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 Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  [510] Cf. Aristotle's Nichomachæan Ethics, VII. 3; also a discussion of the doctrine of 'The Practical Syllogism' in Sir A. Grant's edition of this work, 2d ed. vol. I. p. 212 ff.[511] The Duality of the Mind, pp. 141-2. Another case from the same book (p 123): "A gentleman of respectable birth, excellent education, and ample fortune, engaged in one of the highest departments of trade, . . . and being induced to embark in one of the plausible speculations of the day . . . was utterly ruined. Like other men he could bear a sudden overwhelming reverse better than a long succession of petty misfortunes, and the way in which he conducted himself on the occasion met with unbounded admiration from his friends. He withdrew, however, into rigid seclusion, and being no longer able to exercise the generosity and indulge the benevolent feelings which had formed the happiness of his life, made himself a substitute for them by daydreams, gradually fell into a state of irritable despondency, from which he only gradually recovered with the loss of reason. He now fancied himself possessed of immense wealth, and gave without stint his imaginary riches. He has ever since been under gentle restraint, and leads a life not merely of happiness, but of bliss; converses rationally, reads the newspapers, where every tale of distress attracts his notice, and being furnished with an abundant supply of blank checks, he fills up one of them with a munificent sum, sends it off to the sufferer, and sits down to his dinner with a happy conviction that he has earned the right to a little indulgence in the pleasures of the table; and yet, on a serious conversation with one of his old friends, he is quite conscious of his real position, but the conviction is so exquisitely painful that he will not let himself believe it."[512] 'Le Sentiment de l'Effort, et la Conscience de l'Action,' in Revue Philosophique, XXVIII. 561.[513] P. 577.[514] They will be found indicated, in somewhat popular form, in a lecture on 'The Dilemma of Determinism,' published in the Unitarian Review (of Boston) for September 1884 (vol. XXII. p. 193).[515] See Grundtatsachen des Seelenlebens, pp. 594-5; and compare the conclusion of our own chapter on Attention, Vol. I. pp. 448-454.[516] Thus at least I interpret Prof. Lipps' words: "Wir wissen us naturgemass in jedem Streben umsomehr aktiv, je mehr unser ganzes Ich bei dem Streben betheiligt ist," u. s. w. (p. 601).[517] Such ejaculations as Mr. Spencer's: "Psychical changes either conform to law or they do not. If they do not, this work, in common with all works on the subject, is sheer nonsense: no science of Psychology is possible" (Principles of Psychology, I. 503), —are beneath criticism. Mr. Spencer's work, like all the other 'works on the subject,' treats of those general conditions of possible conduct within which all our real decisions must fall no matter whether their effort be small or great.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “That was my problem when I married Hugo.” The sadness in her voice made it even more melodic. “I was twenty. He was twenty-four. And neither of us had had any experience with sex. I was much too shy to tell him how to please me, so he couldn’t learn.” She must have seen the shock on my face because she quickly added, touching my hand, “This is entre nous. Do you know that term?” “Between us only. Yes.” “For the first two years of our marriage, I remained a virgin, because he was so afraid of hurting me. Then we went to a doctor who talked to Hugo, and after that he was able to penetrate me. It did hurt, though, because he was too large for me.” I tried not to show my fear and repugnance, but it was no use. “Don’t be afraid. It is unusual; and even so, if he had known how to prepare a woman so that her juices made her ready, it would not have been so much a problem. But he had developed bad habits during the time that we both thought only of his pleasure.” “But that must have changed,” I said shyly, “because I saw how much in love you are. I’ve never seen a married couple so much in love.” Her eyes shifted towards the entry hall but then returned to me. She touched my hand again, a sign that she was about to give me a piece of wisdom. “It is important that you choose the men in your life carefully so the father wound is not deepened. It’s important that you choose as your first lover a man who is receptive and interested in your pleasure as well as his own, a man to whom you can tell what you want and what you don’t want.” “But I don’t really know if Jean-Jacques is …” “I’m afraid I can’t tell you how he is as a lover.” “No!” I blushed. “I wasn’t going to ask that. I meant to say I don’t know if he’s really interested in me. I don’t know anything about him, if he’s married or has a girlfriend.” “He probably has one of each in France. He comes from a wealthy old Parisian family. But he’s a black sheep because he’s an artist of sorts. He puts on ‘happenings’ in Paris. Have you heard of them?” I shook my head. “Happenings are a kind of street theater but without a script. The actors are not actors, just people he randomly chooses. They improvise their lines and business the day he phones them and tells them a location where to meet.” She saw my smile and said, “You see? He’s playful, and that’s what you want in a lover.” We fell silent when Millie appeared on the balcony. She set down a sliced apple and some moldy cheese and announced that she was leaving for the day.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She got up. No good in trying to sleep, those eternal questions kept stifling, tormenting. Dressing quickly she stole down the wide, shallow stairs to the garden door, then out into the garden. The garden looked unfamiliar in the sunrise, like a well-known face that is suddenly transfigured. There was something aloof and awesome about it, as though it were lost in ecstatic devotion. She tried to tread softly for she felt apologetic, she and her troubles were there as intruders; their presence disturbed this strange hush of communion, this oneness with something beyond their knowledge, that was yet known and loved by the soul of the garden. A mysterious and wonderful thing this oneness, pregnant with comfort could she know its true meaning—she felt this somewhere deep down in herself, but try as she would her mind could not grasp it; perhaps even the garden was shutting her out of its prayers, because she had sent away Martin. Then a thrush began to sing in the cedar, and his song was full of wild jubilation: ‘Stephen, look at me, look at me!’ sang the thrush, ‘I’m happy, happy, it’s all very simple!’ There was something heartless about that singing which only served to remind her of Martin. She walked on disconsolate, thinking deeply. He had gone, he would soon be back in his forests—she had made no effort to keep him beside her because he had wanted to be her lover. . . . ‘Stephen, look at us, look at us!’ sang the birds, ‘We’re happy, happy, it’s all very simple!’ Martin walking in dim, green places—she could picture his life away in the forests, a man’s life, good with the goodness of danger, a primitive, strong, imperative thing—a man’s life, the life that should have been hers—And her eyes filled with heavy, regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for what she was weeping. She only knew that some great sense of loss, some great sense of incompleteness possessed her, and she let the tears trickle down her face, wiping them off one by one with her finger.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “All right,” she said eagerly, “I’ll tell all I know: it’s not much,” she added bitterly; “I’m not twenty yet; but you’d have taken me for more, now wouldn’t you?” “No,” I replied, “you look about eighteen: in a few minutes we were climbing the stairs of a tenement house. The girl’s room was poorly furnished and narrow, a hall bedroom just the width of the corridor, perhaps six feet by eight. As soon as she had taken off her thick cloak and hat, she hastened out of the room saying she’d be back in a minute. In the silence, I thought I heard her running up the stairs; a baby somewhere near cried; and then silence again, till she opened the door, drew my head to her and kissed me: “I like you,” she said, “though you’re funny.” “Why funny?” I asked. “It’s a scream,” she said, “to give five dollars to a girl and never touch her: but I’m glad for I was tired tonight and anxious.” “Why anxious?” I queried, “and why did you go out if you were tired?” “Got to,” she replied through tightly closed lips. “You don’t mind if I leave you again for a moment?” she added and before I could answer she was out of the room again. When she returned in five minutes I had grown impatient and put on my overcoat and hat. “Goin?” she asked in surprise: “Yes”, I replied, “I don’t like this empty cage while you go off to someone else.” “Someone else” she repeated and then as if desperate: “it’s my baby if you must know: a friend takes care of her when I’m out or working.” “Oh, you poor thing,” I cried, “fancy you with a baby at this life!” “I wanted a baby”, she cried defiantly. “I wouldn’t be without her for anything! I always wanted a baby: there’s lots of girls like that.” “Really?” I cried astounded. “Do you know her father?” I went on. “Of course I do,” she retorted. “He’s working in the stock yards; but he’s tough and won’t keep sober.” “I suppose you’d marry him if he would go straight?” I asked. “Any girl would marry a decent feller!” she replied. “You’re pretty,” I said. “D’ye think so?” she asked eagerly pushing her hair back from the sides of her head. “I used to be but now—this life—” and she shrugged her shoulders expressively. “You don’t like it?” I asked. “No,” she cried; “though when you get a nice feller, it’s not so bad; but they’re scarce,” she went on bitterly, “and generally when they’re nice, they’ve no bucks. The nice fellers are all poor or old,” she added reflectively.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  I was to call for him at the Hotel and take him across to the Hall. When I called, a middle-sized man came to meet me with a rather good-looking, pleasant smile and introspective, musing eyes. Harte was in evening dress that suited his slight figure and as he seemed disinclined to talk, I took him across to the Hall at once and hastened round to the front to note his entrance. He walked quite simply to the desk, arranged his notes methodically and began in a plain, conversational tone, “The Argonauts” and he repeated it, “The Argonauts of ’49.” I noticed that there was no American nasal twang in his accent; but with the best of will, I can give no account of the lecture, just as I can give no portrait of the man. I recall only one phrase but think it probably the best: referring to the old-timers crossing the Great Plains, he said, “I am going to tell you of a new Crusade, a Crusade without a cross, an exodus without a prophet!” [Illustration] I met him ten years later in London when I had more self-confidence and much deeper understanding both of talent and genius; but I could never get anything of value out of Bret Harte, in spite of the fact that I had then and still keep a good deal of admiration for his undoubted talent. In London later I did my best to draw him out, to get him to say what he thought of life, death and the undiscovered country; but he either murmured commonplaces or withdrew into his shell of complete but apparently thoughtful silence. The monotonous work and passionate interludes of my life were suddenly arrested by a totally unexpected happening. One day Barker came into my little office and stood there hiccoughing from time to time: “did I know any remedy for hiccoughs?” I only knew a drink of cold water usually stopped it. “I’ve drunk every sort of thing,” he said, “but I reckon I’ll give it best and go home and if it continues, send for the doctor!” I could only acquiesce: next day I heard he was worse and in bed. A week later Sommerfeld told him I ought to call on poor Barker for he was seriously ill. That same afternoon I called and was horrified at the change: the constant hiccoughing had shaken all the unwieldy mass of flesh from his bones; the skin of his face was flaccid, the bony outline showing under the thin folds. I pretended to think he was better and attempted to congratulate him; but he did not try even to deceive himself. “If they can’t stop it, it’ll stop me”, he said, “but no one ever heard of a man dying of hiccoughs and I’m not forty yet.” The news came a few days later that he was dead—that great fat man!

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Aunt Zippy said. “We need you to do something; pull a hair out of Morris’s tail? It won’t hurt him, he’s used to it. We need a hair from a black cat’s tail. Only a virgin can pull the hair out and you are the only virgin here so it’s up to you.” Already I could refuse Aunt Zippy nothing. Morris swung his tail up on the couch next to me. I gingerly took a single long strand between my thumb and index finger and yanked. It slid out easily. I handed it to Aunt Zippy. “Thanks,” she said and vanished again. When my aunt and my mother came back into the room, my mother was wearing a small purple velvet pouch on a ribbon around her neck. I watched her tuck it beneath the collar of her red polka dot dress. “Oh, I need to go to the toilet,” she said. She turned and went back behind the black rose door. Aunt Zippy sat down beside me. She put her feet up on Morris as if he was a footstool. “First, I want to give you my phone number. Call me any time,” she said. She handed me a white card with a number in gothic lettering. “Second, I want to tell you something. Your true love will have blue-green eyes.” I was puzzled. Morty Rothman’s eyes were a flat brown like a Hershey bar. “But, but...” I started to object. “No buts about it,’ Aunt Zippy cut in. “Now, promise me you’ll remember what J told you.” “T promise,” I said. My father didn’t say anything to me about me telling my mother. For the next few days no one said much of anything around our house. Wednesday afternoon Morty Rothman sat down next to me on the bus riding home from our high school. “How’s about we go to our spot today?” he asked. “I have a surprise for you. I know you'll like it.” I was feeling sad and maybe the surprise would cheer me up. He was unusually chivalrous walking through the swamp. He carried my book bag, something he never did before. When we got there, he even took off his Levi jacket and spread it out for me to sit on. Then he pulled something out of the back pocket of his pants, a red rubbery thing that he stuck on the middle finger of his hand. It had a lot of little spines all over it like a caterpillar. The top was cut off and the tip of Morty’s finger poked through. “This is a French tickler,” he said. “I put it on my thing and then I put my thing inside you. You'll love it.” He wiggled the tickler finger at me. It looked disgusting. “Tf you let me do it, it will mean we are going steady.” I noticed for the first time how small and squinty his eyes were, like the eyes of 394

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  We argued for hours: I couldn’t convince him any more than he could persuade me; he tried his best to get me to stay two years at any rate and then go with full pockets: “you can easily spare two years”, he cried, but I retorted, “not even two days: I’m frightened of myself.” When he found that I wanted the money to go round the world with first, he saw a chance of delay and said I must give him some time to find out what was coming to me; I told him I trusted him utterly (as indeed I did) and could only give him the Saturday and Sunday, for I’d go on the Monday at the latest. He gave in at last and was very kind. I got a dress and little hat for Lily and lots of books beside a chinchilla cape for Rose and broke the news to Lily next morning, keeping the afternoon for Rose. To my astonishment I had most trouble with Lily: she would not hear any reason: “There is no reason in it”, she cried again and again, and then she broke down in a storm of tears: “What will become of me?” she sobbed, “I always hoped you’d marry me!” she confessed at last, “and now you go away for nothing, nothing—on a wild-goose chase—to study”, she added in a tone of absolute disdain, “just as if you couldn’t study here!” “I’m too young to marry, Lily,” I said, “and—” “You were not too young to make me love you”, she broke in, “and now what shall I do? Even Mamma said that we ought to be engaged and I want you so,—oh! oh!” and again the tears fell in a shower. I could not help saying at last that I would think it all over and let her know and away I went to Rose. Rose heard me out in complete silence and then with her eyes on mine in lingering affection, she said: “Do you know, I’ve been afraid often of some decision like this. I said to myself a dozen times, ‘why should he stay here? the wider world calls him’ and if I feel inclined to hate my work because it prevents my studying, what must it be for him in that horrible court, fighting day after day? I always knew I should lose you, dear!” she added, “but you were the first to help me to think and read, so I must not complain. Do you go soon?”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  For that Christmas none save Mary might know of the bitterness that was in Stephen’s heart, least of all the impulsive, erratic Wanda. Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon her eyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as she told of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bells that were always chiming—the Mass bells beginning at early dawn, the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells—always calling, calling they were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecution and strife, of wars and the endless rumours of wars that had ravaged her most unhappy country, her people had clung to their ancient faith like true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. She herself had three brothers, and all of them priests; her parents had been very pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead for some years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, having regard for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain the meaning of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, finding that words are not always easy when they must encompass the things of the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; and then, too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy, even when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Paris she omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, for Wanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men of stone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda, uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight and narrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm. ‘I was not as they were, ah, no!’ she declared, ‘Nor was I as my father and mother; I was—I was . . .’She stopped speaking abruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which said quite plainly: ‘You know what I was, you understand.’ And Stephen nodded, divining the reason of Wanda’s exile. But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end to this dissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which Stephen had given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared out the latest foxtrot, and jumping up Barbara and Jamie started dancing, while Stephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables, rolled back rugs and explained to the barking David that he could not join in, but might, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from the divan. Then Wanda slipped an arm around Mary and they glided off, an incongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any priest, the other in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary lay gently against Wanda’s arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very perfect dancer—lighting a cigarette, she watched them.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  It got worse soon after. The sex was still there, but now it was... sad. The one thing the fiesh and blood Jasmine wasn’t was sad. The best way to get rid of her, in fact, was to get depressed: she’d vanish like pot smoke to find someone more cheerful. Pve always had a hard time putting on a happy face, the one reason why Jasmine and I never stayed together for too long. Now, though, it looked like she was stuck in my dark little bungalow. Trapped. And it was making her sad. It wasn’t something she was used to, getting sad, and it was hitting her hard. I heard her cry one day. I was hard at work on something for a porno mag specializing in dirty buttholes “and the guys who love to lick them” when I heard this weird sound. A sort of choking, wet sound. I hadn’t heard it before. I found her next to my bed, curled into a partially invisible fetal position. Jasmine was crying. It was that heaving, nauseous kind of crying, the kind you do when your cat gets run over, when you know you’ve taken way too much of the wrong kind of shit, when you’re lost and know you can never find your way back. I’m not a very altruistic kinda guy. I don’t really know whee it comes from, or doesn’t: I just really don’t give a flying fuck for a lot of folks. Yeah, ll take Steve to the hospital when his T cells are low, or hold Rosie when she thinks too much of Bolo, but I don’t really see those things are being good. Good is, like, helping fucking orphans or something, or giving change to the smelly crackhead who hangs out, or passes out, at the Laundromat. I don’t have that kind of temperament. I really didn’t care that much about Jasmine. Yeah I’d bail her out when she got busted for forgetting her purse and eating up a storm at some diner. Yeah, I’d give her whatever I had in my checking account when she really needed it. Yeah, I’d always let her in, no matter what was going on in my life. But she was just a pal, and a really good lay. I honestly didn’t think of her in any other terms. But then she was dead, and crying in my bedroom. I could guess the cause. Bolo was a dyke who always knew where she was going and how exactly to get there. She was an iron-plated mean mother who knew what the score was — despite her profound depressions and mood swings. Jasmine was flowers and pot and The Tinkling of Tiny Silver Bells 277 the Beatles. She could get lost walking from the bathroom into the bedroom. It wasn’t all that hard, once I made the decision to do it. One phone call, to Rosie. Then into the bathroom.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “‘Nothing of the sort, he lay there, jiggling like’, (“I guessed what she meant”, said Quain, “the poor devil in a blue funk was frigging himself to get a cock-stand.”) ‘I thought for some time’, Mrs. Carlyle went on, ‘one moment I wanted to kiss and caress him; the next moment I felt indignant. Suddenly it occurred to me that in all my hopes and imaginings of a first night, I had never got near the reality: silent, the man lay there jiggling, jiggling. Suddenly I burst out laughing: it was all too wretched! too absurd!’ “‘At once he got out of bed with the one scornful word ‘Woman!’ and went into the next room: he never came back to my bed. “‘Yet he’s one of the best and noblest men in the world and if he had been more expansive and told me oftener that he loved me, I could easily have forgiven him any bodily weakness; silence is love’s worst enemy and after all he never really made me jealous save for a short time with Lady Ashburnham. I suppose I’ve been as happy with him as I could have been with anyone yet—’ “That’s my story”, said Quain in conclusion, “and I make you a present of it: even in the Elysian Fields I shall be content to be in the Carlyles’ company. They were a great pair!” Just one scene more. When I told Carlyle how I had made some twenty-five hundred pounds in the year and told him besides how a banker offered me almost the certainty of a great fortune if I would buy with him a certain coal-wharf at Tunbridge Wells (it was Hamilton’s pet scheme), he was greatly astonished. “I want to know”, I went on, “if you think I’ll be able to do good work in literature; if so I’ll do my best. Otherwise I ought to make money and not waste time in making myself another second-rate writer.” “No one can tell you that”, said Carlyle slowly, “You’ll be lucky if you reach the knowledge of it yourself before ye die! I thought my Frederic was great work; yet the other day you said I had buried him under the dozen volumes and you may be right; but have I ever done anything that will live?—” “Sure”, I broke in, heartsore at my gibe, “Sure, your French Revolution must live and the “Heroes and Hero Worship”, and “Latter Day Pamphlets” and, and—” “Enough”, he cried, “You’re sure?” “Quite, quite sure”, I repeated. Then he said, “You can be equally sure of your own place; for we can all reach the heights we are able to oversee.” [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ AFTERWORD TO THE FIRST VOLUME OF MY LIFE’S STORY. -------------- I had hardly written “Finis” at the end of this book when the faults in it, faults both of omission and commission, rose in swarms and robbed me of my joy in the work.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And on arriving, poorly dressed, in London, they began to go round begging for alms, in the manner of the French vagrants that we see here in Italy. And it was when they were begging outside a church one morning, that a great lady, the wife of one of the King of England’s marshals, happened to catch sight of the Count and his two children as she was coming away from her devotions. On asking where he came from and whether the two children were his, he replied that he was from Picardy and that he was indeed their father. But he had been compelled to leave home with the children and lead a vagabond existence because of a crime that an elder son of his had committed. The lady, who was of a kindly nature, ran her eyes over the girl and took a great liking to her, for she was a pretty little thing and had an air of gentility about her. ‘Good sir,’ said the lady. ‘If you would like to leave this little girl with me, I will gladly look after her, for she is a pretty-looking child. And if she turns out as well as she promises, when the time comes I shall arrange a good marriage for her.’ This request greatly pleased the Count, who promptly gave his consent, and with tears in his eyes he handed over his daughter, warmly commending her to the lady’s care. He was well aware of the lady’s identity, and now that he had found a good home for the child, he decided not to remain there any longer. And so, begging as he went, he made his way with Perrot to the other side of the island, finding the journey very tiring as he was unused to travelling on foot. Eventually he arrived in Wales, where there was another of the King’s marshals, a man who lived in great style and kept a large number of servants, and to this man’s castle the Count, either by himself or with his son, would frequently go in order to obtain something to eat. There were several children at the castle, of whom some belonged to the Marshal himself and others were the sons of the local gentry, and whilst they were competing with each other in children’s sports, like running and jumping, Perrot began to mix with them, performing equally as well or better than any of the others in every game they played. His prowess attracted the attention of the Marshal, who, taking a great liking to the child’s manner and general behaviour, demanded to know who he was. On being told that he was the son of a pauper who sometimes came into the castle begging for alms, the Marshal sent someone to ask whether he could keep him; and although it distressed him to part with the child, the Count, who was praying that such a thing might happen, willingly handed him over.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Had Emilia's story been much longer protracted, it is like the compassion had by the young ladies on the misfortunes of Madam Beritola would have brought them to tears; but, an end being now made thereof, it pleased the queen that Pamfilo should follow on with his story, and accordingly he, who was very obedient, began thus, "Uneath, charming ladies, is it for us to know that which is meet for us, for that, as may oftentimes have been seen, many, imagining that, were they but rich, they might avail to live without care and secure, have not only with prayers sought riches of God, but have diligently studied to acquire them, grudging no toil and no peril in the quest, and who,--whereas, before they became enriched, they loved their lives,--once having gotten their desire, have found folk to slay them, for greed of so ample an inheritance. Others of low estate, having, through a thousand perilous battles and the blood of their brethren and their friends, mounted to the summit of kingdoms, thinking in the royal estate to enjoy supreme felicity, without the innumerable cares and alarms whereof they see and feel it full, have learned, at the cost of their lives, that poison is drunken at royal tables in cups of gold. Many there be who have with most ardent appetite desired bodily strength and beauty and divers personal adornments and perceived not that they had desired ill till they found these very gifts a cause to them of death or dolorous life. In fine, not to speak particularly of all the objects of human desire, I dare say that there is not one which can, with entire assurance, be chosen by mortal men as secure from the vicissitudes of fortune; wherefore, an we would do aright, needs must we resign ourselves to take and possess that which is appointed us of Him who alone knoweth that which behoveth unto us and is able to give it to us. But for that, whereas men sin in desiring various things, you, gracious ladies, sin, above all, in one, to wit, in wishing to be fair,--insomuch that, not content with the charms vouchsafed you by nature, you still with marvellous art study to augment them,--it pleaseth me to recount to you how ill-fortunedly fair was a Saracen lady, whom it befell, for her beauty, to be in some four years' space nine times wedded anew.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I heard my mother and brother talking downstairs. I got up and found my mother in the kitchen washing dishes; my brother was watching the TV in the living room. When I told her what I saw in the basement, she staggered to the kitchen table and fell into one of the chairs still holding the soapy sponge in her hand. She sat quiet for a long time. Her face was pale. I thought maybe I didn’t do the right thing but then she told me she loved me very much. She said I should go and watch The Gong Show with my brother. That evening, my father didn’t come home for supper. In the middle of the night terrible yelling woke me up. My mother and father were having a big fight. I put my thumbs in my ears and my pillow over my head but I could still hear them. This next morning when I woke up my mother told me we were going on an adventure, a visit to my Aunt Zippy in the Bronx. She sent my brother to spend the day at his friend Bruce’s house. When we got on the train at Utica Avenue, my mother started to tell me about Aunt Zippy. I only knew her from weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. She was an old lady who wore velvet dresses and funny hats on special occasions. Even though she was bent over and had wrinkles on her face the men buzzed around her. She danced every dance. My mother told me that Aunt Zippy’s full name was Zipporah. She was a witch, a real witch with potions and spells. She’d studied with the most famous witch in Lithuania, Hepzibah the Hebrew. Aunt Zippy came to America long, long ago before people were riding around in cars. On the day she arrived in New York she was standing on a street corner trying to hail a livery carriage. She had the address of a Witches Association in Rego Park, Queens. A distinguished gentleman in an elegant carriage pulled by two snow white horses drove up and offered to take her anywhere she would like to go. It was Diamond Jim Brady. He was captivated by her ravishing looks and brilliant wit and helped her set up shop in the top floor of the Woolworth building. She was quickly successful, drawing her customers from the cream of New York society. The Great Houdini came to drink champagne with her after his magical feats. Boss ‘Tweed, with whom she had a passionate affair, was among her many admirers. Powerful men among her acquaintances helped her make some good investments in real estate. The Witch of Jerome Avenue 391

• From Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence (2014)

  118 As he gazes at Krishna, Arjuna sees that everything—gods, humans, and the natural order—is somehow present in Krishna’s body, and although the battle has not even begun, he sees that the Pandava and Kaurava warriors are already hurtling into the god’s blazing mouth. Krishna/Vishnu has therefore already annihilated both armies, and it makes no difference whether Arjuna fights or not. “Even without you,” Krishna tells him, “all these warriors … will cease to exist.” 119 Many politicians and generals have similarly argued that they are only instruments of destiny when they commit atrocities—though few have emptied themselves of egotism and become “free from attachment, hostile to no creature.” 120 The Bhagavad-Gita has probably been more influential than any other Indian scripture. Yet both the Gita and the Mahabharata remind us that there are no easy answers to the problems of war and peace. True, Indian mythology and ritual often glorified greed and warfare but it also helped people to confront tragedy and even devised ways of extirpating aggression from the psyche, pioneering ways for people to live together without any violence at all. We are flawed creatures with violent hearts that long for peace. At the same time as the Gita was being composed, the people of China were coming to a similar conclusion. a Asura is the Sanskrit version of the Avestan ahura (“lord”). b Nibbana is the equivalent of the Sanskrit nirvana in the Pali dialect that may have been spoken by the Buddha. Its literal meaning is “blowing out.” 13 Global Jihad I n the early 1980s a steady stream of young men from the Arab world made their way to northwestern Pakistan, near the Afghan border, to join the jihad against the Soviet Union. The charismatic Jordanian-Palestinian scholar Abdullah Azzam had summoned Muslims to fight alongside their Afghan brothers. 1 Like the “fighting scholars” who flocked to the frontiers during the classical period, Azzam was convinced that repelling the Soviet occupation was a duty for every able-bodied Muslim. “I believe that the Muslim ummah is responsible for the honor of every Muslim woman that is being violated in Afghanistan and is responsible for every drop of Muslim blood that is being shed unjustly,” he declared. 2 Azzam’s sermons and lectures electrified a generation distressed by the suffering of their fellow Muslims, frustrated by an inability to help, and youthfully eager to do something about it. By 1984 recruits were arriving in ever-larger numbers from Saudi Arabia, the Gulf States, Yemen, Egypt, Algeria, Sudan, Indonesia, the Philippines, Malaysia, and Iraq. 3 One of these volunteers was the scion of a great family fortune, Osama bin Laden, who became the main sponsor for the Services Bureau established in Peshawar to support his comrades, organize recruitment and funding, and provide health care, food, and shelter for Afghan orphans and refugees. President Ronald Reagan also spoke of the Afghan campaign as a holy war.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “T don’t think I’ve ever been in such a quiet landscape.” “Good. Then this will be a perfect place to talk.” “Talk about what?” Sheldon pulls in his paddle and lays it across the thwarts. “You,” he says. Dominique knows he’s talking about what he said last night, about healing her. “Oh, Sheldon, that was sweet, but you weren’t serious? You’re going to be my sex therapist?” “No,” he says. “Don’t call it that. A sex therapist works on a particular sexual problem. Sex is just the means to the end.” “What’s the end?” “To get you away from him and give you back to yourself. Don’t you think that’s a worthy goal?” Dominique looks at him as his eyes scan the shore. Last night he’d seen her in all her naked vulnerability. He’d taken her not against her will, but forcibly, taking what he wanted without asking, and it had been the best thing he could have done. His selfish desire had aroused her more than any gentle consideration would have and had thrilled her, so much so that she was surprised at the lack of shame and remorse she felt today. She’d not only enjoyed last night, but she’d had a most intense orgasm, unusual for her, and quite inexplicable. The boat barely seems to move. It’s a strange shape, unusually wide for a craft so short. The generous beam makes it very stable. She trails her fingers in the water. “So what do you want to know?” “About this man, the one who broke your heart. What was his name?” Dominique brings her hand into the boat and rolls over on her back. The prow of the little boat is an elaborate chair with pillows and cushions. Because of the stillness of the lake, they never become wet. .. do we have “Michael,” she says. “Just when I was feeling better . to, Sheldon?” “Hevleft your? The Cavern 29 “Yes. He walked out one night, angry. He came back two days later while I was at work and got his things. I couldn’t afford the place without him. I had to leave.” “And why did he leave?” She loathes to talk about it. She says, “We were always fighting.” He asks, “What about?” Dominique drops her fingers in the still waters again. The smooth movement of the boat leaves barely a ripple. “I don’t know. Everything. What do people fight about? It’s all so stupid. What we have for dinner at night, where we go on the weekend. Things he said, things I said. I hate to remember those awful words. Words can hurt terribly, don’t you think?”

• From Lower than the Angels: A History of Sex and Christianity (2024)

  [86] Equally interesting is Anne’s characteristic iconography, for she is generally shown as teaching her daughter to read, or at least as armed with a book, a motif unknown to the apocryphal Gospels and apparently first attested in the ninth century in a Byzantine source unlikely to have been on the radar of English theologians or artists (see Plate 22). Evidently the pious fifteenth-century Western public regarded it as perfectly natural for a girl to be instructed in basic literacy, enough at least for her to be able to say her prayers. [87] Problem aunts are also a feature of family cliché, and that role was filled for Mary and the Holy Family by a reconstructed Mary Magdalen. The reconstruction had begun quite early for the Latin West by Pope Gregory I, who, in 591, preached an unusually influential sermon that audaciously gathered into a single person three of the spare Marys in the New Testament, all as Mary Magdalen. As a result, she became a sinner from whom seven devils had been cast out, but also penitential in washing Jesus’s feet with her tears and listening to him rapt in her home in Bethany while her sister Martha bustled around with practical tasks, plus in the end becoming ‘Apostle to the Apostles’ as the first witness to the Resurrection. It was a rich mixture that in the next few centuries also annexed to itself the story of that hugely popular Eastern ex-prostitute Mary of Egypt. It also produced two successive and never wholly reconciled sets of relics of Mary Magdalen in eastern France, first at Vézelay, where they became a major prop of the Cluniac pilgrimage industry, and later at Saint-Maximin near Aix-en-Provence, watched over by the Dominicans. [88] The Magdalen was thus readily available to take her place in the construction of the Holy Family, aided by the fascinated speculations of celibate authors who added to her backstory. Jacobus de Voragine’s Golden Legend dismissed the idea that she had embraced her life of excess after being left abandoned on her wedding day, but evidently some readers felt that he was being a spoilsport. England’s early printer William Caxton expanded the story without qualification in his English translation of Voragine’s work, adding for good measure that some laid the finger of blame on no less a figure than John the Evangelist, who had jilted her to go off and become Jesus’s Beloved Disciple. At least she had been a well-born demi-mondaine, and thus a worthy patron of all those Magdalen homes for the prostitutes of Europe’s cities. In any case, it was comforting to know that within Jesus’s inner circle there was a spectacular but beloved sinner who had suitably repented, a model for all those feeling wretched about their own sins and a little wary of Our Lady’s sinlessness. Accordingly, the Magdalen’s iconography varied between showing her in her alluring finery to extreme gaunt misery worthy of the desert years of Mary of Egypt (see Plates 13–15).

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] I met her mother once. She was visiting from the East Coast, and she wanted to meet me. She offered to take us to dinner, chose a steak restaurant. I liked the idea of being brought into the fold, and I dressed up for the evening. Nora’s mother asked about June. She asked about my mother. She couldn’t wait to know them. The next afternoon, we all met up at a playground. Nora’s mother had stopped at a toy store and lavished June with gifts, a brand-new flower-print backpack full of them. She was trying hard, and it touched me. June was reticent, quiet in her excitement. She had no idea who this woman was, and I barely did either. June didn’t want me to talk with the other grown-ups; she wanted me to join her on the playground equipment. Nora hung back with our mothers, made periodic visits to me and June on the swings. I wanted her to stay with us, to join us in our play, swing high like we did. She leaned on the steel supports, hands in her pockets, and stared out at the lake. She walked with our mothers down to the water. I dragged June’s doll and new backpack over the grass toward them, sweating and irritated and sad. None of us knew what to do in this scene. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Recently my mother reminded me about that afternoon. God, remember that? Doesn’t it seem like ages ago? She thought we could laugh together about its awkwardness. Instead I cringed. I had wanted things to work out with Nora, wanted it enough to introduce our parents. But it hadn’t worked—not that afternoon, not really anytime. “The trouble with letting people see you at your worst,” writes Sarah Manguso, “isn’t that they’ll remember; it’s that you’ll remember.”32 [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Brandon and Nora met only once, the morning of Labor Day. She had come over for dinner the night before, and he texted early, while we were still in bed. He wanted to grab a tool from the garage. Nora’s here, I replied, but you can come if you want. She says she’d be happy to meet you. He arrived with June in tow. Surely it couldn’t have happened any other way but this: on short notice, so no one had time to get anxious, and with June around, a healthy distraction. He knocked, and I answered, Nora waiting in the hall. Brandon bounded in, extending his hand. I could see the effort behind his high spirits, and a tender sting rose in the back of my throat. When I walked him and June out to the car, his eyes were wet, unspeakable. 21One Monday, I was at the restaurant, calculating tips for payroll. June was at the dance studio next door, taking her first pre-ballet class. Brandon was in the kitchen, doing prep for the next day. It was late September.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  The shows went on like that for weeks, and then abruptly they ceased, all at once. No warning, no explanation. A half-dozen evenings in a row we congregated beneath the window with our snacks and banter, our hopes and shortcomings, but nothing happened up above. The window stayed dark. Maybe she was sick, we speculated. Or maybe she’d moved away. Maybe the man in her life — surely she had a man — had learned of what she was doing and put a stop to it. Maybe the police had gotten wind of the burlesque shows and shut them down. As with so many facets of the world’s business, we just didn’t know. I recalled that in her last performance, the girl had stripped down absolutely to the buff, the only time I’d seen her do so. A lot of impressed fingers dropped a lot of food that evening. Had the nudity been her way of saying not just goodnight but goodbye? Had it been the glorious capstone to what she meant as her farewell performance? Well, as I say, we didn’t know. Didn’t know her name or anything about her, other than she was easy to look at and wasn’t opposed to stripping in a public window — or up till now she hadn’t been. The scant knowledge I had of her left me feeling somewhat guilty, though I couldn’t have explained why. I told Hal that he and I should get together sometime under different circumstances — go bowling or fishing or maybe just sip a few cold ones — but I doubted we ever would. And, as it happened, we never did. The other guys I’d hung out with all seemed to vanish as well, and on the rare occasions when I bumped into one, we found we had little to say to each other. After a while, my trips to the Superfresh shrank away to what they’d been before the advent of the girl. I went there only when I needed groceries. If I thought about it, ’d glance up at the window, which nowadays was always dark, but mostly I didn’t. I felt sad that a special epoch in my life had ended, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the moon or the stars or all the antiques in the world. Speaking of antiques, I recall with singular clarity the last time I saw my boss, Mr Pickering. Or, to put it more accurately, I recall the last time he put his bulging eyes on me. The quality of my relationship with the boss tended to parallel the quality of my stripping, and, by mid-summer, both were in breathtaking decline — the sort of decline you get when you drive Strippers 359 a car headlong off a cliff. On this particular afternoon he’d turned a table made of tiger maple upside down — he was a great one for turning things upside down — and was registering dismay at my handicraft.

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  Suffering is a law of life, and it is essential during this step to acknowledge our own pain or we shall find it impossible to have compassion for the distress of others. In Buddhism, compassion ( karuna ) is defined as a determination to liberate others from their grief, something that is impossible if we do not admit to our own unhappiness and misery. Today in the West we are often encouraged to think positively, brace up, stiffen our upper lip, and look determinedly on the bright side of life. It is, of course, important to encourage the positive, but it is also crucial sometimes to allow ourselves to mourn. The ancient Greeks had no problem with shedding tears; they believed that weeping together created a bond between human beings. In Shakespeare’s day it was considered quite normal for men to weep. Not anymore. Today there is often a degree of heartlessness in our determined good cheer, because if we simply tell people to be “positive” when they speak to us of their sorrow, we may leave them feeling misunderstood and isolated in their distress. Somebody once told me that when she had cancer, the hardest thing of all was her friends’ relentless insistence that she adopt a positive attitude; they refused to let her discuss her fears—probably because they were frightened by her disease and found it an uncomfortable reminder of their own mortality. When we contemplate the suffering we see on a global scale, we may be embarrassed by the triviality of our own. But it is real to us nonetheless. During this step, make a conscious effort to look back on the events that have caused you distress in the past: the death of a beloved person; moments of loneliness and abject fear; rejections, betrayals, and failures; the unkind remark that hurt you. Make a deliberate effort to inhabit those moments fully and send a message of encouragement and sympathy to your former self. The object of this exercise is not to leave you wallowing in self-pity. The vivid memory of painful times past is a reservoir on which you can draw when you try to live according to the Golden Rule. By remembering your own sorrow vividly, you will make it possible for yourself to feel empathy with others. It is often tempting to envy those who lead apparently charmed lives. But even the most fortunate people will face death, sickness, and the possibility of a debilitating and humiliating old age. We know that nothing lasts; everything is impermanent, even our most intense moments of joy. That is why the Buddhists insist that existence is suffering ( dukkha ). A better translation would be “existence is awry.” There is something wrong, incomplete, or unsatisfactory in almost any situation. If I get a wonderful job, the other candidates are disappointed. The beautiful shirt I have just bought may have been made in a sweatshop with appalling conditions for workers.

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  When we contemplate the suffering we see on a global scale, we may be embarrassed by the triviality of our own. But it is real to us nonetheless. During this step, make a conscious effort to look back on the events that have caused you distress in the past: the death of a beloved person; moments of loneliness and abject fear; rejections, betrayals, and failures; the unkind remark that hurt you. Make a deliberate effort to inhabit those moments fully and send a message of encouragement and sympathy to your former self. The object of this exercise is not to leave you wallowing in self-pity. The vivid memory of painful times past is a reservoir on which you can draw when you try to live according to the Golden Rule. By remembering your own sorrow vividly, you will make it possible for yourself to feel empathy with others. It is often tempting to envy those who lead apparently charmed lives. But even the most fortunate people will face death, sickness, and the possibility of a debilitating and humiliating old age. We know that nothing lasts; everything is impermanent, even our most intense moments of joy. That is why the Buddhists insist that existence is suffering (dukkha). A better translation would be “existence is awry.” There is something wrong, incomplete, or unsatisfactory in almost any situation. If I get a wonderful job, the other candidates are disappointed. The beautiful shirt I have just bought may have been made in a sweatshop with appalling conditions for workers. In the course of a single day, we can be momentarily cast down by myriad tiny disappointments, rejections, frustrations, and failures. We are subject to minor physical distress, anxiety about our health, and fatigue. “Pain, grief and despair are dukkha,” the Buddha explained. “Being forced into proximity with what we hate is suffering; being separated from what we love is suffering, not getting what we want is suffering.” 7 Making ourselves aware of these small discomforts and the reality of our own dukkha is an essential step toward enlightenment and compassion. We are so often the cause of our own misery. We pursue things and people even though we know in our heart of hearts that they cannot make us happy. We imagine that all our problems will be solved if we get a particular job or achieve a certain success—only to find that the things we desired so intensely are not so wonderful after all. The moment we acquire something, we start to worry about losing it. Much of our suffering comes from a thwarted sense of self. When we wake in the early hours of the morning, we toss and turn, asking: Why does nobody appreciate me?