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 157 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No voy a volver. —Te fuiste sin cerrar la cuenta antes de irte la última vez —dice Grady, sacando dinero de su billetera—. Aquí está tu propina. Desliza un par de billetes de veinte por la barra, cierro el refrigerador y me río entre dientes, mis ojos se sienten pesados por el cansancio. —Grady, ni siquiera se me ocurrió —le digo—. No te preocupes por cosas así. Estoy feliz de que estés aquí. Lo cual es cierto, me evita tener que forzar conversación con alguien más mientras estoy trabajando. No coquetea, ni hace comentarios groseros y le gusta mi música en la rocola. Dejo el dinero y recojo su botella vacía, destapando la parte superior de una nueva y poniéndola frente a él. —Oye, ¿puedo tener dos Buds? —dice alguien, poniendo dinero en la barra. Me dirijo hacia allá, escuchando sonar el teléfono y veo a Shel tomarlo. Abriendo el refrigerador, saco las dos Buds. —¿Jordan? —repite Shel en el teléfono. Miro hacia ella, dejando las dos cervezas frente al tipo. —¿Quién está llamando? —pregunta. Mantengo mis ojos en ella, mi respiración se vuelve superficial mientras tomo el dinero del tipo y cobro sus bebidas. —¿Pike? —dice. Me dirige una mirada y sacudo mi cabeza. Es tarde, me fui desde la noche anterior y estoy realmente sorprendida de que no haya venido a buscarme, haciendo sus demandas insistentes como de costumbre. —Sí, no está aquí —miente Shel—. Su turno terminó. Intenta con su teléfono celular. Cuelga, probablemente sin esperar a que él diga nada más y definitivamente sin saber que Pike ya ha llamado a mi celular varias veces hoy. Sin embargo, no dejó mensajes y no envió mensajes de texto. Se acerca a mí. —¿Que está pasando? —Nada. Inclina su cabeza, sin creerme. —Luces agotada. —Aparta mi cabello con gentileza colocándolo detrás de mi oreja mientras limpio la barra—. ¿Has comido algo hoy? —Estoy bien —le digo—. Solo cansada. —¿Cole te está causando más problemas? Suspiro, sintiendo que mi estómago se vuelve tembloroso. Quiero hablar con alguien, pero estoy harta de ser la chica con problemas de tipos. Estoy cansada de que Shel se preocupe por mí y no quiero que lo sepa. Ya piensa que Pike es un idiota y por alguna razón, odio eso. No quiero darle más municiones. —¿Por qué te está llamando su padre? —me presiona. Evito su mirada, dejo caer el trapo de cocina en el cubo de agua caliente y tomo uno nuevo, limpiando las mismas botellas de licor que ya limpié esta tarde. Siento sus ojos en mí. —Jordan, ¿en qué te has metido? Mi barbilla tiembla y las lágrimas pican en la parte posterior de mis ojos. —Nada —digo, todavía sin mirarla—. Estaré bien.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Lori was the most obsessive reader. Fantasy and science fiction dazzled her, especially The Lord of the Rings . When she wasn’t reading, she was drawing orcs or hobbits. She tried to get everyone in the family to read the books. “They transport you to a different world,” she’d say. I didn’t want to be transported to another world. My favorite books all involved people dealing with hardships. I loved The Grapes of Wrath, Lord of the Flies, and especially A Tree Grows in Brooklyn . I thought Francie Nolan and I were practically identical, except that she had lived fifty years earlier in Brooklyn and her mother always kept the house clean. Francie Nolan’s father sure reminded me of Dad. If Francie saw the good in her father, even though most people considered him a shiftless drunk, maybe I wasn’t a complete fool for believing in mine. Or trying to believe in him. It was getting harder. • • • One night that summer, when I was lying in bed and everyone else was asleep, I heard the front door open and the sound of someone muttering and stumbling around in the darkness. Dad had come home. I went into the living room, where he was sitting at the drafting table. I could see by the moonlight coming through the window that his face and hair were matted with blood. I asked him what had happened. “I got in a fight with a mountain,” he said, “and the mountain won.” I looked at Mom asleep on the sofa bed, her head buried under a pillow. She was a deep sleeper and hadn’t stirred. When I lit the kerosene lamp, I saw that Dad also had a big gash in his right forearm and a cut on his head so deep that I could see the white of his skull. I got a toothpick and tweezers and picked the rocky grit out of the gash. Dad didn’t wince when I poured rubbing alcohol on the wound. Because of all his hair, I had no way to put on a bandage, and I told Dad I should shave the area around the cut. “Hell, honey, that would ruin my image,” he said. “A fellow in my position’s got to look presentable.” Dad studied the gash on his forearm. He tightened a tourniquet around his upper arm and told me to fetch Mom’s sewing box. He fumbled around in it for silk thread but, unable to find any, decided that cotton would be fine. He threaded a needle with black thread, handed it to me, and pointed at the gash. “Sew it up,” he said. “Dad! I can’t do that.” “Oh, go ahead, honey,” he said. “I’d do it myself, except I can’t do diddly with my left hand.” He smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’m so thoroughly pickled, I won’t feel a thing.” Dad lit a cigarette and placed his arm on the table. “Go ahead,” he said.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Once we lost our credit at the commissary, we quickly ran out of food. Sometimes one of Dad’s odd jobs would come through, or he’d win some money gambling, and we’d eat for a few days. Then the money would be gone and the refrigerator would be empty again. Before, whenever we were out of food, Dad was always there, full of ideas and ingenuity. He’d find a can of tomatoes on the back of a shelf that everyone else had missed, or he’d go off for an hour and come back with an armful of vegetables—never telling us where he got them—and whip up a stew. But now he began disappearing a lot. “Where Dad?” Maureen asked all the time. She was a year and a half old, and these were almost her first words. “He’s out finding us food and looking for work,” I’d say. But I wondered if he didn’t really want to be around us unless he could provide for us. I tried to never complain. If we asked Mom about food—in a casual way, because we didn’t want to cause any trouble—she’d simply shrug and say she couldn’t make something out of nothing. We kids usually kept our hunger to ourselves, but we were always thinking of food and how to get our hands on it. During recess at school, I’d slip back into the classroom and find something in some other kid’s lunch bag that wouldn’t be missed—a package of crackers, an apple—and I’d gulp it down so quickly I would barely be able to taste it. If I was playing in a friend’s yard, I’d ask if I could use the bathroom, and if no one was in the kitchen, I’d grab something out of the refrigerator or cupboard and take it into the bathroom and eat it there, always making a point of flushing the toilet before leaving. Brian was scavenging, too. One day I discovered him upchucking behind our house. I wanted to know how he could be spewing like that when we hadn’t eaten in days. He told me he had broken into a neighbor’s house and stolen a gallon jar of pickles. The neighbor had caught him, but instead of reporting him to the cops, he made Brian eat the entire jarful as punishment. I had to swear I wouldn’t tell Dad. A couple of months after Dad lost his job, he came home with a bag of groceries: a can of corn, a half gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, two tins of deviled ham, a sack of sugar, and a stick of margarine. The can of corn disappeared within minutes. Somebody in the family had stolen it, and no one except the thief knew who. But Dad was too busy making deviled-ham sandwiches to launch an investigation. We ate our fill that night, washing down the sandwiches with big glasses of milk.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  But I do not have space to enumerate all the details of the festivities. I can only say that they were magnificent. It was, after all, a noble occasion. It was agreed that Constance would be accompanied on her journey by many bishops. Travelling with her would also be lords and ladies of renown. There were others with her, too, but I cannot remember them all. Then it was proclaimed throughout Rome that the citizens should pray for her, and invoke the blessing of Jesus Christ upon the marriage. So the day came for her departure. That woeful day, that fatal day, could not be avoided. Everyone came out on to the streets. Constance herself was overcome with sorrow. She arose that morning, pale and trembling, and dressed herself for the journey. She knew that there was no other course. Who can wonder at her tears? She was being sent to a strange land, far away from the friends she had loved. She was being placed under the dominion of a man about whom she knew nothing. Husbands, of course, are always good and considerate. Just ask their wives. I say no more. ‘Father,’ Constance said, ‘take leave of your wretched daughter. And you, Mother, who has brought me up so tenderly. I have loved you both. You have been most precious to me - more precious than anything, except the Saviour on high. I commend myself to your prayers, now that I am about to depart for Syria. I will never see you again. ‘It is your will that I travel to a barbarian nation. So be it. May Christ, who died for our sins, give me the strength to obey His commands. I am only a weak female. It is no matter if I die. Women are born to servitude and punishment. It is ordained that they should be ruled by men.’ There was never such weeping heard when Troy fell in flames, or when Thebes was taken, or when Rome was wounded by Hannibal. The tears and laments echoed through her chambers. But she had no choice. She was obliged to go. Oh first mover, outer sphere of heaven, inflexible and cruel! You are the power that moves all things from east to west, that makes the stars revolve in their unnatural course. It was you who put Mars in the ascendant at the beginning of this dangerous voyage. It was you who cast a blight upon the marriage. Inauspicious ascent, bleak and tortuous in effect! Unhappy Mars must fall out of his place into the darkest house of all, the house of Saturn. Oh feeble moon, of unfortunate fate! You move into a place where you are not welcomed. You are banished from your blessed haven. Such are the movements of the

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  She and Dad had found a place to live. Their new home, Mom said, was in an abandoned building on the Lower East Side. “It’s a tad run-down,” she admitted. “But all it really needs is a little TLC. And best of all, it’s free.” Other folks were also moving into abandoned buildings, she said. They were called squatters, and the buildings were called squats. “Your father and I are pioneers,” Mom said. “Just like my great-great-grandfather, who helped tame the Wild West.” Mom called in a few weeks and said that although the squat still needed a few finishing touches—a front door, for example—she and Dad were officially accepting visitors. I took the subway to Astor Place on a late spring day and headed east. Mom and Dad’s apartment was in a six-story walk-up. The mortar was crumbling and bricks had come loose. All the windows on the first floor had been boarded up. I reached to open the building’s front door, but where the lock and handle should have been, there was only a hole. Inside, a single naked lightbulb hung from a wire in the hallway. On one wall, chunks of plaster had crumbled away, revealing the wooden ribs and pipes and wiring. On the third floor, I knocked on the door to Mom and Dad’s apartment and heard Dad’s muffled voice. Instead of the door swinging inward, fingers appeared on both sides, and it was lifted out of the frame altogether. There was Dad, beaming and hugging me while he went on about how he’d yet to install door hinges. As a matter of fact, they’d only just gotten the door itself, which he’d found in the basement of another abandoned building. Mom came running up behind him, grinning so widely you could see her molars, and gave me a big hug. Dad knocked a cat off a chair—they had already taken in a few strays—and offered me a seat. The room was crammed with broken furniture, bundles of clothes, stacks of books, and Mom’s art supplies. Four or five electric space heaters blasted away. Mom explained that Dad had hooked up every squat in the building to an insulated cable he’d hot-wired off a utility pole down the block. “We’re all getting free juice, thanks to your father,” Mom said. “No one in the building could survive without him.” Dad chuckled modestly. He told me how complicated the process had been, because the wiring in the building was so ancient. “Damnedest electrical system I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The manual must have been written in hieroglyphics.” I looked around, and it hit me that if you replaced the electric heaters with a coal stove, this squat on the Lower East Side looked pretty much like the house on Little Hobart Street.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Mi corazón comienza a latir con más fuerza. Maldición. Desearía haber podido salir de aquí antes que llegara a casa. Todavía ni siquiera son las cinco. También salí antes de mi turno de la comida, así también podría empacar todo y salir de aquí a tiempo. ¿Qué está haciendo llegando a casa? —¿Qué estás haciendo? —Me sigue alrededor de la camioneta. Meto la caja en el asiento trasero, sobre otra y el auto es justo lo suficientemente grande para contener todo lo que traje. Todo cabe en dos maletas y tres cajas. El resto está almacenado. Y parece que tampoco voy a ir por ello pronto. La “casa” de mi padre no tiene más sitio para una mesa de dibujo que mi habitación aquí. —Gracias por todo —le digo, sabiendo que sabe exactamente lo que estoy haciendo—. Has sido realmente increíble. —¿Te vas? —Parece confundido. Cierro la puerta del auto y me giro hacia él, mi estómago da un vuelco mientras trago el nudo en mi garganta. —Con Cole fuera y nosotros separados, no es correcto que me quede —digo— . Nunca has tenido la obligación de ayudarme, pero lo hiciste y no puedo agradecértelo lo suficiente. Realmente aprecio todo. —Y luego no puedo evitar forzar una pequeña sonrisa por el bien de ambos—. Especialmente mis cintas de casete. Miro hacia sus ojos preocupados, el verde en los iris parecen oscurecerse y un dolor golpea mi pecho. Me giro, fingiendo asegurarme de que la puerta está cerrada para darme un segundo para recomponerme. —Mi papá me va a dejar quedarme en casa por un tiempo. —Me giro y le digo—: Estaré bien. —Pero... —Oh, olvidé mi bolso. —Paso los dedos por la parte superior de mi cabello y entro rápidamente en la casa, no dejando que termine mientras me alejo. No quiero discutir con él y tengo miedo de que si dice algo más, comenzaré a llorar. No quiero irme, pero sé que ya no tengo derecho a seguir aquí y tal vez irá al bar de vez en cuando para visitarme, ¿cierto? Tal vez lo veré más ahora que lo conozco y lo reconoceré. Por supuesto, también estoy molesta por lo de Cole. He hablado con él prácticamente todos los días durante los tres últimos años. Pero quiero estar lejos de él. Realmente no me gusta dejar a Pike. ¿Quién lo va a hacer conversar con la gente y ahora quién va a ponerle extracto de vainilla y canela que no sabe que le gusta en su café? Pestañeo para alejar el dolor en mis ojos, reprendiéndome. Estará bien. Sobrevivió treinta y ocho años sin mí, ¿cierto? Tomando mi bolso del sofá, lo abro, haciendo un inventario visual: Tarjetas, llaves, cartera, teléfono... Y lo cierro haciendo una comprobación mental y asegurándome que tomé el cargador de mi teléfono, mi rasuradora y mi champú del baño y cualquier otra ropa que quedara en la lavadora y secadora. Mierda. Olvidé reemplazar su esponja, ¿cierto? Oh, bueno...

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  By mid-August Vix was exhausted. The boundless energy of early summer had dissipated. She felt as if she could sleep for weeks. “I don’t like the idea of you starting college in such a rundown condition,” Abby said. “Why not stop working now and take some time off to just relax?” “I’ll be okay,” Vix told her. But she wasn’t so sure. She felt so down, so depressed. Bru said, “Maybe you need vitamins.” “Maybe I just need more sleep.” “So what’s the point of driving all the way down island every night?” he asked. “What’s the point of sleeping in Caitlin’s father’s house when you could be sleeping here with me?” She couldn’t answer his question. She didn’t really understand it herself. She only knew she needed Abby and Lamb. She needed to feel connected. She felt safe with them. But every time she tried to explain that to Bru he’d get defensive. “You feel safe with them but not with me?” “It’s not a competition. It’s not you against them.” “Sometimes I feel like it is. And there’s no way I can win.” “You’ve got it backwards,” she told him. On her last night on the island they made love until dawn. “Think that’ll hold you till we see each other again?” Bru asked. “Don’t worry,” she said. “How about you?” “I’ll just think about tonight. And if that doesn’t do it, there’s always the phone.” But when the time came, when she tried to get out of bed, he reached for her and whispered, “Stay with me, Victoria. I need you here, in my arms ... please don’t go.” And at that moment she felt that nothing ... nothing would ever matter but this. PART THREE We Are the World 1983–1987

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Dad was at the drafting table, working on some calculations, and Mom was going through her stacks of paintings. When I told them about my plan, Dad stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and climbed out the back window without saying a word. Mom nodded and looked down, dusting off one of her paintings, murmuring something to herself. “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Fine. Go.” “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. You should go. It’s a good plan.” She seemed on the verge of tears. “Don’t be sad, Mom. I’ll write.” “I’m not upset because I’ll miss you,” Mom said. “I’m upset because you get to go to New York and I’m stuck here. It’s not fair.” • • • Lori, when I called her, approved of my plan. I could live with her, she said, if I got a job and chipped in on the rent. Brian liked my idea, too, especially when I pointed out that he could have my bed. He began making wisecracks in a lockjaw accent about how I was going to become one of those fur-wearing, pinkie-extending, nose-in-the-air New Yorkers. He began counting down the weeks until I left, just as I had counted them down for Lori. “In sixteen weeks, you’ll be in New York,” he’d say. The next week, “In three months and three weeks, you’ll be in New York.” Dad had barely spoken to me since I announced my decision. One night that spring, he came into the bedroom where I was up on my bunk studying. He had some papers rolled up under his arm. “Got a minute to look at something?” he asked. “Sure.” I followed him into the living room, where he spread the papers on the drafting table. They were his old blueprints for the Glass Castle, all stained and dog-eared. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them. We’d stopped talking about the Glass Castle once the foundation we’d dug was filled up with garbage. “I think I finally worked out how to deal with the lack of sunlight on the hillside,” Dad said. It involved installing specially curved mirrors in the solar cells. But what he wanted to talk to me about was the plans for my room. “Now that Lori’s gone,” he said, “I’m reconfiguring the layout, and your room will be a lot bigger.” Dad’s hands trembled slightly as he unrolled different blueprints. He had drawn frontal views, side views, and aerial views of the Glass Castle. He had diagrammed the wiring and the plumbing. He had drawn the interiors of rooms and labeled them and specified their dimensions, down to the inches, in his precise, blocky handwriting. I stared at the plans. “Dad,” I said, “you’ll never build the Glass Castle.” “Are you saying you don’t have faith in your old man?” “Even if you do, I’ll be gone.

• From City of Night (1963)

  And while the man goes on trying to sing, a Negro fairy goes through the motions of a strip; and like an Indian doing a frantic war-dance, a harpy rocks and rolls about the neon-flashing jukebox—a badge across her desiccated breast proclaiming her name pitifully: “BEATRICE.” Mrs Haversham has rousted herself onto the stage to strum a guitar, producing an anarchy of sounds. A sadfaced man, surprisingly welldressed, guiltily buys drinks for all the derelicts around him, while a sullen old woman huddles against a cubicle, menacing with a fist anyone who approaches her. “Beatrice,” now on the stage, hopped like a puppet. A fat old fairy stares longingly at the young drifters and bursts uncontrollably into tears, the sound of his crying drowned (his pain reduced to paroxysmal pantomime) by a brownfaced man who howls like an Indian as Beatrice hops loose-limbly on the stage.... A mountainous woman calls out to a man across the bar: “Wottayalookinat?” “You, honey, I wanna kiss you.” “Kiss-my ass!” she roars (and Beatrice, still on the stage, wiggles hers for emphasis). “Okay,” the man says, getting up, “where?” The fat woman shakes her giant butt: “Cant miss it, baby,” she says, “Im ALL ass.”... Still hopping convulsively, Beatrice is ushered off the stage by the announcer. A fastidious man, in elegant tatters, sends back his beer because the glass is dirty. The waiter stares incredulously at him. Next on the stage are two skinny drunk men, leaning on each other singing plaintively: “Those far away places—...” Like a chipped record, repeating: “Far, far, farrrrr away places—... Far away—...” And cant go on. A Negro woman, perched like a crow on a stool next to a tattooed sailor, feels suddenly beautiful at his attentions (she smiles, rolls her round eyes in pleasure) as he strokes her butt, which she squirms deliriously—but stops its movements abruptly at the thud of the two drunk men collapsing on the stage. Against a wall a faded blonde woman—an exiled angel, the hints of beauty still lingering on her palewhite face—sits with blackoutlined eyes burning into the bar. A young tramp, drunk—the mark of premature doom stamped on his face which resembles James Dean’s (I have seen him before—hustling Main Street in Los Angeles—but he looked much younger then)—offers her a beer, paid for with a few coins I saw him clinch only moments earlier from the Negro fairy. The woman takes the beer wordlessly, her gaze piercingly buried beyond the bar. Now on the stage a fleshy woman is trying to do a belly-dance. Someone hooted: “TAKE HER OFF!” and misinterpreting the harsh command, she began to do a strip....

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  C. He poses the question: Does the life of happiness exist, therefore, in memory? 1. This kind of memory is not the same as remembering the city of Carthage after we have seen it. 2. This kind of memory is not memory of a corporeal object. VI. Augustine reflects on the passions and memory. A. He considers the fact that he can write about remembered emotions, such as sadness and fear, without reliving the pain of the time in which they occurred. B. With the faculty of memory, events can mean more to us later then they did at the outset. C. At a different level, every event before Augustine’s conversion exists in a new light after he becomes a Christian. VII. In his discussion of memory, Augustine gives a catalogue of sense impressions. A. He warns of unrestrained curiosity as a characteristic that may lead one astray. B. He struggles, for example, over the question of whether music is a distraction. VIII. Memory, intellect, and will are key elements in the Augustinian world. A. These three qualities neatly reflect the religious symbol of the Trinity. B. Augustine compares memory to God the Father; intellect, to God the Son; and will, to the Holy Spirit. IX. Memory is part of mind. A. The mind is unable to totally grasp itself. B. How can we use the mind to find out about the mind? C. We will never be able to fully plumb the depths of the mind. Suggested Readings: See readings for Lecture Nineteen. Dixon, chapter 8. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 63 Questions to Consider: 1. Why is a discussion of memory appropriate in Book X of the Confessions? 2. Why is memory ultimately not something that can ever fully be explained, according to Augustine? 3. According to Augustine, what makes memory such a fascinating subject? 4. What are some of the major paradoxes that Augustine associates with memory? 64 ©2004 The Teaching Company.

• From Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)

  Before s/he tells us that s/he h/erself was abandoned by h/er mother quickly and without advance notice, s/he tells us that for reasons unstated s/he spent a few years in a house for abandoned and orphaned children. S/he refers to the “poor creatures, deprived from their cradle of a mother’s love.” In the next sentence s/he refers to this institution as a “refuge [asile] of suffering and affliction,” and in the following sentence refers to h/er father “whom a sudden death tore away ... from the tender affection of my mother” (4). Although h/er own abandonment is twice deflected here through the pity for others who are suddenly rendered motherless, s/he establishes an identification through that deflection, one that later reappears as the joint plight of father and daughter cut off from the maternal caress. The deflections of desire are semantically compounded, as it were, as Herculine proceeds to fall in love with “mother” after “mother” and then falls in love with various mothers’ “daughters,” which scandalizes all manner of mother. Indeed, s/he vacillates between being the object of everyone’s adoration and excitement and an object of scorn and abandonment, the split consequence of a melancholic structure left to feed on itself without intervention. If melancholy involves self-recrimination, as Freud argues, and if that recrimination is a kind of negative narcissism (attending to the self, even if only in the mode of berating that self), then Herculine can be understood to be constantly falling into the opposition between negative and positive narcissism, at once avowing h/erself as the most abandoned and neglected creature on earth but also as the one who casts a spell of enchantment on

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  You are mistaken!' I screamed out, but he held me fast. "As I wrestled with the man, I heard the signal bell ring. With a strong jerk I pushed him away, and ran into the station. I reached the platform a few seconds too late, the train was in motion, Teleny had disappeared. "Nothing was then left for me to do but to post a letter to this friend of mine, begging him to forgive me for having done what he had often forbidden me to do; that is, to have given an order to my attorney to collect all his outstanding accounts, and pay all those debts that had so long been weighing upon him. That letter, however, he never got. "I jumped back into the cab, and was whirled away to my office through the crowded thoroughfares of the town. "What a jarring bustle there was everywhere! How sordid and meaningless this world appeared! "A garishly-dressed, smirking female was casting lewd glances at a lad, and tempting him to follow her. A one-eyed satyr was ogling a very young girl—a mere child. I thought I knew him. Yes, it was that loathsome school-fellow of mine, Bion, only he looked even more of a pimp than his father used to look. A fat, sleek-headed man was carrying a cantaloup melon, and his mouth seemed to be watering at the prospect of the pleasure he would have in eating it after the soup, with his wife and children. I asked myself if ever man or woman could have kissed that slobbering mouth without feeling sick? "I had during these last three days quite neglected my office, and my manager was ill. I therefore felt it a duty to set to work and do what had to be done. Notwithstanding the sorrow gnawing in my heart, I began answering letters and telegrams, or giving the necessary directions as to how they were to be answered. I worked feverishly, rather like a machine than a man. For a few hours I was quite absorbed in complicated commercial transactions, and although I worked and reckoned clearly, still my friend's face, with his mournful eyes, his voluptuous mouth with its bitter smile, was ever before me, whilst an after-taste of his kiss still lingered on my lips. "The hour for shutting up the office came, and yet not half of my task was done. I saw, as in a dream, the rueful faces of my clerks kept back from their dinners or from their pleasures. They had all somewhere to go to.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  “How come?” “Because we’re not selling it.” She was keeping it, she explained, to replace the wedding ring her mother had given her, the one Dad had pawned shortly after they got married. “But Mom,” I said, “that ring could get us a lot of food.” “That’s true,” Mom said, “but it could also improve my self-esteem. And at times like these, self-esteem is even more vital than food.” • • • Mom’s self-esteem did need some shoring up. Sometimes, things just got to her. She retreated to her sofa bed and stayed there for days on end, crying and occasionally throwing things at us. She could have been a famous artist by now, she yelled, if she hadn’t had children, and none of us appreciated her sacrifice. The next day, if the mood had passed, she’d be painting and humming away as if nothing had happened. One Saturday morning not long after Mom started wearing her new diamond ring, her mood was on an upswing, and she decided we’d all clean the house. I thought this was a great idea. I told Mom we should empty out each room, clean it thoroughly, and put back only the things that were essential. That was the one way, it seemed to me, to get rid of the clutter. But Mom said my idea was too time-consuming, so all we ended up doing was straightening piles of paper into stacks and stuffing dirty clothes into the chest of drawers. Mom insisted that we chant Hail Marys while we worked. “It’s a way of cleansing our souls while we’re cleaning house,” she said. “We’re killing two birds with one stone.” The reason she had become a tad moody, she said later that day, was that she hadn’t been getting enough exercise. “I’m going to start doing calisthenics,” she announced. “Once you get your circulation going, it changes your entire outlook on life.” She leaned over and touched her toes. When she came up, she said she was feeling better already, and went down for another toe touch. I watched from the writing desk with my arms folded across my chest. I knew the problem was not that we all had poor circulation. We didn’t need to start doing toe touches. We needed to take drastic measures. I was twelve by now, and I had been weighing our options, doing some research at the public library and picking up scraps of information about how other families on Little Hobart Street survived. I had come up with a plan and had been waiting for the opportunity to broach it to Mom. The moment seemed ripe. “Mom, we can’t go on living like this,” I said. “It’s not so bad,” she said. Between each toe touch, she was reaching up into the air. “We haven’t had anything to eat but popcorn for three days,” I said. “You’re always so negative,” she said. “You remind me of my mother—criticize, criticize, criticize.” “I’m not being negative,” I said.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  This was Rosina. ‘Nancy’ll think you don’t like it, otherwise.’ ‘It’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘Let her try it later.’ But George had jumped over to Alice’s chair, taken the hat from her, and now tried to set it on her head. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I want to see if you look like a buffalo in it.’ ‘Leave off!’ said Alice. There was a scuffle. I closed my eyes, heard the rip of stitches, and when next I looked my sister had the bonnet in her lap, and George had half the ostrich feather in his fingers. The chip of diamante had flown off, and been lost. Poor George began to gulp and cough; Rosina said sternly that she hoped that he was satisfied. Liza took the hat and the feather and tried awkwardly to reunite them: ‘Such a pretty bonnet,’ she said. Alice started to sniff, then placed her hands before her eyes and hurried from the room. Father said, ‘Well, now!’; he still held his gleaming watch-guard. Mother looked at me and shook her head. ‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘Oh Nancy, what a shame!’ In time Rosina and the cousins left, and Alice, still rather swollen-eyed, went out to call on a friend. I took my bags up to my old room, and washed my face; when I came down a little later, the presents I had brought had all been tidied out of sight, and Rhoda was helping Mother peel and boil potatoes in the kitchen. They shooed me away when I offered to join them, and said I was a guest; and so I sat with Father and Davy - who seemed to think that keeping to their usual habits, and hiding themselves behind the Sunday papers, would put me at my ease. We had our dinner, then took a walk to Tankerton and sat pitching stones into the water. The sea was grey as lead; far out upon it there were a couple of yawls and barges - bound for London, where Kitty was. What was she doing now, I wondered, apart from missing me? Later there was tea, after which more cousins appeared, to thank me for their presents and to beg for a look at my handsome new clothes. We sat upstairs and I showed them my frocks, my hat with the veil upon it, and my painted stockings. There was more talk about young men. Alice, I learned - they were surprised she hadn’t told me this - had finished with Tony Reeves from the Palace, and had started stepping out with a boy who worked at the shipyard; he was much taller, they said, than Tony, but not as funny.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I lay watching her. She raised a hand to scratch her brow, and when she took the hand away she left a smudge of soot there. Her face, against the smudge, seemed very pale and rather pinched. I said, ‘Zena’, and she gave a jump: ‘Yes, miss?’ I hesitated; then, ‘Zena,’ I said again, ‘don’t mind me asking you something, but I can’t help but think of it. Diana once told me - well, that she got you out of a prison. Is it true?’ She turned back to the hearth, and continued to pile coals upon the fire; but I saw her ears turn crimson. She said. ‘They call it a re format ’ry. It wasn’t a gaol.’ ‘A reformat’ry, then. But it’s true you were in one.’ She didn’t answer. ‘I don’t mind it,’ I added quickly. She gave a jerk to her head, and said: ‘No, I don’t mind it, now...’ Had she said such a thing, in such a tone, to Diana, I think Diana would have slapped her. Indeed, she looked at me now a little fearfully; but when she did so, I grimaced. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you think me very rude? It’s only - well, it is what Diana said, about why they had you in there at all. Is it true, what she said? Or is it only one of her stories? Is it true that they had you in there, because you ... kissed another girl?’ She let her hands fall to her lap, then sat back upon her heels and gazed into the unlit grate. Then she turned her face to me and gave a sigh. ‘I was a year in the reformat’ry,’ she said, ‘when I was seventeen. It was a cruel enough place, I suppose, though not so hard as other gaols I heard of; its mistress is a lady Mrs Lethaby knows from her club, and that is how she got me. I was sent to the reformat‘ry on the word of a girl I was friends with at a house in Kentish Town. We were maids there, together.’ ‘You were a maid before you came here?’ ‘I was sent out as a skivvy when I was ten: Pa was rather poor. That was at a house in Paddington. When I was fourteen I went to the place in Kentish Town. It was altogether a better place. I was a housemaid, then; and I got very thick with another girl there, named Agnes. Agnes had a chap, and she threw the chap over, miss, for my sake. That’s how thick we were ...’ She gazed very sadly at her hands in her lap, and the room grew still, and I grew sorry. I said, ‘And was it Agnes told the story that got you sent to the reformat’ry?’

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Finalmente respiro profundamente, dándome cuenta que lo tengo todo, supongo. Volviendo afuera, fijo una media sonrisa en mi rostro y enderezo la espalda. A la izquierda, Kyle Cramer entra en su casa con un par de niños que asumo son suyos, pero no hago contacto visual. No quiero que los vecinos husmeen. —Jordan… —comienza Pike. Pero lo interrumpo. —De nuevo, muchas gracias. Por todo. Me dirijo al asiento del conductor y abro la puerta, mi estómago hundiéndose con cientos de pequeñas bolas, cada una volviéndose más y más apretada. —Jordan —llama de nuevo—. El auto no está listo para irse. Se apagará cada vez que te detengas. Le lanzo una sonrisa temblorosa. —Lidiaré con ello. De verdad, ya estoy curada de espantos. No creo que me moleste mucho más. Estaré bien. Sacando mis llaves, me subo. —Gracias por todo el trabajo que ya hiciste en él. Definitivamente no tenías que hacer nada de eso. —Espera —dice rápidamente, pareciendo apresurado. Me detengo, incapaz de mirarlo, pero lo siento dar un paso adelante. Vacila como si estuviera buscando las palabras. Levanto la mirada. —Solo... —Sacude su cabeza, viéndose exasperado—. Mueve las cosas a la parte trasera de mi camioneta. Te llevaré. Abro la boca para discutir, pero me interrumpe. —Necesito terminar el VW —dice—. Tiene que quedarse aquí un par de días más. Y no protestes por ello. ¿De repente puedes permitirte un mecánico? Meadow Lakes. Quiero reír. No hay praderas, ni lagos y ciertamente no hay un lago en una pradera. Es un estacionamiento de tráileres viejos de sesenta años de antigüedad, lleno de basureros apoyados en bloques de hormigón. ¿De verdad creció aquí? Estoy empezando a pensar que Cole no estaba tan mal, después de todo. Miro a mi alrededor, asimilando los viejos tráileres plateados Airstream mezclados con algunas casas rodantes de los años 80s, con persianas rotas apenas visibles detrás de ventanas sucias y fachadas verdes con moho carcomidas por las termitas y sus aislamientos térmicos expuestos. Todo este maldito lugar es un riesgo de incendio esperando a suceder. No la quiero aquí. No tiene que quedarse en mi casa, pero simplemente... no aquí. Jordan está sentada en el asiento junto a mí, pasa lentamente sus manos una sobre la otra, mirando fijamente hacia abajo de forma inexpresiva, perdida en sus pensamientos. No puedo sacudirme la sensación de que está intentado postergar tener que mirar por la ventana tanto como sea posible. Todavía no está oscuro, pero el sol se ha puesto y una par de niños salen corriendo de entre dos casas rodantes, persiguiendo un balón. Bajo la velocidad en caso que corran hacia la calle. —Justo ahí —dice Jordan. Echo un vistazo, viéndola señalar hacia mi izquierda y sigo su mirada hacia un tráiler con un revestimiento verde lima asqueroso y aprieto los dientes.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Later, while she was finishing her math homework, Lanie said, “You know why she hates you?” Vix looked up from her notebook. “It’s because you get to escape,” Lanie said, trying to braid Malibu Barbie’s hair. “We all hate you for that.” Lanie spoke without emotion, and suddenly Vix understood everything. She got to escape and they didn’t. She felt sad about leaving Nathan, especially when he shoved his raccoon puppet in her face. “I want him to go to Martha’s, too. Then he can tell me all about it.” “But I told you all about it last summer,” Vix said. The stories she’d told were generic island stories, about the ocean, the birds, the storms. “How do I know you didn’t make it all up?” Nathan asked. Could he see through her so easily or was this his idea of a joke? “Okay, Rupert,” she said to the puppet. “You’re going to Martha’s with me!” “His name isn’t Rupert anymore,” Nathan said. “It’s Orlando.” “Orlando?” “As in Disney World,” Nathan said. Vix knelt in front of Nathan’s chair. “Someday I’m going to take you to Disney World,” she told him. “When?” “As soon as I earn enough money.” “How many years will that take?” “I don’t know. Not that many.” She wrapped her arms around him. His body felt so small, so frail. “I missed you last summer,” he whispered. “Lewis and Lanie don’t care about me the way you do.” She knew this was true and she felt guilty, but not guilty enough to stay home. It wasn’t that Lanie and Lewis were cruel or unkind to Nathan, it was more that they were involved in their own lives and sometimes forgot about him. Especially Lewis. He’d always resented Nathan, for being born in the first place, and then, for being born the way he was. She could tell sometimes that Lewis was thinking, Why did they have to have him? Why didn’t they stop after the three of us? She knew they’d all asked themselves the same questions, even her parents. Tawny used to tell them Nathan was a gift from God, to teach them to be strong, to teach them to count their blessings. But what about Nathan? What kind of gift had God given him?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Cuando no respondo, me mira. —Te veré en la mañana. Camina hacia la puerta de atrás, y siento que me han pateado. Siento que nunca más volveré a verla. Corro detrás de ella, tomándola de la mano y deteniéndola. —No —se lo ruego—. Jesús, no quise decir eso. Jordan, yo... tú lo vales. Yo solo... —Sacudo la cabeza—. No lo sé. —Está bien —dice, sonando tan tranquila que tengo miedo—. Realmente lo está. Debería agradecerte, en realidad. He estado tratando durante años, al parecer, ser el tipo de mujer que admiro, y de repente, siento que soy esa mujer ahora. Sé que lo valgo Simplemente tú no. Se mueve para alejarse, y la detengo de nuevo. —Jordan. Esta vez se da vuelta, levantando la cabeza y tirando de su mano fuera de mi alcance. —Díselo ahora —exige. El aire sale de mis pulmones con el ultimátum. —Dile que estás conmigo ahora —dice—, para que pueda ir a nuestra cama, y podamos ir a dormir y mañana podamos comenzar a avanzar, porque todo estará hecho, y no tendremos que preocuparnos más por eso. —Sus ojos me desafían—. Díselo ahora. Abro la boca para hablar. Para decirle que lo haré. Voy a marchar ahora mismo y decirle la verdad a mi hijo. Creo que la amo y lo siento, no quise lastimarla. Pero sé que tengo razón. Regresará a la escuela a tiempo completo en dos meses, conocerá hombres educados que tendrán toda la vida por delante. No voy a arruinar a mi familia cuando aún no sé qué es esto. No tiene derecho a pedirme eso. Comienza a retroceder, el azul en sus ojos como hielo. —Es tan increíble lo rápido que puede suceder, ¿no? —dice mientras me deja lentamente—. Cómo no siento absolutamente nada por ti ahora. —No te ves tan bien, dulzura. Levanto la mirada del refrigerador donde estoy colocando las botellas de cerveza de una caja, y le doy a Grady una débil sonrisa. —Nada que una caja de Thin Mints no pueda arreglar —le digo. O un contenedor de helado Sherbert o Pike entrando aquí justo ahora, tomándome en sus brazos frente a todos y diciéndome que me ama. Dios, estoy tan cansada. Y agotada. No pude soportar mirarlo anoche y no quería nada más que estar lejos de él y fuera de su vida. Tomé mi VW recién reparado y me quedé en casa de mi hermana y luego vine a trabajar a las diez para alistarme para el turno del almuerzo y he estado aquí durante doce horas, quedándome mucho después de lo que el horario dictaba. Mi ira y mi resolución siguen ahí, pero ahora también la tristeza. Lo extraño. Pero me odio más. Lo amo y lo deseo, pero... No puedo estar cerca de él. Me hace reír y cuando estoy con él, me siento como en casa. Como si fuera lo único en mi vida que entiendo. Pero ya no me entiendo. Alguien tiene que pelear por mí, para variar.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No te ves tan bien, dulzura. Levanto la mirada del refrigerador donde estoy colocando las botellas de cerveza de una caja, y le doy a Grady una débil sonrisa. —Nada que una caja de Thin Mints no pueda arreglar —le digo. O un contenedor de helado Sherbert o Pike entrando aquí justo ahora, tomándome en sus brazos frente a todos y diciéndome que me ama. Dios, estoy tan cansada. Y agotada. No pude soportar mirarlo anoche y no quería nada más que estar lejos de él y fuera de su vida. Tomé mi VW recién reparado y me quedé en casa de mi hermana y luego vine a trabajar a las diez para alistarme para el turno del almuerzo y he estado aquí durante doce horas, quedándome mucho después de lo que el horario dictaba. Mi ira y mi resolución siguen ahí, pero ahora también la tristeza. Lo extraño. Pero me odio más. Lo amo y lo deseo, pero... No puedo estar cerca de él. Me hace reír y cuando estoy con él, me siento como en casa. Como si fuera lo único en mi vida que entiendo. Pero ya no me entiendo. Alguien tiene que pelear por mí, para variar. No voy a volver. —Te fuiste sin cerrar la cuenta antes de irte la última vez —dice Grady, sacando dinero de su billetera—. Aquí está tu propina. Desliza un par de billetes de veinte por la barra, cierro el refrigerador y me río entre dientes, mis ojos se sienten pesados por el cansancio. —Grady, ni siquiera se me ocurrió —le digo—. No te preocupes por cosas así. Estoy feliz de que estés aquí. Lo cual es cierto, me evita tener que forzar conversación con alguien más mientras estoy trabajando. No coquetea, ni hace comentarios groseros y le gusta mi música en la rocola.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  Ed HE CAN SEE HER HANDS moving. She’s talking to Nathan. Does she still feel guilty for those summers away? He hopes not. He should tell her Nathan understood. Nathan always defended her. Took off after Tawny every time she bad mouthed Vix. How that boy loved her! He remembers taking the two of them on a camping trip in the RV. Nathan must have been six or seven. The way they’d laughed together! Vix, pushing him along a trail in his chair, uphill, then down ... too fast ... too fast ... The surprise when he’d fallen. The fear in her eyes. Turned out to be only a bruised elbow. Decided not to tell Tawny. Their secret. Just the three of them. How much does she know about Tawny and him? Did Lanie tell her he’s seeing someone? Not that he wants it this way. He wants Tawny to come home. But she says it’s over. They should both try to make new lives. What does that mean ... a new life? A new life with Frankie? Frankie’s okay. Makes him laugh. Long time since a woman made him laugh. What about Vix and the boyfriend? Does she love him? He can’t tell. Hard to believe she’s a junior at Harvard. His daughter. A good kid, Vix. Maybe not a kid anymore. A woman. Yes. She looks like a woman now. He can feel the tears starting. Tawny hates it when he cries. Calls him weak. Maybe he is weak. So what? How come he can’t talk to them ... to his daughters? Do they know he loves them? Especially Vix. Does she know? ON THE WAY HOME her father said, “He’s a nice boy.” At first she thought