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 Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  I nervously phoned her the following day, my first phone call to a girl, and invited her to see a movie. It was to be my first date. What did we talk about? I remember her telling me she had recently stayed up all night reading Gone with the Wind and had to miss school the following day. I found that so lovable I could hardly see straight. We were both readers and immediately fell into endless discussions of books. For some reason she seemed very interested in my dedication to biography at the central library. Who on earth would have ever thought my A–Z biography venture would come in so handy? We each suggested books for the other—I was on a John Steinbeck binge at the time and she was reading books I had never considered— Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights . I enjoyed James Farrell, she, Jane Austen, and we both loved Thomas Wolfe—sometimes we read the most melodious passages from Look Homeward, Angel , out loud to one another. After only a few dates, I bet my cousin Jay thirty dollars that I would marry her. He paid up on my wedding day! What was it about her? As I write this memoir and reacquaint myself with my younger self and realize what a mess I was and how much I moaned throughout my life about not having had a mentor, it is suddenly dawning upon me: I did have a mentor! It was Marilyn. My unconscious grasped that she was uniquely suited for the task of civilizing and elevating me. Her family history was similar enough to mine for me to feel at home with her, but differed in just the right ways. Her parents were also immigrants from Eastern Europe, but were a quarter-or a half-generation ahead of mine and had had some secular education. Her father had arrived as a teenager, but not in such dire economic straits as mine. He had an education, he was a romantic, he loved the opera, and he traveled throughout the country like his hero, Walt Whitman, working at a variety of menial tasks to support himself. After marrying Celia, Marilyn’s mother, a beautiful, sweet woman who had grown up in Krakow and possessed not a trace of my mother’s anger and coarseness, he opened a grocery store that we learned, years after we met, was only one block from my father’s store! I must have walked or biked by that small DGS (district grocery store) hundreds of times. But her father had had the foresight not to submit his family to living in that turbulent, unsafe, impoverished neighborhood, so Marilyn had grown up in a modest but safe middle-class neighborhood and almost never set foot in her father’s store. Our parents met many times after we started dating, and paradoxically, her parents developed great respect for mine.

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

  ' 82 Although, following the biblical text, all the verbs are perfect, the meaning is clearly that Israel still possesses the promises: they have inherited what they were promised. The best evidence, however, that the Rabbis considered the covenantal promises to be enduring and efficacious comes from considering the themes of God's Jove for Israel and God's presence with Israel. The theme of God's presence with Israel will be dealt with in section 10 below, but here we may note that the covenant includes blessing as well as commandments; it is not only law (as Rossler supposes), but also promise. Gori' s side of the covenant: commandments and blessings We began this section by inquiring about the relationship between God's commandments and the covenant. Did the former earn the latter, or did the latter entail the former? We have seen that the Rabbis' view was that in their day obedience to the commandments was the Israelites' response to the God who chose them, although some, when explaining why God initially chose Israel, justified his choice in terms of merit. We have thus seen that one aspect of God's side of the covenant was to give commandments, as Israel's was to obey them. We have also alluded to the promises of God implied in the covenant. We should now refer more directly to what these promises were perceived by the Rabbis to entail. A complete catena of passages on God's love for Israel would fill a large volume; it is a constant theme in the literature, and it appears in the mid- rashim wherever the text gives an opening, often with great elaboration. 83 The main themes seem to be these: simply that God loves Israel and has made known his love (so R. Akiba in Aboth 3.15), that God protects Israel 81 Mek. Shirata 3 (126; II, 24; to 15.2). For the exegesis, see Lauterbach's note, ad loc. We shall return to the question of assurance of salvation in section 10 below. The present point has to do with the Rabbinic view that the promlses of God in the past were still in effect. 82 Sifre Deut. 309 (350; to 32.6). 83 Such a catena from the Mekilta is given by Kadushin, 'The Rabbinic Concept of Israel', HUCA 19, 1945-46, pp. 71-80. He observes (p. 72), however, that 'in the rabbinic view God's love is not limited to Israel'. The election and the covenant 105 from evil, that God abides with Israel, that God will ultimately save Israel, and that God will save the soul of the individual Israelite at the time of death. Many of these themes appear in the commentaries on Num. 6.24-6 ('The Lord bless you and keep you', etc.). The comments in Sifre Zu~a and Sifre Num. are closely parallel. A selection follows : 84 R. Isaac asks why 'and keep you' is explicitly mentioned, since 'and bless you' should by itself imply 'keeping'.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Don’t be silly. Never in this world. It’s—much better this way.” He cleared his throat, slowly, deliberately, for he suddenly wanted to weep. “Vivaldo, it’s a terrible time to ask you, I know—but do you think it’s at all likely that you—and Ida—will feel up to coming over to my joint tomorrow night, or the night after?” “What’s up?” “Yves will be here in the morning. I know he’d like to meet my friends.” “That was the cablegram, huh?” “Yes.” “Are you glad, Eric?” “I guess so. Right now, I’m just scared. I don’t know whether to try to sleep—it’s so early, but it feels like midnight—or go to a movie, or what.” “I’d love to go to a movie with you. But—I guess I can’t.” “No. 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.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  She could keep silence and go into his arms, and the last few months would be wiped away—he would never know where she had been. The world would return to its former shape. Would it? The silence between them stretched. She could not look at him. He had existed for too long in her mind—now, she was being humbled by the baffling reality of his presence. Her imagination had not taken enough into account—she had not foreseen, for example, the measure or the quality or the power of his pain. He was a lonely and limited man, who loved her. Did she love him? “I don’t despise you,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you think that.” Then she said nothing more. Why tell him? What good would it do? He would never understand it, she would merely have given him an anguish which he would never be able to handle. And he would never trust her again. Did she love him? And if she did, what should she do? Very slowly and gently, she took her arm from beneath his hand; and she walked to the window. The blinds were drawn against the night, but she opened them a little and looked out: on the lights and the deep black water. Silence rang its mighty gongs in the room behind her. She dropped the blinds, and turned and looked at him. He sat, now, on the floor, beside the chair that she had left, his glass between his feet, his great hands loosely clasped below his knees, his head tilted up toward her. It was a look she knew, a listening, trusting look. She forced herself to look at him; she might never see that look again; and it had been her sustenance so long! His face was the face of a man entering middle age, and it was also—and always would be, for her—the face of a boy. His sandy hair was longer than usual, it was beginning to turn gray, his forehead was wet, and his hair was wet. Cass discovered that she loved him during the fearful, immeasurable second that she stood there watching him. Had she loved him less, she might have wearily consented to continue acting as the bulwark which protected his simplicity. But she could not do that to Richard, nor to his children. He had the right to know his wife: she prayed that he would take it.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He laughed and pressed the button. They heard the sour buzzing inside the apartment, then confusion, a slammed door, and footsteps. He took one of Ida’s hands in both of his. “I want to be with you,” he said. “I want you to be with me. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world.” Then the door opened and Cass stood before them, dressed in a rusty orange frock, her hair pulled back and falling around her shoulders. She held a cigarette in one hand, with which she made a gesture of exaggerated welcome. “Come in, children,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you, but there’s absolute chaos in this house today. Everything’s gone wrong.” She closed the door behind them. They heard a child screaming somewhere in the apartment, and Richard’s voice raised in anger. Cass listened for a moment, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “That’s Michael,” she said, helplessly, “He’s been impossible all day—fighting with his brother, with his father, with me. Richard finally gave him a spanking and I guess he’s going to leave him in his room.” Michael’s screams diminished and they heard the voices of Michael and his father working out, apparently, the terms of a truce. Cass lifted her head. “Well. I’m sorry to keep you standing in the hall. Take off your things, I’ll show you into the living room and give you things to drink and to nibble on—you’ll need them, lunch is going to be late, of course. Ida, how are you? I haven’t seen you in God knows when.” She took Ida’s coat and shawl. “Do you mind if I don’t hang them up? I’ll just dump them in the bedroom, other people are coming over after lunch.” They followed her into the large bedroom. Ida immediately walked over to the large, full-length mirror and worriedly patted her hair and applied new lipstick. “I’m just fine, Cass,” she said, “but you’re the one—! You got a famous husband all of a sudden. How does it feel?” “He’s not even famous yet,” said Cass, “and, already I can’t stand it. Somehow, it just seems to reduce itself to having drinks and dinners with lots of people you certainly wouldn’t be talking to if they weren’t”—she coughed—“in the profession. God, what a profession. I had no idea.” Then she laughed. They started toward the living room. “Try to persuade Vivaldo to become a plumber.” “No, dear,” said Ida, “I wouldn’t trust Vivaldo with no tools whatever. This boy is just as clumsy as they come. I’m always expecting him to fall over those front feet he’s got. Never saw anybody with so many front feet.” The living room was down two steps and the wide windows opened on a view of the river. Ida seemed checked, but only for an instant by the view of the river. She walked into the center of the room. “This is wonderful. You people have really got some space.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I’ll get you some ice,” Cass said. She put her drink on the bar and picked up the ice bucket. “You know, I think we’re going to have to buy some ice from the delicatessen.” “Well, I’ll go down and do that later, chicken.” He pinched her cheek. “Don’t worry.” Cass left the room. Richard grinned at Vivaldo. “If you hadn’t got here today, I swore I was just going to cut you out of my heart forever.” “You knew I’d be here.” He raised his glass. “Congratulations.” Then, “What’s this I hear about all the TV networks just crying for you?” “Don’t exaggerate. There’s just one producer who’s got some project he wants to talk to me about, I don’t even know what it is. But my agent thinks I should see him.” Vivaldo laughed. “Don’t sound so defensive. I like TV.” “You’re a liar. You haven’t even got a TV set.” “Well, that’s just because I’m poor. When I get to be a success like you, I’ll go out and buy me the biggest screen on the market.” He watched Richard’s face and laughed again. “I’m just teasing you.” “Yeah. Ida, see what you can do to civilize this character. He’s a barbarian. “I know,” Ida said, sadly, “but I hardly know what to do about it. Of course,” she added, “if you were to offer me an autographed copy of your book, I might come up with an inspiration.” “It’s a deal,” Richard said. Cass came back with the ice bucket and Richard took it from her and set it on the bar. He mixed his drink. Then he joined them on the other side of the bar and put his arm around Cass’ shoulders. “To the best Saturday we’ve ever had,” he said, and raised his glass. “May there be many more.” He took a large swallow of his drink. “I love you all,” he said. “We love you, too,” said Vivaldo. Cass kissed Richard on the cheek. “Before I go and try to salvage lunch—tell me, just what kind of arrangement did you make with Michael? Just so I’ll know.” “He’s taking a nap. I promised to wake him in time for cocktails. We have to buy him some ginger ale.” “And Paul?” “Oh, Paul. He’ll tear himself away from his cronies in time to come upstairs and get washed and meet the people. Wild horses wouldn’t keep him away.” He turned to Vivaldo. “He’s been bragging about me all over the house.” Cass watched him for a moment. “Very well managed. And now I leave you.” Ida picked up her glass. “Wait a minute. I’m coming with you.” “You don’t have to, Ida. I can do it.”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Puis on se retrouve coincé à se poser des questions : et si j’avais fait ci, et si j’avais fait ça. — Ma mère… enfin je t’ai déjà dit. — Je suis désolé. » Wallace embrasse Miller dans le cou, piquant et ferme, tout en cartilages et muscles. « Mais je te dis, je n’ai pas l’intention de mourir. J’ai l’intention de rester. — Ça en fait au moins un. Tu as entendu ces conneries au dîner. — J’espère que tu vas rester. Mais j’espère que tu vas partir, si c’est ce que tu veux. Tu ne peux pas rester pour quelqu’un d’autre que toi-même. — C’est bizarre. Ils disent, faites des études de science, vous aurez toujours un boulot. Et ça paraît tellement facile. Mais ce qu’ils ne disent pas, c’est qu’il y a tous ces trucs qui vont te faire détester ta vie. — Tu la détestes à ce point-là ? — Oui, parfois, tu sais – on fait tous comme disait Emma tout à l’heure, je crois. — Moi aussi, oui. Mais je l’aime plus que je ne la déteste, ma vie. — Mais les connards comme Roman, grogne Wallace à mi-voix, ils la rendent insupportable. — Je n’en reviens toujours pas qu’il t’ait dit ça. — Personne ne lui a rien dit ; personne n’a rien fait. — Je voulais, mais je me suis dégonflé. » Wallace marque une pause, toujours dans les bras de Miller. Ce moment reviendra toujours. Il y aura toujours des gentils Blancs qui l’aiment et lui veulent du bien mais qui ont plus peur d’autres Blancs que de le laisser tomber. C’est plus facile pour eux de laisser faire et d’analyser ensuite la blessure plutôt que d’introduire un élément inconnu dans la situation. Aussi gentils soient-ils, aussi aimants, ils seront toujours complices, un danger, une blessure en puissance. Aucune quantité d’amour ne rapprochera jamais Miller de lui sur ce plan. Aucune quantité de désir. Il restera toujours entre eux un petit espace, un espace où des gens tels que Roman prendront racine et lui diront des choses hideuses, haineuses. C’est le lieu, le cœur de chaque Blanc, où vit son racisme, où il s’épanouit – pas une vaste plaine, juste une étroite crevasse, mais ça suffit. Wallace presse sa langue contre son palais. « Gentils Blancs, dit-il. — Je suis désolé. — C’est pas grave. » Il fait plus froid, plus sombre. Le soleil est parti. Du vent dans les arbres. Ils coupent du bois dehors pour faire un feu. La lueur orangée des flammes s’élève dans la nuit, et quelques braises passent devant la fenêtre comme des étoiles ou des lucioles. « Wallace ? — Oui ? — Tu me parleras de toi ? — Pourquoi ? — J’ai envie de savoir. J’ai envie de te connaître. — Qu’est-ce qu’il y a à savoir ? — Allez, insiste Miller. S’il te plaît. » Wallace réfléchit à ces mots, à l’acte de demander, à l’intention cachée.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then it lifted, the red, dangerous shadow, the moment passed, they smiled at each other. Yves walked to the door and opened it. They descended again into the sleepy, the beautiful town. For it was not quite the same town it had been a few hours before. In that second in the room, something had melted between them, a gap between them had closed; and now the irresistible current was tugging at them, dragging them slowly, and absolutely surely, to the fulfillment of that promise. And for this reason they hesitated, they dawdled, they deliciously put it off. They chose to eat in an unadorned bistro because it was empty—empty when they walked in, anyway, though it was taken over after they had been there for a while, by half a dozen drunk and musical French soldiers. The noise they made might have been unbearable at any other time, but, now, it operated as a kind of protective wall between themselves and the world. It gave them something to laugh at—and they needed to laugh; the distraction the soldiers afforded the other people who had entered the bistro allowed them, briefly, to clasp hands; and this small preamble to terror steadied their hearts and minds. And then they walked through the town, in which not even a cat seemed to be moving; and everywhere they walked, the cathedral was watching them. They crossed a bridge and watched the moon in the water. Their footfalls rang on the cobblestones. The walls of the houses were all black, they walked through great patches of blackness between one far-off street light to another. But the cathedral was lighted. The trees and the tables and chairs and the water were lit by the moon. Yves locked their door behind them and Eric walked to the window and looked at the sky, at the mighty towers. He heard the murmur of the water and then Yves called his name. He turned. Yves stood on the other side of the room, between the two beds, naked. “Which bed do you think is better?” he asked. And he sounded genuinely perplexed, as though it were a difficult decision. “Whichever you prefer,” Eric said, gravely. Yves pulled back the covers of the bed nearest the window and placed himself between the sheets. He pulled the covers up to his chin and lay on his back, watching Eric. His eyes were dark and enormous in the dark room. A faint smile touched his lips.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  But when the time had fully come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under law, to redeem those under law, that we might receive the full rights of [daughters]. Because you are [daughters], God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, the Spirit who calls out, “Abba, Father.” (Galatians 4:4-6) As wonderful and healing as the father/child relationship is, the groom/bride relationship promises the most intimate connection of all. GROOM/BRIDE RELATIONSHIP Once a woman becomes a bride, the focus of her life and priorities change and all other people and priorities pale in comparison to this primary love relationship. Again, this metaphor illustrates a much deeper truth—God desires a level of relationship with us such that we are deeply in love with Him, that we delight to simply be in His presence, that we know Him personally both publicly and privately, and that our focus and priorities become aligned with His desires. Perhaps you feel that you can relate to God as our Father, Savior, or Lord but are struggling with the idea of relating to God as intimately as you would a husband. While some may even say that it is irreverent to relate to God in such an intimate way, God has always longed for this kind of relationship with His chosen people. He said through the prophet Hosea, “I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion. I will betroth you in faithfulness and you will acknowledge the LORD” (2:19-20). According to this passage God has extended an eternal commitment of love to us as His people, a love so deep, so wide, and so great that no earthly mind can possibly fathom it. It is the kind of gift that should inspire us to reciprocate with as equal of a gift of love as is humanly possible. Scripture often refers to the church as the bride of Christ. If you have received Christ as Savior, you are His betrothed. John obviously understood God’s desire to betroth us to Himself in this type of intimate bride-and-groom relationship. He writes: Let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory! For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready. Fine linen, bright and clean was given her to wear. (Fine linen stands for the righteous acts of the saints.) Then the angel said to me, “Write: ‘Blessed are those who are invited to the wedding supper of the Lamb!’” And he added, “These are the true words of God.” (Revelation 19:7-9)

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

  I love the spoken word in the same way others might love a musical performance, and I am entranced by the words of a truly gifted speaker. It was obvious that I had no administrative skills, and I never volunteered or was put in charge of anything. Frankly, I just wanted to be left alone to pursue my own research, writing, therapy, and teaching. And almost immediately I began contributing articles to professional journals. This was what I enjoyed and where I felt I had something to offer. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t feign administrative ineptness. It’s possible, too, that I may have felt powerless to compete with the other young Turks in the department, all of whom were jockeying for power and recognition. I chose to attend that Lake Arrowhead conference not only to have the experience of being a group member but also to learn as much as possible about the “T-group,” an important, nonmedical group phenomenon that emerged in the 1960s and was sweeping the country. (The “T” in T-group stood for “training”—that is, developing skills both in interpersonal relationships and in group dynamics.) The founders of this approach, leaders of the National Education Association, were not clinicians but scholars of group dynamics who wanted to alter attitudes and behavior in organizations and, later, help individuals become more sensitive to others. Their organization, the National Training Laboratories (NTL), held seminars, or social laboratories, of several days’ length in Bethel and Plymouth in Maine, and later, the one I attended in California at Lake Arrowhead. The NTL laboratory consisted of many activities: the small skills training groups, discussion and problem-solving groups, team-building groups, large groups. But it soon became clear that the small T-groups, in which members gave one another instantaneous feedback, were, by far, the most dynamic and compelling exercise. Gradually, over the years, as the NTL groups moved west and as Carl Rogers entered the field, the T-group shifted its emphasis to individual personal change. “Personal change!” Sounds a lot like therapy, doesn’t it? Members were encouraged to give and receive feedback, to be participant observers, to be authentic, to take risks. Eventually, the ethos shifted increasingly toward a type of psychotherapy. The groups sought to change attitudes and behavior and to improve interpersonal relationships—and soon one commonly heard slogans such as “Therapy is too good to be offered only to the sick.” The T-group evolved into something new: “group therapy for normals.” It’s not surprising that this later development greatly threatened psychiatrists, who viewed themselves as owners of psychotherapy and regarded encounter groups as a wild, illicit form of therapy encroaching on their territory. I felt quite differently. For one thing, I was impressed with the research approach of the founders of the field.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus nodded, feeling a little frightened. Vivaldo watched him, feeling it all come back, his love for Rufus, and his grief for him. He leaned across the table and tapped him on the cheek. “Come on,” he said, “you haven’t got to be afraid of anybody.” With these words, at which Rufus looked even more frightened, though a small smile played around the corners of his mouth, Vivaldo felt that whatever was coming had already begun, that the master switch had been thrown. He sighed, relieved, also wishing to call the words back. The waiter came. Vivaldo paid the check and they walked out into the streets. “It’s almost Thanksgiving,” said Rufus, suddenly. “I didn’t realize that.” He laughed. “It’ll soon be Christmas, the year will soon be over—” He broke off, raising his head to look over the cold streets. A policeman, standing under the light on the corner, was phoning in. On the opposite pavement a young man walked his dog. The music from the night club dwindled as they walked away from it, toward Benno’s. A heavy Negro girl, plain, carrying packages, and a surly, bespectacled white boy ran together toward a taxi. The yellow light on the roof went out, the doors slammed. The cab turned, came toward Rufus and Vivaldo, and the street lights blazed for an instant on the faces of the silent couple within. Vivaldo put one arm around Rufus and pushed him ahead of him into Benno’s Bar. The bar was terribly crowded. Advertising men were there, drinking double shots of bourbon or vodka, on the rocks; college boys were there, their wet fingers slippery on the beer bottles; lone men stood near the doors or in corners, watching the drifting women. The college boys, gleaming with ignorance and mad with chastity, made terrified efforts to attract the feminine attention, but succeeded only in attracting each other. Some of the men were buying drinks for some of the women—who wandered incessantly from the juke box to the bar—and they faced each other over smiles which were pitched, with an eerie precision, between longing and contempt. Black-and-white couples were together here—closer together now than they would be later, when they got home. These several histories were camouflaged in the jargon which, wave upon wave, rolled through the bar; were locked in a silence like the silence of glaciers. Only the juke box spoke, grinding out each evening, all evening long, syncopated, synthetic laments for love.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He was frightened and in pain and the boy who held him so relentlessly was suddenly a stranger; and yet this stranger worked in Eric an eternal, a healing transformation. Many years were to pass before he could begin to accept what he, that day, in those arms, with the stream whispering in his ear, discovered; and yet that day was the beginning of his life as a man. What had always been hidden was to him, that day, revealed and it did not matter that, fifteen years later, he sat in an armchair, overlooking a foreign sea, still struggling to find the grace which would allow him to bear that revelation. For the meaning of revelation is that what is revealed is true, and must be borne. But how to bear it? He rose from his seat and paced restlessly into the garden. The kitten lay curled on the stone doorstep, in the last of the sun, asleep. Then he heard Yves’ bicycle bell and, shortly, Yves’ head appeared above the low stone wall. He passed, looking straight ahead, and then Eric heard him in the kitchen, bumping into things and opening and closing the icebox door. Then Yves stood beside him. “Madame Belet will be here in a few moments. She is cooking for us a chicken. And I have bought some whiskey and some cigarettes.” Then he looked at Eric and frowned. “You are mad to be standing here in your bathrobe. The sun is down and it is getting cold. Come in and get dressed, I will make us both a drink.” “What would I do without you?” “I wonder.” Eric followed him into the house. “I also bought some champagne,” Yves said, suddenly, and he turned to face Eric with a small, shy smile, “to celebrate our last night here.” Then he walked into the kitchen. “Get dressed,” he called, “Madame Belet will be here soon.” Eric stepped into the bedroom and began putting on his clothes. “Are we going out after dinner?” “Perhaps. That depends. If we are not too drunk on champagne.” “I’d just as soon stay in, I think.” “Oh, perhaps we must have just one last look at our little seaside town.” “We have to get packed, you know, and clean up this house a little, and try to get some sleep.” “Madame Belet will clean it for us. Anyway, we would never be able to get it done. We can sleep on the train. And we do not have so very much to pack.” Eric heard him washing the glasses. Then he began to whistle a tune which sounded like a free improvisation on Bach. Eric combed his hair, which was too long. He decided that he would get it cut very short before he went back to the States. Eventually, they sat, as they had sat so many evenings, before the window which overlooked the sea.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  LODOVICO DISCOVERETH TO MADAM BEATRICE THE LOVE HE BEARETH HER, WHEREUPON SHE SENDETH EGANO HER HUSBAND INTO THE GARDEN, IN HER OWN FAVOUR, AND LIETH MEANWHILE WITH LODOVICO, WHO, PRESENTLY ARISING, GOETH AND CUDGELLETH EGANO IN THE GARDEN Madam Isabella's presence of mind, as related by Pampinea, was held admirable by all the company; but, whilst they yet marvelled thereat, Filomena, whom the king had appointed to follow on, said, "Lovesome ladies, and I mistake not, methinketh I can tell you no less goodly a story on the same subject, and that forthright. You must know, then, that there was once in Paris a Florentine gentleman, who was for poverty turned merchant and had thriven so well in commerce that he was grown thereby very rich. He had by his lady one only son, whom he had named Lodovico, and for that he might concern himself with his father's nobility and not with trade, he had willed not to place him in any warehouse, but had sent him to be with other gentlemen in the service of the King of France, where he learned store of goodly manners and other fine things. During his sojourn there, it befell that certain gentlemen, who were returned from visiting the Holy Sepulchre, coming in upon a conversation between certain young men, of whom Lodovico was one, and hearing them discourse among themselves of the fair ladies of France and England and other parts of the world, one of them began to say that assuredly, in all the lands he had traversed and for all the ladies he had seen, he had never beheld the like for beauty of Madam Beatrice, the wife of Messer Egano de' Gulluzzi of Bologna; to which all his companions, who had with him seen her at Bologna, agreed.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  must always exist just under the surface, only coming up for a moment, like fish — I’ve been through that particular hell. I want life, and yet I’m always afraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me I feel frightened, because he knows that I hate him most when he tries to make love —’ She broke off abruptly. And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tears trickle down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen’s coat sleeve and lay there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while the patient arms never faltered. “Stephen, say something — say you don’t hate me!’ A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Ste- phen stared down into Angela’s face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Ste- phen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words. ‘ Say something — speak to me, Stephen! ’ Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the little white box in her pocket: ‘ Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday — Ralph can’t bully you about it, it’s a birthday present.’ “Stephen — my dear!’ ‘ Yes — I want you to wear it always, so that you'll remember how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about hating — Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used to bleed in the winter.’ So the pearl that was pure as her mother’s diamonds were pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela’s finger. Then she sat very still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips were quite close to Stephen’s, but Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. ‘ You must rest,’ she said, * you’re simply worn out. Can’t you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms? ’ ' For at moments, such is the blindness and folly yet withal the redeeming glory of love. CHAPTER 24 I ALPH said very little about the ring. What could he say? A Ra given to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour — an unusually costly present of course — still, after all, what could he say? He took refuge in sulky silence. But Stephen would see him staring at the pearl, which Angela wore on her right-hand third finger, and his weak little eyes would look redder than usual, perhaps with anger — one could never quite tell from his eyes whether he was tearful or angry.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem amans amare; and Fecisti nos ad Te, et irrequietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in Te. ALICE MEYNELL 1900. Introduction The Confessions of St. Augustine are the first autobiography, and they have this to distinguish them from all other autobiographies, that they are addressed directly to God. Rousseau’s unburdening of himself is the last, most effectual manifestation of that nervous, defiant consciousness of other people which haunted him all his life. He felt that all the men and women whom he passed on his way through the world were at watch upon him, and mostly with no very favourable intentions. The exasperation of all those eyes fixed upon him, the absorbing, the protesting self-consciousness which they called forth in him, drove him, in spite of himself, to set about explaining himself to other people, to the world in general. His anxiety to explain, not to justify, himself was after all a kind of cowardice before his own conscience. He felt the silent voices within him too acutely to keep silence. Cellini wrote his autobiography because he heard within him such trumpeting voices of praise, exultation, and the supreme satisfaction of a violent man who has conceived himself to be always in the right, that it shocked him to think of going down into his grave without having made the whole world hear those voices. He hurls at you this book of his own deeds that it may smite you into acquiescent admiration. Casanova, at the end of a long life in which he had tasted all the forbidden fruits of the earth, with a simplicity of pleasure in which the sense of their being forbidden was only the least of their abounding flavors, looked back upon his past self with a slightly pathetic admiration, and set himself to go all over those successful adventures, in love and in other arts, firstly, in order that he might be amused by recalling them, and then because he thought the record would do him credit. He neither intrudes himself as a model, nor acknowledges that he was very often in the wrong. Always passionate after sensations, and for their own sake, the writing of an autobiography was the last, almost active, sensation that was left to him, and he accepted it energetically.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Elisa holding her peace and hearkening to the praises bestowed by the ladies her companions upon her story, the Queen charged Filostrato tell one of his own, whereupon he began, laughing, "I have been so often rated by so many of you ladies for having imposed on you matter for woeful discourse and such as tended to make you weep, that methinketh I am beholden, an I would in some measure requite you that annoy, to relate somewhat whereby I may make you laugh a little; and I mean therefore to tell you, in a very short story, of a love that, after no worse hindrance than sundry sighs and a brief fright, mingled with shame, came to a happy issue. It is, then, noble ladies, no great while ago since there lived in Romagna a gentleman of great worth and good breeding, called Messer Lizio da Valbona, to whom, well nigh in his old age, it chanced there was born of his wife, Madam Giacomina by name, a daughter, who grew up fair and agreeable beyond any other of the country; and for that she was the only child that remained to her father and mother, they loved and tendered her exceeding dear and guarded her with marvellous diligence, looking to make some great alliance by her. Now there was a young man of the Manardi of Brettinoro, comely and lusty of his person, by name Ricciardo, who much frequented Messer Lizio's house and conversed amain with him and of whom the latter and his lady took no more account than they would have taken of a son of theirs. Now, this Ricciardo, looking once and again upon the young lady and seeing her very fair and sprightly and commendable of manners and fashions, fell desperately in love with her, but was very careful to keep his love secret. The damsel presently became aware thereof and without anywise seeking to shun the stroke, began on like wise to love him; whereat Ricciardo was mightily rejoiced. He had many a time a mind to speak to her, but kept silence of misdoubtance; however, one day, taking courage and opportunity, he said to her, 'I prithee, Caterina, cause me not die of love.' To which she straightway made answer, 'Would God thou wouldst not cause _me_ die!'

• From Little Women (1868)

  The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death. Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits. John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any risks with borrowed money. Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom. Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it.

• From Little Women (1868)

  They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something... "You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious." "I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement. Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. "How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then. "So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly. "Yes, Laurie," very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO ALL ALONE It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she 'comfort Father and Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could she 'make the house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the world could she 'find some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble and hard work.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He heard his own harsh breath, coming from far away; he heard the drumming rain; he was being overtaken. He remembered how Ida, at the unbearable moment, threw back her head and thrashed and bared her teeth. And she called his name. And Rufus? Had he murmured at last, in a strange voice, as he now heard himself murmur, Oh, Eric. Eric . What was that fury like? Eric . He pulled Eric to him through the ruined sheets and held him tight. And, Thank you , Vivaldo whispered, thank you, Eric, thank you . Eric curled against him like a child and salt from his forehead dripped onto Vivaldo’s chest. 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.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He felt that he was forcing himself in where he did not belong. But Rufus had made the invitation and he had accepted; neither of them could get out of it now. They had reached the house around one o’clock in the afternoon. Mrs. Scott had opened the door. She was dressed as though she, too, were going out, in a dark gray dress a little too short for her. Her hair was short but had lately been treated with the curling iron. She kissed Rufus lightly on the cheek. “Hey, there,” she said, “how’s my bad boy?” “Hey, yourself,” said Rufus, grinning. There was an expression on his face which Vivaldo had never seen before. It was a kind of teasing flush of amusement and pleasure; as though his mother, standing there in her high heels, her gray dress, and with her hair all curled, had just done something extraordinarily winning. And this flush was repeated in his mother’s darker face as she smiled—gravely—back at him. She seemed to take him in from top to toe and to know exactly how he had been getting along with the world. “This here’s a friend of mine,” Rufus said, “Vivaldo.” “How do you do?” She gave him her hand, briefly. The brevity was not due to discourtesy or coldness, simply to lack of habit. Insofar as she saw him at all, she saw him as Rufus’ friend, one of the inhabitants of the world in which her son had chosen to live. “Sit down, do. Ida’ll be right out.” “She ready?” “Lord, she been getting ready for days. Done drove me nearly wild.” They sat down. Vivaldo sat near the window which looked out on a dirty back yard and the back fire escape of other buildings. Across the way, a dark man sat in front of his half-open window, staring out. In spite of the cold, he wore nothing but an undershirt. There was nothing in the yard except cans, bottles, papers, filth, and a single tree. “If anything had happened and you hadn’t showed up, I hate to think of the weeping and wailing that would have gone on in this house.” She paused and looked toward the door which led to the rest of the apartment. “Maybe you boys like a little beer while you waiting?” “That all you got to offer us?” Rufus asked, with a smile. “Where’s Bert?” “Bert’s down to the store and he ain’t back yet. You know how your father is. He going to be sorry he missed you.” She turned to Vivaldo. “Would you like a glass of beer, son? I’m sorry we ain’t got nothing else—–” “Oh, beer’s fine,” said Vivaldo, looking at Rufus, “I’d love a glass of beer.” She rose and walked into the kitchen. “What your friend do? He a musician?” “Naw,” said Rufus, “he ain’t got no talent.” Vivaldo blushed. Mrs.