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 The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  And so they brought out the poore gardener to the Justices, who was committed immediately to prison, but they could never forbeare laughing from the time they found me by my shadow, wherefore is risen a common Proverbe: “The shadow of the Asse.”

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  In my necessity to find the terms on which my expe rieiKe could be related to that of others, Negroes and whites, writers and non-writers, I proved, to my astonishment, to be as American as any Texas G.I. And I found my experience was shared by every American writer I knew in Paris. Like me, they had been divorced from their or igins, and it turned out to make very little difference that the origins of white Amer icans were Eur opean and mine were Mr ican-they were no more at home in Europe than I was. The fact that I was the son of a slave and they were the sons of free men meant less, by the time we confronted each 137 NOBODY KNO WS MY NAME other on European soil, than the fact that we were both searching for our separate _iQ�tities. When we had found these, \\'e seemed to be saying, why, then, we would no longer need to cling to the shame and bitterness which had divided us so long. It became terribly clear in Europe, as it never had been here, that we knew more about each other than any European ever could. And it also became clear that, no matter where our fathers had been born, or what they had endured, the fact of Eur ope had formed us both was part of our ide ntity and part of our inheritance. I had been in Paris a couple of years before any of this became clear to me. When it did, I, like many a writer before me upon the discovery that his props have all been knocked out from under him, suffered a species of breakdown and was carried off to the mountains of Switzerland. There, in that absolutely alabaster landscape, armed with two Bessie Smith records and a typewriter, I began to try to re - create the life that I had first known as a child ai 1afromwhich {hid spent so many years in flight. It was Bessie Smith, through her tone and her cadence, who helped me to dig back to the way I myself must have spoken when I was a pickaninny, and to remember the things I had heard and seen and felt. I had buried them very deep. I had never listened to Bessie Smith in America (in the same way that, for years, I would not touch watermelon), but in Europe she helped to reconcile me to being a "nigger ." I do not think that I could have made this reconciliation here. Once I was able to accept my role-as distinguished, I must say, from my "place "-in the extraor dinary drama which is America, I was released from the illusion that I hated America. The story of what can happen to an American Negro writer in Europe simply illustrates, in some relief, what can happen to any American writer there.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  Well, indeed I was, in a way, for I was utterly drained and exhausted, and released, fo r the first time, from all my guilty torment. I was aware then only of my relief. For many years, I could not ask myself why human relief had to be achieved in a fashion at once so pagan and so desperate-in a fashion at once so unspeakably old and so unutterably new. And by the time I was able to ask myself this question, I was also able to see that the principles governing the rites and customs of the churches in which I grew up did not differ from the prin ciples governing the rites and customs of other churches, white. The principles were Blindness, Loneliness, and Terror, the first principle necessarily and actively cultivated in order to deny the two others. I would love to believe that the prin ciples were Faith, Hope, and Charity, but this is clearly not so fo r most Christians, or fo r what we call the Christian world. I was saved. But at the same time, out of a deep, adolescent cunning I do not pretend to understand, I realized immedi ately that I could not remain in the church merely as another worshipper. I would have to give myself something to do, in order not to be too bored and find myself among all the wretched unsaved of the Avenue. And I don't doubt that I also intended to best my fa ther on his own ground. Anyway, very shortly after I joined the church, I became a preacher a Young Minister-and I remained in the pulpit for more than three years. My youth quickly made me a much bigger draw ing card than my fa ther. I pushed this advantage ruthlessly, fo r it was the most effective means I had fo und of breaking his hold over me. That was the most fr ightening time of my life, and quite the most dishonest, and the resulting hysteria lent great passion to my sermons-for a while. I relished the attention and the relative immunity fr om punishment that my new status gave me, and I relished, above all, the sudden right to privacy. It had to be recognized, after all, that I was still a schoolboy, with my schoolwork to do, and I was also expected to prepare at least one sermon a week. During what we may 306 THE FIRE NEXT TIME call my heyday, I preached much more often than that. This meant that there were hours and even whole days when I could not be interrupted-not even by my father. I had im mobilized him. It took rather more time for me to realize that I had also immobilized myself, and had escaped from nothing whatever.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  GLOSS. (ap. Anselm.) That Joseph should not suppose that he was no longer needed in this wedlock, seeing the conception had taken place without his intervention, the Angel declares to him, that though there had been no need of him in the conception, yet there was need of his guardianship; for the Virgin should bear a Son, and then he would be necessary both to the Mother and her Son; to the Mother to screen her from disgrace, to the Son to bring Him up and to circumcise Him. The circumcision is meant when he says, And thou, shalt call His name Jesus; for it was usual to give the name in circumcision. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. He said not, Shall bear thee a Son, as to Zacharias, Behold, Elisabeth thy wife shall bear thee a son. For the woman who conceives of her husband, bears the son to her husband, because he is more of him than of herself; but she who had not conceived of man, did not bear the Son to her husband, but to herself. CHRYSOSTOM. Or, he left it unappropriated, to shew that she bare Him to the whole world. RABANUS. Thou shalt call His name, he says, and not, “shalt give Him a name,” for His name had been given from all eternity. CHRYSOSTOM. This further shews that this birth should be wonderful, because it is God that sends down His name from above by His Angel; and that not any name, but one which is a treasure of infinite good. Therefore also the Angel interprets it, suggesting good hope, and by this induces him to believe what was spoken. For we lean more easily to prosperous things, and yield our belief more readily to good fortune. JEROME. Jesus is a Hebrew word, meaning Saviour. He points to the etymology of the name, saying, For He shall save His people from their sins. REMIGIUS. He shews the same man to be the Saviour of the whole world, and the Author of our salvation. He saves indeed not the unbelieving, but His people; that is, He saves those that believe on Him, not so much from visible as from invisible enemies; that is, from their sins, not by fighting with arms, but by remitting their sins. CHRYSOLOGUS. Let them approach to hear this, who ask, Who is He that Mary bare? He shall save His people; not any other man’s people; from what? from their sins. That it is God that forgives sins, if you do not believe the Christians so affirming, believe the infidels, or the Jews who say, None can forgive sins but God only. (Luke 5:1.) 1:22–2322. Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying, 23. Behold, a Virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a Son, and they shall call His Name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us.

• From Etched in Sand (2013)

  “What?” Camille looks up. “We will.” “Norman, you’re the man of the house.” In response to Cookie’s attention, Norman scrambles to his feet and follows her outside. Rosie, Camille, and I step out to join him on the stoop just in time to observe the car sinking beneath Cookie’s weight. “When will she be back?” Norman asks. Rosie takes his arm. “Not before we finish our game!” The screen door claps shut as they dash inside. Camille and I turn to watch the cloud of dust disappear as the thunder of Cookie’s car motor grows distant. And just like that, she’s gone. 2 Building Sand Castles Summer 1980 THE KNOT IN my stomach untwists as Cookie’s car grinds out of the driveway and heads toward busy Middle Country Road. As Rosie and Norman settle back in to their game, Camille turns to me with a sly smile. “How long do you think she’ll be gone this time?” I whisper. “Depends on how much money she has,” she says, starting inside. “And who she’s shacking up with.” In a traditional home, the children depend on the parent for the means to live. In Cookie’s world, she depends on us. Her roster of kids means she can breeze into the Suffolk County welfare office and get money for housing, electricity, and food. My angst rises again as my usual question surfaces: How can they give her this endless stream of cash without ever checking up on where she spends it? Camille and I figure Cookie must have used the welfare housing voucher to pay the landlord the first month’s rent and the security deposit to get us into the house. But she probably took the heating and electric allowance with her. I’d flicked a switch to discover the electricity was already on when we moved in, so the landlord never had it turned off after the other tenant left. Cookie must have investigated that when she looked at the house. And since we wouldn’t need heat in the middle of the summer, she decided we could get by with whatever oil is left in the tank if we took quick showers. Cookie actually believes she deserves the heating and electric money for booze. In her mind, she’s got us set up pretty good. The screen door slams hard behind me as I follow Camille inside. “Rosie, honey, let’s get you dressed.” Rosie rises and lets me shepherd her upstairs. “I’ll scrounge for money,” Camille calls from below us. I stop on the stairs. “Norm, help Camille.” He hops off the couch and stacks the cushions to search scrupulously for lost gold that previous tenants may have left behind. I show Rosie her room upstairs at the end of the hall. I pull the mattress off the box spring to make two separate beds. “You’ll sleep on this, okay? Norman will get the box spring. I’ll get you each a blanket.” “A towel is enough,” she assures me.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  And they could not have meant me any harm, because they did not see me. There were exceptions, of course, for I also met some beautiful people. Yet even today, it seems to me (possibly because I am black) very dangerous to model one's opposition to the arbitrary definition, the imposed ordeal, merely on the example supplied by one's oppressor. The object of one's hatred is never, alas, conveniently out side but is seated in one's lap, stirring in one's bowels and dictating the beat of one's heart. And if one does not know this, one risks becoming an imitation-and, therefore, a con tinuation-of principles one imagines oneself to despise. I, in any case, had endured far too much debasement will ingly to debase myself. I had absolutely no fantasies about making love to the last cop or hoodlum who had beaten the shit out of me. I did not find it amusing, in any way whatever, to act out the role of the darky. So I moved on out of there. In f.1ct, I t(nmd a friend-more accurately, a friend found me-an Italian, about five years older than I, who helped my morale greatly in those years. I was told that he had threat ened to kill anyone who touched me. I don't know about that, but people stopped beating me up. Our relationship never seemed to worry him or his friends or his women. My situation in the Village stabilized itself to the extent that FREAKS AND AMERIC AN IDE AL OF MAN HOOD 825 I began working as a waiter in a black West Indian restaurant, The Calypso, on MacDougal Street. This led, by no means incidentally, to the desegregation of the San Remo, an I tali an bar and restaurant on the corner of MacDougal and Bleecker. Every time I entered the San Remo, they threw me out. I had to pass it all the time on my way to and from work, which is, no doubt, why the insult rankled. I had won the Saxton Fellows hip, which was administered by Harper & Brothers, and I knew Frank S. MacGregor, the president of Harper's. One night, when he asked me where we should have dinner, I suggested, spontaneously, the San Remo. We entered, and they seated us and we were served. I went back to MacG regor's house tor a drink and then went straight back to the San Remo, sitting on a bar stool in the window. The San Remo thus began to attract a varied clientele, in deed-so much so that Allen Ginsberg and company arrived there the year I left New York for Paris. As tor the people who ran and worked at the San Remo, they never bothered me again.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  I was not so much afraid to see him as I was afraid of what might have happened to him-in him-the way one feels when about to see a loved one who has encountered great misfortune. One does not know what is left of the person. Human help often arrives too late, and if the person has really turned his face to the wall, no human being can help. The great barred door had opened often, letting people in or out; then, I was called or beckoned, and mounted the stone steps, standing before the bars; the turnkey smiled at me as he turned the key in the lock. Then I was led into another wait ing room, narrow, two long benches on either side of a long table. The prisoners sat on one side, their visitors on the other. The guard stood at the door. Tall, and thinner than I had ever seen him, his high cheekbones pushing out of his skin, his hair too long, wearing clothes he hated, and with his eyes both wet and blazing, Tony stood and smiled. We held each other a moment, and sat down, facing each other, and Tony grinned: I saw that he hadn't turned his face to the wall. "Hey-!" he said, "how you doing?" The room was very crowded, and I hardly knew what to say. It would be hard to discuss his case. "Upon my soul," said Tony, "I didn't do it." I was glad he said it, though he didn't have to say it. "Upon my soul," I said, "we'll get you out." * TO BE BAPTIZED 41 7 Between the night and the morning of April 3 -4, in 196 7 , a Marine, Michael E. Kroll, was murdered on West 3 rd Street, in Greenwich Village. He was killed, according to the news paper stories, as a result of his intervention in a heated argu ment which a young sailor, Michael Crist, was having with two men, one white and one black. The black man is de scribed as being about five feet, eight inches, and about twenty years old. (Tony was then twenty-seven, and is over six feet tall.) The two men, the black and the white, then walked away, but Kroll and the sailor apparently followed them and another argument ensued, which ended when the black man produced a sawed-off shotgun fr om beneath his jacket and shot the Marine in the head, killing him instantly. Then, the two men ran away. The claim was that all this hap pened because the black man had made an indecent proposal to the sailor. "Can you see me doing that?" Tony asked. His face was extraordinarily vivid with the scorn he felt for so much of the human race.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  “Were any of the allegations you made against Walter McMillian as being involved in the Ronda Morrison murder true?” Ralph paused and looked around the courtroom before he answered. For the first time there was emotion in his voice, regret or remorse. “No.” It seemed that everyone in the courtroom had been holding their breath but now there was an audible buzz from many of Walter’s supporters. I had a copy of the trial transcript and took Ralph through every sentence of his testimony against Walter. Statement by statement he acknowledged that his previous testimony was entirely false. Myers was direct and persuasive. He would frequently turn his head to look Judge Norton directly in the eye as he spoke. When I made him repeat the parts of his testimony about being coerced to testify falsely, Ralph remained calm and conveyed absolute sincerity. Even during the lengthy cross-examination by Chapman, Myers was unwavering. After relentless questioning about why he was changing his testimony and Chapman’s suggestion that someone was putting him up to this, Ralph became indignant. He looked at the prosecutor and said: Me, I can simply look in your face and anybody else’s face dead eye to eyeball and tell you that that’s all I—anything that was told about McMillian was a lie….As far as I know, McMillian didn’t have anything to do with this because on the day, on the day they say this happened, I didn’t even see McMillian. And that’s exactly what I told lots of people. On re-direct examination, I asked Ralph to acknowledge once again that his trial testimony was false and that he had knowingly put an innocent man on death row. Then I took a moment and walked over to the defense table to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. I reviewed my notes and then glanced at Michael. “Are we okay?” Michael looked astonished. “Ralph was great. He was really, really great.” I looked at Walter and only then realized that his eyes were moist. He was shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. I put my hand on his shoulder before announcing to the court that Myers could be excused. We had no further questions. Myers stood up to leave the courtroom. As the deputies led him to a side door, he looked apologetically at Walter before being escorted out. I’m not sure Walter saw him. People in the courtroom started whispering again. I heard one of Walter’s relatives, in a muted tone, say, “Thank you, Jesus!” The next challenge was to rebut the testimony of Bill Hooks and Joe Hightower, who had claimed to see Walter’s modified “low-rider” truck pulling out from the cleaners about the time Ronda Morrison was murdered.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  I wondered what in the world was going on in his mind. Did he really suppose that he had now become the builder and destroyer of reputations, And of my reputation? We met in the Actors' Studio one afternoon, after a per formance of The Deer Park-which I deliberately arrived too late to see, since I really did not know how I was going to react to Norman, and didn't want to betray myself by clob bering his play. When the discussion ended, I stood, again on the edge of the crowd around him, waiting. Over someone's shoulder, our eyes met, and Norman smiled. "We've got something to talk about," I told him. "I figured that," he said, smiling. We went to a bar, and sat opposite each other. I was relieved to discover that I was not angry, not even (as far as I could tell) at the bottom of my heart. But, "Why did you write those things about me?" "W ell, I' ll tell you about that," he said-Norman has sev eral accents, and I think this was his Texas one-"1 sort of figured you had it coming to you ." "Why?" "Well, I think there's some truth in it." "Well, if you felt that way, why didn't you ever say so-to me?" 282 NOBOD Y KN OWS MY NAME "Well, I figured if this was going to break up our friendship, something else would come along to break it up just as fast ." I couldn't disagree with that. "You're the only one I kind of regret hitting so hard," he said, with a grin. "I think I-probably-wouldn't say it quite that way now." With this, I had to be content. We sat for perhaps an hour, talking of other things and, again, I was struck by his stance: leaning on the table, shoulders hunched, seeming, really , to roll like a boxer's, and his hands moving as though he were dealing with a sparring partner . And we were talking of phys ical courage, and the necessity of never letting another guy get the better of you. I laughed. "Norman, I can't go through the world the way you do because I haven't got your shoulders ." He grinned, as though I were his pupil. "But you're a pretty tough little mother , too," he said, and referred to one of the grimmer of my Village misadventures, a misadventure which certainly proved that I had a dangerously sharp tongue, but which didn't really prove anything about my courage. Which, anyway, I had long ago given up trying to prove. I did not see Norman again until Provincetown, just after his cele brated brush with the police there, which resulted, ac cording to Norman, in making the climate of Province town as "mellow as Jello." The climate didn't seem very different to me-dull natives, dull tourists, malevolent policemen; I cer tainly, in any case, would never have dreamed of testing Norman's sanguine conclusion.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  So think I (quoth another) for the outragious poyson of madness hath killed him, but being thus in divers opinions of a poore Ass, they looked through a crevis, and espied me standing still, sober and quiet in the middle of the chamber; then they opened the doores, and came towards me, to prove whether I were gentle or no. Amongst whom there was one, which in my opinion, was sent from Heaven to save my life, that willed the other to set a bason of faire water before me, and thereby they would know whether I were mad or no, for if I did drinke without feare as I accustomed to do, it was a signe that I was whole, and in mine Assie wits, where contrary if I did flie and abhorre the tast of the water, it was evident proofe of my madness, which thing he said that he had read in ancient and credible books, whereupon they tooke a bason of cleere water, and presented it before me: but I as soone as I perceived the wholesome water of my life, ran incontinently, thrusting my head into the bason, drank as though I had beene greatly athirst; then they stroked me with their hands, and bowed mine eares, and tooke me by the halter, to prove my patience, but I taking each thing in good part, disproved their mad presumption, by my meeke and gentle behaviour: when I was thus delivered from this double danger, the next day I was laded againe with the goddesse Siria, and other trumpery, and was brought into the way with Trumpets and Cymbals to beg in the villages which we passed by according to our custome. And after that we had gone through a few towns and Castles, we fortuned to come to a certaine village, which was builded (as the inhabitants there affirme) upon the foundation of a famous ancient Citie. And after that we had turned into the next Inne, we heard of a prettie jest committed in the towne there, which I would that you should know likewise.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  When Myers walked into the visitation area, I was surprised at how old he seemed. His hair was almost completely gray, which made him seem frail and vulnerable. He was also shorter with a much smaller body frame than I was expecting. His testimony had caused so much anguish for Walter and his family that I had created a larger-than-life image of him. He walked toward us but stopped short when he saw Michael and nervously blurted out, “Who is he? You didn’t tell me you were bringing anybody with you.” Myers had a thick Southern accent. Up close, his scars made him appear more sympathetic than menacing or villainous. “This is Michael O’Connor. He’s a lawyer in my office working with me on this case. Michael is just helping me investigate this case.” “Well, people told me I could trust you. I don’t know anything about him.” “I promise, he’s fine.” I glanced over at Michael, who was trying his best to look trustworthy, before turning back to Myers. “Please have a seat.” He looked at Michael skeptically and then slowly sat down. My plan was to try to ease him into the conversation by letting him know that we just wanted the truth. But before I could say anything, Myers blurted out a full recantation of his trial testimony. “I lied. Everything I said at McMillian’s trial was a lie. I’ve lost a lot of sleep and have been in a lot of pain over this. I can’t be quiet any longer.” “The testimony you gave at trial against Walter McMillian was a lie?” I asked cautiously. My heart was pounding, but I tried to stay as steady as I could. I was afraid that if I seemed too eager or too surprised—too anything—he might retreat. “It was all a lie. What I’m going to tell you is going to blow your mind, Mr. Stevenson.” He held his stare on me dramatically before turning to Michael. “You, too, Jimmy Connors.” It didn’t take many conversations with Ralph before it became clear that he had difficulty remembering names. “Mr. Myers, you know I’m going to want you to not only tell me the truth but also tell the court the truth. Are you willing to do that?” I was nervous to push so quickly, but I needed to be clear. I didn’t want a private performance. “That’s why I called you.” He sounded surprised that there could be any question about his intentions. “I’ve been in a group therapy class here. You’re supposed to be real honest. We been talking about honesty for nearly three months. Last week people were talking about all the bad shit that happened to them when they were kids and all the bad things they done.” Myers was picking up steam as he spoke. “I finally told the group, ‘Well, I can top all you sons ’a bitches, I done put a damn man on death row by lying in damn court.’ ”

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  While I devised these things, I brake the halter wherewith I was tyed and ran away with all my force, howbeit I could not escape the kitish eyes of the old woman, for shee ran after me, and with more audacity then becommeth her kind age, caught me by the halter and thought to pull me home: but I not forgetting the cruell purpose of the theeves, was mooved with small pity, for I kicked her with my hinder heeles to the ground and had welnigh slaine her, who (although shee was throwne and hurled downe) yet shee held still the halter, and would not let me goe; then shee cryed with a loud voyce and called for succour, but she little prevayled, because there was no person that heard her, save onely the captive gentlewoman, who hearing the voice of the old woman, came out to see what the matter was, and perceiving her hanging at the halter, tooke a good courage and wrested it out of her hand, and (entreating me with gentle words) got upon my backe. Then I began to runne, and shee gently kicked mee forward, whereof I was nothing displeased, for I had as great a desire to escape as shee: insomuch that I seemed to scowre away like a horse. And when the Gentlewoman did speake, I would answere her with my neighing, and oftentimes (under colour to rub my backe) I would sweetly kisse her tender feet. Then shee fetching a sigh from the bottome of her heart, lifted up her eyes to the heavens, saying: O soveraigne Gods, deliver mee if it be your pleasure, from these present dangers: and thou cruell fortune cease thy wrath, let the sorrow suffice thee which I have already sustained. And thou little Asse, that art the occasion of my safety and liberty, if thou canst once render me safe and sound to my parents, and to him that so greatly desireth to have me to his wife, thou shalt see what thankes I will give: with what honour I will reward thee, and how I will use thee. First, I will bravely dresse the haires of thy forehead, and then will I finely combe thy maine, I will tye up thy rugged tayle trimly, I will decke thee round about with golden trappes, in such sort that thou shalt glitter like the starres of the skie, I will bring thee daily in my apron the kirnels of nuts, and will pamper thee up with delicates; I will set store by thee, as by one that is the preserver of my life: Finally, thou shalt lack no manner of thing. Moreover amongst thy glorious fare, thy great ease, and the blisse of thy life, thou shalt not be destitute of dignity, for thou shalt be chronicled perpetually in memory of my present fortune, and the providence divine.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  In the mean season he was delivered to the hands of the executioner. But there arose a sage and ancient Physitian, a man of a good conscience and credit throughout all the City, that stopped the mouth of the pot wherein the stones were cast, saying: I am right glad ye reverend judges, that I am a man of name and estimation amongst you, whereby I am accompted such a one as will not suffer any person to be put to death by false and untrue accusations, considering there hath bin no homicide or murther committed by this yong man in this case, neither you (being sworn to judge uprightly) to be misinformed and abused by invented lyes and tales. For I cannot but declare and open my conscience, least I should be found to beare small honour and faith to the Gods, wherefore I pray you give eare, and I will shew you the whole truth of the matter. You shall understand that this servant which hath merited to be hanged, came one of these dayes to speake with me, promising to give me a hundred crownes, if I would give him present poyson, which would cause a man to dye suddenly, saying, that he would have it for one that was sicke of an incurable disease, to the end he might be delivered from all torment, but I smelling his crafty and subtill fetch, and fearing least he would worke some mischiefe withall, gave him a drinke; but to the intent I might cleare my selfe from all danger that might happen, I would not presently take the money which he offered. But least any of the crownes should lacke weight or be found counterfeit, I willed him to scale the purse wherein they were put, with his manuell signe, whereby the next day we might goe together to the Goldsmith to try them, which he did; wherefore understanding that he was brought present before you this day, I hastily commanded one of my servants to fetch the purse which he had sealed, and here I bring it unto you to see whether he will deny his owne signe or no: and you may easily conject that his words are untrue, which he alleadged against the young man, touching the buying of the poyson, considering hee bought the poyson himselfe. When the Physitian had spoken these words you might perceive how the trayterous knave changed his colour, how hee sweat for feare, how he trembled in every part of his body: and how he set one leg upon another, scratching Ibis head and grinding his teeth, whereby there was no person but would judge him culpable. In the end, when he was somewhat returned to his former subtility, he began to deny all that was said, and stoutly affirmed, that the Physitian did lye.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  II. On the second head it is to be noted, that there are seven medicines which heal men of these fevers. (1) A devoted hearing of God: “He sent His Word, and healed them, and delivered them from their destructions,” Ps. 107:20. “For it was neither herb nor mollifying plaster that healed them, but Thy Word, O Lord, which healeth all things,” Wisd. 16:12. (2) In contrition for sin: “For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me,” Ps. 51:3. (3) A devoted calling upon God: “O Lord, my God, I cried unto Thee, and Thou hast healed me,” Ps. 30:2. (4) The infusion of faith: “And He said to the woman, Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace,” S. Luke 7:50. (5) The showing of compassion: “When thou seest the naked, that thou cover him: and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh. Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily,” Isai. 58:7, 8. (6) The desertion of sin: “In returning and rest shall ye be saved,” Isai. 30:15. (7) Perfect contrition of heart: “Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings.… truly in the Lord our God is the salvation of Israel,” Jer. 3:22, 23. This is the “seventh hour,” in which the fever leaves the sinner altogether. But all these means avail nothing, unless they take their efficacy from that sacred medicine which heals all our diseases—i.e., the Passion of Christ our God, “Who His own Self bare our sins in His own Body on the tree, by Whose stripes ye were healed,” 1 S. Pet. 2:24. HOMILY XLIII THE INNOCENT TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.—(FROM THE EPISTLE)“That ye may be sincere and without offence, till the day of Christ.”—Philip. 1:10. THE Apostle in this Epistle exhorts us to three things. Firstly, to the avoiding of sin: “That ye may be sincere.” Secondly, to all love: “Filled with the fruits of righteousness.” Thirdly, to the possession of a right intention: “With the glory and praise of God.” I. On the first head it is to be noted, that three commands are given. (1) That we should seek after purity of mind: “That ye may be sincere.” “Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see God,” S. Matt. 5:3. (2) That we should avoid doing injury to our neighbours: “Without offence: giving no offence in anything,” 2 Cor. 6:3. (3) That we should persevere in both courses: “Till the day of Christ,” i.e., till after death; when the day of man is ended the day of Christ begins. “He that endureth to the end shall be saved,” St. Matt. 10:22. The Gloss. treats of this under the word “sincere;” without the works of corruption, either towards ourselves or our neighbours, and to persevere in this course till the day of Christ.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I showed Gavin the phone, on the bedside table. The curtains were closed, as always, but I had put on the overhead light, and as the duvet was thrown into a heap at the foot of the bed, the rumpled green sheets and pillows showed their shamingly stained and fucked-over countenance; Gavin remained standing as he phoned. I wandered back into the hall, where Rupert was standing, an expression of the utmost apprehension on his face. ‘Isn’t that boy …’ he mouthed, his eyebrows raised and then biting his lower lip, which I laid my finger across in a gesture of silence. The bed came down to within an inch or two of the floor. He must be behind the curtains. ‘Thanks, Will,’ said Gavin as he emerged, with a slightly amazed look. ‘Everything OK?’ I enquired, with extreme casualness. ‘We’ll be off now, young feller.’ I saw them to the door of the flat. ‘Thanks, Will,’ said Gavin again. ‘See you soon. You must come round or something …’ He laid a hand fraternally on my shoulder. ‘Bye, Roops,’ I said, expecting my normal kiss but getting instead a handshake, which, nevertheless, I recognised as a sign of greater intimacy. Farce is always more entertaining to watch than to enact, and I was relieved to hear the house door slam and a car start. I turned back to the bedroom, crossing to the window as I said, ‘It’s all right, they’ve gone.’ But when I tweaked open the curtains, it was my own face, with a silly hide-and-seek smirk on it, that I saw reflected in the window. ‘Funny,’ I said aloud. There was a rustle behind me, and I swung round to see the flung-back duvet heave, lurch upwards, and after a further convulsion, bring forth Arthur. He had been curled up there like a young stowaway, his flexible body folded so as to be almost imperceptible. He hammed up his recovery rather, flustered at the alarm, boastful of his ingenuity. ‘Man, you didn’t know where I bloody was!’ He fell back giggling, then clutched his head, still leaden from his hangover. I sat by him on the bed and drummed my fingers on his belly. ‘I’m surprised you let him in,’ I said, ‘after all the never going out.’ ‘He just kept ringing the bell, man. I stuck me head out the lav window, and there was this little nipper. He must a rung the bell ten times, fifteen times. So I thought, no ’arm in a little kid. So I went down. Very sure of ’imself, he was, come up ’ere, asked me who I was and that. Just a friend of Will’s, I said.’ He looked up into my eyes. ‘Anyway you come back after a bit.’ ‘How’s your face feeling?’ I asked. ‘James says he’ll come tomorrow and take the stitches out—just the ends, apparently, and the rest all dissolves.’ ‘Not too bad.’

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  And Paris had done this for me: by leaving me com pletely alone. I lived in Paris for a long time without making a single French friend, and even longer before I saw the inside of a French home. This did not really upset me, either, for Henry James had been here before me and had had the gen erosity to clue me in. Furthermore, for a black boy who had grown up on Welf are and the chick en-shit goodwill of Anlcr ican liberals, this total indifference came as a great relief and, even, as a mark of respect. If I could make it, I could make it; so much the better. And if I couldn't, I couldn 't-so much the worse. I didn't want any help, and the French certainly didn't give me any-they let me do it myself; and for that reason, even knowing what I know, and unromantic as I am, there will al ways be a kind of love story between myself and that odd, unpredictable collection of bourgeois chau vinists who call themselves la France. Or, in other words, my reasons for coming to France, and the comparative freedom of my lite in Paris, meant that my attitude toward France was very different from that of any Algerian. He, and his brothers, were, in fact, being murdered by my hosts. And Algeria, after al l, is a part of Africa, and France, after all, is a part of Europe: that Europe which in vaded and raped the African continent and slaughtered those Africans whom they could not enslave-that Europe from which, in sober truth, Africa has yet to liberate herself The fact that I had never seen the Algerian casbah was of no more relevance before this unanswerable panorama than the fact that the Algerians had never seen Harlem. The Algerian and I were both, alike, victims of this history, and I was still a part of Africa, even though I had been carried out of it nearly four hundred years before. The question of my identity had never before been so cru cially allied with the reality-the doom-of the moral choice.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  PAULA STRODE INTO my office, sat down, shrugged her heavy backpack to the floor, and grinned. At age thirty-three, she looked fitter and healthier than she did at our last meeting ten years ago in Seattle when she was borderline anorexic, pale, chain-smoking, and ignoring the salad she had ordered for lunch. She also looked considerably older, with weathered skin and deep lines in her forehead. “Do you remember our last visit?” I asked, wondering if she was aware of how much she had changed. Paula startled me by throwing back her head and laughing in a throaty, smoker’s voice. “I don’t remember it at all, zip, nada. You should erase everything and anything I said back then because I was probably high on cocaine. I’ve been in recovery for two years now and things that were numbed out are starting to come back … but that time in my life is still a total blur.” I looked more closely at Paula. She still retained vestiges of the tough street kid she had been—a tenseness in her jaw and squared-off shoulders that could carry any burden you’d care to toss at her—but she was softer now, less cocky, somehow less strident. Her backpack was filled with college textbooks, her green eyes were bright and direct, and she was plainly eager and able to tell her story. Even as she began to talk, I could feel a sigh of relief somewhere inside me. Paula was one of those children who, after her parents divorced, literally and unceasingly had to raise herself. Watching her grow up from afar, there were times that I despaired for her well-being, wondering if she had any chance of ever attaining a normal adult life. There is no comparison for this situation within intact families. We heard about families in which the father lost his job, the mother fell chronically ill, or a fire destroyed all the family’s possessions. But none of these sudden losses or setbacks within intact families matched what happened to little Paula, whose whole world collapsed in less than one month’s time. The closest comparable experience for children in intact families is the sudden death of a beloved parent. Fortunately, unlike divorce, death of a young parent is uncommon in this country.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  We finished the presentation of our evidence and, to our surprise, the State put on no rebuttal case. I didn’t know what they could have presented to rebut our evidence, but I’d assumed they would present something. The judge seemed surprised, too. He paused and then said he wanted the parties to submit written briefs arguing what ruling he should make. We had hoped for this, and I was relieved that the court would give us time to explain the significance of all the evidence in writing and assist him in preparing his order, an order I hoped would set Walter free. At the end of three days of intense litigation, the judge adjourned the proceedings in the late afternoon. Michael and I had been in a rush the final morning of the hearing and hadn’t checked out of our hotel before leaving for the courthouse. We said our farewells to the family in the courtroom and went back to the hotel, feeling exhausted but satisfied. — Bay Minette, where the hearing took place, is about thirty minutes from the beautiful beaches on the Gulf of Mexico. We had started a tradition of bringing our staff down to the beach each September, and we’d all fallen in love with the clear warm waters of the Gulf. The white sand and pleasantly underdeveloped beachfront were spectacular and soothing. The view was slightly spoiled by the massive offshore oil rigs you could see in the distance, but if you could make yourself forget about them, you’d think you were in paradise. Dolphins loved this part of the Gulf and could be spotted in the early mornings, playfully making their way through the water. I’d often thought we should move our office to right there on the beach. It was Michael’s idea to hit the beach before heading back to Montgomery. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but the day was warm and the coast was so close, I couldn’t resist. We jumped in the car, trailing the last hours of sunlight to the beautiful shores near Fort Morgan, Alabama. As soon as we got there, Michael changed from his suit to swim trunks and went sprinting into the ocean. I was too tired to race into the sea, so I put on some shorts and sat down at the water’s edge. It would soon be dusk, but the heat persisted. My head was full of everything that had transpired in court: I was replaying what witnesses had said and worrying about whether things had gone exactly right. I was trawling through every detail in my mind, every possible misstep, until I caught myself. It was over; there was no point in making myself crazy by overthinking it now. I decided to dive into the ocean and, for a moment at least, forget it all. Recently, stranded at the airport with nothing else to read, I had read an article about shark attacks.

• From The Folding Star (1994)

  Sibylle peered around, assessing the imprudence of this decision. "Okay," she said, with an upward flick of the eyebrows. Patrick had sauntered hunkily to the lit console of the juke-box, and we all watched as he thumbed in a coin and deliberated over the corny menu of titles. I couldn't think of anything to say, I didn't dare look at Luc. Then a button was pressed and after several seconds a distantly famular intro came at us from all sides. It was one of those rhetorical songs you heard in a late-night minicab, "I want to be where love is", drunk yourself, and the requests read out—Darren, don't keep breaking my heart . . . I need you but I need time—as you accelerate through the glittering streets. Luc kissed Sibylle on both cheeks. "Be good," she said, "sois sage." And Patrick rolled up with a grin and barged him and kissed him on the mouth. I thought, Ah, you do that, do you? —or was it just young sportsmen's faggoty closeness, their high butch pained regard for each other and themselves? It wasn't the treatment I was going to get—I gave a little absolving wave, but he grabbed my hand in mid-air and shook it: it was a bit like jiving. "We'd better leave them to it," said Sibylle. Patrick turned at the door and grinned again; I wondered if I was the subject of some broad joke—but then if I was, Luc must be too. all that mattered was that he wanted to stay for a quarter-hour more, even if only to grouse about his troubles away from his smothering critical friends. It had been a terrible time. I had watched myself trying different gambits, donnish to start with, pursuing the matter of the 1850 Prelude, then holding forth about Milton, Schubert, F. R. Leavis etc etc and clearly being the greatest bore on earth; then I smoked a cigarette (which they hated) and swore a lot (which seemed to displease them too); then gave them maximum charm, which they resented as a puzzling form of satire. At one point I was even nodding about to a song on the juke-box, but Sibylle stilled me with a glance. I was young and lively and clever, I told myself as I blundered like some awful Ronald Strong figure from rebuff to tacit rebuff. And then Luc wanted to stay. There was a lovely sense of cleared space, of spreading calm, like sunlight out to sea, in the gold and copper cabin of the bar, as we drew two stools closer and settled ourselves knee to knee and the song wailed grandly on and then faded out. "Oh dear, Edward, I'm sorry about that. But I'm very glad you were there!"

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  As we hugged and nosed around each other, he would push me to arm’s length and look me in the eye while he repeated something I had said. Odd words seemed to amuse or offend him, and he gave urchin imitations of my speech. ‘Arse-hale,’ he would drawl. ‘Get orf my arse-hale.’ Or if we were nattering in the kitchen as I woozily knocked up some supper, he would interrupt what I was saying and dance about shouting ‘No, no, no—listen, no—“cunt-stabulareh,” ’ and double up with laughter. Sometimes I laughed graciously too, and did even posher imitations of his mimicry, knowing no one was listening. Sometimes I caught him and gave him what he was asking for. So, the last couple of days, I had been closer with the booze, and it was all the nicer to have him loosened up but not cantering out of control. We had never been better together. Even so, the relief of being in the water again was intense; when he had made a phone call in the morning and said he’d go away for a day something inside me asserted ‘That’s right.’ I lent him a shirt, perhaps I gave it to him—pink silk, it suited his blackness as much as it did my fairness—kissed him chastely, told him to come back when he wanted, and, when he had gone, went round opening windows (it was a coldish spring day). I put clean linen on the bed, and could hardly wait for night-time and getting in there for a good sleep all by myself. I kept stretching out my arms and legs, like one of those queeny Sons of the Morning in a Blake engraving. After a while I took this further, and slammed through a set of pull-ups, press-ups and sit-ups—and then ached for the pool. So self-enclosed had my life been for the preceding week—broken only by five-minute trips to the local shop for cereals, tins and papers—that I looked on the public crowding the Underground platform with the apprehension and surprise that people feel on leaving hospital. I came up dripping and panting from the pool to the changing-room. As I pushed open the swing door with its steamed-up little window designed, like those in restaurants, to prevent hurrying people from knocking each other flat, I heard the hiss of the crowded showers, and felt the warm, dense atmosphere of the place in my throat and on my skin. I sauntered along between the two files of hot jets whose spray danced up off the black tiles, shifting or suddenly cutting off as the men, naked or in their trunks, edged about, soaped a foot raised against the wall, gave their stomachs resounding smacks, or turned, as the doors to the outside world thwacked open, to see what beauty had arrived.