Shame

Passages

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

Page 137 of 267 · 20 per page

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  parture, asked after his host, and was told he was so ill he could not bear to see the light or hear anyone speak. Surprised at this sudden malady, the prince would hav^e gone to see him, but hearing that he was asleep, and not wishing to disturb him, he went away with his wife and sister without bidding him farewell. His sister, con eluding that the gentleman's illness was only a pretence to avoid showing the marks she had left upon his face, was now assured beyond all doubt that it was he who had been her nightly assailant. The prince repeatedly sent word to him to return to court, but he did not obey until he had been thoroughly cured of all his wounds, except those which love and vexation had made in his heart. On his return to court, he could not sustain the presence of his victorious enemy without blushing. Though he had been possessed of more assurance than any man at court, he was so disconcerted that he often appeared before her quite abashed — a new proof that her suspicions were well founded. She broke with him, therefore, little by little. Adroitly as she did this, he failed not to perceive it, but durst not remonstrate for fear of worse. He kept his love concealed, and endured patiently a disgrace he had well merited.* There, ladies, is a story which should strike fear into * The princess and the gallant spoken of jn this novel are none other than the Queen of Navarre herself and Guillaume de Bonni- vet, Admiral of France, as we are informed by Brantome [Datnes Galantcs, Discours iv. t. vii.). He states the fact upon the au- thority of his grandmother, who> as well as his mother, Anne de Vivonne, was about Margaret's person, and it is generally regard- ed as true. It is to be observed, however, that Margaret has pur- posely introduced into her narrative several circumstances calcu lated to disguise her own identity ; the second widowhood, for in- stance, for the King of Navarre survived her, and the absence of children by both marriages, for Margaret had a surviving daughter by her second husband. The handsome and gallant Bonnivet fig- ures repeatedly in the Heptameroa 42 THE HEPTAMERON OF THE {Novel i, those who would seize what does not belong to them, and which should inspire ladies with courage, consider- ing the virtue of the young princess and the good sense of her lady of honour. Should a similar thing befall one of you, here you see how it is to be remedied.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I was terribly depressed and ashamed afterwards.” “That’s nonsense. Masturbation is not physically harmful. It is only the feeling of guilt we have about it that oppresses.” “I used to fear it would diminish my mental power, my health, and that I would disintegrate morally.” Here, I add other details, which he listens to silently, trying to coordinate them. I tell him things I have never entirely admitted to myself, and which I have not written in my journal, things I wanted to forget. Allendy is piecing the fragments together and talks about my partial frigidity. He discovers that I also consider this an inferiority and believe it is due to my frail physique. He laughs. He attributes it to a psychic cause, a strong sense of guilt. Sixty out of a hundred women feel as I do and never admit it and, most important of all, Allendy says, if I only knew what little difference this makes to men and how unaware they are of it. He always transforms what I term an inferiority into a natural thing, or one whose curse can be easily removed. I immediately feel a great relief and lose my terror and secretiveness. I tell him about June, of my desiring to be a femme fatale, of my cruelty towards Hugo and Eduardo, and my surprise that they should love me as much or more afterwards. We also discuss my frank, bold sex talk, how I reverse my true, innate modesty and exhibit a forced obscenity. (Henry says he doesn’t like my telling obscene stories, because it doesn’t suit me.) “But I am full of dissonances,” I say, feeling that strange anguish Allendy creates—half relief, because of his exactness, half sorrow for no specific reason, the feeling of having been discovered. “Yes, and until you can act perfectly naturally, according to your own nature, you will never be happy. The femme fatale arouses men’s passions, exasperates them, torments them, and they want to possess her, even to kill her, but they do not love her profoundly. You have already discovered that you are loved profoundly. Now you have also discovered that cruelty to both Eduardo and Hugo has aroused them, and they want you even more. This makes you want to play a game which is not really natural to you.” “I have always despised such games. I have never been able to conceal from a man that I loved him.” “But you tell me profound loves do not satisfy you. You crave to give and to receive stronger sensations. I understand, but that is only a phase. You can play the game now and then, to heighten passion, but profound loves are the loves which suit your true self, and they alone will satisfy you. The more you act like yourself the nearer you come to a fulfillment of your real needs.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  If one of those guys had mistakenly stumbled into him, it could have put him in the hospital, again. Looking at how vulnerable and upset he was, every cell of my being flooded with shame. Shame is one of those emotions that should come with a big roll of yellow caution tape. Through Brené Brown’s research on the subject, I’ve learned that shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we’re flawed and unworthy of love, belonging, and connection. Shame is a focus on self. While guilt is a focus on behavior. Shame is “I am bad.” Guilt is “I did something bad.” My shame hangover—there was no Excedrin for this one—was partly due to the fact that I had allowed my anger to erupt in unconstructive ways. Yes, I wish I had made different choices earlier on in that bathroom and with Grabby Hands, but I tried to look on the bright side: at least my therapist got some great new material to work with. But what rattled me was my complete and utter lack of control. I’d been desperately trying to make Dad think I was OK, that he didn’t have to worry about me. He could trust me to be responsible when he was gone. I’d take care of things like he taught me. I’d be steady. Unrattled. Holding fast. While I hesitated to share these “unbecoming stories,” they are real examples of what the “fight” response can look like in grief. They’re not pretty, but they’re also nothing to be ashamed of. Instead, they’re more examples of why it’s so important to understand the many shapes and sizes of our feelings and how they work together. THE UPSIDE AND DOWNSIDE OF ANGER Now that I got all that gunk out (phew!), let’s take a step back and get to know the so-called monster: anger. What it is, why we have it, why it isn’t all bad, and how we can respect and better channel it. Because here’s the sitch: You better believe that when your world falls apart, there’s a good chance that you’re going to be angry—and rightly so. But as I’ve learned, it’s better to care for our anger than to allow it to simmer, seethe, and spew. Anger is an instinctive response to a perceived threat, violation, or injustice. It isn’t a character defect to avoid. It’s a blinking red light telling us that something is not OK. Anger’s job is to protect us at all costs. It does that in obvious and not-so-obvious ways. We’re more familiar with the obvious ways—tick, tick, boom! It’s the covert stuff that can sideswipe us. For example, anger can shield us from feelings that feel way too big and scary to accept or tend to. Don’t worry, anger says. I got this. And while some folks are quick to anger, others may have a hard time even identifying that they’re angry at all. You’re likely familiar with those seemingly gentle creatures.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  122 James Baldwin came abreast and, as though he had seen some all-revealing panic in my eyes, he gave me a look contemptuously lewd and knowing; just such a look as he might have given, but a few hours ago, to the desperately well-dressed nym- phomaniac or trollop who was trying to make him believe she was a lady. And in another second, had our contact lasted, I was certain that there would erupt into speech, out of all that light and beauty, some brutal variation of Look, baby, I know you, I felt my face flame, I felt my heart harden and shake as I hurried past him, trying to look stonily beyond him. He had caught me by surprise, for I had, some- how, not really been thinking of him but of the letter in my pocket, of Hella and Giovanni. I got to the other side of the boulevard, not dar- ing to look back, and I wondered what he had seen in me to elicit such instantaneous con- tempt. I was too old to suppose that it had any- thing to do with my walk, or the way I held my hands, or my voice—which, anyway, he had not heard. It was something else and I would never see it. I would never dare to see it. It would be like looking at the naked sun. But, hurrying, and not daring now to look at any- one, male or female, who passed me on the wide sidewalks, I knew that what the sailor had seen in my unguarded eyes was envy and desire: I had seen it often in Jacques' eyes and my reaction and the sailor's had been the same. But if I were still able to feel affection and if he GIOVANNI'S ROOM 123 had seen it in my eyes, it would not have helped, for affection, for the boys I was doomed to look at, was vastly more frightening than lust. I walked farther than I had intended, for I did not dare to stop while the sailor might still be watching. Near the river, on rue des Pyra- mides, I sat down at a cafe table and opened Hella's letter.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  and sleep with their ghosts. These stones in my heart are you of my own flesh whittling me with your sharp false eyes searching for prisms falling out of your head laughing me out of your skin because you do not value your own self nor me. This is a simple poem I will have no mother no sister no daughter when I am through and only the bones are left see how the bones are showing the shape of us at war clawing our own flesh out to feed the backside of our masklike faces that we have given the names of men. Donald DeFreeze I never knew you so well as in the eyes of my own mirror did you hope for blessing or pardon lying in bed after bed or was your eye sharp and merciless enough to endure beyond the deaths of wanting? With your voice in my ears with my voice in your ears try to deny me I will hunt you down through the night veins of my own addiction through all my unsatisfied childhoods as this poem unfolds like the leaves of a poppy I have no sister no mother no children left only a tideless ocean of moonlit women in all shades of loving learning a dance of open and closing learning a dance of electrical tenderness no father no mother would teach them. Come Sambo dance with me pay the piper dangling dancing his knee high darling over your wanting under your bloody white faces come Bimbo come Ding Dong watch the city falling down down down lie down bitch slow down nigger so you want a cozy womb to hide you to pucker up and suck you back safely well I tell you what I’m gonna do next time you head for the hatchet really need some nook to hole up in look me up I’m the ticket taker on a queen of rollercoasters I can get you off cheap. This is a simple poem sharing my head with the dream of a big black woman with jewels in her eyes she dances her head in a golden helmet arrogant plumed her name is Colossa her thighs are like stanchions or flayed hickory trees embraced in armour she dances in slow earth shaking motions that suddenly alter and lighten as she whirls laughing tooled metal over her hips comes to an end and at the shiny edge an astonishment of soft black curly hair. Between Ourselves Once when I walked into a room my eyes would seek out the one or two black faces for contact or reassurance or a sign I was not alone now walking into rooms full of black faces that would destroy me for any difference where shall my eyes look? Once it was easy to know who were my people. If we were stripped of all pretense to our strength and our flesh was cut away the sun would bleach all our bones as white

• From Henry and June (1986)

  I want to love a stronger man and cannot do so. He says that I have a sense of inferiority due to my physical frailness as a child. It seemed to me that men only loved healthy, fat women. Eduardo talked to me about fat Cuban girls. Hugo’s first attraction was for a fat girl. Everybody used to comment on my slenderness, and my mother quoted the Spanish proverb: “Bones are for the dogs.” When I went to Havana, I doubted being able to please because I was thin. This theme continues right down to the moment when Henry hurt me by his admiration of Natasha’s body because it seemed rich to him. Allendy: “Do you know that sometimes the sense of sexual inferiority is due to a realization of one’s frigidity?” It is true I was quite indifferent to sex until I was eighteen or nineteen, and even then, tremendously romantic but not really sexually awake. But afterwards! “And if I were frigid, would I be so preoccupied by sex?” Allendy: “All the more so.” Silence. I am thinking that with all the tremendous joys Henry has given me I have not yet felt a real orgasm. My response does not seem to lead to a true climax but is disseminated in a spasm that is less centered, more diffuse. I have felt an orgasm occasionally with Hugo, and when I have masturbated, but perhaps that is because Hugo likes me to close my legs and Henry makes me open them so much. But this, I would not tell Allendy. From my dreams he culls the consistent desire to be punished, humiliated, or abandoned. I dream of a cruel Hugo, of a fearful Eduardo, of an impotent John. “This comes from a sense of guilt for having loved your father too much. Afterwards I am sure you loved your mother much more.” “It is true. I loved her tremendously.” “And now you seek punishment. And you enjoy the suffering, which reminds you of the suffering you endured with your father. In one of your dreams, when the man forces himself into you, you hate him.” I feel oppressed, as if his questions were thrusts. I am in a terrible need of him. Yet analysis does not help. The pain of living is nothing compared to the pain of this minute analysis. Allendy asks me to relax and tell him what goes on in my mind. But what goes on in my mind is the analysis of my life. Allendy: “You are trying to identify yourself with me, to do my work. Have you not wished to surpass men in their own work? To humiliate them by your success?” “Indeed not. I constantly help men in their work, make sacrifices for them.” I encourage, admire, applaud them. No, Allendy is very wrong. He says, “Perhaps you are one of those women who are friends not enemies of man.” “More than that.

• From Heptaméron (1559)

  One of the ladies present, who knew that she who had taken Saffredent's words to herself was not the per- son he loved so much as to be willing to wear horns of her making, could not help laughing at the manner in which she had taken them up. Saffredent, who per- ceived that the laughing lady had guessed right, was very glad of it, and let Ennasuite talk on. " To prove, ladies," she said, " to Saffredent and all the company that all women are not like the queen of whom he has told us, and that the audacious are not always successful, I will relate to you the adventure of a lady who deemed that the vexation of falling in love was harder to bear than death itself. I shall not name the persons, because the story is so recent that I should be afraid of offend- ing some of the near relations if I did so." NOVEL IV. Presumptuous attempt of a gentleman upon a Princess of Flanders, and the shame it brought upon him. There was in Flanders a lady of such family that there was none better in the country. She was a widow, had been twice married, but had no children living. During her second widowhooil she resided with her brother, who loved her much, and who was a very great First day.'l QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 35 lord, being married to one of the king's daughters. This young prince was much addicted to pleasure, and was fond of the chase, amusements, and the ladies, as usual with young people. He had a very ill-tempered wife, who was by no means well pleased with her husband's diversions ; wherefore, as his sister was the most lively and cheerful companion possible, she accompanied the prince to every place to which he took his wife. There was at the prince's court a gentleman who surpassed all the others in height, figure, and good looks, and who, seeing that his master's sister was a lively lady, and fond of laughing, thought he would try if a well-bred lover would be to her taste. But the result was quite con- trary to what he had expected ; although she pardoned his audacity in consideration of his good looks and good breeding, and even let him know that she was not angry that he had spoken to her, only she desired that she might never hear the same language from him again. He promised this, that he might not lose the honour and pleasure of her society, but as his passion increased with time^ he forgot his promise. He did not, however, have recourse to words, for experience had taught him that she knew how to make chaste replies ; but he flattered himself that being a widow, young, vigorous, and good-humoured, she would, perhaps, take pity on him and on herself if he could find her in a convenient place.

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

  Reply to Objection 3: To presume oneself to be simply better than one’s prelate, would seem to savor of presumptuous pride; but there is no presumption in thinking oneself better in some respect, because, in this life, no man is without some fault. We must also remember that when a man reproves his prelate charitably, it does not follow that he thinks himself any better, but merely that he offers his help to one who, “being in the higher position among you, is therefore in greater danger,” as Augustine observes in his Rule quoted above. Whether a sinner ought to reprove a wrongdoer?Objection 1: It would seem that a sinner ought to reprove a wrongdoer. For no man is excused from obeying a precept by having committed a sin. But fraternal correction is a matter of precept, as stated above [2614](A[2]). Therefore it seems that a man ought not to forbear from such like correction for the reason that he has committed a sin. Objection 2: Further, spiritual almsdeeds are of more account than corporal almsdeeds. Now one who is in sin ought not to abstain from administering corporal alms. Much less therefore ought he, on account of a previous sin, to refrain from correcting wrongdoers. Objection 3: Further, it is written (1 Jn. 1:8): “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves.” Therefore if, on account of a sin, a man is hindered from reproving his brother, there will be none to reprove the wrongdoer. But the latter proposition is unreasonable: therefore the former is also. On the contrary, Isidore says (De Summo Bono iii, 32): “He that is subject to vice should not correct the vices of others.” Again it is written (Rom. 2:1): “Wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself. For thou dost the same things which thou judgest.” I answer that, As stated above (A[3], ad 2), to correct a wrongdoer belongs to a man, in so far as his reason is gifted with right judgment. Now sin, as stated above ([2615]FS, Q[85], AA[1],2), does not destroy the good of nature so as to deprive the sinner’s reason of all right judgment, and in this respect he may be competent to find fault with others for committing sin. Nevertheless a previous sin proves somewhat of a hindrance to this correction, for three reasons. First because this previous sin renders a man unworthy to rebuke another; and especially is he unworthy to correct another for a lesser sin, if he himself has committed a greater. Hence Jerome says on the words, “Why seest thou the mote?” etc. (Mat. 7:3): “He is speaking of those who, while they are themselves guilty of mortal sin, have no patience with the lesser sins of their brethren.”

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

  THEOPHYLACT. Or else the Lord warns His disciples to be as light, in their life and conversation; as if He said, As a candle is put so as to give light, so all will look to your life. Therefore be diligent to lead a good life; sit not in corners, but be ye a candle. For a candle gives light, not when placed under a bed, but on a candlestick; this light indeed must be placed on a candlestick, that is, on the eminence of a godly life, that it may be able to give light to others. Not under a bushel, that is, in things pertaining to the palate, nor under a bed, that is, in idleness. For no one who seeks after the delights of his palate and loves rest can be a light shining over all. BEDE. (in Marc. i. 20) Or, because the time of our life is contained under a certain measurement of Divine Providence, it is rightly compared to a bushel. But the bed of the soul is the body, in which it dwells and reposes for a time. He therefore who hides the word of God under the love of this transitory life, and of carnal allurements, covers his candle with a bushel or a bed. But he puts his light on a candlestick, who employs his body in the ministry of the word of God; therefore under these words He typically teaches them a figure of preaching. Wherefore it goes on, For there is nothing hidden, which shall not be revealed, nor is there any thing made secret, which shall not come abroad. As if He said, Be not ashamed of the Gospel, but amidst the darkness of persecution raise the light of the word of God upon the candlestick of your body, keeping fixedly in your mind that day, when the Lord will throw light upon the hidden places of darkness, for then everlasting praise awaits you, and everlasting punishment your adversaries. CHRYSOSTOM. (in Matt. Hom. 15) Or else, There is nothing hid; as if He said, If ye conduct your life with care, accusation will not be able to obscure your light. THEOPHYLACT. For each of us, whether he have done good or evil, is brought to light in this life, much more in that which is to come. For what can be more hidden than God, nevertheless He Himself is manifested in the flesh. It continues, If any man have ears to ear, let him hear. BEDE. (ubi sup.) That is, if any man have a sense for understanding the word of God, let him not withdraw himself, let him not turn his ear to fables, but let him lend his ear to search those things which truth hath spoken, his hands for fulfilling them, his tongue for preaching them. There follows, And he said unto them, Take heed what ye hear.

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

  BEDE. (ubi sup.) Because the Lord had taught us not to offend those who believe on Him, He now as next in order warns us how much we should beware of those who offend us, that is, who by their words or conduct strive to drag us into the perdition of sin; wherefore He says, And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off. CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. in Matt. 59) He says not this of our limbs, but of our intimate friends, whom as being necessary to us we look upon as our limbs; for nothing is so hurtful as mischievous society. BEDE. (ubi sup.) That is, He calls by the name of hand, our intimate friend, of whose aid we daily stand in need; but if such an one should wish to do us a hurt in what concerns our soul, he is to be driven away from our society, lest by choosing a portion in this life with one who is lost, we should perish together with him in that which is to come. Where fore there follows, It is better for thee to enter into life maimed, than having two hands to enter into hell. GLOSS. (non occ.) By maimed He means, deprived of the help of some friend, for it is better to enter into life without a friend, than to go with him into hell. PSEUDO-JEROME. Or else, It is better for thee to enter into life maimed, that is, without the chief place, for which you have wished, than having two hands to go into eternal fire. The two hands for high station are humility and pride; cut off pride, keeping to the estate of lowliness. PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. (Vict. Ant. e Cat. in Marc.) Then He introduces the witness of prophecy from the prophet Isaiah, saying, Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. (Isa. 66:24) He says not this of a visible worm, but He calls conscience, a worm, gnawing the soul for not having done any good thing; for each of us shall be made his own accuser, by calling to mind what he has done in this mortal life, and so their worm remains for ever. BEDE. (ubi sup.) And as the worm is the pain which inwardly accuses, so the fire is a punishment which rages without us; or by the worm is meant the rottenness of hell, by the fire, its heat.

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

  Reply to Objection 3: The manifestation of his sins to the confusion of the sinner is a result of his neglect in omitting to confess them. But that the sins of the saints be revealed cannot be to their confusion or shame, as neither does it bring confusion to Mary Magdalen that her sins are publicly recalled in the Church, because shame is “fear of disgrace,” as Damascene says (De Fide Orth. ii), and this will be impossible in the blessed. But this manifestation will bring them great glory on account of the penance they did, even as the confessor hails a man who courageously confesses great crimes. Sins are said to be blotted out because God sees them not for the purpose of punishing them. Reply to Objection 4: The sinner’s confusion will not be diminished, but on the contrary increased, through his seeing the sins of others, for in seeing that others are blameworthy he will all the more acknowledge himself to be blamed. For that confusion be diminished by a cause of this kind is owing to the fact that shame regards the esteem of men, who esteem more lightly that which is customary. But then confusion will regard the esteem of God, which weighs every sin according to the truth, whether it be the sin of one man or of many. Whether all merits and demerits, one’s own as well as those of others, will be seen by anyone at a single glance?Objection 1: It would seem that not all merits and demerits, one’s own as well as those of others, will be seen by anyone at a single glance. For things considered singly are not seen at one glance. Now the damned will consider their sins singly and will bewail them, wherefore they say (Wis. 5:8): “What hath pride profited us?” Therefore they will not see them all at a glance. Objection 2: Further, the Philosopher says (Topic. ii) that “we do not arrive at understanding several things at the same time.” Now merits and demerits, both our own and those of others, will not be visible save to the intellect. Therefore it will be impossible for them all to be seen at the same time. Objection 3: Further, the intellect of the damned after the resurrection will not be clearer than the intellect of the blessed and of the angels is now, as to the natural knowledge whereby they know things by innate species. Now by such knowledge the angels do not see several things at the same time. Therefore neither will the damned be able then to see all their deeds at the same time.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  here, over my flesh get your words upon me as he got this child upon me our father lover thief in the night do not be so angry with us. We told him your bed was wider but he said if we did it then we would be his good children if we did it then he would love us oh make us a poem mother that will tell us his name in your language is he father or lover we will leave your word for our children engraved on a whip or a golden scissors to tell them the lies of their birth. Another says mother I am holding your place. Do you know me better than I knew him or myself? Am I his daughter or girlfriend am I your child or your rival you wish to be gone from his bed? Here is your granddaughter mother give us your blessing before I sleep what other secrets do you have to tell me how do I learn to love her as you have loved me? Sequelae Because a burning sword notches both of my doorposts because I am standing between my burned hands in the ashprint of two different houses midnight finds weave a filigree of disorder I figure in the dreams of people who do not even know me the night is a blister of stars pierced by nightmares of a telephone ringing my hand is the receiver threatening as an uncaged motor seductive as the pain of voiceless mornings voiceless kitchens I remember cornflakes shrieking like banshees in my throat while I battle the shapes of you wearing old ghosts of me hating you for being black and not woman hating you for being white and not me in this carnival of memories I name you both the laying down of power the separation I cannot yet make after all these years of blood my eyes are glued like fury to the keyholes of yesterday rooms where I wander solitary as a hunting cheetah at play with legends call disaster due all women who refuse to wait in vain; In a new room I enter old places bearing your shape trapped behind the sharp smell of your anger in my voice behind tempting invitations to believe your face tipped like a pudding under glass and I hear the high pitch of your voice crawling out from my hearts deepest culverts compromise is a coffin nail rusty as seaweed tiding through an august house where nobody lives beyond choice my pathways are strewn with old discontents outgrown defenses still sturdy as firebrick unlovely and dangerous as measles they wither into uselessness but do not decay. Because I do not wish to remember but love to caress the deepest bone of me begging shes that wax and wane like moonfire to absolve me at any price I battle old ghosts of you wearing the shapes of me surrounded by black and white faces saying no over and over

• From Henry and June (1986)

  But then,” I ask laughing, “do men know when they give a woman pleasure or not?” Dr. Allendy laughs, too. “Eighty percent of them never know,” he says. “Some men are sensitive, but many more are vain and they want to believe they do, and many otl’ do not really know.” (I remembered Henry’s question at the hotel: “Do I satisfy you?”) Then I say, “Rather than continue the sexual comedy, would it not be better to tell him I am ill, neurotic, that there is something wrong with me?” “And, of course, you may be,” says Allendy. “There is something strange in the way you divide up your loves. It is as if you lacked confidence.” He touches a sensitive spot now. A few minutes ago he had made a mistake, when I talked about the separation between animal and ideal love. He had jumped to the banal conclusion that at the age of puberty I may have witnessed some brutal aspect of love and been disgusted and turned to the ethereal. But now he approaches a truth: lack of confidence. My father did not want a girl. He said I was ugly. When I wrote or drew something, he did not believe it was my work. I never remember a caress or a compliment from him, except when I nearly died at the age of nine. There were always scenes, beatings, his hard blue eyes on me. I remember the unnatural joy I felt when Father wrote me a note here in Paris which began: “Ma jolie.” I got no love from him. I suffered with my mother. I remember our arrival in Arcachon, where he was vacationing, after my illness. His face showed he did not want us. What he meant for Mother I also took for myself. Yet I felt hysterical sorrow when he abandoned us. And all through my schooldays in New York I craved for him. I was always fearful of his hardness and coldness. Yet I repudiated him in Paris. It was I who was severe and unsentimental. “And so,” said Allendy, “you withdrew into yourself and became independent. Instead of trustingly giving yourself entirely to one love, you seek many loves. You even seek cruelty from older men, as if you could not enjoy love without pain. And you are not sure . . .” “Only of my husband’s love.” “But you need more than one.” “Always his, and an older man’s.” I was amazed that a child’s confidence, once shaken and destroyed, should have such repercussions on a whole life. Father’s insufficient love and abandonment remain indelible. Why was it not effaced by all the loves I inspired since then? Eduardo wanted Dr.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  TSfo,' I stammer. 'No. Not often.' 'But you are a beUever?' I smile. It is not even a patronizing smile, though, perhaps, I wish it could be, Tes.' But I wonder what my smile could have looked Uke. It did not reassure her. Tou must pray,' she says, very soberly. 1 assure you. Even 94 James Baldwin just a little prayer, from time to time. Light a little candle. If it were not for the prayers of the blessed saints, one could not live in this world at all. I speak to you,' she says, drawing herself up sUghtly, 'as though I were your maman. Do not be offended.' 'But I am not offended. You are very nice. You are very nice to speak to me this way.' She smiles a satisfied smile. 'Men—not just babies like you, but old men, too— they always need a woman to tell them the truth. Les hommes. Us sont impossibles/ And she smiles, and forces me to smile at the cunning of this imiversal joke, and turns out the light in the master bedroom. We go down the hall again, thank heaven, to my drink. This bedroom, of course, is quite untidy, the light burning, my bathrobe, books, dirty socks, and a couple of dirty glasses, and a coffee cup half full of stale coffee—lying around, all over the place; and the sheets on the bed a tangled mess. Ill fix this up before morning,' I say. *Bien sur' She sighs. 'You really must take my advice, monsieur, and get married/ At this, suddenly, we both laugh. Then I finish my drink. The inventory is almost done. We go into the last room, the big room, where the bottle is, be- fore the window. She looks at the bottle, then at me. 'But you will be drunk by morning,' she says. 'Oh, nol I'm taking the bottle with me/ GIOVANNrS ROOM 95 It is quite clear that she knows this is not true. But she shrugs her shoulders again. Then she becomes, by the act of wrapping the shawl around her head, very formal, even a httle shy. Now that I see she is about to leave, I wish I could think of something to make her stay/ When she has gone back across the road, the night will be blacker and longer than ever. I have something to say to her— to her?—but of course it will never be said. I feel that I want to be forgiven; I want her to forgive me. But I do not know how to state my crime. My crime, in some odd way, is in being a man and she knows all about this already. It is terrible how naked she makes me feel, like a half-grown boy, naked before his mother.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Before I knew what hit me, my hand was slapping my face. What the hell are you doing? Finally, the pain from my stinging cheeks overtook the anguish in my heart. At last, relief. Field note from grief: always carry a good tube of concealer and some powder. You’ll need it. I fixed my makeup and returned to the table. Shocked, stunned, but pulled together. I acted like nothing happened. I made light conversation. How good is this lightly floured zucchini blossom? I laughed when appropriate and drank wine (but not too much, fearing I might lose it again). Despite the disturbing interlude of self-abuse, I even enjoyed much of the remaining evening. Grandma wouldn’t have approved of my methods, but at least she’d give me points for carrying cover-up and getting on with a grand old time. A COCKTAIL OF SHAMEThe next morning I woke up with a big AR (agonizing reappraisal) hangover. Even though I was the only one who witnessed my unhinged spectacle, I was sick with shame. Why couldn’t I be the type of person who didn’t do insane things like that? Instead, I felt like Annette Bening’s character in the film American Beauty. A positive-thinking, obsessed Realtor who breaks down in a self-slapping fit when she fails to sell a house. “You big baby! Stop it!” she screams, before collecting herself and silently walking out. But like Annette’s character, this house was my everything, too. At least no one saw me, I thought. I can keep this pathetic meltdown to myself. Lock it up. Throw away the key. Smile. Yeah, right. Who was I kidding? A few weeks later, our Bucket List Tour brought us all to Newport, to celebrate my birthday. By this time, I really thought I could keep a lid on any outbursts. I’d talked about it in therapy. Did a bunch of energy work, yada yada. In my mind, I was all set. After a lovely dinner (with no interludes), I was standing outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring the car around. My parents were using the restroom; Brian was searching through his pockets for a tip. I’m so grateful we’re here together, I thought. And bonus points for not losing my shit. Clearly, I believed I was growing. Not so fast, Speed Racer. As the car pulled up, three drunk dudes tumbled out of the lobby. One guy put his hand on my shoulder and said/slurred, “You’re pretty, come to a bar with us.” Another crawled into the back seat of our car. I lost track of the third one. He was probably puking in the bushes. “Not gonna happen,” I replied as I removed his grabby hand from my shoulder, before turning to his friend. “Hey, buddy. This isn’t an Uber. Please get out of our car.” He stared at me defiantly, while rifling through our things.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  And I grinned, feeling chilled. 'Love him,' said Jacques, with vehemence, love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters? And how long, at the best, can it last? since you are both men and still have everywhere to go? Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that, helas! in the dark. And if you think of them as dirty, then they will be dirty they will be dirty because you will be giving nothing, you will be despising your flesh and his. But you can make your time together any- thing but dirty; you can give each other some- thing which will make both of you better—for- ever— if you will not be ashamed, if you will only not play it safe.' He paused, watching me, and then looked down to his cognac, Tou play it safe long enough,' he said, in a different tone, 'and you'll end up trapped in your own dirty body, forever and forever and forever— like me.' And he finished his cognac, ringing his glass slightly on the bar to attract the attention of Madame Clothilde. She came at once, beaming; and in that mo- James Baldwin 78 ment Guillaume dared to smile at the redhead. Mme, Clothilde poured Jacques a fresh cognac and looked questioningly at me, the bottle poised over my half full glass. I hesitated. *Et pourquoi pas?" she asked, with a smile. So I finished my glass and she filled it. Then, for the briefest of seconds, she glanced at Guillaume; who cried, *Et le rouquin Idl What's the redhead drinking?' Mme. Clothilde turned with the air of an actress about to deUver the severely restrained last lines of an exhausting and mighty part. *On foffre, Pierre/ she said, majestically. What will you have?'—holding slightly aloft meanwhile the bottle containing the most expensive cognac in the house. *Je prendrai un petit cognac,' Pierre mumbled after a moment and, oddly enough, he blushed, which made him, in the light of the pale, just- rising sun, resemble a freshly fallen angel. Mme. Clothilde filled Pierre's glass and, amid a beautifully resolving tension, as of slowly dimming fights, replaced the bottle on the shelf and walked back to the cash register; offstage, in effect, into the wings, where she began to recover herself by finishing the last of the champagne. She sighed and sipped and looked outward contentedly into the slowly rising morn- ing. Guillaume had murmured a *Je m'excuse un instanty Madame/ and now passed behind us on his way to the redhead. I smiled. Things my father never told me/ GIOVANNI'S ROOM 79 "Somebody/ said Jacques, *your father or mine, should have told us that not many people have ever died of love. But multitudes have perished, and are perishing every hour— and in the oddest places!—for the lack of it/ And then: *Here comes your baby. Sois sage. Sois chic/ He moved slightly away and began talking to

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  *And listen/ said my father suddenly, from the middle of the staircase, in a voice which frightened me, 'all I want for David is that he grow up to be a man. And when I say a man, Ellen, I don't mean a Sunday school teacher.' 'A man,' said Ellen, shortly. Is not the same thing as a bull. Good-night.' *Good-night,' he said, after a moment. And I heard him stagger past my door. From that time on, with the mysterious, cun- ning, and dreadful intensity of the very young, I despised my father and I hated Ellen. It is hard to say why. I don't know why. But it allowed all of Ellen's prophecies about me to come true. She had said that there would come a time when nothing and nobody would be able to rule me, not even my father. And that time certainly came. It was after Joey. The incident with Joey had shaken me profoundly and its effect was to make me secretive and cruel. I could not discuss what had happened to me with anyone, I could not even admit it to myself; and, while I never thought about it, it remained, nevertheless, at the bottom of my mind, as still and as awful as a decomposing corpse. And it changed, it thickened, it soured the atmosphere of my mind. Soon it was I who came staggering home — 25 GIOVANNrS ROOM late at night, it was I who found Ellen waiting up for me, Ellen and I who wrangled night in and night out. My father's attitude was that this was but an inevitable phase of my growing up and he affected to take it lightly. But beneath his jocu- lar, boys-together air, he was at a loss, he was frightened. Perhaps he had supposed that my growing up would bring us closer together whereas, now that he was trying to find out something about me, I was in full flight from him. I did not want him to know me. I did not want anyone to know me. And then, again, I was undergoing with my father what the very young inevitably undergo with their elders: I was beginning to judge him. And the very harshness of this judgment, which broke my heart, revealed, though I could not have said it then, how much I had loved him, how that love, along with my innocence, was dying.

• From Blue Nights (2011)

  Considerable time passes before I realize that my preoccupation with the words she used has screened off any possible apprehension of what she was actually saying when she wrote her journal entry on that March day in 1984. Was that deliberate? Was I screening off what she said about her fear of life the same way I had screened off what she said about her fear of The Broken Man? Hello, Quintana? I’m going to lock you here in the garage? After I became five I never ever dreamed about him? Did I all her life keep a baffle between us? Did I prefer not to hear what she was actually saying? Did it frighten me? I try the passage again, this time reading for meaning. What she said: My present fear of life. What she said: Pass into nothingness. What she was actually saying: The World has nothing but Morning and Night. It has no Day or Lunch. Let me just be in the ground. Let me just be in the ground and go to sleep. When I tell you that I am afraid to get up from a folding chair in a rehearsal room on West Forty-second Street, is this what I am actually saying? Does it frighten me? L 25 et me again try to talk to you directly. On my last birthday, December 5, 2009, I became seventy-five years old. Notice the odd construction there—I became seventy-five years old—do you hear the echo? I became seventy-five? I became five? After I became five I never ever dreamed about him? Also notice—in notes that talk about aging in their first few pages, notes called Blue Nights for a reason, notes called Blue Nights because at the time I began them I could think of little other than the inevitable approach of darker days—how long it took me to tell you that one salient fact, how long it took me to address the subject as it were. Aging and its evidence remain life’s most predictable events, yet they also remain matters we prefer to leave unmentioned, unexplored: I have watched tears flood the eyes of grown women, loved women, women of talent and accomplishment, for no reason other than that a small child in the room, more often than not an adored niece or nephew, has just described them as “wrinkly,” or asked how old they are. When we are asked this question we are always undone by its innocence, somehow shamed by the clear bell-like tones in which it is asked. What shames us is this: the answer we give is never innocent.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The good wife, herseeming she had heard her husband scold and hearing Adriano speak, incontinent perceived where and with whom she had been; whereupon, like a wise woman as she was, she arose forthright, without saying a word, and taking her little son's cradle, carried it at a guess, for that there was no jot of light to be seen in the chamber, to the side of the bed where her daughter slept and lay down with the latter; then, as if she had been aroused by her husband's clamour, she called him and enquired what was to do between himself and Pinuccio. He answered, 'Hearest thou not what he saith he hath done this night unto Niccolosa?' 'Marry,' quoth she, 'he lieth in his throat, for he was never abed with Niccolosa, seeing that I have lain here all night; more by token that I have not been able to sleep a wink; and thou art an ass to believe him. You men drink so much of an evening that you do nothing but dream all night and fare hither and thither, without knowing it, and fancy you do wonders. 'Tis a thousand pities you don't break your necks. But what doth Pinuccio yonder? Why bideth he not in his own bed?' Adriano, on his part, seeing how adroitly the good wife went about to cover her own shame and that of her daughter, chimed in with, 'Pinuccio, I have told thee an hundred times not to go abroad, for that this thy trick of arising in thy sleep and telling for true the extravagances thou dreamest will bring thee into trouble some day or other. Come back here, God give thee an ill night!'

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

  I answer that, Just as, considering the nature of the individual, a different quantity is due to different men, so also, considering the nature of the individual, a different sex is due to different men. Moreover, this same diversity is becoming to the perfection of the species, the different degrees whereof are filled by this very difference of sex and quantity. Wherefore just as men will rise again of various stature, so will they rise again of different sex. And though there be difference of sex there will be no shame in seeing one another, since there will no lust to invite them to shameful deeds which are the cause of shame. Reply to Objection 1: When it is said: We shall all meet “Christ unto a perfect man,” this refers not to the male sex but to the strength of soul which will be in all, both men and women. Reply to Objection 2: Woman is subject to man on account of the frailty of nature, as regards both vigor of soul and strength of body. After the resurrection, however, the difference in those points will be not on account of the difference of sex, but by reason of the difference of merits. Hence the conclusion does not follow. Reply to Objection 3: Although the begetting of a woman is beside the intention of a particular nature, it is in the intention of universal nature, which requires both sexes for the perfection of the human species. Nor will any defect result from sex as stated above (ad 2). Whether all will rise again to animal life so as to exercise the functions of nutrition and generation?Objection 1: It would seem that they will rise again to the animal life, or in other words that they will make use of the acts of the nutritive and generative powers. For our resurrection will be conformed to Christ’s. But Christ is said to have ate after His resurrection (Jn. 21; Lk. 24). Therefore, after the resurrection men will eat, and in like manner beget. Objection 2: Further, the distinction of sexes is directed to generation; and in like manner the instruments which serve the nutritive power are directed to eating. Now man will rise again with all these. Therefore he will exercise the acts of the generative and nutritive powers. Objection 3: Further, the whole man will be beatified both in soul and in body. Now beatitude or happiness, according to the Philosopher (Ethic. i, 7), consists in a perfect operation. Therefore it must needs be that all the powers of the soul and all the members should have their respective acts after the resurrection. And so the same conclusion follows as above.