Remorse

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 Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?” hesitatingly it was said. “Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do.” Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. “As for regret,” said Marianne, “I have done with that, as far as _he_ is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not _always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl—” She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, “If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.” “Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to—” “How then,” asked her sister, “would you account for his behaviour?” “I would suppose him,—Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle.” Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health;—and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. “I am not wishing him too much good,” said Marianne at last with a sigh, “when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them.” “Do you compare your conduct with his?” “No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours.” “Our situations have borne little resemblance.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.—She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, “Yes, ma’am.”—She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.—Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself. The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. “You have heard, I suppose,” said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, “of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday.” They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. “Your sister,” he continued, “has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too—in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress—but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!—meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! ‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, ‘that we had asked your sisters instead of them.’” Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

• From The City of God

  Yet He does not dismiss him without counsel, holy, just, and good. "Fret not thyself," He says, "for unto thee shall be his turning, and thou shall rule over him. "Over his brother, does He mean? Most certainly not. Over what, then, but sin? For He had said, "Thou hast sinned," and then He added, "Fret not thyself, for to thee shall be its turning, and thou shall rule over it. " [788]And the "turning" of sin to the man can be understood of his conviction that the guilt of sin can be laid at no other man's door but his own. For this is the health-giving medicine of penitence, and the fit plea for pardon; so that, when it is said, "To thee its turning," we must not supply "shall be," but we must read, "To thee let its turning be," understanding it as a command, not as a prediction. For then shall a man rule over his sin when he does not prefer it to himself and defend it, but subjects it by repentance; otherwise he that becomes protector of it shall surely become its prisoner. But if we understand this sin to be that carnal concupiscence of which the apostle says, "The flesh lusteth against the spirit," [789] among the fruits of which lust he names envy, by which assuredly Cain was stung and excited to destroy his brother, then we may properly supply the words "shall be," and read, "To thee shall be its turning, and thou shalt rule over it. "For when the carnal part which the apostle calls sin, in that place where he says, "It is not I who do it, but sin that dwelleth in me," [790] that part which the philosophers also call vicious, and which ought not to lead the mind, but which the mind ought to rule and restrain by reason from illicit motions,--when, then, this part has been moved to perpetrate any wickedness, if it be curbed and if it obey the word of the apostle, "Yield not your members instruments of unrighteousness unto sin," [791] it is turned towards the mind and subdued and conquered by it, so that reason rules over it as a subject. It was this which God enjoined on him who was kindled with the fire of envy against his brother, so that he sought to put out of the way him whom he should have set as an example. "Fret not thyself," or compose thyself, He says:withhold thy hand from crime; let not sin reign in your mortal body to fulfill it in the lusts thereof, nor yield your members instruments of unrighteousness unto sin. "For to thee shall be its turning," so long as you do not encourage it by giving it the rein, but bridle it by quenching its fire. "And thou shalt rule over it;" for when it is not allowed any external actings, it yields itself to the rule of the governing mind and righteous will, and ceases from even internal motions. There is something similar said in the same divine book of the woman, when God questioned and judged them after their sin, and pronounced sentence on them all,--the devil in the form of the serpent, the woman and her husband in their own persons. For when He had said to her, "I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow shall thou bring forth children," then He added, "and thy turning shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee. " [792]What is said to Cain about his sin, or about the vicious concupiscence of his flesh, is here said of the woman who had sinned; and we are to understand that the husband is to rule his wife as the soul rules the flesh. And therefore, says the apostle, "He that loveth his wife, loveth himself; for no man ever yet hated his own flesh. " [793]This flesh, then, is to be healed, because it belongs to ourselves:is not to be abandoned to destruction as if it were alien to our nature. But Cain received that counsel of God in the spirit of one who did not wish to amend. In fact, the vice of envy grew stronger in him; and, having entrapped his brother, he slew him. Such was the founder of the earthly city. He was also a figure of the Jews who slew Christ the Shepherd of the flock of men, prefigured by Abel the shepherd of sheep:but as this is an allegorical and prophetical matter, I forbear to explain it now; besides, I remember that I have made some remarks upon it in writing against Faustus the Manichaean. [794]

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Then, in a sudden flurry, more drama. The Pearloiner leapt out from a bush with a cackle and tried to snatch away several of Friggley’s clitorises and hide them in her freezing jar. A small tussle ensued, which Friggley easily won by clasping the Pearloiner in several of its wank-strong arms. “Don’t let her go!” said Rhumpa. She seized the precious clitty jar, remounted Friggley, and the curious trio lurched toward Lila’s office. The Pearloiner Says She’s Sorry The Pearloiner was sitting on the couch, staring forward remorsefully. She’d been crying. The icy jar of clits was on a side table, shedding a soft gray mist. Zilka and Cheyenne stood on the open pussyrug, stripped down to their bras. Friggley was tied by the balls outside. “It was a misguided passion,” the Pearloiner was saying. “There are better things to collect. I see that now. I’m truly sorry for my compulsive thieving.” She fished in the jar, finding the plastic bags with Zilka’s and Cheyenne’s clits in them. “Thank you, Madame Pearloiner,” said Lila. “Zilka and Cheyenne will fix your hair and dress you for the Sherry Cobbler and Farewell Handjob Festival. As a first step, we must forgive.” The two lovely almost-naked women washed and blow-dried the Pearloiner’s hair and dressed her in a white shirt and a flattering navy-blue linen jacket. They left her naked down below. “Now, Madame, you know what you must do,” said Lila. She put the clitorises in the Pearloiner’s open palms. “Cup their pussies and reinstate their joys. Only you can give back what you took away.” The Pearloiner cupped the women’s crotches and jiggled her hands rapidly, saying, “By the power and the authority of the federal Transportation Security Administration, Eastern Region, HQ, I hereby give you back your clits and humbly ask your forgiveness for being so greedy to possess them.” “Oh, ooochie,” moaned Zilka, feeling her tender stem re-connecting. Moments after, Cheyenne’s clitoris went live. Her face cleared, and she beamed. “Finally!” she said. “Now down on the pussyrug, you two,” said Lila. “You must fix the repairs in place by gently grinding your gorgeous twats against each other.” Zilka and Cheyenne scissored themselves together and humped and ground, clit to blissfully reanimated clit. “Sealing it with a crimson pussy kiss,” said the Pearloiner, visibly moved. Lila opened a drawer and pulled out a large smooth wooden dildo, which she handed to the Pearloiner. “Madame, put this handmade Dendro wherever you would like it to go,” she said. The Pearloiner threw her strong tanned legs open and steered the dildo deep into her fur. She shook her head. “It’s good, but it’s not what I need,” she said. “I need live dick.”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Ruzty said, “I’m sorry.” She looked at his eyes, which traveled to her ass. Then she caught sight of his remarkably solid but curved piece of equipment. She made a tiny hissing sound and said, “Oh, might as well go ahead anyway. Fuck me, horny sailor.” Ruzty’s dick bounced with gladness. Henriette gnawed the sheet and waited. She felt his cock helmet finding the sloppy gates. Then impulsively she turned onto her back. “Take me where I can see you,” she said. He sank over her, and she led him inside, forcing his cock to unbend. She gave him the Cook’s tour of her innerness. His backbone worked lithely; his bottom, swiveling, rose and fell. Henriette straightened her knees, so that her feet were up in the air, running. She laughed because it felt so good, and she said, “Ruzty, you are a swervy-dicked master of the fuck! Don’t stop! Fill my bitchgroove!” He squeezed her very hard to him and breathed in her hair and shuddered out everything he had into her. “I give you everything,” he said. Later in the shower, Henriette remembered this and got on her knees and said, “Oh, Ruzty, oh, Ruzty,” and came. The Pearloiner Says She’s Sorr y T he Pearloiner was sitting on the couch, staring forward remorsefully. She’d been crying. The icy jar of clits was on a side table, shedding a soft gray mist. Zilka and Cheyenne stood on the open pussyrug, stripped down to their bras. Friggley was tied by the balls outside. “It was a misguided passion,” the Pearloiner was saying. “There are better things to collect. I see that now. I’m truly sorry for my compulsive thieving.” She fished in the jar, finding the plastic bags with Zilka’s and Cheyenne’s clits in them. “Thank you, Madame Pearloiner,” said Lila. “Zilka and Cheyenne will fix your hair and dress you for the Sherry Cobbler and Farewell Handjob Festival. As a first step, we must forgive.” The two lovely almost-naked women washed and blow-dried the Pearloiner’s hair and dressed her in a white shirt and a flattering navy-blue linen jacket. They left her naked down below . “Now, Madame, you know what you must do,” said Lila. She put the clitorises in the Pearloiner’s open palms. “Cup their pussies and reinstate their joys. Only you can give back what you took away.” The Pearloiner cupped the women’s crotches and jiggled her hands rapidly, saying, “By the power and the authority of the federal Transportation Security Administration, Eastern Region, HQ, I hereby give you back your clits and humbly ask your forgiveness for being so greedy to possess them.” “Oh, ooochie,” moaned Zilka, feeling her tender stem re-connecting.

• From The City of God

  In like manner the Lord, speaking by the same prophet, says, "And it shall come to pass in that day, that I will seek to destroy all the nations that come against Jerusalem. And I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and mercy; and they shall look upon me because they have insulted me, and they shall mourn for Him as for one very dear, and shall be in bitterness as for an only-begotten. " [1486]To whom but to God does it belong to destroy all the nations that are hostile to the holy city Jerusalem, which "come against it," that is, are opposed to it, or, as some translate, "come upon it," as if putting it down under them; or to pour out upon the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem the spirit of grace and mercy? This belongs doubtless to God, and it is to God the prophet ascribes the words; and yet Christ shows that He is the God who does these so great and divine things, when He goes on to say, "And they shall look upon me because they have insulted me, and they shall mourn for Him as if for one very dear (or beloved), and shall be in bitterness for Him as for an only-begotten. "For in that day the Jews--those of them, at least, who shall receive the spirit of grace and mercy--when they see Him coming in His majesty, and recognize that it is He whom they, in the person of their parents, insulted when He came before in His humiliation, shall repent of insulting Him in His passion:and their parents themselves, who were the perpetrators of this huge impiety, shall see Him when they rise; but this will be only for their punishment, and not for their correction. It is not of them we are to understand the words, "And I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and mercy, and they shall look upon me because they have insulted me;" but we are to understand the words of their descendants, who shall at that time believe through Elias. But as we say to the Jews, You killed Christ, although it was their parents who did so, so these persons shall grieve that they in some sort did what their progenitors did. Although, therefore, those that receive the spirit of mercy and grace, and believe, shall not be condemned with their impious parents, yet they shall mourn as if they themselves had done what their parents did. Their grief shall arise not so much from guilt as from pious affection. Certainly the words which the Septuagint have translated, "They shall look upon me because they insulted me," stand in the Hebrew,"They shall look upon me whom they pierced. " [1487]And by this word the crucifixion of Christ is certainly more plainly indicated. But the Septuagint translators preferred to allude to the insult which was involved in His whole passion. For in point of fact they insulted Him both when He was arrested and when He was bound, when He was judged, when He was mocked by the robe they put on Him and the homage they did on bended knee, when He was crowned with thorns and struck with a rod on the head, when He bore His cross, and when at last He hung upon the tree. And therefore we recognize more fully the Lord's passion when we do not confine ourselves to one interpretation, but combine both, and read both "insulted" and "pierced. "

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὥφελε .. Aesch. Pr. 48, etc.; also, as in Ep., εἴθ᾽ ὥφελες .. Soph. ΕἸ. 1021; εἴθ᾽ ὥφελεν .. Ar. Nub. 41, etc.; εἰ yap ὥφελον .. Id. Eccl. 380, Plat. Rep.432 Ὁ; ὡς ὥφελες .. Ar. Ran. 955; withnegat., μήποτ᾽ ὥφελον Soph. Ph. 969, Eur. Alc. 880, Dem. 322. 3; ὡς μήποτ᾽ ὥφελον... Eur. Ion 286; μηδὲ viv ὥφελον Dem. 539. 25 ;—so in Hdt. without augm., εἶδον .. τὸ μὴ ἰδέειν ὄφελον 1. 111, cf. 3.65; and in a few lyr. passages of Att. Poets, εἴθ᾽ ὄφελε .. Aesch. Pers. 915; ὄφελε .. Soph. Aj. 1192; μήποτ᾽ ὄφελον .. Eur. Med. 1413 :—the form ὥφειλον in this sense may be allowed in late Poets, as Q. Sm. 5. 194, ὧς μὴ ὦφειλες ἱκέσθαι ; but in Hes. Op. 172, ὥφελλον should prob. be restored (v. sub init.), and in Eur. 1. A. 1291, ὥφελεν :—Call. has it with Indic., ὥφελε μηδ᾽ ἐγένοντο θοαὶ νέες Epigr. 18. 1, cf. Q. Sm. το. 378, etc.:—c. acc. et ‘inf, ὦμοι ἐγών, ὄφελόν pe .. ὀλέσθαι Orph. Arg. 1164:—in N.'T. even with 2nd pers. of Verb, ὄφελον ἐβασιλεύσατε τ Ep. Cor. 4.8, cf. 2 Cor. 11. 1, Galat. 5. 12, Rev. 3. 5. III. impers. ὀφείλει, Lat. oportet, c. acc. et inf., Pind. N. 2.9; ὥφελλε oportuit, Ap. Rh. 3. 678. ὀφέλλω (A), Ep. for ὀφείλω, 4. v. sub init. ὀφέλλω (B), Ep. inf. -ἐμεν Od. 15. 21: impf. ὥφελλον 16.174, ὄφ-- Theocr. 25.120: Aeol. aor. opt. ὀφέλλειεν Il. τό. 651, Od. 2. 334: (from 4/OPEA, whence also ὄφελος, v. ὀφείλω init.) :—old Ep. Verb, to increase, enlarge, elevate, strengthen, στόνον, πόνον, ἀνδρὸς ἐρωήν, δέμας, ἥβην, μένος, ἀρετήν Hom.; ὃς ἀνέμου .. κύματ᾽ ὀφέλλει the force of the wind raises high the waves, Il. 15. 3833 μῦθον dd. to multiply words, 16. 631; ὕβριν ὀφ. to increase or add to insult, Hes. Op. 211; πόλεμον καὶ δῆριν op. Ib. 14, cf. 33; ὄφρ᾽ ἂν ᾿Αχαιοὶ υἱὸν ἐμὸν τίσωσιν, ὀφέλλωσί τί ἕ τιμῇ may advance him in honour, Il. 1. 510; οἶκον o@. to advance it, make it thrive, Od. 15. 21, Hes. Op. 493; πεδίον σὺν θεῶν τιμαῖς dp. Pind. P. 4. 464:—Pass., οἶκος ὀφέλλεται it waxes great, prospers, Od. 14. 233; λήιον .. ὀφελλόμενον Διὸς ὄμβρῳ Theocr. 17. 78; τὰ τῶν θύραθεν .. ὀφέλλεται Aesch. Theb. 193; ἀραγ- pos ἐν πύλαις ὀφέλλεται increases, waxes louder, Ib. 249. ὀφέλλω (C), to heap up, bring together : and so, to sweep, τὴν στέγην Hippon. 42;—hence ὄφελμα, τό, a broom, Ib., cf. Eust. 1887. 34, Hesych.; also ὄφελτρον, τό, Id.; and ὀφελτρεύω, Zo sweep, Lyc. 1165. ὄφελμα, τό, (ὀφέλλω B) increase, advantage, Soph. Fr. 926.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Like, get phone numbers of ladies and pick one for a sobriety coach you can call every day till you can get a grip. So I pick a lady in an A-line denim skirt and penny loafers, and maybe because her society lockjaw accent has the cadence of my mother-in-law’s, I never call before I pick up a drink—when she could talk me out of it—only after. How does Warren miss all this? Maybe he conks out, or maybe I’m a sneaky bitch. I wake one night on the back stair landing, choking on bile that’s erupted from my throat while passed out. Feeling my way up the unlit stairwell, I see at the top my pajama’ed boy, his frayed polar bear tucked under his arm, and around him is glowing some pale blue corona from a source I can’t name, and his eyes are acetylene torches. I hoist him in my arms and feel his soft arms around my neck, and he pats my cheek and says, Are you okay, Mommy? I lie that I am, and after I’ve settled him in his brand new big-boy bed, he corkscrews his way back into a dream. Then I stay all night propped against the wall, watching the light sift over him as if grated from the moon. Get a fucking grip, you drunk bitch, the sober part of me says. The two halves seldom war anymore, because they’re never in my head at the same time. They’ve worked out some system of shifts: the sober voice only gets in during periods I’m drowning in remorse; the drunk voice is otherwise resident as I hurtle toward a drink. The next night I humbly return to the shit-brown chair, trying to read the Boy Scout aphorisms hung from the wall, and I promise myself the first woman who makes me laugh, I’ll get her number and call her the second I get up tomorrow. Doing it alone is not working. The speaker’s named Joan—an elegant pageboyed social theorist at Harvard whose unlikely outlaw stint in Alaska involved going to the bar one night in subzero weather wearing a tutu under her arctic parka, just to stir things up. Since the night I woke up after puking, I’ve become semi-teachable, and I tell her that I’m ready to hear suggestions. She says, Do some volunteer work. So I start scrubbing coffee urns with the black marine, who tells me that, yes, even if I consider dosing the coffee with cyanide, the act of making it still constitutes spiritual progress. Joan also urges me to start praying to some half-baked higher power whose existence I argue against. No way, I say. Never happen, no offense.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  μετάμειψις, 7, exchange: alteration, Schol. Aesch. Pr. 670. μεταμέλει, impf. μετέμελε: fut. - μελήσει: aor. μετεμέλησε: (μέ- Aw): I. impers. it repents me, rues me, Lat. poenitet me :— Construction : 1. c. dat. pers. et gen. rei, ὑμῖν μεταμελησάτω τῶν πεπραγμένων Lys, 186. 12, cf. Plat. Phaedr. 231 A, Xen. Cyr. 8. 3, 32; 2. oftener, the thing one repents of is in part. agreeing with the dat., μετεμέλησέ of τὸν Ἑλλήσποντον μαστιγώσαντι it repented him of having scourged it, Hdt. 7. 54, cf. 1. 130., 3. 36, 140, Antipho 140. 18; μεταμέλει μοι οὕτως ἀπολογησαμένῳ I repent of having so defended myself, Plat. Apol. 38 E :—so, μ. μοι ὅτι... Xen. Cyr. 5. 3, 6. 3. often absol., μ. μοι it repents me, Ar. Pl. 358, Antipho 140. 33 :—some- times it is so used as to be undistinguishable from μεταμέλομαι 3, ξυνέβη ὑμῖν πεισθῆναι μὲν ἀκεραίοις μεταμέλειν δὲ κακουμένοις to adopt a measure when your forces are unbroken, and ¢o repent when in distress, Thuc. 2. 61; μεταλαμβάνειν ταὐτὰ καὶ μεταμέλειν Plat. Prot. 356 ΤΣ 4. part. neut. μεταμέλον absol., since it repented him, τῶν ἀνη- λωμένων αὐτοῖς μ. Isocr. 382 C, cf. Plat. Phaedo 113 E. 11. seldom with a nom., to cause repentance or sorrow, τῷ ᾿Αρίστωνι μετέ- pere τὸ εἰρημένον (for τοῦ εἰρημένου) Hat. 6. 63; τοῖσι .. ἡγεομένοισι τὰ πεπρηγμένα μετέμελε οὐδέν Id. 9. 1; ws αὐτοῖσι μεταμέλῃ πόνος Aesch, Eum. 771 (nowhere else in Trag., and this line is suspected) ; οἶμαι δέ σοι ταῦτα peTapeAnoew Ar. Nub. 1114.—Cf. μεταμέλομαι. μεταμέλεια, 7, change of purpose, regret, repentance, μεταμέλειαν λαμβάνειν Eur. Fr. 1065; and in pl., μεταμελείας A. Thuc. 1. 343 μ. περί τινος Id. 3. 37; μόνη σιὠπη μ. οὐ φέρει Menand. Incert. 153; ἐμπιμπλάναι τινα μεταμελείας Plat. Legg. 727 Ο; μ. γίγνεται τοῦ - πεπραγμένου Ib. 866 Ε ; ὁ ἐν μ.--ὖ μεταμελόμενος, Arist. Eth. N. 3.1. 13; μ. ἔχει με = μεταμέλει μοι, Xen.Cyr. 5. 3, 7:—Ion.—ty, Vit. Hom. 19. μεταμελητικός, 7. dv, full of regrets, always repenting, Arist. Eth. N. 7.7, 2; μεταμελείας μεστός, acc. to Plat. Rep. 577 E. μεταμελητός, 7, dv, repented of, Hesych. 5. v. πεδαγρετόν.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  I recall I paused before Tossi, the great Moroccan, sprawled drunk across the chair arm, his workman’s pants at mid-shin, hands loose across a cock he boasted always stiff, even when he slept. I squatted between his knees and nuzzled him. I often gave him the same service Benny gives me—” (He gestured where the naked boy slept with the dog.) “—and Olaf or Pietro, the big blond Italian, would do for Tossi what you and the fishermen did for me. But Tossi grunted and pushed me away. Had he wakened I would have taken him with me. But he didn’t. The probable fate of the others? I’m sure the police apprehended them later. The money and the prestige of the Count held the law off us. Without him we were vulnerable. I knew that. So I left my favorite, drunken and doomed, without regret. Such departures are strange, and very easy. “You have asked me about the woman? Here she makes her first entrance into my wanderings. Let me introduce her by explaining that I moved down through Italy, keeping to smaller towns. A week from Zurich round me living with a grave digger and his son. Where the mother had gone, or, in truth, if there was actually blood between man and boy, I never knew for sure. The father, whose acquaintance I made in a narrow street lit by half a moon at midnight, had raised the child to his own tastes. They disinterred dead women, carried them to their shack—a print of the Virgin was tacked over the fire, and the roof leaked after any more than an hour’s rain steady—where, with dirty fingers, and stained teeth, father and son would bruise and tear the cold mouth, breasts, buttocks, and box. Though liking to lick, lip, and tongue the cool and putrid corpses, they preferred to give up their juice in something warm, wet and responding, while they groveled, growled and bit. Often they would perform this service for one another (reluctantly claimed the father), one on his knees, hugging the hips of the other, who lowered over the figure on the table flickering under the candles. But their real pleasure was to indulge the yellowing, lardy lumps together while somebody else—male or female, it was no matter—crouched for them. Often I saw their clotted hands meet, while man and boy exchanged congealed kisses, tongueing a bit of fat between them. “I met Guido, the grave digger, as I say, in a dark street. His black eyes followed mine, pulled me around.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!” “Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.” “But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it,” he warmly replied; “I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out.” “Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings’s. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne—still affectionate, open, artless, confiding—everything that could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried—but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was—Well, it does not signify; it is over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue.” A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,” said Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; “you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne—nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.” “Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he with a heavy sigh; “she does not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,—be it only one degree,—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?” “Yes, you have certainly removed something—a little. You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know—the misery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it worse.” “Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you?—Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence—tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.” “I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Harry, in awe, opened the main gate of the tank enclosure, and Friggley shuffled down the road. Then, in a sudden flurry, more drama. The Pearloiner leapt out from a bush with a cackle and tried to snatch away several of Friggley’s clitorises and hide them in her freezing jar. A small tussle ensued, which Friggley easily won by clasping the Pearloiner in several of its wank-strong arms. “Don’t let her go!” said Rhumpa. She seized the precious clitty jar, remounted Friggley, and the curious trio lurched toward Lila’s office. [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SW.jpg] The Pearloiner Says She’s Sorry [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SX.jpg] The Pearloiner was sitting on the couch, staring forward remorsefully. She’d been crying. The icy jar of clits was on a side table, shedding a soft gray mist. Zilka and Cheyenne stood on the open pussyrug, stripped down to their bras. Friggley was tied by the balls outside. “It was a misguided passion,” the Pearloiner was saying. “There are better things to collect. I see that now. I’m truly sorry for my compulsive thieving.” She fished in the jar, finding the plastic bags with Zilka’s and Cheyenne’s clits in them. “Thank you, Madame Pearloiner,” said Lila. “Zilka and Cheyenne will fix your hair and dress you for the Sherry Cobbler and Farewell Handjob Festival. As a first step, we must forgive.” The two lovely almost-naked women washed and blow-dried the Pearloiner’s hair and dressed her in a white shirt and a flattering navy-blue linen jacket. They left her naked down below. “Now, Madame, you know what you must do,” said Lila. She put the clitorises in the Pearloiner’s open palms. “Cup their pussies and reinstate their joys. Only you can give back what you took away.” The Pearloiner cupped the women’s crotches and jiggled her hands rapidly, saying, “By the power and the authority of the federal Transportation Security Administration, Eastern Region, HQ, I hereby give you back your clits and humbly ask your forgiveness for being so greedy to possess them.” “Oh, ooochie,” moaned Zilka, feeling her tender stem re-connecting. Moments after, Cheyenne’s clitoris went live. Her face cleared, and she beamed. “Finally!” she said. “Now down on the pussyrug, you two,” said Lila. “You must fix the repairs in place by gently grinding your gorgeous twats against each other.” Zilka and Cheyenne scissored themselves together and humped and ground, clit to blissfully reanimated clit. “Sealing it with a crimson pussy kiss,” said the Pearloiner, visibly moved. Lila opened a drawer and pulled out a large smooth wooden dildo, which she handed to the Pearloiner. “Madame, put this handmade Dendro wherever you would like it to go,” she said. The Pearloiner threw her strong tanned legs open and steered the dildo deep into her fur. She shook her head. “It’s good, but it’s not what I need,” she said. “I need live dick.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he, “the consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—at least I thought so _then;_ and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly.” The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. Marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur—regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,—wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in _your_ remembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?—not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.—Your example was before me; but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment’s recollection, “Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?” “I mean,” said he, with serious energy, “if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do _now_. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma— from your sister.” “Is this the real reason of your coming?” “Upon my soul it is,”—was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere. “If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_, she has _long_ forgiven you.” “Has she?” he cried, in the same eager tone. “Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?” Elinor bowed her assent. “I do not know,” said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, “how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,—it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind—it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection.” Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I felt is—in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one—perhaps too simple to raise any emotion—my feelings were very, very painful.—Every line, every word was—in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid—a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was—in the same language—a thunderbolt.—Thunderbolts and daggers!—what a reproof would she have given me!—her taste, her opinions—I believe they are better known to me than my own,—and I am sure they are dearer.” Elinor’s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;—yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. “This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.—Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.” “Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days,—that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever,—awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, ‘I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.’ But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street;—but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name.” “Watched us out of the house!”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Remember,” cried Willoughby, “from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!” “Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl—I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be—your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.” “But, upon my soul, I did not know it,” he warmly replied; “I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out.” “Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?”

• From Fragments (7)

  Ce dernier point n'est que trop exact : je n'ai malheureuse- ment pas eu, comme Bergk, l'embarras du choix en fait de cor- recteurs. De même j'avoue que j'aurais manqué de tact, en ne qualifiant pas, comme vous, de « méprise insignifiante » !'« er- reur .) qui nous divise, si je l'avais signalée ailleurs que dans les variantes : c'est-à-dire là où la plus scrupuleuse exactitude est de rigueur, et où les atténuations ne sont guère de mise. Et mainte- nant. Monsieur, voyons, pourquoi, mettez-vous au pluriel ce que j'exprime au singulier ? Je n'ai pas accusé Bergk d'avoir fait erreur au vers 9 ; pourquoi amenez-vous ce vers à la rescousse ? Prenez garde qu'on ne dise que c'est pour couvrir la faiblesse des argimients, qui concernent le vers 10, le seul qui est en cause. Ensuite croyez-vous que, dans les variantes, j'avais à énumérer les raisons qui pouvaient excuser Bergk d'avoir été induit en erreur ? Enfin, il n'y a pas à tergiverser, entre nous une seule chose est en question : c'est de savoir si l'erreur est du côté de — 84 — Bergk ou du mien. Pour la résoudre voyons ce qu'il a dit : Lyr, Grec.'' III, page 89, ligne 20 : — « V. 10. ypu) scripsi atque ita cod. Par. Plut., legebatur ypu), Ahrens ^^pwv. » Ce qui veut dire : vers 10, j'ai écrit y pu) et de même le cod. Par. Plut., on lisait ypM> Ahrens ypwv. Eh bien devant un pareil texte, il faut reconnaître que les termes et la ponctuation de la phrase nous placent, vous et moi, ainsi que tous les latinistes, en face du dilemme suivant : 1° Ou bien Bergk connaissait le latin, et en l'écrivant, savait ce qu'il voulait dire ; et dès lors la vii'gule, après Plut., marque que tout ce qui précède est, par cette vir- gule, nettement séparé de legebatur qui vient après : et, pour qu'il n'y ait pas lieu d'accuser l'imprimeur d'avoir malencon- treusement placé cette virgule, voici que cod. Par. Plut, conti- gus à ita, terme incontestable de similitude, se trouvent par ce ce mot, liés comme semblables à l'ouvrage de Bergk, relative- ment à 7po). C'est là ce qui, par rapport au cod. Par., constitue r« erreur « que j'ai signalée, ou l'une des « insignifiantes mé- prises si rigoureusement relevées par Spengel et Hammer » 2° Ou bien Bergk ne connaissait par le latin et voulait dire autre chose que ce qu'il a écrit !.... Devant une énormité pareille, laissez-moi croire que j"ai eu raison de taxer Bergk d'er- reur (errare humaniim est), plutôt que d'ignorance. Et maintenant, Monsieur, j'espère bien qu'il ne vous en coû- tera pas trop de reconnaître, que r« erreur n'est pas du coté de Bascoul ». Dans cet espoir, veuillez agréer,"] Monsieur, avec mes remerciements anticipés, l'assurance de ma considération très distinguée J.-M.-F.-BASCOUL El-Kseur (dép* de Constantine), 9 février 1913. FIN Al OCR ^ IMPRTMERIE AI.OftRtBNNt APPENDICE