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.

Page 131 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  His eyes clouded over, his mouth took on a despondent expression, and what dominated him was a great, painful regret at the carelessness with which Papa, who must have known that such attempts led to no good, now himself and all those spoiled meal. Eyes swimming with tears, he looked down at his plate. Ida nudged him and whispered to him… the streets, the attics. But alas, that was useless, quite useless! She misunderstood him. He knew the names quite well, at least in part, and it would have been so easy To at least meet papa's wishes to a certain degree, if that were possible, if something insurmountably sad hadn't prevented him from doing so... A stern word, a tapping of his father's knife block with a fork, startled him. He glanced at his mother and Ida, trying to speak; but the first syllables were choked with sobs; it did not work. "Enough!" cried the senator angrily. "Shut up. Be quiet! I don't want to hear anything anymore! You don't have to say anything! You may brood dumb and stupid for the rest of your life!' And in silent discontent the meal was brought to an end. But this dreamy weakness, this crying, this complete lack of freshness and energy, was where the senator began to question Hanno's passion for music. Hanno's health had always been delicate. His teeth in particular had always been the cause of various painful disturbances and complaints. The eruption of milk teeth, with its attendant fever and spasms, had almost cost him his life, and then his gums had always been prone to inflammation and the formation of boils, which Mamsell Jungmann used to open with a pin when they were ripe. Now, at the time of the change of teeth, the suffering was even greater. Pain came that almost went beyond Hanno's strength, and he spent whole nights sleepless, moaning and crying in a weak fever, which had no other cause than the pain. The teeth, which were outwardly as beautiful and white as his mother's, but extremely soft and vulnerable, grew incorrectly, The very name of this man was a horrible reminder of the noise that is made in the jaw when the roots of a tooth are pulled out with pulling, twisting and lifting, and made Hanno's heart clench in the fear he suffered when he faced the faithful Ida Jungmann, crouched in an armchair in Herr Brecht's waiting room and, while breathing the pungent air of these rooms, looked at illustrated journals until the dentist with his equally polite as terrifying "Please" appeared in the operating room door... This waiting room possessed an attraction, a strange allure, and that was a stately, colorful parrot with poisonous little eyes, who sat in a corner in the middle of a brass worker and, for unknown reasons, was called Josephus. In the voice of an angry old woman he used to say, 'Have a seat...

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  And below before the Fischergrube are the Wullenwewer and the Friederike Oeverdieck with all pennants..." "Well, hurry up, Wenzel, I have no time to lose." Today the senator didn't just take off his office jacket, but immediately put on a black, open skirt that showed the white piqué waistcoat with his light trousers. Visits were expected for the morning. He took one last look in the toilet mirror, slipped the long tips of his mustache through the curling tongs one more time, and with a short sigh turned to go. The dance began... If only this day was over! Would he be alone for a moment, could he relax his facial muscles for a moment? Receptions throughout the day, at which it was necessary to meet the congratulations of a hundred people with tact and dignity, to find the right words on all sides with circumspection and sure nuance, respectful, serious, friendly, ironic, jocular, indulgent, It wasn't true that he had a headache. He was just tired and, as soon as the first morning peace of nerves had passed, he felt again that vague grief weighing on him... Why had he lied? Wasn't it constant, as if he had a bad conscience about his ill health? Why? Why?... But there was no time to think about it now. When he entered the dining room, Gerda came towards him briskly. She was already in the reception toilet. She wore a smooth skirt of Scottish fabric, a white blouse and a thin silk zouaven jacket over it, the dark red color of her heavy hair. She smiled and showed her broad, even teeth, which were even whiter than her beautiful face, and her eyes too, those close-set, enigmatic brown eyes with bluish shadows, were smiling today. 'I've been on my feet for hours; from which you can deduce how enthusiastic my congratulations are.« "Look there! The hundred years make an impression on you?” "The very deepest!... But it's also possible that it's just the festivities at all... What a day! This, for example,' and she pointed to the breakfast table, which was wreathed with flowers from the garden, 'is Miss Jungmann's work ... By the way, you're wrong if you think you could have tea now. The most important members of the family are already waiting for you in the salon, and with a ceremonial act in which I am also not entirely uninvolved... Listen, Thomas, this is of course only the beginning of the series of rounds of visits that will develop. At first I want to hold out, but towards noon I'll retire, I'll tell you. The sky is, though the barometer has fallen a little, still an outrageous blue - which looks very nice with the flags... for the whole town is flagged... - but it's going to be a terrible heat... Come on over now. Your breakfast will have to wait. You should have gotten up earlier.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  Johnny looked at Trevor and then spoke up. “No, my mom and dad had a big fight this morning.” “So did mine.” Trevor was suddenly relieved he wasn’t the only one with parents who fought. “I’m sorry, boys. That’s really hard, and I just want you to know that it’s not your fault. Grown-up parents fighting isn’t your responsibility. You aren’t causing the fights. Even if they say they are fighting about you, it’s not about you.” Johnny and Trevor looked at each other. It felt comforting to have their teacher understand and care, even though it didn’t solve anything. Trevor liked that his teacher didn’t try to fix it or him, she just cared. Trevor quickly wiped a tear that slipped down his cheek. His teacher reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay to be sad. Can you show me where you feel your sad feelings?” Johnny touched his belly and Trevor put his hand on his chest. “That’s good. Can you give your feelings a name?” Trevor said, “I feel angry.” Johnny said, “I feel scared.” “Yes, you gave it a name. Way to go, guys. Is it your job to fix mommy and daddy, or is it your job to be able to name your feelings?” “I think it’s our job to name our feelings,” both chimed in. “That’s right! If you can name your feelings, then you don’t have to act them out. Okay, boys, go out and play, and if you need to talk, I am always here.” With that, they dashed out the door—at least a little relieved. TEN YEARS LATER Trevor knew what it meant to feel lonely. He felt alone long before his dad slammed the back door and squealed the tires of his new sports car, tearing out of the driveway for the last time. After ten more years of bitter contention, Trevor felt a mixture of relief when his dad left for good; yet he longed for his dad in a strange sort of way. He always wished his dad was more like Jeff’s dad: wrestling, roughhousing, giving him a pat on the butt when he did something great. His own dad could never engage with him like that; he treated Trevor like he was a stranger. After his dad moved out, the only time Trevor saw much of him was at his baseball games. Trevor was a natural athlete and the one thing he knew how to do was to perform. He wanted to prove his worth so he pushed himself to excel at everything he did. In some ways, he wanted to be like his dad—top of the heap, smart, fast, and competitive. Yet sometimes those were the very things that repulsed him the most about his dad. Keith hung around after the game to give Trevor a ride home. “Hey, Trevor.” Keith hid his unease behind his tense smile. “Yeah, Dad—what’s up?”

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

  c. Sadness in good; One came and said to Him, Good Master, what good shall I do that I may have life everlasting? He said to him, Why asketh thou Me about good? One is good, that is, God. But if thou wilt enter into life keep the commandments.… The young man saith to Him, All these have I kept from my youth: what is yet wanting in me? Jesus saith to him, If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in Heaven; and come thou and follow Me. And when the young man had heard His word he went away sad, for he had great possessions. Then Jesus said to His disciples, Amen I say to you that a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of Heaven. St. Matt. 19:16–23. Let thy servants find favour in thy eyes; for we are come in a good day; whatsoever thy hand shall find give to thy servants, and to thy son David. And when David’s servants came they spoke to Nabal all these words in David’s name, and then held their peace. But Nabal answering the servants of David said, Who is David? and what is the son of Isai?… Shall I then take my bread and my water, and the flesh of my cattle which I have killed for my shearers, and give them to men whom I know not whence they are? 1 Kings 25:8–11. It came to pass after many days that Cain offered of the fruits of the earth gifts to the Lord. Abel also offered of the firstlings of his flock and of their fat. And the Lord had respect to Abel and to his offerings; but to Cain and his offerings He had no respect. Gen. 4:3–5. R. Spiritual sweetness; a. Against false sweetness; A soul that is full shall tread upon the honeycomb. Prov. 27:7. The things that were gain to me the same I have counted loss for the excellent knowledge of Jesus Christ my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but as dung that I may gain Christ: and may be found in Him not having my justice which is of the law, but that which is of the faith of Christ Jesus, which is of God, justice in faith; that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings, being made conformable to His death, if by any means I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.… One thing I do: forgetting the things that are behind, and reaching out to those that are before, I press towards the mark, to the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Philip. 3:7–14.

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  Mr. Harrison thought it a fine idea to have one “White Russian” lodge with another, and so, at first, I shared an apartment in Trinity Lane with a puzzled compatriot. After a few months he left college, and I remained sole occupant of those lodgings. They seemed intolerably squalid in comparison with my remote and by now nonexistent home. Well do I remember the ornaments on the mantelpiece (a glass ashtray, with the Trinity crest, left by some former lodger; a seashell in which I found the imprisoned hum of one of my own seaside summers), and my landlady’s old mechanical piano, a pathetic contraption, full of ruptured, crushed, knotted music, which one sampled once and no more. Narrow Trinity Lane was a staid and rather sad little street, with almost no traffic, but with a long, lurid past beginning in the sixteenth century, when it used to be Findsilver Lane, although commonly called at the time by a coarser name because of the then abominable state of its gutters. I suffered a good deal from the cold, but it is quite untrue, as some have it, that the polar temperature in Cambridge bedrooms caused the water to freeze solid in one’s washstand jug. As a matter of fact, there would be hardly more than a thin layer of ice on the surface, and this was easily broken by means of one’s toothbrush into tinkling bits, a sound which, in retrospect, has even a certain festive appeal to my Americanized ear. Otherwise, getting up was no fun at all. I still feel in my bones the bleakness of the morning walk up Trinity Lane to the Baths, as one shuffled along, exuding pallid puffs of breath, in a thin dressing gown over one’s pajamas and with a cold, fat sponge-bag under one’s arm. Nothing in the world could induce me to wear next to my skin the “woolies” that kept Englishmen secretly warm. Overcoats were considered sissy. The usual attire of the average Cambridge undergraduate, whether athlete or leftist poet, struck a sturdy and dingy note: his shoes had thick rubber soles, his flannel trousers were dark gray, and the buttoned sweater, called a “jumper,” under his Norfolk jacket was a conservative brown. What I suppose might be termed the gay set wore old pumps, very light gray flannel trousers, a bright-yellow “jumper,” and the coat part of a good suit. By that time my youthful preoccupation with clothes was on the wane, but it did seem rather a lark, after the formal fashions in Russia, to go about in slippers, eschew garters, and wear one’s collar sewn onto one’s shirt—a daring innovation in those days.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  His attention quickly refocused from the neighbors to his mother sitting on the beige sofa crying. He went to comfort her. “Mom,” he assured her, “we can make it without him. We don’t need him; I can take care of you.” The six-year-old believed every word he said to his emotionally battered and fragile mother. He was too young to know what was involved in supporting a household and yet emotionally old enough to feel the burden and responsibility of taking care of his mother. He never doubted his mother’s love for him, but being her surrogate husband was heavy—love was heavy and burdensome. He felt the responsibility for her happiness and he wanted to make her miserable life better by being everything she could hope for. He determined to make her life worth living. He would give her someone to be proud of and fill her unhappy life with a little joy. He wrapped his arms around her, until she stopped crying. He then went to the kitchen and turned the tea kettle on, knowing tea always made his mom feel better. He got out the box of Honey Nut Cheerios and poured himself a bowl. Eat, get dressed, brush teeth, and get himself to school became his immediate goal. School was his refuge and a place where he could make his mom proud. It was the next right thing to do. After all, he was a good little soldier. No time for his tears, or sadness that his father was a bully and his mother was emotionally weak. No one to process what his needs might be after his father called him a disappointment. The word reverberated somewhere deep inside his chest. He wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he had a complete understanding it was a word that held meaning and already had begun to define how Trevor perceived himself. On the walk to school, with low-lying, gray clouds overhead to match his mood, Trevor hardly noticed the wind against his cold cheeks. He continually replayed in his mind the words his father spoke. They circled around inside of his six-year-old brain until they found a place to connect and wire permanently into his moldable belief system about who he was as a male. He loved his teacher, Mrs. Hampton. She noticed him and she smelled like vanilla. He loved that smell; it reminded him of when his mom made sugar cookies for him. “Trevor,” she said softly, as she walked up and down the rows, pausing momentarily at his desk, “stay in here during recess. I want to talk with you. You aren’t in trouble; I just want to make sure you are okay.” She asked another student, Johnny, to stay in as well. When the other kids scampered out of the classroom, noisily excited for a breath of freedom, Mrs. Hampton landed her warm eyes on Trevor and Johnny. “Hey, you both seem a little sad today. Is everything okay at home?”

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  Distinguished as Margaret was by her mental powers and graces, she was still more admirable for the warmth and tenderness of her affections. These, it is to be feared, were but inadequately requited, and would have been a source of unhappiness to her, were it not for that precious prerogative which loving natures enjoy, to find pleasure in self-sacrifice and suffering. There was little community of feeling between her and the Duke d'Alengon, and their mar- riage was childless. The husband of her choice, Henry of Navarre, was a handsome, brave cavalier, of respectable ca- pacity, and passably good-humoured, but he had little sym- pathy with his wife's literary and theological tastes, and the difference in their ages was not favourable to connubial con- cord. It is even said that he treated her at times with a roughness unworthy of a preux chevalier. Hilarion de la Coste says that Henry, " having been informed that there was used in his wife's chamber some form of prayer and instruction contrary to that of his fathers, entered it with a resolution to punish the minister, but, finding they had con- trived his escape, the weight of his anger fell upon the queen, to whom he gave a box on the ear, saying to her, ' Madam, you want to be too knowing ; ' and immediately gave advice of it to King Francis." Brantome, having given some instances of matrimonial discord between princes, adds this : " And lately King Henry d'Albret, with Queen Margaret of Valois, as I have it from good hands, who treated her very ill, and would have done still worse had it not been for King Francis, her brother, who spoke home and roughly to him, and charged him with threats to honour the queen his sis- ter in regard to the rank she bore." The whimsical behaviour of this King of Navarre on the occasion of the birth of his grandson, afterwards Henry IV. of France, may enable us to guess how far he was capable of tenderness and delicacy of feeling in his conduct to his wife. On hearing that his daughter was pregnant, he recalled her from Picardy, where she was residing with her husband. The princess arrived in Pau on the 4th of December, after a journey of twenty da) s, xxxvi MEMOIR OF MARGARET,

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  Second chapter At the beginning of February 1856, after an eight-year absence, Christian Buddenbrook returned to his native town. He came by stagecoach from Hamburg, dressed in a yellow and large-checked suit that had something tropical about it, bringing with him the beak of a swordfish and a large cane, and he accepted the consul's embraces in a half-absent, half-embarrassed attitude. He maintained this attitude when, the very next morning after his arrival, the family went out in front of the castle gate to the cemetery to lay a wreath on the grave. They all stood together on the snowy path in front of the extensive Plaque on which the names of those resting here encircled the family coat of arms carved in stone... in front of the upright marble cross leaning on the edge of the small, winterly bare graveyard copse: all except Klothilde, who was "disgraced," about hers caring for a sick father. Tony laid the wreath on the father's name, freshly inscribed in gold letters on the plaque, and then knelt at the grave, despite the snow, to pray softly; the black veil played around her, and her wide skirt lay spread out next to her in a painterly sweeping manner. God alone knew how much pain and religiosity, and on the other hand how much complacency of a pretty woman, lay in this cast position. Thomas wasn't in the mood to think about it. But Christian looked sideways at his sister with a mixed expression of moquerie and anxiety, as if to say: "Will you be able to take responsibility for that, too? Won't you get embarrassed when you get up too? How awkward!' Tony caught that look as she rose; but she was not at all embarrassed. If the deceased Consul, with his rapturous love for God and the Crucified, was the first of his generation to have known and nurtured unusual, unbourgeois and differentiated feelings, his two sons seemed to be the first Buddenbrooks, before the free and naive the emergence of such feelings sensitively recoiled. Certainly Thomas had experienced his father's death with a more irritable capacity for pain than, say, his grandfather had experienced the loss of his. Yet he was not in the habit of sinking on his knees at the grave, he had never thrown himself over the table like his sister Tony, to sob like a child, he found it extremely embarrassing to hear the big words mixed with tears, with which Madame Grünlich loved to celebrate the character traits and the personality of her dead father between the roast and dessert. In the face of such outbursts he had a tactful seriousness, a calm one Silence, a cautious nod of the head... and just when no one had mentioned or thought of the deceased, without changing his facial expression, his eyes slowly filled with tears. It was different with Christian.

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

  BEDE. (ubi sup.) That is, if ye have not innocence and purity of mind like that of children, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven. Or else, we are ordered to receive the kingdom of God, that is, the doctrine of the Gospel, as a little child, because as a child, when he is taught, does not contradict his teachers, nor put together reasonings and words against them, but receives with faith what they teach, and obeys them with awe, so we also are to receive the word of the Lord with simple obedience, and without any gainsaying. It goes on: And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (Vict. Ant. e Cat. in Marc.) Fitly does He take them up into His arms to bless them, as it were, lifting into His own bosom, and reconciling Himself to His creation, which in the beginning fell from Him, and was separated from Him. Again, He puts His hands upon the children, to teach us the working of His divine power; and indeed, He puts His hands upon them, as others are wont to do, though His operation is not as that of others, for though He was God, He kept to human ways of acting, as being very man. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Having embraced the children, He also blessed them, implying that the lowly in spirit are worthy of His blessing, grace, and love. 10:17–2717. And when he was gone forth into the way, there came one running, and kneeled to him, and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life? 18. And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God. 19. Thou knowest the commandments, Do not commit adultery, Do not kill, Do not steal, Do not bear false witness, Defraud not, Honour thy father and mother. 20. And he answered and said unto him, Master, all these have I observed from my youth. 21. Then Jesus beholding him loved him, and said unto him, One thing thou lackest: go thy way, sell whatsoever thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come, take up the cross, and follow me. 22. And he was sad at that saying, and went away grieved: for he had great possessions. 23. And Jesus looked round about, and saith unto his disciples, How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God! 24. And the disciples were astonished at his words. But Jesus answereth again, and saith unto them, Children, how hard is it for them that trust in riches to enter into the kingdom of God! 25. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.

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

  13. And seeing a fig tree afar off having leaves, he came, if haply he might find any thing thereon: and when he came to it, he found nothing but leaves; for the time of figs was not yet. 14. And Jesus answered and said unto it, No man eat fruit of thee hereafter for ever. And his disciples heard it. BEDE. (ubi sup.) As the time of His Passion approached, the Lord wished to approach to the place of His Passion, in order to intimate that He underwent death of His own accord: wherefore it is said, And Jesus entered into Jerusalem, and into the temple. And by His going to the temple on first entering the city, He shews us beforehand a form of religion, which we are to follow, that if by chance we enter a place, where there is a house of prayer, we should first turn aside to it. We should also understand from this, that such was the poverty of the Lord, and so far was He from flattering man, that in so large a city, He found no one to be His host, no abiding place, but lived in a small country place with Lazarus and his sisters; for Bethany is a hamlet of the Jews. Wherefore there follows: And when he had looked round about upon all things, (that is, to see whether any one would take Him in,) and now the eventide was come, he went out into Bethany with the twelve. Nor did He do this once only, but during all the five days, from the time that He came to Jerusalem, to the day of His Passion, He used always to do the same thing; during the day He taught in the temple, but at night, He went out and dwelt in the mount of Olives. It goes on, And on the morrow, when they were come from Bethany, he was hungry.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  They're strange... He had to learn them these days, and he talked a lot about the little man. Do you know it?... It's quite greyish. This hunchbacked little man is everywhere, breaking the cooking pot, eating the sauce, stealing the wood, not letting go of the spinning wheel, laughing at you... and then, at the end, he also asks you to include him in your prayers! Yes, that's what the little boy has done. He thought about it day in and day out. do you know what he said Two or three times he said: 'Isn't it, Ida, it's not doing it out of badness, not out of badness!... It's doing it out of sadness and it is then even sadder about it... If you pray, then you don't have to do all that anymore.' And tonight, when his mum said good night to him before she went to the concert, he asked her if he was also responsible for the hunchback little man should pray..." "And did it?" 'Not out loud, but probably quietly... But he didn't even talk about the other poem called 'Ammenuhr', he just cried. He starts crying so easily, little boy, and then he can't stop for a long time..." "But what's so sad about it?" “ I know … He never got over the beginning, the part where he was even sobbing in his sleep while reciting it… and afterwards he cried over the carter, who got up from the straw at three o’clock…” Ms. Permaneder laughed, touched, and then made a serious face. 'But I want to tell you, Ida, it's not good, I don't think it's good that everything is affecting him so much. The wagoner gets up at three o'clock - well, my dear God, that's what he's a wagoner for! The child, as far as I know, tends to look at things too hard and to take things too much to heart... That must eat away at him, believe me. One should have a serious talk with Grabow ... But that's it,' she continued, crossing her arms, tilting her head to the side and angrily drumming the toes of her feet on the ground; “Grabow is getting old, and apart from that: kind-hearted as he is, a decent man, a really good man … I don’t think much of him as a doctor, Ida, God forgive me if I’m in fool him. For example with Hanno's restlessness,pavor nocturnus ... yes, dear God, that is very instructive ... no, he is a dear man, a good family friend, everything; but he is not a light. A great man sees different and already shows in his youth that there is something about him. Grabow experienced the time of forty-eight; he was a young man then. But do you think he ever got excited--about liberty and justice and the overthrow of privilege and arbitrariness?

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  – Doctor Grabow tried to treat this ailment with an evening drink of blueberry juice; but that didn't help at all. The inhibitions to which Hanno's body was subject, the pains he suffered, did not fail to evoke in him that serious feeling of premature experience that one calls precociousness and even if it did not appear often and was not in the least obtrusive, as if it were held down by an overriding talent with good taste, it still expressed itself here and there in the form of a melancholy superiority... "How are you, Hanno ?” asked one of his relatives, his grandmother, the Buddenbrook ladies from Breite Strasse … and a small, resigned puckering of his mouth, a shrug of his shoulders covered in the blue sailor's collar, was the whole answer. "Do you like going to school?" "No," Hanno answered calmly and with a frankness that, in the face of more serious matters, does not consider it worth lying about such matters. "Not? Oh! But you have to learn: writing, arithmetic, reading..." "And so on," said little Johann. No, he didn't like going to the old school, that former convent school with cloisters and Gothic vaulted classrooms. Absences because of indisposition and complete inattention when his thoughts lingered on some harmonic connection or the still unsolved wonders of a piece of music which he had heard from his mother and Mr. Pfühl did not exactly encourage him in the sciences, and the assistant teachers and seminarians who taught him to taught these lower classes, and whose social inferiority, mental oppression, and physical unkemptness he felt inspired him, along with fear of punishment, a secret contempt. Herr Tietge, the arithmetic teacher, a small old man in a greasy black coat, who had already worked in the institution at the time of the late Marcellus Stengel, Hanno's relationship to his little comrades was generally of a completely alien and superficial nature; Only with one of them did he have a strong bond, and that since the first days of school, and that was a child of noble origin but completely neglected appearance, a Count Mölln with the first name Kai. It was a boy of Hanno's stature, but not in a Danish sailor's habit like Hanno's, but in a poor suit of an indefinite color, missing a button here and there, and showing a large patch on the buttocks. His hands, protruding from the too-short sleeves, appeared impregnated with dust and earth and an invariably light gray color, but they were narrow and exceedingly finely formed, with long fingers and long, pointed nails. And to these hands corresponded the head, which, neglected, unkempt, and not very clean, was naturally endowed with all the marks of a pure and noble race. The reddish-yellow hair, parted in the middle, was swept back by an alabaster white forehead, beneath which flashed light blue eyes, deep and sharp at the same time.

• From The Hours (1998)

  Better, really, to face the fin in the water than to live in hiding, as if the war were still on (strange, how the first memory that springs to mind, after all that, is the endless waiting in the cellar, the whole household crammed in together, and having to make conversation for hours with Nelly and Lottie). Her life (already past forty!) is being measured away, cupful by cupful, and the carnival wagon that bears Vanessa—the whole gaudy party of her, that vast life, the children and paints and lovers, the brilliantly cluttered house—has passed on into the night, leaving its echo of cymbals behind, its accordion notes, as wheels roll off down the road. No, she will not telephone from the station, she will do it once she’s reached London, once there’s nothing to be done. She will take her punishment. She buys a ticket from the red-faced man behind the grille. She goes and sits, very erect, on a wooden bench. Eighteen minutes still. She sits on the bench, staring straight ahead (if only she had something to read) until she can’t bear it any longer (fifteen minutes still). She stands and walks back out of the station. If she strolls one block along Kew Road, and strolls back, she will be just in time for her train. She is passing her fragmented golden reflection in the gold name of the butcher shop, suspended on the glass over a lamb’s carcass (a tuft of pale wool still clings to its anklebone), when she sees Leonard walking toward her. She thinks, for a moment, that she will turn and run back to the station; she thinks she will escape some sort of catastrophe. She does not do any such thing. She continues walking forward, toward Leonard, who has clearly come out in a hurry, still wearing his leather slippers, and who looks exceedingly thin—gaunt—in his vest and corduroy jacket, his open collar. Although he has come after her like a constable or proctor, a figure of remonstrance, she is impressed by how small he seems, in slippers on Kew Road; how middle-aged and ordinary. She sees him, briefly, as a stranger might see him: merely another of the many men who walk on streets. She is sad for him, and strangely moved. She manages an ironic smile. “Mr. Woolf,” she says. “What an unexpected pleasure.” He says, “Would you like to tell me what you’re doing, please?” “I’m taking a walk. Does it seem mysterious?” “Only when you vanish from the house, just before dinner, without a word.” “I didn’t like to interrupt you. I knew you were working.” “I was.” “Well, then.” “You mustn’t disappear. I don’t like it.” “Leonard, you’re acting very peculiar.” He scowls. “Am I? I don’t know what it is, really. I went to look for you, and you weren’t there. I thought, something’s happened. I don’t know why.”

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  Betty nodded, “Yes, I can see how that hurt her. I haven’t wanted to face the depth of how much harm my husband has done to our family. My denial hasn’t helped, and I know I cover for him. I didn’t want to come today, but maybe I need it, or I will probably eventually lose all five of my children and grandchildren.” A bit uncomfortable with the somber mood, Mary Francis wanted to lighten things up, so she chimed in. “You aren’t the only one who needs this group. Heck, I’ve had my head buried in the sand with my butt in the air, hoping all of this will go away. Once in a while, I come up for a breath of air and darned if the same problems aren’t still there.” With that comment, the women laughed and nodded their heads. Vanessa was the only one who didn’t laugh. Instead, she watched the other women with a pained expression. As the laughter subsided, Olivia sat back and watched the group begin to connect. A warmth filled her as she caught a glimpse of how these women would cry together and find grace, strength, support, and the courage to heal, in the year ahead. She was glad they had each other. She also internally acknowledged the work that lay ahead. FINAL THOUGHTS Olivia mentioned her father was a sex addict and how that impacted her life. For her own healing to take place, she had to first educate herself on the topic. It is hard to heal from something we do not understand. Olivia learned that sexual addiction typically begins (not always, sometimes a person becomes addicted because of exposure) at an early age, because people either experienced emotional neglect, physical abuse, or some sort of trauma. Combine these components and you have a formula for a lifelong struggle if healing isn’t pursued. Olivia’s own father came from an abusive home; it was so combative he ran away when he was fifteen. He had head trauma from military service and riding bulls in the rodeo. He self-medicated with alcohol. He would swing from being rigid, excessive, depressed, and obsessive to chaotic, emotionally absent, angry, and defiant. His behavior was unpredictable, one moment he could be playful and fun, the next raging and very scary. Perhaps you can identify with some of Olivia’s father’s behaviors. Once Olivia educated herself, she could stop taking responsibility for her father’s confusing behaviors. Olivia could more clearly understand the dysfunctions she grew up believing were normal were anything but normal—but it wasn’t her fault. She worked on becoming a healthier self (through self-differentiation), who had the right to be separate from her father and his issues, even though she was raised to believe it was her job to help take care of her dad. She began the process of giving him back his shame, acknowledging the damage done and growing herself up to become the woman she wanted to be.

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

  THEOPHYLACT. He who is baptized carries the pitcher of water, and he who bears baptism upon him comes to his rest, if he lives according to his reason; and he obtains rest, as being in the house. Wherefore it is added, Follow him. PSEUDO-JEROME. That is, him who leads to the lofty place, where is the refreshment prepared by Christ. (John 21:15) The lord of the house is the Apostle Peter, to whom the Lord has entrusted His house, that there may be one faith under one Shepherd. The large upper-room is the wide-spread Church, in which the name of the Lord is spoken of, prepared by a variety of powers and tongues. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Or else, the large upper-room is spiritually the Law, which comes forth from the narrowness of the letter, and in a lofty place, that is, in the lofty chamber of the soul, receives the Saviour. But it is designedly that the names both of the bearer of the water, and of the lord of the house, are omitted, to imply that power is given to all who wish to celebrate the true Passover, that is, to be embued with the sacraments of Christ, and to receive Him in the dwelling-place of their mind. THEOPHYLACT. Or else, the lord of the house is the intellect, which points out the large upper room, that is, the loftiness of intelligences, and which, though it be high, yet has nothing of vain glory, or of pride, but is prepared and made level by humility. But there, that is, in such a mind Christ’s Passover is prepared by Peter and John, that is by action and contemplation. 14:17–2117. And in the evening he cometh with the twelve. 18. And as they sat and did eat, Jesus said, Verily I say unto you, One of you which eateth with me shall betray me. 19. And they began to be sorrowful, and to say unto him one by one, Is it I? and another said, Is it I? 20. And he answered and said unto them, It is one of the twelve, that dippeth with me in the dish. 21. The Son of man indeed goeth, as it is written of him: but woe to that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed! good were it for that man if he had never been born. BEDE. (ubi sup.) The Lord who had foretold His Passion, prophesied also of the traitor, in order to give him room for repentance, that understanding that his thoughts were known, he might repent. Wherefore it is said, And in the evening he cometh with the twelve. And as they sat and did eat, Jesus said, Verily I say unto you, One of you which eateth with me shall betray me.

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

  I answer that, Mercy signifies grief for another’s distress. Now this grief may denote, in one way, a movement of the sensitive appetite, in which case mercy is not a virtue but a passion; whereas, in another way, it may denote a movement of the intellective appetite, in as much as one person’s evil is displeasing to another. This movement may be ruled in accordance with reason, and in accordance with this movement regulated by reason, the movement of the lower appetite may be regulated. Hence Augustine says (De Civ. Dei ix, 5) that “this movement of the mind” (viz. mercy) “obeys the reason, when mercy is vouchsafed in such a way that justice is safeguarded, whether we give to the needy or forgive the repentant.” And since it is essential to human virtue that the movements of the soul should be regulated by reason, as was shown above ([2597]FS, Q[59], AA[4],5), it follows that mercy is a virtue. Reply to Objection 1: The words of Sallust are to be understood as applying to the mercy which is a passion unregulated by reason: for thus it impedes the counselling of reason, by making it wander from justice. Reply to Objection 2: The Philosopher is speaking there of pity and nemesis, considered, both of them, as passions. They are contrary to one another on the part of their respective estimation of another’s evils, for which pity grieves, in so far as it esteems someone to suffer undeservedly, whereas nemesis rejoices, in so far as it esteems someone to suffer deservedly, and grieves, if things go well with the undeserving: “both of these are praiseworthy and come from the same disposition of character” (Rhet. ii, 9). Properly speaking, however, it is envy which is opposed to pity, as we shall state further on ([2598]Q[36], A[3]). Reply to Objection 3: Joy and peace add nothing to the aspect of good which is the object of charity, wherefore they do not require any other virtue besides charity. But mercy regards a certain special aspect, namely the misery of the person pitied. Reply to Objection 4: Mercy, considered as a virtue, is a moral virtue having relation to the passions, and it is reduced to the mean called nemesis, because “they both proceed from the same character” (Rhet. ii, 9). Now the Philosopher proposes these means not as virtues, but as passions, because, even as passions, they are praiseworthy. Yet nothing prevents them from proceeding from some elective habit, in which case they assume the character of a virtue. Whether mercy is the greatest of the virtues?Objection 1: It would seem that mercy is the greatest of the virtues. For the worship of God seems a most virtuous act. But mercy is preferred before the worship of God, according to Osee 6:6 and Mat. 12:7: “I have desired mercy and not sacrifice.” Therefore mercy is the greatest virtue.

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

  Thus it is that events lived through only once, and in youth, may come in after-years, by reason of their exciting quality or emotional intensity, to serve as types or instances used by our mind to illustrate any and every occurring topic whose interest is most remotely pertinent to theirs. If a man in his boyhood once talked with Napoleon, any mention of great men or historical events, battles or thrones, or the whirligig of fortune, or islands in the ocean, will be apt to draw to his lips the incidents of that one memorable interview. If the word tooth now suddenly appears on the page before the reader's eye, there are fifty chances out of a hundred that, if he gives it time to awaken any image, it will be an image of some operation of dentistry in which he has been the sufferer. Daily he has touched his teeth and masticated with them; this very morning he brushed them, chewed his breakfast and picked them; but the rarer and remoter associations arise more promptly because they were so much more intense.[481] A fourth factor in tracing the course of reproduction is congruity in emotional tone between the reproduced idea and our mood. The same objects do not recall the same associates when we are cheerful as when we are melancholy. Nothing, in fact, is more striking than our utter inability to keep up trains of joyous imagery when we are depressed in spirits. Storm, darkness, war, images of disease, poverty, and perishing afflict unremittingly the imaginations of melancholiacs. And those of sanguine temperament, when their spirits are high, find it impossible to give any permanence to evil forebodings or to gloomy thoughts. In an instant the train of association dances off to flowers and sunshine, and images of spring and hope. The records of Arctic or African travel perused in one mood awaken no thoughts but those of horror at the malignity of Nature; read at another time they suggest only enthusiastic reflections on the indomitable power and pluck of man. Few novels so overflow with joyous animal spirits as 'The Three Guardsmen' of Dumas. Yet it may awaken in the mind of a reader depressed with sea-sickness (as the writer can personally testify) a most dismal and woful consciousness of the cruelty and carnage of which heroes like Athos, Porthos, and Aramis make themselves guilty.

• From The Hours (1998)

  Outside, in the garden, is the shadowy mound of the thrush on its bier, sheltered by the hedges. A strong wind has blown in from the east, and Virginia shudders. It seems that she has left the house (where beef is boiling, where lamps are lit) and entered the realm of the dead bird. She thinks of how the newly buried remain all night in their graves, after the mourners have recited prayers, laid down wreaths, and returned to the village. After the wheels have rolled away over the dried mud of the road, after the suppers have been eaten and the bedcovers drawn down; after all that has happened the grave remains, its flowers tossed lightly by the wind. It is frightening but not entirely disagreeable, this cemetery feeling. It is real; it is all but overwhelmingly real. It is, in its way, more bearable, nobler, right now, than the beef and the lamps. She descends the stairs, walks out onto the grass. The body of the thrush is still there (odd, how the neighborhood cats and dogs are not interested), tiny even for a bird, so utterly unalive, here in the dark, like a lost glove, this little empty handful of death. Virginia stands over it. It’s rubbish now; it has shed the beauty of the afternoon just as Virginia has shed her tea-table wonder over cups and coats; just as the day is shedding its warmth. In the morning Leonard will scoop bird and grass and roses up with a shovel, and throw them all out. She thinks of how much more space a being occupies in life than it does in death; how much illusion of size is contained in gestures and movements, in breathing. Dead, we are revealed in our true dimensions, and they are surprisingly modest. Hadn’t her own mother seemed to have been removed surreptitiously and replaced by a littler version made of pale iron? Hadn’t she, Virginia, felt in herself an empty space, surprisingly small, where it seemed strong feeling ought to reside? Here, then, is the world (house, sky, a first tentative star) and here is its opposite, this small dark shape in a circle of roses. It’s trash, that’s all. Beauty and dignity were illusions fostered by the company of children, sustained for the benefit of children. She turns and walks away. It seems possible, at this moment, that there is somewhere else—a place having to do neither with boiled beef nor with the circle of roses. She passes through the garden gate and into the passageway, heads toward town. As she crosses Princes Street and goes down Waterloo Place (toward what?) she passes others: a plump, stately man with a satchel, two women who must be servants returning from an afternoon off, chattering, white legs flashing from under thin coats, the cheap glint of a bracelet.

• From Love & Sex: A Christian Guide to Healthy Intimacy (2018)

  Here is where the sad part of the story enters. God made everything so good for the Man. He set him in paradise, everything was perfect except for one thing and that one thing was the man didn’t have a counterpart. So God, being the good Father He is, already had a plan in place to take care of and provide everything the man would need. We know the plan was in place before He even made Man in that He actually extracts the female from the male. They were there together, sharing one body, but they had no way to enjoy the other, unless the one became two. God is a one-times-two kind of God who loves to take two and make them one, and yet the one still remains two. He is a relational God and we humans are made in His image and purposed to be relational creatures, just like our Designer. The two had the freedom to play, explore, and discover the over three hundred erogenous zones God gave each of them. They could frolic and enjoy one another’s bodies with absolutely not one drop of shame. Scripture says, “No shame,” even, “Naked and not ashamed.” It’s all so good, man and woman living together in paradise, the way God intended it to be. And then the serpent, the evil one, enters the story and the beautiful plan God created took a nasty turn. “The serpent was clever, more clever than any wild animal God had made. He spoke to the Woman: “Do I understand that God told you not to eat from any tree in the garden?” (Gen. 3:1). He has the nerve to start with a lie, just a little white lie to create doubt, to wedge in just a sliver of unbelief, questioning God’s goodness. God hadn’t said any tree, only one tree. I imagine there were thousands to pick from, only one did God set a boundary around. The Woman said to the serpent, “Not at all. We can eat from the trees in the garden. It’s only about the tree in the middle of the garden that God said, ‘Don’t eat from it; don’t even touch it or you’ll die’” (Gen. 3:2–3). Do you see how the serpent exaggerated? He loves to make God sound like the bad guy, the cheapskate, the withholder of fun stuff. The serpent told the Woman, “You won’t die. God knows that the moment you eat from that tree, you’ll see what’s really going on. You’ll be just like God, knowing everything ranging all the way from good to evil.” (Gen. 3:4–5) He forgot to mention God is good and wanted to provide good for His children and protect them from the burden of evil.

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  It was pretty simple.” Penny put her hands back in her pockets and looked at me with her gorgeous blue eyes. “There,” she said. “Are you happy?” And with that last comment she stuck her tongue out and laughed. “Tell me the story again, Penny. Start with arriving in France.” “Why?” “Because it’s a good story. Tell it again,” I told her. “No. Once is enough. You will probably put it in one of your Christian books or something.” “Never,” I said adamantly. 5 Faith Penguin Sex THE GOOFY THING ABOUT CHRISTIAN FAITH IS that you believe it and don’t believe it at the same time. It isn’t unlike having an imaginary friend. I believe in Jesus; I believe He is the Son of God, but every time I sit down to explain this to somebody I feel like a palm reader, like somebody who works at a circus or a kid who is always making things up or somebody at a Star Trek convention who hasn’t figured out the show isn’t real. Until. When one of my friends becomes a Christian, which happens about every ten years because I am such a sheep about sharing my faith, the experience is euphoric. I see in their eyes the trueness of the story. Everybody at Reed was telling me something was wrong with Laura. They said she was depressed or something. I ran into her at a lecture in Vollum Lounge, which is beautiful like a museum with its tall white walls. Laura sat in front of me, and when the lecture was over she didn’t leave. Neither did I. I didn’t want to bother her, but I could tell she was sad about something. “How are you?” I asked. “I am not good.” She turned to face me. I could see in her eyes she had spent the morning crying. “What is wrong?” “Everything.” “Boy stuff ?” I asked. “No.” “School stuff ?” I asked. “No.” “God stuff ?” Laura just looked at me. Her eyes were sore and moist. “I guess so, Don. I don’t know.” “Can you explain any of it? The way you feel.” “I feel like my life is a mess. I can’t explain it. It’s just a mess.” “I see,” I said. “Don, I just want to confess. I have done terrible things. Can I confess to you?” “I don’t think confessing to me is going to do you any good.” As I said it Laura wiped her eyes with her fingers. “I feel like He is after me, Don.” “Who is after you?” I asked. “God.” “I think that is very beautiful, Laura. And I believe you. I believe God wants you.” “I feel like He is after me,” she repeated. “What do you think He wants?” “I don’t know. I can’t do this, Don. You don’t understand. I can’t do this.” “Can’t do what, Laura?” “Be a Christian.” “Why can’t you be a Christian?” Laura didn’t say anything.