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 Henry and June (1986)

  I am not only more woman, but more writer, more thinker, more reader, more everything. My love for him creates an ambiance in which he is resplendent. He becomes ensorcelled and cannot leave until Fred telephones that there are people asking for him and mail to be read. How extraordinarily our thinking leaps along with opposition of themes, contrasts, and fundamental accord. He mistrusts my swiftness, slows down my rhythm, and I plunge into his creativeness as into unlimited wealth. Our work is interrelated, interdependent, married. My work is the wife of his work. Often Henry stands in the middle of my bedroom and says, “I feel as if I were the husband here. Hugo is just a charming young man whom we are very fond of.” More and more I realize that his life with June was a dangerous, shattering adventure. I understand it when he wants me to save him from June. When he begins to talk about renting a place like Louveciennes somewhere and I say, “When your book comes out, you’ll send for June and do all that,” he smiles sorrowfully and tells me that is not what he wants. I know it, or, rather, I know he wishes a life like mine and Hugo’s were possible with June. Last night because Henry was tired and looked for a moment less lusty, less truculent, such a tenderness for him welled in me that I almost walked over to him in front of Hugo and Mother to embrace him, to ask him to come downstairs to our big soft bed and rest. How I wanted to care for him. He was almost crying as he talked about women loving each other in the movie Jeunes filles en uniforme. Then he said, in front of Mother, “I must talk to you a few minutes. I have corrected your manuscript.” We went downstairs and sat on my bed. I was so moved by the work he had done. We began kissing. Tongues, hands, moisture. I bit my fingers so as not to scream. I went upstairs, still throbbing, and talked to Mother. Henry followed, looking like a saint, creamy voiced. And I felt his presence down to my toes. Hugo is playing and singing as he used to play and sing in Richmond Hill, fumbling, hesitating. His fingers are not skillful, and his voice wavers.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I rejoiced because it seemed to me Henry had written the male counterpart to my work. I sat with him at the kitchen table, drunk and stuttering: “It’s wonderful, what you’ve written!” We got ourselves more drunk, we fucked deliriously. Later, in the taxi, he takes my hand as if we have been lovers only a few days. I come home with two of his phrases engraved on my mind: “surcharged with life” and “saturated with sex.” And I will give him greater and more terrifying riddles to unravel than June’s lies! There is in our relationship both humanness and monstrosity. Our work, our literary imagination, is monstrous. Our love is human. I sense when he is cold, I am anxious about his eyesight. I get him glasses, a special lamp, blankets. But when we talk and write, a wonderful deformation takes place, whereby we heighten, exaggerate, color, distend. There are satanic joys known to writers only. His muscular style and my enameled one wrestle and copulate independently. But when I touch him, the human miracle is accomplished. He is the man I would scrub floors for, I would do the humblest and the most magnificent things for. He is thinking of our marriage, which I feel will never be, but he is the only man I would marry. We are greater together. After Henry, there will never again be this polarity. A future without him is darkness. I cannot even imagine it. Allendy admits to Hugo that there is danger in my literary friendships because I play with experience like a child and take my games seriously, that my literary adventures carry me to milieus where I don’t belong. Big, compassionate Allendy and faithful and jealous Hugo, anxious over the child who has such a dangerous need of love. Allendy has not taken my literary-creative side seriously, and I have resented his simplification of my nature to pure woman. He has refused to cloud his vision with a consideration of my imagination. The absolute sincerity of men like Allendy and Hugo is beautiful but uninteresting to me. It does not fascinate me as much as Henry’s insincerities, dramatics, literary escapades, experiments, rascalities. When Henry and I are lying in each other’s arms, all games cease, and for the moment we find our basic wholeness. When we take up our work again, we instill our imagination into our lives. We believe in living not only as human beings but as creators, adventurers. That side of me which Allendy discards, the disturbed, dangerous, erotic side, is precisely the side Henry seizes and responds to, the one he fulfills and expands. Allendy is right about my need of love. I cannot live without love. Love is at the root of my being.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  From the very first minute they hated each other. “Does she think that with her woman’s sensibility and subtlety she can love anything in you that I have not loved?” It is true. Hugo has been infinitely tender with me, but while he talks of June I think of our hands locked together. She does not reach the same sexual center of my being that man reaches; she does not touch that. What, then, has she moved in me? I have wanted to possess her as if I were a man, but I have also wanted her to love me with the eyes, the hands, the senses that only women have. It is a soft and subtle penetration. I hate Henry for daring to injure her enormous and shallow pride in herself. June’s superiority arouses his hatred, even a feeling of revenge. He eyes my gentle, homely maid, Emilia. His offense makes me love June. I love her for what she has dared to be, for her hardness, her cruelty, her egoism, her perverseness, her demoniac destructiveness. She would crush me to ashes without hesitation. She is a personality created to the limit. I worship her courage to hurt, and I am willing to be sacrificed to it. She will add the sum of me to her. She will be June plus all that I contain. February Louveciennes. I came home to a soft and ardent lover. I carry about rich, heavy letters from Henry. Avalanches. I have tacked up on the wall of my writing room Henry’s two big pages of words, culled here and there, and a panoramic map of his life, intended for an unwritten novel. I will cover the walls with words. It will be la chambre des mots. Hugo found my journals on John Erskine and read them while I was away, with a last pang of curiosity. There was nothing in them he did not know, but he suffered. I would live through it again, yes, and Hugo knows it. Also while I was away, he found my black lace underwear, kissed it, found the odor of me, and inhaled it with such joy. There was an amusing incident on the train, going to Switzerland. To reassure Hugo, I had not painted my eyes, barely powdered, barely rouged my lips, and had not touched my nails. I was so happy in my negligence. I had dressed carelessly in an old black velvet dress I love, which is torn at the elbows. I felt like June. My dog Ruby sat at my side, and so my black coat and velvet jacket were covered with his white hair. An Italian who had tried all during the trip to catch my attention finally, in desperation, came up and offered me a brush. This amused me, and I laughed.

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  The dazzling light restored the rose-pink glow of the room, and the delicate nacreous tints of the picture by Chaplin smiled down at him from the wall. Cheri bowed his head and shut his eyes, in an effort to remember the room as it had looked the night before - the mysterious colour, like the inside of a water-melon, the enchanted dome of lamp-light, and, above all, his exaltation when reeling under the intensity of his pleasures. * You’re up! The chocolate’s already on its way.’ He was pleased to note that it had taken Lea only these few moments to do her hair, touch up her face, and spray herself with the familiar scent. The room seemed suddenly to be filled with the cheerful sound of her lovely voice, and with the smell of chocolate and hot toast. Cheri sat down beside the two steaming cups and was handed the thickly buttered toast by Lea. She did not suspect that he was trying to find something to say, for she knew that he was seldom talkative, especially when he was eating. She enjoyed a good breakfast, eating with the haste and preoccupied gaiety of a woman who, her trunks packed, is ready to catch her train. ‘Your second piece of toast, Cheri?’ ‘No, thank you, Nounoune.’ ‘Not hungry any more?’ ‘Not hungry.’ With a smile, she shook her finger at him. ‘You know what you’re in for! You’re going to swallow down two rhubarb pills!’ He wrinkled his nose, shocked. ‘Listen, Nounoune. You’ve got a mania for fussing ‘Ta ti ta ta! That’s my look out. Put out your tongue. You won’t show it me! Then wipe off your chocolate moustache, and let’s have a quick sensible talk. Tiresome subjects can’t be dealt with too quickly! ’ She stretched across the table to take Cheri’s hand and hold it between her own. You’ve come back. That was our fate. Do you trust yourself to me? I’ll be responsible for you.’ She could not help breaking off, and closed her eyes as if hugging her victory. Cheri noticed the flush on his mistress’s face. Ohl’ she continued in a lower voice,4 When I think of all that I never gave you, all that I never said to you! When I think that I believed you merely a passing fancy, like all the others — only a little more precious than all the others! What a fool I was not to understand that you were my love, the love, the great love that comes only once! ’ When she opened her blue eyes, they seemed to have become bluer, gaining depth in the shade of her eyelids, and her breathing was uneven. 44Oh,” Cheri prayed inwardly, “Don’t let her ask me a question, don’t let her expect an answer from me now! I couldn’t speak a single word.”

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  With that in mind, this chapter is for anyone who’s ever felt sheepish about grieving something deemed “not significant.” IN DOGS WE TRUSTWhile my great-great-grandfather put his bet on God, I choose dogs. Dogs (or any pets, for that matter) are our chosen family. They don’t have the baggage that comes with actually being related to you. They don’t ask you to drive them places and give them money. They don’t marry deadbeats or leave their dirty underwear on the floor. And when you want to binge-watch Judge Judy, they’re more than happy to join you—no complaints. To them, you are Christmas morning. They’re always ecstatic to be with you. Whether you’ve been gone for a week or you’re just returning from changing a load of laundry, it’s like, OMG, you’re back! It’s sooo good to see you! Truth be told, sometimes I love animals more than people. Maybe it’s because as a child, I had more fourlegged friends than two-legged ones. Much to my mother’s dismay, I was always rescuing critters. I even made outfits for my “guests” by cutting tail holes in my baby clothes—the ones my mom had meticulously saved for my own children. Furry friends helped me through my tumultuous college years, painful breakups, job changes, and, of course, my diagnosis. My cat Crystal was the first “person” I uttered the “c word” to. (“It’s cancer. What are we going to do, Crystal?”) Knowing that animals and nature would be a necessary part of healing my body, I left New York City after my diagnosis and moved to the mountains, where I dreamed of recovering and rescuing abandoned creatures in my spare time. Creatures who needed stable, loving homes—just like I once had. But my attachment to my animals ramped up several notches when it became clear postdiagnosis that being a pet mommy was much safer than being a human mommy. If I wanted to mother a biological child, I might be putting my life at risk. My oncologist described it like this: “Picture your disease like a rock balancing on top of a mountain. Right now, that rock is stable, not causing you any harm. If something (like the hormones from pregnancy) were to change that, your rock may start tumbling down the mountain. If that happens, there’s a chance we can catch it. We just don’t know if we can put it back on top of the mountain—which is where you’re the safest. There are just too many unknowns, so think hard before you potentially wake the sleeping giant inside you.”

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  We carried home bags of groceries, went for a ride in the suburbs, snuggled up to watch television. Maria enjoyed the world, the world’s charms, without paying the world’s price. She simply refused to see our homosexuality or age difference as a problem. She wouldn’t discuss it. She started with the idea that bohemians were exempt from the ordinary rules. We went to a lesbian bar together. Maria entered the Volley Ball arrayed in black: a black trench coat over black jeans and a man’s black shirt. Her delicate white skin looked as raunchy as Elvis Presley’s flickering image on television. We watched the women dancing together while three old Negro men in the band, faces petrified into indifference, tooted and banged. A butch entered squiring a blonde whore tottering along on spike heels under dairy whip hair, her chubby hand rising again and again to tuck a stray wisp back into the creamy dome. On the wall was a sign, flyblown and fading, that read: “Hard Times Party Tonight.” Maria explained that the sign suggested a costume party and was a dodge around the law that forbade women to wear more than three articles of men’s dress—jeans, boots, and a T-shirt, say. A few businessmen, whose fantasies ran to lesbian couples, sat around the bar, eyes glued to the dance floor. A bouncer kept them away from the women—look but don’t touch! The one toilet was unavailable for a whole half hour at a stretch. Two women had barricaded themselves inside and were necking. Most of the women addressed each other with names drawn from children’s books (“Piglet,” “Eeyore,” and “Pooh” were favorites) or by men’s nicknames (“Andy” and “Tony” seemed popular). Maria’s apartment smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Her father had carved a grandfather clock for her in his basement shop at home. The Salvation Army couch Maria had upholstered in crisp blue-and-white bed ticking. She would sit on a high stool, dressed in a white smock, a cigarette burning in her hand like incense before an idol. I posed for her, but she said I wasn’t a good model. She spent most of her time modeling in clay two nude female figures whose linking arms and legs formed the oval frame of a mirror. She clung to me when I left. She said, “You’ve spoiled me with your visit. How can I go back to my spinster’s life?” “I’ll write you every day and get back down here in a week or two, three at the most.” I wanted to marry Maria and avoid the solitude and suffering everyone had told me homosexuality would bring. I thought marriage would define my nebulous feelings toward her; if I were married, I’d be a husband.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Dad burst into laughter. “That won’t be a problem, Doctor.” From then on, “Dr. Porn,” as we took to calling him, was Dad’s favorite, straight-shooting visitor. At first, hospice scared me because I was a newbie and had no clue what to expect. For instance, I didn’t know that hospice was a service, not a place (though there are hospice facilities). Multiple times per week, a team of compassionate nurses and other professionals skilled at end-of-life care came to check on Dad. They monitored his vitals and adjusted his medications. They groomed and bathed him, allowing my mom more time to just be his wife. They ordered medical supplies and equipment like a hospital bed, wheelchair, and walker. They even offered grief counseling for us all and continued to provide it for over a year past his death. During the final hours, they were with us 24-7, teaching us what was happening and how to respond to it. When we freaked out because Dad’s stomach was filling up with fluid, they gently explained that this was normal. His liver was starting to shut down, which was why his legs were also so swollen. Luckily, they were able to drain his abdomen every other day, providing him relief. The nurses taught us how to use the “comfort kit” they’d made for us—a white paper bag filled with morphine and other prescriptions to help with any breakthrough pain. Comfort kits are designed to keep patients out of the hospital—the last place Dad wanted to be. According to the Hospice Foundation of America, many individuals and families could benefit from hospice care sooner than they get it, but people don’t often know how to access the services. Some are afraid to discuss it or don’t want to concede “defeat.” Some wait for a physician to suggest it, unaware that they can initiate care on their own, as long as eligibility criteria are met. A person doesn’t have to be bedridden or in their final days of life to receive care, either. When there’s a significant decline in health, and comfort is the only thing left to give, hospice is there. Here in the U.S., hospice is covered by Medicare, and in almost every state by Medicaid. It’s also covered by most private health insurance to varying degrees. BE MINDFUL OF YOUR ENERGY Another thing the hospice team taught us was to be mindful of our own energy when we were in his space. “Though he is now in the active phase of dying, just because he can’t talk to you, doesn’t mean he can’t hear you or pick up the vibes. Talk to him. Tell him you love him. But don’t bring stress here or talk about things you wouldn’t talk about in front of him.” This made me realize just how sensitive we all are to energy—especially when our own energy is diminished.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Brian and I are grateful for the time we have to explore our own desires, grow our relationship, and run an impactful business. We have amazing nieces and nephews, a hilarious godchild, and friends with adorable kids we love. We get to play and enjoy their curiosity, imagination, and priceless questions. We also get to leave and go out to dinner or watch a great movie when they melt down. Tantrums are our exit music. But even though we’ve made peace and found a way to enjoy both worlds, we still needed to mourn this decision. We still needed to grieve our dreams of what might have been. And we still feel sad from time to time—all of which is normal. Plus, as much as I know everyone has their own baggage (which is more about them than me), I also still get hurt when I allow the occasional nasty comment from a random social media follower to burrow into my head. Random follower (let’s call her Betsy): “You’ll never know real love if you don’t have children.” Me: “Really, Betsy?” Every human can know real love. Every single one of us. The humans with kids and the ones without them. Even the a-holes like Betsy. LOVE COMES IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES Once we closed the door on the kids’ chapter, I naturally poured my energy into my childhood love: animals. Allow me to brag about my kids, like any proud parent. My two great dog loves are Buddy and Lola. Buddy took after his father, Brian. Good-natured, even-keeled, and sweet. Lola was more like me, complicated. Lola was our planned child. A pit-bull mix who looked like a cross between a wild hyena and a Muppet. She was my writing companion, workout buddy, confidante, home security system, personal bodyguard, stylist (she preferred me in color, I like black), co-conspirator, best pal, and snug body pillow. Lola was also my soulmate. Buddy, on the other hand, was an accident. I know you’re not supposed to say that about your children, but it’s true. One brisk fall day, Brian and I were on a hike in the Catskill Mountains. I’d been buttering him up to get another dog for months—Lola needed a sibling, after all—and the day of our hike, he’d finally agreed. As we made our way up the trail, we were excitedly making plans. “Can we go to the shelter later today to start looking? Should we get a boy or a girl? I like the name Star. Or Bowie. Or what about Buddy?” That’s when it happened. We rounded a corner and there he was. A big, emaciated hound dog. Matted and covered in his own filth. We both instantly fell in love. From the start, Buddy was ours .

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  That means nothing. People like us . . . know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion. — ALBERT EINSTEIN, ON THE PASSING OF HIS FRIEND BESSO Before Dad died, I’d heard about some incredible deathbed experiences that suggest that the serenity of the afterlife is a real phenomenon. Like the story of a man who had a vivid dream of a relative visiting him. He awoke with a warm feeling in his heart, as if the visit had actually happened, only to find that his relative had died a few hours earlier. Or the incredible experience of my colleague Anita Moorjani. In 2006, after a four-year battle with cancer, Anita fell into a coma and was given hours to live. As my doctors gathered to revive me, I journeyed into a near-death experience (NDE). The feeling of complete, unconditional love was unlike anything I’d known before. It was totally undiscriminating, as if I didn’t have to do anything to deserve it, nor did I need to prove myself to earn it. To my amazement, I became aware of the presence of my father, who’d died ten years earlier. Dad, you’re here. I can’t believe it! I wasn’t speaking those words, I was merely thinking them—in fact, it was more like feeling the emotions behind the words, as there was no other way of communicating in that realm other than through emotions. Anita goes on to describe how she was given a choice in that realm. She could return to her physical form or continue on in this new realm. “I chose the former, and when I regained consciousness, my cancer began to heal. To the amazement of my doctors, I was free of countless tumors and cancer indicators within weeks. Since then, I’ve heeded the call to share this powerful story—and divine lesson—with the world: Love yourself fully. That’s what you’re here to do.” Stories like these comforted me before Dad made his transition. But after remembering the beaming expression on his face when he died, I couldn’t get enough of them, even as a part of me wondered, Could this be real? It’s remarkable that people tend to describe near-death experiences in a strikingly similar manner, which has led some experts to believe in the existence of an afterlife. Professors of psychiatry at the University of Virginia Jim Tucker and Jennifer Kim Penberthy have delved into the study of near-death experiences, after-death communications (where individuals claim to have been visited by a deceased loved one), and children with memories of a previous life. Through their research, they have suggested that consciousness transcends our physical reality. In his book Return to Life, Tucker described a young boy named Ryan Hammons, who could mysteriously recount specific details about a Hollywood agent in a previous life.

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  She noticed that he had resumed the more familiar form of addressing her, and above all the fuller, rather choked tones of their happiest hours. In her heart of hearts she acquiesced: “It’s true, I love him. At the moment, there’s no remedy.” The dinner bell sounded in the garden - a bell which was too small, dating from before Madame Peloux’s time, a sad clear bell reminiscent of a country orphanage. Edmee shivered. ‘ Oh, I don’t like that bell. ...’ ‘No?’ said Cheri, absent-mindedly. ‘In our house, dinner will be announced. There’ll be no bell. There’ll be no boarding-house habits in our home - you’ll see.’ She spoke these words without turning round, while walking down the hospital-green corridor, and so did not see, behind her, either the fierce attention Cheri paid to her last words, or his silent laughter. He was walking along with a light step, stimulated by the rathe spring, perceptible in the moist gusty wind and the exciting earthy smells of squares and private gardens. Every now and again a fleeting glimpse in a glass would remind him that he was wearing a becoming felt hat, pulled down over the right eye, a loose-fitting spring coat, large light-coloured gloves, and a terra-cotta tie. The eyes of women followed his progress with silent homage, the more candid among them bestowing that passing stupefaction which can be neither feigned nor hidden. But Cheri never looked at women in the street. He had just come from his house in the Avenue Henri-Martin, having left various orders with the upholsterers: orders contradicting one another, but thrown out in a tone of authority. On reaching the end of the Avenue, he took a deep breath of the good spring scents carried up from the Bois on the heavy moist wing of the west wind, and then hurried on his way to the Porte Dauphine. Within a few minutes he had reached the lower end of the Avenue Bugeaud, and there he stopped. For the first time in six months his feet were treading the familiar road. He unbuttoned his coat. "I've been walking too fast,” he said to himself. He started off again, then paused and, this time, trained his eyes on one particular spot: fifty yards or so down the road - bareheaded, shammy-leather in hand, Ernest the concierge - Lda’s concierge - was ‘doing* the brasswork of the railings in front of Lea’s house. Cheri began to hum, realized from the sound of his voice that he never did hum, and stopped. ‘ How are things, Ernest? Hard at work as usual? * The concierge brightened respectfully. ‘ Monsieur PelouxI It’s a pleasure to see Monsieur again. Monsieur has not changed at all.’ ‘Neither have you, Ernest. Madame is well, I hope?* He turned his head away to gaze up at the closed shutters on the first floor. ‘I expect so, Monsieur, all we’ve had has been a few postcards.’ ‘Where from? Was it Biarritz?*

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  But with so little time left, I couldn’t understand why he cared about blackheads. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what Dad was teaching me. I didn’t want to eat, shower, or see anyone. Self-care had officially left the building. During my lowest, most depressing moments, I’d find myself thinking, What’s the point? If we’re all going to die, what difference does all this self-care make? I clearly need to find a new profession. Enter the Bioré strips. Within a few weeks, Dad would be cremated. Yet here he was, caring for his pores and himself. Not because he wanted to look good for anyone else but because he wanted to look and feel good for himself. It made me think of those Tibetan sand mandalas. A team of Buddhist monks tirelessly work building colorful geometric sand designs in intricate detail. The mandalas represent many things, including our journey from ignorance to enlightenment. Once the mandala is done, and the ceremonies and public viewings are over, the monks destroy the beautiful work of art by sweeping it away—signifying that nothing lasts forever. In this way, our bodies are like mandalas, too. Beautiful. Intricate. Full of wisdom, and, despite their fragility, worthy of spiffing until our very last breath. DR. PORN AND HOSPICEMom called and asked me if I could come over and give her a break. “I’d love to take a shower and actually find the time to blow-dry my hair. Can you take care of Dad?” It never ceased to amaze me how little it took for her to recharge and “feel like a new woman.” Once I got there, Dad and I picked up where we left off in our game of gin rummy. We usually only got a few turns in before he nodded off. Just then the doorbell rang, and there was the hospice doctor. This was the first time I had met him. I invited him in and steadied myself and my COVID mask for the conversation about Dad’s status. The pandemic was good for one thing: those damn masks helped me hide my quivering lips whenever I was attempting to choke back tears. (Having become more emotionally brave, I’d retired the anchovies and dead mice by then.) “We’re going to take good care of you, Ken,” the doctor said. “And we’re going to make sure that you’re comfortable, but at this point you know we can’t fix the disease, right?” “Yes, I do, Doctor,” Dad replied, as I could feel the tears welling. “Now is a good time to tie up any loose ends, too. Have you sorted out your will yet?” “Yes, I’m all set there.” “Have you chosen if you want to be buried or cremated?” “Yes. I’ve decided to be cremated.” “Are you religious?” “I follow my own path with that.” “Well, if you want to see the chaplain, just let us know and we’ll send him.”

• From Chéri and The Last of Chéri (1920)

  ‘"What can this mean?’ Cheri shouted from afar. ‘Three hundred and twenty francs for petrol? Somebody must be swilling the stuff! We’ve been out four times in the last fortnight - and seventy-seven francs for oil!* ‘The motor goes to the market every day,’ Lea replied. ‘And while we’re on the subject, it appears your chauffeur had three helpings of the joint for his dinner. Don’t you think that’s stretching our agreement a bit far? ... Whenever a bill sticks in your throat, you look just like your mother.’ At a loss for an answer, he stood uncertain for a moment, shifting from one slender foot to the other, poised with winged grace like a young Mercury. This always made Madame Peloux swoon with delight and yelp, ‘ Me when I was eighteen! Winged feet! winged feet! ’ He cast about for some insolent retort, his whole face a-quiver, his mouth half open, his forehead jutting forward, in a tense attitude that showed off to advantage the peculiar and diabolic upward twist of his eyebrows. ‘Don’t bother to think of an answer,’ Lea said kindly. T know you hate me. Come and kiss me. Handsome devil. Fallen angel. Silly goose. ...’ He came, calmed by the softness of her voice, yet ruffled by her words. Seeing them together, Patron once again let the truth flower on his guileless lips. ‘As"far as first-rate bodies go, Monsieur Cheri, you have one all right. But whenever I look at it, Monsieur Cheri, I feel that if I was a woman I’d say to myself: “I’ll come back again in ten years* time.” ’ ‘You hear. Lea? He says in ten years’ time,’ Cheri said insinuatingly, pushing away the head of his mistress as she leaned towards him. ‘What do you think of that?’ But she did not deign to listen. The young body owed to her its renewed vigour, and she began patting it all over, touching it anywhere and everywhere, on the cheek, on the leg, on the behind, with the irreverent pleasure of a nanny. ‘What d’you get out of being spiteful?* Patron then asked. Cheri allowed a savage, inscrutable gaze to sweep over every inch of the waiting Hercules before he answered. *1 find it comforting. You wouldn't understand.* In fact, Lea herself understood precious little about Ch£ri after three months’ intimacy. If she still talked to Patron, who now came only on Sundays, or to Berthellemy, who arrived without being invited but left again two hours later, about ‘sending Cheri back to his blessed studies ’, it was because the phrase had become a kind of habit, and as though to excuse herself for having kept him there so long. She kept on setting a limit to his stay, and then exceeding it. She was waiting. ‘The weather is so lovely. And then his trip to Paris last week tired him. And, besides, it’s better for me to get thoroughly sick of him/

• From Henry and June (1986)

  That night we were so contented together that, falling asleep, Henry said, “This is heaven!” June Last night Henry and I went to the movies. When the story became tragic, harrowing, he took my hand, and we locked fingers tightly. With every pressure I shared his response to the story. We kissed in the taxi, on the way to meet Hugo. And I could not tear myself away. I lost my head. I went with him to Clichy. He penetrated me so completely that when I returned to Louveciennes and fell asleep in Hugo’s arms, I still felt it was Henry. All night it was Henry at my side. I curled my body around him in my dreams. In the morning I found myself tightly entangled with Hugo, and it took me a long time to realize it was not Henry. Hugo believes I was so loving last night, but it was Henry I loved, Henry I kissed. Since Allendy has fully won my confidence I came ready to talk very frankly about frigidity. I confess this: that when I found pleasure in sexual intercourse with Henry I was afraid of having a baby and thought that I should not have an orgasm too frequently. But a few months ago a Russian doctor told me it could not happen easily; in fact, if I wanted a child I would have to subject myself to an operation. The fear of having a baby, then, was eliminated. Allendy said the very fact that I did not try to reassure myself on this score for seven years of my married life proved I did not really give it any importance, that I used it merely as an excuse for not letting go in coition. When this fear vanished, I was able to examine more closely the true nature of my feelings. I expressed a restlessness at what I termed the enforced passivity of women. Still, perhaps two times out of three, I kept myself passive, waiting for all the activity in the man, as if I did not want to be responsible for what I was enjoying. “That is to abate your sense of guilt,” Allendy said. “You refuse to be active and feel less guilty if it is the other who is active.” After the previous talk with Allendy I had felt a slight change. I was more active with Henry. He noticed it and said, “I love the way you fuck me now.” And I felt a keen pleasure. What astonishes me most about June are Henry’s stories of her aggressivity, her taking him, seeking him at her own will. When I occasionally try aggressivity, it gives me a feeling of distress, shame. I sense now an occasional psychic paralysis in me somewhat similar to Eduardo’s, except that it is more serious for a man.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  We didn’t think it was gross (OK, sometimes we thought it was really gross!), and neither did he. Right before each bowel expression, I’d sing, “Someone’s knocking on the door, let me in, let me in.” He’d dance, and I’d tickle a poop out. Sorry, I know this is really graphic, describing how I put my gloved finger in our dog’s ass to stimulate a bowel movement, but this is a chapter about the unsung kinds of love—yours and mine. The shitty, totally embodied side of love that isn’t always pretty, but is still very real. (And you thought my life was glamorous.) But we also looked for signs from Buddy. Was this the life he wanted to live? The shitty thing about DM is that animals who have it are still fully themselves, even as their bodies are dying. Even though he was bedbound, he continued to take his job as mayor of the porch very seriously. He was still full of life and love and possibility—but his body was failing, and his time was slowly coming to an end. We checked in with our vet, who reassured us that he didn’t think it was time yet. He also praised our efforts and reassured us that it was OK to let go if we couldn’t handle the care anymore. No, we told him, we could. Then one day, he was ready. Though we had some damn good times in those last months, Buddy started letting go. I watched as he retreated back to the internal cocoon-like state he was in when we first found him. His spark was replaced by anxiety and frustration. He had had enough. It was time. That afternoon we made a love fort out of pillows in the middle of the living room. We held Buddy close and told him how much we loved him. Right before he passed, with the help of our wonderful vet, he popped his head up and looked straight into my eyes. In that moment, I felt his immense love, gratitude, and full presence. Then he peacefully left his body. In the end, Buddy lived a year and a half longer than the vets expected, a year and a half of more love. He was a light when we grappled with our own big questions and made peace with our answers. Loving Buddy was some of the best loving I’ve had the opportunity to experience. He helped us create our unique pack. He reminded us to champion our sensitivity and let our personalities shine—at our own pace. He showed us a greater capacity for love. And he reminded us that all beings deserve a chance to live the one life they’ve been given. Love comes in all shapes and sizes. Little bundles of joy, big furry hound dogs, and scrappy beautiful mutts.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  The lady, though no less delighted than surprised to hear him speak thus, was able completely to conceal her feelings, and said, " I will not take upon me, monsieur, to reply to your theology ; but as I am much more disposed to fear the evil than to believe the good, I beg you will not address me in a language which gives you so poor an opinion of those who are weak enough to believe it. I 264 THE HEPTAMERON OF THE \Nm.>el zfy know very well that I am a woman like any other, and 3 woman that has so many defects that virtue would do something greater in transforming me into itself than in transforming itself into me, unless it wished to remain unknown to the world. No one would think of recog- nizing it under such a garb as mine. Howbeit, with all my faults, my lord, I still love you as much as a woman can and ought who fears God and cherishes honour ; but this love shall not be declared to you until your heart is capable of the patience which a virtuous love requires. When that time comes, monsieur, I know what I shall have to tell you. Meanwhile, be assured that your wel- fare, your person, and your honour are dearer to me than to yourself." Trembling, and with tears in his eyes, M. D'Avannes begged to be allowed to take a kiss as a pledge of her word, but she refused, saying that she did not choose to violate the custom of the country for him. Presently the husband arrived. " I am so much indebted, father," said D'Avannes, " to you and your wife, that I entreat you always to regard me as your son." The good man willingly expressed his assent. " Let me kiss you, then, in assurance of that affection," continued D'Avan- nes. This was done. " If I were not afraid," he said next, " of contravening the law, I would request the same favour of my mother, your wife." The husband desired his wife to kiss him, which she did without tes- tifying either repugnance or alacrity ; whilst the fire which the previous conversation had already kindled in the heart of M. D'Avannes grew hotter at this kiss so ardently longed for, and before so peremptorily denied him. After this M. D'Avannes went back to the king, his brother, and told all sorts of stories about his journey Third day ] Q UEEN OF NA VA RRE. 265

• From Henry and June (1986)

  He says, “You know, Anaïs, I am so slow that I cannot realize I am going to lose you when we get to Paris. I will be walking alone in the streets, perhaps twenty minutes later, and suddenly I will feel keenly that I do not have you any longer and that I miss you.” And he had told me in a letter, “I look forward to those two days [Hugo is going to London], to spending them quietly with you, absorbing you, being your husband. I adore being your husband. I will always be your husband whether you want it or not.” At the dinner my happiness made me feel natural. In my mind I was lying on the grass with Henry over me; I beamed at the poor ordinary people around the table. They all felt something—even the women, who wanted to know where I shopped for my clothes. Women always think that when they have my shoes, my dress, my hairdresser, my make-up, it will all work the same way. They do not conceive of the witchcraft that is needed. They do not know that I am not beautiful but that I only appear to be at certain moments. “Spain,” said my dinner partner, “is the most wonderful country in the world, where women are really women!” I was thinking, I wish Henry could taste this fish. And the wine. But Hugo felt something, too. Before the banquet we were to meet at the Gare St. Lazare. Henry was supposed to have come to Louveciennes to help me with my novel. When Henry and I arrived at the station together, Hugo was not happy. He began to talk quickly, severely about Osborn, “the child prodigy.” Poor Hugo, and I could still smell the grass of the forest. I walked with him so lightly. And where was Henry? Was he missing me already? Sensitive Henry, who has a fear of being disliked, despised, a fear that Hugo should “know everything” or that I will be ashamed of him before people. Not understanding why I love him. I make him forget humiliations and nightmares. His thin knees under the threadbare suit arouse my protective instincts. There is big Henry, whose writing is tempestuous, obscene, brutal, and who is passionate with women, and there is little Henry, who needs me. For little Henry I stint myself, save every cent I can. I cannot believe now that he ever terrified me, intimidated me. Henry, the man of experience, the adventurer. He is afraid of our dogs, of snakes in the garden, of people when they are not le peuple. There are moments when I see Lawrence in him, except that he is healthy and passionate. I wanted to tell my dinner partner last night, “You know, Henry is so passionate.” I failed to go to my last appointment with Allendy. I was beginning to depend on him, to be grateful to him.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  Not even introspection has been a still experience. . . . If this is so, then think what I find in you, who are a gold mine. Henry, I love you with a realization, a knowledge of you, which takes in all of you, with the strength of my mind and imagination, besides that of my body. I love you in such a way that June can return, our love can be destroyed, and yet nothing can sever the fusion that has been. . . . I think today of what you said: ‘I want to leave a scar on the world.’ I will help you. I want to leave the feminine scar.” Today, I would follow Henry to the end of the world. What saves me is only that we are both penniless. Lucidity: There is in Henry a lack of feeling (not a lack of passion or emotion) that is betrayed by his emphasis on fucking and talking. When he speaks about other women, what he remembers of them are the defects, the sensual characteristics, or the disputes. The rest is either absent or implied. I don’t know yet. But feelings are fetters. Henry is not to be worshiped as a human being, but as a genius-monster. He may be soft-hearted but only indiscriminately so. He gave Paulette, out of generosity, the pair of stockings I had left in his drawer, my best pair, while I was wearing mended stockings so I could save to buy gifts for him. The money I sent him from Austria, for a woman, he spent on records for me. Yet he stole 500 francs from Osborn’s legacy to his girl friend when Osborn left for America. He gives my dog half his steak, yet he keeps the surplus change given to him by a taxi driver. These sudden acts of callousness, which also appear in June, bewilder me and I expect to suffer from them, though Henry swears he could never act thus with me. And so far I cannot see anything in his treatment of me but the utmost delicacy. He has not hesitated to fling out cruel truths—he is fully aware of my defects—but at the same time he succumbs to the spell, the softness. Why do I trust him so, believe in him, have no fear of him? Perhaps it’s as much of a mistake as it is for Hugo to trust me. I crave Henry, only Henry. I want to live with him, be free with him, suffer with him. Phrases from his letters haunt me. Yet I have doubts about our love. I fear my impetuosity. Everything is in danger. All that I have created.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  More big medicine to me from my amazing pops. And now I’m passing it on to you. Figure out your “more time like this” and make your life golden, my friend. Hold fast to the courage needed to let all of yourself be loved—that’s the lesson I’ve learned time and time again from my many ruptures. Don’t avoid the parts of yourself that ask for the most tenderness. The so-called ugly parts that need to be witnessed and held. Like it or not, we’re all complicated beings who share one common thread: a need to love and be loved. Loving ourselves and others through the good times and devastating times is what life is all about. In fact, there’s no greater success to achieve. Ultimately, love not only showed me how to grieve—it showed me how to live. Love allowed me to thaw my stuck feelings and live more wholeheartedly. Love gave me the courage to be free—not free from the pain but free from the fear of pain and the barrier it creates to love. Love eventually allowed me to provide for myself exactly what my father had given me every second I was lucky enough to have him in my life: the feelings of being lovable, safe, and good enough. This is the journey of our humanness. To connect to love, our true power, in order to heal the wounds that keep us stuck. It’s a simple, jagged path with no easy pass or mileage points. But all roads lead there—even the ones that take us off track. Thank you for walking this path with me. Now, keep going. And remember to smell the fragrant lizards along the way. ACKNOWLEDGMENTSTo Pamela Cannon, my brilliant editor. Without you this book wouldn’t exist. Thank you for your unwavering enthusiasm, can-do spirit, and “ok, now you’re just showing off” candor. For crawling into the trenches with me (index cards and all), and for every edit that made this book something I am very proud of. I appreciate you and your very big heart, my friend. To Suzanne Guillette, thank you for pouring your poetry onto these pages with me. For pushing me to go deeper, and for showing me ways to express the inexpressible. Your guidance not only made this book richer, it helped me grow. To Patty Gift, thank you for championing a topic most shy away from. For giving me the space and grace to take my time, find my way, and create my music. Je t’adore, lion. To Reid Tracy, thank you for saying yes to my writing so long ago (even the cuss words). Your friendship means the world, moon, and stars to me. To Melody Guy, thank you for coaxing out even more magic. For finding the nooks and crannies that needed more heart (or clearer explanation!), and for allowing me to go to places I was afraid to go to. Once there, you said, “It’s OK. That’s normal. Keep going.”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 2: Further, charity is a kind of spiritual light in the soul, according to 1 Jn. 2:10: “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light.” Now light increases in the air by addition; thus the light in a house increases when another candle is lit. Therefore charity also increases in the soul by addition. Objection 3: Further, the increase of charity is God’s work, even as the causing of it, according to 2 Cor. 9:10: “He will increase the growth of the fruits of your justice.” Now when God first infuses charity, He puts something in the soul that was not there before. Therefore also, when He increases charity, He puts something there which was not there before. Therefore charity increases by addition. On the contrary, Charity is a simple form. Now nothing greater results from the addition of one simple thing to another, as proved in Phys. iii, text. 59, and Metaph. ii, 4. Therefore charity does not increase by addition. I answer that, Every addition is of something to something else: so that in every addition we must at least presuppose that the things added together are distinct before the addition. Consequently if charity be added to charity, the added charity must be presupposed as distinct from charity to which it is added, not necessarily by a distinction of reality, but at least by a distinction of thought. For God is able to increase a bodily quantity by adding a magnitude which did not exist before, but was created at that very moment; which magnitude, though not pre-existent in reality, is nevertheless capable of being distinguished from the quantity to which it is added. Wherefore if charity be added to charity we must presuppose the distinction, at least logical, of the one charity from the other. Now distinction among forms is twofold: specific and numeric. Specific distinction of habits follows diversity of objects, while numeric distinction follows distinction of subjects. Consequently a habit may receive increase through extending to objects to which it did not extend before: thus the science of geometry increases in one who acquires knowledge of geometrical matters which he ignored hitherto. But this cannot be said of charity, for even the slightest charity extends to all that we have to love by charity. Hence the addition which causes an increase of charity cannot be understood, as though the added charity were presupposed to be distinct specifically from that to which it is added.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  CHRYSOLOGUS. (Serm. 76.) That in these women is contained a full figure of the Church is shewn hereby, that Christ convinces His disciples when in doubt concerning the Resurrection, and confirms them when in fear; and when He meets them He does not terrify them by His power, but prevents them with the ardour of love. And Christ in His Church salutes Himself, for He has taken it into His own Body. AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) We conclude that they had speech of Angels twice at the sepulchre; when they saw one Angel, of whom Matthew and Mark speak; and again when they saw two Angels, as Luke and John relate. And twice in like manner of the Lord; once at that time when Mary supposed Him to be the gardener, (John 20:15.) and now again when He met them in the way to confirm them by repetition, and to restore them from their faintness. CHRYSOLOGUS. (ubi sup.) Then Mary was not suffered to touch Him; now she has permission not only to touch, but to hold Him altogether; they came and held him by the feet, and worshipped him. RABANUS. It was told above how He rose when the sepulchre was closed, to shew that that body which had been shut up therein dead, was now become immortal. He now offers His feet to be held by the women, to shew that He had real flesh, which can be touched by mortal creatures. CHRYSOLOGUS. (ubi sup.) They hold Christ’s feet, who in the Church present the type of Evangelic preaching, and merit this privilege by their running to Him; and by faith so detain their Saviour’s footsteps, that they may come to the honour of His perfect Godhead. She is deservedly bid to touch me not, who mourns her Lord upon earth, and so seeks Him dead in the tomb, as not to know that He reigns in heaven with the Father. This, that the same Mary, one while exalted to the summit of faith, touches Christ, and holds Him with entire and holy affection; and again, cast down in weakness of flesh, and womanly infirmity, doubts, undeserving to touch her Lord, causes us no difficulty. For that is of mystery, this of her sex; that is of divine grace, this of human nature. And so also we, when we have knowledge of divine things, live unto God; when we are wise in human things, we are blinded by our own selves. CHRYSOLOGUS. (Serm. 80.) They held His feet to shew that the head of Christ is the man, but that the woman is in Christ’s feet, and that it was given to them through Christ, not to go before, but to follow the man. Christ also repeats what the Angel had said, that what an Angel had made sure, Christ might make yet more sure. It follows, Then saith Jesus unto them, Fear not.