Pride

Passages

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

Page 122 of 174 · 20 per page

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It was a good show of defiance. Then Thopas rode away quite fast As Oliphiant prepared to cast Stones at him from a leather sling. Yet our fair knight had cause to sing When all the missiles missed their aim And were not fit to kill or maim The valiant warrior. He was none the sorrier. THE SECOND FIT So gather round and hear the rest. The giant came off second best And Thopas, of high renown, Decided to return to town. He rideth over hill and dale To reach the ending of my tale. It will not fail To amuse you. His merry men commanded he To cheer him up with game and glee. ‘Let there be a pageant In which I fight a ferocious giant. Then let the fairy queen appear And proclaim herself to be my dear Paramour. I ask no more. ‘Then let the minstrels blow their trumpets And the drummers use their drum kits, And the singers sing their tales Of kings and queens and noble males Like me. Of chivalry the flower, I’ll be the hero of the hour.’ They brought him wine, they brought him spices They brought him cream and several ices, They brought him gingerbread and mead, They brought him damson jam on which to feed. He had a sweet tooth. Then he decked himself in vestments fair. Sir Thopas always knew what to wear In terms of shirts and other finery. In armour he was inclined to be Conservative. Just simple chain mail, With a double brooch and ornamental nail,

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  She erected a big white sign in the front yard on which she had carefully painted, in black letters with gold outlines, R. M. WALLS ART STUDIO . She turned the two front rooms of the house into a studio and gallery, and she used two bedrooms in the back to warehouse her collected works. An art supplies store was three blocks away, on North First Street, and thanks to Mom’s inheritance, we were able to make regular shopping expeditions to the store, bringing home rolls of canvas that Dad stretched and stapled onto wooden frames. We also brought back oil paints, watercolors, acrylics, gesso, a silk-screening frame, india ink, paintbrushes and pen nibs, charcoal pencils, pastels, fancy rag paper for pastel drawings, and even a wooden mannequin with movable joints whom we named Edward and who, Mom said, would pose for her when we kids were off at school. Mom decided that before she could get down to any serious painting, she needed to compile a thorough art reference library. She bought dozens of big loose-leaf binders and lots of packs of lined paper. Every subject was given its own binder: dogs, cats, horses, farm animals, woodland animals, flowers, fruits and vegetables, rural landscapes, urban landscapes, men’s faces, women’s faces, men’s bodies, women’s bodies, and hands-feet-bottoms-and-other-miscellaneous body parts. We spent hours and hours going through old magazines, looking for interesting pictures, and when we spotted one we thought might be a worthy subject of a painting, we held it up to Mom for approval. She studied it for a second and okayed or nixed it. If the photo made the grade, we cut it out, glued it on a piece of lined paper, and reinforced the holes in the paper with adhesive Os so the page wouldn’t tear out. Then we got out the appropriate three-ringed binder, added the new photograph, and snapped the rings shut. In exchange for our help on her reference library, Mom gave us all art lessons. Mom was also hard at work on her writing. She bought several typewriters—manuals and electrics—so she’d have backups should her favorite break down. She kept them in her studio. She never sold anything she wrote, but from time to time she received an encouraging rejection letter, and she thumbtacked those to the wall. When we kids came home from school, she’d usually be in her studio working. If it was quiet, she was painting or contemplating potential subjects. If the typewriter keys were clattering away, she was at work on one of her novels, poems, plays, short stories, or her illustrated collection of pithy sayings—one was “Life is a bowl of cherries, with a few nuts thrown in”—which she’d titled “R. M. Walls’s Philosophy of Life.” • • • Dad joined the local electricians’ union. Phoenix was booming, and he landed a job pretty quickly.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  Sage well mixed with the excrements of a sparrow, of a child, and of a dog that eats only bones. He was well versed in Asclepius and the other ancient texts; he could quote to you from Galen and Averroes and Avicenna and a score of others. He was in fact better versed in Galen than in the Bible. But he practised what he preached. He led a very temperate life, and had a very moderate diet. He told me that milk was good for melancholy, for example, and that green ginger quickened the memory. He wore the furred hood and robe of his profession; the robe, lined with silk, had the vertical red and purple stripes that proclaim the man of physic. Yet despite appearances he was not a big spender. He saved most of what he earned from his practice. The good doctor loved gold. Gold is the sovereign remedy, after all. It is the best medicine. Among our company was a good WIFE OF BATH. She had such skill in making cloth that she easily surpassed the weavers of Ypres and of Ghent. It was a pity that she was a little deaf. She was also, perhaps, a little proud. Woe betide any woman in the parish who went up to the offertory rail with charitable alms before she did; she became so angry that all thoughts of charity were instantly forgotten. The linen scarves she wore about her head, on her way to Sunday mass, were of very fine texture; I dare say that some of them weighed at least ten pounds. Her stockings were of a vivid red and tightly laced; her leather shoes were supple and of the newest cut. Her face was red, too, and she had a very bold look. No wonder. She had been married in church five times but, in her youth, she had enjoyed any number of liaisons. There is no need to mention them now. She was, and is, a respectable woman. Everyone says so. She had made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem three times, after all, and had crossed many foreign seas in pursuit of her devotion. She had travelled to Rome, and to Boulogne; she had journeyed to Saint James of Compostella, and also to Cologne where the eleven thousand virgins were martyred. There was no need for any more. Yes she had wandered, and strayed, far enough. It is said that gap-toothed women like her have a propensity for lust, but I cannot vouch for that. She sat very easily upon her horse. She wore an exquisite wimple and a hat as broad as a practice target; she had hitched an overskirt about her fat hips, and she wore a sharp pair of spurs in case her horse despaired of her weight. She had an easy laugh, and was affable with everyone. She seemed to take a liking to me in particular, and was very fond of discussing stories of lost love and of forlorn lovers.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Epilogue to the Man of Law’s Tale Harry Bailey, our Host, stood up on his stirrups, and congratulated the Man of Law. ‘That was a fine story,’ he said. ‘Very worthwhile. Don’t you all agree?’ And then he turned to the parish priest. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘for the love of God tell us a story. You promised. I know well enough that learned men can be good storytellers. You know enough, for God’s sake.’ The Parson reproved him. ‘Bless us all. Why is this man blaspheming in front of us? Never take the name of God in vain.’ ‘Oh John Wyclif, have you come among us?’ our Host replied. ‘I smell a Lollard in the wind. I predict, fellow pilgrims, that before too long the priest will deliver a long sermon. That is what Lollards love to do.’ ‘On my father’s soul, he will not.’ The Shipman rode up to our Host. ‘He is not going to preach. We won’t allow it. This is not the place to teach the gospel. We all believe in God. We don’t need the doctrines of Holy Mother Church interpreted or evaluated or revised. He will be sowing weeds in healthy ground. I’ll tell you what, Harry. I will give you a good story. It will ring out loud and clear. It won’t be full of philosophical terms, or learned quibbles. I don’t have enough Latin for that -’ ‘Excuse me.’ It was the good Wife of Bath, looking very majestic on her palfrey. ‘Surely I take precedence over this seaman? It is a sad day when a good woman is refused her due. Come now, Mr Bailey. Do let me speak. I have a lot to say.’ Then, without waiting for his assent, she began her story.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  All the kids around North Third Street went to the Catholic school at St. Mary’s Church, about five blocks away. Mom, however, said nuns were killjoys who took the fun out of religion. She wanted us to go to a public school called Emerson. Although we lived outside the district, Mom begged and cajoled the principal until he allowed us to enroll. We were not on the bus route, and it was a bit of a hike to school, but none of us minded the walk. Emerson was in a fancy neighborhood with streets canopied by eucalyptus trees, and the school building looked like a Spanish hacienda, with a red terra-cotta roof. It was surrounded by palm trees and banana trees, and, when the bananas ripened, the students all got free bananas at lunch. The playground at Emerson was covered with lush green grass watered by a sprinkler system, and it had more equipment than I’d ever seen: seesaws, swings, a merry-go-round, a jungle gym, tether balls, and a running track. Miss Shaw, the teacher in the third-grade class I was assigned to, had steely gray hair and pointy-rimmed glasses and a stern mouth. When I told her I’d read all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, she raised her eyebrows skeptically, but after I read aloud from one of them, she moved me into a reading group for gifted children. Lori’s and Brian’s teachers also put them in gifted reading groups. Brian hated it, because the other kids were older and he was the littlest guy in the class, but Lori and I were secretly thrilled to be called special. Instead of letting on that we felt that way, however, we made light of it. When we told Mom and Dad about our reading groups, we paused before the word “gifted,” clasping our hands beneath our chins, fluttering our eyelids, and pretending to look angelic. “Don’t make a mockery of it,” Dad said. “’Course you’re special. Haven’t I always told you that?” Brian gave Dad a sideways look. “If we’re so special,” he said slowly, “why don’t you . . .” His words petered out. “What?” Dad asked. “What?” Brian shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. • • • Emerson had its very own nurse who gave the three of us ear and eye exams, our first ever. I aced the tests—“Eagle eyes and elephant ears,” the nurse said—but Lori struggled trying to read the eye chart. The nurse declared her severely shortsighted and sent Mom a note saying she needed glasses. “Nosiree,” Mom said. She didn’t approve of glasses. If you had weak eyes, Mom believed, they needed exercise to get strong. The way she saw it, glasses were like crutches. They prevented people with feeble eyes from learning to see the world on their own. She said people had been trying to get her to wear glasses for years, and she had refused.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Each song had thirty or forty verses, which would leave my male relatives flattened to our couches and armchairs as if by centrifugal force, staring unblinking up at the ceiling. The teacher read the John Glenn poem to my second-grade class. It was a great moment; the other children looked at me as though I had learned to drive. It turned out that the teacher had submitted the poem to a California state schools competition, and it had won some sort of award. It appeared in a mimeographed collection. I understood immediately the thrill of seeing oneself in print. It provides some sort of primal verification: you are in print; therefore you exist. Who knows what this urge is all about, to appear somewhere outside yourself, instead of feeling stuck inside your muddled but stroboscopic mind, peering out like a little undersea animal—a spiny blenny, for instance—from inside your tiny cave? Seeing yourself in print is such an amazing concept: you can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere. While others who have something to say or who want to be effectual, like musicians or baseball players or politicians, have to get out there in front of people, writers, who tend to be shy, get to stay home and still be public. There are many obvious advantages to this. You don’t have to dress up, for instance, and you can’t hear them boo you right away. Sometimes I got to sit on the floor of my father’s study and write my poems while he sat at his desk writing his books. Every couple of years, another book of his was published. Books were revered in our house, and great writers admired above everyone else. Special books got displayed prominently: on the coffee table, on the radio, on the back of the john. I grew up reading the blurbs on dust jackets and the reviews of my father’s books in the papers. All of this made me start wanting to be a writer when I grew up—to be artistic, a free spirit, and yet also to be the rare working-class person in charge of her own life. Still, I worried that there was never quite enough money at our house. I worried that my father was going to turn into a bum like some of his writer friends. I remember when I was ten years old, my father published a piece in a magazine that mentioned his having spent an afternoon on a porch at Stinson Beach with a bunch of other writers and that they had all been drinking lots of red wine and smoking marijuana. No one smoked marijuana in those days except jazz musicians, and they were all also heroin addicts. Nice white middle-class fathers were not supposed to be smoking marijuana; they were supposed to be sailing or playing tennis. My friends’ fathers, who were teachers and doctors and fire fighters and lawyers, did not smoke marijuana.

• From Between Us

  By categorizing them as malu, the child learns to connect a large range of situations that urge deferent behavior. Similarly, American parents teach their children that “happy-about-getting-praise-for-turning-the-book-right-side-up,” “happy-about-winning-a-game,” “proud-about-being-a-good-student” all belong to the same category of “pride” (colloquially referred to as “feeling good about yourself”), even though these instances of “pride” arise in different situations, call for different action, and probably “feel” different to some extent. By teaching our child emotion concepts, parents attach culturally shared meanings and goals to these episodes. By naming an episode malu, parents imply that deference is called for; by suggesting that the child should “feel good about themselves,” they indicate that individual pleasure and being in control are of utmost importance. By learning what “emotion” they have, children become aligned with their parents’ (and their cultures’) meanings and goals. But that is not all: as a member of your culture, you get a jump start. Early in life, when you start learning the emotion words in your language, these words are containers partly stocked. It is not that every child, with the help of their parents, needs to start all over again assembling instances of “anger” or malu. Emotion words come with the emotional episodes from your culture’s collective memory as well as collective insights about these emotions. You learn them by talking to others, by hearing the collective wisdom about these emotions, and by observing how they are used in public life. It is this collective knowledge that scaffolds your own experiences. Emotion Words The emotion concepts of your language structure your experience. They are the tools that your parents use to help you make sense of ongoing events, including your own responses. They also prompt appropriate behavior. What if the emotion concepts vary across languages? And to what extent do we know this to be the case? The first thing to know is that not all languages have a word for “emotion” itself. The category, as we think we know it, is historically new, and geographically unique. This is a problem, because it makes it harder to even know what concepts to compare across cultures. In some languages emotions are grouped with other sensations such as fatigue or pain, in others they are grouped with behaviors. The Turkish respondents in my word-listing study were an example of the latter, listing as emotions such behaviors as crying, laughing, helping, and yelling. The Himba in Maria Gendron’s research are another example of a community where behaviors are included in the category of emotions; they saw the communality of emotional faces in terms of behaviors (not mental states): “all laughing.” In deciding which emotions are different across cultures, it is important to realize that there is no universally shared way of drawing the boundaries around the domain of emotions. This makes the comparison across cultures all the more complicated.

• From Between Us

  If this were true, should the most natural emotions of all—parental love—be considered outside-in? Do we always cultivate our emotions to fit the social norms? Our emotions may be more OURS than we acknowledge most of the time. There are several striking examples from research within Western Europe and the United States showing that emotions that are rewarded will become habitual. Temper tantrums occur more among children whose parents give in to their desires. And children whose parents only respond to their negative emotions end up showing those emotions more than children whose parents also attend to them when they communicate less urgency (insecurely versus securely attached children). Similarly, gender differences in anger expression may be associated with differential rewards for men and women expressing the same emotion. Expressing anger seems to be more rewarding for men than for women. In a psychological experiment, women were made to be more angry and men less by merely reversing the reward patterns. Women received points when they were aggressive, and men received points when they were friendly in an interactive game. When rewarded, women started to be more angry, even within the course of an experiment. When the cultural focus is inward, emotions become different creatures than when the cultural focus is outward. MINE and OURS emotions go beyond mere ways of talking about emotions. Yet, even if a culture focuses entirely on OURS aspects of emotions, some feeling, some embodiment of the emotion, is surely there most of the time. Conversely, even in a culture that resonates with emotions as little characters in the head—MINE emotions— emotions are also OURS. Emotions, whatever else they do, make meaning of events in the relationship with other people, and they align to these events in ways that meet social norms and expectations. Emotions are social practices, shared to a large extent with other people. So, looking through the lens of an OURS model will give you new insights into your emotions; it will focus attention to all the different aspects of emotions that the MINE model that is dominant in Western cultures overlooks and ignores. An OURS model can also help us understand how each of our emotions is tied to our cultural contexts —understanding is a first step to bridging the differences in emotions that we encounter in a multicultural society and a globalized world. Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . TO RAISE YOUR CHILD WHEN MY SON OLIVER WAS VERY YOUNG, ABOUT TEN MONTHS old, he knew how to hold a book right side up. When friends or grandparents were visiting, his father or I would hand him the book turned upside down, and wait for him to turn it right side up. Without fail, our visitors would praise him and be excited, and he beamed. Was he feeling really proud?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  The Reeve’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Reves Tale At Trumpington, not far from Cambridge, there is a charming brook; above that brook, there is a bridge; beside that brook, there lies a mill. All that I am about to tell you, by the way, is true. So help me God. A miller had been living and working here for many years. He was as proud and as colourful as a peacock. He strutted about his little kingdom. He fished in the brook, he played the bagpipes; he could mend his nets and turn the lathe; he could wrestle and use a bow. On his belt there hung a cutlass with a blade as sharp as a razor. He also kept a small dagger in his pocket. I can assure you that no one dared to cross him. There was also a Sheffield knife thrust down his trousers. He had a fat face, and a nose like a bulldog’s; he was completely bald, too. The more he swaggered, the more people were afraid of him. He swore an oath that he would repay any injury sevenfold. But this is the truth: he was a thief. He gave short weight of corn and meal. He was sly, and he never missed the chance to steal. What was his name? He was known as proud Simkin. His wife came from a noble family, and her father was the parson of the town. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, in other words, but that made no difference. Her father gave Simkin a collection of brass dishes for her dowry; he desperately wanted the miller for a son-in-law. On his part the miller was delighted that she had been brought up by nuns. He wanted his wife to be a virgin, and an educated virgin at that. It would help him preserve his honour as a free man. She was as proud as he was, and as pert as a little magpie. You should have seen them walking around town together. On holy days he always walked ahead of her, with his hood wrapped round his head; she followed, wearing a mantle of red cloth. Simkin dressed his legs in the same colour. No one called her anything but ‘dame’. Otherwise there would have been hell to pay. If a young man had tried to flirt with her, or even just wink at her, Simkin would have killed him on the spot with cutlass, dagger or knife. No doubt about it. Jealous husbands are always dangerous, or so at least their wives are encouraged to believe. And although she was a little damaged, being a bastard, she stank of pride like water in a ditch; she looked down on everyone. She was arrogant and self-important. What with her illustrious family, and convent education, nothing was too good for her. Or so she thought. The miller and his wife had two children.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  I will tell you a story about unhappiness in marriage. I am old enough to be experienced in the subject - well, I was the one who held the whip. I know all about it. Do you still want to sip out of my barrel? I have given you fair warning. I will give you ten different examples of marital disaster. There may be more than ten. I am not sure. There is an old saying, “Forewarned is forearmed.” I think those are the exact words of Ptolemy. Look it up. It’s in one of his books.’ ‘Dame,’ the Pardoner said to her, ‘do begin. We are on tenterhooks until we hear you. Tell us the story, and spare no man in the process. Teach all the young men here your techniques.’ ‘Gladly,’ she replied. ‘If that is what you want. But yet I beg all of you to remember this. Don’t get upset about anything I say. Don’t take offence. I mean no harm. I just want to entertain you all. ‘So now I will begin. I shall tell you the truth, so help me God. May I never taste wine or ale again if I deceive you. I have had, as I said, five husbands. Three of them were good, and two of them were bad. The three good ones were rich, and they were old. They were so old that they could hardly fulfil their duties. They could hardly rise to the occasion. You know what I mean. God help me, I can’t help laughing when I remember how hard they tried. God, did they sweat. I set no store by them in any case. Once they had given me their land and their fortune, I wasn’t bothered about the rest. I did not have to flatter

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Revelation did not mean that every word of scripture had to be accepted verbatim,59 and midrash was unconcerned about the original intention of the biblical author. Because the word of God was infinite, a text proved its divine origin by being productive of fresh meaning. Every time a Jew exposed himself to the ancient text, the words could mean something different. By the 80s and 90s, the rabbis were beginning to persuade their fellow Jews that this—rather than Christianity—was the authentic way for Israel to go forward. It was Rabbi Akiva who perfected this innovative style of midrash. It was said that his fame had reached heaven and that, intrigued, Moses decided to come down to earth and attend one of his classes. He sat in the eighth row behind the other students and discovered, to his embarrassment, that he could not understand a word of Akiva’s exposition of the Torah that had been revealed to him, Moses, on Mount Sinai. “My sons have surpassed me,” Moses reflected ruefully, like any proud parent, as he made his way back to heaven.60 Another rabbi put it more succinctly: “Matters that had not been revealed to Moses were disclosed to Rabbi Akiva and his generation.”61 Some people thought that Rabbi Akiva went too far, but his method carried the day because it kept scripture open. A modern scholar may feel that midrash violates the integrity of the original, but this kind of textual “bricolage” was a creative method of moving a tradition forward at a time when new material was harder to get hold of and people had to work with what they had. The rabbis believed that the Sinai revelation had not been God’s last word to humanity but just the beginning. Scripture was not a finished product; its potential had to be brought out by human ingenuity, in the same way as people had learned to extract flour from wheat and linen from flax.62 Revelation was an ongoing process that continued from one generation to another.63 A text that could not speak to the present was dead, and the exegete had a duty to revive it. The rabbis used to link together verses that originally had no connection with one another in a “chain” (horoz) that, in this new combination, meant something entirely different.64 They would sometimes alter a word in the text, creating a pun by substituting a single letter that entirely changed the original meaning, telling their pupils, “Don’t read this … but that.”65 They did not intend the emendation to be permanent; like any teacher in antiquity, they were mainly concerned with speaking directly to the needs of a particular group of students. They were happy to interpret a text in a way that bore no relation to the original, so that the Song of Songs, a profane love song sung in taverns that did not even mention God, became an allegory of Yahweh’s love for his people.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Regina Mayhew Somers OH, WHAT FUN, making them squirm in their seats! But if they’re going to treat her like some kind of relic she’ll act the part. Not that she’s denying her years ... far from it ... she’s proud to be an octogenarian. Of course, she doesn’t look a day over sixty-five. She could easily be taken for Lamb’s mother, not his grandmother. There’s still plenty of spunk in the old girl. Caitlin is quite a beauty, isn’t she? She should marry well. What about Charlie Wetheridge’s grandson? An investment banker, she hears. But Caitlin isn’t ready yet, is she? No ... she’s just thirteen or fourteen. Bertie’s an odd one. And that noise he makes. Even with her hearing loss it’s obvious. Isn’t Lamb aware? Can’t he do something about it? This salmon is quite tasty, actually. Maybe she’ll ask for a second helping. Good thing the Jew doesn’t go in for those ethnic dishes. She’s heard they have strange dietary habits. Dorset WHAT A NUMBER Grandmother is doing on Abby, calling her the Jew, testing her. And that story about doctors! What doctors? There’s nothing wrong with her. She’ll probably outlive all of them. Ha! Where the fuck is her Percocet? She’d wrapped it in a tissue, hidden it in the pocket of her pants. If they hurry and finish lunch she’ll still have time for a quick trip back to the fish market. Maybe fishboy can get away for an hour. Now there’s a positive thought. What a body, and those lips ... she can feel them on her already ... on her mouth, her neck, her breasts, between her legs. Yes, think about that, Dorset ... that’ll get you through this meal. Where’s her vibrator? In her overnight bag? Maybe she can excuse herself. If she can’t have fishboy she can at least think of him while using her magic pole.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  He had a dagger hanging from a cord around his neck, as if he were about to encounter pirates. The hot summers at sea had weathered him. But he was a good enough fellow. He had tapped many barrels of fine Bordeaux wine, when the merchant was not looking, and had no scruples about it. A ship’s cargo is not sacrosanct. The sea was the element in which he felt at home. He had acquired all the skills of observation and navigation; he had learned how to calculate the tides and the currents, and knew from long acquaintance the hidden perils of the deep. No one from Hull to Carthage knew more about natural harbours and anchorages; he could fix the position of the moon and the stars without the aid of an astrolabe. He knew all the havens, from Gotland to Cape Finistere, and every creek in Brittany and Spain. He told me of his voyages as far north as Iceland, and of his journeys to the Venetian colonies of Crete and of Corfu. He called his bed his ‘berth’ and his companions were his ‘mates’. His beard had been shaken by many tempests, but he was a sturdy and courageous man. ‘What is the broadest water,’ he once asked me, ‘and the least danger to walk over?’ ‘I have no notion.’ ‘The dew.’ His boat, by the way, was called the Magdalene. There was a DOCTOR OF PHYSIC also with us. No one on earth could have spoken more eloquently about medicine and surgery. He exemplified the old saying that a good physician is half an astronomer, and he could identify all the influences of the stars. He told me, for example, that Aries governs the head and all its contents; when the moon was in Aries, he felt able to operate upon the cheek or forehead. Taurus is the sign for neck and throat. The bollocks, or testicles, or cod, or yard, apparently lie in Scorpio. This was news to me. I thought that they lay in my mistress. But enough of that. I do not choose to display myself. Now this doctor knew the cause of every malady engendered in the bodily fluids. Some are hot, and some are cold; some are moist, and some are dry. But, alas, all things are mixed and mingled beneath the moon. And then he discoursed upon the humours. ‘You,’ he said to me, ‘are melancolius. And a portion phlegmaticus.’ I did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved. He was in any event an excellent physician. As soon as he knew the root and cause of any ailment, he could apply the appropriate remedy. He had his own chosen apothecaries to send him drugs and other medicines, from which both he and they made a great deal of money. The dung of doves was an excellent cure for sore feet. And what was his remedy for convulsions?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  It was a good show of defiance. Then Thopas rode away quite fast As Oliphiant prepared to cast Stones at him from a leather sling. Yet our fair knight had cause to sing When all the missiles missed their aim And were not fit to kill or maim The valiant warrior. He was none the sorrier. THE SECOND FIT So gather round and hear the rest. The giant came off second best And Thopas, of high renown, Decided to return to town. He rideth over hill and dale To reach the ending of my tale. It will not fail To amuse you. His merry men commanded he To cheer him up with game and glee. ‘Let there be a pageant In which I fight a ferocious giant. Then let the fairy queen appear And proclaim herself to be my dear Paramour. I ask no more. ‘Then let the minstrels blow their trumpets And the drummers use their drum kits, And the singers sing their tales Of kings and queens and noble males Like me. Of chivalry the flower, I’ll be the hero of the hour.’ They brought him wine, they brought him spices They brought him cream and several ices, They brought him gingerbread and mead, They brought him damson jam on which to feed. He had a sweet tooth. Then he decked himself in vestments fair. Sir Thopas always knew what to wear In terms of shirts and other finery. In armour he was inclined to be Conservative. Just simple chain mail, With a double brooch and ornamental nail, Was enough to protect him. He had a bright helmet, He had a bright spear, There was no warrior his peer. He had a fine shield To make his enemies yield And even flee the field. His legs were cased in leather, On his helmet was a feather. It was hard to know whether He was more handsome than rich Or, if so, which was which In his gorgeous display. He outshone the day. His spear was made of fine cypress But it boded war, not peace. His bridle shone like snow in sun And as for saddle, there was none So polished in the world. His banner was unfurled To taunt all foes to take him on. And that is it. That is the end of the second fit. If you want to hear more, I will oblige. No need to implore. THE THIRD FIT Now say no more, I will continue To tell how Thopas and his retinue Fought against elves and giants And cannibals and monsters and tyrants. There is no end. You have heard of Arthur and of Lancelot But this knight could prance a lot Better on his noble steed. He was a good knight indeed. Sir Thopas took the lead In chivalry. So off he trotted on his charger This knight looked larger Than life. Upon his helmet There rose a lily Which looked sweet but silly. The road ahead was hilly

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  No one called her anything but ‘dame’. Otherwise there would have been hell to pay. If a young man had tried to flirt with her, or even just wink at her, Simkin would have killed him on the spot with cutlass, dagger or knife. No doubt about it. Jealous husbands are always dangerous, or so at least their wives are encouraged to believe. And although she was a little damaged, being a bastard, she stank of pride like water in a ditch; she looked down on everyone. She was arrogant and self-important. What with her illustrious family, and convent education, nothing was too good for her. Or so she thought. The miller and his wife had two children. The first was a girl, no more than twenty years of age, and the second was a boy about six months old. He was a bonny baby, bouncing in his cradle. The daughter was growing up well, too. She had a pug-nose, like her father, but she was slender and well proportioned. Her eyes were grey as doves’ wings. She had broad buttocks, nice hair, and her tits were like ripe melons. She was riding high, if you know what I mean. Now her grandfather, the parson, was very pleased with her. He had decided that she should be the heir to all his property in the town, his house and everything else, so of course he was always talking about her marriage. He wanted her to marry someone of noble and ancient blood. The wealth of the Holy Church should be devoted to those who were descended from the Holy Church. The blood of the Holy Church should be honoured, even if the Holy Church was destroyed in the process. That was his belief. Now the miller had a monopoly of trade in the neighbourhood. He was the one who took in all the corn, all the wheat and all the malt. One of his clients was Trinity College, Cambridge, who sent him their supplies to be ground. One day it so happened that the manciple of the college, who looked after its affairs, fell seriously ill. It seemed likely that he would die and, seeing his opportunity, the miller stole as much corn and meal as he could. He took a hundred times more than he had before. Once he had been a cautious and careful thief; now, with the manciple out of the way, he was blatant. The master of the college was not well pleased. He reprimanded the miller, and scolded him for dubious practice. But the miller just blustered and swore that he had done nothing wrong. He got away with it, as usual.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Then I got up and hit him again. “Now we are quits,” I said. “I can die in peace. These are my last words.” They were not, of course, and eventually we made up with much sighing and crying. I had won. He gave me the reins and I took control of my house and property. I also ruled over his tongue - and over his fists. What do you think I did with that book? I made him burn it. When I had taken charge of the household he came up to me and said, “My own true wife, my Alison, do as you please for the rest of your life. Just preserve my honour and my standing.” ‘From that day forward we never had an argument. I swear to God that I became the best wife in the world. I was loyal to him, and he was true to me. I hope his soul is now at peace in a better world. Shall I tell you my story now?’ Biholde the wordes bitwene the Somonour and the Frere The Friar laughed when he heard all this. ‘Now, ma dame,’ he said, ‘by God that was a long preamble to a tale!’ The Summoner was listening. ‘What do you think?’ he asked the other pilgrims. ‘A friar will always be interfering. A friar is like a fly. He will alight on any dish and any meat. What is all this about preamble or perambulation, whatever you call it? Preamble yourself. Or trot, if you like. Or gallop ahead. You are spoiling our fun.’ ‘Is that all you have to say, sir Summoner?’ the Friar replied. ‘By God, before I leave you all, I will tell you a story about a summoner that will keep you in fits of laughter.’ ‘Fuck you, Friar. Before we get to Sittingbourne I will have told two or three tales about your profession that will reduce you to tears. I can see that you have already lost your temper.’ Harry Bailey intervened. ‘Peace! No more squabbling. Let the woman begin her story. You two are behaving like drunks. Go on now, mistress, and tell us your tale.’ ‘I am ready, Mr Bailey. That is, if the worthy Friar here will let me continue.’ ‘Ma dame,’ the Friar replied. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ The Wife of Bath’s Tale Heere bigynneth the Tale of the Wyf of Bathe

• From City of Night (1963)

  “Drink?” he said. I sat down. He called Miss Billie. “Hi, hon,” she said to me. “Why’d you leave so quick justa while ago?... And come to think of it, why aint I seen you in such a long time?—but then of course I’ve been in the hospital myself for about a week. I had this operation—and when I—” “An abortion?” an eavesdropping white queen asks. “Shut your nelly mouth, Mary,” said the Negro queen—“or I’ll have you eight-sixed out of this bar so fast you wont even be able to hold on to your makeup!” “Honey,” said the other queen. “I wasn’t trying to dish you, sweetheart... Why, dearest, I’d like to get pregnant myself!” They all tittered now, including Miss Billie: suddenly all sisters again. The man Im sitting with doesnt speak for a long while. He doesnt even look at me. He stared down at the table, playing with his drink.... But Im almost certain that he remembers me too—that hes been waiting for me to fulfill something vastly, if perversely, important. “Will you come with me?” he asks me. Without answering, I stood up. We walked out. We went to a hotel nearby, much better than the ones on Main Street. Coldly, we went up the elevator, into his room... Outside, he hadnt appeared as drunk as he seems now, and I wonder if somehow it’s necessary that he be drunk—and if not really that drunk, that he pretend to be. He removes only his coat, places it carefully inside-out on a chair, his wallet showing half-out from the pocket In bed, when he touched me, it was all quick, frantic.... Then he lay back as if in drunken sleep. Instantly—doing what I had come up to do—I reached for his wallet. I removed all the money. I left the wallet, open, on the chair. And I walked out feeling strangely triumphant for having just clipped the man with whom, that first afternoon in Los Angeles, I had failed the world I had searched. Part Three “He’s got the wind and the rain in His hands, He’s got both you and me in His hands, He’s got the whole world in His hands.” — He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands CITY OF NIGHT HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD IS THE HEART OF the heartless Hollywood legend. Like special moths attracted to the special glitter of the nihilistic movie capital, the untalented or undiscovered are spewed into the streets by the make-it legend.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  And then there was a MONK, and a handsome one at that. He was one of those monks who do much business outside the monastery, arranging sales and contracts with the lay-people, and he had acquired lay tastes. He loved hunting, for example. He prided himself on being strong and firm of purpose; he would make a very good abbot. He had a stable of good horses as brown as autumn berries and, when he rode, you could hear his bridle jingling as loudly as the bell calling his fellows to chapel. He was supposed to follow the rule of Saint Benedict, in the small monastery over which he had authority, but he found the precepts antiquated and altogether too strict; he preferred to follow the modern fashions of good living and good drinking. He loved a fat swan on his table. He paid no heed to the injunction that huntsmen can never be holy men, and scorned the old saying that a monk without rules is like a fish without water. Who needs water, in any case, when there is ale and wine? Why should he study in the book room off the cloister, and make his head spin with words and texts? Why should he labour and work with his own hands, as Saint Augustine ordained? What good is that to the world? Let Augustine do the work! No, this monk was a sportive horseman. He owned greyhounds that were as swift as any bird in flight. He loved tracking down and killing the hares on the lands of the monastery. He looked the part, too. His sleeves were lined and trimmed with soft squirrel fur, the most expensive of its kind. He had a great gold pin, to fasten his hood under his chin, which blossomed into an intricate knot at its head. That could not have been cheap. His head was bald, and shone as if it were made of glass; his face glowed, too, as if it had been anointed with oil. He was a fine plump specimen of a monk, in excellent condition. His eyes were very bright and mobile, gleaming like the sudden spark from a furnace under a cauldron. He was all fire and life, a sanguinary man. He was the best kind of prelate, to my thinking, and not a tormented ghost of a cleric. He seemed to enjoy my company or, rather, he seemed to enjoy himself in my company; he did not enquire about my life or my occupation. I liked that.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  The Mishnah did not cling nervously to the Hebrew Bible, but held proudly aloof and rarely quoted the old scriptures. It felt no need to discuss its relation to the Sinai tradition, but loftily assumed that its competence was beyond question. The rabbis continued to love and revere the older scriptures, but knew that the world they represented had gone forever; like the Christians, they took from them what they needed and respectfully laid the rest to one side. Religion must be allowed to move forward freely and could not be constrained by misplaced loyalty to the past. Divine revelation, they decided, had come in two forms: a written Torah and an ongoing Oral Torah that evolved from one generation to another. Both were sacred, both came from God, but the rabbis valued the Oral Torah more than any written scripture because this living tradition reflected the fluctuations of human thought and kept the Word responsive to change. Undue reliance on a written text could encourage inflexibility and backward-looking timidity.67 The insights of all Jews—past, present, and to come—had been anticipated symbolically in the Sinai revelation, so when they developed the Oral Torah together in their discussions in the House of Studies, the rabbis felt as though they were standing beside Moses on the mountaintop, and were participating in a never-ending conversation with the great sages of the past and with their God. They were the recipients of God’s word just as surely as were the ancient prophets and patriarchs.68 The two Talmuds moved even more firmly away from the Bible. The Jerusalem Talmud, compiled during the fifth century, and the more authoritative Babylonian Talmud (known as the Bavli) a century later, were commentaries on the Mishnah, not the Bible. Like the New Testament, the Bavli was regarded as the completion of the Hebrew Bible, a new revelation for a changed world.69 As Christians would always read the Hebrew Bible from the perspective of the New Testament, Jews would study it only in conjunction with the Bavli, which completely transformed it. The author-editors felt free to reverse the Mishnah’s legislation, play one rabbi off against another, and point out serious gaps in their arguments. They did exactly the same with the Bible, even suggesting what the biblical authors should have said and substituting their own rulings for biblical law. The Bavli gave no definitive answers to the many questions it raised. We hear many different voices: Abraham, Moses, the Prophets, the early Pharisees, and the rabbis of Yavneh were all brought together on the same page, so that they seem to be on the same level and taking part in a communal debate across the centuries.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Agacha la cabeza, escaneando el suelo frente a él. —Recibí todas tus cartas. Gracias por las tarjetas telefónicas. ¿Quieres decir las que no usaste para llamarme? Sonrío, sin culparlo. Era una pequeña posibilidad, pero me alegra que recibiera todo. Siempre y cuando supiera que estaba pensando en él… —¿Cómo estás? —Doy un paso al frente y bajo la caja de herramientas, sacando un trapo de mi bolsillo trasero para limpiarme las manos. No habla y respira profundamente. Finalmente, levanta sus ojos azules. —¿Tienes cerveza? Asiento suavemente y lo llevo a la cocina. El aire acondicionado me golpea, enfriando el sudor en mi espalda, y mis nervios hacen que sea difícil respirar, peor en este momento no estoy tan nervioso como pensé que estaría. No está gritando todavía, así que es una buena señal. Abro dos botellas de Corona. La luz del sol de la tarde se desvanece de la mesa de la cocina mientras se oculta detrás de unas nubes. Toma asiento, y hago lo mismo. Cuando permanece en silencio, me doy cuenta que la pelota está en mi cancha. —Entonces, ¿eres feliz? —le pregunto—. ¿En la fuerza militar? Tuve tiempo para acostumbrarme a la idea, especialmente después que su reclutador me lo asegurara, pero necesitaba escucharlo de él. —Sí. —Baja su cerveza a la mesa, manteniendo su puño alrededor de ésta—. No lo sé, supongo que es lo que necesitaba. Ser desgarrado para que me reconstruyeran mejor. Espero para que continúe. —No puedo dormir hasta tarde —dice—. No puedo llegar ebrio. No puedo decir que estoy enfermo si me siento flojo ese día… apesta, pero tengo un trabajo y dinero en la cuenta. Una carrera. Eso se siente muy bien. —Finalmente levanta la mirada—. Tengo un futuro, y para alguien que nunca supo dónde demonios estaba su lugar en el mundo, es algo bueno que los militares decidieran por ti y te dieran dirección. —¿Estás seguro? —Levanto la botella, dándole un trago. Me encanta que esté haciendo algo con su vida, pero también quiero asegurarme que esté haciendo su propio camino. Continúa. —Ahí es donde Jordan y yo nunca tuvimos sentido. Ella sabía lo que estaba en su mente, y lo resentía cuando estaba con ella, porque yo nunca lo supe. —Deja escapar un suspiro—. Yo no era su igual, nunca lo suficientemente bueno para ella. Nunca sería lo suficientemente fuerte mentalmente. Algunos de nosotros simplemente no lo somos. Mi corazón se detiene ante sonido de su nombre, pero lo ignoro. No estoy seguro de que unirse a los militares fuera algo que realmente quisiera hacer con su vida, pero estoy seguro que no estaba encontrando respuestas en este pueblo. Al menos lo sabía. Fue lo suficientemente fuerte para dar ese salto. —Tú hiciste eso, ¿no es así? —pregunto—. Lograste pasar el entrenamiento. Estoy orgulloso de ti. Veo su manzana de Adán subir y bajar, y los músculos de su mandíbula moverse. Toma otro sorbo, todavía sin mirarme.