Love

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 Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "That's why I don't like to start thinking about you actually. It only tortures me, and does you no good. I don't want you to be away from me. But if I start fretting it wastes something. Patience, always patience. This is my fortieth winter. And I can't help all the winters that have been. But this winter I'll stick to my little pentecost flame, and have some peace. And I won't let the breath of people blow it out. I believe in a higher mystery, that doesn't let even the crocus be blown out. And if you're in Scotland and I'm in the Midlands, and I can't put my arms round you, and wrap my legs round you, yet I've got something of you. My soul softly flaps in the little pentecost flame with you, like the peace of fucking. We fucked a flame into being. Even the flowers are fucked into being between the sun and the earth. But it's a delicate thing, and takes patience and the long pause. "So I love chastity now, because it is the peace that comes of fucking. I love being chaste now. I love it as snowdrops love the snow. I love this chastity, which is the pause of peace of our fucking, between us now like a snowdrop of forked white fire. And when the real spring comes, when the drawing together comes, then we can fuck the little flame brilliant and yellow, brilliant. But not now, not yet! Now is the time to be chaste, it is so good to be chaste, like a river of cool water in my soul. I love the chastity now that it flows between us. It is like fresh water and rain. How can men want wearisomely to philander. What a misery to be like Don Juan, and impotent ever to fuck oneself into peace, and the little flame alight, impotent and unable to be chaste in the cool between-whiles, as by a river. "Well, so many words, because I can't touch you. If I could sleep with my arms round you, the ink could stay in the bottle. We could be chaste together just as we can fuck together. But we have to be separate for a while, and I suppose it is really the wiser way. If only one were sure. "Never mind, never mind, we won't get worked up. We really trust in the little flame, and in the unnamed god that shields it from being blown out. There's so much of you here with me, really, that it's a pity you aren't all here. "Never mind about Sir Clifford. If you don't hear anything from him, never mind. He can't really do anything to you. Wait, he will want to get rid of you at last, to cast you out. And if he doesn't, we'll manage to keep clear of him. But he will. In the end he will want to spew you out as the abominable thing.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “Did I do anything you didn’t want me to do?” Silence. “Did you really want me to stop? Would it make you happy to do the exact same thing to me, whatever it was, right now? Come inside with me. I promise I will let you. You can even take pictures.” He had no idea how haughty this sounded. One of the things he had never done to get next to someone was beg or plead. Quiet. Quiet busy as the grave. “Do you want to be sure no one ever does that to you again? I give you my word I won’t ever touch you or notice you. It will be like we never met.” Still no answer. ‘I’m getting tired of talking to myself,’ the spoiler thought. Was that grating sound pent-up weeping about to burst forth, or was it someone grinding his teeth as he cocked a trigger? “Can you think about anything else when you come?” A Dash of Vanilla You’re lucky you’re handsome and I’m in love. Otherwise, I wouldn’t bother. It’s very difficult to get you off. I’m complaining, but there’s also a part of me that likes it. Most women are difficult to get off, and in the past, I’ve dealt with that by encouraging them to masturbate while I suck on their tits or fuck them or talk dirty to them. I’m glad you resist that, saving masturbation for the times when we’re too tired or too sick to come any other way, and need some quick and easy stimulation and release before we can fall asleep. I’m glad you insist that I get you off, insist that I keep trying and work harder to get better at it. When your climax finally does come, it’s precious to me because I’ve put so much sweat and effort into getting you there. I sometimes think it’s better than the quick, helpless orgasms I have when you’ve been fucking me for only five minutes, because I always want more, I always need to come again and again. The one you have leaves you drained. You seem completely satisfied. You’re able to stop. I’m not. Making love to you doesn’t start out feeling difficult. The summers here are very hot, so you take off your clothes as soon as you walk into the bedroom, and then you lounge around and read your mail. Your legs just naturally seem to come to rest with your knees bent and far apart. I never know if you are deliberately exposing your cunt to me, how much of your behavior is exhibitionistic or provocative, and how much of it is just an attempt to get comfortable in the heat, or unselfconsciousness about your own nudity. It’s probably the latter. You are always surprised when I tell you how powerfully your body attracts me. You do not believe you are beautiful.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  The chains and the horse protested as Clarissa flung her body from side to side and drenched Berenice’s hand with profuse evidence of her pleasure. Then she was deathly still. Berenice moved to her head and petted her as one would a frightened animal. “There, there,” she said. Clarissa lifted her head. Her eyes were overflowing. “Am I still here?” she whispered. “Oh, thank you, dearest Mother. Please don’t leave me. Don’t ever stop loving me.” “Hush, darling. I’m going to take you down.” As she plied her key among the tiny locks, Berenice instructed Clarissa on the behavior that would be expected of her at the school. “You must show your headmistress and teachers the same respect and cheerful obedience that you give me. I’ll read your reports every month,” she concluded, working on the chains that locked the spike heels onto Clarissa’s feet. “If they are satisfactory, when you return I will deflower you, if that is your wish and your maidenhead is still intact.” “It will be,” Clarissa said. “I pro—” “Hush. Don’t promise me anything. You’re too young to vow constancy. Wait until you’ve met the headmistress of Hightowers, then see if you bring your heart back to me in one piece—let alone your little oyster, my love.” Clarissa could barely comprehend the woe and distress in that bitter speech. Before she could compose a reassuring reply, Berenice gathered her limp body up in her arms, kicked the door open, and called down the hallway, “Elise! Draw a bath for two. Lay out plenty of towels and birching ointment. I want a tray of cordials and a cold supper laid out in my room. Then you may retire for the night.” “Yes, madam,” was the civil reply that floated back to her. The sound of running water came faintly from the other side of the house—Elise was adding boiling water to the tub she had already filled. Berenice took a fresh grip on Clarissa, who was patting her face and murmuring endearments in French, and carried her away from the room. Elise would clean up. Reliable, invaluable Elise! By the time they arrived, the bath was prepared. Fresh, snowy towels were heaped on a little cart along with an open jar of ointment, two cakes of large fragrant soap, and a saucer on which chilled segments of tangerine had been arranged. Beside the saucer was a crystal pitcher of ice water and two cut glass tumblers. The tub— large, round, deep enough to stand in—was full to the brim and steaming. On the surface of the water floated a single gardenia. Berenice eased Clarissa down, unlaced and removed the corset, then helped her climb into the tub. The little girl winced when the hot water made contact with her bottom, then an expression of happy pride lit up her face. “You marked me!” she exclaimed. “I won’t be able to sit down on the train tomorrow.”

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  Nothing between us was ever planned—not even you. We were both twenty-four years old when you were born, the normal age for most Americans, but among the class we soon found ourselves, we ranked as teenage parents. With a whiff of fear, we were very often asked if we planned to marry. Marriage was presented to us as a shield against other women, other men, or the corrosive monotony of dirty socks and dishwashing. But your mother and I knew too many people who’d married and abandoned each other for less. The truth of us was always that you were our ring. We’d summoned you out of ourselves, and you were not given a vote. If only for that reason, you deserved all the protection we could muster. Everything else was subordinate to this fact. If that sounds like a weight, it shouldn’t. The truth is that I owe you everything I have. Before you, I had my questions but nothing beyond my own skin in the game, and that was really nothing at all because I was a young man, and not yet clear of my own human vulnerabilities. But I was grounded and domesticated by the plain fact that should I now go down, I would not go down alone. This is what I told myself, at least. It was comforting to believe that the fate of my body and the bodies of my family were under my powers. “You will have to man up,” we tell our sons. “Anyone can make a baby, but it takes a man to be a father.” This is what they had told me all my life. It was the language of survival, a myth that helped us cope with the human sacrifice that finds us no matter our manhood. As though our hands were ever our own. As though plunder of dark energy was not at the heart of our galaxy. And the plunder was there, if I wished to see it. One summer, I traveled out to Chicago to see your mother. I rode down the Dan Ryan with friends and beheld, for the first time, the State Street Corridor—a four-mile stretch of dilapidated public housing. There were projects all over Baltimore, but nothing so expansive as this. The housing occurred to me as a moral disaster not just for the people living there but for the entire region, the metropolis of commuters who drove by, each day, and with their quiet acquiescence tolerated such a thing. But there was so much more there in those projects than I was, even in all my curiosity, prepared to see.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Neither the Indian nor the African prisoners were allowed tea or coffee. They could add salt to the cooked food if they wished, but they might not have anything for the mere satisfaction of the palate. When I asked the jail medical officer to give us curry powder, and to let us add salt to the food whilst it was cooking, he said: ‘You are not here for satisfying your palate. From the point of view of health, curry powder is not necessary, and it makes no difference whether you add salt during or after cooking.’ Ultimeately these restrictions were modified, though not without much difficulty, but both were wholesome rules of self-restraint. Inhabitions imposed from without rarely suceed, but when they are self-imposed, they have a decidedly salutary effect. So, immediately after release from jail, I imposed on myself the two rules. As far as was then possible, I stopped taking tea, and finished my last meal before sunset. Both these now require no effort in the observance. There came, however, an occasion which compelled me to give up salt altogether, and this restriction I continued for an unbroken period of ten years. I had read in some books on vegetarianism that salt was not a necessary article of diet for man, that on the contrary saltless diet was better for the health. I had deduced that a brahmachari benefited by a saltless diet, I had read and realized that the weak- bodied should avoid pulses. I was very fond of them. Now it happened that Kasturbai, who had a brief respite after her operation, had again begun getting haemorrhage, and the malady seemed to be obstinate. Hydropathic treatment by itself did not answer. She had not much faith in my remedies, though she did not resist them. She certainly did not ask for outside help. So when all my remedies had failed. I entreated her to give up salt and pulses. She would not agree, however much I pleaded with her, supporting myself with authorities. At last she challenged me, saying that even I could not give up these articles if I was advised to do so, I was pained and equally delighted, delighted in that I got an opportunity to shower my love on her. I said to her: ‘You are mistaken. If I was ailing and the doctor advised me to give up these or any other articles, I should unhesitatingly do so. But there! Without any medical advice, I give up salt and pulses for one year, whether you do so or not.’ She was rudely shocked and exclaimed in deep sorrow: ‘Pray forgive me. Knowing you, I should not have provoked you. I promise to abstain from these things, but for heaven’s sake take back your vow. This is too hard on me.’ ‘It is very good for you to forego these articles. I have not the slightst doubt that you will be all the better without them.

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  I fell in love at The Mecca one last time, lost my balance and all my boyhood confusion, under the spell of a girl from Chicago. This was your mother. I see us standing there with a group of friends in the living room of her home. I stood with a blunt in one hand and a beer in another. I inhaled, passed it off to this Chicago girl, and when I brushed her long elegant fingers, I shuddered a bit from the blast. She brought the blunt to her plum-painted lips, pulled, exhaled, then pulled the smoke back in. A week earlier I had kissed her, and now, watching this display of smoke and flame (and already feeling the effects), I was lost and running and wondering what it must be to embrace her, to be exhaled by her, to return to her, and leave her high. She had never known her father, which put her in the company of the greater number of everyone I’d known. I felt then that these men—these “fathers”—were the greatest of cowards. But I also felt that the galaxy was playing with loaded dice, which ensured an excess of cowards in our ranks. The girl from Chicago understood this too, and she understood something more—that all are not equally robbed of their bodies, that the bodies of women are set out for pillage in ways I could never truly know. And she was the kind of black girl who’d been told as a child that she had better be smart because her looks wouldn’t save her, and then told as a young woman that she was really pretty for a dark-skinned girl. And so there was, all about her, a knowledge of cosmic injustices, the same knowledge I’d glimpsed all those years ago watching my father reach for his belt, watching the suburban dispatches in my living room, watching the golden-haired boys with their toy trucks and football cards, and dimly perceiving the great barrier between the world and me.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “Did you notice the special earrings she made for you?” Tyre asked. They were little cat-o’-nine-tails, braided out of gold, dangling from a gold ring. Tyre fit one of them to the end of the needle and rotated it through the fresh piercing. The pain was slight, more like heat. “One more to go,” Tyre said. “It’s a nice idea to give you some piercings you can see without taking off your clothes. They’ll remind you that you belong to women. In the outside world, you are a particularly despised breed of female: a cunt who rejects cock, a slave who rejects the masters of currency and armies. But we prize you for what the world despises. You make us wealthy.” She smiled at Kay, and EZ (who was kneeling at her side) hid her face against Kay’s thigh. Roxanne stared at the needle. She could not see a trace of blood on it, but her ear had definitely been pierced. It was swelling already. Tyre laid the spike down, took up a new one, and pinched her other lobe. One more stab, and the smooth passage of gold into her flesh. Roxanne found herself holding her breath. Tyre admired her. “There’s a little blood around the jewelry,” she said, “but nothing extreme. They’re centered perfectly. You look stunning. Thanks to me.” She doused her with antiseptic. “Alex,” she called, “if you don’t get over here quick, I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off her tits.” Alex replaced Tyre at the side of the operating table. “I’m going to do your tits first,” she said. “One ring in each nipple. Are you ready?” Roxanne took a few deep breaths. “I’m ready,” she said. “Good. I love you. Are you sure you can hold still?” Roxanne nodded. Alex took a surgical marking pen and put a dot on either side of Roxanne’s right nipple. She picked up a pair of Pennington forceps, opened them, and clamped them shut, centered carefully over the marks where the needle should enter and exit. Then she selected a curved needle, steadied the forceps with her other hand, and pushed the point in. The tissue was surprisingly tough, and resisted penetration. Roxanne bit her lips and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the table. Tyre was nearby, her eyes concerned and full of admiration. “Look at her,” she admonished. “This big, dumb hunk loves you. She’s putting rings in your tits. Look at her if you have trouble remembering why this is being done. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she wants you.” Alex turned her head and stared into Roxanne’s eyes. “It’s halfway through the nipple,” she said. “I’m being as quick and gentle as I can.” Roxanne dared not look down at the needle. “Look at the needle,” Alex told her. She sobbed and bent her head. It was in her, embedded, but incomplete, unsatisfied. “Can you take this much?” Alex asked her. “Yes.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Roxanne was crying. “Yes, yes, everything—I will do everything—be worthy—don’t deserve, love you.” It was difficult for her to go to her knees, wounded as her cunt was, but she managed, and knelt with her legs wide apart. “I need you more now than ever.” “Well, my expectations have been raised. I intend to be even harder on you. More greedy, more severe, more demanding, less forgiving.” Roxanne sighed. As she leaned forward, Alex put a hand to the back of her neck and rubbed her face over her studded leather crotch-piece. “I want your mouth on me,” she said, unfastening it. “Put your tongue on my clit and describe how your new jewelry makes you feel.” Tyre, Chris, and Joy quietly cleaned up the operating table while Alex received her first service from the newly pierced slave. It was apparently a most exquisite, patient, and gratifying service. Alex took pleasure form her for a long, long time. They made their way back to the bar for a final drink and debriefing. Alex finally joined them, followed by Roxanne, who walked bowlegged. They all laughed at her awkward gait, but kindly. “They’ll heal before you know it,” Joyous Day said. “You gonna go a lotta strange places, dancin’ girl, it’s good you always got your vex money with you now.” Roxanne smiled, leaning against Alex’s shoulder. For the first time, they all noticed how bruised she was. There were dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. “Call us a cab,” Alex told Tyre. “I’m not calling anybody anything but late for breakfast. What’s the point in having a limousine if you can’t take your orgy home with you? That is, if my driver hasn’t jerked off so much she’s gone blind.” Michael put both of her hands out if front of her, and felt around until she found Anne-Marie’s latex-encased bosom. Anne-Marie tittered and goosed her. Michael’s eyes popped open. “Thank you, sister,” she gasped, “another miraculous cure performed by this holy sign.” “Okay. What a nice invitation. Thank you, Tyre. Think you can stay on your feet long enough to let me finish this cigarette?” Alex asked Roxanne. “What? Oh, sure. Whatever you want. Alex, I feel so good, but I feel really funny.” They all laughed. “Funny how?” Joyous Day asked her. “Aside from getting a high colonic, being fisted, pissed on, tied hand and foot, turned into a pin cushion, whipped ragged, fucked some more, called a whole lot of bad names, and pierced repeatedly, nothing much has happened to you. What’s the matter with you? Gotta exaggerate every little thing t’make yourself feel important?” “Fuck all of you,” Roxanne smiled. “I think I’m going to pass out.” Only Tyre took this seriously. She made Roxanne squat, then sit on the floor, and put her head down.

• From Between the World and Me (2015)

  [image file=image_rsrcPY.jpg] She taught me to love in new ways. In my old house your grandparents ruled with the fearsome rod. I have tried to address you differently—an idea begun by seeing all the other ways of love on display at The Mecca. Here is how it started: I woke up one morning with a minor headache. With each hour the headache grew. I was walking to my job when I saw this girl on her way to class. I looked awful, and she gave me some Advil and kept going. By mid-afternoon I could barely stand. I called my supervisor. When he arrived I lay down in the stockroom, because I had no idea what else to do. I was afraid. I did not understand what was happening. I did not know whom to call. I was lying there simmering, half-awake, hoping to recover. My supervisor knocked on the door. Someone had come to see me. It was her. The girl with the long dreads helped me out and onto the street. She flagged down a cab. Halfway through the ride, I opened the door, with the cab in motion, and vomited in the street. But I remember her holding me there to make sure I didn’t fall out and then holding me close when I was done. She took me to that house of humans, which was filled with all manner of love, put me in the bed, put Exodus on the CD player, and turned the volume down to a whisper. She left a bucket by the bed. She left a jug of water. She had to go to class. I slept. When she returned I was back in form. We ate. The girl with the long dreads who slept with whomever she chose, that being her own declaration of control over her body, was there. I grew up in a house drawn between love and fear. There was no room for softness. But this girl with the long dreads revealed something else—that love could be soft and understanding; that, soft or hard, love was an act of heroism.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  To my family, whom I love endlessly: my parents, Shoshi and Yaakov Atlas, who taught me everything I know about love and dedication. To my sister, Keren Atlas-Dror, who was my first real witness and supporter. To Ashi Atlas, Anat Rose-Atlas, Tamir Koch, Mika and Itamar Dror. To my beloved stepchildren, Benjamin, Raphi, and Kirya Ades-Aron, for being with me through so much and for the family that we are for each other forever. Above all, I want to thank my children, Emma, Yali, and Mia Koch. You inspire me, surprise me, move me, and teach me something new every day. Thank you for being the people you are and the best family one could ever dream of. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more. [image "Spark logo" file=image_rsrc1JP.jpg] About the AuthorGalit Atlas, PhD, is a psychoanalyst and clinical supervisor in private practice in New York City. She is a faculty member of the New York University Postdoctoral Program in Psychotherapy and Psychoanalysis. She is a faculty member of the National Training Program and the Four Year Adult Training Program of the National Institute for the Psychotherapies in New York City. Dr. Atlas has published three books for clinicians and numerous articles and book chapters that focus primarily on gender and sexuality. Her New York Times publication “A Tale of Two Twins” was the winner of a 2016 Gradiva Award. A leader in the field of relational psychoanalysis, Dr. Atlas is a recipient of the André François Research Award and the NADTA Research Award. She teaches and lectures throughout the United States and internationally. ALSO BY GALIT ATLASThe Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing, and Belonging in Psychoanalysis Dramatic Dialogue: Contemporary Clinical Practice When Minds Meet: The Work of Lewis Aron (edited) Praise for Emotional Inheritance“Beautiful, artistic, and elegant. Dr. Atlas skillfully uses stories from her practice to explore the archeology of transgenerational trauma. The descriptions of the therapeutic process pull you in; you come to know both patient and therapist. In doing so, you cannot help but reflect on your own journey. Emotional Inheritance is a gem for anyone, but it is an essential read for those seeking to understand trauma, therapy, and the healing process.” —Bruce D. Perry, MD, PhD, coauthor (with Oprah Winfrey) of What Happened to You? “Dr. Atlas writes with profound living compassion for those who have carried, in their bodies, minds, hearts, spirits, and souls, the most often unspoken and secret traumas of their own hurt elders. As a first-generation American child growing up in my tough family of war refugees, deportees—the ethnically cleansed, struggling immigrants, I humbly assert that I know about generational traumas in depth. I recognize Dr. Atlas as one who writes in full, knowing detail about what I call in my work ‘the generational wound.’” —Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés Reyés, author of Women Who Run with the Wolves

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She crept close against him, clinging fast to his thin, strong naked body, the only home she had ever known. "Then I'll keep thee," he said. "If tha wants it, then I'll keep thee." He held her round and fast. "And say you're glad about the child," she repeated. "Kiss it! Kiss my womb and say you're glad it's there." But that was more difficult for him. "I've a dread of puttin' children i' th' world," he said. "I've such a dread o' th' future for 'em." "But you've put it into me. Be tender to it, and that will be its future already. Kiss it!" He quivered, because it was true. "Be tender to it, and that will be its future."--At that moment he felt a sheer love for the woman. He kissed her belly and her mound of Venus, to kiss close to the womb and the foetus within the womb. "Oh, you love me! You love me!" she said, in a little cry like one of her blind, inarticulate love cries. And he went in to her softly, feeling the stream of tenderness flowing in release from his bowels to hers, the bowels of compassion kindled between them. And he realized as he went in to her that this was the thing he had to do, to come into tender touch, without losing his pride or his dignity or his integrity as a man. After all, if she had money and means, and he had none, he should be too proud and honourable to hold back his tenderness from her on that account. "I stand for the touch of bodily awareness between human beings," he said to himself, "and the touch of tenderness. And she is my mate. And it is a battle against the money, and the machine, and the insentient ideal monkeyishness of the world. And she will stand behind me there. Thank God I've got a woman! Thank God I've got a woman who is with me, and tender and aware of me. Thank God she's not a bully, nor a fool. Thank God she's a tender, aware woman." And as his seed sprang in her, his soul sprang towards her too, in the creative act that is far more than procreative. She was quite determined now that there should be no parting between him and her. But the ways and means were still to settle. "Did you hate Bertha Coutts?" she asked him. "Don't talk to me about her." "Yes! You must let me. Because once you liked her. And once you were as intimate with her as you are with me. So you have to tell me. Isn't it rather terrible, when you've been intimate with her, to hate her so? Why is it?"

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I don’t want to go home with anybody here but you, Alex, but I like to keep you guessing. Just so you don’t forget how hard you had to chase me before you finally caught me.” “You are such a flirt, I keep looking for ways to make sure I’ve finally got you. I don’t think I’ll ever be sure. But I guess it doesn’t matter that much any more. Because I think if I ever knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was going to have you forever and ever, maybe I wouldn’t want you any more.” “Oh, don’t worry, Daddy, you’ll never be able to trust me too much. But I love you enough to let you make me pay for it.” Alex laughed. “Be serious for a minute, Daddy. Will you do just one little thing for me? Please don’t tie me up. I promise I won’t spoil the work. I just don’t want any doubt to exist that I wanted you to do this.” Alex shook her head. “Pride,” she said. “Such pride.” “Aren’t you proud of me? Look at all these little old ladies stumbling around, yawning their asses off. Told you I’d wear them all out. How many flashy pieces of trash do you know with that much stamina? Only woman I never could wear out is you.” “Oh?” Alex said, disbelieving. “That’s just ’cause I’m in fear of my life.” She laughed at Roxanne’s pout. “Have to bring you down here and lock you up in a big steel cage if you couldn’t get what you wanted. Hey, quit makin’ that face. I won’t tie you up. I’ll never do anything to you that you don’t really want. You know that.” They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Than Alex said abruptly, “You don’t have to be brave yet. Tyre is going to shave you first.” She stood aside. For once, Roxanne did not ask questions or protest. She shifted her attention to Tyre and let her body follow her with small pleading gestures. She had learned how to be passed on without resistance or fear. In each new mistress’s eye, she was reborn and re-enslaved. Tyre was a vision, six feet of red and black leather, with her white hair cascading to her knees. Her high heels rang on the floor—such a different sound compared with Alex’s heavy tread. Roxanne found herself worshipping Tyre’s well-groomed nails, long hair, and feminine movements. She felt herself diminished, lacking in she-ness, clumsy and without grace. Tyre was carrying a marble soap mug and a straight razor. The razor’s handle was mother-of-pearl.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  had not she also a similar right? All this is clear to me today. But at that time I had to make good my authority as a husband! Let not the reader think, however, that ours was a life of unrelieved bitterness. For my severities were all based on love. I wanted to make my wife an ideal wife. My ambition was to make her live a pure life, learn what I learnt,and identify her life and thought with mine. I do not know whether Kasturbai had any such ambition. She was illiterate. By nature she was simple, independent, persevering and, with me at least, reticent. She was not impatient of her ignorance and I do not recollect my studies having ever spurred her to go in for a similar adventure. I fancy, therefore, that my ambition was all one- sided. My passion was entirely centred on one woman, and I wanted it to be reciprocated. But even if there were no reciprocity, it could not be all unrelieved misery because there was active love on one side at least. I must say I was passionately fond of her. Even at school I used to think of her, and the thought of nightfall and our subsequent meeting was ever haunting me. Separation was unbearable. I used to keep her awake till late in the night with my idle talk. If with this devouring passion there had not been in me a burning attachment to duty, I should either have fallen a prey to disease and premature death, or have sunk into a burdensome existence. But the appointed tasks had to be gone through every morning, and lying to anyone was out of the question. It was this last thing that saved me from many a pitfall. I have already said that Kasturbai was illiterate. I was very anxious to teach her, but lustful love left me no time. For one thing the teaching had to be done against her will, and that too at night. I dared not meet her in the presence of the elders, much less talk to her. Kathiawad had then, and to a certain extent has even today, its own peculiar, useless and barbarous Purdah. Circumstances were

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Alex gave her a pained look. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It was starting to sound like the Wedding March in here.” Chris and Joyous Day scooped Roxanne up in their arms and bore her to the operating table. Tyre and Alex followed them. They arranged her comfortably and switched on a strong overhead light. Anne-Marie adjusted the head of the table until she was sitting up. Roxanne followed everyone with her eyes, recording everything. When Alex ran her hands over her body, she arched beneath the caress, trying to prolong contact between her skin and Alex’s hands. “Very nice,” Alex told her. “I’m glad you’re ready for this. I hope you want it as much as I do.” “I’m real scared,” Roxanne said. “Can I see the rings?” Alex lifted the tray and held it up for her examination. “What do they mean to you?” her slave whispered. Alex replaced the tray on its stand. She noticed how precise and careful her own hands were. “They are the symbols of our relationship,” Alex said. “Symbols of my responsibility and payment for my attention. They are, in and of themselves, a constant reminder that I care for and possess you. They are reassurance and ornamentation. And they will always belong to me, despite the fact that it is your body they pierce and decorate.” Roxanne’s eyes were full of alarm and love. “Anybody who sees these rings will know all about me,” she said. “When I go see a doctor—and at the gym. The other dancers at the theater. Daddy, I won’t even be able to pick up a trick unless I want her to see me … that way.” Alex nodded. “It’s not a small gift I’m asking you to give me.” “What if you leave me?” she wailed. Alex shrugged. “I think you’re the kind of woman who ought to wear slave rings. If you ever leave me, though, I will expect to get them back. If I choose to set you free, I’ll give you the choice of keeping them or having me take them out.” Roxanne turned her head away. She was contemplating her own inner darkness, taking counsel from the shades that moved there. It took her some moments to speak. “Every time you give me an order, I’m afraid—afraid I won’t be able to do it, or afraid someday I won’t have anything left to give. You’re so hard on me, Daddy. Greedy. And mean. It was nice to make everybody come after me. Did it make you jealous?” “Yes. It also made me real hot.” Roxanne laughed softly. “I don’t have any rings in you,” she said. “So I have to have something else I can pull on.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very ill, and her hands were like ice. “ Swear you’ll telephone to me if you can’t get to sleep, then TIl come-back at once.’ ‘ Yes, but don’t do that, will you, unless I ring up — I should hear you, of course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.’ Then as though impelled, in spite of herself, by the girl’s strange attraction, she lifted her face: ‘Kiss me . . . oh, Gods Stephen. “I love you so much — so much —’ whispered Stephen. 2 Ir was past ten o'clock when she got back to Morton: ‘ Has Angela Crossby rung up? ’ she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in the hall. ‘ No, she hasn’t!’ snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added: ‘ You look like nothing on earth; in your place I'd go to bed at once, Stephen.’ ‘ You go to bed, Puddle, if you’re tired — where’s Mother? ” ‘In her bath. For heaven’s sake do come to bed! I can’t bear to see you looking as you do these days.’ ‘Tm all right.’ ‘ No, you’re not, you’re all wrong. Go and look at your face.’ ‘I don’t very much want to, it doesn’t attract me,’ smiled Stephen. So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of the 220 THE WELL OF LONELINESS semicircular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly, to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to stand and keep watch in her garden — Snatching up a coat she went out to her car. 3 Sue left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive, taking care to tread softly. The air had an indefinable smell of dew and of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate Tudor chimneys of the house stood out gauntly against a bright- ening sky, and as Stephen crept into the small herb garden, one tentative bird had already begun singing — but his voice was still rather husky from sleep. She stood there and shivered in her heavy coat; the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was sometimes like this now — she would shiver at the least provoca- tion, the least sign of fatigue, for her splendid physical strength was giving, worn out by its own insistence.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘ Because I’m going to do it in future. You'll find that I’ve got one very real talent, and that’s darning. When I darn the place looks like a basket, criss-cross. And I know how to pick up a ladder as well as the Invisible Mending people! It’s very important that the darns should be smooth, otherwise when you fence they might give you a blister.’ Stephen’s lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely: ‘ Thanks awfully, darling, we'll go over my stockings.’ From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds; Pierre was depositing Stephen’s luggage. Getting up, Mary opened the wardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging from heavy mahogany shoulders — she examined each suit in turn with great interest. Presently she made her way to the cupboard in the wall; it was fitted with sliding shelves, and these she pulled out one by one with precaution. On the shelves there were orderly piles of shirts, crêpe de Chine pyjamas = quite a goodly assortment, and the heavy silk masculine under- wear that for several years now had been worn by Stephen. Finally she discovered the stockings where they lay by themselves in the one long drawer, and these she proceeded to unfurl deftly, with a quick and slightly important movement. Thrusting a fist into toes and heels she looked for the holes that were non- existent. ‘ You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they’re hand knitted silk; ° murmured Mary gravely. “I forget what I paid — Puddle got them from England.’ ‘ Who did she order them from; do you know?’ ‘I can’t remember; some woman or other.’ But Mary persisted: ‘I shall want her address.’ geo smiled: ‘ Why? Are you going to order my stocka ings?’ THE WELL OF LONELINESS 369 * Darling! Do you think TIl let you go barefoot? Of course I’m going to order your stockings.’ Stephen rested her elbow on the mantelpiece and stood gazing at Mary with her chin on her hand. As she did so she was struck once again by the look of youth that was characteristic of Mary. She looked much less than her twenty-two years in her simple dress with its leather belt — she looked indeed little more than a schoolgirl. And yet there was something quite new in her face, a soft, wise expression that Stephen had put there, so that she suddenly felt pitiful to see her so young yet so full of this wisdom; for sometimes the coming of passion to youth, in spite of its glory, will be strangely pathetic.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen would stop in the middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and examine her muscles; then Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of pro- testing, would laugh and admire her absurd little biceps. Stephen’s craze for physical culture increased, and now it began to invade the schoolroom. Dumb-bells appeared in the school- room bookcases, while half worn-out gym shoes skulked in the corners. Everything went by the board but this passion of the child’s for training her body. And what must Sir Philip elect to do next, but to write out to Ireland and purchase a hunter for his daughter to ride—a real, thoroughbred hunter. And what must he say but: ‘ That’s one for young Roger!’ So that Stephen found herself comfortably laughing at the thought of young Roger; and that laugh went a long way towards healing the wound that had rankled within her — perhaps this was why Sir Philip had written out to Ireland for that thoroughbred hunter. 4 THE WELL OF LONELINESS 61 The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and his eyes were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was as bright as an Irish sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wild heart of Ireland, but devoted and loyal ‘and eager for service, and his name was sweet on the tongue as you spoke it—being Raftery, after the poet. Stephen loved Raftery and Raftery loved Stephen. It was love at first sight, and they talked to each other for hours in his loose box — not in Irish or English, but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, which to both of them meant more than words. And Raftery said: ‘I will carry you bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.’ And she an- swered: ‘I wiil care for you night and day, Raftery —all the days of your life.” Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged their devo- tion, alone in his fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery was five and Stephen was twelve when they solemnly pledged their devotion.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She went out of her way to be gentle to Stephen, and Stephen, quick as always to respond, was very gentle in her turn. But after they had dined in the little herb garden—taking advantage of the hot, still weather—Angela developed one of her headaches. ‘Oh, my Stephen—oh, darling, my head’s too awful. It must be the thunder—it’s been coming on all day. What a perfectly damnable thing to happen, on our last evening too—but I know this kind well; I’ll just have to give in and go to my bed. I’ll take a cachet and then try to sleep, so don’t ring me up when you get back to Morton. Come to-morrow—come early. I’m so miserable, darling, when I think that this is our last peaceful evening—’ ‘I know. But are you all right to be left?’ ‘Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won’t worry, will you? Promise, my Stephen!’ Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very ill, and her hands were like ice. ‘Swear you’ll telephone to me if you can’t get to sleep, then I’ll come back at once. ’ ‘Yes, but don’t do that, will you, unless I ring up—I should hear you, of course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.’ Then as though impelled, in spite of herself, by the girl’s strange attraction, she lifted her face: ‘Kiss me . . . oh, God . . . Stephen!’ ‘I love you so much—so much—’ whispered Stephen. 2 It was past ten o’clock when she got back to Morton: ‘Has Angela Crossby rung up?’ she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in the hall. ‘No, she hasn’t!’ snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added: ‘You look like nothing on earth; in your place I’d go to bed at once, Stephen.’ ‘You go to bed, Puddle, if you’re tired—where’s Mother? ‘In her bath. For heaven’s sake do come to bed! I can’t bear to see you looking as you do these days.’ ‘I’m all right.’ ‘No, you’re not, you’re all wrong. Go and look at your face.’ ‘I don’t very much want to, it doesn’t attract me,’ smiled Stephen. So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of the semi-circular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly, to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to stand and keep watch in her garden—Snatching up a coat she went out to her car. 3 She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive, taking care to tread softly.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  co-workers’ co-operation in regulating the crowds. But it was an ocular demonstration to them of the fact that their authority was shaken. The people had for the moment lost all fear of punishment and yielded obedience to the power of love which their new friend exercised. It should be remembered that no one knew me in Champaran. The peasants were all ignorant. Champaran, being far up north of the Ganges, and right at the foot of the Himalayas in close proximity to Nepal, was cut off from the rest of India. The Congress was practically unknown in those parts. Even those who had heard the name of the Congress shrank from joining it or even mentioning it. And now the Congress and its members had entered this land, though not in the name of the Congress, yet in a far more real sense. In consultation with my co-workers I had decided that nothing should be done in the name of the Congress. What we wanted was work and not name, substance and not shadow. For the name of the Congress was the #bete noire# of the Government and their controllers the planters. To them the Congress was a byword for lawyers’ wrangles, evasion of law through legal loopholes, a byword for bomb and anarchical crime and for diplomacy and hypocrisy. We had to disillusion them both. Therefore we had decided not to mention the name of the organization called the Congress. It was enough, we thought, if they understood and followed the spirit of the Congress instead of its letter. No emissaries had therefore been sent there, openly or secretly, on behalf of the Congress to prepare the ground for our arrival. Rajkumar Shukla was incapable of reaching the thousands of peasants. No political work had yet been done amongst them. The world outside Champaran was not known to them. And yet they received me as though we had been age-long friends. It is no exaggeration, but the literal truth, to say that in this meeting with the peasants I was face to face with God, Ahimsa and Truth. When I come to examine my title to this realization, I find nothing but my love for the people. And this in turn is nothing but an expression of my unshakable faith in Ahimsa. That day in Champaran was an unforgettable event in my life and a red- letter day for the peasants and for me. According to the law, I was to be on my trial, but truly speaking Government was to be on its trial. The Commissioner only succeeded in trapping Government in the net which he had spread for me. 141.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neighbours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and courtesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and himseeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.