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 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)

  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.

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

  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.” “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. 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. 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.

• 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)

  I felt no more the smart of my wounds below; but, curling round him like the tendril of a vine, as if I feared any part of him should be untouched or unpressed by me, I returned his strenuous embraces and kisses with a fervour and gust only known to true love, and which mere lust never rise to. Yes, even at this time, that all the tyranny of the passions is fully over, and that my veins roll no longer but a cold tranquil stream, the remembrance of those passages that most affected me in my youth, still cheers and refreshes me; let me proceed then. My beauteous youth was now glued to me in all the folds and twists that we could make our bodies meet in; when, no longer able to rein in the fierceness of refreshed desires, he gives his steed the head, and gently insinuating his thighs between mine, stopping my mouth with kisses of humid fire, makes a fresh eruption, and renewing his thrusts, pierces, tears, and forces his way up the torn tender folds, that yielded him admission with a smart little less severe that when the breach was first made I stifled, however, my cries, and bore him with the passive fortitude of an heroine; soon his thrusts, more and more furious, cheeks flushed with a deeper scarlet, his eyes turned up in the fervent fit, some dying sighs, and an agonizing shudder, announced the approaches of that ecstatic pleasure, I was yet in too much pain to come in for my share of. Nor was it till after a few enjoyments had numbed and blunted the sense of the smart, and given me to feel the titillating inspersion of balsamic sweets, drew from me the delicious return, and brought down all my passion, that I arrived at excess of pleasure through excess of pain.

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

  Réné,' said she, 'what must you think of me?' "'That you love me dearly,' quoth he; 'do you not?' "'Yes, indeed; not wisely, but too well.' "Thereupon, taking off her wrappers, she rushed up and clasped her lover in her arms, showering her warm kisses on his head, his eyes, his cheeks and then upon his mouth. That mouth I so longed to kiss! "With lips pressed together, she remained for some time inhaling his breath, and—almost frightened at her boldness—she touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, taking courage, soon afterwards she slipped it in his mouth, and then after a while, she thrust it in and out, as if she were enticing him to try the act of nature by it; she was so convulsed with lust by this kiss that she had to clasp herself to him not to fall, for the blood was rushing to her head, and her knees were almost giving way beneath her. At last, taking his right hand, after squeezingly it hesitatingly for a moment, she placed it within her breasts, giving him her nipple to pinch, and as he did so, the pleasure she felt was so great that she was swooning away for joy. "'Oh, Teleny!' said she; 'I can't! I can't any more.' "And she rubbed herself as strongly as she could against him, protruding her middle parts against his." "And Teleny?" "Well, jealous as I was, I could not help feeling how different his manner was now from the rapturous way with which he had clung to me that evening, when he had taken the bunch of heliotrope from his button-hole and had put it in mine. "He accepted rather than returned her caresses. Anyhow, she seemed pleased, for she thought him shy. "She was now hanging on him. One of her arms was clasped around his waist, the other one around his neck. Her dainty, tapering bejewelled fingers were playing with his curly hair, and paddling his neck. "He was squeezing her breasts, and, as I said before, slightly fingering her nipples. "She gazed deep into his eyes, and then sighed. "'You do not love me,' at last she said. 'I can see it in your eyes. You are not thinking of me, but of somebody else.' "And it was true. At that moment he was thinking of me—fondly, longingly; and then, as he did so, he got more excited, and he caught her in his arms, and hugged and kissed her with far more eagerness than he had hitherto done—nay, he began to suck her tongue as if it had been mine, and then began to thrust his own into her mouth. "After a few moments of rapture she, this time, stopped to take breath. "'Yes, I am wrong. You love me.

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

  Without those great or shining qualities that constitute a genius, or are fit to make a noise in the world, he had all those humble ones that compose the softer social merit: plain common sense, set off with every grace of modesty and good nature, made him, if not admired, what is much happier: universally beloved and esteemed. But, as nothing but the beauties of his person had at first attracted my regard and fixed my passion, neither was I then a judge of the internal merit, which I had afterwards full occasion to discover, and which, perhaps, in that season of giddiness and levity, would have touched my heart very little, had it been lodged in a person less the delight of my eyes, and idol of my senses. But to return to our situation. After dinner, which we ate a-bed in most voluptuous disorder, Charles got up, and taking a passionate leave of me for a few hours, went to town, where concerting matters with a young sharp lawyer, they went together to my late venerable mistress’s, from whence I had, but the day before, made my elopement, and with whom he was determined to settle accounts, in a manner that should cut off all after reckonings from that quarter. Accordingly they went; but by the way, the Templar, his friend, on thinking over Charles’s information, saw reason to give their visit another turn, and, instead of offering satisfaction, to demand it. On being let in, the girls of the house flocked round Charles, whom they knew, and from the earlyness of my escape, and their perfect ignorance of his ever having so much as seen me, not having the least suspicion of his being accessory to my flight, they were, in their way, making up to him; and as to his companion, they took him probably for a fresh cully. But the Templar soon checked their forwardness, by enquiring for the old lady, with whom he said, with a grave-like countenance, that he had some business to settle. Madam was immediately sent for down, and the ladies being desired to clear the room, the lawyer asked her, severely, if she did know, or had not decoyed, under pretence of hiring as a servant, a young girl, just come out of the country, called Frances or Fanny Hill, describing me withal as particularly as he could from Charlie’s description.

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

  And that made me cry. Man, I’ve always cried too easily. I cry when I’m happy or sad. I cry when I’m angry. I cry because I’m crying. It’s weak. It’s the opposite of warrior. “Quit crying,” Rowdy said. “I can’t help it,” I said. “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” Yeah, I was quite the dramatic twelve-year-old. “Please,” Rowdy said. “Stop that bawling, okay?” “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I wiped my face with one of my pillows and threw it across the room. “Jesus, you’re a wimp,” Rowdy said. “Just don’t tell anybody I cried about Dawn,” I said. “Have I ever told anybody your secrets?” Rowdy asked. “No.” “Okay, then, I won’t tell anybody you cried over a dumb girl.” And he didn’t tell anybody. Rowdy was my secret-keeper. Halloween [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] At school today, I went dressed as a homeless dude. It was a pretty easy costume for me. There’s not much difference between my good and bad clothes, so I pretty much look half-homeless anyway. And Penelope went dressed as a homeless woman. Of course, she was the most beautiful homeless woman who ever lived. We made a cute couple. Of course, we weren’t a couple at all, but I still found the need to comment on our common taste. “Hey,” I said. “We have the same costume.” I thought she was just going to sniff at me again, but she almost smiled. “You have a good costume,” Penelope said. “You look really homeless.” “Thank you,” I said. “You look really cute.” “I’m not trying to be cute,” she said. “I’m wearing this to protest the treatment of homeless people in this country. I’m going to ask for only spare change tonight, instead of candy, and I’m going to give it all to the homeless.” I didn’t understand how wearing a Halloween costume could become a political statement, but I admired her commitment. I wanted her to admire my commitment, too. So I lied. “Well,” I said. “I’m wearing this to protest the treatment of homeless Native Americans in this country.” “Oh,” she said. “I guess that’s pretty cool.” “Yeah, that spare change thing is a good idea. I think I might do that, too.” Of course, after school, I’d be trick-or-treating on the rez, so I wouldn’t collect as much spare change as Penelope would in Reardan. “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t we pool our money tomorrow and send it together? We’d be able to give twice as much.” Penelope stared at me. She studied me. I think she was trying to figure out if I was serious. “Are you for real?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “Well, okay,” she said. “It’s a deal.” “Cool, cool, cool,” I said. So, later that night, I went out trick-or-treating on the rez. It was a pretty stupid idea, I guess. I was probably too old to be trick-or-treating, even if I was asking for spare change for the homeless.

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

  He was alone, of course. Everybody was scared of him. “I thought you were on suspension, dickwad,” he said, which was Rowdy’s way of saying, “I’m happy you’re here.” “Kiss my ass,” I said. I wanted to tell him that he was my best friend and I loved him like crazy, but boys didn’t say such things to other boys, and nobody said such things to Rowdy. “Can I tell you a secret?” I asked. “It better not be girly,” he said. “It’s not.” “Okay, then, tell me.” “I’m transferring to Reardan.” Rowdy’s eyes narrowed. His eyes always narrowed right before he beat the crap out of someone. I started shaking. “That’s not funny,” he said. “It’s not supposed to be funny,” I said. “I’m transferring to Reardan. I want you to come with me.” “And when are you going on this imaginary journey?” “It’s not imaginary. It’s real. And I’m transferring now. I start school tomorrow at Reardan.” “You better quit saying that,” he said. “You’re getting me mad.” I didn’t want to get him mad. When Rowdy got mad it took him days to get un-mad. But he was my best friend and I wanted him to know the truth. “I’m not trying to get you mad,” I said. “I’m telling the truth. I’m leaving the rez, man, and I want you to come with me. Come on. It will be an adventure.” “I don’t even drive through that town,” he said. “What makes you think I want to go to school there?” He got up, stared me hard in the eyes, and then spit on the floor. Last year, during eighth grade, we traveled to Reardan to play them in flag football. Rowdy was our star quarterback and kicker and middle linebacker, and I was the loser water boy, and we lost to Reardan by the score of 45–0. Of course, losing isn’t exactly fun. Nobody wants to be a loser. We all got really mad and vowed to kick their asses the next game. But, two weeks after that, Reardan came to the rez and beat us 56–10. During basketball season, Reardan beat us 72–45 and 86–50, our only two losses of the season. Rowdy scored twenty-four points in the first game and forty in the second game. I scored nine points in each game, going 3 for 10 on three-pointers in the first game and 3 for 15 in the second. Those were my two worst games of the season.

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

  I might have impressed the king, but the queen still hated me. I guess my grandmother didn’t know everything. Tears of a Clown When I was twelve, I fell in love with an Indian girl named Dawn. She was tall and brown and was the best traditional powwow dancer on the rez. Her braids, wrapped in otter fur, were legendary. Of course, she didn’t care about me. She mostly made fun of me (she called me Junior High Honky for some reason I never understood). But that just made me love her even more. She was out of my league, and even though I was only twelve, I knew that I’d be one of those guys who always fell in love with the unreachable, ungettable, and uninterested. One night, at about two in the morning, when Rowdy slept over at my house, I made a full confession. “Man,” I said. “I love Dawn so much.” He was pretending to be asleep on the floor of my room. “Rowdy,” I said. “Are you awake?” “No.” “Did you hear what I said?” “No.” “I said I love Dawn so much.” He was quiet. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked. “About what?” “About what I just said.” “I didn’t hear you say anything.” He was just screwing with me. “Come on, Rowdy, I’m trying to tell you something major.” “You’re just being stupid,” he said. “What’s so stupid about it?” “Dawn doesn’t give a shit about you,” he said. And that made me cry. Man, I’ve always cried too easily. I cry when I’m happy or sad. I cry when I’m angry. I cry because I’m crying. It’s weak. It’s the opposite of warrior. “Quit crying,” Rowdy said. “I can’t help it,” I said. “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” Yeah, I was quite the dramatic twelve-year-old. “Please,” Rowdy said. “Stop that bawling, okay?” “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I wiped my face with one of my pillows and threw it across the room. “Jesus, you’re a wimp,” Rowdy said. “Just don’t tell anybody I cried about Dawn,” I said. “Have I ever told anybody your secrets?” Rowdy asked. “No.” “Okay, then, I won’t tell anybody you cried over a dumb girl.” And he didn’t tell anybody. Rowdy was my secret-keeper. Halloween At school today, I went dressed as a homeless dude. It was a pretty easy costume for me. There’s not much difference between my good and bad clothes, so I pretty much look half-homeless anyway. And Penelope went dressed as a homeless woman. Of course, she was the most beautiful homeless woman who ever lived. We made a cute couple.

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

  It’s actually kind of obvious and corny. But Penelope starts crying, talking about how lonely she is, and how everybody thinks her life is perfect because she’s pretty and smart and popular, but that she’s scared all the time, but nobody will let her be scared because she’s pretty and smart and popular. You notice that she mentioned her beauty, intelligence, and popularity twice in one sentence? The girl has an ego. But that’s sexy, too. How is it that a bulimic girl with vomit on her breath can suddenly be so sexy? Love and lust can make you go crazy. I suddenly understand how my big sister, Mary, could have met a guy and married him five minutes later. I’m not so mad at her for leaving us and moving to Montana. Over the next few weeks, Penelope and I become the hot item at Reardan High School. Well, okay, we’re not exactly a romantic couple. We’re more like friends with potential. But that’s still cool. Everybody is absolutely shocked that Penelope chose me to be her new friend. I’m not some ugly, mutated beast. But I am an absolute stranger at the school. And I am an Indian. And Penelope’s father, Earl, is a racist. The first time I meet him, he said, “Kid, you better keep your hands out of my daughter’s panties. She’s only dating you because she knows it will piss me off. So I ain’t going to get pissed. And if I ain’t pissed then she’ll stop dating you. In the meantime, you just keep your trouser snake in your trousers and I won’t have to punch you in the stomach.” And then you know what he said to me after that? “Kid, if you get my daughter pregnant, if you make some charcoal babies, I’m going to disown her. I’m going to kick her out of my house and you’ll have to bring her home to your mommy and daddy. You hearing me straight, kid? This is all on you now.” Yep, Earl was a real winner. Okay, so Penelope and I became the hot topic because we were defying the great and powerful Earl. And, yeah, you’re probably thinking that Penelope was dating me ONLY because I was the worst possible choice for her. She was probably dating me ONLY because I was an Indian boy. And, okay, so she was only semi-dating me. We held hands once in a while and we kissed once or twice, but that was it. I don’t know what I meant to her. I think she was bored of being the prettiest, smartest, and most popular girl in the world. She wanted to get a little crazy, you know? She wanted to get a little smudged. And I was the smudge. But, hey, I was kind of using her, too. After all, I suddenly became popular.

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

  Still he thought no more, than that being so young, the largeness of his machine (for few men could dispute size with him) made all the difficulty; and that possibly I had not been enjoyed by any so advantageously made in that part as himself: for still, that my virgin flower was yet un-cropped, never entered into his head, and he would have thought it idling with time and words, to have questioned me upon it. He tried again, still no admittance, still no penetration; but he had hurt me yet more, while my extreme love made me bear extreme pain, almost without a groan. At length, after repeated fruitless trials, he lay down panting by me, kissed my falling tears, and asked me tenderly “what was the meaning of so much complaining? and if I had not borne it better from other than I did from him?” I answered, with a simplicity framed to persuade, that he was the first man that ever served me so. Truth is powerful, and it is not always that we do not believe what we eagerly wish. Charles, already disposed by the evidence, of his senses to think my pretences to virginity not entirely apocryphal, smothers me with kisses, begs me, in the name of love, to have a little patience, and that he wilt be as tender of hurting me as he would be of himself.. Alas! it was enough I knew his pleasure to submit joyfully to him, whatever pain I foresaw it would cost, me. He now resumes his attempts in more form: first, he put one of the pillows under me, to give the blank of his aim a more favourable elevation, and another Under my head, in ease of it; then spreading my thighs, and placing himself standing betwen them, made them rest upon his; applying then the point of his machine to the slit, into which he sought entrance, it was so small, he could scarce assure himself of its being rightly pointed.

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

  And I’ll prove it, too. These are the eight things that I love with all my heart and soul: 1. my grandmother 2. my mother and father (the parental units count as one) 3. my big sister 4. math (especially geometry) 5. my best friend 6. drawing cartoons 7. any sport involving a ball 8. the beautiful girl named X Jess Walter Interviews Sherman Alexie Note: This interview has been abridged. The full interview is available in the audiobook edition. Sherman Alexie: Hello, everybody, this is Sherman Alexie. I’m sitting in the studio with Jess Walter, and we’re going to have a discussion about the tenth anniversary edition of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. I’m laughing because I just did an event in Oregon and the Oregon State librarian couldn’t remember the title and called it The Partially Part-Time True Story of a Full-Time Worker or something....[Laughs] I get into trouble with my long titles. Jess Walter: [Laughs] And I’m Jess Walter, I’m Sherman’s long-time friend and cohost of A Tiny Sense of Accomplishment, the hardest-to-find podcast in the world, as we like to think of it. It’s such an honor to be here talking about your unfortunately titled book that has done so poorly over this last decade. SA: Yeah, I mean...I wish I had written a book that sold more copies and got more attention. JW: And that sadly had just a little bit of influence on the culture. I don’t know how many times I came around the corner to see one of my kids reading it for school. SA: [Laughs] Oh man. My kid read it for school, which is the most bizarre thing. My poor son. It was the book of the first quint of his sixth-grade year, and he protested, though, in a way. He agreed to read it as long as no one asked him questions, like the teacher or the students, and no one got to interrogate him about the book or about me. But he got a C. I think it was a gentleman’s C. It was his protest C. JW: That’s a great protest, to get a C on your dad’s book. I think that’s the kind of rebellion we can all live with. SA: I was very proud of him. JW: It’s funny, you probably get this from people who ask about your books, “Which one’s your favorite?” And in the authors’ union, it says you have to say, “My books are all like children, they’re all exactly the same.” But on the tenth birthday of this one, you have to admit the reach of this book is probably unlike any that you’ve written before. SA: There’re only a few books that remain positive, that I remain positive about, and True Diary is at the top of that list. I very much...I didn’t know what I was writing. I’ve had a great career completely apart from True Diary.

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

  On this he thanked me with a sweetness perfectly agreeing with that of his features and eyes; the last now broad open, and eagerly surveying me, carried the surightly fires they sparkled with directly to my heart. It seems, that having drank too freely before he came upon the rake with some of his young companions, he had put himself out of a condition to go through all the weapons with them, and crown the night with a getting a mistress; so that seeing me in a loose undress, he did not doubt but I was one of the misses of the house, sent in to repair his loss of time; but though he seized that notion, and a very obvious one it was, without hesitation, yet, whether my figure made a more than ordinary impression on him, or whether it was his natural politeness, he addressed me in a manner far from rude, though still on the foot of one of the house pliers come to amuse him; and giving me the first kiss that I ever relished from man in my life, asked me if I could favour him with my company, assuring me that he would make it worth my while: but had not even new-born love, that true refiner of lust, opposed so sudden a surrender, the fear of being surprised by the house was a sufficient bar to my compliance. I told him then, in a tone set by love itself, that for reasons I had not time to explain to him. I could not stay with him, and might even ever see him again, with a sigh at these words, which broke from the bottom of my heart.

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

  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 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? I’ve thought about these things. And maybe I haven’t done enough thinking, but I’ve done enough to know that it’s better to live in Reardan than in Wellpinit. Maybe only slightly better. But from where I’m standing, slightly better is about the size of the Grand Canyon. And, hey, do you want to know the very best thing about Reardan?

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

  I knew he’d make fun of my speech impediments—of my lisp and stutter. I knew he’d make fun of my big hydrocephalic head and my government glasses. I knew he’d make fun of how easily I cried, and then he would make fun of my crying. “Hey,” he said. “What’s your name?” “Junior,” I said. “I’m Randy J. Peone,” he said, and smiled. And then it happened. We all know about falling in love at first sight. Most of us have probably fallen in love at first sight with somebody. Hopefully, with the person you’re married to right now. Love at first sight is always romantic, right? But have you ever heard about people becoming best friends at first sight? Have you ever heard of two Indian boys becoming instant best friends? Becoming best friends the first time they ever talk to each other? After they’ve only said maybe ten words to each other? Well, that happened to Randy and me. I don’t know how to explain it. But Randy and I were suddenly best friends. We never talked about it. We never acknowledged it. We just knew. Both of us knew. And that’s just how it was always going to be. And let me tell you, after Randy became my best friend, I didn’t get bullied all that much anymore. Randy became my bodyguard. He was the one who made me a good basketball player. Remember, I was the sick kid. The weak kid. The kid with seizures. But Randy got me on the basketball court and assumed that I would be good. He absolutely believed that I was good. He had so much confidence in himself that it made me confident in myself. And so, because of Randy, I was a good basketball player overnight. It was magical. And he and I led our sixth-grade team to an undefeated season and the VFW championship. But we didn’t even really need the other players. I think Randy and I could have won that league playing two-on-five. In practice one day, Randy and I played our seven teammates in a short game and beat them 21–6. Some of those teammates are here. I bet you’re still mad about losing to a two-man team. Ha! Yeah, it’s good to laugh at funerals. It’s good to be happy and sad at the same time. But you all know Randy was a great athlete. I couldn’t believe how many trophies he’d won. The first time I went to his house, I had to pick up and study every trophy. He was great at everything. Football, baseball, track, wrestling, boxing. I didn’t even play any of those sports. And he was better at basketball. At first. And I hate to say this at Randy’s funeral, with him right there in his coffin, unable to talk trash back to me, but I eventually ended up being a better basketball player than he was. I think he knew it, too. But he never admitted it.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  But by the grace of God I am what I am; and his grace which was bestowed upon me was not in vain; but I labored more abundantly than they all: yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me."376 This confession contains, in epitome, the whole meaning of his life and work. The idea of justification by the free grace of God in Christ through a living faith which makes Christ and his merits our own and leads to consecration and holiness, is the central idea of Paul’s Epistles. His whole theology, doctrinal, ethical, and practical, lies, like a germ, in his conversion; but it was actually developed by a sharp conflict with Judaizing teachers who continued to trust in the law for righteousness and salvation, and thus virtually frustrated the grace of God and made Christ’s death unnecessary and fruitless. Although Paul broke radically with Judaism and opposed the Pharisaical notion of legal righteousness at every step and with all his might, he was far from opposing the Old Testament or the Jewish people. Herein he shows his great wisdom and moderation, and his infinite superiority over Marcion and other ultra- and pseudo-Pauline reformers. He now expounded the Scriptures as a direct preparation for the gospel, the law as a schoolmaster leading to Christ, Abraham as the father of the faithful. And as to his countrymen after the flesh, he loved them more than ever before. Filled with the amazing love of Christ who had pardoned him, "the chief of sinners," he was ready for the greatest possible sacrifice if thereby he might save them. His startling language in the ninth chapter of the Romans is not rhetorical exaggeration, but the genuine expression of that heroic self-denial and devotion which animated Moses, and which culminated in the sacrifice of the eternal Son of God on the cross of Calvary.377 Paul’s conversion was at the same time his call to the apostleship, not indeed to a place among the Twelve (for the vacancy of Judas was filled), but to the independent apostleship of the Gentiles.378 Then followed an uninterrupted activity of more than a quarter of a century, which for interest and for permanent and ever-growing usefulness has no parallel in the annals of history, and affords an unanswerable proof of the sincerity of his conversion and the truth of Christianity.379 Analogous Conversions. God deals with men according to their peculiar character and condition. As in Elijah’s vision on Mount Horeb, God appears now in the mighty rushing wind that uproots the trees, now in the earthquake that rends the rocks, now in the consuming fire, now in the still small voice. Some are suddenly converted, and can remember the place and hour; others are gradually and imperceptibly changed in spirit and conduct; still others grow up unconsciously in the Christian faith from the mother’s knee and the baptismal font.