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 Push (1996)

  Ms Rain, senora La Lluvia, ask me to write more, write about my life now. Just talk some more in the tape recorder and she transcribe it. What life? Foster care, rape, drugs, prostitution, HIV, jail, rehab. Everybody like to hear that story. Tell us more tell us more more MORE about being a dope addict and a whore! Puta tecata puta tecata. But I tell you what I want, it's my book— we had a nice place, velvet things, lace curtains, the crystal ball. I ask her once my hand in the black river of her hair, my eyes looking up at hers, her caramel color skin, red movie lips, the perfume from her like a pink and purple dream— show me Mami how to see. Show me what's inside the crystal ball. She look at it a long time then say, Ann Negri ta, you don' t want to know. MY YOUNGER YEARS by Rhonda Patrice Johnson My younger years was actually spend in Jamaica which is where my family is from. It was me my brother and my mother and father who we call Ma and Pop. Things was good there until Pop die then we didn't have money so we move to the U.S. For me that is when the problem start. What the problem is is hard to say but it was with my brother. My mother git a restaurant on 7th Ave. between 132nd and 133rd selling West Indian take out. I work in the restaurant from git up in the morning to go to bed at night. I don't go to school even. I could read and write some but when we got here I was twelve already and hadn't been going to school for a long time in Jamaica. So my mother say, you almost grown so what's the use. But Kimberton, he's my brother go to school. A lot go for Kimberton—clothes, bicycle, computer toy. He is one year younger than me. I wash down the kitchen, scrub pots, pans, grill, all that! Go to the big market with Ma at Hunt's Point. Go to La Marqueta on Lexington with Ma. I make peas and rice, roti, cod fish cakes, goat curry, all that! The people that want eat in we got two little tables in the front near the window. I serve people. I fourteen when Kimberton start leaning on me. I don't know how else to tell it. "Ma, Kimberton leaning on me." "What you telling?" "He bothering me." "Leave his computer stuff alone and he will leave your dolls alone." That's what he used to do in Jamaica, break my dolly's head or arm off. I mean something different now. He is the same size as me. I try to fight him. We sleep in same room. He wait until I am sleep. I awake Kimberton standing over me on top the bed naked as the day he born. Thing like a donkey's.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "But we'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?" "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with great interest. "They are lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are." CHAPTER THREE THE LAURENCE BOY "Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight. "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round.

• From Mystical Tradition: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (2008)

  2. What the prophets said and did through God’s word sets a pattern that others can follow. 3. The Bible is read, above all, as providing a set of examples for its readers. C. The Hebrew Bible (TaNaK) is a direct source for the patterns and symbols of Jewish and Christian Mysticism and an indirect source for Islam. II. The figure of the prophet Moses is of fundamental importance because he is the first (and greatest) prophet in TaNaK. A. The figures preceding Moses also had experiences of God; for example, Adam speaks with God, Abraham hears God, Jacob sees heaven opened, and Joseph interprets dreams. B. But Moses shows the reader a life that is permeated by the direct experience of God. 1. He encounters God in a burning bush and is commissioned to free his people (Exod. 3:4(cid:16)14). 2. With the elders, he ascends Mount Sinai and “sees the Lord” (Exod. 24:9(cid:16)11). 3. He is the Lord’s “intimate friend” (Exod. 33:12(cid:16)15) and learns God’s essential attributes (Exod. 34:1(cid:16)9). 4. He knows the Lord “face to face” (Deut. 34:10(cid:16)11). C. The figure of Moses establishes the basic pattern and a considerable amount of symbolism for mystics. 1. The pattern is one of “approaching God” by ascent and pilgrimage, involving a movement from slavery to freedom and demanding purification. 2. The symbols for human access to God include crossing the sea and the desert, ascending the mountain, experiencing a dark cloud and fire, observing a sea of glass or sapphires, and finally, coming to the land of rest. III. Other prophets in the biblical account expand the repertoire of symbols associated with visions, to some degree, by repeating certain elements. A. Most significant is the experience of Isaiah, an 8th-century figure who had a vision of God in the Temple and was commissioned as a prophet (Isa. 6:1(cid:16)13). ©2008 The Teaching Company. 15

• From Wild (2012)

  “We’re going to Packer Lake Lodge if you want a ride,” the woman said after she rolled down the window. My heart sank, though I thanked her and got into the back seat. I’d read about Packer Lake Lodge in my guidebook days before. I could have taken a side trail to it a day out of Sierra City, but I’d decided to pass it by when I opted to stay on the PCT. As we drove, I could feel my northward progress reversing itself—all the miles I’d toiled to gain, lost in less than an hour—and yet to be in that car was a kind of heaven. I cleared a patch in the foggy window and watched the trees blaze past. Our top speed was perhaps twenty miles an hour as we crept around bends in the road, but it still felt to me as if we were moving unaccountably fast, the land made general rather than particular, no longer including me but standing quietly off to the side. I thought about the fox. I wondered if he’d returned to the fallen tree and wondered about me. I remembered the moment after he’d disappeared into the woods and I’d called out for my mother. It had been so silent in the wake of that commotion, a kind of potent silence that seemed to contain everything. The songs of the birds and the creak of the trees. The dying snow and the unseen gurgling water. The glimmering sun. The certain sky. The gun that didn’t have a bullet in its chamber. And the mother. Always the mother. The one who would never come to me. 10 RANGE OF LIGHTThe mere sight of Packer Lake Lodge felt like a blow. It was a restaurant. With food. And I might as well have been a German shepherd. I could smell it as soon as I got out of the car. I thanked the couple who’d given me a ride and walked toward the little building anyway, leaving Monster on the porch before I went inside. The place was crowded with tourists, most of them people who’d rented one of the rustic cabins that surrounded the restaurant. They didn’t seem to notice the way I stared at their plates as I made my way to the counter, stacks of pancakes skirted by bacon, eggs in exquisitely scrambled heaps, or—most painful of all—cheeseburgers buried by jagged mounds of French fries. I was devastated by the sight of them. “What have you heard about the snow levels up north of here?” I asked the woman who worked the cash register. I could tell that she was the boss by the way her eyes followed the waitress as she moved about the room with a coffeepot in hand. I’d never met this woman, but I’d worked for her a thousand times. It occurred to me that I could ask her for a job for the summer and quit the PCT.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She envied Ida. She listened to Vivaldo hum the blues. 2 Eight days later, Eric was in New York, with Yves’ last words still ringing in his ears, and his touch and his smell all over his body. And Yves’ eyes, like the searchlight of the Eiffel Tower or the sweep of a lighthouse light, lit up, at intervals, the grave darkness around him and afforded him, in the black distance, his only frame of reference and his only means of navigation. On the last day in Paris, at the last moment, they both suffered from terrible hangovers, having both been up all night, drinking, at a friend’s house; their faces were gray and damp; they stank with weariness. There was great shouting and confusion all around them, and the train breathed over them like some unimaginably malevolent beetle. They were almost too tired for sorrow, but not too tired for fear. It steamed out of them both, like the miasma rising from the Gare St. Lazare. In the deep black shadow of this shed, while their friends stood at a discreet distance from them; and the station attendant moved up and down the platform, shouting, “En voiture, s’il vous plaît! En voiture! En voiture!” ; and the great hand of the great clock approached the zero hour; they stared into each other’s faces like comrades who have been through a war . “T’ne fait pas,” Eric murmured. “En voiture!” Eric moved up to stand in the crowded doorway of the train. There was nothing to say; there was too much to say. “I hate waiting,” he said. “I hate good-byes.” He suddenly felt that he was going to cry, and panic threatened to overtake him because of all these people watching. “We will see each other,” he said, “very soon. I promise you, Yves. I promise you. Tu me fait toujours confiance, j’espère? ” And he tried to smile. Yves said nothing, but nodded, his eyes very bright, his mouth very vulnerable, his forehead very high, and full of trouble. People were screaming out of windows, were passing last minute items to each other through windows. Eric was the last person standing in the door. He had an awful feeling that he had forgotten something very important. He had paid for Yves’ hotel room, they had visited the American embassy and the French authorities, he had left Yves some money—what else? what else? The train began to move.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  r Prirp and his daughter had a new common interest; they Se now discuss books and the making of books and the feel and the smell and the essence of books — a mighty bond this, and one full of enchantment. They could talk of these things with mutual understanding; they did so for hours in the father’s study, and Sir Philip discovered a secret ambition that had lain in the girl like a seed in deep soil; and he, the good gardener of her body and spirit, hoed the soil and watered this seed of ambition. Stephen would show him her queer compositions, and would wait very breathless and still while he read them; then one evening he looked up and saw her expression, and he smiled: “So that’s it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You’ve got plenty of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if you were a writer.’ After which their discussions on the making of books held an even more vital enchantment. But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would be sitting alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the school- room, might be swatting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen, but Anna would be sitting with her hands in her lap in the vast drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, so restfully furnished in old polished walnut, so redolent of beeswax and orris root and violets — all alone in its vastness would Anna be sitting, with her white hands folded and idle. A lovely and most comfortable woman she had been, and still was, in spite of her gentle ageing, but not learned, oh, no, very far from learned — that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved her, that was why he had found her so infinitely restful, that was why he still loved her after very many years; her simplicity was stronger to hold him than learning. But now Anna went less and less often to the study. THE WELL OF LONELINESS 87 It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but rather that they could not conceal their deep interest in subjects of which she knew little or nothing. What did she know of or care for the Classics? What interest had she in the works of Erasmus? Her theology needed no erudite discussion, her philos- ophy consisted of a home swept and garnished, and as for the poets, she liked simple verses; for the rest her poetry lay in her husband. All this she well knew and had no wish to alter, yet lately there had come upon Anna an aching, a tormenting ach- ing that she dared give no name to. It nagged at her heart when she went to that study and saw Sir Philip together with their daughter, and knew that her presence contributed nothing to his happiness when he sat reading to Stephen.

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

  "You see," he writes, "to what a lazy fellow you have intrusted your letter. It was full four months before he delivered it to me, and then crushed and rumpled with much rough usage. But although it has reached me somewhat late, I set a great value upon the acquisition .... Would, indeed, as you observe, that we could oftener converse together were it only by letters. To you that would be no advantage; but to me, nothing in this world could be more desirable than to take solace in the mild and gentle spirit of your correspondence. You can scarce believe with what a load of business I am here burdened and incessantly hurried along; but in the midst of these distractions there are two things which most of all annoy me. My chief regret is, that there does not appear to be the amount of fruit that one may reasonably expect from the labor bestowed; the other is, because I am so far removed from yourself and a few others, and therefore am deprived of that sort of comfort and consolation which would prove a special help to me. "But since we cannot have even so much at our own choice, that each at his own discretion might pick out the corner of the vineyard where he might serve Christ, we must remain at that post which He Himself has allotted to each. This comfort we have at least, of which no far distant separation can deprive us,—I mean, that resting content with this fellowship which Christ has consecrated with his own blood, and has also confirmed and sealed by his blessed Spirit in our hearts,—while we live on the earth, we may cheer each other with that blessed hope to which your letter calls us that in heaven above we shall dwell forever where we shall rejoice in love and in continuance of our friendship."557 There can be no nobler expression of Christian friendship. In the same letter Calvin informs Melanchthon that he had dedicated to him his "Defence of the Orthodox Doctrine on the Slavery and Deliverance of the Human Will against the Calumnies of Albert Pighius," which he had urged Calvin to write, and which appeared in February, 1543.558 After some modest account of his labors in Geneva, and judicious reflections on the condition of the Church in Germany, he thus concludes: —

• From Little Women (1868)

  in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being. Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer. When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman. Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the

• From Little Women (1868)

  stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her. He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense. He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself. A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing... "Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!" I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and

• From Little Women (1868)

  Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving... AMY

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Turn us, O God of Hosts, show us Thy countenance, and we shall be whole. For whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless toward Thee, it is riveted upon sorrows, yea though it is riveted on things beautiful. And yet they, out of Thee, and out of the soul, were not, unless they were from Thee. They rise, and set; and by rising, they begin as it were to be; they grow, that they may be perfected; and perfected, they wax old and wither; and all grow not old, but all wither. So then when they rise and tend to be, the more quickly they grow that they may be, so much the more they haste not to be. This is the law of them. Thus much has Thou allotted them, because they are portions of things, which exist not all at once, but by passing away and succeeding, they together complete that universe, whereof they are portions. And even thus is our speech completed by signs giving forth a sound: but this again is not perfected unless one word pass away when it hath sounded its part, that another may succeed. Out of all these things let my soul praise Thee, O God, Creator of all; yet let not my soul be riveted unto these things with the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For they go whither they were to go, that they might not be; and they rend her with pestilent longings, because she longs to be, yet loves to repose in what she loves. But in these things is no place of repose; they abide not, they flee; and who can follow them with the senses of the flesh? yea, who can grasp them, when they are hard by? For the sense of the flesh is slow, because it is the sense of the flesh; and thereby is it bounded. It sufficeth for that it was made for; but it sufficeth not to stay things running their course from their appointed starting-place to the end appointed. For in Thy Word, by which they are created, they hear their decree, “hence and hitherto.” Be not foolish, O my soul, nor become deaf in the ear of thine heart with the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou too.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  “It’s just your ego that doesn’t like the challenge and the difficulty of working for God,” he said. “If it was easy, there wouldn’t be any point to it. It’s the hard parts that make it a worthwhile fight. That way, we know we’re making a difference in the world and in the universe.” Like a good disciple, I shut up and ate my sandwich. By the mid-1990s Limori was spending hardly any time at all in Vancouver. She moved out of the house I had lived in with her and moved her base of operations from the city to Wolf’s Den. Matthew, her husband, was granted his wish of living at his resort full time. However, without his income from a job at a local cable company, Limori’s finances were strained, and for almost a year the meditation group pitched in and paid the mortgage on the resort each month. Limori divided her time between living at Wolf’s Den (in the palatial and luxurious two-storey suite that John and Brent added onto the resort specifically for her) and living for weeks or months at a time in rented homes in Hawaii or Arizona. She began to distance herself from the group of disciples she had collected in Vancouver and it felt like we had slid below the last rung on the group’s hierarchical ladder. During these years, I felt a nagging, persistent sense of longing and pining for Limori when she began to spend longer and longer stretches of time away from the Vancouver group. It was a paradoxical feeling because I was at once relieved that she was not around to chastise me or the others but at the same time sad at being rejected by my own spiritual teacher. Those of us in Vancouver were not allowed to call her or contact her in any way, where in years past she had almost always been available to us for telephone conversations about spiritual questions and challenges. For the next couple of years, she would occasionally grace us with her presence once every eight or ten months. Out of the blue she would show up at a Wednesday or Thursday night meditation circle and we would spend the evening hearing about her journeys to Europe or Hawaii or the southwestern US. She would fill us in on the energetic goings-on in the universe and why her work with Spirit mattered so much and how hard it was on her but how devoted she was to serving God; in this context, her being tired and worn out and staying up all night meditating and being constantly hit with energy were okay with her. On one of these grace-and-favour visits, after the uplifting euphoria of seeing our leader for the first time in a while had passed and we had heard about her recent exciting and entertaining exploits, the room went quiet and, from her position at the head of the circle, Limori looked around at each of us.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already. It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile. "May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly. Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this." "I always like your games, but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away." "I've no objection, if you do something. It's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg gravely but graciously. "Much obliged. I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I'm ready." And Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold. "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book. "Yes'm." was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the 'Busy Bee Society'. The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit. "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming

• From Little Women (1868)

  "It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato. He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home. Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."

• From Another Country (1962)

  They laughed differently from other people, so it had seemed to him, and moved with more beauty and violence, and they smelled like good things in the oven. But had he ever loved Rufus? Or had it simply been rage and nostalgia and guilt? and shame? Was it the body of Rufus to which he had clung, or the bodies of dark men, seen briefly, somewhere, in a garden or a clearing, long ago, sweat running down their chocolate chests and shoulders, their voices ringing out, the white of their jock-straps beautiful against their skin, one with his head tilted back before a dipper—and the water splashing, sparkling, singing down!—one with his arm raised, laying an axe to the base of a tree? Certainly he had never succeeded in making Rufus believe he loved him. Perhaps Rufus had looked into his eyes and seen those dark men Eric saw, and hated him for it. He lay very still, feeling Yves’ unmoving, trusting weight, feeling the sun. “Yves—–?” “Oui, mon chou?” “Let’s go inside. I think, maybe, I’d like to take a shower and have a drink. I’m beginning to feel sticky.” “Ah, les américains avec leur drinks! I will surely become an alcoholic in New York.” But he raised his head and kissed Eric swiftly on the tip of his nose and stood up. He stood between Eric and the sun; his hair very bright, his face in shadow. He looked down at Eric and grinned. “Alors tu es toujours prêt, toi, d’après ce que je vois.” Eric laughed. “Et toi, salaud?” “Mais moi, je suis français, mon cher, je suis pas puritain, fort heureusement. T’aura du te rendre compte d’ailleurs.” He pulled Eric to his feet and slapped him on the buttocks with the red bikini. “ Viens . Take your shower. I think we have almost nothing left to drink, I will bicycle down to the village. What shall I get?” “Some whiskey?” “Naturally, since that is the most expensive. Are we eating in or out?” They started into the house, with their arms around each other. “Try to get Madame Belet to come and cook something for us.” “What do you want to eat?” “I don’t care. Whatever you want.” The house was long and low, built of stone, and very cool and dark after the heat and brightness of the kitchen. The kitten had followed them in and now murmured insistently at their feet. “Perhaps I will feed her before I go. It will only take a minute.” “She can’t be hungry yet, she eats all the time,” said Eric. But Yves had already begun preparing the kitten’s food. They had entered through the kitchen and Eric walked through it and through the dining salon, into their bedroom, and threw himself down on the bed. The bedroom also had an entrance on the garden.

• From Little Women (1868)

  paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies. The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'. Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being

• From Little Women (1868)

  which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again. By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to 'love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together'. Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart. "Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come." "Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and I'm all alone." And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof. Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say? CHAPTER FORTY-THREE SURPRISES Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories,

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  The worst part was, he said he felt the same way— and he was not nearly as reticent about talking about his feelings as I was. Every six months or so, when we could no longer stand the physical and emotional tension between us, we’d sit down to one of our regular coffee or dinner dates and talk about how much we loved one another and how frustrated we were that we couldn’t be together. I told him I felt like I had a secret under my hat all the time. When I was among our friends and peers at the meditation circle I felt as though I was hiding something essential about myself because I couldn’t share how I felt about Michael with anyone but him. One night, at a Spanish restaurant on Robson Street, after an hour or more of sharing our feelings about each another and after several glasses of wine, we actually debated out loud about having an affair. Seconds after the question was tabled, though, we rejected it. Ever the good girl, I could not fathom doing something so forbidden and, most especially, could not imagine lying to Jessica and everyone else I knew. Michael said that although he felt more like a parent to Jessica than a husband, he could not bring himself to lie to or betray her. Besides our own moral qualms about having an affair, our belief system, the one we had learned from Limori, told us that acting on our connection and attraction to one another was not a matter of choice. Michael could not simply choose to leave his marriage. He had not chosen to enter it – that decision had been made for him – but his devotion to his spiritual path and to Limori were such that he would stay married to Jessica as long as God wanted him to. With those barriers always front-of-mind, then, we remained just friends, albeit very close and special friends, and he remained in his marriage, because it was what God wanted. What we didn’t know was that Limori was about to grant our wishes for togetherness in the most diabolical and cruel way possible, a circumstance that would eventually result in my leaving the group and serve to tighten Limori’s stranglehold on Michael more than ever. 7Musical BedsThose who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities. —Voltaire A guru’s followers are everything to her. Without them she is nothing, simply another attention-loving fruitcake with charisma and circular logic. The guru’s followers provide material wealth in the form of tithed wages and other monetary gifts (necessary for someone like Limori who was living an increasingly luxurious and extravagant lifestyle). Cult members also provide free labour to the guru, and are willing to perform the most menial, backbreaking tasks in the name of service to the cause. And perhaps most importantly, a guru’s disciples provide her with the power and control she so desperately needs.

• From Little Women (1868)

  The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother. If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  Limori had left in her wake what was essentially a pack of dysfunctional wild dogs. As is so often the case with human beings, the abused become the abusers. I, who loathed and feared the way Limori treated me and others, turned around and treated myself and my compatriots the same way. Not to say that I became the master manipulator that Limori was, but when the circle was in session, over and over again, with monotonous repetition, I repeated what I’d been taught. “You’re in your ego.” “Get out of your head.” “Your energy is making me sick.” What anyone felt was never important. And nothing anyone ever did, including myself, was good enough. We met, week after week, the months rolling by into years, and covered the same ground over and over again. One result of co-facilitating the circle with Michael was that our relationship deepened. We had been best friends, but now we were spiritual colleagues as well. Since spirituality was the most important thing in both our lives, this professional partnership meant to me that we were a team. This strengthening of our relationship and of our emotional and spiritual bond was a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I loved being partners with Michael in the circle; I loved that we had a shared purpose and that I held an increasingly meaningful place in his life, and he in mine. It meant that we shared focus on Wednesday and Thursday nights, rather than simply being participants and observers in the group, as we had been before. And it created a need for us to spend time together outside the group, occasionally discussing the energy of some of our peers and what needed to be done about them. But on the other hand, as a result of this I was more tortured about my feelings for Michael than ever. His marriage with Jessica continued, and as one of Limori’s disciples I respected its importance in the universal scheme of things. As the months and years passed, my feelings for Michael changed only in that they grew deeper and more intense. I hated myself for feeling that way, but try as I might there was nothing I could do to stop how I felt. Every moment spent with him socially was a joy and an agony. I lived for the times when we went out to a movie or dinner on our own, yet I flagellated myself about enjoying these occasions so much and, after each one, vowed not to need or want them ever again. But like a junkie who swears she will not fix again, I couldn’t stay away, despite my logical, best intentions. No matter how often I saw him, the sizzle of recognition that I felt when our eyes met was there. My body developed a magnetic field around itself whenever he was in the room and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep my hands to myself.