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 Querelle (1953)

  The scene was over. Robert pushed up close to his mistress. For a moment, he didn't know whether he was her son or her lover. His closed lips were glued to her still-powdered cheek, now wet with tears. 14I love you so, my darling! You are my man." He whispered : .. Switch the light off." His feet were ice cold. At the end of their reunited bodies, their temperature alone prevented them from immediately plunging into that intoxication whence there is no emerging. He moved even closer to her. Madame Lysiane was glowing like a coal. "I'm all yours, you know, my darling." She had made her decision, and to make certain that it was not in vain, Madame Lysiane made her voice as inviting as possible. That evening, a veil was fina11y tom within her, that had resisted all her years. By sacrificing her modesty at the age of forty-five, she lost her true virginity, and like any virgin, she was at that moment ready to engage in previously unheard-of obscenities. "Let's do what you want, darling." And in another sigh, as all offertory phrases are short and a little breathless, she added : "The way you like it best." Almost imperceptibly, her body began to move farther down under tht sheets. In her love for Robert she had realized that if she wanted to join her life to the life of those ridiculously indistinguishable brothers, she herself had to descend back to the caves, in order to return to an undecided, protoplasmic, larval state that would enable her to fit in better between the.. two others, to finally mingle with them, like the egg white of one egg with the whites of two other eggs. Madame Lysiane's 190 I JEAN GENET love had to melt her down, to reduce her to zero, destroying that moral armature that made her into everything she was and lent her its authority. At the same time she felt ashamed and wished she could cling to a less monstrous man than this single half of a double statue was, a man who knew how to take care of money, who had no other preoccupations but those arising out of his everyday existence; she felt a vague nostalgia for Noilo. But then again, it was a great comfort to be thus con· quered and dedicated to slave's work; it gave her a new and truer, more essential life. Her mouth glued to the neck tendon of her lover she whispered : "My dear cabbage, you know, darling, I'll do what you want." Robert squeezed her hard, then relaxed his grip a little to allow her to continue her slide down his body. She moved on, slowly, and Robert's body stiffened as it moved up to meet her.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Return for good. QuereJle knows that I love him. He knows it from the way I look at him, and I know that he knows from his sly and almost insolent smile. But everything within him proves to him that I am attached to him, and thus everything in him seems to work toward the end of making my attachment grow even stronger. And a11 the embarrassment we are experiencing helps us to see the exceptional significance of this day even more clearly. Even if it had appeared necessary, I could not have made 144 I JEAN GENET love to Querelle tonight. Nor to anyone else, for that matter. All my affective powers Bow into this joy of return, make me feel crowded with happiness. Just awoke from a horrible dream. This much I can say about it: We were in a stable ( ten or so unknown accomplices ) . Which one of us would have to kill him (I don't know whom ) ? One young man accepted the task. The victim did not deserve to die. We watched the murder being done. The voluntary executioner struck the greenish back of the unfortunate man several times with a pitchfork. Above the victim, a mirror suddenly appeared, just in time for us to see our faces go pale. They grew paler and paler as the victim's back grew bloodier. The executioner kept on striking, in despair. (I am sure, now, that this is a faithful description of the dream, because it is not as if I were remembering it: I am reconstructing it, with the help of words. ) The victim-innocent-despite his atrocious suffering, helped the murderer. He showed him where to strike. He took part in the drama, despite the desolate expression of reproach in his eyes. I also note the beauty of the murderer, and the sense of his being wrapped in garments of malediction. The whole day has been as if stained with blood by this dream. Almost literally, the day had a bleeding wound. Querelle' s hand was thick and strong, and Mario, though without giving it much thought, had expected it to be effeminate and somewhat fragile. His own hand had not been prepared for such a paw. He scrutinized Querelle. A large fellow, exceptionally handsome despite a day's growth of stubble, with the same face and athletic bearing as Robert; he looked manly, a little brutal, tough. (The curtness of his gestures underlined this appearance of strength and brutality. ) "Nono ain't here?" "No, he went out." "So you're in charge of the joint?" 145 I QUERELLE "Well, there's the lady. Surely you know her?" Having said that, lVlario looked Querelle in the eye and curled his lips in a light sneer. But if the mouth expressed mere irony, tne eyes were hard and pitiless. But Quere11e did not suspect anything. "Yeah . . ."

• From Querelle (1953)

  189 I QUERELLE feet, in long, hot waves, in which little sly fish would then sport about ... Lysiane shivered. "Why don't you get back in." The scene was over. Robert pushed up close to his mistress. For a moment, he didn't know whether he was her son or her lover. His closed lips were glued to her still-powdered cheek, now wet with tears. 14I love you so, my darling! You are my man." He whispered: .. Switch the light off." His feet were ice cold. At the end of their reunited bodies, their temperature alone prevented them from immediately plunging into that intoxication whence there is no emerging. He moved even closer to her. Madame Lysiane was glowing like a coal . "I'm all yours, you know, my darling." She had made her decision, and to make certain that it was not in vain, Madame Lysiane made her voice as inviting as possible. That evening, a veil was fina11y tom within her, that had resisted all her years. By sacrificing her modesty at the age of forty-five, she lost her true virginity, and like any virgin, she was at that moment ready to engage in previously unheard-of obscenities. "Let's do what you want, darling." And in another sigh, as all offertory phrases are short and a little breathless, she added: "The way you like it best." Almost imperceptibly, her body began to move farther down under tht sheets. In her love for Robert she had realized that if she wanted to join her life to the life of those ridiculously indistinguishable brothers, she herself had to descend back to the caves, in order to return to an undecided, protoplasmic, larval state that would enable her to fit in better between the.. two others, to finally mingle with them, like the egg white of one egg with the whites of two other eggs. Madame Lysiane's

• From Querelle (1953)

  237 I QUERRLE The vision of the solitude in which their love might have grown enhanced his feelings for Gil; he knew that Gil existed only for him, was his only friend, his only family . .. I've never loved another guy, you know. You're the first one." "Is that true?" .. 1 give you my word." He pressed his friend's head against his cheek. .. I like you, you know. I really love you.' ' .. 1 love you too . " When they parted, Querelle had really fallen in love with Gil ... Querelle had absolute confidence in his star. That star owed its existence to the very confidence the sailor had in it-it was, in a sense, the point at which his confidence pierced his dark night: his confidence in, exactly, nothing but his own confi dence; for the star to retain its greatness and its brilliance, that is to say, its efficacy, Querelle had to retain his confidence in it-which was his belief in himself-and first of all, his smile, so that not even the lightest cloud could come behveen his star and him, so that its rays did not lose any of their energy, so that not even the most vaporous little \visp of doubt could ever tam�sh his star. He remained suspended from· it while re creating it every second of his life. Thus it afforded him effective protection. The thought of seeing it snuffed out created a kind of vertigo in Querelle. He lived at top speed. His attention, always directed toward the nourishment of his star, forced him to a precision of movements that a softer life would not have called forth in him (nor would it have been necessary there). Always alert, he saw all obstacles more clearly and instantly knew what action to take to surmount them. Only when he was exhausted, if he ever was, fear could take hold of him. His certainty that he had a star arose out of a complex of circumstances (what we call good luck), equally random as it was structured, and in such a beautiful, rose-windowlike way,

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Marriage had never presented itself to him as a possibility. He not only disliked family life, but a family, and especially a husband was, in accordance with the views general in the bachelor world in which he lived, conceived as something alien, repellant, and, above all, ridiculous. But though Vronsky had not the least suspicion what the parents were saying, he felt on coming away from the Shtcherbatskys’ that the secret spiritual bond which existed between him and Kitty had grown so much stronger that evening that some step must be taken. But what step could and ought to be taken he could not imagine. “What is so exquisite,” he thought, as he returned from the Shtcherbatskys’, carrying away with him, as he always did, a delicious feeling of purity and freshness, arising partly from the fact that he had not been smoking for a whole evening, and with it a new feeling of tenderness at her love for him—“what is so exquisite is that not a word has been said by me or by her, but we understand each other so well in this unseen language of looks and tones, that this evening more clearly than ever she told me she loves me. And how secretly, simply, and most of all, how trustfully! I feel myself better, purer. I feel that I have a heart, and that there is a great deal of good in me. Those sweet, loving eyes! When she said: ‘Indeed I do....’ “Well, what then? Oh, nothing. It’s good for me, and good for her.” And he began wondering where to finish the evening. He passed in review of the places he might go to. “Club? a game of bezique, champagne with Ignatov? No, I’m not going. _Château des Fleurs_; there I shall find Oblonsky, songs, the cancan. No, I’m sick of it. That’s why I like the Shtcherbatskys’, that I’m growing better. I’ll go home.” He went straight to his room at Dussots’ Hotel, ordered supper, and then undressed, and as soon as his head touched the pillow, fell into a sound sleep. Chapter 17 Next day at eleven o’clock in the morning Vronsky drove to the station of the Petersburg railway to meet his mother, and the first person he came across on the great flight of steps was Oblonsky, who was expecting his sister by the same train. “Ah! your excellency!” cried Oblonsky, “whom are you meeting?” “My mother,” Vronsky responded, smiling, as everyone did who met Oblonsky. He shook hands with him, and together they ascended the steps. “She is to be here from Petersburg today.” “I was looking out for you till two o’clock last night. Where did you go after the Shtcherbatskys’?” “Home,” answered Vronsky. “I must own I felt so well content yesterday after the Shtcherbatskys’ that I didn’t care to go anywhere.” “I know a gallant steed by tokens sure, And by his eyes I know a youth in love,”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Never. Leave it to me. I know all the baseness, all the horror of my position; but it’s not so easy to arrange as you think. And leave it to me, and do what I say. Never speak to me of it. Do you promise me?... No, no, promise!...” “I promise everything, but I can’t be at peace, especially after what you have told me. I can’t be at peace, when you can’t be at peace....” “I?” she repeated. “Yes, I am worried sometimes; but that will pass, if you will never talk about this. When you talk about it—it’s only then it worries me.” “I don’t understand,” he said. “I know,” she interrupted him, “how hard it is for your truthful nature to lie, and I grieve for you. I often think that you have ruined your whole life for me.” “I was just thinking the very same thing,” he said; “how could you sacrifice everything for my sake? I can’t forgive myself that you’re unhappy!” “I unhappy?” she said, coming closer to him, and looking at him with an ecstatic smile of love. “I am like a hungry man who has been given food. He may be cold, and dressed in rags, and ashamed, but he is not unhappy. I unhappy? No, this is my unhappiness....” She could hear the sound of her son’s voice coming towards them, and glancing swiftly round the terrace, she got up impulsively. Her eyes glowed with the fire he knew so well; with a rapid movement she raised her lovely hands, covered with rings, took his head, looked a long look into his face, and, putting up her face with smiling, parted lips, swiftly kissed his mouth and both eyes, and pushed him away. She would have gone, but he held her back. “When?” he murmured in a whisper, gazing in ecstasy at her. “Tonight, at one o’clock,” she whispered, and, with a heavy sigh, she walked with her light, swift step to meet her son. Seryozha had been caught by the rain in the big garden, and he and his nurse had taken shelter in an arbor. “Well, _au revoir_,” she said to Vronsky. “I must soon be getting ready for the races. Betsy promised to fetch me.” Vronsky, looking at his watch, went away hurriedly. Chapter 24

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “I want you to go to Moscow and ask for Kitty’s forgiveness,” she said. “You don’t wish that?” he said. He saw she was saying what she forced herself to say, not what she wanted to say. “If you love me, as you say,” she whispered, “do so that I may be at peace.” His face grew radiant. “Don’t you know that you’re all my life to me? But I know no peace, and I can’t give it to you; all myself—and love ... yes. I can’t think of you and myself apart. You and I are one to me. And I see no chance before us of peace for me or for you. I see a chance of despair, of wretchedness ... or I see a chance of bliss, what bliss!... Can it be there’s no chance of it?” he murmured with his lips; but she heard. She strained every effort of her mind to say what ought to be said. But instead of that she let her eyes rest on him, full of love, and made no answer. “It’s come!” he thought in ecstasy. “When I was beginning to despair, and it seemed there would be no end—it’s come! She loves me! She owns it!” “Then do this for me: never say such things to me, and let us be friends,” she said in words; but her eyes spoke quite differently. “Friends we shall never be, you know that yourself. Whether we shall be the happiest or the wretchedest of people—that’s in your hands.” She would have said something, but he interrupted her. “I ask one thing only: I ask for the right to hope, to suffer as I do. But if even that cannot be, command me to disappear, and I disappear. You shall not see me if my presence is distasteful to you.” “I don’t want to drive you away.” “Only don’t change anything, leave everything as it is,” he said in a shaky voice. “Here’s your husband.” At that instant Alexey Alexandrovitch did in fact walk into the room with his calm, awkward gait. Glancing at his wife and Vronsky, he went up to the lady of the house, and sitting down for a cup of tea, began talking in his deliberate, always audible voice, in his habitual tone of banter, ridiculing someone. “Your Rambouillet is in full conclave,” he said, looking round at all the party; “the graces and the muses.” But Princess Betsy could not endure that tone of his—“sneering,” as she called it, using the English word, and like a skillful hostess she at once brought him into a serious conversation on the subject of universal conscription. Alexey Alexandrovitch was immediately interested in the subject, and began seriously defending the new imperial decree against Princess Betsy, who had attacked it. Vronsky and Anna still sat at the little table. “This is getting indecorous,” whispered one lady, with an expressive glance at Madame Karenina, Vronsky, and her husband.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He knew she was there by the rapture and the terror that seized on his heart. She was standing talking to a lady at the opposite end of the ground. There was apparently nothing striking either in her dress or her attitude. But for Levin she was as easy to find in that crowd as a rose among nettles. Everything was made bright by her. She was the smile that shed light on all round her. “Is it possible I can go over there on the ice, go up to her?” he thought. The place where she stood seemed to him a holy shrine, unapproachable, and there was one moment when he was almost retreating, so overwhelmed was he with terror. He had to make an effort to master himself, and to remind himself that people of all sorts were moving about her, and that he too might come there to skate. He walked down, for a long while avoiding looking at her as at the sun, but seeing her, as one does the sun, without looking. On that day of the week and at that time of day people of one set, all acquainted with one another, used to meet on the ice. There were crack skaters there, showing off their skill, and learners clinging to chairs with timid, awkward movements, boys, and elderly people skating with hygienic motives. They seemed to Levin an elect band of blissful beings because they were here, near her. All the skaters, it seemed, with perfect self-possession, skated towards her, skated by her, even spoke to her, and were happy, quite apart from her, enjoying the capital ice and the fine weather. Nikolay Shtcherbatsky, Kitty’s cousin, in a short jacket and tight trousers, was sitting on a garden seat with his skates on. Seeing Levin, he shouted to him: “Ah, the first skater in Russia! Been here long? First-rate ice—do put your skates on.” “I haven’t got my skates,” Levin answered, marveling at this boldness and ease in her presence, and not for one second losing sight of her, though he did not look at her. He felt as though the sun were coming near him. She was in a corner, and turning out her slender feet in their high boots with obvious timidity, she skated towards him. A boy in Russian dress, desperately waving his arms and bowed down to the ground, overtook her. She skated a little uncertainly; taking her hands out of the little muff that hung on a cord, she held them ready for emergency, and looking towards Levin, whom she had recognized, she smiled at him, and at her own fears. When she had got round the turn, she gave herself a push off with one foot, and skated straight up to Shtcherbatsky. Clutching at his arm, she nodded smiling to Levin. She was more splendid than he had imagined her.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  After Leo died, my father practiced for another year. He got into trouble, went to jail for a while, then retired….I’ve been working for myself for almost thirty years. I’ve become a general surgeon and often times, especially when I see gemstones, I remember my pal, Leo. I wonder: If you think of someone you love, do you become a little more like them? I would like to think so. I wrote back to the generous Dr. Peebles—who asked me to call him Larry in my father’s spirit—and thanked him with all my heart. For the first time, I knew that my father had seen two familiar faces in the hospital before he died. When I explained that I had arrived too late—something he hadn’t known—he wrote back to say that, years later, he arrived too late for his own father’s death. He assured me that my father “seemed to be okay with all of it. Like someone who had a good run.” Each of us knew we were comforting the other. —IF EVERYONE HAS A full circle of human qualities to complete, then progress lies in the direction we haven’t been. My father’s clear case of horreur du domicile was a fear of home so common, especially among men, that Baudelaire called it “La Grande Maladie.” My father had grown up in an apartment with meals served at the same time and no sound except a ticking clock on the mantelpiece. When psychologist Robert Seidenberg studied women in such changeless homes, he named the result “the trauma of eventlessness.” As a boy, I think my father suffered from this, too. That’s why he pushed his own life’s pendulum to the opposite extreme. Of course, his quixotic nature played a role, as did his optimism and his gift for excess, yet I doubt he would have chosen such a risky life if he hadn’t been fleeing an orderly one. My mother was also adventurous by nature. She had rebelled against a mother who thought that creating guilt in her two daughters was the path to their good behavior, and then rebelled against a church so strict that dancing was forbidden. She told me stories of wearing her father’s overalls to play basketball at a time when girls did neither, and learning to drive before anyone else on her block. She then worked her way through university by embroidering for a fancy linen shop and by teaching calculus. On campus, she met my devil-may-care father, the son of an upper-middle-class Jewish family. He made her laugh and was full of dreams—the very opposite of her unforgiving mother, and a father who was often away, working on the railroad. She married my father for his refusal to worry, then was left to worry alone. Both my mother and my father paid a high price for lives out of balance. Yet at least my father had been able to choose his own journey.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  Not till now had I awaited thy demand, were I in thee even as thou art in me.” “The greatest valley in which water stretcheth,” then began his words, “forth from that sea which garlandeth the earth, betwixt opposing shores, against the sun, goeth so far that it meridian maketh of what was first horizon. 12 Of this valley was I a shoresman, midway ’twixt the Ebro and the Macra, which, with short course, parteth the Genoese and Tuscan. Almost alike for sunset and for sunrise the site of Bougiah and of the place I spring from, which with its blood once made the harbour warm. 13 Folco 14 they called me to whom my name was known, and this heaven is stamped by me, as I was stamped by its for Belus’ daughter, 15 wronging alike Sichæus and Creüsa, did not more burn than I, so long as it consorted with my locks;

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “No,” he said to himself, “however good that life of simplicity and toil may be, I cannot go back to it. I love _her_.” Chapter 13 None but those who were most intimate with Alexey Alexandrovitch knew that, while on the surface the coldest and most reasonable of men, he had one weakness quite opposed to the general trend of his character. Alexey Alexandrovitch could not hear or see a child or woman crying without being moved. The sight of tears threw him into a state of nervous agitation, and he utterly lost all power of reflection. The chief secretary of his department and his private secretary were aware of this, and used to warn women who came with petitions on no account to give way to tears, if they did not want to ruin their chances. “He will get angry, and will not listen to you,” they used to say. And as a fact, in such cases the emotional disturbance set up in Alexey Alexandrovitch by the sight of tears found expression in hasty anger. “I can do nothing. Kindly leave the room!” he would commonly cry in such cases. When returning from the races Anna had informed him of her relations with Vronsky, and immediately afterwards had burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands, Alexey Alexandrovitch, for all the fury aroused in him against her, was aware at the same time of a rush of that emotional disturbance always produced in him by tears. Conscious of it, and conscious that any expression of his feelings at that minute would be out of keeping with the position, he tried to suppress every manifestation of life in himself, and so neither stirred nor looked at her. This was what had caused that strange expression of deathlike rigidity in his face which had so impressed Anna. When they reached the house he helped her to get out of the carriage, and making an effort to master himself, took leave of her with his usual urbanity, and uttered that phrase that bound him to nothing; he said that tomorrow he would let her know his decision. His wife’s words, confirming his worst suspicions, had sent a cruel pang to the heart of Alexey Alexandrovitch. That pang was intensified by the strange feeling of physical pity for her set up by her tears. But when he was all alone in the carriage Alexey Alexandrovitch, to his surprise and delight, felt complete relief both from this pity and from the doubts and agonies of jealousy.

• From Querelle (1953)

  Seblon was glad he hadn't succumbed to the desire to punish Querelle. The time had come for him to say goodbye to the world of policemen, to tum away from an order he had respected overmuch. And then-the gesture seemed spontaneous, but was most deliberate-then he put his hand on Querelle's beret, keeping it there lightly at first, then pressing it down and touching the sailor's hair. Querelle was still swaying back and forth. Grateful for the opportunity, the officer pulled the sailor's head toward him, and Querelle rested his cheek on Seblon's thigh. "Wouldn't like to see you in jail, you know." "Is that right? Come on, you're just saying that. You're an officer, what the hell do you care!" It was then that Lieutenant Seblon dared to stroke the other cheek and say: "You know very well that I do care." Querelle put an arm round his waist, forced him to bend down and kissed him, hard, on the mouth. Then he got up, throwing his arms round the officer's neck, and there was such a sense of abandon and languor in his movements that for the first time, riding the crest of a wave of femininity from god knows where, this gesture became a masterpiece of manly grace : the muscular arms formed a flower-basket, holding a human head more lovely than any flower, and they had dared to forget their usual function and taken on another one, expressing their most essential nature. Querelle smiled at the thought of drawing so close to that shame from which there is no return, and in which one might well discover peace. He felt so weak, so overcome, that this phrase formed in his mind, saddening in all that it evoked of autumn, of stains, of delicate and mortal wounds : 4'Here's the one who will follow in my footsteps." 275 I QUIRELLE As we have related, the police arrested the Lieutenant the following day. I shall not know peace until he makes love to me, but only when he enters me and then lets me stretch out on my side across his thighs, holding me the way the dead Jesus is held in a Pi eta. rviotionless at her cash-desk, facing the empty and dazzling room, she observed the unfolding of events she wanted to remain in control of, to define down to the least detail. At the same time she was continuously excited by the rhythm of her ever more urgent thoughts. Having no idea how she would justify her crime to the judges, she decided to set fire to the brothel. But that fire, too, would have to be explained; she realized that death was the only way out for her, after the fire.

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  Many times we would just admire them in silence, take our time, we both had lots of time….Invariably, he would reach into another pocket and pull out a roll of money and ask if I needed any. Somehow, I never did. I never could figure out why he carried all that money and those precious gems on his person. It was all very mysterious and dangerous. My favorite time was going to lunch across the street at the Radar Room. It was painted black outside, with a single neon sign that you could hardly see during the day but at night was a spectacular green, blinking and spelling Radar in both directions. Inside, it was also black, with red leather bar stools and booths and a large mirror behind the bar. We sat in my dad’s favorite booth in the dark. I would always have a cheeseburger, my dad would always have one martini with his lunch, and Leo would eat but never drink. For entertainment, Leo and my dad would get customers to bet that I couldn’t name a particular bone or muscle in the body. This worked better when I was eight, but anytime I was stumped, I would just say, “sternocleidomastoideus.” The customer would look amazed and pay his dime, but I knew I had to know the real answer by the time my father and I went home. Leo didn’t care if I was right or wrong, we were just having fun. He didn’t sweat the small stuff. I wanted to be like Leo. One sunny morning my father told me that Leo hadn’t been around because he’d been in a serious car accident. We drove down to Orange County, where he was in intensive care. My dad talked to the staff, then we went in to see Leo. He was breathing oxygen through a clear mask, the sheet was around his massive waist, and he didn’t have a shirt on. This was the first time I’d ever seen him without his gray suit. He was breathing heavily, obviously working hard, and sweating profusely. His entire upper body was bruised. Even though he was laboring, he was calm. I imagine he was getting lots of morphine, but he talked to us, and we talked to him. We told him we’d be back in the morning to see him. We’d been told his family was on the way. I wish I could remember all that was said. But I guess it doesn’t matter. The main thing was he knew he wasn’t alone. Before we got to the car, my dad told me matter-of-factly that Leo wouldn’t make it through the night. I was already planning the return visit. I was irritated he told me. I was already miserable, I didn’t feel like being a good soldier. But I knew he was right. The sunny morning had given me optimism. Now I got a dose of reality. Maybe I was learning street sense.

• From Querelle (1953)

  161 I QUERELLE Roger \�v·as glad that the darkness obscured his blush. Never theless he raised his face toward Gil's, smiling wistfully. "Didn't mean to say you was ugly, that ain't so. As a matter of fact, you do have the same little mug." He bent over the boy's face and took it in his hands : "God, if I could be holding her the way I'm holding you now. Boy, I'd be off to a flying start." Of its own accord, rising from the clamp of Gil's hands, the upturned face of the boy approached Gil's. \Vith a quiet murmuring sound Gil touched Roger's forehead. TI1en their noses met and played at Eskimo kisses for ten seconds or so. As he had suddenly rediscovered the brother's resemblance to his sister and felt the emotion rising in him, Gil was unable to dissimulate. In one breath, his mouth close to Roger's, he whispered: "It is a pity that you ain't your sister." Roger smiled : "Is that right?" Roger's voice sounded clear, pure, apparently unmoved. Hav ing loved Gil for a long time and hoped for this moment, having prepared himself for it, he did not want to appear moved by anything beyond friendship. The same prudence that had enabled him t o deceive the police officers by his limpid look now made him couch his reply to Gil in an impassive tone. Gil's avowal of his feelings, having occurred first, allowed the proud child to demonstrate his own cool. But it's also true that he did not yet know the conventional signals of amorous abanpon , didn't know that the voluptuous groans have to be willed a little : "B y God, you're as nice to touch as a girl." Gil pressed his mouth on the boy's lips. Roger drew back, smiling. "Are you afraid?" "Oh, no!" "Well? What did you think I was going to do?"

• From Querelle (1953)

  I know that I'll never abandon Querelle. I shall devote my whole life to him. One day I fixed my stare on him and told him: "Do you have a slight cast in one eye?" Instead of getting angry or impertinent, that splendid boy answered, in a voice that was suddenly sad and revealed a small but incurable sorrow: "It's not my fault." I understood instantly that there was an opening here, into which I could pour my tenderness. Once his arrogance cracks its annor, Querelle is no longer such pure marble, but human flesh. And it is in this way that Madame Lysiane expressed her kindness and took care of her unfortunate clients. When I am suffering, I find myself unable to believe in God. I am, then, too keenly aware of my own impotence to address my complaints about a Being-and to Him-that is impossible to attain. In pain, I have recourse only to myself. When I am unhappy, I know I have someone to thank for it. 264 I JEAN GENET 0 0 0 Querelle appears so beautiful and so pure-but this appearance is real and sufficient-that I enjoy attributing all manner of crimes to him. Then again, I wony, not knowing whether I want to degrade and soil him, or if it is my desue to destroy what is evil, render it vain and inefficient, and in so doing compromise the human appearance by the very symbol of purity? The galley convicts' chains were called "the branches." What fruit did they bear! What is it he involves himself in when he goes ashore? Of what sort are his adventures? It pleases as well as upsets me to think that he may provide pleasure to any passer-by, any stray wanderer in the fog. After some strange gestures of hesitation one of these asks him if he might walk along with him for a while. Querelle, not surprised, smiles and accepts his company. As soon as they discover a suitable shelter, some comer of the city wall, Querelle, still smiling, still silent, proceeds to unbutton himself. The man gets down on his knees. When he rises again, he puts a h undred francs into Quere11e's indifferent palm, and then he is gone. Querelle returns on board or goes to the brothel. Thinking over what I have just written, it strikes me that such a servile function, letting himself be used as a smiling object, does not really fit Quere11e. He is too strong, and to see him thus is to add to his strength, is to tum him into some haughty machine capable of crushing me without even noticing. I have said before that I have sometimes wished him to be an impostor; in that sober and boyish sailor's outfit he hides an agile and violent body, and in that body, the soul of a bandit: Querelle ' is one, I am sure of that. 265 I QUERELLE 0 0 0

• From My Life on the Road (2015)

  By his account, I said, “You can give it to me, or not give it to me, but you can’t ask me what it’s for.” He not only gave me the nickel but told me I was right. He loved to tell this story as proof of my spirit. In reality, it was his cherishing of a child’s spirit that was the gift. In college, I told these and other stories as a source of entertainment, yet all the while I was hoping against hope that my father wouldn’t turn up on campus in his food-stained suit and dusty car full of boxes, his great weight causing the driver’s side to list downward like a ship. I was glad he was too far away to come to Fathers’ Weekend, where he would have been too different from the other fathers. I could imagine him falling into a snoring sleep after eating, or getting sentimental tears in his eyes when talking about money, or uttering cheerfully naïve comments like “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire” about the McCarthyite accusations being leveled at two of my professors, though bravely ignored by the college. From my classmates, I belatedly discovered that even outside the movies, families really did live in neat houses, take naps, have nine-to-five jobs, pay bills on time, and eat at a table instead of standing up next to a refrigerator. Just as my father had rebelled against the orderly life of his immigrant parents who had fled insecurity, I regretted insecurity and became vulnerable to the siren song of the conventional. In the years after college, my father’s influence became ever clearer in the choices I made—for instance, to go to India instead of seeking a regular job—but I still wasn’t admitting it. Like many children, I had been drawn to the needier parent. Like many daughters especially, I was living out the unlived life of my mother. Like my father, I inhabited the future, the land of possibilities, but that was something we never talked about. There wasn’t time or place to explore what I think we both knew: that in our small family, we were the most alike. For reasons of work and geography, we saw each other less and less in the years before he died. I never told him that I could see myself in him, and vice versa. I never thanked him for, say, stopping at endless horse farms, pony rides, and every palomino in a pasture, all to please a horse-crazy daughter. One summer he even bought me a horse of my own, though I was much too young and the horse was much too old. With the help of a neighboring farmer who told us what to do, my father helped me feed and groom him—until that farmer took pity on all three of us and gave the horse a retirement home. I never told my father how grateful I was that he was different from my best friend’s father.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  But tell me: in the time of the sweet sighs, by what and how love granted you to know the dubious desires?” And she to me: “There is no greater pain than to recall a happy time in wretchedness; and this thy teacher knows. 10 But if thou hast such desire to learn the first root of our love, I will do like one who weeps and tells. One day, for pastime, we read of Lancelot, 11 how love constrained him; we were alone, and without all suspicion. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet, and changed the colour of our races; but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the fond smile was kissed by such a lover, he, who shall never be divided from me, kissed my mouth all trembling: the book, and he who wrote it, was a Galeotto. 12 that day we read in it no farther.” Whilst the one spirit thus spake, the other wept so, that I fainted with pity, as if I had been dying; and fell, as a dead body falls. 1. According to Orosius, Semiramis succeeded her husband Ninus as ruler of Assyria. She was known for her licentious character. Dante appears to have confused the ancient kingdoms of Assyria or Babylonia in Asia with the Babylon in Egypt, for only the latter was ruled by the Sultan. Or perhaps he followed a tradition according to which Ninus conquered Egypt. The mention of the many tongues is probably due to the fact that Babylon and Babel were commonly held to be identical. 2. Dido, Queen of Carthage, fell in love with Æneas, after the death of her husband Sichæus, to whose memory she had sworn eternal fidelity. When Æneas left her to go to Italy, she slew herself on a funeral pyre. 3. Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, the mistress of Caesar and Antony. 4. Helen, the wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, was carried off by Paris of Troy, and was thus the cause of the Trojan war. 5. According to medieval legend, Achilles was slain by Paris in a Trojan temple, whither he had gone with the intention of marrying Paris’ sister Polyxena, who had been promised him as a reward if he would join the Trojans. 6. Tristan of Lyonesse, one of King Arthur’s knights, who loved Yseult, the wife of his uncle, King Mark of Cornwall, and was killed by the outraged husband. 7. Francesca, daughter of Guido Vecchio da Polenta (and aunt of the Guido Novello at whose court in Ravenna Dante found his last refuge), was, for political reasons, married to Gianciotto, the deformed son of Malatesta da Verrucchio, Lord of Rimini (ca. 1275). About ten years later Gianciotto, having surprised his wife with his younger brother Paolo, stabbed the guilty pair. These are the bald historical facts, to which legend early began to add romantic details, tampering not only with the dates of the events and the ages of the persons concerned, but with the actual facts. Thus, it is quite possible that Paolo took part in the preliminary negotiations connected with his brother’s marriage; but this circumstance was utilized in such a way as to make it appear as though Francesca actually went through the ceremony of marriage with the handsome Paolo, and did not discover the trick till it was too late. Dante followed this tradition. 8. Ravenna, situated close by the shore of the Adriatic Sea, at the mouth of the Po. 9. The region of Hell reserved for those who had slain a relative (see Canto xxxii). 10. Although these words are translated literally from Boethius, and although we know that Dante had made a special study of Boethius, yet we cannot well identify the teacher with this philosopher: for how can we be expected to assume that Francesca was acquainted with these two facts? The reference is probably to Virgil, and to his position in Limbo. 11. The passage in the Old French version of the Lancelot Romance which alone contains all the details given by Dante, here and in Par. xv, is now known, thanks to Mr. Paget Toynbee. That Dante was acquainted with the old French poems dealing with the matière de Bretagne is proved by De Vulg. El. i. 10. 12. Galeotto synonymous with “pander”: for, in the Old French poem, Gallehault renders Lancelot and Guinivere the same service that Pandarus rendered Troilus and Cressida, according to the Trojan legend.

• From Querelle (1953)

  143 I QUERELLE A Navy Officer. As an adolescent, even as an Ensign, I didn't realize what a perfect alibi a Navy career would give me. Re maining a bachelor seems so perfectly understandable. \Vomen don't ever ask you why you aren't married. They pity you for only knowing those brief affairs, never the durable fire. The sea. The solitude. "A woman in every port." No one bothers to en quire whether I have a fiancee. Not my fellow officers, nor my mother. We are traveling men. From the time I fell in love with Querelle I have become less of a disciplinarian. My love makes me more pliable. The more I love Querelle, the more the woman in me defines and refines herself and grieves over her lack of fulfilment. Faced with any thing that has no bearing on my relationship with Querelle, my own misery, my secret frustrations cause me just to stare at it and say: "What's the use of that?" Saw Admiral A ... again. It seems he is a widower, has been so for more than twenty years. The big guy who fo11ows him around (it is his chauffeur, not an orderly) is the glorious resur rection of his flesh. I come back from a ten-day mission. My meeting with Que rene gave me a shock-I felt it even around me, in the sunny air -a delicately tragic trauma. The entire day revolves, floats around a center of luminous vapor: the gravity of this re-turn. Return for good. QuereJle knows that I love him. He knows it from the way I look at him, and I know that he knows from his sly and almost insolent smile. But everything within him proves to him that I am attached to him, and thus everything in him seems to work toward the end of making my attachment grow even stronger. And a11 the embarrassment we are experiencing helps us to see the exceptional significance of this day even more clearly. Even if it had appeared necessary, I could not have made

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  But we won't be caught, and if we are I shall say I gagged you, forced you. You should suffer at most a few days in the Hall of Punishments, and what happens to me does not matter. And you must swear to me you will let me take all the blame, or I shall gag you, and carry you back and chain you up immediately." Beauty bowed her head. "I brought you here. I shall be punished if we're caught. That must be a rule between us. No arguments from you." "Yes, my Prince," she whispered. "No, don't say this to me," he pleaded. "I had not meant to command you. I'm Alexi to you, and nothing more than that, and I am sorry if I was harsh, only I cannot lead you into terrible punishment. Do as I ask because...because..." "Because I adore you, Alexi," she said. "Ah, Beauty, you are my love, my love," he answered. He kissed her again. "Now you must tell me, what are your thoughts, why do you suffer so?" "Why do I suffer? But don't you see it with your own eyes? Did I forget for one moment that you were watching me tonight? You see what was done to me, what is done to you, what is..." "Of course I watched you and was glad of the pleasure of it," he said. "Did you not enjoy seeing me paddled by the Crown Prince and did you not enjoy seeing me punished in the Great Hall when you were first brought in? What would you do if I told you I spilt the wine that first day so that you would notice me?" She was stunned. "I ask you why you suffer. I don't mean what you suffer from the paddle, or the relentless games of our Lords and Ladies. I mean what do you suffer in your heart? Why are you in such conflict? What prevents you from yielding?" "Have you yielded?" she demanded, slightly angry. "Of course," he said easily. "I adore the Queen and I adore pleasing her. I adore all those who torment me, because I must. It is profoundly simple." "And you feel no pain, no humiliation?" "I feel much pain and much humiliation. And that will never stop. If it did, even for a little while, our endlessly clever masters and mistresses would think of some new way to make us feel it. Do you think I was not humiliated in the Great Hall to be upended by Felix and spanked before an entire Court, and so casually, and for so little? I am a powerful Prince, my father is a powerful King. I never forget it. And surely it was painful to be so roughly treated by the Crown Prince for your benefit. And he thought it would make you love me less!"

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Countess Lidia Ivanovna had long given up being in love with her husband, but from that time she had never given up being in love with someone. She was in love with several people at once, both men and women; she had been in love with almost everyone who had been particularly distinguished in any way. She was in love with all the new princes and princesses who married into the imperial family; she had been in love with a high dignitary of the Church, a vicar, and a parish priest; she had been in love with a journalist, three Slavophiles, with Komissarov, with a minister, a doctor, an English missionary and Karenin. All these passions constantly waning or growing more ardent, did not prevent her from keeping up the most extended and complicated relations with the court and fashionable society. But from the time that after Karenin’s trouble she took him under her special protection, from the time that she set to work in Karenin’s household looking after his welfare, she felt that all her other attachments were not the real thing, and that she was now genuinely in love, and with no one but Karenin. The feeling she now experienced for him seemed to her stronger than any of her former feelings. Analyzing her feeling, and comparing it with former passions, she distinctly perceived that she would not have been in love with Komissarov if he had not saved the life of the Tsar, that she would not have been in love with Ristitch-Kudzhitsky if there had been no Slavonic question, but that she loved Karenin for himself, for his lofty, uncomprehended soul, for the sweet—to her—high notes of his voice, for his drawling intonation, his weary eyes, his character, and his soft white hands with their swollen veins. She was not simply overjoyed at meeting him, but she sought in his face signs of the impression she was making on him. She tried to please him, not by her words only, but in her whole person. For his sake it was that she now lavished more care on her dress than before. She caught herself in reveries on what might have been, if she had not been married and he had been free. She blushed with emotion when he came into the room, she could not repress a smile of rapture when he said anything amiable to her. For several days now Countess Lidia Ivanovna had been in a state of intense excitement. She had learned that Anna and Vronsky were in Petersburg. Alexey Alexandrovitch must be saved from seeing her, he must be saved even from the torturing knowledge that that awful woman was in the same town with him, and that he might meet her any minute.