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.

Page 108 of 184 · 20 per page

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate [who will intercede for us] with the Father: Jesus Christ the righteous [the upright, the just One, who conforms to the Father’s will in every way—purpose, thought, and action]. 2 And He [that same Jesus] is the propitiation for our sins [the atoning sacrifice that holds back the wrath of God that would otherwise be directed at us because of our sinful nature—our worldliness, our lifestyle]; and not for ours alone, but also for [the sins of all believers throughout] the whole world. 3 And this is how we know [daily, by experience] that we have come to know Him [to understand Him and be more deeply acquainted with Him]: if we habitually keep [focused on His precepts and obey] His commandments (teachings). 4 Whoever says, “I have come to know Him,” but does not habitually keep [focused on His precepts and obey] His commandments (teachings), is a liar, and the truth [of the divine word] is not in him. 5 But whoever habitually keeps His word and obeys His precepts [and treasures His message in its entirety], in him the love of God has truly been perfected [it is completed and has reached maturity]. By this we know [for certain] that we are in Him: 6 whoever says he lives in Christ [that is, whoever says he has accepted Him as God and Savior] ought [as a moral obligation] to walk and conduct himself just as He walked and conducted Himself. 7 Beloved, I am not writing a new commandment to you, but an old commandment which you have had from the beginning; the old commandment is the message which you have heard [before from us]. [John 13:34 , 35 ] 8 On the other hand, I am writing a new commandment to you, which is true and realized in Christ and in you, because the darkness [of moral blindness] is clearing away and the true Light [the revelation of God in Christ] is already shining. 9 The one who says he is in the Light [in consistent fellowship with Christ] and yet a habitually hates (works against) his brother [in Christ] is in the darkness until now. 10 The one who b loves and unselfishly seeks the best for his [believing] brother lives in the Light, and in him there is no occasion for stumbling or offense [he does not hurt the cause of Christ or lead others to sin]. 11 But the one who habitually hates (works against) his brother [in Christ] is in [spiritual] darkness and is walking in the darkness, and does not know where he is going because the darkness has blinded his eyes. 12 I am writing to you, little children (believers, dear ones), because your sins have been forgiven for His name’s sake [you have been pardoned and released from spiritual debt through His name because you have confessed His name, believing in Him as Savior].

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Her father was aware that my father was a highly successful businessman, and he perceived, correctly, that my mother had a sharp, insightful mind and was really the driving force behind my father’s success. Unfortunately, Marilyn’s father died when I was twenty-two, and I never had the opportunity to know him well, though he did take me to my first opera ( Die Fledermaus ). Marilyn was half a year behind me in school, and in those days there were graduation ceremonies both in February and in June. A few months after meeting her I attended her February graduation from McFarland Junior High (which was next door to my high school) and listened in awe as Marilyn, with remarkable poise, delivered the valedictory address. Oh, how I admired and loved that girl! We were inseparable all through high school and ate lunch together every day, and without fail, we saw one another every weekend. We had such a strong, shared devotion to literature that our other divergent interests seemed of little consequence. She had, very early, fallen in love with the French language, literature, and culture, whereas I preferred the sciences. I managed to accomplish the rather extraordinary feat of mispronouncing every French word I ever saw or heard, while she, for her part, could see only her own eyelashes when she gazed through my microscope. We both loved our English classes and, unlike other students in the school, were oddly entranced by the reading assignments: The Scarlet Letter , Silas Marner , and The Return of the Native . One day in high school, all afternoon classes were canceled so that the entire school could attend a showing of the 1946 British film Great Expectations . We sat next to one another and held hands. The film remains one of our all-time favorites; over the decades, we’ve probably alluded to it a hundred times. It opened up the world of Dickens for me, and before long I had devoured every book Dickens had written. I’ve reread them many times since then. Years later, when I lectured and traveled a great deal in the United States and Great Britain, I fell into the habit of visiting used book stores and buying Dickens first editions. It remains the only thing I ever collected. Marilyn, even then, was so adorable, intelligent, and socially skilled that she won over all her teachers. In those years I was many things, but no one would in their wildest dream have thought of me as adorable. I was a good student and excelled in the sciences and also in English, where Miss Davis regularly increased my unpopularity by praising my compositions and posting them on the bulletin board. Unfortunately, in the twelfth grade I was switched to Miss McCauley, the other English teacher, who was also Marilyn’s teacher and prized her greatly.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  God Is Love 7 Beloved, let us [unselfishly] a love and seek the best for one another, for love is from God; and everyone who loves [others] is born of God and knows God [through personal experience]. 8 The one who does not love has not become acquainted with God [does not and never did know Him], for God is love. [He is the originator of love, and it is an enduring attribute of His nature.] 9 By this the love of God was displayed in us, in that God has sent His [One and] only begotten Son [the One who is truly unique, the only One of His kind] into the world so that we might live through Him. 10 In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation [that is, the atoning sacrifice, and the satisfying offering] for our sins [fulfilling God’s requirement for justice against sin and placating His wrath]. 11 Beloved, if God so loved us [in this incredible way], we also ought to love one another. 12 No one has seen God at any time. But if we love one another [with unselfish concern], God abides in us, and His love [the love that is His essence abides in us and] is completed and perfected in us. 13 By this we know [with confident assurance] that we abide in Him and He in us, because He has given to us His [Holy] Spirit. 14 We [who were with Him in person] have seen and testify [as eye-witnesses] that the Father has sent the Son to be the Savior of the world. 15 Whoever confesses and acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. 16 We have come to know [by personal observation and experience], and have believed [with deep, consistent faith] the love which God has for us. God is love, and the one who abides in love abides in God, and God abides continually in him. 17 In this [union and fellowship with Him], love is completed and perfected with us, so that we may have confidence in the day of judgment [with assurance and boldness to face Him]; because as He is, so are we in this world. 18 There is no fear in love [dread does not exist]. But perfect (complete, full-grown) love drives out fear, because fear involves [the expectation of divine] punishment, so the one who is afraid [of God’s judgment] is not perfected in love [has not grown into a sufficient understanding of God’s love]. 19 We love, because b He first loved us. 20 If anyone says, “I love God,” and hates (works against) his [Christian] brother he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then they lay together, close, hidden and protected by the sound of the rain. The rain came down outside like a blessing, like a wall between them and the world. Vivaldo seemed to have fallen through a great hole in time, back to his innocence, he felt clear, washed, and empty, waiting to be filled. He stroked the rough hair at the base of Eric’s skull, delighted and amazed by the love he felt. Eric’s breath trembled against the hairs of his chest; from time to time he touched Vivaldo with his lips. This luxury and this warmth made Vivaldo heavy and drowsy. He slowly began drifting off to sleep again, beams of light playing in his skull, behind his eyes, like the sun. But beneath this peace and this gratitude, he wondered what Eric was thinking. He wanted to open his eyes, to look into Eric’s eyes, but this was too great an effort and risked, furthermore, shattering his peace. He stroked Eric’s neck and back slowly, hoping that his joy was conveyed by his fingertips. At the same time he wondered, and it almost made him laugh, after all that shit I was talking last night, what he was doing, in this bed, in the arms of this man? who was the dearest man on earth, for him. He felt fantastically protected, liberated, by the knowledge that, no matter where, once the clawing day descended, he felt compelled to go, no matter what happened to him from now until he died, and even, or perhaps especially, if they should never lie in each other’s arms again, there was a man in the world who loved him. All of his hope, which had grown so pale, flushed into life again. He loved Eric: it was a great revelation. But it was yet more strange and made for an unprecedented steadiness and freedom, that Eric loved him. “Eric—?” They opened their eyes and looked at each other. Eric’s dark blue eyes were very clear and candid, but there was a terrible fear in their depth, too, waiting. Vivaldo said, “It was wonderful for me, Eric.” He watched Eric’s face. “Was it for you?” “Yes,” Eric said, and he blushed. They spoke in whispers. “I suppose that I needed it, more than I knew.” “It may never happen again.” “I know.” There was a silence. Then, “Would you like it to happen again?” Then Vivaldo was silent, feeling frightened for the first time. “I don’t know how to answer that,” he said. “Yes—yes and no. But, just the same, I love you, Eric, I always will, I hope you know that.” He was astonished to hear how his voice shook. “Do you love me? Tell me that you do.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They pulled slightly away. Yves’ eyes were very black and bright in the unlit, leaping room. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time, and kissed again. Then Eric sighed and leaned back and Yves rested once more against him. Eric wondered what Yves was thinking. Yves’ eyes had carried him back to that moment, nearly two years before, when, in a darkened hotel room, in the town of Chartres, he and Yves had first become lovers. Yves had visited the cathedral once, years before, and he had wanted Eric to see it. And this gesture, this desire to share with Eric something he had loved, marked the end of a testing period, signaled Yves’ turning out of that dark distrust with which he was accustomed to regard the world and with which he had held Eric at bay. They had known each other for more than three months and had seen each other every day, but they had never touched. And Eric had waited, attentive and utterly chaste. The change in him was like the change in a spendthrift when his attention is captured by something worth more than all his gold, worth more than all the baubles he has ever purchased; then, instead of scattering, he begins to assess and hoard and gather up; all that he has becomes valuable because all that he has may prove to be an unacceptable sacrifice. So Eric waited, praying that this violated urchin would learn to love and trust him. And he knew that the only way he could hope to bring this about was to cease violating himself: if he did not love himself, then Yves would never be able to love him, either. So he did what he alone could do, purified, as well as he could, his house, and opened his doors; established a precarious order in the heart of his chaos; and waited for his guest. Yves shifted and sat up and lit a cigarette, then lit one for Eric. “I am beginning to be quite hungry.” “So am I. But we’ll be eating soon.” The kitten wandered in and leapt into Eric’s lap. He stroked it with one hand. “Do you remember how we met?” “I will never forget it. I owe a great deal to Beethoven.” Eric smiled. “ And to the wonders of modern science.” He had been walking along the Rue des St. Pères on a spring evening, and his thoughts had not been pretty. Paris seemed, and had seemed for a long time, the loneliest city under heaven. And whoever prolongs his sojourn in that city—who tries, that is, to make a home there—is doomed to discover that there is no one to be blamed for whatever happens to him.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He leaned there for a moment, watching her; and she understood that the weight between them, of things unspoken, made any act impossible. On what basis were they to act? for their blind seeking was not a foundation which could be expected to bear any weight. He came back to the bed and sat down; and he said, “Well. Listen. I know about Richard. I don’t altogether believe you when you say that I don’t have anything to do with what’s happening between you and Richard, because obviously I do, I do now , anyway, if only because I’m here.” She started to say something, but he raised his hand to silence her. “But that’s all right. I don’t want to make an issue out of that, I’m not very well placed to defend—conventional morality.” And he smiled. “Something is happening between us which I don’t really understand, but I’m willing to trust it. I have the feeling, somehow, that I must trust it.” He took her hand and raised it to his unshaven cheek. “But I have a lover, too, Cass; a boy, a French boy, and he’s supposed to be coming to New York in a few weeks. I really don’t know what will happen when he gets here, but”—he dropped her hand and rose and paced his room again—“he is coming, and we have been together for over two years. And that means something. Probably, if it hadn’t been for him, I would never have stayed away so long.” And he turned on her now all of his intensity. “No matter what happens, I loved him very much, Cass, and I still do. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone quite like that before, and”—he shuddered—“I’m not sure I’ll ever love anyone quite like that again.” She felt not at all frightened by his lover. She remembered the name written in the margin: Yves . But it was better for the name of his lover to fall from his lips. She felt very strangely moved, as though she might be able to help him endure the weight of the boy who had such power over him. “He sounds very remarkable,” she said. “Tell me his name, tell me about him.” He came back to the bed and sat down. His drink was finished, and he sipped from hers. “There isn’t much to tell. His name is Yves.” He paused, “I can’t imagine what he’ll think of the States.” “Or of all of us,” she said. He assented, with a smile. “Or of all of us. I’m not sure I know what I think.” They laughed; she took a sip of her highball; the atmosphere between them began to be easier, as though they were friends. “But—I’m responsible for him when he gets here. He wouldn’t be coming if it weren’t for me.”

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  One has to understand that this union is sustained by an enthusiasm which, while it mustn’t be at all physical, is desire and love nonetheless; and it leads to a possession and to the real presence of one being in the other: “When ‘Christ is all, and in all’ (Col. 3:11) it is equally reasonable that he who is enamored of wisdom should hold the object of his passionate desire, who is the true wisdom; and that the soul which cleaves to the incorruptible Bridegroom should have the fruition of her love for the true wisdom, which is God.”76 While Gregory of Nyssa evokes this theme of spiritual desire as a principle of the soul’s ascent, Chrysostom develops the other aspect of the same theme, the attraction that draws the Bridegroom to the beauty of the virgin soul: “For the gaze of the virgin is so beautiful and comely that it has as a lover not men but the incorporeal powers and their master.” So great is this interior beauty that it transfigures the body itself and illuminates it, producing the inverse form of physical desire, respect: “Such is the modesty surrounding the virgin that the intemperate, ashamed and blushing, check their frenzy when they look at her attentively […] Like a costly perfume, the fragrance of the virginal soul flowing round the senses gives proof of the excellence stored within.”77 Finally, this union, which is the content of the state of virginity, is fertile—with a fertility free of pain, the richness of which is evoked in another passage by Gregory of Nyssa: “Conception is no more an iniquity, nor child-bearing a sin; and births shall be no more of bloods, or of the will of man, or of the will of the flesh, but of God alone. This is always happening whenever any one in a lively heart conceives all the integrity of the spirit.”78 I’m aware that this sketch may appear much too schematic or too loose. By focusing on a few important traits of the virginity mystique in the fourth century, I meant to show that the very intense valorization of a total, original, and definitive abstinence from sexual relations didn’t have the structure of a prohibition; it doesn’t simply constitute the expansion of a restrictive economy of the body’s pleasures. Christian virginity is something very different from a radical or more extreme expression of a recommended continence which was a familiar feature of moral philosophy in antiquity and which the first Christian centuries had inherited.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Vivaldo said, “It was wonderful for me, Eric.” He watched Eric’s face. “Was it for you?” “Yes,” Eric said, and he blushed. They spoke in whispers. “I suppose that I needed it, more than I knew.” “It may never happen again.” “I know.” There was a silence. Then, “Would you like it to happen again?” Then Vivaldo was silent, feeling frightened for the first time. “I don’t know how to answer that,” he said. “Yes—yes and no. But, just the same, I love you, Eric, I always will, I hope you know that.” He was astonished to hear how his voice shook. “Do you love me? Tell me that you do. ” “You know I do,” said Eric. He stared into Vivaldo’s worn, white face and raised one hand to stroke the stubble which began just below the cheekbone. “I love you very much, I’d do anything for you. You must have known it, no? somewhere, for a very long time. Because I must have loved you for a very long time.” “Is that true? I didn’t know I knew it.” “I didn’t know it, either,” Eric said. He smiled. “What a funny day this is. It begins with revelations.” “They’re opening up,” said Vivaldo, “all those books in heaven.” He closed his eyes. The telephone rang. “Oh, shit.” “More revelations,” Eric grinned. He reached over Vivaldo for a cigarette, and lit it. “It’s too early , baby. Can’t we go back to sleep?” The phone rang and rang. “It’s one o’clock,” said Eric. He looked doubtfully from Vivaldo to the ringing telephone. “It’s probably Cass. She’ll call back.” “Or it may be Ida. She probably won’t call back.” Eric picked up the receiver. “Hello?” Vivaldo heard, dimly, from far away, Cass’ voice rushing through the wires. “Good morning, baby, how are you?” cried Eric. Then he fell into silence. Something in the quality of that silence caused Vivaldo to come full awake and sit straight up. He watched Eric’s face. Then he lit himself a cigarette, and waited. “Oh,” said Eric, after a moment. Then, “Jesus. Oh, my poor Cass.” The voice went on and on, Eric’s face becoming more troubled and more weary. “Yes. But now it has happened. It’s here. It’s upon us.” He looked briefly at Vivaldo, then looked over at his watch. “Yes, certainly, where?” He looked toward the window. “Cass, it doesn’t look as though it’s likely to let up.” Then, “Please, Cass. Please don’t.” His face changed again, registering shock; he glanced at Vivaldo, and said quickly, “Vivaldo’s here. We didn’t go anywhere, we just stayed here.” A dry, bitter smile touched his lips. “That’s what they say and it sure as hell is pouring to beat the band now.” He laughed: “No, nobody lives without clichés—what?” He listened.

• From Another Country (1962)

  And even now there was something heady and almost sweet in the memory of the ease with which he had handled Eric, and elicited his confession. When Eric had finished speaking, he said, slowly; “I’m not the boy for you. I don’t go that way.” Eric had placed their hands together, and he stared down at them, the red and the brown. “I know,” he said. He moved to the center of his room. “But I can’t help wishing you did. I wish you’d try.” Then, with a terrible effort, Rufus heard it in his voice, his breath: “I’d do anything. I’d try anything. To please you.” Then, with a smile, “I’m almost as young as you are. I don’t know—much—about it.” Rufus had watched him, smiling. He felt a flood of affection for Eric. And he felt his own power. He walked over to Eric and put his hands on Eric’s shoulders. He did not know what he was going to say or do. But with his hands on Eric’s shoulders, affection, power, and curiosity all knotted together in him—with a hidden, unforeseen violence which frightened him a little; the hands that were meant to hold Eric at arm’s length seemed to draw Eric to him; the current that had begun flowing he did not know how to stop. At last, he said in a low voice, smiling, “I’ll try anything once, old buddy.” Those cufflinks were now in Harlem, in Ida’s bureau drawer. And when Eric was gone, Rufus forgot their battles and the unspeakable physical awkwardness, and the ways in which he had made Eric pay for such pleasure as Eric gave, or got. He remembered only that Eric had loved him; as he now remembered that Leona had loved him. He had despised Eric’s manhood by treating him as a woman, by telling him how inferior he was to a woman, by treating him as nothing more than a hideous sexual deformity. But Leona had not been a deformity. And he had used against her the very epithets he had used against Eric, and in the very same way, with the same roaring in his head and the same intolerable pressure in his chest. Vivaldo lived alone in a first-floor apartment on Bank Street. He was home, Rufus saw the light in the window. He slowed down a little but the cold air refused to let him hesitate; he hurried through the open street door, thinking, Well, I might as well get it over with. And he knocked quickly on Vivaldo’s door. There had been the sound of a typewriter; now it stopped. Rufus knocked again. “Who is it?” called Vivaldo, sounding extremely annoyed. “It’s me. It’s me. Rufus.” The sudden light, when Vivaldo opened the door, was a great shock, as was Vivaldo’s face. “My God,” said Vivaldo. He grabbed Rufus around the neck, pulling him inside and holding him. They both leaned for a moment against Vivaldo’s door.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  3 For this is the will of God, that you be sanctified [separated and set apart from sin]: that you abstain and back away from sexual immorality; 4 that each of you know how to control his own body in holiness and honor [being available for God’s purpose and separated from things profane], 5 not [to be used] in lustful passion, like the Gentiles who do not know God and are ignorant of His will; 6 and that [in this matter of sexual misconduct] no man shall transgress and defraud his brother because the Lord is the avenger in all these things, just as we have told you before and solemnly warned you. 7 For God has not called us to impurity, but to holiness [to be dedicated, and set apart by behavior that pleases Him, whether in public or in private]. 8 So whoever rejects and disregards this is not [merely] rejecting man but the God who gives His Holy Spirit to you [to dwell in you and empower you to overcome temptation]. 9 Now concerning brotherly love, you have no need for anyone to write you, for you have been [personally] taught by God to love one another [that is, to have an unselfish concern for others and to do things for their benefit]. [Lev 19:18 ; John 13:34 ] 10 For indeed you already do practice it toward all the a believers throughout Macedonia [by actively displaying your love and concern for them]. But we urge you, brothers and sisters, that you excel [in this matter] more and more, 11 and to make it your ambition to live quietly and peacefully, and to mind your own affairs and work with your hands, just as we directed you, 12 so that you will behave properly toward outsiders [exhibiting good character, personal integrity, and moral courage worthy of the respect of the outside world], and be dependent on no one and in need of nothing [be self-supporting]. Those Who Died in Christ 13 Now we do not want you to be uninformed, believers, about those who are asleep [in death], so that you will not grieve [for them] as the others do who have no hope [beyond this present life]. 14 For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again [as in fact He did], even so God [in this same way—by raising them from the dead] will bring with Him those [believers] who have fallen asleep in Jesus. 15 For we say this to you by the Lord’s [own] word, that we who are still alive and remain until the coming of the Lord, will in no way precede [into His presence] those [believers] who have fallen asleep [in death]. 16 For the Lord Himself will come down from heaven with a shout of command, with the voice of the b archangel and with the [blast of the] trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  Urbach cites Ben Sirach 7.29f. (Heb., 7.3of.), in which 'fear' and 'love' of God are paralleled. The Rabbis, how- 122 Tannaitic Literature [I begins obeying from a less than totally pure motive may end by obeying only from love, and so the other motives were not totally scorned. 90 Thus we have seen that although the Rabbis believed that God, being just and faithful, rewarded man for service and punished him for transgression, they did not think that one should serve God either from desire to gain a reward or from fear of punishment, but only from love of God. 91 But in order more fully to understand the Rabbinic ideas of reward, we must proceed to note other ways in which the Rabbis contradicted the idea of strict payment of man's just due. In the first place, the 'reward' of fulfilling a mitsvah is said to be receiving another mitsvah to fulfil: Ben Azzai said: Run to fulfil the lightest duty even as the weightiest, and flee from transgression; for one duty (mitsvah) draws another duty in its train, and one transgression draws another transgression in its train; for the reward (sakar) of a duty [done] is a duty [to be done], and the reward of one transgression is [another] transgression. (Aboth 4.2) The saying is repeated in slightly different form by Rabbi. 92 This observa- tion not only shows profound moral insight, but it also reinforces what has already been said: one should obey the law for its own sake (or for God's sake). The 'reward' of obedience should not be looked for outside obedience itself. Further, the Rabbis recognized that God had not really dealt with Israel according to a strict accounting of their merits. Thus in a discussion of the significance of Israel's suffering, R. Meir comments: 'You should consider in your mind the deeds you have done as well as the sufferings I caused to come upon you. For the sufferings I brought upon you are not at all com- mensurate with the deeds you have done. ' 93 The Rabbis even found in the Bible that a man should work according to his ability but was paid according to his need : 94 This Is the Thing Which the Lord Hath Commanded: Gather Ye of It, etc. (Ex. 16.16). The sages said: Now, Na~shon the son of Amminadab and his household ever, did subsequently make the distinction. For the view which prevailed -that God should be served from love -see Moore, Judaism II, pp. 98-100; Biichler, Studies in Sin and Atonement, pp. 119ff. 90 See Nazir 23b, where there is a lengthy discussion on the point. Schechter (Aspects, p. 161) cites a similar example from Berakoth 17a top. A similar saying is attributed to Rab Huna in p. Hagigah 76c ( 1.1)· 1 Cf. Schechter, Aspects, p. 162. 92 Sifre Num.

• From Another Country (1962)

  So, when you didn’t come by, baby, I figured they were right and I just had to let them have it.” “Shit, Richard, I’m sorry about that. I’ve just been so hung up—” “Yeah, I know. Let’s have a drink. You, Rufus. What’re you doing with yourself these days?” “I’m just pulling myself together,” said Rufus, with a smile. Richard was being kind, he told himself, but in his heart he accused him of cowardice. “Don’t be self-conscious,” Cass said. “We’ve been trying to pull ourselves together for years. You can see what progress we’ve made. You’re in very good company.” She leaned her head against Richard’s shoulder. Richard stroked her hair and picked up his pipe from the ashtray. “I don’t think it’s just a murder story,” he said, gesturing with the pipe. “I mean, I don’t see why you can’t do something fairly serious within the limits of the form. I’ve always been fascinated by it, really.” “You didn’t think much of them when you were teaching me English in high school,” said Vivaldo, with a smile. “Well, I was younger then than you are now. We change, boy, we grow——!” The waiter entered the room, looking as though he wondered where on earth he could be, and Richard called him. “Hey! We’re dying of thirst over here!” He turned to Cass. “You want another drink?” “Oh, yes,” she said, “now that our friends are here. I might as well make the most of my night out. Except I’m a kind of dreamy drunk. Do you mind my head on your shoulder?” “Mind?” He laughed. He looked at Vivaldo. “Mind! Why do you think I’ve been knocking myself out, trying to be a success?” He bent down and kissed her and something appeared in his boyish face, a single-mindedness of tenderness and passion, which made him very gallant. “You can put your head on my shoulder anytime. Anytime, baby. That’s what my shoulders are for.” And he stroked her hair again, proudly, as the waiter vanished with the empty glasses. Vivaldo turned to Richard. “When can I read your book? I’m jealous. I want to find out if I should be.” “Well, if you take that tone, you bastard, you can buy it at the bookstore when it comes out.” “Or borrow it from the library,” Cass suggested. “No, really, when can I read it? Tonight? Tomorrow? How long is it?” “It’s over three hundred pages,” Richard said. “Come by tomorrow, you can look at it then.” He said to Cass, “It’s one way of getting him to the house.” Then: “You really don’t come to see us like you used to—is anything the matter? Because we still love you.” “No, nothing’s the matter,” Vivaldo said. He hesitated. “I had this thing with Jane and then we broke up—and—oh, I don’t know. Work wasn’t going well, and”—he looked at Rufus—“all kinds of things.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  In spite of the maledictions I heaped upon her my heart was saying “I love you, I love you, I love you…” And as I crept into bed, repeating this idiotic phrase, I groaned. I groaned like a wounded grenadier. To Write as One Talks—Nexus… After we had had a good snack—pâté de foie gras , cold turkey, cole slaw, washed down with a delicious Moselle—I felt as if I could go to the machine and really write. Perhaps it was the talk, the mention of travel, of strange cities … of a new life. Or that I had successfully prevented our talk from degenerating into a quarrel. (It was such a delicate subject, Stasia.) Or perhaps it was the Jew, Sid Essen, and the stir of racial memories. Or perhaps nothing more than the lightness of our quarters, the feeling of snugness, cosiness, at-homeness. Anyway, as she was clearing the table, I said: “If only one could write as one talks … write like Gorky, Gogol or Knut Hamsun!” She gave me a look such as a mother sometimes directs at the child she is holding in her arms. “Why write like them?” she said. “Write like you are, that’s so much better.” “I wish I thought so. Christ! Do you know what’s the matter with me? I’m a chameleon. Every author I fall in love with I want to imitate. If only I could imitate myself!” “When are you going to show me some pages?” she said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done so far.” “Soon,” I said. “Is it about us?” “I suppose so. What else could I write about?” “You could write about anything, Val.” “That’s what you think. You never seem to realize my limitations. You don’t know what a struggle I go through. Sometimes I feel thoroughly licked. Sometimes I wonder what ever gave me the notion that I could write. A few minutes ago, though, I was writing like a madman. In my head, again. But the moment I sit down to the machine I become a clod. It gets me. It gets me down.” “Did you know,” I said, “that toward the end of his life Gogol went to Palestine? A strange fellow, Gogol. Imagine a crazy Russian like that dying in Rome! I wonder where I’ll die.” “What’s the matter with you, Val? What are you talking about? You’ve got eighty more years to live. Write! Don’t talk about dying.” I felt I owed it to her to tell her a little about the novel. “Guess what I call myself in the book!” I said. She couldn’t. “I took your uncle’s name, the one who lives in Vienna. You told me he was in the Hussars, I think. Somehow I can’t picture him as the colonel of a death’s head regiment. And a Jew. But I like him…. I like everything you told me about him. That’s why I took his name….”

• From Another Country (1962)

  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. The mimosas pressed against the window, and beyond these were two or three orange trees, holding hard, small oranges, like Christmas balls. There were olive trees in the garden, too, but they had been long untended; it was not worth anyone’s while to pick the olives.

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  “But how quick is the shift of passions from one extreme to another! and how little are they acquainted with the human heart who dispute it! I could not see this amiable criminal, so suddenly the first object of my love, and as suddenly of my just hate, on his knees, bedewing my hands with his tears, without relenting. He was still stark-naked, but my modesty had been already too much wounded, in essentials, to be so much shocked as I should have otherwise been with appearances only; in short, my anger ebbed so fast, and the tide of love returned so strong upon me, that I felt it a point of my own happiness to forgive him. The reproaches I made him were murmured in so soft a tone, my eyes met his with such glances, expressing more languor than resentment, that he could not but presume his forgiveness was at no desperate distance; but still he would not quit his posture of submission, till I had pronounced his pardon in form; which after the most fervent entreaties, protestations, and promises, I had not the power to withhold. On which, with the utmost marks of a fear of again offending, he ventured to kiss my lips, which I neither declined nor resented: but on my mild expostulation with him upon the barbarity of his treatment, he explained the mystery of my ruin, if not entirely to the clearance, at least much to the alleviation of his guilt, in the eyes of a judge so partial in his favour as I was grown.

• From Memoirs of Fanny Hill (1749)

  My country accent, and the rusticity of my gait, manners, and deportment, began now sensibly to wear off: so quick was my observation, and so efficacious my desire of growing every day worthier of his heart. As to money, though, he brought me constantly all he received, it was with difficulty he even got me to give it room in my bureau; and what clothes I had, he could prevail on me to accept of on no other foot, than that of pleasing him by the greater neatness in my dress, beyond which I had no ambition. I could have made a pleasure of the greatest toil, and worked my fingers to the bone, with joy, to have supported him: guess, then, if I could harbour any idea of being burthensome to him, and this disinterested turn in me was so unaffected, so much the dictate of my heart, that Charles could not but feel it: and if he did not love me as much as I did him (which was the constant and only matter of sweet contention between us), he managed so, at least, as to give me the satisfaction of believing it impossible for man to be more tender, more true, more faithful than he was. Our landlady, Mrs. Jones, came frequently up to my apartment, from whence I never stirred on any pretext without Charles; nor was it long before she wormed out, without much art, the secret of our having cheated the church of a ceremony, and, in course, of the terms we lived together upon; a circumstance which far from displeased her, considering the designs she had upon me, and which, alas! she will have too soon, room to carry into execution. But in the meantime, her own experience of life let her see, that any attempt, however indirect or disguised, to divert or break, at least presently, so strong a cement of hearts as ours was, could only end in losing two lodgers, of whom she had made very competent advantages, if either of us came to smoke her commission, for a commission she had from one of her customers, either to debauch, or get me away from my keeper at any rate. But the barbarity of my fate soon saved her the task of disuniting us. I had now been eleven months with this life of my life, which had passed in one continued rapid stream of delight: but nothing so violent was ever made to last. I was about three months gone with a child by him, a circumstances would have added to his tenderness, had he ever left me room to believe it could receive an addition, when the mortal, the unexpected blow of separation fell upon us. I shall gallop post-over the particulars, which I shudder yet to think of, and cannot; to this instant, reconcile myself how, or by what means I could out-live it.

• From Another Country (1962)

  A faint smile touched his lips. And this look, this moment, entered into Eric, to remain with him forever. There was a terrifying innocence in Yves’ face, a beautiful yielding: in some marvelous way, for Yves, this moment in this bed obliterated, cast into the sea of forgetfulness, all the sordid beds and squalid grappling which had led him here. He was turning to the lover who would not betray him, to his first lover. Eric crossed the room and sat down on the bed and began to undress. Again, he heard the murmur of the stream. “Will you give me a cigarette?” Yves asked. He had a new voice, newly troubled, and when Eric looked at him he saw for the first time how the face of a lover becomes a stranger’s face. “Bien sûr.” He lit two cigarettes and gave one to Yves. They watched each other in the fantastic, tiny glow—and smiled, almost like conspirators. Then Eric asked, “Yves, do you love me?” “Yes,” said Yves. “That’s good,” said Eric, “because I’m crazy about you. I love you.” Then, in the violent moonlight, naked, he slowly pulled the covers away from Yves. They watched each other and he stared at Yves’ body for a long time before Yves lifted up his arms, with that same sad, cryptic smile, and kissed him. Eric felt beneath his fingers Yves’ slowly stirring, stiffening sex. This sex dominated the long landscape of his life as the cathedral towers dominated the plains. Now, Yves, as though he were also remembering that day and night, turned his head and looked at Eric with a wondering, speculative, and triumphant smile. And at that moment, Madame Belet entered, with a sound of knives and forks and plates, and switched on the lights. Yves’ face changed, the sea vanished. Yves rose from the hassock, blinking a little. Madame Belet put the utensils on the table, carefully, and marched out again, returning immediately with a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew. She placed these on the table. Yves went to the table and began opening the wine. “She thinks you are going to abandon me,” said Yves. He poured a tiny bit of wine into his own glass, then poured for Eric. He looked at Eric, quickly, and added more wine to the first glass, and set the bottle down. “Abandon you?” Eric laughed. Yves looked relieved and a little ashamed. “You mean—she thinks I’m running away from you?” “She thinks that perhaps you do not really intend to bring me to New York. She says that Americans are very different—when—in their own country.” “Well, how the hell does she know?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  You think I’m nothing but a whore. That’s the only reason you want to see me.” The tears dripped down her face. “All you white bastards are the same.” “Ida, I swear that isn’t true. I swear that isn’t true.” He dropped to one knee beside the bed and tried to take her hands in his. She turned her face away. “Honey, I’m in love with you. I got scared and I got jealous, but I swear I didn’t mean what you thought I meant, I didn’t, I couldn’t, I love you. Ida, please believe me. I love you.” Her body kept shaking and he felt her tears on his hands. He raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. He tried to look into her face, but she kept her face turned away. “Ida. Ida, please.” “I don’t know any of these people,” she said, “I don’t care about them. They think I’m just another colored girl, and they trying to be nice, but they don’t care. They don’t want to talk to me. I only stayed because you asked me, and you’ve been so nice, and I was so proud of you, and now you’ve spoiled it all.” “Ida,” he said, “if I’ve spoiled things between you and me, I don’t know how I’m going to live. You can’t say that. You’ve got to take it back, you’ve got to forgive me and give me another chance. Ida.” He put one hand to her face and slowly turned it toward him. “Ida, I love you, I do, more than anything in this world. You’ve got to believe me. I’d rather die than hurt you.” She was silent. “I was jealous and I was scared and that was a very dumb thing I said. But I was just afraid you didn’t care about me. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything bad about you.” She sighed and reached for her purse. He gave her a handkerchief. She dried her eyes and blew her nose. She looked very tired and helpless. He moved and sat beside her on the bed. She avoided looking at him but she did not move. “Ida—” and he was shocked by the sound of his voice, it contained such misery. It did not seem to be his voice, it did not seem to be under his control. “I told you, I love you. Do you care about me?” She rose and walked to the mirror. He watched her. “Please tell me.” She looked into the mirror, then picked up her handbag from the bed. She opened it, closed it, then looked in the mirror again. Then she looked at him, “Yes,” she said, helplessly, “yes, I do.” He took her face between his hands and kissed her.

• From Another Country (1962)

  When will you let me know about tomorrow?” “I’ll call you later tonight. Or I’ll call you in the morning.” “Okay. If you call in the morning and miss, call back. I’ve got to go to Idlewild.” “What time is he getting in?” “Oh, at dawn, practically. Naturally. Seven A.M., something convenient like that.” Vivaldo laughed. “Poor Eric.” “Yes. Life’s catching up with us. Good night, Vivaldo.” “Good night, Eric.” He hung up, smiling thoughtfully, switched on his worktable lamp, and scribbled his note. Then he walked into the kitchen, turned off the gas, and poured the coffee. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Ida? Your coffee’s getting cold.” “Thank you. I’ll be right out.” He sat down on his work stool, and, presently, here she came, scrubbed and quiet, looking like a child. He forced himself to look into her eyes; he did not know what she would see in them; he did not know what he felt. “Vivaldo,” she said, standing, speaking quickly, “I just want you to know that I wouldn’t have been with you so long, and wouldn’t have given you such a hard time, if”—she faltered, and held on with both hands to the back of a chair—“I didn’t love you. That’s why I had to tell you everything I’ve told you. I mean—I know I’m giving you a tough row to hoe.” She sat down, and picked up her coffee. “I had to say that while I could.” She had the advantage of him, for he did not know what to say. He realized this with shame and fear. He wanted to say, I love you, but the words would not come. He wondered what her lips would taste like now, what her body would be like for him now: he watched her quiet face. She seemed utterly passive; yet, she was waiting, in a despair which steadily chilled and hardened, for some word, some touch, of his. And he could not find himself, could not summon or concentrate enough of himself to make any sign at all. He stared into his cup, noting that black coffee was not black, but deep brown. Not many things in the world were really black, not even the night, not even the mines. And the light was not white, either, even the palest light held within itself some hint of its origins, in fire. He thought to himself that he had at last got what he wanted, the truth out of Ida, or the true Ida; and he did not know how he was going to live with it. He said, “Thank you for telling me—everything you’ve told me. I know it wasn’t easy.” She said nothing.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  What was this poison? Not a hatred that I had to work off, for by the time of writing I had no hate for any of my “characters.” Indeed, I fell in love with many of them, the ones who lent themselves to ridicule and caricature particularly. All the while puffed up, no doubt, by that vanity which writers are plagued with—the belief that they can enter into the heart and soul of their inventions. And while the writer in me reveled at his prowess the human being had to admit more and more to the annihilating truth that no matter how sincerely, how tenderly, how reverently, he approached the character he was writing about, he could never, never capture him, never enter him, never render back what had been created by God alone. In other words, the truth teller, as I always styled myself, came face to face with the fabricator, or the writer. Is it any wonder that between whiles, between opera, or between sections of any one book, I gave myself up to the wildest dreams? Oscillating always between the desire to be solely an inventor and the hope to become completely a man of truth? And what was I forging all the while in preparation for that mortal combat? The weapons with which to destroy the warrior who would use them. In short, myself. No wonder I am full of anomalies, both as writer and as human being. Criticism bounces off me, not because I am vain and self-centered, not because I think I am a great writer … oh no! Because, my dear fellow, art has been my life-long preoccupation. The word means nothing to me, nor what it is supposed to stand for. Like God. But I am never fooled by men who pretend they cannot get it past their lips. I don’t look for art in art, any more than I look for God in religion. But if you have prayed earnestly for certain powers you recognize them when you witness them, even though you yourself may never have been granted these powers. I wonder if I make myself clear? All I mean is that I am truly humble in the presence of art, whether on a cultural level, a primitive level or a child’s level. Spirit can shine through an idiot as well as through a saint, what! I never turned my back on art; I may have been defiant, nothing more. I may only have believed (naively) that art is capable of more than men have dared hope for. In the same way that I might say God is capable of far worse crimes than any we mortals can imagine. Praising Him all the while. But never pretending to know Him. “Let me sing thy praises, O Lord!” In that spirit.