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 Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  In a culture in which femaleness and femininity are on the receiving end of a seemingly endless smear campaign, there is no act more brave—especially for someone assigned a male sex a birth—than embracing one’s femme self.And unlike those male tranny-chasers who say that they like “T-girls” because we are supposedly “the best of both worlds,” I am attracted to trans women because we are all woman! My femaleness is so intense that it has overpowered the trillions of lameass Y chromosomes that sheepishly hide inside the cells of my body. And my femininity is so relentless that it has survived over thirty years of male socialization and twenty years of testosterone poisoning. Some kinky-identified thrill-seekers may envision trans women as androgyne fuck fantasies, but that’s only because they are too self-absorbed to appreciate how completely fucking female we are.At this point in the conversation, my friend tried to play what he probably thought was his trump card. He asked me, “Well, what if you found out that the trans woman you were attracted to still had a penis?”I laughed and replied that I am attracted to people, not to disembodied body parts. And I would be a selfish, ignorant, and unsatisfying lover if I believed that my partner’s genitals existed primarily for my pleasure rather than her own. All that you ever need to know about genitals is that they are made up of flesh, blood, and millions of tiny, restless nerve endings—anything else that you read into them is mere hallucination, a product of your own overactive imagination. To paraphrase that famous saying, the opposite of attraction is not repulsion, it’s indifference. Therefore, any person who would freak out over their female lover’s seemingly inconsistent genitals is probably a little more interested in penises than they’d ever care to admit. (And by the way, this also applies to those “womyn-born-womyn”-identified lesbians who seem to emulate stereotypical straight male attitudes when it comes to this particular issue.)My friend, still seemingly perplexed, asked me, “So if it’s not about genitals, what is it about trans women’s bodies that you find most attractive?”I paused for a second to consider the question. Then I replied that it is almost always their eyes. When I look into them, I see both endless strength and inconsolable sadness.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s no longer imperative that I understand what someone else can provide for me, but that I unflinchingly hold close what I can provide for myself. I am a woman and a mother, but no longer a wife, no longer looking for the sure thing that’ll keep my life tidy, my future certain. I thought that going off script would crush me, but instead it has freed me to be fully present in my other roles as a mother, a lover, as a friend and as the author of my own story. AfterwordThere are only two groups of people I hope won’t read this book: my parents and my kids. It’s not that I have anything to hide, but I know how uncomfortable it is to imagine one’s kids or one’s parents having sex. You know abstractly that they’re doing so, but you don’t want to know what their sexuality looks like up close. One of the benefits for kids of their parents staying married is that their sexual identities are obliterated. It’s easy for them to pretend it isn’t happening or doesn’t exist, but when your parents are single and dating, you don’t have much of a choice but to accept that in all likelihood, sex is involved. I have never been bashful about intimate topics with my kids, openly discussing puberty, masturbation and birth control while they squirm and plead with me to stop talking. I don’t shy away from their burgeoning sexuality – I want them to take the subject of sex in stride, knowing it can be different things at different times, a sign of love and intimacy, or playful and fun. Recently, I told Daisy’s friends that I was their age when I started dating Michael and their jaws fell open – the concept of settling down anytime soon was unthinkable to them. “Don’t do what I did!” I admonished them. “Sleep with lots of people, find out what you like and always use a condom.” Some of the girls said they’d like to get married someday, and Daisy admitted she was interested in marriage mostly for the cake tasting during the wedding planning. I told her I would get her all the cake tastings she wanted and she could take her sweet time figuring herself out before she committed to another person. My kids may choose to read this book despite my forewarning not to, and I can’t stop them if curiosity gets the best of them. I hope they will take solace that I am whole, and maybe, just maybe, someday I can serve as a role model to them. My living life on my own terms and then publishing a book about it might be disquieting for them in this moment of time, but when they’re older and less easily embarrassed by me, they might be able to see that, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I turned the most devastating period of my life into the richest one.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s not that I don’t think I’m attractive – I think I’m pretty but not conventionally beautiful, that I have a nice figure but not one that commands attention. I’m petite with a voluminous head of curly hair, neither sleek nor statuesque. When I look at photos of myself, I see a genuine smile, complete with dimples, but one that makes my eyes disappear. So not until now has it occurred to me that I might be attractive according to the literal definition of the word – not necessarily beautiful, but appealing to people – and that that appeal is not because of my hair color or figure or blue eyes but from something as subtle as the way I sit or smile. Or maybe it comes from something I have only just learned about myself: I hold my head high. I’m proud to be myself, to be recovering from this broken mess of a year, to be present and alive when the alternative of closing into myself would have been so much easier and more comfortable. I’m bruised but not shattered as I’ve been regarding myself, my head is most certainly not hanging low, and if I’m not actually a shadow of my former self, can it be that I’m stronger and more capable than I ever knew? #3 is sweet, gentle and, as he has pointed out, nervous. He puts on a brave face and the condom he’s opened and when I orgasm and he doesn’t, he is embarrassed and apologetic. “Please don’t worry,” I say. “I basically forced myself on you, so it’s only fair you weren’t ready for me.” I can’t help noting that this is the second time this has happened, so my track record is starting to take on a troubling pattern: I come, but the men can’t. Is it the condoms? Am I doing something wrong? Is it possible I’ve had it all wrong, thinking men could come on a dime but women had to really work for it? Should I feel the guilt that rises up in me that I am leaving these experiences sexually satisfied but the men are not? “Can I see you again?” he asks. “I need to get my head in the right place. It’ll be better next time, I assure you. I really liked spending time with you.” I nod my head and smile. It’s late, after two in the morning, and I have to be en route to retrieve Georgia in six hours. He walks me outside in the muggy night air, crickets serenading us, and opens my car door for me. Pausing before I get in, I tell him that I think I will be available on Sunday afternoon. We both softly chuckle at my usage of the word “available”, knowing I mean it in more than one way, and I fold myself into my car.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s a work in progress, but that’s all I can ask of myself: put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. Divorce is an ending and a terribly painful one at that, but it’s also a beginning. My advice to anyone looking at that door and trying to decide whether it’s opening or closing is, don’t overthink it. Shave your legs, spritz on some perfume, don that lace thong you bought in an optimistic moment, slip into a pair of heels that make you feel sexy and bold, and let the momentum carry you ahead. I can’t answer easily the question that started this all: is this too much? It is, and it isn’t. It may be too much for other people, but I am enough for myself, neither too much, nor too little. I am on both sides of the seesaw, and only I can maintain the aerial trick of equilibrium for myself. I feel, I appreciate, I experience, I observe on a level many layers beneath the surface I used to placidly coast along, and I’m grateful for every second of it. AcknowledgementsThis is as close to an Oscar acceptance speech as I will ever get; like those actors that continue to talk over the closing music, I’m determined that no one will cut me off. I am thankful to a boatload of people and I intend to thank them all. My children expressed that they were proud of me as I wrote this book even as they shared their misgivings. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you in these pages, but each of you is a force to be reckoned with and you’ll be fine. I appreciate that you try to see me as my own person even though first and foremost what I am to you is your mother. I love you so much, and the love you return to me is the lifeboat in which I have bounced over some daunting waves. My mother, Carol Friedman, has been my ultimate role model and has always unconditionally loved, supported, and encouraged me to such an extent that I came to believe I could do just about anything (as long as it was safe and close to home). Thank you Mom for always having unabated faith in me. My soon-to-be ex-husband gave me love and security when I craved it above all else. You and I made a family together that will always bring us joy, and I am grateful to have you as a co-parent in the cockpit with me. Thank you for giving me your blessing to write this book. My father, Robert Friedman; my siblings, Jennifer Donohue and Matthew Friedman; and my sister-in-law Breeda Wool, have been an endless source of love and support for me and my kids.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails waving—they looked like an army with banners. ‘Hi, Starbright—Fancy! Get in, little bitch! Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!’ The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a flank or stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closed up their ranks for the serious business ahead. ‘Hi, Starbright!’ Whips cracked and horses grew restless; Stephen’s mount required undivided attention. She had no time to think of her muscles or her grievance, but only of the creature between her small knees. ‘All right, Stephen?’ ‘Yes, Father.’ ‘Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slippery this morning.’ But Sir Philip’s voice did not sound at all anxious; indeed there was a note of deep pride in his voice. ‘He knows that I’m not just a rag doll, like Violet; he knows that I’m different to her!’ thought Stephen. 3 The strange, implacable heart-broken music of hounds giving tongue as they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as he stands in his stirrups; the thud of hooves pounding ruthlessly forward over long, green, undulating meadows. The meadows flying back as though seen from a train, the meadows streaming away behind you; the acrid smell of horse sweat caught in passing; the smell of damp leather, of earth and bruised herbage—all sudden, all passing—then the smell of wide spaces, the air smell, cool yet as potent as wine. Sir Philip was looking back over his shoulder: ‘All right, Stephen?’ ‘Oh, yes—’ Stephen’s voice sounded breathless. ‘Steady on! Steady on!’ They were coming to a fence, and Stephen’s grip tightened a little. The pony took the fence in his stride, very gaily; for an instant he seemed to stay poised in mid-air as though he had wings, then he touched earth again, and away without even pausing. ‘All right, Stephen?’ ‘Yes, yes!’ Sir Philip’s broad back was bent forward over the shoulder of his hunter; the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck showed bright where the winter sunshine touched it; and as the child followed that purposeful back, she felt that she loved it utterly, entirely. At that moment it seemed to embody all kindness, all strength, and all understanding. 4 They killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiff run, the best of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along to Stephen, whose prowess had amused and surprised him. ‘Well, well,’ he said, grinning, ‘so here you are, madam, still with a leg on each side of your horse—I’m going to tell Violet she’ll have to buck up. By the way, Philip, can Stephen come to tea on Monday, before Roger goes back to school? She can? Oh, splendid!

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The Vicar was going as an army chaplain; Violet’s husband, Alec, had joined the Flying Corps; Roger Antrim was somewhere in France already; Colonel Antrim had a job at the barracks in Worcester. Came an angry scrawl from Jonathan Brockett, who had rushed back to England post-haste from the States: ‘Did you ever know anything quite so stupid as this war? It’s upset my apple-cart completely—can’t write jingo plays about St. George and the dragon, and I’m sick to death of “Business as usual!” Ain’t going to be no business, my dear, except killing, and blood always makes me feel faint.’ Then the postscript: ‘I’ve just been and gone and done it! Please send me tuck-boxes when I’m sitting in a trench; I like caramel creams and of course mixed biscuits.’ Yes, even Jonathan Brockett would go—it was fine in a way that he should have enlisted. Morton was pouring out its young men, who in their turn might pour out their life-blood for Morton. The agent, the bailiff, in training already. Jim the groom, inarticulate, rather stupid, but wanting to join the cavalry—Jim who had been at Morton since boyhood. The gardeners, kindly men smelling of soil, men of peace with a peaceful occupation; six of these gardeners had gone already, together with a couple of lads from the home farm. There were no men servants left in the house. It seemed that the old traditions still held, the traditions of England, the traditions of Morton. The Vicar would soon play a sterner game than cricket, while Alec must put away his law books and take unto himself a pair of wings—funny to associate wings with Alec. Colonel Antrim had hastily got into khaki and was cursing and swearing, no doubt, at the barracks. And Roger —Roger was somewhere in France already, justifying his manhood. Roger Antrim, who had been so intolerably proud of that manhood— well, now he would get a chance to prove it! But Jonathan Brockett, with the soft white hands, and the foolish gestures, and the high little laugh—even he could justify his existence, for they had not refused him when he went to enlist. Stephen had never thought to feel envious of a man like Jonathan Brockett.

• From Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

  Among other things, she showed me how to use cosmetics to effectively cover my beard shadow, an invaluable skill for any crossdresser who wishes to be gendered by others as female. It’s common for people to dismiss crossdressers for what is perceived to be their exaggerated use of makeup. However, the truth of the matter is that crossdressers (unlike cissexual women) typically have beard shadows, which are perhaps the dominant visual cue we rely on when gendering people as male. While I would have preferred to have the privilege of forgoing makeup if I wished, my beard shadow made it virtually impossible for me to be regularly gendered as female without it. Complaints about how crossdressers overuse cosmetics are often related to more general critiques that claim that crossdressers exaggerate stereotypically feminine dress and behaviors, thus turning themselves into caricatures of women. Often, these sentiments are rooted in the oppositional sexist assumption that cissexual women are entitled to express and explore femininity while those assigned male are not. Even those critiques that are not downright oppositional sexist are still cissexual-woman-centric, in that they view MTF crossdressing solely in terms of how it portrays cissexual women, rather than viewing it from an MTF spectrum perspective. Back when I crossdressed, I very much enjoyed dressing and acting in a highly feminine manner, but not because I thought that women really were or should be that way. If I indulged in an exaggerated form of femininity, it was only because I never really had the chance to explore that side of myself growing up as a boy. I spent virtually every day of my life wearing T-shirts, jeans, sneakers, and no makeup. So for me, crossdressing represented a rare opportunity to fully indulge my femininity. The other factor at the time that motivated me to try to achieve stereotypical femininity was that I wanted others to gender me as female. Back when I was crossdressing—when I was still physically male—that never would have been possible had I gone out sans makeup or wearing unisex clothing. To a large extent, I purposely chose the clothing and cosmetics I wore when I crossdressed based on their ability to hide or play down my male physique and facial features. In fact, the public stage of my crossdressing was really the one time in my life when I did go out of my way to emulate how some women looked, walked, talked, moved, and so on. I found that this increased the likelihood that I would be gendered female, which was my overall goal, and which also ensured my safety.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  I’m proud of the life I’ve rebuilt for myself, but also often melancholy that I didn’t get to “have it all” in the way I thought I would when I was younger. I fervently hope that anyone who reads this book – whether middle-aged and newly single like me or just starting to dip their toes into the murky, alluring waters of relationships at any age, young or old – takes from it that it’s possible to have it all, if only you’re flexible about what that actually means. For most of my life, I believed that meant having a loving husband staunchly by my side, children, good health, financial stability, a cadre of loyal friends. That belief, embedded in me for decades, has not simply dissipated because my circumstances have changed. It’s a work in progress, but that’s all I can ask of myself: put one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward. Divorce is an ending and a terribly painful one at that, but it’s also a beginning. My advice to anyone looking at that door and trying to decide whether it’s opening or closing is, don’t overthink it. Shave your legs, spritz on some perfume, don that lace thong you bought in an optimistic moment, slip into a pair of heels that make you feel sexy and bold, and let the momentum carry you ahead. I can’t answer easily the question that started this all: is this too much? It is, and it isn’t. It may be too much for other people, but I am enough for myself, neither too much, nor too little. I am on both sides of the seesaw, and only I can maintain the aerial trick of equilibrium for myself. I feel, I appreciate, I experience, I observe on a level many layers beneath the surface I used to placidly coast along, and I’m grateful for every second of it. AcknowledgementsThis is as close to an Oscar acceptance speech as I will ever get; like those actors that continue to talk over the closing music, I’m determined that no one will cut me off. I am thankful to a boatload of people and I intend to thank them all. My children expressed that they were proud of me as I wrote this book even as they shared their misgivings. I am sorry if I have embarrassed you in these pages, but each of you is a force to be reckoned with and you’ll be fine. I appreciate that you try to see me as my own person even though first and foremost what I am to you is your mother. I love you so much, and the love you return to me is the lifeboat in which I have bounced over some daunting waves.

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

  Thus the long dream of the German nation was fulfilled through a series of the most brilliant military and diplomatic victories recorded in modern history, by the combined genius of Bismarck, Moltke, and William, and the valor, discipline, and intelligence of the German army. Simultaneously with this German movement, Italy under the lead of Cavour and Victor Emmanuel, achieved her national unity, with Rome as the political capital. But the new German empire is not a continuation or revival of the old. It differs from it in several essential particulars. It is the result of popular national aspiration and of a war of self-defence, not of conquest; it is based on the predominance of Prussia and North Germany, not of Austria and South Germany; it is hereditary, not elective; it is controlled by modern ideas of liberty and progress, not by mediaeval notions and institutions; it is essentially Protestant, and not Roman Catholic; it is a German, not a Roman empire. Its rise is indirectly connected with the simultaneous downfall of the temporal power of the pope, who is the hereditary and unchangeable enemy both of German and Italian unity and freedom. The new empire is independent of the church, and has officially no connection with religion, resembling in this respect the government of the United States; but its Protestant animus appears not only in the hereditary religion of the first emperor, but also in the expulsion of the Jesuits (1872), and the "Culturkampf" against the politico-hierarchical aspirations of the ultramontane papacy. When Pius IX., in a letter to William I. (1873), claimed a sort of jurisdiction over all baptized Christians, the emperor courteously informed the infallible pope that he, with all Protestants, recognized no other mediator between God and man but our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. The new German empire will and ought to do full justice to the Catholic church, but "will never go to Canossa." We pause at the close of a long and weighty chapter in history; we wonder what the next chapter will be. § 59. The Papacy and the Empire from the Death of Charlemagne to Nicolas I A.D. 814–858). Note on the Myth of the Papess Joan. The power of Charlemagne was personal. Under his weak successors the empire fell to pieces, and the creation of his genius was buried in chaotic confusion; but the idea survived. His son and successor, Louis the Pious, as the Germans and Italians called him, or Louis the Gentle (le débonnaire) in French history (814–840), inherited the piety, and some of the valor and legislative wisdom, but not the genius and energy, of his father. He was a devoted and superstitious servant of the clergy. He began with reforms, he dismissed his father’s concubines and daughters with their paramours from the court, turned the palace into a monastery, and promoted the Scandinavian mission of St. Ansgar.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  Augustus revived traditional piety, reactivated ancient Roman rites, and reinstated lapsed priestly offices as a means of restoring the pax deorum, or peace with the gods, and he himself took the leading role in this religious renewal. According to his Acts, Augustus “restored eighty-two temples of the gods in the city,…neglecting none that needed restoration at that time” (20.4). He also enrolled in various priestly colleges, had himself elected to several key priestly offices, and became pontifex maximus, or chief priest, in 12 B.C.E. The recently opened marble quarries at Carrara let Augustus coat Rome’s temples with a new marble sheeting, front them with marble Corinthian columns, and add a wealth of sculptural detail. In those actions, as in the Augustan Forum, the restoration of tradition was often a guise for innovation. Conquering generals returned to Rome and traditionally erected temples like the several Republican victory temples excavated and now exposed along the present Largo Argentino in Rome. But after 33 B.C.E., only Augustus and the imperial family were allowed to build temples in Rome. Augustus cultivated and monopolized a special relationship between the gods and the Julio-Claudians, one that was obviously rife with political implications. In addition to the above-mentioned eighty-two temples, Augustus and his family built or fully restored at least fourteen others, each with explicit imperial connections. One was consecrated to divus Julius and one to the divus Augustus. Two were constructed for the imperial virtues of Concordia (Harmony) and Iustitia ( Justice). Another was erected to Jupiter Tonans (Thunderer) after a lightning bolt narrowly missed Augustus in Spain in 26 B.C.E. Three more were vowed during Augustan military victories: one to his favorite Apollo at Actium, one to the sea god Neptune at nearby Nicopolis, and of course one to the war god Mars Ultor at Philippi. As Ovid’s Fasti tells it, some temples had already “tumbled down…with the long lapse of time” and “all the rest had in like sort gone to wrack and ruin, had it not been for the far-seeing care of our sacred chief, under whom the shrines felt not the touch of old; and not content with doing favors to mankind he does them to the gods. O saintly soul, who doest build and rebuild the temples, I pray the powers above may take such care of you as you of them! May the celestials grant you the length of years which you bestow on them, and may they stand on guard before your house” (2.58–66).

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Valérie, Brockett, indeed all her friends were whole-hearted in their congratulations; and David’s tail kept up a great wagging. He knew well that something pleasant had happened: the whole atmosphere of the house was enough to inform a sagacious person like David. Even Mary’s little bright-coloured birds seemed to take a firmer hold on existence; while out in the garden there was much ado on the part of the proudly parental pigeons—fledglings with huge heads and bleary eyes had arrived to contribute to the general celebration. Adèle went singing about her work, for Jean had recently been promised promotion, which meant that his savings, perhaps in a year, might have grown large enough for them to marry. Pierre bragged to his friend, the neighbouring baker, anent Stephen’s great eminence as a writer, and even Pauline cheered up a little. When Mary impressively ordered the meals, ordered this or that delicacy for Stephen, Pauline would actually say with a smile: ‘Mais oui, un grand génie doit nourrir le cerveau!’ Mademoiselle Duphot gained a passing importance in the eyes of her pupils through having taught Stephen. She would nod her head and remark very wisely: ‘I always declare she become a great author.’ Then because she was truthful she would hastily add: ‘I mean that I knowed she was someone unusual.’ Buisson admitted that perhaps, after all, it was well that Stephen had stuck to her writing. The book had been bought for translation into French, a fact which had deeply impressed Monsieur Buisson. From Puddle came a long and triumphant letter: ‘What did I tell you? I knew you’d do it! . . .’ Anna also wrote at some length to her daughter. And wonder of wonders, from Violet Peacock there arrived an embarrassingly gushing epistle. She would look Stephen up when next she was in Paris; she was longing, so she said, to renew their old friendship—after all, they two had been children together. Gazing at Mary with very bright eyes, Stephen’s thoughts must rush forward into the future. Puddle had been right, it was work that counted—clever, hard-headed, understanding old Puddle! Then putting an arm round Mary’s shoulder: ‘Nothing shall ever hurt you,’ she would promise, feeling wonderfully self-sufficient and strong, wonderfully capable of protecting.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, a glorious and memorable day. Side by side the two of them jogged through the gates, and the lodgekeeper’s wife must smile to see Stephen sitting her smart bay pony astride, and looking so comically like Sir Philip. ‘It do be a pity as her isn’t a boy, our young lady,’ she told her husband. It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the landing is tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke from farm chimneys rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent of log fires or of burning brushwood, though left far behind, still persists in the nostrils. A crystal clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and such mornings are good when one is young. The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long groomings, and pink coats with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation, demanding some skill on the part of his rider; but the child’s hands were strong yet exceedingly gentle—she possessed that rare gift, perfect hands on a horse. ‘This is better than being young Nelson,’ thought Stephen, ‘ ’cause this way I’m happy just being myself.’ Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she was good to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete, so that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen. The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the Master, rode up and spoke kindly: ‘You’ve a fine pony there, but he’ll need a bit of holding!’ And then to her father: ‘Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet’s learning to ride, but side-saddle, I prefer it—I never think girl children get the grip astride; they aren’t built for it, haven’t the necessary muscle; still, no doubt she’ll stick on by balance.’ Stephen flushed: ‘No doubt she’ll stick on by balance!’ The words rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her; that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over the nurse’s finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying, could never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs too, just like a rag doll—and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet! Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less impressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, not foolish exactly, but self-conscious—not quite at your ease, a little bit wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson again, were only pretending.

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

  "Go on," says Tertullian tauntingly to the heathen governors, "rack, torture, grind us to powder: our numbers increase in proportion as ye mow us down. The blood of Christians is their harvest seed. Your very obstinacy is a teacher. For who is not incited by the contemplation of it to inquire what there is in the core of the matter? And who, after having joined us, does not long to suffer?"59 Unquestionably there were also during this period, especially after considerable seasons of quiet, many superficial or hypocritical Christians, who, the moment the storm of persecution broke forth, flew like chaff from the wheat, and either offered incense to the gods (thurificati, sacrificati), or procured false witness of their return to paganism (libellatici, from libellum), or gave up the sacred books (traditores). Tertullian relates with righteous indignation that whole congregations, with the clergy at the head, would at times resort to dishonorable bribes in order to avert the persecution of heathen magistrates.60 But these were certainly cases of rare exception. Generally speaking the three sorts of apostates (lapsi) were at once excommunicated, and in many churches, through excessive rigor, were even refused restoration. Those who cheerfully confessed Christ before the heathen magistrate at the peril of life, but were not executed, were honored as confessors.61 Those who suffered abuse of all kind and death itself, for their faith, were called martyrs or bloodwitnesses.62 Among these confessors and martyrs were not wanting those in whom the pure, quiet flame of enthusiasm rose into the wild fire of fanaticism, and whose zeal was corrupted with impatient haste, heaven-tempting presumption, and pious ambition; to whom that word could be applied: "Though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing." They delivered themselves up to the heathen officers, and in every way sought the martyr’s crown, that they might merit heaven and be venerated on earth as saints. Thus Tertullian tells of a company of Christians in Ephesus, who begged martyrdom from the heathen governor, but after a few had been executed, the rest were sent away by him with the words: "Miserable creatures, if you really wish to die, you have precipices and halters enough." Though this error was far less discreditable than the opposite extreme of the cowardly fear of man, yet it was contrary to the instruction and the example of Christ and the apostles,63 and to the spirit of true martyrdom, which consists in the union of sincere humility and power, and possesses divine strength in the very consciousness of human weakness. And accordingly intelligent church teachers censured this stormy, morbid zeal.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  It’s not that I don’t think I’m attractive – I think I’m pretty but not conventionally beautiful, that I have a nice figure but not one that commands attention. I’m petite with a voluminous head of curly hair, neither sleek nor statuesque. When I look at photos of myself, I see a genuine smile, complete with dimples, but one that makes my eyes disappear. So not until now has it occurred to me that I might be attractive according to the literal definition of the word – not necessarily beautiful, but appealing to people – and that that appeal is not because of my hair color or figure or blue eyes but from something as subtle as the way I sit or smile. Or maybe it comes from something I have only just learned about myself: I hold my head high. I’m proud to be myself, to be recovering from this broken mess of a year, to be present and alive when the alternative of closing into myself would have been so much easier and more comfortable. I’m bruised but not shattered as I’ve been regarding myself, my head is most certainly not hanging low, and if I’m not actually a shadow of my former self, can it be that I’m stronger and more capable than I ever knew? #3 is sweet, gentle and, as he has pointed out, nervous. He puts on a brave face and the condom he’s opened and when I orgasm and he doesn’t, he is embarrassed and apologetic. “Please don’t worry,” I say. “I basically forced myself on you, so it’s only fair you weren’t ready for me.” I can’t help noting that this is the second time this has happened, so my track record is starting to take on a troubling pattern: I come, but the men can’t. Is it the condoms? Am I doing something wrong? Is it possible I’ve had it all wrong, thinking men could come on a dime but women had to really work for it? Should I feel the guilt that rises up in me that I am leaving these experiences sexually satisfied but the men are not? “Can I see you again?” he asks. “I need to get my head in the right place. It’ll be better next time, I assure you. I really liked spending time with you.” I nod my head and smile. It’s late, after two in the morning, and I have to be en route to retrieve Georgia in six hours. He walks me outside in the muggy night air, crickets serenading us, and opens my car door for me. Pausing before I get in, I tell him that I think I will be available on Sunday afternoon. We both softly chuckle at my usage of the word “available”, knowing I mean it in more than one way, and I fold myself into my car.

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

  Meditating upon himself, it became the pope to remember that he was raised to his office not for the sake of ruling but of being a prophet, not to make show of power but to have care of the churches. The pope is greatest only as he shows himself to be a servant. As pontiff, he is heir of the Apostles, the prince of bishops. He is in the line of the primacy of Abel, Abraham, Melchizedek, Moses, Aaron, Samuel, and Peter. To him belong the keys. Others are intrusted with single flocks, he is pastor of all the sheep and the pastor of pastors. Even bishops he may depose and exclude from the kingdom of heaven. And yet Eugenius is a man. Pope though he is, he is vile as the vilest ashes. Change of position effected no change of person. Even the king, David, became a fool. The things beneath the pope are the Church and all men to whom the Gospel should be preached. The things around about the pope are the cardinals and the entire papal household. Here, greed and ambition are to be rebuked, the noise of appealed judicial cases is to be hushed, worthy officials are to be chosen. The Romans are a bad set, flattering the pontiff for what they can make out of his administration. A man who strives after godliness they look upon as a hypocrite. The faithful counsellor waxed eloquent in describing the ideal pope. He is one of the bishops, not their lord. He is the brother of all, loving God. He is set to be a pattern of righteousness, a defender of the truth, the advocate of the poor, the refuge of the oppressed. He is the priest of the Highest, the vicar of Christ, the anointed of the Lord, the God of Pharaoh; that is, he has authority over disobedient princes. Bernard distinctly grants the two swords to the pope, who himself draws the spiritual sword and by his wink commands the worldly sword to be unsheathed.1872 It is true he lays stress upon Peter’s Apostolic simplicity and poverty. Peter wore no gems, was attended by no bodyguard, and sat on no white horse. In adopting such outward show "the popes had followed Constantine, not the Apostle." It is also true that Bernard follows his generation in making the pope the viceregent of God on earth.1873

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  “Yes,” I finally say, and to be perfectly honest, I am pretty proud of that yes, as it took everything in me to choke it out. I have never talked during sex beyond a few basic and brief assessments and acknowledgements. I have never watched pornography or even read pornographic material, so I don’t know how this is supposed to be done. I, who pride myself on my literary and verbal skills, am utterly speechless. Other than the talking, he is doing a good job down there. He seems not to tire of it and uses his tongue delicately and then more urgently until finally I use my words to ask him to please make his way inside of me. He pulls himself up and reaches over to his dresser drawer, saying that he needs to get a raincoat, which gives me pause. It seems like such an old-fashioned, odd way to say condom – for all his verbal straightforwardness, this is where he’s going to use a euphemism? He pulls it on and enters me with a quick thrust. It is only a matter of seconds before I come, digging my nails into his back and letting out a cry of pleasure. My whole body loosens and he stops moving, lying against me as I catch my breath. I apologize that I couldn’t wait for him. “Don’t be sorry, you did exactly what I wanted you to do,” he says. “How generous of you,” I say with a laugh. “Seriously, do you have any idea how thrilling it is for a man to make a woman come so easily?” he asks. “Most women I’ve been with don’t come like that, it takes a more nuanced effort.” But we are not done with each other yet. He slides back inside of me and I push him to the side so that I can be on top. I still have my strapless bra on and as I sit up, he wraps his arms around me and snaps it open, then flings it to the side. “I couldn’t bear to take this off earlier. If I saw you all at once I would have come on the spot, it would have been more than I could handle. You have amazing tits,” he says and I blanch; I loathe that word, finding it crass and demeaning. He runs his hands along my nipples, gently touching them and pinching them, then runs his hands down to hold my hips as he guides the rhythm of my movements on top of him. I watch as his breathing becomes shallow and his eyes close. When I feel him pulsing inside of me, I stop moving and lean forward to lie on top of him. He runs his fingers down my back and I press my ear against his heart as I listen to it slow down. We drift off to sleep for a few minutes until he whispers that he should get me home.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Arm in arm they passed out through the heavy swing doors and into Stephen’s waiting motor. Burton smiled above the white favour in his coat; the crowd, craning their necks, were also smiling. Arrived back at the house, Stephen, Mary, and Burton must drink the health of the bride and bridegroom. Then Pierre thanked his employer for all she had done in giving his daughter so splendid a wedding. But when that employer was no longer present, when Mary had followed her into the study, the baker’s wife lifted quizzical eyebrows. ‘Quel type! On dirait plutôt un homme; ce n’est pas celle-là qui trouvera un mari!’ The guests laughed. ‘Mais oui, elle est joliment bizarre’; and they started to make little jokes about Stephen. Pierre flushed as he leaped to Stephen’s defence. ‘She is good, she is kind, and I greatly respect her and so does my wife—while as for our daughter, Adèle here has very much cause to be grateful. Moreover she gained the Croix de Guerre through serving our wounded men in the trenches.’ The baker nodded. ‘You are quite right, my friend—precisely what I myself said this morning.’ But Stephen’s appearance was quickly forgotten in the jollification of so much fine feasting—a feasting for which her money had paid, for which her thoughtfulness had provided. Jokes there were, but no longer directed at her—they were harmless, well meant if slightly broad jokes made at the expense of the bashful bridegroom. Then before even Pauline had realized the time, there was Burton strolling into the kitchen, and Adèle must rush off to change her dress, while Jean must change also, but in the pantry. Burton glanced at the clock. ‘Faut dépêcher vous, ’urry, if you’re going to catch that chemin de fer,’ he announced as one having authority. ‘It’s a goodish way to the Guard de Lions.’

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  According to a popular legend, Zeus Ammon had acknowledged his divine paternity of Alexander at the Egyptian oracle in the Siwa Oasis. The upper story of the forum’s porticoes was adorned with huge shields depicting the face of that same deity in Roman form, Jupiter Ammon. Augustus’s connection to Alexander was made forcefully, according to one source, by his dedicating the forum on August 1, the anniversary of Augustus’s capture of Alexandria and conquest of Cleopatra and the beginning of the newly named month of August. Finally, there was a shrine in the forum with a colossal statue of Alexander, and, according to Pliny, two prominent paintings of Alexander on canvas hung in one of the arcades, copies of those by the renowned Greek artist Apelles. Decades later Claudius made the connection with Alexander clumsily obvious when, according to Pliny the Elder’s Natural History, “He thought it more advisable to cut out the face of Alexander from both works and substitute portraits of Augustus” (35.94). But the connection was always obvious from the beginning—Augustus was the new divine ruler of the new world order. CONSOLIDATION. Augustus restored and expanded the empire, but the element of his revolution that more than any other transcended his own life is that he effectively consolidated into one empire both defeated enemies at home and conquered peoples abroad, aspects that are visible in the architecture of the Augustan Forum and the Mars Temple. First, with regard to internal political enemies. Octavian ruthlessly avenged his father’s murderers, pursued Antony and Cleopatra to suicide, and executed Caesarion, son of Cleopatra and Julius Caesar and therefore a competing divi filius. But he also repeatedly stressed the Roman virtue of clementia, “clemency,” in his dealings with defeated civil-war opponents. That clemency was not to be confused with one-sided forgiveness, but entailed a reciprocal relationship that obligated the powerful to leniency and the powerless to loyalty. This explains why, in his forum’s gallery of great Romans, Augustus included not only his own family and allies, but some of his own and his father’s civil-war opponents. Pompey, who had once been Julius Caesar’s greatest threat, was there, but honored for his eastern campaigns in Anatolia and Syria, which took him into the Jewish Temple of Jerusalem in Judea. Augustus, as Pater Patriae, or “Father of the Fatherland,” sought to integrate the great Roman houses into one Roman family especially by changing animosity directed internally into enmity directed externally. That Mars Temple had been originally vowed to avenge the murder of Julius Caesar, but, by the time it was dedicated forty years later, emphasis on those recovered standards transferred the residual hostilities resulting from Rome’s civil wars to Rome’s foreign enemies. The temple’s symbols managed, contained, and consolidated intra-Roman competition and turned it against extra-Roman opposition.

• From In Search of Paul: How Jesus's Apostle Opposed Rome's Empire with God's Kingdom (2005)

  All the laws and decrees, all the poems and speeches, and all the art and architecture that promoted the Augustan restoration of marital virtue do not convince one that Romans actually upheld those Augustan standards, as we will see in almost embarrassing detail in Chapter 5. But we do not doubt the sincerity of his efforts, and we take seriously their role in Roman theology as it related to empire and peace. Augustus solicited from the Roman ruling classes the highest moral standards—sexual, marital, social, and religious—so that the goddess Roma could continue to expand their empire and they could continue to enjoy the presence of the goddess Pax. Belief in the moral foundation of the Pax Romana continued throughout the Julio-Claudian dynasty and throughout the life of Paul. The very last emperor of that dynasty, Nero, under whom Paul was probably executed, put the Altar of Augustan Peace on his coinage during the years 64 to 66 as a symbol of imperial peace. THE SAECULUM GAMES. In Virgil’s Aeneid, the dead Anchises, consort of Venus, father of Aeneas, and grandfather of Julus, prophesies the future to his son on a visit to Hades: Hither now turn your two eyes; behold this people, your own Romans. There is Caesar, and all Julus’s seed, destined to pass beneath the sky’s mighty vault. This, this is he, whom you so often hearest promised to you, Augustus Caesar, son of a god, who shall again set up the Golden Age [aurea saecula] amid the fields where Saturn reigned. (6.788–94) By the end of 19–17 B.C.E. Augustus had led Rome forward into the future by returning it back to the Golden Age. He had restored the mos maiorum and thus ushered in a new Golden Age, an occasion that was celebrated with the greatest spectacle of Augustus’s reign, the Saeculum Games held in 17 B.C.E. on the Campus Martius. This great celebration involved three days and nights of religious rites and theatrical games, followed by another week of entertainment. It marked the passing of one era, or saeculum, and the dawning of a new one. Those games are often called the Secular Games, but it is hard to imagine a less appropriate term for our ears. We prefer to call them the Saeculum Games as the religio-political festival not just for a new saeculum, but for the Golden Saeculum come back at last, the Golden Age come round once more. Augustus commissioned Horace to compose a hymn for the festival heralding this new era. It was to be sung by twenty-seven youths and twenty-seven maidens as themselves the visible results of the marriage fertility it celebrated. Think of that program carved on the Augustan altar as hymned as well in the terse lines of that Augustan poet,

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She held up her hand, commanding silence; commanding that slow, quiet voice to cease speaking, and she said: ‘As my father loved you, I loved. As a man loves a woman, that was how I loved—protectively, like my father. I wanted to give all I had in me to give. It made me feel terribly strong . . . and gentle. It was good, good, good—I’d have laid down my life a thousand times over for Angela Crossby. If I could have, I’d have married her and brought her home—I wanted to bring her home here to Morton. If I loved her the way a man loves a woman, it’s because I can’t feel that I am a woman. All my life I’ve never felt like a woman, and you know it—you say you’ve always disliked me, that you’ve always felt a strange physical repulsion. . . . I don’t know what I am; no one’s ever told me that I’m different and yet I know that I’m different—that’s why, I suppose, you’ve felt as you have done. And for that I forgive you, though whatever it is, it was you and my father who made this body—but what I will never forgive is your daring to try and make me ashamed of my love. I’m not ashamed of it, there’s no shame in me.’ And now she was stammering a little wildly, ‘Good and—and fine it was,’ she stammered, ‘the best part of myself—I gave all and I asked nothing in return—I just went on hopelessly loving—’ she broke off, she was shaking from head to foot, and Anna’s cold voice fell like icy water on that angry and sorely tormented spirit. ‘You have spoken, Stephen. I don’t think there’s much more that needs to be said between us except this, we two cannot live together at Morton—not now, because I might grow to hate you. Yes, although you’re my child, I might grow to hate you. The same roof mustn’t shelter us both any more; one of us must go—which of us shall it be?’ And she looked at Stephen and waited. Morton! They could not both live at Morton. Something seemed to catch hold of the girl’s heart and twist it. She stared at her mother, aghast for a moment, while Anna stared back—she was waiting for her answer. But quite suddenly Stephen found her manhood and she said: ‘I understand. I’ll leave Morton.’