Relief

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 Anna Karenina (1877)

  'Alexey Alexandrovitch, believe me, she appreciates your generosity,' he said. 'But it seems it was the will of God,' he added, and as he said it felt how foolish a remark it was, and with difficulty repressed a smile at his own foolishness. Alexey Alexandrovitch would have made some reply, but tears stopped him. 'This is an unhappy fatality, and one must accept it as such. I accept the calamity as an accomplished fact, and am doing my best to help both her and you,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch. When he went out of his brother-in-law's room he was touched, but that did not prevent him from being glad he had successfully brought the matter to a conclusion, for he felt certain Alexey Alexandrovitch would not go back on his words. To this satisfaction was added the fact that an idea had just struck him for a riddle turning on his successful achievement, that when the affair was over he would ask his wife and most intimate friends. He put this riddle into two or three different ways. 'But I'll work it out better than that,' he said to himself with a smile. XXIII V RONSKY ' S wound had been a dangerous one, though it did not touch the heart, and for several days he had lain between life and death. The first time he was able to speak, Varya, his brother's wife, was alone in the room. 'Varya,' he said, looking sternly at her, 'I shot myself by accident. And please never speak of it, and tell everyone so. Or else it's too ridiculous.' Without answering his words, Varya bent over him, and with a delighted smile gazed into his face. His eyes were clear, not feverish; but their expression was stem. 'Thank God!' she said: 'You're not in pain?' 'A little here.' He pointed to his breast. 'Then let me change your bandages.' In silence, stiffening his broad jaws, he looked at her while she bandaged him up. When she had finished he said— 'I'm not delirious. Please manage that there may be no talk of my having shot myself on purpose.' 'No one does say so. Only I hope you won't shoot yourself by accident any more,' she said, with a questioning smile. 'Of course I won't, but it would have been better…' And she smiled gloomily. In spite of these words and this smile, which so frightened Varya, when the inflammation was over and he began to recover, he felt that he was completely free from one part of his misery. By his action he had, as it were, washed away the shame and humiliation he had felt before.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'You understood me, and you understand, Good-bye, my darling! XXIX 'C OME , it's all over, and thank God!' was the first thought that came to Anna Arkadyevna, when she had said good-bye for the last time to her brother, who had stood blocking up the entrance to the carriage till the third bell rang. She sat down on her lounge beside Annushka, and looked about her in the twilight of the sleeping-carriage. 'Thank God! tomorrow I shall see Seryozha and Alexey Alexandrovitch, and my life will go on in the old way, all nice and as usual.' Still in the same anxious frame of mind, as she had been all that day, Anna took pleasure in arranging herself for the journey with great care. With her little deft hands she opened and shut her little red bag, took out a cushion, laid it on her knees, and carefully wrapping up her feet, settled herself comfortably. An invalid lady had already lain down to sleep. Two other ladies began talking to Anna, and a stout elderly lady tucked up her feet, and made observations about the heating of the train. Anna answered a few words, but not foreseeing any entertainment from the conversation, she asked Annushka to get a lamp, hooked it on to the arm of her seat, and took from her bag a paper-knife and an English novel. At first her reading made no progress. The fuss and bustle was disturbing; then when the train had started, she could not help listening to the noises; then the snow beating on the left window and sticking to the pane, and the sight of the muffled guard passing by, covered with snow on one side, and the conversations about the terrible snowstorm raging outside, distracted her attention. Further on, it was continually the same again and again: the same shaking and rattling, the same snow on the window, the same rapid transitions from steaming heat to cold, and back again to heat, the same passing glimpses of the same figures in the twilight, and the same voices, and Anna began to read and to understand what she read. Annushka was already dozing, the red bag on her lap, clutched by her broad hands, in gloves, of which one was torn. Anna Arkadyevna read and understood; but it was distasteful to her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people's lives. She had too great a desire to live herself. If she read that the heroine of the novel were nursing a sick man, she longed to move with noiseless steps about the room of a sick man; if she read of a member of Parliament making a speech, she longed to be delivering the speech; if she read of how Lady Mary had ridden after the hounds, and had provoked her sister-in-law, and had surprised everyone by her boldness, she too wished to be doing the same.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Now all these added associations arise independently of the will , by the spontaneous process we know so well. All that the will does is to emphasize and linger over those which seem pertinent, and ignore the rest . Through this hovering of the attention in the neighborhood of the desired object, the accumulation of associates becomes so great that the combined tensions of their neural processes break through the bar, and the nervous wave pours into the tract which has so long been awaiting its advent. And as the expectant, sub-conscious itching there, bursts into the fulness of vivid feeling, the mind finds an inexpressible relief. [image file=Image00052.jpg] The whole process can be rudely symbolized in a diagram. Call the forgotten thing Z, the first facts with which we felt it was related, a, b , and c , and the details finally operative in calling it up, l , m , and n . Each circle will then stand for the brain-process underlying the thought of the object denoted by the letter contained within it. The activity in Z will at first be a mere tension; but as the activities in a , b , and c little by little irradiate into l , m , and n , and as all these processes are somehow connected with Z, their combined irradiations upon Z, represented by the centripetal arrows, succeed in helping the tension there to overcome the resistance, and in rousing Z also to full activity. The tension present from the first in Z, even though it keep below the threshold of discharge, is probably to some degree co-operative with a, b, c in determining that l, m, n shall awake. Without Z's tension there might be a slower accumulation of objects connected with it. But, as aforesaid, the objects come before us through the brain's own laws, and the Ego of the thinker can only remain on hand, as it were, to recognize their relative values and brood over some of them, whilst others are let drop. As when we have lost a material object we cannot recover it by a direct effort, but only through moving about such neighborhoods wherein it is likely to lie, and trusting that it will then strike our eye; so here, by not letting our attention leave the neighborhood of what we seek, we trust that it will end by speaking to us of its own accord.[483] Turn now to the case of finding the unknown means to a distinctly conceived end . The end here stands in the place of a, b, c , in the diagram.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  If the . . . attention is not withdrawn, so that we keep the record in mind, we know that this feeling of relief does not take place. . . . Also we are well aware, not only that after this feeling of relief takes place, the record does not seem so well conserved as before, but that we have real difficulty in attempting to remember it." This shows that we are not as entirely unconscious of a topic as we think, during the time in which we seem to be merely retaining it subject to recall. "Practically," says Mr. Verdon, "we sometimes keep a matter in hand not exactly by attending to it, but by keeping our attention referred to something connected with it from time to time. Translating this into the language of physiology, we mean that by referring attention to a part within, or closely connected with, the system of traces [paths] required to be remembered, we keep it well fed, so that the traces are preserved with the utmost delicacy." This is perhaps as near as we can get to an explanation. Setting the mind to remember a thing involves a continual minimal irradiation of excitement into paths which lead thereto, involves the continued presence of the thing in the 'fringe' of our consciousness. Letting the thing go involves withdrawal of the irradiation, unconsciousness of the thing, and, after a time, obliteration of the paths. [image file=Image00056.jpg] A curious peculiarity of our memory is that things are impressed better by active than by passive repetition. I mean that in learning by heart (for example), when we almost know the piece, it pays better to wait and recollect by an effort from within, then to look at the book again. If we recover the words in the former way, we shall probably know them the next time; if in the latter way, we shall very likely need the book once more. The learning by heart means the formation of paths from a former set to a later set of cerebral word-processes: call 1 and 2 in the diagram the processes in question; then when we remember by inward effort, the path is formed by discharge from 1 to 2, just as it will afterwards be used.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  An impulse which discharges itself immediately is generally quite neutral as regards pleasure or pain —the breathing impulse, for example. If such an impulse is arrested, however, by an extrinsic force, a great feeling of uneasiness is produced —for instance, the dyspnœa of asthma. And in proportion as the arresting force is then overcome, relief acrues —as when we draw breath again after the asthma subsides. The relief is a pleasure and the uneasiness a pain; and thus it happens that round all our impulses, merely as such, there twine, as it were, secondary possibilities of pleasant and painful feeling, involved in the manner in which the act is allowed to occur. These pleasures and pains of achievement, discharge, or fruition exist, no matter what the original spring of action be. We are glad when we have successfully got ourselves out of a danger, though the thought of the gladness was surely not what suggested to us to escape. To have compassed the steps towards a proposed sensual indulgence also makes us glad, and this gladness is a pleasure additional to the pleasure originally proposed. On the other hand, we are chagrined and displeased when any activity, however investigated, is hindered whilst in process of actual discharge. We are 'uneasy' till the discharge starts up again. And this is just as true when the action is neutral, or has nothing but pain in view as its result, as when it was undertaken for pleasure's express sake. The moth is probably as annoyed if hindered from getting into the lamp-flame as the roué is if interrupted in his debauch; and we are chagrined if prevented from doing some quite unimportant act which would have given us no noticeable pleasure if done, merely because the prevention itself is disagreeable.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Loss of function can only mean one of two things, either that a current can no longer run in, or that if it runs in, it can no longer run out, by its old path. Either of these inabilities may come from a local ablation; and 'restitution' can then only mean that, in spite of a temporary block, an inrunning current has at last become enabled to flow out by its old path again—e.g., the sound of 'give your paw' discharges after some weeks into the same canine muscles into which it used to discharge before the operation. As far as the cortex itself goes, since one of the purposes for which it actually exists is the production of new paths,[82] the only question before us is: Is the formation of these particular 'vicarious' paths too much to expect of its plastic powers? It would certainly be too much to expect that a hemisphere should receive currents from optic fibres whose arriving-place within it is destroyed, or that it should discharge into fibres of the pyramidal strand if their place of exit is broken down. Such lesions as these must be irreparable within that hemisphere . Yet even then, through the other hemisphere, the corpus callosum , and the bilateral connections in the spinal cord, one can imagine some road by which the old muscles might eventually be innervated by the same incoming currents which innervated them before the block. And for all minor interruptions, not involving the arriving-place of the 'cortico-petal' or the place of exit of the 'cortico-fugal' fibres, roundabout paths of some sort through the affected hemisphere itself must exist, for every point of it is, remotely at least, in potential communication with every other point. The normal paths are only paths of least resistance. If they get blocked or cut, paths formerly more resistant become the least resistant paths under the changed conditions. It must never be forgotten that a current that runs in has got to run out somewhere ; and if it only once succeeds by accident in striking into its old place of exit again, the thrill of satisfaction which the consciousness connected with the whole residual brain then receives will reinforce and fix the paths of that moment and make them more likely to be struck into again. The resultant feeling that the old habitual act is at last successfully back again, becomes itself a new stimulus which stamps all the existing currents in. It is matter of experience that such feelings of successful achievement do tend to fix in our memory whatever processes have led to them; and we shall have a good deal more to say upon the subject when we come to the Chapter on the Will.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Turning now to the form of the decision itself, we may distinguish four chief types. The first may be called the reasonable type. It is that of those cases in which the arguments for and against a given course seem gradually and almost insensibly to settle themselves in the mind and to end by leaving a clear balance in favor of one alternative, which alternative we then adopt without effort or constraint. Until this rational balancing of the books is consummated we have a calm feeling that the evidence is not yet all in, and this keeps action in suspense. But some day we wake with the sense that we see the thing rightly, that no new light will be thrown on the subject by farther delay, and that the matter had better be settled now. In this easy transition from doubt to assurance we seem to ourselves almost passive; the 'reasons which decide us appearing to flow in from the nature of things, and to owe nothing to our will. We have, however, a perfect sense of being free, in that we are devoid of any feeling of coercion. The conclusive reason for the decision in these cases usually is the discovery that we can refer the case to a class upon which we are accustomed to act unhesitatingly in a certain stereotyped way. It may be said in general that a great part of every deliberation consists in the turning over of all the possible modes of conceiving the doing or not doing of the act in point. The moment we hit upon a conception which lets us apply some principle of action which is a fixed and stable part of our Ego, our state of doubt is at an end. Persons of authority, who have to make many decisions in the day, carry with them a set of heads of classification, each bearing its motor consequence, and under these they seek as far as possible to range each new emergency as it occurs. It is where the emergency belongs to a species without precedent, to which consequently no cut-and-dried maxim will apply, that we feel most at a loss, and are distressed at the indeterminateness of our task. As soon, however, as we see our way to a familiar classification, we are at ease again. In action as in reasoning, then, the great thing is the quest of the right conception. The concrete dilemmas do not come to us with labels gummed upon their backs. We may name them by many names. The wise man is he who succeeds in finding the name which suits the needs of the particular occasion best. A 'reasonable' character is one who has a store of stable and worthy ends, and who does not decide about an action till he has calmly ascertained whether it be ministerial or detrimental to any one of these.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He listened very gravely, just stroking her hair. ‘Yes—yes—’ he said softly; and then, ‘go on, Stephen.’ And when she had finished he was silent for some moments, while he went on stroking her hair. Then he said: ‘I think I understand, Stephen—this thing seems more dreadful than anything else that has ever happened, more utterly dreadful—but you’ll find that it will pass and be completely forgotten—you must try to believe me, Stephen. And now I’m going to treat you like a boy, and a boy must always be brave, remember. I’m not going to pretend as though you were a coward; why should I, when I know that you’re brave? I’m going to send Collins away to-morrow; do you understand, Stephen? I shall send her away. I shan’t be unkind, but she’ll go away to-morrow, and meanwhile I don’t want you to see her again. You’ll miss her at first, that will only be natural, but in time you’ll find that you’ll forget all about her; this trouble will just seem like nothing at all. I am telling you the truth, dear, I swear it. If you need me, remember that I’m always near you—you can come to my study whenever you like. You can talk to me about it whenever you’re unhappy, and you want a companion to talk to.’ He paused, then finished rather abruptly: ‘Don’t worry your mother, just come to me, Stephen.’ And Stephen, still catching her breath, looked straight at him. She nodded, and Sir Philip saw his own mournful eyes gazing back from his daughter’s tear-stained face. But her lips set more firmly, and the cleft in her chin grew more marked with a new, childish will to courage. Bending down, he kissed her in absolute silence—it was like the sealing of a sorrowful pact. 6Anna, who had been out at the time of the disaster, returned to find her husband waiting for her in the hall. ‘Stephen’s been naughty, she’s up in the nursery; she’s had one of her fits of temper,’ he remarked. In spite of the fact that he had obviously been waiting to intercept Anna, he now spoke quite lightly. Collins and the footman must go, he told her. As for Stephen, he had had a long talk with her already—Anna had better just let the thing drop, it had only been childish temper—

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

  I leave the table to use the restroom and when I return, I am alarmed all over again. “This might be TMI,” I say, furrowing my brows, “but I think #8 broke me. I’m bleeding.” Ana bursts into peals of laughter, shrieking “TMI? TMI? Now it’s TMI? You passed that so long ago! TMI went out the window the minute you told me you thought you peed in #8’s bed.” We laugh long and hard, drawing a few looks from the waiter who normally witnesses us huddled in the corner, me wiping away tears while Ana reaches out to put her hand over mine. Now we are like hyenas, cackling and doubled over, crying with laughter. It’s obvious to both of us that we have crossed the border into a land where bodies are just bodies and what they can do is a common experience, no reason to keep it to ourselves. * True to my prediction, #6 is wildly jealous that another man has located my G-spot and becomes obsessed with finding it himself. I suggest that he go down one of the research rabbit holes I’m so famous for to figure it out. “Now you’re definitely going to see #8 again. Why wouldn’t you?” he says mournfully. “Actually, he texted me already to make another date and I declined,” I say. “I told him that as much as I enjoyed my time with him, I have been dating someone for whom I am developing real feelings and thus it is starting to feel strange to sleep with other men.” “And what did he say?” he asks, though I was hoping he would respond to the part in which I declared vague but real feelings for him. “He said he was happy for me,” I say. “So now the pressure is really on for me to find the mystery spot,” he says. “I’m parking my LLT for a while. I’m going to see what it feels like to date just you,” I say. He laughs; I know the way I said it made it sound like I was slumming it with him as my sole sex partner. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Obviously I have limited free time and I would like to spend the free time I do have with you. My sexual curiosity is calming down – I think I’ve got it now, and honestly, I’m exhausted. I like having sex with you, I like being with you, so my liberation train is going on hiatus,” I say. “What do you think about that?” “I don’t know, I feel jealous when you’re with other men but it’s also a huge turn-on. I think you should do what feels right to you,” he says. “Better step up your game if you’re going to be my only sexual partner,” I say. “I have to update my will,” he says lightheartedly, but I can tell that he is relieved.

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

  I turn back to see him pull out his wallet and hand her a $5 bill, then pluck a rose from her pile to present to me. I am moved that he bought a flower from her, as it’s rare I stop for anyone on the street. “She’s just a kid, out here at this hour,” he says. “I always think of my daughters.” “That was nice of you,” I say. “I’m always worried I’m getting hustled.” We are standing under the canopy outside my building now. “Do you want to come up for a little while?” I ask, thinking, if you want to see confidence, I’ll show you confidence. “OK, sure, just for a little while. I have to catch an early train tomorrow to help my friend on his farm,” he says. I lead the way inside, discreetly tucking the red rose alongside me so the doorman doesn’t see it. I know how these doormen gossip and I can only imagine what might be said about my having arrived home late at night in high heels with a red rose and a man who is not my husband. Inside my apartment, I lay the rose on the counter and offer him a glass of wine, though I’m strictly drinking water now, already feeling tipsy. We sit back on the deep couch in the den and soon he is moving closer to me and leaning over to kiss me. His mouth is warm and tastes smoky from the whiskey he had been drinking. I lie back and he presses against me. “I have a huge, lovely bed,” I say. “Shall we move over to it?” He follows me down the hall to my room. He lies back against the mountain of pillows on the made-up bed and I straddle him, opening the front fold of my dress to reveal a lace thong. He lifts my hips so that I’m kneeling and then scoots down the bed so that his head is under me, pulls my thong to the side and flicks his tongue against my clit. It’s been weeks since I’ve been touched and I sigh with the relief of being back in the game. After a few minutes of this, I ask if he has a condom and he replies that he does, yes, but that he would rather do this instead. “Oh,” I say. “Everything OK?” “Yes, I just … it’s just our first date,” he says haltingly. “OK,” I say. “I mean, that’s never stopped me before but carry on.” After I come, he pulls his head back up against the pillows and smiles at me. I close the front of my dress and pull myself on top of him. I feel his stockinged feet with my bare feet, my knees against his knees, my pelvic bones pressed into his.

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

  All of us who have experienced the physical difference between feeling healthy and feeling ill, or perhaps most profoundly, between pre- and post-puberty, have a deep understanding (whether we acknowledge it or not) that our body feelings make a vital and substantial contribution to our senses of self. You could say that my decision to transition was primarily driven by my choosing to trust my body feelings—in this case, my subconscious sex—over my conscious understanding of gender. So perhaps it’s no surprise that the most immediate change in my body feelings that I experienced upon starting hormone therapy was an easing of my gender dissonance—the chronic gender sadness that I had carried around with me for as long as I could remember. I am not sure whether this was a direct effect of having female hormones in my system or a more psychological effect of knowing that my body was finally moving in the right direction. Either way, the relief I felt was beyond measure; for the first time in my life, I slowly began to feel comfortable being in my own skin. Female hormones have also produced numerous other body feelings that have greatly reshaped my sense of self. There have been profound changes in the way that I experience sensations and emotions, and in my tastes, urges, and responses to stimuli. And the physical changes to my body, which unfolded over a greater span of time, have also influenced the way I experience the world. Granted, when strangers first began gendering me as female (back when I was still identifying as genderqueer), unclothed I probably looked like a slightly feminized male. But after five years of being on female hormones, there is virtually nothing about my body that looks or feels male (with the obvious exception of my genitals, as I have not had bottom surgery). In those intervening years, my skin has become much softer, my center of gravity has totally shifted, my metabolism has changed, clothing fits my body differently, heavy objects seem to have become much heavier, and room temperature seems to have dropped about two or three degrees. The changes in the shape of my body and in my muscle/fat distribution have significantly altered the way I walk, run, dance, hold my body, and move in general. Simply put, my body no longer feels male to me; rather, it feels female. Of course, body feelings are not the only facet of my being that has contributed to my identity as a woman. As I alluded to earlier, the changes in my social gender—how other people relate to and interact with me—were at least as dramatic as (if not more so than) the physical changes to my body. While being treated as a woman felt foreign to me at first, over time it simply became my everyday life.

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

  I push the rod, which had been secured by suction to the walls before I disturbed it, back into place, recoiling in pain as I lift my arms and cause another flash of pain to sear across my ribcage and down my legs. I right the trash can and pick up the used Q-tips, dental floss and dirty tissues that spilled out when I landed on top of it and are both on the floor and pressed into my lower back. Finally, satisfied with my cleaning job, I survey the room, desperately seeking something to use as a cover when I bolt back to the bedroom – but the only towel I see is the small hand towel I used a moment ago. I give it 50:50 odds that #7’s daughter is standing mere inches away from me on the other side of the door, curious to see me emerge. I step back to the shower, deciding the only solution is to take the flimsy shower curtain off the hooks and wrap myself in it, and almost cry with relief at seeing a bath-size towel that must have fallen into the tub during my ordeal. I pluck it out of the tub, wrap it around myself, open the door and attempt to walk out in a ladylike fashion, all but ready to curtsy to the daughter waiting for me. Thankfully, she’s not there, so I dash to #7’s room and slam the door shut behind me so she will know the bathroom is now available and I can get #7’s attention. No such luck. He is lying naked on his back on the bed, exactly where I had left him minutes earlier, and he is snoring. Loudly. “Mark,” I say sharply. He continues to snore. “Mark,” I say again, this time more urgently, pressing on his shoulder. “Wake up!” “Oh hey,” he says sleepily, blinking his eyes open and smiling up at me. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.” “Yes, I see that. Your daughter is home,” I hiss at him. He continues to grin moonily at me, thanking me for letting him know. I remind him that he assured me she wouldn’t be home for hours. “I guess I was wrong,” he says simply, fueling my rage. “Yes, well do you remember that I suggested you check with her? She’s home and I was marching around the apartment completely naked,” I say indignantly. He laughs, reaching for his phone, and then says, “I don’t think she saw you. She would have texted me by now to yell at me if she did.” “OK, well, forget her for a minute, I jumped to get out of her line of sight and fell and broke my rib. Maybe multiple ribs.” He laughs again, which enrages me, so I continue, “I’m serious. It hurts to breathe and I’m in pain.” “So sorry,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Within seconds his eyes have fluttered closed and he is snoring again.

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

  The archbishops of Treves and Cologne, who openly supported the Basel assembly, were deposed by Eugenius, 1446. The same year six of the electors offered Eugenius their obedience, provided he would recognize the superiority of an oecumenical council, and within thirteen months call a new council to meet on German soil. Following the advice of Aeneas Sylvius, the pope concluded it wise to show a conciliatory attitude. Papal delegates appeared at the diet, meeting September, 1446, and Aeneas was successful in winning over the margrave of Brandenburg and other influential princes. The following January he and other envoys appeared in Rome as representatives of the archbishop of Mainz, Frederick III., and other princes. The result of the negotiations was a concordat,—the so-called princes’ concordat,—Fürsten Konkordat,—by which the pope restored the two deposed archbishops, recognized the superiority of general councils, and gave to Frederick the right during his lifetime to nominate the incumbents of the six bishoprics of Trent, Brixen, Chur, Gurk, Trieste, and Pilsen, and to him and his successors the right to fill, subject to the pope’s approval, 100 Austrian benefices. These concessions Eugenius ratified in four bulls, Feb. 5–7, 1447, one of them, the bull Salvatoria, declaring that the pope in the previous three bulls had not meant to disparage the authority of the Apostolic See, and if his successors found his concessions out of accord with the doctrine of the fathers, they were to be regarded as void. The agreement was celebrated in Rome with the ringing of bells, and was confirmed by Nicolas V. in the so-called Vienna Concordat, Feb. 17, 1448.336 Eugenius died Feb. 23, 1447, and was laid at the side of Eugenius III. in St. Peter’s. He had done nothing to introduce reforms into the Church. Like Martin V., he was fond of art, a taste he cultivated during his exile in Florence. He succeeded in perpetuating the mediaeval view of the papacy, and in delaying the reformation of the Church which, when it came, involved the schism in Western Christendom which continues to this day. The Basel council continued to drag on a tedious and uneventful existence. It was no longer in the stream of noticeable events. It stultified itself by granting Felix a tenth. In June, 1448, it adjourned to Lausanne. Reduced to a handful of adherents, and weary of being a synonym for innocuous failure, it voted to accept Nicolas V., Eugenius’ successor, as legitimate pope, and then quietly breathed its last, April 25, 1449. After courteously revoking his bulls anathematizing Eugenius and Nicolas, Felix abdicated. He was not allowed to suffer, much less obliged to do penance, for his presumption in exercising papal functions. He was made cardinal-bishop of Sabina, and Apostolic vicar in Savoy and other regions which had recognized his "obedience." Three of his cardinals were admitted to the curia, and d’Aleman forgiven. Felix died in Geneva, 1451.337

• From The Pisces (2018)

  When I was in my twenties I used to like to watch my boyfriend jerk off. But not this dude. I think I was just trying to get him to come, and get out of there without having to touch his weird pink dick and mismatched brown balls. Lying on his back, he complied and began to stroke it. I was just, like, “Oh yeah, baby, that’s it.” I thought about all this subterfuge, just to get out of a situation that I had put myself in. Technically I didn’t even need to do anything to get out of the situation except leave. He kept looking at me and I just wanted him to come quickly. Right before he spurted he asked if I could lick it. I told him no, then I wouldn’t be able to watch. When he was finished I said it was a hot experience, but I had to go home and feed Dominic and give him his medication. He said that he wanted to do something to me—that it shouldn’t just be him who got off. I told him that this was wonderful, really, and had been more than enough. Out on the street I felt free, strangely elated. It wasn’t just the joy of escaping him but the fact that I had come out pursued and wanted—something new after my pursuit of Jamie all winter. I hadn’t gotten three blocks when he texted me: u r amazing i’d love to do it again I didn’t respond, but kind of squealed. No longer did Adam have to be real Adam. Now he was fantasy Adam again, and I had him and the fantasy in my pocket. Sure, the experience itself had been disappointing and gross, but at least it was different from the disappointment I’d grown used to in my years with Jamie. When he and I were together and the sex was less than riveting, I felt filled with doom after: ennui in my head and suffocating in my chest. It was the same doom that I felt in the car just before we broke up. There was an is that all there is –ness. I would go sit on the toilet immediately after he came. This was partially to avoid getting a urinary tract infection, but also so he wouldn’t see me frowning. When he found me sitting there sadly, I told him it was because the sex made me feel such powerful things. But really what I felt was despair: that this was all there would be, forever and ever and ever, until of course it wasn’t. But if Adam wanted me, there were others who would want me, maybe many others, even some who didn’t read Bukowski. I imagined a bouquet of dicks, a stack of abdominal muscles like a deck of cards, painted across the sky. The hunger in me suddenly felt bottomless. It scared me a little. 15. When I got home I was turned on.

• From The Pisces (2018)

  Now that I knew he was the one who had brought the darkness I felt that I didn’t have to be as afraid anymore. The gloom wasn’t coming from me. I was still responsible for him but not for the atmosphere. So many times I had tried to fix things, people’s feelings, the shifting moods of men, by adjusting my own behavior. But in this case it was beyond me. He was, after all, supernatural. Did he even exist? I decided that he existed like a mood. In some ways, my moods did and did not exist. People said that you could will a mood into being or will it away. Just think positively. But I never felt that way. My moods were their own entities, even if no one could understand why they were there. That was what made me scared of feelings. I realized now that what I had to do, in spite of what others said, was not try to change a mood but surrender to it. I had to surrender to whatever feelings arrived and in doing so I could maybe ride them, floating on the waves. I decided I was going to surrender. “We could rest a bit,” I said. “I’m tired too.” “Yes, let’s rest,” he said. “I’d like that. Come here, come lie down with me.” I got on the sofa with him and we lay there face-to-face. He closed his eyes and I kissed his eyelids and cheeks. He gathered me in his arms and his upper body was warm. Everything above his tail was soft. I didn’t know what to do with our lower halves. I couldn’t intertwine my legs with his tail as if it was a pair of legs, so I wrapped one leg around him and pressed the other leg straight against his tail. Usually when I cuddled with another body, I would have to separate before falling asleep. I would feel too trapped or get too hot pressed so close against them. But Theo’s tail was cool, almost like a built-in fan or compress, and I was reminded of what my friend’s aunt taught me years ago as a trick for insomnia: keep one leg under the blanket and one leg out. It was as though I had one leg under a towel in the sun and one dipped in the sea. When I thought of it this way I slipped into the waves. His breathing was rhythmic and the slight scent of fish drifted up from him. The sun came in the window and shone on our heads, and we both drifted off with our faces in a glow. — We woke up around noon. Theo stirred and pulled me closer. “Mmmmmm,” he breathed in my ear.

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

  Martin at once assumed the presidency of the council which since John’s flight had been filled by Cardinal Viviers. Measures of reform were now the order of the day and some headway was made. The papal right of granting indulgences was curtailed. The college of cardinals was limited to 24, with the stipulation that the different parts of the church should have a proportionate representation, that no monastic order should have more than a single member in the college, and that no cardinal’s brother or nephew should be raised to the curia so long as the cardinal was living. Schedules and programmes enough were made, but the question of reform involved abuses of such long standing and so deeply intrenched that it was found impossible to reconcile the differences of opinion prevailing in the council and bring it to promptness of action. After sitting for more than three years, the delegates were impatient to get away. As a substitute for further legislation, the so-called concordats were arranged. These agreements were intended to regulate the relations of the papacy and the nations one with the other. There were four of these distinct compacts, one with the French, and one with the German nations, each to be valid for five years, one with the English to be perpetual, dated July 21, 1418, and one with the Spanish nation, dated May 13, 1418.319 These concordats set forth rules for the appointment of the cardinals and the restriction of their number, limited the right of papal reservations and the collection of annates and direct taxes, determined what causes might be appealed to Rome, and took up other questions. They were the foundation of the system of secret or open treaties by which the papacy has since regulated its relations with the nations of Europe. Gregory VII. was the first pope to extend the system of papal legates, but he and his successors had dealt with nations on the arbitrary principle of papal supremacy and infallibility.

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

  Have I misunderstood doctors all these years, thinking their authority and omnipotence offer a safe cushion when actually they just adhere to a lot of rigid rules and impenetrable order? Finally I glance at my watch and widen my eyes as I pretend to notice the time and he gets the hint, paying the bill as I watch obediently. As we walk down the block, he asks me what I like to drink. I list my top choices: tequila, wine, Prosecco, but he wants to know specifically if I like champagne. “Sure, I like champagne,” I say. “OK, great, let’s make a plan to drink champagne together,” he says, then gives me a kiss on the lips and we part. I squeeze my eyes shut and grimace as I walk away. I have to learn how to be quicker on these dates – that’s the point of coffee and not a meal – just a quick in and out. Why do I always feel like I have to make myself so available? Why do I make myself seem interested when I could save everyone a lot of time and trouble by politely rising after an hour, shaking hands and saying a noncommittal, “Bye then, nice to have met you.” With this newly formed commitment to forthrightness spurring me on, I shoot off a text to Karl, who has followed up his sunshine and roses text with a photo of himself standing in a field of sunflowers. “Hey Karl, it was lovely to get to know you. You’re a genuinely kind and sincere man. I get the feeling that you want more out of dating than I do right now. I’m early in this process and want to be casual with anyone I date, which seems incongruous with what you’re looking for. Thank you for letting me see that there are good men out there,” I write. He writes back immediately, “I had a feeling when I didn’t hear back from you earlier. I’m not looking for anything serious, I just like you and it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed being with a woman. Good luck. You have my number if you change your mind.” I feel immense relief that I have gracefully extricated myself. * Next up: Jeff, a lawyer who meets me in the garden of a wine bar in my neighborhood. Over glasses of Chardonnay, we talk about our kids, their schools, our backgrounds, finally resorting to the weather when our well runs dry. He tells me a story with minutes of build-up and I keep waiting for the punchline but then realize with dismay that there isn’t one. When the waitress asks if we want another glass and he says sure, my heart sinks. I can usually make small talk like it’s an Olympic sport, but either I’ve utterly exhausted myself or he’s hopeless.

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

  Notice two details in contrasting Paul’s response with God’s reply in 4 Ezra. Ezra does not presume that his generation will be alive when that great moment arrives, and the answer asserts simultaneity rather than precedence. But Paul presumes that he and his generation will still be alive (“we”) at the Lord’s parousia, and he affirms that the dead will rise first and the living will go “with them” to greet Christ. What is Paul’s source for that claim? It is, quite bluntly, neither faith nor hope, neither tradition nor theology, but an absolutely magnificent act of consolation based on a brilliant use of metaphor. The Parousia of the Lord First of all, the metaphor of formal urban visitation gives Paul a powerful visual answer to the question of the Thessalonians. Any important visitor coming along the major road to an ancient city would first meet the dead before they were greeted by the living. Take for example the city of Hierapolis above the white travertine basins of Pamukkale at the eastern end of the great Meander Valley. If you walk out along the northern road, for example, you find yourself today in an absolute jumble of broken sarcophagi, shattered tombs, and wrecked mausoleums. But if you put that destroyed and quarried necropolis back in its original format, you can easily imagine an imperial visitor meeting first the elite dead before any meeting with the elite living. And, of course, says Paul, dancing fast and fancy on his theological feet, that is how things will be at the parousia of Christ. We will not all go up together, but first the dead, then the living. Second, the parousia metaphor means that Christians do not ascend to stay with Christ in heaven, but to return with him to this transformed world. Paul says nothing about an eschatological world or utopian earth here below, but simply that all believers “will be caught up in the clouds…to meet the Lord in the air; and so we will be with the Lord forever.” The metaphor of parousia as state visit would presume that those going out to greet the approaching ruler would return with him for festive rejoicing within their city. So also with Christ. Paul probably took it for granted that all together would then descend to dwell upon a purified earth. The parousia of the Lord was not about destruction of earth and relocation to heaven, but about a world in which violence and injustice are transformed into purity and holiness. And, of course, as mentioned above, a transformed world would demand not just spiritual souls, but renewed bodies.

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

  That won’t ever change, whether we’re together or apart.” She remains quiet and I’m grateful this conversation is happening while I’m driving and she’s in the backseat, so she doesn’t have to see my tears and I don’t have to see hers. “Are you OK?” I ask and even as I do so, I know I’m looking to her to reassure me that she will make it through our split intact. “I mean …” she starts and pauses. “This isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me but yeah, I’m OK.” I burst out laughing. I am so in awe of this brave, resilient and funny little girl and I know that I will do whatever I can to keep her this way. She’s not quite done with me yet though, wanting to know if I will someday marry another man and if so, if that means she will have an entirely new father. I am grateful that we have moved past some of the heaviness and grief of our conversation to imagine what the future could look like and I laugh again, teasing her that she’s getting ahead of herself and moving way too fast for me. “Oh yeah, I forgot,” she says, giggling. “Daddy stays my daddy no matter what.” “Exactly,” I say. “And our feelings for each other might change but our feelings for you never will.” This much, at least, I know is true, and it feels good to be able to declare the words authoritatively. * Sunday, drop-off day, arrives. Michael and I both want to bring Georgia for her first time at overnight camp, but even if I can manage to sit in the car for the ride there with him and Georgia, there’s no way I’m getting back in that car with him alone afterwards. After a flurry of text negotiations, we agree to take two cars. The drop-off itself is as uncomfortable as it is quick. In the cabin, I smooth new sheets on Georgia’s bed and direct Michael with short and sharp words. We take pictures of her in her pastel tie-dyed sundress in front of her small rustic cabin and are effusive with our goodbyes, but the second she runs off, we are silent. “Bye, Laura,” he says quietly as I open my car door. I hold up my hand in what is both a wave and a stop sign and pull out. There’s no reason I can think of that I will need to see or speak to him for the next two weeks and I feel nothing but relief. I’ve had no choice but to frequently interact with him about money and schedules and kids, and every time it has felt akin to pouring salt in a wound. That I’m about to get a break from him and maybe from my own anger makes me feel lighter and freer than I have in months.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towards Valérie Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was to be made to feel welcome by all these clever and interesting people—and clever they were there was no denying; in Valérie’s salon the percentage of brains was generally well above the average. For together with those who themselves being normal, had long put intellects above bodies, were writers, painters, musicians and scholars, men and women who, set apart from their birth, had determined to hack out a niche in existence. Many of them had already arrived, while some were still rather painfully hacking; not a few would fall by the way, it is true, but as they fell others would take their places. Over the bodies of prostrate comrades those others must fall in their turn or go on hacking—for them there was no compromise with life, they were lashed by the whip of self-preservation. There was Pat who had lost her Arabella to the golden charms of Grigg and the Lido. Pat, who, originally hailing from Boston, still vaguely suggested a new England schoolmarm. Pat, whose libido apart from the flesh, flowed into entomological channels—one had to look twice to discern that her ankles were too strong and too heavy for those of a female. There was Jamie, very much more pronounced; Jamie who had come to Paris from the Highlands; a trifle unhinged because of the music that besieged her soul and fought for expression through her stiff and scholarly compositions. Loose limbed, raw boned and short sighted she was; and since she could seldom afford new glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and strained in expression, and she poked her head badly, for ever peering. Her tow-coloured mop was bobbed by her friend, the fringe being only too often uneven.