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 My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “You are white”, I cried, “don’t be absurd!” She shook her little head: “if you knew!” she said, “when I was a girl, a child, old white men, the best in town, used to say dirty words to me in the street and try to touch me—the beasts!” I gasped: I had had no idea of such contempt and persecution. When we were back in bed together: “tell me, Sophy dear, how you learned to move with me in time as you do and give me such thrills!” “Hoo!” she cried, gurgling with pleased joy, “that’s easy to tell. I was scared you didn’t like me, so this afternoon I went to wise ole niggah woman and ask her how to make man love you really! She told me to go right to bed with you and do that”, and she smiled. “Nothing more?” I asked: her eyes opened brightly, “Shu!” she cried, “if you want to do love again, I show you!” The next moment I was in her and now she kept even better time than at first and somehow or other the thick, firm lips of her sex seemed to excite me more than anyone had ever excited me. Instinctively the lust grew in me and I quickened and as I came to the short, hard strokes, she suddenly slipped her legs together under me and closing them tightly held my sex as in a firm grip and then began “milking” me—no other word conveys the meaning—with extraordinary skill and speed, so that in a moment I was gasping and choking with the intensity of the sensation and my seed came in hot jets while she continued the milking movement, tireless, indefatigable! “What a marvel you are!” I exclaimed as soon as I got breath enough to speak, “the best bedfellow I’ve ever had, wonderful, you dear, you!” All glowing with my praise, she wound her arms about my neck and mounted me as Lorna Mayhew had done once; but now what a difference! Lorna was so intent on gratifying her own lust that she often forgot my feelings altogether and her movements were awkward in the extreme; but Sophy thought only of me and, whereas Lorna was always slipping my sex out of her sheath, Sophy in some way seated herself on me and then began rocking her body back and forth while lifting it a little at each churning movement, so that my sex in the grip of her firm, thick lips had a sort of double movement. When she felt me coming as I soon did, she twirled half round on my organ half a dozen times with a new movement and then began rocking herself again, so that my seed was dragged out of me, so to speak, giving me indescribably acute, almost painful sensations. I was breathless thrilling with her every movement. “Had you any pleasure, Sophy?” I asked as soon as we were lying side by side again.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  I call this surreal duality the both / and place. The joyful moments always have a tinge of sadness; the higher the high, the more prominent the awareness of my loss. Coming to grips with this is important because this both / and feeling never goes away. For example, it was thrilling to finish the first draft of this book. Then came the sadness as I remembered that I couldn’t call and tell him about it. But maybe the both / and is a more normal and realistic place—truer to a dynamic, three-dimensional life. I’m healthy, and I have cancer. I’m a life-loving person, and I have a lot of anxiety. I’m bighearted and closed off. I’m successful and unsuccessful (at a whole lot of things). Both/and. Sometimes it’s hard to fathom how we can hold opposite feelings and realities at the same time, but two things can be true at once, and our hearts are wise enough to hold the contradiction. In the months (and years) after Dad died, I felt guilty for even allowing myself to feel positive. Though parts of my life were awesome, it felt wrong to acknowledge anything other than the awful experience of Dad’s physical absence. Staying in the pain made me feel like I was staying connected to him. I wanted to be like those Italian ladies who wear long black dresses for the rest of their lives, because I unconsciously equated being happy with abandoning Dad. But the more space I gave myself to explore the subterranean world of emotions inside me, the more capable I was of embracing and holding the duality. The grief train and the celebrations. Joy isn’t exclusive to the good times; it can exist in the hard times, too. I learned this with my own diagnosis. In the beginning, getting sick helped me recalibrate—and that felt really good and useful. I learned how to take care of myself for the first time, and as I’ve shared, the results paid off. Though I was technically sick, I’d never felt better. My wake-up call woke up other parts of me, too. Parts that had also craved healing. But after a while, it was easy to go back to sleep. To slip into old, hardwired, comfortable patterns of being and relating, because they were familiar. I used to beat myself up about not staying in a perpetual state of awakeness, as if not living my life “like every day was my last” meant that I was lazy, ungrateful, or worse—willfully blowing off the hard-won wisdom I’d learned in the cancer trenches. Maybe you can relate in your own way. Of course, none of that is true. It’s why I often come back to Jung’s notion of orbiting. The idea that we circle around the same themes our entire lives.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “Shuah!” she said smiling, “you’re very strong, and you—” she asked, “was you pleased?” “Great God!” I cried, “I felt as if all the hairs of my head were travelling down my backbone like an army! You are extraordinary, you dear!” “Keep me with you, Frank”, she whispered, “if you want me, I’ll do anything, everything for you: I never hoped to have such a lover as you. Oh, this child’s real glad her breasties and sex please you. You taught me that word, instead of the nasty word all white folk use; ‘sex’ is good word, very good!” and she crowed with delight. “What do colored people call it?” I asked: “Coozie”, she replied smiling, Coozie! good word too, very good! Long years later I heard an American story which recalled Sophy’s performance vividly. An engineer with a pretty daughter had an assistant who showed extraordinary qualities as a machinist and was quiet and well behaved to boot. The father introduced his helper to his daughter and the match was soon arranged. After the marriage, however, the son-in-law drew away and ’twas in vain that the father-in-law tried to guess the reason of the estrangement. At length he asked his son-in-law boldly for the reason: “I meant right, Bill”, he began earnestly, “but if I’ve made a mistake I’ll be sorry: waren’t the goods accordin’ to specification? Warn’t she a virgin?” “It don’t matter nothin’!” replied Bill, frowning. “Treat me fair, Bill”, cried the father, “war she a virgin?” “How can I tell?” exclaimed Bill, “all I can say is, I never know’d a virgin before that had that cinder-shifting movement.” Sophy was the first to show me the “cinder-shifting” movement and she surely was a virgin! As a mistress Sophy was perfection perfected and the long lines and slight curves of her lovely body came to have a special attraction for me as the very highest of the pleasure-giving type.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “You’re Irish”, I said, smiling at her. “I am”, she replied, “how did ye guess?” “Because I was born in Ireland too”, I retorted. “You were not!” she cried emphatically, more for pleasure than to contradict. “I was born in Galway”, I went on and at once she became very friendly and poured me out some milk warm from the cow, and when she heard I had had no breakfast and saw I was hungry, she pressed me to eat and sat down with me and soon heard my whole story or enough of it to break out in wonder again and again. In turn she told me how she had married Mike Mulligan, a longshoreman who earned good wages and was a good husband but took a drop too much now and again, as a man will when tempted by one of “thim saloons.” It was the saloons, I learned, that were the ruination of all the best Irishmen and “they were the best men anyway, an’—an’—” and the kindly, homely talk flowed on, charming me. When the breakfast was over and the things cleared away I rose to go with many thanks but Mrs. Mulligan wouldn’t hear of it. “Ye’re a child”, she said, “an’ don’t know New York: it’s a terrible place and you must wait till Mike comes home an’—” “But I must find some place to sleep”, I said, “I have money.” “You’ll sleep here”, she broke in decisively, “and Mike will put ye on yer feet; sure he knows New York like his pocket, an’ yer as welcome as the flowers in May, an’—” What could I do but stay and talk and listen to all sorts of stories about New York, and “toughs” that were “hard cases” and “gunmen” an’ “wimmin that were worse—bad scran to them.” In due time Mrs. Mulligan and I had dinner together, and after dinner I got her permission to go into the Park for a walk, but “mind now and be home by six or I’ll send Mike after ye”, she added laughing. I walked a little way in the Park and then started down-town again to the address Jessie had given me near the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a mean street, I thought, but I soon found Jessie’s sister’s house and went to a nearby restaurant and wrote a little note to my love, that she could show if need be, saying that I proposed to call on the 18th, or two days after the ship we had come in was due to return to Liverpool. After that duty which made it possible for me to hope all sorts of things on the 18th, 19th or 20th, I sauntered over to Fifth Avenue and made my way up town again. At any rate I was spending nothing in my present lodging.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  In fact, there were way more things right with me than wrong. Finally, I reached for the strongest medicine in my toolkit: self-love. I looked in the bathroom mirror, and with all the compassion I could muster, I said: “I love you, Kris. I am here for you. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.” When I first started telling myself stuff like this, I felt like a big cheeseball. Thank God no one can see me. But I could soon see how words of self-love really worked. So I repeated them over and over until I was relaxed enough to get my ass back to the waiting area in time to be escorted to the room I knew by heart. Three chairs, a privacy curtain, and an exam table with a disposable paper sheet (presumably in case you shit yourself). I took my usual seat, fixed my eyes on the doorknob, and silently repeated my bathroom mantras. As soon as Dr. D., my good-natured oncologist, entered, I felt a spike of adrenaline. This was the moment. Good news or bad, my body was jacked. One of the things I appreciate about Dr. D. is his bedside manner. He always bounces into the room with a smile on his face and gets right to it. No excruciating small talk. “Hey! Good to see you. So, everything looks really great,” he said. Every cell of my body relaxed as he continued on: “We’re thrilled with how well you’re still doing. If you feel comfortable enough, we’re confident that it would be safe for you to have even more time between scans. You can come back in three to five years if you want—whatever works for you.” Sweet Jesus. After comparing 16 years of my scans, the doctors’ consensus was that my cancer was stable enough to give me more breathing room between checkups. “Are you serious!?” I exclaimed. “This is incredible! Thank you so much, Dr. D.! I’ll be back in five.” The force of my enthusiastic response surprised even me. But after nearly two decades of anxiety-provoking doctors’ appointments, I was ready to leave fear in my rearview. As I was doing a happy dance in my head, Brian interjected: “Let’s go with three.” For him, five years felt like too much time to allow, as cancer can be a trickster and show up at the most unlikely times. Oh, and the lump in my arm? Turns out it was a glamorous fatty tumor. No metastasis. That night Brian and I toasted my milestone with an expensive glass of champagne at a fancy hotel bar. Perhaps I could even retire my lucky underwear (the elastic had certainly seen better days). When I called my parents to share the news, they were ecstatic.

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

  I answer that, In every object of appetite or of pleasure two things may be considered, namely the thing which is desired or which gives pleasure, and the aspect of appetibility or pleasurableness in that thing. Now according to Boethius (De Hebdom.) that which is can have something besides what it is, but ‘being’ itself has no admixture of aught else beside itself. Hence that which is desirable or pleasant can have an admixture of something rendering it undesirable or unpleasant; but the very aspect of pleasurableness has not and cannot have anything mixed with it rendering it unpleasant or undesirable. Now it is possible for things that are pleasurable, by participation of goodness which is the aspect of appetibility or pleasurableness, not to give pleasure when they are apprehended, but it is impossible for that which is good by its essence not to give pleasure when it is apprehended. Therefore since God is essentially His own goodness, it is impossible for the Godhead to be seen without joy. Reply to Objection 1: The wicked will know most clearly that Christ is God, not through seeing His Godhead, but on account of the most manifest signs of His Godhead. Reply to Objection 2: No one can hate the Godhead considered in itself, as neither can one hate goodness itself. But God is said to be hated by certain persons in respect of some of the effects of the Godhead, in so far as He does or commands something contrary to their will [*Cf. [5116]SS, Q[34], A[1]]. Therefore the vision of the Godhead can be painful to no one. Reply to Objection 3: The saying of Augustine applies when the thing apprehended previously by the intellect is good by participation and not essentially, such as all creatures are; wherefore there may be something in them by reason of which the affections are not moved. In like manner God is known by wayfarers through His effects, and their intellect does not attain to the very essence of His goodness. Hence it is not necessary that the affections follow the intellect, as they would if the intellect saw God’s essence which is His goodness. Reply to Objection 4: Grief denotes not a disposition but a passion. Now every passion is removed if a stronger contrary cause supervene, and does not remove that cause. Accordingly the grief of the damned would be done away if they saw God in His essence. Reply to Objection 5: The indisposition of an organ removes the natural proportion of the organ to the object that has a natural aptitude to please, wherefore the pleasure is hindered. But the indisposition which is in the damned does not remove the natural proportion whereby they are directed to the Divine goodness, since its image ever remains in them. Hence the comparison fails.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  I listened tonight to these young poets, particularly the women of Color, reading their work, and it was wonderful for me to know that the real power of my words is not the pieces of me that reside within those words, but the life force—the energy and aspirations and desires at the complex core of each one of these women—which has been aroused to use and to answer my words. Gloria, Johnnetta, and I—three of the founding mothers of the Sisterhood in Support of Sisters in South Africa—within that precious space where we sit down together in my intricate life. The young poets shining like gold fire in the sun, their many-colored faces awash with pride and determination and love. Beth and Yolanda, daughter and old friend, my words coming out of their mouths illuminated exactly by who they are themselves, so different from each other and from me. The revelation of hearing my work translated through the beings of these women I love so dearly. Frances, smiling like a sunflower and really there; my sister Helen looking pleased and a part of it all; and Mabel Hampton, tough and snappy and hanging in, all eighty-three years of her! Charlotte’s* generous perfume, and I remember the sureness in her voice once, saying, “Well, we did what we had to do, and I think we changed the world!” Alexis† and her twinkling eyes, Clare’s‡ warm graciousness. And Blanchie,§ resplendent and cheeky in her tuxedo, orchestrating it all with her particular special flair, mistress of ceremonies to quite a party! December 15, 1985 Arlesheim, Switzerland So here I am at the Lukas Klinik while my body decides if it will live or die. I’m going to fight like hell to make it live, and this looks like the most promising possibility. At least it’s something different from narcotics and other terminal aids, which is all Dr. C. had to offer me in New York City in lieu of surgery when I told her how badly I hurt in my middle. “Almost everything I eat now makes me sick,” I told her. “Yes, I know,” she said sorrowfully, writing me a prescription for codeine and looking at me as if there was nothing left she could do for me besides commiserate. Even though I like her very much, I wanted to punch her in her mouth. I have found something interesting in a book here on active meditation as a form of self-control. There are six steps: 1.​Control of Thought Think of a small object (i.e., a paper clip) for five minutes, exclusively. Practice for a month. 2.​Control of Action Perform a small act every day at the same time. Practice, and be patient. 3.​Control of Feeling (equanimity) Become aware of feelings and introduce equanimity into experiencing them—i.e., be afraid, not panic-stricken. (They’re big on this one around here.) 4.​Positivity (tolerance) Refrain from critical downgrading thoughts that sap energy from good work.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  bumping against the rear door of Europe spread-eagled across the globe their crystal balls poised over Africa ass-up for old glory. Your turn now jessehelms come on its time to lick the handwriting off the walls. The Politics of Addiction 17 luxury condominiums electronically protected from criminal hunger​the homeless seeking a night’s warmth across from the soup kitchen St. Vincent’s Hospital razor wire covering the hot air grates. Disrobed need shrieks through the nearby streets. Some no longer beg. a brown sloe-eyed boy picks blotches from his face eyes my purse shivering white dust a holy fire in his blood at the corner​fantasy parodies desire​replaces longing Green light.​The boy turns back to the steaming grates. Down the street in a show-window camera​Havana the well-shaped woman smiles waves her plump arm along half-filled market shelves excess expectation dusts across her words “Si hubieran capitalismo hubiesen tomates aquí!” “If we had capitalism tomatoes would be here now.” Today Is Not the Day I can’t just sit here staring death in her face blinking and asking for a new name by which to greet her I am not afraid to say unembellished I am dying but I do not want to do it looking the other way. Today is not the day. It could be but it is not. Today is today in the early moving morning sun shining down upon the farmhouse in my belly lighting the wellswept alleys of the town growing in my liver intricate vessels swelling with the gift of Mother Mawu or her mischievous daughter Afrekete​Afrekete​my beloved feel the sun of my days surround you binding our pathways we have water to carry honey to harvest bright seed to plant for the next fair we will linger exchanging sweet oil along each other’s ashy legs the evening light a crest on your cheekbones. By this rising some piece of our labor is already half-done the taste of loving doing a bit of work having some fun riding my wheels so close to the line my eyelashes blaze. Beth dangles her stethoscope over the rearview mirror Jonathan fine-tunes his fix on Orion working through another equation youth taut as an arrow stretched to their borders the barb sinking in so far it vanishes from the surface. I dare not tremble for them only pray laughter comes often enough to soften the edge. And Gloria​Gloria whose difference I learn with the love of a sister​you​you in my eyes bright appetite​light playing along your muscle as you swing. This could be the day. I could slip anchor and wander to the end of the jetty uncoil into the waters a vessel of light​moonglade ride the freshets to sundown and when I am gone another stranger will find you coiled on the warm sand beached treasure​and love you for the different stories your seas tell and half-finished blossoms growing out of my season trail behind with a comforting hum. But today is not the day. Today. [April 22, 1992] Notes

• From Blue Nights (2011)

  Until that instant when Lenny mentioned the bassinette it had all happened very fast. Until the bassinette it had all seemed casual, even blithe, not different in spirit from the Jax jerseys and printed cotton Lilly Pulitzer shifts we were all wearing that year: on New Year’s weekend 1966 John and I had gone to Cat Harbor, on the far side of Catalina Island, on Morty Hall’s boat. Morty Hall was married to Diana Lynn. Diana was a close friend of Lenny’s. At some point on the boat that weekend (presumably at a point, given the drift of the excursion, when we were having or thinking about having or making or thinking about making a drink) I had mentioned to Diana that I was trying to have a baby. Diana had said I should talk to Blake Watson. Blake Watson had delivered her and Morty’s four children. Blake Watson had also delivered the adopted daughter of Howard and Lou Erskine, old friends of Nick and Lenny’s (Howard had gone to Williams with Nick) who happened to be on the boat that weekend. Maybe because the Erskines were there or maybe because I had mentioned wanting a baby or maybe because we had all had the drink we were thinking about having, the topic of adoption had entered the ether. Diana herself, it seemed, had been adopted, but this information had been withheld from her until she was twenty-one and it had become necessary for some financial reason that she know. Her adoptive parents had handled the situation by revealing the secret to (this had not seemed unusual at the time) Diana’s agent. Diana’s agent had handled the situation by taking Diana to lunch at (nor at the time had this) the Beverly Hills Hotel. Diana got the news in the Polo Lounge. She could remember fleeing into the bougainvillea around the bungalows, screaming. That was all. Yet the next week I was meeting Blake Watson. When he called us from the hospital and asked if we wanted the beautiful baby girl there had been no hesitation: we wanted her. When they asked us at the hospital what we would call the beautiful baby girl there had been no hesitation: we would call her Quintana Roo. We had seen the name on a map when we were in Mexico a few months before and promised each other that if ever we had a daughter (dreamy speculation, no daughter had been in the offing) Quintana Roo would be her name. The place on the map called Quintana Roo was still not yet a state but a territory. The place on the map called Quintana Roo was still frequented mainly by archaeologists, herpetologists, and bandits. The institution that became spring break in Cancún did not yet exist. There were no bargain flights. There was no Club Med. The place on the map called Quintana Roo was still terra incognita. As was the infant in the nursery at St. John’s.

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

  Further, it is written (Is. 56:24): “They shall satiate [*Douay: ‘They shall be a loathsome sight to all flesh.’] the sight of all flesh.” Now satiety denotes refreshment of the mind. Therefore the blessed will rejoice in the punishment of the wicked. I answer that, A thing may be a matter of rejoicing in two ways. First directly, when one rejoices in a thing as such: and thus the saints will not rejoice in the punishment of the wicked. Secondly, indirectly, by reason namely of something annexed to it: and in this way the saints will rejoice in the punishment of the wicked, by considering therein the order of Divine justice and their own deliverance, which will fill them with joy. And thus the Divine justice and their own deliverance will be the direct cause of the joy of the blessed: while the punishment of the damned will cause it indirectly. Reply to Objection 1: To rejoice in another’s evil as such belongs to hatred, but not to rejoice in another’s evil by reason of something annexed to it. Thus a person sometimes rejoices in his own evil as when we rejoice in our own afflictions, as helping us to merit life: “My brethren, count it all joy when you shall fall into divers temptations” (James 1:2). Reply to Objection 2: Although God rejoices not in punishments as such, He rejoices in them as being ordered by His justice. Reply to Objection 3: It is not praiseworthy in a wayfarer to rejoice in another’s afflictions as such: yet it is praiseworthy if he rejoice in them as having something annexed. However it is not the same with a wayfarer as with a comprehensor, because in a wayfarer the passions often forestall the judgment of reason, and yet sometimes such passions are praiseworthy, as indicating the good disposition of the mind, as in the case of shame pity and repentance for evil: whereas in a comprehensor there can be no passion but such as follows the judgment of reason. OF THE GIFTS* OF THE BLESSED (FIVE ARTICLES)[*The Latin ‘dos’ signifies a dowry.] We must now consider the gifts of the blessed; under which head there are five points of inquiry: (1) Whether any gifts should be assigned to the blessed? (2) Whether a gift differs from beatitude? (3) Whether it is fitting for Christ to have gifts? (4) Whether this is competent to the angels? (5) Whether three gifts of the soul are rightly assigned? Whether any gifts should be assigned as dowry to the blessed?Objection 1: It would seem that no gifts should be assigned as dowry to the blessed. For a dowry (Cod. v, 12, De jure dot. 20: Dig. xxiii, 3, De jure dot.) is given to the bridegroom for the upkeep of the burdens of marriage. But the saints resemble not the bridegroom but the bride, as being members of the Church. Therefore they receive no dowry.

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

  Further, it is written (Heb. 11:39): “All these being approved by the testimony of faith received not the promise,” i.e. full beatitude of soul and body, since “God has provided something better for us, lest they should be consummated,” i.e. perfected, “without us—in order that,” as a gloss observes, “through all rejoicing each one might rejoice the more.” But the resurrection will not precede the glorification of bodies, because “He will reform the body of our lowness made like to the body of His glory” (Phil. 3:21), and the children of the resurrection will be “as the angels . . . in heaven” (Mat. 22:30). Therefore the resurrection will be delayed till the end of the world, when all shall rise together. I answer that, As Augustine states (De Trin. iii, 4) “Divine providence decreed that the grosser and lower bodies should be ruled in a certain order by the more subtle and powerful bodies”: wherefore the entire matter of the lower bodies is subject to variation according to the movement of the heavenly bodies. Hence it would be contrary to the order established in things by Divine providence if the matter of lower bodies were brought to the state of incorruption, so long as there remains movement in the higher bodies. And since, according to the teaching of faith, the resurrection will bring men to immortal life conformably to Christ Who “rising again from the dead dieth now no more” (Rom. 6:9), the resurrection of human bodies will be delayed until the end of the world when the heavenly movement will cease. For this reason, too, certain philosophers, who held that the movement of the heavens will never cease, maintained that human souls will return to mortal bodies such as we have now—whether, as Empedocles, they stated that the soul would return to the same body at the end of the great year, or that it would return to another body; thus Pythagoras asserted that “any soul will enter any body,” as stated in De Anima i, 3. Reply to Objection 1: Although the head is more conformed to the members by conformity of proportion (which is requisite in order that it have influence over the members) than one member is to another, yet the head has a certain causality over the members which the members have not; and in this the members differ from the head and agree with one another. Hence Christ’s resurrection is an exemplar of ours, and through our faith therein there arises in us the hope of our own resurrection. But the resurrection of one of Christ’s members is not the cause of the resurrection of other members, and consequently Christ’s resurrection had to precede the resurrection of others who have all to rise again at the consummation of the world.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I say, “You see a beautiful June now.” “No, I hate her!” “You hate her?” “Yes, I hate her,” Henry says, “because I see by your notes that we are her dupes, that you are duped, that there is one pernicious, destructive direction to her lies. Insidiously, they are meant to deform me in your eyes, and you in my eyes. If June returns, she will poison us against each other. I fear that.” “There is something between us, Henry, a tie which is not quite possible for June to comprehend or to seize.” “The mind,” he murmured. “For that she will hate us, yes, and she will combat with her own tools.” “And her tools are lies,” he said. We were both so acutely aware of her power over us, of the new ties which bound us together. I said, “If I had the means to help bring June back, would you want me to do it?” Henry winced and suddenly lurched towards me. “Ah, don’t ask me such a question, Anaïs, don’t ask me.” One day we were talking about his writing. “Perhaps you couldn’t write here at Louveciennes,” I said. “It’s too peaceful, nothing driving you.” “It would just be a different writing,” he said. He was thinking of Proust, whose handling of Albertine haunts him. How far we are from his drunken letter. Yesterday he was disarming; he was so whole. How he absorbed! June rarely confided in him. Will he turn around and deny all his feelings? I teased him. “Perhaps all I have written is untrue, untrue of June, untrue of me. Perhaps it’s hypocrisy.” “No! No!” He knew. Real passions, real loves, real impulses. “For the first time I see some beauty in it all,” says Henry. I am afraid of not having been truthful enough. I am amazed at Henry’s emotion. “Am I not the Idiot?” I ask. “No, you see , you just see more,” says Henry. “What you see is there, all right. Yes.” He reflects as he talks. He often repeats a phrase, to give himself time to reflect. What goes on behind that compact forehead fascinates me. The extravagance of Dostoevsky’s language has re-leased both of us. He was a portentous author for Henry. Now, when we live with the same fervor, the same temperature, the same extravagance, I am in bliss. This is the life, the talk, these are the emotions which belong to me. I breathe freely now. I am at home. I am myself. After being with Henry, I go to meet Eduardo. “I want you, Anaïs! Give me another chance! You belong to me. How I suffered this afternoon, knowing you were with Henry. I never knew jealousy before; and now it is so strong it is killing me.” His face is terrifyingly white. He always smiles, as I do.

• From Blue Nights (2011)

  John’s looking at an infant with fierce dark hair and rosebud features. The beads on her wrist spelled out not her name but “N.I.,” for “No Information,” which was the hospital’s response to any questions that might be asked about a baby being placed for adoption. One of the nurses had tied a pink ribbon in the fierce dark hair. “Not that baby,” John would repeat to her again and again in the years that followed, reenacting the nursery scene, the recommended “choice” narrative, the moment when, of all the babies in the nursery, we picked her. “Not that baby … that baby. The baby with the ribbon.” “Do that baby ,” she would repeat in return, a gift to us, an endorsement of our wisdom in opting to follow the recommended choice narrative. The choice narrative is no longer universally favored by professionals of child care, but it was in 1966. “Do it again. Do the baby with the ribbon.” And later: “Do the part about Dr. Watson calling.” Blake Watson was already a folk figure in this recital. And then: “Tell the part about the shower.” Even the shower had become part of the recommended choice narrative. March 3, 1966. After we left St. John’s that night we stopped in Beverly Hills to tell John’s brother Nick and his wife, Lenny. Lenny offered to meet me at Saks in the morning to buy a layette. She was taking ice from a crystal bucket, making celebratory drinks. Making celebratory drinks was what we did in our family to mark any unusual, or for that matter any usual, occasion. In retrospect we all drank more than we needed to drink but this did not occur to any of us in 1966. Only when I read my early fiction, in which someone was always downstairs making a drink and singing “Big Noise blew in from Winnetka,” did I realize how much we all drank and how little thought we gave to it. Lenny added more ice to my glass and took the crystal bucket to the kitchen for a refill. “Saks because if you spend eighty dollars they throw in the bassinette,” she added as she went. I took the glass and put it down. I had not considered the need for a bassinette. I had not considered the need for a layette. The baby with the fierce dark hair stayed that night and the next two in the nursery at St.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  To my amazement, Ken was much better than “normal.” His presence and care helped fill the paternal hole in my heart with a stable, consistent love I had never known. He came to my after-school activities and parent-teacher conferences. And yes, he took me out for sundaes, but not after I received As on my report card (which I never did). Instead, he would take me out after I had owned my screwups, like the time I admitted to shoplifting a barrette at the mall. My mom wanted to murder me, but Ken calmed her down and then took me and the stolen accessory to the store manager so I could apologize. He had the good sense to know my sheer embarrassment would be enough to cure my sticky fingers—which it did. In all my earlier father fantasies, I hadn’t known that what I really wanted was a dad who got me, who not only saw me for me but loved me for me. Four years after I made fun of his mustache, Ken adopted me, officially becoming my father. For the big day, my mom let me buy an outfit with little embroidered golf balls on it—my way of showing him that I cared about the stuff he loved and was grateful to be included in his heart. Mom and Dad parented very differently. She took my every teenage whim seriously. Whereas he never bit. For example, when I wanted to change my name to Jasmine, it drove her nuts: “Kristin, I named you Kristin for a reason! Jasmine is not a name; it is a flower!” This, of course, made me want to be Jasmine even more. Meanwhile, when I floated the topic at dinner, Dad would slowly nod and say, “Jasmine. That’s a nice name.” On the long-awaited day when I officially became a daughter who had a father, Dad figured out how to put Jasmine behind us once and for all. We were in the judge’s chamber when he turned to me with his big smile and said, “Now’s your chance to officially become Jasmine Carr.” I never uttered the name Jasmine again. Year after year, Dad exceeded all my dreams of what a father should be. To go from the pain and neglect of having no father to having one like Dad felt like nothing short of a miracle. And every time he showed up for me (the occasions too numerous to count) with a reassuring “It will be OK,” I was reminded of that miracle. And yet, the mystery around my biological father continued to be a source of pain as I grew into a young adult. BROKEN ROADA few years after the adoption, Dad and Mom drove me, at my request, to meet the fella responsible for 50 percent of my genetic material—my bio dad.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  But depriving ourselves of it is the opposite of what we need when we’re struggling. In fact, the more we’re struggling, the more we need to prioritize joy. Much of our recovery takes place through the process of changing our thoughts and adjusting our behavior. We can’t control what happened, but we can control how we respond. We can choose to proactively find and fight for joy, even in the midst of hardship. George Bonanno, professor of clinical psychology at Columbia University, describes grief as an emotion that oscillates: “Over time the cycle widens, and gradually we return to a state of equilibrium. One of the ways we achieve this adaptive oscillation in and out of sadness is by switching to more positive states of mind.” He goes on to say that most of us are more capable of making the switch than we think. “We don’t expect to find joy and even laughter within our pain, but when we do, it makes sense, and we feel better, even if temporarily.” One of the reasons I’ve included humor in this book is because laughter helps us absorb and metabolize the medicine. Personally speaking, humor keeps me sane and, you guessed it, joyful. I need to poke fun at cancer, grief, death, and, most of all, myself. When I’m at my lowest, I look for something to laugh about. If I can’t find anything, I create it. MORE LIKE THIS Many of the seeds planted throughout this book are meant to help us connect more deeply to ourselves and to what matters most in our lives. Whatever crossroads we find ourselves at, this level of self-connection will eventually build self-trust. And when that muscle of selftrust is strengthened, weathering uncertainty becomes less daunting. Yes, we may struggle and stumble again, but damned if we don’t know how to get back up. Think back on who you were a few years ago and all that you’ve navigated since. There were plenty of unknowns then (some of them unthinkable) and yet you managed to get here, to this place of wanting to heal and experience deeper authenticity. Hey, that’s something to be very proud of. Let your past survival be your prologue to thriving. Remember the post-traumatic growth we talked about in Chapter 5 ? Well, this is an important concept to keep in mind as you move ahead, with bravery, into your new life. You don’t have to wait for all the pieces to fall perfectly into place to start living more fully, or for the first time, or even again. It’s OK to rebuild, armed with the priceless insight you had to develop to survive—hard-won wisdom no one would ever choose to earn but which makes you more real and experienced for it. In different ways, we have all become more ourselves, and that’s a beautiful thing. You are and will always be a survivor. It’s OK to thrive once more.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  The dichotomy between the spiritual and the political is also false, resulting from an incomplete attention to our erotic knowledge. For the bridge which connects them is formed by the erotic—the sensual—those physical, emotional, and psychic expressions of what is deepest and strongest and richest within each of us, being shared: the passions of love, in its deepest meanings. Beyond the superficial, the considered phrase, “It feels right to me,” acknowledges the strength of the erotic into a true knowledge, for what that means is the first and most powerful guiding light toward any understanding. And understanding is a hand-maiden which can only wait upon, or clarify, that knowledge, deeply born. The erotic is the nurturer or nursemaid of all our deepest knowledge. The erotic functions for me in several ways, and the first is in providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference. Another important way in which the erotic connection functions is the open and fearless underlining of my capacity for joy. In the way my body stretches to music and opens into response, hearkening to its deepest rhythms, so every level upon which I sense also opens to the erotically satisfying experience, whether it is dancing, building a bookcase, writing a poem, examining an idea. That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage, nor god, nor an afterlife. This is one reason why the erotic is so feared, and so often relegated to the bedroom alone, when it is recognized at all. For once we begin to feel deeply all the aspects of our lives, we begin to demand from ourselves and from our life-pursuits that they feel in accordance with that joy which we know ourselves to be capable of. Our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives. And this is a grave responsibility, projected from within each of us, not to settle for the convenient, the shoddy, the conventionally expected, nor the merely safe.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  In Gare St. Lazare I had seen a whore I wanted so much to talk to, and I imagined myself going out with her. Now, bursting into Henry’s apartment, as June might have done, I could have brought about a curious event, which Henry would have liked to have heard about later. But instantly I became aware that he had been writing, he was in a serious mood, I had disturbed him. He had been hoping I would sit down with him and help him organize his book. My mood evaporated. I even felt contrite. June would have interrupted the writing, precipitated Henry into more experiences, delayed the digestion of them, shone with the brilliancy of a Fate in motion, and Henry would have cursed her and then said, “June is an interesting character.” So I went home to Louveciennes and slept. And the next day when Henry asks me, “What did you do last night?” I wish I had something to tell him. I assume a strange look. He thinks he will read about it later in the journal. I wonder how it feels to have read the whole of my red journal. Henry did not say very much while he was reading, but he shook his head occasionally or laughed. He did say that my journal was terribly frank, and that the descriptions of sensual feelings were unbelievably strong. I didn’t mince my words. I had drawn him well, flatteringly but truly. What I said about June was all true. He expected something like my affair with Eduardo. He was sexually stirred by my dream of June and by other pages. “Of course,” he said, “you are a narcissist. That is the raison dêtre of the journal. Journal writing is a disease. But it’s all right. It’s very interesting. I don’t know of any journal more interesting. I don’t know of any woman writing so frankly.” I protested, because I thought a narcissist was one who only loved himself, and it seemed to me . . . It was narcissism anyway, said Henry. But I feel that he admired the journal. He did tease me about Fred, saying he feared I would give myself to him as I did to Eduardo, out of sympathy, and he was jealous. He kissed me as he said this. Hugo comes back, and he seems like a young son to me. I feel old, battered but tender and joyful. I am resting on the flesh bed of an enormous fatigue. Everything I carry away from Henry is enormous. If I fall asleep, it is because I am overloaded. I sleep because one hour with Henry contains five years of my life, and one phrase, one caress answers the expectations of a hundred nights. When I hear him laugh, I say, “I have heard Rabelais.” And I swallow his laughter like bread and wine.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I lose the sense of separate beings. I come back to Hugo appeased and so joyous; it is communicated to him. And he says: “I have never been so happy with you.” It is as if I had ceased devouring him, demanding from him. It is no wonder I am humble before my giant, Henry. And he is humble before me. “You see, Anaïs, I have never before loved a woman with a mind. All the other women were inferior to me. I consider you my equal.” And he, too, seems to be full of a great joy, a joy he has not known with June. That last afternoon in Henry’s hotel room was for me like a white-hot furnace. Before, I had only white heat of the mind and of the imagination; now it is of the blood. Sacred completeness. I come out dazed in the mellow spring evening and I think, now I would not mind dying. Henry has aroused my real instincts, so that I am no longer ill-at-ease, famished, incongruous in my world. I have found where I fit. I love him, and yet I am not blind to the elements in us which clash and out of which, later, will spring our divorce. I can only feel the now. The now is so rich and so tremendous. As Henry says, “Everything is good, good.” It is ten-thirty. Hugo has gone to a banquet, and I am waiting for him. He reassures himself by appealing to my mind. He thinks my mind is always in control. He does not know what madness I am capable of. I am going to keep this story for when he is older, when he, too, has freed his instincts. Telling the truth about myself now would only kill him. His development is naturally slower. At forty he will know what I know today. He will sense and absorb things without pain meanwhile. I am always concerned over Hugo, as if he were my child. It is because I love him best. I wish he were ten years older. Henry asked me, last time, “Have I been less brutal, less passionate than you expected? Did my writing perhaps lead you to expect more?” I was amazed. I reminded him how almost the first words I wrote him after our meeting were, “The mountain of words has sundered, literature has fallen away.” I meant that real feelings had begun, and that the intense sensualism of his writing was one thing, and our sensuality together was another, a real thing. Even Henry, with his adventurous life, does not altogether have confidence. No wonder Eduardo and I, over-tender. lacked it to a tragic degree. It was that delicate confidence we nurtured at our last meeting, Eduardo and I, trying to mend the harm we did each other unwillingly, trying to perfect and heal the course of a strange destiny.

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

  Reply to Objection 12: Nothing hinders us from saying that after the judgment day, when the glory of men and angels will be consummated once for all, all the blessed will know all that God knows by the knowledge of vision, yet so that not all will see all in the Divine essence. Christ’s soul, however, will see clearly all things therein, even as it sees them now; while others will see therein a greater or lesser number of things according to the degree of clearness wherewith they will know God: and thus Christ’s soul will enlighten all other souls concerning those things which it sees in the Word better than others. Hence it is written (Apoc. 21:23): “The glory of God shall enlighten the city of Jerusalem [*Vulg.: ‘hath enlightened it’], and the Lamb is the lamp thereof.” In like manner the higher souls will enlighten the lower (not indeed with a new enlightening, so as to increase the knowledge of the lower), but with a kind of continued enlightenment; thus we might understand the sun to enlighten the atmosphere while at a standstill. Wherefore it is written (Dan. 12:3): “They that instruct many to justice” shall shine “as stars for all eternity.” The statement that the superiority of the orders will cease refers to their present ordinate ministry in our regard, as is clear from the same gloss. OF THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS AND THEIR MANSIONS (THREE ARTICLES)We must next consider the happiness of the saints and their mansions. Under this head there are three points of inquiry: (1) Whether the happiness of the saints will increase after the judgment? (2) Whether the degrees of happiness should be called mansions? (3) Whether the various mansions differ according to various degrees of charity? Whether the happiness of the saints will be greater after the judgment than before?Objection 1: It would seem that the happiness of the saints will not be greater after the judgment than before. For the nearer a thing approaches to the Divine likeness, the more perfectly does it participate happiness. Now the soul is more like God when separated from the body than when united to it. Therefore its happiness is greater before being reunited to the body than after. Objection 2: Further, power is more effective when it is united than when divided. Now the soul is more united when separated from the body than when it is joined to the body. Therefore it has then greater power for operation, and consequently has a more perfect share of happiness, since this consists in action [*Cf. [5129]FS, Q[3], A[2]]. Objection 3: Further, beatitude consists in an act of the speculative intellect. Now the intellect, in its act, makes no use of a bodily organ; and consequently by being reunited to the body the soul does not become capable of more perfect understanding. Therefore the soul’s happiness is not greater after than before the judgment.

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

  PSEUDO-JEROME. Or else, they put upon it their garments, that is, they bring to them the first robe of immortality by the Sacrament of Baptism. And Jesus sat upon it, that is, began to reign in them, so that sin should not reign in their wanton flesh, but righteousness, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost. Again, many spread their garments in the way, under the feet of the foal of the ass. What are feet, but those who carry, and the least esteemed, whom the Apostle has set to judge? (v. 1 Cor. 6:4.) And these too, though they are not the back on which the Lord sat, yet are instructed by John with the soldiers. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Or else, many strew their garments in the way, because the holy martyrs put off from themselves the garment of their own flesh, and prepare a way for the more simple servants of God with their own blood. Many also strew their garments in the way, because they tame their bodies with abstinence, that they may prepare a way for God to the mount, or may give good examples to those who follow them. And they cut down branches from the trees, who in the teaching of the truth cull the sentences of the Fathers from their words, and by their lowly preaching scatter them in the path of God, when He comes into the soul of the hearer. THEOPHYLACT. Let us also strew the way of our life with branches which we cut from the trees, that is, imitate the saints, for these are holy trees, from which, he who imitates their virtues cuts down branches. PSEUDO-JEROME. For the righteous shall flourish as a palm tree, straitened in their roots, but spreading out wide with flowers and fruits; for they are a good odour unto Christ, and strew the way of the commandments of God with their good report. Those who went before are the prophets, and those who followed are the Apostles. BEDE. (ubi sup.) And because all the elect, whether those who were able to become such in Judæa, or those who now are such in the Church, believed and now believe on the Mediator between God and man, both those who go before and those who follow cried out Hosanna. THEOPHYLACT. But both those of our deeds which go before and those which follow after must be done to the glory of God; for some in their past life make a good beginning, but their following life does not correspond with their former, neither does it end to the glory of God. 11:11–1411. And Jesus entered into Jerusalem, and into the temple: and when he had looked round about upon all things, and now the eventide was come, he went out unto Bethany with the twelve. 12. And on the morrow, when they were come from Bethany, he was hungry: