Longing

Passages

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

Page 126 of 170 · 20 per page

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I always wanted to know more about how it felt, being Phoebe. Then, Phoebe took up Jejah, and I sat in the circle while she divulged secrets: more, often, than she’d let slip with me. He raised questions; obedient, she replied. I tried to believe she was also talking in my direction, but it was obvious she wasn’t. If, alone, on the way home from a meeting, I alluded to what she’d said, she’d give me a quick kiss, a laugh. No, let’s talk about you, she said. I haven’t had a minute with you all night. Tell me about the lunch shift. Did you find out who hid the pipe in the trash? – In the Seoul before you and I lived, John Leal told us, a unified land, everyone learned the same songs. It wasn’t unusual, he said, in this city of Phoebe’s birth, to have one person begin singing a ballad in public. Others would join in. He loved to picture it, the heads lifting to sing in chorus. If this Seoul hadn’t existed, he still wanted to think it had. Korea dispatched more Christian apostles abroad than any nation but the U.S. Per capita, it placed first. It could well take the lead. The next fount of revival, he called it. No one was more spiritual than Koreans could be; no believers, more devoted. It was a land of purists. He talked about present-day Seoul, where lit-up, blinking signs jutted out like flags on a pole. You’ll have to see it, he said. – I’m not sure when I began to suspect the act had turned real, that I was staying in Jejah as much to help myself as Phoebe. If I was going to put this time into the group, I thought, I might as well give it a chance. It felt like the last attempt. Often, I thought of an afternoon I’d spent evangelizing in San Francisco. In the evening, before driving home to Carmenita, I met with my cohort of Jubilee students to hold closing prayers on Fisherman’s Wharf. Docked boats shone in fading light. We raised linked hands, calling out in tongues. People with no experience of God tend to think that leaving the faith would be a liberation, a flight from guilt, rules, but what I couldn’t forget was the joy I’d known, loving Him. Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing—the old, lost hope revived. I was tantalized with what John Leal said was possible: I wished him to be right. – She’d always been more Julian’s friend than Phoebe’s, and it was Julian who called with the news. There wasn’t a final note, no sign of intent. No one could tell if she’d slipped on the Midwest ice, if it was an accident, but Liesl had fallen from a third-story attic windowsill of the St.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  He looked down at the hand I’d put on his arm, and I lifted it. I want nothing to do with you, he said. I know what you are, Will. I don’t understand. With his glasses leveled at me like lights, he said Phoebe had told him what I’d done. That girl, he said. She’d refused to listen to him. He’d urged Phoebe to go to the police, but she didn’t want to hurt me. In his frustration, he’d said things he regretted. They hadn’t talked since. She’d loved me. It made little sense to him, but she had. I’d given Phoebe the last push into Jejah. He hoped I realized that. Oh, he’d fantasized about exposing me, but at least I had to keep living in my own skin: a hell, he said, he’d wish upon no one else. – They still haven’t found Jejah. Once in a while, a politician promises they’ll be located. In principle, the manhunt continues. The absence of proof, I’ve come to believe, isn’t proof on its own. I’ve noticed signs, each of which might be incidental, but not like this, as a whole, collected. I’ve received phone calls that hang up at the first ring; a mailed brochure to a concert-hall Libich revival. Then, not long ago, I left the office to get lunch at Meilai’s, a third-story Sichuan dive I liked. I was in line when I glanced toward the street. I saw Phoebe, in a striped sundress, looking up from the shade of an ailanthus. She’d lost weight, hair cut short; still, it was Phoebe. She turned, shoulders jutting out. I ran down. I shouted, but she’d gone. I’m aware of what people are saying, that she’s drowned, lost, but I also know Phoebe. I’ll open the door to a ringing bell, and she’ll be there: short-haired, face split open with a smile. You don’t even look surprised, she’ll tell me. That morning in June, when I’d seen Julian, I went down into the Columbus Circle station. It was loud inside, the platform more crowded than usual. I sighted the source of the tumult: a band of six male dancers, in white latex tights. With bodies liberated from gravity’s laws, they swung out of handsprings into lithe spins. More people turned to watch while an express train hurtled in, the gust of wind nudging thin fabric around bare arms and thighs. The wind blew through, until it looked as if the entire population might float up out of the tunnel, cracking through its stone and earth, into the day’s hot light. We can all go. No one gets left behind. The world’s graves fling open, the giddied, dirt-stained dead rushing toward the streets of gold, alive again, at last. The wind settled. In minutes, the local train arrived. I pushed in, then I kept waiting.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I opened my eyes each morning to find a naked leg thrown across mine, my arm fixed tight across her stomach. I sat through movies I could tell I wouldn’t like, just to be at Phoebe’s side. While we strolled through campus, she kept a hand tucked in the back pocket of my jeans. The line between us relaxed its hold, the slack winding, like an exhausted snake, at our adjoined feet. So brazen, Julian said. He raised his full glass to me, then to Phoebe, who leaned into my arm. Did you learn nothing in China, Will? It’s such bad luck, flaunting what you’ve been given. Sensible parents used to insult their own children, calling them idle, stupid— But less than a month into the term, Liesl took a leave of absence from school. She returned to St. Paul again. The rape allegation had become front-page national news. More Edwards girls had stories to tell of sexual assault. Editorials followed; public outrage. Phoebe helped organize a candlelit vigil, which almost half the school attended. Still, there were students who criticized Liesl, small-minded gossips who prattled about which illegal pills she liked best, how reliable she might be. The possibility she’d lied. Others, less spiteful, said they didn’t know what to think. It felt hard to judge Neil outright. In his version, he hadn’t touched Liesl. Even friends wanted facts, details. Phoebe, livid, picked late-night quarrels. No one lies about this, she said. Look at what it’s cost Liesl, then tell me she’s lying. The next time I went out for the night, she refused to come along. It’s fine, go, she insisted. It was a Prohibition costume party; the host, a Phi Epsilon. In ostrich quills, top-hatted, hands chilled from tall glasses clicking ice, people high-fived me, asking about Phoebe. Where’s she hiding? they hollered. She’s staying in. Is she all right? Yes. I told Phoebe she’d been missed, that people had asked if she felt ill. I don’t care, she said. I fell asleep on the futon, anesthetized with alcohol, but I woke to see her sitting in the open windowsill. Night sounds flowed in while she looked out as if listening for a faint echo—how is Phoebe, how is she—tell us—how is Phoebe. Sometimes, I still imagine I’m in that room again. I watch the girl I love, a silhouette waiting upon what I haven’t thought to give. Outside, revelers stumble, laugh. The floral scent of gin drifts into the apartment; a drunk’s baritone swells, then falls silent. Julian aside, she put a halt to spending time with old friends. Each morning, she went to the college pool, looping back and forth in fast, obsessive laps. Phoebe’s ass tightened. Thighs expanded.

• From Hot Rods: Gay Erotic Stories (2011)

  The bike glistened beneath him. The leather had never felt so smooth, so good, as it did when Teddy’s crown scraped across it, smearing the precum. He had never seen chrome so bright, never seen lines so perfect. Howard moved liked an extension of the bike, like he and the motorcycle were part of the same being. He moved his hips with perfectly timed thrusts, his fingers digging into Teddy’s hips, each of his moans low and hungry like the Harley’s rumble. Teddy dropped his head, looking under his extended arm to see Howard’s boot on the floor. It was planted there, unmoving, solid as the motorcycle. He stared at it as Howard quickened his pace, each thrust almost hard enough to rattle Teddy’s teeth. He wanted to howl each time Howard filled him. He closed his eyes, and he saw a black ribbon of road winding ahead of him, stretching into the horizon. The bike shook beneath him, vibrating from the force of each driving thrust. His flesh burned until he thought his entire body would ignite like nothing more than a slick of oil. The thick cock in his ass would have felt amazing no matter what, but knowing that he was with Howard, on Howard’s bike, made it so much better. Knowing that this would probably be his only chance to enjoy Howard’s body, and the smell of his sweat, and the sound of his pleasure, made Teddy treasure each second of it. He held it all close, burning it into his memory, preparing to relive the moments over and over for the rest of his life. Howard reached beneath Teddy’s body and gripped the base of his cock, his fingers as hard as any steel cock ring. He gave Teddy a good squeeze, as if to remind him that Teddy did not get to come—did not get to have any pleasure at all—until Howard said he could. That was fine with Teddy. He was in no hurry to rush their fucking, or to lose Howard’s fat cock. He was in no hurry to release the bike and get dressed again. He was in no hurry to return to the life that awaited him outside the garage, while Howard rode off at dawn. “Fuck, boy, you’re so tight. Fuck.” Teddy liked the sound of Howard’s voice—like his throat was full of gravel. Every time he spoke, Teddy clamped around his cock, prompting another torrent of words. Not just words: compliments. Like Teddy was actually giving him something, actually doing something that nobody else could. “Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck.” The final word exploded out of Howard’s mouth at the same moment his cock jerked deep in Teddy’s body. Teddy quivered, his thighs tense, his balls tight, his breath lodged in his chest. If Howard let him come, he’d shoot all over the seat. For the second time that night, the Harley would bear the mark of his pleasure. If only Howard would loosen his fingers. “Do you want to come again?”

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  Staying at half a block’s distance, on the opposite side of the street, I kept pace through walled alleys. In the dark, it wasn’t hard to keep the girl in sight, the backpack’s plastic bulge jolting ahead like a lamp. I tried to walk quietly. Pigeons flapped down, jingling bells tied to their legs. Cyclists passed. I tripped on a pile of bricks. The girl’s bob leaped along. The streets emptied: to keep up, I had to quicken my stride. She hurried—impatient to be home, I thought; then, turning right, she glanced back. The round face blazing, then gone. Despite the pains I’d taken, she looked afraid. I’d wanted to follow the girl for just a few minutes. But now, accused, I felt insulted. I saw something white, a sheet, flit from the girl’s hand. Thinking it might be a note, a signal, I paused to pick it up, but it was nothing: half the pancake, crumpled into its napkin. I resumed the chase. She doglegged left. I was losing breath. She halted, then bent down. I saw her adjust a sandal strap. She broke into a run, hobbling. Hey, I called. I wanted to explain, so I jogged. With a slam, she rushed into a small house, out of sight. – It was late by the time I returned to the high-rise. I took a pill; I went to bed, but the sedative wasn’t working. In Noxhurst, Phoebe would have been next to me, her back displayed, intimate, the spine like rope. I felt tied to her as though by a physical line, its pull tightening with each night we spent apart. Upright again, I put the electric kettle on to boil. I tapped in the first third of Phoebe’s number before I set the phone down on the table. The last time we talked, she’d told me she wasn’t coming to Beijing. She’d begun spending time with John Leal again, I knew that much. I’d been right when I thought I glimpsed them in the dining hall. Then, while I was in Beijing, she’d gotten in the habit of attending meetings at his house with the group we met last fall, the Christians. On an impulse, she said. She was bored. Noxhurst was so dull, she said. All this, I’d known; now, though, she was also telling me the group had strict rules about attendance. If she missed meetings to travel to China, she wouldn’t be allowed back in. But what are you even doing with these people? I asked. These people? I can’t believe this. Who is John Leal—what is he to you? He’s a friend. You don’t know the first thing about him. I do, though. Fine, I said. Tell me where he grew up. In India. India? His parents built a charitable hospital in Calcutta. . . . because they’re, what, aid workers? Will, they’re missionaries.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I understand people find it useful, but, okay, let’s assume I wish my mother hadn’t died. It’s not worth examining. Julian says the most dispiriting words in the English language are “Red or white?” but, obviously, he’s wrong. What’s worse is “Last night, I dreamed,” and— She riffed like this until I stopped. If I tried again, insisting she find help, Phoebe’s smile widened. It lit the girl up. In a glade of light, she slipped away. It was an act; I knew that, but I suppose I let it happen. Even now, I’ll admit, if I recall these night fits, part of me wants to protest that this wasn’t Phoebe: that the girl I loved, for instance, during a childhood trip to Delphi, went jumping through its ruins. Since she hadn’t told me much else about it, I’d filled in the details until I might have been there, too, our earliest lives conjoined. On the crowded bus ride from Athens to Delphi, this Phoebe slept against my arm. The guide lectured into a microphone. It’s the omphalos, he said. The holiest site, navel of the Hellenic world. In time, the bus rolled to a halt. Phoebe stood in the white, hot wash of sun; she rubbed light-blind eyes. Despite the heat, I held Phoebe’s hand. I kept it in mine while we leaped the ancient stones, raising exuberant brumes of dust. – The day after the Cape Cod trip, as we left the apartment, I asked if I could attend the next Jejah meeting. Right, Phoebe said, with a laugh. I explained I wasn’t kidding. Pulling on a white pashmina, she looked at me through its soft folds. It was raining again. I held the umbrella for both of us. We walked to Latham Hall while I told Phoebe partial truths. I’ve noticed the effect it’s had on you, I said. You’ve spent so much time with this group. I want to know more about it. Since it’s important to you, I can’t help being curious. She kept her face tucked down, hidden in the cashmere pile, until, lifting her head, she said she’d give John Leal a call. We’d arrived at the Latham gate. She hesitated, phone in hand. I left Phoebe the umbrella, and I said I’d walk ahead. I waited in front of the dining hall, shielded from rain by the stone arcade. Croquet wickets littered the ground. That morning, I’d passed a group of old men in pastels and wan hats, batting mallets: alumni, I figured. But in the fog they’d been wraiths, sprung from time. Balls tocked, skinkling, through delicate arches. My head pulsed. I’d had too much to drink the previous evening. She was still on the phone. I watched as she talked. Hanging up, she came to tell me he’d apologized, but it wasn’t possible. The group just didn’t have the space. Not yet, at least. – I kept asking questions; I’d knock until they’d let me in.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But the touch of that cool, pure hand would distress her, causing her spirit to ache with longing for the simple and up- right and honourable things that had served many simple and honourable people. Then all that to some might appear unin- spiring, would seem to her very fulfilling and perfect. A pair of lovers walking by arm in arm —just a quiet, engaged couple, neither comely nor clever nor burdened with riches; just a quiet, engaged couple — would in her envious eyes be invested with a glory and pride passing all understanding. For were Angela and she those fortunate lovers, they could stand before Anna happy and triumphant. Anna, the mother, would smile and speak gently, tolerant because of her own days of loving. Wherever they went older folk would remember, and remembering would smile on their love and speak gently. To know that the whole world was glad of your gladness, must surely bring heaven very near to the world. One night Anna looked across at her daughter: ‘ Are you tired, my dear? You seem a bit fagged.’ The question was unexpected, for Stephen was supposed not to know what it meant to feel fagged, her physical health and strength were proverbial. Was it possible then that her mother had divined at long last her utter weariness of spirit? Quite sud- denly Stephen felt shamelessly childish, and she spoke as a child who wants comforting. 184 THE WELL OF LONELINESS ‘Yes, I’m dreadfully tired.’ Her voice shook a little; ‘I’m tired out — I’m dreadfully tired,’ she repeated. With amazement she heard herself making this weak bid for pity, and yet she could not resist it. Had Anna held out her arms at that moment, she might soon have learnt about Angela Crossby. But instead she yawned: ‘ It’s this air, it’s too woolly. PIl be very glad when we get back to Morton. What’s the time? I’m almost asleep already — let’s go up to our beds, don’t you think so, Stephen? ’ It was like a cold douche; and a good thing too for the girl’s self-respect. She pulled herself together: ‘ Yes, come on, it’s past ten. I detest this soft air.’ And she flushed, remembering that weak bid for pity. 3

• From The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine, Vol. 4: Reformation of Church and Dogma (1300-1700) (1984)

  Two of the most important sources of such evidence were Vergil's Fourth Eclogue and the Sybilline Oracles. Although the apologetic interest in Vergil seems to PRAEPARATIO EVANGELICA 64 have been drawn first to the Aeneid, it came to concen trate on the fourth of his Eclogues. This "messianic ec logue," written in 41 or 40 B.C., prophesied a golden age, the culmination of the centuries, in which a virgin would return and a new offspring, bearing a divine life, would descend from heaven to earth to rule a world transformed Verg.Ec/.4.4-63 by his father's virtues. Augustine believed that these words really referred to Christ, even though "poetically" since Aug.ov.10.27 {CCSL 47:302) the poet had actually spoken them of someone else. Jerome was not willing to "call the Christless Maro a Christian" Hier.£/?.53.7 (CSEL 54:454) on the basis of these lines; but the Oration of Constantine went much further than Augustine in claiming that Ver gil intentionally made his language obscure to avoid per secution, but that he "was acquainted with that blessed Const.Or.s.c. 19-20 (GCS , . . /•'<-.•»> 7:181-86) mystery which gave to our Lord the name of Savior. With these credentials Vergil became the beloved poet even of Christians who were hostile to classical literature. The medieval West multiplied legends of Vergil's super natural knowledge and exploits, and it was both for his style and for his content that Dante was able to celebrate Dant./»/.i.85 Vergil as "my master and my author." Whether Vergil's imagery owed its origins to Hebrew messianism or not, it was "the expression of . . . the profound longing for peace, the unvoiced yearning for a world governed by the goodness of God rather than the conflicting desires of men. ... It was this longing that prepared the way for Highet (1957) 73 the expansion of Christianity," and at least in this sense the Fourth Eclogue was "messianic." But to some apolo gists for Christianity its messianism was considerably more explicit. Vergil's authority was enhanced by his reference to Aug.ov.10.27 {CCSL 47:302) Cuma in the Fourth Eclogue, a reference which Christian writers connected with the Cumaean Sibyl also men- Verg.,4^.6.36 tioned in the Aeneid. "There is no possession of the Romans, sacred or profane, which they guard so care fully as they do the Sibylline Oracles" wrote Dionysius Dion.Hai.^^.Row.4.62.5 of Halicarnassus; and a modern historian has observed that "the study of the outward and inward effects of the Sibylline books is . . . the real history of religion in the Carter (1906) 71 first half of the [Roman] republic." Various interpo lations had crept into the Sibylline books already under Roman auspices, but it was especially from; Jewish and then from Christian sources that such interpolations came. Josephus cited the authority of the books to substantiate The Expectation of the Natrons 65 ]os. Ant.1.118 (LCL 4:56) Eus.P.e.g.

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I noticed, too, that she’d kept up the habit of red lipstick, the starlet’s hue my father used to like. He insisted she put it on, this high-effort cosmetic: she had to check it often, making sure it hadn’t bled. She wasn’t an attention-getting woman. Bold red was his preference, not hers. Each time she applied it, she might as well have been signaling across the miles that she still loved him. I talked as often as I could to Phoebe. She’d grown up in L.A., and though I’d made it up, perhaps because, I felt that this shared childhood belonged more to me. It was the upbringing she’d received by chance, while I’d picked mine: I cultivated it, and kept it alive. In fact, at first, I resented Phoebe’s theft of citrus trees and jasmine, the tennis balls whirling in full sunlight. But she accepted what I said without question; now, isolated as I felt, Phoebe’s belief helped me recall who I could be. By this point, we’d had to be apart almost a month. Phone calls spun out hours at a time. She was in Berlin with Julian, visiting his boyfriend, Sunil. I drifted into sleep with the phone hot at my face, Phoebe’s voice like a song. Will, we didn’t get back to Sunil’s place until 10:00 in the morning. It’s so bright in his living room that I can’t sleep except with a shawl tied around my head. Julian says that, even if he’s drunk, when, I can’t let him ask Sunil to quit his Berlin experiment. I broke a heel last night, dancing. Julian said I wasn’t allowed to go home. That, as his closest friend, I was obligated to stay with him. He tore his shirt, instead. He tied the cloth rags on my feet, like booties. Dancing slippers. – It was around this time that she first told me her mother had died, along with how it happened: that she, Phoebe, had been driving, unused to cars. I didn’t know how to respond. I’m so sorry, Phoebe, I said, at last. No, I just, I haven’t told people at Edwards, she said. I refuse to be the sad girl, with people whispering, but—I’ve known you awhile. I wanted to tell you. Well, I’ve told Julian. John Leal also knows, but that was my father’s doing. It’s life. Let’s talk about something else. –

• From Vox (1992)

  I gave my life up to it. My own taste in music stopped evolving in grade school with the Beatles, the early early Beatles—in fact I used to dislike any song that didn’t end—you know, end with a chord, but simply faded out.” “But then you met this guy,” he said. “Exactly!” she said. “All of the songs he liked faded out, or most of them did. And so I became a connoisseur of fade-outs. I bought cassettes. I used to turn them up very loud—with the headphones on—and listen very closely, trying to catch that precise moment when the person in the recording studio had begun to turn the volume dial down, or whatever it was he did. Sometimes I’d turn the volume dial up at just the speed I thought he—I mean the ghostly hand of the record producer—was turning it down, so that the sound stayed on an even plane. I’d get in this sort of trance, like you on the rug, where I thought if I kept turning it up—and this is a very powerful amplifier, mind you—the song would not stop, it would just continue indefinitely. And so what I had thought of before as just a kind of artistic sloppiness, this attempt to imply that oh yeah, we’re a bunch of endlessly creative folks who jam all night, and the bad old record producer finally has to turn down the volume on us just so we don’t fill the whole album with one monster song, became for me instead this kind of, this kind of summation of hopefulness. I first felt it in a song called ‘Ain’t Nobody,’ which was a song that this man I had the crush on was particularly keen on. ‘Ain’t nobody, loves me better.’ You know that one?” “You sing well!” he said. “I do not. But that’s the song, and as you get toward the end of it, a change takes place ip the way you hear it, which is that the knowledge that the song is going to end starts to be more important than the specific ups and downs of the melody, and even though the singer is singing just as loud as ever, in fact she’s really pouring it on now, she’s fighting to be heard, it’s as if you are hearing the inevitable waning of popularity of that hit, its slippage down the charts, and the twilight of the career of the singer, despite all of the beautiful subtle things she’s able to do with a plain old dumb old bunch of notes, and even as she goes for one last high note, full of daring and hope and passionateness and everything worthwhile, she’s lost, she’s sinking down.” “Oh! Don’t cry !” he said. “I’m not equipped … I mean my comforting skills don’t have that kind of range.”

• From Hot Rods: Gay Erotic Stories (2011)

  “Do you have the transmitter?” the director asked Straith, and then took it from him. “Well, Mr. McCallister. It looks like your recordings may give us just the edge we need to go up the chain and catch the top dog in all of this. You’re doing so well the prosecutor has mentioned shortening your sentence even more. But I think you may be in danger. I am going to assign Special Agent Anderson here to stay with you in your apartment until this trial is over. This could take several months; I hope you two feel you can get along all right cooped up in your apartment for that amount of time.” I looked at Straith and found him grinning at me. Nodding, and smiling slightly myself, I looked back at the assistant director and said, “Well, if you think it’s in my best interest, I guess I can’t refuse.” CHROME-OBSESSED Pepper Espinoza The only thing Teddy liked more than the smell of leather was smooth, cool chrome beneath his fingertips. He knew he shouldn’t touch the big Harley. If Howard Bell didn’t kill him for fucking around with the bike, then his father surely would. How many times had they told him to stay away from the bikes? How many times had he been told that you never, ever touch another man’s bike, unless you want the other man to lay you out with a fist to the face? Too many to count. That had been the story of his life ever since he had been a little boy. In fact, one of his earliest memories was of reaching for the shining chrome with chubby fingers—and having the same fingers slapped away with a harsh word. But even the promise of certain punishment wasn’t enough to restrain him. He bent over and inhaled deeply, capturing the combined scents of leather, Howard’s body, gasoline, oil and dust. Howard lived on his bike, traveling from one side of the country to the other, and the smell made Teddy think of the open road. There was a whole world out there that Teddy couldn’t even imagine, one that had never been accessible to him. The closest he ever got was when he started working in his father’s garage off the highway. He provided an eager ear to many of the men who stopped there for parts, and if they had to work on some guy’s bike for more than a day, Teddy happily provided more than just an ear.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were re- flected her secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book, for he thought it high time to have done with this reading. He lacked the language that Raftery had known — the language of many small sounds and small movements — a clumsy and inarticulate fellow he was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearly broke his own heart between love and the deep gratitude which he felt for Mary. At the moment he wanted to lay back his ears and howl with despair to see her unhappy. He wanted to make an enormous noise, the kind of noise wild folk make in the jungle — lions and tigers and other wild folk that David had heard about from his mother — his mother had been in Africa once a long time ago, with an old French colonel. But instead he abruptly licked Mary’s cheek — it tasted peculiar, he thought, like sea water. ‘ Do you want a walk, David?’ she asked him gently. And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging his tail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thump- ing the ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her 386 THE WELL OF LONELINESS in the past, although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, she had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed her through the courtyard. They wandered along the Quai. Voltaire, Mary pausing to look at the misty river. ‘Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?’ inquired David by lunging wildly backwards and forwards. She shook her head. ‘ Do stop, David; be good!’ Then she sighed again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he stared at Mary. Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, what was it? Just a big, foreign city — a city that belonged to a stranger people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary. They were exiles. She turned the word over in her mind — exiles; it sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephen be- come an exile? Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strange that she, Mary, had never asked her — had never wanted to until this moment. She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew dusk, and the dusk brought with it great longing — the long- ing to see, to hear, to touch — almost a physical pain it was, this longing to feel the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left her to go to Morton . . . Morton, that was surely Ste- phen’s real home, and in that real home there was no place for Mary.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Ten years. For ten years they had just had each other, each other and Morton — surely wonderful years. But what had they been thinking about all those years? Had they perhaps thought a little about Stephen? Oh, but what could she hope to know of these things, their thoughts, their feelings, their secret ambitions — she, who had not even been conceived, she, who had not yet come into existence? They had lived in a world that her eyes had not looked on; days and nights had slipped into the weeks, months and years. Time had existed, but she, Stephen, had not. They had lived through that time; it had gone to their making; their pres- ent had been the result of its travail, had sprung from its womb as she from her mother’s, only she had not been a part of that travail, as she had been a part of her mother’s. Hopeless! And yet she must try to know them, these two, every inch of their hearts, of their minds; and knowing them, she must then try to guard them — but him first, oh, him first — she did not ask why, she only knew that because she loved him as she did, he would always have to come first. Love was simply like that; it just followed its im- pulse and asked no questions — it was beautifully simple. But for his sake she must also love the thing that he loved, her mother, though this love was somehow quite different; it was less hers than his, he had thrust it upon her; it was not an integral part of her being. Nevertheless it too must be served, for the happiness of one was that of the other. They were indivisible, one flesh, one spirit, and whatever it was that had crept in between them was trying to tear asunder this oneness — that was why she, their child, must rise up and help them if she could, for was she not the fruit of their oneness? 94 THE WELL OF LONELINESS 4 THERE were times when she would think that she must have been mistaken, that no trouble was overshadowing her father; these would be when they two were sitting in his study, for then he would seem contented. Surrounded by his books, caressing their bindings, Sir Philip would look care-free again and light-hearted. ‘ No friends in the world like books,’ he would tell her. ‘ Look at this fellow in his old leather jacket! ’

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  126 It is time for the LORD to act; They have broken Your law. 127 Therefore I love Your commandments more than gold, Yes, more than refined gold. 128 Therefore I esteem as right all Your precepts concerning everything; I hate every false way. פ Pe. 129 Your testimonies are wonderful; Therefore my soul keeps them. 130 The unfolding of Your [glorious] words give light; Their unfolding gives understanding to the simple (childlike). 131 I opened my mouth and panted [with anticipation], Because I longed for Your commandments. 132 Turn to me and be gracious to me and show me favor, As is Your way to those who love Your name. 133 Establish my footsteps in [the way of] Your word; Do not let any human weakness have power over me [causing me to be separated from You]. 134 Redeem me from the oppression of man; That I may keep Your precepts. [Luke 1:74 ] 135 Make Your face shine [with pleasure] upon Your servant, And teach me Your statutes. [Ps 4:6 ] 136 My eyes weep streams of water Because people do not keep Your law. צ Tsadhe. 137 Righteous are You, O LORD , And upright are Your judgments. 138 You have commanded Your testimonies in righteousness And in great faithfulness. 139 My zeal has [completely] consumed me, Because my enemies have forgotten Your words. 140 Your word is very pure (refined); Therefore Your servant loves it. 141 I am small and despised, But I do not forget Your precepts. 142 Your righteousness is an everlasting righteousness, And Your law is truth. [Ps 19:9 ; John 17:17 ] 143 Trouble and anguish have found me, Yet Your commandments are my delight and my joy. 144 Your righteous testimonies are everlasting; Give me understanding [the ability to learn and a teachable heart] that I may live. ק Qoph. 145 I cried with all my heart; answer me, O LORD ! I will observe Your statutes. 146 I cried to You; save me And I will keep Your testimonies. 147 I rise before dawn and cry [in prayer] for help; I wait for Your word. 148 My eyes anticipate the night watches and I awake before the call of the watchman, That I may meditate on Your word. 149 Hear my voice according to Your [steadfast] lovingkindness; O LORD , renew and refresh me according to Your ordinances. 150 Those who follow after wickedness approach; They are far from Your law. 151 You are near, O LORD , And all Your commandments are truth. 152 Of old I have known from Your testimonies That You have founded them forever. [Luke 21:33 ] ר Resh. 153 Look upon my agony and rescue me, For I do not forget Your law. 154 Plead my cause and redeem me; Revive me and give me life according to [the promise of] Your word. 155 Salvation is far from the wicked, For they do not seek Your statutes.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her. Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legitimate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king's ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king's to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Lauretta, having made an end of her story, was silent, whilst the company bewailed the illhap of the lovers, some blaming Ninetta's anger and one saying one thing and another another, till presently the king, raising his head, as if aroused from deep thought, signed to Elisa to follow on; whereupon she began modestly, "Charming ladies, there are many who believe that Love launcheth his shafts only when enkindled of the eyes and make mock of those who hold that one may fall in love by hearsay; but that these are mistaken will very manifestly appear in a story that I purpose to relate, wherein you will see that report not only wrought this, without the lovers having ever set eyes on each other, but it will be made manifest to you that it brought both the one and the other to a miserable death. Guglielmo, the Second, King of Sicily, had (as the Sicilians pretend) two children, a son called Ruggieri and a daughter called Costanza. The former, dying before his father, left a son named Gerbino, who was diligently reared by his grandfather and became a very goodly youth and a renowned for prowess and courtesy. Nor did his fame abide confined within the limits of Sicily, but, resounding in various parts of the world, was nowhere more glorious than in Barbary, which in those days was tributary to the King of Sicily. Amongst the rest to whose ears came the magnificent fame of Gerbino's valour and courtesy was a daughter of the King of Tunis, who, according to the report of all who had seen her, was one of the fairest creatures ever fashioned by nature and the best bred and of a noble and great soul. She, delighting to hear tell of men of valour, with such goodwill received the tales recounted by one and another of the deeds valiantly done of Gerbino and they so pleased her that, picturing to herself the prince's fashion, she became ardently enamoured of him and discoursed more willingly of him than of any other and hearkened to whoso spoke of him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen flinched: ‘Come, you two — ° the words jarred on and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a moment she whispered: ‘ You were clever about his roses! ’ At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela nervous — she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually accompanied by attacks of bad temper. Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela said: ‘Oh, Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you that it won’t work at all; he thinks it had better go back to the makers, Will you write about it now before the post goes?’ THE WELL OF LONELINESS 179 “I suppose so —’ he muttered; but he left the room slowly. Then they looked at each other and drew close together, guiltily, starting at every sound: ‘ Stephen — be careful for God’s sake — Ralph —’ So Stephen’s hands dropped from Angela’s shoulders, and she set her lips hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had no right to protest. CHAPTER 21 I HAT autumn the Crossbys went up to Scotland, and Stephen went to Cornwall with her mother. Anna was not well, she needed a change, and the doctor had told them of Watergate Bay, that was why they had gone to Cornwall. To Stephen it mattered very little where she went, since she was not allowed to join An- gela in Scotland. Angela had put her foot down quite firmly: ‘ No, my dear, it wouldn’t do. I know Ralph would make hell. I can’t let you follow us up to Scotland.’ So that there, perforce, the matter had ended. And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while Anna read placidly, asking no questions. She seldom worried her daughter with questions, seldom even evinced any interest in her letters. From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and then Anna would say, recognizing the writing: ‘ Is everything all right? ’ And Stephen would answer: ‘ Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything’s all right.’ As indeed it was — at Morton. But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly. Stephen’s letters would quite often go unanswered; and what answers she received were unsatisfactory, for Angela’s caution was a very strict censor. Stephen herself must write with great care, she discovered, in order to pacify that censor. Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced man with a sympathy for lovers. " Any letters for me?’ she would ask, trying hard to appear rather bored at the mere thought of letters. ‘ No, miss.’ ‘ There’s another post in at seven?’ ESE SS THE WELL OF LONELINESS ISi ‘ Well — thank you.’

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  78 Let the arrogant be ashamed and humiliated, for they sabotage me with a lie; But I will meditate on Your precepts. 79 May those who fear You [with submissive wonder] turn to me, Even those who have known Your testimonies. 80 May my heart be blameless in Your statutes, So that I will not be ashamed. כ Kaph. 81 My soul languishes and grows weak for Your salvation; I wait for Your word. 82 My eyes fail [with longing, watching] for [the fulfillment of] Your promise, Saying, “When will You comfort me?” 83 For I have become like a wineskin [blackened and shriveled] in the smoke [in which it hangs], Yet I do not forget Your statutes. 84 How many are the days of Your servant [which he must endure]? When will You execute judgment on those who persecute me? [Rev 6:10 ] 85 The arrogant (godless) have dug pits for me, Men who do not conform to Your law. 86 All Your commandments are faithful and trustworthy. They have persecuted me with a lie; help me [LORD ]! 87 They had almost destroyed me on earth, But as for me, I did not c turn away from Your precepts. 88 According to Your steadfast love refresh me and give me life, So that I may keep and obey the testimony of Your mouth. ל Lamedh. 89 Forever, O LORD , Your word is settled in heaven [standing firm and unchangeable]. [Ps 89:2 ; Matt 24:34 , 35 ; 1 Pet 1:25 ] 90 Your faithfulness continues from generation to generation; You have established the earth, and it stands [securely]. 91 They continue this day according to Your ordinances, For all things [all parts of the universe] are Your servants. [Jer 33:25 ] 92 If Your law had not been my delight, Then I would have perished in my time of trouble. 93 I will never forget Your precepts, For by them You have revived me and given me life. 94 I am Yours, save me [as Your own]; For I have [diligently] sought Your precepts and required them [as my greatest need]. [Ps 42:1 ] 95 The wicked wait for me to destroy me, But I will consider Your testimonies. 96 I have seen that all [human] perfection has its limits [no matter how grand and perfect and noble]; Your commandment is exceedingly broad and extends without limits [into eternity]. [Rom 3:10–19 ] מ Mem. 97 Oh, how I love Your law! It is my meditation all the day. [Ps 1:2 ] 98 Your commandments make me wiser than my enemies, For Your words are always with me. 99 I have better understanding and deeper insight than all my teachers [because of Your word], For Your testimonies are my meditation. [2 Tim 3:15 ] 100 I understand more than the aged [who have not observed Your precepts], Because I have observed and kept Your precepts.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Abiding in this mind, it befell that he was one day urgently exhorted by certain ladies of his kinsfolk to renounce this passion of his, seeing he did but weary himself in vain, for that Catella had none other good than Filippello, of whom she lived in such jealousy that she fancied every bird that flew through the air would take him from her. Ricciardo, hearing of Catella's jealousy, forthright bethought himself how he might compass his wishes and accordingly proceeded to feign himself in despair of her love and to have therefore set his mind upon another lady, for whose love he began to make a show of jousting and tourneying and doing all those things which he had been used to do for Catella; nor did he do this long before well nigh all the Neapolitans, and among the rest the lady herself, were persuaded that he no longer loved Catella, but was ardently enamoured of this second lady; and on this wise he persisted until it was so firmly believed not only of others, but of Catella herself, that the latter laid aside a certain reserve with which she was wont to entreat him, by reason of the love he bore her, and coming and going, saluted him familiarly, neighbourwise, as she did others.

• From Vox (1992)

  89 single asterisk in the middle of the page on the day after any night I'd masturbated thinking mainly about her. I don't know if she thought this was charming or not. On the whole I think it pleased her. I was not completely serious myself anyway. One time she even held her arms out in perplexity and said, 'What, no asterisk today?' She knew I loved her arms. I tried to get her to send me a memo with a pound sign on it the day after any night she had masturbated thinking about Lee, but she never did. One night I was working late and I started to need to jerk off. The place was absolutely deserted, it was a holiday weekend. I went past this woman's door, her name was Emily, and it was like I was passing a huge vulva, so big it had a desk inside, and I decided that what I should do is make an actual photocopy of my dick, in fact two copies, one before coming, one after, and leave these, along with an asterisk memo, on her desk." "What did you hope to accomplish by doing that?" "Well, I was very interested in having her see my cock, but of course I wasn't ever going to just flip it out in front of her, I needed some . . . distancing step, so that ho ho ho yes we're civilized adults here, it's all on paper. Well it's harder than you may think to make a copy of your dick. I know it's done in offices all the time, but I found it to be quite a project. Maybe if I'd been able to do some kind of planche, like your painter friend did on your . . . back, it would have been easy, but what I had to do was first try to get something akin to an erection standing at