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 Another Country (1962)

  Does it make any sense to you?” “Oh, yes,” said Eric, bleakly, “it makes sense, all right.” He looked over at Vivaldo with a smile, and dared to say, “Maybe, at this very moment, while both of us are huddled here, hiding from things which frighten us—maybe you love me and I love you as well as we’ll ever love, or be loved, in this world.” Vivaldo said, “I don’t know if I can accept that, not yet. Not yet. As well —maybe. Well, surely.” He looked up at Eric. “But it’s not, really, is it? very complete. Look. This day is almost over. How long will it be before such a day comes for us again? Because we’re not kids, we know what life is like, and how time just vanishes, runs away—I can’t, really, like from moment to moment, day to day, month to month, make you less lonely. Or you, me. We aren’t driven in the same directions and I can’t help that, any more than you can.” He paused, watching Eric with enormous, tormented eyes. He smiled. “It would be wonderful if it could be like that; you’re very beautiful, Eric. But I don’t, really, dig you the way I guess you must dig me. You know? And if we tried to arrange it, prolong it, control it, if we tried to take more than what we’ve—by some miracle, some miracle, I swear—stumbled on, then I’d just become a parasite and we’d both shrivel. So what can we really do for each other except—just love each other and be each other’s witness? And haven’t we got the right to hope—for more? So that we can really stretch into whoever we really are? Don’t you think so?” And, before Eric could answer, he took a large swallow of his whiskey and said in a different tone, a lower voice, “Because, you know, when I was in the bathroom, I was thinking that, yes, I loved being in your arms, holding you”—he flushed and looked up into Eric’s face again—“why not, it’s warm, I’m sensual, I like—you—the way you love me, but”—he looked down again—“it’s not my battle, not my thing , and I know it, and I can’t give up my battle. If I do, I’ll die and if I die”—and now he looked up at Eric with a rueful, juvenile grin—“you won’t love me any more. And I want you to love me all my life.” Eric reached out and touched Vivaldo’s face. After a moment, Vivaldo grabbed his hand. “For you, the moon, baby,” Eric said. His voice, to his surprise, was a grave, hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat. “Do you want some coffee now?” Vivaldo shook his head. He emptied his glass and put it on the table. “Drink up,” he said to Eric. Eric finished his drink.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Hell, I don’t think women know what they want, not a damn one of them. Look at Cass—do you want a drink,” she asked, suddenly, “before dinner?” “Sure.” He took down the bottle and the glasses and took out the ice. “What do you mean—women don’t know what they want? Don’t you know what you want?” She had taken down the great salad bowl and was slicing tomatoes into it; it seemed that she did not dare be still. “Sure. I thought I did. I was sure once. Now I’m not so sure.” She paused. “And I only found that out—last night.” She looked up at him humorously, gave a little shrug, and sliced savagely into another tomato. He set her drink beside her. “What’s happened to confuse you?” She laughed—again he heard that striking melancholy. “Living with you! Would you believe it? I fell for that jive.” He dragged his work stool in from the other room and teetered on it, watching her, a little above her. “ What jive, sweetheart, are you talking about?” She sipped her drink. “That love jive, sweetheart. Love, love, love!” His heart jumped up; they watched each other; she smiled a rueful smile. “Are you trying to tell me—without my having to ask you or anything—that you love me?” “Am I? I guess I am.” Then she dropped the knife and sat perfectly still, looking down, the fingers of one hand drumming on the table. Then she clasped her hands, the fingers of one hand playing with the ruby-eyed snake ring, slipping it half-off, slipping it on. “But—that’s wonderful.” He took her hand. It lay cold and damp and lifeless in his. A kind of wind of terror shook him for an instant. “Isn’t it? It makes me very happy— you make me very happy.” She took his hand and rested her cheek against it. “Do I, Vivaldo?” Then she rose and walked to the sink to wash the lettuce. He followed her, standing beside her, and looking into her closed, averted face. “What’s the matter, Ida?” He put one hand on her waist; she shivered, as if in revulsion, and he let his hand fall. “Tell me, please.” “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to sound light about it, “I told you, I’m in a bad mood. It’s probably the time of the month.” “Now, come on, baby, don’t try to cop out that way.” She was tearing the lettuce and washing it, and placing it in a towel. She continued with this in silence until she had torn off the last leaf. She was trying to avoid his eyes; he had never seen her at such a loss before. Again, he was frightened. “What is it?” “Leave me alone, Vivaldo. We’ll talk about it later.” “We will not talk about it later. We’ll talk about it now.”

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

  B. The 86 sermons he preached to his own monks on the Song of Songs perfectly exemplify the emerging mysticism of Western Monasticism. 1. Bernard was himself a mystic who experienced the warming love of God in his life (Sermon 74). 2. His sermons uncover layer after layer of the meaning of divine love as it is communicated allegorically through the ancient erotic poem in Scripture. IV. Two other monastic writers show how the powerful reading of Scripture opened up deeper meanings of the text. A. William of St. Thierry (1085–1148) was raised in a Benedictine house, sought to join Bernard at Clairvaux, served as abbey at St. Thierry, then spent the rest of his life in prayer and study at the Cistercian abbey of Signy. 1. With Bernard, he opposed Peter Abelard and wrote the first part of a life of Bernard. 2. His Exposition on the Epistle to the Romans provides a splendid example of how scriptural interpretation flows into contemplative prayer. B. Richard of St. Victor (d. 1173) may have known Bernard but was more open to the pedagogical approaches of Peter Abelard. 1. He is genuinely a student of mysticism in the highly intellectual way he dissects the psychology and epistemology of contemplative prayer. 2. In The Twelve Patriarchs (Benjamin Minor), he focuses on the path toward contemplation, with an emphasis on the virtuous life. 3. The Mystical Ark (Benjamin Major) uses Moses’s Ark of the Covenant as the basis for an analysis of contemplative prayer and mystical experience. 4. With Richard of St. Victor, we find, in the Western tradition, as we have seen in Judaism and as we will see in Sufism, an emphasis on both the ontological union with God and the constraints and capacities of the human mind with regard to this union with God. Recommended Reading: McGinn, B. The Presence of God: A History of Western Christian Mysticism. 76 ©2008 The Teaching Company. Questions to Consider: 1. How does the cenobitical form of Western Monasticism serve to cultivate a certain form of spiritual life? 2. Consider what is common in the scriptural interpretations of Gregory the Great, Bernard of Clairvaux, William of St. Thierry, and Richard of St. Victor. ©2008 The Teaching Company. 77

• From Another Country (1962)

  That’s all. And it hasn’t been easy.” “No.” “No. Because I love you.” “Ah!” he said, and laughed aloud, “you are a funny girl. I love you, too, you know that.” “I hope you do,” she said. “You know me so well and you don’t know that? What happened to all that intuition, all that— specialized —point of view?” “Beyond a certain point,” she said, with a sullen smile, “it doesn’t seem to work so well.” He pulled her up from the table and put both arms around her, bending his cheek to her hair. “What point is that, my darling?” Everything, his breath in her hair, his arms, his chest, his odor—was familiar, confining, unutterably dear. She turned her head slightly to look out of the kitchen window. “Love,” she said, and watched the cold sunlight. She thought of the cold river and of the dead black boy, their friend. She closed her eyes. “Love,” she said, again, “love.” Richard stayed with the children Saturday, while Cass and Vivaldo went uptown to Rufus’ funeral. She did not want to go but she could not refuse Vivaldo, who knew that he had to be there but dreaded being there alone. It was a morning funeral, and Rufus was to be driven to the graveyard immediately afterward. Early on that cold, dry Saturday, Vivaldo arrived, emphatically in black and white: white shirt, black tie, black suit, black shoes, black coat; and black hair, eyes, and eyebrows, and a dead-white, bone-dry face. She was struck by his panic and sorrow; without a word, she put on her dark coat and put her hand in his; and they rode down in the elevator in silence. She watched him in the elevator mirror. Sorrow became him. He was reduced to his beauty and elegance—as bones, after a long illness, come forward through the flesh. They got into a taxi and started uptown. Vivaldo sat beside her, his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. She watched the streets. Traffic was heavy, but rolling; the cab kept swerving and jerking, slowing down and speeding up but managing not to stop. Then, at Thirty-fourth Street, the red light brought it to a halt. They were surrounded by a violence of cars, great trucks, green buses lumbering across town, and boys, dark boys, pushing wooden wagons full of clothes. The people on the sidewalks overflowed into the streets. Women in heavy coats moved heavily, carrying large packages and enormous handbags—for Thanksgiving was over but signs proclaimed the dwindling number of shopping days to Christmas. Men, relatively unburdened, pursuing the money which Christmas cost, hurried around and past the women; boys in ducktail haircuts swung over the cold black asphalt as though it were a dance floor. Outside the window, as close to her as Vivaldo, one of the colored boys stopped his wagon, lit a cigarette, and laughed.

• From Push (1996)

  How can I say baby's fahver unknown when I know? School, of everything, I know I want to get back to school. I got little baby suckes at my tittie, at my bress. I love Abdul. He normal. But I ain'? I want to go back to school. Abdul in my way. Abdul can not go to Higher Education/Each One Teach One. What I'm gonna do? I love my baby but he ain' mine, he is but I didn't fuck for him. I was raped by my fahver. Now instead of life for me I got Abdul. But I love Abdul. I want go school love abdul schoolabdulschoolabdul. I write Miz Rain in my journal, when she come hospital she write me back like school: Dr Miz Ms Rain, all yr I sit els I nevr lrn (all years I sit in class I never learn) bt I gt babe agn Babe bi my favr (but I got baby again Babe by my father) I wis i had boy but I don (l wish I had a boyfriend but J don 'i) ws i had su me fucks a boy Ike (wish I had excuse me, fucks a boy like) or girl den i fel rite dat I have to qk skool (other girls then I feel right that I have to quit school) i lv baby abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz (i love baby) Dear Precious, Don't forget to put the date, 1/18/88, on your journal entries. I am glad you love your baby. I think a beautiful young girl like you should get a chance to get an education. I think your first responsibility has to be to yourself. You should not drop out of school. COME BACK TO CLASS. WE MISS YOU. Love Ms Rain Ms R Ja 19,1988 S wrk as mi i want to gv Litt Mong Abdul up adopsus (Social worker ask me if I want to give Little Mongo and Abdul up for adoption) I fel ki her (I feel kill her) Nevr hep now wnt kiz way (Never help now want to take kids away) tsak Abdul i don notin (take Abdul I don't have nothing) Precious, It seems the opposite to me. If you keep Abdul you might have nothing. You are learning to read and write, that is everything. Come back to school when you get out the hospital. You're only seventeen. Your whole life is in front of you. Ms Rain 1/20 Gr cme vit sa onle dog dro babee an wak off (Grandmother come visit say only a dog will drop a baby and walk off) say lat no^vipa dog (say later not even a dog) Dear Precious, Don't forget to put the year, '88, on your journal entries. Precious you are not a dog. You are a wonderful young woman who is trying to make something of her life. I have some questions for you: Where was your grandmother when your father was abusing you?

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Lord, since eternity is Thine, art Thou ignorant of what I say to Thee? or dost Thou see in time, what passeth in time? Why then do I lay in order before Thee so many relations? Not, of a truth, that Thou mightest learn them through me, but to stir up mine own and my readers’ devotions towards Thee, that we may all say, Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised. I have said already; and again will say, for love of Thy love do I this. For we pray also, and yet Truth hath said, Your Father knoweth what you have need of, before you ask. It is then our affections which we lay open unto Thee, confessing our own miseries, and Thy mercies upon us, that Thou mayest free us wholly, since Thou hast begun, that we may cease to be wretched in ourselves, and be blessed in Thee; seeing Thou hast called us, to become poor in spirit, and meek, and mourners, and hungering and athirst after righteousness, and merciful, and pure in heart, and peace-makers. See, I have told Thee many things, as I could and as I would, because Thou first wouldest that I should confess unto Thee, my Lord God. For Thou art good, for Thy mercy endureth for ever. But how shall I suffice with the tongue of my pen to utter all Thy exhortations, and all Thy terrors, and comforts, and guidances, whereby Thou broughtest me to preach Thy Word, and dispense Thy Sacrament to Thy people? And if I suffice to utter them in order, the drops of time are precious with me; and long have I burned to meditate in Thy law, and therein to confess to Thee my skill and unskilfulness, the daybreak of Thy enlightening, and the remnants of my darkness, until infirmity be swallowed up by strength. And I would not have aught besides steal away those hours which I find free from the necessities of refreshing my body and the powers of my mind, and of the service which we owe to men, or which though we owe not, we yet pay.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress. "You don't mean to live there?" "Yes, I do." "But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it." "He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it." "And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work." "The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and Jo laughed. "Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?" "Boys. I want to open a school for little lads—a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them." "That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he. "I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly. "So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth. "It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son. "Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help. "I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too—I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!" Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long while. "I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's been doing it all his life—helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be.

• From Dante's Divine Comedy (2001)

  ©2001 The Teaching Company. 79 A. Faith is likened to an intellectual exam; hope, to meditation on authoritative sources; and love is described in experiential terms. B. Dante eloquently testifies to his love, using words that evoke Saint Francis’s reception of the stigmata of Christ. C. When his sight returns, he is able to see much further than before. V. The ninth heavenly sphere is the so-called primum mobile, or first mover, which gives motion to all the others and is the outermost sphere of the created universe. VI. The tenth sphere Dante calls “the empyrean.” A. It is beyond space and time; this is the goal of Dante’s journey, because it is the “dwelling place” of God. B. The organization and numerical scheme of Paradise can be compared with that of the other two canticles, Purgatorio and Inferno. VII. At the end of Canto 30, Beatrice points Dante to the rose, the petals of which are the souls of the saved. The rest of Paradiso has been a kind of image of this reality. A. Beatrice tells Dante that one of the empty “seats” is reserved for Henry VII, the Holy Roman Emperor. B. Then she takes the opportunity to decry Church corruption, especially that of Pope Boniface VIII. C. Even at the end of Paradiso, there is room for invective against corrupt Church practices. The seriousness of the moral, political, and theological problem that Dante saw reaches even into heaven. Readings: Dante, Paradiso, Cantos 27–31. Questions to Consider: 1. Why is the mystical setting such an appropriate way of describing the souls in heaven? 2. Shouldn’t Dante have left political discussions far behind by the time he has journeyed this far? 3. Is a Cistercian monk, such as Saint Bernard, really the right person to take Dante to his final destination? ©2001 The Teaching Company. 80 Lecture Twenty-Four “In My End Is My Beginning”

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

  My love and thanks to the five extraordinary women in The Authors Circle who gave me the opportunity to learn to feel safe in a group again and who offered one hundred percent of their hearts, minds and entrepreneurial acumen month after month for five incredible years: Claudette Bouchard, Natalie Forstbauer, Linda Hamilton, Teresia LaRocque and our dear Debrah Rafel Osborn. (Debrah, I do so miss your large emotional landscape.) Heaps of love and appreciation to my dear friend Lorraine Carol, who was also my companion through this lonely writing wilderness. My life would be a much less happy place without the laughter and caring and constant connection of your friendship. My thanks to my father and stepmother, Colonel Paul Hughes and Bev Hughes, for their support. And thanks also to my dad for the appreciation of the natural world that he instilled in me. All the love in my heart and soul to my mother, stepfather and brother, Beverley McCormack, John Thrasher and Brynley Hughes. Thank you each for not giving up on me and for welcoming me back into your lives and hearts after I’d been away for so long. Your ongoing support ever since has been a balm to my soul and has given me strength and courage I never knew I could possess. About the AuthorAlexandra Amor is the author several novels for children, a series of historical mystery novels, and of the award-winning memoir Cult: A Love Story . She belonged to a quasi-Eastern New Age cult in Vancouver, Canada from 1989 to 2000. She says, “The road of recovery from cult mind control is a long and arduous one and a discovery I made early on was that it is often a very lonely journey. For that reason, I wrote this book – to say to other cult survivors, ‘You are not alone. There are others who understand how you feel.’ “I also wrote the book for the families and friends of all those who are involved in a cult. It is so difficult to imagine why anyone would put themselves in a situation as abusive and soul-destroying as a cult. If you have a loved one who is involved with a cult, I’m sure you’ve asked yourself a thousand times how it is possible that the intelligent, sensible person you know cannot see that they are being manipulated. In the book I chronicle my personal descent as a model of how one gradually becomes coerced into believing that a guru is telling the truth, even when it causes personal pain and loss and the erosion of one’s spirit. “I’ve chosen the title of my book very deliberately to highlight the tragic, abominable paradox of cults: often love is the lever that gurus use to seduce their victims and then to keep them in line and in their sway.” Cult: A Love Story was the winner of a 2010 Independently Published Book Award in the category of Autobiography / Memoir.

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

  Mildred was a person whose loyalty to Limori was unwavering, but I think Limori could also sense that Mildred was enough of her own person, and had enough life experience beneath her belt, that she would put up with very little manipulation and bullshit from Limori. Leaving Mildred alone and simply praising her clear energy whenever possible was the strategy Limori used to tie Mildred to her. The more character and backbone someone had, the less Limori would push them. This strategy was also apparent in the way that men in the group got a softer ride than women, but I’ll discuss that more in Part 3. Telling these stories about Mildred makes me reflect about my relationship with her and with the other people in the circle. They were good people, with all the best qualities one likes to find in friends: kindness, humour, grace, caring and generosity. We were people from every walk of life: stay-at-home moms, dentists, artists, nurses, actors, doctors and construction workers. I cared so deeply about each and every person there, and loved very much those to whom I was especially close: Debbie, Amber, Karen and Michael. Every one of us genuinely thought we were doing the right thing. We honestly, honestly believed that we were working for God, and doing positive things for the world and the universe. I would describe many of us as soft-hearted; we were the type of people who bring home stray puppies and well up during sappy TV commercials and care about injustices and worry about the downtrodden. Each person had a good heart and, if circumstances had been different, I know none of them would have hurt a flea. And yet, because of the knots that our brains were tied into, we were unutterably cruel to one another. In my role as co-facilitator I perpetuated the teaching that Limori had ingrained in us and consequently was rude, callous, dismissive, cutting, manipulative and abusive toward the other members of the group. I wasn’t this way at every minute of every day, but I think it is important to note that as co-facilitator I dished out the behaviour I’d seen Limori exhibit. I modelled her. As I’ve said before, I wanted what she had: certainty about herself and what appeared to be a strong and intimate relationship with God. As co-facilitator, I used all of Limori’s techniques to squash any independent thinking or feeling on my own part and in the other members of the group. Of course, I had no idea that that was what I was doing at the time. Looking back, it is embarrassing and mortifying to remember how I behaved. I am so sad about the way that I contributed to the perpetuation of Limori’s manipulations. My technique paled in comparison to how Limori herself did it (I never had anyone stand naked in front of me, for starters), but it was still abuse that I was ladling out, in the guise of spiritual training.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain. "It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long. "Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?'" "And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispered Jo. "I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down. Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array. "What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent. "It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?" "I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and don't call yourself old— forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!" The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his

• From Another Country (1962)

  I get through every day on a prayer. Every morning, when I wake up, I’m surprised to find that she’s still beside me.” Eric was watching him, perfectly rigid and still, seeming scarcely to breathe, only his unmoving eyes were alive. “And yet”—he caught his breath—“sometimes I wish she weren’t there, sometimes I wish I’d never met her, sometimes I think I’d go anywhere to get this burden off me. She never lets me forget I’m white, she never lets me forget she’s colored. And I don’t care, I don’t care—did Rufus do that to you? Did he try to make you pay?” Eric dropped his eyes, and his lips tightened. “Ah. He didn’t try . I paid.” He raised his eyes to Vivaldo’s. “But I’m not sad about it any more. If it hadn’t been for Rufus, I would never have had to go away, I would never have been able to deal with Yves.” And then, rising and walking to the window, from which more and more voices rose, “Maybe that’s what love is for.” “Are you sleeping with anyone besides Cass?” Eric turned. “No.” “I’m sorry. I just thought you might be. I’m not sleeping with anyone except Ida.” “We can’t be everywhere at once,” said Eric. They listened to the footfalls and voices in the street: someone was singing, someone called, someone was cursing. Someone ran. Then silence, again. “You know,” said Eric, “it’s true that you can make kids without love. But if you do love the person you make the kids with, it must be something fantastic.” “Ida and I could have great kids,” said Vivaldo. “Do you think you will?” “I don’t know. I’d love to—but”—he fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” He allowed himself, for a moment, the luxury of dreaming of Ida’s children, though he knew that these children would never be born and that this moment was all he would ever have of them. Nevertheless, he dreamed of a baby boy who had Ida’s mouth and eyes and forehead, his hair, only curlier, his build, their color. What would that color be? From the streets, again, came a cry and a crash and a roar. Eric switched off the night light and opened the blinds and Vivaldo joined him at the window. But now there was nothing to see, the street was empty, dark, and still, though an echo of voices, diminishing, floated back. “One of the last times I saw Rufus,” Vivaldo said, abruptly—and stopped. He had not thought about it since that moment; in a way, he had never thought about it at all. “Yes?” He could barely make out Eric’s face in the darkness.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness. "Oh , Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's. "Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them." "More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to." "I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy." "I'll try, Beth." and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love. So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God. Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "I always call you so to myself—I forgot, but I won't unless you like it." "Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine." "Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable. "Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor. "Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully. "Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo—ah, the dear, funny little name —I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had spoken?" "I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then." "Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect." "Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake. "Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin." "I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?" "This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket. Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt. "How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant. "I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet."

• From Little Women (1868)

  refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?" "I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now." "No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away." "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward." "Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it." "I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'. I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!" "And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" and Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance,

• From Little Women (1868)

  his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance. He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls. 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

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

  Those who were living with Limori at Wolf’s Den are still there as of this writing, still mostly cut off from their families and hanging onto the beliefs their guru implanted. I have spoken to Michael once, very briefly, since our dinner in 2004. Sadly, his father passed away in December 2009. I had remained close to Michael’s parents and visited them regularly at their Vancouver Island home after my relationship with Michael ended. When his mother told me of his father’s passing, I felt the need to call Michael and express my condolences, even though I knew he would probably not enjoy hearing from me. As a result of my call he would, I suspected, have to spend days clearing the bad energy that he would feel had arrived at the resort. It was therefore selfish of me to do so, but I called Wolf’s Den anyway. Limori was still alive at this point and it was terrifying to put myself within her orbit, even just by telephone. But I did it, motivated by the sense of loss I felt and by the still-present love I felt for Michael. It was he who answered the phone. “Good afternoon. Wolf’s Den Resort.” Hearing his voice was like a balm to my soul. In the nanosecond after he spoke my whole body filled with delight and love at hearing him speak. Similar to the feeling you get when the sun comes out and bathes you in warmth on a cold, cloudy day, except this warmth came from my core and radiated out. I can still feel it now, as I write this, five years later. He was speaking in that moment in an unguarded way, because he didn’t know it was me (a.k.a., the Devil) on the other end of the phone. I told him who it was calling and could hear the shock in his voice. He said, “Oh!” I said that I was calling to express my condolences. He said thank you, but his walls had instantly gone up. As soon as I’d announced myself his tone had changed. He became clipped and brusque. His cult self was immediately in charge. I asked him how he was doing. He said he was okay, given the circumstances. He began to say goodbye. It had been, at most, half a minute since we’d started talking. It was stilted and deeply uncomfortable. And then, a hail Mary pass. His authentic self reached out past the walls of his cult self, just as I was about to hang up. “How are you?” he said, in a tone more reminiscent of the one I knew from our years of friendship. The question was genuine and warm. Suddenly it was a different conversation. It was as though a light had been turned on in a darkened room. I could feel his honest desire to connect.

• From Little Women (1868)

  it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me." "Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. "You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake." "Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence," and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face. "Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction. Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you a question, dear?" "Of course, you may." "Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?" "Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?"

• 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 Little Women (1868)

  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.