Joy

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 224 of 299 · 20 per page

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  There is no point in recalling every detail of his despair. After two years of sorrow, while he lived and suffered in Thebes, as he lay sleeping one night, he had a vision or dream of Mercury. The winged god stood by his bedside, holding his wand of sleep, and bid him to be of good cheer. Now this great god wore a silver helmet, ornamented with wings, upon his golden hair. In just such a guise he had lulled Argos of the hundred eyes, when he came to steal Io. He spoke, or seemed to speak, to Arcite. ‘You must journey now to Athens,’ he said. ‘In that city there will be an end of all your woe.’ At that, Arcite woke up with a start. ‘Whatever the consequences,’ he said, ‘even on pain of death itself, I will follow my dream and travel to Athens. Right away. I will not be deterred by anything or anyone. I will see my lady again. I will be with her, even if I have to die in her sight. Death then will be delightful.’ Then he took up a great mirror, and saw the reflection of his altered looks. He was so wan and ravaged that he was scarcely recognizable even to himself. And then inspiration came to him. Whether he was inspired by Mercury, I cannot say. He realized that he was so disfigured, by suffering and sickness, that he could remain quite unknown in Athens. If he was cautious and prudent he could live there for the rest of his life without being discovered by the authorities. And then he could see Emily every day. What a wonderful prospect! So he threw himself into joyful activity. He changed his clothes, and dressed himself in the garb of a poor labouring man. His only companion was his squire. This young man knew everything, from first to last. But he was happy to follow Arcite. He, too, dressed in the garb of a poor man. On the following day the two of them set off for Athens. As soon as Arcite arrived he went to the court of Theseus, and at the great gate there he offered his services to those who passed him. He offered to drudge, to draw water, to carry goods - anything that might help him to get closer to Emily. Eventually, and by great good fortune, he was offered a job in the household of the chamberlain who looked after the fair lady. He watched and waited, taking advantage of any opening to gain access to her. He was expert at cutting wood, and tireless at carrying barrels of water. He was strong, with fine sinews and big bones. He did any kind of work that was required. He was zealous and indefatigable. So by degrees he became a personal servant to fair Emily herself. What name did he give himself? He was known to everyone as Philostratus. There never was a more well-respected man.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “That’s right,” I said. “Collar got to match the cuffs.” It was a line I’d heard Dinitia use. She smiled at it, and the women all shrieked with laughter. One of the dancers bumped her hip up against me. I felt welcome enough to give a saucy bump back. Dinitia and I stayed in the pool all morning, splashing, practicing the backstroke and the butterfly. She flailed around in the water almost as much as I did. We stood on our hands and stuck our legs out of the water, did underwater twists, and played Marco Polo and chicken with the other kids. We climbed out to do cannonballs and watermelons off the side, making big geyserlike splashes intended to drench as many people sitting poolside as possible. The blue water sparkled and churned white with foam. By the time the free swim was over, my fingers and toes were completely wrinkled, and my eyes were red and stinging from the chlorine, which was so strong it wafted up from the pool in a vapor you could practically see. I’d never felt cleaner. THAT AFTERNOON I WAS alone in the house, still enjoying the itchy, dry feeling of my chlorine-scoured skin and the wobbly-bone feeling you get from a lot of exercise, when I heard a knock on the door. The noise startled me. Almost no one ever visited us at 93 Little Hobart Street. I opened the door a few inches and peered out. A balding man carrying a file folder under his arm stood on the porch. Something about him said government—a species Dad had trained us to avoid. “Is the head of the household in?” he asked. “Who wants to know?” I said. The man smiled the way you do to sugarcoat bad news. “I’m with child welfare, and I’m looking for either Rex or Rose Mary Walls,” he said. “They’re not here,” I said. “How old are you?” he asked. “Twelve.” “Can I come in?” I could see he was trying to peer behind me into the house. I pulled the door all the way closed except for a crack. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t want me to let you in,” I said. “Until they talk to their attorney,” I added to impress him. “Just tell me what it is you’re after, and I’ll pass on the message.” The man said that someone whose name he was not at liberty to disclose had called his office recommending an inquiry into conditions at 93 Little Hobart Street, where it was possible that dependent children might be living in a state of neglect. “No one’s neglecting us,” I said. “You sure?” “I’m sure, mister.” “Dad work?” “Of course,” I said. “He does odd jobs. And he’s an entrepreneur. He’s developing a technology to burn low-grade bituminous coal safely and efficiently.” “And your mother?” “She’s an artist,” I said. “And a writer and a teacher.” “Really?” The man made a note on a pad.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Ha estado viajando con Dutch hacia y desde el trabajo toda la semana, así que tengo un vehículo confiable para andar, e incluso mencionó comprar otro auto bajo el pretexto de que debería tener algo mejor para ”salir”, pero sé que es solo su excusa para conseguirme algo mejor que el VW. Lo rechacé. Casi tiene mi auto en funcionamiento, así que me las arreglaré con él el tiempo que dure y cruzaré ese puente cuando tenga que hacerlo. Me detengo junto a la acera y estaciono la camioneta fuera del camino, viendo a Dutch y Pike trabajando en mi auto, en el camino de entrada. En realidad, Pike está trabajando en él, y Dutch está acampado en una silla de jardín cercana con una cerveza en la mano. Agarro mi mochila, camino por la calle y subo por nuestra entrada. —Hola, chicos —canto—. ¿Cómo les va? Pike me mira por encima del hombro, con los ojos recorriendo todo mi cuerpo. Reprimo mi sonrisa y él también lo hace, mientras rápidamente vuelve a trabajar bajo el capó. Me desperté con su boca bajando por mi estómago a las dos de esta mañana, terminando entre mis piernas y quedándose allí hasta que me corrí, dos veces. Y luego no volvimos a dormir hasta las cuatro. El hombre tiene más energía de la que puedo tomar, y hoy estoy tan cansada, pero de la mejor manera posible. Cada centímetro de mi cuerpo está siendo bien utilizado, y es difícil concentrarse en cualquier otra cosa excepto la necesidad de estar con él cuando no estoy a su lado. No quiero enamorarme de él. Quiero decir, quiero, pero no hasta que sepa exactamente lo que está sucediendo aquí. Cam podría tener razón y esto es solo una aventura. —Estamos bien, cariño —responde Dutch, su lata de cerveza descansa sobre su rodilla—. Casi está listo para salir de aquí. Paso por delante del auto y veo a Pike apretando o soltando algo con una llave inglesa. —¿En serio? —Frunzo el ceño—. ¿Ya casi está listo? Pike levanta sus ojos. —Pronto. Bueno, sí. Sería bueno no tener que depender. Por un tiempo, al menos. —Gracias —les digo y luego miro a Dutch—. ¿Qué puedo hacer por ti? ¿Emparedado? ¿Cerveza? ¿Cuidado de niños gratis? Él solo se ríe. —Aw, está bien. Vi lo bonita que se ve la casa, así que Pike ya debe estar aprovechándose duro de ti. —Oh, no tienes idea —bromeo—. Últimamente estoy sudando mucho más allá de mi hora de dormir. La llave inglesa en la mano de Pike se tambalea, y pierde el control del cerrojo, mirándome. Oculto mi sonrisa entre mis dientes y doy la vuelta, subiendo los escalones y desapareciendo dentro de la casa.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  He left the house in the morning wearing a yellow hard hat and big steel-toed boots, which I thought made him look extra handsome. Because of the union, he was making steadier money than we’d ever seen. On his first payday, he came home and called us all into the living room. We kids had left our toys out in the yard, he declared. “No, sir, we didn’t,” I said. “I think you did,” he said. “Go out and take a look.” We ran to the front door. Outside in the yard, parked in a row, were three brand-new bicycles—a big red one and two smaller ones, a blue boy’s bike and a purple girl’s bike. I thought at first that some other kids must have left them there. When Lori pointed out that Dad had obviously bought them for us, I didn’t believe her. We had never had bicycles—we had learned to ride on other kids’ bikes—and it had never occurred to me that one day I might actually own one myself. Especially a new one. I turned around. Dad was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a sly grin on his face. “Those bikes aren’t for us, are they?” I asked. “Well, they’re too damn small for your mother and me,” he said. Lori and Brian had climbed on their bikes and were riding up and down the sidewalk. I stared at mine. It was shiny purple and had a white banana seat, wire baskets on the side, chrome handlebars that swept out like steer horns, and white plastic handles with purple-and-silver tassels. Dad knelt beside me. “Like it?” he asked. I nodded. “You know, Mountain Goat, I still feel bad about making you leave your rock collection back in Battle Mountain,” he said. “But we had to travel light.” “I know,” I said. “It was more than one thing, anyway.” “I’m not so sure,” Dad said. “Every damn thing in the universe can be broken down into smaller things, even atoms, even protons, so theoretically speaking, I guess you had a winning case. A collection of things should be considered one thing. Unfortunately, theory don’t always carry the day.” We rode our bicycles everywhere. Sometimes we attached playing cards to the forks with clothespins, and they flapped against the spokes when the wheels turned. Now that Lori could see, she was the navigator. She got a city map from a gas station and plotted out our routes in advance. We pedaled past the Westward Ho Hotel, down Central Avenue where square-faced Indian women sold beaded necklaces and moccasins on rainbow-colored serapes they’d spread on the sidewalk. We pedaled to Woolworth’s, which was bigger than all the stores in Battle Mountain put together, and played tag in the aisles until the manager chased us out. We got Grandma Smith’s old wooden tennis rackets and pedaled off to Phoenix University, where we tried to play tennis with the dead balls other people had left behind.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You must never threaten war against me but, on the contrary, you must pledge yourselves to be my friends and allies. On that condition, you are forgiven.’ Palamon and Arcite humbly and gratefully assented to his terms. They asked him in turn to become their lord and protector, to which he graciously agreed. ‘In terms of royal lineage and wealth,’ he said, ‘either one of you is worthy to marry a princess or even a queen. That is obvious. If I may speak for my sister, Emily, over whom you have suffered so much strife and jealousy - well, you yourselves know well enough that she cannot marry both of you at once. You can fight for eternity but, like it or not, only one of you can be betrothed to her. The other can go whistle in the wind. Be as jealous, or as angry, as you may. That is the truth. So listen while I explain to you my plan, to find whose destiny is shaped for Emily and whose is turned the other way. This is what I have devised. It is my will, and you must make the best of it. I will listen to no argument or objection. I stipulate that both of you should go your separate ways, without ransom or hindrance, and in a year’s time that both of you should return with a company of one hundred knights fully armed and equipped for a tournament. Your men should be ready to decide the hand of Emily by dint of battle. Upon my honour, as a knight, I promise you this. I will reward whichever of you has the most strength. Whether you slay your adversary, or with your hundred companions drive him from the joust, I will give you the hand of fair Emily. Thus fortune will favour the brave. The tournament will take place here and, as God have mercy on my soul, I will be a fair and true judge of the contest. And I will allow only one conclusion. One of you will be killed or made captive. If both of you agree, then assent now and hold yourselves well served.’ Who could be more cheerful now than Palamon? Who could be more joyful than Arcite? I cannot begin to describe the rejoicing of the whole company at the decision of Theseus. He had behaved so graciously that all of them went down on their knees and thanked him. The two Thebans, in particular, expressed their gratefulness. So with heads high, and hope in their hearts, Palamon and Arcite made their way back to the ancient city of Thebes. They had a year to prepare themselves for battle. PART THREE I am sure that you would accuse me of negligence if I failed to tell you of the expense and trouble that Theseus went to in preparing the royal tournament. I dare say that there was no greater amphitheatre in the whole world.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  We pedaled to the Civic Center, which had a library where the librarians recognized us because we went there so much. They helped us find books they thought we’d like, and we filled up the wire baskets on our bicycles and pedaled home right down the middle of the sidewalks, as if we owned the place. • • • Since Mom and Dad had all this money, we got our own telephone. We had never owned a telephone before, and whenever it rang, we kids all scrambled for it. Whoever got there first summoned up a super-snooty English accent: “Walls residence, the butler speaking, may I help you?” while the rest of us cracked up. We also had a big record player in a wooden cabinet that had been Grandma’s. You could put a stack of records on it, and when one was finished playing, the needle arm automatically swung out and the next record dropped down with a happy slap. Mom and Dad loved music, especially rousing stuff that made you want to get up and dance, or at least sway your head or tap your foot. Mom was always going to thrift stores and coming back with old albums of polka music, Negro spirituals, German marching bands, Italian operas, and cattle roundup songs. She also bought boxes of used high heels that she called her dancing shoes. She’d slip on a pair of dancing shoes, put a stack of records on the phonograph, and crank the volume way up. Dad danced with her if he was there; otherwise she’d dance alone, waltzing or jitterbugging or doing the Texas two-step from room to room, the house filled with the sounds of Mario Lanza, or oompahing tubas, or some mournful cowboy singing “The Streets of Laredo.” Mom and Dad also bought an electric washing machine that we kept out on the patio. It was a white enamel tub up on legs, and we filled it with water from the garden hose. A big agitator twisted back and forth, making the entire machine dance around on the cement patio. It had no cycles, so you waited until the water got dirty, then put the clothes through the wringer—two rubber rolling pins rigged above the tub that were turned by a motor. To rinse the clothes, you’d repeat the process without soap, then let the water drain into the yard to help the grass grow. Despite our wondrous appliances, life in Phoenix wasn’t total luxury. We had about a gazillion cockroaches, big, strong things with shiny wings. We had just a few at first, but since Mom was not exactly a compulsive cleaner, they multiplied. After a while, entire armies were scuttling across the walls and the floors and the kitchen counters. In Battle Mountain, we’d had lizards to eat the flies and cats to eat the lizards.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Flannery O’Connor answered, “Because I’m good at it,” and when the occasional interviewer asks me, I quote them both. Then I add that other than writing, I am completely unemployable. But really, secretly, when I’m not being smart-alecky, it’s because I want to and I’m good at it. I always mention a scene from the movie Chariots of Fire in which, as I remember it, the Scottish runner, Eric Liddell, who is the hero, is walking along with his missionary sister on a gorgeous heathery hillside in Scotland. She is nagging him to give up training for the Olympics and to get back to doing his missionary work at their church’s mission in China. And he replies that he wants to go to China because he feels it is God’s will for him, but that first he is going to train with all of his heart, because God also made him very, very fast. So God made some of us fast in this area of working with words, and he gave us the gift of loving to read with the same kind of passion with which we love nature. My students at the writing workshops have this gift of loving to read, and some of them are really fast, really good with words, and some of them aren’t really fast and don’t write all that well, but they still love good writing, and they just want to write. And I say, “Hey! That is good enough for me. Come on down .” So I tell them what it will be like for me at the desk the next morning when I sit down to work, with a few ideas and a lot of blank paper, with hideous conceit and low self-esteem in equal measure, fingers poised on the keyboard. I tell them they’ll want to be really good right off, and they may not be, but they might be good someday if they just keep the faith and keep practicing. And they may even go from wanting to have written something to just wanting to be writing, wanting to be working on something, like they’d want to be playing the piano or tennis, because writing brings with it so much joy, so much challenge. It is work and play together. When they are working on their books or stories, their heads will spin with ideas and invention. They’ll see the world through new eyes. Everything they see and hear and learn will become grist for the mill. At cocktail parties or in line at the post office, they will be gleaning small moments and overheard expressions: they’ll sneak away to scribble these things down. They will have days at the desk of frantic boredom, of angry hopelessness, of wanting to quit forever, and there will be days when it feels like they have caught and are riding a wave.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  could eat ... you know ... flowers until I started working here.” Dorset cleared her throat and took her time signing the charge slip. Then she said, “Could you get the door please, Victoria?” “What?” Vix asked, because by then she was locked into a staring contest with Von. “The door,” Dorset repeated. “Oh, sure ...” “Wait ...” Von called. “I’ve got something for your friend.” He disappeared into the back again. Vix could see Dorset wondering what all of this was about. Von returned and handed her a small brown bag. “Give her this, with my regrets ... I mean, regards.” Just when she thought it couldn’t get any better she stepped outside and there, sitting in a parked truck with his feet propped up on the dashboard, was Bru. Oh God, oh God, oh God ... she couldn’t believe her luck! “Hey ...” he said when he saw her. He was doing something to his finger with a pocketknife, maybe digging out a splinter. “Hey,” she answered. “What’ve you got?” “Got?” “In the bag ... I’m starving.” “Oh. I doubt you’d want what’s in the bag.” “Let’s have a look.” “I don’t think it’s ...” “Vix!” Dorset called. “Let’s get going.” “I have to go.” “Take it easy,” he said. “Yeah ... you, too.” “He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?” Dorset asked, on the way home. “Oh, it’s not like that,” Vix explained. Was she talking about Von or Bru? “We’re just sort of ... friends.” Dorset mulled that over. “Good. Because I don’t like to see young girls getting in over their heads. It’s just not wise.” Vix nodded, as if she knew exactly what Dorset was talking about. The minute she got home she handed Caitlin the bag from the fish market. From the way Caitlin sucked in her breath when she opened it, Vix knew it must really be a fish head. “Have either of you seen my Percocet?” Dorset asked, dumping everything out of her purse onto the kitchen counter. “Because I was sure I had it with me.” “Sorry,” Caitlin said and she and Vix took off, running all the way to the beach, tripping over each other, laughing hysterically as they fed Von’s gift to the cormorants.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  bathroom sink was as old as the house, with a crack that stretched diagonally across it, making them look as if they had scars running across their faces. They vamped and sang to Abba, the Eagles, Shaun Cassidy—“Da Doo Ron Ron”—socks stuffed into the tops of their bathing suits to see how they’d look with big breasts. Caitlin was still totally flat but Vix had tiny mounds, the beginning of something. Caitlin was fascinated by Vix’s pubic hairs. “Lay down,” she said, “and I’ll count them for you.” “What for?” “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know how many you have?” “Curiosity killed the cat,” Vix said. Caitlin looked at her as if she were beyond hope. “A person without curiosity may as well be dead.” Vix wished somebody would explain that to her mother. To prove she was far from dead she lay on her bed with her underpants pulled down, laughing hysterically as Caitlin lifted one strand at a time, counting out loud. “Sixteen,” Caitlin said, announcing the grand total. “You’re so lucky!” “I don’t see what’s lucky about having sixteen pubic hairs.” “You would if all you had was this!” Caitlin pulled down her shorts to show Vix her tiny patch of pale fuzz. Not that Vix hadn’t seen it before. Sharkey barged in on them like that and they shrieked so loud he took off, a terrified look on his face. From then on they shoved a chair in front of their bedroom door because there were no locks in the house. When they grew bored with Mermaids they invented a better game. Vixen and Cassandra, Summer Sisters, the two sexiest girls on the Vineyard, maybe anywhere. They had The Power. The Power was inside their pants, between their legs. They’d just discovered that if they rubbed it in a certain way it was like an electrical current buzzing through them. Dear Folks, Having a great time. Love, Vix And then there was Von, the most gorgeous guy Vix had ever seen. He

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  We have no reason to mourn the passing of Arcite, the pattern of chivalry, or grieve for the fact that he has escaped the dark prison of this life. He has performed his duty. He has the right to be honoured. And why should Palamon and Emily here lament his felicity? He loved them well, and would not thank them for their tears. They hurt only themselves, and not his ghost. Their sorrow would be lost upon dead Arcite. ‘Now I will make an end to my long speech. I advise us all to lighten our mood. After misery comes happiness, after pain speeds bliss. For this we may thank the grace of the great god above us. Before we leave this place, therefore, I hope that we can make one perfect and everlasting joy out of a double sorrow. Where we find the deepest hurt, there we must apply the balm.’ Then he turned to Emily. ‘Sister,’ he said, ‘this proposal has my strong consent, and is confirmed by the parliament of Athens. I will ask you to look kindly upon Palamon, your own true knight, who, ever since you have known him, has served you in soul and heart and mind. I ask you to be gracious to him, and to pity him. I ask you to take him as your husband and your lord. Give me your hand as a token of our accord. Let me see your compassion. He is not without merit. He is descended from a royal race. But even if he were simply a poor young knight, he would be worthy of you. He has been your servant for many years, and has endured much adversity in following you. And so, when you consider his steadfastness, let mercy triumph over strict justice.’ Then Theseus turned to Palamon. ‘I believe that you will need very little persuasion to accept my proposal. Come to your lady, and take her by the hand.’ So thereupon, to general rejoicing, a marriage bond was made between Palamon and Emily. BLISS. MELODY. UNION. And so may God, who created this wide world, grant them His love. Now Palamon has obtained happiness at last. He lives in health and comfort. Emily loves him so tenderly, and in turn is served by him so graciously, that there is not one unhappy or jealous word between them. So ends the story of Palamon and Arcite. God save all this fair and attentive company! Heere is ended the Knyghtes Tale

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Even I can hear it. He narrows his eyes like something is bothering him, then he seems to shake it off. “When I met you, you didn’t listen to music with words, “ he says, folding his arms across his chest. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Why don’t we discuss this over a snack.” He points to the kitchen. I nod but don’t move. He takes a step forward, placing us impossibly close. I step back twice, allowing him room to move into the kitchen. He sets crackers on a plate with some beef jerky and dried bananas and puts it between us. He makes a show out of eating a cracker, hiding his mouth behind his hand in mock embarrassment. “You live by rules. Mine are just more socially appropriate than yours,” he says. I snicker. “I’m trying really hard not to watch you eat,” I tell him. “I know. Thanks for making the effort.” I pick up a piece of banana. “Open your mouth,” I say. He does without question. I toss the banana at his mouth. It hits his nose, but I lift my hands in triumph. “Why are you celebrating?” He laughs. “You missed.” “No. I was aiming for your nose.” “My turn.” I nod and open my mouth, tilting my head forward instead of back so I can make it harder for him. The banana lands directly on my tongue. I chew it sulkily. “You’re a surgeon. Your aim is impeccable.” He shrugs. “I can beat you,” I say, “at something. I know I can.” “I never said you couldn’t.” “You imply it with your eyes,” I wail. I chew on the inside of my cheek while I try to cook something up. “Wait here.” I sprint up the stairs. There is a metal chest in the carousel room at the foot of the bed. I found games in there earlier, a couple of puzzles, even some books on human anatomy and how to survive in the wild. I rifle through its contents and pull out two puzzles. Each one has a thousand pieces. One depicts two deer on a cliff. The other is a “Where’s Waldo at the Zoo.” I carry them downstairs and toss them on the table. “Puzzle race,” I say. Isaac looks a little taken back. “Seriously?” he asks. “You want to play a game?” “Seriously. And it’s a puzzle, not a game.” He leans back and stretches his arms over his head while he considers this. “We stop at the same time for bathroom breaks,” he says firmly. “And I get the deer.” I extend my hand and we shake on it.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  The first that stood up, to open the ball, were a cornet of horse, and that sweetest of olive-beauties, the soft and amorous Louisa. He led her to the couch (nothing loth), on which he gave her the fall, and extended her at length with an air of roughness and vigour, relishing high of amorous eagerness and impatience. The girl, spreading herself to the best advantage, with her head upon the pillow, was so concentered in that she was about, that our presence was the least of her care and concern. Her petticoats, thrown up with her shift, discovered to the company the finest turned legs and thighs that could be imagined, and in broad display, that gave us a full view of that delicious cleft of flesh, into which the pleasing hair, grown mount over it, parted and presented a most inviting entrance, between two close hedges, delicately soft and pouting. Her gallant was now ready, having disencumbered himself from his clothes, overloaded with lace, and presently, his shirt removed, shewed us his forces at high plight, bandied and ready for action. But giving us no time to consider the dimensions, he threw himself instantly over his charming antagonist who received him as he pushed at once dead at mark, like a heroine, without flinching; for surely never was girl constitutionally truer to the taste of joy, or sincerer in the expressions of its sensations, than she was: we could observe pleasure lighten in her eyes, as he introduced his plenipotentiary instrument into her; till, at length, having indulged her to its utmost reach, its irritations grew so violent, and gave her the spurs so furiously, that collected within herself, and lost to every thing but the enjoyment of her favourite feelings, she retarded his thrusts with a just concert of spring heaves, keeping time so exactly with the most pathetic sighs, that one might have numbered the strokes in agitation by their distinct murmurs, whilst her active limbs kept wreathing and intertwisting with his, in convulsive folds: then the turtle-billing kisses, and the poignant painless lovebites, which they both exchanged, in a rage of delight, all conspiring towards the melting period. It soon came on, when Louisa, in the ravings of her pleasure-frensy, impotent of all restraint, cried out: “Oh Sir!... Good Sir! pray do not spare me! ah! ah!...”

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I wondered if the welfare agency had found some millionaires to be our foster parents and they had arrived to take us away, but Dad was inside the house, twirling a set of keys on his finger. He explained that the Cadillac was the new official Walls family vehicle. Mom was carrying on about how it was one thing to live in a three-room shack with no electricity, since there was a certain dignity in poverty, but to live in a three-room shack and own a gold Cadillac meant you were bona fide poor white trash. “How’d you get it?” I asked Dad. “One helluva good poker hand,” he said, “and an even better bluff.” We’d owned a couple of cars since we’d been in Welch, but they were true buckets of bolts, with shuddering engines and cracked windshields, and as we drove along, we could see the blur of the asphalt through the rusted-out floor panels. Those cars never lasted more than a couple of months, and like the Oldsmobile we’d driven from Phoenix, we never named them, much less got them registered and inspected. The Coupe DeVille actually had an unexpired inspection sticker. It was such a beauty that Dad declared the time had come to revive the tradition of naming our cars. “That there Caddy,” he said, “strikes me as Elvis.” It crossed my mind that Dad ought to sell Elvis and use the money to install an indoor toilet and buy us all new clothes. The black leather shoes I had bought for fifty cents at the Dollar General Store were held together with safety pins, which I’d tried to blacken with a Magic Marker so you wouldn’t notice them. I’d also used Magic Markers to make colored blotches on my legs that I hoped would camouflage the holes in my pants. I figured that was less noticeable than if I sewed on patches. I had one blue pair and one green pair, so my legs, when I took my pants off, were covered with blue and green spots. But Dad loved Elvis too dearly to consider selling it. And the truth was, I loved Elvis almost as much. Elvis was as long and sleek as a racing yacht. It had air-conditioning, gold shag upholstery, windows that went up and down with the push of a button, and a working turn signal, so Dad didn’t have to stick his arm out. Every time we drove through town in Elvis, I’d nod graciously and smile at the people on the sidewalk, feeling like an heiress. “You’ve got true noblesse oblige, Mountain Goat,” Dad would say. Mom grew to love Elvis, too. She hadn’t gone back to teaching and instead spent her time painting, and on the weekends we began to drive to craft fairs all throughout West Virginia: shows where bearded men in overalls played dulcimers and women in granny dresses sold corncob back scratchers and coal sculptures of black bears and miners.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘You may believe what you like,’ May replied. ‘But a man that is suddenly woken from sleep may not grasp a situation straight away. He has to be perfectly awake before he sees things clearly. You were asleep, in one sense. You were blind. Do you expect to see perfectly the very moment your eyes are opened? You have to wait a day or two. Until your eyesight has settled down, I am sure you will be deceived by other illusions. Be careful, dear husband. Men are fooled by their visions, or their fantasies, every day. He who misunderstands, misjudges.’ And with these words she leaped down from the tree into his arms. Who could be happier than January? He clasped her tight and kissed her all over. He ran his hand against her belly. Then, rejoicing, he walked with her back to the palace. Now, good pilgrims, I hope that you are also content. So ends my story of May and January. God bless you all. Heere is ended the Marchantes Tale of Januarie. The Merchant’s Epilogue ‘God in heaven!’ Harry Bailey exclaimed. ‘Keep me away from a wife like that! Do you realize how many tricks and deceits a woman can use? They are busy as bees, morning and night, trying to fool us. The last thing they want is the truth. The Merchant’s tale proves it. I will tell you plainly. My own wife is faithful to me. I know that. But she is a shrew. She may be poor, but she is rich in insults. She has plenty of other vices, too. Well, I can’t do much about it now, can I? Forgive and forget. But do you know what? Between you and me, I wish that I were not wed to her. Of course I would be a fool to repeat all of her faults. Do you know why? It would get back to her. There would be gossip by one or two members of this company. I do not need to name names. You all know who I mean. Women have a way about them. They know the market for their wares. I haven’t got the wit to carry on with a long story, in any case. Farewell to all that.’ Then he turned in his saddle and addressed another pilgrim. The Squire’s Prologue ‘Squire, come nearer to me. Come. Do us a favour. Tell us a love story. I am sure you are an expert in that field.’ ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ the Squire replied. ‘But I will do my best. I will not disobey your order. I will tell you a story. But don’t think any the worse of me if I mess up. My intentions are good, in any case. Well. Here goes.’ The Squire’s Tale Here bigynneth the Squieres Tale PART ONE

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Kids from the Tracks came knocking at the door, and when I answered, they asked, “Can your dad come out and play?” Lori, Brian, and I, and even Maureen, could go pretty much anywhere and do just about anything we wanted. Mom believed that children shouldn’t be burdened with a lot of rules and restrictions. Dad whipped us with his belt, but never out of anger, and only if we back-talked or disobeyed a direct order, which was rare. The only rule was that we had to come home when the streetlights went on. “And use your common sense,” Mom said. She felt it was good for kids to do what they wanted because they learned a lot from their mistakes. Mom was not one of those fussy mothers who got upset when you came home dirty or played in the mud or fell and cut yourself. She said people should get things like that out of their systems when they were young. Once an old nail ripped my thigh while I was climbing over a fence at my friend Carla’s house. Carla’s mother thought I should go to the hospital for stitches and a tetanus shot. “Nothing but a minor flesh wound,” Mom declared after studying the deep gash. “People these days run to the hospital every time they skin their knees,” she added. “We’re becoming a nation of sissies.” With that, she sent me back out to play. • • • Some of the rocks I found while I was exploring out in the desert were so beautiful that I could not bear the idea of leaving them there. So I started a collection. Brian helped me with it, and together we found garnets and granite and obsidian and Mexican crazy lace, and more and more turquoise. Dad made necklaces for Mom out of all that turquoise. We discovered large sheets of mica that you could pound into powder and then rub all over your body so you’d shimmer under the Nevada sun as if you were coated with diamonds. Lots of times Brian and I thought we’d found gold, and we’d stagger home with an entire bucketful of sparkling nuggets, but it was always iron pyrite—fool’s gold. Some of it Dad said we should keep because it was especially good-quality for fool’s gold. My favorite rocks to find were geodes, which Mom said came from the volcanoes that had erupted to form the Tuscarora Mountains millions of years ago, during the Miocene period. From the outside, geodes looked like boring round rocks, but when you broke them open with a chisel and hammer, the insides were hollow, like a cave, and the walls were covered with glittering white quartz crystals or sparkling purple amethysts. I kept my rock collection behind the house, next to Mom’s piano, which was getting a little weathered.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Then all three climbed the stairs to one of the hotel rooms. It was a suite, with a small front room and a bedroom. Dad and Ginger went into the bedroom while Brian stayed in the front room and read his new comic book. Later, when Dad and Ginger came out, she sat down next to Brian. He didn’t look up. He kept staring at the comic book, even though he’d already read it all the way through twice. Ginger declared that she loved Sad Sack. So Dad made Brian give Ginger the comic book, telling him it was the gentlemanly thing to do. “It was mine!” Brian said. “And she kept asking me to read the bigger words. She’s a grown-up, and she can’t even read a comic book.” Brian had taken such a powerful dislike to Ginger that I realized she must have done something more than shanghai his comic book. I wondered if he had figured out something about Ginger and the other ladies at the Green Lantern. Maybe he knew why Mom said they were bad. Maybe that was why he was mad. “Did you learn what they do inside the Green Lantern?” I asked. Brian stared off ahead. I tried to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there except for the Tuscarora Mountains rising up to meet the darkening sky. Then he shook his head. “She makes a lot of money,” he said, “and she should buy her own darn comic book.” SOME PEOPLE LIKED to make fun of Battle Mountain. A big newspaper out east once held a contest to find the ugliest, most forlorn, most godforsaken town in the whole country, and it declared Battle Mountain the winner. The people who lived there didn’t hold it in much regard, either. They’d point to the big yellow-and-red sign way up on a pole at the Shell station—the one with the burned-out S—and say with a sort of perverse pride, “Yep, that’s where we live: hell!” But I was happy in Battle Mountain. We’d been there for nearly a year, and I considered it home—the first real home I could remember. Dad was on the verge of perfecting his cyanide gold process, Brian and I had the desert, Lori and Mom painted and read together, and Maureen, who had silky white-blond hair and a whole gang of imaginary friends, was happy running around with no diaper on. I thought our days of packing up and driving off in the middle of the night were over. • • • Just after my eighth birthday, Billy Deel and his dad moved into the Tracks. Billy was three years older than me, tall and skinny with a sandy crew cut and blue eyes. But he wasn’t handsome. The thing about Billy was that he had a lopsided head.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When you come face to face with this holy pope, repeat to him the confidence I have already imparted to you. When he has absolved you from your sins, then you will see the angel.’ Valerian followed her instructions faithfully, and travelled to the Appian Way. There, within the catacombs, he was brought into the presence of the saintly Urban. He told him Cecilia’s words, and at once the old man lifted up his arms in wonder. He cried for joy, and prayed through his tears. ‘Almighty God,’ Urban said, ‘Jesus our Saviour, the shepherd of the world and the begetter of all virtue. You have sown the seed of chastity in the body of the beloved maiden Cecilia. She obeys You in everything and works unceasingly for the greater glory of Your name. She has recently taken as her husband a young man as proud and fiery as a lion. But he stands before me now with the meekness of a lamb.’ There was a short pause after these words, but then there appeared before Valerian the figure of an old man dressed in robes of brightness; in his hands he was carrying a book printed with words of gold. At the sight of this Valerian fell down in fear. But the apparition lifted him to his feet, and began to read to him from the book. ‘One Lord. One faith. One God. One Christendom. One father who rules over heaven and earth.’ These were the words of gold. When he had finished reading this text, the old man asked Valerian a question. ‘Do you believe these words to be true? Yes or no?’ ‘I do believe,’ Valerian answered. ‘There are no words more true and blessed. They are the hope of humankind.’ Then the old man vanished from sight and, on the spot, Pope Urban baptized Valerian. When the Roman returned home he found Saint Cecilia, his wife, in the company of an angel. The angel had two coronets in his hand, one made up of lily and one of roses; he gave the first of them to Cecilia and, according to the old books, he gave the second one to Valerian. ‘Keep these coronets inviolate, with a pure body and mind,’ the angel told them. ‘I have brought them from paradise. They will never wither or die; their perfume will never fade. The sinners of this world will not be able to see them. Only those who are chaste and innocent will have sight of them. And you, Valerian, who trusted the word of God so readily and so fully, ask what you wish of me. I will grant your favour.’ ‘I have a brother,’ he replied. ‘There is no man I love more. I pray that you grant my brother the grace to know the truth that has been revealed to me.’ ‘God is happy to fulfil your request,’ the angel said. ‘Both of you will win the palm of martyrdom.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  I had the chance to have lunch with Donna nearly a year later. I asked how she was doing, and she said she was doing great. Her demeanor concurred. She seemed far more relaxed and cheerful than she had during that breakfast at which I first shared with her my lab’s serendipitous discovery. Later, I learned that setbacks and disappointments were still streaming into her life. As I listened to her recount them, I thought they might even be worse. The difference, she said, was that now she was able to let these recurrent sources of negativity simply roll by. They didn’t get under her skin. With her decisive focus on cultivating three loving connections each day, she’d created more spaciousness in her mind and generosity in her heart for facing these ongoing difficulties. Although still single, she discovered that love comes in many different forms. She knew she was a special part of her family, even if they were miles away. She had also cultivated special relationships with a few families in her neighborhood. And she had found that not all of her work relationships were doomed to be difficult, but discovered some good friends there, also. Try This Micro-moment Practice: Create Three Loving Connections Recall how energizing and rewarding it can be to really connect with somebody, sharing a flow of thoughts and feelings with ease. As your day unfolds, seek out at least three opportunities to connect with others like this, with warmth, respect, and goodwill. Opportunities may spring up at home, at work, in your neighborhood, or out in your community. Wherever you are, open toward others, freely offering your attention, creating a sense of safety, through eye contact, conversation, or, when appropriate, touch. Share your own lighthearted thoughts and feelings, and stay present as the other person shares theirs. Afterward, lightly reflect on whether that interchange led you to feel the oneness of positivity resonance, even to a small degree. Creating the intention to seek out and create more micro-moments of loving connection can be another tool for elevating your health and well-being. Loving-Kindness Meditation

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Love is a many-splendored thing. This classic saying is apt, not only because love can emerge from the shoots of any other positive emotion you experience, be it amusement, serenity, or gratitude, but also because of your many viable collaborators in love, ranging from your sister to your soul mate, your newborn to your neighbor, even someone you’ve never met before. Even when you don’t share the same language, you and another have so much in common. Barring brain damage or one of a handful of neurological disorders, you each share the nervous and endocrine systems that make positivity resonance possible. Love, then, becomes possible with any human connection. At the level of positivity resonance, micro-moments of love are virtually identical regardless of whether they bloom between you and a stranger or you and a soul mate; between you and an infant or you and your lifelong best friend. The clearest difference between the love you feel with intimates and the love you feel with anyone with whom you share a connection is its sheer frequency. Spending more total moments together increases your chances to feast on micro-moments of positivity resonance. These micro-moments change you. They forge new coalitions with strangers, advance your acquaintanceships into friendships, and cultivate even deeper intimacy in your most cherished relationships. Each micro-moment of positivity resonance knits you in a little tighter to the social fabric of your community, your network of relationships, and your family. Whereas the biological synchrony that emerges between connected brains and bodies may be comparable no matter who the other person may be, the triggers for your micro-moments of love can be wholly different with intimates. The hallmark feature of intimacy is mutual responsiveness, that reassuring sense that you and your soul mate—or you and your best friend—really “get” each other. This means that you come to your interactions with a well-developed understanding of each other’s inner workings, and you use that privileged knowledge thoughtfully, for each other’s benefit. Intimacy is that safe and comforting feeling you get when you can bask in the knowledge that this other person truly understands and appreciates you. You can relax in this person’s presence and let your guard down. Your mutual sense of trust, perhaps reinforced by your commitments of loyalty to each other, allows each of you to be more open with each other than either of you would be elsewhere.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Sonrío, recordándolo entrar mientras tenía la nariz enterrada en un libro, quitarse su camiseta y decirme que va a tomar una ducha, pero sé lo que realmente quiere, porque sabe que la vista de él con solo sus jeans es mi jodido porno. No puse pelea. Nunca lo hago. Lo deseo tanto como él a mí. Pero ahora los finales han terminado y también las clases hasta el próximo otoño, y soy toda suya. Su camioneta está estacionada delante, y su cuadriciclo todavía está en el tráiler unido, limpio y brillando como nuevo. Se detiene y apaga el motor, enterrando sus labios en mi cuello y besándome. —Tengo un regalo para ti —se burla. Vuelvo mi cabeza, rozando su mejilla con mis labios. —Ya me diste mi regalo. —Paso mis dedos por los manillares de mi nuevo cuadriciclo y también recuerdo el orgasmo que tuve a las seis de la mañana. Ha sido un muy buen cumpleaños hasta ahora. —En realidad, el cuadriciclo era solo una excusa para comprarme uno — explica. Mordisqueo su mandíbula. —Entonces, ¿qué es? ¿Más antigüedades para mi colección? —Las cintas de casete no son antigüedades, Jordan —declara con firmeza. Me rio. —Tienes razón, tienes razón. Son consideradas clásicas. Como los autos de más de treinta años. ¡Como tú! —trino—. Eres clásico. Pone su mano sobre mi boca, amortiguando mi risa y sacudiendo la cabeza. No está ofendido por mi broma. Solo me burlo sobre su edad porque todavía piensa que es un problema, y estoy intentando aligerar el humor. Y para algunas personas en la ciudad, es extraño. Pero no significan nada para nosotros. Cole, mi hermana y Shel han llegado a estar de acuerdo, no obstante Cole un poco más lento que los otros, pero son todo lo que importa. Muerdo sus dedos, jugando, pero de repente, sostiene una pequeña caja de cuero negro frente a mí y me detengo. Mi rostro cae y ya no me rio. Bajando su mano de mi rostro, permanece en silencio mientras miro fijamente la caja. Un millón de diferentes pensamientos recorren mi cabeza ahora mismo, pero apenas puedo oírlos porque el pulso en mis oídos es ensordecedor. esto. Oh, Dios mío. No es un... anillo, ¿cierto? Quiero decir, no hemos hablado sobre