Joy

Passages

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

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• From Another Country (1962)

  “That’s not entirely true,” said Eric, “don’t listen to her. They’re just very interested, that’s all. I don’t believe anything until it happens.” He took a blue handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face. “Let’s go in,” he said. “Baby,” said Vivaldo, “you’re going to be a star.” He kissed Eric on the forehead. “You son of a bitch.” “Nothing is set,” said Eric, and he looked at Cass. He grinned. “I’m really part of an economy drive. They can get me cheap, you know, and they’ve got almost everybody you ever heard of lined up for the other roles—so my agent explained to me that my name goes below the title—” “But in equal size,” said Cass. “One of those and introducing deals,” said Eric, and laughed. He looked pleased about his good news for the first time. “Well, baby, it looks like you’ve made it now,” said Ida. “Congratulations.” “Your clairvoyant Frenchman,” Cass said, “was right.” “Only what are they going to do about that ante-bellum accent?” asked Vivaldo. “Look,” said Eric, “let’s go see this movie. I speak French in it.” He threw an arm around Vivaldo’s shoulder. “Impeccably.” “Hell,” Vivaldo said, “I don’t really feel like seeing a movie. I’d much rather take you out and get you stinking drunk.” “You’re going to,” said Eric, “as soon as the movie’s over.” And they came, laughing, through the doors just as the French film began. The titles were superimposed over a montage of shots of Paris in the morning: laborers on their bicycles, on their way to work, coming down from the hills of Montmartre, crossing the Place de la Concorde, rolling through the great square before Notre Dame. In great close-ups, the traffic lights flashed on and off, the white batons of the traffic policemen rose and fell; it soon became apparent that one had already picked up the central character and would follow him to his destination; which, if one could judge from the music would be a place of execution. The film was one of those politics, sex, and vengeance dramas the French love to turn out, and it starred one of the great French actors, who had died when this film was completed. So the film, which was not remarkable in itself, held this undeniable necrophilic fascination. Working with this actor, being on the set while this man worked, had been one of the great adventures of Eric’s life. And though Cass, Vivaldo, and Ida were interested in the film principally because Eric appeared in it, the attention which they brought to it was dictated by the silent intensity of Eric’s adoration. They had all heard of the great actor, and they all admired him. But they could not see, of course, as Eric could, with what economy of means he managed great effects and turned an indifferent role into a striking creation.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The policeman seemed to take a dim, even a murderous view of this, and, ceasing to wait on occult inspiration, peered commandingly into the bar. The signal he then received caused him, slowly, to move a little away. But Vivaldo beamed on Eric as though Eric were his pride and joy; and said again, to Ida, staring at Eric, “Ida, this is Eric. Eric, meet Ida.” And he took their hands and placed them together. Ida grasped his hand, laughing, and looked into his eyes. “Eric,” she said, “I think I’ve heard more about you than I’ve ever heard about any living human being. I’m so glad to meet you, I can’t tell you. I’d decided you weren’t nothing but a myth.” The touch of her hand shocked him, as did her eyes and her warmth and her beauty. “I’m delighted to meet you, too,” he said. “You can’t have heard more about me—you can’t have heard better about me—than I’ve heard about you.” They held each other’s eyes for a second, she still smiling, wearing all her beauty as a great queen wears her robes—and establishing that distance between them, too—and then one of the musicians came to the doorway, and said, “Ida, honey, the man says come on with it if you coming.” And he disappeared. Ida said, “Come on, follow me. They’ve got a table for us way in back somewhere.” She took Eric’s arm. “They’re doing me a favor, letting me sit in. I’ve never sung in public before. So I can’t afford to bug them.” “You see,” said Vivaldo, behind them, “you got off the boat just in time for a great occasion.” “You should have let him say that,” said Ida. “I was just about to,” said Eric, “believe me.” They squeezed through the crowd to the slightly wider area in the back. Here, Ida paused, looking about her. She looked up at Eric. “What happened to Richard and Cass?” “They asked me to apologize for them. They couldn’t come. One of the kids was sick.” He felt, as he said this, a faint tremor of disloyalty—to Ida: as though she were mixed up in his mind with the colored children who had attacked Paul and Michael in the park. “Today of all days,” she sighed—but seemed, really, scarcely to be concerned about their absence. Her eyes continued to search the crowd; she sighed again, a sigh of private resignation. The musicians were ready, attempts were being made to silence the mob. A waiter appeared and seated them at a tiny table in a corner next to the ladies’ room, and took their order. The malevolent heat, now that they were trapped in this spot, began rising from the floor and descending from the ceiling.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The king, who was a wise prince, was pleased with Martuccio's counsel and punctually following it, found himself thereby to have won his war. Wherefore Martuccio became in high favour with him and rose in consequence to great and rich estate. The report of these things spread over the land and it came presently to Costanza's ears that Martuccio Gomito, whom she had long deemed dead, was alive, whereupon the love of him, that was now grown cool in her heart, broke out of a sudden into fresh flame and waxed greater than ever, whilst dead hope revived in her. Therewithal she altogether discovered her every adventure to the good lady, with whom she dwelt, and told her that she would fain go to Tunis, so she might satisfy her eyes of that whereof her ears had made them desireful, through the reports received. The old lady greatly commended her purpose and taking ship with her, carried her, as if she had been her mother, to Tunis, where they were honourably entertained in the house of a kinswoman of hers. There she despatched Carapresa, who had come with them, to see what she could learn of Martuccio, and she, finding him alive and in great estate and reporting this to the old gentlewoman, it pleased the latter to will to be she who should signify unto Martuccio that his Costanza was come thither to him; wherefore, betaking herself one day whereas he was, she said to him, 'Martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from Lipari, who would fain speak with thee privily there; wherefore, not to trust to others, I have myself, at his desire, come to give thee notice thereof.' He thanked her and followed her to her house, where when Costanza saw him, she was like to die of gladness and unable to contain herself, ran straightway with open arms to throw herself on his neck; then, embracing him, without availing to say aught, she fell a-weeping tenderly, both for compassion of their past ill fortunes and for present gladness.

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

  But God, in His sovereignty, looked beyond my weaknesses and saw my need for genuine intimacy. And in spite of my unfaithfulness, He’s been faithful to guide me toward that place of quiet rest in my relationships with my father, my husband, and myself. This was not an overnight trip from chaos to peacefulness like it was for Lela, but a long process—one that continues to this day. But before I tell you more about what God has done in me, I want to revisit a couple of the women whose stories were told in the first chapter of this book. They too have moved from the chaotic struggle of sexual compromise to a quiet place of rest. NO MORE STRANGERS IN THE BEDROOM Remember Rebecca, who fantasized about being seduced by a stranger in some exotic place in order to have an orgasm while making love with her husband? She now reports: I didn’t think that what I was doing was wrong at the time. I realize now that Craig was just as hurt over what I was thinking in my mind while we were having sex as I would have been if he had wanted to look at pornography while making love to me. Understanding how we each struggle to maintain sexual integrity has transformed our marriage, our bedroom in particular…. I did what you recommended…. We leave on a dim light and I open my eyes anytime I sense my mind wandering outside of our bedroom. It takes concentration, but when I relax and focus completely on Craig during sex and what we are experiencing together, I feel so close to him and so much closer to God as a result! I actually enjoy sex now rather than just tolerate it and let my mind wander. I never knew it could be this deeply gratifying. Inappropriate thoughts still try to creep in occasionally, but when I compare our old sex life to this new level of intimacy we’ve discovered by keeping our minds pure for each other, I’m inspired to redirect my thoughts back to the gift that God gave me in Craig. Rebecca is right. You will be tempted to resort to your old fantasies, your old masturbation habit, or your dysfunctional relational patterns. That doesn’t mean that you can’t have victory time and time again, however. With each thought taken captive, each inappropriate word not spoken, each extramarital advance you spurn, and each intimate sexual experience you enjoy with your husband, you will be reinforcing your victory and embracing God’s plan for your sexual and emotional fulfillment. FREE FROM THE WEB OF INTRIGUE Six years after MiamiMike escorted Jean into his condo for a dip in his hot tub and a sip of champagne, Jean gives this update:

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Those days at camp were free of academic stress, and I basked in my love for her and took care of my young campers and played and taught tennis and made friends with guys who were interested in something other than medicine. One year my fellow counselor was Paul Horn, who became a well-known flutist, and we remained friends until his death. Aside from these summer interludes, my undergraduate years were relentlessly grim, involving huge classes and minimal contact with professors. However, despite the tension and the unimaginative lectures, I found the content of all my science courses fascinating. That was especially true for organic chemistry—I found the benzene ring, with its beauty and simplicity, coupled to endless complexity, fascinating, and for two summers I earned pocket money tutoring other students in the subject. My favorite courses, though, were my three electives—all literature courses: Modern American Poetry, World Drama, and The Rise of the Novel. I felt alive in these courses and relished reading the books and writing the papers, the only papers I wrote in college. My course on world drama stands out in my mind. It was the smallest class I attended—only forty students—and the content was enthralling. In that class I had my only memorable personal contact with a teacher, an attractive middle-aged woman who wore her blonde hair in a tight bun and once asked me to come to her office. She critiqued my paper on Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus in the most positive manner, informing me that my writing was superb and my thinking original, and asked if I had considered a career in the humanities. To this day I remember her shining face—she was the only professor who ever knew my name. Aside from a B+ in one German course, I had a straight A+ record in college, but, even so, applying to medical school was a nerve-wracking process. I applied to nineteen schools and received eighteen rejections and one acceptance (to GW Medical School, which could not reject a GW undergraduate with a near 4.0 average). Somehow the anti-Semitism in the medical school quota didn’t outrage me—it was ubiquitous, I had never known anything else, and, following my parents’ example, simply took it for granted. I never took an activist posture or even seethed at the vast unfairness of the system. Looking back now, I believe my lack of outrage was due to my lack of self-esteem—I had bought into the worldview of my oppressors. I can still feel the shivers of exhilaration I experienced when I received my letter of admission from GW: it was the greatest thrill of my life. I rushed to the phone to call Marilyn. She tried to be enthusiastic but had never really doubted I would be accepted. My life changed after that—suddenly, I had free time. I picked up a Dostoevsky novel and began reading again.

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

  That night we stayed at a hotel on the edge of town, in a suite painted and decorated in an unsettling shade of brown. The color of burned toast, we agreed. Sunday morning we spent in the pool, hiding from the sun, sharing the shade beneath the diving board. At some point I raised the subject of our future. I was leaving the next day for a long and vital trip to Japan, to cement my relationship with Onitsuka, I hoped. When I returned, later that summer, we couldn’t keep “dating,” I told her. Portland State frowned on teacher-student relationships. We’d have to do something to formalize our relationship, to set it above reproach. Meaning, marriage. “Can you handle arranging a wedding by yourself while I’m gone?” I said. “Yes,” she said. There was very little discussion, or suspense, or emotion. There was no negotiation. It all felt like a foregone conclusion. We went inside the burned-toast suite and phoned Penny’s house. Dot answered, first ring. I gave her the news, and after a long, strangling pause she said: “You son of a bitch.” Click. Moments later she phoned back. She said she’d reacted impulsively because she’d been planning to spend the summer having fun with Penny, and she’d felt disappointed. Now she said it would be almost as much fun to spend the summer planning Penny’s wedding. We phoned my parents next. They sounded pleased, but my sister Jeanne had just gotten married and they were a bit weddinged out. We hung up, looked at each other, looked at the brown wallpaper, and the brown rug, and both sighed. So this is life. I kept saying to myself, over and over, I’m engaged, I’m engaged. But it didn’t sink in, maybe because we were in a hotel in the middle of a heat wave in exurban Sacramento. Later, when we got home and went to a Zell’s and picked out an engagement ring with an emerald stone, it started to feel real. The stone and setting cost five hundred dollars—that was very real. But I never once felt nervous, never asked myself with that typical male remorse, Oh, God, what have I done? The months of dating and getting to know Penny had been the happiest of my life, and now I would have the chance to perpetuate that happiness. That’s how I saw it. Basic as Accounting 101. Assets equal liabilities plus equity. Not until I left for Japan, not until I kissed my fiancée good-bye and promised to write as soon as I got there, did the full reality, with all its dimensions and contours, hit me. I had more than a fiancée, a lover, a friend. I had a partner. In the past I’d told myself Bowerman was my partner, and to some extent Johnson. But this thing with Penny was unique, unprecedented. This alliance was life-altering. It still didn’t make me nervous, it just made me more mindful.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO OXFORD AND THE ENCHANTED COINS OF MR. SFICA M y many years at Stanford often blur together in my memory, but my sabbaticals stand out clearly etched in my mind. During the early 1970s I continued to teach medical students and residents and enlisted many of them as collaborators in psychotherapy research. I published journal articles on group therapy for alcoholics and group therapy for bereaved spouses. At some point my publisher asked me to undertake a second edition of my group therapy textbook. Knowing this project would require my full attention, I applied for a six-month sabbatical, and, in 1974, Marilyn and I and our five-year-old son, Ben, left for Oxford, where I would have an office in the psychiatry department of the Warneford Hospital. Our daughter, Eve, had begun college at Wesleyan, and my other two sons remained behind to finish the school year in Palo Alto under the care of old friends, who would stay with them in our home. We had rented a house in the center of Oxford, but shortly before we arrived, a British airliner crashed, killing all passengers, including the father of the rental family. So, at the last minute, we scrambled to find another Oxford residence. When we found that none were available, we rented a charming old thatched-roof cottage in the small one-pub village of Black Bourton, about thirty minutes away from Oxford. Black Bourton was small, very British, and very secluded: perfect conditions for writing! Revising a textbook is demanding and dull work, but necessary if the book is to remain relevant. I analyzed some research I had just completed, seeking to understand more about what really helped patients during therapy. I had given a large sample of successful group therapy patients a questionnaire of fifty-five statements (related to catharsis, understanding, support, guidance, universality, group cohesiveness, etc.), and just on a whim at the last minute, I threw in a cluster of five unorthodox statements I labeled as “existential factors”—statements such as “recognizing that no matter how close I get to others, I must still face life alone,” or “recognizing there is no escape from some of life’s pain and from death.” I had asked patients to sort these into piles (a “Q sort”) from least to most helpful, and was amazed to find that this whole throw-in category of existential factors ranked far higher than I had expected. Clearly, existential factors were playing a greater role in effective group therapy than we had realized, and I set about making this explicit in a new chapter. As I was starting to address this idea I received a call from the United States informing me that I had just been awarded the prestigious Strecker Award in psychiatry. I was very pleased, of course, but not for long. Two days later, an official letter arrived providing details: I was required to give an address to a large audience in Pennsylvania a year hence. No problem with that.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  But here’s the passage … it follows right after that: ‘And yet there was something more; besides the logical thought, which was often a hindrance, a troublesome though inseparable accident, besides the sensation, always a pleasure and a delight, besides these there were the indefinable, inexpressible images which all fine literature summons to the mind. As the chemist in his experiments is sometimes astonished to find unknown, unexpected elements in the crucible or the receiver, as the world of material things is considered by some a thin veil of the immaterial universe, so he who reads wonderful prose or verse is conscious of suggestions that cannot be put into words, which do not rise from the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected with the sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world of dreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantly appearing, and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression or analysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses….’” “It is beautiful,” she said, as I put the book down. “But don’t you try to write like that. Let Arthur Machen write that way, if he wishes. You write your own way.” I sat down at the table again. A bottle of Chartreuse was standing beside my coffee. As I poured a thimbleful of the fiery green liqueur into my glass, I said: “There’s only one thing missing now: a harem .” “Pop supplied the Chartreuse,” she said. “He was so delighted with those pages.” “Let’s hope he’ll like the next fifty pages as much.” “You’re not writing the book for him, Val. You’re writing it for us .” “That’s true,” I said. “I forget that sometimes.” It occurred to me then that I hadn’t told her anything yet about the outline of the real book. “There’s something I have to tell you,” I began. “Or should I? Maybe I ought to keep it to myself a while longer.” She begged me not to tease. “All right, I’ll tell you. It’s about the book I intend to write one day. I’ve got the notes for it all written out. I wrote you a long letter about it, when you were in Vienna or God knows where. I couldn’t send the letter because you gave me no address. Yes, this will really be a book … a huge one. About you and me.” “Didn’t you keep the letter?” “No. I tore it up. Your fault! But I’ve got the notes. Only I won’t show them to you yet.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want any comments. Besides, if we talk about it I may never write the book. Also, there are some things I wouldn’t want you to know about until I had written them out.” “You can trust me,” she said.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Messer Lizio hearing all this from his wife, said, for that he was an old man and maybe therefore somewhat cross-grained, 'What nightingale is this to whose song she would sleep? I will yet make her sleep to the chirp of the crickets.' Caterina, coming to know this, more of despite than for the heat, not only slept not that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, still complaining of the great heat. Accordingly, next morning, the latter repaired to her husband and said to him, 'Sir, you have little tenderness for yonder girl; what mattereth it to you if she lie in the gallery? She could get no rest all night for the heat. Besides, can you wonder at her having a mind to hear the nightingale sing, seeing she is but a child? Young folk are curious of things like themselves. Messer Lizio, hearing this, said, 'Go to, make her a bed there, such as you think fit, and bind it about with some curtain or other, and there let her lie and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content.' The girl, learning this, straightway let make a bed in the gallery and meaning to lie there that same night, watched till she saw Ricciardo and made him a signal appointed between them, by which he understood what was to be done. Messer Lizio, hearing the girl gone to bed, locked a door that led from his chamber into the gallery and betook himself likewise to sleep. As for Ricciardo, as soon as he heard all quiet on every hand, he mounted a wall, with the aid of a ladder, and thence, laying hold of certain toothings of another wall, he made his way, with great toil and danger, if he had fallen, up to the gallery, where he was quietly received by the girl with the utmost joy. Then, after many kisses, they went to bed together and took delight and pleasure one of another well nigh all that night, making the nightingale sing many a time. The nights being short and the delight great and it being now, though they thought it not, near day, they fell asleep without any covering, so overheated were they what with the weather and what with their sport, Caterina having her right arm entwined about Ricciardo's neck and holding him with the left hand by that thing which you ladies think most shame to name among men.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  One day I brought my computer to the school, waited until the end of class, and begged or bribed—I forget which, perhaps both—the teacher to print a precious hard copy of the work to date. Inspiration came quickly in Bali. Without mail, a telephone, or other distractions, I wrote better and more rapidly than ever before. In my two months there I wrote four of the ten stories. In each story I spent a great deal of time disguising the identity of the patients. I altered the patients’ appearances, occupations, ages, nationalities, marital status, and often even gender. I wanted to be entirely certain that no one could possibly recognize them, and, of course, I would send the patient the finished story and ask for written permission. In our downtime, Marilyn and I explored the island. We adored the graceful Balinese and admired their art, dancing, puppetry, carving, and painting, and we marveled at the religious parades. The beach-walking and snorkeling were heavenly. One day our driver took us, along with two bicycles, to one of Bali’s highest points, and we coasted several miles downhill through villages, passing stands selling slices of jackfruit and durian. To my surprise, chess was popular in Bali, and I found games everywhere. I often went early to a nearby restaurant to play chess with the waiter. My agreement with Marilyn was to spend the second half of the sabbatical year in Europe. I love tropical islands, and Marilyn loves France, and throughout our marriage we have compromised. Marilyn had just officially left her administrative position at Stanford (though she has stayed on until this day as a senior scholar), and she still had some professional duties that took her back to Palo Alto on our way to Europe. I stopped in Hawaii for a writing retreat on Oahu at our Japanese host’s lovely condo, where I wrote two more stories. Finally, after five weeks, Marilyn rang the bell, informing me it was time to resume our trip. Next stop, Bellagio, Italy. A year earlier we had each applied and been accepted for residence at the Rockefeller Foundation Center in Bellagio, she to work on her women’s memoirs of the French Revolution, and I to work on my book of psychotherapy tales. A residency at Bellagio must be one of the greatest perks of academia. Only a short walk from Lake Como, the Rockefeller compound has beautiful gardens, a superb chef, who hand-made the pasta and served a different variety every night, and a handsome central villa that houses the thirty scholars and provides a separate study for each. The scholars met together at mealtimes and for evening seminars, where we each presented our work. Marilyn and I wrote each morning and in the afternoons we often took the ferryboat to one of the small, charming villages on Lake Como. I spent a great deal of time with one of the other scholars, Stanley Elkins, a marvelous comic novelist.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  For years, Marilyn had wanted to move far away from Washington, and soon we were in full agreement: we both wanted to remain in Hawaii, or as close as possible. Before Hawaii, my entire life had focused on my work, with far too little time for my wife and children. Hawaii opened me up to the beauty of my surroundings. The beaches, especially, beckoned, and Marilyn and I walked on them for hours, holding hands just as we had in high school. I spent much more time with my children, a good bit of it in the warm ocean, teaching them to swim, snorkel, and body surf. (I never mastered surfing on a surfboard—I didn’t have the balance.) I took my children to our neighborhood cinema on Friday evenings to watch samurai films, and they wore their pajamas just like the local kids. The army would not ship my Lambretta to Hawaii, but was willing to ship a telescope, so, while still in Baltimore, I had traded the Lambretta for a mechanized eight-inch reflecting telescope, something I had coveted since my childhood forays into telescope making. However, aside from a couple of times when I lugged it to the top of a mountain, I could make little use of my telescope in Hawaii because of the persistently hazy Hawaiian night sky. One of my patients was the flight controller at the army air force base, and through him I enjoyed the perk of hopping weekend flights to the Philippines and Japan. I did some snorkeling in the exquisite waters off a small island in the Philippines, and saw sunsets in Manila that remain forever in my mind’s eye. I stayed at the officers’ club in Tokyo and explored the city. Whenever I was lost, I hailed a taxi and showed him the club card with the address written in Japanese. I had been warned by the club manager to watch the driver when I showed him the card: if he inhaled sharply, then I should jump out of the cab, as Tokyo taxi drivers would not lose face by admitting they didn’t know an address. Shortly after our arrival, Marilyn obtained a faculty position at the University of Hawaii French Department. She was especially delighted to teach a course on contemporary French literature with so many Vietnamese students fluent in French, even though they had great difficulty grasping Sartre’s ideas about alienation, as they were planning to swim after class in the warm blue ocean. Marilyn needed our car to drive to the university, so I bought a peppy Yamaha motorcycle and was thrilled with my thirty-minute morning commute to Tripler over the top of the Pali. During our time there, the Wilson Tunnel through the mountains opened, and I then took that shorter route to work and had the daily experience of entering it in bright sunshine and emerging almost always in the midst of a delicious, warm Hawaiian shower.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  The New York Times reviewer, a child psychiatrist, was affronted by the format and ended her sour review saying that she would prefer to read her case histories in professional journals. A few minutes after midnight on Sunday night, however, I was awakened by a phone call from my overjoyed publisher saying that the Wednesday New York Times would publish a rave review by Eva Hoffman, a well-known writer and reviewer. To this day I am grateful to Eva Hoffman, whom I had the pleasure of meeting years later. I did readings of the book in New York and at bookstores in a dozen cities. Those national book tours are now largely a thing of the past, along with the profession of book tour guides, who met authors at the airport and transported them to speaking engagements. At almost every bookstore, Oliver Sacks had just preceded me, promoting his recently published book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat . Our paths crossed so much that I felt I knew him, but unfortunately we never met. I much admired his work, and after reading his moving final book, On the Move , I wrote him a fan letter shortly before he died. Within a few weeks after publication, to my total astonishment, Love’s Executioner found its way to the New York Times bestseller list, where it remained for several weeks. I was soon overwhelmed with interviews and speaking requests, and remember complaining about my fatigue and stress in a lunch conversation with Phillip Lopate, a fine essayist who had been one of my instructors at a writing workshop at Bennington College. His advice to me: “Chill out and enjoy the attention—bestsellers are rare and, who knows, you might never have another.” And, oh, how right he was. Twenty-three years later, the publisher decided to reissue Love’s Executioner with a different cover and asked me to write a new afterword. I reread the book—the first time in a great many years—and had strong reactions: pride coupled with chagrin at my aging and envy of my younger self. I couldn’t help feeling this guy writes a lot better than I can . It was a pleasure to revisit all my dear old patients, many of them no longer alive. But there was one exception: the story “Fat Lady.” I remember writing that story in a Paris café and spending hours constructing the opening paragraph, which introduces the concept of countertransference, the therapist’s unbidden emotional reactions to a patient. The day Betty entered my office, the instant I saw her steering her ponderous two-hundred-fifty-pound, five-foot-two-inch frame toward my trim, high-tech office chair, I knew that a great trial of countertransference was in store for me. The story is meant to be a teaching tale for therapists, and I, even more than the patient, am the main character.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  How much the company laughed at this story, which was better understood of the ladies than Dioneo willed, let her who shall yet laugh thereat imagine for herself. But, the day's stories being now ended and the sun beginning to abate of its heat, the queen, knowing the end of her seignory to be come, rose to her feet and putting off the crown, set it on the head of Pamfilo, whom alone it remained to honour after such a fashion, and said, smiling, "My lord, there devolveth on thee a great burden, inasmuch as with thee it resteth, thou being the last, to make amends for my default and that of those who have foregone me in the dignity which thou presently holdest; whereof God lend thee grace, even as He hath vouchsafed it unto me to make thee king." Pamfilo blithely received the honour done him and answered, "Your merit and that of my other subjects will do on such wise that I shall be adjudged deserving of commendation, even as the others have been." Then, having, according to the usance of his predecessors, taken order with the seneschal of the things that were needful, he turned to the expectant ladies and said to them, "Lovesome ladies, it was the pleasure of Emilia, who hath this day been our queen, to give you, for the purpose of affording some rest to your powers, license to discourse of that which should most please you; wherefore, you being now rested, I hold it well to return to the wonted ordinance, and accordingly I will that each of you bethink herself to discourse to-morrow of this, to wit, OF WHOSO HATH ANYWISE WROUGHT GENEROUSLY OR MAGNIFICENTLY IN MATTERS OF LOVE OR OTHERWHAT. The telling and doing of these things will doubtless fire your well-disposed minds to do worthily; so will our life, which may not be other than brief in this mortal body, be made perpetual in laudatory renown; a thing which all, who serve not the belly only, as do the beasts, should not only desire, but with all diligence seek and endeavour after." The theme pleased the joyous company, who having all, with the new king's license, arisen from session, gave themselves to their wonted diversions, according to that unto which each was most drawn by desire; and on this wise they did until the hour of supper, whereunto they came joyously and were served with diligence and fair ordinance. Supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of music, the king bade Neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began thus: A youngling maid am I and full of glee, Am fain to carol in the new-blown May, Love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free.

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

  You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness. (Ephesians 4:22-24) That was my sign. I threw everything out and vowed not to indulge in self-gratification any longer. I usually indulged in this practice during my baby’s daily naptime, so I had to create a new ritual. I began not just reading my Bible, but studying passages of Scripture and meditating on them. I started a journal and began writing what I sensed the Lord wanted to teach me. I would pray about things that I had never previously taken the time to pray about. I purchased some greeting cards and sent notes to individuals God laid on my heart during my prayer time. If I had any time left over, I would put on some soft worship music and do some stretching exercises or straighten the house. I couldn’t believe how quickly the hours passed and how much I looked forward to and enjoyed this special time. Susan discovered the secret to living the overcoming life: Either sin will keep you from the Bible, or the Bible will keep you from sin. Of course, reading or even studying the Bible won’t keep you from sin. (Just look at all the pastors who are Bible scholars yet have engaged in sexual sin.) We have to internalize and apply what the Bible says. To renew the mind means to bring fresh, living thoughts into our minds in addition to keeping old, decaying thoughts at bay. Even though it’s not humanly possible to empty your mind of garbage, it is possible to crowd the garbage out by filling your mind with pure thoughts. Your mind can only concentrate on so many things at once, and the more you concentrate on wholesome thoughts, the more your unwholesome thoughts will have to take a backseat. Some things we can tap into to help us renew our minds are: • scripture memory • Christian-living books • praise and worship music • value-based television and movies • devotional books • Christian magazines • prayer journals • conversations with other Christians Perhaps you can add to this list other ways to keep your mind full of godly messages that will help crowd out the sinful messages. By resisting temptation at the gate, redirecting tempting thoughts, and renewing our minds we can develop an attitude such as David had when he asked, “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting” (Psalm 139:23-24).

• From The Decameron (1353)

  O singular blandness of the Bolognese blood! How art thou still to be commended in such circumstance! Never wast thou desirous of tears or sighs; still wast thou compliant unto prayers and amenable unto amorous desires! Had I words worthy to commend thee, my voice should never weary of singing thy praises. The gentle lady, what while Anichino spoke, kept her eyes fixed on him and giving full credence to his words, received, by the prevalence of his prayers, the love of him with such might into her heart that she also fell a-sighing and presently answered, 'Sweet my Anichino, be of good courage; neither presents nor promises nor solicitations of nobleman or gentleman or other (for I have been and am yet courted of many) have ever availed to move my heart to love any one of them; but thou, in this small space of time that thy words have lasted, hast made me far more thine than mine own. Methinketh thou hast right well earned my love, wherefore I give it thee and promise thee that I will cause thee have enjoyment thereof ere this next night be altogether spent. And that this may have effect, look thou come to my chamber about midnight. I will leave the door open; thou knowest which side the bed I lie; do thou come thither and if I sleep, touch me so I may awake, and I will ease thee of this so long desire that thou hast had. And that thou mayst believe this that I say, I will e'en give thee a kiss by way of arles.' Accordingly, throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him amorously and he on like wise kissed her. These things said, he left her and went to do certain occasions of his, awaiting with the greatest gladness in the world the coming of the night.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, in company with a trusty friend of his called Adriano, who knew his love, he late one evening hired a couple of hackneys and set thereon two pairs of saddle-bags, filled belike with straw, with which they set out from Florence and fetching a compass, rode till they came overagainst the plain of Mugnone, it being by this night; then, turning about, as they were on their way back from Romagna, they made for the good man's house and knocked at the door. The host, being very familiar with both of them, promptly opened the door and Pinuccio said to him, 'Look you, thou must needs harbour us this night. We thought to reach Florence before dark, but have not availed to make such haste but that we find ourselves here, as thou seest at this hour.' 'Pinuccio,' answered the host, 'thou well knowest how little commodity I have to lodge such men as you are; however, since the night hath e'en overtaken you here and there is no time for you to go otherwhere, I will gladly harbour you as I may.' The two young men accordingly alighted and entered the inn, where they first eased[434] their hackneys and after supper with the host, having taken good care to bring provision with them. [Footnote 434: _Adagiarono_, _i.e._ unsaddled and stabled and fed them.] Now the good man had but one very small bedchamber, wherein were three pallet-beds set as best he knew, two at one end of the room and the third overagainst them at the other end; nor for all that was there so much space left that one could go there otherwise than straitly. The least ill of the three the host let make ready for the two friends and put them to lie there; then, after a while neither of the gentlemen being asleep, though both made a show thereof, he caused his daughter betake herself to bed in one of the two others and lay down himself in the third, with his wife, who set by the bedside the cradle wherein she had her little son. Things being ordered after this fashion and Pinuccio having seen everything, after a while, himseeming that every one was asleep, he arose softly and going to the bed where slept the girl beloved of him, laid himself beside the latter, by whom, for all she did it timorously, he was joyfully received, and with her he proceeded to take of that pleasure which both most desired. Whilst Pinuccio abode thus with his mistress, it chanced that a cat caused certain things fall, which the good wife, awaking, heard; whereupon, fearing lest it were otherwhat, she arose, as she was, in the dark and betook herself whereas she had heard the noise.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The abbot, for all he had a great beard and was clad after the Saracen fashion, presently recognized him and altogether reassured, took him by the hand, saying, 'My son, thou art welcome back.' Then he continued, 'Thou must not marvel at our affright, for that there is not a man in these parts but firmly believeth thee to be dead, insomuch that I must tell thee that Madam Adalieta thy wife, overmastered by the prayers and threats of her kinsfolk and against her own will, is married again and is this morning to go to her new husband; ay, and the bride-feast and all that pertaineth unto the nuptial festivities is prepared.' Therewithal Messer Torello arose from off the rich bed and greeting the abbot and the monks with marvellous joyance, prayed them all to speak with none of that his return, against he should have despatched an occasion of his; after which, having caused lay up the costly jewels in safety, he recounted to his uncle all that had befallen him up to that moment. The abbot rejoiced in his happy fortunes and together with him, rendered thanks to God, after which Messer Torello asked him who was his lady's new husband. The abbot told him and Torello said, 'I have a mind, ere folk know of my return, to see what manner countenance is that of my wife in these nuptials; wherefore, albeit it is not the usance of men of your habit to go to entertainments of this kind, I would have you contrive, for the love of me, that we may go thither, you and I.' The abbot replied that he would well and accordingly, as soon as it was day, he sent to the new bridegroom, saying that he would fain be at his nuptials with a friend of his, whereto the gentleman answered that it liked him passing well.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Mary, like many another before her, grew as happy as she had been downhearted; for the merest trifles are often enough to change the trend of mercurial emotions such as beset the heart in its youth; and she looked at Stephen with gratitude in her eyes, and with something far more fundamental of which she herself was unconscious. And now she began to talk in her turn. She could type fairly well, was a very good speller; she would type Stephen’s books, take care of her papers, answer her letters, look after the house, even beard the lugubrious Pauline in her kitchen. Next autumn she would write to Holland for bulbs — they must have lots of bulbs in their city garden, and in summer they ought THE WELL OF LONELINESS 341 to manage some roses — Paris was less cruel to flowers than Lon- don. Oh, and might she have pigeons with wide, white tails? They would go so well with the old marble fountain. Stephen listened, nodding from time to time. Yes, of course she could have her white fan-tailed pigeons, and her bulbs, and her roses, could have anything she pleased, if only she would get quite well and be happy. At this Mary laughed: ‘Oh, Stephen, my dear — don’t you know that I’m really terribly happy? ’ Pierre came in with the evening letters; there was one from Anna and another from Puddle. There was also a lengthy epistle from Brockett who was praying, it seemed, for demobilization. Once released, he must go for a few weeks to England, but after that he was coming to Paris. He wrote: ‘I’m longing to see you again and Valérie Sey- mour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that you never rang her up. It’s a pity you’re so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I call it, you'll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a com- plex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle life — better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only the other day she wrote: “ When you see Stephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour.” You might write her a line, and you might write to me — already I’m finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I’m just crazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all, were told to rejoice with those who rejoice — may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And by the way, Valérie’s very for- giving, so don’t feel shy about telephoning to her. She’s one of those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snub- bing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.’

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  I was the discussant for segments of the interaction. Another of my sons, Victor, edited a film of the event and has made the video available on his educational website. It was a great delight for me to sit back and watch my imagined characters interact in the flesh.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He watched her face for a moment, looking extremely pleased himself, and then delicately increased his pressure on her elbow, more for the pleasure this gave him than to hurry them across the broad, impatient, startling Avenue. “Yes,” he said, “it’s a great day.” They had just come up from the subway and it was perhaps this ascent from darkness to day which made the streets so dazzling. They were on Broadway at Seventy-second Street, walking uptown—for Cass and Richard had moved, they were climbing that well-known ladder, Cass said. The light seemed to fall with an increased hardness, examining and inciting the city with an unsparing violence, like the violence of love, and striking from the city’s grays and blacks a splendor as of steel on steel. In the windows of tall buildings flame wavered, alive, in ice. There was a high, driving wind which brightened the eyes and the faces of the people and forced their lips slightly apart, so that they all seemed to be carrying, to some immense encounter, the bright, fragile bubble of a lifetime of expectation. Bright boys in windbreakers, some of them with girls whose hair, whose fingertips, caught the light, looked into polished delicatessen windows, the windows of shops, paused at the entrances of movie theatres to look at the gleaming stills; and their voices, which shared the harsh quality of the light which covered them, seemed breaking on the air like glass splinters. Children, in great gangs and clouds, erupted out of side streets with the sound of roller skates and came roaring down on their elders like vengeance long prepared, or the arrow released from the bow. “I’ve never seen such a day,” he said to Ida, and it was true. Everything seemed to be swollen, thrusting and shifting and changing, about to burst into music or into flame or revelation. Ida said nothing. He felt, rather then saw her smile, and he was delighted all over again by her beauty. It was as though she were wearing it especially for him. She was more friendly with him today than she had ever been. He did not feel today, as he had felt for so long, that she was evading him, locking herself away from him, forcing him to remain a stranger in her life. Today she was gayer and more natural, as though she had at last decided to come out of mourning. There was in her aspect the flavor of something won, the atmosphere of hard decisions past.