Longing

Passages

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

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  In our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith, there was, not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and charms and as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging manners and loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit I know, I purpose not to discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth unto the present story, for that there be folk yet alive who would take it in despite, whereas it should be passed over with a laugh. This lady, then, seeing herself, though of high lineage, married to a wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman, to put off the haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of mean condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of more moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a cloth or chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise to admit of his embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him, but to seek, for her own satisfaction, to find some one who should be worthier of her favours than the wool-monger appeared to her to be, and accordingly fell so fervently in love with a man of very good quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw him not by day, she could not pass the ensuing night without unease. The gentleman, perceiving not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she, being very circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by sending of women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might betide. However, observing that he companied much with a churchman, who, albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a man of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar, she bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent go-between herself and her lover and having considered what means she should use, she repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he abode, and letting call him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she would fain confess herself to him. The friar seeing her and judging her to be a woman of condition, willingly gave ear to her, and she, after confession, said to him, 'Father mine, it behoveth me have recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that which you shall hear.

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  Would Sue Richards return to Reed Richards? Would Francis Ford Coppola make a sequel to The Godfather? Worlds real and imagined buzzed side by side, options and conclusions appeared and disappeared. When Davenport arranged himself on the couch, to watch Sanford and Son with the sound off, Paul saw how easy some things are, how you don’t need to try so hard. Davenport wouldn’t rise from that couch for twelve hours. —I’m a hothead, Libbets, he said. I’m— —Huh? Let’s go into the living room. Let’s let him sleep. —He’s just crashed. This doesn’t last forever. —Don’t you think we ought to eat something? But they couldn’t just leave Davenport. —I wonder how bad the weather is, Paul said. —I was just telling you, said Libbets. Snow tonight. It’s gonna be bad. —The last train to Stamford leaves at.... I have to be on that last train or I’m fucked. Paul switched on the lamp that illumined the Casey family portrait and they sat on the floor in its ostentatious glow. On Paul’s radio program, on the ten-watt AM radio station at St. Pete’s, he made hideously sentimental dedications to girls he’d never met. He wrote notes to them and left these notes in a drawer. He burned the names, or threw them out; he writhed in spoiled and cowardly silence. His outbursts of feeling were as unpredictable as sunspots. As he took Libbets’s hand—she permitted it to be taken—he knew he was liable to say anything. His exacting standards vanished. He loved Cat Stevens. He wanted to fill a dictionary with flowers. He wanted to lie on golf greens with her. He wanted to spy on her through a hole in a newspaper. He wanted to make a better family than the one from which he came. —Let’s go back to your room. —Excuse me? Libbets said. —I want to show you my etchings, he said. —Etchings? —It’s a joke, he said. C’mon. I just want to talk. I have stuff I want to tell you. Libbets collapsed into indecision. —Hey, Libbets, you didn’t set me up or anything, did you? You didn’t invite Davenport here because you were afraid to be alone with me, did you? You aren’t afraid to have me here in your house, are you? Because I came a long way to see you. You wouldn’t do that kind of thing, would you? Libbets? II The bright hues of the sixties had vanished from contemporary interior design. Let me interrupt again briefly here. Where the wives of southern Connecticut in the past might have embraced—carefully, hesitantly—gaudy neons and Day- Glos, they had by 1973 settled into milder pastels and earth tones. Subdued patterns figured prominently in upholstery fabrics and draperies, although you might also find in these items unusual marriages of color—puce and gray, or lavender and ocher.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen finished the letter and sat staring at the sea for a moment, after which she got up abruptly. Slipping the letter into her pocket she buttoned her jacket; she was feeling cold. What she needed was a walk, a really long walk. She set out briskly in the direction of Newquay. 2 Durinc those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in on Stephen as never before how wide was the gulf between her and her mother, how completely they two must always stand divided. Yet looking at Anna’s quiet ageing face, the girl would be struck afresh by its beauty, a beauty that seemed to have mol- lified the years, to have risen triumphant over time and grief. And now as in the days of her childhood, that beauty would fill her with a kind of wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so com- plete — then her.mother’s deep eyes, blue like distant mountains, and now with that far-away look in their blueness, as though they were gazing into the distance. Stephen’s heart would suddenly tighten a little; a sense of great loss would descend upon her, to- gether with the sense of not fully understanding just what she had lost or why she had lost it — she would stare at Anna as a thirsty traveller in the desert will stare at a mirage of water. And one evening there came a preposterous impulse — the im- pulse to confide in this woman within whose most gracious and perfect body her own anxious body had lain and quickened. She wanted to speak to that motherhood, to implore, nay, compel its understanding. To say: ‘ Mother, I need you. I’ve lost my way — give me your hand to hold in the darkness.’ But good God, the folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such a confession! THE WELL OF LONELINESS 183 Angela delivered over, betrayed — the unthinkable folly, the mad- ness of it. Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at the misty Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the sea and the calling of sea-gulls the one to the other — as they sat there together it would seem to Stephen that her heart was so full of Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all the sweetness of her, that the mother-heart beating close by her own must surely, in its turn, be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once sheltered under that heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that now she must often find Anna’s cool hand and hold it a moment or two in her own, trying to draw from it some consolation.

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

  Earth on love's twain pinions leaving, Soars aloft, God's truth perceiving In light's purer atmosphere. Ecce forma bestialis Quam Scriptura prophetalis Notat, sed materialis Haec est impositio. Currunt rotis, volant alis; Inest sensus spiuritalis; Rota gressus est aequalis, Ala contemplatio. Thus the Thus the forms of brute creation Prophets in their revelation Use; but in their application All their sacred lessons bring. Mystic meaning underlieth Wheels that run, or wing that flieth One consent the first implieth, Contemplation means the wing. Quatuor decribunt isti Quadriformes actus Christi: Et figurant, ut audisti, Quisque sua formula. Natus homo declaratur Vitulus sacrificatur, Leo mortem depraedatur, Et ascendit aquila. These four writers, in portraying Christ, his fourfold acts displaying. Show him – thou hast heard the saying – Each of them distinctively; Man – of woman generated; Ox – in offering dedicated; Lion – having death defeated; Eagle – mounting to the sky. Paradisus lis regature, Viret, floret, foecundatur, His abundat, his laetatur Quatuor fluminibus: Fons est Christus, hi aunt rivi, Fons est altus, hi proclivi, Ut saporem fontis vivi Ministrent fidelibus. These four streams, through Eden flowing, Moisture, verdure, still bestowing, Make the flowers and fruit there growing In rich plenty kaugh and sing Christ the cource, these streams forth sending; High the source, these downward trending; That they thus a taste transcending Of life's fount to saints may bring. Horum rivo debriatis Sitis crescat caritatis, Ut de fonte pietatis Satiemur plenius. Horum trabat nos doctrina Vitiorum de sentinâ, Sicque ducat ad divina Ab imo superius. At their stream inebriated, Be our love's thirst aggravated, More completely to be sated At a holier love's full fount! May the doctrine they provide us Draw us from sin's slough beside us, An to things divine thus guide us, As from earth we upward mount!

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Lodovico, who had never yet been enamoured of any woman, hearkening to this, was fired with such longing to see her that he could hold his thought to nothing else and being altogether resolved to journey to Bologna for that purpose and there, if she pleased him, to abide awhile, he feigned to his father that he had a mind to go visit the Holy Sepulchre, the which with great difficulty he obtained of him. Accordingly, taking the name of Anichino, he set out for Bologna, and on the day following [his arrival,] as fortune would have it, he saw the lady in question at an entertainment, where she seemed to him fairer far than he had imagined her; wherefore, falling most ardently enamoured of her, he resolved never to depart Bologna till he should have gained her love. Then, devising in himself what course he should take to this end, he bethought himself, leaving be all other means, that, an he might but avail to become one of her husband's servants, whereof he entertained many, he might peradventure compass that which he desired. Accordingly, having sold his horses and disposed as best might be of his servants, bidding them make a show of knowing him not, he entered into discourse with his host and told him that he would fain engage for a servant with some gentleman of condition, could such an one be found. Quoth the host, 'Thou art the right serving-man to please a gentleman of this city, by name Egano, who keepeth many and will have them all well looking, as thou art. I will bespeak him of the matter.' As he said, so he did, and ere he took leave of Egano, he had brought Anichino to an accord with him, to the exceeding satisfaction of the latter, who, abiding with Egano and having abundant opportunity of seeing his lady often, proceeded to serve him so well and so much to his liking that he set such store by him that he could do nothing without him and committed to him the governance, not of himself alone, but of all his affairs.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I opened the window and called my mother. The large vegetable garden was bright in the strong summer sunlight. Rows of tomatoes and eggplants lifted their parched leaves toward the sun, defiantly, sharply. The sun kept pouring its scorching rays thickly over the strong-veined leaves. As far as the eye could reach the dark abundance of vegetable life was crushed beneath the brilliance that fell upon the garden. Beyond the garden there was a grove of trees around a shrine that turned its face gloomily in my direction. And beyond that there was low land, across which electric trains passed unseen from time to time, filling the countryside with vibrations. After each heedless passage of an upthrust trolley pole the cable was left swaying lazily, flashing in the sunlight. In response to my call a large straw hat with a blue-ribbon streamer rose from the middle of the vegetable garden. It was my mother. The straw hat my uncle was wearing—he was my mother's elder brother—remained motionless, bent over like a drooping sunflower, without once turning in my direction. With her present way of life my mother's complexion had become somewhat tanned and I could see the flash of her white teeth as she moved toward me. When she was close enough to be heard, she called out to me in a high-pitched childlike voice: "What is it? If you want to tell me something, come out here." "It's something important. You come here a minute." My mother approached slowly, as though protesting. She was carrying a basket heaped with ripe tomatoes. Reaching the house, she put the basket on the window sill and asked what I wanted. I did not show her the letter, but told her briefly what it said. As I was speaking I forgot why I had called her; it may have been that I was chattering on simply to convince myself. I told her that whoever became my wile would certainly have a hard time living in the same house with my nervous and fussy father, and yet there was no hope of having a separate house in such times as these. Moreover, there would probably be all the difference in the world between the ways of our old-fashioned family and what I described as Sonoko's vivacious, easygoing family. And as for me, I didn't want the worry of taking on the responsibility of a wife so soon. . . . I gave all these various trite objections with a cool air, hoping my mother would agree and obstinately oppose any thought of my marrying. But she was as calm and indulgent as ever. "That's a funny way to talk," she broke in, as though giving little thought to the matter. "So then, how do you really feel? Do you love her, or don't you?" "Of course, I also—well--" I mumbled. "But I was not so serious as all that. I only meant it half in fun.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  But her mother was not to be easily put off, and finally that persistent lady succeeded in arranging a private interview between herself and her daughter, where she posed many questions to find out how things really were in the castle of the white bear. It was not long before the girl had confided in her mother about the mysterious man that entered her bedchamber each night. Her mother was deeply alarmed by all her daughter said and, giving her a candle, instructed her to take it with her on her return to the castle and hide it beneath her pillow. “When the stranger is asleep, light the candle that you might learn his identity,” her mother instructed her. But she added, “Take care not to tip the candle, letting the tallow fall upon him.” With this advice the young woman journeyed back to the castle, hiding the candle amongst her belongings. Evening came soon enough, and it was the same as it had been before; as soon as the darkness enveloped her bedchamber, her anonymous lover came to her. She had missed him while she was away and longed for his touch in the darkened chamber. He did not leave her waiting, for he had yearned for her also during her absence. As a lover, she knew him well, and yet she still wondered whose tongue it was that tasted her lips. Whose hot breath seared her delicate skin? Whose strong and nimble fingers stroked and explored the many soft and hidden places of her body, and whose unyielding arms held her in their strong grip? Whose body filled her so completely, in so many ways, and with such violent frenzy? And still, she could not hold back from participating wholeheartedly, dubious though it was. At last her lover slept beside her. She felt under her pillow for the candle she had placed there earlier and, disregarding the bear’s warnings about bad luck, lit the candle and placed it before the stranger’s face. There she beheld the most beautiful prince she had ever dared to imagine, and she immediately fell so deeply in love with him that she felt she must kiss him that very instant. She bent over him to gently touch her lips to his and, as she did so, a drop from the burning candle fell onto his chest. He immediately awoke, demanding, “What have you done?” The lovesick girl could not fathom his displeasure until he explained that he was indeed a prince, who had been promised at birth to marry a princess whom he did not love. When he refused the marriage, his stepmother had placed an evil curse on him, wherein he would appear as a white bear by day, and return to his human form by night. His only chance to escape the unwanted marriage and the curse was to remain unseen by his true love for an entire year.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  The packers were at work just outside the front door. There on the gravel they were tying straw ropes around something like an oblong chest, wrapped in straw matting. The sight filled me with uneasiness. It was the grandmother who came to meet me in the entryway. Behind her I could see piles of goods that had already been packed and were waiting to be carried out. The hallway was full of waste straw. Noticing the grandmother's slightly embarrassed expression, I decided to leave at once without seeing Sonoko. "Please give these books to Miss Sonoko." Like an errand boy from a book shop I again held out several sugary novels. "Thank you so much for all you've done," the grandmother said, making no move to call Sonoko. "We've decided to leave for N Village tomorrow evening. Everything has worked out without a bit of trouble and so we can leave earlier than we'd planned. Mr. T has rented this house as a dormitory for his employees. Truly it is sad to say good-bye. All the children were so happy knowing you, so please come to visit us at N Village too. We'll send you word when we're settled, so be sure and come to see us." It was pleasant to hear the grandmother's precise and sociable way of speaking. But, just like her too-wellshaped false teeth, her words were nothing but a perfect alignment of some sort of inorganic matter. "I hope all of you stay well" was all I could say. I could not bring myself to speak Sonoko's name. Then, as though summoned by my hesitation, Sonoko appeared in the hail at the foot of the stairs. She was carrying a large cardboard hatbox in one hand and several books in the other. Her hair was ablaze in the light that entered from an overhead window. Seeing me, she cried out, startling her grandmother: "Please wait a minute." She raced back upstairs, her footsteps sounding boisterously. I was elated by the sight of the grandmother's astonishment, as it made me realize how much Sonoko must love me. The old lady apologized, saying the entire house was in a mess and there was no room in which to receive me. Then she disappeared busily into the interior. Soon Sonoko came running back down. Her face was very red. She put on her shoes without saying a word, while I stood petrified in one corner of the entryway. Then she stood up and said she would accompany me as far as the station. There was a strength in the commandingly high pitch of her voice that moved me. Although I continued gazing at her and turning my uniform cap round and round in my hands with a naïve gesture, within my heart there was a feeling as though everything had suddenly become motionless. Keeping close together, we went out the door and walked silently along the gravel path to the gate.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Such must have been the case because presently my ambition was transferred with those same emotions to the operators of hana-densha—those streetcars decorated so gaily with flowers for festival days—or again to subway ticket-punchers. Both occupations gave me a strong impression of "tragic lives" of which I was ignorant and from which it seemed I was forever excluded. This was particularly true in the case of the ticket-punchers: the rows of gold buttons on the tunics of their blue uniforms became fused in my mind with the odor which floated through the subways in those days—it was like the smell of rubber, or of peppermint and readily called up mental associations of "tragic things." I somehow felt it was "tragic" for a person to make his living in the midst of such an odor. Existences and events occurring without any relationship to myself, occurring at places that not only appealed to my senses but were moreover denied to me—these, together with the people involved in them, constituted my definition of "tragic things." It seemed that my grief at being eternally excluded was always transformed in my' dreaming into grief for those persons and their ways of life, and that solely through my own grief I was trying to share in their existences.If such were the case, the so-called "tragic things" of which I was becoming aware were probably only shadows cast by a flashing presentiment of grief still greater in the future, of a lonelier exclusion still to come. . . . There is another early memory, involving a picture book. Although I learned to read and write when I was five, I could not yet read the words in the book. So this memory also must date from the age of four. I had several picture books about that time, but my fancy was captured, completely and exclusively, only by this one—and only by one eye-opening picture in it. I could dream away long and boring afternoons gazing at it, and yet when anyone came along, I would feel guilty without reason and would turn in a flurry to a different page. The watchfulness of a sicknurse or a maid vexed me beyond endurance. I longed for a life that would allow me to gaze at that picture all the day through. Whenever I turned to that page my heart beat fast. No other page meant anything to me. The picture showed a knight mounted on a white horse, holding a sword aloft. The horse, nostrils flaring, was pawing the ground with powerful forelegs. There was a beautiful coat of arms on the silver armor the knight was wearing. The knight's beautiful face peeped through the visor, and he brandished his drawn sword awesomely in the blue sky, confronting either Death or, at the very least, some hurtling object full of evil power. I believed he would be killed the next instant: if I turn the page quickly, surely I can see him being killed.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “Beauty,” he said pleadingly, “if you leave this castle, it will mean certain death for me.” “I don’t understand,” I replied, annoyed suddenly with all the mystery that surrounded him. It had become an unresolved matter between us that so many questions always remained unanswered. Once again I implored him, “Won’t you please explain your mysterious words?” “I cannot,” came the usual reply, but his chagrin at his seeming inability to tell me the truth made him a little more indulgent. “I will not stop you from leaving this castle as long as you promise to return to me in one month,” he said. “If you stay longer than that I will surely die.” “I promise,” I replied with a sigh, knowing I would learn no more from him on the matter. “I hope you keep your promise, Beauty,” he said miserably. Then he rose to leave, but at the doorway he turned to add, “There will be two trunks put out before you leave. Fill them with as many riches from the castle as you like and take them to your family.” That evening I was more eager than usual to go to my Beast, but there was also much to do in preparation for my journey. I rushed to and fro frantically, all the while longing for the moment when I could be near my Beast and bid him a more personal farewell. When at last I entered his chamber, I was positively quivering with excitement. The Beast was sitting in a chair in a remote corner of the darkened room. Removing my robe, I positioned myself on the edge of the bed in just the way he liked best, as was my habit. Within seconds I was soaking wet and aching for him. That’s the way it was for me with the Beast. It was enough just to wait there, trembling and poised on my hands and knees, anticipating what was to come, to bring about that kind of response in me. I had not even heard him move when suddenly I felt his crude hands caressing my soft skin. “Turn around,” he said suddenly in his gruff whisper. I paused for a moment, stunned. “I want to see your face tonight,” he said simply. Intrigued by something new, I quickly obeyed his request, and turned so I was lying down on my back. I silently watched him as he removed his clothes, able for the first time to observe him openly. He appeared so much more fierce and animallike without his clothing. I shuddered with trepidation as I stared at his naked form. Once again, as on that very first night, it occurred to me that, in appearances at least, he really was more beast than man. But he is a man, I insisted inwardly, refusing to acknowledge any idea that might, if allowed, somehow bring about an end to these nightly pleasures. Yet I closed my eyes as the naked beast approached.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. DeLoy—who seems oblivious to the withering heat even though he is wearing long polyester pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and the religion’s trademark long underwear—is an apostate from the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and has no respect for its new prophet, Warren Jeffs, but he still resides in this xenophobic community, smack in the middle of town, and doubts that he’ll ever live very far away. DeLoy no longer practices plural marriage. The second of his two wives moved out and now lives in St. George; her kids have remained with DeLoy in Colorado City, and she comes to visit them every week. “Since I don’t believe in what the religion teaches anymore,” he explains, “I just can’t justify polygamy.” And it isn’t merely the fundamentalist religion that DeLoy has abandoned—he announces that he’s done with religion, period. Unlike most who have rejected the teachings of the FLDS Church, he didn’t convert to mainline Mormonism, or another branch of Christianity, or some New Age faith. DeLoy has become an atheist. He no longer believes in God. It hasn’t been an easy transformation. “My whole life, I’ve had this need to believe in something,” he says. “I’ve wanted answers to why we were put here, just like everybody else. The religion provided those answers. And there is so much else that’s good about it. The truth is, everything I ever learned came from this religion. It made me what I am. And I’m proud of what I am. This religion is in my blood. I mean, heck, look at me.” Holding his arms out from his sides, palms forward, DeLoy looks down at what he’s wearing, and takes stock with a self-deprecating snort: “Even though I don’t believe anymore, I’m still wearing the garment—the sacred long underwear. I try not to wear it, but I just can’t seem to leave it off, even on hot summer days like this. For some reason not wearing it just doesn’t feel right. I feel naked.” He laughs again, then adds, “That ought to tell you something about the power of this religion.” DeLoy returns his gaze to the orderly grid of homes and fields at the base of the mountain. “It’s hard for outsiders to accept, but there is so much that’s positive about this town. The people that live in those houses down there, they’re extremely hardworking. And strong. Yeah, I’m real attached to Colorado City. . . . I think it’s a real good community to raise a family in.” DeLoy says this, and means it, even though he’s talked at length to several of the women in town

• From The Fermata (1994)

  It was wonderful to be riding in her car. She had some music going, something familiar, and I thought I could hear her humming quietly along with it. Her car was much quieter than mine. When my Drop was over I sat up and looked over at my empty car: it had drifted a little to the right (possibly the door’s “sudden” opening and consequent slamming shut) but though driverless for a few seconds it had maintained course fairly well, just as I had expected. I lay there in the Smith College woman’s back seat for quite a while, my head resting on her overnight bag, playing with a wavy sprig of her hair and trying to think of some way that I could possibly become a part of her life. Some of her hair was held with a large toothed clamp. I grew curious about what she was listening to and climbed back up beside her and popped the tape: it was a Suzanne Vega called Solitude Standing . She had gotten only halfway into the first cassette of the audio version of Gulliver’s Travels before abandoning it for some music. All at once I had conjured up a little plan. It would take time, but I wanted it to. She was worth it. This is what I did: I walked for almost an hour until I came to a mall with a discount store, where I bought a fairly high-quality tape recorder and some cassettes and batteries. (Bought: that is, left roughly the cash to pay for it in the appropriate cash register along with a note saying that this money was in payment for item number, etc., etc.) I also assembled a festive picnic lunch for myself at a deli and left money there. Several Arno-hours later, I got back to my car and pulled out my Tales of French Love and Passion and sat in the Smith woman’s passenger seat. The name I got from her wallet was Adele Junette Spacks. “Hello and excuse me,” I said into the tape recorder in a lower voice than I usually have, looking right at Miss Spacks. “With the help of my benevolent autokinetic powers, I have taken the liberty of popping the Suzanne Vega cassette in progress and placing it on the seat beside you. I have replaced it with a tape of my own, the very tape that you are listening to now.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  I am longing for you. . . ." Absence had emboldened me. Distance had given me claim to "normality." I had, so to speak, accepted "normality" as a temporary employee in the corporation of my body. A person who is separated from one by time and space takes on an abstract quality. Perhaps this was the reason why the blind devotion I felt for Sonoko and my ever-present unnatural desires of the flesh had now been fused within me into a single homogenous mass and had pinned me immobile to each succeeding instant of time as a human being without any self-contradictions. I was free. Everyday life had become a thing of unspeakable happiness. There was a rumor that the enemy would probably make a landing soon in S Bay and that the region in which the arsenal stood would be overwhelmed. And again, even more than before, I found myself deeply immersed in a desire for death. It was in death that I had discovered my real "life's aim." One Saturday in mid-April I received permission to take the first leave I had been granted in a long time. I went first to the house in Tokyo, planning to get some books from my bookcase for reading at the arsenal and then go on at once to spend the night at my grandfather's place in the suburbs, where my mother and the others were living. But on the way, while the train was starting and stopping in obedience to the air-raid signals, I had a sudden chill. I felt violently dizzy and a hot languor spread through my body. From frequent experience I recognized the symptoms as tonsilitis. As soon as I reached the Tokyo house I had the houseboy spread the covers and went right to bed. Before long the animated sound of a woman's voice rose from downstairs and grated against my fevered forehead. I heard someone mount the stairs and come tripping down the corridor. Opening my eyes slightly, I saw the skirt of a large-patterned kimono. ". . . What's this? What a lazy person you are!”“Oh," I said, "hello, Chako." "What do you mean saying just 'Oh hello' when we haven't met for almost five years?"She was the daughter of a family distantly related to us. Her name of Chieko had been twisted into Chako, and this was what we all called her. She was five years my senior. The last time I had seen her had been at her wedding. But last year her husband had died at the front, and people had begun gossiping about her, saying she was becoming strangely lighthearted.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Besides"—I felt that I was about to say a womanish thing and wanted to shut up, but could not stop—"besides, nowhere in that letter did I say definitely that marriage was out of the question. As I said, it was only because I was not yet twenty-one, and was still a student, and it was too sudden. And then while I was hesitating you went and got married in such a hurry." "Well, as for me, I have no reason to regret it. My husband loves me and I also love him. I'm truly happy. There's nothing more I could ask for. And yet—maybe it's bad to think so, but sometimes—I wonder what's the best way to say it—Sometimes in my imagination I see another me leading a different life. Then I become confused and feel I'm about to say something I oughtn't say. I feel I'm about to think something I oughtn't think, and become so upset I can't stand it. My husband is a great help at such times. He treats me gently, -just like a child." "It may sound conceited, but shall I tell you what I think? At those times you're hating me. You're hating me violently." Sonoko did not even know the meaning of hating. Gently, seriously, she pretended to pout and said: "You're welcome to think whatever you like.”“Can't we meet once more, just we two alone?" Abruptly, I found myself pleading with her as though something were rushing me onward. "There wouldn't be anything to be ashamed of. I'd be satisfied lust to look at your face. I no longer have a right to say anything. Even if you don't say a word it'll be all right. Even only thirty minutes will be all right." "Then what would be the use of meeting? And anyway, if we met once, wouldn't you just say let's meet again? At my house my mother-in-law is strict and every time I go out she even asks where I'm going and when I'll be back. To meet with such uncomfortable feelings—but if—" Her speech faltered an instant. "Well, there's something called the human heart, and no one knows what makes it beat." "That's right. But you're as much a Miss Dainty as ever, aren't you? Why can't you think about things more cheerfully and casually?" (What lies I was telling!) "That's all right for a man. But not for a married woman. You'll understand all right when you have a wife. I don't think it's possible to be too careful about such things." "Now you're sounding like somebody's elder sister giving advice. . . ." Just then Kusano returned and our conversation was broken off. Even during our conversation my mind had been filled with an endless swarm of doubts. I swore by God that my mood of wanting to meet Sonoko was a genuine one. But in it there was clearly not the slightest sexual desire.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  It was at the home of a friend who had decided to volunteer shortly as a special cadet. His name was Kusano, and I thought highly of him, regarding him as the only friend I had had in higher school with whom I could talk even slightly of serious matters. Indeed I still value his friendship today. I am a person who has no particular desire to have friends, but I am made miserable by something inside me that forces me to tell what follows, even though it is quite likely to destroy the sole friendship I have. "Does whoever's playing that piano show promise? Sometimes the playing sounds a little uneven, doesn't it?" "That's my sister. Her teacher's just gone and she's reviewing the lesson." We ceased talking and listened intently. As Kusano's enlistment was close at hand, it was probably not just the sound of the piano in the next room that rang in his ears but rather a familiar, everyday thing, a kind of clumsy, irritating beauty, that he would soon have to leave behind. In the tonal color of those piano sounds there was a feeling of intimacy, like amateurish candy made while looking at the recipe book, and I could not resist asking: "How old is she?" "Seventeen," Kusano answered. "She's the sister just younger than I." The more I listened the more I could hear that It was indeed the sound of a piano played by a seventeen-year-old girl, full of dreams and still unaware of her own beauty, whose fingertips still retained traces a childhood. I prayed that her practice would continue forever. My prayer was answered. In my heart the sound of that piano still continues today, five years later. How many times have I tried to convince myself it is only a hallucination! How many times has my reason ridiculed this delusion! How many times has my weak will laughed at my capacity for self-deception? And for all that the fact remains that the sound of that piano took possession of me, and that for me it was—if the dark connotations can be omitted from the word—veritably a thing of "destiny." I was remembering the strange impression I had received from this word destiny only a short time before. After the graduation ceremony at higher school, I had gone in an automobile with the old admiral-principal to pay a formal call of gratitude at the Palace. As we drove along, this cheerless old man, with mucous clotted in the corners of his eyes, had criticized my decision not to volunteer as a special cadet but simply await conscription as a common soldier. He had emphasized that, with my physique, I would never be able to endure the rigors of life in the ranks. "But I've made up my mind." "You say that because you don't realize what it means. But then the day for volunteering has already passed.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  She was serious. She had been toying with the pleats of her Scotch-plaid skirt, folding them back and forth, but as she said this she lifted her face and the light caught a sparkle of faint down on her cheeks. "Oh—if only a plane would come silently and make a direct hit on us while we're here like this—Don't you think so?" She did not realize that she was making a confession of love. "H'm. . . . Yes, that'd be fine," I replied in a conversational tone. Sonoko could not possibly have realized how deeply my answer was rooted in my secret desire. When I think back over it now, this dialogue strikes me as highly humorous. It was a conversation that, in peacetime, could have taken place only between two persons who were deeply in love."I'm really fed up with being separated by death and lifelong partings," I said, adopting a cynical tone to cover m y embarrassment. "Don't you sometimes feel that, in times like these, to separate is normal and to meet is the miracle . . . that, when you think of it, even our being able to meet and talk together like this for a time is probably quite a miraculous thing? . . ." "Yes, I also . . ." She started speaking with some hesitation. Then she went on with an earnest but agreeable serenity. "But here when I was thinking we'd just begun meeting already we're to be separated. Grandmother is in a hurry to leave. As soon as we came home the other day, she sent a telegram to my aunt at N Village in N Prefecture, asking her to find a house for us. This morning my aunt called by long distance and said there're no houses to be had, no matter how you search. So she asked us to come and stay at her house. She said she'd be happy to have us because we'd make her house livelier. Grandmother made her mind up on the spot and said we'd come within two or three days." I could not make a casual reply. The pain I felt in my heart was so piercing that it surprised even me. The feeling of ease I felt with Sonoko had given me an illusion, a belief that all our days would be spent together and that everything would remain just as it was now. In a deeper sense it was a twofold illusion: the words with which she passed the sentence of separation upon us proclaimed the meaninglessness of our present meeting and revealed that my present feeling was only a passing happiness, and at the same time as they destroyed the childish illusion of believing this would last forever, they also opened my eyes to the fact that, even if there were no parting, no relationship between a boy and girl could ever remain just as it was.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  At odd moments in my studying I would go out for a walk, and often I became aware that people were looking questioningly at my bloodshot eyes. Even when an observer might have thought I was heaping very diligent day on diligent day, actually I was only learning the gnawing fatigue of sloppiness, dissipation, utterly rotten laziness, and a way of life that knew no tomorrow. But then one afternoon toward the end of spring I was on a streetcar and suddenly felt a pure throbbing of the heart that seemed to take my breath. It was because, looking between the standing passengers, I had caught a glimpse of Sonoko sitting on the opposite side of the car. There beneath her childlike eyebrows I could see her eyes, sincere and modest, with their indescribably profound gentleness. I was on the point of getting to my feet when one of the passengers let go his strap and began moving toward the exit. Then the girl's face became entirely visible. It was not Sonoko. My heart was still clamoring. It was easy to explain to myself that those heart throbs were due simply to surprise or else to a guilty conscience, but even such an explanation could not destroy the purity of the feeling I had momentarily experienced. I was instantly reminded of the emotions I had felt upon catching sight of Sonoko that morning of March the ninth. It was exactly the same now; it was the same thing. It was the same even to the feeling of sorrow that seemed to have pierced me to the heart. This little incident became an unforgettable thing, giving rise during the next few days to a vivid tumult of excitement within me. Surely it can't be true that I'm still in love with Sonoko, surely I'm incapable of loving a woman—until the day before these beliefs had been my only trusty and obedient followers, of whose loyalty I had felt absolutely assured, and yet now even they were in mutiny against me. In this way my memories suddenly regained their power over me; it was a coup d'etat that took the form of pure agony. "Trivial" memories which I should have cleaned up tidily and thrown away two years before had now grown strangely large and been restored to life before my very eyes—just like a bastard child who has been forgotten and then suddenly turns up, full grown. These memories were tinged neither with that air of "sweet sentiment" which I had invented on those several occasions, nor with that businesslike air which I had later used for disposing of them: instead, they were permeated throughout with a single, palpable air of torment. If my feeling had been one of remorse, I could have found a way of enduring it, simply by following the path already well blazed by countless forerunners. But my pain was a strangely pouring into the quiet residential street, which had escaped the bombing.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  But a child, a baby! that was still one of the sensations. She would venture very gingerly on that experiment. There was the man to consider, and it was curious, there wasn't a man in the world whose children you wanted. Mick's children! Repulsive thought! As lief have a child to a rabbit! Tommy Dukes?... he was very nice, but somehow you couldn't associate him with a baby, another generation. He ended in himself. And out of all the rest of Clifford's pretty wide acquaintance, there was not a man who did not rouse her contempt, when she thought of having a child by him. There were several who would have been quite possible as lovers, even Mick. But to let them breed a child on you! Ugh! Humiliation and abomination. So that was that! Nevertheless, Connie had the child at the back of her mind. Wait! wait! She would sift the generations of men through her sieve, and see if she couldn't find one who would do.--"Go ye into the streets and byways of Jerusalem, and see if ye can find _a man_." It had been impossible to find a man in the Jerusalem of the prophet, though there were thousands of male humans. But _a man! C'est une autre chose!_ She had an idea that he would have to be a foreigner: not an Englishman, still less an Irishman. A real foreigner. But wait! wait! Next winter she would get Clifford to London; the following winter she would get him abroad to the South of France, Italy. Wait! She was in no hurry about the child. That was her own private affair, and the one point on which, in her own queer, female way, she was serious to the bottom of her soul. She was not going to risk any chance comer, not she! One might take a lover almost at any moment, but a man who should beget a child on one ... wait! wait! it's a very different matter.--"Go ye into the streets and byways of Jerusalem...." It was not a question of love; it was a question of _a man_. Why, one might even rather hate him, personally. Yet if he was the man, what would one's personal hate matter? This business concerned another part of oneself. It had rained as usual, and the paths were too sodden for Clifford's chair, but Connie would go out. She went out alone every day now, mostly in the wood, where she was really alone. She saw nobody there. This day, however, Clifford wanted to send a message to the keeper, and as the boy was laid up with influenza,--somebody always seemed to have influenza at Wragby,--Connie said she would call at the cottage. The air was soft and dead, as if all the world were slowly dying. Grey and clammy and silent, even from the shuffling of the collieries, for the pits were working short time, and today they were stopped altogether. The end of all things!

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Ay! When we can." "Yes! And we _will_! we _will_, won't we?" she leaned over, making the tea spill, catching his wrist. "Ay!" he said, tidying up the tea. "We can't possibly _not_ live together now, can we?" she said appealingly. He looked up at her with his flickering grin. "No!" he said. "Only you've got to start in twenty-five minutes." "Have I?" she cried. Suddenly he held up a warning finger, and rose to his feet. Flossie had given a short bark, then three loud sharp yaps of warning. Silent, he put his plate on the tray and went downstairs. Constance heard him go down the garden path. A bicycle bell tinkled outside there. "Morning, Mr. Mellors! Registered letter!" "Oh, ay! Got a pencil?" "Here y'are!" There was a pause. "Canada!" said the stranger's voice. "Ay! That's a mate o' mine out there in British Columbia. Dunno what he's got to register." "'Appen sent y'a fortune, like." "More like wants summat." Pause. "Well! Lovely day again!" "Ay!" "Morning!" "Morning!" After a time he came upstairs again, looking a little angry. "Postman," he said. "Very early!" she replied. "Rural round; he's mostly here by seven, when he does come." "Did your mate send you a fortune?" "No! Only some photographs and papers about a place out there in British Columbia." "Would you go there?" "I thought perhaps we might." "Oh, yes! I believe it's lovely!" But he was put out by the postman's coming. "Them damned bikes, they're on you afore you know where you are. I hope he twigged nothing." "After all, what could he twig!" "You must get up now, and get ready. I'm just goin' ter look round outside." She saw him go reconnoitring into the lane, with the dog and gun. She went downstairs and washed, and was ready by the time he came back, with the few things in the little silk bag. He locked up, and they set off, but through the wood, not down the lane. He was being wary. "Don't you think one lives for times like last night?" she said to him. "Ay! But there's the rest o' times to think on," he replied, rather short. They plodded on down the overgrown path, he in front, in silence. "And we _will_ live together and make a life together, won't we?" she pleaded. "Ay!" he replied, striding on without looking round. "When t' time comes! Just now you're off to Venice or somewhere." She followed him dumbly, with sinking heart. Oh, now she _was_ to go! At last he stopped. "I'll just strike across here," he said, pointing to the right. But she flung her arms round his neck, and clung to him. "But you'll keep the tenderness for me, won't you?" she whispered. "I loved last night. But you'll keep the tenderness for me, won't you?" He kissed her and held her close for a moment. Then he sighed, and kissed her again.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  After a while, he reached for his shirt and put it on, dressed himself swiftly in silence, looked at her once as she still lay naked and faintly golden like a Gloire de Dijon rose on the bed, and was gone. She heard him downstairs opening the door. And still she lay musing, musing. It was very hard to go: to go out of his arms. He called from the foot of the stairs: "Half-past seven!" She sighed, and got out of bed. The bare little room! Nothing in it at all but the small chest of drawers and the smallish bed. But the board floor was scrubbed clean. And in the corner by the window gable was a shelf with some books, and some from a circulating library. She looked. There were books about bolshevist Russia, books of travel, a volume about the atom and the electron, another about the composition of the earth's core, and the causes of earthquakes: then a few novels: then three books on India. So! He was a reader after all. The sun fell on her naked limbs through the gable window. Outside she saw the dog Flossie roaming round. The hazel-brake was misted with green, and dark-green dog's-mercury under. It was a clear clean morning, with birds flying and triumphantly singing. If only she could stay! If only there weren't the other ghastly world of smoke and iron! If only _he_ would make her a world. She came downstairs, down the steep, narrow wooden stairs. Still she would be content with this little house, if only it were in a world of its own. He was washed and fresh, and the fire was burning. "Will you eat anything?" he said. "No! Only lend me a comb." She followed him into the scullery, and combed her hair before the handbreadth of mirror by the back door. Then she was ready to go. She stood in the little front garden, looking at the dewy flowers, the grey bed of pinks in bud already. "I would like to have all the rest of the world disappear," she said, "and live with you here." "It won't disappear," he said. They went almost in silence through the lovely dewy wood. But they were together in a world of their own. It was bitter to her to go on to Wragby. "I want soon to come and live with you altogether," she said as she left him. He smiled unanswering. She got home quietly and unremarked, and went up to her room. CHAPTER XV