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 A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Peter stumbled out of his clothes, which he left in a puddle on the floor. His shoulders were bony, his waist tiny, his penis a pale blue snail peeping up out of its rounded shell. He mumbled something about the cold sheets and turned his face to the wall. Kevin and I, at either end of the long, narrow room, undressed more deliberately, said nothing and scarcely looked at each other. Lights out. Then the long wait for Peter’s breathing to slow and thicken. The silence was thoughtful, like a pulse heard in an ear pressed to the mattress. Peter said, “Because I don’t want to … squirrel … yeah, but you …” and was gone. Still Kevin waited, and I feared he too had gone to sleep. But no, here he was, floating toward me, the ghost T-shirt on his torso browner from today’s sun. With the Vaseline jar in hand. The cold jelly with its light medicinal odor, which warms quickly to body temperature. As I went in him, he said straight out, as clear as a bell, “That feels really great.” It had never occurrred to me before that sex between two men can please both of them at the same time. The next afternoon my father, painfully patient but haggard from these unusual daytime hours, took us kids water-skiing. Again I walked on the lacquered deck, pushing us away from the dock with the long pole, my movements stiff, almost arthritic with fright. Again my father shouted orders that betrayed his own anxiety: “Kids, I smell something burning. The engine’s on fire! Goddamn it, quick, young fellow, open those doors.” “Nothing, sir, everything’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes sir. Positive.” “Sure?” “Yes.” I was clinging to the windshield with claws of fear—and I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Peter smirking at each other. They thought my father and I were fools. Skiing off the boat wasn’t simple. The velocity of such a massive, powerful vessel almost pulled your arms out of your sockets. The wake fanning out on either side of you once you were aloft seemed mountainous and to jump over it foolhardy, if not suicidal. Kevin, of course, handled it all beautifully, though he’d never skied before. Soon he was clowning around and lifting first one ski and then the other, and he raced over the wake from side to side with great speed. I was in the bucket seat watching him. If we lost him I was supposed to signal Peter up ahead, who was to relay the message to the captain—but Kevin fell only once. We went past the diving raft and its company of teenage swimmers; I was pleased that our boat was pulling someone as athletic as Kevin. In our family the virtues were all invisible to a stranger’s eye. My stepmother’s social eminence, my dad’s dough—they couldn’t be seen.

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  Up until this point, she’s spent a lot of time around Michael’s older sister, but she hasn’t met his parents or even been to the family home. Michael describes his mom and dad as “a little stuffier” than Katherine’s, but “basically they’re good guys.” Still, she’s hesitant to come over, even though Michael assures her that his parents will be out until midnight. “We don’t have to do anything… we can just go there and talk,” Michael tells her. This time though, the charade has been dropped and Katherine isn’t even pretending to fall for it. “I think I’ve heard that before!” she jokes. Once she’s through the door, Katherine is fascinated by what she sees. The furniture downstairs is “big, heavy and dark.” She has fun inspecting Michael’s bedroom, where he displays his team pennants and trophies. She even goes through his medicine cabinet, laughing that he “use[s] more junk” than she does and has “at least six different kinds of aftershave.” They banter back and forth about it until Katherine raises the stakes. “Do you ever put it on your balls?” she asks. Michael says no, and then wonders if she would like to do it for him. Katherine accepts the challenge, then boldly inspects Ralph in the light of the bathroom. They have sex right there, though Katherine remains unsatisfied. But an hour later, they try again, this time in Michael’s bed. For the first time, he’s able to last a little longer, giving Katherine a chance to get into it. “I grabbed his backside with both hands, trying to push him deeper and deeper into me,” Katherine says. “I spread my legs as far as I could—and I raised my hips off the bed—and I moved with him, again and again and again—and at last, I came.” Katherine isn’t ashamed. Far from it—she’s celebratory. “I actually came,” she tells Michael afterward. “I’ve never felt so close to you before.” Then, “Can we do it again?” Michael says he needs to rest. They go out for hamburgers and Michael brings her home, where they sit in the den for a while. “I thought how nice it would be if we could go upstairs, to bed, together,” Katherine says. “I was hoping we’d make love again but Michael said he was kind of exhausted.” By this point, Katherine’s sexuality has been fully awakened. In the logic of the novel she’s done everything right, and her reward is getting to enjoy her intimate experiences. The next time they have sex, after Michael’s high school graduation, she doesn’t just let herself go—she actively pursues pleasure. Back in the den, Michael notes that she’s being “aggressive” as she kisses him all over his body. She straddles him and asks if it’s okay to do it “this way,” with her on top. “Any way you want,” Michael answers. Katherine describes finding the rhythm between their bodies and savoring every moment. “I couldn’t control myself anymore,” she says. “I came before he did.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  We were under way. The speedboat lunged forward with so much force that we were pressed back against our seats. Peter, Kevin’s seven-year-old brother, was in the rumble seat, his hair streaming under the rippling flag, his mouth open to scream with delighted fear, though the sound was lost behind gales of wind. He waved a skinny arm and with his other hand clutched a chromium grip beside him; even so, he was posting high as we spanked over someone else’s wake. Our own was thrown back from the prow. The night, intent seamstress, fed the fabric of water under the needle of our hull, steadily, firmly, except the boat wasn’t stitching the water together but ripping it apart into long white shreds. Along the shore a few house lights here and there peered through the pines, as fleeting as stars glimpsed through the moving clouds above. We shot past an anchored boat of fishermen and their single kerosene lamp; one of them shook his fist at us. The lake narrowed. Over to the right lay the nine-hole golf course (I knew it was there, though I couldn’t see it) with its ramshackle clubhouse and wicker armchairs painted green, its porch swing on creaking chains. Once a month we showed up there late for Sunday supper, our clothes not right, our talk too distant and forthright, the cigar a foul smudge pot set out to ward off the incoming social frost. Now Dad’s cigar had gone out and he stopped the boat to relight it. From our high windy perch we drifted down, engine cut to a mild churning. When the exhaust pipe dipped above water level, it blatted rudely. “Boy, I’m soaked!” Peter was screaming in his soprano. “I’m freezing. Gee, you sure let me have it!” “Too much for you, young fellow?” my father asked, chuckling. He winked at me. The children of visitors (and sometimes their fathers) were usually called “young fellow,” since Dad could never remember their names. Old Boy, who had been squinting into the wind, his head stuck out beyond and around the windshield, was now prancing happily across the cushions to receive a pat from his master. Kevin, sitting just behind my father, said, “Those fishermen were mad as hell. I’d’ve been, too, if some guy in a big fat-ass powerboat scared off my fish.” My father winced, then grumbled something about how they had no business … He was hurt.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  By ten, the intoxication of all this bon vivant business had reached Howard’s petite ears, which were quite red with joy. It seemed to him an especially successful little party. In truth it was a typical Wellington affair: always threatening to fill up but never quite doing so. The Black Studies Department’s graduate crowd were out in force, mostly because Erskine was well loved by them and they were, anyway, by the far the most socialized people at Wellington, priding themselves on their reputation for being the closest replicas on campus to normal human beings. Along with large talk they had small talk; they had a Black Music Library in their department; they knew, and could speak eloquently of, the latest trash television. They were invited to all the parties and came to all of them too. But the English Department was less well represented tonight: only Claire, that Marxist Joe, Smith and a few female Cult of Claire groupies who, Howard was amused to see, were throwing themselves at Warren, one after another, like lemmings. Warren had clearly joined the list of things of which Claire approved – therefore they wanted him. A circle of strange young anthropologists Howard didn’t think he knew remained in the kitchen all night, hovering by the food, fearful of going anywhere where there was not an abundance of props – glasses, bottles, canapeś – with which to fiddle. Howard left them to it and adjourned to the garden. He walked the rim of the pool, happily holding on to his empty glass, as the summer moon passed behind blushing clouds and all about rose the agreeable animal sound of outdoor conversation. ‘Strange date for it, though,’ he heard somebody say. And then the usual response: ‘Oh, I think it’s a wonderful date for a party. You know it’s their actual anniversary, so . . . And if we don’t reclaim the day, you know . . . then it’s like they’ve won. It’s a reclaiming, absolutely.’ This was the most popular conversation of the night. Howard had had it himself at least four times since the clock struck ten and the wine really kicked in. Before that no one liked to mention it. Every twenty seconds or so, Howard admired a pair of feet as they thrust up through the skin of the water; the curved back that  On Beauty followed, and then the slim brown form in the water doing another speedy, almost silent lap. Levi had evidently decided that if he must stay at this party, he might as well get a work-out. Howard could not figure out exactly how long Levi’d been in the pool, but, as his own speech had ended and the applause faded, everyone had noticed at the same time that there was a lone swimmer, and then almost everyone had asked their neighbour whether they recalled Cheever’s story. Academics lack range.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  answered the door and said that Mrs Kipps had just left for the Amherst house and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. In a bit of a panic Kiki jogged as best she could to the bus stop; gave up on the bus, walked to the crossroads and managed to hail a cab. At the station she found Carlene buying a hot chocolate and preparing to board the train. ‘Kiki!’ ‘I want to come – I’d love to – if you’ll still have me.’ Carlene put one gloved hand to Kiki’s hot cheek in a manner that unexpectedly made her want to weep. ‘You’ll stay over. We’ll eat in town and spend all tomorrow in the house. You’re such a funny woman. What a thing to do!’ They were just walking arm in arm up the platform when they heard Carlene’s name cried out several times: ‘Mum! Hey, Mum!’ ‘Vee! Michael! But this is . . . hello, my darlings! Monty!’ ‘Carlene, what on earth are you doing here? Come here, let me kiss you, you silly old thing – what about this! So you’re feeling better, then.’ Here Carlene nodded like a happy child. ‘Hello,’ said Monty to Kiki, frowning as he did so, and shaking her hand briefly before turning back to his wife. ‘We had a New York nightmare – the incompetent running that church – it’s either incompetence or criminality – anyway, we’re back early, and very pleased about it – not a chance Michael’s getting married in that place, I can tell you that – not a chance – but what are you – ’ ‘I was heading up to Eleanor’s house,’ said Carlene, beaming, accepting hugs on either side from her two children, one of whom, Victoria, was looking over at Kiki like a jealous lover. Another young girl, plainly dressed, with a blue polo neck and pearls at her throat, held Michael’s spare arm. His fianceé, Kiki assumed. ‘Kiki, I think we shall have to postpone our trip.’ ‘The man claimed to know nothing – nothing – of the last four letters we sent him about the school in Trinidad. He’d washed his hands of it! Shame he didn’t tell anyone at our end.’ ‘And his accounts were so dodgy. I went through them. Something was definitely not right there,’ added Michael. Kiki smiled. ‘Sure thing,’ she said. ‘Rain check – another day.’  the anatomy lesson ‘Do you need a lift?’ Monty asked Kiki gruffly, as the family turned to go. ‘Oh – thank you, no . . . there’s four of you, and a cab wouldn’t . . .’ The happy clan bustled away back down the platform, laughing and speaking over each other, as the Amherst train pulled away and Kiki stood with Carlene’s hot chocolate in her hand. on beauty and being wrong When I say I hate time, Paul says how else could we find depth of character, or grow souls? Mark Doty 

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “I didn’t want to go.” “So now you won’t have to leave me because I’m going, too.” He hugged her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Irene was right—some things were bashert, meant to be. Out of all the places in the world, she and Mason were going to wind up in Las Vegas together. She started to laugh. “But are you sure Jack is going?” “Everything depends on Dr. O. If he goes, then Christina is going, and if Christina goes, Jack will go, and if Jack goes…” He lifted her off the ground and swung her around. Then he turned serious. “So long as Jack doesn’t get called up. He says if he does, he could try to claim me as a dependent but he’s not sure if that’ll work or not. Christina wants him to try. We’d have to go to court.” “You mean Jack might have to go to Korea?” Mason nodded. “He’s 1-A.” “But Eisenhower says if he’s elected he’ll end the war.” “That’s only if he wins. We don’t even know if he’s running yet. The election’s not until November. He’s not sworn in until January. And it could be somebody else. Joey Pol says it could be Adlai Stevenson.” “Joey Pol?” “The guy from the bowling alley. Joey Politics. He says Stevenson’s an egghead. Who knows what he’d do?” “Uncle Henry says Stevenson is brilliant.” “Don’t take this wrong, but your family leans to the left.” “Are you calling my family Communists?” “Nothing like that. They’re the best family I know.” “Then please take that back, about leaning to the left.” “Okay. I take it back.” They were interrupted by a little boy who ran at Mason, grabbing hold of his leg. “Come see new house.” “I will,” Mason told him. “Later.” “No, now!” “Later, Stash. Okay?” The door to the apartment house opened, and Polina came out, holding Fred on a leash. “Sorry so late,” she told Mason. Her lipstick was bright red and her dress didn’t leave much to the imagination, as if she were trying to look like Marilyn Monroe on the recent cover of Life magazine, beauty mark and all, one she didn’t have when she was making pancakes for the kids at Janet. “We are very happy here,” Polina said. “A beautiful place.” “You should thank Miri,” Mason said. “It’s because of her you got the apartment.” “Mr. Ben’s granddaughter?” Polina asked. “I’m not exactly his granddaughter.” “But close to it,” Mason said. “Thank you and thank Mr. Ben,” she said to Miri, right before she threw her arms around Mason. “Oh, this wonderful boy. I don’t want to lose. I’ll miss too much. Maybe we should go, too. What you think, Stash? Should we go with Mason, far away?” She knew, too? Stash said, “No, Mama. I like it here.” “He loves new apartment.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  She assured him it would grow quickly, an inch a month, she’d heard, and just to be sure she’d already started to gently tug it, the way she did a pair of dungarees that had shrunk in the wash. She expected to be halfway there by summer, by the time of Henry and Leah’s wedding. She was waiting until invitations went out to ask if she could invite Mason to be her date. Mason pointed to a barrel-chested man, bowling in the next lane. “Joey Politics,” he said. “He knows everybody and everything.” The girls looked over for a minute but really, what did they care about somebody called Joey Politics. She told Mason about meeting Polina at Dr. O’s office. “My mother’s going to ask Ben Sapphire if he can find her and Stash a place to live.” “That’d be good.” And just like that, he leaned in and kissed her, the first time they’d kissed in public, in front of Suzanne, Eleanor, Robo and Natalie. Then he kissed her again, until his boss called, “Enough, lover boy. You got a line waiting for shoes and I need a pin boy in lane six.” The girls teased her, humming the wedding march. “Have you set the date yet?” Robo asked. “Stop!” Miri shouted, louder than she’d meant to, and they laughed, all but Natalie. “It’s freezing in here,” Natalie said, wrapping a wool scarf around her neck. She was swathed in sweaters, and had her coat draped over her shoulders. “If you bowled you’d be boiling,” Suzanne told her, stripping down to a cotton shirt with her name embroidered across the pocket, like the ladies who played in leagues. Miri threw her first strike that night, which she took as a sign that every day something good can happen. And today was a bonanza—new shoes, Mason’s kisses and a strike. Later, before Eleanor’s father picked them up, Natalie took her aside. “Come to my house tomorrow morning. I have something to show you.” “Is it the surprise your father talked about?” “He told you about the surprise?” “Only that you have one. So what is it?” “If I tell you it won’t be a surprise. And don’t say anything to the other girls, okay? I’m not ready to tell them yet.” Miri remembered the last time she’d gone to Natalie’s, just her, and it turned out to be the worst day of her life. —THE SURPRISE WAS the finished basement. It had been transformed into a dance studio, with a mirrored wall, a barre and a wood floor. The jukebox still stood in the corner but instead of Nat King Cole and Patti Page, it held the kind of music you hear in movie musicals. Blue skies smilin’ at me… “Isn’t it fabulous?” Natalie asked. “The floor is genuine maple, the best for tap.” She hummed and did a couple of warm-up steps, then stopped and looked at Miri.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  One drop of rare honey, however, that Thursday did hold in its acorn cup. Haze was to drive her to the camp in the early morning. Upon sundry sounds of departure reaching me, I rolled out of bed and leaned out of the window. Under the poplars, the car was already athrob. On the sidewalk, Louise stood shading her eyes with her hand, as if the little traveler were already riding into the low morning sun. The gesture proved to be premature. “Hurry up!” shouted Haze. My Lolita, who was half in and about to slam the car door, wind down the glass, wave to Louise and the poplars (whom and which she was never to see again), interrupted the motion of fate: she looked up—and dashed back into the house (Haze furiously calling after her). A moment later I heard my sweetheart running up the stairs. My heart expanded with such force that it almost blotted me out. I hitched up the pants of my pajamas, flung the door open: and simultaneously Lolita arrived, in her Sunday frock, stamping, panting, and then she was in my arms, her innocent mouth melting under the ferocious pressure of dark male jaws, my palpitating darling! The next instant I heard her—alive, unraped—clatter downstairs. The motion of fate was resumed. The blond leg was pulled in, the car door was slammed—was re-slammed—and driver Haze at the violent wheel, rubber-red lips writhing in angry, inaudible speech, swung my darling away, while unnoticed by them or Louise, old Miss Opposite, an invalid, feebly but rhythmically waved from her vined veranda. 16The hollow of my hand was still ivory-full of Lolita—full of the feel of her pre-adolescently incurved back, that ivory-smooth, sliding sensation of her skin through the thin frock that I had worked up and down while I held her. I marched into her tumbled room, threw open the door of the closet and plunged into a heap of crumpled things that had touched her. There was particularly one pink texture, sleazy, torn, with a faintly acrid odor in the seam. I wrapped in it Humbert’s huge engorged heart. A poignant chaos was ’welling within me—but I had to drop those things and hurriedly regain my composure, as I became aware of the maid’s velvety voice calling me softly from the stairs. She had a message for me, she said; and, topping my automatic thanks with a kindly “you’re welcome,” good Louise left an unstamped, curiously clean-looking letter in my shaking hand.

• From In the Unlikely Event (2015)

  “I’m Mason.” His voice was gravelly, as if maybe he had a sore throat. “Mason.” She tried it out. She’d never known anyone named Mason. “Mason McKittrick.” McKittrick. Miri tried to hide her disappointment. He wasn’t Jewish. Irene wouldn’t approve. Okay, she wouldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t tell anyone. He would be another of her secrets. She was beginning to enjoy having secrets from her family. While Natalie danced to every song with Winky Herkovitz, the best dancer in ninth grade, who dipped her, flipped her from knee to knee and twirled her, while Suzanne, the shiksa the Jewish boys loved, danced to every song with a different partner, while Eleanor, who still had braces on her teeth and refused to smile for photos, had a deep conversation with a chaperone, a teacher Uncle Henry’s age and Robo, well developed and athletic, made out in the cloakroom with Pete Wolf, who believed in Martians, Miri danced only with Mason. After a while he led her outside so he could have a smoke. She’d been right. He did smoke, and his brand was Luckies. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco. He offered one to her. She shook her head. She’d tried it once and had almost choked to death. Almost vomited in front of everyone. But she liked the way he held the cigarette between his teeth. When he’d had enough he tossed it to the ground and stepped on it, crushing it like a bug. He kissed her then, outside the Y in the freezing-cold December night air, with neither of them wearing a coat. Her teeth were chattering but she wasn’t going to suggest they go back inside, not as long as he was holding her that way, not as long as he was kissing her that way and she was kissing him back. They kissed a second time and her legs turned to jelly. She’d heard that expression a million times, but until now she hadn’t understood it. She’d never been kissed by a boy like Mason. No sloppy tongue shoved halfway down her throat, no washing out her ear. Just perfect kisses. Two, three, four—she lost count. If she died then she was sure she’d die happy. They went back inside for the last dance. The lights had been dimmed and she and Mason danced cheek to cheek, thanks to her mother’s heels, their arms wrapped around one another. In the meadow we can build a snowman… She was glad it wasn’t “Goodnight, Irene,” often the last song at a dance. She loved her grandmother but she didn’t want to think about her tonight. “Can I walk you home?” Mason asked while they, and everyone else, scrambled for their coats. Miri nodded. “I just have to tell my friends.” Outside, Robo’s father was waiting for them. The girls had already piled into the car. “I’m walking home with Mason,” she told them. “Who’s Mason?” Natalie asked.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  As soon as Thelyphron had told his tale they which sat at the table, replenished with wine, laughed heartily ; and while they cried for a toast after their fashion to Laughter, Byrrhaena spoke to me and said: “From the first foundation of this city, we alone of all men have had a custom to celebrate with joyful and pleasant rites the festival day of the god S. 97 32 LUCIUS APULEIUS efficies gratiorem; atque utinam aliquid de proprio lep- ore laetificum honorando deo comminiscaris,quo magis pleniusque tanto numini litemus.” “Bene” inquam * Et fiet ut iubes. Et vellem Hercule materiam rep- perire aliquam, quam deus tantus affluenter indueret." Post haec monitu famuli mei, qui noctis admone- bat, iam et ipse crapula distentus, protinus exsurgo et appellata prospere Byrrhaena titubante vestigio domuitionem capesso. Sed cum primam plateam in- vadimus, vento repentino lumen, quo nitebamur, ex- tinguitur, ut vix improvidae noctis caligine liberati, digitis pedum detunsis ob lapides, hospitium defessi rediremus, dumque iam iunctim proximamus, ecce tres quidam vegetes et vastulis corporibus fores nos< iras ex summis viribus irruentes ac ne praesentia quidem nostra tantilum conterriti, sed magis cum aemulatione virium crebrius insultantes, ut nobis ac mihi potissimum non immerito latrones esse, et quidem saevissimi, viderentur. Statim denique gla- dium, quem veste mea contectum ad hos usus ex- tuleram, sinu liberatum arripio, nee cunctatus medios latrones involo ac singulis, ut quemque colluctantem offenderam, altissime demergo, quoad tandem ante ipsa vestigia mea vastis et crebris perforati vulneribus spiritus eflaverint. Sic proeliatus, iam tumultu eo Fotide suscitata, patefactis aedibus anhelans et su- dore perlutus irrepo, meque statim utpote pugna trium! latronum in vicem Geryoneae caedis fatigatum, lecto simul et somno tradidi. 1 Thecertain emendation, independently made by Salmasius and Rohde, of the MSS’ pugnariwm. à 98 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK II Laughter, and to-morrow is the feast, when I pray you to be present to set out the same more honour- ably, and I would with all my heart that you could find or devise somewhat merry of yourself, that you might the more honour so great a god.” To whom I answered : “ Verily, cousin, I will do as you com- mand me, and right glad would I be if I might invent any laughing or merry matter to please or satisfy Laughter withal.” Then at the warning of my servant, who told me the night was late, being also well drunken with wine, I rose from the table, took leave of Byrrhaena, and departed with tottering steps on my homeward way.

• From A Boy's Own Story (1982)

  Peter stumbled out of his clothes, which he left in a puddle on the floor. His shoulders were bony, his waist tiny, his penis a pale blue snail peeping up out of its rounded shell. He mumbled something about the cold sheets and turned his face to the wall. Kevin and I, at either end of the long, narrow room, undressed more deliberately, said nothing and scarcely looked at each other. Lights out. Then the long wait for Peter’s breathing to slow and thicken. The silence was thoughtful, like a pulse heard in an ear pressed to the mattress. Peter said, “Because I don’t want to … squirrel … yeah, but you …” and was gone. Still Kevin waited, and I feared he too had gone to sleep. But no, here he was, floating toward me, the ghost T-shirt on his torso browner from today’s sun. With the Vaseline jar in hand. The cold jelly with its light medicinal odor, which warms quickly to body temperature. As I went in him, he said straight out, as clear as a bell, “That feels really great.” It had never occurrred to me before that sex between two men can please both of them at the same time. The next afternoon my father, painfully patient but haggard from these unusual daytime hours, took us kids water-skiing. Again I walked on the lacquered deck, pushing us away from the dock with the long pole, my movements stiff, almost arthritic with fright. Again my father shouted orders that betrayed his own anxiety: “Kids, I smell something burning. The engine’s on fire! Goddamn it, quick, young fellow, open those doors.” “Nothing, sir, everything’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes sir. Positive.” “Sure?” “Yes.” I was clinging to the windshield with claws of fear—and I caught a glimpse of Kevin and Peter smirking at each other. They thought my father and I were fools. Skiing off the boat wasn’t simple. The velocity of such a massive, powerful vessel almost pulled your arms out of your sockets. The wake fanning out on either side of you once you were aloft seemed mountainous and to jump over it foolhardy, if not suicidal. Kevin, of course, handled it all beautifully, though he’d never skied before. Soon he was clowning around and lifting first one ski and then the other, and he raced over the wake from side to side with great speed. I was in the bucket seat watching him. If we lost him I was supposed to signal Peter up ahead, who was to relay the message to the captain—but Kevin fell only once. We went past the diving raft and its company of teenage swimmers; I was pleased that our boat was pulling someone as athletic as Kevin. In our family the virtues were all invisible to a stranger’s eye. My stepmother’s social eminence, my dad’s dough—they couldn’t be seen.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  He seemed surprised and hurt but didn’t linger on it. “This is a really happy day for me. Nothing can really spoil getting your freedom back.” “Well, y’all should talk at some point,” I urged. I went upstairs to find Tommy Chapman waiting for me in the courtroom. “After we’re done, I’d like to shake his hand,” he told me. “Would that be all right?” “I think he’d appreciate that.” “This case has taught me things I didn’t even know I had to learn.” “We’ve all learned a lot, Tommy.” There were deputy sheriffs everywhere. When Bernard arrived, we consulted briefly at the counsel table before a bailiff asked us to go back to the judge’s chambers. Judge Norton had retired weeks before the ruling from the Court of Criminal Appeals. The new judge, Pamela Baschab, greeted me warmly. We made small talk and then discussed what would happen during the hearing. Everyone was strangely pleasant. “Mr. Stevenson, if you’ll just present the motion and provide a brief summary, I don’t need any arguments or statements, I intend to grant the motion immediately so you all can get home. We can get this done quickly.” We went into the courtroom. There seemed to be more black deputies in the courtroom for this hearing than I’d ever seen in my appearances in that courthouse. There was no metal detector, no menacing dog. The courtroom was packed with Walter’s family members and supporters. There were more cheering black folks outside the courthouse who couldn’t get in. A horde of television cameras and journalists spilled out of the crowded courtroom. They finally brought Walter into the courtroom wearing the black suit and white shirt I’d brought him. He looked handsome and fit, like a different man. The deputies didn’t handcuff Walter or shackle him, so he walked into court waving to family and friends. His family had not seen him dressed in anything but his white prison uniform since the trial six years earlier, and many in the crowd gasped when he walked into the courtroom in a suit. For years Walter’s family members and supporters had been confronted with menacing stares and threats of expulsion whenever they expressed some spontaneous opinion during court proceedings, but today the deputies accepted their expressive cheerfulness in silence. The judge took the bench, and I stepped forward to speak. I gave a brief history of the case and informed the court that both the defendant and the State were moving the court to dismiss all charges. The judge quickly granted the motion and asked if there was anything further. All of sudden, I felt strangely agitated. I’d expected to be exuberant. Everyone was in such a good mood.

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

  Hereby is refuted the error of the Epicureans who ascribed man’s happiness to pleasures of this kind: in their person Solomon says (Eccles. 5:17): This therefore hath seemed good to me, that a man should eat and drink, and enjoy the fruit of his labour … and this is his portion: and (Wis. 2:9): Let us everywhere leave tokens of joy: for this is our portion, and this is our lot. The error of the Cerinthians is also refuted: for they pretended that, in the state of final happiness, after the resurrection Christ will reign for a thousand years, and men will indulge in the carnal pleasures of the table: wherefore they are called ‘Chiliastae,’ or believers in the Millennium. The fables of the Jews and Mohammedans are also refuted: who pretend that the reward of the righteous consists in suchlike pleasures: for happiness is the reward of virtue. CHAPTER XXVIII THAT HAPPINESS DOES NOT CONSIST IN HONOURSFROM the foregoing it is also clear that neither does man’s supreme good, or happiness, consist in honours. For man’s ultimate end and happiness is his most perfect operation, as we have shown above. But man’s honour does not consist in something done by him, but in something done to him by another who shows him honour. Therefore man’s happiness must not be placed in honours. Again. That which is on account of another good and desirable thing is not the last end. Now such is honour: for a man is not rightly honoured, except on account of some other good in him. For this reason do men seek to be honoured, as though wishing to have a voucher for some good that is in them: so that they rejoice more in being honoured by the great and the wise. Therefore we must not assign man’s happiness to honours. Besides. Happiness is obtained through virtue. Now virtuous deeds are voluntary, else they were not praiseworthy. Therefore happiness must be a good obtainable by man through his will. But it is not in a man’s power to secure honour, rather is it in the power of the man who pays honour. Therefore happiness is not to be assigned to honours. Moreover. Only the good can be worthy of honour: and yet it is possible even for the wicked to be honoured. Therefore it is better to become worthy of honour, than to be honoured. Therefore honour is not man’s supreme good. Furthermore. The supreme good is the perfect good. Now the perfect good is incompatible with any evil. But that which has no evil in it cannot possibly be evil. Therefore that which is in possession of the supreme good cannot be evil. Yet it is possible for an evil person to receive honour. Therefore honour is not man’s supreme good. CHAPTER XXIX THAT MAN’S HAPPINESS CONSISTS NOT IN GLORYWHEREFORE it is evident also that man’s supreme good does not consist in glory which is the recognition of one’s good name.

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

  I. On the first head it is to be noted that the Name of God is to be used on five occasions—(1) In walking—Ps. 20:7, “We will remember the Name of the Lord our God.” (2) In praying—S. John 16:23, “Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in My Name, He will give it you.” (3) In speaking; (4) in working—of these two, the text. (5) In hoping—Ps. 39:5 (Vulg.), “Blessed is the man whose trust is in the Name of the Lord.” II. On the second head it is to be noted that the Name of God is to be used in five ways. (1) It is to be retained in the heart, and so become a cause of joy—Is. 26:8, “The desire of our soul is to Thy Name.” (2) It is to be heard by the ear, and so cause delight—Job 29:11, “When the ear heard me, then it blessed me.” (3) It is to be carried in the hand, and so be a lever of strength—Prov. 18:10, “The Name of the Lord is a strong tower.” (4) It is to be written on the forehead, as a mark of honour; it will make a man (Isa. 58:13) “holy of the Lord, honourable.” III. On the third head it is to be noted that the manifold virtue of this Name is expressed in eight particulars in the text—(1) In It were all things created. (2) By It are the demons put to flight. (3) By It were all infirmities healed. (4) Through It were sinners justified. (5) By It are the sad made joyful. (6) By It are the tempted helped. (7) Through It are the just increased in grace. (8) All who call upon It are saved. Note, that this Name enlightens the reason; soothes anger; delights the desire. The inhabitants of the world unseen, fear It; of the earth, adore It; of Heaven, praise It. It spoils Hades; It liberates the earthly; It exalts the heavenly. HOMILY X THE TARES AND THE WHEAT FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER THE EPIPHANY.—(FROM THE GOSPEL)“Gather ye together first the tares, and bind them in bundles to burn them; but gather the wheat into my barn.”—S. Matt. 13:30. IN these words five things are noted—Firstly, the sin of the wicked, “tares.” Secondly, their punishment, “bind them in bundles to burn them.” Thirdly, the goodness of the righteous, “the wheat.” Fourthly, their glory, “gather into My barn.” Fifthly, the abundance of God’s “barn.”

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  But I don't know if it would suit me." But Negro men are intimida ted in another way altogether, ha,·ing despised women with kinky hair for so long. And they are told, Yott been so brainwashed by the white man, yott even want ed your womm to look white! And this is not quite true, of course, so many of "our" women having been fairly white when they got here, but, on the other hand, it is true enough. And to ward what standard of beauty ought black people now turn, especially as they exemplify, in themselves, so many different standards. The entire scene is rich and funnv and sad, and both bound and free, like the heavy and resplendent matron wearing a complete Easter outfit, from head almost to toe, OTH ER ES SAYS but with her shoes in her hand and her slippers on her feet. She had the shoes and she wanted everyone to know it; but her feet hurt. And she didn't care who knew that. The atmosphere of a Harlem nightclub is cu riously mis leading � a use of the simplicity of the white world's assump tions. t�for anyof}e�vho _us�j�,.QrJ.�__g��g_ by it, is a most ��!nplc�1.£_?,Jcula _!_ e�i_�nq __ qang�__ r_o us _ _ phen2!!!.£!!Q_n. One will probably find more color in Smalls' Paradise, for example, even on an off night, than I, anyway, have usually managed to encounter in any nightclub downtown. It is not that the music is intrinsically so much better -always-but the people playing it and the people hearing it have more fun with it, and with each other. They know, on one level, everything concerning each other that there is to know: they are all black. And this produces an atmosphere of freedom which is exactly as real as the limits which have made it necessary. And what they don't know about each other, like who works where, or who sleeps with whom, doesn't matter. No one gives a damn, and this allows everyone to be himself-at i:hc club. No one gives ad amri-because they know exactly how rough it is out there, when the club gates close. And while they are dancing and listening to the music and drinking and joking and laugh ing, with all their finery on, and looking so bold and free, they know who enters, who leaves, and on what errands: they are aware of the terrible and unreachable forces which yet rule their lives. In years past, and sometimes even now, musicians said for them what they themselves could not say, and helped them to endur e the unendurable. But nothing is static. Now, unless R.•y Charles or Nina Simone is down the street at the Apollo, one will have to go downtown to hear them.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  through the press of people, which gave me place by the divine command on every side, I went after the priest. Then the priest, being admonished the night before, as I might well perceive, and mar- velling that now the event came opportunely to fulfil that warning, suddenly stood still, and holding out his hands thrust out the garland of roses to my mouth: which garland I (trembling and my heart beating greatly) devoured with a great affection. As soon as I had eaten them, I was not deceived of the promise made unto me: for my deform and assy face abated, and first the rugged hair of my body fell off, my thick skin waxed soft and tender, my fat belly became thin, the hoofs of my feet changed into toes, my hands were no more feet but returned again to the work of a man that walks upright, my neck grew short, my head and mouth became round, my long ears were made little, my great and stony teeth waxed less, like the teeth of men, and my tail, which before cumbered me most, appeared nowhere. Then the people began to marvel, and the religious honoured the goddess for so evident a miracle, which was foreshadowed by the visions which they saw in the night, and the facility of my reformation, whereby they lifted their hands to heaven and with one voice rendered testimony of so great a benefit which I received of the goddess. When I saw myself in such estate, I was utterly astonied and stood still a good space and said nothing ; for my mind could not contain so sudden and so great joy, and I could not tell what to say, nor what word I should first speak with my voice newly found, nor what thanks I should render to the goddess. But the great priest, understanding all my fortune and misery by divine advertisement, QN 561 15 LUCIUS APULEIUS

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  What is most intriguing of all to me is that she has made a British shrink, who is really a first-class scoundrel, a delightful character. He makes an awful lot of sense, despite his propensity for handing out one-liners, like Henny Youngman. This lousy bastard turns out to be the savior of Isadora Zelda, though he may not have meant to be. It’s he who, by his unabashed treachery, opens her eyes, makes her face herself, makes her accept reality. He is certainly an “antihero.” Bastard though he is, he knows how to get along, or, I suppose I should say, “he knows on which side his bread is buttered”. I dwell on this character because too few of us are ready to acknowledge that we can learn (as much or more) from an evil character as from a good one. We know that the do-gooders wreak a lot of havoc, but we do not seem to know that the evil-doers can work a lot of good in this fucked-up world. If they accomplish nothing more than to shatter our idealistic dreams, they have done enough. But I am exaggerating somewhat, as regards Adrian, the British shrink and no. 1 bastard. He is not truly evil; he just doesn’t give a fuck if he happens to ruin a few lives in the course of his having his way. I had a most intense feeling of joy, of liberation, when the bandages finally fell from Isadora’s eyes. Though it was a bit of a letdown to see her return to her husband (another shrink, but an Oriental one), I felt that she would remain on her own two feet. Once the bandages are removed you don’t put them on again. Maybe she, author or protagonist, still has a fear of flying—who hasn’t?—but she can cope with it. I feel like predicting that this book will make literary history, that because of it women are going to find their own voice and give us great sagas of sex, life, joy and adventure. —Henry Miller

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  When I got back to the hotel at five-thirty Bennett was waiting. He didn’t ask me where I’d been, but he put his arms around me and started undressing me. He made love to me, to Adrian’s slime, to our triangle in all senses of the word. He had never been as passionate and tender, and I had rarely been so excited. That he was a much better lover than Adrian was clear. It was also clear that Adrian had made a difference in our lovemaking, had made us appreciate each other in a new way. We touched each other completely. Suddenly I was as valuable to Bennett as if he had fallen in love with me for the very first time. We took a bath together and splashed water at each other. We soaped each other’s backs. I was a little appalled at my own promiscuity, that I could go from one man to another and feel so glowing and intoxicated. I knew I would have to pay for it later with the guilt and misery which I alone know how to give myself in such good measure. But right now I was happy. I felt properly appreciated for the first time. Do two men perhaps add up to one whole person? — One of the most memorable occasions of the Congress was the reception at the Rathaus of Vienna. Memorable because it provided the unparalleled opportunity to watch 2,000 or more analysts gorging themselves as if they had been starving in Biafra for a year. Memorable because it provided the unparalleled opportunity to watch several sedate old analysts doing the frug—or what they thought was the frug. Memorable because I waltzed through the whole experience in a red paisley gown covered with sequins and kept leaving a trail of them on the ground as I went from one ballroom to the other, now dancing with Bennett and now with Adrian and still not being able to make up my mind. I left a trail of evidence everywhere I went. The dumpy frumpy lady mayor of Vienna bestowed herzliche Grüsse upon Anna Freud and the other analysts, and spewed out endless German bullshit about how glad the city of Vienna was to have them all back. No mention was made of the way they’d left in 1938, of course. No fifty-piece orchestra was playing The Blue Danube Waltz for them then, or plying them with herzlichen Grüssen and free Schnaps. When the food was brought out, herds of analysts in formal dress mooed and grunted toward the tables. “Hurry—they’re pushing ahead to the front of the line!” bleated one matron in accents redolent of Flatbush, overlaid with Scarsdale and the New School.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  “The superego is soluble in alcohol,” says Adrian, becoming again the self-confident flirt he was in Vienna. “My superego is soluble in Europe,” I say. And we both laugh rather too loudly. “Let’s never go home,” I propose. “Let’s stay here forever and be delirious every day.” “The grape is the only true existentialist,” Adrian answers, holding me close. “Or the hops. Is it hops or hop? I’m never sure.” “Hops,” he says authoritatively, taking another belt of beer. “Hops,” I say, doing the same. We skip through Paris in a beery blur. We eat couscous for lunch and oysters for supper, and in between we drink innumerable beers and make innumerable stops to pee; we skip through the Jardin des Plantes and around the Pantheon and through the narrow streets near the Sorbonne. We skip through the Jardin du Luxembourg. Finally we rest on a bench near the Fontaine de l’Observatoire. We are happily stewed. We watch the great bronze horses rearing out of the fountain. I have that strange sense of invulnerability which alcohol gives and I feel that I am living in the midst of a romantic movie. I feel so relaxed and loose and giddy. New York is farther away than the moon. “Let’s find a hotel room and go to bed,” I say. Not a strong wave of lust, but just a friendly wish to consummate this romantic giddiness. We might try once more. Just one perfect fuck to remember him by. All our attempts have been somehow disappointing. It seems such a shame that we’ve been together all this time and have risked so much for so little. Or maybe that’s the whole point? “No,” says Adrian, “we haven’t time.” “What do you mean we haven’t time?” “I’ll have to set out tonight if I expect to get to Cherbourg tomorrow morning.” “Why do you have to get to Cherbourg tomorrow morning?” Something horrible is beginning to dawn through the alcoholic euphoria. “To meet Esther and the children.” “Are you kidding?” “No, I’m not kidding.” He looks at his watch. “They’ll be leaving London about now, I expect. We’re supposed to have a little holiday in Brittany.” I stare at him, calmly consulting his watch. The enormity of his betrayal leaves me speechless. Here I am—drunk, unwashed, not even knowing what day it is—and he’s keeping track of an appointment he made over a month ago. “You mean you’ve known this all along?” He nods. “And you let me think we were just being existentialists while you knew all along you had to meet Esther on a certain day?” “Well—have it your way. It wasn’t as evilly planned as you seem to think.” “Then what was it? How could you let me think we were both just wandering where the whim took us—when all along you had an appointment with Esther?” “It was your reshuffle, ducks, not mine. I never said I was going to reshuffle my life to keep you company.”

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  Most of the “artists” on that show deserved Hardtack. There was a young fool who called himself a “cinemaker” and showed four minutes of shaky, overexposed film of what looked like two (or possibly three) amoebas dancing pseudopod to pseudopod; a black painter who called himself an activist-painter and only painted chairs (a strangely pacifist subject for an activist-painter); a soprano with very yellow, very buck teeth (Charlie was there to accompany her four minutes of trembling Puccini); a one-man percussion section named Kent Blass who jumped around spastically, playing drums, xylophones, glass fish tanks, pots and pans; a modern dancer who never said the noun “dance” without using the definite article; a social-protest folksinger whose native Brooklynese had been laced with elocution lessons, with the bizarre result that he pronounced God, “Garrd”; and then there was me. They had rigged me up inside a gray plywood picture frame for my four minutes of poetry, and in order to reach it, I had to perch on a kind of scaffolding. Charlie was right below, sitting at the piano and staring up my skirt. While I read my poetry, his eyes were burning holes in my thighs. A day later he called me up. I didn’t remember him. Then he said that he wanted to set my poems to music, so I met him for dinner. I’ve always been very naive about ploys like that. “Come up to my apartment and let me set your poems to music” and I always come. Or at least go. But Charlie surprised me. He looked scrawny and unwashed and hook-nosed when he came to my door, but in the restaurant he displayed his gigantic knowledge of Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hart and Gershwin: all the songs my father had played on the piano when I was a kid. Even the obscure Cole Porter songs, the almost-forgotten Rodgers and Hart songs from obscure musicals, the least-known Gershwin songs—he knew them all. He knew even more of them than me—with my total recall for catchy lines. It was then that I fell absurdly in love with him, transformed him from an unwashed hook-nosed frog—into a prince—a piano-playing Jewish prince at that. As soon as he recited the last stanza of “Let’s Do It” and got the words all right, I was ready to do it with him. A simple case of Oedipussy. We went home to bed. But Charlie was so overwhelmed by his good luck that he wilted. “Conduct me,” I said. “I seem to have lost my baton.” “Well then, do it like Mitropoulos—with your bare hands.” “You’re a real find,” he said, thrashing around under the covers. But, hand or baton, it was hopeless. His teeth were chattering and great shudders were shaking his shoulders. He was gasping for breath like an emphysema patient. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “It’s just that you’re such a find, I can’t believe it.” He seemed to be sobbing and choking alternately.