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.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  As for the lover’s tears, the prime example of a story incorporating this and various other motifs of amour courtois is the famous account of Federigo and his prize falcon (V, 9), which the narrator claims to be offering to her lady hearers in order ‘to acquaint you with the power of your beauty over men of noble spirit’. The aristocratic life-style of a bygone age is nostalgically recalled in the initial description of Federigo, who ‘for his deeds of chivalry and courtly manners was more highly spoken of than any other squire in Tuscany’. The object of his love is a married lady, Monna Giovanna, whose attention he seeks to capture by riding at the ring, tilting, giving sumptuous banquets, and distributing largesse on so liberal a scale that he reduces himself to a state of poverty. In the best tradition of the courtly lover, he continues to serve his lady with unswerving fidelity. When, now widowed, she calls at his humble dwelling, he wrings the neck of his precious falcon without a second thought, so as to ensure that his unexpected guest is fed in as fitting a manner as his straitened circumstances will allow. The tears he sheds on learning the reason for her visit47 are at first misinterpreted by the lady. Though he attributes them to the hostility of Fortune, they serve to convince the lady of the strength of his devotion. When her brothers urge her to take a second husband, she insists that she will marry no other man except Federigo, explaining that she prefers a gentleman without riches to riches without a gentleman. What began as an adulterous passion ends with the formalization of the relationship in a Christian marriage. Courtly love (amour courtois) is transmuted into married love (amor conjugalis).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Every morning she rode very early in the Park, which seemed a futile and dreary business, but now only thus could the horse and his owner contrive to be together for a little. Sometimes she fancied that Raftery sighed as she cantered him round and round the Row, and then she would stoop down and speak to him softly: ‘My Raftery, I know, it’s not Castle Morton or the hills or the big, green Severn Valley—but I love you.’ And because he had understood her he would throw up his head and begin to prance sideways, pretending that he still felt very youthful, pretending that he was wild with delight at the prospect of cantering round the Row. But after a while these two sorry exiles would droop and move forward without much spirit. Each in a separate way would divine the ache in the other, the ache that was Morton, so that Stephen would cease to urge the beast forward, and Raftery would cease to pretend to Stephen. But when twice a year at her mother’s request, Stephen must go back to visit her home, then Raftery went too, and his joy was immense when he felt the good springy turf beneath him, when he sighted the red brick stables of Morton, when he rolled in the straw of his large, airy loosebox. The years would seem to slip from his shoulders, he grew sleeker, he would look like a five-year-old—yet to Stephen these visits of theirs were anguish because of her love for Morton. She would feel like a stranger within the gates, an unwanted stranger there only on sufferance. It would seem to her that the old house withdrew itself from her love very gravely and sadly, that its windows no longer beckoned, invited: ‘Come home, come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!’ And she would not dare to proffer her love, which would burden her heart to breaking. She must now pay many calls with her mother, must attend all the formal social functions—this for the sake of appearances, lest the neighbours should guess the breach between them. She must keep up the fiction that she found in a city the stimulus necessary to her work, she who was filled with a hungry longing for the green of the hills, for the air of wide spaces, for the mornings and the noontides and the evenings of Morton. All these things she must do for the sake of her father, aye, and for the sake of Morton. On her first visit home Anna had said very quietly one day: ‘There’s something, Stephen, that I think I ought to tell you perhaps, though it’s painful to me to reopen the subject. There has been no scandal—that man held his tongue—you’ll be glad to know this because of your father. And Stephen—the Crossbys have sold The Grange and gone to America, I believe—’ she had stopped abruptly, not looking at Stephen, who had nodded, unable to answer.

• From Trash (1988)

  It wasn’t even the thing I’d been thinking. It was as if Katy had pushed the words out of my mouth. It was exactly the kind of thing Katy would have said. But Mickey had overdosed himself at Raiford, and I’d never seen any of Katy’s boyfriends again. Just Katy, anytime she gets restless and wants to come back. I look at her now and my throat closes up. I cannot make casual conversation, cannot talk at all. I want to reach for her but I am too afraid. She is the vampire curse in my life. You have to invite them back, and part of me always wants her, even when most of me don’t. Right now all of me wants her, flesh and blood, body and soul. Katy’s thick black eyebrows raise and lower, seeing right through me, seeing my grief and my lust. “Ahhh, bitch,” she whispers, and it sounds like lover. She slips one hand under the sheet and strokes her nails along my leg. I catch my breath. I could cry but don’t. Will we be lovers again? Is she real enough this moment to put her filmy body along my too-tight muscles? She wants to; it shows in the unaccustomed softness in her face. I feel tears run down my cheeks. Now she says it. “Lover.” “Junkie.” I hiss it at her, beginning to really cry, making a hoarse ugly sound in the quiet room. “Goddamn you, you goddamned junkie!” “Ahh well,” she drawls, her fingers still stroking my leg. “It’s not a lie.” She drags herself over, rocking the bed this time, sliding under the sheet. She arranges her body to cup my side, her toes touch my ankle and her head turns so that her mouth is close to my ear. “Not a lie, no.” One hand caresses my stomach; the other hugs my hipbone. “Goddamn you!” I try to lie still but start shaking. “Don’t be boring,” she says. I feel her tongue licking my cheek, wet and almost as rough as a cat’s tongue. My whole body goes stiff, and my hands ball up into fists. “Why do you keep coming back? Why don’t you leave me alone? You weren’t worth the trouble when you were alive and you sure aren’t doing me any good now.” I start to fight her, trying to pull away or push her away. But she is smoke only, a cloud on my skin, and I can’t escape her. “Motherfucker . . .” I give it up to cry and turn my face into the pillow of her hair. It smells so sweet and familiar, marijuana and patchouli. Katy’s shoulders ride up and down. She arches her back and slides her body over so that her belly is on top of mine. I almost scream from the intensity of the sensation.

• From Trash (1988)

  There were pictures up on the wall at the back of the store. Every one of them showed her sitting on or standing by a horse, the reins loose in her hand and her eyes focused far off. The riding hat hid her curls. The jacket pushed her breasts down but emphasized her hips. She had a ribbon pinned to the coat. A little card beneath the pictures identified her as the steeplechase champion of the southern division. In one picture she was jumping. Her hat was gone, her hair blown back, and the horse’s legs stretched high above the ground. Her teeth shone white and perfect, and she looked as fierce as a bobcat going for prey. Looking at the pictures made me hurt. She came in once while I was standing in front of them and gave me a quick, wry grin. “You ride?” Her cane made a hollow thumping sound on the floor. I didn’t look at it. “For fun, once or twice with a girlfriend.” Her eyes were enormous and as black as her hair. Her face looked thinner than it had in the pictures, her neck longer. She grimaced and leaned on the cane. Under her tan she looked pale. She shrugged. “I miss it myself.” She said it in a matter-of-fact tone, but her eyes glittered. I looked up at the pictures again. “I’ll bet.” I blushed, and looked back at her uncomfortably. “Odds are I’ll ride again.” Her jeans bulged around the knee brace. “But not jump, and I did love jumping. Always felt like I was at war with the ground, allied with the sky, trying to stay up in the air.” She grinned wide, and a faint white scar showed at the corner of her mouth. “Where you from?” I could feel the heat in my face but ignored it. “Virginia.” Her eyes focused on my jacket, the backpack hanging from my arm, and down to where I had my left hip pushed out, my weight on my right foot. “Haven’t been there for a while, though.” She looked away, looked tired and sad. What I wanted in that moment I will never be able to explain—to feed her or make love to her or just lighten the shadows under her eyes—all that, all that and more. “You ever eat any Red Velvet Cake?” I licked my lips and shifted my weight so that I wasn’t leaning to the side. I looked into her eyes. “Red Velvet Cake?” Her eyes were friendly, soft, and black as the deepest part of the night. “It’s a dessert my sister and I used to bake, unhealthy as sin and twice as delicious. Made up with chocolate, buttermilk, vinegar, and baking soda, and a little bottle of that poisonous red dye number two.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  were reading in church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like Edna -— the place where she makes some person come up, cause the king had forgotten what he looked like.’ But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her; indeed they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making her see, not the person she wished to, but a creature entirely dif- ferent. For Collins now had a most serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He was not possessed of a real housemaid’s knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling brown legs — he was two up on legs, and one up on a tail, which was rather unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen was eight years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was learning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally skilful and fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion with Anna, because Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this she had shown herself very refractory, falling off every time she tried the side-saddle — quite obvious, of course, this falling off process, but enough to subjugate Anna. And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables, swaggering largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Wil- liams, the old stud groom, who had a soft place in his heart for the child. She would say: ‘ Come up, horse!’ in the same tone as Wil- liams; or, pretending to a knowledge she was far from possess- ing: “Is that fetlock a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing we put on a nice wet bandage.’ Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though think- _ing: ‘ Maybe yes — maybe no—’ he would temporize, wisely. She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more enticing than Collins’ perfume — the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out, and which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with courage — he was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly because of the footman! And yet — and yet — you owed something to Collins, 38 THE WELL OF LONELINESS just because you had loved her, though you couldn’t any more. It was dreadfully worrving, all this hard thinking, when you wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rub- bing her chin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could not produce the same scrabbly sound, but in spite of this drawback the movement would soothe her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am I grown And of thy might obediently await Grace for my lowliness; Yet wot I not if wholly there be known The high desire that in my breast thou'st set And my sheer faith, no less, Of her who doth possess My heart so that from none beneath the skies, Save her alone, peace would I take or prize. Wherefore I pray thee, sweet my lord and sire, Discover it to her and cause her taste Some scantling of thy heat To-me-ward,--for thou seest that in the fire, Loving, I languish and for torment waste By inches at her feet,-- And eke in season meet Commend me to her favour on such wise As I would plead for thee, should need arise.[293] [Footnote 293: This singularly naïve give-and-take fashion of asking a favour of a God recalls the old Scotch epitaph cited by Mr. George Macdonald: Here lie I Martin Elginbrodde: Hae mercy o' my soul, Lord God; As I wad do, were I Lord God And ye were Martin Elginbrodde.] Dioneo, by his silence, showing that his song was ended, the queen let sing many others, having natheless much commended his. Then, somedele of the night being spent and the queen feeling the heat of the day to be now overcome of the coolness of the night, she bade each at his pleasure betake himself to rest against the ensuing day. HERE ENDETH THE FIFTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Sixth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF ELISA IS DISCOURSED OF WHOSO BEING ASSAILED WITH SOME JIBING SPEECH HATH VINDICATED HIMSELF OR HATH WITH SOME READY REPLY OR ADVISEMENT ESCAPED LOSS, PERIL OR SHAME

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The dance ended, they entered with them into a discourse of the Ladies' Valley and said much in praise and commendation thereof. Moreover, the king, sending for the seneschal, bade him look that the dinner be made ready there on the following morning and have sundry beds carried thither, in case any should have a mind to lie or sleep there for nooning; after which he let bring lights and wine and confections and the company having somedele refreshed themselves, he commanded that all should address themselves to dancing. Then, Pamfilo having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to Elisa and said courteously to her, "Fair damsel, thou has to-day done me the honour of the crown and I purpose this evening to do thee that of the song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee." Elisa answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on this wise: Love, from thy clutches could I but win free, Hardly, methinks, again Shall any other hook take hold on me. I entered in thy wars a youngling maid, Thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet, And all my weapons on the ground I laid, As one secure, undoubting of defeat; But thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat, Didst fall on me amain With all the grapnels of thine armoury. Then, wound about and fettered with thy chains, To him, who for my death in evil hour Was born, thou gav'st me, bounden, full of pains And bitter tears; and syne within his power He hath me and his rule's so harsh and dour No sighs can move the swain Nor all my wasting plaints to set me free. My prayers, the wild winds bear them all away; He hearkeneth unto none and none will hear; Wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye; I cannot die, albeit life irks me drear. Ah, Lord, have pity on my heavy cheer; Do that I seek in vain And give him bounden in thy chains to me. An this thou wilt not, at the least undo The bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were; Alack, O Lord, thereof to thee I sue, For, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair Again I trust, as was my use whilere, And being quit of pain Myself with white flowers and with red besee. Elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive what it was that caused her sing thus. But the king, who was in a merry mood, calling for Tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to the sound whereof he let dance many dances; after which, a great part of the night being now past, he bade each go sleep. HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Seventh_

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  It was all part of Collins, yet somehow quite different—it had nothing to do with Collins’ wide smile, nor her hands which were red, nor even her eyes which were blue, and very arresting. Yet all that was Collins, Stephen’s Collins, was also a part of these long, warm days, a part of the twilights that came in and lingered for hours after Stephen had been put to bed; a part too, could Stephen have only known it, of her own quickening childish perceptions. This spring, for the first time, she thrilled to the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her head on one side; and the lure of that far-away call was destined to remain with her all her life. There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yet at others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force the response that her loving craved for, but quite wisely, was very seldom granted. She would say: ‘I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you so much that it makes me want to cry.’ And Collins would answer: ‘Don’t be silly, Miss Stephen,’ which was not satisfactory—not at all satisfactory. Then Stephen might suddenly push her, in anger: ‘You’re a beast! How I hate you, Collins!’ And now Stephen had taken to keeping awake every night, in order to build up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by Collins in all sorts of happy situations. Perhaps they would be walking in the garden, hand in hand, or pausing on a hill-side to listen to the cuckoo; or perhaps they would be skimming over miles of blue ocean in a queer little ship with a leg-of-mutton sail, like the one in the fairy story. Sometimes Stephen pictured them living alone in a low thatched cottage by the side of a mill stream—she had seen such a cottage not very far from Upton—and the water flowed quickly and made talking noises; there were sometimes dead leaves on the water. This last was a very intimate picture, full of detail, even to the red china dogs that stood one at each end of the high mantelpiece, and the grandfather clock that ticked loudly. Collins would sit by the fire with her shoes off. ‘Me feet’s that swollen and painful,’ she would say. Then Stephen would go and cut rich bread and butter—the drawing-room kind, little bread and much butter—and would put on the kettle and brew tea for Collins, who liked it very strong and practically boiling, so that she could sip it from her saucer. In this picture it was Collins who talked about loving, and Stephen who gently but firmly rebuked her: ‘There, there, Collins, don’t be silly, you are a queer fish!’

• From Trash (1988)

  Those were the ones who could make you want to scream low against all the darkness in the world. “That one,” Shannon would whisper smugly, but I didn’t need her to tell me. I could always tell which one Mr. Pearl would take aside and invite over to Gaston for revival week. “Child!” he’d say. “You got a gift from God.” Uh huh, yeah. Sometimes I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t go in one more church, hear one more choir. Never mind loving the music, why couldn’t God give me a voice? I hadn’t asked for thick eyelashes. I had asked for, begged for, gospel. Didn’t God give a good goddamn what I wanted? If He’d take bastards into heaven, how come He couldn’t put me in front of those hot lights and all that dispensation? Gospel singers always had money in their pockets, another bottle under their seats. Gospel singers had love and safety and the whole wide world to fall back on—women and church and red clay solid under their feet. All I wanted, I whispered, all I wanted was a piece, a piece, a little piece of it. Shannon looked at me sympathetically. She knows, I thought, she knows what it is to want what you are never going to have. There was a circuit that ran from North Carolina to South Carolina, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama. The gospel singers moved back and forth on it, a tide of gilt and fringe jackets that intersected and paralleled the country-western circuit. Sometimes you couldn’t tell the difference, and as times got harder certainly Mr. Pearl stopped making distinctions, booking any act that would get him a little cash up front. More and more, I got to go off with the Pearls in their old yellow DeSoto, the trunk stuffed with boxes of religious supplies and Mrs. Pearl’s sewing machine, the backseat crowded with Shannon and me and piles of sewing. Pulling into small towns in the afternoon so Mr. Pearl could do the setup and Mrs. Pearl could repair tears and frayed edges of embroidery, Shannon and I would go off to picnic alone on cold chicken and chow-chow. Mrs. Pearl always brought tea in a mason jar, but Shannon would rub her eyes and complain of a headache until her mama gave in and bought us RC Colas. Most of the singers arrived late. It was a wonder to me that the truth never seemed to register with Mr. and Mrs. Pearl. No matter who fell over the boxes backstage, they never caught on that the whole Tuckerton family had to be pointed in the direction of the stage, nor that Little Pammie Gleason—Lord, just thirteen!—had to wear her frilly blouse long-sleeved ’cause she had bruises all up and down her arms from that redheaded boy her daddy wouldn’t let her marry. They never seemed to see all the “boys” passing bourbon in paper cups backstage or their angel daughter, Shannon, begging for “just a sip.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, betook herself to Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There, finding everything waste and disordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count's vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. The lady, having thoroughly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, 'For that, let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.' Now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, they all, ladies and men alike, arose and some began to go barefoot through the clear water, whilst others went a-pleasuring upon the greensward among the straight and goodly trees. Dioneo and Fiammetta sang together a great while of Arcite and Palemon, and on this wise, taking various and divers delights, they passed the time with the utmost satisfaction until the hour of supper; which being come, they seated themselves at table beside the lakelet and there, to the song of a thousand birds, still refreshed by a gentle breeze, that came from the little hills around, and untroubled of any fly, they supped in peace and cheer. Then, the tables being removed and the sun being yet half-vespers[362] high, after they had gone awhile round about the pleasant valley, they wended their way again, even as it pleased their queen, with slow steps towards their wonted dwelling-place, and jesting and chattering a thousand things, as well of those whereof it had been that day discoursed as of others, they came near upon nightfall to the fair palace, where having with the coolest of wines and confections done away the fatigues of the little journey, they presently fell to dancing about the fair fountain, carolling[363] now to the sound of Tindaro's bagpipe and anon to that of other instruments. But, after awhile, the queen bade Filomena sing a song, whereupon she began thus: [Footnote 362: _Quære_, "half-complines," _i.e._ half-past seven p.m. "Half-vespers" would be half-past four, which seems too early.] [Footnote 363: _Carolando_, _i.e._ dancing in a round and singing the while, the original meaning of our word "carol."] Alack, my life forlorn! Will't ever chance I may once more regain Th' estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn? Certes, I know not, such a wish of fire I carry in my thought To find me where, alas! I was whilere. O dear my treasure, thou my sole desire, That holdst my heart distraught. Tell it me, thou; for whom I know nor dare To ask it otherwhere. Ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again, So I may comfort me my spright wayworn. What was the charm I cannot rightly tell That kindled in me such A flame of love that rest nor day nor night I find; for, by some strong unwonted spell, Hearing and touch And seeing each new fires in me did light, Wherein I burn outright; Nor other than thyself can soothe my pain Nor call my senses back, by love o'erborne. O tell me if and when, then, it shall be That I shall find thee e'er Whereas I kissed those eyes that did me slay. O dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me, When thou wilt come back there, And saying "Quickly," comfort my dismay Somedele. Short be the stay Until thou come, and long mayst thou remain! I'm so love-struck, I reck not of men's scorn.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  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 suddenly Stephen felt shamelessly childish, and she spoke as a child who wants comforting. ‘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. I’ll 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 Stephen left Cornwall without a regret; everything about it had seemed to her depressing. Its rather grim beauty which at any other time would have deeply appealed to her virile nature, had but added to the gloom of those interminable weeks spent apart from Angela Crossby. For her perturbation had been growing apace, she was constantly oppressed by doubts and vague fears; bewildered, uncertain of her own power to hold; uncertain too, of Angela’s will to be held by this dangerous yet bloodless loving.

• From Introduction to the Hebrew Bible and Deutero-Canonical Books (2018)

  episode of Judah and Tamar is inserted here and bound to its context by various motifs (e.g., Judah is asked to recognize the pledges he had given to Tamar; Jacob is asked to recognize his son’s robe). Mainly, this episode provides space between Joseph’s captivity and his rise to prominence in Egypt. Joseph experiences the transition from captivity to power not once but twice. First, he is overseer of his master’s house. This happy situation is disrupted when his master’s wife tries to seduce him and then makes a false accusation against him. (This motif has an Egyptian parallel in the Tale of the Two Brothers, where the wife of the elder brother similarly tries to seduce the righteous younger man and then accuses him falsely.) Consequently, Joseph is thrown in prison. He rises again because of his God-given ability to interpret dreams, and now he is placed in authority over all Egypt. He distinguishes himself by storing grain in anticipation of a time of famine. When there is famine in the land of Canaan, his brothers come and fulfill his prophecy by bowing down before him in ignorance of his identity. Joseph tests his brothers, especially with respect to their feelings for their youngest brother, Benjamin, adding to Jacob’s distress in the process. In the end, however, he can no longer control himself and discloses his identity (45:1-3). He does not reproach his brothers for selling him into Egypt, because “God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors” (45:7). But Joseph is also responsible for causing Jacob and his whole family to go down into Egypt and settle there as shepherds. Moreover, Joseph is credited with centralizing wealth in the hands of the pharaoh and bringing the people into a state of slavery: “So Joseph bought all the land of Egypt for Pharaoh. All the Egyptians sold their fields, because the famine was severe upon them, and the land became Pharaoh’s. As for the people, he made slaves of them, from one end of Egypt to the other” (47:20-21). Only the land of the priests was exempt. One- fifth of all crops was to go to Pharaoh. It would seem, then, that even as Joseph saved his family from famine, he set the stage for their future oppression. But that oppression, in turn, would be the occasion of their greatest deliverance. Many scholars have tried to find a kernel of history in the Joseph story. There was a time (c. 1750–1550 B.C.E.) when people from Syria, known as the

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Brother James Aloysius will drive you to the bus stop in Ayer in the morning and pick you up at night, and I’ll have dinner with you in the evening.” It would be years before I came to appreciate the irony of this new arrangement. Sister Catherine, having failed in her mission to mold me into a bride of Christ, rid herself of me by handing me back to my parents after more than a decade of enforced separation from them. * * * In the darkness before dawn each morning, my father drove me to the Greyhound station where I took the hour-long bus ride into Boston to attend secretarial school. Riding in the car with him and engaging in small talk as we made the fifteen-minute journey was a novel experience. “Do you have your gloves?” he would say if the weather was frigid. I adored him, but I wasn’t used to his playing the role of father and felt at a loss for how to respond in an intimate way, unfamiliar as I was with the natural role of father to daughter. But I would always give him a kiss as I bolted out of the car. In the evening when I stepped off the bus, he would bring me back to the seclusion of St. Joseph’s House, often accompanying me inside so he could have a brief conversation with my mother, in what seemed like a husband-and-wife kind of way. It pleased me to see them together talking softly. Then he’d depart, and Sister Elizabeth Ann and I would eat in the dining room that she had set up in an elegant fashion. For the first few weeks, our conversation at dinner was reserved, almost formal. I was afraid of scandalizing her with a question or a comment. After dinner, in the privacy of my locked bedroom, as I did my homework, I turned on the transistor radio I’d bought during the summer, using earphones to keep my secret secure. I’d tune in to WBZ and listen to Bob Kennedy’s hour-long show Contact , which featured politicians, authors, and celebrities of all kinds, as well as discussions about controversial topics like the death penalty, Vietnam, and abortion. The show inspired me to read Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice , as well as Richard Wright’s Native Son , books I was well aware would be anathema at the Center. So I kept them hidden under the mattress. My knowledge base was expanding—from the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” during the summer to radical politics—and only a stone’s throw from Sister Catherine’s office. It was empowering, even if I had no one with whom I could exchange ideas or ask questions. Now Christmas was upon us, and with it came a sense of dread. I could remember something special, something that spoke of joy, about each Christmas for the eight years we’d been in Still River.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  I couldn’t find the sin, the evil, or the blasphemy in it. On afternoons when my aunt went out grocery shopping with the two youngest boys, I found books that opened my eyes to the real world. Dr. Benjamin Spock’s Baby and Child Care , in its paperback version, the pages worn from an abundance of use, was a veritable tutorial on the matter of procreation, a subject so closeted at the Center that biology was proscribed as a course in high school. Alone in the house, I pored over the book, and returned it to its place on the shelf before anyone returned. Within a couple of weeks, I had learned “the facts of life.” At 11:30 at night, the local radio station brought its broadcast to a close with the theme song from the recently released movie, Doctor Zhivago . The music was so hauntingly beautiful, so full of romance, it brought tears to my eyes each time it was played, even though I had no notion of the story behind it. A trip to the movies was a venture I was reluctant to take on, lest the word get back to my parents and then to Sister Catherine, who would undoubtedly condemn me to the whole community and ensure that I never saw my siblings again. My curiosity in the sphere of movies was further piqued when my cousin announced that he and his buddies were going to see the season’s newest movie, Georgy Girl , deemed by some reviewers to be risqué. Although my uncle claimed to be shocked at their lack of judgment, he did nothing to prevent them from going, and I found myself fantasizing about what might make the movie so scandalous. Before long, I had memorized the popular theme song with its catchy opening line (“Hey there, Georgy Girl….”), but I wasn’t yet ready to take that giant step into the forbidden land of wicked movies. When my father came down for his weekly visit on Sunday, I saw a man more worldly than the cassocked Big Brother of Still River. Clad now in a black suit and crisp white shirt, his required attire when traveling, he’d settle down on the sofa in his sister’s living room with a copy of the Boston Globe , devouring news on the Red Sox and tennis. He’d chat about things secular—from world affairs to a vast array of cousins. Most particularly, he and Eleanor would reminisce about old times, and I noticed with pleasure how he happily discussed his past life. He was the life of the party at the dinner table, and when he left to return to Still River, I would wonder if he might not prefer the life I was leading to his own. The weeks passed, and as they did, I found myself a little less lost, a tiny bit more comfortable in putting my foot on the first stepping-stones toward assimilation into the world.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  It took weeks, but little by little, the fence was erected and the outside world disappeared—the people who lived in the multifamily houses across the street, the open field where children played, the rag man and his horse and buggy, the banana man who pulled his cart and shouted, “Whoop! Ripe bananas, ten cents a pound apiece.” The fence was painted red, and it formed the circumference of the walled city that encompassed the seven houses in which the married couples and their children lived and where we now had our communal meals and the chapel. The nearly forty single adults continued to live in two separate houses, one each for the men and the women, outside of the red fence. The phrase “out in the world” came to represent the world beyond our compound. “That’s where the bad people live,” Mariam told me in her know-it-all way, as we sat eating our bread, butter, and oregano sandwiches on the picnic bench in our enclosure. I knew the litany of who the bad people were—the Jews, the pagans, the heretics, the infidels, the Protestants, the Freemasons, and the pious frauds, or as Father called them, “PFs.” They were the Irish Catholics of Boston who had turned against him and sided with Archbishop Cushing. The more the world was shut out, the more I longed to see it. One evening, while playing in the newly enclosed yard, I made a discovery. By putting my right eye up to the small sliver of space between the gate and the post to which it was hinged, I was able to spy the top of Boston’s tallest building, the John Hancock in Copley Square. In the fading daylight I could see the steady blue light shining from the weather beacon. [image file=Image00019.jpg] The entire adult community in the summer of 1953. My mother is fourth from the right in the front row; my father is on the far right in the back row. “It’s going to be sunny tomorrow,” I announced with confidence to my father. He had taught me the verse that interpreted the color of the light, which was a weather beacon. Steady blue, clear view. Flashing blue, clouds due. Steady red, rain ahead. Flashing red, snow instead. The only other glimpse I now had into the world beyond the red fence was on Thursday evenings when Father continued to give his once-famous lectures. The throngs of listeners in his heyday were now replaced by a small coterie of ladies, loyalists to Father. Their arrival in an array of “worldly” attire—hats and high-heeled shoes, pocketbooks, and all manner of coats, furs, dresses, and suits—was a feast for my eyes. When a couple of them would head off to “powder their noses,” an expression I found baffling, I followed them to the ladies’ room. Once inside, I stood silently, my back against the wall, observing their rituals.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “The Center,” first located a short walk from Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and subsequently transported to the bucolic hamlet of Still River, Massachusetts, evolved into a social experiment of sorts, whose purpose was to create a pure-hearted community in which no material thing, no cultural influence, not even the bonds between family members, could impede the path to God. Dedicated to a rigid adherence to Catholic orthodoxy, this community of nearly one hundred people, including my parents and thirty-nine children who were born into it, lived a life completely shielded from an outside world that was considered to be fraught with evil. I was educated within the confines of my community from nursery school through my senior year of high school. For much of my childhood, I grew up without the daily love and attention of my parents. I was just six years old when Leonard Feeney and Catherine Clarke made the decision that my siblings and I were to live apart from our parents. Later, Leonard Feeney pressured my parents to forsake their marital vows, no longer living as husband and wife. A celibate existence, they were told, was more conducive to a life dedicated to God. And so my parents complied. On only one occasion during my life at the Center was I allowed to listen to the radio. That was when the community assembled to hear the inaugural address of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the country’s first Catholic president. I felt transported at that moment into the vast unreachable outside world—a place I longed to experience. I was eleven years old at the time. I had heard of the Beatles only because Leonard Feeney had once played a fifteen-second snippet of their hit song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” as a demonstration of “music of the devil.” The eruption of rock and roll onto the world stage was lost on me, as was the sexual revolution that came in its wake. Within my community, any personal attachment, any demonstration of familial affection, any expression of romantic love was prohibited. As for sex, the word itself was verboten. There was no explanation of the facts of life, as though by revealing nothing, the course of nature could be manipulated, and the lack of knowledge would lead to lack of interest. But the absence of understanding such things did nothing to inhibit my natural desires. As I matured into my teenage years, I fell into a series of crushes on the grown men within the community, with not a glimmer of understanding about why it happened, what it meant, or what to do about it. Though I’d never had a date, much less kissed a boy, my innocent interest was viewed as subverting God’s will, which was deemed to be that each of the thirty-nine children should embrace religious life and celibacy.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “Now, dears,” she said in a serious voice, “you must promise me that you will keep this a secret. You mustn’t breathe a word of it to Father. He doesn’t understand little girls the way I do.” I got the picture—Father didn’t want us to have dolls because they were worldly. But I also pondered Sister Catherine’s words—that she understood little girls. I wanted to believe her, and I wanted to think of her in a motherly way. She was now the only person at the Center who could dispense love and I craved it from her. But those moments were fleeting and her love always felt conditional, as though a temporary reward for obedience to her. Bedtime stories, banished in Cambridge by Sister Matilda, after we were separated from our parents, were re-instituted by Sister Catherine. In addition, she took to reading to us during dinnertime several evenings a week. My favorite book was Fabiola , which had the subtitle, The Church of the Catacombs . A nineteenth-century novel by the English Catholic cardinal Nicholas Wiseman, it was a tale of conversion and martyrdom, the latter generally depicted in gruesome detail. The heroine was an elegant and brilliant young woman named Fabiola, the much-loved daughter of a wealthy pagan Roman. Her mother had died when she was an infant. Her confidante was Syra, her most valued slave and a Christian in hiding, who eventually converted Fabiola. While Sister Catherine was endeavoring to inspire us with the honor of martyrdom, what captivated me was the vivid depiction of daily life in a wealthy Roman household in the fourth century. I longed for Fabiola’s lifestyle, her many-roomed mansion with servants and silver, her elegant clothes and expensive jewelry—in particular, a radiant emerald ring. The vivid imagery provided endless new material for reverie, as I imagined myself as Fabiola. Pagan or Christian, she was my model. If, instead of engaging in a session of reading, Sister Catherine had business on her mind, it was evident from the force of her stride, from the glint in her eye, the set of her jaw, and the pursed lips, as she took the few steps to her post in the doorway between our two refectories. And she’d come to the point without any small talk. That’s what happened the evening she introduced the Big Punisher. “For those of you who break the rules, there will be a new form of punishment—the Big Punisher—and it will be unlike anything you have ever experienced before. It’s for the good of your souls.” She didn’t describe it or show it. She deliberately left it a secret, so we had to imagine what kind of device the Big Punisher might be. But the threat was enough to convince me that I would do everything I could to avoid being beaten with it. The Big Punisher was immediately put into use.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  “They’re dried flowers,” Mariam told me on one occasion when I wrinkled my nose at them. Dead was a better description, I thought. Mr. Feeney sat like a crumpled rag doll on a sofa in front of two tall windows covered with red velvet drapes that obliterated daylight. His wife brought us cookies and milk and in between nibbles and sips, we had to recite poems Father had written once upon a time when he was the famous and beloved American Catholic poet, long before his fall from grace. For my part, I couldn’t wait to get back home. * * * With a shovel in his hand, my dad started digging. “Daddy, what are you doing?” I asked, ever curious and fascinated by the multiple deep holes that lined up like sentinels along the sidewalk. “Building a fence, my little princess,” he replied. “Now stay away, so you don’t get hurt.” Mariam filled me in on the rest. “The fence is going to go all around our houses.” She was right. It took weeks, but little by little, the fence was erected and the outside world disappeared—the people who lived in the multifamily houses across the street, the open field where children played, the rag man and his horse and buggy, the banana man who pulled his cart and shouted, “Whoop! Ripe bananas, ten cents a pound apiece.” The fence was painted red, and it formed the circumference of the walled city that encompassed the seven houses in which the married couples and their children lived and where we now had our communal meals and the chapel. The nearly forty single adults continued to live in two separate houses, one each for the men and the women, outside of the red fence. The phrase “out in the world” came to represent the world beyond our compound. “That’s where the bad people live,” Mariam told me in her know-it-all way, as we sat eating our bread, butter, and oregano sandwiches on the picnic bench in our enclosure. I knew the litany of who the bad people were—the Jews, the pagans, the heretics, the infidels, the Protestants, the Freemasons, and the pious frauds, or as Father called them, “PFs.” They were the Irish Catholics of Boston who had turned against him and sided with Archbishop Cushing. The more the world was shut out, the more I longed to see it. One evening, while playing in the newly enclosed yard, I made a discovery. By putting my right eye up to the small sliver of space between the gate and the post to which it was hinged, I was able to spy the top of Boston’s tallest building, the John Hancock in Copley Square. In the fading daylight I could see the steady blue light shining from the weather beacon. The entire adult community in the summer of 1953. My mother is fourth from the right in the front row; my father is on the far right in the back row.

• From Little Sister: A Memoir (2019)

  Father was speaking in code, one I’d memorized years earlier while we were still living in Cambridge. It was embedded in the myriad dates we were obligated to memorize—dates entwined in the history of the Catholic Church. I started to calculate. I knew that (according to Catholic lore) Leif Eriksson had sailed to Greenland in the year 1000 to bring the faith to its people. I knew, too, that St. Augustine died in the year 430. Five times the conversion of Greenland was therefore $5,000 plus $430 meant that the Big Sisters had made $5,430 that week. Knowing how much money the Center made in a week was of little actual use to me, however. I had no concept of what $5,430 was, or how much it could buy. No one at the Center was allowed to keep any money; Sister Catherine alone held tight control of the purse strings. Despite no visible trappings of wealth within our community, successful booksellers (Big Brothers or Big Sisters) seemed to find a special place in Father’s heart. We children, especially, had no need for money. The Big Sisters made our clothes. The only store we ever visited was a shoe store, where our feet were measured for an order of identical shoes. If we asked Sister Catherine for a pet— the only significant possession any of us thought of requesting—we usually got it. Ponies, donkeys, dogs, horses, cats, ducks, and rabbits made up our menagerie of pets. If we wanted a holy card, a book of prayers, or a story about the saints, Sister Catherine was happy to provide it. My only experience with money came from tutoring. In the fourth grade, Sister Ann Mary brought in play money that looked like the real thing, and we learned to make change and recognize the bills and coins. As I played with the fake currency, I pretended it was real and thought of the many things I could buy. Alone in my cubicle, where I did most of my thinking at night, I imagined buying jewels like the ones worn by some of the lady guests who came to visit or pretty dresses or shoes with open toes or hats that sat like small boxes on their heads. Oblivious to Father’s warnings about the sin of vanity, I spent many an hour in carefree reverie before falling off to sleep, fantasizing about what I would look like in worldly clothes.