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 The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I was lying on the ground, holding my nuts as tenderly as a squirrel holds his nuts, when Rowdy walked up. “Who did this to you?” he asked. “The Andruss brothers,” I said. “Did they hit you in the head?” Rowdy asked. He knows that my brain is fragile. If those Andruss brothers had punched a hole in the aquarium of my skull, I might have flooded out the entire powwow. “My brain is fine,” I said. “But my balls are dying.” [image "An illustration of a fishbowl containing a fish and a brain-like object. The fish is looking at the brain, which is floating above the gravel at the bottom of the bowl." file=image_rsrc4RS.jpg] “I’m going to kill those bastards,” Rowdy said. Of course, Rowdy didn’t kill them, but we hid near the Andruss brothers’ camp until three in the morning. They staggered back and passed out in their tent. Then Rowdy snuck in, shaved off their eyebrows, and cut off their braids. That’s about the worst thing you can do to an Indian guy. It had taken them years to grow their hair. And Rowdy cut that away in five seconds. I loved Rowdy for doing that. I felt guilty for loving him for that. But revenge also feels pretty good. The Andruss brothers never did figure out who cut their eyebrows and hair. Rowdy started a rumor that it was a bunch of Makah Indians from the coast who did it. “You can’t trust them whale hunters,” Rowdy said. “They’ll do anything.” But before you think Rowdy is only good for revenge, and kicking the shit out of minivans, raindrops, and people, let me tell you something sweet about him: he loves comic books. But not the cool superhero ones like Daredevil or X-Men. No, he reads the goofy old ones, like Richie Rich and Archie and Casper the Friendly Ghost. Kid stuff. He keeps them hidden in a hole in the wall of his bedroom closet. Almost every day, I’ll head over to his house and we’ll read those comics together. Rowdy isn’t a fast reader, but he’s persistent. And he’ll just laugh and laugh at the dumb jokes, no matter how many times he’s read the same comic. [image "A comic-style illustration a character with wild hair and large eyes, expressing frustration while holding a drawing tool. A speech bubble above asks, ‘What’re you drawing?’ Below, there is text that reads: ‘ROWDY, the latest issue of Casper the Friendly Ghost. He hates it when I draw him! Never lets me finish.’" file=image_rsrc4RT.jpg] I like the sound of Rowdy’s laughter. I don’t hear it very often, but it’s always sort of this avalanche of ha-ha and ho-ho and hee-hee. I like to make him laugh. He loves my cartoons. He’s a big, goofy dreamer, too, just like me. He likes to pretend he lives inside the comic books. I guess a fake life inside a cartoon is a lot better than his real life.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "'Why not? Can you not always be as fond of me as I am of you, or do I only care for you on account of the sensual pleasures you afford me? You know that my heart yearns for you when the senses are satiated and the desire is blunted.' "'Still, had it not been for me, you might have loved some woman whom you could have married——' "'And have found out, but too late, that I was born with other cravings. No, sooner or later I should have followed my destiny.' "'Now it might be quite different; satiated with my love, you might, perhaps, marry and forget me.' "'Never. But come, have you been confessing yourself? Are you going to turn Calvinist? or, like the "Dame aux Camellias," or Antinöus, do you think it necessary to sacrifice yourself on the altar of love for my sake?' "'Please, don't joke.' "'No, I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us leave France. Let us go to Spain, to Southern Italy—nay, let us leave Europe, and go to the East, where I must surely have lived during some former life, and which I have a hankering to see, just as if the land "Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine," had been the home of my youth; there, unknown to everyone, forgotten by the world.' "'Yes, but can I leave this town?' said he, musingly, more to himself than to me. "I knew that of late Teleny had been dunned a good deal, and that his life had often been rendered unpleasant by usurers. "Caring, therefore, but little what people might think of me—besides, who has not a good opinion of the man that pays?—I had called all his creditors together, and, unknown to him, I had settled all his debts. I was about to tell him so, and relieve him from the weight that was oppressing him, when Fate—blind, inexorable, crushing Fate—sealed my mouth. "There was again a loud ring at the door. Had that bell been rung a few seconds later, how different his life and mine would have been! But it was Kismet, as the Turks say. "It was the carriage that had come to take him to the station. Whilst he was getting ready, I helped him to pack up his dress suit and some other little things he might require. I took up, by chance, a small match-box containing French letters, and smiling, said,— "'Here, I'll put them in your trunk; they might be useful.' "He shuddered, and grew deathly pale. "'Who knows?' said I; 'some beautiful lady patroness——' "'Please, don't joke,' he retorted, almost angrily. "'Oh! now I can afford to do so, but once—do you know that I was even jealous of my mother?' "Teleny at that moment dropped the mirror he was holding, which, as it fell, was shivered to pieces. "For a moment we both looked aghast. Was it not a dreadful omen?

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “So, anyway,” he said. “I was reading this book about old-time Indians, about how we used to be nomadic.” “Yeah,” I said. “So I looked up nomadic in the dictionary, and it means people who move around, who keep moving, in search of food and water and grazing land.” “That sounds about right.” “Well, the thing is, I don’t think Indians are nomadic anymore. Most Indians, anyway.” “No, we’re not,” I said. “I’m not nomadic,” Rowdy said. “Hardly anybody on this rez is nomadic. Except for you. You’re the nomadic one.” “Whatever.” “No, I’m serious. I always knew you were going to leave. I always knew you were going to leave us behind and travel the world. I had this dream about you a few months ago. You were standing on the Great Wall of China. You looked happy. And I was happy for you.” Rowdy didn’t cry. But I did. “You’re an old-time nomad,” Rowdy said. “You’re going to keep moving all over the world in search of food and water and grazing land. That’s pretty cool.” I could barely talk. “Thank you,” I said. “Yeah,” Rowdy said. “Just make sure you send me postcards, you asshole.” “From everywhere,” I said. I would always love Rowdy. And I would always miss him, too. Just as I would always love and miss my grandmother, my big sister, and Eugene. Just as I would always love and miss my reservation and my tribe. I hoped and prayed that they would someday forgive me for leaving them. I hoped and prayed that I would someday forgive myself for leaving them. “Ah, man,” Rowdy said. “Stop crying.” “Will we still know each other when we’re old men?” I asked. “Who knows anything?” Rowdy asked. Then he threw me the ball. “Now quit your blubbering,” he said. “And play ball.” I wiped my tears away, dribbled once, twice, and pulled up for a jumper. Rowdy and I played one-on-one for hours. We played until dark. We played until the streetlights lit up the court. We played until the bats swooped down at our heads. We played until the moon was huge and golden and perfect in the dark sky. We didn’t keep score. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more. [image "Two circles containing the white letters L and B, representing Little Brown and Company." file=image_rsrc4RH.jpg] [image "Book cover of ‘The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, 10th Anniversary Edition’ by Sherman Alexie." file=image_rsrc4TF.jpg] Contents [image file=image_rsrc4TG.jpg] A NOTE FROM SHERMAN ALEXIE PERSONAL PHOTOS FROM SHERMAN ROWDY, ROWDY, ROWDY A LETTER FROM AN EDUCATOR FAN ARTWORK WATER ON THE BRAIN JESS WALTER INTERVIEWS SHERMAN ALEXIE INTERVIEW WITH ELLEN FORNEY DISCUSSION GUIDE

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “You just have to send me postcards,” he said. “You have to be a postcard Indian. You have to send me postcards from everywhere in the world.” Well, I don’t think I ever sent one postcard to Randy J. Peone. But I wrote a novel about him. And I’ve discovered that millions of people love the fictional version of Randy. Randy, I don’t know if you knew how important Rowdy has become to people. And I never told you how important you have always been to me. We didn’t talk about things like that. We didn’t talk about us. But I do know some good things. I am a storyteller because you listened to me. I am alive because you lived. And, like I said earlier, I don’t believe in magic. I don’t believe in God, either. But I thank God anyway for you. I thank God you stepped into that sixth-grade classroom and asked me my name. Dear Randy J. Peone, dear Rowdy, I love you so much. And I will miss you forever. Personal Photos from Sherman [image "A photograph of Sherman and his siblings Arnold, Kim and Arlene surrounding their father." file=image_rsrc4TH.jpg] Arnold, my big brother; my younger sisters, twins Kim and Arlene; and me piling on my father, Sherman Alexie Sr. It was taken by my mother in 1971 in our nineteenth-century house on the Spokane Indian Reservation. At this point, we lived in our one-bedroom house with our big sister, Mary; my father’s grandmother Lizzie and his great-uncle Stubby; and five adult cousins, Johnny, Tinker, Bill, Eugene, and Sam. [image "Sherman, Arnold and their father pose with raised fists, all shirtless." file=image_rsrc4TJ.jpg] Me, my big brother, and my father pretending to be Bruce Lee. It was taken by my mother in 1975 in our house constructed by the Department of Housing and Urban Development. My father had just returned from a ten-day drinking binge, and we were happy to have him home. [image "Arnold jumps to shoot a basketball while another player defends. Other players and spectators are visible in the background." file=image_rsrc4TK.jpg] Reardan High School Annual, 1985 This is me, six feet two inches and 145 pounds, hitting a jumper against Harrington High School during my senior year. We were an undersized and underdog team that year but won our district playoffs by defeating Ritzville and Davenport, who finished second and third in the Class B state tournament. We lost our two games in the state tourney, and I still have nightmares about those losses. [image "The late Randy J. Peone sitting at a desk holding a phone with papers and a wall with drawings behind them" file=image_rsrc4TM.jpg] Springdale High School Annual, 1985 The late Randy J. Peone, my childhood best friend and the inspiration for Rowdy. I will miss him forever.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Perhaps to Italy, to Rome or Naples.” * * * * * We were sitting on Wanda’s ottoman. She wore her ermine jacket, her hair was loose and fell like a lion’s mane down her back. She clung to my lips, drawing my soul from my body. My head whirled, my blood began to seethe, my heart beat violently against hers. “I want to be absolutely in your power, Wanda,” I exclaimed suddenly, seized by that frenzy of passion when I can scarcely think clearly or decide freely. “I want to put myself absolutely at your mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to your power.” While saying this I had slipped from the ottoman, and lay at her feet looking up at her with drunken eyes. “How beautiful you now are,” she exclaimed, “your eyes half-broken in ecstacy fill me with joy, carry me away. How wonderful your look would be if you were being beaten to death, in the extreme agony. You have the eye of a martyr.” * * * * * Sometimes, nevertheless, I have an uneasy feeling about placing myself so absolutely, so unconditionally into a woman’s hands. Suppose she did abuse my passion, her power? Well, then I would experience what has occupied my imagination since my childhood, what has always given me the feeling of seductive terror. A foolish apprehension! It will be a wanton game she will play with me, nothing more. She loves me, and she is good, a noble personality, incapable of a breach of faith. But it lies in her hands —if she wants to she can. What a temptation in this doubt, this fear! Now I understand Manon l’Escault and the poor chevalier, who, even in the pillory, while she was another man’s mistress, still adored her. Love knows no virtue, no profit; it loves and forgives and suffers everything, because it must. It is not our judgment that leads us; it is neither the advantages nor the faults which we discover, that make us abandon ourselves, or that repel us. It is a sweet, soft, enigmatic power that drives us on. We cease to think, to feel, to will; we let ourselves be carried away by it, and ask not whither? * * * * * A Russian prince made his first appearance today on the promenade. He aroused general interest on account of his athletic figure, magnificent face, and splendid bearing.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  So I draw cartoons to make him happy, to give him other worlds to live inside. I draw his dreams. And he only talks about his dreams with me. And I only talk about my dreams with him. I tell him about my fears. I think Rowdy might be the most important person in my life. Maybe more important than my family. Can your best friend be more important than your family? I think so. I mean, after all, I spend a lot more time with Rowdy than I do with anyone else. Let’s do the math. I figure Rowdy and I have spent an average of eight hours a day together for the last fourteen years. That’s eight hours times 365 days times fourteen years. So that means Rowdy and I have spent 40,880 hours in each other’s company. Nobody else comes anywhere close to that. Trust me. Rowdy and I are inseparable. Because Geometry Is Not a Country Somewhere Near France [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] I was fourteen and it was my first day of high school. I was happy about that. And I was most especially excited about my first geometry class. Yep, I have to admit that isosceles triangles make me feel hormonal. Most guys, no matter what age, get excited about curves and circles, but not me. Don’t get me wrong. I like girls and their curves. And I really like women and their curvier curves. I spend hours in the bathroom with a magazine that has one thousand pictures of naked movie stars: Naked woman + right hand = happy happy joy joy Yep, that’s right, I admit that I masturbate. I’m proud of it. I’m good at it. I’m ambidextrous. If there were a Professional Masturbators League, I’d get drafted number one and make millions of dollars. And maybe you’re thinking, “Well, you really shouldn’t be talking about masturbation in public.” Well, tough, I’m going to talk about it because EVERYBODY does it. And EVERYBODY likes it. And if God hadn’t wanted us to masturbate, then God wouldn’t have given us thumbs. So I thank God for my thumbs. But, the thing is, no matter how much time my thumbs and I spend with the curves of imaginary women, I am much more in love with the right angles of buildings. When I was a baby, I’d crawl under my bed and snuggle into a corner to sleep. I just felt warm and safe leaning into two walls at the same time. When I was eight, nine, and ten, I slept in my bedroom closet with the door closed. I only stopped doing that because my big sister, Mary, told me that I was just trying to find my way back into my mother’s womb. That ruined the whole closet thing.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I was half Indian in one place and half white in the other. It was like being Indian was my job, but it was only a part-time job. And it didn’t pay well at all. The only person who made me feel great all the time was Penelope. Well, I shouldn’t say that. I mean, my mother and father were working hard for me, too. They were constantly scraping together enough money to pay for gas, to get me lunch money, to buy me a new pair of jeans and a few new shirts. My parents gave me just enough money so that I could pretend to have more money than I did. I lied about how poor I was. Everybody in Reardan assumed we Spokanes made lots of money because we had a casino. But that casino, mismanaged and too far away from major highways, was a money-losing business. In order to make money from the casino, you had to work at the casino. And white people everywhere have always believed that the government just gives money to Indians. And since the kids and parents at Reardan thought I had a lot of money, I did nothing to change their minds. I figured it wouldn’t do me any good if they knew I was dirt poor. What would they think of me if they knew I sometimes had to hitchhike to school? Yeah, so I pretended to have a little money. I pretended to be middle class. I pretended I belonged. Nobody knew the truth. Of course, you can’t lie forever. Lies have short shelf lives. Lies go bad. Lies rot and stink up the joint. In December, I took Penelope to the Winter Formal. The thing is, I only had five dollars, not nearly enough to pay for anything—not for photos, not for food, not for gas, not for a hot dog and soda pop. If it had been any other dance, a regular dance, I would have stayed home with an imaginary illness. But I couldn’t skip Winter Formal. And if I didn’t take Penelope then she would have certainly gone with somebody else. Because I didn’t have money for gas, and because I couldn’t have driven the car if I wanted to, and because I didn’t want to double date, I told Penelope I’d meet her at the gym for the dance. She wasn’t too happy about that. But the worst thing is that I had to wear one of Dad’s old suits: I was worried that people would make fun of me, right? And they probably would have if Penelope hadn’t immediately squealed with delight when she first saw me walk into the gym. “Oh, my, God!” she yelled for everybody to hear. “That suit is so beautiful. It’s so retroactive. It’s so retroactive that it’s radioactive!” And every dude in the joint immediately wished he’d worn his father’s lame polyester suit.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Drunk for a week, my father must have really wanted to spend those last five dollars. Shoot, you can buy a bottle of the worst whiskey for five dollars. He could have spent that five bucks and stayed drunk for another day or two. But he saved it for me. It was a beautiful and ugly thing. “Thanks, Dad,” I said. He was asleep. “Merry Christmas,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. Red Versus White [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] You probably think I’ve completely fallen in love with white people and that I don’t see anything good in Indians. Well, that’s false. I love my big sister. I think she’s double crazy and random. Ever since she moved, she’s sent me all these great Montana postcards. Beautiful landscapes and beautiful Indians. Buffalo. Rivers. Huge insects. Great postcards. She still can’t find a job, and she’s still living in that crappy little trailer. But she’s happy and working hard on her book. She made a New Year’s resolution to finish her book by summertime. Her book is about hope, I guess. I think she wants me to share in her romance. I love her for that. And I love my mother and father and my grandma. Ever since I’ve been at Reardan, and seen how great parents do their great parenting, I realize that my folks are pretty good. Sure, my dad has a drinking problem and my mom can be a little eccentric, but they make sacrifices for me. They worry about me. They talk to me. And best of all, they listen to me. I’ve learned that the worst thing a parent can do is ignore their children. And, trust me, there are plenty of Reardan kids who get ignored by their parents. There are white parents, especially fathers, who never come to the school. They don’t come for their kids’ games, concerts, plays, or carnivals. I’m friends with some white kids, and I’ve never met their fathers. That’s absolutely freaky. On the rez, you know every kid’s father, mother, grandparents, dog, cat, and shoe size. I mean, yeah, Indians are screwed up, but we’re really close to each other. We KNOW each other. Everybody knows everybody. But despite the fact that Reardan is a tiny town, people can still be strangers to each other. I’ve learned that white people, especially fathers, are good at hiding in plain sight. I mean, yeah, my dad would sometimes go on a drinking binge and be gone for a week, but those white dads can completely disappear without ever leaving the living room. They can just BLEND into their chairs. They become their chairs. So, okay, I’m not all goofy-eyed in love with white people, all right? Plenty of the old white guys still give me the stink eye just for being Indian. And a lot of them think I shouldn’t be in the school at all. I’m realistic, okay?

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  But nothing of the sternness which had so delighted me the other time was now discernable. “On the contrary, there was so little of cruelty in her that without any more ado she let me adore her. “Only too soon did she discover my supersensual folly and innocence, and it pleased her to make me happy. As for myself—I was as happy as a young god. What rapture for me to be allowed to lie before her on my knees, and to kiss her hands, those with which she had scourged me! What marvellous hands they were, of beautiful form, delicate, rounded, and white, with adorable dimples! I really was in love with her hands only. I played with them, let them submerge and emerge in the dark fur, held them against the light, and was unable to satiate my eyes with them.” Wanda involuntarily looked at her hand; I noticed it, and had to smile. “From the way in which the supersensual predominated in me in those days you can see that I was in love only with the cruel lashes I received from my aunt; and about two years later when I paid court to a young actress only in the roles she played. Still later I became the admirer of a respectable woman. She acted the part of irreproachable virtue, only in the end to betray me with a rich Jew. You see, it is because I was betrayed, sold, by a woman who feigned the strictest principles and the highest ideals, that I hate that sort of poetical, sentimental virtue so intensely. Give me rather a woman who is honest enough to say to me: I am a Pompadour, a Lucretia Borgia, and I am ready to adore her.” Wanda rose and opened the window. “You have a curious way of arousing one’s imagination, stimulating all one’s nerves, and making one’s pulses beat faster. You put an aureole on vice, provided only if it is honest. Your ideal is a daring courtesan of genius. Oh, you are the kind of man who will corrupt a woman to her very last fiber.” * * * * * In the middle of the night there was a knock at my window; I got up, opened it, and was startled. Without stood “Venus in Furs,” just as she had appeared to me the first time. “You have disturbed me with your stories; I have been tossing about in bed, and can’t go to sleep,” she said. “Now come and stay with me.” “In a moment.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “Everywhere. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China. I want to walk to the top of pyramids in Egypt. I want to swim in every ocean. I want to climb Mount Everest. I want to go on an African safari. I want to ride a dogsled in Antarctica. I want all of it. Every single piece of everything.” Her eyes got this strange faraway look, like she’d been hypnotized. I laughed. “Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you,” I said. “I’m laughing at your eyes.” “That’s the whole problem,” she said. “Nobody takes me seriously.” “Well, come on, it’s kind of hard to take you seriously when you’re talking about the Great Wall of China and Egypt and stuff. Those are just big goofy dreams. They’re not real.” “They’re real to me,” she said. “Why don’t you quit talking in dreams and tell me what you really want to do with your life,” I said. “Make it simple.” “I want to go to Stanford and study architecture.” “Wow, that’s cool,” I said. “But why architecture?” “Because I want to build something beautiful. Because I want to be remembered.” And I couldn’t make fun of her for that dream. It was my dream, too. And Indian boys weren’t supposed to dream like that. And white girls from small towns weren’t supposed to dream big, either. We were supposed to be happy with our limitations. But there was no way Penelope and I were going to sit still. Nope, we both wanted to fly: [image "An illustration of an Australian tufted Arnelope bird in flight, with a description noting its tail feathers’ suitability for long-distance flying at high altitudes." file=image_rsrc4SN.jpg] “You know,” I said. “I think it’s way cool that you want to travel the world. But you won’t even make it halfway if you don’t eat enough.” She was in pain and I loved her, sort of loved her, I guess, so I kind of had to love her pain, too. Mostly I loved to look at her. I guess that’s what boys do, right? And men. We look at girls and women. We stare at them. And this is what I saw when I stared at Penelope: [image "A sketch of a person wearing a hat with ear flaps. The text reads, ‘Penelope in her dad’s old hat.’" file=image_rsrc4SP.jpg] Was it wrong to stare so much? Was it romantic at all? I don’t know. But I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I don’t know anything about romance, but I know a little bit about beauty. And, man, Penelope was crazy beautiful. Can you blame me for staring at her all day long? Rowdy Gives Me Advice About Love [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] Have you ever watched a beautiful woman play volleyball? Yesterday, during a game, Penelope was serving the ball and I watched her like she was a work of art.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  How does one author touch so many different people at so many different points in their lives? Alexie’s brilliance lies in his ability to speak truth to power with humor, grace, and love. He loves the characters he brings to the page, and, by extension, we fall in love with them, too. Two pages in, I told my son we could move on to his comic book if he wanted. “Nah,” he said. “Keep reading.” After a moment, he smiled and said, “I think this book is going to be good.” We read long past his bedtime. For me, moving back into Junior’s world felt like visiting an old friend. For my son and for so many of you coming to this story for the first time, I know this book will be revisited often and, most of all, loved deeply. —Jacqueline Woodson There is another world, but it is in this one. W.B. Yeats The Black-Eye-of-the-Month Club [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] I was born with water on the brain. Okay, so that’s not exactly true. I was actually born with too much cerebral spinal fluid inside my skull. But cerebral spinal fluid is just the doctors’ fancy way of saying brain grease. And brain grease works inside the lobes like car grease works inside an engine. It keeps things running smooth and fast. But weirdo me, I was born with too much grease inside my skull, and it got all thick and muddy and disgusting, and it only mucked up the works. My thinking and breathing and living engine slowed down and flooded. My brain was drowning in grease. But that makes the whole thing sound weirdo and funny, like my brain was a giant French fry, so it seems more serious and poetic and accurate to say, “I was born with water on the brain.” Okay, so maybe that’s not a very serious way to say it, either. Maybe the whole thing is weird and funny. But jeez, did my mother and father and big sister and grandma and cousins and aunts and uncles think it was funny when the doctors cut open my little skull and sucked out all that extra water with some tiny vacuum? I was only six months old and I was supposed to croak during the surgery. And even if I somehow survived the mini-Hoover, I was supposed to suffer serious brain damage during the procedure and live the rest of my life as a vegetable. Well, I obviously survived the surgery. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t, but I have all sorts of physical problems that are directly the result of my brain damage. First of all, I ended up having forty-two teeth. The typical human has thirty-two, right? But I had forty-two. Ten more than usual. Ten more than normal. Ten teeth past human.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  For this book, the thumbnails were hard because I had to stay in Arnold’s mindset, and I was interpreting someone else’s work. Sketching was weird because I had to remember to keep the looseness of the thumbnails, and inking was REALLY HARD! The drawings needed to look like Arnold just sat down and drew them, boom. This may sound counterintuitive, but it takes way more concentration and confidence to make fast lines and swoops than my usual slow and deliberate inking. Also, Arnold wouldn’t use a brush in his sketchbook, so I used a felt-tip pen. So not only was I using an unfamiliar tool, I was trying to make labored drawings look spontaneous. I got cramps in my hand a lot. Why did you use so many different drawing styles? I used three drawing styles. In my own sketchbooks (and scraps of paper and backs of envelopes), I use different styles for different purposes, and I felt that Arnold would, too. Arnold’s artwork needed to span different situations and moods, so his drawing style needed change as well. First, the more scribbled-looking illustrations and comics suggest that Arnold is jotting down his thoughts in an immediate way, like he’d just had an idea and quickly wrote it down. Most of the artwork is like that. Second, the slightly more realistic cartoons, like the annotated portraits of his family, suggest that he’s giving more thought to what he’s doing. Certain ideas would have been rumbling around his head and were well-developed by the time he put them on the page. Third, the penciled portraits suggest two different types of intimate situations. Detailed, more realistic drawings can take a while, and in that way describe a span of time, so we know that Arnold was concentrating and focusing on his artwork and on whatever subject he was drawing. The pencil sketches of his friends suggest that he spent a lot of time with his friends looking at them intently and that they were comfortable with that intimacy. For example, I imagined that Arnold sketched his friend Gordy as he studied in the library, concentrating on the weird way Gordy rested his face on his hand with his intent facial expression and the curve of his shoulders. Arnold was using his sketchbook to love Gordy, in a way. Other pencil sketches, like the portrait of Eugene on a motorcycle, suggest that he drew them from a photograph. He wanted to spend time with those people, but for some reason—logistically, or emotionally—couldn’t do it in person. One other detailed style was for the Penelope bird. When Arnold drew that, he was thinking about how he loved Penelope and how they both wanted to fly away.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  But I couldn’t. He was never going to change. “Let’s go,” I said. We walked over to the courts behind the high school. Two old hoops with chain nets. We just shot lazy jumpers for a few minutes. We didn’t talk. Didn’t need to talk. We were basketball twins. Of course, Rowdy got hot, hit fifteen or twenty in a row, and I rebounded and kept passing the ball to him. Then I got hot, hit twenty-one in a row, and Rowdy rebounded for me. “You want to go one-on-one?” Rowdy asked. “Yeah.” “You’ve never beaten me one-on-one,” he said. “You pussy.” “Yeah, that’s going to change.” “Not today,” he said. “Maybe not today,” I said. “But someday.” “Your ball,” he said and passed it to me. I spun the rock in my hands. “Where you going to school next year?” I asked. “Where do you think, dumb-ass? Right here, where I’ve always been.” “You could come to Reardan with me.” “You already asked me that once.” “Yeah, but I asked you a long time ago. Before everything happened. Before we knew stuff. So I’m asking you again. Come to Reardan with me.” Rowdy breathed deeply. For a second, I thought he was going to cry. Really. I expected him to cry. But he didn’t. “You know, I was reading this book,” he said. “Wow, you were reading a book!” I said, mock-surprised. “Eat me,” he said. We laughed. “So, anyway,” he said. “I was reading this book about old-time Indians, about how we used to be nomadic.” “Yeah,” I said. “So I looked up nomadic in the dictionary, and it means people who move around, who keep moving, in search of food and water and grazing land.” “That sounds about right.” “Well, the thing is, I don’t think Indians are nomadic anymore. Most Indians, anyway.” “No, we’re not,” I said. “I’m not nomadic,” Rowdy said. “Hardly anybody on this rez is nomadic. Except for you. You’re the nomadic one.” “Whatever.” “No, I’m serious. I always knew you were going to leave. I always knew you were going to leave us behind and travel the world. I had this dream about you a few months ago. You were standing on the Great Wall of China. You looked happy. And I was happy for you.” Rowdy didn’t cry. But I did. “You’re an old-time nomad,” Rowdy said. “You’re going to keep moving all over the world in search of food and water and grazing land. That’s pretty cool.” I could barely talk. “Thank you,” I said. “Yeah,” Rowdy said. “Just make sure you send me postcards, you asshole.” “From everywhere,” I said. I would always love Rowdy. And I would always miss him, too.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I could have made a pleasure of the greatest toil, and worked my fingers to the bone, with joy, to have supported him: guess, then, if I could harbour any idea of being burthensome to him, and this disinterested turn in me was so unaffected, so much the dictate of my heart, that Charles could not but feel it: and if he did not love me as much as I did him (which was the constant and only matter of sweet contention between us), he managed so, at least, as to give me the satisfaction of believing it impossible for man to be more tender, more true, more faithful than he was. Our landlady, Mrs. Jones, came frequently up to my apartment, from whence I never stirred on any pretext without Charles; nor was it long before she wormed out, without much art, the secret of our having cheated the church of a ceremony, and, in course, of the terms we lived together upon; a circumstance which far from displeased her, considering the designs she had upon me, and which, alas! she will have too soon, room to carry into execution. But in the meantime, her own experience of life let her see, that any attempt, however indirect or disguised, to divert or break, at least presently, so strong a cement of hearts as ours was, could only end in losing two lodgers, of whom she had made very competent advantages, if either of us came to smoke her commission, for a commission she had from one of her customers, either to debauch, or get me away from my keeper at any rate. But the barbarity of my fate soon saved her the task of disuniting us. I had now been eleven months with this life of my life, which had passed in one continued rapid stream of delight: but nothing so violent was ever made to last. I was about three months gone with a child by him, a circumstances would have added to his tenderness, had he ever left me room to believe it could receive an addition, when the mortal, the unexpected blow of separation fell upon us. I shall gallop post-over the particulars, which I shudder yet to think of, and cannot; to this instant, reconcile myself how, or by what means I could out-live it.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  He’d tell me the love of my life was somewhere else in the world and that she and I would find each other. Randy was only twelve years old, and he was saying that smart and romantic stuff. But he would also give me advice. He’d challenge me. This one time, he said, “Junior, you fall in love too easy.” And, oh man, he was right about that. The thing is, whether we were talking about basketball or girls or school or anything else, Randy was the first person who always, always, always made me feel loved. Made me feel appreciated. Made me feel understood . And yeah, in the meantime he was fighting and arguing with almost everybody else. With kids and adults. But he was always good to me. And so I started to believe that I was good. I started to believe I was great. More than that, I started to believe that a little Indian boy like me could compete against white people. Do you remember how it felt to be so Indian and so poor and so powerless? And it felt like you would lose to white people? That you’d always lose to white people? Well, Randy didn’t believe that. And he wouldn’t let me believe it, either. He wouldn’t let me believe I was inferior to white people. Or to other Indians. Randy had so much faith in me. It was amazing. And it feels weird to say this. It sounds hurtful, maybe. But I think Randy’s faith in me gave me the faith to leave the reservation school and transfer to Reardan. I think about my older son. He was really sick when he was born, and he needed a lot of speech therapy and physical therapy as he grew older. For a few years, he did hippotherapy. I know that sounds like he rode hippos. Ha! But actually he rode horses as a way to build up his muscles and his confidence. And one day as he was riding, the horse trainer said that my son was “borrowing the strength of the horse until he could find his own.” So I’m not calling Randy a horse here, but I think that I borrowed his strength. I think I absolutely needed to borrow his strength in Wellpinit, on the reservation, until I found my own strength off the reservation. And you guys mostly know what happened in high school. I became a basketball star in Reardan. Eventually, Randy left Wellpinit a couple years after I did. He went back to school in Springdale and became a basketball star, too. We never played each other in high school, though, because his teams were terrible and my teams were good. Ha! I had to talk trash one more time. You see, at Reardan, I played with white boys who were good at basketball.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  You see, Randy was the first person who really listened to me. I’d stay the night at his house. He’d sleep on the bottom bunk, and I’d be on the top bunk. And I would do most of the talking. Wherever I’ve gone in my life, I’ve usually done most of the talking. Talk, talk, talk, that’s me. So Randy and I would stay awake all night, and I would talk about the girls I loved. Some of you girls are in this room. You’re women now, and I’m still a little bit in love with some of you. Ha! No, I’m not going to say who. But, hey, none of you loved me back. Not as a boyfriend. So my heart was always broken. I would talk about you, the girls I loved who did not love me back, and I would cry. I would cry hard. Randy never made fun of me for crying. He would listen and listen and listen, and he would tell me that you girls didn’t deserve my love. He’d tell me the love of my life was somewhere else in the world and that she and I would find each other. Randy was only twelve years old, and he was saying that smart and romantic stuff. But he would also give me advice. He’d challenge me. This one time, he said, “Junior, you fall in love too easy.” And, oh man, he was right about that. The thing is, whether we were talking about basketball or girls or school or anything else, Randy was the first person who always, always, always made me feel loved. Made me feel appreciated. Made me feel understood. And yeah, in the meantime he was fighting and arguing with almost everybody else. With kids and adults. But he was always good to me. And so I started to believe that I was good. I started to believe I was great. More than that, I started to believe that a little Indian boy like me could compete against white people. Do you remember how it felt to be so Indian and so poor and so powerless? And it felt like you would lose to white people? That you’d always lose to white people? Well, Randy didn’t believe that. And he wouldn’t let me believe it, either. He wouldn’t let me believe I was inferior to white people. Or to other Indians. Randy had so much faith in me. It was amazing. And it feels weird to say this. It sounds hurtful, maybe. But I think Randy’s faith in me gave me the faith to leave the reservation school and transfer to Reardan. I think about my older son. He was really sick when he was born, and he needed a lot of speech therapy and physical therapy as he grew older. For a few years, he did hippotherapy. I know that sounds like he rode hippos. Ha!

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Who will give warrant that I shall not abuse your insane desire?” “Your own nobility of character.” “Power makes people over-bearing.” “Be it,” I cried, “tread me underfoot.” Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her head. “I am afraid I can’t, but I will try, for your sake, for I love you Severin, as I have loved no other man.” * * * * * To-day she suddenly took her hat and shawl, and I had to go shopping with her. She looked at whips, long whips with a short handle, the kind that are used on dogs. “Are these satisfactory?” said the shopkeeper. “No, they are much too small,” replied Wanda, with a side-glance at me. “I need a large—” “For a bull-dog, I suppose?” opined the merchant. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “of the kind that are used in Russia for intractable slaves.” She looked further and finally selected a whip, at whose sight I felt a strange creeping sensation. “Now good-by, Severin,” she said. “I have some other purchases to make, but you can’t go along.” I left her and took a walk. On the way back I saw Wanda coming out at a furrier’s. She beckoned me. “Consider it well,” she began in good spirits, “I have never made a secret of how deeply your serious, dreamy character has fascinated me. The idea of seeing this serious man wholly in my power, actually lying enraptured at my feet, of course, stimulates me—but will this attraction last? Woman loves a man; she maltreats a slave, and ends by kicking him aside.” “Very well then, kick me aside,” I replied, “when you are tired of me. I want to be your slave.” “Dangerous forces lie within me,” said Wanda, after we had gone a few steps further. “You awaken them, and not to your advantage. You know how to paint pleasure, cruelty, arrogance in glowing colors. What would you say should I try my hand at them, and make you the first object of my experiments. I would be like Dionysius who had the inventor of the iron ox roasted within it in order to see whether his wails and groans really resembled the bellowing of an ox. “Perhaps I am a female Dionysius?” “Be it,” I exclaimed, “and my dreams will be fulfilled. I am yours for good or evil, choose. The destiny that lies concealed within my breast drives me on—demoniacally—relentlessly.” “My Beloved, I do not care to see you to-day or to-morrow, and not until evening the day after tomorrow, and then as my slave. Your mistress Wanda.” “As my slave” was underlined.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  We were supposed to be happy with our limitations. But there was no way Penelope and I were going to sit still. Nope, we both wanted to fly: “You know,” I said. “I think it’s way cool that you want to travel the world. But you won’t even make it halfway if you don’t eat enough.” She was in pain and I loved her, sort of loved her, I guess, so I kind of had to love her pain, too. Mostly I loved to look at her. I guess that’s what boys do, right? And men. We look at girls and women. We stare at them. And this is what I saw when I stared at Penelope: Was it wrong to stare so much? Was it romantic at all? I don’t know. But I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I don’t know anything about romance, but I know a little bit about beauty. And, man, Penelope was crazy beautiful. Can you blame me for staring at her all day long? Rowdy Gives Me Advice About Love Have you ever watched a beautiful woman play volleyball? Yesterday, during a game, Penelope was serving the ball and I watched her like she was a work of art. She was wearing a white shirt and white shorts, and I could see the outlines of her white bra and white panties. Her skin was pale white. Milky white. Cloud white. So she was all white on white on white, like the most perfect kind of vanilla dessert cake you’ve ever seen. I wanted to be her chocolate topping. She was serving against the mean girls from Davenport Lady Gorillas. Yeah, you read that correctly. They willingly called themselves the Lady Gorillas. And they played like superstrong primates, too. Penelope and her teammates were getting killed. The score was like 12 to 0 in the first set. But I didn’t care. I just wanted to watch the sweaty Penelope sweat her perfect sweat on that perfectly sweaty day. She stood at the service line, bounced the volleyball a few times to get her rhythm, then tossed it into the air above her head. She tracked the ball with her blue eyes. Just watched it intensely. Like that volleyball mattered more than anything else in the world. I got jealous of that ball. I wished I were that ball. As the ball floated in the air, Penelope twisted her hips and back and swung her right arm back over her shoulder, coiling like a really pretty snake. Her leg muscles were stretched and taut. I almost fainted when she served. Using all of that twisting and flexing and concentration, she smashed the ball and aced the Lady Gorillas. And then Penelope clenched a fist and shouted, “Yes!”

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Her eyes burned. “Yes, in all seriousness, I want to be your slave,” I continued. “I want your power over me to be sanctified by law; I want my life to be in your hands, I want nothing that could protect or save me from you. Oh, what a voluptuous joy when once I feel myself entirely dependent upon your absolute will, your whim, at your beck and call. And then what happiness, when at some time you deign to be gracious, and the slave may kiss the lips which mean life and death to him.” I knelt down, and leaned my burning forehead against her knee. “You are talking as in a fever,” said Wanda agitatedly, “and you really love me so endlessly.” She held me to her breast, and covered me with kisses. “You really want it?” “I swear to you now by God and my honor, that I shall be your slave, wherever and whenever you wish it, as soon as you command,” I exclaimed, hardly master of myself. “And if I take you at your word?” said Wanda. “Please do!” “All this appeals to me,” she said then. “It is different from anything else—to know that a man who worships me, and whom I love with all my heart, is so wholly mine, dependent on my will and caprice, my possession and slave, while I—” She looked strangely at me. “If I should become frightfully frivolous you are to blame,” she continued. “It almost seems as if you were afraid of me already, but you have sworn.” “And I shall keep my oath.” “I shall see to that,” she replied. “I am beginning to enjoy it, and, heaven help me, we won’t stick to fancies now. You shall become my slave, and I—I shall try to be Venus in Furs.” * * * * * I thought that at last I knew this woman, understood her, and now I see I have to begin at the very beginning again. Only a little while ago her reaction to my dreams was violently hostile, and now she tries to carry them into execution with the soberest seriousness. She has drawn up a contract according to which I give my word of honor and agree under oath to be her slave, as long as she wishes. With her arm around my neck she reads this, unprecedented, incredible document to me. The end of each sentence she punctuates with a kiss. “But all the obligations in the contract are on my side,” I said, teasing her. “Of course,” she replied with great seriousness, “you cease to be my lover, and consequently I am released from all duties and obligations towards you. You will have to look upon my favors as pure benevolence. You no longer have any rights, and no longer can lay claim to any.

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  [image file=image_rsrcDZA.jpg] Some renouncers broke even more completely with the Vedic system and were denounced as heretics by the Brahmins. Two in particular made a lasting impact, and significantly, both came from the gana-sanghas. Destined for a military career, Vardhamana Jnatraputra (c. 599–527) was the son of a Kshatriya chieftain of the Jnatra clan of Kundagrama, north of modern Patna. At the age of thirty, however, he changed course and became a renouncer. After a long, difficult apprenticeship, he achieved enlightenment and became a jina (“conqueror”); his followers became known as Jains. Even though he went further than anybody else in his renunciation of violence, it was natural for him, as a former warrior, to express his insights in military imagery. His followers called him Mahavira (“Great Champion”), the title of an intrepid warrior in the Rig Veda. Yet his regime was based wholly on nonviolence, one that vanquished every impulse to harm others. For Mahavira, the only way to achieve liberation (moksha) was to cultivate an attitude of friendliness toward everyone and everything.81 Here, as in the Upanishads, we encounter the requirement found in many great world traditions that it is not enough to confine our benevolence to our own people or to those we find congenial; this partiality must be replaced by a practically expressed empathy for everybody, without exception. If this was practiced consistently, violence of any kind—verbal, martial, or systemic—becomes impossible. Mahavira taught his male and female disciples to develop a sympathy that had no bounds, to realize their profound kinship with all beings. Every single creature—even plants, water, fire, air, and rocks—had a jiva, a living “soul,” and must be treated with the respect that we wish to receive ourselves.82 Most of his followers were Kshatriyas seeking an alternative to the warfare and structural segmentation of society. As warriors, they would have routinely distanced themselves from the enemy, carefully stifling their innate reluctance to kill their own kind. Jains, like the Upanishadic sages, taught their disciples to recognize their community with all others and relinquish the preoccupation with “us” and “them” that made fighting and structural oppression impossible, because a true “conqueror” did not inflict harm of any kind.