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 Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She tried to arouse an interest in the car, the splendid new car that had cost so much money. She tried to find out if Angela had an ungratified wish that money could fulfil. ‘Only tell me what I can do,’ she pleaded, but apparently there was nothing. Angela came several times to Morton and dutifully attended the fencing lessons. But they did not go well, for Stephen would glimpse her staring abstractedly out of the window; then the sly, agile foil with its blunt tipped nose, would slip in under Stephen’s guard and shame her. They would sometimes go far afield in the car, and one night they stopped at an inn and had dinner—Angela ringing up her husband with the old and now threadbare excuse of a breakdown. They dined in a quiet little room by themselves; the scents of the garden came in through the window—warm, significant scents, for now it was May and many flowers multiplied in that garden. Never before had they done such a thing as this, they had never dined all alone at a wayside inn miles away from their homes, just they two, and Stephen stretched out her hand and covered Angela’s where it rested very white and still on the table. And Stephen’s eyes held an urgent question, for now it was May and the blood of youth leaps and strains with the sap in early summer. The air seemed breathless, since neither would speak, afraid of disturbing the thick, sweet silence—but Angela shook her head very slowly. Then they could not eat, for each was filled with the same and yet with a separate longing; so after a while they must get up and go, both conscious of a sense of painful frustration. They drove back on a road that was paved with moonlight, and presently Angela fell fast asleep like an unhappy child—she had taken her hat off and her head lay limply against Stephen’s shoulder. Seeing her thus, so helpless in sleep, Stephen felt strangely moved, and she drove very slowly, fearful of waking the woman who slept like a child with her fair head against her shoulder. The car climbed the steep hill from Ledbury town, and presently there lay the wide Wye valley whose beauty had saddened a queer little girl long before she had learnt the pain of all beauty. And now the valley was bathed in whiteness, while here and there gleamed a roof or a window, but whitely, as though all the good valley folk had extinguished their lamps and retired to their couches. Far away, like dark clouds coming up out of Wales, rose range upon range of the old Black Mountains, with the tip of Gadrfawr peering over the others, and the ridge of Pen-cerrigcalch sharp against the skyline. A little wind ruffled the bracken on the hillsides, and Angela’s hair blew across her closed eyes so that she stirred and sighed in her sleep.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Mary’s thoughts were not very coherent, and because she was filled with a vague discontent, she sighed and moved even nearer to Stephen, who suddenly put an arm round her shoulder. Stephen said: ‘Are you tired, you little child?’ And her husky voice was infinitely gentle, so that Mary’s eyes filled with sudden tears. She answered: ‘I’ve waited a long, long time, all my life—and now that I’ve found you at last, I can’t get near you. Why is it? Tell me.’ ‘Aren’t you near? It seems to me you’re quite near!’ And Stephen must smile in spite of herself. ‘Yes, but you feel such a long way away.’ ‘That’s because you’re not only tired out but foolish!’ Yet they lingered; for when they returned to the villa they would part, and they dreaded these moments of parting. Sometimes they would suddenly remember the night before it had fallen, and when this happened each would be conscious of a very great sadness which their hearts would divine, the one from the other. But presently Stephen took Mary’s arm: ‘I believe that big star’s moved over more than six inches! It’s late—we must have been out here for ages.’ And she led the girl slowly back to the villa. 4 The days slipped by, days of splendid sunshine that gave bodily health and strength to Mary. Her pale skin was tanned to a healthful brown, and her eyes no longer looked heavy with fatigue—only now their expression was seldom happy. She and Stephen would ride far afield on their mules; they would often ride right up into the mountains, climbing the hill to old Orotava where the women sat at their green postigos through the long, quiet hours of their indolent day and right on into the evening. The walls of the town would be covered with flowers, jasmine, plumbago and bougainvillea. But they would not linger in old Orotava; pressing on they would climb always up and up to the region of health and trailing arbutus, and beyond that again to the higher slopes that had once been the home of a mighty forest. Now, only a few Spanish chestnut trees remained to mark the decline of that forest. Sometimes they took their luncheon along, and when they did this young Pedro went with them, for he it was who must drive the mule that carried Concha’s ample lunch-basket. Pedro adored these impromptu excursions, they made an excuse for neglecting the garden. He would saunter along chewing blades of grass, or the stem of some flower he had torn from a wall; or perhaps he would sing softly under his breath, for he knew many songs of his native island. But if the mule Celestino should stumble, or presume, in his turn, to tear flowers from a wall, then Pedro would suddenly cease his soft singing and shout guttural remarks to old Celestino: ‘Vaya, burro! Celestino, arre!

• From The Girls (2016)

  1 It was the end of the sixties, or the summer before the end, and that’s what it seemed like, an endless, formless summer. The Haight populated with white-garbed Process members handing out their oat-colored pamphlets, the jasmine along the roads that year blooming particularly heady and full. Everyone was healthy, tan, and heavy with decoration, and if you weren’t, that was a thing, too—you could be some moon creature, chiffon over the lamp shades, on a kitchari cleanse that stained all your dishes with turmeric. But that was all happening somewhere else, not in Petaluma with its low-hipped ranch houses, the covered wagon perpetually parked in front of the Hi-Ho Restaurant. The sun-scorched crosswalks. I was fourteen but looked much younger. People liked to say this to me. Connie swore I could pass for sixteen, but we told each other a lot of lies. We’d been friends all through junior high, Connie waiting for me outside classrooms as patient as a cow, all our energy subsumed into the theatrics of friendship. She was plump but didn’t dress like it, in cropped cotton shirts with Mexican embroidery, too-tight skirts that left an angry rim on her upper thighs. I’d always liked her in a way I never had to think about, like the fact of my own hands. Come September, I’d be sent off to the same boarding school my mother had gone to. They’d built a well-tended campus around an old convent in Monterey, the lawns smooth and sloped. Shreds of fog in the mornings, brief hits of the nearness of salt water. It was an all-girls school, and I’d have to wear a uniform—low-heeled shoes and no makeup, middy blouses threaded with navy ties. It was a holding place, really, enclosed by a stone wall and populated with bland, moon-faced daughters. Camp Fire Girls and Future Teachers shipped off to learn 160 words a minute, shorthand. To make dreamy, overheated promises to be one another’s bridesmaids at Royal Hawaiian weddings.

• From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969)

  If a lady teacher took company, or didn't receive any mail or cried alone in her room at night, by the weeks' end even the children discussed her morality, her loneliness and her other failings generally. It would have been near impossible to maintain formality under a small town's invasions of privacy. St. Louis teachers, on the other hand, tended to act very siditty, and talked down to their students from the lofty heights of education and whitefolks' enunciation. They, women as well as men, all sounded like my father with their ers and errers. They walked with their knees together and talked through tight lips as if they were as afraid to let the sound out as they were to inhale the dirty air that the listener gave off. We walked to school around walls of bricks and breathed the coal dust for one discouraging winter. We learned to say “Yes” and “No” rather than “Yes, ma'am,” and “No, ma'am.” Occasionally Mother, whom we seldom saw in the house, had us meet her at Louie's. It was a long dark tavern at the end of the bridge near our school, and was owned by two Syrian brothers. We used to come in the back door, and the sawdust, stale beer, steam and boiling meat made me feel as if I'd been eating mothballs. Mother had cut my hair in a bob like hers and straightened it, so my head felt skinned and the back of my neck so bare that I was ashamed to have anyone walk up behind me. Naturally, this kept me turning quickly as if I expected something to happen. At Louie's we were greeted by Mother's friends as “Bibbie's darling babies” and were given soft drinks and boiled shrimp. While we sat on the stiff wooden booths, Mother would dance alone in front of us to music from the See-burg. I loved her most at those times. She was like a pretty kite that floated just above my head. If I liked, I could pull it in to me by saying I had to go to the toilet or by starting a fight with Bailey. I never did either, but the power made me tender to her. The Syrian brothers vied for her attention as she sang the heavy blues that Bailey and I almost understood. They watched her, even when directing their conversation to other customers, and I knew they too were hypnotized by this beautiful lady who talked with her whole body and snapped her fingers louder than anyone in the whole world. We learned the Time Step at Louie's. It is from this basic step that most American Black dances are born. It is a series of taps, jumps and rests, and demands careful listening, feeling and coordination. We were brought before Mother's friends, there in the heavy saloon air, to show our artistry. Bailey learned easily, and has always been the better dancer. But I learned too.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  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, thumping the ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her 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 become 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 longing 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 Stephen’s real home, and in that real home there was no place for Mary. She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen—tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days of her childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked; of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  But when Jiuzayemon thought that his son was old enough to serve a Prince as a page, he sent him to the capital, Yedo. He also caused his servant, Kakubel Kanazawa, to accompany him. This man had served him for many years, and was fifty years old and had great experience of life. Before leaving him, his father gave his son some good advice, telling him to conduct himself bravely and to defend his honour to the death. But his mother whispered for a moment with Kakubel, asking him to guard and protect her son, and ended by saying: 'I beg you to take particular care of my son, especially in this matter.' When Tamanosuke and Kakubel were some distance from the house, Tamanosuke asked: 'Did not my mother tell you not to deliver love-letters to me if a samurai should send me one? But if you refuse to oblige a man who sends me love-letters, you will ad heartlessly. You will be a cruel man. I want to be loved by some great samurai, since that is one of the best things in this life of ours. If no one loves me, I shall hate my beautiful face. Once in Great China, a prevalent poet of the Province of Yoshu said in one of his poems, speaking of a young boy: "A cruel youth without a heart." I wish you to feel sympathy for pederasty, O Kakubel.' Kakubel answered: 'But of course, young master! If everybody were as scrupulous as your mother, such a thing as honourable love between samurai would not exist. I shall act quite in accordance with your wishes.' And they laughed together. After a long and troublesome journey they at last reached Yedo. Tamanosuke was presented by a friend of his father's to the Prince of the Province of Aezu, who was charmed with him and immediately engaged him as a page, and took him to the Province of Aezu with him. Tamanosuke was greatly attached to this Lord, and very polite to the other courtiers, of whom this Lord made him his favourite. Compared with Tamanosuke's beauty, all the other pages were as flowers hidden behind a fence from the rays of the sun. One summer evening Tamanosuke was playing ball with the other pages in the palace garden. He was the best player of all, and people watched and admired his grace and skill. Suddenly his eyes grew haggard, his body began to tremble, and he was seized with convulsions in all his limbs. They took off his playing habit, and he seemed to have Sopped breathing. When he regained consciousness, they bore him to his house. He grew worse and worse. His death seemed very near, and they despaired of saving him.

• From The Girls (2016)

  us like dolls. Announcing fussy asides to no one in particular. Suzanne looked to me like a stranger in that strange room, like the part of her I recognized had retreated. He sucked my tongue into his mouth. I could stay still, mostly, while Mitch kissed me, and accept his probing tongue with a hollow distance, even his fingers inside me like something curious and without meaning. Mitch lifted himself and pushed inside me, groaning a little when it was difficult. He spit on his hand and rubbed me, then tried again, and how sudden it was, his jacking between my legs, and how I kept thinking to myself with some surprise and disbelief that it was actually happening, and then I felt Suzanne’s hand snake over and grab mine. Maybe Mitch nudged Suzanne in my direction, but I didn’t see. When Suzanne kissed me again, I was lulled into thinking she was doing it for me, that this was our way to be together. That Mitch was just the background noise, the necessary excuse that allowed for her eager mouth, the curl of her fingers. I could smell myself and smell her, too. A sound deep in her throat that I believed was meant for me, as if her pleasure were at some pitch Mitch couldn’t hear. She moved my hand to her breast, shivering when I touched the nipple. Closing her eyes like I had done something good. Mitch rolled off me in order to watch. Kneading the wet head of his dick, the mattress slanting toward his weight. I kept kissing Suzanne, so different from kissing a man. Their forceful mash getting across the idea of a kiss, but not this articulation. I pretended Mitch wasn’t there, though I could feel his gaze, his mouth as slack as the open trunk of a car. I was skittish when Suzanne tried to push apart my legs, but she smiled up at me, so I let her. Her tongue was tentative, first, then she used her fingers, too, and I was embarrassed at how wet I was, the noises I made. My mind fritzing from a pleasure so foreign I didn’t know how to name it. Mitch fucked us both after that, like he could correct our obvious preference for each other. Sweating hard, his eyes crimping with effort. The bed moving away from the wall. When I woke up in the morning and saw the soiled twist of my underwear on Mitch’s tile floor, such helpless embarrassment bubbled up in me that I almost cried.

• From The Girls (2016)

  trees. If Suzanne or even Connie caught me listening to that sort of music, I’d be embarrassed—it was bland and cheerful and old-fashioned—but I had a grudging, private love of those songs, my mother singing along to the parts she knew. Rosy with theatrical enthusiasm, so it was easy to get caught up in her giddiness. Her posture was shaped by years of horse shows in adolescence, smiling from the backs of sleek Arabians, arena lights catching the crust of rhinestones on her collar. She had been so mysterious to me when I was younger. The shyness I had felt watching her move around the house, shuffling in her night slippers. The drawer of jewelry whose provenance I made her describe, piece by piece, like a poem. The house was clean, the windows segmenting the dark night, the carpets plush beneath my bare feet. This was the opposite of the ranch, and I sensed I should be guilty—that it was wrong to be comfortable like this, to want to eat this food with my mother in the primness of our tidy kitchen. What were Suzanne and the others doing at that same moment? It was suddenly hard to imagine. “How’s Connie these days?” she asked, flicking through her handwritten recipe cards. “Fine.” She probably was. Watching May Lopes’s braces scum up. “You know,” she said, “she can always come over here. You guys have been spending an awful lot of time at her house lately.” “Her dad doesn’t care.” “I miss her,” she said, though my mother had always seemed mystified by Connie, like a barely tolerated maiden aunt. “We should go on a trip to Palm Springs or something.” It was clear she’d been waiting to offer this. “You could invite Connie, if you wanted.” “I don’t know.” It could be nice. Connie and I shoving each other in the sun-stifled backseat, drinking shakes from the date farm outside Indio. “Mm,” she murmured. “We could go in the next few weeks. But you know, sweetheart”—a pause. “Frank might come, too.” “I’m not going on a trip with you and your boyfriend.” She tried to smile, but I saw that she wasn’t saying everything. The radio was too loud. “Sweetheart,” she started. “How are we ever going to live together—”

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  It must be late Autumn night The moon falls Wind is cold. My dwarf harp, my little koto Is by me on the pillow, Lying lightly. I flutter a chord On the seven strings. I hear the first wild goose crying: 'We have come back, come back.' It is very late. 71. Wanting to Write a Letter. I want to send him a letter But do not know what to write. Tell me something, White paper. 72. Heat. Noon on feet of felt Has come into the city. Not a leaf airs. On the rope of the temple bell A butterfly is sleeping. 73. Bindweed. Every morning You flower with new colours And garland the well bucket, Your petals are eyes Blinded with dew. You are delightful. Flower long, flower differently, Emerald cup. 74. Faith. I am the ordinary cherry tree Whose flower is single. It blossoms in the plain. I am not one of those double Cherry trees. 75. If you Promise. If you promise, do it lightly. Look at the maple leaves. The light resist, The heavy break away And fall. Is that not so? 76. South-East Quarter. Light affairs become frivolous At Fukagawa, My body is frivolous. A thin, uncoloured chord on the samisen. In intimate Nakatcho Street Affairs are private, And the news of our love Spreads gallantly, The way of the South-East. Two lovers are in the little room And the screen has double hinges. We pretend worldly fidelity, Painting moles on each other. Perhaps We shall know in heaven. 77. Dew and Rush. The dew pretends she Loves the love of the rush, The rush that he loves no dew. But the rush will blossom And both understand. 78. Wonder. If I think she loves me The snow is light On my umbrella. Crying plovers, Dishevelled wind. 79. Joy. Visitor this evening We run up the long corridor Clicking of clogs. Only one man, Only one person to be loved. I go back to my room, Retreat, honour, Lacquered pillow, Silence. I hear the watchman's rattle, Laughter in the next room. 80. Under Snow. Flowers under the snow Scarcely betray their colour. We meet and she smiles and is silent. 'If I must die/ she is thinking, 'I will die of love As the snow dies.' 81. Before my Birds. I moan for love Before my birds. They also are in a cage. My small complaints Are sorry like mouse cries. The birds hop forward to tease me And I like it, Being so shut in. The sake is cold Because my torment Makes me inefficient. There is such a thing as great grief, Such a thing as Being shut in. 82. Getting out of Bed. He rises and goes. There are Rather dark clouds. Shall I be noisy cricket Or firefly burning in silence, Dumb grief or tearful parting? And when I think we might Never have met, Been utter Strangers. 83. Spring Branches. Spring flowers at the branch end Over the water.

• From The Girls (2016)

  another, the girls, that they’d passed into a familial contract—they were sure of what they were together. The long night that stretched ahead, my mother out with Sal, suddenly seemed unbearable. — That was the first time I ever saw Suzanne—her black hair marking her, even at a distance, as different, her smile at me direct and assessing. I couldn’t explain it to myself, the wrench I got from looking at her. She seemed as strange and raw as those flowers that bloom in lurid explosion once every five years, the gaudy, prickling tease that was almost the same thing as beauty. And what had the girl seen when she looked at me? I used the bathroom inside the restaurant. Keep truckin’, scrawled with a marker. Tess Pyle eats dick! The accompanying illustrations had been crossed out. All the silly, cryptic marks of humans who were resigned to being held in a place, shunted through the perfunctory order of things. Who wanted to make some small protest. The saddest: Fuck, written in pencil. While I washed my hands, drying them with a stiff towel, I studied myself in the mirror over the sink. For a moment, I tried to see myself through the eyes of the girl with the black hair, or even the boy in the cowboy hat, studying my features for a vibration under the skin. The effort was visible in my face, and I felt ashamed. No wonder the boy had seemed disgusted: he must have seen the longing in me. Seen how my face was blatant with need, like an orphan’s empty dish. And that was the difference between me and the black-haired girl—her face answered all its own questions. I didn’t want to know these things about myself. I splashed water on my face, cold water, like Connie had once told me to do. “Cold water makes your pores close up,” and maybe it was true: I felt my skin tighten, water dripping down my face and neck. How desperately Connie and I thought that if we performed these rituals—washed our faces with cold water, brushed our hair into a static frenzy with a boar-bristle brush before bed—some proof would solve itself and a new life would spread out before us.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  When the leaves of the sainfoin redden. I weep at every midnight. 21. The Letter.If there were no moon I would read it by the Winter snow light, Or in Summer by the fireflies, Or if there were no moon or snow or fireflies I would read it by the light of my heart. 22. Spring all in Flower.Spring all in flower And the dark Stain of the pine forest On the watershed of the Sumida. The gracious cherry trees reflected In that deep water, which is love. To-day two Chinese ducks Float in the thread of the current, And I too am married. 23. Feast of Kamo.At the feast of Kamo I put rose-mallows in my hair; He never came back, and I am waiting. Time has a way of piling long days, Long days, long days Into a great hill. 24. Return.I know she is light and faithless, But she has come back half repentant And very pale and very sad, A butterfly needs somewhere to rest At evening. 25. A Single Cry.A flight of flying cuckoos Across the moon, a single cry. Is the moon crying cuckoo? Night pales slowly. Men are cruel And women are not. They weep and say over sorrow For a small separation. 26. The Mat.She sulkily pretends to sleep, Turning her back; Suddenly the pretty slender music Of a samisen delicately fingered. Reconciliation. Where is her comb? But there are dawn bells. Separation, and always, always separation, A boat puts out on a lake of the Yoshiwara. 27. Dead Flower or Living.Last night a peach petal was wetted by the rain, And when a girl After her toilet said: 'Which is the more beautiful, I or the peach petal?' And he said: 'Peach petal wetted by the rain is incomparable.' There were tears and a tearing of flowers. To taste the living flower To-night would be quite a good night, my lord, If so you wish. 28. Alone.The device of the two copper plums With silver in them Slowly and very slowly Satisfies. Just as all finishes Dew falls on my clenched hand. I would rather the bean flowered yellow And he were here. 29. Shut In.Cherry flowers do not touch The old Stones of the wall. I am shut in here. I am very much shut in here. There is a part of the trap Where the rat need not touch the curd. The cherry trees are rose beyond Fuji. 30. Since.What has happened to my thoughts Since I knew you? That is easy. Until I met you I had no thoughts. 31. After.After he left me, Two pillows, One body. Where is he now? He must be getting on for Komagata. Damn that cuckoo. 32. Night Rain.Sad night rain, I count the Straws in the mat, He will come, he won't come. I twist a paper frog. Does it Stand? It falls down. A vague presentiment. The little lamp goes down and up, Its oil exhausted. He was always capricious.

• From The Girls (2016)

  They had a fancy turntable that Tamar often spoke of moving to another corner or room for varying acoustic or aesthetic reasons. She constantly mentioned future plans for oak flooring and crown moldings and even different dish towels, though the planning itself seemed to satisfy. The music she played was more slick than the ranch racket. Jane Birkin and her froggy old-man husband, Serge. “She’s pretty,” I said, studying the record cover. And she was, tan as a nut with a delicate face, those rabbit teeth. Serge was disgusting. His songs about Sleeping Beauty, a girl who seemed most desirable because her eyes were always closed. Why would Jane love Serge? Tamar loved my father, the girls loved Russell. These men who were nothing like the boys I’d been told I would like. Boys with hairless chests and mushy features, the flocking of blemishes along their shoulders. I didn’t want to think of Mitch because it made me think of Suzanne—that night had happened somewhere else, in a little dollhouse in Tiburon with a tiny pool and a tiny green lawn. A dollhouse I could look onto from above, lifting the roof to see the rooms segmented like chambers of the heart. The bed the size of a matchbox. Tamar was different from Suzanne in a way that was easier. She was not complicated. She didn’t track my attention so closely, didn’t prompt me to shore up her declarations. When she wanted me to move over, she said so. I relaxed, which was unfamiliar. Even so, I missed Suzanne— Suzanne, who I remembered like dreams of opening a door on a forgotten room. Tamar was sweet and kind, but the world she moved around in seemed like a television set: limited and straightforward and mundane, with the notations and structures of normality. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There wasn’t a frightening gap between the life she was living and the way she thought about that life, a dark ravine I often sensed in Suzanne, and maybe in my own self as well. Neither of us could fully participate in our days, though later Suzanne would participate in a way she could never take back. I mean that we didn’t quite believe it was enough, what we were offered, and Tamar seemed to accept the world happily, as an end point. Her planning wasn’t actually about making anything different—she was just rearranging the same known quantities, puzzling out a new order like life was an extended seating chart. —

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  Yet afterwards in bed I know I shall sulk and weep; Frogs in the garden pool All night, all night. 59. Snow Night. There are two in the small room On this cold snow night. Pretty half-meanings As they tease each other, Hair she has just washed And cannot manage. 'You get on my nerves,' she says, 'Always chewing your toothpick.' 60. Spring Night. This dream of a Spring night Grows complicated. The smell of his body lies on the air. The cloudy sky and my ringed eyes Are veiled. Are we not a couple Made of flower and butterfly? Well, well, I mean to say. 61. Love Night. The cuckoo has sung all night And at first they did not sleep at all. There is sweet slumber after love With a rounded arm for pillow. The lamp was fetched away Without their noticing. 62. Moon and Plum Tree. The moon and the plum tree part not On a very clear night, But rather lie smiling to the snow. Not a word is said, But the scent the plum tree cannot hold Goes up toward the moon. And look at the innocent whiteness Of the plum tree. 63. Bamboos and Sparrows. This sparrow lighting Harmoniously On the bamboo. In love things do not go quite so Harmoniously. It is I alone who love and suffer. I hate his beastly face. 64. Sky before Dawn. Sky just at dawn between the trees The cuckoo flies and hides. I comb the wet hair on my temples I am wetted and am happy. I am so wet. It rains this morning. 65. Myosotis. If I clasp my hands, my sleeve: Dew and perfume and colour. His picture remains in absence Myosotis, memory. If he flowered on a branch I would plant him, And love him every Lonely hour. 66. Flower of the Cherry. It is because they fall That they are admirable. What is the good of clinging Without hope? Clinging violently to the branches, Withered on all the branches, Soiled by the birds. 67. Pillow. How many nights We have not come together. The plovers of Awaji island Mingle their crying. I am alone and wretched In this plank custom's hut, Alone and loft. That moonbeam entering to my pillow, Would it were, Just for once. 68. The Pine Tree. The wind in the roof Is playing on three Strings, Moon, snow and flower. Right from the very small Pushing of the Spring The green of the green pine Changes not. What do the infant cranes cry Fluttering from the nest In the green pine top? 'Long live the King! 'they cry. The green pine lives for ever. 69. Kawai, Kawai. (My dear, my dear) The firefly singing not Burns in silence; She suffers more Than the loud insect who says: 'Kawai, kawai!' Why have I given all my soul To a man without sincerity? I regret it, I rather regret it. 70. Notes taken in my Bedroom.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  He did not see his page again before they reached the town of Tsuyama in the Province of Mimasaka, and there he caught but a bare glimpse of him. That was his last chance, for soon the Lord arrived safely in the Province of Yezumo. There Guzayemon became a labourer to gain his food, for he had spent all his money during the long journey from Yedo to Yezumo. In the following year the Lord again set out for Yedo, to pay his court to the Shyôgun in April. Guzayemon followed in his train a second time; but he only beheld the page thrice during the whole journey: once in the ferry at Kuwana, the second time on the Steep hill of Shihomizaki, and the last time in the grove of Suzuga, quite close to Yedo. Then the Lord remained for a whole year at Yedo. Guzayemon went every day to the palace in the hope of seeing his love. With the life that he was leading, all his refinement and distinguished appearance had gone from him. He was haggard and miserable. No one could have discerned in him a fallen samurai, whose beauty had once been famous. His health was also affected. Next year he again followed the Lord from Yedo to his Province. He looked like a beggar, so greatly had he suffered. His clothes had more than one hole in them, and his sleeves were torn. But he kept his two swords, which are the soul of a samurai. In the outskirts of a town called Kanaya he saw the page's litter. And Shyume saw Guzayemon from his litter, and understood that Guzayemon loved him. He was deeply touched by such an attachment, and wished to speak to him. So he descended from his litter, while the train Stopped for a short time on Mount Sayono Nakayama, and Stood waiting for Guzayemon to approach. But Guzayemon was too far off to come near him, and they saw each other no more on that occasion. Guzayemon did not indeed behold him again during the whole of that journey, though he did not cease to think of him. His feet were worn and bleeding from his long walking; he had no more money, and ended by becoming a beggar by the roadside. But he clung desperately to his miserable life. He protected his body from rain, snow and wind with a thin reed hat and a garment of woven grass. He shivered when it blew cold. During the day he Stayed in a vile thatched hut in a field, and at evening, when Shyume returned home to his master's palace, stood near the palace door and consoled himself by watching the dear lad from a distance.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  Guzayemon thought that he must be the favourite page of some noble Prince. He was profoundly disturbed, and followed him. The two shaven courtiers were singing gay songs, for they were a little drunk. The young boy went towards a palace near the shrine of Koroku, and entered it by a door crowned with violet paulownia leaves. Guzayemon asked a Guard what this palace might be, and learned that the young man's name was Shyume Okuyama, the favourite page of his master. Guzayemon dreamed of the boy all night. Next day he Stood before the palace door, hoping to see the page; but in vain. Returning to his house, he could not keep his mind on his work. He pretended to be ill, and resigned from his service. He then went to live in a little house in a Street in the Kojimachi district. Since his time was all his own, he walked every day before the palace door, from the twenty-third of May till the month of October; but he never saw the young man again. He had no means of sending him a love-letter, and therefore suffered cruelly from his passion by day and by night. Then the young page's master received permission from the Shyogun to return to his own country, and the twenty-fifth day was fixed for his departure. Guzayemon decided to follow the page; so he sold all the furniture of his house, shut it up, and paid his debts to the grocer, the fishmonger and the wine merchant; he dismissed his young servant, and followed the train of the Lord. The train Stopped for their first night in the town of Kanayawa, and next day took up their quarters at Oysso. That evening the page went out in a litter to visit historic Shigitatsusawa. He opened the door of his litter a trifle and murmured the famous poem which Saigyô, the Buddhist priest, had written concerning that palace: Although I have renounced all human emotion As a priest of Buddha, I am seized with deep sadness When I find myself here at Shigitatsusawa On an Autumn evening. Guzayemon could only behold his love from a distance; yet the other also perceived him, and their looks crossed. But they were immediately separated, and Guzayemon did not see the page again until a day when they were going along a rocky road at the summit of Mount Utsunoyama. Guzayemon was Standing behind a big rock at the side of the road, and threw a glance into the young man's litter; then, in spite of himself, he began to weep with emotion. The young man turned his gracious face to him, and Guzayemon became more than ever inflamed.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  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 become 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 longing 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 Stephen’s real home, and in that real home there was no place for Mary. She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen—tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days of her childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked; of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton. It hurt her to think of the two unknown women who must now be awaiting Stephen’s arrival—Puddle, whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady Anna, of whom she spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could never have loved her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that a long span of Stephen’s life was hidden; years and years of that life had come and gone before they two had finally found each other. How could she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a home which she might not enter? Then, being a woman, she suddenly ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will stand for—security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness of parents, the good-will of neighbours; happiness that can be shared with friends, love that is proud to proclaim its existence. All that Stephen most craved for the creature she loved, that creature must now quite suddenly ache for.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now he turned round and deliberately faced her; smiling right into her eyes he lied glibly: ‘My dear, don’t be foolish, there’s nothing strange about you, some day you may meet a man you can love. And supposing you don’t, well, what of it, Stephen? Marriage isn’t the only career for a woman. I’ve been thinking about your writing just lately, and I’m going to let you go up to Oxford; but meanwhile you mustn’t get foolish fancies, that won’t do at all—it’s not like you, Stephen.’ She was gazing at him and he turned away quickly: ‘Darling, I’m busy, you must leave me,’ he faltered. ‘Thank you,’ she said very quietly and simply, ‘I felt that I had to ask you about Martin—’ 3After she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitter to his spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for the shame that was in him—but because of the love that was in him he wept. CHAPTER 131T here was gossip in plenty over Martin’s disappearance, and to this Mrs. Antrim contributed her share, even more than her share, looking wise and mysterious whenever Stephen’s name was mentioned. Every one felt very deeply aggrieved. They had been so eager to welcome the girl as one of themselves, and now this strange happening—it made them feel foolish which in turn made them angry. The spring meets were heavy with tacit disapproval—nice men like young Hallam did not run away for nothing; and then what a scandal if those two were not engaged; they had wandered all over the country together. This tacit disapproval was extended to Sir Philip, and via him to Anna for allowing too much freedom; a mother ought to look after her daughter, but then Stephen had always been allowed too much freedom. This, no doubt, was what came of her riding astride and fencing and all the rest of the nonsense; when she did meet a man she took the bit between her teeth and behaved in a most amazing manner. Of course, had there been a proper engagement—but obviously that had never existed. They marvelled, remembering their own toleration, they had really been extremely broad-minded. An extraordinary girl, she had always been odd, and now for some reason she seemed odder than ever. Not so much as a word was said in her hearing that could possibly offend, and yet Stephen well knew that her neighbors’ good-will had been only fleeting, a thing entirely dependent upon Martin. He it was who had raised her status among them—he, the stranger, not even connected with their county. They had all decided that she meant to marry Martin, and that fact had at once made them welcoming and friendly; and suddenly Stephen longed intensely to be welcomed, and she wished from her heart that she could have married Martin.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Away in the distance there would be a harsh crying, the wild, harsh crying of swans by the lakes—the swan called Peter protecting, defending his mate against some unwelcome intruder. From the chimneys of Williams’ comfortable cottage smoke would rise—very dark—the first smoke of the morning. Home, that meant home and two people together, respected because of their honourable living. Two people who had had the right to love in their youth, and whom old age had not divided. Two poor and yet infinitely enviable people, without stain, without shame in the eyes of their fellows. Proud people who could face the world unafraid, having no need to fear that world’s execration. Stephen would fling herself down on the bed, completely exhausted by the night’s bitter vigil. 3 There was some one who went every step of the way with Stephen during those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxious Puddle, who could have given much wise advice had Stephen only confided in her. But Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for the sake of Angela Crossby. With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck to the girl like a leech, getting little enough in return for her trouble—Stephen deeply resented this close supervision: ‘Can’t you leave me alone? No, of course I’m not ill!’ she would say, with a quick spurt of temper. But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its cause, seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something in Stephen’s eyes; an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, as though she were trying to understand why it was that she must be so grievously wounded. Again and again Puddle cursed her own folly for having shown such open resentment of Angela Crossby; the result was that now Stephen never discussed her, never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily dragged it in, and then Stephen would change the subject. And now more than ever Puddle loathed and despised the conspiracy of silence that forbade her to speak frankly. The conspiracy of silence that had sent the girl forth unprotected, right into the arms of this woman. A vain, shallow woman in search of excitement, and caring less than nothing for Stephen. There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: ‘I know. I know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.’ And then she would counsel and try to give courage: ‘You’re neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you’re as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you’re unexplained as yet—you’ve not got your niche in creation. But some day that will come, and meanwhile don’t shrink from yourself, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  (5) Many have seen in death release. Weary of the world and of life, they have seen it as escape. In ‘The Eve of Saint Agnes’, Keats said that he had been ‘half in love with easeful death’. Shakespeare in one of his sonnets cried: Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry. The seventeenth-century poet and dramatist Nicholas Rowe wrote: ‘Death is the privilege of human nature.’ The Stoics held that the gods had given people the gift of life and the still greater gift of taking their own lives away. Swinburne, best of all, caught this mood of world-weariness in ‘The Garden of Proserpine’: From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever, That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light; Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight; Nor wintry leaves nor vernal Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal n an eternal night. There are those for whom death is good because it is the end of life. (6) Some have seen in death transition – not an end, but a stage on the way; not a door closing, but a door opening. In ‘Resignation’, Longfellow wrote: There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call death. The nineteenth-century novelist and poet George Meredith wrote: Death met I too, And saw the dawn glow through. To these and others like them, death has always been a call to come up higher, a crossing from the dark to the dawn. (7) Some have seen death as an adventure. As J. M. Barrie made Peter Pan say: ‘To die will be an awfully big adventure.’ Charles Frohman, who had known Barrie so well, went down when the Lusitania sank in the disaster of 7 May 1915. His last words were: ‘Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure in life.’ An old scholar who was dying turned to his friends: ‘Do you realize’, he said, ‘that in an hour or two I will know the answers for which we have been searching all our lives?’ To these, death is the adventure of supreme discovery. (8) Above all, there are those, like Enoch, who have seen death as an entering into the nearer presence of the one with whom they have lived for so long. If we have lived with Christ, we may die in the certainty that we go to be forever with our Lord. In this passage, the writer to the Hebrews lays down, in addition, the two great foundation acts of faith of the Christian life.

• From The Girls (2016)

  “Now I get to show you something,” Suzanne said. — The bus was parked on a side street, just outside the school’s gate. I could see the jostle of figures inside the bus. Russell and whoever was still around—I assumed everyone. They’d painted over the hood. But everything else was the same. The bus beastly and indestructible. My sudden certainty: they would surround me. Back me into a corner. If anyone had seen us standing there on the slope, we would have looked like friends. Chatting in the Saturday air, my hands in my pockets, Suzanne shading her eyes. “We’re going to the desert for a while,” Suzanne announced, watching the flurry that must have been visible on my face. I felt the meager borders of my own life: a meeting that night for the French Club— Madame Guevel had promised butter tarts. The musty weed Jessamine wanted to smoke after curfew. Even knowing what I knew, did a part of me want to leave? Suzanne’s dank breath and her cool hands. Sleeping on the ground, chewing nettle leaves to moisten our throats. “He’s not mad at you,” she said. Keeping a steady simmer of eye contact. “He knows you wouldn’t say anything.” And it was true: I hadn’t said anything. My silence keeping me in the realm of the invisible. I had been frightened, yes. Maybe you could pin some of the silence on that fear, a fear I could call up even later, after Russell and Suzanne and the others were in jail. But it was something else, too. The helpless thoughts of Suzanne. Who had sometimes colored her nipples with cheap lipstick. Suzanne, who walked around so brutish, like she knew you were trying to take something from her. I didn’t tell anyone because I wanted to keep her safe. Because who else had loved her? Who had ever held Suzanne in their arms and told her that her heart, beating away in her chest, was there on purpose? My hands were sweating, but I couldn’t wipe them on my jeans. I tried to make sense of this moment, to hold an image of Suzanne in my mind. Suzanne Parker. The atoms reorganizing themselves the first time I’d seen her in the park. How her mouth had smiled into mine. No one had ever looked at me before Suzanne, not really, so she had