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 168 of 212 · 20 per page

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  Not knowing how on earth they would take care of him, they had brought Brice home when he was three weeks old, because they didn’t want him to die at the hospital. They just wanted him to be home with them and their friends. It was an amazing thing to be a part of. Some people saw Brice as a tragedy, thought his parents were crazy for not leaving him at the hospital. The rest of us felt incredibly sad but also that maybe we were in the presence of something holy, something that didn’t have to do with personality or character or age . “He’s a good baby.” Sam told me one day in the car, after we’d been reading to Brice for a while. “But he’s a little Junky” When Brice died, his parents called us and asked if Sam and I would come over. They were sad but Okay. Sam brought the baby two presents that morning, which he laid in the basket. One was a ball, in case you get to play catch on the other side. The other was a small time-travel car, from Back to the Future. Brice’s parents and I are still scratching our heads over that one . After we left that morning, I took Sam to the local bowling lanes. It was another big first for him. It was all so ridiculous and real that it felt sort of sacred. We bowled in the kids’ lane for an hour. “You took him where?” asked my relatives. And I couldn’t really explain why. It had something to do with wanting to shake off the solemnity, with wanting to complete the cycle of life and death. Bowling is life at its most immediate—you fling a ball and the pins fall down, sometimes. And I also wanted to show Sam that the holy goes on, no matter how many balls you fling at it . I read this to Brice’s parents before I read it on the radio, and then they called everyone they knew and told them when it would be on, and they recorded it. And even though their son will always be alive in their hearts, like Pammy and my dad will be alive in mine—and maybe this is the only way we ever really have anyone—there is still something to be said for painting portraits of the people we have loved, for trying to express those moments that seem so inexpressibly beautiful, the ones that change us and deepen us. [image file=Image00006.jpg] Toni Morrison said, “The function of freedom is to free someone else,” and if you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else. Not everyone will be glad that you did. Members of your family and other critics may wish you had kept your secrets.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  Weary of the world and of life, they have seen it as escape. In ‘The Eve of Saint Agnes’, Keats said that he had been ‘half in love with easeful death’. Shakespeare in one of his sonnets cried: Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry. The seventeenth-century poet and dramatist Nicholas Rowe wrote: ‘Death is the privilege of human nature.’ The Stoics held that the gods had given people the gift of life and the still greater gift of taking their own lives away. Swinburne, best of all, caught this mood of world-weariness in ‘The Garden of Proserpine’: From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever, That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light; Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight; Nor wintry leaves nor vernal Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal n an eternal night. There are those for whom death is good because it is the end of life. (6) Some have seen in death transition – not an end, but a stage on the way; not a door closing, but a door opening. In ‘Resignation’, Longfellow wrote : There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call death. The nineteenth-century novelist and poet George Meredith wrote: Death met I too, And saw the dawn glow through. To these and others like them, death has always been a call to come up higher, a crossing from the dark to the dawn. (7) Some have seen death as an adventure . As J. M. Barrie made Peter Pan say: ‘To die will be an awfully big adventure.’ Charles Frohman, who had known Barrie so well, went down when the Lusitania sank in the disaster of 7 May 1915. His last words were: ‘Why fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure in life.’ An old scholar who was dying turned to his friends: ‘Do you realize’, he said, ‘that in an hour or two I will know the answers for which we have been searching all our lives?’ To these, death is the adventure of supreme discovery. (8) Above all, there are those, like Enoch, who have seen death as an entering into the nearer presence of the one with whom they have lived for so long. If we have lived with Christ, we may die in the certainty that we go to be forever with our Lord.

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  In Jewish legend and in Rabbinic elaboration, Esau had come to be looked upon as the entirely sensual man, the man who put the needs of his body first. Jewish legend says that while Jacob and Esau – they were twins – were still in their mother’s womb, Jacob said to Esau: ‘My brother, there are two worlds before us, this world and the world to come. In this world, men eat and drink and traffic and marry and bring up sons and daughters; but all this does not take place in the world to come. If you like, take this world and I will take the other.’ And Esau was well content to take this world, because he did not believe that there was any other. On that very day when Jacob’s deception gained him Isaac’s blessing, legend said that Esau had already committed five sins: ‘he had worshipped with strange worship, he had shed innocent blood, he had pursued a betrothed damsel, he had denied the life of the world to come, and he had despised his birthright’. Jewish interpretation saw Esau as the sensual man, the man who saw no pleasures beyond the crude pleasures of this world. People like that sell their birthright; for they throw away their inheritance when they throw away eternity. The writer to the Hebrews says, according to the Authorized Version, that Esau found no place for repentance . The Greek for repentance is metanoia , which literally means a change of mind . It is better to say that it was now impossible for Esau to change his mind. It is not that he was barred from the forgiveness of God. It is just the grim fact that there are certain choices which cannot be unmade and certain consequences which not even God can take away. Once a choice has been made, it stands. God can and will forgive, but he cannot turn back the clock. We do well to remember that there is a certain finality in life. If, like Esau, we take the way of this world and make physical things our ultimate good, if we choose the pleasures of the present in preference to the joys of eternity, God can and will still forgive; but something has happened that can never be undone. There are certain things in which we cannot change our minds but must live our lives by the choice that we have made. THE GREATER OBLIGATION Hebrews 12:25–9 See that you do not refuse to listen to his voice; for if they who refused to listen to the one who brought the oracles of God upon earth did not escape, how much more shall we not escape if we turn away from him who speaks from heaven? Then his voice shook the earth but now the voice of the promise is: ‘Still once more I will shake not only the earth but heaven also.’

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Quizás transferirme sea una buena idea después de todo. Me levanto. —La impresora necesita papel —le digo. Y sin mirarla, camino a la oficina de atrás, apartando el ardor de mis ojos antes que lo vea. No voy a llorar. No pudo esconderme por siempre aquí, después de todo. Northridge es mi hogar, mi familia está ahí, y tengo que regresar a la escuela en algún momento. Puedo hacerlo. —Hola —dice Danni alegremente a alguien—. Bienvenido a The Blue Palms. Me río. The Blue Palms son un conjunto de palmeras neones afuera que no son reales y ciertamente no son originarias de Virginia. Pero me gustan los colores tropicales del lugar, los rosas y azules antiguos, y el encanto playero de la vieja escuela. Puede que no tenga las comodidades de grandes hoteles, pero es privado, limpio, y nostálgico. Tiene su encanto. —Uh, gracias —dice una voz masculina—. Um… Abro el gabinete, tomando un paquete de hojas. Sus voces suenan ahogadas en el lobby. Espero que solo necesite una habitación, porque por primera vez, estamos casi agotados. —¿Jordan Hadley? —dice Danni más fuerte como si estuviera repitiendo. Me detengo con el papel en mi brazo y el gabinete todavía abierto. —Sí —contesta el hombre, y me acerco un poco más a la puerta para escuchar mejor—. Lamento molestarte. ¿Ella trabaja aquí? Me dijeron que trabajaba en un motel en el área, y he estado casi en todas partes. La vena en mi cuello salta, y apenas puedo conseguir respirar lentamente. —¿Y tú eres? —pregunta Danni. —Pike Lawson —responde—. Un amigo. Mis brazos se debilitan, y casi suelto el paquete de papel. —Pike… —repite Danni—. ¿Cómo en Buffy the Vampire Slayer? —¿Perdón? —¿Clásico de culto de 1992? —explica Danni—. ¿Luke Perry? ¿Su nombre es Pike en la película? Normalmente me burlaría de su diarrea verbal, pero mi cabeza está nadando y mi estómago está saltando. ¿Está aquí? ¿Realmente está aquí? Hay silencio por un momento, y luego Pike pregunta. —Entonces, ¿Jordan trabaja aquí? Realmente necesito verla. Suena tan vulnerable, su voz hace que me dé cuenta de que lo extraño más de lo que pensé. Pero de algún modo, en el interior, mi fuerza crece y enderezo mi espalda, lista para mostrarle que no voy a esconderme de él. No sé porque está aquí, pero si intenta hacer demandas una vez más como cuando intenté regresar con mi papá, no creo que me sea difícil enfrentarlo. Él no me dirá que hacer. No importa qué tan fuerte lo intente. Apareciendo detrás de la esquina, entro al lobby, viendo a Pike de pie del otro lado del mostrador. Su mirada inmediatamente se fija en la mía. Inhala, y solo me mira. Su cuerpo está rígido.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  Is my dad here?” “Rex?” He turned to the man next to him. “Where’s that old polecat Rex?” “I seen him this morning at the Howdy House.” “Honey, you look like you could use a rest,” the bartender said. “Sit down and have a Coca-Cola on the house.” “No, thank you. I’ve got kites to fly and fish to fry.” I went to the Howdy House, which was a notch below Junior’s. It was smaller and darker, and the only food it served was pickled eggs. The bartender told me Dad had gone to the Pub, which was a notch below the Howdy House—almost pitch black, with a sticky bar top and no food at all. There he was, in the midst of a few other regulars, telling one of his air force stories. When Dad saw me, he stopped talking and looked at me the way he did every time I had to track him down in a bar. It was always an awkward moment for us both. I didn’t want to be fetching him any more than he wanted his ragamuffin daughter summoning him home like a wayward schoolboy. He looked at me in this cold, strange way for just a moment, then broke into a hearty grin. “Hey, Mountain Goat!” he shouted. “What the hell are you doing in this dive?” “Mom says you have to come home,” I said. “She does, does she?” He ordered a Coca-Cola for me and another shot of whiskey for himself. I kept telling Dad it was time to go, but he kept putting me off and ordering more shots, as if he had to gulp a whole bunch of them down before he could face home. He staggered off to the bathroom, came back, ordered one for the road, slammed the shot glass down on the bar, and walked to the door. He lost his footing trying to open it and sprawled on the floor. I tried to help him up, but he kept falling over. “Honey, you ain’t getting him nowhere like that,” a man behind me said. “Here, let me give you a lift home.” “I’d appreciate that, sir,” I said. “If it’s not out of your way.” Some of the other regulars helped the man and me load Dad into the bay of the man’s pickup. We propped Dad up against a tool chest. It was late afternoon in early spring, the light was beginning to fade, and people on McDowell Street were locking up their shops and heading home. Dad started singing one of his favorite songs. Swing low, sweet chariot Coming for to carry me home. Dad had a fine baritone, with strength and timbre and range, and despite being tanked, he sang that hymn like the roof-raiser it is. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see Coming for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me Coming for to carry me home. I climbed in next to the driver.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  When I got back from school the next day, I found Lori in the kitchen eating something out of a cup with a spoon. I looked in the refrigerator. There was nothing inside but a half-gone stick of margarine. “Lori, what are you eating?” “Margarine,” she said. I wrinkled my nose. “Really?” “Yeah,” she said. “Mix it with sugar. Tastes just like frosting.” I made some. It didn’t taste like frosting. It was sort of crunchy, because the sugar didn’t dissolve, and it was greasy and left a filmy coat in my mouth. But I ate it all anyway. When Mom got home that evening, she looked in the refrigerator. “What happened to the stick of margarine?” she asked. “We ate it,” I said. Mom got angry. She was saving it, she said, to butter the bread. We already ate all the bread, I said. Mom said she was thinking of baking some bread if a neighbor would loan us some flour. I pointed out that the gas company had turned off our gas. “Well,” Mom said. “We should have saved the margarine just in case the gas gets turned back on. Miracles happen, you know.” It was because of my and Lori’s selfishness, she said, that if we had any bread, we’d have to eat it without butter. Mom wasn’t making any sense to me. I wondered if she had been looking forward to eating the margarine herself. And that made me wonder if she was the one who’d stolen the can of corn the night before, which got me a little mad. “It was the only thing to eat in the whole house,” I said. Raising my voice, I added, “I was hungry. ” Mom gave me a startled look. I’d broken one of our unspoken rules: We were always supposed to pretend our life was one long and incredibly fun adventure. She raised her hand, and I thought she was going to hit me, but then she sat down at the spool table and rested her head on her arms. Her shoulders started shaking. I went over and touched her arm. “Mom?” I said. She shook off my hand, and when she raised her head, her face was swollen and red. “It’s not my fault if you’re hungry!” she shouted. “Don’t blame me. Do you think I like living like this? Do you?” That night when Dad came home, he and Mom got into a big fight. Mom was screaming that she was tired of getting all the blame for everything that went wrong. “How did this become my problem?” she shouted. “Why aren’t you helping? You spend your whole day at the Owl Club. You act like it’s not your responsibility.” Dad explained that he was out trying to earn money. He had all sorts of prospects that he was on the brink of realizing. Problem was, he needed cash to make them happen.

• 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 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 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 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 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

• From The Case for God (2009)

  In “Dover Beach,” the British poet Matthew Arnold (1822–88) heard the “melancholy, long, withdrawing roar” of faith as it receded, bringing “the eternal note of sadness in.” Human beings could only cling to one another for comfort, for the world that once seemed So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. 78 At its best, religion had helped people to build within themselves a haven of peace that enabled them to live creatively with the sorrow of life; but during the scientific age, that interiorized security had been exchanged for an unsustainable certainty. As their faith ebbed, many Victorians sensed the void that it left behind. When the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) looked into the hearts of his contemporaries, he found that God had already died, there, but as yet very few people were aware of this. 79 In The Gay Science (1882), he told the story of a madman who ran one morning into the marketplace, crying: “I seek God!” In mild amusement, the sophisticated bystanders asked him if God had run away or emigrated. “Where has God gone?” the madman demanded. “We have killed him—you and I! We are all his murderers!” 80 The astonishing progress of science had made God quite irrelevant; it had caused human beings to focus so intently on the physical world that they would soon be constitutionally unable to take God seriously. The death of God—the fact that the Christian God had become incredible—was “beginning to cast its first shadows over Europe.” The tiny minority who were able to understand the implications of this unprecedented event were already finding that “some sun seems to have set and profound trust has been turned to doubt.” 81 By making “God” a purely notional truth attainable by the rational and scientific intellect, without ritual, prayer, or ethical commitment, men and women had killed it for themselves. Like the Jewish Marranos, Europeans were beginning to experience religion as tenuous, arbitrary, and lifeless. The madman longed to believe in God but he could not. The unthinkable had happened: everything that the symbol of God had pointed to—absolute goodness, beauty, order, peace, truthfulness, justice—was being slowly but surely eliminated from European culture. Morality would no longer be measured by reference to an ultimate value that transcended human interests but simply by the needs of the moment.

• From City of Night (1963)

  And they put the make on Lance—whod been drinking anyway, and Lance hardly ever drinks. Well, something happened on the beach that day, someone whod just come in from Hollywood told Lance how Esmeralda Drake the Third was dying or something, and Lance started drinking. It surprised everyone—Lance never gave a damn, and like I say he never drinks—but maybe he was just expecting he could get more money from the poor old bastard before she’d die—or maybe it was something else—who knows?—and Esmeralda didnt die, then—though someone told me the other day she got run over by this car crossing Hollywood Boulevard, and all I can say is: If shes still cruising the Boulevard, at her age, well, baby, she couldnt expect otherwise.... Well, when Lance heard about Esmeralda in the hospital, he tries to leave—and all we kids talked him out of it. Lance was great fun to be with, he would make a party. So Lance stays, but hes getting drunk. And these two marines at the bar start insisting they want to make it with him. Well, babe, I dont blame them: Lance was Famous from here to New York!—he’d been Pierce Flint’s lover, and he had affairs with Bruce Storm and Kipp Rugged—all those big Movie Stars. So, anyway, Lance keeps saying no to those two marines, he wouldn’t stoop that low—and they were common. But, remember, he was drunk—high! high! High!... Hi, Teddy! (Isnt that funny?—Teddy thought I was saying ‘Hi’ to him.)... Anyhow, I kept saying, ‘Dont go, Lance, youve been drinking.’ But he wouldnt listen to me. So they went off together, all three—and Lance was just trying to get rid of them without a public scene, I can tell you—because Lance never showed any Interest in them, he never showed any Interest in anyone, really—or he never used to,” he adds wistfully, then quickly: “Not that I believe all those rumors about him. Of course, Randy got real bitchy about that, and he started spreading stories like how he was straight until Lance brought him out—and, babe, that Randy was born sitting in the mensroom with the door open, thats how straight he ever was!... Not that I blame him being annoyed at Lance; he was with him at Laguna— after all!.. . Anyway, from what I know—and I know it like it happened to me—those marines start putting the make on Lance— in the car!! —and, babe, drunk or sober, Lance doesnt go for that common stuff, he puts them off. They tried to force him to stay—and thats when Lance jumped out of the car, and they chased him—drunk themselves and hot after him and I dont blame them—and Lance didn’t know he was on a cliff, and he jumped. An accident. Thats all it was. He broke his arm. And, babe, those evil jealous faggots went wild spreading stories. But everyone knew they werent true. Lance propositioning anyone! Thats Ridiculous!

• From City of Night (1963)

  It seemed the windstorm lasted for days, weeks. But it must have been over, as usual, the next day, when Im standing next to my mother in the kitchen. (Strangely, I loved to sit and look at her as she fixed the food—or did the laundry: She washed our clothes outside in an aluminum tub, and I would watch her hanging up the clean sheets flapping in the wind. Later I would empty the water for her, and I stared intrigued as it made unpredictable patterns on the dirt....) I said: “If Winnie dies—” (She had of course already died, but I didnt want to say it; her body was still outside, and I kept going to see if miraculously she is breathing again.) “—if she dies, I wont be sad because shell go to Heaven and I’ll see her there.” My mother said: “Dogs dont go to Heaven, they havent got souls.” She didnt say that brutally. There is nothing brutal about my mother: only a crushing tenderness, as powerful as the hatred I would discover later in my father. “What will happen to Winnie, then?” I asked. “Shes dead, thats all,” my mother answers, “the body just disappears, becomes dirt” I stand by the window, thinking: It isn’t fair.... Then my brother, the younger of the two—I am the youngest in the family—had to bury Winnie. I was very religious then. I went to Mass regularly, to Confession. I prayed nightly. And I prayed now for my dead dog: God would make an exception. He would let her into Heaven. I stand watching my brother dig that hole in the backyard. He put the dead dog in and covered it I made a cross and brought flowers. Knelt. Made the sign of the cross: “Let her into Heaven....” In the days that followed—I dont know exactly how much later—we could smell the body rotting.... The day was a ferocious Texas summerday with the threat of rain: thunder—but no rain. The sky lit up through the cracked clouds, and lightning snapped at the world like a whip. My older brother said we hadnt buried Winnie deep enough. So he dug up the body, and I stand by him as he shovels the dirt in our backyard (littered with papers and bottles covering the weeds which occasionally we pulled, trying several times to grow grass—but it never grew). Finally the body appeared. I turned away quickly. I had seen the decaying face of death. My mother was right. Soon Winnie will blend into the dirt. There was no soul, the body would rot, and there would be Nothing left of Winnie. That is the incident of my early childhood that I remember most often. And that is why I say it begins in the wind. Because somewhere in that plain of childhood time must have been planted the seeds of the restlessness. Before the death of Winnie, there are other memories of loss.

• From The Canterbury Tales (2009)

  ‘So, my good master, you have told us a sad tale. But let it be. It does not matter, sir Physician. I pray God to keep you alive and well. I pray that your glass vessels and urinals are sparkling clean, that your purges and ointments are efficacious, that your medicine bottles are well corked and that your old books are on the shelf. God bless them all! Then you are properly set up. You are a good-looking man, I must say, more like a bishop than a clerk. Did you notice how I enumerated all the items in your box? I don’t know medical terminology, but I know about health and sickness. That story of yours almost gave me a heart attack. I need some medicine right away or, at least, a draught of strong ale. Then I will have to hear a merry tale, to drive away the sad image of Virginia.’ He turned to the Pardoner. ‘My good friend,’ he said, ‘tell us a funny story. I want some fun.’ ‘Of course I will,’ the Pardoner replied. ‘But first of all I need a drink. Isn’t that an alehouse over the way? I feel like a pie, too.’ [image file=images/ackr_9781101155639_oeb_010_r1.jpg] But then others in the company began to remonstrate with the Host. ‘We don’t want any dirty stories. Let him give us a morality tale. Let him teach us a lesson or two.’ ‘If that’s what you want,’ the Pardoner said. ‘But I must have a drink first. I need time to come up with something honest.’ When he came out of the alehouse he mounted his horse, and turned to them all. ‘Lords and ladies,’ he said, ‘I am used to preaching in churches, as you all know. I take great pains with my delivery, so that my voice rings out like a bell. I know my theme off by heart, of course. It is always the same. Do you know what it is? Greed is the root of all evil. First I tell them from where I have come. It might be Rome or Jerusalem. They don’t know the difference. Then I show them my papal indulgences. Oh. Before that I make sure that they all see the lord bishop’s seal on my papers. That is just to protect myself from interfering clergy, who might try to prevent me doing Christ’s holy work. They are so jealous, some of them. Then I really get going. I tell the congregation about the indulgences offered by cardinals and patriarchs and archbishops. I mutter a few words of Latin to spice up my sermon, and beg them to pray on their knees for their salvation. I get out of my sack the glass cases that hold the relics of the holy saints - a collar bone here and a wrist bone there.

• From The Case for God (2009)

  But later Ezra held a more somber assembly in the square in front of the new temple, during which the people stood shivering as the torrential winter rains deluged the city and they heard Ezra commanding them to send away their foreign wives. 89 Membership in Israel was now confined to the Golah and to those who submitted to the Torah, the official law of the land. Ezra had interpreted the scriptures in an exclusive manner, emphasizing the duty of separation but neglecting P’s equally stringent demand that Israelites treat the stranger with “love” and respect. The Bible consists of many contradictory texts, so our reading is always selective. Tragically, however, a selective reading of scripture to enforce a particular point of view or marginalize others would be a constant temptation for monotheists. Ezra’s reading, accompanied as it was by his own running commentary, also made it clear that the Torah required interpretation. This is the first time we hear of these miscellaneous texts being treated as scripture with binding force. Ezra’s presentation at the Water Gate marked the beginning of classical Judaism, a religion that focuses not merely on the reception and preservation of revelation but on its constant reinterpretation.90 When he had expounded the text, Ezra did not merely recite the Torah given to Moses in the distant past but created something new and unexpected. The biblical writers had worked in the same way, making radical revisions to the texts and traditions they had inherited. In classical Judaism, revelation would never be something that had happened once and for all time, but an ongoing process that could never end, because there was always something fresh to be discovered. If it was simply read like any other text, the Torah could be disturbing. It must be heard in the context of rituals, like those of Sukkoth, which separated it from ordinary life and put the audience in a different frame of mind. And in any reading of the Torah, the commentary was as important as the text itself. The Jews had discovered that religious discourse was essentially interpretive. Ezra had not swallowed the text gullibly but had “set his heart to investigate (li-drosh)” it. Jewish exegesis would be called midrash, which derives from the verb darash, “to search,” “investigate,” “to go in pursuit of something” as yet undiscovered. Midrash would become a new ritual evoking the divine and would always retain connotations of dedication, emotional involvement, and expectant inquiry.91

• From City of Night (1963)

  The boy who looks like James Dean touches the faded blonde woman intimately between her thighs. She turns in demented raging fury, ready to slap him. He hurls the beer at her in a stream. “Dirty whoor,” he yelled, “huccome you don wanna screw with me?” He slaps her. She smashes the beer bottle on the counter, threatens him with the sharp glassy teeth. He runs out. Someone calls: “Go join the army!” Next in the competition on the stage is a giant of a man, introduced as “The Growling Bear.” In a cracked, beer-slurred voice, he begins to sing. Noticing the lack of response, in desperation (the five dollars!... the wine!...), he sprawls on all fours, pretends to be an animal, having, while the master of ceremonies, trying to inject something of comedy into the tragic moment, hops on him. Now the gigantic man groans like a dying animal. I didnt wait to find out who had won The Prize. Outside, I walked along the bleeding nightstreet, toward the park.... The faces of hustlers and scores... queens. Always waiting. And I walked, that night, along the impassive nightlake—northward beyond the couples making love under the silhouetted trees.... Along the dark lake.... And I looked back toward the magnificent Chicago skyline: that magic cyclorama embracing the water. Even the buildings which earlier seemed like giants marching snobbishly into the lake, now softened, blended into a glittering network of lights, lighted checkerboard.... Black and mysterious, the water trembles toward the shore uncertainly. A distant light shatters the black water in a shimmering streak.... A man who has been following me propositions me. I say no. As he moves away, I stare beyond, along the drive, where cars move as if in slow motion along streetlights strung blue-white in a curve. And I see: Dominating the skyline, at the top of a tall building, a giant searchlight scanning the city. It glides eerily, swirls over the black water. It floats, soars above the skyline, encircles the nightcity. And crazily excited I wonder suddenly if that spotlight swirling nightly is not trying somehow to embrace it all—to embrace that fusion of savage contradictions within this legend called America. And I know what it is I have searched beyond Neil’s immediate world of sought pain—something momentarily lost—something found again in the park, the fugitive rooms, the derelict jungles: the world of uninvited, unasked-for pain... found now, liberatingly, even in the memory of Neil himself. And I could think in that moment, for the first time really: It’s possible to hate the filthy world and still love it with an abstract pitying love. Part Four “In the land of dreamy scenes There’s a garden of Eden....” — ’Way Down Yonder in New Orleans CITY OF NIGHT EACH YEAR, NEAR THE EARLY PART of January, a strange exodus prepares to depart from the Cities of Night. From East to West, a private call will murmur throughout the darkcities.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  Maria had set him there, with a dog’s head of papier mâché fixed to each side of his collar, to represent the hound that stood on guard at the gate of Hades. The marble floor of the hall, as I have said, we had scattered with roses: it was terribly hard to cross it, in bare feet, with my ringing head and my hand at my cheek. Before I had reached the staircase, I heard a step behind me, and a bang. I turned to see Zena there: Diana had sent her from the room in my wake, then had the door shut on us. She gazed at me, then came to put a hand upon my arm: ‘Oh, miss ...’ And I - who had saved her from Diana’s wildness only, as it seemed to me then, to have that wildness turned upon myself — I shook her from me. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ I cried. Then I ran from her, to my own room, and closed the door. And sat there wretched, in the darkness, nursing my oozing cheek. Below me, after a few more minutes of silence, there came the sound of the piano; and then came laughter, and then shouts. They were carrying on their revelling, without me! I could not credit it. The sport with Zena, the insults, the blow and the bleeding nose - these seemed only to have made the marvellous party more gay and marvellous still. If only Diana had sent her guests home. If only I had placed my head beneath my pillow, and forgotten them. If only I had not grown miserable, and peevish, and vengeful, at the sound of their fun. If only Zena had not forgiven me my harshness in the hall — had not come creeping to my door, to ask me, was I very hurt, and was there anything that she could do, to comfort me. When I heard her knock, I flinched: I was sure it must be Diana, seeking me out to torture me or — perhaps, who knew? — to caress me. When I saw that it was Zena, I stared. ‘Miss,’ she said. She had a candle in her hand, and its flame dipped and fluttered, sending shadows dancing crazily about the walls. ‘I couldn’t go up, knowing you was here all bruised and bleeding - and all, oh! all on my account! I sighed. ‘Come in,’ I said, ‘and close the door.’ And when she had done that, and stepped nearer to me, I put my head in my hands and groaned. ‘Oh Zena,’ I said, ‘what a night! What a night!’ She set down her candle. ‘I’ve got a cloth,’ she said, ‘with a little bit of ice in it.