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 Speak, Memory (1966)

  On dark rainy evenings I would load the lamp of my bicycle with magical lumps of calcium carbide, shield a match from the gusty wind and, having imprisoned a white flame in the glass, ride cautiously into the darkness. [...] As I reached the top, my livid light flitted across the six-pillared white portico at the back of my uncle's mute, shuttered manor—as mute and shuttered as it may be today, half a century later. There, in a corner of that arched shelter, from where she had been following the zigzags of my ascending light, Tamara would be waiting, perched on the broad parapet with her back to a pillar. I would put out my lamp and grope my way toward her. One is moved to speak more eloquently about these things, about many other things that one always hopes might survive captivity in the zoo of words—but the ancient limes crowding close to the house drown Mnemosyne's monologue with their creaking and heaving in the restless night. Their sigh would subside. The rain pipe at one side of the porch, a small busybody of water, could be heard steadily bubbling. At times, some additional rustle, troubling the rhythm of the rain in the leaves, would cause Tamara to turn her head in the direction of an imagined footfall, and then, by a faint luminosity—now rising above the horizon of my memory despite all that rain—I could distinguish the outline of her face; but there was nothing and nobody to fear, and presently she would gently exhale the breath she had held for a moment and her eyes would close again.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  I had a gold coin that I assumed would pay for our elopement. Where did I want to take her? Spain? America? The mountains above Pau? “Là-bas, là-bas, dans la montagne,” as I had heard Carmen sing at the opera. One strange night, I lay awake, listening to the recurrent thud of the ocean and planning our flight. The ocean seemed to rise and grope in the darkness and then heavily fall on its face. Of our actual getaway, I have little to report. My memory retains a glimpse of her obediently putting on rope-soled canvas shoes, on the lee side of a flapping tent, while I stuffed a folding butterfly net into a brown-paper bag. The next glimpse is of our evading pursuit by entering a pitch-dark cinéma near the Casino (which, of course, was absolutely out of bounds). There we sat, holding hands across the dog, which now and then gently jingled in Colette’s lap, and were shown a jerky, drizzly, but highly exciting bullfight at San Sebastián. My final glimpse is of myself being led along the promenade by Linderovski. His long legs move with a kind of ominous briskness and I can see the muscles of his grimly set jaw working under the tight skin. My bespectacled brother, aged nine, whom he happens to hold with his other hand, keeps trotting out forward to peer at me with awed curiosity, like a little owl. Among the trivial souvenirs acquired at Biarritz before leaving, my favorite was not the small bull of black stone and not the sonorous seashell but something which now seems almost symbolic—a meerschaum penholder with a tiny peephole of crystal in its ornamental part. One held it quite close to one’s eye, screwing up the other, and when one had got rid of the shimmer of one’s own lashes, a miraculous photographic view of the bay and of the line of cliffs ending in a lighthouse could be seen inside. And now a delightful thing happens. The process of recreating that penholder and the microcosm in its eyelet stimulates my memory to a last effort. I try again to recall the name of Colette’s dog—and, triumphantly, along those remote beaches, over the glossy evening sands of the past, where each footprint slowly fills up with sunset water, here it comes, here it comes, echoing and vibrating: Floss, Floss, Floss!

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  Colette was back in Paris by the time we stopped there for a day before continuing our homeward journey; and there, in a fawn park under a cold blue sky, I saw her (by arrangement between our mentors, I believe) for the last time. She carried a hoop and a short stick to drive it with, and everything about her was extremely proper and stylish in an autumnal, Parisian, tenue-de-ville-pour-fillettes way. She took from her governess and slipped into my brother’s hand a farewell present, a box of sugar-coated almonds, meant, I knew, solely for me; and instantly she was off, tap-tapping her glinting hoop through light and shade, around and around a fountain choked with dead leaves, near which I stood. The leaves mingle in my memory with the leather of her shoes and gloves, and there was, I remember, some detail in her attire (perhaps a ribbon on her Scottish cap, or the pattern of her stockings) that reminded me then of the rainbow spiral in a glass marble. I still seem to be holding that wisp of iridescence, not knowing exactly where to fit it, while she runs with her hoop ever faster around me and finally dissolves among the slender shadows cast on the graveled path by the interlaced arches of its low looped fence. 81IAM going to show a few slides, but first let me indicate the where and the when of the matter. My brother and I were born in St. Petersburg, the capital of Imperial Russia, he in the middle of March, 1900, and I eleven months earlier. The English and French governesses we had in our childhood were eventually assisted, and finally superseded, by Russian-speaking tutors, most of them graduate students at the capital’s university. This tutorial era started about 1906 and lasted for almost a full decade, overlapping, from 1911 on, our high-school years. Each tutor, in turn, dwelt with us—at our St. Petersburg house during the winter, and the rest of the time either at our country estate, fifty miles from the city, or at the foreign resorts we often visited in the fall. Three years was the maximum it took me (I was better at such things than my brother) to wear out any one of those hardy young men. In choosing our tutors, my father seems to have hit upon the ingenious idea of engaging each time a representative of another class or race, so as to expose us to all the winds that swept over the Russian Empire. I doubt that it was a completely deliberate scheme on his part, but in looking back I find the pattern curiously clear, and the images of those tutors appear within memory’s luminous disc as so many magic-lantern projections.

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

  BEDE. (ubi sup.) Thus then John proclaims the Lord not yet as God, or the Son of God, but only as a man mightier than himself. For his ignorant hearers were not yet capable of receiving the hidden things of so great a Sacrament, that the eternal Son of God, having taken upon Him the nature of man, had been lately born into the world of a virgin; but gradually by the acknowledgment of His glorified lowliness, they were to be introduced to the belief of His Divine Eternity. To these words, however, he subjoins, as if covertly declaring that he was the true God, I baptize you with water, but he shall baptize you with the Holy Ghost. For who can doubt, that none other but God can give the grace of the Holy Ghost. JEROME. For what is the difference between water and the Holy Ghost, who was borne over the face of the waters? Water is the ministry of man; but the Spirit is ministered by God. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Now we are baptized by the Lord in the Holy Ghost, not only when in the day of our baptism, we are washed in the fount of life, to the remission of our sins, but also daily by the grace of the same Spirit we are inflamed, to do those things which please God. 1:9–119. And it came to pass in those days, that Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee, and was baptized of John in Jordan. 10. And straightway coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit like a dove descending upon him: 11. And there came a voice from heaven, saying, Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. PSEUDO-JEROME. Mark the Evangelist, like a hart, longing after the fountains of water, leaps forward over places, smooth and steep; and, as a bee laden with honey, he sips the tops of the flowers. Wherefore he hath shewn us in his narrative Jesus coming from Nazareth, saying, And it came to pass in those days, &c. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (Vict. Ant. e Cat. in Marc.) Forasmuch as He was ordaining a new baptism, He came to the baptism of John, which, in respect of His own baptism, was incomplete, but different from the Jewish baptism, as being between both. He did this that He might shew, by the nature of His baptism, that He was not baptized for the remission of sins, nor as wanting the reception of the Holy Ghost: for the baptism of John was destitute of both these. But He was baptized that He might be made known to all, that they might believe on Him and fulfil all righteousness, which is keeping of the commandments: for it had been commanded to men that they should submit to the Prophet’s baptism.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  With the coming of winter our reckless romance was transplanted to grim St. Petersburg. We found ourselves horribly deprived of the sylvan security we had grown accustomed to. Hotels disreputable enough to admit us stood beyond the limits of our daring, and the great era of parked amours was still remote. The secrecy that had been so pleasurable in the country now became a burden, yet neither of us could face the notion of chaperoned meetings at her home or mine. Consequently, we were forced to wander a good deal about the town (she, in her little gray-furred coat, I, white-spatted and karakul-collared, with a knuckle-duster in my velvet-lined pocket), and this permanent quest for some kind of refuge produced an odd sense of hopelessness, which, in its turn, foreshadowed other, much later and lonelier, roamings. [...] We haunted museums. They were drowsy and deserted on weekday mornings, and very warm, in contrast to the glacial haze and its red sun that, like a flushed moon, hung in the eastern windows. There we would seek the quiet back rooms, the stopgap mythologies nobody looked at, the etchings, the medals, the paleographic items, the Story of Printing—poor things like that. Our best find, I think, was a small room where brooms and ladders were kept; but a batch of empty frames that suddenly started to slide and topple in the dark attracted an inquisitive art lover, and we fled. The Hermitage, St. Petersburg's Louvre, offered nice nooks, especially in a certain hall on the ground floor, among cabinets with scarabs, behind the sarcophagus of Nana, high priest of Ptah.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  On our other side is the straight-up rock; And a path is kept ’twixt the gorge and it By boulder-stones where lichens mock The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit Their teeth to the polished block (“By the Fire-side”) It is astounding how little the ordinary person notices butterflies. “None,” calmly replied that sturdy Swiss hiker with Camus in his rucksack when purposely asked by me for the benefit of my incredulous companion if he had seen any butterflies while descending the trail where, a moment before, you and I had been delighting in swarms of them. It is also true that when I call up the image of a particular path remembered in minute detail but pertaining to a summer before that of 1906, preceding, that is, the date on my first locality label, and never revisited, I fail to make out one wing, one wingbeat, one azure flash, one moth-gemmed flower, as if an evil spell had been cast on the Adriatic coast making all its “leps” (as the slangier among us say) invisible. Exactly thus an entomologist may feel some day when plodding beside a jubilant, and already helmetless botanist amid the hideous flora of a parallel planet, with not a single insect in sight; and thus (in odd proof of the odd fact that whenever possible the scenery of our infancy is used by an economically minded producer as a ready-made setting for our adult dreams) the seaside hilltop of a certain recurrent nightmare of mine, whereinto I smuggle a collapsible net from my waking state, is gay with thyme and melilot, but incomprehensibly devoid of all the butterflies that should be there.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  4And now comes that bicycle act—or at least my version of it. The following summer, Yuri did not visit us at Vyra, and I was left alone to cope with my romantic agitation. On rainy days, crouching at the foot of a little-used bookshelf, in a poor light that did all it could to discourage my furtive inquiry, I used to look up obscure, obscurely tantalizing and enervating terms in the Russian eighty-two-volume edition of Brockhaus’ Encyclopedia, where, in order to save space, the title word of this or that article would be reduced, throughout a detailed discussion, to its capitalized initial, so that the columns of dense print in minion type, besides taxing one’s attention, acquired the trumpery fascination of a masquerade, at which the abbreviation of a none too familiar word played hide and seek with one’s avid eyes: “Moses tried to abolish P. but failed … In modern times, hospitable P. flourished in Austria under Maria Theresa … In many parts of Germany the profits from P. went to the clergy … In Russia, P. has been officially tolerated since 1843 … Seduced at the age of ten or twelve by her master, his sons or one of his menials, an orphan almost invariably ends in P.”—and so forth, all of which went to enrich with mystery, rather than soberly elucidate, the allusions to meretricious love that I met with during my first immersions in Chekhov or Andreev. Butterfly hunting and various sports took care of the sunny hours, but no amount of exercise could prevent the restlessness which, every evening, launched me on vague voyages of discovery. After riding on horseback most of the afternoon, bicycling in the colored dusk was a curiously subtle, almost discarnate feeling. I had turned upside down and lowered to subsaddle level the handlebars of my Enfield bicycle, converting it into my conception of a racing model. Along the paths of the park I would skim, following yesterday’s patterned imprint of Dunlop tires; neatly avoiding the ridges of tree roots; selecting a fallen twig and snapping it with my sensitive front wheel; weaving between two flat leaves and then between a small stone and the hole from which it had been dislodged the evening before; enjoying the brief smoothness of a bridge over a brook; skirting the wire fence of the tennis court; nuzzling open the little whitewashed gate at the end of the park; and then, in a melancholy ecstasy of freedom, speeding along the hard-baked, pleasantly agglutinate margins of long country roads.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  Automatically, I might slip him, with a bit of his plantlet, into a matchbox to take home with me and have him produce next year a Splendid Surprise, but my thoughts were elsewhere: Zina and Colette, my seaside playmates; Louise, the prancer; all the flushed, low-sashed, silky-haired little girls at festive parties; languorous Countess G., my cousin's lady; Polenka smiling in the agony of my new dreams—all would merge to form somebody I did not know but was bound to know soon.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  and their palmetto bug cousins aggressive ridged slowness the obstinacy of living fossils. Sweet ugly-fruit​avocados​tomatoes and melon in the mango slot hibiscus spread like a rainbow of lovers arced stamens waving but even the jacaranda only last a day. Crescent moon walking my sheets at midnight lonely in the palmetto thicket​counting persistent Canaveral lizards launch themselves through my air conditioner chasing equally determined fleas. In Gainesville the last time there was only one sister present who said​“I’m gonna remember your name and the next time you come there’ll be quite a few more of us, hear?” and there certainly was​a warm pool of dark women’s faces in the sea of listening. The first thing I did when I got home after kissing my honey was to wash my hair with small flowers and begin a five-day fast. Political Relations In a hotel in Tashkent the Latvian delegate from Riga was sucking his fishbones as a Chukwu woman with hands as hot as mine caressed my knee beneath the dinner table her slanted eyes were dark as seal fur we did not know each other’s tongue. “Someday we will talk through our children” she said “I spoke to your eyes this morning you have such a beautiful face” thin-lipped Moscow girls translated for us smirking at each other. And I had watched her in the Conference Hall ox-solid​black electric hair straight as a deer’s rein​fire-disc eyes sweeping over the faces like a stretch of frozen tundra we were two ends of one taut rope stretched like a promise from her mouth singing the friendship song her people sang for greeting There are only fourteen thousand of us left it is a very sad thing​it is a very sad thing when any people​any people​dies [image file=image_rsrc6HF.jpg] “Yes, I heard you this morning” I said​reaching out from the place where we touched poured her vodka​an offering which she accepted like roses leaning across our white Russian interpreters to kiss me softly upon my lips. Then she got up and left with the Latvian delegate from Riga. There Are No Honest Poems About Dead Women What do we want from each other after we have told our stories do we want to be healed​do we want mossy quiet stealing over our scars do we want the powerful unfrightening sister who will make the pain go away mother’s voice​in the hallway you’ve done it right the first time​darling you will never need to do it again. Thunder grumbles on the horizon I buy time with another story a pale blister of air cadences of dead flesh obscure the vowels. from The Marvelous Arithmetics of Distance (1993) To My Sister Pat Parker, Poet and Comrade-in-Arms In Memoriam and to my blood sisters Mavis Jones Marjorie Jones Phyllis Blackwell Helen Lorde Making Love to Concrete An upright abutment in the mouth of the Willis Avenue bridge a beige Honda leaps the divider like a steel gazelle​inescapable sleek leather boots on the pavement rat-a-tat-tat​best intentions

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  My passion for good writing put me in close contact with various Russian authors abroad. I was young in those days and much more keenly interested in literature than I am now. Current prose and poetry, brilliant planets and pale galaxies, flowed by the casement of my garret night after night. There were independent authors of diverse age and talent, and there were groupings and cliques within which a number of young or youngish writers, some of them very gifted, clustered around a philosophizing critic. The most important of these mystagogues combined intellectual talent and moral mediocrity, an uncanny sureness of taste in modern Russian poetry and a patchy knowledge of Russian classics. His group believed that neither a mere negation of Bolshevism nor the routine ideals of Western democracies were sufficient to build a philosophy upon which émigré literature could lean. They thirsted for a creed as a jailed drug addict thirsts for his pet heaven. Rather pathetically, they envied Parisian Catholic groups for the seasoned subtleties that Russian mysticism so obviously lacked. Dostoevskian drisk could not compete with neo-Thomist thought; but were there not other ways? The longing for a system of faith, a constant teetering on the brink of some accepted religion was found to provide a special satisfaction of its own. Only much later, in the forties, did some of those writers finally discover a definite slope down which to slide in a more or less genuflectory attitude. This slope was the enthusiastic nationalism that could call a state (Stalin’s Russia, in this case) good and lovable for no other reason than because its army had won a war. In the early thirties, however, the nationalistic precipice was only faintly perceived and the mystagogues were still enjoying the thrills of slippery suspension. In their attitude toward literature they were curiously conservative; with them soul-saving came first, logrolling next, and art last. A retrospective glance nowadays notes the surprising fact of these free belles-lettrists abroad aping fettered thought at home by decreeing that to be a representative of a group or an epoch was more important than to be an individual writer.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  (It was such a delicate subject, Stasia.) Or perhaps it was the Jew, Sid Essen, and the stir of racial memories. Or perhaps nothing more than the lightness of our quarters, the feeling of snugness, cosiness, at-homeness. Anyway, as she was clearing the table, I said: “If only one could write as one talks … write like Gorky, Gogol or Knut Hamsun!” She gave me a look such as a mother sometimes directs at the child she is holding in her arms. “Why write like them?” she said. “Write like you are, that’s so much better.” “I wish I thought so. Christ! Do you know what’s the matter with me? I’m a chameleon. Every author I fall in love with I want to imitate. If only I could imitate myself!” “When are you going to show me some pages?” she said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done so far.” “Soon,” I said. “Is it about us?” “I suppose so. What else could I write about?” “You could write about anything, Val.” “That’s what you think. You never seem to realize my limitations. You don’t know what a struggle I go through. Sometimes I feel thoroughly licked. Sometimes I wonder what ever gave me the notion that I could write. A few minutes ago, though, I was writing like a madman. In my head, again. But the moment I sit down to the machine I become a clod. It gets me. It gets me down.” “Did you know,” I said, “that toward the end of his life Gogol went to Palestine? A strange fellow, Gogol. Imagine a crazy Russian like that dying in Rome! I wonder where I’ll die.” “What’s the matter with you, Val? What are you talking about? You’ve got eighty more years to live. Write! Don’t talk about dying.” I felt I owed it to her to tell her a little about the novel. “Guess what I call myself in the book!” I said. She couldn’t. “I took your uncle’s name, the one who lives in Vienna. You told me he was in the Hussars, I think. Somehow I can’t picture him as the colonel of a death’s head regiment. And a Jew. But I like him…. I like everything you told me about him. That’s why I took his name….” Pause. “What I’d like to do with this bloody novel—only Pop might not feel the same way—is to charge through it like a drunken Cossack. Russia, Russia, where are you heading? On, on, like the whirlwind! The only way I can be myself is to smash things. I’ll never write a book to suit the publishers. I’ve written too many books. Sleep-walking books. You know what I mean. Millions and millions of words—all in the head. They’re banging around up there, like gold pieces. I’m tired of making gold pieces. I’m sick of these cavalry charges … in the dark. Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  The arrangement with the Mayhews came to an unexpected and untimely end. Mayhew now and then had a tussle with another gambler and after I had been with him about three months, a gambler from Denver had a great contest with him and afterwards proposed that they should join forces and Mayhew should come to Denver. “More money to be made there in a week”, he declared, “than in Lawrence in a month.” Finally he persuaded Mayhew, who was wise enough to say nothing to his wife till the whole arrangement was fixed. She raved but could do nothing save give in, and so we had to part. Mayhew gave me one hundred dollars as a bonus, and Lorna one unforgettable, astonishing afternoon which I must now try to describe. I did not go near the Mayhews’ the day after his gift, leaving Lorna to suppose that I looked upon everything as ended. But the day after that I got a word from her, an imperious: “Come at once, I must see you!” Of course I went though reluctantly. As soon as I entered the room she rose from the sofa and came to me: “if I get you work in Denver, will you come out?” “How could I?” I asked in absolute astonishment, “you know I’m bound here to the University and then I want to go into a law-office as well: besides I could not leave Smith: I’ve never known such a teacher: I don’t believe his equal can be found anywhere.” She nodded her head: “I see”, she sighed, “I suppose it’s impossible; but I must see you”, she cried, “if I haven’t the hope, what do I say! the certainty of seeing you again, I shan’t go. I’d rather kill myself! I’ll be a servant and stay with you, my darling, and take care of you! I don’t care what I do so long as we are together: I’m nearly crazed with fear that I shall lose you.” “It’s all a question of money”, I said quietly, for the idea of her staying behind scared me stiff: “if I can earn money, I’d love to go to Denver in my holidays. It must be gorgeous there in summer six thousand odd feet above sea-level: I’d delight in it.” “If I send you the money, you’ll come?” she asked briefly. I made a face: “I can’t take money from—a love”, (I said “love” instead of “woman”: it was not so ugly) I went on, “but Smith says he can get me work and I have still a little: I’ll come in the holidays.” “Holy days they’ll be to me!” she said solemnly, and then with quick change of mood, “I’ll make a beautiful room for our love in Denver; but you must come for Christmas, I could not wait till midsummer: oh, how I shall ache for you—ache!”

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  120 James Baldwin coming home? DorCt think Ym only being sel- fish but it'strue Tdlike to see you, I think you have been awaylong enough, God knows Idon't know what you're doing over there, and you don't write enough for me even to guess. But myguess is you're going tobe sorry one of these fine days that you stayed over there, looking at your navel, and let the world pass youby. There's nothing over there for you. You're as American as pork and beans, though maybe you don't want tothink so anymore. And maybe you won't mind my saying that you'regetting a little old for studying, after all, if that's what you're doing. You're pushing thirty,I'm getting along, too,and you're all I'vegot.I'dlike to see you. Youkeep asking me to sendyouyour money andI guess you think I'm being a bastard about it, I'mnot trying tostarveyou outandyou know if you really needanything,I'll be the first to help you but I really don't thinkI'dbe doing you a favor by letting you spendwhatlittle money you've got over thereand then coming home to nothing.What the hellare youdoing? Letyouroldman inon the secret, can't you? You may notbelieve this,but once I was a youngman,too. Andthenhe went on about my stepmother andhowshewantedto see me, and aboutsome ofourfriendsandwhat they were doing. It was clearthatmy absence was beginning tofrighten him. He did not knowwhat it meant.But he was GIOVANNI'S ROOM 121 living, obviously, in a pit of suspicions which daily became blacker and vaguer —he w^ouldnot have known how to put them into words, even if he had dared. The question helonged toask wasnot in the letter and neither was theoffer: Is it a woman, David? Bring her on home. I don't care who she is. Bring heron home and Til help you getset up.He could not risk this question because he could not have enduredan answer inthe negative. An answer in thenega- tive would have revealed what strangers we had become.I folded the letter andput itin my back pocketandlooked out for a momentat thewide, sunlit foreignavenue. Therewas a sailor, dressed all in white, com- ingacrossthe boulevard, walking with that funnyrollsailorshave and with that aura, hopefulandhard, of havingto make a great dealhappen in a hurry. I was staring at him, though I did notknowit,and wishing I were he. He seemed —somehow — younger thanI had everbeen,and blonder and more beautiful, and heworehismasculinity as unequivocallyas he wore hisskin. Hemade me think of home — perhaps home isnot a placebutsimply an irrevocable condition. Iknew howhe drank andhow hewas withhisfriendsandhowpain andwomen baffled him.Iwondered if my father hadeverbeen Ukethat, if I hadeverbeenlike that —though it washardtoimagine,forthis boy, striding across the avenuelike Ughtitself, any antecedents, anyconnections atall. We

• From Blue Nights (2011)

  It would be one more version of the bed in the cardiac unit: a full-body PET scan had been ordered, ergo, as night follows day, there would need to be abnormalities for the full-body PET scan to show. A day later I was given the results. There were, surprisingly, no abnormalities seen in the scan. Everyone agreed on this point. Everyone used the word “surprisingly.” Surprisingly, there were no abnormalities to explain why I felt as frail as I did. Surprisingly, there were no abnormalities to tell me why I was afraid to get up from a folding chair in a rehearsal room on West Forty- second Street. Only then did I realize that during the three weeks that had passed between taking the taxi to Lenox Hill, on the fourteenth of June, and receiving the results of the full-body PET scan, on the eighth of July, I had allowed this year’s most deeply blue nights to come and go without my notice. What does it cost to lose those weeks, that light, the very nights in the year preferred over all others? Can you evade the dying of the brightness? Or do you evade only its warning? Where are you left if you miss the message the blue nights bring? “Have you ever had a moment where everything in your life just stopped?” This was the way that this question was raised by Kris Jenkins, a three-hundred-and-sixty-pound Jets defensive tackle, after he tore, six plays into his tenth NFL season, both his meniscus and his anterior cruciate ligament. “So fast, but in slow motion? Like all your senses shut down? Like you’re watching yourself?” I offer you a second way of approaching the moment where everything in your life just stops, this one from the actor Robert Duvall: “I exist very nicely between the words ‘action’ and ‘cut.’ ” And even a third way: “It doesn’t present as pain,” I once heard an oncological surgeon say of cancer. I 28 find myself thinking exclusively about Quintana. I need her with me. Behind the house on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood in which we lived from the day we left Sara Mankiewicz’s Minton plates until the day we moved into the beach house, a period of some four years, there was a clay tennis court, weeds growing through the cracked clay. I remember watching her weed it, kneeling on fat baby knees, the ragged stuffed animal she addressed as “Bunny Rabbit” at her side. Daddy’s gone to get a rabbit skin to wrap his baby bunny in. In a few weeks she will have been dead five years. Five years since the doctor said that the patient had been unable to get enough oxygen through the vent for at least an hour now. Five years since Gerry and I left her in the ICU overlooking the river at New York Cornell.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  As I face an ocean of seasons they start to separate into distinct and particular faces listening to the cover beginning to crack open and whether or not the fruit is worth waiting thistles and arrows and apples are blooming the individual beautiful faces are smiling and moving even the pavement begins to flow into new concretions the eighth day is coming I have paid dearly in time for love I hoarded unseen summer goes into my words and comes out reason. Generation II A Black girl going into the woman her mother desired and prayed for walks alone and afraid of both their angers. Love, Maybe Always in the middle of our bloodiest battles you lay down your arms like flowering mines to conqueror me home. Conclusion Passing men in the street who are dead becomes a common occurrence but loving one of them is no solution. I believe in love as I believe in our children but I was born Black and without illusions and my vision which differs from yours is clear although sometimes restricted. I have watched you at midnight moving through casual sleep wishing I could afford the non-desperate dreams that stir you to wither and fade into partial solutions. Your nights are wintery long and very young full of symbols of purity and forgiveness and a meek jesus that rides through your cities on a barren ass whose braying does not include a future tense. But I wear my nights as I wear my life and my dying absolute and unforgiven nuggests of compromise and decision fossilized by fierce midsummer sun and when I dream I move through a Black land where the future glows eternal and green but where the symbols for now are bloody and unrelenting rooms where confused children with wooden stumps for fingers play at war who cannot pick up their marbles and run away home whenever nightmare threatens.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  Movement Song I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck moving away from me beyond anger or failure your face in the evening schools of longing through mornings of wish and ripen we were always saying goodbye in the blood in the bone over coffee before dashing for elevators going in opposite directions without goodbyes. Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof as the maker of legends nor as a trap door to that world where black and white clericals hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh and now there is someone to speak for them moving away from me into tomorrows morning of wish and ripen your goodbye is a promise of lightning in the last angels hand unwelcome and warning the sands have run out against us we were rewarded by journeys away from each other into desire into mornings alone where excuse and endurance mingle conceiving decision. Do not remember me as disaster nor as the keeper of secrets I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars watching you move slowly out of my bed saying we cannot waste time only ourselves. Who Said It Was Simple There are so many roots to the tree of anger that sometimes the branches shatter before they bear. Sitting in Nedicks the women rally before they march discussing the problematic girls they hire to make them free. An almost white counterman passes a waiting brother to serve them first and the ladies neither notice nor reject the slighter pleasures of their slavery. But I who am bound by my mirror as well as my bed see causes in colour as well as sex and sit here wondering which me will survive all these liberations. from New York Head Shop and Museum (1974) TO THE CHOCOLATE PEOPLE OF AMERICA Chocolate people don’t melt in water they melt in your eyes. Jonathan Rollins—1971 New York City 1970 I How do you spell change like frayed slogan underwear with the emptied can of yesterdays’ meanings with yesterdays’ names? And what does the we-bird see with who has lost its I’s? There is nothing beautiful left in the streets of this city. I have come to believe in death and renewal by fire. Past questioning the necessities of blood or why it must be mine or my children’s time that will see the grim city quake to be reborn perhaps blackened again but this time with a sense of purpose; tired of the past tense forever, of assertion and repetition of the ego-trips through an incomplete self where two years ago proud rang for promise but now it is time for fruit and all the agonies are barren— only the children are growing: For how else can the self become whole save by making self into its own new religion?

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  I pressed him but he remained obstinate, and on second thoughts I came to see that I had no right to push myself on a married woman who did not wish to renew acquaintance with me, but oh! I longed to see her and hear from her own lips the explanation of what to me at the time seemed her inexplicable, cruel change of attitude. As a man, of course, I know she may have had a very good reason indeed, and her mere name still carries a glamour about it for me, an unforgettable fascination. My father was always willing to encourage self-reliance in me: indeed, he tried to make me act as a man while I was still a mere child. The Christmas holidays only lasted for four weeks; it was cheaper for me, therefore, to take lodgings in some neighboring town rather than return to Ireland. Accordingly the Headmaster received the request to give me some seven pounds for my expenses and he did so, adding moreover much excellent advice. My first holiday I spent in the watering-place of Rhyl in North Wales because a chum of mine, Evan Morgan, came from the place and told me he’d make it interesting for me. And in truth he did a good deal to make me like the people and love the place. He introduced me to three or four girls, among whom I took a great fancy to one Gertrude Hanniford. Gertie was over fifteen, tall and very pretty, I thought, with long plaits of chestnut hair; one of the best companions possible. She would kiss me willingly; but whenever I tried to touch her more intimately, she would wrinkle her little nose with “Don’t!” or “Don’t be dirty!” One day I said to her reproachfully: “You’ll make me couple ‘dirty’ with ‘Gertie’ if you go on using it so often.” Bit by bit she grew tamer, though all too slowly for my desires; but luck was eager to help me. One evening late we were together on some high ground behind the town when suddenly there came a great glare in the sky, which lasted two or three minutes: the next moment we were shaken by a sort of earthquake accompanied by a dull thud. “An explosion!” I cried, “on the railway: let’s go and see!” And away we set off for the railway. For a hundred yards or so Gertie was as fast as I was; but after the first quarter of a mile I had to hold in so as not to leave her. Still for a girl she was very fast and strong. We took a footpath alongside the railway, for we found running over the wooden ties, very slow and dangerous. We had covered a little over a mile when we saw the blaze in front of us and a crowd of figures moving about before the glare.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  However, Dr. Beitman emphasizes that what truly matters is the personal significance that a coincidence holds for the individual experiencing it, whether in the moment or in hindsight. In other words, the subjective interpretation of a coincidence is more important than the mere fact that it occurred. The synchronicities I experienced after Dad died were certainly not insignificant to me. Partly because they felt like winks from Dad. So I remained open to the idea and continued asking for signs—just to be sure. The more I asked for, the more I got. A few days later, I desperately wanted to hear his voice again. I was walking around the mall, shopping for shit I didn’t need to fill the hole I would never fill, when I began worrying that one day I’d forget what his voice sounded like. I miss you so much, Dad . . . Just then my phone rang. I looked at the number and it was Dad! Wait, what’s happening?! Is it really him? I quickly picked up the call, filled with confusion and hope as my heart started pounding. “Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.” It was his voice mail. I must have butt-dialed it by accident. But that felt unlikely. Even if he was on my “recent call” list, I’ve never butt-dialed anyone—I don’t even have a butt! I’m a writer. It’s a pancake. But sure enough, there was Dad’s voice, coming through loud and clear at the exact moment I needed it. As these experiences kept piling up, my brain naturally zoomed out to the bigger picture. What does this all mean? The “me” before Dad died had a more limited view of life, perhaps allergic to anything that smacked of religion or organized faith. Now, his loss was driving a deep curiosity about the nature of this universe. In The Grand Biocentric Design: How Life Creates Reality, medical doctor and scientist Robert Lanza explores his theory of biocentrism—that living beings and consciousness create the universe and reality, not the other way around. So if consciousness can exist outside the universe—which contains all of space and time—consciousness is therefore timeless. He writes, “The biocentric view of the timeless, spaceless cosmos of consciousness allows for no true death in any real sense. When a body dies, it does so not in the random billiard-ball matrix but in the all-is-still-inescapablylife matrix.” To further explain his theory, Lanza likens consciousness to music played on an old phonograph: Listening to the music doesn’t alter the record itself. Depending on where the needle is, you hear a certain song. This is the present—the music before and after the song is the past and the future. In like manner, every moment endures in nature always. The record doesn’t go away. All “nows,” like all songs on the record, exist simultaneously, although we can only experience it piece by piece. . . .

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNI'S ROOM151 patch of the streetoutside. Idonot know ifhis hairhasbeen cut, orislong—Ishouldthink itwouldhavebeencut.Iwonderifheisshaven. Andnow a miUiondetails,proofandfruit of intimacy,floodmy mind. I wonder,for example, if he feelstheneedto go to thebathroom, if he hasbeenabletoeattoday,if he issweating, ordry. I wonderif anyone hasmadelove to him in prison.Andthen something shakesme, I feel shakenhardanddry,hkesome dead thingin thedesert,and I knowthat I am hop- ingthat Giovanniisbeingsheltered in some- one's armstonight. I wishthat someone were here withme.Iwouldmakelove to whoever was hereallnight long,Iwouldlabor with Gio- vanniall night long. Thosedays after Giovannihad lost his job, we dawdled;dawdledas doomed mountain climbersmaybe said todawdle above the chasm, heldonly bya snapping rope. I did not writemy father —I putitofffromday to day. It wouldhavebeen too definitivean act.Iknew which he Iwouldtell himand Iknew the lie wouldwork — only —Iwasnotsure that it wouldbea lie. Dayafterdaywelingered in that roomandGiovanni began to work onit again. Hehadsome weirdidea that itwould benice to have abookcasesunk in thewallandhe chipped throughthe wall untilhecame tothebrick and began pounding awayat thebrick. Itwashard 152 JamesBaldwin work,it was insanework,but I did nothave the energy or the heart tostop him. In away hewas doingit for me,to provehislovefor me. He wanted meto stay in theroomwithhim. Perhaps he was trying, with his own strength, to push backthe encroaching walls,without, how- ever, having thewallsfall down. Now—now, of course,I see something very beautifulin those days,which were such tor- ture then. Ifelt, then, that Giovanni was drag- gingme withhimto thebottom of thesea. He couldnot find a job. I knewthat he was not reallylooking forone, thathecould not. He had been bruised, soto speak, sobadlythatthe eyesof strangerslacerated him like salt. He couldnotendure beingveryfar fromme for verylong.Iwas theonlypersonon God's cold, greenearthwhocaredabout him, whoknew his speechandsilence,knew hisarms, anddid not carrya knife. The burden ofhis salvation seemedtobeon meand I could not endure it. Andthemoneydwindled —it went, itdid not dwindle, very fast.Giovannitried tokeep panic out of his voicewhenheasked me each morn- ing, 'Are you going toAmerican Express today?* 'Certainly,* I would answer. T)oyouthinkyourmoney will be there to- day?' 1 don'tknow.' Whatarethey doing with your money in New York?' Still, still Icould not act. I went to Jacques

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  GIOVANNI'S ROOM 81 We'll eat quicklyand go/ said Giovanni. 'After all,I have to work tonight/ Did you meet Guillaume here?'I askedhim. He grimaced, looking down.*No.Thatis a long story/He grinned. *No, I did not meethim here.Imet him*—he laughed — 'inacinema T We both laughed. Vetait un film du far west, avec GaryCooper."This seemed terriblyfunny, too;we kept laughinguntil thewaiter came withour bottleof white wine. 'Well/said Giovanni, sippingthewine,his eyes damp, 'afterthelast gun shot hadbeen firedandallthemusic came upto celebrate thetriumph of goodness and I cameupthe aisle, Ibumped into thisman — Guillaume — and Iexcusedmyselfand walkedintothe lobby. Then herehe came,afterme, with along story about leaving hisscarfinmyseatbecause, it appeared, he hadbeensitting behind me, you understand, with his coat and hisscarfonthe seat before him and whenIsatdown I pulled his scarf down with me. Well,Itold him Ididn't work for the cinema and I toldhim whathe could do with his scarf — but I did notreally get angry because he made me wantto laugh. He said that allthe people who worked for the cinema were thieves and he was sure thatthey would keep it if they so much aslaid eyes on it, and it was very expensive, and agift from his mother and —oh, I assure you, not even Garbo ever gave such a performance. So I went back and of course there was no scarf there and 82James Baldwin whenI told him this it seemedhe would fall deadright therein thelobby. And bythistime, you understand,everybodythoughtwe were to- gether andI didn'tknow whetherto kick him orthe peoplewhowerelooking atus;but he wasverywell dressed, ofcourse,and I was not andsoI thought, well, we hadbetter get out of this lobby.Sowewenttoacafeand saton the terraceandwhenhehad gotoverhis grief about thescarfandwhat his mother wouldsay and soon and so on, heasked meto have supperwithhim. Well,naturally, I saidno; I hadcertainly had enough of him by thattime, but theonly way Icould prevent anotherscene, right there ontheterrace, was to promise to have supper with him afew dayslater—I did not intend togo,' he said,witha shy grin, T)ut whenthe day came, I hadnoteaten foralong timeand Iwas veryhungry.'He lookedatme andIsawinhisfaceagain something which I havefleetinglyseenthere during these hours : underhisbeauty andhis bravado, terror,and aterrible desire to please; dreadfully, dreadfully moving,andit mademe want, in anguish, to reachoutand comfort him. Ouroysters came andwe begantoeat. Giovannisatin the sun, hisblack hairgathering to itselfthe yellow glow of the wine andthe many dullcolorsof theoyster where the sun struckit. *Well' — withhis mouth turned down — 'din- ner was awful, ofcourse, since he canmake