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 Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  He was not only a model of good behavior—he was a saint. He had a passion for the flute which he played all by himself in his miserable little room. One day he was found naked, his throat slit from ear to ear, and beside him on the bed was his flute. At the funeral there were a dozen women who wept passionate tears, including the wife of the janitor who had murdered him. I could write a book about this young man who was the gentlest and the holiest man I ever met, who had never offended anybody and never taken anything from anybody, but who had made the cardinal mistake of coming to America to spread peace and love. There was Dave Olinski, another faithful, industrious messenger who thought of nothing but work. He had one fatal weakness—he talked too much. When he came to me he had already been around the globe several times and what he hadn’t done to make a living isn’t worth telling about. He knew about twelve languages and he was rather proud of his linguistic ability. He was one of those men whose very willingness and enthusiasm is their undoing. He wanted to help everybody along, show everybody how to succeed. He wanted more work than we could give him—he was a glutton for work. Perhaps I should have warned him, when I sent him to his office on the East Side, that he was going to work in a tough neighborhood, but he pretended to know so much and he was so insistent on working in that locality (because of his linguistic ability) that I said nothing. I thought to myself—you’ll find out quickly enough for yourself. And sure enough, he was only there a short time when he got into trouble. A tough Jewboy from the neighborhood walked in one day and asked for a blank. Dave, the messenger, was behind the desk. He didn’t like the way the man asked for the blank. He told him he ought to be more polite. For that he got a box in the ears. That made him wag his tongue some more, whereupon he got such a wallop that his teeth flew down his throat and his jawbone was broken in three places. Still he didn’t know enough to hold his trap. Like the damned fool that he was he goes to the police station and registers a complaint. A week later, while he’s sitting on a bench snoozing, a gang of roughnecks break into the place and beat him to a pulp. His head was so battered that his brains looked like an omelette. For good measure they emptied the safe and turned it upside down. Dave died on the way to the hospital. They found five hundred dollars hidden away in the toe of his sock. . . .

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  He threatened to come and get Magdalen, but Jarold said he’d kill him if he did. — Magdalen found a small apartment in town. She got a job at a flower shop. Virginia took care of Griffin during the day while Magdalen was at work. Griffin was a shy, pensive child who talked in bursts. He was precise, analytical and watchful. He made Virginia feel protective and sad. She tried hard to keep her sadness from showing. After a few months the florist let Magdalen take the flowers home so she could be with Griffin. On weekends Magdalen and Virginia went shopping for clothes or groceries. They were quiet and easy with each other. Magdalen lent Virginia books to read, and they talked about them. Virginia was surprised at how nice it was to be in Magdalen’s apartment. She liked to go there in the mornings with cherry-cheese pastry or fruit. Magdalen would be in the large, bare main room, sitting in her cotton robe on a floor pillow. The sun would come in through a big, curtainless window. There were white plastic buckets of roses, tulips, irises, freesia, dyed carnations, birds of paradise and wild magenta daisies. There were bunches of flowers on the floor on wet, unrolled newspaper. Stripped rose thorns lay on the paper like lost baby teeth. Magdalen’s movements were nimble and quick. Her face was serene and beautiful. She seemed completely content. Virginia felt as though she were a total stranger. — Virginia and Jarold became very quiet together. They still watched late-night movies, but they rarely sat cuddled together. Jarold got tired early and went upstairs to bed. He was always asleep when Virginia came up. Sometimes she thought Jarold looked obtuse and stupid. At breakfast, when he bent over the paper, he frowned so hard that his mouth pulled his entire face downward and he looked like a shark. His eyes were disapproving. His nose became blunt as a snout. She knew that he thought his children were failures. — Camille found a wonderful apartment. She began dating a man whom she liked a lot. She came to New Jersey often. She usually stayed with Magdalen. Virginia would take them all for a drive in the mountains. They ate ice cream and made family jokes. The girls would lie all over the back seat and giggle, Camille’s hand on Magdalen’s thigh, one tilting her head against the other’s shoulder. — It was early morning when they found out about Charles. Jarold had just gotten into the shower. The clock radio, wavering between two stations, interlaced the weather report with a song about dumping your girlfriend. Virginia felt her forehead wrinkling as she tried to ignore the noise. She burrowed her head into the pillow and listened to the warm, dull whish of the shower.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Joey didn’t eat, and by now Daisy knew why. He drank and watched her eat her hamburger with measured bites. “I still can’t understand why she married that repulsive pig. I ask her and she says ‘because he makes me feel stable and secure.’ ” “He doesn’t sound stable to me.” “I guess he was, compared to my father. But then Dad was usually too drunk to make it down the stairs without falling, let alone hold a job. I mean, you’re talking about a guy who died in the nut ward singing ‘Joey, Foey, Bo-Poey, Bananarama Oh-Boey.’ Any asshole is stable compared to that. But Tom? At least my father had style. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in those ugly Dacron things Tom wears.” Daisy leaned into the corner of the booth and looked at him solemnly. “When she first told me over the phone that she was getting married to Uncle Tom, I was happy. At least I’d get to come home instead of staying with my Christian Scientist relatives who made me wear those retarded plaid pants to school.” “She never should have sent you away like that,” said Daisy. She sat up and pulled her drink closer, latching on to the straw with a jerking motion of her lip. “She thought it was the right thing to do after my father died. Only she never knew how much my relatives hated me.” “I don’t know how she could’ve thought it was the right thing to let him throw you out of the house when you were sixteen.” “He didn’t throw me out. I just knew the constant fighting over whether or not I was a faggot was hurting my mother. I realized that I was more of an adult than they were and that it was up to me to change the situation.” Daisy leaned back with both hands on her glass as she sucked the straw, her cheeks palpitating gently. There were dainty gurgle noises coming from the bottom of her glass as she slurped the last of her drink. He smiled and took her hand. She squeezed his fingers. He gulped his alcohol, his pulse beating wildly to and fro. He hadn’t really been thrown out of the house when he was sixteen. He had been eighteen when Tom went berserk at the sight of his anti- Vietnam poster and broke his nose. Daisy put her glass on the table with a slurred movement. She leaned against him. He cradled her head and ordered more drinks. “They couldn’t believe it when I got that scholarship to Bennington. I didn’t even tell them I applied. They already felt inferior to me.” “Did you drop out of college to get back at your mother?” Her voice was blurry from his shoulder. “I dropped out because I couldn’t stand the people.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She’d known it when she’d turned her car off the highway and headed for the lake. She’d known it when she passed the “For Sale” sign at the end of wooded drive. She’d known it when she got out of the car and smelled the early autumn air, with its melancholy reminder that the seasons changed, that time moved on. That the past was lost. She’d known it when she twisted the key in the lock and opened the front door. The realtor hadn’t bothered with a lock box. The open house tomorrow would bring a slew of interested buyers, and there would be a bidding war for the vacation home. Bella had simply wanted to see the place one more time. No, not simply. There was nothing simple about divorce. She and Ethan had agreed to sell the cabin prior to the final paperwork and split the money. Neither of them wanted the other to have it. As far as Bella knew, Ethan didn’t want the place anyway. God knew she didn’t. Too many memories. Too many reminders of how happiness could drift away like autumn leaves falling from their trees, to be trampled underfoot and turned to dust. Inside, late afternoon light slanted off the lake and through the wall of windows and glass doors that led out onto the porch, filling the room with a warm glow and turning the wood to a gleaming deep honey. This had always been her favorite time of day here. She loved the play of the sunbeams on the water as the sun sank. She could sit on an Adirondack chair on the porch for hours, sipping a tart chardonnay, listening to the outboard motor hum of boats on the water and the occasional shout of an enthusiastic skier. Other than that, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the chatter of a squirrel or call of a bird was all that broke the peaceful silence. If the sliding glass door was open, she might also have heard Ethan banging pots and dishes in the kitchen as he made dinner. They tended to make simple meals when they came out here for the weekend: pasta aglio e olio with a salad of tomato and freshly shaved Parmesan. Omelets stuffed with feta and basil and garlic. Grilled chicken, the occasional steak. Fruit and cheese for dessert. Bella shook her head, trying to dislodge the remembrances. She shouldn’t have come. And yet she stepped inside, shut the door behind her. The cabin wasn’t tiny, but it was a comfortable size for a weekend getaway. The open plan meant that the view from the door was straight out the back to the lake. In the living room, simple Mission-style furniture gathered around a stone fireplace. Over the mantle was a painting of a proud buck (they had joked about hanging a deer’s head, but neither of them had really meant it), and boldly striped Indian-woven blankets were draped over the sofa and chairs.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  From that point on we lived in the garage. It was a warehouse, basically, and not the fancy, romantic sort of warehouse hipsters might one day turn into lofts. No, no. It was a cold, empty space. Gray concrete floors stained with oil and grease, old junk cars and car parts everywhere. Near the front, next to the roller door that opened onto the street, there was a tiny office built out of drywall for doing paperwork and such. In the back was a kitchenette, just a sink, a portable hot plate, and some cabinets. To bathe, there was only an open wash basin, like a janitor’s sink, with a showerhead rigged up above. Abel and my mom slept with Andrew in the office on a thin mattress they’d roll out on the floor. I slept in the cars. I got really good at sleeping in cars. I know all the best cars to sleep in. The worst were the cheap ones, Volkswagens, low-end Japanese sedans. The seats barely reclined, no headrests, cheap fake-leather upholstery. I’d spend half the night trying not to slide off the seat. I’d wake up with sore knees because I couldn’t stretch out and extend my legs. German cars were wonderful, especially Mercedes. Big, plush leather seats, like couches. They were cold when you first climbed in, but they were well insulated and warmed up nicely. All I needed was my school blazer to curl up under, and I could get really cozy inside a Mercedes. But the best, hands-down, were American cars. I used to pray for a customer to come in with a big Buick with bench seats. If I saw one of those, I’d be like, Yes! It was rare for American cars to come in, but when they did, boy, was I in heaven. Since Mighty Mechanics was now a family business, and I was family, I also had to work. There was no more time for play. There wasn’t even time for homework. I’d walk home, the school uniform would come off, the overalls would go on, and I’d get under the hood of some sedan. I got to a point where I could do a basic service on a car by myself, and often I did. Abel would say, “That Honda. Minor service.” And I’d get under the hood. Day in and day out. Points, plugs, condensers, oil filters, air filters. Install new seats, change tires, swap headlights, fix taillights. Go to the parts shop, buy the parts, back to the workshop. Eleven years old, and that was my life. I was falling behind in school. I wasn’t getting anything done. My teachers used to come down on me. “Why aren’t you doing your homework?” “I can’t do my homework. I have work, at home.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Setting the bags on the kitchen counter, she glanced at the blinking light on the answering machine and pressed Play. “Kim, it’s Maria. I’ve been meaning to call you. Drake told me about Terry, and I’m so sorry—we both are. Keep in touch, and if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.” She paused. Kim could picture Maria’s blue eyes shining with sincerity, delicate features emanating concern. “As you may know, Drake’s not altogether certain about his job either at this point. Anyway, feel free to give me a call, Kim. Take care.” Kim sighed. She remembered the first time she’d met Maria, the wife of her husband’s colleague—former colleague now—Drake, several years ago at the company’s annual gala. “Oh my god—your husband looks exactly like Denzel Washington!” had been one of the first things Maria had ever said to her, after their husbands were whisked away for an informal conference immediately following their introduction. She’d giggled, hiccupping a bit as she turned wide eyes back to Kim. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that.” Kim had laughed. She’d liked Maria immediately, charmed by the bubbling spunk that seemed somewhat spurred by the glasses of white wine that occupied the petite woman’s hand most of the evening. She knew what Maria meant, of course, was that she hoped Kim didn’t mind that she had just spent the last several seconds ogling her husband. Kim didn’t mind, and she’d given Maria a wink as she answered, “I know.” Writing herself a note to call Maria, Kim stuck the Post-it near the phone and turned to unload the bags on the counter. It was Tuesday. The news had come a week ago the previous Friday, when Terry had gone to work as usual with no wisp of an idea that he would return home a few hours later without a job. The layoff was a surprise to individual employees, but it was not surprising in the face of the current economy. Kim hadn’t panicked—it wasn’t her style—but the effect it had on Terry was dramatic. She suspected it was more than concern about their financial well-being. Losing the job he had worked so hard at to make his way to second-tier management hurt something inside him. Something he had taken for granted, that external circumstances had allowed to be latent. If Kim was right, though, it wasn’t about anything external. She felt her stomach tighten as she put away the groceries. The financial implications, of course, would soon make themselves known. They would be okay for this month, and probably the next. After that was uncertain.

• From Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  Imagine, then, how they react when I tell them that this lack of awareness is the result of disinformation campaigns, not just by cults but by the very institutions that are supposed to protect our constitutional freedoms. Cults And The United States Government Public reaction to the Jonestown massacre on November 18, 1978, was shock and disbelief. The murder of a United States congressman showed that some cult leaders would stop at nothing to keep anyone, especially someone in a legitimate position of authority, from exposing them to public scrutiny. I was deeply saddened by news of the assassination of congressman Leo Ryan. I knew that he was highly knowledgeable and concerned about destructive cults. He had been a leading member of the Congressional investigation of Korean-American Relations headed by congressman Donald Fraser. Released on October 31, 1978—just a few short weeks before the mass suicide at Jonestown—the Fraser Report, as it came to be known, recommended that an Executive branch inter-agency task force be set up to pursue illegal activities committed by the Moon organization.196 No action was taken on that recommendation. (Moon was convicted four years later of felony tax fraud, and served thirteen months in a minimum security prison in Danbury, Connecticut). It seemed that something was being done about the cult problem, given all the activity on Capitol Hill, in the late 1970s. After Jonestown, Congress launched a formal inquiry. On May 15, 1979, a House Foreign Affairs Committee issued its report, describing in detail the brainwashing tactics of Jim Jones and the Peoples Temple. They concluded by recommending that the National Institute of Mental Health be given funds to further research on mind control and destructive cult groups. Nothing was ever done to follow up on that recommendation, either. However, Senator Bob Dole did put together a hearing on cults after Jonestown at which I was invited to speak. On the morning of the hearing, I was suddenly told that no former cult member would be permitted to speak. We were told that this was to avoid allowing current cult members equal time to speak. Yet in the hearing room—which was filled with ex-members holding up signs saying, “Elect Bob Dole President, Repeal the First Amendment”—we found that Neil Salonen, the spokesperson for the Moonies, had, nonetheless, been allowed to deliver a statement. I was beginning to realize the political clout of the cults. But I came to realize much more. What the Jonestown “inquiry” showed me—and many others—was that in the face of an outrageous and evil act, the best our government could do was to hold a highly-censored hearing—a public show that neither got to the details of what happened nor took steps to see that such terrible events would never happen again.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  My mom would have to fight with the bigger kids to get a handful of meat or a sip of the gravy or even a bone from which to suck out some marrow. And that’s when there was food for dinner at all. When there wasn’t, she’d steal food from the pigs. She’d steal food from the dogs. The farmers would put out scraps for the animals, and she’d jump for it. She was hungry; let the animals fend for themselves. There were times when she literally ate dirt. She would go down to the river, take the clay from the riverbank, and mix it with the water to make a grayish kind of milk. She’d drink that to feel full. But my mother was blessed that her village was one of the places where a mission school had contrived to stay open in spite of the government’s Bantu education policies. There she had a white pastor who taught her English. She didn’t have food or shoes or even a pair of underwear, but she had English. She could read and write. When she was old enough she stopped working on the farm and got a job at a factory in a nearby town. She worked on a sewing machine making school uniforms. Her pay at the end of each day was a plate of food. She used to say it was the best food she’d ever eaten, because it was something she had earned on her own. She wasn’t a burden to anyone and didn’t owe anything to anyone. When my mom turned twenty-one, her aunt fell ill and that family could no longer keep her in Transkei. My mom wrote to my gran, asking her to send the price of a train ticket, about thirty rand, to bring her home. Back in Soweto, my mom enrolled in the secretarial course that allowed her to grab hold of the bottom rung of the white-collar world. She worked and worked and worked but, living under my grandmother’s roof, she wasn’t allowed to keep her own wages. As a secretary, my mom was bringing home more money than anyone else, and my grandmother insisted it all go to the family. The family needed a radio, an oven, a refrigerator, and it was now my mom’s job to provide it. So many black families spend all of their time trying to fix the problems of the past. That is the curse of being black and poor, and it is a curse that follows you from generation to generation. My mother calls it “the black tax.” Because the generations who came before you have been pillaged, rather than being free to use your skills and education to move forward, you lose everything just trying to bring everyone behind you back up to zero.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  “Oh, she had a family obligation.” They stood close, Connie quickly scanning the back of the room while Franklin’s eyes wandered over her head. “Yo, Dave, I’ve gotta talk to you before you leave! Connie, the hooch is over there, there’s some cake and stuff in the kitchen. And don’t disappear! There’s somebody I want to introduce you to.” He squeezed her shoulder and moved away, and she penetrated more deeply into the crowd, heading for the discordant light-reflective arrangement of bottles and tumbling towers of paper cups. As she approached the table and reached for the slim neck of a vodka bottle, a woman turned around and she stood facing Alice. The neat proportions of surprise, warmth and compassion in the resulting declaration—“Connie!”—suggested that Alice had been prepared for this. She made a tentative half move with her upper body that looked like the first stage of a hug; Connie half moved in response and then stopped, so Alice stopped and they paused to look at each other, slowly recovering their distance. Connie wondered if Alice was inspecting her crow’s-feet. “So, how’ve you been?” she asked. “How’s your painting?” “Good! I mean, I’m much more productive than I was when I knew you. I don’t spend half as much time tearing my hair out.” “Do you still have the feelings of resentment you had about Roger’s success?” Alice’s eyes slid sideways toward her with a short burst of expression that was like the gliding movement of a bird; this was a reference to their old discussions about Roger’s commercial success and Alice’s bitter jealousy. “Yes, I do, but I’ve dealt with it. I’m not such a bitch about it. My own productivity has made it easier.” They stood linked by a delicate membrane of remembered intimacy. “I hear your writing is going well.” “Yeah, it is.” Connie listed the year’s accomplishments, becoming for an annoying moment the girl from out of town who was trying to impress imperious Alice. The conversation was not what she had planned; they were talking like acquaintances at a party, perhaps because they were. “The magazine was fun at first,” she finished. “But I’m not so happy there now. I don’t have the influence that I thought I would. And it pays nothing.” “Still, it’s a good spot, right? To make connections?” “Yeah.” They stood looking in slightly different directions as the connective tissue began to dissolve in an anomaly of music and party chatter. Connie glanced sideways at Alice’s face; there were tiny lines and a faint dryness that made her skin look frail, but the bone structure and demeanor still had the imposing, impenetrable look of a fashion model staring down a lifetime of cameras. “How’s your mother?” asked Connie. Again there was the gliding appearance of open expression. “She died a few years ago. Just a little while after I talked to you last.” Another threadlike connection stretched between them, but Connie wasn’t sure what it was.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  Slowly the rush would start to taper off and we’d wind down. We’d make our last collections, go over our CD stock, balance our accounts. If there was a party to DJ that night we’d start getting ready for that. Otherwise, we’d buy a few beers and sit around and drink, talk about the day, listen to the gunshots in the distance. Gunshots went off every night, and we’d always try to guess what kind of gun it was. “That’s a nine-millimeter.” Usually there’d be a police chase, cop cars flying through after some guy with a stolen car. Then everyone would go home for dinner with their families. I’d take my computer, get back in a minibus, ride home, sleep, and then come back and do it all again the next day. — A year passed. Then two. I had stopped planning for school, and was no closer to having the money to enroll. The tricky thing about the hood is that you’re always working, working, working, and you feel like something’s happening, but really nothing’s happening at all. I was out there every day from seven a.m. to seven p.m., and every day it was: How do we turn ten rand into twenty? How do we turn twenty into fifty? How do I turn fifty into a hundred? At the end of the day we’d spend it on food and maybe some beers, and then we’d go home and come back and it was: How do we turn ten into twenty? How do we turn twenty into fifty? It was a whole day’s work to flip that money. You had to be walking, be moving, be thinking. You had to get to a guy, find a guy, meet a guy. There were many days we’d end up back at zero, but I always felt like I’d been very productive. Hustling is to work what surfing the Internet is to reading. If you add up how much you read in a year on the Internet—tweets, Facebook posts, lists—you’ve read the equivalent of a shit ton of books, but in fact you’ve read no books in a year. When I look back on it, that’s what hustling was. It’s maximal effort put into minimal gain. It’s a hamster wheel. If I’d put all that energy into studying I’d have earned an MBA. Instead I was majoring in hustling, something no university would give me a degree for.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  DAMASCENE. (ubi sup.) This also our Lord commands, since He knew His disciples to be imperfect, seeing that they had not yet received the full measure of the Spirit, lest the hearts of others who had not seen should be prostrated by sorrow, and lest the traitor should be stirred up to a frantic hatred. 9:37–4337. And it came to pass, that on the next day, when they were come down from the hill, much people met him. 38. And, behold, a man of the company cried out, saying, Master, I beseech thee, look upon my son: for he is mine only child. 39. And, lo, a spirit taketh him, and he suddenly crieth out; and it teareth him that he foameth again, and bruising him hardly departeth from him. 40. And I besought thy disciples to cast him out; and they could not. 41. And Jesus answering said, O faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you, and suffer you? Bring thy son hither. 42. And as he was yet a coming, the devil threw him down, and tare him. And Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, and healed the child, and delivered him again to his father. 43. And they were all amazed at the mighty power of God. BEDE. Certain places accord with certain events. On the Mount our Lord prays, is transfigured, reveals the secrets of His glory to His disciples; as He descends to the lower parts, He is received by a large concourse. As it is said, And it came to pass, that on the next day, when he was come down from the hill, much people met him. Above He makes known the voice of the Father, below He expels the evil spirits. Hence it follows, And, behold, a man of the company cried out, saying, Master, I beseech thee look upon my son.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 5: Affliction of the flesh affects contemplation accidentally and indirectly, as stated above. Whether sorrow is to be shunned more than pleasure is to be sought?Objection 1: It would seem that sorrow is to be shunned more than pleasure is to be sought. For Augustine says (QQ. 83, qu. 63): “There is nobody that does not shun sorrow more than he seeks pleasure.” Now that which all agree in doing, seems to be natural. Therefore it is natural and right for sorrow to be shunned more than pleasure is sought. Objection 2: Further, the action of a contrary conduces to rapidity and intensity of movement: for “hot water freezes quicker and harder,” as the Philosopher says (Meteor. i, 12). But the shunning of sorrow is due to the contrariety of the cause of sorrow; whereas the desire for pleasure does not arise from any contrariety, but rather from the suitableness of the pleasant object. Therefore sorrow is shunned more eagerly than pleasure is sought. Objection 3: Further, the stronger the passion which a man resists according to reason, the more worthy is he of praise, and the more virtuous: since “virtue is concerned with the difficult and the good” (Ethic. ii, 3). But the brave man who resists the movement of shunning sorrow, is more virtuous than the temperate man, who resists the movement of desire for pleasure: since the Philosopher says (Rhet. ii, 4) that “the brave and the just are chiefly praised.” Therefore the movement of shunning sorrow is more eager than the movement of seeking pleasure. On the contrary, Good is stronger than evil, as Dionysius declares (Div. Nom. iv). But pleasure is desirable for the sake of the good which is its object; whereas the shunning of sorrow is on account of evil. Therefore the desire for pleasure is more eager than the shunning of sorrow.

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  Edna took a bite of food. I wished she’d hurry up chewing and continue. “I love all the different ways butches can be. I love butches’ hearts. But the ones I worry most about are the ones who aren’t tough inside.” I frowned and dropped my eyes. Edna leaned forward. “You see, I hurt you. ’m sorry. You and Rocco both had beautiful hearts that were so easily hurt, and I loved you for it. But I didn’t know how long you could survive.” “T think about her a lot,’ I told Edna. She stared at her plate and nodded. “Me too.” “Td give anything to talk to Rocco,” I said, wishing Edna knew how to reach her. Edna nodded. “T’ll bet.” Stone Butch Blues 231 I sat back in my chair and scuffed the rug with my shoe. “I wish I could ask her a million questions.” Edna leaned forward. “What don’t you know?” I shrugged and played with my fork. “I’m not sute. How to survive this, I guess.” Edna smiled gently. “What makes you think Rocco knows?” Her answer surprised me. “T’m not like Rocco,” I said. “She’s like a legend or something. She’s so strong, so sure of herself. I don’t feel that way at all. If I could just get to know her.” Edna gently took the fork from my hand and put it down on the tablecloth. She rested her fingertips on my forearm. “People get buried under legends. Rocco doesn’t have all the answers. She’s got questions, just like you do. She’s trying to get through it the best way she can, just the way you ate. That’s what makes you both so strong, There’s only one thing Rocco had that you don’t have,” Edna told me. I leaned forward. “What?” “Tl show you later.” Was she always going to make me wait? “Edna, where have you been all these years?” I asked her. She picked at her lasagna. “After the bar scene changed I stopped going. The butches I loved weren’t 232 Leslie Feinberg there anymore. It was mostly university women. I started to feel embarrassed about showing up in a dress, with makeup on. It seemed like everyone in the bar was wearing flannel shirts, jeans, and boots. That’s not me. But there was no other place to go. A few of us went to a dance on campus,” she said. “But we wete dressed different, we danced different.’ She clenched her fist in anger. “One of the women at the dance made fun of the butch I was with because she helped me off with my coat. I was so upset that we left right away.” I nodded. “My ex-lover Theresa worked up at UB. I remember getting mad and telling her how much I hated those women for rejecting us. She used to say: “They’re right about needing a revolution, but they’re wrong to think they can do it without all of us.”

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  I sat down to write her a letter telling her that I was so miserable over the thought of losing her that I had decided to begin a book about her, a book which would immortalize her. It would be a book, I said, such as no one had ever seen before. I rambled on ecstatically, and in the midst of it I suddenly broke off to ask myself why I was so happy. Passing beneath the dance hall, thinking again of this book, I realized suddenly that our life had come to an end: I realized that the book I was planning was nothing more than a tomb in which to bury her—and the me which had belonged to her. That was some time ago, and ever since I have been trying to write it. Why is it so difficult? Why? Because the idea of an “end” is intolerable to me. Truth lies in this knowledge of the end which is ruthless and remorseless. We can know the truth and accept it, or we can refuse the knowledge of it and neither die nor be born again. In this manner it is possible to live forever, a negative life as solid and complete, or as dispersed and fragmentary, as the atom. And if we pursue this road far enough, even this atomic eternity can yield to nothingness and the universe itself fall apart. For years now I have been trying to tell this story; each time I have started out I have chosen a different route. I am like an explorer who, wishing to circumnavigate the globe, deems it unnecessary to carry even a compass. Moreover, from dreaming over it so long, the story itself has come to resemble a vast, fortified city, and I who dream it over and over, am outside the city, a wanderer, arriving before one gate after another too exhausted to enter. And as with the wanderer, this city in which my story is situated eludes me perpetually. Always in sight it nevertheless remains unattainable, a sort of ghostly citadel floating in the clouds. From the soaring, crenelated battlements flocks of huge white geese swoop down in steady, wedge-shaped formation. With the tips of their blue-white wings they brush the dreams that dazzle my vision. My feet move confusedly; no sooner do I gain a foothold than I am lost again.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Sophie sighed. Justin had been her eighth lover, although he’d been her first for a few of the more esoteric sexual practices most fairly adventurous couples enjoyed on occasion: back-door sex, light bondage, the occasional pearl necklace. Yet the timeless experience she longed for—a first night of profound erotic transformation in the arms of the man she loved deeply—was a pleasure she could never know. “Hey.” Startled from her Victorian era reverie, she looked up to meet her fiancé’s twinkling blue eyes. “Good morning, Mr. Phillips. You look happy.” “I am. Today’s the happiest day of my life.” “Why?” Sophie asked. Still half-lost in her musings, she was genuinely surprised by his answer. “Silly. Because I’m marrying the most wonderful, beautiful woman in the whole world.” Oh, right, speaking of our wedding… “Aunt Sophie!” Elena’s four-year-old daughter, Madison, burst into the room and rushed over to the bed. “You’re getting married today.” “We are. And you’re going to be the best flower girl ever,” Justin said in the perfect avuncular tone, warm but not condescending. He’d be a great father, Sophie thought with a pang of regret. “My dress is so pretty. I can’t wait to see yours.” The little girl was starting to crawl in bed with them when Elena appeared and led her daughter back toward the guest room. She gave Sophie a sly look. “I hope she didn’t disturb you. By the way, Mom and Dad said they’d come over from the hotel by eight. The appointment with the hairdresser is at nine, right?” “Yeah,” Sophie said weakly, that now-familiar dread closing around her ribcage like a corset. She might not be a real Victorian bride, but apparently her sex life was still to be molded by forces beyond her control. If she was making a terrible mistake, it was too late to turn back now. The day went by so fast, Sophie almost forgot she was making a mistake. The wedding ceremony in the garden brought her to tears, but not because she was depressed about the upcoming drought in her bedroom. There was something strangely moving about declaring her love for Justin in front of so many beaming, overdressed people who really seemed to wish them the best in their life together. With the whirl of the reception and the after-party back at the house, the day slipped into evening. It was six o’clock before they managed to drive off to the charming bed-and-breakfast they’d booked for the first night of their honeymoon. Only then, when Justin scooped her up and carried her over the threshold of their wine country cottage, did she remember this night was the beginning of the end of her erotic life. Yet, far from being tired or disinterested, Justin immediately deposited her, with a meaningful wink, right in the middle of the four-poster bed. Then he stretched out beside her, pulling her close. “I’ve been looking forward to this part of the ceremony all day.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  She’d known it when she twisted the key in the lock and opened the front door. The realtor hadn’t bothered with a lock box. The open house tomorrow would bring a slew of interested buyers, and there would be a bidding war for the vacation home. Bella had simply wanted to see the place one more time. No, not simply . There was nothing simple about divorce. She and Ethan had agreed to sell the cabin prior to the final paperwork and split the money. Neither of them wanted the other to have it. As far as Bella knew, Ethan didn’t want the place anyway. God knew she didn’t. Too many memories. Too many reminders of how happiness could drift away like autumn leaves falling from their trees, to be trampled underfoot and turned to dust. Inside, late afternoon light slanted off the lake and through the wall of windows and glass doors that led out onto the porch, filling the room with a warm glow and turning the wood to a gleaming deep honey. This had always been her favorite time of day here. She loved the play of the sunbeams on the water as the sun sank. She could sit on an Adirondack chair on the porch for hours, sipping a tart chardonnay, listening to the outboard motor hum of boats on the water and the occasional shout of an enthusiastic skier. Other than that, the rustle of the wind through the trees, the chatter of a squirrel or call of a bird was all that broke the peaceful silence. If the sliding glass door was open, she might also have heard Ethan banging pots and dishes in the kitchen as he made dinner. They tended to make simple meals when they came out here for the weekend: pasta aglio e olio with a salad of tomato and freshly shaved Parmesan. Omelets stuffed with feta and basil and garlic. Grilled chicken, the occasional steak. Fruit and cheese for dessert. Bella shook her head, trying to dislodge the remembrances. She shouldn’t have come. And yet she stepped inside, shut the door behind her. The cabin wasn’t tiny, but it was a comfortable size for a weekend getaway. The open plan meant that the view from the door was straight out the back to the lake. In the living room, simple Mission-style furniture gathered around a stone fireplace.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “Oh.” He stood in the doorway, backlit by the porch light. Still, she knew him from his outline, from the way he carried himself. “I didn’t expect…” “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” They trailed off together. They’d long since run out of things to say; why would now be any different? Bella broke the silence first. “I just stopped by to see the cabin one more time. I’ll get out of your way now.” He shifted the grocery bag he held to his other hip. “No, there’s no rush. I’m sorry I interrupted you. I didn’t think you’d be here.” She shrugged, helplessly. “I didn’t think you would, either.” He looked wan, she thought. Had he lost weight? His blond hair was neat, but she wondered if it had receded at the temples. He’d been sensitive about the idea. It was the one thing she’d never used against him, even in the cruellest of moments. She never knew why she’d held back. Maybe it was because, even though she knew how the problem gnawed at him, she’d never cared. He’d always looked handsome to her. Even now. This silence was awkward. How could you feel awkward with someone you’d loved, someone you’d been intimate with, someone with whom you’d shared everything with for nine years? “I should go,” he said finally. “No,” she said as he turned away. “This is still your cabin as much as it is mine.” The stilted, overly polite interactions they’d had since the decision. All emotion had drained away. They were left with court-document, lawyer-speak, cool pleasantries. How had it come to this? He regarded her for a moment, as if gauging the honesty of her statement, before he nodded. “Fine, then. Thanks.” She watched in silence as he carried the bag across the room into the kitchen, then back to pick up a sleeping bag he’d left on the porch. “I should go,” she said, realizing only after the words had left her mouth that she’d echoed his. He pursed his lips, in the way he did when he was considering something. She’d forgotten that until just now. “Really, it’s okay,” he said finally. “This is still just as much your place as mine. Let’s not make it worse. Would you…like a glass of wine?” She did, very much. More than she wanted to admit. “A little would be nice, yes. What did you bring?” It was something from South Africa, a heady merlot. Her mouth watered at the memory of it. “One glass, then.” “Steak. I confess I was going for man comfort food,” he said as he poured. “Women go for chocolate, men go for cow. I’ve got potatoes, salad fixings. There’s more than enough for two.” She swirled the wine in the glass, noticing how it didn’t cling. That seemed like a lesson she should learn. She’d never been one for lessons or following directions or orders. She supposed it was her downfall, that stubbornness.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  From all these causes weighed together, it follows that Christ’s pain was the very greatest. Reply to Objection 1: This argument follows from only one of the considerations adduced—namely, from the bodily injury, which is the cause of sensitive pain; but the torment of the suffering Christ is much more intensified from other causes, as above stated. Reply to Objection 2: Moral virtue lessens interior sadness in one way, and outward sensitive pain in quite another; for it lessens interior sadness directly by fixing the mean, as being its proper matter, within limits. But, as was laid down in the [4235]FS, Q[64], A[2], moral virtue fixes the mean in the passions, not according to mathematical quantity, but according to quantity of proportion, so that the passion shall not go beyond the rule of reason. And since the Stoics held all sadness to be unprofitable, they accordingly believed it to be altogether discordant with reason, and consequently to be shunned altogether by a wise man. But in very truth some sadness is praiseworthy, as Augustine proves (De Civ. Dei xiv)—namely, when it flows from holy love, as, for instance, when a man is saddened over his own or others’ sins. Furthermore, it is employed as a useful means of satisfying for sins, according to the saying of the Apostle (2 Cor. 7:10): “The sorrow that is according to God worketh penance, steadfast unto salvation.” And so to atone for the sins of all men, Christ accepted sadness, the greatest in absolute quantity, yet not exceeding the rule of reason. But moral virtue does not lessen outward sensitive pain, because such pain is not subject to reason, but follows the nature of the body; yet it lessens it indirectly by redundance of the higher powers into the lower. But this did not happen in Christ’s case, as stated above (cf. Q[14], A[1], ad 2; Q[45], A[2]). Reply to Objection 3: The pain of a suffering, separated soul belongs to the state of future condemnation, which exceeds every evil of this life, just as the glory of the saints surpasses every good of the present life. Accordingly, when we say that Christ’s pain was the greatest, we make no comparison between His and the pain of a separated soul. But Adam’s body could not suffer, except he sinned. so that he would become mortal, and passible. And, though actually suffering, it would have felt less pain than Christ’s body, for the reasons already stated. From all this it is clear that even if by impassibility Adam had suffered in the state of innocence, his pain would have been less than Christ’s.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (Tr. lix. 1) As if to say, There is one among you who will not be blessed, nor doeth these things. I know whom I have chosen. Whom, but those who shall be happy by doing His commandments? Judas therefore was not chosen. But if so, why does He say in another place, Have not I chosen you twelve? Because Judas was chosen for that for which he was necessary, but not for that happiness of which He says, Happy are ye, if ye do them. ORIGEN. (t. xxxii. 8.) Or thus: I speak not of you all, does not refer to, Happy are ye if ye do them. For of Judas, or any other person, it may be said, Happy is he if he do them. The words refer to the sentence above, The servant is not greater than his lord, neither He that is sent greater than He that sent Him. For Judas, being a servant of sin, was not a servant of the Divine Word; nor an Apostle, when the devil had entered into him. Our Lord knew those who were His, and did not know who were not His, and therefore says, not, I know all present, but, I know whom I have chosen, i. e. I know My Elect. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxxi. 1) Then, that He might not sadden them all, He adds, But that the Scripture must be fulfilled, He that eateth bread with Me, hath lifted up his heel against Me: shewing that He knew who the traitor was, an intimation that would surely have checked him, if any thing would. He does not say, shall betray Me, but, shall lift up his heel against Me, alluding to his deceit and secret plotting. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. lix. 1) Shall lift up his heel against Me, i. e. shall tread upon Me. The traitor Judas is meant. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. lxxi. 2) He that eateth bread with Me; i. e. who was fed by Me, who partook of My table. So that if injured ever by our servants or inferiors, we need not be offended. Judas had received infinite benefits, and yet thus requited his Benefactor. AUGUSTINE. (Tr. lix. 1) They then who were chosen ate the Lord; he ate the bread of the Lord, to injure the Lord; they ate life, he damnation; for he that eateth unworthily, eateth damnation to himself. (1 Cor. 11:27) Now I tell you before it come, that when it is come, ye may believe that I am He, i. e. of whom that Scripture foretold. ORIGEN. (t. xxxii. 9.) That ye may believe, is not said, as if the Apostles did not believe already, but is equivalent to saying, Do as ye believe, and persevere in your belief, seeking for no occasion of falling away. For besides the evidences the disciples had already seen, they had now that of the fulfilment of prophecy.

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  He told me his story, a South African story that was all too familiar to me: The man grows up under apartheid, working on a farm, part of what’s essentially a slave labor force. It’s a living hell but it’s at least something. He’s paid a pittance but at least he’s paid. He’s told where to be and what to do every waking minute of his day. Then apartheid ends and he doesn’t even have that anymore. He finds his way to Johannesburg, looking for work, trying to feed his children back home. But he’s lost. He has no education. He has no skills. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to be. The world has been taught to be scared of him, but the reality is that he is scared of the world because he has none of the tools necessary to cope with it. So what does he do? He takes shit. He becomes a petty thief. He’s in and out of jail. He gets lucky and finds some construction work, but then he gets laid off from that, and a few days later he’s in a shop and he sees some PlayStation games and he grabs them, but he doesn’t even know enough to know that he’s stolen something of no value. I felt terrible for him. The more time I spent in jail, the more I realized that the law isn’t rational at all. It’s a lottery. What color is your skin? How much money do you have? Who’s your lawyer? Who’s the judge? Shoplifting PlayStation games was less of an offense than driving with bad number plates. He had committed a crime, but he was no more a criminal than I was. The difference was that he didn’t have any friends or family to help him out. He couldn’t afford anything but a state attorney. He was going to go stand in the dock, unable to speak or understand English, and everyone in the courtroom was going to assume the worst of him. He was going to go to prison for a while and then be set free with the same nothing he had going in. If I had to guess, he was around thirty-five, forty years old, staring down another thirty-five, forty years of the same. — The day of my hearing came. I said goodbye to my new friend and wished him the best. Then I was handcuffed and put in the back of a police van and driven to the courthouse to meet my fate.