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 The Things They Carried (1990)

  Out on the lake, the man in the stalled motorboat still fiddled with his engine. The pair of mud hens floated like wooden decoys, and the water- skiers looked tanned and athletic, and the high school band was packing up its instruments, and the woman in pedal pushers patiently rebaited her hook for another try. Quaint, he thought. A hot summer day and it was all very quaint and remote. The four workmen had almost completed their preparations for the evening fireworks. Facing the sun again, Norman Bowker decided it was nearly seven o'clock. Not much later the tired radio announcer confirmed it, his voice rocking itself into a deep Sunday snooze. If Max Arnold were here, he would say something about the announcer's fatigue, and relate it to the bright pink in the sky, and the war, and courage. A pity that Max was gone. And a pity about his father, who had his own war and who now preferred silence. Still, there was so much to say. How the rain never stopped. How the cold worked into your bones. Sometimes the bravest thing on earth was to sit through the night and feel the cold in your bones. Courage was not always a matter of yes or no. Sometimes it came in degrees, like the cold; sometimes you were very brave up to a point and then beyond that point you were not so brave. In certain situations you could do incredible things, you could advance toward enemy fire, but in other situations, which were not nearly so bad, you had trouble keeping your eyes open. Sometimes, like that night in the shit field, the difference between courage and cowardice was something small and stupid. The way the earth bubbled. And the smell. In a soft voice, without flourishes, he would have told the exact truth. "Late in the night," he would've said, "we took some mortar fire." He would've explained how it was still raining, and how the clouds were pasted to the field, and how the mortar rounds seemed to come right out of the clouds. Everything was black and wet. The field just exploded. Rain and slop and shrapnel, nowhere to run, and all they could do was worm down into slime and cover up and wait. He would've described the crazy things he saw. Unnatural things. Like how at one point he noticed a guy lying next to him in the sludge, completely buried except for his face, and how after a moment the guy rolled his eyes and winked at him. The noise was fierce. Heavy thunder, and mortar rounds, and people yelling. Some of the men began shooting up flares. Red and green and silver flares, all colors, and the rain came down in Technicolor.

• From Shunned (2018)

  It was a perfect day to play tourist. Within a month, snow could be falling to the ground. Was she seriously going to sit around an airport pool, 747s flying overhead, when she could be basking in the skyline of a grand city, a city other people clamor to visit? Yes, she was. We paid and left, and as I walked out to the street with her, I felt the sidewalk underfoot giving like a cushion, either from the growing heat or from my state of mind. All passersby faded into the distance. I hailed a cab and turned to her as it pulled alongside the curb. “Stay healthy, and be sure to allow yourself enough time to rest,” she said. “Yes, Mom.” We hugged goodbye. “Have a safe flight home, and give Dad a hug for me.” It was all very civilized, but I was crumbling inside. As her cab disappeared into northbound traffic, I pulled out my cell phone and made a quick call. “There will be no sailing today,” I said. Then I walked home and collapsed on the couch to stew in anger and sorrow. PART THREE The Death Exemption, 2006 Chapter 21 There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophy. . . . Our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness. —His Holiness the Dalai Lama Ten years passed, during which I had little contact from my family. In the early years of my newfound freedom, they were never far from my thoughts. Mundane moments like stumbling upon Mom’s famous apple pie recipe or listening to a friend describe a fun night out with his dad could evoke sorrow or envy. Hearing Kenny Loggins sing “Celebrate Me Home” on the radio could leave me unsettled for hours, betwixt and between the world I now reveled in and the fold I left behind. When we leave one world for another, poignant moments like that are inescapable. The emotional pain fuels our initiation into the life that is ours to claim if we dare. Initiations usually involve purification, letting go, burning through the agony. With time I was able to reconcile the paradox of feeling sadness and relief, loss and liberation, all at once. I could not imagine returning to my old life or religion. What choice did I have but to put one foot in front of the other and cultivate compassion and acceptance for the predicament? Minus that resolution, I would never be free in the fullest sense. I was committed to freedom.

• From Shunned (2018)

  They would all be on the same side soon enough. I also realized with sadness that I would not get to see Sheena and Tyler, probably for a long while. The WELCOME HOME sign and surprise greeting at the airport suddenly made more sense. My family was compensating for my brother’s absence, attempting to ease the sting of his condemnation. “Their loss,” I said, shaking off the bad news, at least at the surface. “What’s the shower schedule for the morning?” And we went back to our banter, talking through the logistics of the next day. We couldn’t recapture our riant mood, but I could feel everyone’s relief in having delivered this bitter news. After clearing the table and helping with the dishes, I retreated to my room to unpack and absorb this setback. I unzipped my suitcase and slid the closet door open. I can’t have it both ways, I thought, shaking the wrinkles out of a pair of pants. My choices are freedom or family. What a lousy set of options. Why couldn’t I have been satisfied with my life the way it was? Was it really so bad? Why couldn’t I have come from a religion or a family where differing lifestyles were met with tolerance? I sank into bed, drifting to sleep on a sea of sepia- toned memories. The next morning, I rose early, showered, dressed, and repacked my bags. Mom had offered to lend me her car for my drive into the city, where I was to meet Ross for breakfast. I sought her out to borrow her keys and found her in the kitchen, counting out vitamin pills and dropping them into a container with separate compartments for each day of the week. She was wearing the same bathrobe and slippers she’d had on the night before. “The keys are on the piano,” she said, and stopped what she was doing, turning to look at me. “And, Lindy, dear,” she said. “When you meet with Ross, don’t be too haughty. You’ve put him through a lot, and the only chance you have at forgiveness will be to eat some crow.” I stopped in my tracks, speechless. These comments came out of the blue. Did she think I’d come home to seek forgiveness from Ross, to reconcile with him? I searched my memory for some conversation—any conversation—that would have caused her to expect this and came up short. I’d never told my parents, or even Ross, the full nature of my intent in seeing him. He had a car title and other papers he wanted me to sign off on, and as far as he or anyone else knew, that was the main purpose of our meeting. After my initial shock wore off, I felt anger jump through me, a freight train of emotions that I caught in my throat— just in time. “Thanks, Mother,” I said, hearing, as I’m sure she did, the thinly veiled agitation in my voice. Forgiveness for what?

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Now, looking out at the field, I wondered if it was all a mistake. Everything was too ordinary. A quiet sunny day, and the field was not the field I remembered. I pictured Kiowa's face, the way he used to smile, but all I felt was the awkwardness of remembering. Behind me, Kathleen let out a little giggle. The interpreter was showing her magic tricks. There were birds and butterflies, the soft rustlings of rural-anywhere. Below, in the earth, the relics of our presence were no doubt still there, the canteens and bandoliers and mess kits. This little field, I thought, had swallowed so much. My best friend. My pride. My belief in myself as a man of some small dignity and courage. Still, it was hard to find any real emotion. It simply wasn't there. After that long night in the rain, I'd seemed to grow cold inside, all the illusions gone, all the old ambitions and hopes for myself sucked away into the mud. Over the years, that coldness had never entirely disappeared. There were times in my life when I couldn't feel much, not sadness or pity or passion, and somehow I blamed this place for what I had become, and I blamed it for taking away the person I had once been. For twenty years this field had embodied all the waste that was Vietnam, all the vulgarity and horror. Now, it was just what it was. Flat and dreary and unremarkable. I walked up toward the river, trying to pick out specific landmarks, but all I recognized was a small rise where Jimmy Cross had set up his command post that night. Nothing else. For a while I watched the two old farmers working under the hot sun. I took a few more photographs, waved at the farmers, then turned and moved back to the jeep. Kathleen gave me a little nod. "Well," she said, "I hope you're having fun." "Sure." "Can we go now?" "In a minute," I said. "Just relax." At the back of the jeep I found the small cloth bundle I'd carried over from the States. Kathleen's eyes narrowed. "What's that?" "Stuff," I told her. She glanced at the bundle again, then hopped out of the jeep and followed me back to the field. We walked past Jimmy Cross's command post, past the spot where Kiowa had gone under, down to where the field dipped into the marshland along the river. I took off my shoes and socks. "Okay," Kathleen said, "what's going on?" "A quick swim." "Where?" "Right here," I said. "Stay put." She watched me unwrap the cloth bundle. Inside were Kiowa's old moccasins. I stripped down to my underwear, took off my wrist-watch, and waded in. The water was warm against my feet. Instantly, I recognized the soft, fat feel of the bottom. The water here was eight inches deep.

• From Shunned (2018)

  They had been there thirty minutes and had never once broken out a Bible or preached to me in any way. I walked them to the door and said goodbye. The apartment was still again. The first step in my plan was done. The next day it rained, beginning a long string of morose, gray days. I came down with a cold and had to force myself out the door to work each morning. The end of my nose was red and tender from all the Kleenex I rubbed against it, and the smell of menthol cough drops was my constant companion. I’d be traveling to Portland in a week’s time, and I needed to build strength for the journey. My parents had been successful in reserving the Black Butte house for a long weekend in June. The plan was for me to fly to Portland on Thursday and spend the night at my parents’ house. The next afternoon, the entire family would make the drive together to Central Oregon, arriving in time for dinner. That left me time in the morning to meet Ross for breakfast. When the day arrived to pack my bags and catch a cab to O’Hare, a heavy melancholy came over me. My family was unaware, but I was coming as the hapless bearer of bad news. Grave news. Life-altering news. I sank into my window seat and tried to lose myself in the newspaper and in-flight movie. On the ground in Portland, I’d expected my sister to pick me up at curbside, as we’d discussed. As I disembarked from the plane, I was surprised to see Dad and Lory waiting for me at the gate. The moment I saw them, my heart skipped a beat and I was practically overcome by the love and affection I felt for them. It brought tears to my eyes. I’d missed them more than I’d allowed myself to admit. It was Thursday night, so they were both missing meetings at the Kingdom Hall. Their presence elevated my dreary mood, and we all talked excitedly on the car ride to my parents’ house. When we arrived, I walked through the front door and called out to Mom, who was already there, preparing a light dinner of soup and salad. I heard her exclaim from the kitchen to no one, “Lindy’s here.” She dropped what she was doing and came out to give me a hug. As much as she had irritated me over the months with her nagging, it was all forgotten in that moment.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  βᾶἄρῦὕδαιμονία, ἡ, grievous ill-luck, Antipho 116. 29, Lys. Ior. 24. βαρυδαιμονιάω, = βαρυδαιμονέω, Heliod. ap. Lob. Phryn. 81. B&pt-Satpov, ov, gen. ovos, pressed by a heavy fate, luckless, Alcae. 5, Eur. Alc. 866, Ar. Eccl. 1102. βᾶρῦὕ-δάκρυος, ov,=sq., Nonn. D. 40. 194, Christod. Ecphr. 194. βάρύ-δακρυς, v, weeping grievously, Anth. P. 9. 262, etc. Bapt-decpos, ov, loaded with chains, Nonn. D. 25. 140, etc. βᾶρύ-δϊἴκος, ov, taking heavy vengeance, Aesch. Cho. 936. βαρύδιον, Dim. a small weight at bottom of a water-level, Hero in Math. Vett. Papt-dorepa, 7, giver of ill gifts, Μοῖρα Aesch. Theb. 975, 988. βᾶἄρύ-δουπος, ov, = βαρύγδουπος (q.v.), Mosch. 2. 116, Musae., etc. : θρῆνος Epigr. Gr. 344. 13. βἄρυ-εγκέφἄλος, ὁ, heavy-headed, Epicur. ap. Plut. 2. 1086 E. βἄρυ-εργήξς, és, hard-working, App. Civ. 1. 83. βαάρύ-ζηλος, ov, exceeding jealous or envious, Lyc. 57, Anth. P. ἘΠ Oey βᾶἄρυηκοέω, to be hard of hearing, Hipp. 462 (Littré 7. 10) :—Subst. βαρὕηκοΐα, ἡ, hardness of hearing, 1d. Aph. 1247. βᾶἄρυ-ήκοος, ov, (ἀκούω) hard of hearing, Aretae. Caus. M. Diut. 1. 4, ap 2ol. II. act. deafening, νότοι Hipp. Aph.1247, Sext. Emp. M. 6. 49. ΠΡ ΕΘΝ és, heavy-sounding, deep-sounding, Diod. 5. 31, Opp. H. 4. 317, etc. :—also --ἴχητοβ, ov, Jo. Damasc.; and in A. B. 225 βαρύ-ηχος. ov; in Sup. -ηχότατος Agath. 294. 8. _ βαρύτθροος, ov, deep or loud-sounding, Mosch. 2. 119, Gaisf. Bapéws — βαρύς. Pa pwWipew, to be weighed down: to be melancholy or indignant, App. Civ. 2. 20; ἐπί τινι Diod. 20. 41: in Med., Plut. Sull. 6. βαρυθυμία, ἡ, swllenness, Arist. Virt. et Vit. 6, 2, Plut. Mar. 40. Bapv-Otpos, ov, heavy in spirit: indignant, sullen, Eur. Med. 176, Call. Cer. 81, etc. Adv. —yws, Alciphro 2.3; rejected by Poll. 3. 99. βάρύθω [Ὁ]. to be weighed down, βαρύθει δέ μοι ὦμος ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ [τοῦ €Aceos| Il. 16. 519: βαρύθει δέ 7 ὑπ᾽ αὐτῆς he is weighed down by [insolence], Hes. Op. 213; καμάτῳ Ap. Rh. 2. 47; ὑπὸ κύματι Nic. Th. 135. 2. 4050]. to be heavy, Anth. P. 7. 481; βαρύθεσκε .. γυῖα Ap Rh. 1. 43 :—so in Pass., Maxim. 7. καταρχ. 212, Q. Sm.-13. 5. Bapt-Kapdios, ov, heavy, slow of heart, LXx (Ps. 4. 3), Eccl. βαρῦ-κέφᾶλος, ov, heavy-headed, Justin. M.:—large or heavy-headed, of dogs, Ar. Ven. 4. 4. II. metaph. top-heavy, Vitruv. 3. 2. βᾶἄρύ-κομπος, ov, loud-roaring, λέοντες Pind. P. 5. 76. βᾶἄρύ-κοτος, ov, heavy in wrath, Aesch. Eum. 780, | βαρύ-κρᾶνος, ov, -- βαρυκέφαλος, Greg. Naz. βαρυ-κτήμων, ονος, 6, ἧ, (κτῆμα) very wealthy, Eust. Opusc. 243. 44. βαρύ-κτῦπος, ov, heavy-sounding, loud-thundering, epith. of Zeus, bh. Hom. Cer. 3, etc., Hes. Op. 79: also of Poseidon, Hes. Th. 818, Pind. O. 1. 116 :—also βᾶρυ-κτυπήῆς, és, Or. Sib. 8. 433. βᾶρῦ-λαῖλαψ, azos, ὁ, ἡ, loud-storming, Anth. P. 9. 247. BapvAAvov, τό, Dim. of βάρος: an instrument to find the weight of liquids, Synes. 175 A. Bapu-Aoyos, ov, vented in bitter words, ἔχθεα Pind. P. 2. 100. βᾶρύ-λῦπος, ov, very sad, Plut. 2. 114 B.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  τέφρα, Ep. and Ion. τέφρη, 7, ashes, as of the funeral pile, Il. 23. 251; νεκταρέῳ δὲ χιτῶνι μέλαιν᾽ ἀμφίζανε τέφρη (sprinkling the clothes with ashes being an expression of deep sorrow, as, later, sprinkling the head), 18. 251; τέφραν καταπάσαι, ἐμπάσαι Ar. Nub. 178, Plat. Lys. 210 A: —in the phrase τέφρᾳ τίλλεσθαι (v. τίλλω), prob. a kind of pungent dust, Ar. Nub. 1083; ἡ τ. 7 Φρυγία was used for eye-disease, Arist. Mirab. 58, 3:—proverb., ὅρκους .. eis τέφραν γράφειν Philonid. Incert. 1; cf. ὕδωρ. τεφραῖος, a, ov,=Teppds, Ael. N. A. 6. 38. τεφράς, ddos, 6, the ash-coloured, a kind of τέττιξ, Ael. N. A. το. 44. TEPpyets, εσσα, εν, poét. for τεφρός, Nonn. D. 6. 228. τεφρίζω, to be ash-coloured, Aretae. p. 38. TI. trans. =Teppda, Hesych. Tépivos, 7, ον,-- τεφρός, χροιή Hipp. 914 H. τέφριον, τό, an ash-coloured ointment, esp. for the eyes, Cels., Aét. τεφρο-ειδής, és, like ashes, ash-coloured, Diosc. 4. 110. τεφρός, a, dv, ash-coloured, Arist. H. A. 3. 12, 1; χρῶμα Ib. 9. 45, 35 τεφρὴ γερανός Babr. 65. 1. τεφρόω, to make into ashes, burn to ashes, Lyc. 227; and in Med., Nic. Al. 534 :—Pass. to be burnt to ashes, Theophr. Ign. 20, Anth. P. 5. 188. τεφρώδη, es, contr. for τεφροειδής, Babr. 85. 14, Plut. Themist. 8. τέφρωσις, 7, (Teppdw) a burning to ashes, Schol. Ar. Nub. 773. τεχνάζω, fut. dow, to employ art, Arist. Eth. N.6. 4, 4, M. Mor. 1. 35, 9. II. 20 use art or cunning, deal subtly, use shifts or sub- terfuges, Hdt. 3. 130.,6. 1; τί ταῦτα στρέφει τεχνάζεις τε; Ar. Ach. 385, cf. Ran. 957; τ. Te καὶ ψεύδεσθαι Plat. Hipp. Mi. 371 D, cf. Legg. 879 A, etc.; τοὺς λαγὼς θηρῶντες πολλὰ τεχνάζουσιν Xen. Mem. 3.11, 7; and of the hare, τ. τῇ βαδίσει Id. Cyn. 8, 3: c. acc. cogn., T. ἀπά- Τὴν to use art so as to deceive, Plut. Timol. 10;—c. inf. to contrive cunningly that .., Arist. Pol. 1.11, 12, Plut. Alcib. 19; so, τεχναστέον ὅπως ἀν τι γένοιτο Arist. Pol. 6. 5, 8. 2. Hadt. also uses aor. med. ἐτεχνασάμην, in same sense, 2.121, 1; τεχνάζεσθαι ὅπως .. Plut. Caes. 42. 3. Pass., in pf. part., ἅμαξαι τετεχνασμέναι ὥσπερ οἰκήματα artificially contrived, Hipp. Aér. 291; ἐπίνοια TeTexXv. cunningly de- vised, Pseudo-Luc. Philopatr. 26.—On the diff. of τεχνάζομαι and τεχ- νάομαι, v. Phryn. 477, et Lob. ad 1.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  le 4. of feelings, to steal into or over (cf. | ὑφέρπω), Tis μ᾽ ὑποδύεται πλευρὰς ὀδύνα ; Aesch. Eum, 842 :—rarely | c. dat., πᾶσιν δ᾽ ὑπέδυ “γόος sorrow stole upon all, Od. 10. 398; ἀλλά, 6. to shrink under or | 2. of the chariot, ἅρμ᾽ ὑποζεύξασα Sappho f. | ὑποδωρίζω -- ὑποθηκάριος. ματα in Ar. Eq. 279, is substituted by a pun for ὑποζώματα. 111. the middle part of the rudder, Poll. 1. 89. ὑποζώνη, ἡ, and Dim. ὑποζώνιον, τό, a girdle, Gloss. ὑποζώννῦμι and -ύω, fut. -(wow:—to undergird, τοὺς ἵππους ῥυτῆρσι Plut.Eum.11; ὑπ. τινὰ τοῖς ποσσίν Anth. P.12.222;—6 ὑπεζωκὼς τὰς πλευρὰς ὑμήν, or 4050]. ὁ ὑπεζωκώς, the pleura, Alex. Aphr. Probl. 1. 53, Galen., v. Greenhill Theophil. 299 :—Pass., esp. in pf. part., Cepds ὑπε- ζωσμένοι girt with Cepat (q. v.), Hdt. 7.69; ἱμάντας ὑπεζωσμένοι Plut. Rom. 26 :—esp., II. to undergird or frap a ship, so as to make her seaworthy (v. ὑπόζωμα 11), Polyb. 27. 3, 3, Act. Ap. 27. 17; cf. Horat. 1 Carm. 14, 6 and v. ζεύγνυμι 11. 4, διαζώννυμι 1. ὑπόζωσμα, τό, less Att. form for ὑπόζωμα (11), Plut. Rom. 7. ὑποθαλᾶμεύω, to lead down into the bedroom, Eust. Opusc. 347. 29. ὑποθάλπω, fut. ψω, to heat inwardly, ὑπό μ᾽ αὖ .. paviat θάλπουσιν Aesch. Pr. 880; ὑπ. τινὰ τέχνῃ Philostr. 43. 2. to light or kindle secretly, ἐλπίδα Anon. ap. Suid. s. v. ὠδίν :—Pass., to glow under, τέφρῃ πῦρ ὑποθάλπεται Anth. P, 12.92. ὑποθαρρέω, to pluck up courage, Ael.N. A. 16. 11. ὑποθαρρύνω, to encourage secretly or a little, Eccl. ὑποθαυμάζω, to wonder somewhat, Eccl. ὑποθέᾶτροι, v. sub ὑπότρητος. ὑποθειάζω, to deify almost or secretly, Philostr. 5 and 245. ὑποθέλγω, to beguile secretly, seduce, Phot. ὑπόθεμα, τό, -- ὑπόθημα, Plut. 2.1011 D, C. 1. 2048. ὑποθέναρ, τό, the part of the palm next the fingers, Poll. 2. 143, cf. Galen. 14. 704. ὑποθεραπεύω, fo be disposed to worship, τὸ θεῖον Philostr. 181; ὑπ. τινὰ χρυσοῖς Memnon 24. ὑποθερμαίνω, to heat a little :—Pass. to grow somewhat hot, ὑπεθερ- μάνθη ξίφος αἵματι Il. 16. 333., 20. 476; metaph., Luc. D. Meretr. 8. 3, Anon. ap. Suid.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Norman Bowker nodded, started to speak, but then stopped and got up and moved to the cooler and shoved his hands deep into the ice. He was naked except for his shorts and dog tags. In a way, I envied him—all of them. Their deep bush tans, the sores and blisters, the stories, the 1n-it- togetherness. I felt close to them, yes, but I also felt a new sense of separation. My fatigues were starched; I had a neat haircut and the clean, sterile smell of the rear. They were still my buddies, at least on one level, but once you leave the boonies, the whole comrade business gets turned around. You become a civilian. You forfeit membership in the family, the blood fraternity, and no matter how hard you try, you can't pretend to be part of it. That's how I felt—like a civilian—and it made me sad. These guys had been my brothers. We'd loved one another. Norman Bowker bent forward and scooped up some ice against his chest, pressing it there for a moment, then he fished out a beer and snapped it open. "It was out by My Khe," he said quietly. "One of those killer hot days, hot-hot, and we're all popping salt tabs just to stay conscious. Can't barely breathe. Everybody's lying around, just grooving it, and after a while somebody says, 'Hey, where's Morty?' So the lieutenant does a head count, and guess what? No Morty." "Gone," Azar said. "Poof. No fuckin' Morty." Norman Bowker nodded. "Anyhow, we send out two search patrols. No dice. Not a trace." Pausing a second, Bowker poured a trickle of beer onto his blister and licked at it. "By then it's almost dark. Lieutenant Cross, he's ready to have a fit—you know how he gets, right?—and then, guess what? Take a guess." "Morty shows," I said. "You got it, man. Morty shows. We almost chalk him up as MIA, and then, bingo, he shows." "Soaking wet," said Azar. "Hey; listen—" "Okay, but te// it." Norman Bowker frowned. "Soaking wet," he said. "Turns out the moron went for a swim. You believe that? All alone, he just takes off, hikes a couple klicks, finds himself a river and strips down and hops in and starts doing the goddamn breast stroke or some such fine shit. No security, no nothing. I mean, the dude goes skinny dipping." Azar giggled. "A hot day." "Not that hot," said Dave Jensen. "Hot, though." "Get the picture?" Bowker said. "This is My Khe we're talking about, dinks everywhere, and the guy goes for a swim." "Crazy," I said. I looked across the hootch. Twenty or thirty guys were there, some drinking, some passed out, but I couldn't find Morty Phillips among them. Bowker smiled. He reached out and put his hand on my knee and squeezed. "That's the kicker, man. No more Morty." "No?"

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Kathleen seemed nervous. She squinted at me, her hands fluttering. "Listen, this is stupid," she said, "you can't even hardly get wet. How can you swim out there?" "T'll manage." "But it's not ... I mean, God, it's not even water, it's like mush or something." She pinched her nose and watched me wade out to where the water reached my knees. Roughly here, I decided, was where Mitchell Sanders had found Kiowa's rucksack. I eased myself down, squatting at first, then sitting. There was again that sense of recognition. The water rose to mid- chest, a deep greenish brown, almost hot. Small water bugs skipped along the surface. Right here, I thought. Leaning forward, I reached in with the moccasins and wedged them into the soft bottom, letting them slide away. Tiny bubbles broke along the surface. I tried to think of something decent to say, something meaningful and right, but nothing came to me. I looked down into the field. "Well," I finally managed. "There it is." My voice surprised me. It had a rough, chalky sound, full of things I did not know were there. I wanted to tell Kiowa that he'd been a great friend, the very best, but all I could do was slap hands with the water. The sun made me squint. Twenty years. A lot like yesterday, a lot like never. In a way, maybe, I'd gone under with Kiowa, and now after two decades I'd mostly worked my way out. A hot afternoon, a bright August sun, and the war was over. For a few moments I could not bring myself to move. Like waking from a summer nap, feeling lazy and sluggish, the world collecting itself around me. Fifty meters up the field one of the old farmers stood watching from along the dike. The man's face was dark and solemn. As we stared at each other, neither of us moving, I felt something go shut in my heart while something else swung open. For a second, I wondered if the old man might walk over to exchange a few war stories, but instead he picked up a shovel and raised it over his head and held it there for a time, grimly, like a flag, then he brought the shovel down and said something to his friend and began digging into the hard, dry ground. I stood up and waded out of the water. "What a mess," Kathleen said. "All that gunk on your skin, you look like ... Wait'll I tell Mommy, she'll probably make you sleep in the garage." "You're right," I said. "Don't tell her." I pulled on my shoes, took my daughter's hand, and led her across the field toward the jeep. Soft heat waves shimmied up out of the earth. When we reached the jeep, Kathleen turned and glanced out at the field. "That old man," she said, "is he mad at you or something?" "I hope not." "He looks mad."

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Linda smiled. It was a secret smile, as if she knew things nobody could ever know, and she reached out and touched my wrist and said, "Timmy, stop crying. It doesn't matter." In Vietnam, too, we had ways of making the dead seem not quite so dead. Shaking hands, that was one way. By slighting death, by acting, we pretended it was not the terrible thing it was. By our language, which was both hard and wistful, we transformed the bodies into piles of waste. Thus, when someone got killed, as Curt Lemon did, his body was not really a body, but rather one small bit of waste in the midst of a much wider wastage. I learned that words make a difference. It's easier to cope with a kicked bucket than a corpse; if it isn't human, it doesn't matter much if it's dead. And so a VC nurse, fried by napalm, was a crispy critter. A Vietnamese baby, which lay nearby, was a roasted peanut. "Just a crunchie munchie," Rat Kiley said as he stepped over the body. We kept the dead alive with stories. When Ted Lavender was shot in the head, the men talked about how they'd never seen him so mellow, how tranquil he was, how it wasn't the bullet but the tranquilizers that blew his mind. He wasn't dead, just laid-back. There were Christians among us, like Kiowa, who believed in the New Testament stories of life after death. Other stories were passed down like legends from old-timer to newcomer. Mostly, though, we had to make up our own. Often they were exaggerated, or blatant lies, but 1t was a way of bringing body and soul back together, or a way of making new bodies for the souls to inhabit. There was a story, for

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. Listen to Rat Kiley. Cooze, he says. He does not say bitch. He certainly does not say woman, or girl. He says cooze. Then he spits and stares. He's nineteen years old—it's too much for him—so he looks at you with those big sad gentle killer eyes and says cooze, because his friend is dead, and because it's so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back. You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth; if you don't care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty. Listen to Rat: "Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fuckin’ letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back." The dead guy's name was Curt Lemon. What happened was, we crossed a muddy river and marched west into the mountains, and on the third day we took a break along a trail junction in deep jungle. Right away, Lemon and Rat Kiley started goofing. They didn't understand about the spookiness. They were kids; they just didn't know. A nature hike, they thought, not even a war, so they went off into the shade of some giant trees—quadruple canopy, no sunlight at all—and they were giggling and calling each other yellow mother and playing a silly game they'd invented. The game involved smoke grenades, which were harmless unless you did stupid things, and what they did was pull out the pin and stand a few feet apart and play catch under the shade of those huge trees. Whoever chickened out was a yellow mother. And if nobody chickened out, the grenade would make a light popping sound and they'd be covered with smoke and they'd laugh and dance around and then do it again. It's all exactly true.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  The next generation saw a church that was riven with factions, as Gnesio-Lutherans (so-called “genuine” Lutherans, also known as Flacians after the prominent theologian Matthias Flacius), and Philippists (followers of Melanchthon and supporters of a more moderate Lutheranism) all claimed Luther’s mantle. Yet these divisions, life-and-death matters as they were to those involved in them, did not destroy Lutheranism. The heated polemical rhetoric could not drown out their shared adherence. In any case, the intricacies of doctrinal dispute would have meant little to those outside the ministry. Despite the catastrophic defeat of the Schmalkaldic League, Lutheranism survived, albeit in disarray. Moritz eventually fell out with the emperor when he attempted to reintroduce Catholicism into Lutheran areas; allying himself with France, Moritz campaigned with great success. The Peace of Passau, signed in 1552, accorded recognition to the Lutherans, and the former Elector Johann Friedrich and Philip of Hesse were both released from captivity. At the Peace of Augsburg in 1555, the emperor formally accepted that there were two denominations in his empire and allowed the ruler of a territory to determine the official religion of his subjects. It did not, however, include the sacramentarians in its provisions, and the exclusion of the new movement that would become Calvinism meant that the Peace of Augsburg would eventually prove unable to contain religious diversity. In 1618, the Thirty Years’ War broke out. It would leave German lands devastated. — T HE old world of Wittenberg died with Luther. In the midst of the Schmalkaldic War, Katharina von Bora herself had to flee Wittenberg, the fate her husband had always feared for her. She returned and started to rebuild her properties, damaged by war, and to take in student lodgers. But times were hard and she died in 1552, from injuries she sustained after falling from a wagon that was taking her away yet again from the plague-stricken town. She was fifty-three years old. Some of the toll that Luther’s overwhelming personality must have taken on his family can be glimpsed in the fates of his children. Hans, the eldest son, named after Luther’s father, was destined for theology and had been enrolled at the University of Wittenberg at the age of seven, gaining the degree of bachelor six years later in 1539. The lad could not live up to expectations, and the pressure on him must have been unbearable. Reversing his father’s trajectory, Hans ended up trying his hand at law, eventually becoming an advisor in the Weimar chancellery, a position he achieved more out of respect to his father than because of his own merits. By contrast, Martin, the second son, had been intended for the law and switched to theology, but never managed to win a post as a preacher.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  The clerk confirms the layout in my head, that the bathroom is over there, and I push into the small gumball-blue room. There’s the spot where a wall dryer once hung. The raw hardware of its back plate faces across from a modern paper-towel holder. In some ways, I’d relived the history of that place in the pages, and while I’m not dead to the psychic damage done here—there’s a twinge of sadness for us all—the place can’t overwhelm me anymore. On my way out, I glance up at a hammered tin ceiling. Soon as I see it, the pattern fits in a similarly jigsawed space in my memory. I could’ve drawn it by heart—the filigreed squares and sprouted vines. I reel back, and for an eyeblink’s time, the small structure looms as large as it once did when our young mother sat sipping vodka by the window. I can see her slim in her gray pencil skirt and white crepe blouse, legs crossed, one pump near-dangling from a toe. The old grief has been mostly drained off in me for a long time now, and I’m awestruck by her grace. You’re so damn pretty, I’d tell her if she’d turn around. I step back out into the sunshine, saying to Lecia, Check out the tin ceiling. She holds out her hand like a blind girl, and I take it. C’mon, I say, and though it’s rare for her to follow, she lets me tug her in. On this expedition only, I’m point woman. One hesitant step she takes, as if afraid to get too close to a cliff edge, then another, till she’s a few feet inside. She cants her wondering face up at the ceiling, then gasps, a hand covering her mouth. It’s not a small breath but the lung-deep, sucked-in huff you’d take, say, finding a rat running the baseboards of your kitchen. Outside in the sunlight, I keep holding her hand. Though her eyes are devoid of feeling, fat tears stream down, and she curses me for dragging her to this godforsaken place—me with my fucking therapy and passion for the old crap. I didn’t know it’d be this hard, I tell her. Inside, I’m pissed at myself for buying her don’t-give-a-damn act when I knew better. I tell her it’s good we can face this place together, good that she got us out of here when she did. Within the hour, I’m shepherding that vast chaise longue of a vehicle back toward the far side of the mountains, where she’s secured a thousand-dollar-per-night hotel room for us because there are no other rooms at any inns, and the sun can’t set on her in that town. She grabs my hand in the car, palm to palm and tight, like we’re fixing to bound off the pool’s edge together. Yes, she finally admits in the car, that was the place.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Now, looking out at the field, I wondered if it was all a mistake. Everything was too ordinary. A quiet sunny day, and the field was not the field I remembered. I pictured Kiowa's face, the way he used to smile, but all I felt was the awkwardness of remembering. Behind me, Kathleen let out a little giggle. The interpreter was showing her magic tricks. There were birds and butterflies, the soft rustlings of rural-anywhere. Below, in the earth, the relics of our presence were no doubt still there, the canteens and bandoliers and mess kits. This little field, I thought, had swallowed so much. My best friend. My pride. My belief in myself as a man of some small dignity and courage. Still, it was hard to find any real emotion. It simply wasn't there. After that long night in the rain, I'd seemed to grow cold inside, all the illusions gone, all the old ambitions and hopes for myself sucked away into the mud. Over the years, that coldness had never entirely disappeared. There were times in my life when I couldn't feel much, not sadness or pity or passion, and somehow I blamed this place for what I had become, and I blamed it for taking away the person I had once been. For twenty years this field had embodied all the waste that was Vietnam, all the vulgarity and horror. Now, it was just what it was. Flat and dreary and unremarkable. I walked up toward the river, trying to pick out specific landmarks, but all I recognized was a small rise where Jimmy Cross had set up his command post that night. Nothing else. For a while I watched the two old farmers working under the hot sun. I took a few more photographs, waved at the farmers, then turned and moved back to the jeep. Kathleen gave me a little nod. "Well," she said, "I hope you're having fun." "Sure." "Can we go now?" "In a minute," I said. "Just relax." At the back of the jeep I found the small cloth bundle I'd carried over from the States. Kathleen's eyes narrowed. "What's that?" "Stuff," I told her. She glanced at the bundle again, then hopped out of the jeep and followed me back to the field. We walked past Jimmy Cross's command post, past the spot where Kiowa had gone under, down to where the field dipped into the marshland along the river. I took off my shoes and socks. "Okay," Kathleen said, "what's going on?" "A quick swim." "Where?" "Right here," I said. "Stay put." She watched me unwrap the cloth bundle. Inside were Kiowa's old moccasins. I stripped down to my underwear, took off my wrist-watch, and waded in. The water was warm against my feet. Instantly, I recognized the soft, fat feel of the bottom. The water here was eight inches deep.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Even after I rent out my attic to a grad student—a motorcycle-driving lesbyterian who sets my Republican neighbors’ tongues wagging—I can’t make ends meet. At first Warren and I plan to sell the house to give back Mr. Whitbread’s small down payment, till Warren figures out my engagement ring could buy the whole place outright, so I fork that over instead. That’s the kind of stuff we bicker about. Maybe he feels, as I do, that he’s given too much up—in furniture and car (on my part), house (on his part), or time with our son (on both parts). But when two different lawyers urge us separately to chase payouts we both know don’t exist, we fire them. With a mediator, we hammer out a deal neither of us can imagine surviving on, then we sign it. The Whitbread family tree sports nary a divorce, and it shames Warren to break the news. Once he does, the channels between the family and me snap so totally shut, I don’t hear the fallout. While my clan views the split as a done deal, Mother can’t feature me without Warren’s solidity. The boat I row (financially speaking) is fully loaded and taking water, but so’s Warren’s. Warren loans me our sole vehicle pretty much on demand, but it galls me to ask him. Facing walls of ice at my drive’s end, I try to tell myself that not having a car to shovel out is a bonus, but climbing over slippery, filthy edifices to reach a bus stop, Dev’s mittened hand in mine, I curse the oyster-gray sky and the fat flakes that Dev never tires of catching on his tongue. The bus to Dev’s after-school takes a full hour each way, and pulling him in a red wagon to and from the grocery store leaves me feeling stranded as a polar explorer. (People who’ve never seen a credit-union employee roll her eyes when you request a two-thousand-dollar car note will say, Just borrow .) In Syracuse, I find another circle of identical shit-brown chairs occupied by sober strangers, and I call Joan the Bone to complain about the mildewy carpet and the chilblains I get wearing wet boots in the unheated room. She says, Uh-huh. Are they sober ? While Joan’s never more than a phone call away, she can’t be my polestar at such a remove. Before I moved, we’d agreed I’d have to find a local contender. You’re irreplaceable, I tell her on the phone. I am, aren’t I? she says, nudging me by phone to court Patti—a former English teacher who helps run an outpatient rehab—a petite woman with a blond bob and the energy of a fire truck.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  My department collects strays, he said. Stop by my office tonight. We’ll see what we can find. But during the day, the prospect slid back and forth in my skull like a BB. Why did he want to see me at night? Leaving my library job, I faced sparse snow on the ground, scraped at by winds like straight razors. It was cold, you betcha. So I loped over to the science building, where the gleaming labs with black counters and curvy gas jets creeped me out. There was a warm amber light spilling from Walt’s doorway. I craned around the door, and he waved me through. In a green towel on his lap, he held a white lab rat, stretched on her side, taking sips of air while her fidgeting, thimble-sized offspring—pink as young rosebuds—were nursing. She’d given birth earlier, he said, and seemed to have some kind of infection. Can you hold her so I can maneuver this eyedropper? he said. I sat down in a side chair, and he eased the wriggling small weightlessness onto my lap. It was puzzling to me, his tenderness for that rat, since where I grew up, rats were target practice—nutria rats big as terriers with their bright orange enamel fangs. You went to the dump with a .22 or a pistol to pick them off. Doonie had given me a nutria rat skull one Valentine’s Day. She just had a rough time delivering today, Walt said. I was at home and kept thinking about her. Wondering how the babies were doing…. He fixed the eyedropper between her teeth and eased out a half drop, dabbing off her whiskers with a tissue. Then he idly ran his thumb along her muzzle. Watching that, I couldn’t live another instant without unloading into his care my whirling insides. My every woe came spilling out. No money to go home. No place to stay over Thanksgiving. A boy I liked, then didn’t, then did. Plus the four jobs I held down were eating me alive. Walt handed me one pink flounce of tissue after another. Worst of all, the only reason I’d come there was to write, but I’d refused to sign up for a lit class, being too ill read not to shame myself. At a freshman mixer early on, I heard kids hurling around like fastballs opinions about Russian novels it had taken me a week to figure out the characters in—I had to make a chart in back. They were talking Dostoyevsky’s blah-blah and the objective correlative of the doodad. They’d studied in Paris and Switzerland. The closest I’d come to speaking French was ordering boudain sausage from the take-out window of Boudreaux’s Fat Boy.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Mitchell Sanders told them to knock it off. The three soldiers moved to the dike, put down their packs and weapons, then waded back to where the boot was showing. The body lay partly wedged under a layer of mud beneath the water. It was hard to get traction; with each movement the muck would grip their feet and hold tight. The rain had come back harder now. Mitchell Sanders reached down and found Kiowa's other boot, and they waited a moment, then Sanders sighed and said, "Okay," and they took hold of the two boots and pulled up hard. There was only a slight give. They tried again, but this time the body did not move at all. After the third try they stopped and looked down for a while. "One more time," Norman Bowker said. He counted to three and they leaned back and pulled. "Stuck," said Mitchell Sanders. "T see that. Christ." They tried again, then called over Henry Dobbins and Rat Kiley, and all five of them put their arms and backs into it, but the body was jammed in tight. Azar moved to the dike and sat holding his stomach. His face was pale. The others stood in a circle, watching the water, then after a time somebody said, "We can't just /eave him there," and the men nodded and got out their entrenching tools and began digging. It was hard, sloppy work. The mud seemed to flow back faster than they could dig, but Kiowa was their friend and they kept at it anyway. Slowly, in little groups, the rest of the platoon drifted over to watch. Only Lieutenant Jimmy Cross and the young soldier were still searching the field. "What we should do, I guess," Norman Bowker said, "is tell the LT." Mitchell Sanders shook his head. "Just mess things up. Besides, the man looks happy out there, real content. Let him be." After ten minutes they uncovered most of Kiowa's lower body. The corpse was angled steeply into the muck, upside down, like a diver who had plunged headfirst off a high tower. The men stood quietly for a few seconds. There was a feeling of awe. Mitchell Sanders finally nodded and said, "Let's get it done," and they took hold of the legs and pulled up hard, then pulled again, and after a moment Kiowa came sliding to the surface. A piece of his shoulder was missing; the arms and chest and face were cut up with shrapnel. He was covered with bluish green mud. "Well," Henry Dobbins said, "it could be worse," and Dave Jensen said, "How, man? Tell me how." Carefully, trying not to look at the body, they carried Kiowa over to the dike and laid him down. They used towels to clean off the scum. Rat Kiley went through the kid's pockets, placed his personal effects in a plastic bag, taped the bag to Kiowa's wrist, then used the radio to call in a dustoff.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Doonie looked around. Man, ain’t it the Ritz up in here? Don’t you know, those side lights used to light up like the Superdome. I looked at the long bank of dead bulbs and felt a sinking at how dim and broken everything could get. I told him I sometimes felt like smacking Quinn for mocking me anytime I recited poetry. Nah, it ain’t like that, Doonie said. He just associates poems with some teacher telling him he’s a dumbass. He put his callused feet up on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. I asked him what Quinn’s momma was like. Doesn’t have one. I don’t know. How do you not have a mother? I said, but somehow I knew, because mine had always lived on the brink of evaporation. (Strange, we never—not one time—talked about the doped-up or drunk-assed backgrounds some of us were fleeing.) Doonie said, Quinn’s died or ran off or something. This is according to Dave, of course, so who knows. And get this, Dave also says Quinn brought a pistol to kill the waterbed king with. If he can’t get his old man’s money back. A no-shit gunslinger pistol like we used to shoplift from Woolco. You’d get a little plastic sheriff’s badge with it. He’s got some fantasy he’s gonna get even for his daddy. The word daddy hung in the air outlined in gold. Closing my eyes, I found it in blue on my eyelids. I could feel the roots my daddy had grown in me—actual branches in my body. His was the ethos of country folk: people who kept raked dirt yards rather than grassy lawns because growing grass was too much like field work; people who kept the icebox on the porch, plugged in with an extension cord run through a window, so folks driving by would know they had one. I could feel Daddy’s roots in me, but I couldn’t fit him into any version of my life I could concoct. He’d been going away for years, out into the garage at night, down into the bottle he secreted under his truck seat. I adapted to Daddy’s absence partly by smoking enough reefer to float me through a house where—increasingly—nobody’s path intersected with another. Doonie’s voice jolted me back into the warm car. He said, You know what I’m gonna do? A lot of obscene and illegal stuff, I’d wager. He said, I’m gonna fix this Lincoln up and drive it back to Leechfield. My senior year ride. No more Mama’s Torino. Like you will, I said. Like I won’t.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  : ᾿Αχιλλεύς Il. 2. 688; cf. 7. 230, etc.: to le still, hep still, λασίην ὑπὸ γαστέρ᾽ ἐλυσθεὶς κείμην, of Ulysses under the ram’s belly, Od. 9. 434 τ-τ-κακὸν κείμενον a sleeping evil, Soph. Ο. C. 510; τοῦ κύματος κειμένου Ael. N. A. 15. 5. 3. to lie sick or wounded, κεῖτο yap ἐν νήσῳ, of Philoctetes, Il. 2. 721, cf. 15.240; κείσεται οὐτηθείς 8. 537., 11. 659; γήραϊ λυγρῷ κεῖται evi μεγάροις ἀρημένος 18. 4353; κεῖτ᾽ ὀλιγηπελέων Od. 5. 457; also, to lie im misery, ἐοικότι κεῖται ὀλέθρῳ 1. 46, cf. 21. 88, Soph. Ph. 183; ¢o lie at the mercy of the conqueror, Aesch. Eum. 590; κεῖσθαι ἐν κακοῖς Eur. Phoen. 1639, Hec. 969; κει- μένῳ ἐπιπηδᾷν to kick him when he’s down, Ar. Nub. 550. 4. to lie dead, like Lat. jacere, often in Hom., so in Trag., Aesch. Ag. 1438, 1440, Soph. Ph. 359; κεῖται δὲ νεκρὸς περὶ νεκρῷ Id. Aj. 1240; rare in Prose, χίλιοι .. νεκροὶ κείμενοι Hdt. 8. 25. b. freq. also in epitaphs, to lie buried, τῇδε κείμεθα Simon. 95, cf. 97; κεῖσαι (av ἔ ἔτι μᾶλλον τῶν ὑπὸ γᾶς Id. 18; also, κ. ἐν Ῥαρτάρῳ Pind, P. τὶ 295 ἐν τάφῳ, ἐν “Αἰδου, παρ᾽ “Αιδῃ Trag.; 80 ἴῃ Prose, τὸν χῶρον ἐν τῷ κέοιτο ᾿Ορέστης Hdt. 1. 67, cf. 4. 11., 9. 105, Thuc. 2: 43. 5. to lie neglected or uncared for, esp. of an unburied corpse (cf. ἀκηδής). Il. 19. 32., 18. 338; κεῖται... νέκυς ἄκλαυτος ἄθαπτος 22. 386; μὴ δή με ἕλωρ Δαναοῖσιν ἐάσῃς κεῖσθαι 5. 685; so, Keir’ ἀπόθεστος... ἐν πολλῇ κόπρῳ lies uncared for, of the old hound of Ulysses, Od. 17. 296, cf. 16. 35, etc.: —so also of places, to lie in ruins, δόμοι .. χαμαιπετεῖς ἔκεισθ᾽ ἀεί Aesch. Cho. 964, cf. Plat. Rep. 425 A, Lyc. 252. 6. of wrestlers, to have a fall, Aesch. Eum. 590; πεσών ye κείσομαι Ar. Nub. 126. ΤΊ: of places, to lie, be situated, νῆσος ἀπόπροθεν εἰν ἁλὶ κεῖται Od. 7. 244, cf. 9. 25., 10. 196, and Trag. 5 : ἐν τῇ γῇ κείμενά ἐστι τὰ Σοῦσα (ἴοτ κεῖται) Hdt. 5. 49; Αἰγίνα .. - πρὸς νότου κ. mvoas Aesch. Fr. 327, cf. Thuc. 3. 51; with θέσιν added, πόλις αὐταρκῆ θέσιν κειμένη Id. τ. 37; θέσιν κέεσθαι νοσερωτάτην Hipp. Aér. 283, cf. Arist. H. A. 1. 17, 3; κ. πρὸς τὸν ἥλιον, πρὸς ἄρκτον, etc., Id., etc. 2. of things, to lie in a place, implying continuance, ὅθι of φίλα δέμνι᾽ ἔκειτο Od. 8. 277; ἕλε δίφρον κείμενον. as it lay there, 17. 331, cf. 410; φόρμιγγα ... ἥ που κεῖται ἐν ἡμετέροισι δόμοισι 8. 255; so in Prose, δύο τράπεζαι ἐκείσθην Lys. 133. 12, cf. Xen. Oec. 8, 10. III. to be laid up, be in store, of goods, property, etc., δόμοις ἐν κτήματα κεῖται Il. 9. 382: πολλὰ δ᾽ ἐν ἀφνειοῦ πατρὸς. κειμήλια Kk. 6. 47: βασιλῆι δὲ κεῖται ἄγαλμα is reserved .., 4.144; μνῆμα ξείνοιο .. κέσκετ᾽ evi μεγάροισι was left lying .. Nout 21. 41;—also of things dedicated to a god, «. ἀνάθημα, etc., Hat. I.51,52:—of money, κείμενα deposits, Id. 6. 86,1; κ. σοι