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.

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• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  God, what a face! But at least that house is fairly safe." "The face doesn't make any difference," I said. "All right then, just to be different I'll take the pretty one. Don't hold it against me later." At our approach the two women jumped up as though some devil had taken possession of them. We went in the house, which was so small that our heads seemed to touch the ceiling as we entered. Giving a smile that revealed her gold teeth and gums, the spindly one with a country accent took me off to a tiny three-mat room.A sense of duty made me embrace her. Holding her in my arms, I was about to kiss her. Her heavy shoulders began shaking crazily with laughter. "Don't do thaaat! You'll get lipstick on you. This here's the way." The prostitute opened her big mouth, its gold teeth framed by lipstick, and produced her sturdy tongue like a stick. Following her example, I stuck out my tongue also. The tips of our tongues touched. . . . Perhaps I will not be understood when I say there is a numbness that resembles fierce pain. I felt my entire body becoming paralyzed with just such a pain, a pain that was intense, but still could not be felt at all. I dropped my head onto the pillow. Ten minutes later there was no doubt of my incapacity. My knees were shaking with shame. I assumed that my friend had no suspicion of what had happened, and surprisingly enough, during the next few days I surrendered myself to the drab feelings of convalescence. I was like a person who has been suffering an unknown disease in an agony of fear: just learning the name of his disease, even though it is an incurable one, gives him a surprising feeling of temporary relief. He knows well, though, that the relief is only temporary. Moreover, in his heart he foresees a still more inescapable hopelessness, which, by its very nature, will give a more permanent feeling of relief. I too had probably come to expect a blow that it would be even more impossible to parry, or to say it another way, a more inescapable feeling of relief. During the following weeks I met my friend at school many times, but neither of us ever referred to the incident. About a month later he came to visit me one evening, accompanied by another student, a mutual acquaintance of ours. This was T, a great ladies' man, full of vanity and always boasting that he could make any girl in only fifteen minutes. In no time our conversation descended to the inevitable theme. "I just can't get along without it any more—I simply can't control myself," T said, looking closely at me. "If any of my friends were impotent I'd really envy them.

• From Fragments (7)

  Il lui semble, du moins à lui seul, qu'il fait partie des Isothées, lui, cet homme qui établit la concurrence <à notre) école ; lui qui, frappant la lyre avec le plectre, a l'habitude de débiter des tirades prosaïques, devant lesquelles tu t'inclines et lui souris avec désir. Tandis que moi. certes, mon cœur se renverse dans ma poitrine, dès qu'il m'apparaît. de ma voix aucun son même enroué ne peut plus retentir et ma langue reste paralysée ; puis c'est un feu subtil qui court sous mon épiderme ; ensuite par les yeux rien ne peut plus m'exciler ; mes oreilles résonnent comme si la mer venait dedans briser ses vagues ; je n'ai pas peur et la sueur m'inonde et le frisson me saisit toute entière ; plus blafarde que l'aube, je me meurs, encore un peu je parais descendre dans la demeure d'Hadès. Mais ce n'est pas en suivant tout mouvement poétique hardi, et en chantant des œuvres dignes de louange, que (cet homme si présomptueux) se montre avide d'admiration. De même que pour les poésies de bon goût et l'enchaînement régulier des mètres, la manière de les concevoir, qui nous est commune, n'a pas changé. Et pourtant tu agis au contraire, de manière à faire fuir aux gens de goût, les poèmes honnêtes que nous modulons avec art, sans plectre, sur les sept voix de notre lyre. Tu m'affliges, lu me couvres de honte. Par cette honte, puisse se gonfler, sans excès, ton cœur d'élan, afin que cette conception de l'idéal, qui nous est commune, ne te laisse plus seule t'endormir dans ce manque d'ardeur pour la lutte. Les Prétendues Amies de Sappho Les Prétendues Amies de Sappho

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Instantly Sonoko took on a new meaning for me—she was my sole armor, the sole coat of mail for my frail conscience in its struggle against these hands. Right or wrong, by fair means or foul, I told myself, you simply must love her. This feeling became, as it were, a moral obligation for me, lying even heavier in the bottom of my heart than did my sense of sin. Knowing nothing of all this, Kusano said innocently : "You don't need a washrag for a bath when you've got hands like these to rub with." A tiny sigh escaped from his mother's lips. In my position I could not help feeling like a shameless, uninvited guest. Sonoko happened to glance up at me. I hung my head. Absurd as it was, I had a feeling as though I must ask her forgiveness for something. "Let's go outside," said Kusano, pushing roughly at the backs of his grandmother and mother in his embarrassment. Each family group was seated in a circle on the dead turf of the bleak barracks courtyard, treating its cadet to a feast. I regret to say that no matter how I looked I could find no beauty in the scene. Soon we too had formed a circle of our own, with Kusano sitting cross-legged in the middle of it. He was cramming some Western-style candies into his mouth and could only roll his eyes when he wanted to call my attention to the sky in the direction of Tokyo. From the hilly region where we were I could look across sear fields to the basin in which M City lay extended. And beyond it I could look between a gap formed by the meeting of two low mountain ranges to what Kusano said was the sky over Tokyo. The chilly clouds of early spring were spreading their shadows over that distant region. "Last night the sky was bright red there. It was something awful. There's no telling whether your house is still standing or not. There's never been an air raid before that made all the sky there turn so red. . . ." No one spoke. Kusano went on chattering importantly, complaining that unless his grandmother and mother evacuated the family to the country as soon as possible he'd never be able to get a full night's sleep. "I agree with you," the grandmother said spiritedly. "We'll evacuate right away. I promise you." From her obi she extracted a small notebook and a silver pencil no larger than a toothpick and began writing something painstakingly. On the return journey the train was filled with gloom.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Aren't you the girl who's going to be my wife?" At every turn this sort of curious contradiction cropped up between my intellectual views and my emotions. I knew that what made me adopt such lukewarm attitudes—like that "H'm, perhaps so"—was not some fault in my character that I could change, but was the work of something that had existed even before I had had any hand in the matter. In short, I knew clearly that it was not my fault. But for this very reason I had formed the habit of treating those parts of my character that were in any way my responsibility to exhortations so wholesome and sensible as to be comical. As a part of my system of self-discipline, dating from childhood, I constantly told myself it would be better to die than become a lukewarm person, an unmanly person, a person who does not clearly know his likes and dislikes, a person who wants only to be loved without knowing how to love. This exhortation of course had a possible applicability to the parts of my character for which I was to blame, but so far as the other parts were concerned, the parts for which I was not to blame, it was an impossible requirement from the beginning. Thus, in the present case even the strength of a Samson would not have been sufficient to make me adopt a manly and unequivocal attitude toward Sonoko. So then, this image of a lukewarm man that Sonoko was now seeing, this thing that appeared to be my character, aroused my disgust, made my entire existence seem worthless, and tore my self-confidence into shreds. I was made to distrust both my will and my character, or at least, so far as my will was concerned, I could not believe it was anything but a fake. On the other hand, this way of thinking that placed such emphasis upon the will was in itself an exaggeration amounting almost to fantasy. Even a normal person cannot govern his behavior by will alone. No matter how normal I might have been, there certainly might have been a reason somewhere for doubting whether Sonoko and I were perfectly matched at every point for a happy married life, some reason that would have justified even that normal me in answering "H'm, perhaps so." But I had deliberately acquired the habit of closing my eyes even to such obvious assumptions, just as though I did not want to miss a single opportunity for tormenting myself.... This is a trite device, often adopted by persons who, cut off from all other means of escape, retreat into the safe haven of regarding themselves as objects of tragedy. . . . "Don't worry," Sonoko said in a quiet voice. "You won't be killed. You won't be even slightly hurt. Every night I pray to the Lord Jesus for you, and my prayers are always answered." "You're very devout, aren't you?

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  As the game progressed, being repeated many times, even the women seemed to become careless of their appearance. Perhaps it was because she was a little intoxicated, but I remember how I once saw the prettiest of the girls laughing excitedly, not noticing that in the confusion of failing to a cushion her skirt had been pulled up far above her thighs. The flesh of her thighs gleamed whitely. If this had happened a short time before, I probably would have imitated the way other young men shy away from their own desire in such a situation, and using all my skill at playing a part that was never forgotten a single moment, would have instantly averted my eyes. But since that certain day I had changed. Without the slightest feeling of shame—that is, without the slightest shame at my innate shamelessness—I stared at those white thighs as calmly as though I were examining some piece of inanimate matter. Suddenly I was struck by the astringent pain that comes from staring too long at something. The pain proclaimed: You're not human. You're a being who is incapable of social intercourse. You're nothing but a creature, non-human and somehow strangely pathetic. Fortunately, the time for preparing for the civil-service examinations was at hand and I had to devote all my energies to dry-as-dust studying for them. This automatically enabled me, both physically and mentally, to keep more tormenting matters at a distance. But even this distraction was effective for only a short time at the beginning. The sense of failure which that night had aroused in me gradually returned, spreading into every corner of my life. I became depressed. For days on end I would be unable to turn my hand to anything. The need to prove to myself that I had some sort of potency seemed to become more urgent each day. It seemed that I could not go on living without some such proof. And yet nowhere could I discover a clue to the realization of my inherent perversity. There was no opportunity here for satisfying my abnormal desires, not even in their mildest form. Spring came, and a frantic nervousness was built up behind my facade of tranquillity. It seemed as though the season itself bore me a grudge, expressing its hostility in its dust-laden winds. If an automobile almost grazed me, I would mentally berate it in a loud voice, saying: "Well, why don't you go on and run over me!" I delighted in the strenuous study and Spartan existence I had imposed upon myself.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  For a sash I chose an obi on which scarlet roses were painted in oil, and wrapped it round and round my waist in the manner of a Turkish pasha. I covered my head with a wrapping-cloth of crepe de Chine. My cheeks flushed with wild delight when I stood before the mirror and saw that this improvised headcloth resembled those of the pirates in Treasure Island. But my work was still far from complete. My every point, down to the very tips of my fingernails, had to be made worthy of the creation of mystery. I stuck a hand mirror in my sash and powdered my face lightly. Then I armed myself with a silver-colored flashlight, an old-fashioned fountain pen of chased metal, and whatever else struck my eye. I assumed a solemn air and, dressed like this, rushed into my grandmother's sitting-room. Unable to suppress my frantic laughter and delight, I ran about the room crying: "I'm Tenkatsu! Me, I'm Tenkatsu!" My grandmother was there sick abed, and also my mother and a visitor and the maid assigned to the sickroom. But not a single person was visible to my eyes. My frenzy was focused upon the consciousness that, through my impersonation, Tenkatsu was being revealed to many eyes. In short, I could see nothing but myself. And then I chanced to catch sight of my mother's face. She had turned slightly pale and was simply sitting there as though absentminded. Our glances met; she lowered her eyes.I understood. Tears blurred my eyes. What was it I understood at that moment, or was on the verge of understanding? Did the motif of later years—that of "remorse as prelude to sin"—show here the first hint of its beginning? Or was the moment teaching me how grotesque my isolation would appear to the eyes of love, and at the same time was I learning, from the reverse side of the lesson, my own incapacity for accepting love? . . . The maid grabbed me and took me to another room. In an instant, just as though I were a chicken for plucking, she had me stripped of my outrageous masquerade. My passion for such dressing-up was aggravated when I began going to movies. It continued markedly until I was about nine. Once I went with our student houseboy to see a film version of the operetta Fra Diavolo. The character playing Diavolo wore an unforgettable court costume with cascades of lace at the wrists. When I said how much I should like to dress like that and wear such a wig, the student laughed derisively.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As they went, they were discovered and taken with the dead body by the officers of the provostry, who chanced to be abroad at that hour about some other matter. Andrevuola, more desirous of death than of life, recognizing the officers, said frankly, 'I know who you are and that it would avail me nothing to seek to flee; I am ready to go with you before the Seignory and there declare how the case standeth; but let none of you dare to touch me, provided I am obedient to you, or to remove aught from this body, an he would not be accused of me.' Accordingly, without being touched of any, she repaired, with Gabriotto's body, to the palace, where the Provost, hearing what was to do, arose and sending for her into his chamber, proceeded to enquire of this that had happened. To this end he caused divers physicians look if the dead man had been done to death with poison or otherwise, who all affirmed that it was not so, but that some imposthume had burst near the heart, the which had suffocated him. The magistrate hearing this and feeling her to be guilty in [but] a small matter, studied to make a show of giving her that which he could not sell her and told her that, an she would consent to his pleasures, he would release her; but, these words availing not, he offered, out of all seemliness, to use force. However, Andrevuola, fired with disdain and waxed strong [for indignation], defended herself manfully, rebutting him with proud and scornful words.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The count, woeful for that by his flight he had, innocent as he was, approved himself guilty, having, without making himself known or being recognized, reached Calais with his children, passed hastily over into England and betook himself in mean apparel to London, wherein ere he entered, with many words he lessoned his two little children, and especially in two things; first, that they should brook with patience the poor estate, whereunto, without their fault, fortune had brought them, together with himself,--and after, that with all wariness they should keep themselves from ever discovering unto any whence or whose children they were, as they held life dear. The boy, Louis by name, who was some nine and the girl, who was called Violante and was some seven years old, both, as far as their tender age comported, very well apprehended their father's lessons and showed it thereafter by deed. That this might be the better done,[127] he deemed it well to change their names; wherefore he named the boy Perrot and the girl Jeannette and all three, entering London, meanly clad, addressed themselves to go about asking alms, like as we see yonder French vagabonds do. [Footnote 127: _i.e._ That the secret might be the better kept.] They being on this account one morning at a church door, it chanced that a certain great lady, the wife of one of the king's marshals of England, coming forth of the church, saw the count and his two little ones asking alms and questioned him whence he was and if the children were his, to which he replied that he was from Picardy and that, by reason of the misfeasance of a rakehelly elder son of his, it had behoved him depart the country with these two, who were his. The lady, who was pitiful, cast her eyes on the girl and being much taken with her, for that she was handsome, well-mannered and engaging, said, 'Honest man, an thou be content to leave thy daughter with me, I will willingly take her, for that she hath a good favour, and if she prove an honest woman, I will in due time marry her on such wise that she shall fare well.' This offer was very pleasing to the count, who promptly answered, 'Yes,' and with tears gave up the girl to the lady, urgently commending her to her care.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Then he questioned him of many other things, of all which he answered after the same fashion, and the holy father offering to proceed to absolution, Master Ciappelletto said, 'Sir, I have yet sundry sins that I have not told you.' The friar asked him what they were, and he answered, 'I mind me that one Saturday, after none, I caused my servant sweep out the house and had not that reverence for the Lord's holy day which it behoved me have.' 'Oh,' said the friar, 'that is a light matter, my son.' 'Nay,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto, 'call it not a light matter, for that the Lord's Day is greatly to be honoured, seeing that on such a day our Lord rose from the dead.' Then said the friar, 'Well, hast thou done aught else?' 'Ay, sir,' answered Master Ciappelletto; 'once, unthinking what I did, I spat in the church of God.' Thereupon the friar fell a-smiling, and said, 'My son, that is no thing to be recked of; we who are of the clergy, we spit there all day long.' 'And you do very ill,' rejoined Master Ciappelletto; 'for that there is nought which it so straitly behoveth to keep clean as the holy temple wherein is rendered sacrifice to God.' Brief, he told him great plenty of such like things and presently fell a-sighing and after weeping sore, as he knew full well to do, whenas he would. Quoth the holy friar, 'What aileth thee, my son?' 'Alas, sir,' replied Master Ciappelletto, 'I have one sin left, whereof I never yet confessed me, such shame have I to tell it; and every time I call it to mind, I weep, even as you see, and meseemeth very certain that God will never pardon it me.' 'Go to, son,' rejoined the friar; 'what is this thou sayest? If all the sins that were ever wrought or are yet to be wrought of all mankind, what while the world endureth, were all in one man and he repented him thereof and were contrite therefor, as I see thee, such is the mercy and loving-kindness of God that, upon confession, He would freely pardon them to him. Wherefore do thou tell it in all assurance.' Quoth Master Ciappelletto, still weeping sore, 'Alack, father mine, mine is too great a sin, and I can scarce believe that it will ever be forgiven me of God, except your prayers strive for me.' Then said the friar, 'Tell it me in all assurance, for I promise thee to pray God for thee.'

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  After a second of shocked silence, Bluebeard’s wife began again, in earnest, to plead for mercy. This he ignored, continuing in the same calm, matter-of-fact tone, only slightly louder to supersede her cries. “You will count the lashes as I give them to you. If you miss a single count, we will start again at the beginning. Also, you must accept the lashes willingly, acknowledging that you deserve them. You may cry out, but you must not protest or I will begin the lashes again.” Immediately after this frightful speech Bluebeard sent the whip flying brutally across his wife’s backside for the first time. She cried out, and fresh tears blinded her vision. “We will begin again,” was Bluebeard’s cruel reply, and again the lash stung his wife’s flesh. This time she called out, “One!” A moment later another sting from the lash came and she heard herself cry, “Two!” Shock and horror mingled with her shame, and yet, with the next sting of the whip she managed to cry, “Three!” Bluebeard continued this barrage, and his wife obediently called out the corresponding number to each and every painful sting. Periodically Bluebeard would stop to ask her, “How many more lashes do you wish, my love?” or “Tell me, how many more lashes should I give thee?” to which she was compelled to answer with the full amount due to complete the required thirty lashes. Somehow she managed to do all this, though her skin shone bright red and burned with a white, hot heat, long before her thirty lashes were up. When at last she had endured all thirty lashes, her husband approached her and gently kissed her face and lips. Although she now knew that her husband was not going to kill her, she still wondered uneasily what more lay in store for her. And yet, she found herself responding to her husband’s kisses, partly from relief and partly from a new, curious and incomprehensible need that was growing within her. She began uttering soft words of apology and love. But Bluebeard drew his lips away from hers, chiding her softly, “A loving wife does not take what is not given freely from her husband.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Continuing on this wise and enjoying great pleasure and delight one of the other, they knew not how to do so secretly but that, one night, Lisabetta, going whereas Lorenzo lay, was, unknown to herself, seen of the eldest of her brothers, who, being a prudent youth, for all the annoy it gave him to know this thing, being yet moved by more honourable counsel, abode without sign or word till the morning, revolving in himself various things anent the matter. The day being come, he recounted to his brothers that which he had seen the past night of Lisabetta and Lorenzo, and after long advisement with them, determined (so that neither to them nor to their sister should any reproach ensue thereof) to pass the thing over in silence and feign to have seen and known nothing thereof till such time as, without hurt or unease to themselves, they might avail to do away this shame from their sight, ere it should go farther. In this mind abiding and devising and laughing with Lorenzo as was their wont, it befell that one day, feigning to go forth the city, all three, a-pleasuring, they carried him with them to a very lonely and remote place; and there, the occasion offering, they slew him, whilst he was off his guard, and buried him on such wise that none had knowledge of it; then, returning to Messina, they gave out that they had despatched him somewhither for their occasions, the which was the lightlier credited that they were often used to send him abroad about their business.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  became notably more extreme after his release from prison, when he disappeared into the shadows of Central America with his two LeBaron wives. “The LeBarons seemed to encourage Dad’s strange beliefs,” says Lena. “They were convinced he possessed God-like qualities. They would feed his fantasy, and he would feed theirs.” As he dragged his young wives and their pack of semiferal children back and forth across Central America, Kenyon received a series of revelations in which God told him that he was “the last prophet before the return of Jesus Christ.” God told him, in fact, that Jesus would come back to earth in the form of a child born of Kenyon’s pure seed and his daughter’s virgin womb. Heeding the Lord’s commandment, in June 1996, on Evangeline’s twelfth birthday, he took her as his wife—that is to say, he began raping her on a regular basis. According to Evangeline, her father believed that he should start having sexual intercourse with her when she turned twelve “because this is when Mary, the first mother of Jesus, was impregnated.” Kenyon was convinced, she says, that “nobody else’s blood was good enough” to sire the Son of Man. When Kenyon forced himself on Evangeline, she remembers him telling her that “I was going to hell because I wasn’t being submissive.” As she continued to resist, “he would throw me on the ground, punch me, and cover my mouth when I would try and scream.” Eventually, to keep from being beaten, she started yielding passively to her sixty-year-old father’s incestuous assaults. “I was barely twelve years old,” Evangeline states with astounding composure. “I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I knew I didn’t like it. I felt gross. My father wouldn’t allow me to have friends, or even talk to anybody.” During Evangeline’s ordeal at her father’s hands, Blackmore often fasted, and would force his family to fast along with him. “He was always going on liquid diets of pure orange juice, or lemon water,” says Evangeline. He came to believe that “if he makes his body pure enough, that he can move mountains, and walk through walls.” He also believed that almost everyone in the world except himself had been corrupted and was evil. Evangeline recalls Blackmore talking “about finding some innocent naive Indian tribe and converting them to his beliefs,” then systematically improving their blood by impregnating their women “with his own pure seed.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  In November she and Agnes returned to England, but the friendship was kept up by correspondence, for Lady Massey was prolific with her pen, indeed she was never more happy than when writing. And now Mary bought the new evening dresses, and she dragged Stephen off to choose some new ties. As the visit to Branscombe Court drew near it was seldom out of theig thoughts for a moment - to Stephen it appeared like the first fruits of toil; to Mary like the gateway into an existence that must be very safe and reassuring. 4 STEPHEN never knew what enemy had prepared the blow that was struck by Lady Massey. Perhaps it had been Colonel Fitz- 426 THE WELL OF LONELINESS maurice who might all the time have been hiding his suspicions; he must certainly have known a good deal about Stephen — he had friends who lived in the vicinity of Morton. Perhaps it had merely been unkind gossip connected with Brockett or Valérie Seymour, with the people whom Mary and Stephen knew, although, as it happened, Lady Massey had not met them. But after all, it mat- tered so little; what did it matter how the thing had come about? By comparison with the insult itself, its origin seemed very un- important. It was in December that the letter arrived, just a week be- fore they were leaving for England. A long, rambling, piti- fully tactless letter, full of awkward and deeply wounding excuses: ‘If I hadn’t grown so fond of you both,’ wrote Lady Massey, ‘this would be much less painful — as it is the whole thing has made me quite ill, but I must consider my position in the county. You see, the county looks to me for a lead — above ali I must consider my daughter. The rumours that have reached me about you and Mary — certain things that I don’t want to enter into — have simply forced me to break off our friendship and to say that I must ask you not to come here for Christmas. Of course a woman of my position with all eyes upon her has to be extra careful. It’s too terribly upsetting and sad for me; if I hadn’t been so fond of you both — but you know how attached I had grown to Mary . . .’ and so it went on; a kind of wail full of self- importance combined with self-pity. As Stephen read she went white to the lips, and Mary sprang up. * What’s that letter you’re reading? ’ ‘It’s from Lady Massey. It’s about . . . it’s about...’ Her voice failed. ‘ Show it to me,’ persisted Mary. Stephen shook her head: ‘ No —I’d rather not.’ Then Mary asked: ‘Is it about our visit? ° Stephen nodded: ‘ We’re not going to spend Christmas at Branscombe. Darling, it’s all right — don’t look like that . THE WELL OF LONELINESS 427

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  "It's good that you know even that much about yourself." I deliberately talked down to him, making a show of bravado. "Well, then," he said, looking as grave as a committee chairman, "we ought to go somewhere and have something to drink. It's a little too much for a beginner if he's sober." "No, I don't want to drink." I felt my cheeks grow cold. "I'm going without taking a single drink. I have nerve enough without it."In quick succession there came a ride on a gloomy streetcar and a gloomy elevated, an unfamiliar station, an unfamiliar street, a corner where shabby tenements stood in rows, and purple and red lights under which the women's faces looked swollen. The customers walked along the clammy, thawing street, passing each other in silence, their footfalls as hushed as though they were barefoot. I felt not the slightest desire. It was nothing but my feeling of uneasiness that goaded me on, exactly as though I were a child pleading for a midafternoon snack. "Any place will do," I said. "Any place will do, I tell you." I felt as though I wanted to turn and flee from the artificially husky voices of the women saying: "Stop a minute, honey; wait just a minute, honey. . . ." "The girls in this house are dangerous. . . . You like that one? God, what a face! But at least that house is fairly safe." "The face doesn't make any difference," I said. "All right then, just to be different I'll take the pretty one. Don't hold it against me later." At our approach the two women jumped up as though some devil had taken possession of them. We went in the house, which was so small that our heads seemed to touch the ceiling as we entered. Giving a smile that revealed her gold teeth and gums, the spindly one with a country accent took me off to a tiny three-mat room.A sense of duty made me embrace her. Holding her in my arms, I was about to kiss her. Her heavy shoulders began shaking crazily with laughter. "Don't do thaaat! You'll get lipstick on you. This here's the way." The prostitute opened her big mouth, its gold teeth framed by lipstick, and produced her sturdy tongue like a stick. Following her example, I stuck out my tongue also. The tips of our tongues touched. . . . Perhaps I will not be understood when I say there is a numbness that resembles fierce pain. I felt my entire body becoming paralyzed with just such a pain, a pain that was intense, but still could not be felt at all. I dropped my head onto the pillow. Ten minutes later there was no doubt of my incapacity.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  She was annoyed and embarrassed by the reminder. “If you had the impact on me that you suppose, it seems that you could somehow have extracted the truth from my lips.” “Is that another challenge?” he asked. “I…well,” she stammered, a little more wary this time. But all at once she seemed to make up her mind. “Yes!” He held out his hand to her. “So, you accept the terms—namely this night of slavery against becoming my wife?” “Those terms are not fair, and you know it!” she protested. “Whether it’s fair or not, I cannot say,” he replied. “But it is for me, as the reigning victor, to set the terms, and there they are. Take ’em or leave ’em.” Her jaw was set in an obstinate expression as the anger flashed in her eyes. She would be damned if she would agree to his outrageous terms. “Let’s get this night over with,” she snapped. He sighed, silently debating over how long it would take him to break her down to the point where she would accept his terms. He was torn between two and three minutes. He placed his hand on the small of her back and pushed forward gently. “On all fours then, slave,” he reminded her. She took a deep breath, assuring herself that she could do this. But her first attempt failed. Her limbs felt unusually stiff. It was as if they possessed a will of their own, and refused to bend under the present circumstances. Her face was scarlet when she was finally able to force her body to submit, and at length she found herself prostrate before the arrogant cat, on hands and knees. The position was new to her. She was overcome with shame and mortification. But there was something else. She felt agitated and inexplicably high-strung. Unwelcome tears filled her eyes. She struggled to stifle her sobs so that her tormentor would not know the extent of her discomfiture. He, meanwhile, positioned himself behind her. Though she pressed her legs together as much as possible, she knew that in this position she could not hide herself from his view. The strange stirrings this provoked within her caused the tears to flow faster. She was in a dangerously emotional and excitable state. Cat’s hand caressed her exposed area possessively. He chuckled as he once again felt her wet desire. She gasped, on the verge of panic. I must regain my composure, she thought. But there was such turmoil within her that she hardly knew where to begin. Her captor slapped her buttocks lightly, saying, “Forward, slave.” Awkwardly she crawled forward, hating him more with every advance. He walked behind her, enjoying the view, but not really liking to see her so subjugated. He felt that she was definitely at her most magnificent when she stood in a posture of authority.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Until then she had been so frightened by the frequent attacks of autointoxication I have already mentioned that she had forbidden me to eat all "blue-skinned" fish. My diet had been carefully limited: of fish, I was allowed only such white-flesh kinds as halibut, turbot, or red snapper; of potatoes, only those mashed and strained through a colander; of sweets, all bean-jams were forbidden and there were only light biscuits, wafers, and other such dry confections; and of fruits, only apples cut in thin slices, or small portions of mandarin oranges. Hence it was on this visit that I ate my first blue-skinned fish—a yellowtail—which I devoured with immense satisfaction. Its delicate flavor signified for me that I had finally been accorded the first of my adult rights, but at the same time it left a rather bitter tang of uneasiness upon the tip of my tongue—uneasiness at becoming an adult—which still recalls me to a feeling of discomfort whenever I taste that flavor. Sugiko was a healthy girl, overflowing with life. I myself had never been able to go to sleep easily, and when staying at her house and lying in the same room on the pallet next to hers, I would watch with a mixture of envy and admiration how Sugiko always fell asleep instantly upon lowering her head to the pillow, exactly like a machine. I had many times more freedom at Sugiko's house than at my own. As the imaginary enemies who must want to steal me away—my parents, in short—were not present, my grandmother had no qualms about giving me more liberty. There was no need to keep me always within reach of her eyes, as when at home. And yet I was unable to take any great pleasure in this freedom that was allowed me. Like an invalid taking his first steps during convalescence, I had a feeling of stiffness as though I were acting under the compulsion of some imaginary obligation. I missed my bed of idleness. And in this house it was tacitly required that I act like a boy. The reluctant masquerade had begun. At about this time I was beginning to understand vaguely the mechanism of the fact that what people regarded as a pose on my part was actually an expression of my need to assert my true nature, and that it was precisely what people regarded as my true self which was a masquerade. It was this unwilling masquerade that made me say: "Let's play war."

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  It was a painful awakening. Why were things wrong just as they were? The questions which I had asked myself numberless times since boyhood rose again to my lips. Why are we all burdened with the duty to destroy everything, change everything, entrust everything to impermanency? Is it this unpleasant duty that the world calls life? Or am I the only one for whom it is a duty? At least there was no doubt that I was alone in regarding the duty as a heavy burden. At last I spoke: "So, you're leaving. . . . But of course even if you were here, I myself would have to be going away before long. . . ." "Where're you going?" "They've decided to send us to live and work at some factory again beginning this month or in April." "But a factory—that'll be dangerous, with the air raids and all." "Yes, it'll be dangerous," I answered despairfully. I took my leave as quickly as possible. . . . All the following day I was in a carefree mood inspired by the thought of having already been relieved of t he obligation to love her. I was cheerful, singing in a loud voice, kicking aside the disgusting Compendium of Laws. This curiously sanguine state of mind lasted the entire day. That night I fell asleep like a child. Then suddenly was awakened by the sound of sirens blowing far and wide in the middle of the night. All the household went to the air-raid shelter grouchily, but no planes appeared and soon the all-clear siren sounded. Having dozed off in the shelter, I was the last to emerge above ground, my steel helmet and canteen dangling from my shoulder. The winter of 1945 had been a persistent one. Although spring had already arrived, coming with the stealthy footsteps of a leopard, winter still stood like a cage about it, blocking its way with gray stubbornness. Ice still glittered under the starlight. Through the foliage of an evergreen tree my wakeful eyes picked out several stars, which looked warmly blurred. The sharp night air mingled with my breathing. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the idea that I was in love with Sonoko and that a world in which Sonoko and I both did not live was not worth a penny to me. Something inside told me that if I could forget her I'd better do so. And immediately, as though it had been lying in wait, that grief which undermined the foundations of my existence flooded over me again, just as it had that day when I saw Sonoko coming down the steps onto the platform.The grief was unendurable. I stamped the ground. Nevertheless I held out one more day. Then I could stand it no longer and went to see her.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Since immorality was the very basis and first principle of my nature I found an all the more truly fiendish flavor of secret sin in my virtuous behavior, in this blameless relationship with a woman, in my honorable conduct, and in being regarded as a man of lofty principles. We had stretched out our arms to each other and supported something in our joined hands, but this thing we were holding was like a sort of gas that exists when you believe in its existence and disappears when you doubt. The task of supporting it seems simple at first glance, but actually requires an ultimate refinement of calculation and a consummate skill. I had called an artificial "normality" into being in that space within our hands, and had induced Sonoko to take part in the dangerous operation of trying to sustain an almost chimerical "love" from moment to moment. She seemed to have become party to the plot without realizing it. This lack of realization on her part was probably the only reason her assistance was so effective. But the time came when even Sonoko became dimly aware of the indomitable force of this nameless danger, this danger that differed completely from the-usual roughhewn dangers of the world in having a precise, measurable density. One day in late summer I met Sonoko, who had just returned from a mountain resort, at a restaurant called the Coq d'Or. As soon as we met I told her about my having resigned from the civil service. "What'll you do now?" "Oh, let the future take care of itself." "Well, it is a surprise." She did not have anything else to say about the matter. This sort of etiquette of noninterference was already well established between us. Sonoko had been tanned by the mountain sun, and her skin had lost its radiant whiteness there above her breasts. The large pearl in her ring had become gloomily clouded from the heat. The sound of her high voice, always a blend of sadness and indolence, was most appropriate to the season. For a time we again carried on a meaningless, endlessly revolving, insincere conversation. At times it seemed nothing but a great skidding through empty air. It gave us a feeling that we were overhearing a conversation being carried on by two strangers. It was a feeling like that felt at the borderline between sleeping and waking, when one's impatient efforts to go back to sleep without awakening from a happy dream only make the recapture of the dream all the more impossible. I discovered how our hearts, as though infected with some malignant virus, were being eaten away by the uneasy awakening that was brazenly intruding upon our dream, by the futile pleasure of our dream seen at the threshold of consciousness. As though at a signal previously agreed upon, the disease had attacked both our hearts almost simultaneously. We reacted with a show of gaiety.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  More than that, I'd bow down to them." My friend saw that my face had changed color, and he turned the conversation to a new subject, addressing T: You promised to lend me a book by Marcel Proust, remember? Is it interesting?" "I'll say it's interesting. Proust was a sodomite" he used the foreign word. "He had affairs with footmen.”“What's a sodomite?" I asked. I realized that by feigning ignorance I was desperately pawing the air, clutching at this little question for support and trying to find some clue to their thoughts, some indication that they did not suspect my disgrace. "A sodomite's a sodomite. Didn't you know? It's a danshokuka." "Oh . . but I never heard Proust was that way."I could tell that my voice was quivering. To have looked offended would have been the same as giving my companions proof positive. I was ashamed of being able to maintain such a disgraceful outward show of equanimity. It was obvious that my friend had smelled out my secret. Somehow it seemed to me that he was doing all he could to avoid looking at my face. My cursed visitors finally left at eleven o'clock, and I shut myself up for a sleepless night in my room. I cried sobbingly until at last those visions reeking with blood came to comfort me. And then I surrendered myself to them, to those deplorably brutal visions, my most intimate friends. Some diversion was essential. I began dropping in frequently at the gatherings that took place at the house of an old friend, knowing that they would leave nothing in my mind but the memory of idle conversation and a blank aftertaste. I went there because the people of smart society who came to those parties, unlike my classmates, seemed surprisingly friendly and easy to know. They included several stylishly affected young ladies, a famous soprano, a budding lady pianist, and various young wives who had only recently married. There would be dancing, a little drinking, and the playing of silly games, including a slightly erotic form of tag. Sometimes the parties would last until dawn.In the early hours of the morning we would often find ourselves falling asleep as we danced. Then to keep awake we would play a game, scattering cushions about the floor and dancing around them in a circle until the phonograph was suddenly stopped. At this signal we would sit down on the pillows two by two, and whoever failed to find a seat would have to do a stunt. Great excitement was created by the dancers' throwing themselves down in heaps upon the cushions.

• From Worried about Everything Because I Pray about Nothing (2022)

  We must make sure that we are not weaponizing our faith to protect ourselves or take advantage of others, even inadvertently. The Bible, faith, prayer, and church communities exist to serve people, not to control them. God takes this very seriously, as we have seen in the writings of James, Hosea, Micah, and others. In all of this, we must remain open to the conviction of the Holy Spirit. Just because we use Christian words or go to church or quote verses from the Bible doesn’t mean we are acting with a pure heart. Prayer is one of the best ways to keep our hearts clean and our motivations pure before God. He sees the secret recesses of the heart, and He will bring to our attention things that could become pitfalls for us or sources of pain for others. These seven hidden motivations—hiding our pain, dismissing the pain of others, avoiding hard work, protecting the status quo, shifting responsibility, excusing mistakes, and justifying ongoing bad behavior—are not doing us any good. They are just covering up the real issues. If left unchecked, they could lead to serious problems down the road. God is faithful to allow “check oil” moments in your life because He cares about your health and about those around you. Those might look like people complaining to you. They might look like anxiety or depression. They might look like broken relationships. They might look like financial problems. Don’t ignore the warning lights of your heart. Don’t use prayer or faith or love to mask what’s really going on. Don’t drive your soul into oblivion—that’s far more tragic than killing a Mercedes-Benz. Instead, use prayer, faith, love, and every other spiritual tool at your disposal to dig deeper into what is really going on, and then get to work on it. Get advice or counseling. Study and learn. Grow in wisdom. Listen to people around you, and listen to the Holy Spirit. Humble yourself and begin to grow. God will bring change and healing if you’re willing to put in the work.