Sadness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Pisces (2018)

  I wondered what he ate. Plankton? Fish? His breath always tasted fresh, a little salty but not fishy. He tasted like ocean air. In the living room he was sitting up in the sunlight that shone through the big glass windows, the blanket wrapped around him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Why?” I asked. “I think I brought some darkness in here with me. The sadness, moving from sea to land, sometimes I can’t shake it. I thought if anything I would feel scared, but coming here I couldn’t help but think, What’s the point? I mean, I guess the point is that we have an experience. I guess that is the point. I just, well, I am going to live a long time. And have lived a long time. I have seen a lot of people come and go.” I wondered how many people. How many women, human women? Mermaids? I wanted to say I would be with him forever. But I didn’t know if that was what he wanted me to say. I couldn’t make that promise. I realized it wasn’t my impending departure for Phoenix that stopped me from offering the words. And it wasn’t my fear of intimacy. It was still my fear of rejection. “But you seem so young,” I said. “No, I’m not. I’ve been alive for a very long time. I’m not eternal. I can die. But we don’t usually get sick, not in the body anyway. Something about the saltwater. It brines us and keeps us young. It keeps illness from entering.” “So how old are you exactly?” “Honestly, I don’t really know. It’s not a thing down there. Maybe forty?” “That’s how old I am,” I said. “Almost. Wow, I’m younger than you.” “I told you you’re young,” he said. “I might be even older than that actually.” “Who are your parents?” “They are like me, but also very much not like me. They look like me, or my mother does anyway, but more content with their existence. They never leave the water. They aren’t scared, they simply have no interest,” he said. “Anyway, hoisting and dragging myself like that, on the sand, it made me feel tired. Sometimes I get so tired, even in the water. It’s like physical things don’t make me physically tired, but they make me mentally tired. Mental things make me feel that way too.” “Everything is just so much,” I said. “All the time.” “It is,” he said. “And I was scared I wasn’t going to be able to, you know.” He laughed. “Get it up?” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “Not because I don’t want you or because I don’t have it in me physically, but because of that mental exhaustion. I can doubt myself. I become more susceptible.” “Theo,” I soothed him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  I’m fifty-three, Stephen, I’ll be going in the wind if I don’t knock off smoking quite soon, and that’s certain!’ Then Stephen would know that her father felt young, very young, and was wanting her to flatter him a little. But this mood would not last; it had often quite changed by the time that the two of them reached the stables. She would notice with a sudden pain in her heart that he stooped when he walked, not much yet, but a little. And she loved his broad back, she had always loved it—a kind, reassuring protective back. Then the thought would come that perhaps its great kindness had caused it to stoop as though bearing a burden; and the thought would come:’ He is bearing a burden, not his own, it’s some one else’s—but whose?’ CHAPTER 13 1 T here was gossip in plenty over Martin’s disappearance, and to this Mrs. Antrim contributed her share, even more than her share, looking wise and mysterious whenever Stephen’s name was mentioned. Every one felt very deeply aggrieved. They had been so eager to welcome the girl as one of themselves, and now this strange happening—it made them feel foolish which in turn made them angry. The spring meets were heavy with tacit disapproval—nice men like young Hallam did not run away for nothing; and then what a scandal if those two were not engaged; they had wandered all over the country together. This tacit disapproval was extended to Sir Philip, and via him to Anna for allowing too much freedom; a mother ought to look after her daughter, but then Stephen had always been allowed too much freedom. This, no doubt, was what came of her riding astride and fencing and all the rest of the nonsense; when she did meet a man she took the bit between her teeth and behaved in a most amazing manner. Of course, had there been a proper engagement—but obviously that had never existed. They marvelled, remembering their own toleration, they had really been extremely broad-minded. An extraordinary girl, she had always been odd, and now for some reason she seemed odder than ever.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky when Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. ‘Now, don’t bother me, Miss, I’ve got my work to see to!’ or: ‘You go and show Nurse—yes, I know you’re a boy, but I’ve got my work to get on with. Run away.’ And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so dearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets too, and these were forbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed her, because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be some one quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In a quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised the idiotic creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas and birthday. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ she would mutter thumping their innocuous faces. But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she seemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. ‘It’s me housemaid’s knee,’ she confided to Stephen, ‘It’s not you, it’s me housemaid’s knee, dearie.’ ‘Is that dangerous?’ demanded the child, looking frightened. Then Collins, true to her class, said: ‘It may be—it may mean an ’orrible operation, and I don’t want no operation.’ ‘What’s that?’ inquired Stephen. ‘Why, they’d cut me,’ moaned Collins; ‘they’d ’ave to cut me to let out the water.’ ‘Oh, Collins! What water?’ ‘The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, Miss Stephen.’ They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where Collins was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and delicious occasions when Stephen could converse with her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a letter. Collins rolled down a coarse woollen stocking and displayed the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen and far from attractive, but Stephen’s eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched the knee with her finger. ‘There now!’ exclaimed Collins, ‘See that dent? That’s the water!’ And she added: ‘It’s so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn’t ought to polish them floors.’ Stephen said gravely: ‘I do wish I’d got it—I wish I’d got your housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of you.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  having succeeded in concealing his identity and escaping recognition. He then crossed rapidly to England, and proceeded, raggedly dressed, towards London. But before entering the city, he talked at great length with the two little children, laying great stress on two points in particular: first, that they must patiently support the state of poverty into which, through no fault of their own, Fortune had cast them along with their father; and second, that if they valued their lives, they must always be on their guard against telling anyone where they had come from or who their father was. The boy, who was called Louis, was about nine years old, whilst the girl, whose name was Violante, 2 was about seven, and considering their tender age, they paid the closest possible attention to their father’s instructions, as they were later to prove. In order to make their task easier, the Count decided it would be necessary to change their names, and this he did, calling the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette. And on arriving, poorly dressed, in London, they began to go round begging for alms, in the manner of the French vagrants that we see here in Italy. And it was when they were begging outside a church one morning, that a great lady, the wife of one of the King of England’s marshals, happened to catch sight of the Count and his two children as she was coming away from her devotions. On asking where he came from and whether the two children were his, he replied that he was from Picardy and that he was indeed their father. But he had been compelled to leave home with the children and lead a vagabond existence because of a crime that an elder son of his had committed. The lady, who was of a kindly nature, ran her eyes over the girl and took a great liking to her, for she was a pretty little thing and had an air of gentility about her. ‘Good sir,’ said the lady. ‘If you would like to leave this little girl with me, I will gladly look after her, for she is a pretty-looking child. And if she turns out as well as she promises, when the time comes I shall arrange a good marriage for her.’ This request greatly pleased the Count, who promptly gave his consent, and with tears in his eyes he handed over his daughter, warmly commending her to the lady’s care. He was well aware of the lady’s identity, and now that he had found a good home for the child, he decided not to remain there any longer. And so, begging as he went, he made his way with Perrot to the other side of the island, finding the journey very tiring as he was unused to travelling on foot.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As she spoke, her worthy hearers shed countless tears and pleaded with her over and over again to change her mind and stay with them, but all to no avail. Having bidden them farewell, she set out with one of her maidservants and a man who was her cousin, both of whom were dressed, like herself, in pilgrim’s garb, and taking with her a goodly quantity of money and precious jewels. She had told no one where she was going, but in fact she made straight for Florence without pausing to rest. On her arrival, she chanced upon a little inn that was kept by a kindly widow, and there she quietly took up her abode in the guise of a poor pilgrim, eager for news of her husband. It so happened that on the very next day, she saw Bertrand go riding past the inn on horseback with his men, and although she recognized him quite distinctly, she none the less inquired who he was from the good lady of the inn. ‘He is a foreign nobleman,’ replied the hostess. ‘His name is Count Bertrand, he is a great favourite with the Florentines because of his affable and gentlemanly nature, and he is head over heels in love with a young lady living nearby, who is nobly bred but poor. The fact is that she is a most virtuous girl, who has not yet married on account of her poverty, but lives with her mother, a lady of great wisdom and probity. Indeed, but for this mother of hers, it is quite possible that the Count would already have had his way with the girl.’ The Countess committed everything to memory, and after giving further thought to each of the things she had heard and building a mental picture of the affair as a whole, she decided on her course of action. And one day, having discovered the name and address of the lady and this daughter of hers who was loved by the Count, she made her way unobtrusively to their house, wearing her pilgrim’s habit. The poverty of the two women was immediately apparent to the Countess, who greeted them and asked the lady if she could talk to her in private. The gentlewoman rose to her feet, assuring her that she was ready to listen, and led her into another room, where they sat down. ‘Madam,’ said the Countess, ‘you and your daughter would appear to have fallen on hard times, and I too am dogged by ill luck. But if you so desired, you could perhaps repair your fortunes as well as my own at one and the same time.’ The lady replied that nothing would please her better than to repair her fortunes without compromising her honour.

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

  When I ask how he’s doing, he shakes his head, saying this has been a terrible year, that he’d been in a near-fatal motorcycle accident and recovered to find out that he had lung cancer, so surgery and treatments and a difficult recovery ensued. “Yikes, what a year, I’m sorry. You look healthy but thinner, which is why I guess I didn’t recognize you right away. You’re so tough, I have no doubt you’ll be back to your robust self soon.” “Well, Laura, I’m getting better and stronger every day. God is good, and I’m grateful. How are you? How’s Michael?” “I had a rough year too, trying to get back on my feet. Michael and I split up,” I say quietly, glancing at Georgia, who is peering into the salad bar a few feet away. My throat instantly constricts. I know that his sympathetic look will reduce me to tears so I reach out to hug him again and say I have to get going. “Oh, wow, I’m shocked. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. If you ever want to talk or need a friend, I’m a good listener.” I thank him and give him my cell number, suggesting that he reach out at some point. Then Georgia is tugging me over to the freezer aisle and Johnny is gone. Fifteen minutes later, Georgia and I are en route to her gymnastics class when I get a text from Johnny: “I’m sorry about you and Michael. You guys seemed so solid to me. You’re the last couple I would have expected this from. I know you’ll get through it, but it’s got to be hard right now.” I respond that it is indeed very difficult and within a few texts we have made a plan to have a drink the coming Sunday after I drop Georgia at sleepaway camp. * As we drive home from my parents’ house on Saturday afternoon after Georgia has said her goodbyes and instructed them on exactly what they should include in their upcoming care packages to her, she requests a send-off dinner with me and Michael that evening. I want to fulfill this simple request and I’m furious at myself that I can’t bring myself to do it, and at Michael for putting us in this position. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl. Daddy and I aren’t able to do that yet.

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

  When I first saw him, I cried. I couldn’t believe how different he looked since I last saw him. He’s changed a lot, he’s grown and his face has morphed into a more adult face. It was amazing to see him but heartbreaking to know that I’ve missed so much,” he says. “Yup,” I say, because what else is there to say? Missing almost a year of your son’s life is indeed heartbreaking. He asks if he can stop by tomorrow before my family arrives to say a quick hello to the kids and drop off some treats for them. “Yes, sure. I’m sorry that I can’t invite you for dinner. I hope we can get to that point someday, but the older kids aren’t there yet and then there’s my family, most of whom you haven’t seen since before all of this,” I taper off. I had pleaded with him in the immediate aftermath of our separation to reach out to my parents, but his avoidance of them for five months until his visit to them in the summer, caused damage that I doubt will ever be undone. The next night, after my family says their tenth goodbye and finally exits into the dark, cold night, and every roasting pan and serving platter has been dried and put away, I crawl exhausted into my bed and call #6 to say hi. We chat quietly in the dark, comparing menus and the chaos of the day, and then my bedroom door bursts open with Daisy rushing in, “Mom!” she says urgently, “I found this new curly hair product and brought some home for you to try. You’re going to love it.” “Hang on,” I whisper to #6, and then to Daisy, “Thank you so much, darling. Will you leave it next to my sink?” “Yes, but you have to smell it,” she says excitedly, walking around the bed to my side. When she gets closer and sees that I am holding the phone, she pauses, asking who I’m talking to. “A friend,” I answer, flustered. She frowns, so I continue, “A friend you don’t know.” She looks at me with alarm so I hang up without even saying goodbye to #6. “I was talking to a friend – well, a friend I’ve gone on some dates with, we used to live in the same building, that’s how I know him,” I say, rambling. “I don’t care how you know him, Mom, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were dating.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It is a matter of very common knowledge throughout the greater part of the world that Can Grande della Scala, upon whom Fortune smiled in so many of his deeds, was one of the most outstanding and munificent princes that Italy has known since the Emperor Frederick the Second.2 He once arranged to hold a splendid and marvellous festival at Verona to which many people would be coming from all over the place, in particular court-entertainers of various kinds. But for reasons of his own, he suddenly changed his mind about it, offered token presents to those who had come, and sent them all packing. The only person to receive neither present nor congé was a certain Bergamino, a conversationalist of quite extraordinary wit and brilliance, who lingered on in the hope that it would eventually turn out to his advantage. But Can Grande had the fixed idea that whatever he gave to this man would be more surely wasted than if he had thrown it into the fire. He did not, however, say anything personally to Bergamino about this, nor did he have him told by others. Several days went by, and Bergamino, receiving neither a summons to the Duke’s table nor any request for his professional services, began to feel the crippling expense of staying at the inn with his servants and horses, and fell into a state of melancholy. But he waited just the same, thinking it would be unwise of him to leave. In his luggage he had three fine rich robes, which had been given to him by other noble lords, so that he would cut a graceful figure at the festivities. And since the innkeeper was demanding payment, he first gave him one of these, and then, after staying a while longer, he was compelled to give him the second, since otherwise he would have had to leave the inn altogether. Then he began to live off the third, having decided to stay until he had seen how long it would last, and then go away. Now while he was living off this third robe, he happened one day to be standing with a very gloomy expression on his face, in front of the table where Can Grande was dining. More out of a desire to tease him than to be entertained by any of his witticisms, Can Grande looked towards him and said: ‘Bergamino, what is the matter? You are looking so sad! Say something to us.’ Without a moment’s reflection, yet with all the fluency of a speech prepared long in advance, Bergamino suddenly came out with a story relevant to his own case, which ran as follows:

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

  It is painful enough that her father no longer lives with us, but the mystery of why her brother and sister have cut off contact with him is beyond her capacity to understand. Usually I can propel her forward through the routines and events in her life, but right now, I don’t have it in me. Anxious about Hudson’s meeting with Michael and knowing that tomorrow, Thanksgiving, will be loudly populated by my family and notably absent Michael – the first time in 26 years we won’t be together on this favorite holiday of his – has left me feeling weary and craving a retreat too. I await Hudson’s arrival back home as I fold around Georgia on the sofa, watching Frozen for the umpteenth time. The more time that passes, the higher my hopes rise that Hudson and Michael are having a productive conversation that connects them to each other again. The last time they talked was nine months earlier, at a diner the week after we learned of Michael’s affair. Hudson had told Michael that he didn’t want further contact with him and that if we divorced, he would live with me. His stubborn streak combined with his intense loyalty has made him stick to his word beyond the point of reason. I had retained little hope of their reuniting anytime soon, so the sudden willingness to talk was a wholly unexpected and welcome surprise. When Hudson walks in hours later, I play it cool. I know that he feels he is betraying me by extending an olive branch to Michael, even though I have told him over and over again that I want him to have his father in his life, that he could never betray me by having a relationship with him. I call to him from the family room to say hello. He sticks his head in the room, looks at Georgia with concern and asks, “You OK, little G?” “My stomach hurts,” she says pitifully, and he nods his head sympathetically. “How’d it go?” I ask, attempting casualness, and he mutters that it was fine, averting his eyes. I turn my attention back to Georgia to let him know he is dismissed from further inquiry. A few minutes later, Michael calls, breathless with excitement, telling me that Hudson had talked for hours about school and theatre and friends, like he had been saving it all up and it came pouring out. “I’m so glad. I hope this is a new start. Did he indicate that he would see you again?” I ask. “I walked him home and he was still talking, so he kept walking with me. It was so good to see him and hear his voice.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having fully restored the Count’s domain to order, the lady communicated this fact to her husband by way of two knights, beseeching him to inform her whether it was on her account that he was deserting his lands, in which case she would go away in order to please him. He answered them very brusquely, saying: ‘She may do whatever she likes. For my own part, I shall go back to live with her when she wears this ring upon her finger, and when she is carrying a child of mine in her arms.’ The ring was very dear to him, and he never let it stray from his finger on account of certain magical powers which he had been told that it possessed. The knights realized that it was virtually impossible for the lady to comply with either of these harsh conditions, but no amount of reasoning on their part could shift him from his resolve, and they therefore returned to their mistress to acquaint her with his answer. Their tidings filled her with dismay, but after giving some thought to the matter she decided to try and find out how and where these two things might be accomplished, thus enabling her to win back her husband. Having carefully considered what she must do, she called together a group of the leading notables of those parts, gave them a highly succinct and moving description of all she had done out of her love for the Count, and pointed out the results of her endeavours. Then she told them that she had no intention of protracting her stay if this entailed the Count’s continued exile; on the contrary, she meant to spend the rest of her days in making pilgrimages and performing works of charity for the good of her soul. Finally, she asked them to take over the defence and administration of the territory, and to inform the Count that she had left him its exclusive and unencumbered title; then she vanished from the scene, having resolved never to set foot in Roussillon again. As she spoke, her worthy hearers shed countless tears and pleaded with her over and over again to change her mind and stay with them, but all to no avail. Having bidden them farewell, she set out with one of her maidservants and a man who was her cousin, both of whom were dressed, like herself, in pilgrim’s garb, and taking with her a goodly quantity of money and precious jewels. She had told no one where she was going, but in fact she made straight for Florence without pausing to rest. On her arrival, she chanced upon a little inn that was kept by a kindly widow, and there she quietly took up her abode in the guise of a poor pilgrim, eager for news of her husband.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Ah, how great a number of splendid palaces, fine houses, and noble dwellings, once filled with retainers, with lords and with ladies, were bereft of all who had lived there, down to the tiniest child! How numerous were the famous families, the vast estates, the notable fortunes, that were seen to be left without a rightful successor! How many gallant gentlemen, fair ladies, and sprightly youths, who would have been judged hale and hearty by Galen, Hippocrates and Aesculapius3 (to say nothing of others), having breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, acquaintances and friends, supped that same evening with their ancestors in the next world! The more I reflect upon all this misery, the deeper my sense of personal sorrow; hence I shall refrain from describing those aspects which can suitably be omitted, and proceed to inform you that these were the conditions prevailing in our city, which was by now almost emptied of its inhabitants, when one Tuesday morning (or so I was told by a person whose word can be trusted) seven young ladies4 were to be found in the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella,5 which was otherwise almost deserted. They had been attending divine service, and were dressed in mournful attire appropriate to the times. Each was a friend, a neighbour, or a relative of the other six, none was older than twenty-seven or younger than eighteen, and all were intelligent, gently bred, fair to look upon, graceful in bearing, and charmingly unaffected. I could tell you their actual names, but refrain from doing so for a good reason, namely that I would not want any of them to feel embarrassed, at any time in the future, on account of the ensuing stories, all of which they either listened to or narrated themselves. For nowadays, laws relating to pleasure are somewhat restrictive, whereas at that time, for the reasons indicated above, they were exceptionally lax, not only for ladies of their own age but also for much older women. Besides, I have no wish to supply envious tongues, ever ready to censure a laudable way of life, with a chance to besmirch the good name of these worthy ladies with their lewd and filthy gossip. And therefore, so that we may perceive distinctly what each of them had to say, I propose to refer to them by names which are either wholly or partially appropriate to the qualities of each. The first of them, who was also the eldest, we shall call Pampinea, the second Fiammetta, Filomena the third, and the fourth Emilia; then we shall name the fifth Lauretta, and the sixth Neifile, whilst to the last, not without reason, we shall give the name of Elissa.

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

  Is it that we were so young when we met? That we settled down without experiencing enough of other people and the world? Were we doomed with our tumultuous childhoods – the early divorce of Michael’s parents and their unconventional lifestyles, the death of my father when I was so young and my mother’s subsequent remarriage? Was it the recent deaths of Michael’s parents, forcing him to stare down his own mortality and then flee from it with a woman almost half his age? I had never stopped to ask myself during the many amiable years of my marriage, why am I so lucky? What have I done to deserve this beautiful life when other people suffer? If I didn’t question why I had been fortunate, I refused to now question why it seemed my fortune had changed. I accepted that it had but that it was temporary, and that all of the things in my life that were still going strong proved that in fact my fortune was shifting but was not completely upended. I was still raging at how Michael had betrayed me and wounded our children, but I realized I wasn’t broken, that he had not destroyed me, that in fact I had everything I needed inside myself. When I was a child and upset or angry, my mother used to offer platitudes like “Life isn’t fair” or “Life will go on”. The simplicity of these statements, their deficiency of advice or a plan of action, were a source of frustration to me. Now I sighed ruefully as I thought of those conversations, because it was so true, this most basic of facts: life isn’t fair and yet, life indeed does go on. My life overall had been more than fair – it had been downright generous actually, giving me much more than it had taken from me. So when friends ask what happened to me and Michael, the unsatisfying answer is that nothing happened and everything happened – life had happened in all of its beauty and ugliness, its love and its misery, its community and its terrible loneliness – and that I was determined that my life, the life I had known and loved and was grateful for, would go on. CHAPTER 16 Cookie Crumbs Those grim winter days seem safely in the past as I revel in the lush days of mid- August. I have always loved summer, the season when I am most alive – the shedding of layers, the heat soaking through my body and thawing my bones, which in all other seasons creak with a cold chill, the flowers and fruit and sand and thunderstorms and overgrown richness of the landscape.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  sympathy with the pentecostal apostles; in this situation he was an outsider and an ill- informed one. The evangelical speeches he produces are to some extent reconstructions, inspired by appropriate passages in the Septuagint, a diaspora document not in use among Jerusalem Jews. Even granted all this, however, Luke’s account of the religion preached immediately after Pentecost does not bear much resemblance to Jesus’s teaching. Its starting-point is the resurrection, but otherwise it is Christianity without Christ. Indeed, the word Christ had not yet come into use – that was a product of the later diaspora and gentile mission. What the apostles were preaching was a form of Jewish revivalism. It had strong apocalyptic overtones – very much part of the Jewish tradition – and it used the resurrection event to prove and heighten the urgency of the message. But what was the message? In all essentials it was: repent and be baptized – the revivalist doctrine preached by John the Baptist before Jesus’s mission even began! Only disjointed fragments of Jesus’s mechanism of salvation, his redefinition of the deity, and his own central role in the process survived. The Jerusalem apostles were in danger of slipping into the theological posture of Jewish baptists. Their Judaic instincts were still powerful and conservative. They were orientated wholly to Temple-worship. Luke’s gospel tells us that after the apostles parted with Jesus at Bethany, ‘they returned to Jerusalem with great joy, and spent all their time in the Temple praising God.’ Again, after the first Pentecost campaign, we learn from Acts that ‘With one mind, they kept up their daily attendance at the Temple.’ The inference is that the leaders of the movement in Jerusalem were much closer to Judaism than Jesus, and indeed had been all along. Alas, we know very little about them. The gospel of John says that the earliest disciples came from the circle of the Baptist, and this at a time when Jesus’s early, simple teaching was strongly reflective of the Baptist’s, at least according to Mark’s account of it. Our authorities give a very confusing picture of Jesus’s following, both during his ministry and afterwards, when the personnel seem to have changed radically. The synoptics agree that twelve men were constituted, in Mark’s words, ‘to be with him, and to send them to preach and to have authority to cast out demons’. Both John and Paul refer to the figure twelve. But were the twelve the same as the apostles? The synoptics and Acts provide lists, but only agree on the first eight. John gives only half. Most of them are just names, if we leave aside later traditions. ‘The Twelve’ seem to relate to the ‘true people’ of the twelve tribes; but apostle in Greek implies an expedition across the sea and must refer

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

  She looks small and piteous as the black and white eye make-up we painted on earlier streaks down her face. When we all leave the building together en masse, I give her a hug and wave goodbye as she stands forlornly, holding Michael’s hand. It is Saturday night, her night to stay with him. I have to let her go, even though my maternal instinct urges me to take her home, help her get cleaned up and curl into bed with her while we accept that this is how it is now, even though sometimes it’s hard and often it physically hurts. I have to let Michael adopt this role too, learn how to be a nurturer. I know his love for Georgia is deep and abiding, but that he’s usually played the role of fun uncle. If I take over every time the going gets tough for her, he will never learn how to be there for her in all circumstances. Ultimately it is best for her and best for him if they wade through these murky waters together without me. The only person it’s not best for is me, who has never viewed motherhood as a walk-on role. I have to let Michael be Georgia’s father. It does not devastate me to let him in, but it does devastate me to walk away. Tina and I huddle under an umbrella as we turn in the opposite direction from Michael and Georgia, and she puts her arm around me. “Oh boy,” she says with a sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s heartbreaking to see Georgia like that.” I nod my head, tears too close to the surface for me to get words out. She asks if I want to get a drink before we part, but I remind her that I have a date picking me up in twenty minutes and I gesture helplessly to myself, wondering aloud how I can pull myself together that quickly. “Oh, right! Yay, a date! That’ll be fun!” she says enthusiastically. I look at her askance so she keeps up her sales pitch, “Go home and get in the tub.” “I don’t like baths,” I say. “Really? In that huge tub of yours? Go. Light a candle. Throw in some of those bath salts I bought you in Paris that I know you’ve been letting Georgia use. Please? Just try? Remember you’re the one who always says, Saturday night, legs up?” she says. “OK, fine, you’re hard to refuse. Saturday night, legs up,” I say, hugging her goodbye. By the time Alan rings my bell exactly one minute before he is due, I am bathed, rose-scented and dressed in a black silk jumpsuit, which he will later tell me he found profoundly unflattering. We greet each other with a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and he looks much as I remember him – tall, slender, kind green eyes, gleaming bald head.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And it was when they were begging outside a church one morning, that a great lady, the wife of one of the King of England’s marshals, happened to catch sight of the Count and his two children as she was coming away from her devotions. On asking where he came from and whether the two children were his, he replied that he was from Picardy and that he was indeed their father. But he had been compelled to leave home with the children and lead a vagabond existence because of a crime that an elder son of his had committed. The lady, who was of a kindly nature, ran her eyes over the girl and took a great liking to her, for she was a pretty little thing and had an air of gentility about her. ‘Good sir,’ said the lady. ‘If you would like to leave this little girl with me, I will gladly look after her, for she is a pretty-looking child. And if she turns out as well as she promises, when the time comes I shall arrange a good marriage for her.’ This request greatly pleased the Count, who promptly gave his consent, and with tears in his eyes he handed over his daughter, warmly commending her to the lady’s care. He was well aware of the lady’s identity, and now that he had found a good home for the child, he decided not to remain there any longer. And so, begging as he went, he made his way with Perrot to the other side of the island, finding the journey very tiring as he was unused to travelling on foot. Eventually he arrived in Wales, where there was another of the King’s marshals, a man who lived in great style and kept a large number of servants, and to this man’s castle the Count, either by himself or with his son, would frequently go in order to obtain something to eat. There were several children at the castle, of whom some belonged to the Marshal himself and others were the sons of the local gentry, and whilst they were competing with each other in children’s sports, like running and jumping, Perrot began to mix with them, performing equally as well or better than any of the others in every game they played. His prowess attracted the attention of the Marshal, who, taking a great liking to the child’s manner and general behaviour, demanded to know who he was. On being told that he was the son of a pauper who sometimes came into the castle begging for alms, the Marshal sent someone to ask whether he could keep him; and although it distressed him to part with the child, the Count, who was praying that such a thing might happen, willingly handed him over.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Cruel indeed is the topic for discussion assigned to us today by our king, especially when you consider that, having come here to fortify our spirits, we are obliged to recount people’s woes, the telling of which cannot fail to arouse compassion in speaker and listener alike. Perhaps he has done it in order to temper in some degree the gaiety of the previous days; but whatever his motive, it is not for me to alter his decree, and I shall therefore relate an occurrence that was not only pitiful, but calamitous, and fully worthy of our tears. Tancredi, Prince of Salerno, was a most benevolent ruler, and kindly of disposition, except for the fact that in his old age he sullied his hands with the blood of passion. In all his life he had but a single child, a daughter, and it would have been better for him if he had never had any at all. He was as passionately fond of this daughter as any father who has ever lived, and being unable to bring himself to part with her, he refused to marry her off, even when she was several years older than the usual age for taking a husband.2 Eventually, he gave her to a son of the Duke of Capua, but shortly after her marriage she was left a widow and returned to her father. In physique and facial appearance, she was as beautiful a creature as there ever was; she was youthful and vivacious, and she possessed rather more intelligence than a woman needs. In the house of her doting father she led the life of a great lady, surrounded by comforts of every description. But realizing that her father was so devoted to her that he was in no hurry to make her a second marriage, and feeling that it would be shameless to approach him on the subject, she decided to see whether she could find herself a secret lover who was worthy of her affections. In her father’s court, she encountered many people of the kind to be found in any princely household, of whom some were nobly bred and others not. Having studied the conduct and manners of several of these, she was attracted to one above all the rest – a young valet of her father’s called Guiscardo, who was a man of exceedingly humble birth, but noble in character and bearing. By dint of seeing him often, before very long she fell madly and secretly in love with him, and her admiration of his ways grew steadily more profound. As for the young man himself, not being slow to take a hint, from the moment he perceived her interest in him he lost his heart to her so completely that he could think of virtually nothing else.

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  It takes everything I’ve got to pull myself together for a full day of being upbeat, and now I won’t have privacy at night to retreat. Plus, she’s chattier than usual, which means she has something important to say and is unloading herself of all minutiae until she has no choice but to spit it out. Over an early dinner of Greek salads at a diner, she finally divulges that a week ago Michael had visited her and my father; it was strained and distressing, as he had for decades been a son to her but now felt like an unwelcome stranger. Over the years I had often felt that she actually preferred him to me – he was open and inclusive, always inviting her to stay for dinner or join us on family vacations while I subtly shook my head no at him, wanting time with just him and the kids. She is loyal and vehemently dedicated to her children, so I know that she’s not upset that she got stuck with me instead of with him, but still, his fall from grace has been difficult for her to wrap her head around. Ever the optimist, after a long rant about how she barely recognized him as the man she’s come to know and adore, she throws in, “I’m still hopeful you’ll be able to work it out, so we’ll see, maybe he’ll come back to himself.” “We won’t be able to fix this, Mom,” I say sadly and with a degree of certainty I haven’t felt until now. “I can’t find a way.” “Well, you don’t know how you’ll feel in a few months. Take your time, that’s what a separation is for. There’s no need to decide anything right now,” she says. “I do need to decide though and I don’t feel I have endless time to do it. Living with the uncertainty of what will become of us is killing me and causing the kids horrible anxiety. I can’t stay in this state of purgatory. I would rather face what I know deep down, that I’m done. Then I can start to figure out what’s next rather than reside in this ambivalent state in which I’m consumed with the question of should I stay or should I go and pondering if it’s just fear that’s stopping me from doing what I see as inevitable. I hate him so much right now, I don’t see how I will ever not hold this against him. If you were in my position, would you be able to move forward with him?

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

  We’re very upset with each other and need time to calm down and move on. We’re trying hard to forgive each other, we just need more time.” “Whose fault is it that you’re mad at each other?” she asks. “Both of ours,” I say. I don’t like having to accept responsibility for our current situation, but I want her to have healthy relationships with both of us and I will bend the truth to help make that happen. “I always tell you that it takes two to tango, right? It’s not one person’s fault, it’s about how two people are together.” “OK,” she murmurs so quietly that it breaks my heart. “I can’t promise that Daddy and I will stay married, but I can promise that someday we’ll do better than we’re doing now. I will always be your mom and Dad will always be your dad and we will always love you and Daisy and Hudson the most in the world. That won’t ever change, whether we’re together or apart.” She remains quiet and I’m grateful this conversation is happening while I’m driving and she’s in the backseat, so she doesn’t have to see my tears and I don’t have to see hers. “Are you OK?” I ask and even as I do so, I know I’m looking to her to reassure me that she will make it through our split intact. “I mean ...” she starts and pauses. “This isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me but yeah, I’m OK.” I burst out laughing. I am so in awe of this brave, resilient and funny little girl and I know that I will do whatever I can to keep her this way. She’s not quite done with me yet though, wanting to know if I will someday marry another man and if so, if that means she will have an entirely new father. I am grateful that we have moved past some of the heaviness and grief of our conversation to imagine what the future could look like and I laugh again, teasing her that she’s getting ahead of herself and moving way too fast for me. “Oh yeah, I forgot,” she says, giggling. “Daddy stays my daddy no matter what.” “Exactly,” I say. “And our feelings for each other might change but our feelings for you never will.” This much, at least, I know is true, and it feels good to be able to declare the words authoritatively. * Sunday, drop-off day, arrives. Michael and I both want to bring Georgia for her first time at overnight camp, but even if I can manage to sit in the car for the ride there with him and Georgia, there’s no way I’m getting back in that car with him alone afterwards. After a flurry of text negotiations, we agree to take two cars. The drop-off itself is as uncomfortable as it is quick.

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

  For all the chutzpah that had me soaring on Saturday night, I’ve landed back on my little square of the earth and am certain that the entire episode was a fluke, something I will likely not experience again. * By Wednesday afternoon, the momentary high of Saturday night has only served to remind me of how low I actually am now that I’m back in my routine with Georgia and feeling more than a little sorry for myself. It seems silly to me now that I had felt hopeful, lying in bed with the man I was hoping would be #1 on a long list of men. It seemed effortless to feel a spark of confidence in my potential to find happiness as I came down from the high of my first orgasm in who knows how long – but now, in the quiet of my day-to-day life, I feel abandoned by both Michael and my own burgeoning self. Georgia and I walk through the market that’s part of the farm where she attends day camp. We come in here every afternoon after camp to inhale the scent of freshly baked bread and choose an ice pop for a treat. I notice a familiar- looking man standing by the salad bar and my gaze lingers a moment too long so that he catches and returns it as we try to figure out if we know each other. He is maybe ten years older than me, with a salt and pepper goatee, deep lines around his eyes and tattoos creeping beyond the short sleeves of his T-shirt. I squint trying to place him and then, having no choice but to follow Georgia who is making a beeline for the salad bar, walk toward him. “Oh, Johnny!” I loudly exclaim, relieved to have finally made the connection. “Hey Laura, I thought that might be you. It’s been so long.” We smile warmly at each other and embrace in a quick hug. Johnny had been my contractor years earlier when we were in the midst of a house renovation. He had been in and out of my house for weeks, and one night showed up at about 9pm in his pickup truck with his German Shepherd hanging out the passenger window. He said he wanted to see how the outdoor lights looked after dark, so we turned them all on and stood outside while my son threw sticks for his dog to fetch. I had suspected that he had a crush on me as the night-time visit seemed odd, and often he had idled in the house for what seemed a little longer than necessary to chat with me after he was done for the day. Now he expresses surprise at how big Georgia has gotten and tells me he’s been working at a job close by.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And so the king sent for the steward, and ordered him to see that things were set out for them next morning in that very place, and that beds were carried there in case anyone should want to sleep or lie down in the middle part of the day. Then he called for lights to be brought, together with wine and sweetmeats, and when they had taken a little refreshment, he ordered everyone to join in the dancing. At his request, Panfilo began the first dance, whereupon the king turned to Elissa and in pleasing tones he said: ‘Fair lady, just as you honoured me today with the crown, so I wish to honour you this evening with the privilege of singing to us. Sing to us therefore, and let your song be about the one you prefer to all the rest.’ Elissa, with a smile, readily consented and began to sing in dulcet tones as follows: ‘Love, if I ever from thy claws break free I think no other hook will tangle me. ‘I entered in thy war, a fair young maid, Believing it was perfect peace benign, And all my arms upon the ground I laid, Thinking to find thy honour like to mine. But thou, disloyal tyrant, Leapt’st out at me instead In armour fiercely girded With talons cruel outspread. ‘And now, all bound around with chains of thine, To him who for my very death was born Thou gav’st me prisoner; and now I pine Within his grasp, and in distraction mourn. His lordship is so cruel That all my tears and cries Go unregarded, while, alas, I waste away with sighs. ‘The wind has swept away my every prayer; E’en now, when my cruel torment grows so high, None listens to them, none will give them ear; My life is hateful, yet how may I die? Since I lie in thy bondage Have pity, Lord, on me, Do for me what I cannot And set my spirit free. ‘But if thou canst not grant me this, alas, Cut all those bonds of hope that bind me fast. I pray thee, Lord, at least to grant me this, For if thou dost, my faith is that at last I may regain that beauty That once I had by right And, sorrow banished, deck me With flowers of red and white.’4 When Elissa, fetching a most pathetic sigh, had brought her song to a close, albeit everyone puzzled over the words no one was able to say who it was that had caused her to sing such a song. The king, however, who was in good mettle, sent for Tindaro and ordered him to bring out his cornemuse,5 to the strains of which he caused several reels to be danced. But when a goodly portion of the night was spent, he told them, one and all, to retire to bed. Here ends the Sixth Day of the Decameron