sang, the upward way!

• From Another Country (1962)

  He stood sipping his drink in the bar; they stood on the twilit sidewalk. Eric watched Vivaldo and used these moments to remember him. Vivaldo seemed more radiant than he had ever been, and less boyish. He was still very slim, very lean, but he seemed, somehow, to have more weight. In Eric’s memory, Vivaldo always put one foot down lightly, like a distrustful colt, ready, at any moment, to break and run; but now he stood where he stood, the ground bore him, and his startled, sniffing, maverick quality was gone. Or perhaps not entirely gone: his black eyes darted from face to face as he spoke, as he listened, investigating, weighing, watching, his eyes hiding more than they revealed. The conversation took a more somber turn. One of the musicians had brought up the subject of money—of unions, and, with a gesture toward the spot where Eric stood, of working conditions. Vivaldo’s eyes darkened, his face became still, and he looked briefly down at Ida. She watched the musician who was speaking with a proud, bitter look on her face. “So maybe you better give it another thought, gal,” the musician concluded. “I’ve thought about it,” she said, looking down, touching one of the earrings. Vivaldo took this hand in his, and she looked up at him; he kissed her lightly on the tip of the nose. “Well,” said another musician, wearily, “we better be making it on in.” He turned and entered the bar, saying, “Excuse me, man” to Eric as he passed. Ida whispered something in Vivaldo’s ear; he listened, frowning. His hair fell over his forehead, and he threw his head back, sharply, with a look of annoyance, and saw Eric. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Another musician, entering the bar, passed between them. Then, Vivaldo said, “So there you are. I didn’t really believe you’d make it; I didn’t really believe you’d be back.” “But I’m here,” said Eric, grinning, “now, what do you think of that?” Vivaldo suddenly raised his arms and laughed—and the policeman moved directly behind him, glowering, seeming to wait for an occult go-ahead signal—and covered the space between himself and Eric and threw both arms around him. Eric nearly dropped the glass he was holding, for Vivaldo had thrown him off balance; he grinned up into Vivaldo’s grinning face; and was aware, behind Vivaldo, of Ida, inscrutably watching, and the policeman, waiting. “You fucking red-headed Rebel,” Vivaldo shouted, “you haven’t changed a bit! Christ, I’m glad to see you, I’d no idea I’d be so glad to see you.” He released Eric, and stepped back, oblivious, apparently, to the storm he was creating. He dragged Eric out of the bar, into the street, over to Ida. “Here’s the sonofabitch we’ve been talking about so long, Ida; here’s Eric. He’s the last human being to get out of Alabama.”

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  What moment in a man’s life can compare with that of the wedding night, when a beautiful woman takes off all her clothes and lies next to him in bed, and that woman is his wife? What can equal the surprise of finding out that the one thing above all others which mankind has been most enterprising and proficient in dragging through the dirt turns out in fact to be the most innocent thing in the world? Is there any other activity at all which an adult man and woman may engage in together (apart from worship) that is actually more childlike, more clean and pure, more natural and wholesome and unequivocally right than is the act of making love? For if worship is the deepest available form of communion with God (and especially that particular act of worship known as Communion), then surely sex is the deepest communion that is possible between human beings, and as such is something absolutely essential (in more than a biological way) to our survival.1 For help in seeing your lovemaking as an act of worship, I suggest you begin by getting spiritually naked. Pray together and invite God into your bedroom to help you experience the joy and the wonder of what He created and gave you as a gift for marriage. If you are not in the habit of praying together as a couple already, this may seem awkward for you. If so, start by praying together each night with no intention of engaging in sex afterward. As you talk and share openly with God and with each other, you will more than likely experience a spiritual closeness over time that may awaken your desire for a more intimate physical closeness. If so, you are moving in the right direction. As you both begin to experience this greater level of spiritual connection (and assuming you remain faithful in keeping your mind focused on intimacy only with your husband rather than with another), you will discover a deeper level of emotional fulfillment in your relationship. For a woman, it is these deeper levels of mental, emotional, and spiritual intimacy which are key to igniting a passion for physical intimacy with your husband.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  I told her that Zen masters believed mountains “flow,” but that we can’t always perceive the flow with our limited senses, and indeed, in that moment, we did feel as if Fuji was flowing, as if we were riding a wave across the world. Unlike the climb up, the climb down took no effort, and no time. At the bottom I bowed and said good-bye to Sarah and the Easter egg. “Yoroshiku ne.” Nice meeting you. “Where you headed?” Sarah asked. “I think I’m going to stay at the Hakone Inn tonight,” I said. “Well,” she said, “I’m coming with you.” I took a step back. I looked at the boyfriend. He scowled. I realized at last that he wasn’t her boyfriend. Happy Easter. WE SPENT TWO days at the inn, laughing, talking, falling. Beginning. If only this could never end, we said, but of course it had to. I had to go back to Tokyo, to catch a flight home, and Sarah was determined to move on, see the rest of Japan. We made no plans to see each other again. She was a free spirit, she didn’t believe in plans. “Good-bye,” she said. “Hajimemashite,” I said. Lovely meeting you. Hours before I boarded my plane, I stopped at the American Express office. I knew she’d have to stop there, too, at some point, to get money from the Candy Bar People. I left her a note: “You’ve got to fly over Portland to get to the East Coast... why not stop for a visit?” MY FIRST NIGHT home, over dinner, I told my family the good news. I’d met a girl. Then I told them the other good news. I’d saved my company. I turned and looked hard at my twin sisters. They spent half of every day crouched beside the telephone, waiting to pounce on it at the first ring. “Her name is Sarah,” I said. “So if she calls, please... be nice.” WEEKS LATER I came home from running errands and there she was, in my living room, sitting with my mother and sisters. “Surprise,” she said. She’d gotten my note and decided to take me up on my offer. She’d phoned from the airport and my sister Joanne had answered and shown what sisters are for. She promptly drove out to the airport and fetched Sarah. I laughed. We hugged, awkwardly, my mother and sisters watching. “Let’s go for a walk,” I said. I got her a jacket from the servants’ quarters and we walked in a light rain to a wooded park nearby. She saw Mount Hood in the distance and agreed that it looked astonishingly like Fuji, which made us both reminisce. I asked where she was staying. “Silly boy,” she said. The second time she’d invited herself into my space. For two weeks she lived in my parents’ guestroom, just like one of the family, which I began to think she might one day be.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  He didn’t falter. He didn’t even slow down. He just kept running, faster and faster, and that blazing show of courage won over the crowd. I think we cheered for him as loudly as we’d cheered for Pre the year before. Entering the final lap, Shorter and Virgin were in front. Penny and I were jumping up and down. “We’re going to get two,” we said, “we’re going to get two!” And then we got three. Shorter and Virgin took first and second, and Bjorklund plunged ahead of Bill Rodgers at the tape to take third. I was covered with sweat. Three Olympians... in Nikes! The next morning, rather than take a victory lap at Hayward, we set up camp at the Nike store. While Johnson and I mingled with customers, Penny manned the silk-screen machine and churned out Nike T-shirts. Her craftsmanship was exquisite; all day long people came in to say they’d seen someone wearing a Nike T-shirt on the street and they just had to have one for themselves. Despite our continual melancholy about Pre, we allowed ourselves to feel joy, because it was becoming clear that Nike was doing more than making a good show. Nike was dominating those trials. Virgin took the 5,000 meters in Nikes. Shorter won the marathon in Nikes. Slowly, in the shop, in the town, we heard people whispering, Nike Nike Nike. We heard our name more than the name of any athlete. Besides Pre. Saturday afternoon, walking into Hayward to visit Bowerman, I heard someone behind me say, “Jeez, Nike is really kicking Adidas’s ass.” It might have been the highlight of the weekend, of the year, followed closely by the Puma sales rep I spotted moments later, leaning against a tree and looking suicidal. Bowerman was there strictly as a spectator, which was strange for him, and us. And yet he was wearing his standard uniform: the ratty sweater, the low ball cap. At one point he formally requested a meeting in a small office under the east grandstand. The office wasn’t really an office, more like a closet, where the groundskeepers stored their rakes and brooms and a few canvas chairs. There was barely room for the coach and Johnson and me, never mind the others invited by the coach: Hollister, and Dennis Vixie, a local podiatrist who worked with Bowerman as a shoe consultant. As we shut the door I noticed Bowerman didn’t look like himself. At Pre’s funeral he’d seemed old. Now he seemed lost. After a minute of small talk he started bellowing. He complained that he wasn’t getting any “respect” anymore from Nike. We’d built him a home lab, and supplied him with a lasting machine, but he said that he was constantly asking in vain for raw materials from Exeter. Johnson looked horrified. “What materials?” he asked. “I ask for shoe uppers and my requests are ignored!” Bowerman said. Johnson turned to Vixie. “I sent you the uppers!” he said.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  The next day I returned to the United States, and one of the first things I did after landing was put fifty dollars in an envelope and airmail it to Fujimoto. On the card I wrote: “For a new bicycle, my friend.” Weeks later an envelope arrived from Fujimoto. My fifty dollars, folded inside a note explaining that he’d asked his superiors if he could keep the money, and they’d said no. There was a PS: “If you send my house, I can keep.” So I did. And thus another life-altering partnership was born. ON SEPTEMBER 13, 1968, Penny and I exchanged our vows before two hundred people at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in downtown Portland, at the same altar where Penny’s parents had been married. It was one year, nearly to the day, after Miss Parks had first walked into my classroom. She was again in the front row, of a sort, only this time I was standing beside her. And she was now Mrs. Knight. Before us stood her uncle, an Episcopal priest from Pasadena, who performed the service. Penny was shaking so much, she couldn’t raise her chin to look him, or me, in the eye. I wasn’t shaking, because I’d cheated. In my breast pocket I had two miniature airplane bottles of whiskey, stashed from my recent trip to Japan. I nipped one just before, and one just after, the ceremony. My best man was Cousin Houser. My lawyer, my wingman. The other groomsmen were Penny’s two brothers, plus a friend from business school, and Cale, who told me moments before the ceremony, “Second time I’ve seen you this nervous.” We laughed, and reminisced, for the millionth time, about that day at Stanford when I’d given my presentation to my entrepreneurship class. Today, I thought, is similar. Once again I’m telling a roomful of people that something is possible, that something can be successful, when in fact I don’t really know. I’m speaking from theory, faith, and bluster, like every groom. And every bride. It would be up to me and Penny to prove the truth of what we said that day. The reception was at the Garden Club of Portland, where society ladies gathered on summer nights to drink daiquiris and trade gossip. The night was warm. The skies threatened rain, but never opened. I danced with Penny. I danced with Dot. I danced with my mother. Before midnight Penny and I said good-bye to all and jumped into my brand-new car, a racy black Cougar. I sped us to the coast, two hours away, where we planned to spend the weekend at her parents’ beach house. Dot called every half hour.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  Then everything came out pell-mell and arsey-versy. Pages and pages. Reams of it. None of it belonged in the novel. Nor even in The Book of Perennial Gloom . Reading them over I had the impression of examining an old print: a room in a medieval dwelling, the old woman sitting on the pot, the doctor standing by with red-hot tongs, a mouse creeping towards a piece of cheese in the corner near the crucifix. A ground-floor view, so to speak. A chapter from the history of everlasting misery. Depravity, insomnia, gluttony posing as the three graces. All described in quicksilver, benzine and potassium permanganate. Another day my hands might wander over the keys with the felicity of a Borgia’s murderous paw. Choosing the staccato technique, I would ape the quibblers and quipsters of the Ghibellines. Or put it on, like a saltimbanque performing for a feeble-minded monarch. The next day a quadruped: everything in hoof beats, clots of phlegm, snorts and farts. A stallion (ech!) racing over a frozen lake with torpedoes in his bowels. All bravura, so to say. And then, as when the hurricane abates, it would flow like a song—quietly, evenly, with the steady lustre of magnesium. As if hymning the Bhagavad Gita. A monk in a saffron robe extolling the work of the Omniscient One. No longer a writer. A saint. A saint from the Sanhedrin sent. God bless the author! (Have we a David here?) What a joy it was to write like an organ in the middle of a lake! Bite me, you bed lice! Bite while I have the strength! The Book of Life—Nexus“Val, you’re a dreamer.” “Sure I am. But I’m an active dreamer. There’s a difference.” Then I added: “We’re all dreamers, only some of us wake up in time to put down a few words. Certainly I want to write. But I don’t think it’s the end-all and be-all. How shall I put it? Writing is like the caca that you make in your sleep. Delicious caca, to be sure, but first comes life, then the caca. Life is change, movement, quest… a going forward to meet the unknown, the unexpected. Only a very few men can say of themselves, ‘I have lived!’ That’s why we have books—so that men may live vicariously. But when the author also lives vicariously—!” She broke in. “When I listen to you sometimes, Val, I feel that you want to live a thousand lives in one. You’re eternally dissatisfied—with life as it is, with yourself, with just about everything. You’re a Mongol. You belong on the steppes of Central Asia.” “You know,” I said, getting worked up now, “one of the reasons why I feel so disjointed is that there’s a little of everything in me. I can put myself in any period and feel at home in it.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  This view is especially clear in IQH 7.26f., in which the psalmist thanks God for enlightening him. Parallel to this note at the beginning of a hymn is the thanks for not placing the psalm- ist's lot 'in the congregation of Vanity' (IQH 7.34) or for placing his soul 'in the bundle of the living' (IQH 2.20). Knowledge here is double-pronged: one knows, by God's grace, that salvrtion is to be found in the community; and one knows, in retrospect, that it is precisely the gift of knowledge that is essential to effect election (IQH 14.12f.). That is, God's making the member of the sect 'know' is the way in which the member is able to appropriate the election. The knowledge that one is elect, and that one's election has been given effect by knowledge that he is elect, does not, however, exhaust 'knowledge'. After he enters the community his knowledge must still be purified (IQS 1.12). One of the main points of the priestly blessing on entrants is that God will give them wisdom and eternal knowledge (IQS 2.3). The members receive further knowledge concerning the bifurcation of mankind into the elect and the non-elect after they enter (IQS 3.13f.). Further, it is clear that some elements of essential knowledge can be gained only after entry into the sect (IQS 5.11f.; 6.16; Q) 15.5-11). Thus there is no quarrel with placing knowledge first in the 'way of salvation', as long as it is understood that the knowledge thus referred to is that connected with the election of the sectarians. That one must be given knowledge in order to be counted among the elect helps explain, as we have noted, why some in Israel are elect and some not. We have previously noted that members are purified on entry. One of the most basic views of the Qumran community was that all outside the sect were damned. Since one cannot be born into the Qumran covenant, it follows that there must be purification at the time of admission. We may note, again, that purification is repeatedly referred to by the psalmist in terms that indicate that it is connected to election and entry into the sect. This is the case, in fact, in the hymn cited by Bardtke, where the purification is for the purpose of making man holy for God and so that he may jom the community (IQH 11.10-12). On the other hand, purification does not stop there. The member after entry may still sin, and this requires repeated purification, and it is apparently for this that the psalmist prays in IQH 16.11f. This brings us to the only substantial difference between Bardtke's 'way of salvation' and the soteriological pattern which I have described: Bardtke gives no place (as IQH 11.3-14 does not) to the role of the commandments 9] Conclusion and atonement for transgression of them after entry. The 'way' moves directly from purification from sin to participation in the holy community.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The lady very graciously replied that she was ready to do his desire, so but she might and it were honourable. Then said he, 'Madam, your kinsfolk and all the Bolognese believe and hold you for certain to be dead, wherefore there is no one who looketh for you more at home, and therefore I would have you of your favour be pleased to abide quietly here with my mother till such time as I shall return from Modona, which will be soon. And the reason for which I require you of this is that I purpose to make a dear and solemn present of you to your husband in the presence of the most notable citizens of this place.' The lady, confessing herself beholden to the gentleman and that his request was an honourable one, determined to do as he asked, how much soever she desired to gladden her kinsfolk of her life,[449] and so she promised it to him upon her faith. Hardly had she made an end of her reply, when she felt the time of her delivery to be come and not long after, being lovingly tended of Messer Gentile's mother, she gave birth to a goodly male child, which manifold redoubled his gladness and her own. Messer Gentile took order that all things needful should be forthcoming and that she should be tended as she were his proper wife and presently returned in secret to Modona. There, having served the term of his office and being about to return to Bologna, he took order for the holding of a great and goodly banquet at his house on the morning he was to enter the city, and thereto he bade many gentlemen of the place, amongst whom was Niccoluccio Caccianimico. Accordingly, when he returned and dismounted, he found them all awaiting him, as likewise the lady, fairer and sounder than ever, and her little son in good case, and with inexpressible joy seating his guests at table, he let serve them magnificently with various meats. [Footnote 449: _i.e._ with news of her life.]

• From American Swing (2008)

  1037 00:50:18,140 --> 00:50:19,599 OR $1,000. SHE JUMPS UP... 1038 00:50:19,599 --> 00:50:21,059 ( cheers ) 1039 00:50:23,645 --> 00:50:26,231 WE'RE GONNA SEND YOU THE TAPE. FUNNY AS HELL. 1040 00:50:27,733 --> 00:50:28,984 HYSTERICAL. 1041 00:50:30,152 --> 00:50:32,487 My baby. Okay? Awww. 1042 00:50:32,487 --> 00:50:34,322 Baby, baby. 1043 00:50:34,322 --> 00:50:36,616 ( laughing ) AND I THOUGHT TO MYSELF, 1044 00:50:36,616 --> 00:50:39,327 "THESE GUYS ARE RUNNING FROM THE MOB AND HERE THEY ARE 1045 00:50:39,327 --> 00:50:42,039 ADVERTISING WHO THEY--" 1046 00:50:42,039 --> 00:50:45,375 - WE GOT A TRIP TO THE SUPER BOWL. - A WASHER-DRYER. 1047 00:50:45,375 --> 00:50:47,335 AND WHAT ABOUT THE V.C-- NOT A V.C.R., THAT-- 1048 00:50:47,335 --> 00:50:49,171 - A BETAMAX. - THE BETAMAX. 1049 00:50:49,171 --> 00:50:51,715 - WE WON A LOAD OF STUFF. - A LOAD OF STUFF. 1050 00:51:00,474 --> 00:51:04,019 IT WAS A TRIAL. ON TRIAL WAS LARRY, 1051 00:51:04,019 --> 00:51:06,980 HY, FRANK, 1052 00:51:06,980 --> 00:51:08,356 THE ACCOUNTANT. 1053 00:51:12,069 --> 00:51:16,198 LARRY TOOK THE STAND AND TRIED TO EXPLAIN 1054 00:51:16,198 --> 00:51:17,741 THE CIRCUMSTANCES. 1055 00:51:17,741 --> 00:51:20,952 HE BELIEVED THAT HE WAS IN A-- A NON-PROFIT, 1056 00:51:20,952 --> 00:51:25,040 NOT-FOR-PROFIT CLUB AND THAT HE TRULY BELIEVED THAT. 1057 00:51:25,040 --> 00:51:27,751 LARRY LEVENSON WASN'T ON THE STAND. 1058 00:51:27,751 --> 00:51:29,503 HE WAS ON THE STAGE. 1059 00:51:29,503 --> 00:51:32,798 EVERYTHING WAS A JOKE TO HIM, OR SO IT APPEARED. 1060 00:51:32,798 --> 00:51:36,009 Sudler: I THINK THE JURY, AS I RECALL, WAS LAUGHING AT HIM. 1061 00:51:36,009 --> 00:51:38,303 THE TRIAL WAS COMPLETED. THE JURY DELIBERATED 1062 00:51:38,303 --> 00:51:40,847 FOR APPROXIMATELY FIVE OR SIX HOURS, I BELIEVE. 1063 00:51:40,847 --> 00:51:43,183 AND CAME BACK WITH GUILTY VERDICTS. 1064 00:51:50,065 --> 00:51:53,819 LARRY LEVENSON, FRANK PERNICE, HY GORDON RECEIVED EIGHT YEARS PLUS A FINE. 1065 00:51:53,819 --> 00:51:56,446 I THINK AN EIGHT-YEAR JAIL SENTENCE AT THAT TIME 1066 00:51:56,446 --> 00:51:59,407 FOR THIS TYPE OF A TAX EVASION WAS SOMETHING OF A RECORD. 1067 00:51:59,407 --> 00:52:03,036 Goldstein: WHAT FUCKED HIM UP WAS HE WAS STEALING CASH. 1068 00:52:03,036 --> 00:52:05,080 AND HE DID THE DUMBEST THING OF ALL. 1069 00:52:05,080 --> 00:52:07,415 IF ANY OF YOU EVER DO CASH OR HAVE YOUR OWN COMPANY, 1070 00:52:07,415 --> 00:52:09,626 YOU DON'T DO IT IN FRONT OF EMPLOYEES, 1071 00:52:09,626 --> 00:52:13,588 'CAUSE THE GUY WHO'S WORKING FOR YOU OR THE GAL WHO'S WORKING FOR YOU, 1072 00:52:13,588 --> 00:52:17,592 YOU'RE GONNA FIRE THEM OR YELL AT THEM AND THEY'RE GONNA BRING YOU DOWN. 1073 00:52:17,592 --> 00:52:19,761 A LOT OF CASH-- 1074 00:52:19,761 --> 00:52:21,972 JUST LIKE STUDIO 54! 1075 00:52:21,972 --> 00:52:24,015 I DON'T BELIEVE HE WAS STEALING MONEY, 1076 00:52:24,015 --> 00:52:27,352 I DON'T BELIEVE THAT HE WAS CREATING BOOKS THAT-- 1077 00:52:27,352 --> 00:52:29,354 DIDN'T EXIST. I MEAN-- 1078 00:52:29,354 --> 00:52:34,109 DOUBLE BOOKS? LARRY WAS BEING KING OF SWING. 1079 00:52:34,109 --> 00:52:36,403 THE DEMEANOR AT THE DEFENSE TABLE CHANGED.

• From American Swing (2008)

  1121 00:54:50,745 --> 00:54:53,248 AND I FULFILL ALL THEIR FANTASIES 1122 00:54:53,248 --> 00:54:55,875 IN S&M... 1123 00:54:57,085 --> 00:54:59,587 AND ALL EROTIC FANTASIES. 1124 00:54:59,587 --> 00:55:01,172 SOUNDS GOOD TO ME. 1125 00:55:01,172 --> 00:55:03,675 I'M DANNY THE WONDER PONY. I GIVE WOMEN PONY RIDES. 1126 00:55:05,343 --> 00:55:07,095 I DANCE IN A FASHION THAT MAKES THEM 1127 00:55:07,095 --> 00:55:09,222 LOOK AND FEEL LIKE THEY'RE RIDING A PONY, 1128 00:55:09,222 --> 00:55:11,308 EXCEPT TO THE MUSIC. 1129 00:55:11,308 --> 00:55:14,436 AND IF YOU'VE EVER WATCHED A WOMAN RIDE A HORSE, IT'S VERY EROTIC. 1130 00:55:14,436 --> 00:55:16,354 ( crowd shouting ) 1131 00:55:19,607 --> 00:55:23,486 HE HAD FOXY BOXING, WHICH WAS GIRLS FIGHTING EACH OTHER. 1132 00:55:25,155 --> 00:55:27,866 OKAY, STICK AROUND. NEXT MATCH COMING SOON. 1133 00:55:27,866 --> 00:55:30,618 Lincoln: THE AMUSING PART OF THAT IS IN BETWEEN EACH ROUND 1134 00:55:30,618 --> 00:55:32,746 THE GIRLS WOULD THROW UP IN A BUCKET. 1135 00:55:34,122 --> 00:55:35,957 THERE WERE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 1136 00:55:38,084 --> 00:55:41,463 THOSE THINGS WEREN'T AS TABOO AS THEY ARE NOW. 1137 00:55:41,463 --> 00:55:43,631 ♪ IF YOU LIKE WHAT WE'RE DOING WHEN WE'RE DOING WHAT WE'RE DOING ♪ 1138 00:55:43,631 --> 00:55:45,800 ♪ COME ON, CLAP YOUR HANDS ♪ 1139 00:55:45,800 --> 00:55:47,969 ♪ IF YOU LIKE WHAT WE'RE DOING WHEN WE'RE DOING WHAT WE'RE DOING ♪ 1140 00:55:47,969 --> 00:55:49,387 ♪ HEY-YYYY! ♪ 1141 00:55:51,806 --> 00:55:54,142 Stewart: I REMEMBER THEY HAD GIRLS UP THERE-- 1142 00:55:54,142 --> 00:55:56,311 I THINK THEY WERE PORNO STARS-- PERFORMING, 1143 00:55:56,311 --> 00:55:58,104 DOING MUSICAL FEATS. 1144 00:55:58,104 --> 00:56:01,107 ♪ PARTY PARTY ♪ 1145 00:56:02,359 --> 00:56:05,570 ♪ PARTY PARTY... ♪ 1146 00:56:05,570 --> 00:56:07,822 Stewart: AND THERE WERE MEN IN THE AUDIENCE 1147 00:56:07,822 --> 00:56:10,367 WHO WERE MASTURBATING-- 1148 00:56:10,367 --> 00:56:12,494 IF MY MEMORY SERVES ME CORRECT. 1149 00:56:15,997 --> 00:56:17,749 Man: DON'T YOU, ON CERTAIN LEVELS, 1150 00:56:17,749 --> 00:56:19,959 FEEL THAT SWINGING SORT OF HAS SHOT ITS LOAD? 1151 00:56:19,959 --> 00:56:24,214 THAT IT'S A TIRED PHENOMENA THAT DATES BACK MORE TO THE '60s AND '70s? 1152 00:56:24,214 --> 00:56:27,759 - AND FOR THE '80s NOBODY REALLY GIVES A SHIT? - NO, ON THE CONTRARY. 1153 00:56:27,759 --> 00:56:31,221 I THINK SWINGING IS JUST NOW REALLY COMING INTO ITS OWN. 1154 00:56:31,221 --> 00:56:34,015 Jeremy: WHILE LARRY WAS IN JAIL HE DID THESE LITTLE 1155 00:56:34,015 --> 00:56:35,767 WEEKLY ANNOUNCEMENTS THAT WERE REALLY CUTE. 1156 00:56:35,767 --> 00:56:37,352 WHAT ABOUT YOUR JOB? 1157 00:56:37,352 --> 00:56:40,688 - DID YOU SAY YOU WORKED IN THE SEWER SYSTEM? - YEAH. 1158 00:56:40,688 --> 00:56:42,982 WE WOULD SET UP A TAPE RECORDER 1159 00:56:42,982 --> 00:56:45,026 THAT WAS ATTACHED TO THE TELEPHONE. 1160 00:56:45,026 --> 00:56:47,529 ( laughs ) HE WANTS TO BE HEARD 1161 00:56:47,529 --> 00:56:49,364 FROM PRISON OR NO. 1162 00:56:49,364 --> 00:56:51,491 - WHAT DO YOU DO? - I TEST THE... 1163 00:56:51,491 --> 00:56:53,326 THE GARBAGE, WHAT? DO YOU EAT IT?

• From Another Country (1962)

  And, exactly as though he were responding to a child, Vivaldo, though he preferred to remain alone on the sofa, walked over to the window. Harold followed him. Belle and Lorenzo sat on the floor, sharing a stick between them, and staring out at the New York rooftops. “It’s strange,” Belle said. “It’s so ugly by day and so beautiful at night.” “Let’s go up on the roof,” said Lorenzo. “Oh! What a groovy idea!” They gathered up the makings, and the beer, and Belle picked up a blanket; and, like children, they tiptoed out of the apartment, up the stairs to the roof. And there they seemed bathed in silence, all alone. Belle spread the blanket, which was not big enough for them all. She and Lorenzo shared it. Vivaldo took another large drag and squatted on the edge of the roof, his arms hugging his knees. “Don’t do that, man,” Lorenzo whispered, “you’re too near the edge, I can’t bear to watch it.” Vivaldo smiled and moved back, stretching out on his belly beside them. “I’m sorry. I’m like that, too. I can hang over the edge myself, but I can’t watch anybody else do it.” Belle grabbed his hand. He looked up at her pale, thin face, framed by the black hair. She smiled, and she was prettier than she had seemed in the bar. “I like you,” she said. “You’re a real groovy cat. Lorenzo always said you were, but I never believed him.” Her accent, too, was more noticeable now; she sounded like the simplest and most innocent of country girls—if country girls were innocent, and he supposed, at some point in their lives, they had to be. “Why, thank you,” he said. Lorenzo, palely caught in the lights of heaven and earth, grinned over at him. Vivaldo pulled his hand from Belle’s hand and reached over and struck Lorenzo lightly on the cheek. “I like you, too, both of you.” “How you feeling, dad?” It was Harold, who seemed to be quite far away. “I feel wonderful.” And he did, in a strange, untrustworthy way. He was terribly aware of his body, the length of his limbs, and the soft wind ruffling his hair, and of Lorenzo and Belle, poised like two cherubim together, and of Harold, the prince of darkness, industrious, indefatigable keeper of the weed. Harold was sitting in the shadow of the chimney, rolling another stick. Vivaldo laughed. “Baby, you really love your work.” “I just love to see people happy,” said Harold, and suddenly grinned; he, too, seemed very different from what he had been in the bar, younger and softer; and somewhere beneath it all, much sadder, so that Vivaldo regretted all his harsh, sardonic judgments.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The coffee cups, as he thoughtfully washed them, were real, and the water which ran into them, over his heavy, long hands. Sugar and milk were real, and he set them on the table, another reality, and cigarettes were real, and he lit one. Smoke poured from his nostrils and a detail that he needed for his novel, which he had been searching for for months, fell, neatly and vividly, like the tumblers of a lock, into place in his mind. It seemed impossible that he should not have thought of it before: it illuminated, justified, clarified everything. He would work on it later tonight; he thought that perhaps he should make a note of it now; he started toward his work table. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver at once, stealthily, as though someone were ill or sleeping in the house, and whispered into it, “Hello?” “Hello, Vivaldo. It’s Eric.” “Eric!” He was overjoyed. He looked quickly toward the bathroom door. “How did things go?” “Well. Cass is beautiful, as you know. But life is grim.” “As I know. Has anything been decided?” “Not really, no. She just called me a few minutes ago—I haven’t been home long. Oh, thanks for your note. She thinks that she might go up to New England for a little while, with the kids. Richard hasn’t come home yet.” “Where is he?” “He’s probably out getting drunk.” “Who with?” “Well, Ellis, maybe—” They both halted at the name. The wires hummed. Vivaldo looked at the bathroom door again. “You knew about that, Eric, didn’t you, this morning.” “Knew about what?” He dropped his voice lower, and struggled to say it: “Ida. You knew about Ida and Ellis. Cass told you.” There was silence for a moment. “Yes.” Then, “Who told you?” “Ida.” “Oh. Poor Vivaldo.” After a moment: “But it’s better that way, isn’t it? I didn’t think that I was the one to tell you—especially—well, especially not this morning.” Vivaldo was silent. “Vivaldo—?” “Yes?” “Don’t you think I was right? Are you sore at me?” “Don’t be silly. Never in this world. It’s—much better this way.” He cleared his throat, slowly, deliberately, for he suddenly wanted to weep. “Vivaldo, it’s a terrible time to ask you, I know—but do you think it’s at all likely that you—and Ida—will feel up to coming over to my joint tomorrow night, or the night after?” “What’s up?” “Yves will be here in the morning. I know he’d like to meet my friends.” “That was the cablegram, huh?” “Yes.” “Are you glad, Eric?” “I guess so. Right now, I’m just scared. I don’t know whether to try to sleep—it’s so early, but it feels like midnight—or go to a movie, or what.” “I’d love to go to a movie with you. But—I guess I can’t.” “No.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  But the names I have cited are the ones I shall always revere, the ones I feel forever indebted to. This Unilateral, Multilingual, Sesquipedalian Activity—The Books in My LifeFrom eighteen to twenty-one or twenty-two, the period when the Xerxes Society flourished, it was a continuous round of feasting, drinking, play-acting, music-making (“I am a fine musician, I travel round the world!”), broad farce and tall horseplay. There wasn’t a foreign restaurant in New York which we did not patronize. Chez Bousquet, a French restaurant in the roaring Forties, we were so well liked, the twelve of us, that when they closed the doors the place was ours. (O fiddledee, O fiddledee, O fiddledum-dum-dee!) And all the while I was reading my head off. I can still recall the titles of those books I used to carry about under my arm, no matter where I was headed: Anathema , Chekov’s Short Stories, The Devil’s Dictionary , the complete Rabelais, the Satyricon , Lecky’s History of European Morals, With Walt in Camden , Westermarck’s History of Human Marriage, The Scientific Bases of Optimism, The Riddle of the Universe, The Conquest of Bread , Draper’s History of the Intellectual Development of Europe , the Song of Songs by Sudermann, Volpone , and such-like. Shedding tears over the “convulsive beauty” of Francesca da Rimini , memorizing bits of Minna von Barnhelm (just as later, in Paris, I will memorize the whole of Strindberg’s famous letter to Gauguin, as given in Avant et Après) , struggling with Hermann und Dorothea (a gratuitous struggle, because I had wrestled with it for a whole year in school), marveling over the exploits of Benvenuto Cellini, bored with Marco Polo, dazed by Herbert Spencer’s First Principles , fascinated by everything from the hand of Henri Fabre, plugging away at Max Müller’s “philologistica,” moved by the quiet, lyrical charm of Tagore’s poetic prose, studying the great Finnish epic, trying to get through the Mahabharata, dreaming with Olive Schreiner in South Africa, reveling in Shaw’s prefaces, flirting with Molière, Sardou, Scribe, de Maupassant, fighting my way through the Rougon-Macquart series, wading through that useless book of Voltaire’s—Zadig … What a life! Small wonder I never became a merchant tailor. (Yet thrilled to discover that The Merchant Tailor was the title of a well-known Elizabethan play.) At the same time—and is this not more wonderful, more bizarre?—carrying on a kind of “vermouth duckbill” talk with such cronies as George Wright, Bill Dewar, Al Burger, Connie Grimm, Bob Haase, Charlie Sullivan, Bill Wardrop, Georgie Gifford, Becker, Steve Hill, Frank Carroll—all good members of the Xerxes Society. Ah, what was that atrociously naughty play we all went to see one Saturday afternoon in a famous little theatre on Broadway? What a great good time we had, we big boobies! A French play it was, of course , and all the rage.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He pinched her cheek. “Don’t worry.” Cass left the room. Richard grinned at Vivaldo. “If you hadn’t got here today, I swore I was just going to cut you out of my heart forever.” “You knew I’d be here.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations.” Then, “What’s this I hear about all the TV networks just crying for you?” “Don’t exaggerate. There’s just one producer who’s got some project he wants to talk to me about, I don’t even know what it is. But my agent thinks I should see him.” Vivaldo laughed. “Don’t sound so defensive. I like TV.” “You’re a liar. You haven’t even got a TV set.” “Well, that’s just because I’m poor. When I get to be a success like you, I’ll go out and buy me the biggest screen on the market.” He watched Richard’s face and laughed again. “I’m just teasing you.” “Yeah. Ida, see what you can do to civilize this character. He’s a barbarian. “I know,” Ida said, sadly, “but I hardly know what to do about it. Of course,” she added, “if you were to offer me an autographed copy of your book, I might come up with an inspiration.” “It’s a deal,” Richard said. Cass came back with the ice bucket and Richard took it from her and set it on the bar. He mixed his drink. Then he joined them on the other side of the bar and put his arm around Cass’ shoulders. “To the best Saturday we’ve ever had,” he said, and raised his glass. “May there be many more.” He took a large swallow of his drink. “I love you all,” he said. “We love you, too,” said Vivaldo. Cass kissed Richard on the cheek. “Before I go and try to salvage lunch—tell me, just what kind of arrangement did you make with Michael? Just so I’ll know.” “He’s taking a nap. I promised to wake him in time for cocktails. We have to buy him some ginger ale.” “And Paul?” “Oh, Paul. He’ll tear himself away from his cronies in time to come upstairs and get washed and meet the people. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.” He turned to Vivaldo. “He’s been bragging about me all over the house.” Cass watched him for a moment. “Very well managed. And now I leave you.” Ida picked up her glass. “Wait a minute. I’m coming with you.” “You don’t have to, Ida. I can do it.” “These men can get drunk, too, if we keep them waiting too long. I’ll help you, we can get it done in no time.” She followed Cass to the doorway. With one foot on the step, she turned. “Now, I’m going to hold you to your promise, Richard. About that book, I mean.” “I’m going to hold you to yours. You’re the one who got the dirty end of this deal.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  What happened to people? why did they suffer so hideously? And at the same time he knew that he and Harold could never be friends and that none of them, really, would ever get any closer to each other than they were right now. Harold lit his stick and passed it to Vivaldo. “Go, baby,” he said—very tenderly, watching Vivaldo with a smile. Vivaldo took his turn, while the others watched him. It was a kind of community endeavor, as though he were a baby just learning to use the potty or just learning how to walk. They all but applauded when he passed it on to Lorenzo, who took his turn and passed it on to Belle. “Ooh,” said Lorenzo, “I’m flying,” and leaned back with his head in Belle’s lap. Vivaldo turned over on his back, head resting on his arms, knees pointing to the sky. He felt like singing. “My chick’s a singer,” he announced. The sky looked, now, like a vast and friendly ocean, in which drowning was forbidden, and the stars seemed stationed there, like beacons. To what country did this ocean lead? for oceans always led to some great good place: hence, sailors, missionaries, saints, and Americans. “Where’s she singing?” asked Lorenzo. His voice seemed to drop gently from the air: Vivaldo was watching heaven. “She’s not, right now. But she will be soon. And she’s going to be great.” “I’ve seen her,” Belle said, “she’s beautiful.” He turned his head in the direction of the voice. “You’ve seen her? Where?” “In the restaurant where she works. I went there with somebody—not with Lorenzo,” and he heard her giggle, “and the cat I was with told me she was your girl.” There was a silence. Then, “She’s very tough.” “Why do you say that?” “Oh, I don’t know. She just seemed—very tough, that’s all. I don’t mean she wasn’t nice. But she was very sure of herself, you could tell she wasn’t going to take any shit.” He laughed. “Sounds like my girl, all right.” “I wish I looked like her,” Belle said. “My!” “I like you just the way you are,” said Lorenzo. Out of the corner of his eye, and from far away, Vivaldo watched his arms go up and saw Belle’s dark hair fall. Just above my head. That was a song that Ida sometimes sang, puttering inefficiently about the kitchen, which always seemed sandy with coffee grinds and vaguely immoral with dead cigarettes on the burnt, blistered paint of the shelves. Perhaps the answer was in the songs. Just above my head, I hear music in the air. And I really do believe There’s a God somewhere.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  However, let me warn you: Experiencing this incredible pleasure can be very addictive. My annual retreats have turned into far more frequent excursions. No human can meet our deepest needs like God can, nor should anyone be expected to. My husband doesn’t mind granting me this time away because I come back revived, with a renewed sense of joy over being a bride of Christ and a fresh passion for being the wife and mother God has called me to be. I can think of no better way to spend my time. How about you? Do you need a personal revival and renewed sense of joy? Are you longing for a deeper level of intimacy and fulfillment than a husband can possibly provide? Are you ready to bask in God’s special love for you and relish your role as His chosen bride? If so, carve out some special time and a special place to run away and rendezvous with your heavenly Bridegroom. [image file=image_rsrc247.jpg] Your love, O LORD, reaches to the heavens, your faithfulness to the skies. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your justice like the great deep…How priceless is your unfailing love! Both high and low among [women] find refuge in the shadow of your wings. They feast on the abundance of your house; you give them drink from your river of delights. —Psalm 36:5-9 [image file=image_rsrc24M.jpg] all quiet on the home front To [her] who overcomes, I will give the right to sit with me on my throne, just as I overcame and sat down with my Father on his throne. REVELATION 3:21 I recently met a young woman who grew up in the war-torn country of Sierra Leone in West Africa. As bullets whizzed through the city streets and landmines blasted limbs off of children playing in the fields, every day was a struggle for Lela and her family to survive. She had been in the United States less than two years when I asked her what she liked most about living in this country. She answered with a sweet smile, “Peace. There is nothing like living in peace.” I also asked, “How did you cope with the chaos of war all around you day after day?” Shrugging her shoulders, she replied, “When war is all you have ever known, you don’t realize how chaotic it is.” Although I’ve never known the terror of dodging bullets or landmines, the truth of Lela’s statement struck a chord. I never realized how intense and chaotic my life was until I experienced the peace of living with sexual and emotional integrity. For years I had walked blindly into compromising situations, begged over dinner tables for morsels of affection, and found myself sleeping with the enemy time and time again. I consistently mistook intensity for intimacy and the concept of a peaceful relationship seemed unfathomable.