Sadness

Passages

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

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• From Manhunt (2022)

  They did everything on hard copy in the Screw, locking medical files in a row of huge filing cabinets down in the library. The other woman paused as she entered. “Long day,” said Jane with a rueful smile. “You going to the movie tonight? Clive Owen … God, even when Phil was alive…” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “That woman, the appendectomy,” said Indi, not particularly interested in which actors Jane might have cheated on her husband with. “She was asking for someone. Zoe. Her daughter, I think. You said she came here with a girl.” Jane’s smile faded. She peeled off the glove before responding. Powdered latex popped off of her fingers, digit by digit. “It was six months back or so,” she said. “Before Dr. Downey got sick. A camp girl came in pregnant. We did what we could.” Jane dropped the gloves into the garbage hopper and took her foot off of the pedal, letting the lid snap shut. “She didn’t make it. Pretty sure her name was Zoe.” “And the baby?” “We got him out,” said Jane with the wide-eyed, affected sobriety of someone about to share a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “He had part of her liver stuck in his teeth.” VII. The Cradle of Beauty VII THE CRADLE OF BEAUTY “A little rougher,” Amber panted. They were in the Kennedy room, the older woman spread-eagled on the huge antique four poster, her wrists and ankles held at extension by leather cuffs. The silk sheets were cool against Beth’s knees and the palm of her right hand. With her left she cupped Amber’s throat, her thumb against the line of her jaw. Without speaking, she quickened her tempo. It was Friday. Her shift ended in two hours, and her cock felt like molten lead. Maybe it’ll slough off of my body, she thought, taking her hand off Amber’s neck so she could spit in it and rub it on the other woman’s flushed and puffy cunt and the base of her own dick. Maybe it’ll drip onto the sheets and burn holes in the mattress. Afterward, once Amber had gone, she sat alone on the edge of the bed until her soul came back into her body. As she struggled out of her binder she thought of the summers she’d spent hooking in Boston, strange men fucking her up the ass in motel rooms, back when sometimes a man got off you if you screamed for him to stop. One year she’d worked at a cathouse in Watertown. She’d had regulars. She smiled at the memory of a fat, gentle programmer who liked to be sodomized with the handle of a hairbrush. That hadn’t been so bad. She touched her cheek where first Fran and then Indi had sewn her together. The skin was rough with scar tissue and half-healed scabs.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Why Chicken Means So Much to Me [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] Okay, so now you know that I’m a cartoonist. And I think I’m pretty good at it, too. But no matter how good I am, my cartoons will never take the place of food or money. I wish I could draw a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a fist full of twenty dollar bills, and perform some magic trick and make it real. But I can’t do that. Nobody can do that, not even the hungriest magician in the world. I wish I were magical, but I am really just a poor-ass reservation kid living with his poor-ass family on the poor-ass Spokane Indian Reservation. Do you know the worst thing about being poor? Oh, maybe you’ve done the math in your head and you figure: Poverty = empty refrigerator + empty stomach And sure, sometimes, my family misses a meal, and sleep is the only thing we have for dinner, but I know that, sooner or later, my parents will come bursting through the door with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Original Recipe. And hey, in a weird way, being hungry makes food taste better. There is nothing better than a chicken leg when you haven’t eaten for (approximately) eighteen-and-a-half hours. And believe me, a good piece of chicken can make anybody believe in the existence of God. [image "An illustration of a chicken drumstick with rays around it, labeled the Shroud of Kentucky Fried." file=image_rsrc4RN.jpg] So hunger is not the worst thing about being poor. And now I’m sure you’re asking, “Okay, okay, Mr. Hunger Artist, Mr. Mouth-Full-of-Words, Mr. Woe-Is-Me, Mr. Secret Recipe, what is the worst thing about being poor?” So, okay, I’ll tell you the worst thing. Last week, my best friend Oscar got really sick. At first, I thought he just had heat exhaustion or something. I mean, it was a crazy-hot July day (102 degrees with 90 percent humidity), and plenty of people were falling over from heat exhaustion, so why not a little dog wearing a fur coat? I tried to give him some water, but he didn’t want any of that. He was lying on his bed with red, watery, snotty eyes. He whimpered in pain. When I touched him, he yelped like crazy. It was like his nerves were poking out three inches from his skin. I figured he’d be okay with some rest, but then he started vomiting, and diarrhea blasted out of him, and he had these seizures where his little legs just kicked and kicked and kicked. And sure, Oscar was only an adopted stray mutt, but he was the only living thing that I could depend on. He was more dependable than my parents, grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, and big sister. He taught me more than any teachers ever did. Honestly, Oscar was a better person than any human I had ever known. “Mom,” I said. “We have to take Oscar to the vet.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  [image "The cover of ‘Savage Summer’ depicts a muscular man and a woman in a close, intimate embrace, conveying passion and romance. Prominently displayed are the alternative titles: ‘Apache Heat,’ ‘Lummi Lust,’ and “Yakama Yearning.’" file=image_rsrc4RZ.jpg] “You know,” I said, “I don’t think I ever saw my sister reading one of those things.” “She kept them hidden,” Mr. P said. Well, that is a big difference between my sister and me. I hide the magazines filled with photos of naked women; my sister hides her tender romance novels that tell stories about naked women (and men). I want the pictures; my sister wants the words. “I don’t remember her ever writing anything,” I said. “Oh, she loved to write short stories. Little romantic stories. She wouldn’t let anybody read them. But she’d always be scribbling in her notebook.” “Wow,” I said. That was all I could say. I mean, my sister had become a humanoid underground dweller. There wasn’t much romance in that. Or maybe there was. Maybe my sister read romances all day. Maybe she was trapped in those romances. “I really thought she was going to be a writer,” Mr. P said. “She kept writing in her book. And she kept working up the courage to show it to somebody. And then she just stopped.” “Why?” I asked. “I don’t know.” “You don’t have any idea?” “No, not really.” Had she been hanging on to her dream of being a writer, but only barely hanging on, and something made her let go? That had to be it, right? Something bad had happened to her, right? I mean, she lived in the fricking basement. People just don’t live and hide in basements if they’re happy. Of course, my sister isn’t much different from my dad in that regard. Whenever my father isn’t off on a drinking binge, he spends most of his time in his bedroom, alone, watching TV. He mostly watches basketball. He never minds if I go in there and watch games with him. But we never talk much. We just sit there quietly and watch the games. My dad doesn’t even cheer for his favorite teams or players. He doesn’t react much to the games at all. I suppose he is depressed. I suppose my sister is depressed. I suppose the whole family is depressed. But I still want to know exactly why my sister gave up on her dream of writing romance novels. I mean, yeah, it is kind of a silly dream. What kind of Indian writes romance novels? But it is still pretty cool. I love the thought of reading my sister’s books. I love the thought of walking into a bookstore and seeing her name on the cover of a big and beautiful novel. Spokane River Heat by Mary Runs Away. That would be very cool. “She could still write a book,” I said. “There’s always time to change your life.”

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

  "Oh, yes! He came out again towards the middle of the concert. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit. It was then—as I thought—that our glances met for the first time." "What kind of a man was he?" "He was a rather tall and slight young man of twenty-four. His hair, short and curled—after the fashion Bressan, the actor, had brought into vogue—was of a peculiar ashy hue; but this—as I knew afterwards—was due to its being always imperceptibly powdered. Anyhow, the fairness of his hair contrasted with his dark eyebrows and his short moustache. His complexion was of that warm, healthy paleness which, I believe, artists often have in their youth. His eyes—though generally taken for black—were of a deep blue colour; and although they ever appeared so quiet and serene, still a close observer would every now and then have seen in them a scared and wistful look, as if he were gazing at some dreadful dim and distant vision. An expression of the deepest sorrow invariably succeeded this painful glamour." "And what was the reason of his sadness?" "At first, whenever I asked him, he always shrugged his shoulders, and answered laughingly, 'Do you never see ghosts?' When I got to be on more intimate terms with him, his invariable reply was—'My fate; that horrible, horrible fate of mine!' But then, smiling and arching his eyebrows, he always hummed, 'Non ci pensiam.'" "He was not of a gloomy or brooding disposition, was he?" "No, not at all; he was only very superstitious." "As all artists, I believe." "Or rather, all persons like—well, like ourselves; for nothing renders people so superstitious as vice——" "Or ignorance." "Oh! that is quite a different kind of superstition." "Was there any peculiar dynamic quality in his eyes?" "For myself of course there was; yet he had not what you would call hypnotizing eyes; his glances were far more dreamy than piercing, or staring; and still they had such penetrating power that, from the very first time I saw him, I felt that he could dive deep into my heart; and although his expression was anything but sensual, still, every time he looked at me, I felt all the blood within my veins was always set aglow." "I have often been told that he was very handsome; is it true?" "Yes, he was remarkably good looking, and still even more peculiar, than strikingly handsome. His dress, moreover, though always faultless, was a trifle eccentric. That evening for instance, he wore at his button-hole a bunch of white heliotrope, although camellias and gardenias were then in fashion. His bearing was most gentlemanly, but on the stage—as well as with strangers—slightly supercilious." "Well, after your glances met?"

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I’ve drawn pictures from as far back as I can remember, but I didn’t start drawing narrative comics until I was in high school. I drew a full-page comic for a friend who had quit her job at the ice cream parlor where we both worked—the piece was called “The Trials and Tribulations of Tina-Beena,” and included a bunch of little stories about the way South Philly girls pronounced “Oreos” and the time she argued with a customer—stuff like that. She loved it and hung it up in her kitchen under a piece of plastic wrap. How did you and Sherman work together? Sherman would give me a few chapters of his manuscript and ideas for what I might draw, and I’d do thumbnail sketches using his list as a bouncing-off point. Later, we’d go over what I’d come up with. About a third of the graphics were Sherman’s ideas, a third were real collaborations, and a third were my ideas that struck me as I read the text. How was it getting into the head of Arnold Spirit? Intense. Sherman describes Arnold so well in the text that I felt I had a good grip on who Arnold was. But to draw like him, to think of jokes that he might tell, I had to really immerse myself in being him, and it wasn’t an easy place to be. For instance, while drawing my last round of thumbnail sketches, I was working in a café, with manuscripts and sketches spread out all over the table. I’d worked for hours, hadn’t eaten in a long time, and I drank too much coffee. I was deep in Arnold’s head and felt like I had to keep going. So much heavy stuff was happening in the story, that’s when I came up with some of Arnold’s darkest humor, like the comic about the last sip of wine and the Burning Love book cover cartoon when Arnold’s sister died. [image "Book cover of ‘Burning Love’. The cover image features two characters embracing, with one character saying, ‘Thank a lot, Junior.’" file=image_rsrc4TU.jpg] Then when I got to the end of the manuscript, where Arnold and Rowdy play basketball, and as it was getting dark outside, I felt a tightening in my chest and I realized I was about to bawl. It felt like I was playing a bittersweet basketball game with Rowdy. I had a split second to decide whether or not I would cry in the café, and I put my head in my hands, sobbed once, and thought about something else. I had read that section so many times, but until then I hadn’t been so deep in Arnold’s mind. What was your biggest concern/objective when creating the art for the book?

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

  The fifty guineas promised me by Mr. H...., at his parting with me, having been duly paid me, all my clothes and moveables chested up, which were at least of two hundred pounds value, I had them conveyed into a coach, where I soon followed them, after taking a civil leave of the landlord and his family, with whom I had never lived in a degree of familiarity enough to regret the removal; but still, the very circumstance of its being a removal, drew tears from me. I left, too, a letter of thanks for Mr. H...., from whom I concluded myself, as I really was, irretrievably separated. My maid I had discharged the day before, not only because I had her of Mr. H...., but that I suspected her of having some how or other been the occasion of his discovering me, in revenge, perhaps, for my not having trusted her with him. We soon got to my lodgings, which, though not so handsomely furnished, nor so showy as those I left, were to the full as convenient, and at half price, though on the first floor. My trunks were safely landed, and stowed in my apartments, where my neighbour, and now gouvernante, Mrs. Cole, was ready with my landlord to receive me, to whom she took care to set me out in the most favourable light, that of one from whom there was the clearest reason to expect the regular payment of his rent: all the cardinal virtues attributed to me, would not have had half the weight of that recommendation alone. I was now settled in lodgings of my own, abandoned to my own conduct, and turned loose upon the town, to sink or swim, as I could manage with the current of it; and what were the consequences, together with the number of adventures which befell me in the exercise of my new profession, will compose the mater of another letter: for surely it is high time to put a period! to this. I am, MADAM, Yours, etc., etc., etc. THE END OF THE FIRST LETTER LETTER THE SECOND Madam, If I have delayed the sequel of my history, it has been purely to allow myself a little breathing time not without some hopes, that, instead of pressing me to a continuation, you would have acquitted me of the task of pursuing a confession, in the course of which my self-esteem has so many wounds to sustain.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Fran sewed, pinching the wound’s lips together with her thumb and forefinger while she did. The needle dimpled Beth’s sunburned skin, tugging at it with each stitch. Beads of red welled up around the silk where it cut into flushed skin. It was almost comforting to work on something so definitively fixable. The world was broken, but Beth’s face she could keep in one piece. She latticed back and forth until at last the lips met, wet and raw, and the wound was closed. Fran transferred the bloody needle to the corner of her mouth, pulled the thread taut, and tied it off. She scooched back along the bench to better admire her work. The stitches were a little messy, the lips of the cut slightly puckered. Beth glowered at her and Fran smiled in spite of the dull, thudding pain of her broken tooth. “You’re going to have the dumbest fucking scar.” III. The Prize Drawer III THE PRIZE DRAWER Most prehistoric people who survived to die of natural causes, the fossil record suggested, died of tooth infections. Fran had read that in a yellowing issue of National Geographic she found in a box in her great-grandfather’s study when she was nine years old, and the fact had never, ever left her brain in the two decades since. The collapse of civilization had, if anything, shoved it closer to the forefront of her awareness. Sometimes she lay awake at night as it ran through her head again and again to the tune of the vaudeville song the old lawyer in The Aristocats warbled while lurching around Madame Bonfamille’s parlor. You’ll die of TOOTH DECAY! You’ll DIE of TOOTH decay! You’ll die of toooooth decay You’ll Die Of Tooth De Cay It was running through her head now as she trudged along the barren, crumbling black serpent of I-95 with Beth, her broken tooth aching like someone had stuffed a hot coal into her cheek and stapled it in place. It was hot and the day’s aches and scrapes were pulling at her, making every starlit step an ordeal. As she walked, she chewed licorice root on the left side of her jaw, the sickeningly sweet taste coating the inside of her mouth. Shelved spiro was mostly useless now, ruined by sunlight or water or simple oxidization. So, licorice root. Spearmint tea. Some girls ate black cohosh, but it gave Fran awful diarrhea. Winter was dangerous. The dried shit started losing potency sometime in February, usually, and even doubling up on dosage didn’t always keep t. rex at bay. Two years ago Fran had come down with the shakes so bad she’d begged Indi to kill her. The dreams were the worst part, fever-sweat nightmares of toothy little tumors wriggling under her skin and seams of glistening flesh blooming around the flexion of her muscles.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I just walked from class to class alone; I sat at lunch alone; during PE I stood in the corner of the gym and played catch with myself. Just tossed a basketball up and down, up and down, up and down. And I know you’re thinking, “Okay, Mr. Sad Sack, how many ways are you going to tell us how depressed you were?” And, okay, maybe I’m overstating my case. Maybe I’m exaggerating. So let me tell you a few good things that I discovered during that awful time. First of all, I learned that I was smarter than most of those white kids. Oh, there were a couple girls and one boy who were little Einsteins, and there was no way I’d ever be smarter than them, but I was way smarter than 99 percent of the others. And not just smart for an Indian, okay? I was smart, period. Let me give you an example. In geology class, the teacher, Mr. Dodge, was talking about the petrified wood forests near George, Washington, on the Columbia River, and how it was pretty amazing that wood could turn into rock. I raised my hand. “Yes, Arnold,” Mr. Dodge said. He was surprised. That was the first time I’d raised my hand in his class. “Uh, er, um,” I said. Yeah, I was so articulate. “Spit it out,” Dodge said. “Well,” I said. “Petrified wood is not wood.” My classmates stared at me. They couldn’t believe that I was contradicting a teacher. “If it’s not wood,” Dodge said, “then why do they call it wood?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t name the stuff. But I know how it works.” Dodge’s face was red. Hot red. I’d never seen an Indian look that red. So why do they call us the redskins? “Okay, Arnold, if you’re so smart,” Dodge said, “then tell us how it works.” “Well, what happens is, er, when you have wood that’s buried under dirt, then minerals and stuff sort of, uh, soak into the wood. They, uh, kind of melt the wood and the glue that holds the wood together. And then the minerals sort of take the place of the wood and the glue. I mean, the minerals keep the same shape as the wood. Like, if the minerals took all the wood and glue out of a, uh, tree, then the tree would still be a tree, sort of, but it would be a tree made out of minerals. So, uh, you see, the wood has not turned into rocks. The rocks have replaced the wood.” Dodge stared hard at me. He was dangerously angry: [image "An illustration compares a volcano and an angry character named Mister Dodge, with the text reading, ‘Which of these pyrotechnic giants will explode first?’" file=image_rsrc4SC.jpg] “Okay, Arnold,” Dodge said. “Where did you learn this fact? On the reservation? Yes, we all know there’s so much amazing science on the reservation.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  It was crazy and fun and sad. My sister wasn’t able to come to the funeral. That was the worst part about it. She didn’t have enough money to get back, I guess. That was sad. But she promised me she’d sing one hundred mourning songs that day. We all have to find our own ways to say good-bye. Tons of people told stories about my grandmother. But there was one story that mattered most of all. About ten hours into the wake, a white guy stood. He was a stranger. He looked vaguely familiar. I knew I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t think of where. We all wondered exactly who he was. But nobody knew. That wasn’t surprising. My grandmother had met thousands of people. The white guy was holding this big suitcase. He held that thing tight to his chest as he talked. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Ted.” And then I remembered who he was. He was a rich and famous billionaire white dude. He was famous for being filthy rich and really weird. My grandmother knew Billionaire Ted! Wow. We all were excited to hear this guy’s story. And so what did he have to say? [image "An illustration of a person named Ted wearing a coat and holding a piece of paper. The text includes humorous comments about his outfit and personal reflections." file=image_rsrc4T2.jpg] We all groaned. We’d expected this white guy to be original. But he was yet another white guy who showed up on the rez because he loved Indian people SOOOOOOOO much. Do you know how many white strangers show up on Indian reservations every year and start telling Indians how much they love them? Thousands. It’s sickening. And boring. “Listen,” Ted said. “I know you’ve heard that before. I know white people say that all the time. But I still need to say it. I love Indians. I love your songs, your dances, and your souls. And I love your art. I collect Indian art.” Oh, God, he was a collector. Those guys made Indians feel like insects pinned to a display board. I looked around the football field. Yep, all of my cousins were squirming like beetles and butterflies with pins stuck in their hearts. “I’ve collected Indian art for decades,” Ted said. “I have old spears. Old arrowheads. I have old armor. I have blankets. And paintings. And sculptures. And baskets. And jewelry.” Blah, blah, blah, blah. “And I have old powwow dance outfits,” he said. Now that made everybody sit up and pay attention. “About ten years ago, this Indian guy knocked on the door of my cabin in Montana.” Cabin, my butt. Ted lived in a forty-room log mansion just outside of Bozeman. “Well, I didn’t know this stranger,” Ted said. “But I always open my door to Indians.” Oh, please.

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

  "The services of a child like yourself are of no great use in a household," Dubourg replied to me. "You have neither the age nor the appearance to find the place you are seeking. You would be better advised to occupy yourself with giving men pleasure and to labor to discover someone who will consent to take care of you; the virtue whereof you make such a conspicuous display is worthless in this world; in vain will you genuflect before its altars, its ridiculous incense will nourish you not at all. The thing which least flatters men, that which makes the least favorable impression upon them, for which they have the most supreme contempt, is good behavior in your sex; here on earth, my child, nothing but what brings in gain or insures power is accounted; and what does the virtue of women profit us I It is their wantonness which serves and amuses us; but their chastity could not interest us less. When, to be brief, persons of our sort give, it is never except to receive; well, how may a little girl like yourself show gratitude for what one does for her if it is not by the most complete surrender of all that is desired of her body!" "Oh, Monsieur," I replied, grown heavy of heart and uttering a sigh, "then uprightness and benevolence are to be found in man no longer!" "Precious little," Dubourg rejoined. "How can you expect them still to exist after all the wise things that have been said and written about them? We have rid ourselves of this mania of obliging others gratuitously; it was recognized that charity's pleasures are nothing but sops thrown to pride, and we turned our thoughts to stronger sensations; it has been noticed, for example, that with a child like you, it is infinitely preferable to extract, by way of dividends upon one's investment, all the pleasures lechery is able to offer Ä much better these delights than the very insipid and futile ones said to come of the disinterested giving of help; his reputation for being a liberal man, an alms-giving and generous man, is not, even at the instant when he most enjoys it, comparable to the slightest sensual pleasure." Chapter 5

• From The Liars' Club: A Memoir (1995)

  I don’t recall his scrubbing the skillet out with sand and pine needles, nor getting carried down the mountain. I can only guess what Mother was up to that night: reading, maybe. That was her Russian history summer. The jacket photo on her Rasputin biography showed him wild-haired and googlyeyed above a bird’s-nest beard. But she could also have been bellied up to the cowboy bar in town ordering shots of tequila. Or she often sat for hours at home in the Adirondack chair on the front porch that poked out over a sharp drop, sipping vodka by herself in the dark. She did that a lot, drinking and staring down the mountain. If I’d had a penny’s worth of sense, her sitting in that deep, downward-sloping chair wrapped up in a serape and sucking down vodka would have struck me as a bad sight. The night my parents announced their divorce, Lecia and I hadn’t even been home for the buildup to it. That always struck me as a moral failure on our parts, like we might have talked them out of it. But the stable held night rides up the broad, easy trails for cookouts. The stablehands would bring out a few guitars and lead the dudes through “On Top of Old Smokey” and “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer” before we rode back down. I’d been extra happy that night too. I rode down the mountain with the moon hopping along beside me through the pines. I fell asleep at some point in a saddle slump. The horse rocking me as he picked his way over stones had a rhythm like the Gulf, which until that night I’d never once thought of. It was a fetal rhythm, I guess, the kind that sneaks under your heartbeat and makes your brainwaves go all slack and your eyelids seam themselves together. I’d started drooling down my sweatshirt when Big Enough reached the trail’s end and startled. The clomp of his hooves on asphalt woke me up flailing. I clutched at the saddle horn just before he broke into a light trot at sight of the stable. There, in the headlights shining across the empty stalls, stood the lanky, big-handed figure of Daddy in loose khakis. He had on a baseball cap with Lone Star State embroidered on it. Under that logo was a yellow star that caught just enough moon to make itself seen. I rode toward that star. Under the brim lay a broad pit of dark. His face stayed in that dark, and the quiet that came with it, all the way home. Mother sat on the curvy living room sofa in front of the fireplace heaped with ashes. The screwdriver she’d been drinking had gone watery. She had on black stretch pants and one of the white shirts we gave Daddy from Sears every Christmas. This one had just been unfolded, I could tell. A little tab of cardboard stuck out like a priest’s sprung collar.

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

  The maid quitting the room, the gentleman insisted, with a tender warmth, that I should sit up in the elbow chair by the fire, and see him eat, if I could not be prevailed on to eat myself. I obeyed with a heart full or affliction, at the comparison it made between those delicious tête-à-têtes with my very dear youth, and this forced situation, this new awkward scene, imposed and obtruded on me a cruel necessity. At supper, after a great many arguments used to comfort and reconcile me to my fate, he told me that his name was H..., brother to the Earl of L.... and that having, by the suggestions of my landlady, been led to see me, he had found me perfectly to his taste, and given her a commission to procure me at any rate, and that at length he had succeeded, as much to his satisfaction as he passionately wished it might be to mine adding, withal, some flattering assurances, that I should have no cause to repent my knowledge of him. I had now got down at least half a partridge, and three or four glasses of wine, which he compelled me to drink by way of restoring nature, but whether there was any thing extraordinary put into the wine, or whether there wanted no more to revive the natural warmth of my constitution, and give fire to the old train, I began no longer to look with that constraint, not to say disguise, on Mr. H...., which I had hitherto done but, withal, there was not the least grain of love mixed with this softening of my sentiments: any other man would have been just the same to me as Mr. H..., that stood in the same circumstances, and had done for me, and with me, what he had done. There are not, on earth at least, eternal griefs; mine were, if not at an end, at least suspended: my heart, which had been so long overloaded with anguish and vexation, began to dilate and open to the last gleam of diversion or amusement. I wept a little, and my tears relieved me; I sighed, and my sighs seemed to lighten me of a load that oppressed me; my countenance grew, if not cheerful, at least more composed and free.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  My parents came from poor people who came from poor people who came from poor people, all the way back to the very first poor people. Adam and Eve covered their privates with fig leaves; the first Indians covered their privates with their tiny hands. Seriously, I know my mother and father had their dreams when they were kids. They dreamed about being something other than poor, but they never got the chance to be anything because nobody paid attention to their dreams. Given the chance, my mother would have gone to college. She still reads books like crazy. She buys them by the pound. And she remembers everything she reads. She can recite whole pages by memory. She’s a human tape recorder. Really, my mom can read the newspaper in fifteen minutes and tell me baseball scores, the location of every war, the latest guy to win the Lottery, and the high temperature in Des Moines, Iowa. Given the chance, my father would have been a musician. When he gets drunk, he sings old country songs. And blues, too. And he sounds good. Like a pro. Like he should be on the radio. He plays the guitar and the piano a little bit. And he has this old saxophone from high school that he keeps all clean and shiny, like he’s going to join a band at any moment. But we reservation Indians don’t get to realize our dreams. We don’t get those chances. Or choices. We’re just poor. That’s all we are. It sucks to be poor, and it sucks to feel that you somehow deserve to be poor. You start believing that you’re poor because you’re stupid and ugly. And then you start believing that you’re stupid and ugly because you’re Indian. And because you’re Indian you start believing you’re destined to be poor. It’s an ugly circle and there’s nothing you can do about it. Poverty doesn’t give you strength or teach you lessons about perseverance. No, poverty only teaches you how to be poor. So, poor and small and weak, I picked up Oscar. He licked my face because he loved and trusted me. And I carried him out to the lawn, and I laid him down beneath our green apple tree. “I love you, Oscar,” I said. He looked at me and I swear to you that he understood what was happening. He knew what Dad was going to do. But Oscar wasn’t scared. He was relieved. But not me. I ran away from there as fast as I could. I wanted to run faster than the speed of sound, but nobody, no matter how much pain they’re in, can run that fast. So I heard the boom of my father’s rifle when he shot my best friend. A bullet only costs about two cents, and anybody can afford that. Because Geometry Is Not a Country Somewhere Near France I was fourteen and it was my first day of high school.

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

  I had neither the virtue or courage requisite not to outlive my separation from him. Yet, had not my heart been thus preengaged, Mr. H... might probably have been the sole master of it; but the place was full, and the force of conjectures alone had made him the possessor of my person; the charms of which had, by the bye, been his sole object and passion, and were, of course, no foundation for a love either very delicate or very durable. He did not return till six in the evening, to take me away to my new lodgings; and my moveables being soon packed, and conveyed into a hackney coach, it cost me but little regret to take my leave of a landlady whom I thought I had so much reason not to be over pleased with; and as for her part, she made no other difference to my staying or going, but what that of the profit created. We soon got to the house appointed for me, which was that of a plain tradesman, who, on the score of interest, was entirely at Mr. H...’s devotion, and who let him the first floor, very genteelly furnished, for two guineas a week, of which I was instated mistress, with a maid to attend me. He stayed with me that evening, and we had a supper from a neighbouring tavern, after which, and a gay glass or two, the maid put me to bed. Mr. H.... soon followed, and notwithstanding the fatigues of the preceding night, I found no quarter nor remission from him: he piquet himself, as he told me, on doing the honours of my new apartment. The morning being pretty well advanced, we got to breakfast; and the ice now broke, my heart, no longer engrossed by love, began to take ease, and to please itself with such trifles Mr. H....’s liberal liking led him to make his court to the usual vanity of our sex. Silks, laces: ear rings, pearl necklace, gold watch, in sort, all the trinkets and articles of dress were lavishly heaped upon me; the sence of which, if it did not create returns of love, forced a kind of grateful fondness, something like love: a distinction which it would be spoiling the pleasure of nine tenths of the keepers in the town to make, and is, I suppose, the very good reason why so few of them ever do make it. I was now established the kept mistress in form, well lodged, with a very sufficient allowance, and lighted up with all the lustre of dress. Mr. H.... continued kind and tender to me; yet, with all this, I was far from happy: for, besides my regrets for my dear youth, which, though often suspended or diverted, still returned upon me in certain melancholic moments with redoubled violence, I wanted more society, more dissipation. As to Mr.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Even if it’s a little gay.” I wanted to cuss at him. I wanted to tell him that I thought I was being courageous, and that I was trying to fix my broken friendship with Rowdy, and that I missed him, and if that was gay, then okay, I was the gayest dude in the world. But I didn’t say any of that. “Okay, thank you,” I said instead. “And Happy Thanksgiving.” Rowdy’s dad closed the door on me. I walked away. But I stopped at the end of the driveway and looked back. I could see Rowdy in the window of his upstairs bedroom. He was holding my cartoon. He was watching me walk away. And I could see the sadness in his face. I just knew he missed me, too. I waved at him. He gave me the finger. “Hey, Rowdy!” I shouted. “Thanks a lot!” He stepped away from the window. And I felt sad for a moment. But then I realized that Rowdy may have flipped me off, but he hadn’t torn up my cartoon. As much as he hated me, he probably should have ripped it to pieces. That would have hurt my feelings more than just about anything I can think of. But Rowdy still respected my cartoons. And so maybe he still respected me a little bit. Hunger Pains Our history teacher, Mr. Sheridan, was trying to teach us something about the Civil War. But he was so boring and monotonous that he was only teaching us how to sleep with our eyes open. I had to get out of there, so I raised my hand. “What is it, Arnold?” the teacher asked. “I have to go the bathroom.” “Hold it.” “I can’t.” I put on my best If-I-Don’t-Go-Now-I’m-Going-To-Explode face. “Do you really have to?” the teacher asked. I didn’t have to go at first, but then I realized that yes, I did have to go. “I have to go really bad,” I said. “All right, all right, go, go.” I headed over to the library bathrooms because they’re usually a lot cleaner than the ones by the lunchroom. So, okay, I’m going number two, and I’m sitting on the toilet, and I’m concentrating. I’m in my Zen mode, trying to make this whole thing a spiritual experience. I read once that Gandhi was way into his own number two. I don’t know if he told fortunes or anything. But I guess he thought the condition and quality of his number two revealed the condition and quality of his life. Yeah, I know, I probably read too many books. And probably WAY too many books about number two. But it’s all important, okay? So I finish, flush, wash my hands, and then stare in the mirror and start popping zits. I’m all quiet and concentrating when I hear this weird noise coming from the other side of the wall. That’s the girls’ bathroom.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Soft. So she stood, and smiled through it. She had a whole drawer full of different smiles for when she needed them. “Long-term we can talk about a hydroponic clover grow, producing and refining our own phytoestrogens, but for now all I need is testicles and kidney lobes. My friends brought enough for maybe a hundred and twenty doses; each dose is good for a week, so we’ll need to be hunting and harvesting at scale within ten days. We’ll need to discuss T blockers, too. Spearmint, black cohosh, licorice root; there are certain strains of soybean—” Sophie snorted laughter, flashing her perfect teeth in an incredulous smile. “Like soyface? Soy-boys? That’s real?” “Not the way people talked about it, no.” The girl—she couldn’t be older than twenty—made a disappointed face, then grinned and swept an arm out to encompass the whole surgery, its workstations and freezer and canvas-draped equipment. “So? You like it?” Don’t sit. Don’t eat. Her back felt as though someone had knotted ribbons of barbed wire around her spine. She’d forgotten to use talcum powder before leaving Seabrook and her thighs were chafing, sweat caught between them and under the lowermost roll of her belly. She wished she was alone, free to lean naked against a work surface and let the dry, cool recycled air that blew in through the theater’s vents run over her. “It looks perfect. Was it designed as a lab? It’s big for that, is why I ask.” Sophie plopped down on a rolling office chair and dropped her chin onto her fists, elbows on her knees with that slumped, listless flexibility that belongs only to the young and thin and careless. “Marianne—my stepmom—wanted to train doctors or something? This whole place was supposed to be a university, like, for rebuilding and shit”—she teared up so immediately that Indi almost bent in to look for the glisten of menthol smeared under her eyes—“but after Daddy, she was never the same. She couldn’t … couldn’t…” She took a deep, steadying breath and drew herself up straight-backed, hands folded in her lap. “She couldn’t adjust. She killed herself a few weeks after.” “I’m very sorry,” said Indi, not knowing what else to say. The trip from Seabrook had left her tired and disoriented; she wanted to be left alone, to settle into the apartment off the surgery and change into clean clothes, unpack her antifungal cream, see where Fran and Beth and that quiet, mop-haired boy had landed. Everything had happened too quickly. Two days spent dithering in her empty house, wondering how long she could wait before the TERFs came knocking, how long she could stall with Widdel’s people.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Dodge thanked Gordy, but didn’t say another word to me. Yep, now even the teachers were treating me like an idiot. I shrank back into my chair and remembered when I used to be a human being. I remember when people used to think I was smart. I remember when people used to think my brain was useful. Damaged by water, sure. And ready to seizure at any moment. But still useful, and maybe even a little bit beautiful and sacred and magical. After class, I caught up to Gordy in the hallway. “Hey, Gordy,” I said. “Thanks.” “Thanks for what?” he said. “Thanks for sticking up for me back there. For telling Dodge the truth.” “I didn’t do it for you,” Gordy said. “I did it for science.” He walked away. I stood there and waited for the rocks to replace my bones and blood. I rode the bus home that night. Well, no, I rode the bus to the end of the line, which was the reservation border. And there I waited. My dad was supposed to pick me up. But he wasn’t sure if he’d have enough gas money. Especially if he was going to stop at the rez casino and play slot machines first. I waited for thirty minutes. Exactly. Then I started walking. Getting to school was always an adventure. After school, I’d ride the bus to the end of the line and wait for my folks. If they didn’t come, I’d start walking. Hitchhiking in the opposite direction. Somebody was usually heading back home to the rez, so I’d usually catch a ride. Three times, I had to walk the whole way home. Twenty-two miles. I got blisters each time. My Sister Sends Me an E-mail -----Original Message----- From: Mary Sent: Thursday, November 16, 2006 4:41 PM To: Junior Subject: Hi! Dear Junior: I love it here in Montana. It’s beautiful. Yesterday, I rode a horse for the first time. Indians still ride horses in Montana. I’m still looking for a job. I’ve sent applications to all the restaurants on the reservation. Yep, the Flathead Rez has about twenty restaurants. It’s weird. They have six or seven towns, too. Can you believe that? That’s a lot of towns for one rez! And you know what’s really weird? Some of the towns on the rez are filled with white people. I don’t know how that happened. But the people who live in those white towns don’t always like Indians much. One of those towns, called Polson, tried to secede (that means quit, I looked it up) from the rez. Really. It was like the Civil War. Even though the town is in the middle of the rez, the white folks in that town decided they didn’t want to be a part of the rez. Crazy. But most of the people here are nice. The whites and Indians.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  He was just screwing with me. “Come on, Rowdy, I’m trying to tell you something major.” “You’re just being stupid,” he said. “What’s so stupid about it?” “Dawn doesn’t give a shit about you,” he said. And that made me cry. Man, I’ve always cried too easily. I cry when I’m happy or sad. I cry when I’m angry. I cry because I’m crying. It’s weak. It’s the opposite of warrior. “Quit crying,” Rowdy said. “I can’t help it,” I said. “I love her more than I’ve ever loved anybody.” Yeah, I was quite the dramatic twelve-year-old. “Please,” Rowdy said. “Stop that bawling, okay?” “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I wiped my face with one of my pillows and threw it across the room. “Jesus, you’re a wimp,” Rowdy said. “Just don’t tell anybody I cried about Dawn,” I said. “Have I ever told anybody your secrets?” Rowdy asked. “No.” “Okay, then, I won’t tell anybody you cried over a dumb girl.” And he didn’t tell anybody. Rowdy was my secret-keeper. Halloween At school today, I went dressed as a homeless dude. It was a pretty easy costume for me. There’s not much difference between my good and bad clothes, so I pretty much look half-homeless anyway. And Penelope went dressed as a homeless woman. Of course, she was the most beautiful homeless woman who ever lived. We made a cute couple. Of course, we weren’t a couple at all, but I still found the need to comment on our common taste. “Hey,” I said. “We have the same costume.” I thought she was just going to sniff at me again, but she almost smiled. “You have a good costume,” Penelope said. “You look really homeless.” “Thank you,” I said. “You look really cute.” “I’m not trying to be cute,” she said. “I’m wearing this to protest the treatment of homeless people in this country. I’m going to ask for only spare change tonight, instead of candy, and I’m going to give it all to the homeless.” I didn’t understand how wearing a Halloween costume could become a political statement, but I admired her commitment. I wanted her to admire my commitment, too. So I lied. “Well,” I said. “I’m wearing this to protest the treatment of homeless Native Americans in this country.” “Oh,” she said. “I guess that’s pretty cool.” “Yeah, that spare change thing is a good idea. I think I might do that, too.” Of course, after school, I’d be trick-or-treating on the rez, so I wouldn’t collect as much spare change as Penelope would in Reardan. “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t we pool our money tomorrow and send it together? We’d be able to give twice as much.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Of course, my sister isn’t much different from my dad in that regard. Whenever my father isn’t off on a drinking binge, he spends most of his time in his bedroom, alone, watching TV. He mostly watches basketball. He never minds if I go in there and watch games with him. But we never talk much. We just sit there quietly and watch the games. My dad doesn’t even cheer for his favorite teams or players. He doesn’t react much to the games at all. I suppose he is depressed. I suppose my sister is depressed. I suppose the whole family is depressed. But I still want to know exactly why my sister gave up on her dream of writing romance novels. I mean, yeah, it is kind of a silly dream. What kind of Indian writes romance novels? But it is still pretty cool. I love the thought of reading my sister’s books. I love the thought of walking into a bookstore and seeing her name on the cover of a big and beautiful novel. Spokane River Heat by Mary Runs Away. That would be very cool. “She could still write a book,” I said. “There’s always time to change your life.” I almost gagged when I said that. I didn’t even believe that. There’s never enough time to change your life. You don’t get to change your life, period. Shit, maybe I was trying to write a romance novel. “Mary was a bright and shining star,” Mr. P said. “And then she faded year by year until you could barely see her anymore.” Wow, Mr. P was a poet. “And you’re a bright and shining star, too,” he said. “You’re the smartest kid in the school. And I don’t want you to fail. I don’t want you to fade away. You deserve better.” I didn’t feel smart. “I want you to say it,” Mr. P said. “Say what?” “I want you to say that you deserve better.” I couldn’t say it. It wasn’t true. I mean, I wanted to have it better, but I didn’t deserve it. I was the kid who threw books at teachers. “You are a good kid. You deserve the world.” Wow, I wanted to cry. No teacher had ever said anything so nice, so incredibly nice, to me. “Thank you,” I said. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now say it.” “I can’t.” And then I did cry.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  He is a weird old coot, but most of the kids dig him because he doesn’t ask too much of us. I mean, how can you expect your students to work hard if you show up in your pajamas and slippers? And yeah, I know it’s weird, but the tribe actually houses all of the teachers in one-bedroom cottages and musty, old trailer houses behind the school. You can’t teach at our school if you don’t live in the compound. It was like some kind of prison-work farm for our liberal, white, vegetarian do-gooders and conservative, white missionary saviors. Some of our teachers make us eat birdseed so we’ll feel closer to the earth, and other teachers hate birds because they are supposedly minions of the Devil. It is like being taught by Jekyll and Hyde. But Mr. P isn’t a Democratic-, Republican-, Christian-, or Devil-worshipping freak. He is just sleepy. But some folks are absolutely convinced he is, like, this Sicilian accountant who testified against the Mafia, and had to be hidden by that secret Witness Relocation Program. It makes some goofy sort of sense, I suppose. If the government wants to hide somebody, there’s probably no place more isolated than my reservation, which is located approximately one million miles north of Important and two billion miles west of Happy. But jeez, I think people pay way too much attention to The Sopranos. Mostly, I just think Mr. P is a lonely old man who used to be a lonely young man. And for some reason I don’t understand, lonely white people love to hang around lonelier Indians. “All right, kids, let’s get cracking,” Mr. P said as he passed out the geometry books. “How about we do something strange and start on page one?” I grabbed my book and opened it up. I wanted to smell it. Heck, I wanted to kiss it. Yes, kiss it. That’s right, I am a book kisser. Maybe that’s kind of perverted or maybe it’s just romantic and highly intelligent. But my lips and I stopped short when I saw this written on the inside front cover: THIS BOOK BELONGS TO AGNES ADAMS Okay, now you’re probably asking yourself, “Who is Agnes Adams?” Well, let me tell you. Agnes Adams is my mother. MY MOTHER! And Adams is her maiden name. So that means my mother was born an Adams and she was still an Adams when she wrote her name in that book. And she was thirty when she gave birth to me. Yep, so that means I was staring at a geometry book that was at least thirty years older than I was. I couldn’t believe it. How horrible is that? My school and my tribe are so poor and sad that we have to study from the same dang books our parents studied from. That is absolutely the saddest thing in the world.