Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  SIXTH STORY Gianni of Procida is found with the girl he loves, who had been handed over to King Frederick. He and the girl are tied to a stake, and are about to be burnt when he is recognized by Ruggieri de Loria. He is then set free, and afterwards they are married . Neifile’s story found much favour with the ladies, and when it came to an end, the queen called on Pampinea to tell them one of hers. Her face upraised and smiling, she forthwith began: Mighty indeed, dear ladies, are the powers of Love, inducing lovers, as they do, to endure great hardships and expose themselves to extraordinary and incredible risks. Ample confirmation of this is to be found in many of the stories already told, both today and on other occasions, but nevertheless I should like to prove it once again with this tale of a young lover’s courage. On Ischia, which is an island very near Naples, there once lived an exceedingly charming and beautiful girl called Restituta, the daughter of Marin Bòlgaro, 1 a nobleman of the island. She was loved to the point of distraction by a young man from Procida, a small island close to Ischia, whose name was Gianni, and she in turn was in love with him. Not content with going from Procida to Ischia every day to catch a glimpse of his beloved, Gianni would frequently make the crossing by night, swimming there and back 2 if no boat was available, so that, even if he could see nothing else, he could at least gaze upon the walls of her house. Thus they were deeply in love with each other, but one summer’s day, as the girl was wandering by herself along the shore, prising sea-shells from the rocks with a small knife, she chanced upon a tiny cove, hemmed in by cliffs, where a number of young Sicilians, on their way from Naples, had landed from their frigate in order to relax in the shade and take fresh water from a nearby spring. The girl failed to notice them, and when they perceived how beautiful she was, seeing that she was all alone, the youths resolved to seize her and carry her off. Nor did they waste any time in giving effect to their resolve, but promptly took hold of the girl, and, though she screamed and shouted, bundled her aboard their ship. They then sailed away, but on arriving in Calabria, they fell to arguing among themselves over which of them was to take possession of the girl, each of them wanting her for himself. Being unable to reach any sort of agreement, they decided, rather than make matters worse and bring ruin upon themselves for the sake of a girl, to give her to King Frederick of Sicily, 3 who was then a young man, much addicted to pretty things of that sort. And this they did on reaching Palermo.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘My lady,’ said Anichino, ‘I am greatly afraid that you might be offended, if I were to tell you; and for all I know you might repeat it to some other person.’ ‘I shall certainly not take it amiss,’ said the lady, ‘and you may rest assured that no matter what you tell me, I shan’t repeat a word of it to anyone without your permission.’ So Anichino said: ‘Since you give me this assurance, I shall tell you all about it.’ And controlling his tears with an effort, he told her who he was, the things he had heard about her, how and where he had fallen in love with her, how he had come to Bologna, and why he had entered her husband’s service. Then he humbly asked her whether she could bring herself to take pity on him, and grant him the secret desire that burned so fiercely in his heart. But if she was unwilling to do this, he begged her to be content that he should love her, and allow him to continue in her service. Ah, how singularly sweet is the blood of Bologna! 3 How admirably you rise to the occasion in moments such as these! Sighs and tears were never to your liking: entreaties have always moved you, and you were ever susceptible to a lover’s yearnings. If only I could find words with which to commend you as you deserve, I should never grow tired of singing your praises! Whilst Anichino was speaking, the gentlewoman fixed her gaze upon him, and being fully convinced of his sincerity, she was so overcome by his protestations of love that she, too, began to sigh. And when her sighs had abated, she replied: ‘Anichino, my dearest, be of good cheer; many are those that have wooed me, and that woo me to this day, but neither gifts nor promises nor fine words have ever succeeded in persuading me to fall in love with a single one of my admirers, whether he was a nobleman or a mighty lord or any other man; yet within the brief space of these few words of yours, you have made me feel that I belong far more to you than to myself. I consider that you have well and truly earned my love. I therefore concede it to you, and before the coming night is over, I promise that it will be yours to enjoy. In order to bring this about, see that you come to my room towards midnight. I shall leave the door open. You know the side of the bed on which I sleep: come to me there, and if I should be asleep, touch me so that I wake up, and then I shall give you the solace that you have so long desired.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Not long after making this promise, whilst the pair of them were still going about together in the way we have described, Tingoccio happened to become godfather to the infant son of a man called Ambruogio Anselmini, who lived with his wife, Monna Mita, in the district of Camporeggi. Now, this Monna Mita was a woman of great beauty and attractiveness, and notwithstanding his sponsorship of the child, Tingoccio, who called to see her every now and then with Meuccio, fell in love with her. But he was not the only one, for Meuccio, having heard Tingoccio singing her praises and finding her very attractive, also fell in love with her. Neither man spoke to the other about his love for the lady, but each for a different reason. Tingoccio took care not to say anything to Meuccio because he had a guilty conscience about falling in love with the mother of his godchild, and would have been ashamed to have anyone know about it. But Meuccio kept it to himself for quite another reason, namely, that he realized how fond Tingoccio was of her, and therefore said to himself: ‘If I take him into my confidence, he will be jealous of me; and since he is her child’s godfather, and can talk to her whenever he likes, he will do his best to turn her against me, with the result that I shall never get anywhere with her.’ Things remained much as we have described them, with the two young men pining away for Monna Mita, until Tingoccio, who was in a better position to open his heart to the lady, played his cards so skilfully that he obtained what he wanted from her – a circumstance that did not escape the notice of Meuccio, who was anything but pleased about it. However, since he was hoping that his own desires would one day find fulfilment, and was anxious not to provide Tingoccio with the slightest cause to ruin his chances or interfere in any way with his plans, he pretended to know nothing. And there, for the time being, the matter rested, Tingoccio being luckier than his comrade in his love for the lady. But the richness of the soil in Monna Mita’s garden inspired Tingoccio to dig it over with so much energy and zeal that he contracted a fever from his labours, which left him so enfeebled that within the space of a few days, being unable to shake it off, he departed this life. On the night of the third day after his unfortunate demise (being unable, perhaps, to make it any sooner), he kept his promise and appeared to Meuccio, who was lying in bed fast asleep.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  SECOND STORY An abbess rises hurriedly from her bed in the dark when it is reported to her that one of her nuns is abed with a lover. But being with a priest at the time, the Abbess claps his breeches on her head, mistaking them for her veil. On pointing this out to the Abbess, the accused nun is set at liberty, and thenceforth she is able to forgather with her lover at her leisure. When Filomena was silent, the good sense shown by the lady in ridding herself of those she had no wish to love was praised by the whole of the company, who one and all described not as love but as folly the daring presumption of the lovers. Then Elissa was graciously asked by the queen to continue, and she promptly began as follows: Dearest ladies, the manner in which Madonna Francesca released herself from her affliction was indeed very subtle; but I should now like to tell you of a young nun who, with the assistance of Fortune, freed herself by means of a timely remark from the danger with which she was threatened. As you all know, a great many people are foolish enough to instruct and condemn their fellow creatures, but from time to time, as you will observe from this story of mine, Fortune deservedly puts them to shame. And that is what happened to the Abbess who was the superior of the nun whose deeds I am now about to relate. You are to know, then, that in Lombardy there was once a convent, widely renowned for its sanctity and religious fervour, which housed a certain number of nuns, one of them being a girl of gentle birth, endowed with wondrous beauty, whose name was Isabetta. One day, having come to the grating to converse with a kinsman of hers, she fell in love with a handsome young man who was with him; and the young man, observing that she was very beautiful, and divining her feelings through the language of the eyes, fell no less passionately in love with her. For some little time, to the no small torment of each, their love remained unfulfilled; but eventually, their desire for one another being equally acute, the young man thought of a way for him and his nun to forgather in secret; and with her willing consent he visited her not only once but over and over again, to their intense and mutual delight. This went on for some considerable time until one night, unbeknown either to himself or to Isabetta, he was seen by one of the other nuns as he left her cell and proceeded on his way. The nun told several of her companions, who at first were inclined to report Isabetta to the Abbess, a lady called Madonna Usimbalda, whose goodness and piety were a byword among all the nuns and everyone else who knew her.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FOURTH STORY Ricciardo Manardi is discovered by Messer Lizio da Valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains on good terms with her father. Elissa, falling silent, listened as her companions lauded her tale, and the queen called upon Filostrato to tell his story. Laughing, he began as follows: I have been teased so many times, and by so many of you, for obliging you to tell cruel stories and making you weep, that I feel obliged to make some slight amends for the sorrow I caused, and tell you something that will make you laugh a little. Hence I propose to tell you a very brief tale about a love which, apart from one or two sighs and a moment of fear not unmixed with embarrassment, ran a smooth course to its happy conclusion. Not long ago then, excellent ladies, there lived in Romagna a most reputable and virtuous gentleman called Messer Lizio da Valbona, 1 who, on the threshold of old age, had the good fortune to be presented by his wife, Madonna Giacomina, with a baby daughter. When she grew up, she outshone all the other girls in those parts for her charm and beauty, and since she was the only daughter left to her father and mother, they loved and cherished her with all their heart, and guarded her with extraordinary care, for they had high hopes of bestowing her in marriage on the son of some great nobleman. Now, to the house of Messer Lizio there regularly came a handsome and sprightly youth called Ricciardo de’ Manardi da Brettinoro, with whom Messer Lizio spent a good deal of his time; and he and his wife would no more have thought of keeping him under surveillance than if he were their own son. Whenever he set eyes on the girl, Ricciardo was struck by her great beauty, her graceful bearing, her charming ways and impeccable manners, and, seeing that she was of marriageable age, he fell passionately in love with her. He took great pains to conceal his feelings, but the girl divined that he was in love with her, and far from being offended, to Ricciardo’s great delight she began to love him with equal fervour. Though frequently seized with the longing to speak to her, he was always too timid to do so until one day, having chosen a suitable moment, he plucked up courage and said to her: ‘Caterina, I implore you not to let me die of love for you.’ ‘Heaven grant,’ she promptly replied, ‘that you do not allow me to die first for love of you.’ Ricciardo was overjoyed by the girl’s answer, and, feeling greatly encouraged, he said to her: ‘Demand of me anything you please, and I shall do it.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Fame is in your lifetime and disappears. Anaïs has had that. What she wants, what she has always wanted, is glory—to be remembered forever with admiration.” So when Anaïs turned her head to me on the starched pillow and pleaded, “I’m afraid I’m dying,” I promised, “You cannot die, because you will always be remembered.” I saw the corners of her thin lips curl slightly upward, so I continued, “Young women will read you for centuries to come. Over and over again, they’ll discover their sexuality through you. You are timeless because you have given voice to the eternal woman.” Seeing a glint in her eyes, I went on, not caring that I was repeating myself, not caring that I was gushing, trying to express my passion to her with my hyperbolic declarations of her undying glory, standing like an acolyte, hands at my sides, crying out what was in my heart. “Through you, women will find their inner life. Coming of age will not have to be so lonely for girls anymore. You will have daughters of daughters, who will find the second birth by reading your diaries.” She struggled to raise herself in the bed. “Prop up my pillow, please. I’m enjoying your company. I’ve been spending too much time with the wrong people.” By “the wrong people” she must have meant Evelyn Hinz and those hippie white light people. I was glad she saw she should be spending time with me instead, but that meant I had to keep coming up with things to inspire her. I wanted to exclaim my love for her, to cry out that I could not bear to lose her, but I was afraid it would quicken her fear that she was dying. I ventured, “I’ve been thinking about this card deck of women authors I had as a girl. There were cards for Louisa May Alcott and Harriet Beecher Stowe and Edith Wharton. Now they’re going to have to add your picture, and even girls of seven will know who you are.” “What do girls do with the cards?” “You’re supposed to play a game like Fish, but we made them trading cards and begged or poached our favorite authors from each other.” “Did they have George Sand in the deck?” “I don’t think so. Maybe it was just American women. But you’re an American author.” “You see me as an American author, Tchrristine?” Her French accent was so pronounced that for a moment I doubted myself. But I answered, “Absolutely! You’re as all-American as F. Scott Fitzgerald!” As I said it, I realized how much like Fitzgerald’s mythic character of Jay Gatsby Anaïs was. She had Gatsby’s charm and generosity and his romantic readiness to stake all for the dream. She was looking much better. Her eyes would never again be turquoise, but the sea’s depth had returned to them. “Could you hand me that mirror?” she asked me. “And my makeup bag?”

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  The mystic involves himself not only in the practical absurdity of becoming obsessed with self, in the very fever of the effort to eliminate it, but in the rational absurdity of passing judgment upon even the most unselfish desires as being selfish because they are desires. “We must suppress our desires, even the desire for the joys of paradise,” declares Madame Guyon. {30} Bousset, who traces down these morbid efforts of the mystics to achieve absolutely consistent disinterestedness, paraphrases their dominant sentiment in the words, “The desire for God is not God, therefore we close the door upon that as well.” {31} The mystics who attempted to satisfy their longing for absolute perfection in ascetic practice were involved in an even more difficult and irrational procedure. They destroyed life and society in the process of refining it. Both Christian and Buddhist ascetics, unable to disassociate selfish desire from the will-to-live, have stopped short only of complete physical annihilation in their effort to destroy desire. In the paradox of Christ, “Whoso seeketh to find his life shall lose it and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it,” {32} the religious tension which drives toward asceticism is resolved by condemning self-seeking as a goal of life, but allowing self-realisation as a by-product of self-abnegation. This paradox has saved Christianity from the pessimistic denials of life which characterise Hinduism and Buddhism, more particularly the latter. Yet the difference between Western and Eastern religion is only one of degree. Asceticism remains a permanent characteristic of all religious life. It may degenerate into morbid moralities of various kinds, but its complete absence is a proof of a lack of vitality in religion. A sun warm enough to ripen the fruits of the garden must make some fruits overripe. Criticism of the ascetic note in religion, which regards it merely as an excrescence and not as an inevitable by-product of the religious yearning for the absolute, proceeds from a lack of understanding of the true nature of religion. {33} On the social limitations of ascetic sensitivity we shall have occasion to say more later. It would be well to consider first another moral resource of religion, which tends to qualify and to destroy the subjectivism into which mysticism and asceticism easily fall. This is the religious emphasis upon love as the highest virtue. A rational ethic aims at justice, and a religious ethic makes love the ideal. A rational ethic seeks to bring the needs of others into equal consideration with those of the self. The religious ethic, (the Christian ethic more particularly, though not solely) insists that the needs of the neighbor shall be met, without a careful computation of relative needs. This emphasis upon love is another fruit of the religious sense of the absolute. On the one hand religion absolutises the sentiment of benevolence and makes it the norm and ideal of the moral life.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  If the cobbler has been indiscreet, then admittedly I must take good care not to let him meddle again in my affairs, but at the same time I must thank him for the services he has rendered. So that if Gisippus has married Sophronia well, to complain of the man and his methods is a piece of gratuitous folly; and if you suspect his judgement, thank him for what he has done, and see that he is never given the chance to do it again. ‘Nevertheless I must make it clear that I never sought, whether by native cunning or deliberate fraud, to besmirch the honour and the fame of your family in the person of Sophronia. Although I married her in secret, I was no plunderer, intent on despoiling her of her virginity, nor did I wish to possess her on dishonourable terms, like one who was your enemy and who spurned your kinship. I wanted her because I was ardently enamoured of her enchanting beauty and superior worth. Yet I knew that had I sought your formal consent, which you may feel I was obliged to obtain, it would not have been forthcoming, since, loving her deeply as you do, you would have feared that I would take her away to Rome. ‘Accordingly I resorted to the secret measures that can now be openly revealed, and I forced Gisippus, for my sake, to fall in with my plans. Moreover, though I was passionately in love with her, it was not as her lover that I conjoined myself to Sophronia, but as her husband. For as she herself can truthfully bear witness, I kept my distance until after I had wedded her by saying the necessary words and placing the ring on her finger, and when I asked her whether she would have me as her husband, she told me that she would. If she feels she was deceived, she should not blame me, but herself, for failing to ask me who I was. So the enormous crime, the terrible sin, the unpardonable wrong committed by Gisippus, my devoted friend, and by myself, her devoted admirer, was simply that Sophronia was married to Titus Quintus in secret; for this reason alone do you tear him to pieces, bombard him with threats, and sharpen your knives against him. What more would you have done, had he given her to a serf, a scoundrel, or a slave? Where would you have found the fetters, the dungeons, or the tortures equal to his offence? ‘But of this let us say no more for the present. Something has now occurred which I was not yet expecting, namely, that my father has died and I am

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She was at the stage of being in love when she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But all Stephen’s clothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought that she must be very well served, which was true—she was served, as are certain men, with a great deal of nicety and care by the servants. And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big box that lived on her dressing table; and now she was strapping on her gold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some dust from her coat; and now she was frowning at herself in the glass for a second as she twitched her immaculate necktie. Mary had seen her do all this before, many times, but to-day somehow it was different; for to-day they were in their own home together, so that these little intimate things seemed more dear than they had done at Orotava. The bedroom could only have belonged to Stephen; a large, airy room, very simply furnished—white walls, old oak, and a wide, bricked hearth on which some large, friendly logs were burning. The bed could only have been Stephen’s bed; it was heavy and rather austere in pattern. It looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look, and was covered by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it remained quite guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have been Stephen’s chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging. The dressing table could only have been hers, with its tall silver mirror and ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn into themselves a species of life derived from their owner, until they seemed to be thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made their thoughts more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength and mingled with Mary’s so that she heard herself cry out: ‘Stephen!’ in a voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy she felt in that name. And Stephen answered her: ‘Mary—’ Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each of them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual love can at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts may grow fearful. And although they could not have put it into words, could not have explained it to themselves or to each other, they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond the turbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into the eyes of a love that was changed—a love made perfect, discarnate. But the moment passed and they drew together. . . . 2 The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first spring days in Paris?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  What do I care for anything but you, and you just as you are—as you are, I love you! Do you think I’m crying because of what you’ve told me? I’m crying because of your dear, scarred face . . . the misery on it. . . . Can’t you understand that all that I am belongs to you, Stephen?’ Stephen bent down and kissed Mary’s hands very humbly, for now she could find no words any more . . . and that night they were not divided. CHAPTER 50 1 S tephen ought to have gone to England that summer; at Morton there had been a change of agent, and once again certain questions had arisen which required her careful personal attention. But time had not softened Anna’s attitude to Mary, and time had not lessened Stephen’s exasperation—the more so as Mary no longer hid the bitterness that she felt at this treatment. So Stephen tackled the business by writing a number of long and wearisome letters, unwilling to set foot again in the house where Mary Llewellyn would not be welcome. But as always the thought of England wounded, bringing with it the old familiar longing—homesick she would feel as she sat at her desk writing those wearisome business letters. For even as Jamie must crave for the grey, wind-swept street and the wind-swept uplands of Beedles, so Stephen must crave for the curving hills, for the long green hedges and pastures of Morton. Jamie openly wept when such moods were upon her, but the easement of tears was denied to Stephen. In August Jamie and Barbara joined them in a villa that Stephen had taken at Houlgate. Mary hoped that the bathing would do Barbara good; she was not at all well. Jamie worried about her. And indeed the girl had grown very frail, so frail that the housework now tried her sorely; when alone she must sit down and hold her side for the pain that was never mentioned to Jamie. Then too, all was not well between them these days; poverty, even hunger at times, the sense of being unwanted outcasts, the knowledge that the people to whom they belonged—good and honest people—both abhorred and despised them, such things as these had proved very bad housemates for sensitive souls like Barbara and Jamie.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You are to know, then, that in Lombardy there was once a convent, widely renowned for its sanctity and religious fervour, which housed a certain number of nuns, one of them being a girl of gentle birth, endowed with wondrous beauty, whose name was Isabetta. One day, having come to the grating to converse with a kinsman of hers, she fell in love with a handsome young man who was with him; and the young man, observing that she was very beautiful, and divining her feelings through the language of the eyes, fell no less passionately in love with her. For some little time, to the no small torment of each, their love remained unfulfilled; but eventually, their desire for one another being equally acute, the young man thought of a way for him and his nun to forgather in secret; and with her willing consent he visited her not only once but over and over again, to their intense and mutual delight. This went on for some considerable time until one night, unbeknown either to himself or to Isabetta, he was seen by one of the other nuns as he left her cell and proceeded on his way. The nun told several of her companions, who at first were inclined to report Isabetta to the Abbess, a lady called Madonna Usimbalda, whose goodness and piety were a byword among all the nuns and everyone else who knew her. But on second thoughts they decided, so that their story should admit of no denial, to try and arrange for the Abbess to catch her red-handed with the young man. So they kept it to themselves, and secretly took it in turns to keep her under close and constant watch in order to take her in flagrante. Now Isabetta knew nothing of all this, and one night, taking no special care, she happened to arrange for her lover to come. This he no sooner did than he was espied by the nuns whose business it was to keep watch, and after biding their time until well into the night, the nuns formed themselves into two separate groups, the first mounting guard at the entrance to Isabetta’s cell whilst the second hurried off to the chamber of the Abbess. Their knocking at the door was promptly acknowledged by the Abbess, and so they called out to her, saying: ‘Get up, Mother Abbess, come quickly! We’ve discovered Isabetta has a young man with her in her cell!’

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Trying to put her at ease, I commented on a collection of masks I hadn’t noticed before on one of her walls. They all looked homemade: a red devil’s mask, a white ruffled lady’s mask, a long-nosed Venetian mask, several grotesque animal masks, and the scariest—a featureless bone-white mask. Renate explained that she’d made the masks out of papier-mâché as decorations for a party she’d thrown at her house where all the guests wore costumes to portray their own madness. She’d hung the masks from sumac branches, and in the flickering candlelight, the swinging masks danced amongst the masks of meandering guests. “I wish I could have been there. What was your costume for the party?” I asked her. “I held death masks on sticks in two hands. When I removed one, there would be another mask of death behind it.” I loved that—it was deep like existentialism but, as I was learning about surrealism, much more fun. I was attracted to Renate and Anaïs’s playfulness and creativity, yet my recent scare had shown me that they could be dangerous to my future. Renate went on to tell me that a friend of hers, Kenneth Anger, had directed an experimental film called Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome that recreated her party. In it, she, her son Peter, Anaïs, and Rupert had enacted a pagan ritual. She recommended I catch the film when it screened at college campuses on Halloween, rekindling my suspicion that Renate was a witch. Despite her warning on the phone that my questions were rude, I decided I couldn’t wait. “You said something could be done for me at my uptight university. Do you know what turned Dr. Inch around?” To my surprise, she smiled. “Do you remember meeting Chris at Holiday House?” I assumed she was referring to Christopher Isherwood, but I didn’t get any more information because we were interrupted by Anaïs’s arrival. Renate quickly departed to display some of her canvases at an outdoor art show, and Anaïs settled on her floor-pillow pedestal asking how I was. “I’m okay.” Actually my blood was racing. I felt like demanding, I’m owed some answers! But Anaïs’s warmth was shining on me. I recognized how beloved I felt in her presence, and my anger melted away as she introduced the subject so I didn’t have to. “Renate has kept me up to date on the drama that has gone on in your life since Hugo phoned your Dr. Inch. I am so sorry, Tchrristine. We never intended for it to harm you.” “Did you or Renate fix it somehow with Inch?” She smiled as Renate had, a sign I took as permission to ask my questions. “Why did Hugo phone Inch in the first place? How did he know about the letter I wrote for you?” “Hugo and I are still the best of friends.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  After we heard the front door close, Anaïs declared, “You must go to Europe, Tristine! Have an affair with Jean-Jacques, and then he can sponsor you to visit him in Paris. You will see how much more sophisticated Europeans are about marriage. Here people are not faithful and believe they must get a divorce. The family falls apart; everyone is hurt. In Europe the man and the woman each have other lovers and stay married.” “But that would hurt even more.” “They are discreet. They love each other so they protect each other.” “I don’t think I could ever keep secrets from the person I marry.” The corners of her mouth curled indulgently, saying you’ll learn, but I didn’t want to. What was the point of being married, I thought, if you couldn’t share everything about yourself with your husband and he with you? Anaïs lit one of her gold-tipped Sobranies from the box sitting on the wrought iron table. “So what will it be?” She exhaled. “Will you ask Jean-Jacques to be your lover or would you like me to ask him?” “To be your lover?” “No.” She laughed. “You are naughty. I’ll ask him to be your lover if you are too shy to do it yourself.” “I’m much too shy, but I don’t know if I want you to—” “Don’t worry. He won’t even know I’ve spoken with you. He’ll believe it was his idea, and that I simply didn’t discourage him.” “But where would we … ? Lenore is back at her loft, so we couldn’t …” “That’s what hotels are for.” She moved the untouched cheese to the fruit plate and used the empty saucer as an ashtray. “What will you wear? I always prepare for occasions by dressing the part.” “I don’t know.” “You have to wear white. White lace like a First Communion dress but with a low neckline to show off your cleavage. We’ll go shopping together! Red heels.” “I don’t know if I can afford that. I’m starting college, and—” “It will be my present. To honor your courage! The new woman!” She was enjoying the anticipation of my deflowering more than I was, and I realized that I could not back out for fear of disappointing her. I changed the subject. “I read your novels. They’re mysterious and beautiful.” “Thank you, Tchrristeenne,” she said, lengthening her embrace of my name. I ventured, “I wondered if you put any of your diary in the novels.” “Yes, the diary is the hothouse from which I pick the most exotic flowers.” She asked me, “Do you want to be a writer?” “That or a famous actress. But I know I’m not pretty enough.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “My father used to tell me I was an ugly child,” she said. “Is that what happened to you?” “How did you know that?” “I sense there are many affinities between us.” She smiled on me.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  In idolizing Anaïs and seeking her reflective gaze of approval, I had allowed her to use me for her own ends. She took far more than my innocence. Yet I sensed that what I’d lost was less valuable than what I’d received: a mentor who shared my particular wound and inspired me to heal it through writing, a guide to owning my sexuality, an inspiration to value my creativity and inner journey, the model of a woman who could soak up so much joy. Thanks to her I didn’t give up hope for both devotion and passion in love. She taught me to embrace good times wholeheartedly when they come and to transcend life’s tragedies through the imagination, as she’d imagined herself in a symphony when dying. She gave me a hand up onto my life’s work, understanding that we are heroines who author our own stories; elect how we see them, choose what they mean, and choose again. Much of who I am came from Anaïs and has served me well. For the wonder of Anaïs was not that she had sunk so low as to commit adult incest; the wonder was how she’d matured since that freakish episode, how she’d expanded into a plenitude of self, accepting the errors and blindnesses as necessary, working diligently on herself, developing and growing to become a wise and compassionate woman who reached out to heal other broken souls. The wonder was that Anaïs, a deeply flawed person—a narcissist, a bigamist, a liar, and a deviant—was so lovable. The wonder was that from such a defective source shone so much light before her diminishment. The sun was fading, and as I returned to treading water, I became alarmed by my chill and exhaustion. Foolishly, Don Quixote chasing a metaphor, I’d swum too far in my grand gesture to say good-bye. I was not a strong swimmer, and nobody knew I was out there. Frantically, I swam in a crawl directly towards shore, but soon was spent. The immensity of the ocean roiled beneath me and tugged. In the distance, I could see the lighted windows of my house and wished I were there instead of in the cold, nacreous water. I remembered my dream where my guru woman stood at the Dutch window, calmly watching me tossed in the waves below. In the dream, I was in those waves but I was also my guiding presence, haloed at the window. Using the glow of those windows as my beacon now, I side-paddled in a switchback, pulled by the beckoning light, following the dream. When I reached the breakers, the moon had risen and the sun was stretched into an ovoid, resisting its eclipse. I gave myself to the crashing surf, elevated on a high wave, rising like flying, cresting in an explosion of foam and bubbles, gliding onto the grit of sand.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FOURTH STORY Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi comes from Modena and takes from the tomb the lady he loves, who has been buried for dead. She revives and gives birth to a male child, and later Messer Gentile restores her and the child to Niccoluccio Caccianimico, the lady’s husband. Miraculous indeed did it seem to all those present that anyone should be liberal with his own blood; and everyone agreed that Nathan’s generosity had certainly exceeded that of the King of Spain or the Abbot of Cluny. But after they had debated the matter at some length, the king fixed his gaze on Lauretta, thus showing that he wanted her to tell the next story; and Lauretta began forthwith, as follows: Fair young ladies, so goodly and magnificent are the things we have been told, so fully has the ground already been covered, that those of us who have not yet told our tales would surely be left with no area to explore, unless of course we turn to the deeds of lovers, wherein a most copious supply of tales on any topic is always to be found. For this reason, and also because matters of this sort are especially fascinating for people of our age, I should like to tell you of a generous deed performed by one who was in love. And if it is true that in order to possess the object of their love men will give away whole fortunes, set aside their enmities, and place their lives, their honour, and (what is more important) their reputation in serious jeopardy, then possibly you will conclude, all things considered, that his action was no less striking than some of the ones already described. In Bologna, then, that illustrious city in the Lombard plain, there once lived a gentleman called Messer Gentile de’ Carisendi, 1 distinguished for his valour and noble blood, who whilst still in his youth became enamoured of a gentlewoman, Madonna Catalina by name, who was the wife of a certain Niccoluccio Caccianimico. But because his love for the lady was ill-requited he almost despaired of it and went away to Modena, where he had been appointed to the office of podestà. At the time of which we are speaking, Niccoluccio was absent from Bologna, and his wife, being pregnant, was staying at an estate of his, some three miles distant from the city, where she had the misfortune to contract a sudden and cruel malady, whose effects were so powerful and serious that all sign of life in her was extinguished, and consequently she was adjudged, even by her physicians, to be dead. Since her closest women relatives claimed to have heard from her own lips that she had not been pregnant sufficiently long for the unborn creature to be perfectly formed, they troubled themselves no further on that score, and after shedding many tears, they buried her, just as she was, in a tomb in the local church.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In answering the first of these charges, Ghismonda in effect enlarges with convincing eloquence upon the simple statement that Guiscardo has already uttered: ‘Amor può troppo piú che né voi né io possiamo.’ She is made of flesh and blood, not of stone or iron, she is still a young woman, subject to the laws of youth and full of amorous longings, intensified by her brief marriage, which had enabled her ‘to discover the marvellous joy that comes from their fulfilment’. It is only natural that a woman in her condition should have sought a lover. Nor did she choose a lover at random, as many another woman would have done, but she consciously and deliberately selected a man who, notwithstanding his humble origins, displayed all the qualities associated with true nobility. If Tancredi would abandon the notion that a man’s nobility is measured by the quality of his ancestry, and compare impartially the lives, customs and manners of each of his nobles with those of Guiscardo, he would be forced to conclude that Guiscardo alone is a patrician whilst all of his nobles are plebeians. The concept of nobility expounded here so lucidly by Ghismonda is not of course an invention of Boccaccio’s own, for it had been adumbrated in the thirteenth century by Guido Guinizzelli, the poet acknowledged by Dante as founder of the dolce stil novo , and thereafter it became a staple theme of the Italian lyric until well into the following century. For the stilnovisti , nobility of lineage counted less than what they termed nobility of the heart. The term ‘gentil core’ (‘noble heart’) became a recurrent feature of the poetic vocabulary of the period. The songs with which Boccaccio brings each of the ten days of the Decameron to a close are the last significant specimens of that great poetic tradition which stretches back, via Cino da Pistoia, Dante and Guido Cavalcanti, to Guido Guinizzelli. But whereas in the poetry of the stilnovisti the sophisticated définitions of love and nobility had assumed the character of a refined intellectual exercise, Boccaccio appears to accept their validity, and he proceeds to examine their practical implications within a series of carefully delineated contexts. It is above all in the story of Cimon and Iphigenia (V, I) that Boccaccio makes his most brilliant and original contribution to that tradition, by incorporating one of its principal themes (the ennobling power of feminine beauty) within the framework of a prose narrative. The story tells of Cimon, the uncouth and witless son of a noble and prosperous Cypriot gentleman, who is a source of so much affliction to his despairing father that he is sent away to live in the country, where the rusticity of his manners will attract less attention. One afternoon as he is shambling doltishly through a wood on one of his father’s estates, he comes upon a clearing surrounded by very tall trees, in a corner of which there is a lovely cool fountain.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘Yes, but don’t do that, will you, unless I ring up—I should hear you, of course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.’ Then as though impelled, in spite of herself, by the girl’s strange attraction, she lifted her face: ‘Kiss me . . . oh, God . . . Stephen!’ ‘I love you so much—so much—’ whispered Stephen. 2It was past ten o’clock when she got back to Morton: ‘Has Angela Crossby rung up?’ she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in the hall. ‘No, she hasn’t!’ snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added: ‘You look like nothing on earth; in your place I’d go to bed at once, Stephen.’ ‘You go to bed, Puddle, if you’re tired—where’s Mother? ‘In her bath. For heaven’s sake do come to bed! I can’t bear to see you looking as you do these days.’ ‘I’m all right.’ ‘No, you’re not, you’re all wrong. Go and look at your face.’ ‘I don’t very much want to, it doesn’t attract me,’ smiled Stephen. So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of the semi-circular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly, to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to stand and keep watch in her garden—Snatching up a coat she went out to her car. 3She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive, taking care to tread softly. The air had an indefinable smell of dew and of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate Tudor chimneys of the house stood out gauntly against a brightening sky, and as Stephen crept into the small herb garden, one tentative bird had already begun singing—but his voice was still rather husky from sleep. She stood there and shivered in her heavy coat; the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was sometimes like this now—she would shiver at the least provocation, the least sign of fatigue, for her splendid physical strength was giving, worn out by its own insistence.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So that if Gisippus has married Sophronia well, to complain of the man and his methods is a piece of gratuitous folly; and if you suspect his judgement, thank him for what he has done, and see that he is never given the chance to do it again. ‘Nevertheless I must make it clear that I never sought, whether by native cunning or deliberate fraud, to besmirch the honour and the fame of your family in the person of Sophronia. Although I married her in secret, I was no plunderer, intent on despoiling her of her virginity, nor did I wish to possess her on dishonourable terms, like one who was your enemy and who spurned your kinship. I wanted her because I was ardently enamoured of her enchanting beauty and superior worth. Yet I knew that had I sought your formal consent, which you may feel I was obliged to obtain, it would not have been forthcoming, since, loving her deeply as you do, you would have feared that I would take her away to Rome. ‘Accordingly I resorted to the secret measures that can now be openly revealed, and I forced Gisippus, for my sake, to fall in with my plans. Moreover, though I was passionately in love with her, it was not as her lover that I conjoined myself to Sophronia, but as her husband. For as she herself can truthfully bear witness, I kept my distance until after I had wedded her by saying the necessary words and placing the ring on her finger, and when I asked her whether she would have me as her husband, she told me that she would. If she feels she was deceived, she should not blame me, but herself, for failing to ask me who I was. So the enormous crime, the terrible sin, the unpardonable wrong committed by Gisippus, my devoted friend, and by myself, her devoted admirer, was simply that Sophronia was married to Titus Quintus in secret; for this reason alone do you tear him to pieces, bombard him with threats, and sharpen your knives against him. What more would you have done, had he given her to a serf, a scoundrel, or a slave? Where would you have found the fetters, the dungeons, or the tortures equal to his offence? ‘But of this let us say no more for the present. Something has now occurred which I was not yet expecting, namely, that my father has died and I am obliged to return to Rome; and because I wish to take Sophronia with me, I have revealed to you that which otherwise I might have continued to conceal. If you are wise, you will cheerfully accept it, for had I wished to deceive or offend you, I could have disowned her and left her on your hands. But heaven forbid that the heart of a Roman should ever harbour so cowardly a design.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And with that I bid you farewell.’ To which Saladin, having already taken his leave of Messer Torello’s companions, replied as follows: ‘We may yet have the chance, sir, of showing you some of our merchandise, and then you shall be persuaded well enough. But meanwhile we bid you adieu.’ Saladin then rode off with his companions, being firmly resolved, if his life were spared and he avoided defeat in the war with which he was faced, to return the hospitality of Messer Torello in full. He talked a great deal to his companions about Messer Torello and his lady, and about all the things he had done for them, waxing more eloquent in his praises on each occasion he returned to the subject. And when, at the cost of no little fatigue, his tour of the West was completed, he returned by sea with his companions to Alexandria, where, now that he was fully apprised of the facts, he drew up his plan of defence. Meanwhile Messer Torello had returned to Pavia, and although he pondered at great length upon who these three men might have been, he never arrived at the truth nor even came anywhere near it. When the time arrived for the Crusade, and the soldiers were assembling everywhere in large numbers, Messer Torello, undeterred by the tears and entreaties of his lady, firmly made up his mind to go with them. He therefore made all his preparations, and as he was about to ride away, he summoned his wife, whom he loved very deeply, and said to her: ‘As you see, my lady, I am joining this Crusade, both for personal renown and the good of my soul. I leave our good name and our possessions in your hands; and since my return is far less certain than my departure, owing to any of a thousand accidents that may befall me, I want you to promise me this: that whatever should be my fate, failing positive news that I live, you will wait for a year and a month and a day before you remarry, beginning from this, the day of my departure.’ ‘Torello,’ she replied, weeping most bitterly, ‘how I am to bear all the sorrow into which I am plunged by your going away, I simply cannot tell. But if I am strong enough to survive it, and if anything should happen to you, rest assured that for as long as I live I shall be wedded to Messer Torello and his memory.’ ‘My lady,’ said Messer Torello, ‘I am convinced that you will do all in your power to keep such a promise; but you are young and beautiful, you come from a famous family, and as everyone knows, you are a woman of exceptional gifts.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  What lady aye should sing, and if not I, Who'm blest with all for which a maid can sigh? Come then, O Love, thou source of all my weal, All hope and every issue glad and bright Sing ye awhile yfere Of sighs nor bitter pains I erst did feel, That now but sweeten to me thy delight, Nay, but of that fire clear, Wherein I, burning, live in joy and cheer, And as my God, thy name do magnify. Thou settest, Love, before these eyes of mine Whenas thy fire I entered the first day, A youngling so beseen With valour, worth and loveliness divine, That never might one find a goodlier, nay, Nor yet his match, I ween. So sore I burnt for him I still must e'en Sing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high. And that in him which crowneth my liesse Is that I please him, as he pleaseth me, Thanks to Love debonair; Thus in this world my wish I do possess And in the next I trust at peace to be, Through that fast faith I bear To him; sure God, who seeth this, will ne'er The kingdom of His bliss to us deny. [Footnote 146: _i.e._ Friday being a fast day and Saturday a _jour maigre_.] [Footnote 147: _i.e._ generally upon the vicissitudes of Fortune and not upon any particular feature.] [Footnote 148: _Industria_, syn. address, skilful contrivance.] After this they sang sundry other songs and danced sundry dances and played upon divers instruments of music. Then, the queen deeming it time to go to rest, each betook himself, with torches before him, to his chamber, and all on the two following days, whilst applying themselves to those things whereof the queen had spoken, looked longingly for Sunday. HERE ENDETH THE SECOND DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Third_ HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF NEIFILE IS DISCOURSED OF SUCH AS HAVE BY DINT OF DILIGENCE ACQUIRED SOME MUCH DESIRED THING OR RECOVERED SOME LOST GOOD