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.

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• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  One night I was lying in my bunk wearing my elaborate coat-hanger braces when the bedroom door opened. I could make out a dim figure in the darkness. “Who’s there?” I called out, but because I had my braces on, it came out sounding like “Phoof der?” “It’s your old man,” Dad answered. “What’s with the mumbling?” He came over to my bunk, held up his Zippo, and flicked it. A flame shot up. “What the Sam Hill’s that on your head?” “My brafef,” I said. “Your what?” I took off the contraption and explained to Dad that, because my front teeth stuck out so badly, I needed braces, but they cost twelve hundred dollars, so I had made my own. “Put them back on,” Dad said. He studied my handiwork intently, then nodded. “Those braces are a goddamn feat of engineering genius,” he said. “You take after your old man.” He took my chin and pulled my mouth open. “And I think they’re by God working.”

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  When he had escaped from the consuming fire he could not wait to return to war. He believed that Fortune, having rescued him with a rainstorm, had also made him invincible against all of his foes. He had a dream one night that increased his confidence and his vainglory. This was the dream. He was in a tree, and Jupiter there washed his entire body. Then Phoebus brought him a towel with which to dry himself. This was a good omen indeed. He asked his daughter to interpret the dream to him; she was skilled in all manner of prognostication. ‘The tree you saw,’ she told him, ‘signifies the gallows. The washing of Jupiter signifies the rain and the snow. The towel that Phoebus brought you is an image of the sun’s warm rays. You are going to be hanged, Father. There is no doubt about it. The rain will wash you, and the sun will dry you.’ So did his daughter, whose name was Phania, warn him of his coming fate. And indeed he was hanged. The proud king ended on the gallows, where his royal estate could not save him. The tragedies of the proud and the fortunate have the same burden. They are threnodies of grief against the guile of Dame Fortune, who kills where she might cure. When men put their faith in her, she fails them and covers her bright face with a cloud. Heere stynteth the Knyght the Monk of his tale The Nun’s Priest’s Prologue The prologe of the Nonnes Preestes Tale ‘Hey!’ the Knight called out. ‘That is enough, sir Monk. You have spoken justly, I am sure. It was all very true. But a little sorrow goes a long way. People cannot bear too much tragedy. As for me, I hate hearing about the sudden fall from fortune into sorrow. I prefer to look on the bright side. I like to hear of those poor folk who have attained great riches or happiness, climbing up the ladder from low estate to wealth. That cheers me up. That is the story I wish to hear.’ ‘I agree with you,’ Harry Bailey said. ‘One hundred per cent. This Monk has spoken at length about the tragedies of various people. How did he put it? Fortune is covered with a cloud? Something like that. But there is no point in wailing and lamenting. What is done is done. As you said, sir Knight, it is not an exciting subject.’

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘Now I am not claiming that every man and woman is bound to propagate. That would be absurd. That would be to deny the virtue of chastity. Christ was a virgin. And He had a male body, did He not? Many saints have been virginal, too. I expect that they had private parts. I will say nothing against them. They are loaves of the purest white bread, and we wives are buns of coarse barley. And yet Mark tells us that Christ Himself fed the multitude with barley bread. I am not fussy. I will fulfil the role that God gave me. I will use my hole, my instrument, my cunt, with as good a grace as He bequeathed it to me. If I am grudging about it, God will never forgive me. My husband can have it morning and night, whenever it pleases him. He can pay his debt any time. I want him to be my debtor and my slave. I will be troubling his flesh, as they put it, while I am married to him. I am given power over his body for the rest of my life. Is that not so? That is what Paul says. Paul also orders husbands to love their wives. I quite agree -’ The Pardoner suddenly rose from his saddle and interrupted her. ‘Now, dame,’ he said. ‘By God and the cross you have been a noble orator in your cause. I was just about to get married myself but, hearing you, I am having second thoughts. Why should I put my flesh to so much trouble, as you put it? I don’t think I will be wed at all.’ ‘Just wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I haven’t begun my story yet. You may not find it a wholesome draught. It will not be as sweet as ale. But drink it down. 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.

• From City of Night (1963)

  The manuscript was mailed. I went to return the rented typewriter, but I couldn’t part with it. I bought it; I still have the elegant old Underwood, now comfortably “retired.” Proofs came. As I read, I panicked. In print, it was all “different”—wrong! About a third of the way through, I began changing a word here and there, a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph; then I started back at the beginning. By the time I had gone through the galley proofs, the book was virtually rewritten on the margins and on pasted typewritten inserts. But now —I knew—it was “right.” I called Don, then in San Francisco, to “prepare” him. He was startled but agreed with the alterations. Despite Don’s preparation, others at Grove reacted in surprise at the rewritten galleys. Knowing how expensive the resetting would be, I had offered out of my royalties to pay for it—a contractual provision. But Barney Rosset made no objection to changes, and he refused to charge me. Publication was rescheduled, and the book was reset. I had no doubt that City of Night would be an enormous success. I was right. In a reversed way. I had thought it would sell modestly and that the book would be greeted with critical raves. The opposite occurred, dramatically. Before the official publication date, my book appeared in the No. 8 slot of Time’s national bestseller list. Also before publication, I saw my first review. Even for the dark ages of the early 1960’s the title of the review in The New York Review of Books was vicious in its overt bigotry. What followed matched its headline. The book climbed quickly to the No. 1 spot on bestseller lists in New York, California. Nationally on all lists it reached third place. In a review featured on its cover, The New Republic attempted to surpass the attack of The New York Review of Books; it was a draw. The book went into a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh printing and remained on the bestseller lists for almost seven months. In its assault of about eight lines, The New Yorker made one factual mistake and one grammatical error. Only the book’s subject seemed to be receiving outraged attention; its careful structure, whether successful or not, was virtually ignored. I was being viewed and written about as a hustler who had somehow managed to write, rather than as a writer who was writing intimately about hustling—and many other subjects. That persisting view would affect the critical reception of every one of my following books, and still does, to this day.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  woman grabbed my shirt and tried to pull me over the chain. “It’s all right,” I told her. “My dad does stuff like this all the time.” “He should be arrested!” she shouted. “Okay, kids,” Dad said, “the civilians are revolting. We better skedaddle.” We climbed over the chain. When I looked back, the cheetah was following us along the side of the cage. Before we could make our way through the crowd, a heavy man in a navy blue uniform came running toward us. He was holding on to the gun and nightstick on his belt, which made him look like he was running with his hands on his hips. He was shouting about regulations and how idiots had been killed climbing into cages and how we all had to leave immediately. He grabbed Dad by the shoulder, but Dad pushed him off and assumed a fighting stance. Some of the men in the crowd clutched Dad’s arms, and Mom asked Dad to please do what the guard had ordered. Dad nodded and held out his hands in a peace gesture. He led us through the crowd and toward the exit, chuckling and shaking his head to let us kids know that these fools were not worth the time it would take to kick their butts. I could hear people around us whispering about the crazy drunk man and his dirty little urchin children, but who cared what they thought? None of them had ever had their hand licked by a cheetah.

• From City of Night (1963)

  More than twenty years and seven books later, how do I feel about City of Night ? It thrills me—not only for myself but for the many lives it contains, those always remembered faces and voices—that within my lifetime this book, so excoriated when it first appeared, has come to be referred to frequently as a “modern classic.” And I no longer feel the guilt I battled so long, about the “real people” I thought I would “leave behind.” No—they are a permanent part of my life, of that part of me—the writer—who tells of his journey as a “youngman.” John Rechy Los Angeles, 1984 Part One “Children, go where I send you—how shall I send you? I’m going to send you one by one....” —Children, Go Where I Send You CITY OF NIGHT LATER I WOULD THINK OF AMERICA as one vast City of Night stretching gaudily from Times Square to Hollywood Boulevard—jukebox-winking, rock-n-roll-moaning: America at night fusing its darkcities into the unmistakable shape of loneliness. Remember Pershing Square and the apathetic palmtrees. Central Park and the frantic shadows. Movie theaters in the angry morning-hours. And wounded Chicago streets.... Horrormovie courtyards in the French Quarter—tawdry Mardi Gras floats with clowns tossing out glass beads, passing dumbly like life itself... Remember rock-n-roll sexmusic blasting from jukeboxes leering obscenely, blinking many-colored along the streets of America strung like a cheap necklace from 42nd Street to Market Street, San Francisco.... One-night sex and cigarette smoke and rooms squashed in by loneliness.... And I would remember lives lived out darkly in that vast City of Night, from all-night movies to Beverly Hills mansions. But it should begin in El Paso, that journey through the cities of night. Should begin in El Paso, in Texas. And it begins in the Wind.... In a Southwest windstorm with the gray clouds like steel doors locking you in the world from Heaven. I cant remember now how long that windstorm lasted—it might have been days—but perhaps it was only hours—because it was in that timeless time of my boyhood, ages six through eight. My dog Winnie was dying. I would bring her water and food and place them near her, stand watching intently—but she doesnt move. The saliva kept coming from the edges of her mouth. She had always been fat, and she had a crazy crooked grin—but she was usually sick: Once her eyes turned over, so that they were almost completely white and she couldnt see—just lay down, and didnt try to get up for a day. Then she was well, briefly, smiling again, wobbling lopsidedly. Now she was lying out there dying.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  86 The five “pillars” of Islam are a miqra, a summons to dedicated activity: prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and pilgrimage. This is also true of the first “pillar,” the declaration of faith: “I bear witness that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is his prophet.” This is not a “creed” in the modern Western sense; the Muslim who makes this shahadah “bears witness” in his life and in every single one of his actions that his chief priority is Allah and that no other “gods”—which include political, material, economic, and personal ambitions—can take precedence over his commitment to God alone. In the Qur’an, faith (iman) is something that people do: they share their wealth, perform the “works of justice” (salihat), and prostrate their bodies to the ground in the kenotic, ego-deflating act of prayer (salat). 87 In the Qur’an, the people who opposed Islam when Muhammad began to preach in Mecca are called the kafirun. The usual English translation is extremely misleading: it does not mean “unbeliever” or “infidel;” the root KFR means “blatant ingratitude,” a discourteous and arrogant refusal of something offered with great kindness. 88 The theology of the kafirun was quite correct: they all took it for granted that God created the world, for example. 89 They were not condemned for their “unbelief” but for their braying, offensive manner to others, their pride, self-importance, chauvinism, and inability to accept criticism. 90 The kafirun never give serious consideration to an idea that is new to them, because they think they know everything already. Hence they sneer at the Qur’an, seizing every opportunity to display their own cleverness. 91 Above all, they are jahili: chronically “irascible,” acutely sensitive about their honor and prestige, with a destructive tendency to violent retaliation. 92 Muslims are commanded to respond to such abusive behavior with hilm (“forbearance”) and quiet courtesy, leaving revenge to Allah. 93 They must “walk gently on the earth,” and whenever the jahilun insult them, they should simply reply, “Peace.” 94 There was no question of a literal, simplistic reading of scripture. Every single image, statement, and verse in the Qur’an is called an ayah (“sign,” “symbol,” “parable”), because we can speak of God only analogically. The great ayat of the creation and the last judgment are not introduced to enforce “belief,” but they are a summons to action. Muslims must translate these doctrines into practical behavior. The ayah of the last day, when people will find that their wealth cannot save them, should make Muslims examine their conduct here and now: Are they behaving kindly and fairly to the needy? They must imitate the generosity of Allah, who created the wonders of this world so munificently and sustains it so benevolently. At first, the religion was known as tazakka (“refinement”).

• From The Case for God (2009)

  Bishops, theologians, and professors collaborated on major symposia to counter Essays and Reviews, and, in an unlikely alliance, Anglo-Catholics joined forces with Evangelicals in a statement that affirmed the divine inspiration of the Bible. Seven hundred seventeen scientists (of minor status) also signed a strongly worded protest, and some of the signatories established the Victoria Institute to defend the literal truth of scripture. 51 The more progressive theologians who adopted the new historical-critical method often found that their staunchest supporters were scientists who, like themselves, were at the cutting edge of their field. 52 When, for example, John William Colenso (1814–83), missionary bishop of Natal, was ostracized for his critical study of the Pentateuch, Lyell introduced him to his club and gave him financial help and the two became firm friends. When the Reverend Frederic William Farrar (1831–1903) wrote an article on the Flood, arguing, on evidence provided by the Higher Criticism and geological science, that the deluge had not in fact covered the entire earth, his essay was rejected by the editors of William Smith’s Dictionary of the Bible. But Darwin supported Farrar’s candidacy for the Royal Society, and Farrar was one of the bearers of Darwin’s coffin and preached a moving eulogy beside his grave. 53 In the United States, the more liberal Christians were open to the Higher Criticism. Henry Ward Beecher (1813–87), Lyman’s son, believed that doctrine and belief should take second place to charitable work and argued that it was unchristian to penalize somebody for holding a different theological opinion. The liberals were also willing to “christen” Darwinism, arguing that God was at work in the process of natural selection and that humanity was gradually evolving to a greater spiritual perfection: soon men and women would find that no gulf separated them from God and that they were able to live at peace with one another. But a rift was developing between the liberals and conservatives. In dedicated opposition to the Higher Criticism, Charles Hodge insisted that every single word of the Bible was divinely inspired and infallibly true. His son Archibald wrote a classic defense of the literal truth of the Bible with his younger colleague Benjamin Warfield. All the stories and statements of the Bible were “absolutely errorless and binding for faith and obedience.” Everything in scripture was unqualified “truth to the facts.” 54 In 1886, the revivalist preacher Dwight Lyman Moody (1837–99) founded the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago to combat the Higher Criticism, his aim to create a cadre to oppose the false ideas that, he argued, would bring the nation to destruction. Similar colleges were founded by William B.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  A carob tree moved four hundred cubits of its own accord, water in a nearby canal flowed backward, and the walls of the house of studies caved in, as if on the point of collapse. But the rabbis remained unconvinced and seemed somewhat disapproving of this divine extravaganza. In desperation, Rabbi Eliezer asked for a bat qol, a heavenly voice, to support his case, and obligingly a celestial voice cried, “What have you against Rabbi Eliezer? The halakah is always as he says.” Unimpressed, Rabbi Joshua simply quoted God’s own Torah back to him: “It is not in heaven.” 57 The Torah was no longer the property of heaven; it had descended to earth on Mount Sinai and was now enshrined in the heart of every Jew. So “we pay no attention to a bat qol,“ he concluded firmly. It was said that when God heard this, he laughed and said, “My children have conquered me.” They had grown up. Instead of meekly accepting opinions foisted on them from above, they were thinking for themselves. 58 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.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  You should give more consideration to those who perform good works, in private and in public. They are the real gentlemen. Our Saviour tells us that true nobility comes from His example, not from the money bags of our rich ancestors. Although they may give us all of their worldly goods, from which we claim good breeding, they cannot bequeath to us the gift of holy living. An honest man is made by honest deeds. That is the only lesson your forefathers can impart to you. ‘I suppose you know the high words of the Florentine poet, Dante, who taught us this sentence - “A man cannot climb heavenward on his own slender branches. God wills us to claim from Him our strength and purpose.” The only things we can inherit from our ancestors are material goods that in fact may harm or injure us. Everyone knows this as well as I do. If virtue were of natural growth in certain families, proceeding down the line from parent to child, then they could do nothing but good. It would be impossible for them to be caught in villainy or vice. ‘Take a piece of fire. Carry it into the darkest house between here and the Caucasian mountains. Shut the doors upon it and depart. The fire will keep on burning, pure and unsullied, just as if twenty thousand people were observing it. It will perform its natural function until it expires. I stake my life upon it. So now you may understand what I have been telling you. Gentility cannot be borrowed or purchased. Fire is always and forever fire. Men are of more mixed natures, susceptible to change. God knows it happens often enough that the son of a nobleman behaves shamefully. There are some who make great play of their ancestry, and of their virtuous grandfathers and great-grandfathers, but who themselves are only notable as villains. They are not like their ancestors at all. A man may call himself a lord or an earl but, in reality, he is a sot and a churl. Nobility is the renown won by others who came before you. It does not belong to you by right of birth. God alone can grant you virtue. God alone is the source and spring of grace. ‘Valerius Maximus was a Roman author. Have you heard of him? He praises the nobility of Tullius Hostilius, who rose from poverty to become the third king of Rome. That Hostilius was a real gentleman. Seneca, and Boethius, both teach us that gentle natures are seen in gentle deeds. ‘And therefore, dear husband, I conclude as follows. Even if my ancestors were humble, I hope by the grace of God and by my own efforts to lead a virtuous life. When I choose virtue, and eschew sin, then I will be a gentlewoman. And do you blame me for my poverty? Did not the Saviour, the incarnate God, choose a poor life on earth?

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘So I tell you all this. You must pay for what you want. Everything in this world is for sale. An empty hand lures no hawk. You know that expression, I suppose. I would satisfy all their lusts, once my purse was full. Sometimes I even pretended to enjoy it. In fact I never really enjoyed the taste of tough old meat. That was probably the reason I gave them such a hard time. The pope himself could have been sitting right beside them, at table, and I would still have nagged them. I gave as good as I got. If I were making my last will and testament, I would still owe them nothing. I paid them word for word, so help me God. I was so smart and tricky that they gave up the fight. It was the best thing they could have done, believe me. Otherwise they would have had no rest. One or two of them may have looked at me like tigers, but they would never have got me in their jaws. ‘This is what I said to one of them. “Oh look, sweetheart, at Willy.” Willy was the name of our sheep. “Look at him. Look how meek and lovely he is. Come over to me now, dear, and let me give you a little kiss on your cheek. You should be like Willy. You should be patient and humble. You are always telling me about the patience of Job. Why not follow suit? You should practise what you preach. Is that not so? Otherwise I will have to teach you a harder lesson - that it is a good thing to keep a wife peaceful. One of us must give in. That’s for sure. And it’s not going to be me. A man is more reasonable than a woman, in any case, and must surely be able to bear more hardship. Why are you always moaning and complaining? Do you want to reserve my pussy for yourself? You can have it. Take it all. Go on. Take it. I know how much you love it. If I were able to sell it, I would be walking around in luxury. I can tell you that. But, no, I will keep it for you alone to graze on. But, by God, you do me wrong!” Those were my exact words to him.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  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. She reached over and pressed my hand during the course of one affecting tale. She had performed in that game before. She knew, as they say, the ways of the dance. That was the Wife of Bath.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Luego, cuando trató de entrar a la habitación, lo deseaba muchísimo —sus manos, su boca, sus palabras—, pero siempre lo perdono con demasiada facilidad y ya no quiero ser esa chica. Incluso si Pike es uno de los buenos, y estoy bastante segura que lo es, necesitaba demostrarme que valgo la pena el trabajo y la espera. Era necesario elevar el estándar y no darle a todos lo que quieren de mí tan fácilmente. He sido una incauta el tiempo suficiente. Jay, Cole, mis padres... Y me quedé dormida, orgullosa de ser más fuerte. Hoy por otro lado... puede tenerme tanto como quiera, porque tampoco puedo seguir esperando. Después de decirle que mantuviera sus manos lejos de sí mismo anoche, me obligué a hacer lo mismo hoy, y lo primero que voy a hacer cuando lo vea es quitarle la camisa, porque me encanta cómo se ve solo en pantalones. El clima es cálido hoy, pero hay una pequeña capa de nubes manteniendo el calor a raya, y me acuesto en la hierba sobre mi estómago, escuchando a Don Henley en el reproductor de casetes mientras ojeo el catálogo de cursos de otoño de mi universidad. Ya me había registrado para el próximo semestre pero estoy pensando en agregar otra clase. Mis piernas, cruzadas en los tobillos, se balancean hacia atrás y adelante en el aire detrás de mí, pero luego suena mi teléfono, me extiendo y lo recojo de la hierba. Mirando la pantalla, frunzo el ceño. ¿Qué quiere Dutch? Respondo y lo sostengo en mi oreja. —Hola —digo—. ¿Todo bien? Mi mente sospechosa se ve inmediatamente atraída por Pike y un espantoso accidente con cualquiera de las máquinas con las que trabaja. —Uh, sí, siento molestarte —me dice—. ¿Sabes qué le pasa a Pike hoy? —¿Qué quieres decir? —Bueno, ha estado de mal humor —se queja—. Todo el mundo tiene miedo de acercársele. Está gritando a todo el mundo, golpeó alrededor de ochenta clavos en cada tablón que colgó, y luego aceptó accidentalmente un envío equivocado de madera, lo que provocó una rabieta realmente interesante que me recuerda a mi hija de doce años. Ha sido extraño. Resoplo, pero luego coloco mi mano sobre mi boca para sofocarla. —Uhm... —Busco palabras, mi garganta se llena de risa—. En realidad no tengo idea. En realidad, tengo una muy buena idea. —Bueno, cúbrete, cariño —dice—. Está de camino a casa, y no sé cuál es su jodido problema. Mi cuerpo tiembla con una risa silenciosa, y justo en ese momento, veo que la camioneta de Pike viene rugiendo por la calle. Incluso su motor suena enojado. —Está bien —le digo a Dutch—. Me tengo que ir. Cuelgo, sin esperar su "despedida", y observo mientras Pike entra en el camino de entrada y la camioneta se detiene bruscamente. Echando un vistazo a mi teléfono, veo que solo son las cuatro de la tarde. Es muy temprano.

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

  The verbal or textual criticism has for its object to restore as far as possible the original text of the Greek Testament from the oldest and most trustworthy sources, namely, the uncial manuscripts (especially, the Vatican and Sinaitic), the ante-Nicene versions, and the patristic quotations. In this respect our age has been very successful, with the aid of most important discoveries of ancient manuscripts. By the invaluable labors of Lachmann, who broke the path for the correct theory (Novum Testament. Gr., 1831, large Graeco-Latin edition, 1842–50, 2 vols.), Tischendorf (8th critical ed., 1869–72, 2 vols.), Tregelles (1857, completed 1879), Westcott and Hort (1881, 2 vols.), we have now in the place of the comparatively late and corrupt textus receptus of Erasmus and his followers (Stephens, Beza, and the Elzevirs), which is the basis of au Protestant versions in common use, a much older and purer text, which must henceforth be made the basis of all revised translations. After a severe struggle between the traditional and the progressive schools there is now in this basal department of biblical learning a remarkable degree of harmony among critics. The new text is in fact the older text, and the reformers are in this case the restorers. Far from unsettling the faith in the New Testament, the results have established the substantial integrity of the text, notwithstanding the one hundred and fifty thousand readings which have been gradually gathered from all sources. It is a noteworthy fact that the greatest textual critics of the nineteenth century are believers, not indeed in a mechanical or magical inspiration, which is untenable and not worth defending, but in the divine origin and authority of the canonical writings, which rest on fax stronger grounds than any particular human theory of inspiration. Historical Criticism.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  D AW N I was up before the others, before the birds, before the sun. I drank a cup of coffee, wolfed down a piece of toast, put on my shorts and sweatshirt, and laced up my green running shoes. Then slipped quietly out the back door. I stretched my legs, my hamstrings, my lower back, and groaned as I took the first few balky steps down the cool road, into the fog. Why is it always so hard to get started? There were no cars, no people, no signs of life. I was all alone, the world to myself—though the trees seemed oddly aware of me. Then again, this was Oregon. The trees always seemed to know. The trees always had your back. What a beautiful place to be from, I thought, gazing around. Calm, green, tranquil—I was proud to call Oregon my home, proud to call little Portland my place of birth. But I felt a stab of regret, too. Though beautiful, Oregon struck some people as the kind of place where nothing big had ever happened, or was ever likely to. If we Oregonians were famous for anything, it was an old, old trail we’d had to blaze to get here. Since then, things had been pretty tame. The best teacher I ever had, one of the finest men I ever knew, spoke of that trail often. It’s our birthright, he’d growl. Our character, our fate—our DNA. “The cowards never started,” he’d tell me, “and the weak died along the way—that leaves us.” Us. Some rare strain of pioneer spirit was discovered along that trail, my teacher believed, some outsized sense of possibility mixed with a diminished capacity for pessimism—and it was our job as Oregonians to keep that strain alive. I’d nod, showing him all due respect. I loved the guy. But walking away I’d sometimes think: Jeez, it’s just a dirt road. That foggy morning, that momentous morning in 1962, I’d recently blazed my own trail—back home, after seven long years away. It was strange being home again, strange being lashed again by the daily rains. Stranger still was living again with my parents and twin sisters, sleeping in my childhood bed. Late at night I’d lie on my back, staring at my college textbooks, my high school trophies and blue ribbons, thinking: This is me? Still? I moved quicker down the road. My breath formed rounded, frosty puffs, swirling into the fog. I savored that first physical awakening, that brilliant moment before the mind is fully clear, when the limbs and joints first begin to loosen and the material body starts to melt away. Solid to liquid. Faster, I told myself. Faster. On paper, I thought, I’m an adult. Graduated from a good college—University of Oregon. Earned a master’s from a top business school—Stanford. Survived a yearlong hitch in the U.S. Army—Fort Lewis and Fort Eustis. My résumé said I was a learned, accomplished soldier, a twenty-four-year-old man in full...

• From Ulysses (Kindle edition — verify full work) (1922)

  Even as hooks recognizes Sula's unwillingness to accept or capitulate to the social modalities and communal proscriptions ascribed to blacks and women, she asserts that Sula does not constitute radical black female subjectivity, insomuch as Sula, while reveling in "self-assertion and [a] celebration of autonomy," is "we also know [...] not self-actualized enough to stay alive."45 "Her awareness of what it means to be a radical subject does not," hooks purports, "cross the boundaries of public and private; hers is a privatized self-discovery."46 hooks's reader-response critical approach, as well as her characterological assessment of Sula, presents at least two dilemmas. First, whether deliberately or inadvertently, it equates existential or metaphysical notions of living/being with actualization, whereby Sula's dying-or, "inability" to live-is indicative of Sula's lack of self-actualization. What I suggest is that Sula's death in the narrative should not be confounded and read as indicative of a lack of self-actualization, consciousness, or subjectivity. Rather, it reflects more acutely the limited options (especially when Sula was written) for female characters like Sula who challenge racial/sociocommunal boundaries and transgress restrictions, especially those pertaining to female sexuality and marriage, and who ultimately choose a life of "self-discovery" rather than one of racial uplift and conformity. As literary scholar Mary Helen Washington avers, "The demands of racial uplift and racial loyalty" have meant that such characters-those "who do not uphold these ideals"-are invariably characterized with a fate of conformity, expiation for their perceived transgressive behavior, and far worse: death 47 Yet, it also typifies other attributes that death represents, to revert back to Sharon Holland, in that the dead-and I would argue, in this case, also the dying (Sula)-operates "as an embodied entity or subject capable of transgression."48 In Sula's instance, death/dying marks her destiny, and, even in the process of dying, she does so unconventionally and with an unbreakable spirit of autonomy, nonconformity, and subjectivity. She herself, upon her deathbed, revels in the knowledge that she is unlike other black women dying "like a stump" across the nation. "Me," Sula notes, "I'm going down like one of those redwoods. I sure did live in this world," a point to which I will return momentarily (143). Second, and of even greater magnitude, hooks asserts that Sula's "self-discovery" is "privatized" and thereby fails to extend beyond public and private boundaries. Given that the personal is political, as many scholars and second-wave feminists have argued convincingly, it is precisely because Sula's personal "indiscretions" and recalcitrant actions are not privatized and are, indeed, exposed and open for public consumption, that her personal transgressions take on a larger sociocommunal and political significance and educe public/ communal responses.

• From Sister Outsider (1984)

  The image of the Angolan woman with a baby on one arm and a gun in the other is neither romantic nor fanciful. When Black women in this country come together to examine our sources of strength and support, and to recognize our common social, cultural, emotional, and political interests, it is a development which can only contribute to the power of the Black community as a whole. It can certainly never diminish it. For it is through the coming together of self-actualized individuals, female and male, that any real advances can be made. The old sexual power relationships based on a dominant/subordinate model between unequals have not served us as a people, nor as individuals. Black women who define ourselves and our goals beyond the sphere of a sexual relationship can bring to any endeavor the realized focus of completed and therefore empowered individuals. Black women and Black men who recognize that the development of their particular strengths and interests does not diminish the other do not need to diffuse their energies fighting for control over each other. We can focus our attentions against the real economic, political, and social forces at the heart of this society which are ripping us and our children and our worlds apart. Increasingly, despite opposition, Black women are coming together to explore and to alter those manifestations of our society which oppress us in different ways from those that oppress Black men. This is no threat to Black men. It is only seen as one by those Black men who choose to embody within themselves those same manifestations of female oppression. For instance, no Black man has ever been forced to bear a child he did not want or could not support. Enforced sterilization and unavailable abortions are tools of oppression against Black women, as is rape. Only to those Black men who are unclear about the pathways of their own definition can the self-actualization and self-protective bonding of Black women be seen as a threatening development. Today, the red herring of lesbian-baiting is being used in the Black community to obscure the true face of racism/sexism. Black women sharing close ties with each other, politically or emotionally, are not the enemies of Black men.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  On July 4, 1964, I sold out my first shipment. I wrote to Tiger and ordered nine hundred more. That would cost roughly three thousand dollars, which would wipe out my father’s petty cash, and patience. The Bank of Dad, he said, is now closed. He did agree, grudgingly, to give me a letter of guarantee, which I took down to the First National Bank of Oregon. On the strength of my father’s reputation, and nothing more, the bank approved the loan. My father’s vaunted respectability was finally paying dividends, at least for me. I HAD A venerable partner, a legitimate bank, and a product that was selling itself. I was on a roll. In fact, the shoes sold so well, I decided to hire another salesman. Maybe two. In California. The problem was, how to get to California? I certainly couldn’t afford airfare. And I didn’t have time to drive. So every other weekend I’d load a duffel bag with Tigers, put on my crispest army uniform, and head out to the local air base. Seeing the uniform, the MPs would wave me onto the next military transport to San Francisco or Los Angeles, no questions asked. When I went to Los Angeles I’d save even more money by crashing with Chuck Cale, a friend from Stanford. A good friend. When I’d presented my running-shoe paper to my entrepreneurship class, Cale showed up, for moral support. During one of those Los Angeles weekends I attended a meet at Occidental College. As always, I stood on the infield grass, letting the shoes do their magic. Suddenly a guy sauntered up and held out his hand. Twinkly eyes, handsome face. In fact, very handsome—though also sad. Despite the enameled calm of his expression, there was something sorrowful, almost tragic, around the eyes. Also, something vaguely familiar. “Phil,” he said. “Yes?” I said. “Jeff Johnson,” he said. Of course! Johnson. I’d known him at Stanford. He’d been a runner, a pretty fair miler, and we’d competed against each other at several all-comer meets. And sometimes he’d gone for a run with me and Cale, then for a bite after. “Heya, Jeff,” I said, “what are you up to these days?” “Grad school,” he said, “studying anthro.” The plan was to become a social worker. “No kidding,” I said, arching an eyebrow. Johnson didn’t seem the social worker type. I couldn’t see him counseling drug addicts and placing orphans. Nor did he seem the anthropologist type. I couldn’t imagine him chatting up cannibals in New Guinea, or scouring Anasazi campsites with a toothbrush, sifting through goat dung for pottery shards. But these, he said, were merely his daytime drudgeries. On weekends he was following his heart, selling shoes. “No!” I said. “Adidas,” he said. “Screw Adidas,” I said, “you should work for me, help me sell these new Japanese running shoes.”

• From City of Night (1963)

  Face shiny with perspiration, eyes almost demented: wide-blackcentered—the queen removes her hat and passes it along the crowd, collecting money—making comments as she moves still writhing; dishing the women flagrantly, insulting the men with them; calling the lesbians “mister,” the fairies “miss”; camping openly with the masculine hustlers, withdrawing her hat abruptly (“I’ll take it out later in trade, honey”)—subtly choosing those from whom she will demand recognition—and she is carrying it all off Triumphantly: her woman-act so exaggerated, so distorted, so uncompromisingly brutal in its implied judgment, that this crowd, hypnotized by her, momentarily sucked into her immediate world, responds mechanically: As if buying away her scorching-eyed judgment of them, they acknowledge her with the coin dropped into the feathered hat. She approaches us. And she passes the hat before me—withdraws it quickly with a wink and a kiss—and I breathe in relief at having expelled her implied judgment. But she leans over the table, extending the hat toward the man. He doesnt move.

• From From Jesus to Constantine: A History of Early Christianity (2004)

  This portrayal of Paul as a persecutor of the Christian church coincides with what we find in the Book of Acts. The Book of Acts is an account of the lives of the apostles after the ascension of Jesus. Its basic theme is that Christianity spread throughout the Roman world rapidly as the apostles took the message abroad. This spread of Christianity faced certain kinds of hardships along the way, one of which was persecution. We saw that in an earlier lecture, that in some respects, Acts is not a perfectly reliable historical source for us, but nonetheless, it does have historical accounts that do appear to be trustworthy. In this particular case, we have confirmation from what Paul himself said about his being a persecutor of Christians. Paul, by the way, uses two different names. “Paul” is the Greek name; “Saul” is his Hebrew name. In this account, in Acts, chapter 9, he’s going under the name “Saul.” Meanwhile, Saul [chapter 9, verse 1] still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord, went to the high priest of Jerusalem, and asked him for letters to the synagogues at Damascus, so that if he found anyone who belonged to the way [That’s the ancient term for Christianity], men or women, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem. Paul was going off to Damascus in order to find Christians, in order to bring them back to Jerusalem and have them stand trial. Both Paul himself in his letters, then, and the Book of Acts, concede while he was a non-Christian Jew, Paul was persecuting the Christians. Later, after Paul converted to Christianity, he gave an indication that he himself suffered violence at the hands of non-Christian Jews. This is a very interesting passage in Paul’s writing. It is found in 2 Corinthians, chapter 11, in which Paul is talking about how it is that he is a chief apostle. He is trying to show that he is a better apostle than others, and the way he tries to show that he is a better apostle than others is by showing that he suffered 122 more than others. The idea is that a real apostle will be like Jesus. Well, what happened to Jesus? He got crucified. Well, if you’re going to be his follower, you too are going to suffer, and if you’re not suffering, then you are obviously not really imitating Christ. Paul wants to show that he imitates Christ better than anyone. Are they [These are Christian opponents of his] ministers of Christ? I’m talking like a madman, [he says]. I am a better one, with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one.