Pride As Defense

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 Story of O (1954)

  There was no question of using it that night. On the contrary, they wanted to hear her scream; and the sooner the better. The pride she mustered to resist and remain silent did not long endure: they even heard her beg them to untie her, to stop for a second, just for a second. So frantically did she writhe, trying to escape the bite of the leashes, that she turned almost completely around, on the near side of the pole, for the chain which held her was long and although quite solid, was fairly slack. As a result, her belly and the front of her thighs were almost as marked as her backside. They made up their minds, after in fact having stopped for a moment, to begin again only after a rope had been attached first to her waist, then to the pole. Since they tied her tightly, to keep her waist snug to the pole, her torso was forced slightly to one side, and this in turn caused her buttocks to protrude in the opposite direction. >From then on the blows landed on their target, unless aimed deliberately elsewhere. Given the way her lover had handed her over, had delivered her into this situation, O might have assumed that to beg him for mercy would have been the surest method for making him redouble his cruelty, so great was his pleasure in extracting, or having the others extract, from her this unquestionable proof of his power. And indeed he was the first to point out that the leather whip, the first they had used on her, left almost no marks (in contrast to the whip made of water-soaked cords, which marked almost upon contact, and the riding crop, which raised immediate welts), and thus allowed them to prolong the agony and follow their fancies in starting and stopping. He asked them to use only the whip. Meanwhile, the man who liked women only for what they had in common with men, seduced by the available behind which was straining at the bonds knotted just below the waist, a behind made all the more enticing by its efforts to dodge the blows, called for an intermission in order to take advantage of it. He spread the two parts, which burned beneath his hands, and penetrated - not without some difficulty - remarking as he did that the passage would have to be rendered more easily accessible. They all agreed that this could, and would, be done.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  In this section, Kahneman elaborates on the "hubris hypothesis," which posits that overconfident CEOs may engage in acquisitions that ultimately destroy value for their companies. Referencing Richard Roll's seminal work from 1986, he illustrates how this phenomenon originates from leaders who possess an exaggerated sense of their abilities. Kahneman cites examples of failed acquisitions, underscoring how such overconfidence can skew judgment and lead to disregard for warning signs or market realities. He emphasizes that understanding this hypothesis is critical for entrepreneurs and managers seeking to avoid catastrophic missteps in corporate strategy, as it sheds light on the psychological underpinnings of decision-making processes in leadership roles. Kahneman addresses the tendency of entrepreneurs to misinterpret their past failures and successes, a miscalibration that perpetuates overconfidence. He draws on research by Cassar and Craig (2009) to illustrate how hindsight bias can distort one’s appreciation of the lessons learned from business ventures. The section argues that rather than genuinely reflecting on their mistakes, many entrepreneurs latch onto perceived successes, reinforcing an inflated belief in their decision-making capabilities. Kahneman highlights the dangers of this cognitive distortion, as it can preclude valuable learning and lead to repetitive poor choices. This examination urges entrepreneurs to critically reassess their experiences to better align their confidence with actual outcomes, thereby facilitating more grounded decision-making. In this section, Kahneman argues for an enhanced understanding of risk assessment in the context of overconfidence. He posits that entrepreneurs often pursue aggressive strategies without adequately recognizing potential downsides, resulting in detrimental impacts on long-term business viability. The section highlights various scenarios where reassessment of risk could lead to better-informed decisions. Kahneman calls for a shift in perspective among leaders to mitigate the effects of overconfidence, emphasizing the necessity of integrating comprehensive risk evaluations into their decision-making frameworks. This approach not only fosters a more realistic understanding of the challenges faced in entrepreneurship but also encourages the adoption of robust decision-making practices that account for uncertainty. The concluding section of the chapter reinforces the critical importance of acknowledging overconfidence in decision-making processes, particularly among entrepreneurs and managers. Kahneman summarizes the dangers posed by this cognitive bias, including systematic errors and flawed choices that can have significant financial repercussions. He advocates for strategies that enhance awareness of overconfidence, promoting a culture of constructive feedback and reflection within organizations. By incorporating these measures, leaders can develop more robust decision-making practices that enhance performance and resilience against the pitfalls associated with inflated self-beliefs. Ultimately, Kahneman calls to action for professionals in high-stakes environments to cultivate a balanced approach to confidence that respects both ambition and the necessity of grounded, realistic assessment. This chapter examines the contrast between decisions made from experience versus those made from description, highlighting how rare events and psychological biases shape our risk assessments and choices.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Stepan Arkadyevitch moved quickly, as ever, to his place, shook hands with his colleagues, and sat down. He made a joke or two, and talked just as much as was consistent with due decorum, and began work. No one knew better than Stepan Arkadyevitch how to hit on the exact line between freedom, simplicity, and official stiffness necessary for the agreeable conduct of business. A secretary, with the good-houmoured deference common to every one in Stepan Arkadyevitch's office, came up with papers, and began to speak in the familiar and easy tone which had been introduced by Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'We have succeeded in getting the information from the government department of Penza. Here, would you care? . . . ' 'You've got them at last?' said Stepan Arkadyevitch, laying his finger on the paper. 'Now, gentlemen….' And the sitting of the board began. 'If they knew,' he thought, bending his head with a significant air as he listened to the report, 'what a guilty little boy their president was half an hour ago.' And his eyes were laughing during the reading of the report. Till two o'clock the sitting went on without a break, and at two o'clock there would be an interval and luncheon. It was not yet two, when the large glass doors of the boardroom suddenly opened and some one came in. All the officials sitting on the further side under the portrait of the Tsar and the eagle, delighted at any distraction, looked round at the door; but the doorkeeper standing at the door at once drove out the intruder, and closed the glass door after him. When the case had been read through, Stepan Arkadyevitch got up and stretched, and by way of tribute to the liberalism of the times took out a cigarette in the board-room and went into his private room. Two of the members of the board, the old veteran in the service, Nikitin, and the kammer-yunker Grinevitch, went in with him. 'We shall have time to finish after lunch,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'To be sure we shall!' said Nikitin. 'A pretty sharp fellow this Fomin must be,' said Grinevitch of one of the persons taking part in the case they were examining. Stepan Arkadyevitch frowned at Grinevitch's word, giving him thereby to understand that it was improper to pass judgment prematurely, and made him no reply. 'Who was that came in?' he asked the doorkeeper. 'Someone, your excellency, crept in without permission directly my back was turned. He was asking for you. I told him: when the members come out, then….'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But later on, feeling convinced that they looked at the matter so differently, that they could never understand one another, he did not even oppose his statements, but simply listened. Although what Metrov was saying was by now utterly devoid of interest for him, he yet experienced a certain satisfaction in listening to him. It flattered his vanity that such a learned man should explain his ideas to him so eagerly, with such intensity and confidence in Levin's understanding of the subject, sometimes with a mere hint referring him to a whole aspect of the subject. He put this down to his own credit, unaware that Metrov, who had already discussed his theory over and over again with all his intimate friends, talked of it with special eagerness to every new person, and in general was eager to talk to anyone of any subject that interested him, even if still obscure to himself. 'We are late though,' said Katavasov, looking at his watch directly Metrov had finished his discourse. 'Yes, there's a meeting of the Society of Amateurs today in commemoration of the jubilee of Svintitch,' said Katavasov in answer to Levin's inquiry. 'Pyotr Ivanovitch and I were going. I've promised to deliver an address on his labours in zoology. Come along with us, it's very interesting.' 'Yes, and indeed it's time to start,' said Metrov. 'Come with us, and from there, if you care to, come to my place. I should very much like to hear your work.' 'Oh, no! It's no good yet, it's unfinished. But I shall be very glad to go to the meeting.' 'I say, friends, have you heard? He has handed in the separate report,' Katavasov called from the room, where he was putting on his frock-coat. And a conversation sprang up upon the university question, which was a very important event that winter in Moscow. Three old professors in the council had not accepted the opinion of the younger professors. The young ones had registered a separate resolution. This, in the judgment of some people, was monstrous, in the judgment of others it was the simplest and most just thing to do, and the professors were split up into two parties. One party, to which Katavasov belonged, saw in the opposite party a scoundrelly betrayal and treachery, while the opposite party saw in them childishness and lack of respect for the authorities. Levin, though he did not belong to the university, had several times already during his stay in Moscow heard and talked about this matter, and had his own opinion on the subject. He took part in the conversation that was continued in the street, as they all three walked to the buildings of the old university.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But she had not overstated the case when saying that practical affairs were not her strong point. All her arrangements had to be modified because they could not be carried out, and they were modified by Korney, Alexey Alexandrovitch's valet, who, though no one was aware of the fact, now managed Karenin's household, and quietly and discreetly reported to his master while he was dressing all it was necessary for him to know. But Lidia Ivanovna's help was none the less real; she gave Alexey Alexandrovitch moral support in the consciousness of her love and respect for him, and still more, as it was soothing to her to believe, in that she almost turned him to Christianity—that is, from an indifferent and apathetic believer she turned him into an ardent and steadfast adherent of the new interpretation of Christian doctrine, which had been gaining ground of late in Petersburg. It was easy for Alexey Alexandrovitch to believe in this teaching. Alexey Alexandrovitch, like Lidia Ivanovna indeed, and others who shared their views, was completely devoid of vividness of imagination, that spiritual faculty in virtue of which the conceptions evoked by the imagination become so vivid that they must needs be in harmony with other conceptions, and with actual fact. He saw nothing impossible and inconceivable in the idea that death, though existing for unbelievers, did not exist for him, and that, as he was possessed of the most perfect faith, of the measure of which he was himself the judge, therefore there was no sin in his soul, and he was experiencing complete salvation here on earth. It is true that the erroneousness and shallowness of this conception of his faith was dimly perceptible to Alexey Alexandrovitch, and he knew that when, without the slightest idea that his forgiveness was the action of a higher power, he had surrendered directly to the feeling of forgiveness, he had felt more happiness than now when he was thinking every instant that Christ was in his heart, and that in signing official papers he was doing His will. But for Alexey Alexandrovitch it was a necessity to think in that ways it was such a necessity for him in his humiliation to have some elevated standpoint, however imaginary, from which, looked down upon by all, he could look down on others, that he clung, as to his one salvation, to his delusion of salvation.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  4 There’s No Biz Like Po-Biz People should like poetry the way a child likes snow, and they would if poets wrote it. —a letter by Wallace Stevens I n the dim realm of that horseshoe bar, I was boss, credibly lying to wives and business partners who phoned in that my patrons were not in fact sitting before me hours on end, imbibing. Such lies kept my tip jar stuffed. Plus compared to those guys—with their car wrecks and one-night stands, their lost families and jobs—my occasional blackout or sidewalk pukefest was bush league. Binge drinking disagreed with me in no way. The hangovers that haunted the other restaurant folk tended to spare me. Or the ones that did knock me out gave me an excuse to bail from ordinary commerce and loll around feeling resplendently poetic. I drank less steadily than some kids my age (twenty-one), but now I had an appetite for drink, a taste for it, a talent. Maybe it fostered in me a creeping ambition-deficit disorder, but it could ease an ache. So anything worth doing could be undertaken later. Paint the apartment, write a book, quit booze, sure: tomorrow. Which ensures that life gets lived in miniature. In lieu of the large feelings—sorrow, fury, joy—I had their junior counterparts—anxiety, irritation, excitement. But humming through me like a third rail was poetry, the myth that if I could shuffle the right words into the right order, I could get my story straight, write myself into an existence that included the company of sacred misfit poets whose pages had kept me company as a kid. Showing up at a normal job was too hard. Who knows, maybe I’d still be straining martinis from a silver shaker—it was a nice joint—had I not bought a ticket to a midwestern poetry festival so debauched that it couldn’t survive even the extremely low bar of acceptable behavior back in the 1970s. Down the dorm hallways, marijuana smoke hazed lazily. At readings, bottles of syrupy wine were passed around. A poetic Woodstock, I told Mother it was on my call home, regaling her with the circuslike atmosphere she’d have been inspired by. I actually saw living, breathing poets. Back in high school, I’d fallen in love with the visionary antiwar work of Bill Knott, who’d become a cult figure partly through a suicide hoax. After collecting rejection slips, he’d wound up sending a mimeographed note to America’s poetry editors, saying something like, Bill Knott died an orphan and a virgin . The allegedly posthumous poems came out under the pen name St. Geraud, a character in an eighteenth-century porno novel who ran an orphanage and sodomized his charges. The grotesque humor of the endeavor won me over, particularly when Knott came out from behind his mask with his second book, Auto-Necrophilia , which—it took me a while to puzzle out—referred to masturbation after death.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  And they are all, always, so fascinated to learn.” “Tell me about Catherine.” “An ordinary woman, really. An old friend. Somewhere in the nexus, ergonic, religious, erotic, there is the proof of human consciousness. We have done a tiny bit to free the darkeys in this country. But the devil is still very much our slave.” “Do you believe in the devil?” the captain asked. “No. But then, I don’t believe in black slavery, either.” To the captain’s frown, Proctor nodded. The captain asked, “Who are you, Proctor?” Candlelight on the black cheekbones, in the skin of the heavy lips; and the lips parted on a whisper: “Why are you here?” “What can I tell you?” “Much as you will.” The captain pressed his lips out so for a moment they thickened like a black pig’s snout. Then, apart again, they gave up low laughter. Over it, Proctor began: “Have you ever heard of me? My name, my work? I have something of a reputation, and I firmly believe a man must first be that. But you, yes, you just come to return a wallet an acquaintance of mine dropped by chance. Like Bull might; like Nazi.” The black face flickered: “Tell me about the places you’ve been that have tilted to dump you here.” Velvet . . . Suede . . . “Let me see. Let me wake Benny and get some more coffee. No. Never mind. The boy should sleep. I’ll get it myself.” (After minutes, Proctor returns to the deer skin; sits, sipping at the steaming cup.) “Listen. Yes, I will tell you, in a bit. Let me get comfortable. Ah, now . . . Well! Something of an academic prodigy, I finished on scholarship, from a good, but small college, at eighteen; went on to graduate third in my class from medical school; but at the prospect of interning, I realized I was not meant to practice. It came with pain and a feeling of failure. That was the first time I doubted my public self. I retreated back into the university. The medical degree was my mark of failure—I was terrified of corpses, and even more of the live patients who filled the City Hospital’s emergency ward. Still, a foreign object in academe, my medical diploma awed the humanities professors. I was twenty-three when I took my Ph.D. in historical anthropology. (We did not really have the structuralists to contend with then.) The double doctorate is the most lucrative of combinations. I have never used it. With the grant that followed, I flung myself upon Europe within days of graduation, determined to be the most dissolute of tourists. Young Dr.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  Nonetheless, Serralonga would try. He first made it clear that Luther must do nothing at all but recant. It was all precisely that simple, and nothing must deviate from this simplest of courses. By no means whatever should Luther attempt to “joust” with the cardinal. After all, this would be unseemly. But Luther’s harsh and blunt German character did not take well to Serralonga’s sickly sweet—and perhaps he thought oily—advice. He told Serralonga that he was not interested in “recanting,” unless he first be shown exactly where it was that he had erred—if he had erred—and of course someone must have thought he had erred, or the curia in Rome would not have gone to these rather extraordinary lengths. So Luther said that he must be shown where and how he had failed in his thinking, because someone must have a definite opinion on this, and then and only then could he proceed to the “recanting” part. But until then, there was obviously nothing for him to recant. As we shall see, this is a refrain that will be sung again and again in the course of this opera. Serralonga had certainly not expected such stiff resistance. Were all Germans like this? He continued to play the role of friendly and moderate mediator, but the strain to do so began to show. He now made it very clear to Luther that the only issue to be concerned with was the pope’s authority. If the pope had declared indulgences to be doctrinally sound, they were then by definition doctrinally sound. So Luther must simply recant that he had not accepted the pope’s unquestioned authority. This was the heresy, of course, and any fool could see that. But Luther was no fool. For good measure, Serralonga now felt free to add that Frederick the elector would not be able to protect Luther any further if he did not give a full recantation, which might well have been untrue and which Luther likely suspected to be untrue. But Serralonga was insistent on this point. “Then where will you be?” he asked. Luther was rarely caught without a reply. “Under heaven,” he cracked, with typical Saxon wit. With this remark, Luther at last discovered the elusive and bitter end of Serralonga’s patience. The silken ambassador now made a contemptuous gesture revealing as much and whisked himself away.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  πέρπερος. ov, (cf. Lat. perperus, perperam) vainglorious, braggart, like ἀλαζών, Polyb. 32. 6, 5., 40.6, 2, Sext. Emp. M. 1. 54, Arr. Epict. 3. 2, 14 :—hence περπερεύομαι, Dep. to boast or vaunt oneself, τ Ep. Cor. 13. 4, M. Anton. 5. 5., Eust. Opusc. 224. 83 ; cf. ἐμπ-- :---περπερεία, ἡ, idle boasting, vaunting, Clem. Al. 251, Eust. Opusc. 228, 12; so περπερότης, ητος, 7, Pseudo-Chrys,—Late words, II. 5 πέρρα, ἡ, a Copt. word in Lyc, 1428, -- ἥλιος, πέρραμος ——- πετάλειον. πέρραμος, ὁ, -- βασιλεύς, Hesych. ; Aeol. for Πρίαμος, E. M. 665. 39, Anecd. Oxon. 2. 275, etc. méppoxos, ov, Acol. for mepioxos,=tmépoxos, τινι Sappho 93 :— περρέχω = ὑπερέχω in Hesych. :—v. Ahr. D, Acol. p. 56. περσέα, ἡ, Lat. persea, a kind of Egyptian tree with the fruit growing from the stem, Hipp. 633. 30, Theophr, H. P. 4. 2, 5 (v. Schneid. Ind.), Strab. 822, etc. :—poét. also περσεία, Nic. Al. 99 (περσαία in Diod. 1. 34, is prob. corrupt). The fruit was called πέρσειον or πέρσιον, τό, Theophr. H. P. 2. 2, 10; pl. πέρσεια, Clearch. ap. Ath. 649 A. περσέ-πολις, poét. also περσέπτολις, ews, 6, 7, (πέρθω) destroyer of cities; epith. of Pallas, Lamprocl. ap. Ar. Nub. 967; 6 π. στρατός Aesch, Pers. 65 (parodied by Eupol. Map. 1); 7. Τρώων Poéta ap. Heliod. 3. 2, cf. Call. Lav. Pall. 43. 11. Persepolis, the ancient capital of Persia, and burialplace of her kings, Strab. 729 sq., Arr. An. 7. 1. Περσεύς, gen. éws, Ion. éos (Hdt., Pind.), Ep. jos, 6, Perseus, son of Zeus and Danaé, one of the most famous Grecian heroes, 1]. 14. 320, Hes., etc.:—Adj. Περσεῖος, a, ον, Eur. Hel. 1464; Ep. Περσήιος, Theocr. 24. 72 :—Patron. Περσείδης, ov. 6, Thuc. 1. 9, etc.; Ep. —ydbdys, 1]. Ig. 116, 123. II. a fish, Ael. N. A. 3. 28; in Hesych. πέρ- cos. III. a constellation, Arat. 249, 484. Περσεφόνη. 7, Ep. Περσεφόνεια Il. and Od., while the common form first appears in ἢ. Hom. Cer. 56, Hes. Th. 913, (cf. Πηνελόπη, --ὀπειαλ ; also Φερσεφόνη, Simon. 125, Pind. O. 14. 30, Inscr. Att. in Ο 1. 538, 800 b, etc. ; Φερσεφονείη Ὁ. 1. 4588 ;--Περσέφασσα, Aesch. Cho. 490, Soph., etc.; Φερσέφασσα, Id. Ant. 894, Eur. Hel. 175; Φερσέφαττα Ar. Thesm. 287, Ran. 671 ; Φερρέφαττα Plat. Crat. 404 C, cf. Meineke Epicr. Xop. 1 :—Persephoné, daughter of Zeus and Demeter, Il. 14. 326, Hes. Th. 912; (but of Cronos and Rhea, ἢ. Hom. Cer. 60): Hades carried her off, and as his consort she continued to reign in the lower world, see ἢ. Hom. Cer.:—her temple is called Φερρεφάττιον, τό, Dem. 1259.5; —-etov, A.B. 314. Cf. Κόρα. Her identity with the Lat. Pro- serpina is doubtful, v. Corssen Lat. Spr. 1. 243. Tleponts, idos, ἡ, sprung from Perseus, name of Alemena, Eur. H. F. 801 ; called Περσήϊον αἷμα in Theocr. 24. 72. II. a name of Hecaté, Ap. Rh. 4. 1020.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  βρένθος, 6, an unknown water-bird, of stately bearing, Arist. H. A. 9. I, 16; but Ib. 11, 5 (with v. 1. BpivOos) some kind of singing-bird. If. a haughty carriage, arrogance, Ath. 611 E; (cf. σκώπτω, σκώψ). βρενθύομαι [Ὁ]. Dep., only used in pres. and impf. to bear oneself haughtily, to hold one’s head high, to cock up one’s nose (a sort of slang word), Hemst. Luc. D. Mort. 10. 8), ὑπὸ φρονήματος Ar. Pax 26, cf. Nub. 362, Plat. Symp. 221 B; πρός τινα Ar. Lys. 887; Bp. ἐπί τινι to plume oneself on .. , Ath. 625 B; ἐβρενθύετο Liban. βρέξις, ews, ἡ, (Bpéxw) =Bpoxn, a wetting, Xen. Eq. 5, 9. Βρετᾶνικός or Βρεττανικός, 7, dv, British, νῆσοι Arist. Mund. 3, 12. βρέτας, τό, gen. βρέτεος : pl., nom. and acc. Bpérea Aesch. Supp. 4.63, but Bpérn Theb. 95, 185, etc.; gen. βρετέων Ib. 97, Supp. 430: Ep. dat. Bperdeoow Nicand. ap. Ath. 684 D:—a wooden image of a god, Id. Eum. 80, 242, 258, 409, Eur. Alc. 974, Ar. Eq. 31, etc.; of a man, Epigr. Gr. 958 :—in Prose, Strabo 385. 2. in Anaxandr. Acd. 1, a mere image, of a blockhead, i Βρέττιος, a, ov, Bruttian, yA@ooa Bp., i.e. barbarous, Ar. Fr. 719. βρεφικός, ἡ, dv, childish, Philo 2. 84, and later. βρέφιον, τό, Dim. of βρέφος, Byz. βρεφόθεν, Ady. from a child, Eust. 14. 20, etc. βρεφο-κομέω, to nurse children, Eust. 565. 40. βρεφοκτονία, ἡ, child-murder, Manass. βρεφο-κτόνος, ov, child-murdering, Lyc. 220. βρέφος, cos, τό, the babe in the womb, like ἔμβρυον, Lat. foetus, βρέφος 294 ἡμίονον κυέουσαν, of a mare, Il. 23. 266. 11. the new-born babe, Simon. 44.15 Bgk., Pind. O. 6. 55, Aesch. Ag. 1096; νέον βρέφος Eur. Bacch. 289; but never in Soph.:—of beasts, a foal, whelp, cub, etc., Hdt. 3. 153, Opp. H. 5. 464, etc.:—é« Bpépeos from babyhood, Anth. P. 9. 567, etc. (Cf. Skt. garbhas (foetus, pullus), from the Root grabh (concipere); Zd. garewa (foetus); Slavon. Zrébe (pullus):—on the inter- change of 6 and y, v. B B. 1.) βρεφο-τρόφος, ov, rearing infants, Manass. Chron. 4032: -τροφέω, Tzetz.: -τροφεῖον, τό, a foundling or orphan hospital, Eccl. βρεφύλλιον, τό, Dim. of βρέφος, Luc. Fugit. 19, etc. ἢ Bpehadys, es, (εἶδος) childish, Philo 1. 394, Clem. Al. 123, etc. βρέχμα, 76, = βρεχμός, Alciphro. βρεχμός, ὃ, -- βρέγμα, the top of the head, ll. 5. 580.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Whitbread rises to carve. I study the stiff painting over the massive sideboard—Mr. Whitbread in full riding gear atop a horse. I feel a stab of tribal pride that in the cracker-box house I grew up in, Mother’s blazing nudes assembled with swashbuckling brushstrokes show way more sensibility. So, Warren, his father finally says, will you row this year? Warren says, I’m not in college anymore. I shoot my eyes to him, but he fails to meet my gaze. How, I wonder, if you pay tuition, is it possible not to know whether the kid’s still in school? Mr. Whitbread forks poultry slices onto a plate, and no one says anything till after Kelley settles it before me. He says, That’s right. Nancy’s at Harvard. Nancy’s getting ready for law school, Mrs. Whitbread says. I’m working in the library, Warren says. Right, his father says. The Harvard library, his mother adds, wreathed in a smile I can’t decipher. That stamp on Warren’s job invokes the family’s appetite for excellence, how expected it is, demanded, devoured. It strikes me then how a house so large might feel like cramped quarters. To their credit, they all read so much they seem to accept Warren’s poem-making—he’s just starting to publish in journals—as a worthy enterprise despite its fiscal impracticality. Still, they say little about it (and it’s the not saying, I later learn, that matters). Widener Library? his father asks. Lamont, Warren says. There’s a recorded poetry archive there. He’s remastering these great lost recordings, I say. He found one of Tennyson. And these amazing Nabokov lectures. The arctic wind blows over us again, for my bragging has breached some protocol too delicate for me to understand yet. One does not brag; one does not need to. Mr. Whitbread pours me more wine, a sympathetic gesture that feels—no doubt unintentionally—like a pat on a dog’s head. Kelley comes in with a vat of asparagus she goes around dishing out. Mr. Whitbread keeps looking for one of the standard social connection points—to explain who the hell I am, I guess—till Mrs. Whitbread mentions that I’m friends with the writer Geoffrey Wolff, whose memoir of his con-man father had made a splash the year before. One of the few writers of any stature I know, Geoffrey happens to be married to Warren’s first cousin. It’s a frail link, and Geoffrey’s being Jewish maybe undoes most of its value, but I try to capitalize on it, saying that he and his brother, Toby, taught at my grad school. Mrs. Whitbread perks up. You went to Princeton? Our son-in-law went there. Warren explains I hadn’t gone to Princeton but to a hippie school that just went belly-up. With that in the open, we fall to sawing our food. The cutlery weighs about a pound—a heft that sends some ineffable message . And what are two young poets reading? Mr. Whitbread asks.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  vedvias, ov, Ep. and Ion. νεηνίης. ew, 6: (vedy, véos):—a young man, youth, in Hom. (only in Od.) always with ἀνήρ, venvin ἀνδρὶ ἐοικώς Od. 10. 278; ἄνδρες κοιμήσαντο venviar 14. 5243 so, παῖς νεηνίης Hat. τ. 61., 7-993 γαμβρὸς v. Pind. O. 7.4; τέκτονες Id. N. 3.8; but alone in Att., like νεανίσκος, Soph. O.C. 335, El. 750, Eur., etc.; cf. veavio- Kos. 2. often with the sense of a youth in character, i.e. either in good sense, impetuous, brave, active, Eur. Ion 1041, cf. Ar. Vesp. 1333; Xen. Cyr. 1. 3, 6, Dem. 329. 23; or in bad sense, hot-headed, wilful, headstrong, Eur. Supp. 580; ev μὲν τοίνυν τοῦτο... πολίτευμα ae 38 994 as masc. Adj. youthful, νεανίαι τὰς ὄψεις Lys. 118. 33. 2. of things, etc., new, young’, fresh, v. πόνος Eur. Hel. 209; veaviais ὥμοισι 10. 1562; v. θώρακα καὶ βραχίονα Id. H. F. 1095; ἄρτος Ar. Lys. 1208; ν. λόγοι rash, wilful words, Eur. Alc. 679.—With a fem. Subst. ; cf. Lob. Paral. 268. [In Ar. Vesp. 1069, to avoid the synizesis of vea— in νεανιῶν, Dind, reads νανιῶν, and Ib. 1067 vavinnv for veavixnyv,—forms justified by νῆνις, νῆ for νεᾶνις, véd.] vedvieta, v. sub veaveia, vedvieupa, τό, a youthful, i.e. a spirited or (in bad sense) a wanton act or word, Plat. Rep. 390 A, Lys. ap. Poll. 2. 2, Luc., ete. vedvievopar, fut. —edcouar Dem. 416. 23: aor. ἐνεανιευσάμην Id. :— Pass., v. infr.: Dep. To be a νεανίας or youth, Poll. 2.20; cf. νεανι- σκεύομαι. II. in usage, always, ¢o act like a hot-headed youth, to act wilfully or wantonly, to brawl, swagger, Ar. Fr.653; ν. εἴς τινα to behave so towards another, Isocr. 398 C, Hyperid. Eux. 37; ἐν τοῖς λό- yous Plat. Gorg. 482 C: ο. Adj. neut., τοιοῦτον ν. to make such youth- ful promises, Dem. 401. 24; οὐδ᾽ ἐνεανιεύσατο τοιοῦτον οὐδέν Id. 536. 26; νεανιευσάμενος εἰπεῖν with youthful insolence, Plut. Cic. 1 :—c. inf. to undertake with youthful spirit, 1d. Demosth. 3 :—Pass., ἐφ᾽ ἅπασι τοῖς ἑαυτῷ νενεανιευμένοις to all his wanton acts, Dem. 520. 28; τὰ νεανιευθέντα Plut. Mar. 29.—The Act. only in Hesych. vedvifw, =foreg., Plut. Flamin. 20, Poll. 4. 136. vedvikéw, to be youthful, Eupol. Anu. 26.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  χαυνόω, fut. dow, to make porous or flaccid, relax, Philes 35. 8:—Pass. to become so, Ael.N.A. 12.173; ἡ γῆ x. εἰς ῥαγάδας Geop. 5. 2,2. 2. in Ephipp. Ἔμπολ. 1. 5, xavvodca must Ὀε Ξε χάσκουσα, opening the mouth in kissing ; but Meineke suspects the word. II. metaph. to puff up, make vain, fill with conceit, Eur. Andr. 931, Plat. Lys. 210 E: —Pass. to become vain, Arist. Virt. et Vit. 7, 5; ἐπί τινε Plut. Caes. 29 ; 6 νοῦς ἐχαυνώθη Babr. 95. 36; κόραξ καρδίην ἐχαυνώθη Id. 77. χαύνωμα, τό, loosened earth, Plut. Sertor. 17. χαύνωσις, ews, ἡ, a making slack or loose, opp. to στέγνωσις, Sext. Emp; Bsr. 23S. 2. a void space or interval, Geop. Io. 75, 17. ΤΙ. metaph. the making a thing light, weakening its force and weight (like Lat. elevatio), x. ἀναπειστηρία Ar. Nub.875, ubi v. Schol. χαυνωτικός, ἡ, dv, apt to make loose or flabby, σαρκός Plut. 2. 771 B. χανών, a kind of cake, in LXx to represent the Hebr. kavvan, Lxx 1718

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  BULL’S TALE:I used to live in the town next to this one, for a long time. Cugarsville? (He settles closer to Gunner in the dark, and wonders if the boy is asleep, but talks anyway.) Back when I was about eighteen or so I got this bitch knocked up. We got married, see. And she’s been dropping kids—I guess most of them are mine—every year since; although we don’t hardly live together no more. She’s a mean old whore is what she is. The middle girl, Bethy, she probably the sweetest one. Pretty. That’s when I got so I could go back and spend a couple of days with the old lady without trying to break her head before I left. Bethy, we’d go for walks in the woods, and tell each other stories. And wrestle too. She liked that. Shit, that little bitch could throw cunt around fast as her mama. I’d get me liquored up, and go scratch on the back window. She’d slip out. Nine. And I could always get two fingers into any of my little girls’ pussies anytime. When she was climbing out the window, I’d have my pants open, and waving it around, you know? She’d squeal, and I’d say, “You just come on here and take care of your daddy’s big ole’ pecker.” She’d love me so much I couldn’t stand it. Sometimes we’d go up in some old barn and stay at each other all day. Suckin’. Fuckin’. And suckin’ some more. She got knocked up, too, wouldn’t you know. And then the other little girl of mine—Marny. I slipped in that little bitch the wrong time of the month. And she was just eight. The two of them, blowin’ up with their pappy’s accidents. Now I thought that was fine. But mama didn’t like it too much. She was about to drop another one herself. Then this waitress who worked down in the diner near the Shell Station started going around saying I was daddy to the one she was lugging. Now that was shit: I’d been sticking her regular, but so had six other guys. And I was at that party where, maybe, ten of us who was working on the road crew got into her back of the garage. But she just wanted to make trouble for me, and take advantage of the rumor going round that Bull was instant babies. So I moved a town over. And I met that guy your boss is after.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Eight ropes altogether. I had four, Azar had four. Each rope was hooked up to a homemade noisemaker out in front of Jorgenson's bunker—eight ammo cans filled with rifle cartridges. Simple devices, but they worked. I waited a moment, and then, very gently, I gave all four of my ropes a little tug. Delicate, nothing loud. If you weren't listening, listening hard, you might've missed it. But Jorgenson was listening. At the first low rattle, his silhouette seemed to freeze. Another rattle: Azar this time. We kept at it for ten minutes, staggering the rhythm—noise, silence, noise—gradually building the tension. Squinting down at Jorgenson's position, I felt a swell of immense power. It was a feeling the VC must have. Like a puppeteer. Yank on the ropes, watch the silly wooden soldier jump and twitch. One by one, in sequence, I tugged on each of the ropes, and the sounds came flowing back at me with a soft, indefinite formlessness: a rattlesnake, maybe, or the creak of a trap door, or footsteps in the attic—whatever you made of it. In a way I wanted to stop myself. It was cruel, I knew that, but right and wrong were somewhere else. I heard myself chuckle. And then presently I came unattached from the natural world. I felt the hinges go. Eyes closed, I seemed to rise up out of my own body and float through the dark down to Jorgenson's position. I was invisible; I had no shape, no substance; I weighed less than nothing. I just drifted. It was imagination, of course, but for a long while I hovered there over Bobby Jorgenson's bunker. As if through dark glass I could see him lying flat in his circle of sandbags, silent and scared, listening, telling himself it was all a trick of the dark. Muscles tight, ears tight—I could see it. Now, at this instant, he'd glance up at the sky, hoping for a moon or a few stars. But no moon, no stars. He'd start talking to himself. He'd try to bring the night into focus, willing coherence, but the effort would only cause distortions. Out beyond the wire, the paddies would seem to swirl and sway; the trees would take human form; clumps of grass would glide through the night like sappers. Funhouse country: trick mirrors and curvatures and pop-up monsters. "Take it easy," he'd murmur, "easy, easy, easy," but it wouldn't get any easier. I could actually see it. I was down there with him, inside him. I was part of the night. I was the land itself—everything, everywhere—the fireflies and paddies, the midnight rustlings, the cool phosphorescent shimmer of evil—I was atrocity —I was jungle fire, jungle drums—I was the blind stare in the eyes of all those poor, dead, dumbfuck ex-pals of mine—all the pale young corpses, Lee Strunk and Kiowa and Curt Lemon—I was the beast on their lips—I was Nam—the horror, the war.

• From The City of God

  Chapter 24. --Of the One Only True Principle Which Alone Purifies and Renews Human Nature. Accordingly, when we speak of God, we do not affirm two or three principles, no more than we are at liberty to affirm two or three gods; although, speaking of each, of the Father, or of the Son, or of the Holy Ghost, we confess that each is God:and yet we do not say, as the Sabellian heretics say, that the Father is the same as the Son, and the Holy Spirit the same as the Father and the Son; but we say that the Father is the Father of the Son, and the Son the Son of the Father, and that the Holy Spirit of the Father and the Son is neither the Father nor the Son. It was therefore truly said that man is cleansed only by a Principle, although the Platonists erred in speaking in the plural of principles. But Porphyry, being under the dominion of these envious powers, whose influence he was at once ashamed of and afraid to throw off, refused to recognize that Christ is the Principle by whose incarnation we are purified. Indeed he despised Him, because of the flesh itself which He assumed, that He might offer a sacrifice for our purification,--a great mystery, unintelligible to Porphyry's pride, which that true and benignant Redeemer brought low by His humility, manifesting Himself to mortals by the mortality which He assumed, and which the malignant and deceitful mediators are proud of wanting, promising, as the boon of immortals, a deceptive assistance to wretched men. Thus the good and true Mediator showed that it is sin which is evil, and not the substance or nature of flesh; for this, together with the human soul, could without sin be both assumed and retained, and laid down in death, and changed to something better by resurrection. He showed also that death itself, although the punishment of sin, was submitted to by Him for our sakes without sin, and must not be evaded by sin on our part, but rather, if opportunity serves, be borne for righteousness' sake. For he was able to expiate sins by dying, because He both died, and not for sin of His own. But He has not been recognized by Porphyry as the Principle, otherwise he would have recognized Him as the Purifier. The Principle is neither the flesh nor the human soul in Christ but the Word by which all things were made. The flesh, therefore, does not by its own virtue purify, but by virtue of the Word by which it was assumed, when "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. " [420]For speaking mystically of eating His flesh, when those who did not understand Him were offended and went away, saying, "This is an hard saying, who can hear it? " He answered to the rest who remained, "It is the Spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing. " [421]The Principle, therefore, having assumed a human soul and flesh, cleanses the soul and flesh of believers. Therefore, when the Jews asked Him who He was, He answered that He was the Principle. [422]And this we carnal and feeble men, liable to sin, and involved in the darkness of ignorance, could not possibly understand, unless we were cleansed and healed by Him, both by means of what we were, and of what we were not. For we were men, but we were not righteous; whereas in His incarnation there was a human nature, but it was righteous, and not sinful. This is the mediation whereby a hand is stretched to the lapsed and fallen; this is the seed "ordained by angels," by whose ministry the law also was given enjoining the worship of one God, and promising that this Mediator should come. [420] John i. 14. [421] John vi. 60-64. [422] John viii. 25; or "the beginning," following a different reading from ours.

• From The City of God

  41 Lecture 2 Transcript—Who Was Augustine of Hippo? role, and once that was over, his decks had been cleared to begin writing The City of God in late 411 or 412, and he kept at it, although often distracted by other work, until he completed the whole thing 15 years later, in 426 or 427. The last few years of his life were just as busy as the earlier ones, and he kept on writing, teaching, and even occasionally preaching up to a few weeks before his death on August 28, 430, with the Vandals besieging Hippo. And it is here, in his dealings with the Donatists and the Pelagians and his overall practice in the office of Bishop, where his critics find warrant for their charge that he is a fundamentally antidemocratic thinker; in fact, an authoritarian who gave the highest moral and theological imprimatur for the practices of coercion popular in the Middle Ages. And we will see again in these lectures, as in the accusations of his metaphysical anti-worldliness and his moral- psychological promotion of a guilt morality, that his reputed political authoritarianism is vastly overdrawn. In fact, in his role as a leader of the Latin Christian churches, he was anything but authoritarian. As a Bishop, he was more than just a religious leader; he was a political actor and a judicial figure, as well. Moreover, he became, as the historian Peter Brown has put it, a sort of one-man brain trust for the churches of Africa. Although his labors earned him great respect and veneration from others, he continued teaching what was effectively an anti-authoritarian vision of the Gospel, one that was quite suspicious of figures such as he was becoming. And he wasn’t afraid of attacking himself in this way. In one sermon, he said, and this is a quote: Don’t even think of regarding as canonical scripture any debate, or written account of a debate by anyone. If I have said something reasonable, then follow, not me, but reason itself; if I’ve proved it by the clearest divine testimonies, then follow, not me, but the divine scripture. I get angrier with that fan of mine who takes my book as

• From The City of God

  Chapter 13. --That in Adam's Sin an Evil Will Preceded the Evil Act. Our first parents fell into open disobedience because already they were secretly corrupted; for the evil act had never been done had not an evil will preceded it. And what is the origin of our evil will but pride? For "pride is the beginning of sin. " [729]And what is pride but the craving for undue exaltation? And this is undue exaltation, when the soul abandons Him to whom it ought to cleave as its end, and becomes a kind of end to itself. This happens when it becomes its own satisfaction. And it does so when it falls away from that unchangeable good which ought to satisfy it more than itself. This falling away is spontaneous; for if the will had remained steadfast in the love of that higher and changeless good by which it was illumined to intelligence and kindled into love, it would not have turned away to find satisfaction in itself, and so become frigid and benighted; the woman would not have believed the serpent spoke the truth, nor would the man have preferred the request of his wife to the command of God, nor have supposed that it was a venial trangression to cleave to the partner of his life even in a partnership of sin. The wicked deed, then,--that is to say, the trangression of eating the forbidden fruit,--was committed by persons who were already wicked. That "evil fruit" [730] could be brought forth only by "a corrupt tree. "But that the tree was evil was not the result of nature; for certainly it could become so only by the vice of the will, and vice is contrary to nature. Now, nature could not have been depraved by vice had it not been made out of nothing. Consequently, that it is a nature, this is because it is made by God; but that it falls away from Him, this is because it is made out of nothing. But man did not so fall away [731] as to become absolutely nothing; but being turned towards himself, his being became more contracted than it was when he clave to Him who supremely is. Accordingly, to exist in himself, that is, to be his own satisfaction after abandoning God, is not quite to become a nonentity, but to approximate to that. And therefore the holy Scriptures designate the proud by another name, "self-pleasers. "For it is good to have the heart lifted up, yet not to one's self, for this is proud, but to the Lord, for this is obedient, and can be the act only of the humble. There is, therefore, something in humility which, strangely enough, exalts the heart, and something in pride which debases it. This seems, indeed, to be contradictory, that loftiness should debase and lowliness exalt. But pious humility enables us to submit to what is above us; and nothing is more exalted above us than God; and therefore humility, by making us subject to God, exalts us. But pride, being a defect of nature, by the very act of refusing subjection and revolting from Him who is supreme, falls to a low condition; and then comes to pass what is written:"Thou castedst them down when they lifted up themselves. " [732]For he does not say, "when they had been lifted up," as if first they were exalted, and then afterwards cast down; but "when they lifted up themselves" even then they were cast down,--that is to say, the very lifting up was already a fall. And therefore it is that humility is specially recommended to the city of God as it sojourns in this world, and is specially exhibited in the city of God, and in the person of Christ its King; while the contrary vice of pride, according to the testimony of the sacred writings, specially rules his adversary the devil. And certainly this is the great difference which distinguishes the two cities of which we speak, the one being the society of the godly men, the other of the ungodly, each associated with the angels that adhere to their party, and the one guided and fashioned by love of self, the other by love of God.

• From Augustine: A New Biography (2005)

  Augustine had been a writer long before he became a cleric. He wrote his first book at Carthage during his Manichee days: The Beautiful and the Fitting, philosophy and esthetics in a traditional mode under Manichean influence. It would be a valuable document of cultural history even if, or rather especially if, it had been the only thing to survive from this eccentric African intellectual. (That Augustine would always have been spoken of in the same breath as Apuleius.) Augustine tells us he wrote it to impress, dedicating it to a famous rhetorician at Rome. The writing of it is presented to us in the Confessions narrative with no reference to Augustine’s choice shortly afterward to move to Rome to pursue his career, but the idea of making himself known beyond Carthage was surely part of his ambition for the fame that Augustine would later achieve, using similar tactics, beyond all that he could have dreamed of as a young man. When writing about his first book in the Confessions, he reproached himself for his worldly ambition, even as, with the Confessions, he was carrying out an ecclesiastical version of the same social climbing. The other literary products of his rhetorical career in Africa and Italy were speeches, very likely written down and distributed to discerning readers. When we know that he delivered grand public orations in honor of the consul or the emperor at Milan, for example, we should expect that the politesse of the profession and the time assumed that these would be written down, commented on favorably, and handed about as cultural tokens. We have a dozen or so such speeches from the fourth century and they give the best idea what these might have been like: polished, elaborate, exaggerated, allusive to the point of obscurity (for those not in the know), and highly professional.248

• From Augustine: Philosopher and Saint (2005)

  1 Corinthians 1:24), this means philosophy seeks the reality of Wisdom but does not know its name. Joining the Heretics: Manichaeanism Soon after reading Cicero, Augustine turns to the Christian Scriptures but quickly rejects them because he is too proud to understand their humble words (3:5.9). The Manichaeans (3:6.10–7.12 and 5:10.18–20) • The Manichaean heretics were the opposite of the pagan philosophers: They knew the right names (e.g., Christ) but knew nothing of the reality. • The Manichaeans were materialists, believing that even God was a material, visible thing (i.e., the light of the heavens). • The Manichaeans were rationalists, criticizing the Catholics for insisting on the importance of faith. • The Manichaeans were dualists, thinking that everything that existed was made up either of the Good Stuff (divine light) or the Bad Stuff (dark, evil, (cid:191) lthy matter). They thought this contempt for the material or bodily side of life made them more spiritual. They thought of the human soul as a fragment of divine light trapped in a (cid:191) lthy body after the cosmic battle that began the world. • Augustine’s attraction to Manichaeanism had a lot to do with the fact that he was (according to his own self-portrait) a smart, “snot-nosed” kid (3:12.21). Catholic Teaching: Ambrose Ambition takes Augustine to Milan and Ambrose (5:13.23). Ambrose teaches Augustine a nonliteral interpretation of the Scriptures, which helps him understand why the Manichaeans are wrong about the Catholics (5:14.24–25). 13 14 modsiW rof hcraeS ehT—snoissefnoC :3 erutceL Milan was a center of Christian Platonism. Platonist Vision: In Then Up (“Confessions” 7) On the brink of his conversion, Augustine was struggling with three interrelated problems: • Trying to see a nonbodily substance (7:1.1). • Striving to understand the omnipresence of God (7:1.2). • Asking where evil comes from (unde malum) (7:5.7). Augustine suffers from his intellectual questions (7:7.11). Augustine encounters “the books of the Platonists” (7:9.13–15). Augustine (cid:191) nally glimpses the divine Truth (7:10.16). • Grace: God is his guide. • Inward turn: The nature of the soul is his clue (for the soul is incorporeal, like God). • Looking upward: He sees God above his own mind, the light by which his mind’s eye sees. • Dazzled eyes: He can’t keep looking that way for long, because the glory of God is too bright for his mind’s eye to gaze at. What Augustine learned from his moment of Platonist vision: • Truth (i.e., God) is incorporeal and omnipresent (7:10.16). • All that God created is good (7:13.19–15.21). • Evil is not a form of being but the corruption of a thing’s being (7:11.17–12.18). • Evil comes from corruption of will (7:16.22). But a moment of Platonist philosophical vision was not enough. This is where Christianity comes in. See Lecture 5. (cid:374)