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.

Page 3 of 30 · 20 per page

• 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 Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  They are broken and sinful, and they damage us and others. Practice conviction together: 1 . Pray as a group that God would fill your hearts with conviction. 2 . Find ways to go into your neighborhoods and communities and to be with people marginalized because of their race, sexuality, politics, religion, disability, language, socioeconomic status, and so on. Some will be in your church, and others will not. As you spend time with and speak with them (individually and with your small group), what is the Holy Spirit convicting you to repent of? 3 . Now, on large sheets of paper (or on a whiteboard), list the things that the Spirit is convicting you to repent of. These might come from the introductory sections or twelve points made in this chapter. Or the list that the Spirit leads your group to write may be completely different. Contrition: Lament and mourn these things. Contrition involves lamenting and mourning our mistakes and sins, their effect on people and the earth, and their offensiveness to God. This is godly sorrow that moves us to action. So it is time to write another shared group lament. Practice contrition together: 1 . Write a group lament as described in chapter two. 2 . Choose one or more of the issues you wrote on your paper (or whiteboard) at stage one (conviction ). 3 . Then, following the nine elements of lament, spend some time in your small group writing a shared lament for the issues you chose. Write a lament together, structured around these nine stages or elements (described earlier): invocation, worship, description, connection, lament, confession, petition, trust, and praise. You might do this by asking people in pairs to write one or two of these nine stages or elements. 4 . Spend time together in prayer over the themes in the lament. Open to the contrition that the Holy Spirit inspires. Commitment: Commit to new and redemptive attitudes, postures, and behaviors. Commitment is about determining together to change our minds, attitudes, purpose, desires, and ways. We need to make this commitment together and rely on the power of the Holy Spirit. Practice commitment together: 1 . Ask members of your small group to do the following before you meet next time: a . Consider the list that you have formed together of things you feel convicted to repent of. b . Individually during the week, write personal commitments to new, redemptive, God-honoring attitudes and behaviors on a piece of paper. 2 . Share these commitments with each other next time you meet. 3 . Give each other feedback on these commitments. 4 . Spend time praying together that God would help you keep these commitments personally and as a group. 5 . Do all this in a spirit of repentance, grace, forgiveness, love, faith, and hope. Change: Practice becoming new in the world. Conviction, contrition, and commitment must lead to change. We start with recognizing what we have done.

• From Healing Our Broken Humanity: Practices for Revitalizing the Church and Renewing the World (2018)

  If current trends continue, one of every three black American males born today can expect to go to prison in his lifetime, as can one of every six Latino males—compared to one of every seventeen white males.”1 The sin of racism has had a devastating impact on African Americans and had led to both explicit racial discrimination and in effect the construction of two distinct criminal justice systems (“one for wealthy people and another for poor people and minorities”).2 As God’s people, we must embrace repentance and change. These are the right responses to racism, sexism, greed, and other forms of social and personal sin. But what is repentance? Repentance involves key changes in people, groups, and communities. It includes our minds, hearts, and wills. Repentance can be personal, but it can also be corporate. Repentance includes a metanoia , a change of mind and a turning around. Scripture says, “Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord” (Acts 3:19 ). Acts 20:21 further says, “I have declared to both Jews and Greeks that they must turn to God in repentance and have faith in our Lord Jesus.” Repentance means that we change our ways and turn toward God. There are individual sins and corporate/community sins. As individuals we sin by ourselves and come to God for forgiveness. We are very aware of our individual sins, as we commit them personally. Corporate sins are committed by society and institutions that we as individuals become complicit in. We fail to speak up against institutional sins such as racism, sexism, and injustice in the criminal justice system. We therefore need to repent of our social sins as well. Repentance is a four-stage process. The first stage is conviction . We recognize that one or more of our attitudes and behaviors are wrong. They are broken and sinful, and they can damage us and others. This conviction of sin grips our hearts and minds. The second stage is contrition . We lament, regret, and mourn our mistakes and sins. We feel sorrow and remorse for these attitudes and behaviors, for their effect on people and on the earth, and for their offensiveness to God. Contrition is a godly sorrow that moves us to action. The third stage is commitment . We decide to turn away from our sin and commit to new, God-honoring, and redemptive attitudes, postures, and behaviors. This is changing our minds, changing our attitudes, changing our purpose, changing our desires, and changing our ways. The fourth stage is change . We practice a new way of being in the world. This is the way of repentance, righteousness, humility, justice, love, and reconciliation. Godly sorrow leads to faith, hope, and love. Why Do We Need to Repent?We live in a broken world. This brokenness not only hurts us, it also hurts those around us.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Finally I got up courage to return to the cemetery in the late afternoon. The shack was a smoking scab at the graveyard’s edge. Distraught and angry townsmen clumped together, muttering about ‘the beast and his half-witted bastard,’ and their audacity to abduct the Duchessa herself. How fortunate, they declared, that she had escaped with her honor, yet was able to expose their atrocities to her husband who had arrived to save her, in time. No, she was upset, and the doctors said she must stay indoors several weeks; no one was to see her. “I left the town; shortly afterwards, the country. “As I drifted east, I pondered on all this. Soon I was in countries where life meant much less than in Europe. The particularities by which coming and killing could link up surpassed all I had heretofore experienced. But still I pondered Catherine’s actions. During those periods which all of us who live this particular life must endure, when I lose all taste for women, she exemplifies that fantasy the bourgeois misogynist has predicated to justify his own inadequacy. But at other times, when concourse with my own sex revolts me, I see her more generously, and I realize that the actions of all of us were webbed by circumstance, bound by whatever forces move a Duke and Duchess, a grave digger and his son, a wanderer in an alien land. “She was generous enough to let me escape an easy hanging. “I return little enough by letting her escape my censure. “Toward the end of two years’ wanderings I stayed a double month in India, most of it in the house of Geana Liana, a woman not twenty-one, but in whose palatial establishment, inherited from a doting ‘uncle,’ acts were committed hourly by Indians and Europeans alike, night and day, that would make the deeds of the grave diggers, were they lights in the sky, fade—to take an image from Sappho—as the moon blinds out the near stars. Those talents I had begun to develop with the Count were brought to fruition there: I ministered deeds, envisioned more arduous ones, participated in many; often I helped the participants recuperate. “Geana herself, as I drank Turkish coffee and ate candied fruit on the balcony and she painted at my portrait, asked, ‘Jon? What do you want to do?’ Eyes winged with kohl, she smiled behind her veil. ‘You are a doctor who cannot heal anyone. You say you have studied the ways of different cultures, yet you are amazed at everything you see. Do you paint?’ “ ‘I draw a little—’ I had actually had a job as a medical illustrator for one term. “ ‘Tomorrow I will loan you paints and brushes. And you will paint a mural on the wall of the West Chamber with the white jade columns.’ “I painted the wall.

• From Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  “Why did these problems happen? [Falun Gong practitioners] should think about it with reason, with their own senses, and in a dialectical way. When we look at things from a normal sense, without bias, and with reason, we will know what we should do,” Hao Huijun explained. When told about the conspiracy theories propagated by Falun Gong in regard to the self-immolation tragedy at Tiananmen Square, Hao Huijun responded thoughtfully, placing it again in the context of her own experience in the group. “I thought in a similar way,” she said. “But it’s time for those who are practicing Falun Gong to calm down and think reasonably…Why were we burning ourselves? It was not that the government forced us into suicide, although the rumors went so. This is not the truth.” She concluded, “Before we fully understood, we used the same arguments and same logic in regard to incidents caused by Falun Gong.” I told Hao Huijun that I have received complaints from families in the United States that Falun Gong practitioners often refuse medical care or discontinue medications based on their beliefs. “They should consult a doctor and take medication,” she responded. “Tell them to see a doctor when their children fall ill. Don’t impose what you regard right on your children,” she said. “You can see the disastrous effect this caused my daughter. I really regret that now.” The profound regret Hao Huijun feels is evident. China has mandated a one-child-per-family policy, which means Chen Guo is her only child. Hao Huijun lives every day with her daughter as a constant reminder of what she did while under the influence of Falun Gong. Despite reclaiming her reason, there is nothing she can do to change the physical consequences of her past devotion. This is the burden Hao Huijun must somehow manage to carry for the rest of her life. But she continues to be a teacher and hopes to help others gain the understanding she so painfully acquired. In China, Falun Gong is labeled an “evil cult,” the most literal translation of the Chinese terminology used to describe what English-speaking people might call a “destructive cult.” Falun Gong, like other groups called “cults,” has denounced that description as “persecution.” And Li Hongzhi‘s followers allege that horrific human rights violations have been committed against them. This is not unlike the historic response of Scientology to its many critics, who have been labeled “religious bigots.” Rather than address the criticism, the strategy seems to be attack or dismiss the critics. Falun Gong has repeatedly tried to shift the focus from its behavior to the behavior of the Chinese government. Li and his followers seem to hope that historic distrust or perhaps anxiety about China’s growing power can be used to neutralize any criticism leveled against them. But looking at the facts rather than the fiction confirms what psychologist Margaret Singer observed.

• From Augustine: A New Biography (2005)

  Some theologians have all the luck. In that first decade of his baptized religious opinions, much that he thought, said, and did was far more continuous with who and what he had been before than with what he became later. He still held on to the optimism and idealism of ancient high culture and he was still emphatically Augustine the gentleman, or the would-be gentleman, seeking a role for himself based on what he knew of the traditional culture of his world. He escaped that persona without meaning to or knowing quite how. XIIWHO WAS AUGUSTINE?DEATH IN HIPPO When he lay down to die, Augustine wanted to be alone. For ten days in August he lay undisturbed, except when they brought him food and drink, or when the physicians came to check on him. He was seventy-five. Alone, he stared at the walls where he had made them put up copies of the Psalms of repentance for him to see and read. And so he read the words the Psalmist gave to David when Nathan came to reproach him for his conduct with Bathsheba. Have pity on me, god, pity to match the greatness of your mercy and the multitude of your kindnesses: erase my wickedness. For I know my wickedness and my sin stares me ever in the face. I was conceived in wickedness and in sin my mother conceived me. You have loved the truth and you have revealed to me the unknown and hidden sides of your wisdom ………………………………………… God will not turn away a worn and humbled heart. Once in a crowded church in Carthage, almost twenty years earlier, he had given a sermon on this psalm, competing for the audience’s attention with a thronged circus not far away. The circus drew not only “pagans” and Jews and waverers, but also the very people he thought most ought to be in church—the baptized faithful. He preached, as usual, not to the converted so much as to a people in constant need of reconversion. As he spoke that day, the psalm was not just about a libidinous king and his devious ways: it spoke of every sin and every sinner. The temptations and delights of the flesh, he said, were all of a piece, and sexual transgression stood for all of them. David’s fall was meant to remind readers that no one was immune from temptation, from sin, not even kings, surely not bishops. The sermon lasted about forty-five minutes, the preacher savoring each verse, finding material for exhortation and for caution and for fragments of hope, finding his own story in an ancient book.

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

  Shandee shifted her weight fetchingly, considering. “Krock is a stickler,” she said finally, “but you’ve been so helpful, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Pull out the cloth of Ka-Chiang, and I’ll push some fresh juice from my cunny for you.” Dune breathed. “Oh, that would be a welcome treat.” He pushed an oven mitt into Shandee’s upper leg, softly, and palmed her left asscheek. Then he thumped the asscheek a little on one side, so that she jumped and her elegant flesh shimmied. He pinched her thighs gently three times and tugged on her hanky till it fell out. “Now let me see your pussy cry,” he said. Shandee was wet already; she arched her back up and pushed. Dune saw a tender shining weep of wetness that brimmed over her slit and leaked down one leg. “Oh, my glory!” Dune said, losing control. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d flung off an oven mitt and slid one pinky finger knuckle-deep into her velvet draperies. There was a bonging sound and a commotion. A disembodied male arm leapt up, twirled once in the air, and seized Dune by the wrist. Krock hurried in and grabbed the knife. Mischa set out the chopping block on a towel. “Dune, why did you do it?” said Shandee, full of disappointment and concern. “I forgot myself, I’m sorry,” said Dune, disengaging the viselike fingers of Dave’s arm. He turned to Krock and Mischa. “Now hear me out, guys. I play keyboards and guitar, and to be honest I’d rather lose my pecker for a little while than my ability to make music.” That statement got Krock’s attention. “Daggett,” he said into his communicator, “tell Lila that Dune has verbally agreed before witnesses to lose his pecker.” Lila was pacing up and down in front of her desk when Dune was led in. “All right, Mr. Pussyfinger,” she said firmly. “Just for that bit of defiance, we’re going to do a switcheroo on you.” She opened a door. In walked Marcela, the art critic, in a black slip. “Hello,” she said, with a nervous smile. Dave Trespasse s D ave was out for a walk in the middle of a quiet road near the House of Holes. He’d set out at about three o’clock in the afternoon, needing a little break after spending eight hours in the Porndecahedron watching amateur movies of women making themselves come. It was a lovely budding afternoon, and the sky was a perfect Pantone 2925 blue.

• 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

• From Augustine: A New Biography (2005)

  More important, in the Reconsiderations we find the place where Augustine invents the story of Augustine the bishop, the story of the dogged controversialist, dragged against his will into one battle with heresy and error after another. That story has remained the armature of every biography written of him since, from Possidius to Lancel, from 430 to 1999. The Augustine who appears here dueled first with Manicheism, then with Donatism, then took on the “pagans,” and finally found himself compelled to face the Pelagians, with Arians, Jews, and heretics in various supporting roles. But this was a man whose own story about himself was that he was at all times on fire to meditate on the law of his god, day and night, nothing more. Indeed, Augustine’s sermons offer a far more balanced picture, often, to be sure, flecked with his current controversies, of the pastor seeking to do justice to the spiritual needs of his congregation. But the Reconsiderations don’t represent Augustine’s life in that way—a way that would be both intimate and public at the same time. That story, the narrative of Augustine’s life, is the real message of this book and the real creation. Just as the Confessions had built a past for the younger bishop, so now the Reconsiderations built a past for Augustine the cleric to take to the afterlife with him, to leave for others to contemplate when he was gone. It replaced the living, breathing, quarreling cleric with Augustine the author, and that is how he has been known ever since. Because the Reconsiderations seems only to be a work of bibliography, it has received far less scrutiny and skepticism than it deserves, and has been deftly and quietly effective, shaping readers’ views in ways they never sense or expect. AFTER AUGUSTINE Augustine departed the world as he had chosen to live it, Roman and Christian, disdainful and remorseful and hopeful, hearing in his mind words of dead sages and poets, holding the present at arm’s length, thinking of the parents who had conceived him in the midst of their sins.

• 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

• 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)

  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 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)

  “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)

  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)

  “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)

  “It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.” “I insist on you hearing the whole of it,” he replied, “My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,—I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing.” “You did then,” said Elinor, a little softened, “believe yourself at one time attached to her?”

• 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 The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, the good lady, having thus bethought herself and belike more than once, to give effect privily to these considerations, clapped up an acquaintance with an old woman who showed like Saint Verdiana, that giveth the serpents to eat, and still went to every pardoning, beads in hand, nor ever talked of aught but the lives of the Holy Fathers or of the wounds of St. Francis and was of well nigh all reputed a saint, and whenas it seemed to her time, frankly discovered to her her intent. 'Daughter mine,' replied the beldam, 'God who knoweth all knoweth that thou wilt do exceeding well, and if for nought else, yet shouldst thou do it, thou and every other young woman, not to lose the time of your youth, for that to whoso hath understanding, there is no grief like that of having lost one's time. And what a devil are we women good for, once we are old, save to keep the ashes about the fire-pot? If none else knoweth it and can bear witness thereof, that do and can I; for, now that I am old, I recognize without avail, but not without very sore and bitter remorse of mind, the time that I let slip, and albeit I lost it not altogether (for that I would not have thee deem me a ninny), still I did not what I might have done; whereof whenas I remember me, seeing myself fashioned as thou seest me at this present, so that thou wouldst find none to give me fire to my tinder,[286] God knoweth what chagrin I feel. With men it is not so; they are born apt for a thousand things, not for this alone, and most part of them are of much more account old than young; but women are born into the world for nothing but to do this and bear children, and it is for this that they are prized; the which, if from nought else, thou mayst apprehend from this, that we women are still ready for the sport; more by token that one woman would tire out many men at the game, whereas many men cannot tire one woman; and for that we are born unto this, I tell thee again that thou wilt do exceeding well to return thy husband a loaf for his bannock, so thy soul may have no cause to reproach thy flesh in thine old age. Each one hath of this world just so much as he taketh to himself thereof, and especially is this the case with women, whom it behoveth, much more than men, make use of their time, whilst they have it; for thou mayst see how, when we grow old, nor husband nor other will look at us; nay, they send us off to the kitchen to tell tales to the cat and count the pots and pans; and what is worse, they tag rhymes on us and say,