Longing

Passages

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

Page 82 of 170 · 20 per page

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She continued to hold my gaze, binding me to her mandate. She began, “Whenever I flew to California to be with Rupert, I told Hugo I was staying at the California rest ranch I’d made up. Even though I hated my life of drudgery with Rupert in the cabin—getting up at 5 a.m. to make his breakfast, washing and mending his clothes, and giving directions to pesky hikers when he was out all day—I couldn’t end our affair. I had searched for a man who could make love to me as Rupert did and I knew I would never find his equal. I was enslaved by what we shared in bed.” Her words were a complaint, but a connoisseur’s satisfaction crossed her face. “Sometimes I think it was the friction of our bodies that caused the forest fire.” “You were in a forest fire? Tell me about it! That must have been exciting.” “Rupert was a real hero. That is always exciting to women. He ran up the mountain toward the descending flames with the firemen. They told me to evacuate, and I packed the car but was too worried about Rupert to leave. Then I saw the saw the wall of fire barreling down the mountain, and Rupert running in front of it into my arms. “While we were speeding out of there in Cleo, it started to rain, and Rupert stubbornly insisted that we go back to check on the cabin. The rain had doused the fire, so we stayed. But then it rained for weeks, causing the hillsides to collapse. Rivers of mud surrounded the cabin and we were stranded there.” CHAPTER 13 Sierra Madre, California, 1954 ANAÏS RUPERT AND THE OTHER RANGERS worked eighteen-hour days digging ditches to divert the growing rivers. He came in at night covered with mud and ash, still his buoyant self. To fill her days while he was out building barricades, Anaïs played with the six-year-old daughter of the ranger family that lived in a nearby cabin. One evening when he got home, Rupert found Anaïs and the child dancing pas de deux to a Tchaikovsky record. He ran to get his viola to accompany them, encouraging them on with his energetic bowing. That night when Anaïs joined him in bed, he was even more tender in his foreplay than usual. As he entered her, he whispered, “I want you to have my child.” He said it again when she served him his morning oatmeal. As she was about to put the milk away, he caught her hand. “Let’s get married and have a baby.” “Darling, I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good mother.” She touched the corner of his mouth and wiped away the tiniest piece of oatmeal glue. She heard the instant arousal in his voice from her slightest touch when he urged, “Marry me, Anaïs.” His poetic face was earnest and pure.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And albeit my support, or rather I should say my comfort, may be and indeed is of little enough avail to the afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be proffered whereas the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there do more service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. And who will deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth much more to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? For that these within their tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires of love (which those who have proved know how much more puissance they have than those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes, the pleasures, the commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, abide most time enmewed in the narrow compass of their chambers and sitting in a manner idle, willing and willing not in one breath, revolve in themselves various thoughts which it is not possible should still be merry. By reason whereof if there arise in their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must it with grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new discourse; more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure. With men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see. They, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have many means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they have a mind thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about hearing and seeing many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding, gaming and trafficking; each of which means hath, altogether or in part, power to draw the mind unto itself and to divert it from troublous thought, at least for some space of time, whereafter, one way or another, either solacement superveneth or else the annoy groweth less. Wherefore, to the end that the unright of Fortune may by me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more niggard of support, I purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in love (unto others[1] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice) to recount an hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or whatever you like to style them, in ten days' time related by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men made in the days of the late deadly pestilence, together with sundry canzonets sung by the aforesaid ladies for their diversion.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  be gentle, husband dear”, or “I bought myself a cock for a hundred pounds”?’ All the ladies laughed except the queen, who was beginning to grow impatient with him. ‘No more of your nonsense, Dioneo,’ she said. ‘Sing us something pleasant, or you’ll learn what it means to provoke my anger.’ Dioneo, hearing these words, curtailed his idle chatter and promptly began to sing the following song: ‘Cupid, the beauteous light That shines forth from my mistress’ eyne Has made me both her slave and thine. ‘Moved by the splendour of those lovely eyes Which first thy flame did kindle in my heart, Their gaze transfixing mine, I understood what lofty virtue lies In thee, for her fair countenance hath art In my esteem to shine, So that no virtue known can with her vie, Which gives me all the more a cause to sigh. ‘Therefore, my dear Lord, I have lately grown One of thy servants, and obedient wait Clemency from thy might. Yet I know not if my whole state is known – That high desire thou didst initiate And, too, that faith so bright In her, that doth my mind so utterly possess That this apart I crave no other happiness. ‘And so I pray thee, gentle Lord of mine, That thou wilt show her this, and let her feel Some inkling of thy power To do me some small service, since I pine Consumed with love, and in its torments reel, And wither hour by hour; I beg thee, when thou canst, do this for me, And when thou goest, would I might come with thee!’ When, by his silence, Dioneo showed them that his song was finished, the queen, having warmly commended it, called for many others to be sung. But it was now very late, and the queen, perceiving that the cool of the night had banished the warmth of the day, bade them all go and sleep to their hearts’ content till the morning. Here ends the Fifth Day of the Decameron

• From The Decameron (1353)

  They joined them in the dance, and when it was finished, having taken up the subject of the Valley of the Ladies, they talked at length in praise of its beauty. And so the king sent for the steward, and ordered him to see that things were set out for them next morning in that very place, and that beds were carried there in case anyone should want to sleep or lie down in the middle part of the day. Then he called for lights to be brought, together with wine and sweetmeats, and when they had taken a little refreshment, he ordered everyone to join in the dancing. At his request, Panfilo began the first dance, whereupon the king turned to Elissa and in pleasing tones he said: ‘Fair lady, just as you honoured me today with the crown, so I wish to honour you this evening with the privilege of singing to us. Sing to us therefore, and let your song be about the one you prefer to all the rest.’ Elissa, with a smile, readily consented and began to sing in dulcet tones as follows: ‘Love, if I ever from thy claws break free I think no other hook will tangle me. ‘I entered in thy war, a fair young maid, Believing it was perfect peace benign, And all my arms upon the ground I laid, Thinking to find thy honour like to mine. But thou, disloyal tyrant, Leapt’st out at me instead In armour fiercely girded With talons cruel outspread. ‘And now, all bound around with chains of thine, To him who for my very death was born Thou gav’st me prisoner; and now I pine Within his grasp, and in distraction mourn. His lordship is so cruel That all my tears and cries Go unregarded, while, alas, I waste away with sighs. ‘The wind has swept away my every prayer; E’en now, when my cruel torment grows so high, None listens to them, none will give them ear; My life is hateful, yet how may I die? Since I lie in thy bondage Have pity, Lord, on me, Do for me what I cannot And set my spirit free. ‘But if thou canst not grant me this, alas, Cut all those bonds of hope that bind me fast. I pray thee, Lord, at least to grant me this, For if thou dost, my faith is that at last I may regain that beauty That once I had by right And, sorrow banished, deck me With flowers of red and white.’ 4 When Elissa, fetching a most pathetic sigh, had brought her song to a close, albeit everyone puzzled over the words no one was able to say who it was that had caused her to sing such a song. The king, however, who was in good mettle, sent for Tindaro and ordered him to bring out his cornemuse, 5 to the strains of which he caused several reels to be danced.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  This was something I thought I could do. Had she suggested I break it off with Neal, or give him an ultimatum, or try to negotiate ground rules, or any other Dear Abby advice, it would have been useless. I was so adrift in the storm of my passion that to ask me to quit would be like asking a sailor on a bucking sailboat to jump off into the turbulent sea. Anaïs was just asking me to cling to the ride and record it. As we descended the steep Chateau Marmont driveway, stepping sideways and holding onto each other to keep from falling, she offered one more bit of advice. “You can never be fulfilled through another no matter how much you love him.” She squeezed my forearm. “You must complete yourself.” She pulled away from me and, arms outstretched, twirled in circles down the remainder of the incline. “You must own your own wildness!” she called, the skirt of her dress swinging at her knees, her graceful movements those of a slim girl. I imagined her releasing the grip on her trapeze, swooping up and gliding on an air current towards Paris, and I was seized with the same panic I felt at the thought of losing Neal. I couldn’t live without her. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] In the following weeks, I devoured the thermofaxed pages from Anaïs’s diary. Unlike the overworked poetry of her novels, the prose of her diary was so alive it throbbed with a heartbeat. It was hard to believe that someone could write a diary that was so readable; mine certainly wasn’t. Her descriptions of her life in Paris when she was near my age filled me with longing: wearing beautiful clothes, arguing about literature in cafés with Henry Miller and his friend Larry Durrell, Henry throwing her onto the unmade bed of his Clichy apartment, visiting whorehouses in Montmartre with him, embracing his wife June as if falling into a mirror of beauty, taking drugs and staying up all night with June, dashing from husband to lovers in taxis, danger and arousal in a whirlwind rising to a tempest. If she had given me her diary pages to give me perspective, they had the opposite effect. Reading about her sexual frenzy only gave me more appetite for mine with Neal. The next time Anaïs phoned me, I gushed over her diary, which pleased her, but not enough to let me out of the visit with Renate she’d finally succeeded in arranging. Renate had capitulated because she wanted Ronnie to have a break from his caretaking. Anaïs requested that when I pick her up in Hollywood I return her diary pages, which reluctantly I did.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SEVENTH STORYLodovico discloses to Madonna Beatrice how deeply he loves her, whereupon she persuades her husband, Egano, to impersonate her in a garden, and goes to bed with Lodovico, who in due course gets up, goes into the garden, and gives Egano a hiding. The stratagem adopted by Madonna Isabella, as recounted by Pampinea, drew gasps of astonishment from every member of the company. But the king now called upon Filomena to follow, and she said: Lovesome ladies, unless I am much mistaken I think I can offer you no less splendid a story, which will not take long to relate. You are to know, then, that in Paris there was once a Florentine nobleman, who on account of his straitened circumstances decided to become a merchant, in which capacity he was so successful that he made a huge fortune. His wife had borne him no more than a single child, to whom he had given the name of Lodovico, and because this child was more of a patrician’s son than the son of a merchant, instead of launching him on a career in business the father had secured him a place in the French royal household, where he was brought up with other young nobles and acquired the manners and attributes of a gentleman. One day, whilst Lodovico happened to be discussing with several other young men the rival merits of various beautiful ladies from France, England, and other parts of the world, they were joined by a number of knights who had recently returned from the Holy Sepulchre. And one of these latter began to maintain that of all the women he had ever seen in the numerous places he had visited, he had never encountered anyone so beautiful as Madonna Beatrice, the wife of Egano de’ Galluzzi,1 who lived in Bologna. Moreover, he claimed that those of his companions who, like himself, had seen the lady in Bologna, were entirely of the same opinion. Having listened to this gentleman’s words, Lodovico, who had never yet fallen in love, was inflamed with such a longing to see her that he could think of nothing else. And having firmly made up his mind to go to Bologna and see this lady, and to stay there for a while if she lived up to his expectations, he gave his father to understand that he wished to go to the Holy Sepulchre, and with the greatest of difficulty obtained his permission.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SEVENTH STORY Tedaldo, exasperated with his mistress, goes away from Florence. Returning after a long absence disguised as a pilgrim, he talks to the lady, induces her to acknowledge her error, and liberates her husband, who has been convicted of murdering Tedaldo and is about to be executed. He then effects a reconciliation between the husband and his own brothers; and thereafter he discreetly enjoys the company of his mistress . On lapsing into silence, Fiammetta was congratulated by all present, and the queen, being anxious not to lose any time, promptly called upon Emilia to tell her story. So Emilia began: For my own part, I intend to return to our own city, from which the last two speakers chose to depart, and show you how a citizen of ours regained his lost mistress. In Florence, then, there once lived a noble youth named Tedaldo degli Elisei, who, having fallen passionately in love with the wife of a certain Aldobrandino Palermini, 1 a lady of impeccable breeding called Monna Ermellina, duly earned the reward of his persistent devotion. But Fortune, the enemy of those who prosper, undermined his happiness, inasmuch as the lady, having already begun to grant her favours to Tedaldo, suddenly decided for no apparent reason to withhold them from him entirely. Not only would she not listen to any of the messages he caused her to receive, but she absolutely refused to acknowledge his existence, thus casting him into a state of profound and excruciating melancholy. Since, however, he had carefully concealed this love-affair of his, no one guessed the reason for his sorrow. Feeling that he had lost the lady’s favours through no fault of his own, he tried in every possible way to retrieve them, only to discover that all his efforts were unavailing. And because he had no wish to allow her the satisfaction of seeing him suffer on her account, he resolved to vanish from the scene. Having scraped together all the money he could obtain, he departed in secret without informing any of his friends or relatives except for one companion of his who knew all about the affair, and went to Ancona, assuming the name of Filippo di Sanlodeccio. In Ancona, he made the acquaintance of a wealthy merchant with whom he obtained employment, travelling with him to Cyprus on one of his ships, and the merchant was so impressed by his character and abilities that he not only paid him a handsome salary but gave him a share in the business and placed him in charge of a sizeable portion of his affairs. To these, he devoted so much skill and diligence that within a few years he had made a name for himself as an able and prosperous merchant. And whilst his thoughts frequently returned to his cruel mistress and he still experienced sharp pangs of love and longed to see her again, he was so strong-willed that for seven years he succeeded in conquering his feelings.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Since you are so deeply moved, tender ladies, by the recital of lovers’ woes, the tale that presents itself to me must inevitably arouse as much pity among you as the previous one, for the people whose misfortunes I shall describe were of loftier rank, and their fate was altogether more cruel. You must know, then, that according to the Provençals, there once lived in Provence two noble knights, each of whom owned several castles and had a number of dependants. The name of the first was Guillaume de Roussillon, whilst the other was called Guillaume de Cabestanh. Since both men excelled in feats of daring, they were bosom friends and made a point of accompanying one another to jousts and tournaments and other armed contests, each bearing the same device. Although the castles in which they lived were some ten miles apart, Guillaume de Cabestanh chanced to fall hopelessly in love with the charming and very beautiful wife of Guillaume de Roussillon, and, notwithstanding the bonds of friendship and brotherhood that united the two men, he managed in various subtle ways to bring his love to the lady’s notice. The lady, knowing him to be a most gallant knight, was deeply flattered, and began to regard him with so much affection that there was nothing she loved or desired more deeply. All that remained for him to do was to approach her directly, which he very soon did, and from then on they met at frequent intervals for the purpose of making passionate love to one another. One day, however, they were incautious enough to be espied by the lady’s husband, who was so incensed by the spectacle that his great love for Cabestanh was transformed into mortal hatred. He firmly resolved to do away with him, but concealed his intentions far more successfully than the lovers had been able to conceal their love. His mind being thus made up, Roussillon happened to hear of a great tournament that was to be held in France. He promptly sent word of it to Cabestanh and asked him whether he would care to call upon him, so that they could talk it over together and decide whether or not to go and how they were to get there. Cabestanh was delighted to hear of it, and sent back word to say that he would come and sup with him next day without fail.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So when her husband was not at home, she went from room to room carefully inspecting the wall, until eventually, in a very remote part of the house, she came across a place where it was cracked. She peered through to the other side, and although she could not make very much out, she could see enough to realize that it was a bedroom, and she said to herself: ‘If this turned out to be the bedroom of Filippo’ (the name of the youth next door) ‘there wouldn’t be much left for me to do.’ So she got one of her maidservants, who was feeling rather sorry for her, to keep watch whenever there was nobody about, and discovered that it was indeed the young man’s bedroom, and that he slept there all by himself. By paying regular visits to the crack in the wall, and dropping tiny pieces of stone and straw through the opening whenever she could hear the young man on the other side, she eventually succeeded in getting him to come and investigate. Then she called to him in a low whisper, and the young man, recognizing her voice, replied; whereupon, since there was no likelihood of her being disturbed, she briefly told him what she had in mind. Overjoyed, the young man proceeded to widen the hole on his own side of the wall, which he did in such a way that nobody would notice, and from then on they would very often talk to each other there and touch one another’s hands, though it was impossible to do more on account of the strict watch maintained by the jealous husband. Now, seeing that Christmas was approaching, the lady told her husband that she would like, with his permission, to attend church on Christmas morning and go to confession and Holy Communion like any other Christian. ‘And what sins have you committed,’ said the jealous husband, ‘that you want to go to confession?’ ‘Oh, really!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you think I’m a saint, just because you keep me locked up? You know very well that I have my sins just as other people do, but I’m not going to reveal them to you, because you’re not a priest.’ Her words made the husband suspicious, and he decided to try and find out what these sins were. So he granted her request, but told her that she could only go to their own chapel and not to any of the other churches. Moreover, she was to go there early in the morning, and be confessed, either by their own chaplain or by the priest whom the chaplain allotted to her, and not by anybody else, after which she was to come straight back to the house. The lady had a shrewd suspicion that it was some sort of trap, but asked no questions and replied that she would do as he wished.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘But the truth is that nothing would distress me more than to depart this life without first bringing my love to his notice, and since I know of no one better placed than yourself to inform him of my intentions, I wish to charge you with this mission, which I implore you to accept. And when you have carried it out you must let me know, so that I may be freed from these torments and die in peace.’ She then fell silent, having wept continuously as she said all this, and Minuccio, amazed no less by the nobility of her sentiments than by the cruelty of her resolve, which sorely troubled him, immediately thought of an apt way of furnishing her request. ‘Lisa,’ he said, ‘I pledge you my word, by which you may rest assured that you will never be deceived. Moreover I shall offer you my assistance, in token of my admiration for this lofty enterprise wherein you have set your heart upon so mighty a king. And if you will be of good cheer, I hope to take such steps as I think will enable me, before three days have passed, to bring you tidings that will make you exceedingly happy. But so as not to waste any time, I shall go and make a start right away.’ Lisa promised to take a rosier view of the matter, and after repeating her entreaties all over again, she bade him farewell. Minuccio then went away, and, having called on Mico da Siena,5 who was a very able versifier of those times, he talked him into composing the following little song: Bestir thyself, O Love, go to my lord, Recount to him the torments I endure; Tell him that death will soon be my reward, For I must hide my yearning out of awe. Visit the place where my lord dwells, With clasp’d hands, Love, I thee entreat; Tell him that evermore for him My heart yearns with a passion sweet. Because this fire inflames me so I fear that it will stop my breath; I know not when my sufferings Will bring me through desire to death Out of my fear and shame; ah me! Go, tell him of my malady. Love, ever since I fell in love With him, you always granted me More fear than courage; wherefore I Could never show it openly To him who takes away my breath, And death is hard as I lie dying. Perhaps he would not be displeased If he were conscious of my sighing And I could find the power to show To him the measure of my woe. Since it was not thy pleasure, Love, That I should ever make so bold As to lay bare my heart through words Or looks, or to my lord unfold My love; I beg you, master sweet, Go and remind him of that day I saw him with his shield and lance With other knights upon the way,

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  As Renate guided Harry and me toward our window table, we passed by a glass-walled room where a private party was being held. I caught a glimpse of a woman who had Anaïs Nin’s petite figure, arched brows, and heart-shaped face. I heard that high, silent ring that accompanies coincidences we sense are fate, and I determined somehow to find out if the woman really was Anaïs. As Harry and I sat with leather menus in our hands, the October sun warmed the floor-to-ceiling windows and turned the ocean carnival hues. I noted that Harry was broad-shouldered and attractive, despite his parrot-like overbite. He held forth about a book he’d just written: “It explains Libertarian economics in a way people can understand.” I looked past him through the glass wall to the stylishly bohemian group enjoying their private party. They were bending in laughter like willows in the wind, reveling in the unfettered life I wanted, while I was worrying about an essay test and half listening to what Harry was saying. “In the next book I’m going to apply my Libertarian philosophy to the topic of sex.” That regained my attention. I imagined a nation of self-pleasuring Libertarians who didn’t believe that sex should be shared. Harry shook the ice cubes in his second scotch and leaned in towards me. “There’s this myth that couples are supposed to have simultaneous orgasms. But my research shows it almost never happens.” “What research? Just your own?” I asked. “No, I’ve talked to men and women, married and single, and all these people told me that they feel like failures at sex because they don’t have simultaneous orgasms. But the truth is almost nobody does.” “That hasn’t been my experience,” I said. “Did you talk to anyone besides Libertarians?” Beyond the translucent wall, hors d’oeuvres were being served. A waiter held out a tray to the woman with Anaïs’s elegant carriage. Something she said to the waiter made him smile broadly and stand more erect. I excused myself from Harry for the restroom. On my way back, I stopped at the door to the private party, hearing the unmistakable jingle and cymbal song of Anaïs’s accented voice: “I don’t accept that your so-called objectivity is more true than my subjectivity.” I slipped inside the door and was about to approach her when the middle-aged hostess Renate stepped in front of me. “Excuse. This is a private party.” “I just want to say hello to Anaïs Nin.” “And who are you?” Renate glared at me through impossibly long eyelashes. I told her my name, and she crossed her arms. “I’ve never heard of you, and I am Anaïs Nin’s best friend.” “We met in New York,” I said as I dashed toward Anaïs. Renate, wearing three-inch heels, got there before me and announced, “Anaïs, you have a fan who wants to say hello, Tristine Rainer.” “I met you and Hugo in New York,” I reminded Anaïs.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Morton—so quietly perfect a thing, yet the thing of all others that she must fly from, that she must forget; but she could not forget it in these surroundings; they reminded by contrast. Curious what Brockett had said that evening about putting the sea between herself and England. . . . In view of her own half-formed plan to do so, his words had come as a kind of echo of her thoughts; it was almost as though he had peeped through a secret keyhole into her mind, had been spying upon her trouble. By what right did this curious man spy upon her—this man with the soft, white hands of a woman, with the movements befitting those soft, white hands, yet so ill-befitting the rest of his body? By no right; and how much had the creature found out when his eye had been pressed to that secret keyhole? Clever—Brockett was fiendishly clever—all his whims and his foibles could not disguise it. His face gave him away, a hard, clever face with sharp eyes that were glued to other people’s keyholes. That was why Brockett wrote such fine plays, such cruel plays; he fed his genius on live flesh and blood. Carnivorous genius. Moloch, fed upon live flesh and blood! But she, Stephen, had tried to feed her inspiration upon herbage, the kind, green herbage of Morton. For a little while such food had sufficed, but now her talent had sickened, was dying perhaps—or had she too fed it on blood, her heart’s blood when she had written The Furrow? If so, her heart would not bleed any more—perhaps it could not—perhaps it was dry. A dry, withered thing; for she did not feel love these days when she thought of Angela Crossby—that must mean that her heart had died within her. A gruesome companion to have, a dead heart. Angela Crossby—and yet there were times when she longed intensely to see this woman, to hear her speak, to stretch out her arms and clasp them around the woman’s body—not gently, not patiently as in the past, but roughly, brutally even. Beastly—it was beastly! She felt degraded. She had no love to offer Angela Crossby, not now, only something that lay like a stain on the beauty of what had once been love. Even this memory was marred and defiled, by herself even more than by Angela Crossby.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “You’ll discover your Djuna, your inner wisdom, in time too,” she assured me with her calm, perceptive Djuna smile. I stared at her in wonder. We had gone past ordinary speech to a kind of female code language she’d invented. “Which of my novels did you like best?” she asked. “A Spy in the House of Love, because I could follow Sabina’s story. In the other books I couldn’t follow a plot …” I saw anger flash across her face. She said bitterly, “You have the American obsession with plot. You know nothing about accepting the writer’s donnée.” “What is that?” “Donnée, Donnée! The given. What the writer sets out to do in the work.” Although I am not usually good about adjusting my words to the sensitivities of others, I knew in that moment that Anaïs could not take criticism of her work, and that I could never, ever say anything negative about it. I pleaded, “I want to understand. I’m going to reread the books. The language is so beautiful, they are like poetry. You can’t get it on first reading.” She seemed placated, so I asked, “What is your donnée?” “I am writing about the interior life, not the surface world of events and politics. The four women are playing out a kind of emotional algebra.” “Algebra wasn’t my best subject,” I said still trying to smooth things over. “No, mine neither.” She shrugged. “I didn’t finish high school. I’m self-educated.” This surprised me; she was so polished and literate, things I associated with higher education. She continued, “You just need to feel what corresponds inside yourself to the women in my novels. They’re meant to help you read your own inner world. There are plenty of other writers who will tell you about the outside world.” “I’m going to read them again that way.” “But first you need to prepare yourself for your encounter with Jean-Jacques. You should read D. H. Lawrence. He’s the only male writer who understands women’s sexuality. Colette would be perfect for you, if she’s translated into English.” “I will, but I only have two more weeks in New York.” “Oh. I thought you were living with Lenore.” “Only for this summer. I’m supposed to go home to Los Angeles for college.” “You aren’t moving to New York for college?” I wanted to ask her to help me stay. Seeing Paris would be nice, but it would be better if Jean-Jacques sponsored me in New York, near her. “My scholarship is only good in California, but if we could figure out a way for me to stay here …” She didn’t respond. Afraid I’d been too presumptuous, I backtracked. “Anyway, I can come back to visit Lenore. And I could see you when you come to Los Angeles.” She snapped, “How do you know I’ll be in Los Angeles?” I had stepped onto a minefield, but there was no way out. “When Caresse said you go to LA.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But then he remembered Sophronia’s beauty, and took the opposite viewpoint, rejecting all his previous arguments. And he said to himself: ‘The laws of Love are more powerful than any others; they even supplant divine laws, let alone those of friendship. How often in the past have fathers loved their daughters, brothers their sisters, or mothers their stepsons? These are far more reprehensible than the man who loves the wife of his friend, for he is only doing what a thousand others have done before him. Besides, I am young, and youth is entirely subject to the power of Love. So that wherever Love decides to lead me, I am bound to follow. Honesty is all very well for older people, but I can only act in accordance with the dictates of Love. The girl is so beautiful that no one could fail to love her; so that if I, who am young, fall in love with her, who can justly reproach me? It is not because she belongs to Gisippus that I love her, but purely for her own sake, and I should love her no matter to whom she belonged. Here Fortune is at fault for having conceded her to my friend Gisippus rather than to some other man. But if anyone has to love her (as she must be loved, and deservedly so, on account of her beauty), then Gisippus should be all the more pleased to discover that she is loved by me and not by another.’ But then, reproaching himself for being so foolish, he returned to the contrary viewpoint, and for the rest of the day and the ensuing night he veered perpetually back and forth between the two sets of arguments. And after spending several days and nights, gradually wearing himself to a thread over it, and going without food or sleep, he was driven to take to his bed in a state of exhaustion. Great was the distress of Gisippus when, after observing Titus lost in deep thought for days on end, he now discovered that his friend was ill. Never leaving his side, he attempted to comfort him using all the skill and loving care in his power, and from time to time he earnestly entreated him to disclose the reason for his sickness and melancholy. Titus offered him a series of spurious explanations, none of which satisfied Gisippus, so that in the end, unable to withstand the pressure that Gisippus was continuing to apply upon him, he burst into tears. And heaving many a sigh, he answered him as follows:

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  The next morning, right after breakfast, I returned to Anaïs’s novels. I had to finish them before I could phone her. I’d saved A Spy in the House of Love for last because it looked so plain without any illustrations, published by British Book Centre (unlike the other books that had been published, I’d noted, by Gemor Press). It turned out to be the best read, though, sort of an inside-out detective story. I thrilled to this novel’s minor key. Its spare sentences suggested something secret and forbidden. Its mood incongruously brought back the thrill I’d sought as a kid going out alone at dusk by the incinerator in our alley. The principal character, Sabina, who had appeared sporadically in the other novels, was in this one an actress living a double life. She had a loving husband but also many lovers whom she visited out of town for weeks. She lied to her husband that she was performing in regional playhouses, and for some reason he always believed her. When Sabina returned home, she felt relieved to be in her husband’s protective arms but soon itched to escape and enjoy her risky behavior again. Much of this novel I couldn’t understand any better than the others, especially the ending where Sabina literally dissolved into a puddle of tears out of guilt when a detective she’d invited to follow her confronted her with her infidelity. Her friend Djuna then “reconstituted” her by saying that although Sabina had never been true to one man, she had always been true to the essence of love. I wondered if Anaïs was the main character Sabina, the seductress wrapped in mystery and a black cape, traveling from lover to lover. The description of Sabina’s husband Alan sounded like Anaïs’s husband Hugo—“above average tallness so that he must carry his head a little bent.” Could it be that Anaïs had lovers in other cities, as Sabina did? No, that was impossible. Anaïs was too pure and good to be the deceptive Sabina. I’d never seen married people so in love as she and Hugo. Anyway, everyone knew that novels were made up, not real life. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] When my four-foot-eleven godmother returned from her weekend carrying a doll-sized suitcase, I was scribbling in my diary, trying to imitate Anaïs’s poetic prose. Lenore, excited about what she’d learned in her sensory awareness workshop, told me how they’d practiced eating a grape slowly and consciously. Her description of holding the pliant grape in her fingers made me think guiltily about touching Jean-Jacques’s penis, but Lenore, running in a little trot to turn on a Ravi Shankar recording, didn’t notice my flush. She went right to work patiently tying knots into a gauzy weaving spread out on one of the worktables. I knew that her weaving was one of her forms of meditation, so I tiptoed as I went into to the kitchen to phone Anaïs.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  "Only above," says he in his tract De Mortalitate, which be composed during the pestilence, "only above are true peace, sure repose, constant, firm, and eternal security; there is our dwelling, there our home. Who would not fain hasten to reach it? There a great multitude of beloved awaits us; the numerous host of fathers, brethren, and children. There is a glorious choir of apostles there the number of exulting prophets; there the countless multitude of martyrs, crowned with victory after warfare and suffering; there triumphing virgins; there the merciful enjoying their reward. Thither let us hasten with longing desire; let us wish to be soon with them, soon with Christ. After the earthly comes the heavenly; after the small follows the great after perishableness, eternity." III. His writings. As an author, Cyprian is far less original, fertile and vigorous than Tertullian, but is clearer, more moderate, and more elegant and rhetorical in his style. He wrote independently only on the doctrines of the church, the priesthood, and sacrifice. (1.) His most important works relate to practical questions on church government and discipline. Among these is his tract on the Unity of the Church (A. D. 251), that "magna charta" of the old catholic high-church spirit, the commanding importance of which we have already considered. Then eighty-one

• From The Decameron (1353)

  This tale of literal amour courtois is sealed with the comment that the king ‘always styled himself her loyal knight for as long as he lived, and never entered the lists without displaying the favour she had sent him’. Other common features of amour courtois are the lover’s sighs and the lover’s tears, both of which Boccaccio exploits to good effect in many of the tales. The account of Lodovico’s amor de lonh for Madonna Beatrice (VII, 7) includes an episode where Lodovico, having allowed Beatrice to defeat him in a game of chess, heaves an enormous sigh as a prelude to revealing his love for her, after which she too begins to sigh. In the story of Zima’s adulterous love for the wife of Francesco Vergellesi (III, 5), the lady’s ‘barely perceptible sighs’ are the only means she has of responding to the amorous outpourings of her admirer, for she has been forbidden by her husband to utter a word during the meeting he has arranged between them for purposes of his own. 46 Although the tale is set in fourteenth-century Pistoia, its connection with the literature of Provence is observable in a seemingly anachronistic reference to Zima’s tilting at the jousts and his troubadour-like skills in the composition of aubades . But even more indicative of its amour courtois antecedents is the lengthy monologue addressed by Zima to the lady, so fulsome in its protestations of love as to leave the impression that Boccaccio is engaged, as in the story of Titus and Gisippus (X, 8), in a deliberate parody of his literary models. As for the lover’s tears, the prime example of a story incorporating this and various other motifs of amour courtois is the famous account of Federigo and his prize falcon (V, 9), which the narrator claims to be offering to her lady hearers in order ‘to acquaint you with the power of your beauty over men of noble spirit’. The aristocratic life-style of a bygone age is nostalgically recalled in the initial description of Federigo, who ‘for his deeds of chivalry and courtly manners was more highly spoken of than any other squire in Tuscany’. The object of his love is a married lady, Monna Giovanna, whose attention he seeks to capture by riding at the ring, tilting, giving sumptuous banquets, and distributing largesse on so liberal a scale that he reduces himself to a state of poverty. In the best tradition of the courtly lover, he continues to serve his lady with unswerving fidelity. When, now widowed, she calls at his humble dwelling, he wrings the neck of his precious falcon without a second thought, so as to ensure that his unexpected guest is fed in as fitting a manner as his straitened circumstances will allow. The tears he sheds on learning the reason for her visit 47 are at first misinterpreted by the lady.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  21 • By the time the Judean exiles returned to their land after about three generations in Babylonia, the Torah had become a treasured story of origins passed down from generation to generation. o It had also become authoritative scripture, a story that priests read aloud at the temple during high holidays. o The process that led to these national family stories becoming scripture is murky. But it’s clear that the experience of conquest and exile played a defining role because the stories that are preserved in the Torah speak powerfully to a landless people longing for their god to deliver them home. Narrative Arc of the Torah • The Torah narrates a history of about 3,000 years, from the creation of the universe to the arrival of the Israelites at the banks of the Jordan River, where they prepare to cross and take the Promised Land of Canaan. o Within this story, certain periods of history are rushed, condensed into a few chapters. Other periods are treated in enormous detail. This change in the pacing of the story shows which periods of history and which stories carried the most cultural weight. o The story of Moses dominates four of the five books in the Torah, and within that story, the episode of Moses receiving the law from God on Mount Sinai is the centerpiece. Second to Moses in emphasis is the family story of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. This ancestral history occupies most of the book of Genesis. • In Genesis 12, the Israelite god, for reasons that are not stated, chooses one man, Abram (renamed Abraham), to bless in a special way. He asks Abraham to leave his homeland in Mesopotamia and move to the Promised Land in Canaan, where he would become “a great nation” blessed by this god.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The second of her lovers, Marato, is flung overboard by the ship’s two Genoese masters who aspire to take his place in her bed. They then engage in a knife duel, in which one is killed and the other severely injured before the ship reaches its port of call. Murderous violence at sea in pursuit of a woman’s love is also recorded in the tales of Gerbino (IV, 4) and Cimon (V, 1). Elsewhere, as in the tales of Bartolomea (II, 10) and Gostanza (V, 2), the sea functions as the calm and benign agent for the successful attainment of the heroine’s secret ambitions. The depth of Gianni da Procida’s love for Restituta (V, 6) is underscored by an oblique reference to the classical myth of Hero and Leander in the introduction to the story, where we are told that Gianni would swim across the stretch of water separating Procida from Ischia if only to gaze ecstatically upon the walls of the house that sheltered his beloved. In addition to their exploration of the theme of Fortune, their associations with the world of commerce and their abundance of maritime episodes, the stories of the Second Day of the Decameron illustrate an aspect of Boccaccio’s narrative procedure that has engaged the attention of an outstanding storyteller of more recent times, Alberto Moravia. 76 According to Moravia, a delight in weaving tales filled with realistic accounts of adventurous deeds, or what he calls ‘l’estetica dell’avventura’ (‘the aesthetics of adventure’), is the mark of a writer whose personal experience of such matters derives from the breadth of his reading and the powers of his imagination. Whether or not one accepts Moravia’s characterization of the author of the Decameron as the scholar and man of letters absorbed at his desk in the vicarious fulfilment of his own desire for adventure, it is certainly true that Boccaccio explores in unusual detail the possible twists and turns of a narrative that is so uncomplicated in its essentials as to be capable of brief summary in the story’s heading. The account of Alatiel’s multiple couplings is a particularly good example. Another is the famous story of Andreuccio of Perugia (II, 5), where in the course of a single night the hero is the unwilling participant in a quite extraordinary series of perilous adventures. And all the other stories of the Second Day reflect this feature of Boccaccio’s narrative technique, to which some commentators have applied the phrase ars combinatoria . In this connection it is instructive to contrast Boccaccio’s treatment of a particular set of circumstances with the way that the same narrative material is handled by others. The story of the three beds (IX, 6), retold by Chaucer in The Reeve’s Tale , is one that had earlier appeared in at least two of the French fabliaux .

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In the course of his regular visits to Friar Puccio’s house, the monk therefore had every opportunity to observe this shapely little wife, blooming with vitality, and being quick to realize what it was that she lacked most, he decided, in order to spare Friar Puccio the trouble, that he would do his level best to supply it. And so, taking good care not to arouse the Friar’s suspicions, he began to cast meaningful glances in her direction, with the result that he kindled in her breast a yearning that corresponded to his own. On perceiving her response to his advances, the monk seized the earliest opportunity to acquaint her verbally with his intentions. But although he found her very willing to give effect to his proposals, it was impossible to do so because she would not risk an assignation with the monk in any other place except her own house, and her own house was ruled out because Friar Puccio never went away from the town, all of which made the monk very disconsolate. However, after devoting a great deal of thought to the subject, he lighted upon a foolproof method for keeping company with the lady in her own house, even though Friar Puccio happened to be under the same roof. And one day, when Friar Puccio called round to see him, he spoke to him as follows: ‘It has been obvious to me for some time, Friar Puccio, that your one overriding ambition in life is to achieve saintliness, but you appear to be approaching it in a roundabout way, whereas there is a much more direct route which is known to the Pope and his chief prelates, who, although they use it themselves, have no desire to publicize its existence. For if the secret were to leak out, the clergy, who live for the most part on the proceeds of charity, would immediately disintegrate, because the lay public would no longer give them their support, whether by way of almsgiving or in any other form. However, you are a friend of mine and you have been very good to me, and if I could be certain that you would not reveal it to another living soul, and that you wanted to give it a trial, I would tell you how it is done.’ Being anxious to learn all about it, Friar Puccio began by earnestly begging Dom Felice to teach him the secret, then he swore that he would never, without Dom Felice’s express permission, breathe a word about it to anyone, at the same time declaring that provided it was the sort of thing he could manage, he would apply himself to it with a will.