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 43 of 267 · 20 per page

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  Set clear, part, ob ῥᾳδίως ἀπελύοντο Thuc. 1. 49: generally, to be sepa- rated or detached, ἀλλήλων or ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων Arist. Metaph. 6. 6, 5, Phys. I. 2,6; ἀπ. τὰ wd τῆς ὑστέρας Id. G, A. 3. 3, 7, al.; ἀπολελυμένος, absol., detached, αἰδοῖα, γλῶττα, ὄρχεις Id.H.A. 2.1, 41., 4. 8,7.» 4.9, 23 τὴν γλῶτταν ἀπ. having its tongue detached, Id. Fr. 300, al. 2. to depart, ἔθανες, ἀπελύθης Soph. Ant. 1268, and freq. in Polyb. and Lxx; cf. B. IV. III. of a child, to be brought forth, Hipp. 261. 49, sq., cf. 262. 39, Arist. G. A. 2.6, 54: but also of the mother, fo be delivered, Hipp. 1013 E. IV. to be annulled, Arist. Eth. N. 8. 3, 3. ἍΜ: ἀπολελυμένος, ἡ, ον, absolute, ἐξουσία Eus. H.E. το. 5. 7; cf. ἀπόλυτος. ἀ-πολυώρητος, ov, not highly esteemed, Philodem. 61. 9, Gottl. ἀπολωβάω, to dishonour, Soph. Aj. 217, in aor. pass. ἀπελωβήθη. ἀπολωπίζω, (λῶπος) -- λωποδυτέω, Soph. Fr. 844 (acc. to Poll. 7. 44; but cf. ἐκλωπίζω). ἀπολωτίζω, -- ἀπανθίζω, to pluck off flowers: generally, to pluck off, κόμας Eur. 1. A. 793; ἀπ. νέους to cut off the young, Id. Supp. 449. ἀπολωφάω, Ion. --ἔω, to appease, Hipp. 1280. fin. (in Pass.), Ap. Rh. 4. 1418, in tmesi:—hence Subst. ἀπολώφησις, ἡ, a lightening, relief, An, Ox. 3. 188. ἀπομαγδαλία or -τά, 7, (ἀπομάσσωλν the crumb or inside of the loaf, on which the Greeks wiped their hands at dinner, and then threw it to the dogs, hence dog’s meat, Ar. Eq. 415, Alciphro 3. 44, Plut. Lyc. 12. In Eust. 1857. 11, ἀπομαγδαλίς, idos, ἡ. ἀπόμαγμα, τό, (ἀπομάσσω) anything used for wiping or cleaning, Hipp. 19. 47. 2. like κάθαρμα, the dirt washed off, Soph. Fr. 32. II. the impression of a seal, Theophr. C. P.6.19,5, Id. Lap.67. ἀπομἄδάω, of the hair, to fall off, Arist. Mirab. 78. ἀπομᾶδίζω, fut. iow, to make quite bald, Schol. Ar. Eq. 372; also ἀπομαδαρίζω, Eccl. ἀπομάξιος, (μαζός) taken from the breast, Opp. C. 4. 93. ἀπομάθημα, τό, a thing unlearnt: an unlearning, Hipp. Fract. 767. Gtropatvopar, Pass., fut. μᾶνήσομαι, pf. 2 act. μέμηνα :—to rave out and be done with it, or to rage to the uttermost, Luc. D. D. 12. 1. ἀπομακρύνομαι, Pass. to be far removed, Tov ἡλίου Arist. Plant. 2. 6, 2, Chara tT, 17: ἀπομακτής, οὔ, 6, one who wipes, rubs, or cleans, Soph. Fr. 32, A. B. 431; esp. in magical rites, Poll. 7. 188, where also fem. -μάκτρια. ἀπόμακτρον, τό, a strickle, Ar. Fr. 586, ubi v. Dind.; in Hesych. also ἀπομάκτρα, 77. ἀπομᾶλακίζομαι, Pass. to be weak or cowardly, shew weakness, πρός τι in a thing, Arist. H. A. 9. 7, 4, cf. Plut. Lyc. Io. ἀπομαλθακίζομαι, Pass. =foreg., Plut. 2.62 A, and prob, |. (for --όομαι), Id. Pelop. 21. ἀπομανθάνω, fut. --μᾶθήσομαι, to unlearn, Lat. dediscere, ταῦτα, ἃ πρὸ Tov φόμην εἰδέναι Plat. Phaedo οὔ C, cf. Prot. 342 Ὁ, Xen. Cyr. 4. 3, 143 c. inf, Plut. Lyc. 11. ἀπομαντεύομαι, Dep.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  The road curved west, where the sun had now dipped low. He figured it was close to five o'clock—twenty after, he guessed. The war had taught him to tell time without clocks, and even at night, waking from sleep, he could usually place it within ten minutes either way. What he should do, he thought, is stop at Sally's house and impress her with this new time-telling trick of his. They'd talk for a while, catching up on things, and then he'd say, "Well, better hit the road, it's five thirty-four," and she'd glance at her wrist-watch and say, "Hey! How'd you do that?" and he'd give a casual shrug and tell her it was just one of those things you pick up. He'd keep it light. He wouldn't say anything about anything. "How's it being married?" he might ask, and he'd nod at whatever she answered with, and he would not say a word about how he'd almost won the Silver Star for valor. He drove past Slater Park and across the causeway and past Sunset Park. The radio announcer sounded tired. The temperature in Des Moines was eighty-one degrees, and the time was five thirty-five, and "All you on the road, drive extra careful now on this fine Fourth of July." If Sally had not been married, or if his father were not such a baseball fan, 1t would have been a good time to talk. "The Silver Star?" his father might have said. "Yes, but I didn't get it. Almost, but not quite." And his father would have nodded, knowing full well that many brave men do not win medals for their bravery, and that others win medals for doing nothing. As a starting point, maybe, Norman Bowker might then have listed the seven medals he did win: the Combat Infantryman's Badge, the Air Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, the Good Conduct Medal, the Vietnam Campaign Medal, the Bronze Star, and the Purple Heart, though his wound was minor and did not leave a scar and did not hurt and never had. He would've explained to his father that none of these decorations was for uncommon valor. They were for common valor. The routine, daily stuff —yjust humping, just enduring—but that was worth something, wasn't it? Yes, it was. Worth plenty. The ribbons looked good on the uniform in his closet, and if his father were to ask, he would've explained what each signified and how he was proud of all of them, especially the Combat Infantryman's Badge, because it meant he had been there as a real soldier and had done all the things soldiers do, and therefore it wasn't such a big deal that he could not bring himself to be uncommonly brave. And then he would have talked about the medal he did not win and why he did not win it. "T almost won the Silver Star," he would have said. "How's that?" "Just a story."

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  All those eyes on me—the town, the whole universe—and I couldn't risk the embarrassment. It was as if there were an audience to my life, that swirl of faces along the river, and in my head I could hear people screaming at me. Traitor! they yelled. Turncoat! Pussy! I felt myself blush. I couldn't tolerate it. I couldn't endure the mockery, or the disgrace, or the patriotic ridicule. Even in my imagination, the shore just twenty yards away, I couldn't make myself be brave. It had nothing to do with morality. Embarrassment, that's all it was. And right then I submitted. I would go to the war—I would kill and maybe die—because I was embarrassed not to. That was the sad thing. And so I sat in the bow of the boat and cried. It was loud now. Loud, hard crying. Elroy Berdahl remained quiet. He kept fishing. He worked his line with the tips of his fingers, patiently, squinting out at his red and white bobber on the Rainy River. His eyes were flat and impassive. He didn't speak. He was simply there, like the river and the late-summer sun. And yet by his presence, his mute watchfulness, he made it real. He was the true audience. He was a witness, like God, or like the gods, who look on in absolute silence as we live our lives, as we make our choices or fail to make them. "Ain't biting,” he said. Then after a time the old man pulled in his line and turned the boat back toward Minnesota. I don't remember saying goodbye. That last night we had dinner together, and I went to bed early, and in the morning Elroy fixed breakfast for me. When I told him I'd be leaving, the old man nodded as if he already knew. He looked down at the table and smiled. At some point later in the morning it's possible that we shook hands—I just don't remember—but I do know that by the time I'd finished packing the old man had disappeared. Around noon, when I took my suitcase out to the car, I noticed that his old black pickup truck was no longer parked in front of the main lodge. I went inside and waited for a while, but I felt a bone certainty that he wouldn't be back. In a way, I thought, it was appropriate. I washed up the breakfast dishes, left his two hundred dollars on the kitchen counter, got into the car, and drove south toward home. The day was cloudy. I passed through towns with familiar names, through the pine forests and down to the prairie, and then to Vietnam, where I was a soldier, and then home again. I survived, but it's not a happy ending. I was a coward. I went to the war. Enemies

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Before we head to the park, I tuck two more beer bottles in my coat pocket, plus one in my purse alongside a juice box. Coming home at dusk, I find smoke billowing from the stove door’s edges, the alarm screaming. I yank out the forgotten roast, black and unidentifiable as any roadkill. Mary’s pot-roast recipe? Drink a six-pack then ring the fire department. And rather than call for pizza while congratulating myself that Dev was king of the monkey bars in an arctic gale, I pile a hungry boy into the car for a rush-hour lope through the store for another pot roast, since I’d idly mentioned to my husband a pot roast was forthcoming. Thus ignoring the fact that Warren would forgo roast to find a cheerful spouse and a slice or two of pepperoni. In the store, I trot through the aisles behind a veering cart, thinking, Isn’t Warren a demanding dick to insist on pot roast? My blood-alcohol level is waning, and as my near-starved toddler holds out his arms toward a sugary cereal, his whine revs up till he’s baying like a sick calf to be liberated from the cart. I look at his quite prominent—is that his pulse throbbing?—blue horn as the strangers fix me in their sights. ( What a mean, awful mother! ) Dev is hoisted out while he thrashes and arches his back like he’s being abducted. We abandon our sundries. Outside, I strap him into his car seat while he flails, and I shout at him—Goddammit, Dev, you’re gonna make me nuts—and tears fill his blue eyes. He covers his face with his hands. While grocery carts veer alongside us, I catch in the rearview Dev’s face all quiet and big eyed. So I heft him out of the car seat and smother his face in kisses, gushing regret. Back home, still there is no pot roast. I scramble eggs while uncorking a new wine, the sweet squeak of the cork releasing the aroma of ferment, and I tell myself, Who wouldn’t drink? This is the last bottle. I’ll finish it, then start fresh tomorrow. In a sneaky, insidious process, it’s all I really look forward to, and I’d bare my teeth at anybody approaching the glass in my hand with a mind toward taking it. That night Warren comes in at ten-thirty, failing to thank me for the noodley casserole glop I slap in a bowl. Ditzy with wine and holding a boulder of guilt, I confess to Warren about snapping at Dev in the store. He blinks. You can’t do that. Easy for you to say, you’re not here all day. But Warren faces me with the piety of a natural parent. Trained to rein in a thoroughbred or wrest a slipper from a teething pooch, he’s disinclined to lose his cool.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  How lucky is that? I say, and I mold my features into the unwilled smile of a store-bought doll . As part of my program to look like a model inmate, I organize something I call Health and Beauty Day. Joan has been called to the West Coast to nurse her father in hospice. But Deb and Liz bring in meditation tapes patients can listen to while lying on the dayroom floor in the morning. I also arrange for staff to take us on a long walk around the campus and to the gym, where we idly thwap around basketballs. Before dinner, we make facial masks from yogurt and honey and lie supine on mats in the kitchen with cucumber slices on our eyes and mayo slathered on our hair—homemade spa treatments I clipped from a magazine. Pam jokes that we should have a fashion show involving the papery nightgowns that show our flubbery asses. After dinner, Betty invites me to her room so I can borrow some petal-pink polish for my toenails. She nicks into the bathroom to slip into her pajamas. Coming out, she pulls a daffodil-yellow sweatshirt from a drawer, and as it slips over her head, I catch a glimpse of burn marks up one arm above the elbow—a line of festering sores of varying depths. I grab her wrist, and she jerks away. What did you do? I say. Nothing, she says. It’s none of your business. How did you even do that? I ask. Leave it alone. It’s been there a long time. Those were fresh. You’ve been here three months. How did you find a way to burn yourself? You think you know about everything, Betty says in a hissed whisper. Betty— Miss High and Mighty. Miss Harvard Everything. —you gotta tell your doctor about this. All you’ve done since you got here is get fat! You’re disgusting. And your son is fat! He’s fat because you’re mean to him. You’re crazy! Your husband should take him to protect him from you. I’m gonna testify for him too if you mess with me. Get out of here. Get out of my room. You came in here to make a pass at me. You’re sick! You’re a fat, sick perverted lesbian! She runs back into the bathroom and slams the door. What’s going on in here? says a nurse, sticking her head in. Nothing, I say. Betty’s worried about her complexion, I think. In the dayroom the next day, Tina’s sketching a design for her wreath as I whisper what I’ve found out. She shrugs. You’ve gotta stay out of that. Some of those sores look infected, I say. She tilts her head to the door, and I follow her toward the phone booth. She sits on the wooden stool under the pay phone while I stand in the hall. She glances past me to be sure the coast is clear, then pulls up her ankle-length nightgown.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Thomas Jefferson. Surely they recognize my native intellect. At some point Mrs. Whitbread says casually, What religion does your family practice, Mary? Which I take as interest in my strangely compelling history. I think of my mother, who studied every faith and—with her husbands—committed to none. We’re not anything, really, I say. But I find myself dredging up a few childhood visits to the Presbyterian church, for I know a joke punch line about Episcopalians being Presbyterians with trust funds. But I catch Mrs. Whitbread’s unmet glance toward Warren, and it dawns on me that had he brought home his classmate Caroline Kennedy, her being a Catholic might have been a mark against her. In a mind shift, I’m a schoolgirl again in summer, and my half-Indian daddy has just come in the back door at dawn with grime under his nails from a double shift. How carefully he draws five one-dollar bills from his weathered billfold to give Mother for two pairs of school shoes—one for me, one for Lecia. While I wait for her to bring the car around, he slips off his shirt, showing a chest pale as paper where his worker’s tan runs out. He steps out of his khakis, and jutting through his baggy boxers, his legs are knobby and thin. One thigh’s pronounced hunk of shrapnel is royal blue. The long scar up his right shinbone where a horse he was breaking threw and dragged him looks freshly scabby. He sits down on the bed’s edge, staring at his brown forearms. Daddy, I whisper, and that greedy call for him snaps the connection to the past. The voltage drops, and he’s gone, reabsorbed into the shriveled form in my mother’s house, tended days by a male nurse we can’t afford, nights by Mother, who resents it. In an instant I’m back in the Whitbreads’ library, and Daddy lies uninsured, half paralyzed. On the mantle, sits a recent Christmas snapshot with all the siblings before the fireplace, glossy-haired and tidy. They actually match like the gorgeous silverware. Not resemblance but precise replication. I think, Tiger One, Tiger Two...(I’ll come to believe that the WASP genetic code imperially squashes the other parent’s contributing DNA in offspring. My own son, blond and blue-eyed, will bear so little of me that ladies in the park will think I’ve been hired to push his stroller.) Just as we’re saying good night, Mr. Whitbread inquires whether, as a Texan, my father’s in oil, and I tell him he was, adding—wittily, I think—up to his elbows twelve hours a day. Which fact they take with a preoccupied air. I could speculate on what they thought, but they’re unreadable as granite. That night, lying in Warren’s narrow bed, where I’ve sneaked from his sister’s flowery boudoir to make love, I ask him, How’d I do? He cups my face. I love you, he says. Leafy shadows move over us. (How young we were.) Do you think they heard us just now?

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  In the sunlit study of a couples’ counselor, huge potted plants are thriving—ficus and mother-in-law tongue and wandering Jew with shoots sending out small explosions of streaky green. Across from us, the therapist smiles from a moon-shaped face. In the next room, one of her bespectacled kids saws through violin scales. This doctor—in her loose muslin dress and Birkenstock sandals, her long wavy hair dragged into a bun with a pen stuck through it—appears to have cobbled together what I want: a happy family. I tell her about snapping at Dev and making him cry—the reason we’re here. She tries to reassure me that Dev’s childhood, however shadowed by our scratching at each other, doesn’t mirror my own. You’re both very worried about Dev’s feelings, she says, but he’s in no way neglected. (In some ways, true enough. But having your parents circle each other—I still contend—splits a child in two.) Warren’s just a better parent, I say. Is that true? she asks him. His long legs in khakis bend and unbend, mantislike. He says, Mary’s very loving, very good about seeing he plays with other kids all the time… He trails off, and she says, But? She gets very overwhelmed and snappish, he finishes. He’s perfectly patient with Dev, I say. Well, probably, she tells me with that smile, if Warren was up all night like you, he might be less perfect. I doubt that, I say. She asks me to say more, and I outline Warren’s steadiness. How his devotion to poetry has inspired me to strive for a higher bar in my work. I praise his integrity and self-discipline, saying, I wanted a solid family. That’s part of why I married him, for the stability he offered. She leads me on, but now the stabilization feels… Stultifying, I say. She eventually turns to Warren. Why’d you marry Mary? It seemed like time, he says. We’d been together three years. We loved each other—health insurance and so forth. She very much wanted a family. I stare at him, awaiting some of his former warmth for me to squeeze through the stone, but he ticks off what might be qualities in a personals ad—attractive, athletic, smart. She’s much more social than I, he adds, very loyal, a very devoted mother… Whoever you married would have those qualities, she says. I think he married me—I interrupt—to rebuke his upbringing. Now he resents my absorption with the baby or that his father chips in my rent! (These pet theories conveniently skim over my own—at this point—innately repellent disposition.) That’s so damned unfair, he says. It’s Warren’s turn, the therapist says levelly. Toward the end, when she asks how much I’m drinking, I halve it. Still she suggests I try out an evening support group for people trying to give up booze. She turns to Warren, Do you think she’s an alcoholic?

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  The next instant a gray-haired lady in pearls smiles at me, and I turn away, thinking, I’m not like you, lady.... Nonetheless, I raise my hand a few inches, but when I don’t get called on, I yank it down and start sitting on it again. How far I’ve fallen from the hand-flapping freshman, how saturated in shame. That flip-flop keeps going on inside, as if opposing inner judo masters take turns body-slamming each other. One minute I’m thinking, They’re not all that strange. The next, their laughter bounces off me like bullets from a Kevlar vest. I go outside to smoke. In the common across from me, the bare trees are twisted into agonized forms. The bronze cannons seem aimed straight at my sternum. I look back at the lighted windows and hear a woman’s unintelligible voice. The door opens a crack, and in the spilled, triangular glow, a tall kid wearing a red bandana over his streaming brown hair slips out. He stops six feet away and bends slightly forward—almost a butler’s bow—saying, Excuse me, Miss Karr. Mind if I join you? Who is he? With his formal demeanor and gold granny glasses, he could be a student—some Ivy League suck-up. Join away, I say, adding as I flash my wedding ring, I’m a miz. My goodness gracious, ma’am, he says, those are some seriously blinding stones you’re flaunting. We met before... And we had. David was a Harvard Ph.D. candidate in philosophy I’d once been introduced to at the back of a reading by mutual pals. Some kind of genius, David’s meant to be, though his red bandana is the flag of gangster or biker, ditto the unlaced Timberland work boots. I ask him how long he’s been coming, and he says not hardly any time, and I say it’s my first go, and he asks if I get it, and I say if I got it, I wouldn’t be out here smoking. He says same with him, adding while he drank a lot, he mostly did marijuana, which can’t be so bad because it’s natural. I say—cleverly, I think—Strychnine’s natural. He concedes that’s true but also points out how, since the average pot smoker doesn’t tend to steal your TV, people don’t frown on it like they do, say, smoking crack, then plowing over the crossing guard. We stare at the cannons facing us, both agreeing we really have better places to be as we grind our cigarettes with our boot heels. Climbing the steps back to the lighted doorway, he holds the door, bowing as he says from his scruffily bearded face (this is the pre-scruff U.S.A.), After you, Miz Karr. It brings me up short—his outlaw wardrobe paired with the obsequious ma’am thing—and I say testily, Are you fucking with me? No ma’am, he says, his hands flying to his T-shirted chest.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  καυτήρ, pos, 6, a burner, Pind. P. 1. 185. a branding iron, Hipp. 894 A, Galen. Gloss. καυτηριάζω, fut. dow, to cauterise, Strab. 215 (ubi olim male καταστ--); metaph. in Pass., κεκαυτηριασμένοι τὴν συνείδησιν τ Ep. Tim. 4. 2:— verb. Adj. καυτηριαστέον, Theophan. Nonn. 2. p. 338. καυτήριον, τό, a branding iron, Luc. Pisc. 52 (vulg. καυστ--), Apol. 2: metaph., καυτήρια ταῖς ψυχαῖς προσάγειν Diod. 20. 54:—also καυτηρ- ίδιον, Galen. Gloss. II. a burnt mark, brand. kavTns, ov, δ, =Kavorns, καυτήρ, Anth. Ἐν 2. 51. καυτός, ἧ, ὄν, ν. sub καυστός. καὐτός, by crasis for καὶ αὐτός, Eur. 1. A. 1349, Anth. P.6. 57. καυχάομαι, 2 sing. καυχᾶσαι in late Gr., as Ep. Rom. 2. 17, 23, etc.: fut. ἤσομαι Hdt., Epicr. Ἔμπορ. I: aor. ἐκαυχησάμην Eupol. AnH. 31, Arist. Pol. 5. 10, 16 : pf. κεκαύχημαι 2 Ep. Cor.7.14. (Akin to αὐχέω, εὔχομαι.) To speak loud, be loud-tongued, Pind. O. 9. 58 Eupol. Any. 31, etc.: to boast or vaunt oneself, ἐπ᾽ αἰζηοῖσι κ. μέγα Cratin. Λάκων. 1, cf. Lycurg. in A. B. 275; εἴς τι Arist. Pol. 5. 10, 16 :—e. acc. et inf. to boast that .., Hdt. 7. 39, Epicr. l.c., etc. ;—c. part. Zo boast of doing or being, Menand. Monost. 616:—c. acc. ¢o boast of, Philem. Incert. 18, 2 Ep. Cor. g. 2 Not found in the best Att. Prose. καύχη, ἣ, τε 54.» καῦχαι ἐπέων, of heroic verse, Pind. N. 2 15. καύχημα, τό, a boast, vaunt, Pind. I. 5 (4). 65. 2. a subject of boasting, Lesbonax 173. 18, Ep. Rom. 4. 2. καυχημᾶτίας, ov, 6, a boaster, brag gart, Schol. Il. 13. 373, E. M. καυχήμων, ov, boastful, Babr. 5. τὸ. καύχησις, €ws, ἡ, reason to boast, Vol. Hercul. τ. p.16, Ep. Rom. 15.117. καυχητής, ov, 6, a boaster, Schol. Hom., cf, Lob. Paral. 440. καυχητιάω, to boast aloud, E. M. 206. 22, Schol. Ar. Pl. 572. Kaos, Ξ κάπος, E.M. καφουρά, 7, camphor, ν. Ducang. Gloss. καφώρη, 7, a she fox, also σκαφώρη, Schneid. Ael.N. A. 7.47. κἄχάζω, Dor. fut. καχαξῶ Theocr. 5. 142:—(prob. onomatop., like καγχαλάω, Lat. cachinnor). To laugh aloud, Ar. Eccl. 849, Anacreont. 34. 29, Luc. Ὁ. Meretr. 6.3; ἐπί τινι at one, Eubul. Aap. 1, Luc. Amor. 22.) μέγα κατά τινος Theocr. 1. ο.: hence with a sense of scorn or mockery, ἁπάντων καχαζόντων ἡ ΕΣ Soph. Aj. 199. —The Mss. often II. like καυτήριον, καυσαλώνης ---- Kea ἰζω. 337 A), and this form is required by the metre in Babr. 99. 8, λύκος: δ᾽ ἐπ’ αὐτῷ καγχάσας, as in Anth.P.5. 230., 6.74; but the old Att. form was καχάζω, as required by the metre in Soph. and Ar. ll. c., cf. καχασμός. κἄχασμός, ὃ, τε καγχασμός (ᾳ ν.). Αγ. Nub. 1073, acc. to Rav. Ms. κἄχεκτέω, to be in a bad habit of body, be unwell, Polyb. 29. 6,143 κ. ψυχῇ to be ill-disposed, disaffected, Id. 20. 7, 43 of the condition of a State, Ib. 4.1.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  αἰσχύνω [Ὁ] : Ion. impf. αἰσχύνεσκε (κατ--) Q. Sm. I4. 531: fut. -tv@ Eur. Hipp. 719, Ion. -vvéw Hdt. 9. 53 : aor. ἤσχῦνα 1]., Att.: pf. ἤσχυγκα Dio Ὁ. 58. 16, ἤσχῦκα Draco 12:—Pass., fut. αἰσχύνοῦμαι Aesch. Ag. 856, Ar. Fr. 21, Plat., rarely αἰσχυνθήσομαι v. sub fin.: aor. ἠσχύνθην Hdt. and Att., poét. inf. αἰσχυνθήμεν Pind. N. 9. 64: pf. ἤσχυμμαι (v. infr. Β. 1) :—cf. ἀπ--, ἐπ-αισχύνομαι, κατ-αισχύνω. To make ugly, disfigure, mar, πρόσωπον, κόμην 1]. 18. 24, 27; αἰσχ. τὸν ἵππον to give the horse a bad form, Xen. Eq. 1, 12. 2. mostly in moral sense, to dishonour, tarnish, μηδὲ γένος πατέρων αἰσχυνέμεν Il. 6. 209, cf. 23. 271; τὴν Σπάρτην Hdt. g. 53; freq. in Att., as αἰσχ. ξενίαν τράπεζαν Aesch. Ag. 401; τοὺς πρὸς αἵματος Soph. Aj. 13053 τοὺς πατέρας Plat. Menex. 246 D. b. esp. to dishonour a woman, Eur. El. 44, etc.; αἰσχ. εὐνήν Aesch. Ag. 1626 ;—for Soph. Ant. 528, v. sub αἱματόεις. 8. to dishonour, disdain, ἐπιχώρια Pind. P. 3. 38. B. Pass. to be dishonoured, Lat. contumelia affici, νέκυς ἡσχυμ- μένος, of Patroclus, Il. 18. 180; εἰς τὸ σῶμα aigy. Arist. Pol. 5. Io. ΤΣ: II. to be ashamed, feel shame, absol., Od. 7. 305., 18. 12, Hdt. 1. το, Eur. Hipp. 1291. 2. more commonly ¢o be ashamed at a thing, c. acc. rei, αἰσχυνόμενοι φάτιν ἀνδρῶν Od. 21. 323; τὴν δυσγένειαν THY ἐμὴν aicx. Soph. O. T. 1079; also c. dat. rei, Ar. Nub. 992, Lys. 97. 12, εἴς. ; and with Preps., αἰσχ. ἐπί τινι Xen. Mem. 2. 2, 8; ἔν τινι Thuc. 2. 43; ὑπέρ τινος Lys. 142. 24, Dem., etc. b. c. part. to be ashamed at doing a thing (which however one does), Aesch. Pr. 642, Soph. Ant. 540, Ar. Fr. 21, Plat., etc.; but c. c. inf. to be ashamed to do a thing (and therefore not to do it), Hdt. τ. 42 82, Aesch. Ag. 856, Cho. 917, Plat. Rep. 414 E, Phaedr. 257 D, etc. ; though this condition must not be pressed absolutely, v. Apol. 22 B. d. foll. by a relat. clause, αἰσχύνεσθαι εἰ or ἤν... to be ashamed that .., Soph. El. 254, Andoc. 34. 31, Plat., etc.; αἰσχ- μὴ... Plat. Theaet. 183 E. 3. c. acc. pers. to feel shame before one, Eur. lon 933, 1074, Pherecr. Air. 1. 6, Plat. Symp. 216 B; τόν ye μηδὲν etdor αἰσχυνθήσεται Philem. Incert. 51 D; c. acc. et inf., Eur. Hel. 415; ἠσχύνθημεν θεοὺς... προδοῦναι αὐτόν Xen. An. 2. 3, 22:—also, αἰσχ. πρός τινα Arist. Rhet. 2. 6, 1. b. to reverence, Aeschin. 25. 30. αἰσχύνωμα, atos, τό, -- τὸ αἰδοῖον. LXX. Αἰσωπο-ποίητος, ov, made by Aesop, Quintil. Inst. 5. 11.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I find myself cornered by a drunk writer of substantial reputation at a party. His expectant leer scares me out the door. At the car, I have keys in my hand but no purse. Where’s my purse? I find myself squatting in the bedroom closet with two incongruent bottles, whiskey and Listerine—the latter with accompanying spit bowl. Despite the dark, it feels safe in here, leaning against the back wall with clothes before my face. On one of Warren’s school nights, friends I once taught with ring my doorbell holding a twelve-pack, the ambush making me giddy as a prom queen. They pore over my shoe box of Dev’s baby pictures while regaling me with their new projects—a play at Yale, a book of short stories. But even as I giggle and suck down beers, I know Warren’s headlights are gonna swipe the house silent again. Sure enough, he comes in the back door and stops in the living room to shake hands before excusing himself. About eleven, he calls from upstairs, and I find him on the landing, shirtless in boxers. He whispers, I can’t sleep from the noise. If you don’t ask them to leave, I’ll have to. I hiss at him, You’re such a control freak. He says, You knew I was like this when you married me. The righteous cry of married men everywhere, for it’s a cliché that every woman signs up thinking her husband will change, while every husband signs up believing his wife won’t: both dead wrong. So I send them home, then stay up nearly all night drinking and staring past the edges of the yard like a rabbit through chicken wire. What happened to those great poems I was going to set the world weeping with? Tomorrow! How sweet its prospects for a drunkard the night before. There is no better word. Before the earth hurls itself into sunshine, nothing is not possible. Tomorrow, I will rise at three A.M. and log two hours writing before Dev stumps out. I’ll take a five-mile jog, start a cheap but nutritious stew, submit a query letter to The American Scholar for an essay. If only I could be left alone for a few days to drink like I want to, I could get my papers graded. Every mom trails undone chores—dishes in the sink, laundry going wrinkly in the dryer. I lug from room to office to playground reams of ungraded essays. With one hand, I use a fork to fiddle with chicken in a skillet. With the other, my red pen marks comma blunders on the counter. The papers I hand back sport grease stains and grass stains and smudges of homemade applesauce.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  They probably care more than you do, Joan counters. She points out how many of my own bright ideas for solving life’s travails involve buying a flamethrower. Her jet hair is salted with gray, though a smattering of freckles conjures some twelve-year-old Joan I might’ve climbed a tree with. In truth, she’s written articulately about the most unpronounceable continental philosophers. I’m very astute, I say. Or paranoid, she says. I complain that lots of people in the room are crazy. Real wing nuts. You’re asking me to confide in crazy people. Fuckups, most of them. I chew my red coffee stirrer into a frightful state. No offense. Joan sighs. The fact that you’ve continued to drink—given your history of depression and family trauma—borders on the moronic. I sip coffee and blink. You’re not bringing a problem to one person, she adds. You’re asking the group. The group is guided by principles that the individuals in it don’t embody solo. It’s the one day at a time crap— So you never sat over a drink, thinking, I’ll quit tomorrow…. Every night. It’s no more nuts saying Just don’t drink today than saying I’ll quit tomorrow. Put your mind where your body is. One day at a time forces you to reckon with the instant you actually occupy, rather than living in fantasy la-la that never arrives. I quote something I’d heard at one of my first meetings: If you’ve got one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you’re straddling today—pissing all over it rather than living in it. See, she says, you do listen. I sit inwardly grumbling in the muddy mind-set of the reluctantly unmedicated. I do not feel redeemed. I feel fallen, a long way fallen. Not drinking has chipped off some armor I’ve hardened over my softest aspects, and now I sit in a coffee shop niggling with a woman who most days feels like the only roadblock between me and a truckload of flaming horseshit. She says, You honestly think you’re gonna sit here with me and figure out how to conduct every day of your life henceforth without a drink? Why not? Because nobody graduates. Each day you’ll feel different. If you’re numbed out, you act based on how you’re supposed to feel rather than how you actually feel. You need a toolbox of sober alternatives. Get more women’s numbers. If I’m not around, you’ll have to call somebody else. I hate everybody else. For somebody who worries about being judged so much, you’re a tough crowd. I say, Maybe I should use Jake’s line: I tell people I have an allergy to liquor. When I drink it, I break out in handcuffs. See, you’re starting to like the group. The religious shit— Spiritual shit, Joan corrects. Whatever. It makes my skin crawl. Anyway, I don’t get how it works. Joan says, You don’t know how electricity works, either, but you use light switches.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἀναίνομαι : impf. ἠναινόμην, Ep. ἀναινόμην, late also ἀνῃνόμην Agath.: aor. ἠνηνάμην, subj. ἀνήνηται, inf. ἀνήνασθαι: cf. ἀπ-αναίνομαι : Dep. (ἀν-- privat., αἶνος : or, acc. to Buttm. a reduplicated form of the negat. 4/AN.) 1. c. acc. to refuse or reject with contempt, spurn, σὲ δ᾽ avaivera καὶ τὰ σὰ δῶρα Il. 9. 679; ὃς δέ κ᾽ ἀνήνηται [σφέας] Ib. 510; τῶν ἄλλων οὔτινα ἀναίνομαι on no one of the rest do I turn my back, Od. 8. 212; and without a notion of contempt, πρὶν μὲν ἀναίνετο ἔργον ἀεικές refused, declined to do it, Od. 3. 265; χαλεπόν κεν ἀνήνασθαι δόσιν ein “twould be hard Zo refuse a gift, 4.651; so, ws μηδὲν ἀναίνοιντο ἔργον Xen. Cyr. 2. 1, 31. 2. to renounce, disown, φάος .. οὖς ἠναίνετο Aesch. Ag. 300; οὐδ᾽ οἷόν τ᾽ ἀνήνασθαι πόσιν Eur. Med. 237; ἀναίνεται δὲ λέκτρα Id. Hipp. 14, cf. El. 211: ἡμᾶς... ἀναίνοιτ᾽ ἂν (sc. ἡ διαλεκτική) Plat. Phil. 57 E; τοῦτον... ἀναίνει ; Dem. 954. 7. II. c. inf. to refuse, decline to do, ἠναίνετο λοιγὸν ἀμῦναι Il, 18.450; ἕζεσθαι μὲν ἀνήνατο 23. 204; and with pleon. negat., ἀναίνετο μηδὲν ἑλέσθαι he said no, he had received nothing, Ib. 500; οὐκ ἀναίνομαι θανεῖν Aesch. Ag. 1652, cf. Supp. 801 ;—so, εἰ. ἀναίνεται εἰ ἔγὼ ἔσομαι (for ἐμὲ ἔσεσθαι) Isae. de Menecl. Hered. § 27. III. absol. to refuse, αἴδεσθεν μὲν ἀνήνασθαι 1]. 7.93: to deny, οὐδ᾽ αὐτὸς ἀν. 9. 116; ἐπειδὴ πάμπαν ἀναίνεαι Od. 14. 149; cf. Dem. 1415. 28:—of a woman, fo refuse her favours, Plat. Com. a. 7, Menand. Sux. 6. IV. c. part. fo disown doing or having done, οὐ» ἀναίνομαι νικώμενος Aesch. Ag. 583; ἀναίνομαι τὸ "γῆρας ὑμῶν εἰσορῶν I am ashamed to look on thine old age, Herm. Eur. Bacch. 251, cf. 1. A. 1502, H. F. 1124.—A poét. Verb, but not unknown in Prose, as the examples shew. dvatpepa, ατος, 76, = ἑλώριον, Schol. Ap. Rh. 2. 264. ἀναίρεσις, ews, 7, a taking up or away, esp. of dead bodies for burial, ὀστέων Eur. Or. 404; νεκρῶν Thuc. 3. 109, 1133 οἱ ἂν μὴ εὑρεθῶσιν és ἀναίρεσιν 2. 34, cf. Antipho 137. 26, Lys. 101. 11; ἀναίρεσιν δοῦναι Eur. Supp. 18 :—so in a sea-fight, ναυαγίων ἀν. Thuc. 7.72; τῶν vava- γῶν Xen. Hell. τ. 7, 5. 2. a taking up, ἀν. καὶ θέσις ὅπλων Plat. Legg. 814 A, cf. Antipho 123. 9. 8. an undertaking, ἔργων Plat. Legg. 847 B. II. a destroying, destruction, Xen. Hell. 6. 3, 53 τειχῶν καὶ πόλεων Dem. 385.3: abrogation of laws, Plut. Cic. 34. 2. direct confutation of arguments, opp. to διαίρεσις (confutation by drawing a distinction), Arist. Soph. Elench. 33, 7. dvatpetéov, verb. Adj. one must take up or take away, Diosc. 5. 116. dvaipétns, ov, 6, a destroyer, murderer, Schol. Ar. Pl. 1147, Procl. paraphr. Ptol. p. Igo. ἀναιρετικός, 7, ὄν, destructive, Arist. Rhet. 2. 8, 8; ἀν. τινος Plut. 2. 427E. Adv. -Ka@s, negatively, Diog. L. 9. 75.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  the breast, Aesch. Ag. 77; ὀρθοὶ ἀνῇξαν πάντες Eur. Hel. 1600; βωμὸς ἀνάσσων an altar rising up, Pind. O. 13. 1533 (for Aesch. Pers. 96, v. ἀνάσσω fin.) ;—rare in Prose, ἀναΐσσει νόσημα Hipp. Progn. 433 ἀνάξας, of a hare, Xen. Cyn. 6, 17. 2. c. ace., ἀναΐξας . . ἅρμα καὶ ἵππους having leapt upon it, Il. 24. 440. 8. c. inf. to begin eagerly to do, Opp. Car. 107. ἀναισχή, és, = ἀναίσχυντος, A. B, 207. ἀναισχυντέω, to be ἀναίσχυντος, to be shameless, behave impudently, Ar. Lys. 460, Thuc. 1. 37, Andoc. 20. 17; πρός τινα Xen. Symp. 8, 33: also c. part., ἀναισχυντεῖ ποιῶν he is impudent enough to do, Ar. Thesm. 708 ; av. διαλεγόμενος Plat. Crito 53 C; c. acc. cogn., ποῖα... ἀναισχυν- τοῦσιν Arist. Rhet. 2. 6, 1. 2. trans. to treat shamelessly, and Pass. to be so treated, 6 ἀναισχυντῶν πρὸς τὸν ἀναισχυντούμενον 10. 3. 11, ἀναισχύντημα, ατος, τό, an impudent act, Hyperid. Fr. 254, Poll. 6. 180. ἀναισχυντία, ἡ, shamelessness, impudence, Ar. Thesm, 702, Lycurg. 169. 22, etc.; ὑπ᾽ ἀναισχυντίας Plat. Symp. 192 A. ἀναισχυντο- γράφος, 6, an obscene writer, Polyb. 12. 13, I ἀν-αίσχυντος, ov, shameless, impudent, Bursa: 327, etc., Ar. Pax 182, Andoc. 31. 20, Plat., etc. :—70 ἀναίσχυντον, -- ἀναισχυντία, Eur. I. A. 1144:—Adv. -7ws, Plat. Apol. 31 B: Sup., ἀναισχυντότατα ἀνθρώπων Dem. 810. 7. IL. of things, shameful, abominable, Bopa Eur. Cycl. 416, cf. Thuc. 2. 52. ἀν-αίτητος, 7, ov, unasked, Pind. Fr. 151. 8. dv-aitioAdyyTo0s, ov, for which no cause can be assigned, Diosc. Ther. I. p. 417 F, Alex. Aphr. Probl. 1. 52. ἀν-αίτιος, ov, also a, ov Hdt. 9. 110, Aesch. Cho. 873, cf. μεταίτιος :-— in the best authors, only of persons, not being the fault or cause of a thing, guiltless, ἀναίτιον αἰτιάασθαι 1]. 13. 775, cf. Od. 20. 135, etc. ; ἀναίτιος ἀθανάτοις guiltless before the gods, Hes. Op. 825, cf. Eur. Med. 730; ἀν. παρά τινι Xen, Cyr. τ. 6, Io. 2. c. gen. rei, guiltless of a thing, Hdt. Teh 20-30 4.123, tC; φόνου, κακῶν Aesch. Ag. 1505, Cho. 8733 κακίας Plat. Tim. 42.D; ἀφροσύνης Xen. Cyr. I. 5, 10:—ovs ἀναίτιόν ἐστι, ο. inf. it is blamable to do; 0. δ. 5522: II. not being the cause, τὸ ἀν. τιθέναι ὡς αἴτιον iNvist: An. Pr. 2. 17, 3, cf. Rhet. 2. 4, 8:—in Adv. ἀναιτίως, Sext. Emp. 3. 67. ἄναιτος, ν. ἄνατος.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  the smokestacks, the canneries, the arsenals at Hartford, the Minnesota forests, the machine shops, the vast fields of corn and wheat—they carried like freight trains; they carried it on their backs and shoulders—and for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry. After the chopper took Lavender away, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross led his men into the village of Than Khe. They burned everything. They shot chickens and dogs, they trashed the village well, they called in artillery and watched the wreckage, then they marched for several hours through the hot afternoon, and then at dusk, while Kiowa explained how Lavender died, Lieutenant Cross found himself trembling. He tried not to cry. With his entrenching tool, which weighed 5 pounds, he began digging a hole in the earth. He felt shame. He hated himself. He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a consequence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war. All he could do was dig. He used his entrenching tool like an ax, slashing, feeling both love and hate, and then later, when it was full dark, he sat at the bottom of his foxhole and wept. It went on for a long while. In part, he was grieving for Ted Lavender, but mostly it was for Martha, and for himself, because she belonged to another world, which was not quite real, and because she was a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey, a poet and a virgin and uninvolved, and because he realized she did not love him and never would. Like cement, Kiowa whispered in the dark. I swear to God—boom, down. Not a word. I've heard this, said Norman Bowker. A pisser, you know? Still zipping himself up. Zapped while zipping. All right, fine. That's enough. Yeah, but you had to see it, the guy just— I heard, man. Cement. So why not shut the fuck up? Kiowa shook his head sadly and glanced over at the hole where Lieutenant Jimmy Cross sat watching the night. The air was thick and wet. A warm dense fog had settled over the paddies and there was the stillness that precedes rain. After a time Kiowa sighed. One thing for sure, he said. The lieutenant's in some deep hurt. I mean that crying jag—the way he was carrying on—it wasn't fake or anything, it was real heavy-duty hurt. The man cares. Sure, Norman Bowker said. Say what you want, the man does care. We all got problems. Not Lavender. No, I guess not, Bowker said. Do me a favor, though. Shut up? That's a smart Indian. Shut up.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Heidi’s plight, also revealed on the first page, involved an older girl’s dubious plan to deposit Heidi, who’d been placed in the girl’s charge, at the top of the mountain with a relative known as the Alm-Uncle. While they walked through the little village of Dorfli, a place that seemed as interesting to me as the inside of a shoebox, various residents inquired as to the girl’s destination, each expressing a sense of concern about the prospect of Heidi being left with the uncle. After twenty minutes I’d read only about three pages and could barely recall any of the story. I tried to speed-read, picking up bits and pieces of pertinent information, but was left with muddled images in no sequential order: wild flowers, a frowning uncle, fresh air, happy child. The hour dripped by, and I jumped at the sound of a timer. “How far have you read?” I looked up at my teacher’s flat face and down at the book in my lap. For the last thirty minutes I had been trying desperately to absorb the words. I had no idea where I was in the story because I’d skipped around in increasing panic. I chose a page at random and watched my teacher’s lips tighten when she held out her hand for the book. “Tell me what’s been happening so far in the story,” she said. I stared at her, trying to think. I didn’t know. I couldn’t talk. I just stood there. She set the book aside. “You have been fooling people into thinking that you’re a reader. You are slow and have zero recall or comprehension of what you read.” She opened a folder and made a note. “You can leave now.” I suppose my love of books began with my earliest memories of my mother reading Goodnight Moon to me. It began, “In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon. And there were three little bears sitting on chairs and two little kittens and a pair of mittens and a little toy house and a young mouse and a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush and a little old lady whispering, ‘Hush.’” My mother would place her finger over her lips when she said “Hush,” her reenactment of the old woman sitting in the rocking chair. Leaning against my mother’s chest, I’d relax into our ritual of saying goodnight to each and every creature and object in the room. “Your first word was ‘book,’” Theresa had told me many times over the years. “I was talking to Grandma, and you were sitting on the floor and this little voice came out of nowhere and said, ‘Book.’ Grandma and I both stopped talking, and I said, ‘Mama, did you say that?’ She said no, and we looked at you, looking up at us. You were holding a book.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  αἰσχύνη [Ὁ], ἡ, (αἶσχος) shame done one, disgrace, dishonour, ἐς αἰσχύνην φέρει it leads to disgrace, Hdt. 1. 10, cf. 3. 133 3 so, αἰσχύνην φέρει, ἔχει it brings, involves dishonour, Soph. Tr. 66, Eur. Andr. 244, etc.; αἰσχ. περιίσταταί pe, συμβαίνει μοι Dem. 30. 24., 254. 2; αἰσχύνῃ πίπτειν Soph. Tr. 5973 περιπίπτειν Xen. Hell. 7. 3, 9; αἰσχύνην περιάπτειν τινί Plat. Apol. 35 A; αἰσχ. προσβάλλειν τινί Id. Legg. 878 C; ἐν αἰσχ. ποιεῖν τινά Dem. 272. 18 :—of a person, αἰσχύνη πάτρᾳ Aesch. Pers. 774; aiax. τινός dishonour from .., Dem. TOs 2. αἰσχ. γυναικῶν a dishonouring of women, Lat. stupratio, Isocr. 64 Ὁ, 287 B; also, γράφεσθαί τινα γένους αἰσχύνης for dishonour done to his race, Plat. Legg. gig E. II. shame for an ill deed, Lat. pudor, personified in Aesch. Theb. 409; Αἰσχύνην οὐ vopicaca θεόν Anth. P. 7. 450. 2. generally, like αἰδώς, shame, the sense of shame, honour, πᾶσαν αἶσχ. ἀφείς Soph. Ph. 120; ἡ yap αἰσχύνη πάρος τοῦ ζῆν... νομίζεται Eur. Heracl. 200; δι᾿ αἰσχύνης ἔχειν to be ashamed, Id. 1. T. 683; also, αἰσχύνην ἔχειν τινός for a thing, Soph. El. 616; or αἰσχύνη τινὸς ἔχει pe Ib. 20; αἰσχ. ἐπί τινι Plat. Symp. 178 D; ὑπέρ τινος Dem. 43.6; joined with δέος Soph. Aj. 1079; with ἔλεος and αἰδώς, Antipho 114. 22:—rare in pl., πτήσσουσαν αἰσχύναισιν Soph. Fr. 588; ἐν αἰσχύναις ἔχω I hold it a shameful thing, Eur. Supp. 164. III. in late authors, as Orig. Philoc. c. 2, Schol. Ar. Eq. 364,=aidotoy ; cf. τὴν τοῦ σώματος αἰσχ., Alcid. ap. Arist. Rhet. 3° 39/3: αἰσχῦνομένη, 7, a kind of Mimosa, Plin. 24. 17. aicyivonevws, Adv. from αἰσχύνω, with shame, Dion. H. 7. 50. αἰσχυντέον, verb. Adj. of αἰσχύνομαι, one must be ashamed, Xen. Cyr. DAG! Tame We ἡ, bashfulness, Plut. 2. 66 Ὁ. αἰσχυντηλός, 7, ov, bashful, modest, Plat. Charm. 160 E, Arist. Eth. N. 4. 9, 33 τὸ αἰσχ. modesty, Plat. Charm. 158 C:—Ady. —A@s, Id. Legg. 665 E. IT. of things, causing shame, shameful, Arist. Rhet. 2. 6, 27. αἰσχυντήρ. jpos, 6, a dishonourer, of Aegisthus, Aesch. Cho. 990; so καταισχυντήρ, Id. Ag. 1363 :—otherwise αἰσχυντήρ occurs only in a late Inscr. in C. I. 8664. αἰσχυντηρός, 7, όν, -- αἰσχυντηλός, in Comp., Plat. Gorg. 487 B. (It is disputed which is the more Att. form, Piers. Moer. p. 28.) αἰσχυντικός, 7, Ov, shameful, Arist. Rhet. 2. 6, 12. αἰσχυντός, 7, dv, shameful, Pseudo-Phocyl. 176, ubi Bgk. αἰσχυντηροῖς.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  “Hey, wait up.” I glanced over my shoulder to see Michelle jogging at a shuffling pace to catch up with me, her bald eyes squinting beneath the sun. I stopped and waited. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Nowhere,” I said. “To the dorms, I guess.” She took a few steps toward the shoulder of the road and the start of a narrow foot trail that led down to the creek bed. “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you something. Have you ever been down to the creek?” “Yeah. Lots of times.” Michelle took my hand. “Come on. Come down there with me.” I let her pull me toward her, then I followed her along the path that snaked its way down to the water. When we reached the bottom of the trail, she stopped and looked back the way we had come. I looked, too, wondering what she was searching for. “Stand over here.” She nudged me toward some thick foliage under the protective shade of brambly branches, the coniferous shadows darkening her eyes to black. Wordlessly she unbuttoned my pants. I didn’t try to stop her. It seemed I was not myself anymore. She pulled my pants down to my ankles. “Lie down,” she ordered. I did as I was told, stretching out on the dry, pebbly earth. Satisfied with my robotic obedience, she twisted her lips into a smile that never reached her black eyes. She removed her own pants and stepped over me, positioning the lower half of my body between her legs. For a moment she stood staring at me, then she sat, straddling me, her vagina resting against mine. She slowly rocked her hips, rubbing herself against me. I couldn’t feel anything, as if my sex had been anesthetized. The experience seemed to be happening to someone else, another girl lying there in the dirt, the real me an indifferent observer. Faster she went until she was shuddering, pushing on my chest with her long thin fingers. She caught her breath, stood up and pulled on her pants. Without a word she walked back up the trail, leaving me lying on the ground with my pants twisted around my legs. After that I did my best to avoid Michelle. If she caught me unawares and took my hand to lead me to some obscure place, I followed her without argument, numb, my mind gone blank. Mostly she pulled me into some forested area where she could feel me up, uttering the pornographic dialogue that ran through her head. “This is what they do in Hustler ,” she’d whisper in my ear. “If you see any of those magazines, bring them to me.” I did as I was told, collecting what I found and handing the glossy books of smut over to her. Other times she demanded I give her any of my possessions she fancied. I had a hard time telling her no. When I’d pleased her, I basked in her praise.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  All the money they earned was to be rolled back into the community as payment for letting them stay. Theresa, surprised to find herself on the list, as it mostly pertained to old-timers, wondered about her job caring for Gwyn. Nobody wanted the job, and Theresa thought her position granted her immunity from working on the outside. Theresa and Ray also had been gamed aggressively for corrupting Melissa and me with their unacceptable and weird spiritual ideas when we spent an hour visiting with them in their bedroom. In the commune, an adult’s bedroom was akin to one’s own small home. In Ray and Theresa’s room, a low table stood in the corner as an altar. It displayed a small golden bell with intricate patterns, a book of prayers and chants arranged by color, and a wooden incense burner. The last held a burning stick of incense, the thin wisp of smoke filling the room with a musky, sweet fragrance. A framed drawing of a man with long blond hair and a smudge of red on his forehead decorated the wall above the altar. Ray served Melissa and me piping cups of hot Mu tea, a sweet herbal therapeutic Japanese tea with high notes of licorice and cinnamon. “Who’s that?” Melissa asked, pointing at the picture of the blond man. Ray scratched his beard and pulled his feet over his thighs, unwinding the cross-legged position in which he sat on a hard round pillow. Melissa, Theresa and I sat on similar pillows. “Maitreya,” Ray said. “He is a being of light who carries the Christ energy. Actually, Maitreya was Jesus’ guide.” Melissa shot me a snide smile, but Ray didn’t notice. Warming to the topic, he said, “We’re entering a new age, and soon Maitreya will appear to all of us to spread the message of love and light.” I listened politely, studying the picture. Maitreya looked exactly like Jesus, except for the red mark on his forehead, which reminded me of the Hindu pictures of enlightened beings in the Bhagavad Gita . At ten years old I reasoned to myself that Ray’s story of Maitreya coming to enlighten humanity was unlikely. “Whatever you are doing, wherever you are, he will appear before you to bring his message,” Ray continued. “If you are watching TV, he will come through the channel to talk to you.” “Isn’t that far out?” Theresa said. I nodded while Melissa smirked at her tea. “They’re crazy,” she said once we were outside their dorm. Because I admired Melissa, her words were cutting, and I felt a flash of shame. Later, she complained to one of the demonstrators about Theresa and Ray, saying that they were trying to push religion on us. Synanon did not tolerate religiosity. The only devotion Synanon members were allowed was devotion to Chuck.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  αἰκάλος, 6, a flatterer, Hesych. (Perh. from the same Root as deny, ἀκέων, ν. Ἑἀκή 11.) αἴκε, αἴκεν, poét. and Dor. for ἐάν. aiketa, v. sub aixia. αἰκέλιος, ov, poét. for ἀεικέλιος, Theogn. 1344, Eur. Andr. 131. ἀϊκή [ai], ἡ, (ἀΐσσω) rapid motion, flight, Lat. impetus, τύξων ἀϊκαί Il. 15. 709; ἐρετμῶν Opp. H. 4. 651. Cf. ῥίπη. ἀϊκής [1], és, poet. for ἀεικής, Adv. ἀϊκῶς Il. 22. 336: in Trag. also aixns, és (cf. αἰκίαν), αἰκὲς πῆμα Aesch. Pr. 472; θανάτους aixets Soph. El. 206. Adv. aix@s, Soph. El. 102 (Mss. ἀδίκως), 216, Plat. Com. Incert. 60. αἰκία, ἡ, Att. for the Ion. ἀεικείη (4. v.), injurious, insulting treatment, an affront, outrage, esp. of blows, stripes, etc., Aesch. Pr. 177, Soph. Ὁ]. 514, O. T. 748; in pl., Aesch. Pr. 93, Soph. El. 486, 511. 2. in Prose mostly as law-phrase, αἰκίας δίκη a private action for assault, less serious than that for ὕβρις (which was a γραφή), Plat. Rep. 425 Ὁ, 464 E, and often in Oratt.; ἣν 6 τῆς βλάβης ὑμῖν νόμος πάλαι, ἣν 6 τῆς αἰκίας, ἣν 6 THs ὕβρεως Dem. 525. 14, cf. Lys. Fr. 27, Bockh P. E. 2. Ρ᾿ 1692: 3. generally, suffering, disgrace, Thuc. 7. 75. [αἰκῖα, wherefore Dawes, Pors., etc., would write aixeia, cf. ἀεικείη : but v. Ellendt, Lex. Soph.] αἰκίζω, Act. used only in pres., fo treat injuriously, to plague, torment, τινά Soph. Aj. 403, Tr.839; ofa storm, πᾶσαν αἰκίζων φόβην ὕλης Id. Ant. 419 :—Pass. to be tormented, pres. in Aesch. Pr. 168 ; πρὸς κυνῶν ἐδεστὸν αἰκισθέντ᾽ Soph. Ant. 206; εἰς τὸ σῶμα αἰκισθῆναι πληγαῖς Arist. Pol. 5. Το; 19. II. more commonly as Dep. αἰκίζομαι, Aesch. Pr. 195, Isocr.: fut. αἰκίσομαι Anth,, Att. -τοὔμαι (kat—) Eur. Andr. 829: aor. ἠκισάμην Soph. Aj. 111, O. T. 1153, Xen., but also ἠκίσθην Andoc. 18. 11, Lys. 105. 32, Isocr. 73 A, Xen. (for its pass. sense, v. infr.) : so, pf. ἤκισμαι Eur. Med. 1130, plqpf. ἤκιστο Plut. Caes. 29 :—in same sense as Act., c.acc., ll.c.: and even τὰ χωρία aix. Dem. 1075.11; c. dupl. acc. pers. et rei, αἰκίζεσθαί τινα τὰ ἔσχατα Xen. An. 3. 1, 18; cf. Ep. ἀεικίζω. αἴκισμα, aros, τό, an outrage, torture, Aesch. Pr. 989, Lys. 105. 29:— in pl. mutilated corpses, Eur. Phoen. 1529. αἰκισμός, 6,=foreg., Dem. 102. 20, and often in later writers. αἰκιστικός, 7, 6v, prone to outrage, known from Adv. - κῶς, Schol. Ven. B. 22. 336, Poll. 8. 75, and other Gramm. :—fem. αἰκίστρια, 77, (as if from a masc. αἰκιστής), Suid. Adv. --κῶς, Schol. Ven. B. Il. 22. 336. αἶκλον or ἀϊκλον, τό, an evening meal at Sparta, Epich. 20 Ahr., Aleman 71, cf. Ath. 139 B: another form aikvov is quoted by Hesych., Suid., Eust. :—cf. ἄκολος. ἀϊκτήρ [a], ρος, ὃ, (ἀΐσσωλ the swift-rushing, Opp. H. 1. 171. ἄϊκτος, ov, (ixvéopar) wnapproachable, Hesych.; restored by Herm. in h. Hom. Merc. 346, for ὅδ᾽ ἐκτός. αἰκῶς, Adv. of αἰκής.