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 124 of 174 · 20 per page

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  I grabbed the biggest rock I could find and hit one of the girls on the head with it. From the jolt in my arm, I thought I’d cracked her skull. She sank to her knees. One of her friends pushed me to the ground and kicked me in the face; then they all ran off, the girl I had hit holding her head as she staggered along. Brian and I sat up. His face was covered with sand. All I could see were his blue eyes peering out and a couple of spots of blood seeping through. I wanted to hug him, but that would have been too weird. Brian stood up and gestured for me to follow him. We climbed through a hole in the chain-link fence he had discovered that morning and ran into the iceberg-lettuce farm next to the apartment building. I followed him through the rows of big green leaves, and we eventually settled down to feast, burying our faces in the huge wet heads of lettuce and eating until our stomachs ached. “I guess we scared them off pretty good,” I said to Brian. “I guess,” he said. He never liked to brag, but I could tell he was proud that he had taken on four bigger, tougher kids, even if they were girls. “Lettuce war!” Brian shouted. He tossed a half-eaten head at me like a grenade. We ran along the rows, pulling up heads and throwing them at each other. A crop duster flew overhead. We waved as it made a pass above the field. A cloud sprayed out from behind the plane, and a fine white powder came sprinkling down on our heads. • • • Two months after we moved to Blythe, when Mom said she was twelve months pregnant, she at last gave birth. After she’d been in the hospital for two days, we all drove out to pick her up. Dad left us kids waiting in the car with the engine idling while he went in for Mom. They came running out with Dad’s arm around Mom’s shoulders. Mom was cradling a bundle in her arms and giggling sort of guiltily, like she’d stolen a candy bar from a dime store. I figured they had checked out Rex Walls–style. “What is it?” Lori asked as we sped away. “Girl!” Mom said. Mom handed me the baby. I was going to turn six in a few months, and Mom said I was mature enough to hold her the entire way home. The baby was pink and wrinkly but absolutely beautiful, with big blue eyes, soft wisps of blond hair, and the tiniest fingernails I had ever seen. She moved in confused, jerky motions, as if she couldn’t understand why Mom’s belly wasn’t still around her. I promised her I’d always take care of her. The baby went without a name for weeks. Mom said she wanted to study it first, the way she would the subject of a painting.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  No one was up in that cottonwood tree except the three of us. Dad came alongside me and put his arm around my shoulders. “There weren’t no guardian angel, Dad,” I said. I started explaining how I’d gotten us to the cottonwood tree in time, figuring out how to switch places when our arms got tired and keeping Buster and Helen awake through the long night by quizzing them. Dad squeezed my shoulder. “Well, darling,” he said, “maybe the angel was you.” Continue Reading… [image "Half Broke Horses Cover" file=Image00016.jpg] Half Broke Horses Jeannette Walls [image "images" file=Image00017.jpg] JEANNETTE WALLS was born in Phoenix, Arizona, and grew up in the Southwest and in Welch, West Virginia. She graduated from Barnard College and was a journalist in New York City for twenty years. Her award-winning memoir, The Glass Castle, is an international bestseller and has been translated into twenty-three languages. Walls is also the author of Half Broke Horses , a novel about her grandmother Lily Casey Smith. She is married to writer John Taylor and lives in Virginia. MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT SimonandSchuster.com • THE SOURCE FOR READING GROUPS • MOTION PICTURE ARTWORK © 2017 LIONS GATE ENTERTAINMENT INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Also by Jeannette Walls Half Broke Horses The Silver Star We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. [image "Image" file=Image00018.jpg] SCRIBNER A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com Copyright © 2005 by Jeannette Walls All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Scribner Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. This Scribner hardcover edition October 2009 SCRIBNER and design are registered trademarks of The Gale Group, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, Inc., the publisher of this work. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com . Designed by Kyoko Watanabe Library of Congress Control Number: 2004058907 ISBN 978-1-4391-5696-4 ISBN 978-1-4165-5060-0 (ebook)

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “Jeannette, I’m going to give you a sock that I want you to put in a safe place,” Mom said once she got in the car. She winked hard at me as she reached inside her bra and pulled out her other sock, knotted in the middle and bulging at the toe. “Hide it where no one can get it, because you know how scarce socks can get in our house.” “Goddammit, Rose Mary,” Dad snapped. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” “What?” Mom asked, throwing her arms up in the air. “Am I not allowed to give my daughter a sock?” She winked at me again, just in case I didn’t get it. Back in Battle Mountain, Dad insisted we go to the Owl Club to celebrate payday, and ordered steaks for all of us. They tasted so good we forgot we were eating a week’s worth of groceries. “Hey, Mountain Goat,” Dad said at the end of the dinner, while Mom was putting our table scraps in her purse. “Why don’t you let me borrow that sock for a second?” I looked around the table. No one met my eye except Dad, who was grinning like an alligator. I handed over the sock. Mom gave a dramatic sigh of defeat and let her head drop down on the table. To show who was in charge, Dad left the waitress a ten-dollar tip, but on the way out, Mom slipped it into her purse. • • • Soon we were out of money again. When Dad dropped Brian and me off at school, he noticed that we weren’t carrying lunch bags. “Where are your lunches?” Dad asked us. We looked at each other and shrugged. “There’s no food in the house,” Brian said. When Dad heard that, he acted outraged, as though he’d learned for the first time that his children were going hungry. “Dammit, that Rose Mary keeps spending money on art supplies!” he muttered, pretending to be talking to himself. Then he declared more loudly, “No child of mine has to go hungry!” After he dropped us off, he called after us, “Don’t you kids worry about a thing.” At lunch Brian and I sat together in the cafeteria. I was pretending to help him with his homework so that no one would ask us why we weren’t eating when Dad appeared in the doorway, carrying a big grocery bag. I saw him scanning the room, looking for us. “My young ’uns forgot to take their lunch to school today,” he announced to the teacher on cafeteria duty as he walked toward us. He set the bag on the table in front of Brian and me and took out a loaf of bread, a whole package of bologna, a jar of mayonnaise, a half-gallon jug of orange juice, two apples, a jar of pickles, and two candy bars. “Have I ever let you down?” he asked Brian and me and then turned and walked away.

• 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

• 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)

  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)

  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)

  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.