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 173 of 267 · 20 per page

• From Another Country (1962)

  He knew that he had no honor which the world could recognize. His life, passions, trials, loves, were, at worst, filth, and, at best, disease in the eyes of the world, and crimes in the eyes of his countrymen. There were no standards for him except those he could make for himself. There were no standards for him because he could not accept the definitions, the hideously mechanical jargon of the age. He saw no one around him worth his envy, did not believe in the vast, gray sleep which was called security, did not believe in the cures, panaceas, and slogans which afflicted the world he knew; and this meant that he had to create his standards and make up his definitions as he went along. It was up to him to find out who he was, and it was his necessity to do this, so far as the witchdoctors of the time were concerned, alone. “Mais, bien sûr,” he heard Yves saying to Madame Belet, “je suis tout à fait à votre avis.” Madame Belet was very fond of Yves and gave him the benefit, entirely unsolicited, of her seventy-two years’ experience each time she was able to corner him. He could see Yves now, in the kitchen, holding the two drinks in his hand, edging toward the door, a pale, polite, and lonely smile on his face—for he had great respect for old people—waiting for the pause in Madame Belet’s flow which would allow him to escape. Madame Belet was fond of Eric, too, but he had the feeling that this was mainly because she recognized him as Yves’ somewhat unlikely benefactor. If Eric had been French, she would have despised him. But France did not, Dieu merci! produce such conundrums as Eric, and he was not to be judged by the civilized standards which obtained in her own country. “And what time are you leaving?” she asked. “Oh, surely not before noon, Madame.” She laughed and Yves laughed. There was something bawdy in their laughter and he could not avoid the feeling, though he suppressed it at once, that they were laughing in league, against him. “I hope you will like America,” said Madame Belet. “I will become very rich there,” said Yves, “and when I come back, I will take you on a pilgrimage to Rome.” For Madame Belet was devout and had never been to Rome, and it was her great hope to see the Holy City before she died. “Ah. You will never come back.” “I will come back,” Yves said. But his voice was full of doubt. And Eric realized, for the first time, that Yves was afraid. “People who go to America,” said Madame Belet, “never come back.” “Au contraire,” said Yves, “they are coming back all the time.” Coming back to what? Eric asked himself. Madame Belet laughed again.

• From Real Life (2020)

  En mentant, comme dans l’histoire de l’homme qui avait menti toute sa vie, que sa femme avait tué à coups de marteau à la fin, mais avant la venue du marteau, il avait été visité dans son sommeil par des démons, qui avaient léché, lapé ses pieds de leurs langues fourchues, si bien qu’à la fin il n’avait même pas senti le choc du marteau s’enfonçant dans son crâne jusqu’à le traverser, car il avait menti toute sa vie, car il avait utilisé les autres, menti, et proféré des contre-vérités, portant des faux témoignages contre son entourage et en particulier son épouse, cette pauvre femme rendue folle par la torture de ses mensonges, à tel point qu’elle ne reconnaissait plus rien et avait fini par prendre le marteau pour libérer quelque chose en elle. On pouvait aussi offenser Dieu en cherchant dans le noir une chose impure – la forme d’un autre homme, par exemple, comme c’était mon cas. On finit par en avoir envie tout le temps, disait mon grand-père, par en avoir tellement besoin qu’on ne peut rien faire, ni garder un emploi, ni une maison, ni une famille, et dans le vaste monde on attrape le sida et tout est fini, voilà tout, on meurt. Je n’avais pas besoin que la lumière soit allumée pour comprendre qu’il parlait de moi, qu’il me parlait, dans cet espace entre nous traversé par les éclairs bleus qui zébraient le ciel, non je n’avais besoin de rien de plus pour en avoir confirmation ; je savais déjà à l’époque que j’irais en enfer, que je ne pouvais rendre raison de l’espace en moi qui était censé être celui où dormait Dieu sauf qu’en moi, c’était seulement une cavité, comme une dent attendant de pourrir, mon âme une noirceur, une plaie infectée. Si on parlait pendant que Dieu opérait, on créait de l’espace pour le diable. Si on ouvrait une fenêtre pendant que Dieu opérait, on invitait le diable. Si on allumait l’électricité pendant que Dieu opérait, on créait une ouverture par laquelle le diable pouvait entrer dans son corps. Les orages étaient la seule église présente de façon régulière dans ma vie, les seuls moments où je ne pouvais pas dormir pendant les sermons ou négliger la présence de Dieu.

• From Real Life (2020)

  L’haleine de Miller sent pareil que le chaï, les mains de Wallace. « Allons-y », dit-il. Wallace se lève. Prend son livre, le sac. « Bon, le travail m’appelle. » Il se met à contourner la table, mais Miller prend sa main. « Wallace. — Ne sois pas stupide. Faut qu’on utilise notre cervelle. » Miller laisse échapper sa main. Le soleil qui cogne la nuque et l’arrière des jambes de Wallace le picote. « Ouais, grogne Miller. Tu m’étonnes. » Un ver, procédant à une série de contractions et de détente, avance par reptation. Le nématode est transparent. C’est l’une des caractéristiques qui en font l’organisme modèle idéal, qui se prête parfaitement à la microscopie. On peut aussi compter la facilité de manipulation génétique, la petite taille, gérable, de son génome, son temps de génération bref, et sa souplesse de maniement. Ce sont, de fait, des cultures très robustes. Capables d’auto-fertilisation. À un certain stade de leur développement larvaire, leurs lignées germinales passent de la spermatogenèse à l’ovogenèse. Les petits garçons aussi ont le droit de devenir des jeunes femmes, comme aime à dire Simone. Un ver sur une seule lame peut engendrer des milliers de descendants en guère plus d’une semaine. Lorsque la nourriture est rare, ils arrêtent plus ou moins la reproduction. Mais les embryons existants continuent de se développer et de grandir dans l’organisme de leurs mères. Ils en sortent en mangeant, finissant par crever la cuticule pour entrer dans le monde, abritant parfois déjà en eux des embryons fertilisés. Parfois, le processus rappelle à Wallace les mythes de la création. Le ver qu’il sélectionne juste à ce moment-là est sérieusement en cloque. Il y a des douzaines de vers plus petits à l’intérieur. Elle est vieille. Saturée de corps. Mais elle est toujours en vie. Elle n’est pas un simple récipient. Ce n’est pas bon de choisir les animaux affamés. Leurs descendants naissent avec un signal d’alarme interne qui se déclenche n’importe quand. Wallace sent encore le goût de Miller. C’était une erreur de l’embrasser encore une fois. Étrange d’être devenu une personne qui embrasse . Le goût cuivré de la honte de s’être trahi. Une nausée, comme s’il devait à présent expliquer ce changement à une puissance supérieure, une autorité plus haut placée. Il se surprend lui-même, trahi par son corps. Son esprit, un tumulte de formes floues et sombres qui se déploient et tournent sur elles-mêmes. Le fantôme de la chaleur de Miller dans son lit, la lumière du matin atténuée par les rideaux, la courbe pâle de sa hanche, ses poils bouclés, l’odeur âcre de sueur et de bière dans la chambre. Un toupet de poils noirs sur le torse. Le regret. De l’avoir laissé seul dans le lit le matin ou de l’avoir abandonné dans la cuisine ? Les deux. Ni l’un ni l’autre. Oh. Wallace se gronde. Il y a des choses plus importantes.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Ce n’était pas mon intention. — Je ne peux pas avoir un homme misogyne dans mon labo, Wallace », dit-elle sèchement, sans détour, en le regardant dans les yeux, ce qui lui donne tout à coup envie de pleurer. La vague de larmes brûlantes arrive au bord de ses paupières, mais il tient bon. Il respire profondément, lentement. « Je ne suis pas misogyne. Pas du tout. — Le mail de Dana était… je n’ai jamais lu un truc aussi affreux de ma vie, Wallace. Et je me suis dit : ça ne peut pas être vrai. » Un éclair d’espoir, un répit minuscule. « Mais je suis obligée de prendre ça très au sérieux. Je dois penser à ce qui est bon pour toi, pour Dana et pour le labo. Je prends ma retraite bientôt, comme tu le sais, et je ne peux pas laisser courir ce genre de dysfonctionnement. » Elle lève les mains, les écarte, comme pour dire que d’un côté elle veut qu’il reste, et de l’autre… hmm. Wallace sent un gouffre s’ouvrir sous ses pieds. Il pourrait répéter ce que Dana lui a dit. Il pourrait expliquer qu’elle est raciste, homophobe. Il pourrait dire tout ce qu’il a sur le cœur depuis son arrivée dans ce programme : la façon dont on le traite, la façon dont on le regarde, ce que ça lui fait que les seules personnes qui le regardent vraiment sont les gardiens du campus, et encore, d’un air soupçonneux. Il pourrait dire un million de choses, mais il sait qu’aucune ne ferait la différence. Aucune ne signifierait rien pour elle, pour aucun d’entre eux, parce qu’elle et les autres ne s’intéressent pas à ce qu’il éprouve, sauf dans la mesure où ça les affecte. « Je vois, répète-t-il d’une voix blanche. — Je n’ai pas envie de te demander de quitter le labo, Wallace. Mais je voudrais vraiment t’encourager à réfléchir à ce que tu veux vraiment. — Ce que je veux. — Oui, Wallace. Réfléchis bien à ça. C’est ça que tu veux être ? Un scientifique ? Tu veux passer ta vie dans le système universitaire ? Je dois être franche ; je dois vraiment être franche. J’ai de l’affection pour toi. Je t’assure. Mais quand je te regarde, je n’ai pas l’impression que ce soit ça que tu veux. Pas comme Katie. Pas comme Brigit. Pas comme Dana. Tu n’en as pas envie. — Mais si. C’est ce que je veux. Je veux être ici. — Tu veux être ici ou… tu ne veux pas être ailleurs ? » Wallace baisse les yeux sur ses mains, posées en coupe sur ses genoux. Il porte un short en coton bleu, délavé par trop de passages en machine. Ses lèvres et sa gorge sont sèches. Il repense à cet oiseau gisant sur le dos, mangé par les fourmis, dévoré alors qu’il est en train de mourir, tandis qu’il agonise. Il enfonce un doigt dans son genou.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She grinned. “Do you know what I realize every time I see you? That we’re very much alike.” She turned back to Vivaldo. “I don’t see your aging mistress anywhere. Are you looking for a new woman? If so, you too have come to the wrong store.” “I haven’t seen Jane for a hell of a long time,” said Vivaldo, “and it might be a good idea for us never to see each other again.” But he looked troubled. “Poor Vivaldo,” Cass said. After a moment they both laughed. “Come on in the back with me. Richard’s there. He’ll be very glad to see you.” “I didn’t know you people ever set foot in this joint. Can’t you bear domestic bliss any longer?” “We’re celebrating tonight. Richard just sold his novel.” “No!” “Yes. Yes. Isn’t that marvelous?” “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Vivaldo, looking a little dazed. “Come on,” Cass said. She took Rufus by the hand and, with Vivaldo ahead of them, they began pushing their way to the back. They stumbled down the steps into the back room. Richard sat alone at a table, smoking his pipe. “Richard,” Cass cried, “look what I brought back from the dead!” “You should have let them rot there,” Richard grinned. “Come on in, sit down. I’m glad to see you.” “I’m glad to see you,” said Vivaldo, and sat down. He and Richard grinned at each other. Then Richard looked at Rufus, briefly and sharply, and looked away. Perhaps Richard had never liked Rufus as much as the others had and now, perhaps, he was blaming him for Leona. The air in the back room was close, he was aware of his odor, he wished he had taken a shower at Vivaldo’s house. He sat down. “So!” said Vivaldo, “you sold it!” He threw back his head and gave a high, whinnying laugh. “You sold it. That’s just great, baby. How does it feel?” “I held off as long as I could,” Richard said. “I kept telling them that my good friend, Vivaldo, was going to come by and look it over for me. They said, ‘That Vivaldo? He’s a poet, man, he’s bohemian! He wouldn’t read a murder novel, not if it was written by God almighty.’ So, when you didn’t come by, baby, I figured they were right and I just had to let them have it.” “Shit, Richard, I’m sorry about that. I’ve just been so hung up—” “Yeah, I know. Let’s have a drink. You, Rufus. What’re you doing with yourself these days?” “I’m just pulling myself together,” said Rufus, with a smile. Richard was being kind, he told himself, but in his heart he accused him of cowardice. “Don’t be self-conscious,” Cass said. “We’ve been trying to pull ourselves together for years. You can see what progress we’ve made. You’re in very good company.” She leaned her head against Richard’s shoulder. Richard stroked her hair and picked up his pipe from the ashtray.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The man considered him a moment more, looked at the girl, then looked down to the wallet again. He took out all the money. “This all you got.” In those days Vivaldo had been working steadily and his wallet had contained nearly sixty dollars. “Yes,” Vivaldo said. “Nothing in your pockets?” Vivaldo emptied his pockets of bills and change, perhaps five dollars in all. The man took it all. “I need something to get home on, mister,” Vivaldo said. The man gave him his wallet. “Walk,” he said. “You lucky that you can. If I catch your ass up here again, I’ll show you what happened to a nigger I know when Mr. Charlie caught him with Miss Anne.” He put his wallet in his back pocket and picked up his jacket from the floor. The man watched him, the girl watched the man. He got to the door and opened it and realized that his legs were weak. “Well,” he said, “thanks for the buggy ride,” and stumbled down the stairs. He had reached the first landing when he heard a door above him open and quick, stealthy footsteps descending. Then the girl stood above him, stretching her hand over the banister. “Here,” she whispered, “take this,” and leaned dangerously far over the banister and stuffed a dollar into his breast pocket. “Go along home now,” she said, “hurry!” and rushed back up the stairs. The man’s eyes remained with him for a long time after the rage and the shame and terror of that evening. And were with him now, as he climbed the stairs to Rufus’ apartment. He walked in without knocking. Rufus was standing near the door, holding a knife. “Is that for me or for you? Or were you planning to cut yourself a hunk of salami?” He forced himself to stand where he was and to look directly at Rufus. “I was thinking about putting it into you, motherfucker.” But he had not moved. Vivaldo slowly let out his breath. “Well, put it down. If I ever saw a poor bastard who needed his friends, you’re it.” They watched each other for what seemed like a very long time and neither of them moved. They stared into each other’s eyes, each, perhaps, searching for the friend each remembered. Vivaldo knew the face before him so well that he had ceased, in a way, to look at it and now his heart turned over to see what time had done to Rufus. He had not seen before the fine lines in the forehead, the deep, crooked line between the brows, the tension which soured the lips. He wondered what the eyes were seeing—they had not been seeing it years before. He had never associated Rufus with violence, for his walk was always deliberate and slow, his tone mocking and gentle: but now he remembered how Rufus played the drums. He moved one short step closer, watching Rufus, watching the knife.

• From Another Country (1962)

  In Harlem, however, he had merely dropped his load and marked the spot with silver. It had seemed much simpler for a time. But even simple pleasure, bought and paid for, did not take long to fail—pleasure, as it turned out, was not simple. When, wandering about Harlem, he came across a girl he liked, he could not fail to wish that he had met her somewhere else, under different circumstances. He could not fail to disapprove of her situation and to demand of her more than any girl in such a situation could give. If he did not like her, then he despised her and it was very painful for him to despise a colored girl, it increased his self-contempt. So that, by and by, however pressing may have been the load he carried uptown, he returned home with a greater one, not to be so easily discharged. For several years it had been his fancy that he belonged in those dark streets uptown precisely because the history written in the color of his skin contested his right to be there. He enjoyed this, his right to be being everywhere contested; uptown, his alienation had been made visible and, therefore, almost bearable. It had been his fancy that danger, there, was more real, more open, than danger was downtown and that he, having chosen to run these dangers, was snatching his manhood from the lukewarm waters of mediocrity and testing it in the fire. He had felt more alive in Harlem, for he had moved in a blaze of rage and self-congratulation and sexual excitement, with danger, like a promise, waiting for him everywhere. And, nevertheless, in spite of all this daring, this running of risks, the misadventures which had actually befallen him had been banal indeed and might have befallen him anywhere. His dangerous, overwhelming lust for life had failed to involve him in anything deeper than perhaps half a dozen extremely casual acquaintanceships in about as many bars. For memories, he had one or two marijuana parties, one or two community debauches, one or two girls whose names he had forgotten, one or two addresses which he had lost. He knew that Harlem was a battlefield and that a war was being waged there day and night—but of the war aims he knew nothing. And this was due not only to the silence of the warriors—their silence being, anyway, spectacular in that it rang so loud: it was due to the fact that one knew of battles only what one had accepted of one’s own.

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  And when he later comes to present himself to the Many, they shall all consider his case, and according to whatever fate decrees, following the decision of the Many he shall either approach or depart. (IQS 6.13-16, Dupont-Sommer) The passage continues to provide that the prospective entrant must remain on probation for a year, after which he is judged by the members again, and then, if he is approved by the priests and the majority of the other members, he may be taken into almost full membership. But a second year and a third examination and vote are required before he gains all the rights and privileges of full membership (IQS 6. 16-23). There is reference to the matter being decided by the 'lot' (Dupont-Sommer, 'fate'), which presumably reflects the view that the person's admission is in accordance with God's will; but it is clear that a person's lot is in fact decided by a majority vote 57 and is 57 See Leaney on IQS 5.3. The Dead Sea Scrolls [II determined by his attitude (he humbly submits to the halakah of the sect), by his 'understanding' (he perceives the fact that the sect has the true coven- ant), and his 'deeds' (he is able to follow the rigorous requirements). There is no indication in the entrance regulations that all these things are not within the range of human achievement. That they are is further indica- ted by the point already noted, that those not in the covenant and counted its enemies may tum from their wicked ways and join the community. The members themselves must all have repented and given up the ways of iniquity. 58 Just as striking is the treatment of backsliders. The severest curses ofIQS are reserved for those who enter the covenant without the full intention to abide by its regulations. These are distinct from the 'men of the lot of Satan' (IQS 2.4f.), who are cursed by the Levites alone. The back- sliders are cursed by both the priests and the Levites. They say: Cursed be the man who enters this Covenant while walking among the idols of his heart, who sets up before himself his stumbling-block of sin so that he may back- slide! Hearing the words of this Covenant, he blesses himself in his heart and says, 'Peace be with me, even though I walk in the stubbornness of my heart' (Deut. 29.18f.), whereas my spirit, parched (for lack of truth) and watered (with lies), shall be destroyed without pardon. God's wrath and His zeal for His precepts shall consume him in everlasting destruction. All the curses of the Covenant shall cling to him and God will set him apart for evil. He shall be cut off from the midst of all the sons of light, and because he has turned aside from God on account of his idols and his stumbling-block of sin, his lot shall be among those who are cursed for ever. (IQS 2.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Cole cligne des yeux comme s’il avait fixé le soleil trop longtemps. Dans l’ensemble ça va . C’est pour ça que Wallace ne dit jamais rien à personne. C’est pour ça qu’il garde la vérité pour lui, parce que les gens ne savent pas quoi faire de vos bagages, de la réalité des sentiments des autres. Ils ne savent pas quoi faire quand ils entendent une perspective qui ne cadre pas avec leur propre perception des choses. Il y a une pause. Un silence. « Mais c’était ton père, insiste Cole. Tu n’es pas obligé de dire ça. Tu n’as pas à être gêné. — Ce n’est pas ça. Je n’ai pas honte. C’est ce que je ressens. — J’ai l’impression que tu n’es pas honnête. Que tu me bloques l’accès. » Wallace se relève, encore de la terre dans la bouche. Il retire des brins d’herbe de ses cheveux. « J’ai l’impression d’être ouvert à tous vents, là. — Je suis là pour toi. Laisse-moi t’aider. — Cole. — Arrête de me repousser. » Wallace serre les mâchoires, pince les lèvres. Il compte à l’envers à partir de dix. L’air dans ses narines est brûlant. Cole est assis, ses bras pâles enroulés autour de lui, et il le regarde avec ses yeux humides. Il a l’air triste. Démuni. Seul. C’est le châtiment de Wallace pour avoir cuisiné Cole sur le terrain de tennis. Fair-play. Blessure pour blessure. « OK, dit-il, parvenant à faire une voix tremblante. Et il ajoute : Je suis juste comme anesthésié, tu sais, je n’arrive pas du tout à digérer la nouvelle. — Je comprends. Je comprends, Wallace. — Et je, ouais, je passe par les différents stades du deuil, tu vois ? — C’est hyper important. » Cole lui touche le bras. « Je suis content que tu ne gardes pas tout en toi. — Merci », dit Wallace, laissant une émotion qu’il n’éprouve pas affleurer dans sa voix. « Ça m’aide beaucoup d’être entouré de gens qui me comprennent vraiment. — On t’aime tous, Wallace », dit Cole en souriant. Il prend Wallace dans ses bras. « On a tous envie que tu sois heureux. » Wallace lève les yeux au ciel quand Cole l’attire contre lui, mais il fait attention à avoir l’air réconforté, même si encore un peu triste, en se reculant. Ils se relèvent juste au moment où le match se termine au stade. Une clameur énorme s’élève et les hérons et les oies s’envolent tous à la fois. De l’eau grise goutte de leurs ailes, et pendant un instant on dirait qu’il pleut. Un oiseau a heurté une fenêtre et gît sur le dos, agonisant, s’aperçoit Wallace en arrivant devant le bâtiment de sciences de la vie. Il n’y a toujours pas un nuage, et le ciel est d’un bleu presque iridescent, un ciel typique de fin d’été. La vue de l’oiseau le fait sursauter.

• From Push (1996)

  He went to take a sip of coffee and she said, "According to Luke Chapter 9. verse 16, Jezus took the five loaves and the two fishes and looking up at heaven—" And his arm flew out like a jack-in-the-box and snatched the Bible from her and threw it in her face HARD. Hitting her in the eye. A blood red spot grew and spread across her eye for seven days. By the time she went to Emergency she was another colored woman shoulda come in sooner story there's not really much we can do for you now except call in the medical students from NYU to stare at how stupid you people are and you can learn to see almost as well with one eye as you can with two. So my mother—one eye, no man, two children and the Bible. What hurt more than the dark hole of Daddy's leaving, than Mary-Mae's father raping me, more than seeing the spot grow in Mama's eye like a radioactive tomato, was seeing her afterward on the D train, holding her Bible over her head screeching, "HELL! You are going to hell! Unless you accept the word of God's only son JEEZUSS!! JEEEEEZZUUSSS!!! The train hurtling through the dark tunnel, the laughing pitying and annoyed eyes of the riders and my mother, blind eye, a snot colored marble in her chocolate face screaming, "JEZUS! JJEEEEEE-ZZZZUUUUUUSSSS!! ! ! !" I'm 17: when she walks in on me and Mary-Mae fucking. Can't she see we're in love? No, she can't. She starts to foam at the mouth screaming curses in the name of God. FILTHYSICKHELPMEJEZUSIDIDNTRAISEYOU-THISWAYFILTHYFILTHY The words float over our naked bodies like clouds of poison gas. They drop on us soiling Mary-Mae's long copper legs, smooth child free body. The smell of us sweet, stinky, swollen with sex contracts and dies in the air. I love Mary-Mae. I pull my underpants, jeans, shirt, shoes on, all in one seemingly impossible move. Mary-Mae is in a daze. The poison gas shaming her causing her to stumble. We fall out the room together and then the front door of the apartment. Mary-Mae turns down the hall to her father's apartment. I keep going until I hit the street. I never see Mary-Mae again. I'm seventeen and parent free. An emancipated minor. I mean my father was not hard to find. In a tiny studio in Queens, where, "I'm welcome to stay as long as I want." But at night when he flops down on the convertible sofa, the kind you see advertised on the subway for five hundred dollars, I am left on a thin mat near the door listening to him masturbate. Does he think I'm asleep?

• From Real Life (2020)

  Elle ne voulait pas de son assistance. Ne sachant que faire d’autre, il alla trouver Simone. À un stade où ils auraient dû avoir, mettons vingt oligonucléotides prêts pour l’injection, Dana avait tellement ralenti les opérations qu’ils n’en avaient aucun. « Wallace, répliqua Simone, tu devrais peut-être essayer un autre ton. Tu ne serais pas un peu présomptueux ? » Et quand il nia, elle insista : « Tu es sûr ? Parce que Dana est extrêmement brillante. Ne la prends pas de haut. » Quand ils arrivèrent aux injections, Dana s’avéra maladroite et peu soigneuse. Elle embrochait les animaux avec la seringue, qu’elle ne parvenait pas à remplir parce qu’elle n’arrêtait pas de se piquer le doigt avec l’aiguille. Wallace dut s’en charger. Elle était également lente quand il s’agissait de charger les animaux sur le tampon de saccharose, et de les enduire de lévamisole qui les ankylosait et les maintenait hydratés, ce qui fit que ses vers se changeaient en pralines dures, en plein sur les lames. Il tenta de l’aider. Il parla doucement, très bas. Il attendit même quand il savait que l’animal était mort. Un jour elle se tourna vers lui avec une telle fierté qu’il crut qu’elle avait enfin réussi, mais quand il regarda l’animal sous le microscope, il vit que le mot mort ne suffisait même plus à le décrire. Ses entrailles s’étaient crevées et étaient remontées dans l’aiguille. C’était immonde, une mort atroce. En fin de compte, las de leur collaboration ratée, il avait demandé à se faire assigner un autre projet – et, certes, Dana ne l’avait pas forcément bien pris. Cependant, deux ans se sont écoulés depuis. Ces derniers temps, toutes les semaines, bon an mal an, Dana vient au labo pour une poignée d’heures semi-productives. Elle ne s’est pas décidée pour un projet précis. Elle a l’esprit vagabond, elle n’est jamais tranquille. Mais pire, l’échec la pousse à se débarrasser des choses et des gens. À chaque fois qu’un projet ne se déroule pas conformément à ses attentes, elle le saborde comme un navire de guerre désaffecté. Ses présentations de groupe sont un amalgame d’idées mal digérées. Elle se ronge les ongles jusqu’au sang, et on la sent toujours à moitié irritée, blessée. Tout de même, ça n’a pas de sens de l’imaginer en train de brutaliser ses cultures. Elle n’a rien à y gagner matériellement, or Wallace a toujours trouvé son égoïsme pragmatique. Ce serait un acte vain, foncièrement paresseux. Il a mal à la tête. Les gens peuvent se montrer imprévisibles dans leur cruauté. Cette idée le fait sursauter.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Most of my single days are a tragic testimony of a young woman striving to gain some sense of power through inappropriate relationships with men. Rather than use what beauty God had given me to bring glory to Him, I used it as bait to lure men into feeding my ego. Rather than inspiring men to worship God, I subconsciously wanted them to worship me, and if I was successful in hooking a man with my charms, I secretly felt powerful. I never realized these tragic truths until I went through counseling after I was married. I was seeking to understand why I still felt tempted outside of my marriage, so my therapist asked me to spend a week making a list of every man I had ever been with sexually or had pursued emotionally. I was shocked and saddened to see how long my list had grown through the years. At the next visit, she asked me to spend a week praying and asking myself, “What do each of these men have in common?” God showed me that each relationship had been with someone who was older than I and in some form of authority over me—my professor, my boss, my lawyer. As I searched my soul to discern why such a common thread existed in my relational pursuits, the root of the issue became evident: my hunger for power over a man. Due to my feelings of powerlessness in my relationship with an authoritarian father, I had subconsciously been re-creating authoritative relationships in order to “win this time.” Each time I got the upper hand in a relationship, subconsciously seducing my prey into catering to my needs and desires, it was really as if I were saying, “See Dad! Someone does love me! I am worthy of attention and affection!” In my attempts to fill the father-shaped hole in my heart and establish some semblance of self-worth through these dysfunctional relationships, I was creating a long list of shameful liaisons and a trunk load of emotional baggage. I was over-looking the only true source of satisfaction and self-worth: an intimate relationship with my heavenly Father. Through pursuing this relationship first and foremost, not only has Jesus become my first love and given me a sense of worth beyond what any man could give, He has also restored my relationship with my earthly father and helped me remain faithful to my husband. (We’ll talk more about this intimate relationship with our heavenly Father in chapter 11.)

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now it was the usance in that house that neither wine nor bread nor aught else of meat or drink should ever be set on the tables, except the Abbot were first came to sit at his own table. Accordingly, the seneschal, having set the tables, let tell the Abbot that, whenas it pleased him, the meat was ready. The Abbot let open the chamber-door, that he might pass into the saloon, and looking before him as he came, as chance would have it, the first who met his eyes was Primasso, who was very ill accoutred and whom he knew not by sight. When he saw him, incontinent there came into his mind an ill thought and one that had never yet been there, and he said in himself, "See to whom I give my substance to eat!" Then, turning back, he bade shut the chamber-door and enquired of those who were about him if any knew yonder losel who sat at table over against his chamber-door; but all answered no. Meanwhile Primasso, who had a mind to eat, having come a journey and being unused to fast, waited awhile and seeing that the Abbot came not, pulled out of his bosom one of the three cakes of bread he had brought with him and fell to eating. The Abbot, after he had waited awhile, bade one of his serving-men look if Primasso were gone, and the man answered, "No, my lord; nay, he eateth bread, which it seemeth he hath brought with him." Quoth the Abbot, "Well, let him eat of his own, an he have thereof; for of ours he shall not eat to-day." Now he would fain have had Primasso depart of his own motion, himseeming it were not well done to turn him away; but the latter, having eaten one cake of bread and the Abbot coming not, began upon the second; the which was likewise reported to the Abbot, who had caused look if he were gone. At last, the Abbot still tarrying, Primasso, having eaten the second cake, began upon the third, and this again was reported to the Abbot, who fell a-pondering in himself and saying, "Alack, what new maggot is this that is come into my head to-day? What avarice! What despite! And for whom? This many a year have I given my substance to eat to whosoever had a mind thereto, without regarding if he were gentle or simple, poor or rich, merchant or huckster, and have seen it with mine own eyes squandered by a multitude of ribald knaves; nor ever yet came there to my mind the thought that hath entered into me for yonder man. Of a surety avarice cannot have assailed me for a man of little account; needs must this who seemeth to me a losel be some great matter, since my soul hath thus repugned to do him honour."

• From Real Life (2020)

  Je crois que Dana n’a pas utilisé le bon. » Simone tourna la boîte et montra l’étiquette proprement imprimée qui indiquait qu’il s’agissait du kit protéines. Il fut traversé par une émotion glissante, sinistre. « Tu n’aurais pas rangé les réactifs d’extraction d’ADN dans la mauvaise boîte quand tu as tout nettoyé ? Wallace, il faut faire bien attention. — Je n’ai pas fait ça. — Eh bien, ces chiffres n’ont aucun sens sinon. — Et tu as essayé de me prévenir », dit Dana d’une voix aiguë mais morne. Elle secoua la tête. « J’imagine que tu sentais que tu avais déconné, quelque part. — Il faut être plus attentif, renchérit Simone. Je sais que tu veux être ambitieux et abattre le boulot, mais il faut être très soigneux. » Wallace déglutit à grand-peine. « OK. OK. » Dana posa la main sur son épaule et dit : « Dis-moi, si tu as besoin de quoi que ce soit. » Wallace la regarda. Il la regarda et tenta de comprendre quel genre de personne elle était, mais il ne vit que les écailles de peaux mortes qui s’accumulaient parmi les poils roux poussant entre ses sourcils. Simone le fit trier une nouvelle fois les réactifs, devant elle. Elle lui ordonna de les ranger en deux groupes bien distincts sur sa paillasse. Et quand il eut terminé, elle lui demanda de recommencer, juste pour être sûr, juste pour être sûr. « Elle a perdu sa journée, Wallace. Sa journée entière. On ne peut pas se permettre de perdre autant de temps à cause d’une négligence. » Simone, au bout de la paillasse, le regarda trier les réactifs et les colonnes, leurs flacons blancs impeccables, encore et encore. Il aurait pu le faire les yeux fermés. Parce qu’il était soigneux. « Ce n’est pas pour te punir. C’est pour te pousser à faire mieux. » Cependant, même de la part de Dana, bousiller ses plaques à dessein semblait excessif. Elle n’est pas entièrement malveillante, juste paresseuse et peu attentive aux détails. « Tard, genre quelle heure ? demande-t-il à Brigit. Je suis resté jusqu’à minuit au moins. Tous les soirs. — Deux heures du mat », dit Brigit et Wallace s’écarte avec un sursaut. « Pas possible. — Comme je t’ai dit, je n’ai rien vu. Mais je l’ai entendu dire. — Mais enfin, quel intérêt ? — Ça n’a pas besoin d’avoir un intérêt. Elle est douée », fait Brigit, crachant le mot préféré de Simone quand il s’agit de qualifier Dana, mais pensant tout le contraire.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The sun had been sinking on that far-off day, a Sunday, a hot day. The church bells had ceased and the silence of the South hung heavy over that town. The trees along the walks gave no shade. The white houses, with their blank front doors, their blackly shadowed porches, seemed to be in battle with the sun, laboring and shuddering beneath the merciless light. Occasionally, passing a porch, one might discern in its depths a still, shadowed, faceless figure. The interminable pickaninnies were playing in the invincible dirt—where Eric was walking that day, on a back road, near the edge of town, with a colored boy. His name was LeRoy, he was seventeen, a year older than Eric, and he worked as a porter in the courthouse. He was tall and very black, and taciturn; Eric always wondered what he was thinking. They had been friends for a long time, from the time of Henry’s banishment. But now their friendship, their effort to continue an impossible connection, was beginning to be a burden for them both. It would have been simpler—perhaps—if LeRoy had worked for Eric’s family. Then all would have been permitted, would have been covered by the assumption of Eric’s responsibility for his colored boy. But, as things were, it was suspect, it was indecent, that a white boy, especially of Eric’s class and difficult reputation, should “run,” as Eric incontestably did, after one of his inferiors. Eric had no choice but to run, to insist—LeRoy could certainly not come visiting him. And yet there was something absolutely humiliating in his position; he felt it very sharply and sadly, and he knew that LeRoy felt it, too. Eric did not know, or perhaps he did not want to know, that he made LeRoy’s life more difficult and increased the danger in which LeRoy walked—for LeRoy was considered “bad,” as lacking, that is, in respect for white people. Eric did not know, though of course LeRoy did, what was already being suggested about him all over town. Eric had not guessed, though LeRoy knew only too well, that the Negroes did not like him, either. They suspected the motives of his friendliness. They looked for the base one and naturally they found it. So, shortly before, when Eric had appeared in the road, his hands in his pockets, a hoarse, tuneless whistle issuing from his lips, LeRoy had jumped off his porch and come to meet him, striding toward Eric as though he were an enemy. There was a snicker from LeRoy’s porch, quickly muffled; a screen door slammed; every eye on the street was on them. Eric stammered, “I just dropped by to see what you were doing.” LeRoy spat in the dusty road. “Ain’t doing nothing. Ain’t you got nothing to do?” “You want to take a walk?” Eric asked.

• From Another Country (1962)

  And the harder he tried— the fool! Cass thought—the more she eluded him, the more savagely she shamed him. He was not on those terms with his body, or with hers, or anyone’s body. He moved his buttocks by will, with no faintest memory of love, no hint of grace; his thighs were merely those of a climber, his feet might have been treading grapes. He did not know what to do with his arms, which stuck out at angles to his body as though they were sectioned and controlled by strings, and also as though they had no communion with his hands—hands which had grasped and taken but never caressed. Was Ida being revenged? or was she giving him warning? Ellis’ forehead turned slick with sweat, his short, curly hair seemed to darken, Cass almost heard his breathing. Ida circled around him, in her orange dress, her legs flashing like knives, and her hips cruelly grinding. From time to time she extended to him, his fingers touched, her lean, brown, fiery hand. Others on the floor made way for them—for her: it must have seemed to Ellis that the music would never end. But the juke box fell silent, at last, and the colored lights stopped whirling, for the band was coming on again. Ida and Ellis returned to the table. The lights began to dim. Cass stood up. “Ida,” she said, “I promised to have one drink, and I have, and now I must go. I really must. Richard will kill me if I stay out any longer.” Her voice unaccountably shook, and she felt herself blushing as she said this. At the same time, she realized that Ida was in an even more dangerous mood now than she had been before her dance. “Oh, call him up,” Ida said. “Even the most faithful of wives deserves a night out.” Cass, very nearly, in her fear and despair, sank slowly into her seat again; but Ellis, mopping his brow, and gleaming, was more cheerful than ever. “I don’t think that’s necessarily so,” he said—and wrung from the table the obligatory laugh—“and, anyway, Mrs. Silenski is responsible for a very heavy investment. Her husband is very valuable, we must take good care of his morale.” Ida and Cass watched each other. Ida smiled. “ Will Richard’s morale suffer if you do not get home?” “Unquestionably,” said Cass. “I must go.” Ida’s face changed, and she looked down. She seemed, abruptly, weary and sad. “I guess you’re right,” she said, “and there’s no point in putting it off.” She looked at Ellis. “Walk her to a cab, sweetie.” “My pleasure,” said Ellis. “Good night, all,” said Cass. “I’m sorry I have to run, but I must.” She said, to Ida, “I’ll see you soon——?” “Shall I expect to see you at the usual place?” “If it’s still standing,” Cass said, after a moment, “yes.” She turned and made her way through the darkening room, with Ellis padding behind her.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  In addition, if you struggle sexually because of abuse you have experienced in your past, tell your husband what happened to you. When Greg and I were first married, I didn’t really want to talk about how my uncles had attempted to molest me as a young teenager. I was afraid he would view me as “damaged goods” and not be as drawn to me sexually. However, my counselor encouraged me to discuss these fears with Greg, and although it was uncomfortable, we made a huge breakthrough as a result of the conversation. I told him how one of my uncles would wake me up in the middle of the night to come into the living room so he could kiss me while his wife was sleeping. I mentioned how sometimes I could still smell the smoke on his breath and feel his bushy mustache tickling my lip, a feeling that made my insides flip-flop with disgust. I felt very ashamed even saying the words, somehow feeling as if this was my fault instead of my uncle’s. INTIMACY BUSTERSINTIMACY BOOSTERS1. having sex as a means of closeness1. having sex as a response to closeness2. requiring intimacy from your spouse2. inspiring intimacy with your spouse3. expecting your needs to be served3. serving each other’s needs4. sarcastic or condescending talk4. conversing respectfully as best friends5. treating him like your child5. treating him like your husband6. hiding thoughts and fantasies6. offering mental nakedness7. making unhealthy comparisons of your husband or yourself7. accepting each other unconditionally8. failing to use each other’s love language8. learning and speaking each other’s love language9. assuming he should need a sexual release only as often as you do9. willing to satisfy his sexual needs according to his needs cycle10. pestering him to change his ways or giving him the silent treatment10. praying for and with each other consistently11. considering sex a worldly act11. considering sex an act of worship12. giving into sex out of obligation12. initiating sex out of passionate love13. feeling personally unclean13. maintaining feminine hygiene14. darkening the room or closing eyes during sex14. engaging visually in sexual activity15. expressing frustration that he’s “not doing it right”15. discussing what brings you pleasure16. trying to rush orgasm by entertaining inappropriate thoughts16. savoring sexual intimacy without pressure to get it over with17. requiring orgasm as often as he ejaculates17. refraining from keeping score in the bedroom18. masturbating without your spouse present or involved18. depending totally on each other for sexual pleasure19. showing body shame and extreme inhibition19. stimulating visually with nakedness20. harboring secrets of moral failure or sexual abuse20. remaining open and honest about sexual struggles and fearsFigure 10.1

• From Real Life (2020)

  C’est incroyable. — Je crois que c’est – tu sais, quand tu repenses au passé, et que tu te rends compte à quel point c’était idiot de te mettre dans tous tes états sous prétexte que Tiffany Blanchard ne t’avait pas invitée à sa soirée pyjama ? Et comme c’était idiot que Greg Newsome ne t’ait pas invitée au homecoming ? Eh bien, quand tu fais de l’escalade, ou de la randonnée, ou juste que tu te balades dans les collines, et que tu vois, genre, les produits des temps géologiques – c’est pareil. Ça donne… » Zoe hésite et trace lentement des cercles avec son couteau, cherchant le bon mot. « De la hauteur, fait Emma. — Oui, exactement, de la hauteur. Merci », fait Zoe en riant. « C’est genre, pourquoi je me mets dans des états pareils ? À cause d’un préjudice ? — Les avocats ne décident-ils pas de la vie et de la mort des gens ? demande Miller, et Zoe a un mouvement de recul. — Vous voyez ce que je veux dire, non ? » Elle les regarde tous tour à tour. Ses yeux se promènent sur leur visage, et Wallace sent qu’il se rétracte sous son regard. C’est pénible de voir la gêne s’emparer d’elle. Elle s’éclaircit la gorge. « Carrément, fait Vincent, un poil trop tard. C’est comme ce qu’on disait hier – la vie ne se résume pas à un programme d’études. — Commence pas, fait Cole. — Genre, toi, Wallace », fait Vincent, se penchant en avant. La table branle. Leurs verres tremblent. L’eau de Wallace déborde. « Qu’est-ce que tu veux dire ? » demande-t-il, et sa voix s’étire sur la question comme pour révéler un lapin disparu soudainement. Vincent répond du tac au tac : « Le fait que tu veux t’en aller, je veux dire. Tout plaquer. La mort de ton père. Quand on parle de prendre de la hauteur. » Wallace sent leurs regards cogner la surface de son corps comme une volée de plombs. « Oh, c’est vraiment pas la même chose. — Je trouve que si », insiste Vincent, et il développe : « Wallace disait hier, hier soir, qu’il détestait le troisième cycle. Qu’il n’en peut plus. Qu’il est hyper malheureux – le pauvre – et là-dessus il dit : Mon père est mort, et je déteste cet endroit. Pourquoi resterait-il ? Vous voyez le topo. Genre, son père vient de mourir . Ça doit changer les choses, forcément. — Forcément ? » demande Wallace, et à sa propre consternation, il s’aperçoit qu’il ne s’est pas posé la question qu’à lui-même.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  After a respectable period of time at my father’s side, I darted outside into the small courtyard where all the children gathered to talk, play, and flirt. Such was my religious exposure during my early years. It remains a mystery why my parents never, not once, attempted to teach me to read Hebrew or to impart important Jewish religious tenets. But as my thirteenth birthday and my Bar Mitzvah approached, things changed and I was sent to Sunday religious classes, where I was uncharacteristically unruly in class and persisted in asking such irreverent questions as, “If Adam and Eve were the first humans, then who did their children marry?” Or, “If the practice of not eating milk with meat was to avoid the possibility of the abomination of the calf being cooked in its mother’s milk, then, Rabbi, why should the rule extend to chickens? After all,” I reminded everyone annoyingly, “chickens give no milk.” Eventually the rabbi got fed up with me and expelled me from the school. But that wasn’t the end of it. There was no getting out of a Bar Mitzvah. My parents sent me to a private tutor, Mr. Darmstadt, a straight-backed, dignified, and patient man. The major Bar Mitzvah task facing every thirteen-year-old boy on his birthday is to chant, aloud, in Hebrew, that week’s Haftarah (a selection from the Book of Prophets) before the entire synagogue congregation. A serious problem arose in my work with Mr. Darmstadt: I could not (or would not) learn Hebrew! I was an excellent student in all other endeavors, always at the top of my class, but in this task I suddenly became entirely stupid: I couldn’t remember the letters or the sounds or the melody of the reading. Finally, the patient and much-beleaguered Mr. Darmstadt gave up and informed my father it was impossible: I would never learn the Haftarah. Hence, at my Bar Mitzvah ceremony, my father’s brother, my uncle Abe, chanted the Bar Mitzvah section in my place. The rabbi asked me to read the few lines of blessings in Hebrew, but in rehearsal it was evident I could not learn even these, and at the ceremony, the rabbi, resignedly, held up cue cards for me to read with the Hebrew transliterated into English letters. It must have been a day of great shame for my parents. How could it not have been? But I remember nothing pertaining to their shame—not an image, not a single word exchanged with my father or mother. I hope that their dismay was ameliorated by the excellent speech (in English) that their son gave at the evening dinner celebration. Lately as I review my life, I often wonder why my uncle, rather than my father, read my portion? Had my father been overcome with shame? How I wish I could ask him this question. And what of my work over several months with Mr. Darmstadt? I have almost complete amnesia of our lessons.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Chaos. For the great difference between these men and himself was also the terms of their connection. He saw their vulnerability and they saw his. But they did not love him for this. They used him. He did not love them, either, though he dreamed of it. And the encounter took place, at last, between two dreamers, neither of whom could wake the other, except for the bitterest and briefest of seconds. Then sleep descended again, the search continued, chaos came again. And there was more to it than that. When the liaison so casually begun survived the first encounters, when a kind of shy affection began to force itself up through the frozen ground, and shame abated, chaos more than ever ruled. For shame had not so much abated as found a partner. Affection had appeared, but through a fissure, a crevice, in the person, through which, behind affection, came all the winds of fear. For the act of love is a confession. One lies about the body but the body does not lie about itself; it cannot lie about the force which drives it. And Eric had discovered, inevitably, the truth about many men, who then wished to drive Eric and the truth together out of the world. And where was honor in all this chaos? He watched the winking lights and listened to Yves and Madame Belet in the kitchen. Honor. He knew that he had no honor which the world could recognize. His life, passions, trials, loves, were, at worst, filth, and, at best, disease in the eyes of the world, and crimes in the eyes of his countrymen. There were no standards for him except those he could make for himself. There were no standards for him because he could not accept the definitions, the hideously mechanical jargon of the age. He saw no one around him worth his envy, did not believe in the vast, gray sleep which was called security, did not believe in the cures, panaceas, and slogans which afflicted the world he knew; and this meant that he had to create his standards and make up his definitions as he went along. It was up to him to find out who he was, and it was his necessity to do this, so far as the witchdoctors of the time were concerned, alone. “Mais, bien sûr,” he heard Yves saying to Madame Belet, “je suis tout à fait à votre avis.” Madame Belet was very fond of Yves and gave him the benefit, entirely unsolicited, of her seventy-two years’ experience each time she was able to corner him. He could see Yves now, in the kitchen, holding the two drinks in his hand, edging toward the door, a pale, polite, and lonely smile on his face—for he had great respect for old people—waiting for the pause in Madame Belet’s flow which would allow him to escape.