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.

Page 167 of 184 · 20 per page

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I thought of the god of the sea, Poseidon, the father of Triton. Was Aphrodite his lover? No, Demeter was his lover—the earth goddess—they were siblings but also lovers. What did that make Aphrodite on her clamshell, then? To Sappho, Aphrodite was the ultimate sex deity. In Hesiod, Kronos, the king of Titans, castrated Uranus, the sky god, and Aphrodite rose out of the water from his spilled seed—transformed into a woman out of sparkling seafoam. Perhaps they were all one person. The gods were always switching identities, changing genders, inhabiting new bodies as though they were clothes. So Poseidon, with his long beard and muscular chest, was in a way also a woman. A woman, a man, what was the difference between the two anyway? It seemed in that moment very little. I felt that we were twins—two strands of the same DNA or one egg split in two—sibling lovers, like Poseidon and Demeter. At the very least we were two eggs sharing one womb. He was both the womb and not the womb. And I was both the womb and not the womb. We were the womb for each other and made of the same material, but also contained together in a larger womb. I felt so good, and for a moment I wondered, Maybe it is not him who makes me feel this way? Maybe I already contain him, as the gods contain one another. Perhaps I do not even need him, to feel like this? No, I needed him and maybe it was okay to need him. This is how love was spiritual, when it felt like this: unity with each other, the self, and all. And if this wasn’t love, then this was how lust could be a thing of value: a peak experience, something worth the pain of coming down. Was this true or was it a lie? So many things were both true and a lie, depending on how you felt in the moment. In this moment it felt like love. I was bold and ready to ask him. “I was wondering if you would ever possibly come to my house?” I asked. “I mean, it is my sister’s house but I live there alone.” “I would love to be in a house with you,” he said. “I would love to make love to you without having to look over our shoulders for anyone coming. To be totally alone.” “You would?” I giggled. “Yes,” he said. “Have you ever been in a home on land?” “Yes,” he said. “A few times, many years ago.” I didn’t press him. “But this was a home very close to the water,” he said. “It wasn’t really a home. It was a deserted boathouse right on the ocean. An old fishermen’s boathouse. I just don’t see how I could possibly come to your sister’s home. I think it is too far. First of all, I can’t be seen. How would I get across the sand?”

• From How God Became King (2012)

  In the messianic life and death of Jesus, Israel’s God really did become king of the world. Again and again I read devout works in which this point, utterly central to the New Testament witness to Jesus, is passed over in silence. Only this morning, as I was redrafting this paragraph, did I read another one of this same type. Second, this kingdom is radically defined in relation to Jesus’s entire agenda of suffering, leading to the cross. This draws the sting of any hint of (what we call) triumphalism. As in the book of Revelation, the victory and sovereignty belong to the slaughtered Lamb—and the slaughtering was not simply a one-time unhappy moment that can now be replaced by the Lamb’s followers taking up arms to bring in his kingdom by the methods of Herod and Pilate. Those who would implement Jesus’s kingdom are just as prone to forget this as Peter and the others were, trying to dissuade Jesus from his insistence on the suffering and dying vocation with which he interpreted his messiahship, eager to push him toward the vision of a kingdom much more like the kingdoms of the world. The paradox remains, and those who engage most directly in the work of the kingdom know, again and again, that the principalities and powers they are confronting are cruel, mean, and dirty. Martyrdom of one sort or another, suffering of one sort or another, is what kingdom-bringers must expect. Here, incidentally, is the Christian answer to the postmodern challenge. Our “big story” is not a power story. It isn’t designed to gain money, sex, or power for ourselves, though those temptations will always lie close at hand. It is a love story—God’s love story, operating through Jesus and then, by the Spirit, through Jesus’s followers. This is the building of the church against which the powers of hell, and for that matter deconstruction, cannot prevail. Third, the kingdom that Jesus inaugurated, that is implemented through his cross, is emphatically for this world. The four gospels together demand a complete reappraisal of the various avoidance tactics Western Christianity has employed rather than face this challenge head-on. It simply won’t do to line up the options, as has normally been done, into either a form of “Christendom,” by which people normally mean the capitulation of the gospel to the world’s way of power, or a form of sectarian withdrawal. Life is more complex, more interesting, and more challenging than that. The gospels are there, waiting to inform a new generation for holistic mission, to embody, explain, and advocate new ways of ordering communities, nations, and the world. The church belongs at the very heart of the world, to be the place of prayer and holiness at the point where the world is in pain—not to be a somewhat “religious” version of the world, on the one hand, or a detached, heavenly minded enclave, on the other.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  To our mutual surprise and delight, we are still dating, almost two years after that first date in which he put me in a taxi and hurriedly shut the door behind me. An hour from now, I may feel sad and regretful, but I know that these feelings – the ones that make me sigh with deep inner peace, the ones that make me go mute with grief – come and go. When I walk down to the beach and watch children frolic in the waves and parents wrap them afterward in oversize beach towels, I miss my kids with unbearable intensity and I close my eyes, fighting with myself to be present. I love my time without my kids, the freedom and ease with which I am able to move through my days, but I think about them and pine for them constantly. When I am with them, I call #6 at night, telling him he’s been replaced by Georgia in my bed, venting about an argument I had with one of the kids, missing him. I have a full private life now, separate from my fulfilling and busy life as a mother. It’s a delicate balancing act to keep myself aloft, but it’s not terribly complicated. My kids are my priority; when they’re doing their own thing, I am free to spend time with #6 or my beautiful gaggle of girlfriends or to write or occasionally, still, to wander. #6 is gracious about relinquishing me to my children, saying he is attracted to me in part because I am such a committed mother. He has yet to meet them beyond a quick hello and that’s my choice now. When I’m with them, I want to be wholly with them. I suggested to him recently that he would be better served by a girlfriend who has more time to spend with him, but he waved the suggestion away: quality over quantity. We know we have a good thing. We make each other laugh, we care about each other and we have great sex – this seems like enough. As for my wanderlust, that’s a part of me that I steadfastly refuse to let go. #6 gives me everything I want from a man except for one significant thing that is impossible for him to provide: newness. I still want to be noticed, desired, flirted with, seen in all my naked glory; I want to peel clothes off men and run my hands along their warm skin. I won’t demean myself by not being forthright with #6, and I have to safeguard this side of myself I only recently discovered. When I have the chance, which isn’t often anymore as there are only so many hours in a day, I have sex with other men and I tell #6 when I do. He is apprehensive, but I tell him I love him, and I do. I struggled with sharing my feelings for him, terrified to reveal myself so nakedly.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Too timid to say the words out loud, I drew him a cartoon of a teddy bear holding a heart, in the style of the notes I make every morning for Georgia’s lunchbox that he admires, and tucked it into an envelope that I told him not to open until I had walked away, further instructing him not to feel obligated to return the stated feelings. He, as it turned out, felt no such compunction, and in the weeks until he revealed that he loved me too, I spent hours perseverating over whether or not I should have said anything at all. Now, he understands that he either accepts me as a complicated, against-the-norm package, or we part. He has embraced the full package, which might change someday, but we don’t worry about it – we are here now, and it works. Time is truly an amazing wonder, how the passing of it allows healing and recovery. I am at peace with Michael now, able to acknowledge that I love him deeply; he is half of the recipe we used to cook up our kids and a goofy, loving dad. Is he the great love of my life, who I tragically lost? My true soulmate? I don’t know that I can answer that yet, with so much of my life still ahead of me as I round the bend to my fiftieth birthday. We no longer have a physical connection to each other, but we do have a kinship that binds us unlike anyone else in our lives. There is no one in the world like Michael and I love him for it, but I don’t want to be married to him ever again and I assume he would say the same about me. The wounds that I have from the fallout of his affair have hardened into scars; I suspect the feelings of hurt will stay with me for the rest of my life, having made an impression with their depth and profundity. Just to clarify: when I say there are only two sets of people I hope won’t read this book, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel stabbing twinges of discomfort imagining some of the other people I know who may read it and thus be privy to my most private thoughts and moments. The embarrassment factor is formidable. I’m not impervious to feeling self-conscious or worrying that I’ve revealed parts of myself I should have kept private. I blush when I tell people about the book, and my description of it emerges haltingly, ineloquently. But like all the other things in the past few years that terrified me but that I faced down, here I go yet again. I’m learning to skate anew, jumping into icy-cold water, stripping off all my clothes to present myself to my first new lover in decades. As Pema Chödron writes in When Things Fall Apart , bravery stems not from fearlessness but from being afraid of things and doing them anyway.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  And I was both the womb and not the womb. We were the womb for each other and made of the same material, but also contained together in a larger womb. I felt so good, and for a moment I wondered, Maybe it is not him who makes me feel this way? Maybe I already contain him, as the gods contain one another. Perhaps I do not even need him, to feel like this? No, I needed him and maybe it was okay to need him. This is how love was spiritual, when it felt like this: unity with each other, the self, and all. And if this wasn’t love, then this was how lust could be a thing of value: a peak experience, something worth the pain of coming down. Was this true or was it a lie? So many things were both true and a lie, depending on how you felt in the moment. In this moment it felt like love. I was bold and ready to ask him. “I was wondering if you would ever possibly come to my house?” I asked. “I mean, it is my sister’s house but I live there alone.” “I would love to be in a house with you,” he said. “I would love to make love to you without having to look over our shoulders for anyone coming. To be totally alone.” “You would?” I giggled. “Yes,” he said. “Have you ever been in a home on land?” “Yes,” he said. “A few times, many years ago.” I didn’t press him. “But this was a home very close to the water,” he said. “It wasn’t really a home. It was a deserted boathouse right on the ocean. An old fishermen’s boathouse. I just don’t see how I could possibly come to your sister’s home. I think it is too far. First of all, I can’t be seen. How would I get across the sand?” “I’ve been thinking about this,” I said. He seemed so excited by the idea that I didn’t feel weird letting him know that this was something I had spent a lot of time thinking about. It was like I had let go now and decided to trust him. Something in me had suddenly decided that it didn’t really matter what would happen. Either I was going to scare him off or I wasn’t, but if it was going to happen, it would happen. I didn’t have to stifle my fears and desires. Just being around him, inside his supernatural aura, gave me the confidence to speak, like the way wine gives you confidence. I was languid and casual. Later I would likely replay everything and pick apart what I had said. Had I been too forward? And God forbid it ended that night when we said goodbye.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Then I saw him under the moon and it was like the first time I had seen him. He was just meant to be mine. In my mind I heard more words, and they said, No one knows what they are doing on Earth or even off it. The gods didn’t even know what the gods were doing, assuming there were even gods. Did the void know what it was doing? Did it know itself? Maybe the void didn’t even know what to do with itself and didn’t even like itself. Maybe the nothingness knew only to fill itself with people, and in that way was a creator of sorts. Maybe the nothingness was a god, but not intentionally cruel—not confident in itself. Maybe it was not evil or saying ha-ha to me, just lonely, hating itself, wanting something else to stick inside itself to relieve itself of itself. It seemed as though Theo didn’t know what he was doing. I obviously didn’t either. In that way maybe we were like gods. “I fell,” I said. “I cut myself.” “I know,” he said. “I saw. I tried to climb up onto the rock and then drag myself to help you. I wanted to call your name but a jeep came onto the beach and I had to drag myself back into the water.” That he wanted to protect me felt good. I didn’t want to be the weak woman, but really it had nothing to do with femininity or masculinity anyway. Simply as a human being, I liked that someone else was worried about me—someone as beautiful as him. There had already been plenty of people worried about me, more than enough, and I didn’t like that. But having Theo worry about me felt sexy. “Let me help you onto the wagon,” I said. “No, I can do it. You’re hurt,” he said. He dexterously slid off the rock right onto the wagon that was underneath it. “Here, just help me adjust the blanket,” he said. His arms were so strong and thick, like marble, only supple. I couldn’t help but think, This is mythic…what you are seeing is mythic. You injured yourself for him, an injury for love, and he is injured too. But his tail was only a handicap on earth. On land he was half a person, but in the sea he was complete. On earth I felt like half a person too. But I didn’t know if there was anywhere I was whole. On earth he was like the god Hephaestus, the clubfooted, cuckolded blacksmith. He needed me. But underwater he was as powerful and graceful as Poseidon, only younger and gorgeous. Maybe he was the son of Poseidon, the wayward son. Maybe he was Aphrodite herself. “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s get you back to the house. Then I can kiss all your wounds.”

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  He is silent, so I tell him that I tried to call him before I went as if that will make this information more palatable. “Was it all you hoped it would be?” he finally asks, his voice subdued. “Are you upset?” “Not upset exactly. Just surprised you did it so quickly. And intrigued,” he says. “That’s why I called you. I tried twice. To give you a heads up,” I say. “You sound angry.” He reassures me that he’s not, but he wants to hear the story. I tell him about our meeting in the dark on the beach, how intensely vigorous the sex was, how I had thought about him and even missed him when it was over, which he does not believe. “You don’t have to believe me. I’m not telling you to flatter you, I’m telling you because you want to know if the sex was all I had built it up to be in my imagination and I’m sharing that it both was and wasn’t. I love the hunt, the flirting, the capturing, the moment when I know feelings are more than friendly, but I don’t think I need to do it again. I’m fully satisfied now. And I did think about you,” I say, putting the phone on the bed and climbing between the sheets. “What did you think about when you thought of me?” he asks. “I thought about how easy it is with you, how I’m comfortable with you even when I’m out of my comfort zone sexually. How new isn’t always better. How you treat me like I’m more than just a receptacle for your pleasure,” I say. “All this while fucking the man of your dreams on a beach in the Caribbean,” he says, laughing. “Make all the jokes you want. I know it’s hard for you to speak openly about your feelings. I’m telling you the truth, I have no incentive to conjure feelings to make you feel better about your manhood,” I say. “Do you think I’m a pervert because I want all the details?” he asks. “Absolutely,” I say. “But now I must sleep. My eyes are closing while I talk to you,” I say, and immediately fall into a deep, blissful slumber. CHAPTER 46WritingParked on lounge chairs next to the pool under the blazing morning sun, Georgia asks me to take her down the beach to get a coconut from Blaze, a request I suggest she take to Michael instead. I watch them walk away, swinging their hands together as they run through the hot sand to get to the edge of the water. I feel anxious, knowing I have something weighing on me that I need to share with Michael. It’s not about my dalliance the night before, as that’s something I get to keep all to myself, it’s about my writing. I’ve been working on it and I like doing it.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  3They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said: ‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?’ And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’ Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers. Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And Mary, listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little husky, would think that words were more tuneful than music and more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  The words I said to Hudson hours ago as we set off on our adventure come back to me: I’ve got this, and in this one moment, I do. I fiercely love this boy, and I am newly resolute that I will help him get through this painful chapter. In the days to come, he will start calling me “Mama Bear” and I will think back to this moment with feelings that flood me with pride, warmth and hopefulness. CHAPTER 11BustedAlex, my one close friend upstate, texts me with a confession: she worked up the courage to approach a man she’s had her eye on for me at her gym. He’s fit, very cute and friendly, and she would go for him herself if she wasn’t married, but since she is, she’s determined to live vicariously through me. After confirming his single status, she did an admirably hard sell of me until he gave her his number and suggested that I get in touch. I demur, telling her I’m too stressed about Hudson and sad about messing up my chance with #3, feeling in general blah and overwhelmed. She responds that it’s too early in the game for me to feel so overwhelmed and that all I should do right now is dip my toes in dating waters and have fun. Alex’s coaxing spurs me on. She’s right – I can’t be in a real relationship right now, so I should take whatever opportunities present themselves to keep myself distracted and feeling good in the moment without worrying about what comes next. I text him before I lose the little nerve I have. Alex has told me nothing about him aside from the fact that he’s got an alluring six-pack, a bunch of kids, and is from a local family who own the orchard where I buy fruit and cider doughnuts. He responds with a suggestion that we meet for brunch on Sunday of the upcoming weekend. He gives me a choice of two restaurants; one is a café I frequently go to with my parents, so I opt for the other one in a newly renovated inn where I am unlikely to know anyone. I’ve been wary of running into people I know when I’m out on dates, not wanting to have to explain myself. With the exception of my close friends and family, I have managed to contain the news about my marriage, which is surprising as I am usually an open book. The weight of the situation is too heavy for me, threatening to crush me every time I have to disclose it. This new state of affairs, the one in which I’m a single woman on the prowl, is too big for me to explain too, albeit in a different way. Instead of threatening to topple me as my separation has, this new state is like a lump of clay waiting to be colored and shaped.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I couldn’t believe he was there. I had never thought of it like that before in the heat of things—about a person really being inside another person. “Entered,” like they say in romance novels. With every thrust he kissed me deeply and I gasped in his mouth. He was surprisingly dexterous given his tail. We looked in each other’s eyes as we moved. I felt that we were creating something together. The sounds I was making became primal and real. But then I felt him in me just a little less, then almost not at all. Somehow he had gotten soft. He pulled out and jerked it a little. He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I just get nervous the first time with a new person. It’s the pressure. But you feel so good and are really gorgeous. I want to give you so much pleasure. I want to make you feel so much.” He pulled out of me and wriggled down my body. His desire to get me off made up for him having lost his hard-on. I let myself go completely, like when we were on the rocks. I focused only on the feeling and not on anything else. This time when I came I did not come for the gods or the stars, but only for him. I called out his name as I came into his mouth. I came for so long I felt suspended in time or air or space, as though the divisions between seconds had been obliterated. Afterward, as my pussy settled, he kept his face down there, his cheek resting on my inner right thigh. I could feel us attaching and knew that any chance of breaking apart from him emotionally was not possible. I was his now. 50. After four nights I began to lose hope. The sickness reemerged and it was deeper, all the way to my bones, the way addicts describe dope sickness. I shit myself constantly. I vomited into the ocean. Whatever he had done to me had made my body dependent. I literally needed him to survive. I had heard of people who died from drug withdrawals. Whatever was leaking from me could not be good. Was I going to die of the shits and the shakes? Was I going to die a painful, shitty death? Suddenly I became terrified of dying. It seemed like I was about to stop breathing. Even just the thought that I could stop breathing and disappear was terrifying. What was scarier still was that I had done this to myself. I needed help. There were two hours until group. I needed some kind of emotional methadone, some advice at least about what they had done to tone down their withdrawals. I showered quickly, then walked from Venice to Santa Monica, afraid that if I took a car I might vomit or shit inside of it.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She and Stephen would ride far afield on their mules; they would often ride right up into the mountains, climbing the hill to old Orotava where the women sat at their green postigos through the long, quiet hours of their indolent day and right on into the evening. The walls of the town would be covered with flowers, jasmine, plumbago and bougainvillea. But they would not linger in old Orotava; pressing on they would climb always up and up to the region of health and trailing arbutus, and beyond that again to the higher slopes that had once been the home of a mighty forest. Now, only a few Spanish chestnut trees remained to mark the decline of that forest. Sometimes they took their luncheon along, and when they did this young Pedro went with them, for he it was who must drive the mule that carried Concha’s ample lunch-basket. Pedro adored these impromptu excursions, they made an excuse for neglecting the garden. He would saunter along chewing blades of grass, or the stem of some flower he had torn from a wall; or perhaps he would sing softly under his breath, for he knew many songs of his native island. But if the mule Celestino should stumble, or presume, in his turn, to tear flowers from a wall, then Pedro would suddenly cease his soft singing and shout guttural remarks to old Celestino: ‘Vaya, burro! Celestino, arre! Arre—boo!’ he would shout with a slap, so that Celestino must swallow his flowers in one angry gulp, before having a sly kick at Pedro. The lunch would be eaten in the cool upland air, while the beasts stood near at hand, placidly grazing. Against a sky of incredible blueness the Peak would gleam as though powdered with crystal—Teide, mighty mountain of snow with the heart of fire and the brow of crystal. Down the winding tracks would come goats with their herds, the tinkle of goat-bells breaking the stillness. And as all such things have seemed wonderful to lovers throughout the ages, even so now they seemed very wonderful to Mary and Stephen. There were days when, leaving the uplands for the vale, they would ride past the big banana plantations and the glowing acres of ripe tomatoes. Geraniums and agaves would be growing side by side in the black volcanic dust of the roadway. From the stretching Valley of Orotava they would see the rugged line of the mountains. The mountains would look blue, like the African nights, all save Teide, clothed in her crystalline whiteness. And now while they sat together in the garden at evening, there would sometimes come beggars, singing; ragged fellows who played deftly on their guitars and sang songs whose old melodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang straight from the heart of the island: ‘A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace, But now I am tormented because I have seen thee. Take away mine eyes oh, enemy! Oh, belovèd!

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

  Imple superna gratia Quo tu creasti pectora. Creator, Spirit, Lord of Grace, O make our hearts Thy dwelling-place, And with Thy might celestial aid The souls of those whom Thou hast made. Qui Paracletus diceris, Donum Dei altissimi, Fons vivus, ignis, charitas, Et spiritalis unctio. Come from the throne of God above, O Paraclete, O Holy Dove, Come, Oil of gladness, cleansing Fire, And Living Spring of pure desire. Tu septiformis munere, Dextrae Dei tu digitus, Tu rite Promissum Patris, Sermone ditans guttura. O Finger of the Hand Divine, The sevenfold gifts of Grace are Thine, And touched by Thee the lips proclaim All praise to God’s most holy Name. Accende lumen sensibus, Infunde amorem cordibus; Infirma nostri corporis, Virtute firmans perpetim.485 Then to our souls Thy light impart, And give Thy Love to every heart Turn all our weakness into might, O Thou, the Source of Life and Light. Hostem repellas longius, Pacemque dones protinus. Ductore sic te praevio, Vitemus omne noxium. Protect us from the assailing foe, And Peace, the fruit of Love, bestow; Upheld by Thee, our Strength and Guide, No evil can our steps betide. Per te sciamus, da Patrem, Noscamus atque Filium, Te utriusque Spiritum, Credamus omni tempore. Spirit of Faith, on us bestow The Father and the Son to know; And, of the Twain, the Spirit, Thee; Eternal One, Eternal Three. [Sit laus Patri cum Filio, Sancto simul Paracleto, Nobisque mittat Filius Charisma Sancti Spiritus.]486 To God the Father let us sing; To God the Son, our risen King; And equally with These adore The Spirit, God for evermore. [Praesta hoc Pater piissime, Patrique compar unice, Cum Spiritu Paracleto, Regnans per omne saeculum.] See note above. O Holy Ghost, Creator come! Thy people's minds pervade; And fill, with Thy supernatural grace, The souls which Thou hast made. Kindle our senses to a flame, And fill our hearts with love, And, through our bdies' weakness, still Pour valor from above! Thou who art called the Paraclete, The gift of God most high– Thou living fount, and fire and love, Our spirit's pure ally; Drive further off our enemy, And straightway give us peace; That with Thyself as such a guide, We may from evil cease.

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

  Once devoted to a religious life, she practised great austerities, flagellating herself three times a day,—once for herself, once for the living and once for the dead. She wore a hair undergarment and an iron chain. During one Lenten season she lived on the bread taken in communion. These asceticisms were performed in a chamber in her father’s house. She was never an inmate of a convent. Such extreme asceticisms as she practised upon herself she disparaged at a later period. At an early age Catherine became the subject of visions and revelations. On one of these occasions and after hours of dire temptation, when she was tempted to live like other girls, the Saviour appeared to her stretched on the cross and said: "My own daughter, Catherine, seest thou how much I have suffered for thee? Let it not be hard for thee to suffer for me." Thrilled with the address, she asked: "Where wert thou, Lord, when I was tempted with such impurity?" and He replied, "In thy heart." In 1367, according to her own statement, the Saviour betrothed himself to her, putting a ring on her finger. The ring was ever afterwards visible to herself though unseen by others. Five years before her death, she received the stigmata directly from Christ. Their impression gave sharp pain, and Catherine insisted that, though they likewise were invisible to others, they were real to her. In obedience to a revelation, Catherine renounced the retired life she had been living, and at the age of twenty began to appear in public and perform the active offices of charity. This was in 1367. She visited the poor and sick, and soon became known as the ministering angel of the whole city. During the plague of 1374, she was indefatigable by day and night, healed those of whom the physicians despaired, and she even raised the dead. The lepers outside the city walls she did not neglect. One of the remarkable incidents in her career which she vouches for in one of her letters to Raymund was her treatment of Niccolo Tuldo, a young nobleman condemned to die for having uttered words disrespectful of the city government. The young man was in despair, but under Catherine’s influence he not only regained composure, but became joyful in the prospect of death. Catherine was with him at the block and held his head. She writes, "I have just received a head into my hands which was to me of such sweetness as no heart can think, or tongue describe." Before the execution she accompanied the unfortunate man to the mass, where he received the communion for the first time. His last words were "naught but Jesus and Catherine.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  I could hear the ocean, but forgot that it was the ocean. I forgot that I hadn’t always lived at the ocean or that it was even a separate entity. This was the only life I had known. “I’m so sorry,” I said, but he hushed me. “I know,” he said. “I’ve seen you every night on this rock.” “You have? But where were you? I came here and came here and never saw you.” “I was far away. I was in a deeper part of the ocean, much deeper than you have ever been. But I could see you there. I could see you there and I just hoped you would keep coming. I wanted to go to you every night. All I wanted was to swim to you and be with you. But I was afraid. I needed more nights. I needed all these nights before I knew. But tonight, you looked so finished. You looked so finished with the Earth, so surrendered. I could tell in your sleeping that you were finished. I could tell that if I came back you wouldn’t return to the desert. I knew that you no longer had it in you. That is good. It has to be your choice. It has to come from you. I saw it in your face that you would never speak of the desert again. I knew you were finally mine.” “I never want to live apart from you,” I said. “I will live on this rock, I don’t care. I’ll sell mango on the beach, or bad jewelry. Those shitty crystal necklaces they sell on the boardwalk. I don’t care.” “Would you give up your dog?” he asked. “Yes!” I said. “He isn’t even my dog!” “What about fire?” “Fire?” “Yes, fire. Would you give up fire? Would you give up walking around?” “YES!” I said. “I hate fire. I hate walking. I don’t like any of it. I would give up anything you ask me to give up. I don’t need any of it. Whatever you want me to give up, I will give up.” “I want you to come under the water with me,” he said. When we had been fighting, when he said that he was going to invite me to live with him in the ocean, I didn’t understand what he meant. I wondered if he thought I had gills. But now I knew exactly what he meant. I knew what he meant in the sense that suddenly I envisioned myself with him in the infinite depths, infinite blackness. But this time I was not kissing his eyelids or his forehead as he slept. This time I was the one with my eyes closed. I was dead. Or maybe he didn’t mean death, not completely. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, What does this entail exactly?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2Stephen and Mary arrived at the Villa del Ciprés, not very long after Christmas. They had spent their Christmas Day aboard ship, and on landing had stayed for a week at Santa Cruz before taking the long, rough drive to Orotava. And as though the fates were being propitious, or unpropitious perhaps—who shall say?—the garden was looking its loveliest, almost melodramatic it looked in the sunset. Mary gazed round her wide-eyed with pleasure; but after a while her eyes must turn, as they always did now, to rest upon Stephen; while Stephen’s uncertain and melancholy eyes must look back with great love in their depths for Mary. Together they made the tour of the villa, and when this was over Stephen laughed a little; ‘Not much of anything, is there, Mary?’ ‘No, but quite enough. Who wants tables and chairs?’ ‘Well, if you’re contented, I am,’ Stephen told her. And indeed, so far as the Villa del Ciprés went, they were both very well contented. They discovered that the indoor staff would consist of two peasants; a plump, smiling woman called Concha, who adhered to the ancient tradition of the island and tied her head up in a white linen kerchief, and a girl whose black hair was elaborately dressed, and whose cheeks were very obviously powdered—Concha’s niece she was, by name Esmeralda. Esmeralda looked cross, but this may have been because she squinted so badly. In the garden worked a handsome person called Ramon, together with Pedro, a youth of sixteen. Pedro was light-hearted, precocious and spotty. He hated his simple work in the garden; what he liked was driving his father’s mules for the tourists, according to Ramon. Ramon spoke English passably well; he had picked it up from the numerous tenants and was proud of this fact, so while bringing in the luggage he paused now and then to impart information. It was better to hire mules and donkeys from the father of Pedro—he had very fine mules and donkeys. It was better to take Pedro and none other as your guide, for thus would be saved any little ill-feeling. It was better to let Concha do all the shopping—she was honest and wise as the Blessèd Virgin. It was better never to scold Esmeralda, who was sensitive on account of her squint and therefore inclined to be easily wounded. If you wounded the heart of Esmeralda, she walked out of the house and Concha walked with her. The island women were often like this; you upset them and per Dios, your dinner could burn! They would not even wait to attend to your dinner. ‘You come home,’ smiled Ramon, ‘and you say, “What burns? Is my villa on fire?” Then you call and you call. No answer . . . all gone!’ And he spread out his hands with a wide and distressingly empty gesture.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Sure, no regrets. I regret nothing.” “I regret everything,” I said. “Lucy.” “I’m still fooling around with that swimmer,” I said. “More than fooling around, like, I’m completely, totally in love with him. But the thing is that he’s totally in love with me. I mean, it’s the most passionate, real, most spiritual experience I’ve ever had with someone. And yet, I’m not even totally sure if the whole thing even exists.” “What do you mean?” “Well, we don’t function well in the real world.” “The real world is rubbish.” “But we’re mostly relegated to a rock. We’re tied to a rock.” “Sounds like most marriages. At least ones with children.” “I just—I’m afraid it might kill me. I can’t tell if it’s a sickness or the best thing that ever happened to me.” “That’s brilliant!” “Tell me, was it definitely men who landed you in here?” She paused. “Yes, I suppose it was the men,” she said. “But really it was me.” 43. Every other day at dawn it started again: me pulling up to the rock with my wagon, Theo dragging himself up and in, the return to my sister’s house, where he assumed I would continue to live long after the summer. He didn’t ask when my sister would be coming back and I stopped worrying if I would see him again. We now had just enough permanence for me to have faith—a sense of knowing that he would be there. Yet there was still a feeling of wonder and mystery brought on by the gaps in between visits and my knowledge that in a month I could be gone. It was the perfect balance of love and longing, or lust and longing, or lust and love: what I had always sought. I felt more at ease, because I knew that it could be me who would create the ending if I wanted. I would be the one returning to the desert if I chose. I would never be left. Only leaving. I already contained the answer. When I thought of the thing itself—the actual end—I felt a sense of impending dread. I didn’t want to go. But I made no plans to stay either. I lived in what was there—keeping the date of my supposed departure in a corner of my mind, like a little magic peach pit. It radiated just enough control as to the way our future could unfold that I no longer feared rejection or his retreat. On the days when I would be seeing Theo in the evening, I worked on my book. Its whole contention had changed. I no longer wrote about the blank spaces in any theoretical way or tried to convince anyone that the only way to understand Sappho was to perceive the spaces as though they were always there.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  They had loved because love had come naturally to them up there on the soft, springy turf and the heather. But after a while their dreams had been shattered, for such dreams as theirs had seemed strange to the village. Daft, the folk had thought them, mouching round by themselves for hours, like a couple of lovers. Barbara’s grand-dame, an austere old woman with whom she had lived since her earliest childhood—Barbara’s grand-dame had mistrusted this friendship. ‘I dinna richtly unnerstan’ it,’ she had frowned; ‘her and that Jamie’s unco throng. It’s no richt for lass-bairns, an’ it’s no proaper!’ And since she spoke with authority, having for years been the village post-mistress, her neighbours had wagged their heads and agreed. ‘It’s no richt; ye hae said it, Mrs. MacDonald!’ The gossip had reached the minister, Jamie’s white-haired and gentle old father. He had looked at the girl with bewildered eyes—he had always been bewildered by his daughter. A poor housewife she was, and very untidy; if she cooked she mucked up the pots and the kitchen, and her hands were strangely unskilled with the needle; this he knew, since his heels suffered much from her darning. Remembering her mother he had shaken his head and sighed many times as he looked at Jamie. For her mother had been a soft, timorous woman, and he himself was very retiring, but their Jamie loved striding over the hills in the teeth of a gale, an uncouth, boyish creature. As a child she had gone rabbit stalking with ferrets; had ridden a neighbour’s farmhorse astride on a sack, without stirrup, saddle or bridle; had done all manner of outlandish things. And he, poor lonely, bewildered man, still mourning his wife, had been no match for her. Yet even as a child she had sat at the piano and picked out little tunes of her own inventing. He had done his best; she had been taught to play by Miss Morrison of the next-door village, since music alone seemed able to tame her. And as Jamie had grown so her tunes had grown with her, gathering purpose and strength with her body. She would improvise for hours on the winter evenings, if Barbara would sit in their parlour and listen. He had always made Barbara welcome at the manse; they had been so inseparable, those two, since childhood—and now? He had frowned, remembering the gossip. Rather timidly he had spoken to Jamie. ‘Listen, my dear, when you’re always together, the lads don’t get a chance to come courting, and Barbara’s grandmother wants the lass married. Let her walk with a lad on Sabbath afternoons—there’s that young MacGregor, he’s a fine, steady fellow, and they say he’s in love with the little lass. . . .’ Jamie had stared at him, scowling darkly. ‘She doesn’t want to walk out with MacGregor!’ The minister had shaken his head yet again.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and his eyes were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was as bright as an Irish sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wild heart of Ireland, but devoted and loyal and eager for service, and his name was sweet on the tongue as you spoke it—being Raftery, after the poet. Stephen loved Raftery and Raftery loved Stephen. It was love at first sight, and they talked to each other for hours in his loose box—not in Irish or English, but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, which to both of them meant more than words. And Raftery said: ‘I will carry you bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.’ And she answered: ‘I will care for you night and day, Raftery—all the days of your life.’ Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged their devotion, alone in his fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery was five and Stephen was twelve when they solemnly pledged their devotion. Never was rider more proud or more happy than Stephen, when first she and Raftery went a-hunting; and never was youngster more wise or courageous than Raftery proved himself at his fences; and never can Bellerophon have thrilled to more daring than did Stephen, astride of Raftery that day, with the wind in her face and a fire in her heart that made life a thing of glory. At the very beginning of the run the fox turned in the direction of Morton, actually crossing the big north paddock before turning once more and making for Upton. In the paddock was a mighty, upstanding hedge, a formidable place concealing timber, and what must they do, these two young creatures, but go straight at it and get safely over—those who saw Raftery fly that hedge could never afterwards doubt his valour. And when they got home there was Anna waiting to pat Raftery, because she could not resist him. Because, being Irish, her hands loved the feel of fine horseflesh under their delicate fingers—and because she did very much want to be tender to Stephen, and understanding.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Collins rolled down a coarse woollen stocking and displayed the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen and far from attractive, but Stephen’s eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched the knee with her finger. ‘There now!’ exclaimed Collins, ‘See that dent? That’s the water!’ And she added: ‘It’s so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn’t ought to polish them floors.’ Stephen said gravely: ‘I do wish I’d got it—I wish I’d got your housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of you. I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don’t you think I might catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee against yours?’ ‘Lord bless you!’ laughed Collins, ‘it’s not like the measles; no, Miss Stephen, it’s caught from them floors.’ That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned to the Child’s Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she herself was fearful of pain— when she barked her shins on the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep back her tears—and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, when He might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondered a great deal about Him, but now she no longer wondered. At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers—as custom demanded—Stephen’s prayers lacked conviction. But when Anna had kissed her and had turned out the light, then it was that Stephen prayed in good earnest—with such fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgy of prayer. ‘Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid’s knee instead of Collins—do, do, Lord Jesus. Please, Jesus, I would like to bear all Collins’ pain the way You did, and I don’t want any angels! I would like to wash Collins in my blood, Lord Jesus—I would like very much to be a Saviour to Collins—I love her, and I want to be hurt like You were; please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me. Please give me a knee that’s all full of water, so that I can have Collins’ operation. I want to have it instead of her, ’cause she’s frightened—I’m not a bit frightened!’ This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that in some queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling and kissing her hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her by cutting off her knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on to her own. The dream was a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and it stayed quite a long time with Stephen. The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that comes only in moments of perfect faith.

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

  Sturm, the first Abbot of Fulda (710 to Dec. 17, 779), was of a noble Bavarian family and educated by Boniface. With his approval he passed with two companions through the dense beech forests of Hesse in pursuit of a proper place for a monastery. Singing psalms, he rode on an ass, cutting a way through the thicket inhabited by wild beasts; at night after saying his prayers and making the sign of the cross he slept on the bare ground under the canopy of heaven till sunrise. He met no human being except a troupe of heathen slaves who bathed in the river Fulda, and afterwards a man with a horse who was well acquainted with the country. He found at last a suitable place, and took solemn possession of it in 744, after it was presented to him for a monastery by Karloman at the request of Boniface, who joined him there with a large number of monks, and often resorted to this his favorite monastery. "In a vast solitude," he wrote to Pope Zacharias in 751, "among the tribes entrusted to my preaching, there is a place where I erected a convent and peopled it with monks who live according to the rule of St. Benedict in strict abstinence, without flesh and wine, without intoxicating drink and slaves, earning their living with their own hands. This spot I have rightfully secured from pious men, especially from Karloman, the late prince of the Franks, and dedicated to the Saviour. There I will occasionally rest my weary limbs, and repose in death, continuing faithful to the Roman Church and to the people to which I was sent?"121 Fulda received special privileges from Pope Zacharias and his successors,122 and became a centre of German Christianity and civilization from which proceeded the clearing of the forests, the cultivation of the soil, and the education of youths. The number of Benedictine monks was increased by large re- enforcements from Monte Casino, after an Italian journey of Sturm in 747. The later years of his life were disturbed by a controversy with Lullus of Mainz about the bones of Boniface after his martyrdom (755) and by calumniations of three monks who brought upon him the displeasure of King Pepin. He was, however, reinstated in his dignity and received the remains of his beloved teacher which repose in Fulda. Charlemagne employed him as missionary among the Saxons. His bones were deposited in the convent church. Pope Innocent II. canonized him, A. D, 1139.123 § 27. The Conversion of the Saxons. Charlemagne and Alcuin. The Heliand, and the Gospel-Harmony. Funk: Die Unterwerfung der Sachsen unter Karl dem Gr. 1833. A. Schaumann: Geschichte des niedersächs. Volkes. Götting. 1839. Böttger: Die Einfahrung des Christenthums in Sachsen. Hann. 1859. W. Giesebrecht; Geschichte der deutschen Kaiserzeit, Vol. I. (1863), pp. 110 sqq. Of all the German tribes the fierce and warlike Saxons were the last to accept the Christian religion.