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 Heptaméron (1559)

  with delight. But envy, the enemy of all quiet, could not suffer so innocent and so sweet an intercourse to con- tinue. Some one told the girl's mother he was surprised the gentleman went so often to her house, that people saw it was her daughter's beauty that attracted him, and that they had often been seen together. The mother, who was thoroughly assured of the gentleman's probity, was greatly annoyed at finding that a bad interpretation was put upon his visits ; but in the end, dreading scan- dal and malicious gossip, she begged he would for some time cease to frequent her house. The gentleman was the more mortified at this, as the proper and respectful manner in which he had always behaved towards the daughter had deserved very different treatment. How^- ever, to put an end to the gossip about him, he discon- tinued his visits. Absence, meanwhile, by no means diminished his love ; but one dav, when he was paying a visit to his mistress, he heard it proposed that she should marry a gentleman not richer than himself, and whom, conse^ quently, he thought no better entitled to have her. He began to take heart, and employed his friends to speak on his part in the hope that if the lady was allowed to choose, she would prefer him to his rival ; but as the latter was much the wealthier man, the young lady's mother and relations gave him the preference. The gentleman, who knew that his mistress was a loser as well as himself, was so grieved at being rejected that, without any malady, he began by degrees to waste away, and became so changed that one would have said he had covered his handsome face with the mask of death, to which from hour to hour he was hastening. Still he could not refrain from going as often as he could to see her whom beloved so well ; but at last, his strength being worn out, he was First day.\ QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 63

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

  Now, in the hysteric subjects on whom M. Janet experimented, touch did come back in the state of trance. The result was that all sorts of memories, absent in the ordinary condition, came back too, and they could then go back and explain the origin of many otherwise inexplicable things in their life. One stage in the great convulsive crisis of hystero-epilepsy, for example, is what French writers call the phase des attitudes passionelles , in which the patient, without speaking or giving any account of herself, will go through the outward movements of fear, anger, or some other emotional state of mind. Usually this phase is, with each patient, a thing so stereotyped as to seem automatic, and doubts have even been expressed as to whether any consciousness exists whilst it lasts. When, however, the patient Lucie's tactile sensibility came back in the deeper trance, she explained the origin of her hysteric crisis in a great fright which she had had when a child, on a day when certain men, hid behind the curtains, had jumped out upon her; she told how she went through this scene again in all her crises; she told of her sleep-walking fits through the house when a child, and how for several months she had been shut in a dark room because of a disorder of the eyes. All these were things of which she recollected nothing when awake, because they were records of experiences mainly of motion and of touch. But M. Janet's subject Léonie is interesting, and shows best how with the sensibilities and motor impulses the memories and character will change. "This woman, whose life sounds more like an improbable romance than a genuine history, has had attacks of natural somnambulism since the age of three years. She has been hypnotized constantly by all sorts of persons from the age of sixteen upwards, and she is now forty-five. Whilst her normal life developed in one way in the midst of her poor country surroundings, her second life was passed in drawing-rooms and doctors' offices, and naturally took an entirely different direction. Today, when in her normal state, this poor peasant woman is a serious and rather sad person, calm and slow, very mild with every one, and extremely timid: to look at her one would never suspect the personage which she contains. But hardly is she put to sleep hypnotically when a metamorphosis occurs. Her face is no longer the same. She keeps her eyes closed, it is true, but the acuteness of her other senses supplies their place. She is gay, noisy, restless, sometimes insupportably so. She remains good-natured, but has acquired a singular tendency to irony and sharp jesting. Nothing is more curious than to hear her after a sitting when she has received a visit from strangers who wished to see her asleep. She gives a word-portrait of them, apes their manners, pretends to know their little ridiculous aspects and passions, and for each invents a romance.

• From The Hours (1998)

  Toward, well, you know. The green silence. Isn’t it funny that, even now, it’s difficult to say the word ‘death’?” “Are they here, Richard?” “Who? Oh, the voices? The voices are always here.” “I mean, are you hearing them very distinctly?” “No. I’m hearing you. It’s always wonderful to hear you, Mrs. D. Do you mind that I still call you that?” “Not at all. Come inside. Now.” “Remember her? Your alter ego? Whatever became of her?” “This is her. I’m her. I need you to come inside. Will you, please?” “It’s so lovely here. I feel so free. Will you call my mother? She’s all alone, you know.” “Richard—” “Tell me a story, all right?” “What kind of story?” “Something from your day. From today. It could be the most ordinary thing. That would be better, actually. The most ordinary event you can think of.” “Richard—” “Anything. Anything at all.” “Well, this morning, before I came here, I went to buy flowers for the party.” ‘ ‘Did you?” “I did. It was a beautiful morning.” “Was it?” “Yes. It was beautiful. It was so . . . fresh. I bought the flowers and took them home and put them in water. There. End of story. Now come inside.” “Fresh as if issued to children on a beach,” Richard says. “You could say that.” “Like a morning when we were young together.” “Yes. Like that.” “Like the morning you walked out of that old house, when you were eighteen and I was, well, I had just turned nineteen, hadn’t I? I was a nineteen-year-old and I was in love with Louis and I was in love with you, and I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight of you walking out a glass door in the early morning, still sleepy, in your underwear. Isn’t it strange?” “Yes,” Clarissa says. “Yes. It’s strange.” “I’ve failed.” “Stop saying that. You haven’t failed.” “I have. I’m not looking for sympathy. Not really. I just feel so sad. What I wanted to do seemed simple. I wanted to create something alive and shocking enough that it could stand beside a morning in somebody’s life. The most ordinary morning. Imagine, trying to do that. What foolishness.” “It isn’t the least bit foolish.” “I’m afraid I can’t make the party.” “Please, please don’t worry about the party. Don’t think about the party. Give me your hand.” “You’ve been so good to me, Mrs. Dalloway.” “Richard—” “I love you. Does that sound trite?” “No.” Richard smiles. He shakes his head. He says, “I don’t think two people could have been happier than we’ve been.” He inches forward, slides gently off the sill, and falls.

• From The Hours (1998)

  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.” She imagines him searching the house for her, checking the garden. She thinks of him rushing out, past the body of the thrush, through the gate, down the hill. She is suddenly, immensely sorry for him. She should, she knows, tell him that his premonition was not entirely wrong; that she had in fact staged an escape of sorts, and had in fact meant to disappear, if only for a few hours. “Nothing’s happened,” she says. “Just an airing along the avenues. It’s such a night.” “I was so worried,” he says. “I don’t know why.” They stand together in a brief, unaccustomed silence. They look into the window of the butcher’s shop, where they are reflected, brokenly, in the golden letters. Leonard says, “We must go back for Nelly’s joint. We have approximately fifteen minutes before she goes on a rampage and burns the house down.” Virginia hesitates. But London! She still wants, desperately, to get on the train. “You must be hungry,” she says. “I am, a bit. You surely are, too.”

• From The Hours (1998)

  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.

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

  She was as delicate as a gazelle, and possessed an almost Malay type of face: slightly prominent cheekbones, narrow black eyes full of a soft gleam, and a dull yellowish complexion unrivaled anywhere in the world. Her hands, of the same color, were slender and of extraordinary beauty for a shop girl. She went behind the counter to the right end of the little shop, where you couldn't be seen through the window. Thomas followed her on this side of the table, leaned over and kissed her on the lips and eyes. "You're frozen, you poor thing!" she said. "Five degrees!" said Tom... "I didn't notice anything, I came here quite sadly." He sat down on the counter, holding her hand in his, and continued: 'Yes, do you hear, Anna?... Today we have to be sensible. It's time." "Oh God...!" she said miserably, raising her apron in fear and sorrow... 'It had to come one day, Anna... So! do not Cry! We wanted to be reasonable, didn't we? – What is there to do? Such must be gone through.” 'When...?' asked Anna, sobbing. "The day after tomorrow." “Oh God… why the day after tomorrow? One more week... Please!... Five days!..." 'You can't do that, dear little Anna. Everything is set and in order... They're expecting me in Amsterdam... I couldn't add a day, no matter how much I wanted to!" "And that's so terribly far away...!" »Amsterdam? Bah! not at all! And you can always think of each other, can't you? And I write! Look, I'll write as soon as I get there..." 'Remember...' she said, 'a year and a half ago? At the Schützenfest?…” He interrupted her happily... "God, yes, a year and a half!... I thought you were Italian... I bought a carnation and put it in my buttonhole... I still have it... I'm taking it to Amsterdam... What dust and heat it was in the meadow! ..." "Yes, you got me a glass of lemonade from the booth next door... I remember it like today! Everything smelled of fritters and people…” 'But it was nice! Didn't we just see by our eyes what was the matter with us?" “And you wanted to ride the carousel with me… but you couldn't; I had to sell! The woman would have scolded…” "No, it didn't work, Anna, I totally see that." She said softly, "And it's the only thing I refused you." He kissed her again, on the lips and the eyes. "Adieu, my dear, good, little Anna!... Yes, one must begin to say adieu!" "Oh, you're coming back tomorrow?" 'Yes, sure, about this time. And also the day after tomorrow, if I can somehow free myself... But now I want to tell you one thing, Anna... I'm going quite far away now, yes, it's quite far away, Amsterdam... and you're staying behind here. But don't throw yourself away, do you hear, Anna?...

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

  His small, round, deep-set eyes began to wander in all directions with restless seriousness, he ran his hand down his left side, it was as if he were listening inside, where strange things were happening... He drank another glass of liqueur, cheered up a little, tried to tell one more story and then left in a rather depressed mood. Mrs. Permaneder, who was exceptionally good at laughing at this time and had thoroughly enjoyed herself, accompanied her brother to the stairs in a high spirits. "Adieu, Mister Agent!" she said. "Minstrel! girl catcher! old sheep! Come back soon!' And she laughed heartily after him and went back to her apartment. But Christian Buddenbrook did not contest this; he didn't hear it because he was deep in thought. Well, he thought, now I want to go a little to Quisisana. With his hat slightly askew on his head, leaning on his cane with the nun's bust, he walked slowly, stiffly, and a little lamely down the stairs. Second chapter It was in the spring of 1968 when Frau Permaneder turned up at around ten o'clock one evening on the first floor of the Fischergruben house. Senator Buddenbrook sat alone in the living room, which was furnished with olive-colored rep furniture, at the round center table in the light of the large gas lamp hanging from the ceiling. He had the Berliner Borsenzeitung spread out in front of him and was leaning slightly over the table, reading his cigarette between the index and middle fingers of his left hand and a gold pince-nez on his nose, which he had had to use at work for some time. Hearing his sister's footsteps coming across the dining room, he took his glasses off his eyes and gazed intently into the darkness until Tony appeared between the porters and in the light area. 'Oh, it's you. Good evening. Already back from Pöppenrade? How are your friends?" "Good evening, Tom! Thank you, Armgard is well… you are all alone here?” 'Yes, you are very welcome. I had to eat alone tonight, like the Pope; because Fraulein Jungmann doesn't really come into consideration as company, because she jumps up at any moment and runs upstairs to check on Hanno... Gerda is in the mess hall. Tamayo fiddles there. Christian picked her up..." »Dush! to talk like mother - Yes, I've noticed lately, Tom, that Gerda and Christian get along well." "Me too. Since he's been here all the time, she's starting to get a taste for him. She also listens very carefully when he describes his ailments... My God, he amuses her. The other day she said to me: 'He's not a citizen, Thomas! He's even less of a citizen than you!'..." “Citizens… citizens, Tom?! Ha, it seems to me that there is no better citizen in God's wide world than you—” "Oh well; not exactly to be understood!... Take off a bit, my child. Your looks are great.

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

  There were other days when the west wind died the sea drifted back so that the gracefully wavy bottom was exposed far out and bare sandbanks were visible everywhere, while the rain came down in torrents, sky, earth and water blurred together and the gust of wind drove the rain and drove it against the window panes so that no drops, but streams flowed down it and made it opaque. Then Hanno mostly stayed in the Kursaal, at the piano, which was a little shattered during the reunions of waltzes and Scottish and on which one could not fantasize as euphoniously as at home on the grand piano, but with its covered and gurgling sound, quite entertaining effects could be achieved ... And again other days came, dreamy, blue, completely calm and broodingly warm, where the blue flies stood buzzing in the sun above the "field of lights" and the sea lay silent and reflective, without breath and movement. And if there were still three days left, Hanno said to himself and made it clear to everyone that there was still time to come, as long as the Whitsun holidays. But no matter how unchallengeable this calculation was, he didn't believe it himself, and the realization had long since taken hold of his heart that the man in the shiny worsted coat was nevertheless right, The packed cab stopped in front of the Kurhaus, the day had come. Early in the morning Hanno had said goodbye to the sea and the beach; he now told the waiters who took their tips, the music temple, the rose beds and all this summer time. And then, to the bows of the hotel staff, the car started to move. He passed the avenue that led to the little town and drove along the "front row" ... Hanno pressed his head into the corner of the car and looked past Ida Jungmann, who was sitting across from him on the back seat, fresh-eyed, white-haired and bony, and out the window. The morning sky was whitish overcast, and the Trave threw small waves that swept swiftly before the wind. Now and then raindrops tingled against the panes. At the exit of the "front row" people sat in front of their front doors and mended nets; barefoot children ran up and looked curiously at the wagon. They stayed here... As the carriage left the last houses, Hanno leaned forward to see the lighthouse once more; then he leaned back and closed his eyes. "Next year again, Hannochen," said Ida Jungmann in a deep, comforting voice; but that encouragement was just enough to set his chin in a trembling motion and let the tears well up from under his long eyelashes. His face and hands were tanned from the sea air; but if one had pursued the aim of making him harder, more energetic, fresher and more resilient with this bathing stay, one had miserably failed; he was filled with this hopeless truth.

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

  The wall clock ticked dullly and with long pauses, much more rarely but the patient breathed a sigh of relief, briefly and superficially... A black nurse busied herself at the table with the beef tea, which they still wanted to try; now and then a family member would silently enter and disappear. The old man might remember how he had sat by the deathbed of a wife for the first time 46 years ago, and he might like to compare the wild despair that arose in him at the time with the thoughtful melancholy with which he, now so old himself, changed, expressionless and horribly indifferent face of the old woman, who never brings him much happiness, never brings him much pain, but who endured with him with wise decency for many long years and now also slowly walked away. He didn't think much, he just looked back steadily and with a slight shake of his head at his life and life in general, which suddenly seemed so distant and strange to him, this superfluously noisy tumult in the midst of which he was standing, which imperceptibly withdrew from him and now echoed in the distance in front of his astonished listening ear... Sometimes he would say in a half voice to himself: »Curious! Curious!« And when Madame Buddenbrook had breathed her last, very short, and non-combatant sigh, when in the dining room where the consecration was taking place, the bearers had picked up the flower-covered coffin in order to carry it away heavily - his mood did not change, he did not weep once; but that soft, astonished shake of the head stayed with him, and that almost smiling "Curious!" became his favorite word... There is no doubt that Johann Buddenbrook also came to an end. He began to sit silent and absent in the family circle, and once he had taken little Klara on his knees, perhaps to sing her one of his funny old songs, for example: »The omnibus drives through the city…« or "Kiek, there's a bummer sitting on the wall..." he was suddenly able to remain silent, and then, as if out of a long, half-conscious train of thought, he set his granddaughter down on the ground with a head-shaking "Curious!" and turned away... One day he said: "Jean - assez , you?" And immediately the neatly printed forms with two signatures began to circulate in the city, on which Johann Buddenbrook senior allowed himself to announce that his increasing age was causing him to give up his previous commercial activity and that as a result he was losing that of his late father Anno Founded in 1768, Johann Buddenbrook with Activis and Passivis under the same company from today to his son and since then Associate Johann Buddenbrook as the sole owner, with the request that his son receive the trust that has been bestowed on him in so many ways ... Respectfully - Johann Buddenbrook senior , which will stop drawing.

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

  Don't you dispensate me..." She would not have married him if she had not been essentially sure of his approval on such matters. 'Yes, dear God, you're right of course, Gerda. The fact that one enjoys oneself with such things is mostly just imagination ... But one goes along with them because one does not want to appear in front of the others and oneself as an oddball. Everyone has this vanity, don't you?... Otherwise it's easy to appear lonely and miserable and lose respect. And then one more thing, dear Gerda... We all have reason to court Herr Permaneder a little. I have no doubt that you overlook the situation. Something is developing there, and it would be a pity, quite simply a pity, if it didn't happen..." 'I don't see how, dear friend, my presence . . . but all the same. Since you desire it, so be it. Let us endure this pleasure.« »I will be sincerely obliged to you.« – They stepped out into the street... Truly, the sun was already beginning to break through the morning haze; on Sundays the bells of St. Mary's rang and the chirping of birds filled the air. The coachman took off his hat, and with that patriarchal benevolence that sometimes embarrassed Thomas a little, the Consul nodded a hearty "Good morning, dear man!" up to him. »So get in then, dear ones! It would be time for the morning sermon, but today we want to praise God in his free nature with our hearts, don't we, Mr. Permaneder?" "It's all right, Frau Consul." And you climbed one after the other over the two metal steps through the narrow back door into the car, which would have held ten people, and made yourself comfortable on the upholstery, which - no doubt in honor of Herr Permaneder - was striped blue and white. Then the little door clicked shut, Mr. Longuet clicked his tongue and uttered various hoots and hoots, his muscular brown horses pulled up, and the vehicle rolled down the Mengstraße, along the Trave, past the Holstentore, and later to the right on the Schwartauer Landstraße... Fields, meadows, clumps of trees, farmsteads ... and in the ever-higher, thinner, bluer haze one looked for the larks, whose voices one could hear. Thomas, who smoked cigarettes, looked around attentively when passing grain and showed Herr Permaneder how it was standing. The hop-dealer was in a truly youthful mood, his green hat with goatee a little on one side, his stick with the immense horn handle balanced on his white and broad palm and even on his lower lip, a feat which, though consistently unsuccessful, loud applause, especially from little Erika, and repeated several times: "It won't be the Zugspitze, but we'll scramble a little, and we'll have a rush, a fun, a sacred thing, Mrs.

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

  In the salon they simply sang "Silent Night, Holy Night," whereupon Therese Weichbrodt read the Christmas chapter with the utmost precision, in place of the senator, who didn't particularly like it; and then, repeating the first stanza of the »Ofir tree' sang across the suite of rooms into the great hall. There was no special reason for joyful events. The faces weren't exactly beaming and the conversation wasn't exactly cheerful. What to chat about? There wasn't much that was happy in the world. They thought of the blessed mother, talked about the sale of the house, about the bright floor that Frau Permaneder had rented in front of the Holstentore in a friendly house in view of the grounds of the »Lindenplatz«, and about what would happen when Hugo Weinschenk was free again In the meantime, little Johann was playing something on the grand piano that he had practiced with Mr. Pfühl, and accompanying his mother, somewhat flawed but with a beautiful sound, a sonata by Mozart. He was praised and kissed, but then had to be put to rest by Ida Jungmann because tonight, Even Christian, who, after that collision in the breakfast room, had no longer expressed any thoughts of marriage, continued to live with his brother in the old, for him not very honorable relationship, was completely untalkative and in no mood for fun. With wandering eyes he made a brief attempt to arouse a little understanding in those present for the "torment" in his left side and left early to the club, only to return for supper, put together in the customary manner... Then the Buddenbrooks were done with that Christmas Eve, and they were almost glad of it. At the beginning of the year 72 the household of the deceased consul was dissolved. The maids went away, and Frau Permaneder praised God when Mamsell Severin, who had hitherto unbearably contested her authority in the economy, said goodbye with the silk clothes and linens she had taken over. Then there were moving vans on Mengstrasse and the clearing of the old house began. The large carved chest, the gilded candelabra and the other things that had fallen to the senator and his wife were now taken to the Fischergrube. Christian and his family moved into a three-room garçon apartment near the club, and the small Permaneder family -Weinschenk moved into the bright floor on Lindenplatz, which was furnished not without a claim to distinction.A. Permaneder-Buddenbrook, widow . But the house on Mengstrasse had scarcely been empty when a crowd of workers appeared on the spot and began demolishing the back building so that the old mortar dust darkened the air... The property had now finally passed into the possession of Consul Hagenstrom. He had bought it, he seemed to have set his ambition to buy it, because he had immediately outbid an offer that Mr.

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

  Eleventh part First chapter One remembers this or that person, one thinks about how she might be, and suddenly it occurs to one that she no longer walks around the sidewalks, that her voice no longer resonates in the general concert of voices, but that she is simply forever disappeared from the scene and lies underground somewhere outside the gate. Consul Buddenbrook, née Stüwing, Uncle Gotthold's widow, was dead. Death had placed its atoning and transfiguring crown on her, who had previously been the cause of such violent quarrels in the family, and on her three daughters, Friederike, Henriette and Pfiffi, now felt the right to face the condolences of their relatives with an offended expression, as if to say: "Look, your persecutions have brought them to the pit!" ... Although the consul had become very old ... Madame Kethelsen also had peace. After struggling with gout for the last few years, she had gone on softly, simple-mindedly, and childishly, envied by her learned sister, who still struggled here and there with little rationalistic quirks and, though she was constantly hunchbacked and tiny was bound to this bad soil by a tougher constitution. Consul Peter Döhlmann had been recalled. He had eaten his entire fortune for breakfast, finally succumbed to Hunyadi-Janos and left his daughter an annual pension of two hundred marks, declaring that he would publicly respect the name of Döhlmann by admitting her to the St. John's Convent to support her. Justus Kröger was also separated, and that was bad; for now no one prevented his weak wife from selling the last silverware in order to be able to send money to the degenerate Jacob, who was leading a dissolute life somewhere out in the world... As for Christian Buddenbrook, one would have looked for him in vain in the city; he no longer dwelt within its walls. Barely a year after the death of his brother, the senator, he had moved to Hamburg, where he had married a lady he had long been close to, Miss Aline Puvogel, before God and man. Nobody could stop him. It is true that his maternal inheritance, half of which had always gone to Hamburg, was managed by Mr. Stephan Kistenmaker, to the extent that it had not been used up beforehand. but Christian was otherwise master of his own will ... As soon as his marriage became known, Mr. Kistenmaker was executor, administrator of the Buddenbrook estate and guardian of little Johann, and he held these positions with honor. They got him a job of the highest importance, they gave him the right to brush his hair at the stock exchange, with all the signs of overwork, and to assure him that he was wearing himself out ... not forgetting that he received two percent of the income for his troubles with great punctuality . Otherwise, however, he did not have much luck in business and very soon aroused the dissatisfaction of Gerda Buddenbrooks.

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

  And when I was driving up Holstenstrasse from the station, Nielsen the porter passed and took off his top hat, and I greeted him again: not at all arrogantly, but like Father used to greet people ... like that ... with his hand. And now I'm here. And you can two dozen workhorses that nothing was holding me and that it would have been a shame to stay. And when I was driving up Holstenstrasse from the station, Nielsen the porter passed and took off his top hat, and I greeted him again: not at all arrogantly, but like Father used to greet people ... like that ... with his hand. And now I'm here. And you can two dozen workhorses that nothing was holding me and that it would have been a shame to stay. And when I was driving up Holstenstrasse from the station, Nielsen the porter passed and took off his top hat, and I greeted him again: not at all arrogantly, but like Father used to greet people ... like that ... with his hand. And now I'm here. And you can two dozen workhorses tense up, Tom: you won't get me back after Munich. And tomorrow I'm going to Gieseke! -" This was the speech Tony gave and, rather exhausted, she slumped back in the chair with her chin in her hand and stared at the window panes. The Consul stood in front of her, completely startled, dazed, almost shaken, and said nothing. Then he exhaled, raised his arms to shoulder height and let them fall to his thighs. "Yes, there's nothing to be done about that!" he said softly, turned quietly on his heel and went to the door. She looked after him with the same expression she had given him: suffering and sulking. "Tom?" she asked. "Are you angry with me?" He held the oval doorknob in one hand and made a weary defensive gesture with the other. "Oh no. Not at all.« She reached out to him and laid her head on her shoulder. 'Come here, Tom... your sister isn't having a very good life. Everything comes down to her... And she doesn't seem to have anyone standing by her right now..." He came back and took her hand: from the side, somewhat indifferently and languidly, without looking at her. Suddenly her upper lip started to tremble... "You must work alone now," she said. "With Christian, that's probably not right, and I'm done now... I've done my job... I can't do anything more... yes, you must now give me the gift of mercy, a useless woman. I didn't think I'd fail so utterly in helping you a little, Tom! Now you'll have to see to it that we Buddenbrooks keep our place all by yourself... And God be with you.' Two tears rolled down her cheeks, large, bright children's tears, whose skin began to show small bumps. Eleventh Chapter Tony wasn't idle, she took matters into her own hands.

• From Blue Like Jazz (2003)

  I thought about acting out that scene with Diane, but it didn’t feel right so I let it go. “Yeah, I know,” I told her. “I know God loves me.” And I did know, I just didn’t believe. It was such crap, such psychobabble. I had heard it before, but hearing that stuff didn’t silence the voices. Still, there was something in Diane’s motherly eyes that said it was true and I needed that; I needed to believe it was true. I needed something to tell the voices when they started chanting at me. Diane and I talked for another half hour, and she ooohed and sighed and made me feel listened to. She was wonderful, and I never once felt stupid or weak for talking to her. I just felt honest and real and relieved. She said she would get me some literature and that she wanted to get together again soon. She said she would pray for me. When she left, I decided to start praying about all of this too. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t prayed about it before. It’s just that it never seemed like a spiritual problem. I prayed and asked God to help me figure out what was wrong with me. Things got worse with the girl. We would spend hours on the phone working through the math of our relationship, but nothing added up, which I received as only a sign of my incompetence, and this made me more sad than before. Then she did it; she decided we didn’t need to be in touch anymore. She broke it off. She sent me a letter saying that I didn’t love myself and could not receive love from her. There was nothing she could do about it, and it was killing her. I wandered around the house for an hour just looking at the blank walls, making coffee or cleaning the bathroom, not sure when my body was going to explode in sobs and tears. I was scrubbing the toilet when the voices began. I’d listened to them so often before, but on this day they were shouting. They were telling me that I was as disgusting as the urine on the wall around the toilet. And then the sentiment occurred. I am certain it was the voice of God because it was accompanied by such a strong epiphany like a movement in a symphony or something. The sentiment was simple: Love your neighbor as yourself. And I thought about that for a second and wondered why God would put that phrase so strongly in my mind. I thought about our neighbor Mark, who is tall and skinny and gay, and I wondered whether God was telling me I was gay, which was odd because I had never felt gay, but then it hit me that God was not telling me I was gay.

• From The Hours (1998)

  They are always generous with kisses. “Where are you going?” Clarissa asks. “Uptown. Lunch with Oliver St. Ives. Did I tell you? I can’t remember if I told you.” “You didn’t.” “Sorry. Do you mind?” “Not at all. Nice to be having lunch with a movie star.” “I cleaned like a demon in there.” “Toilet paper?” “There’s plenty. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” “Bye.” “The flowers are great,” Sally says. “Why do I feel nervous?” “Having lunch with a movie star, I suppose.” “It’s just Oliver. I feel like I’m abandoning you.” “You’re not. Everything’s fine.” “You’re sure?” “Go. Have a good time.” “Bye.” They kiss again. Clarissa will speak to Sally, when the time seems right, about retiring the mustard-colored jacket. As she continues down the hall, she wonders over the pleasure she felt—what had it been?—just a little more than an hour earlier. At this moment, at eleven-thirty on a warm June day, the hallway of her building feels like an entrance to the realm of the dead. The urn sits in its niche and the brown-glazed floor tiles silently return, in muddied form, the elderly ocher light of the sconces. No, not the realm of the dead, exactly; there is something worse than death, with its promise of release and slumber. There is dust rising, endless days, and a hallway that sits and sits, always full of the same brown light and the dank, slightly chemical smell that will do, until something more precise comes along, as the actual odor of age and loss, the end of hope. Richard, her lost lover, her truest friend, is disappearing into his illness, his insanity. Richard will not accompany her, as planned, into old age. Clarissa lets herself into the apartment and immediately, oddly, feels better. A little better. There’s the party to think about. At least there’s that. Here is her home; hers and Sally’s; and although they’ve lived here together almost fifteen years she is still struck by its beauty and by their impossible good fortune. Two floors and a garden in the West Village! They are rich, of course; obscenely rich by the world’s standards; but not rich rich, not New York City rich. They had a certain amount to spend and they lucked into these pine-planked floors, this bank of casement windows that open onto the bricked patio where emerald moss grows in shallow stone troughs and a small circular fountain, a platter of clear water, burbles at the touch of a switch. Clarissa takes the flowers into the kitchen, where Sally has left a note (“Lunch w. Oliver— did I forget to tell U?—back by 3 latest, XXXXX”). Clarissa is filled, suddenly, with a sense of dislocation.

• From The Hours (1998)

  She is still slim. She still exudes, somehow, an aspect of thwarted romance, and looking at her now, past fifty, in this dim and prosperous room, Louis thinks of photographs of young soldiers, firm-featured boys serene in their uniforms; boys who died before the age of twenty and who live on as the embodiment of wasted promise, in photo albums or on side tables, beautiful and confident, unfazed by their doom, as the living survive jobs and errands, disappointing holidays. At this moment Clarissa reminds Louis of a soldier. She seems to look out at the aging world from a past realm; she seems as sad and innocent and invincible as the dead do in photographs. She gives Louis a glass of water. “You look good,” she says. Louis’s middle-aged face has always been incipient in his younger face: the beaky nose and pale, astonished eyes; the wiry brows; the neck powerfully veined under a broad, bony chin. He was meant to be a farmer, strong as a weed, ravaged by weather, and age has done in fifty years what plowing and harvesting would have in half the time. “Thanks,” Louis says. “It feels as if you’ve been so far away.” “I have been. It’s good to be back.” “Five years,” Clarissa says. “I can’t believe you didn’t visit New York even once.” Louis takes three swallows of water. He’s come back to New York several times over the past five years, but did not call. Although he’d never resolved specifically not to see Clarissa or Richard he did in fact fail to call. It seemed simpler that way. “I’m coming back for good,” Louis says. “I’m fed up with these teaching gigs, I’m too old and too mean. I’m too poor. I’m thinking of getting some kind of honest job.” “Really?” “Oh, I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to school for my MBA, or anything.” “I thought you’d fall in love with San Francisco. I thought we’d never see you again.” “Everybody expects you to fall in love with San Francisco. It’s depressing.” “Louis, Richard is very different than he was.” “Is it pretty awful?” “I just want you to be prepared.” “You’ve stayed close to him, all these years,” Louis says. “Yes. I have.” She is, Louis decides, a handsome, ordinary woman. She is exactly that, neither more nor less. Clarissa sits down on the sofa and, after a moment’s hesitation, Louis takes five steps and sits beside her. “Of course, I’ve read the book,” he says. “Have you? Good.” “Isn’t it weird?” “Yes. It is.” “He hardly even bothered to change your name.” “That isn’t me,” she says. “It’s Richard’s fantasy about some woman who vaguely resembles me.” “It’s a damned weird book.” “So everybody seems to think.” “It feels like it’s about ten thousand pages long. Nothing happens. And then, bam. She kills herself.” “His mother.” “I know. Still. It’s completely out of the blue.” “You’re in perfect agreement with almost every critic.

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

  Hanno and Kai met at the door and walked side by side down the comfortable stairs and across the stylish forecourts below. They both said nothing. Hanno looked pitifully miserable and Kai was deep in thought. Arriving in the large courtyard, they began to pace up and down amidst the crowd of comrades of different ages who moved noisily on the damp red flagstones. A youthful gentleman with a blond goatee was in charge down here. This was the fine headmaster. His name was Doctor Goldener and he ran a boys' boarding school attended by rich and aristocratic sons of landowners from Holstein and Mecklenburg. Influenced by the feudal young people recommended to his guard, he maintained his appearance in a manner quite unusual among his peers. He wore multicolored silk ties, a dainty skirt, delicately colored trousers that were fastened with strings under the soles, and perfumed handkerchiefs with colored borders. A child of modest people as he was, such splendor did not really befit his face, and his mighty feet, for example, took ridiculous in the pointy buttoned boots. Incomprehensibly, he was vain of his plump and red hands, which he kept rubbing together, clasping, and lovingly examining. He used to tilt his head back and make a face with blinking eyes, wrinkled nose and half-open mouth, as if about to say, "What's the matter now?"... Yet he was too distinguished in order not to overlook in a distinguished way all the little impermissible things that happened in the yard. He overlooked the fact that this or that pupil had brought down a book in order to prepare himself a little at the last moment, overlooked that his pensioners handed over money to Herr Schlemiel, the custodian, to have bakeries fetched for them, It was a brave and a bit uncouth generation, the noisy crowd in which Kai and Hanno wandered back and forth. Grown up in the air of a warlike, victorious and rejuvenated fatherland, they worshiped customs of rough masculinity. They talked in a jargon that was both casual and dashing, and teeming with technical expressions. Drinking and smoking ability, physical strength and gymnastic virtue were very highly valued, and the most despicable vices were softness and dandyness. Anyone who was hit with their coat collar up could expect the pump. But anyone who was even seen on the street with a walking stick was publicly punished in the gymnasium in a way that was as shameful as it was painful... What Hanno and Kai said to each other was strange and strange in the hubbub of voices that filled the cold, damp air. This friendship had been in the for a long time known to the whole school.

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

  Jacobs tried his best, and I did what I could..." They went out to the forecourt together while the girls brought in the luggage with the coachman. Tony said, "You won't be using the ground floor rooms much for the time being... for the time being," she repeated, tongue-tugging on her upper lip. 'This is nice' - and she opened a door just to the right by the porch. - »There is ivy in front of the windows... simple wooden furniture... oak... Over there, on the other side of the corridor, lies another, larger one. Here on the right is the kitchen and pantry... But let's go up; oh, I want to show you everything!” They climbed the comfortable staircase on the wide, dark red rug. Upstairs, behind a glass floor door, was a narrow corridor. Next to it was the dining room, with a heavy round table on which the samovar was cooking and dark red, damask-like wallpaper against which stood carved walnut chairs with cane seats and a massive sideboard. There was a comfortable living room in gray cloth, separated only by a portico from a narrow drawing-room with green-striped grosgrain armchairs and a bay window. A quarter of the whole floor was occupied by a hall with three windows. Then they went over to the bedroom. It was to the right of the corridor, with flowered curtains and huge mahogany beds. But Tony went to the small, pierced door at the back, turned the handle, and revealed access to a spiral staircase that wound down to the basement: the bathroom and the maids' quarters. 'It's nice here. I want to stay here,' said Gerda, and with a sigh of relief sank into the armchair by one of the beds. The Consul bent down to her and kissed her forehead. "Weary? But it's true, I'd like to clean up a bit too..." "And I'll see about the water for tea," said Frau Grünlich; "I'll wait for you in the dining room..." And she went there. Tea was waiting in steaming Meissen cups when Thomas came over. "Here I am," he said, "Gerda would like to rest for another half hour. She has a headache. We want to go to Mengstrasse later... Are you all right, my dear Tony? Mother, Erika, Christian? But now," he continued with his most amiable gesture, "our heartfelt thanks, also to Gerdas, for all your troubles, you good one! How beautifully you did it all! All I need is for my wife to get a couple of palm trees for her bay window and for me to look around for some usable oil paintings... Now tell me! How are you, what have you been up to in the meantime?” He had pulled up a chair for his sister and was slowly sipping his tea and eating a biscuit while they talked. "Oh, Tom," she replied. "What am I supposed to do? My life is behind me..." 'Nonsense, Tony!

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

  I carried a lot of jellyfish home in a handkerchief and laid them out neatly on the balcony in the sun to let them evaporate... Then the stars had to remain! Yes, well...when I checked, there was a pretty big wet spot. It just smelled a little like rotten seaweed…” I carried a lot of jellyfish home in a handkerchief and laid them out neatly on the balcony in the sun to let them evaporate... Then the stars had to remain! Yes, well...when I checked, there was a pretty big wet spot. It just smelled a little like rotten seaweed…” I carried a lot of jellyfish home in a handkerchief and laid them out neatly on the balcony in the sun to let them evaporate... Then the stars had to remain! Yes, well...when I checked, there was a pretty big wet spot. It just smelled a little like rotten seaweed…” Four Chapter At the beginning of 1873, Hugo Weinschenk's plea for clemency was granted by the Senate and the former director was released half a year before the end of his sentence. If Frau Permaneder had spoken honestly, she would have had to admit that she was not very happy about this event and that she would have preferred it if everything had stayed the way it was until the end. she lived with her daughter and her granddaughter peacefully on Lindenplatz, in dealings with the house in the Fischergrube and with her pensioner friend Armgard von Maiboom, née von Schilling, who had lived in the city since her husband's death. She had known for a long time that outside the walls of her native town she was really nowhere in the right and dignified place, and with her memories of Munich, her stomach that was constantly becoming weaker and more irritable, and her growing need for rest, she felt absolutely no inclination to return to a large one in her old age city of the united fatherland or even to move abroad. "Dear child," she said to her daughter, "I must now ask you something, something serious!... You still love your husband with all your heart, don't you? You love him so much that you want to follow him with your child wherever he turns now, since unfortunately he is not staying here?” And since Frau Erika Weinschenk, née Grünlich, answered this with tears that could mean anything, just as dutifully as Tony himself once under similar circumstances in her villa near Hamburgherfather had answered, one began to reckon with an imminent separation... It was a day almost as horrible as the one on which Director Weinschenk was arrested when Frau Permaneder picked up her son-in-law from prison in a closed cab.

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

  But it is their genius making them attentive, not their attention making geniuses of them . And, when we come down to the root of the matter, we see that they differ from ordinary men less in the character of their attention than in the nature of the objects upon which it is successively bestowed. In the genius, these form a concatenated series, suggesting each other mutually by some rational law. Therefore we call the attention 'sustained' and the topic of meditation for hours 'the same.' In the common man the series is for the most part incoherent, the objects have no rational bond, and we call the attention wandering and unfixed. It is probable that genius tends actually to prevent a man from acquiring habits of voluntary attention, and that moderate intellectual endowments are the soil in which we may best expect, here as elsewhere, the virtues of the will, strictly so called, to thrive. But, whether the attention come by grace of genius or by dint of will, the longer one does attend to a topic the more mastery of it one has. And the faculty of voluntarily bringing back a wandering attention, over and over again, is the very root of judgment, character, and will. No one is compos sui if he have it not. An education which should improve this faculty would be the education par excellence. But it is easier to define this ideal than to give practical directions for bringing it about. The only general pedagogic maxim bearing on attention is that the more interest the child has in advance in the subject, the better he will attend. Induct him therefore in such a way as to knit each new thing on to some acquisition already there; and if possible awaken curiosity, so that the new thing shall seem to come as an answer, or part of an answer, to a question pre-existing in his mind. At present having described the varieties, let us turn to THE EFFECTS OF ATTENTION. Its remote effects are too incalculable to be recorded. The practical and theoretical life of whole species, as well as of individual beings, results from the selection which the habitual direction of their attention involves. In Chapters XIV and XV some of these consequences will come to light. Suffice it meanwhile that each of us literally chooses, by his ways of attending to things, what sort of a universe he shall appear to himself to inhabit. The immediate effects of attention are to make us: a ) perceive— b ) conceive— c ) distinguish— d ) remember— better than otherwise we could—both more successive things and each thing more clearly. It also e ) shortens 'reaction-time.' a and b .