Surprise

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 14 of 73 · 20 per page

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Mother said, If Sweet lets the grass get too long, Ben cuts it. Plus he edges the walk real straight. He takes the tops off jars. He hooked up my VCR. He takes me out for Mexican food…. You could be in danger here, Mother, Lecia said. He’s good company, Mother said. Besides, I’d hate to be a dime-dropper. A what? Lecia said. A snitch, Mother said. A tattletale. But drop the dime Mother did, after Ben, aka Wilbur Fred, took out the trash one day, failing—as she’d told him to do a zillion times—to reline the can with a plastic bag afterward. She later said it had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. The very morning of the unlined garbage can, she called Stooge, who called the feds, who descended on my childhood home with dope-sniffing dogs. What’re you looking for? Mother asked the agent who checked her in to the Holiday Inn, courtesy of the government. Guns, drugs, and money, he said. They found none. Four days after Wilbur Fred vanished back into the penal system from which he’d escaped, Mother got a call from a young woman from Detroit. She was mother to Wilbur Fred’s kids and alleged that he’d left her—hidden in Mother’s house—some much-needed cash. Sure enough, in Mother’s old magazine rack under a batch of New Yorkers, Mother found a paper sack containing ten thousand dollars cash—money Mother decided was hers. The woman threatened to come down there armed with some of Wilbur Fred’s posse, and Mother told her, Come on, I’m locked and loaded for bear down here. Where, Toby finally asks, did she meet this guy? Church, I say. At which everybody laughs. You should write a memoir, the agent says, and across the table, she hands me her creamy card, which I resist pinning to my dress like a merit badge. No way is the card a ticket to ride. It is a chance, though. For years I’ve circled Boston agents like a horsefly on the off chance they might drop a card. On the way back to the hotel, Toby says, Don’t be disappointed if my agent doesn’t sign you. She’s never taken anybody I’ve recommended. That worries me not at all, since I’m so unable to get a pen to traverse a white sheet, I doubt I’ll ever have a single page of anything to send her. But a small part of me wonders if prayer wrought that whole series of wonders. Joan tells me without it that I’d never have gotten (a) sober, (b) the grant, and (c) the invitation to the table where the agent solicited me and not the other way round. Nor would I have d) dared tell Mother’s goofball story without Toby drawing it out of me, for I’d have been too busy trying to pass for an East Coast swell with an Ivy League hookup instead of the cracker I was.

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

  B. Artic usAGE. Here it always has a somewhat illative force, whether, 1. in direct conclusions, nearly = οὖν, but still, as above said, more subjective, one would conclude, then, so then, ἄριστον ἄρα ἡ εὐδαιμονία Arist. Eth. N. τ. 8, 14; or more commonly, 2. by way of oblique or informal inference, μάτην ἄρ᾽, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἥκομεν so, it seems then, after ail, Soph. El. 772; οὕτω κοινὸν ἄρα χαρᾷ καὶ λύπῃ so true is it that.., Xen. Heil. 7. 1, 32 -—mostly expressing pain or sorrow, Herm. Aj. 1005 ; always slight surprise, Jelf Gr. Gr. § 788. 4 ;—some- times the discovery or correction of an error, as οὐκ ἐνοήσαμεν ὅτι εἰσὶν ἄρα. : Plat. Rep. 378 D; καὶ οὐχ ἑωρῶμεν ἄρ᾽ αὐτό Ib. 432 Ὁ; εἰκότως ἄρα ove ἐγίγνετο" ws γὰρ ἐγὼ νῦν πυνθάνομαι... Χεη. An. 2.2, 3; v. Hartung, 1. 433. 3. in questions, not being itself, like ἃ apa, an inter- rogative, but expressing the anxiety of the questioner, as tis apa ῥύσεται; oh! who is there to save? Aesch. Theb. 92; whereas dpa τις ῥύσεται; would be simply, ‘will any one save?’ Hartung, I. 443, 54. —Connected with this i is its use in exclamations to heighten the expression of feeling, οἵαν ἄρ᾽ ἥβην. . ἀπώλεσεν what a band of youth Was that ..! Aesch. Pers. 733; 80, ὡς dpa Ib. 4.72, Soph. Fr. 508; τίς dpa; τί dpa; Soph. Ant. 1285 ; ᾿ Oo . 2 ἄρα ---ἀραομαι. πῶς ἄρα; οὕτως dpa, etc.; or without other particle, ἔζης ἄρα Id. Fr. 603 :—esp. in commenting, with irony or wonder, on something stated, Ar. Vesp. 3, Av. 476, 1371, etc. 4. epexegetic, namely, ἐρῶ, ὡς dpa .. Plat. Theaet. 152 D, cf. 156 Ε. 5. for τοι dpa, τἄρα, v. sub Tot II. 2. 6. εἰ μὴ ἄρα seems to be unless perhaps, v. Buttm. ad Dem. Mid. n. 35; in which case ἄρα is often separated from εἰ μή, Stallb. Plat. Prot. 355 B; with some irony, εἰ μὴ ἄρα ἡ τῆς ἀρετῆς ἐπιμέλεια διαφ- θορά ἐστιν Xen. Mem. 1. 2, ὃ :—so, εἰ ἄρα, ἢν ἄρα, in hypotheticals, to indicate the improbability of the supposition, ἢν ἄρα ποτὲ κατὰ γῆν βιασθῶσιν Thue. 1. 93, etc. C. Not only are the crases τἄρα, μεντἄρα, οὐτἄρα found ; but, δή- ἐομᾶρα for δήξομαι ἄρα, Ar. Ach. 325 ; οἰμώξετἄρα, κλαύσετἄρα Thesm. 248, Pax 5323 v. Ahrens de Crasi p. 7.

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

  Sat, colloquial form of δή (and therefore found in Plat. and Comic Poets), used only after interrogatives, to express wonder or curiosity, τί δαὶ λέγεις σύ; Ar. Ran. 1453; τί δαὶ σὺ .. πεποίηκας ; Id. Eq. 351; but mostly in a separate clause, τί dai; what? how? Pherecr. Κραπ. 7, Ar. Eq. 171, Nub. 1275, Ran. 558, etc., and very often in Plat.; also, τί dat ov; Ar. Av.136; πῶς dai; Id. Vesp. 1212; but δαί is often wrongly written for δέ, as the metre shows in Ar. Ach. 912 ; and τί δαὶ δή; is corrected from Mss. into τί δὲ 67; Plat. Gorg. 474 Ὁ, Crat. 404 B, etc.—Never in Hom. (v. Spitzn. 1]. 10. 408), nor in Soph.; and doubtless it was only by errors of the transcriber that it occurs even in the Med. Ms. of Aesch. Pr. 933, Cho. goo: in Eur. however it is possibly genuine, Med. 1008, Ion 275, El. 244, 1116, I. A. 1444, 1448, though even here Pors. (Med. 1. c.) would write δή. Sat [1], Ep. dat. of δαΐς. δαιδάλέ-οδμος, ov, smelling artificially, Emped. 309. δαιδάλεος, a, ov, also os, ov Anth. P.9. 755: (δαιδάλλωλ) :—like δαίδα- Aos, cunningly or curiously wrought, in Hom. always of metal or wood, ζωστήρ, Owpné, σάκος, θρόνος, etc.; never of embroidery, not even in Od. 1. 131 (for there it belongs to θρόνον, not to A’ra) ;—but it is so used in Hes. Th. 575, Eur. Hec. 470, Theopomp. Com. ’Odvac. 2. 2. of natural objects, dappled, spotted, etc., of fish, Alex. "AmeyA. 3; of deer, Nonn. II. cunning, of the artificer’s hand or skill, Anth. P. 9.755, 826. Cf. δαίδαλος. δαιδαλεύομαν, Dep., =5ardadAAw, Philo 1. 666. δαιδαλεύτρια, ἡ, a skilful workwoman, Lyc. 578. δαιδάλλω, the Act. only in pres. and impf. (cf. δαιδαλόω) : (redupl. from / KAA) :—to work cunningly, deck or inlay with curious arts, to em- bellish, σάκος .. πάντοσε δαιδάλλων 1]. 18. 479; λέχος ἔξεον .. δαιδάλ- λων χρυσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ ἠδ᾽ ἐλέφαντι Od. 23. 200; of a sculptor, Απίῃ. P. append. 55. 2. metaph., 6. πόλιν εὐανορίαισι Pind. O. 5. 49 :—Pass., μῦθοι ψεύδεσι δεδαιδαλμένοι Id. O. τ. 46; πλοῦτος ἀρεταῖς δεδ. Ib. 2. 96; [μέλη] δαιδαλθέντ᾽ ἀοιδαῖς Id. N. 11. 23. δαίδαλμα, τό, a work of art, Theocr. 1. 32, Luc. Amor. 13. ϑαιδαλό-γλωσσος, ov, of cunning, subtle tongue, Synes. 324 A. δαιδαλόεις, εσσα, ev, -- δαιδάλεος, Q. Sm. 1. 141, Anth. P. 9. 332. δαιδαλο-εργός, dv, curiously working, Paul. Sil. Ambo 94. δαίδαλον, τό, v. sub δαίδαλος.

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

  Aunt Rosa offered them coffee while Uncle Danny talked to them as if they were normal people. We children scuttled into the hall, peeping around the corner at this bizarre intrusion. Who were they? The leaner one dipped her head, rested her index finger against her temple, propped her elbow against the armrest. A familiar movement. Little by little I began to recognize her, the jaw line, the chin and the timbre of her voice, silvery, gentle. I came out from my hiding place, a little closer and a little closer, until I reached out and touched her arm. “Excuse me. Are you my mom?” The adults continued their conversation. “Excuse me. Who are you? Are you my mom?” She turned toward me. “So, you’ve finally recognized me. Yes, I’m your mother.” “And I’m Mary Ann,” the other woman said, her cheeks indenting into deep dimples. They both smiled, and I realized they were not as scary as I’d first thought. My mother rested her hand lightly on my shoulder. “I’ve come to get you,” she said. “I’ve come to take you to Synanon. Would you like to go to Synanon with me?” Her tone implied fun, like when my father said, “How ’bout we go see a movie?” I had not seen Theresa in more than two years, and at six years old I couldn’t fathom why she’d shown up dressed the way I imagined a murderer or someone who rode around on a big noisy motorcycle might look. What was Synanon? I knew it had something to do with her, the place she’d gone off to. I’d never thought of Synanon as a place I could visit. Rather, I thought of it as a secret. Catching the excitement in my mother’s voice, my younger cousins, barely older than babies, ran up, no longer afraid of the bald women. They grabbed my hands and jumped up and down, yelling, “Yeah, we’re going to Synin.” “No. No.” Aunt Rosa pulled our hands apart. “Only Celena,” she said in her accented English. She physically prodded me out of the living room and down the hallway to my cousin Donna’s room, where I’d left my small suitcase when I’d arrived earlier in the day. My cousins followed us, watching silently while I retrieved my overnight case and my favorite doll, a Baby Alive from Toys “R” Us. A short time later, I left my aunt and uncle’s home with my mother and Mary Ann. I sat in the back seat of their car while Mary Ann drove and the two women talked to each other, the headlights from the traffic glinting off their earrings. I fell asleep, and when next I woke, we’d arrived at our destination. We stepped from the car, and I clutched my stranger mom’s hand as we walked across a desolate street to a large, rundown building. Trash fluttered across the sandy, cracked sidewalks. The air was cold and laced with the salty scent of the nearby ocean.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  Lee Strunk made a funny ghost sound, a kind of moaning, yet very happy, and right then, when Strunk made that high happy moaning sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right then Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken. There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye. The cheekbone was gone. Oh shit, Rat Kiley said, the guy's dead. The guy's dead, he kept saying, which seemed profound—the guy's dead. I mean really. The things they carried were determined to some extent by superstition. Lieutenant Cross carried his good-luck pebble. Dave Jensen carried a rabbit's foot. Norman Bowker, otherwise a very gentle person, carried a thumb that had been presented to him as a gift by Mitchell Sanders. The thumb was dark brown, rubbery to the touch, and weighed 3 ounces at most. It had been cut from a VC corpse, a boy of fifteen or sixteen. They'd found him at the bottom of an irrigation ditch, badly burned, flies in his mouth and eyes. The boy wore black shorts and sandals. At the time of his death he had been carrying a pouch of rice, a rifle, and three magazines of ammunition. You want my opinion, Mitchell Sanders said, there's a definite moral here. He put his hand on the dead boy's wrist. He was quiet for a time, as if counting a pulse, then he patted the stomach, almost affectionately, and used Kiowa's hunting hatchet to remove the thumb. Henry Dobbins asked what the moral was. Moral? You know. Moral. Sanders wrapped the thumb in toilet paper and handed it across to Norman Bowker. There was no blood. Smiling, he kicked the boy's head, watched the flies scatter, and said, It's like with that old TV show—Paladin. Have gun, will travel. Henry Dobbins thought about it. Yeah, well, he finally said. I don't see no moral. There it is, man. Fuck off. They carried USO stationery and pencils and pens. They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares, signal flares, spools of wire, razor blades, chewing tobacco, liberated joss sticks and statuettes of the smiling Buddha, candles, grease pencils, The Stars and Stripes, fingernail clippers, Psy Ops leaflets, bush hats, bolos, and much more. Twice a week, when the resupply choppers came in, they carried hot chow in green mermite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a 2-gallon capacity. Mitchell Sanders carried a set of starched tiger fatigues for special occasions. Henry Dobbins carried Black Flag insecticide. Dave Jensen carried empty sandbags that could be filled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion. Some things they carried in common. Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77

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

  Usage : I. ofos in an independent sentence serves as an Ex- clamation, and expresses astonishment at something vast, unusual, mon- strous: strengthd. by δή, οἷον δὴ τὸν μῦθον ἐπεφράσθης ἀγορεῦσαι why, what a word it has come into thy mind to speak! Od. 5. 183 so in neut., as Adv., v. infr. V. 1; so in Att., οἷον τὸ πῦρ what a fire is this! Aesch. Ag. 1256, cf. Pers. 733, al.; οἷον εἰργάσασθε Plat. Rep. 450 A; οἷον ἄνδρα λέγεις Id. Theaet. 142 B; οἷα ποιεῖς Id. Euthyphro 15 E, etc. Strictly speaking, there is an ellipse here; e.g., the first quoted passage would be, in full, θαυμάζω, ὅτι τοῖον μῦθον ἠγόρευσας. οἷον ἠγόρευσας. 2. so also in indirect sentences, where no antec. can be supplied, v. Soph. O. T. 624, 1402, 1488, εἴς. ; ὁρᾶτε δὴ ἐν οἵῳ ἐστέ Xen. Cyr. 3. 2,12; ὁρῶν ἐν οἵοις ἐσμέν Id. An. 3.1, 15. II. more often containing a Comparison, and so (sometimes) an Inference, relat. to τοῖος, τοιόσδε, τοιοῦτος, oF to 6, ὅδε. as τῷ ἵκελον, οἷόν ποτε Δαίδα- Aes ἤσκησεν Il. 18. 591; θέαμα τοιοῦτον οἷον καὶ στυγοῦντ᾽ ἐποικτίσαι Soph. O. T. 1296; yet the demonstr. Pron. is commonly omitted, οἷος ἀστὴρ εἶσι like as a star wanders, Il. 22. 317, etc.; οἷος καὶ Πάρις . . ἤσχυνε like as Paris also.., Aesch. Ag. 399, cf. Pers. 21, al. :—in this sense, Οἷος is often attached to the case of its antec., ἀνθρώπῳ τοιούτῳ οἵῳ ἔγώ (for οἷος éyw εἰμι) Plat. Symp. 219 D; οἵου αὐτοῦ ἐπιθυμῶ ἀκοῦσαι (for οἷόν ἐστι τοῦτο, οὗ .. ) Id. Euthyd. 278 D; οἵοις περ σὺ χρώμενοι συμβούλοις Dem. 758. 7; and even the subject of the relat. clause is generally put in the same case, οὐ γάρ πω τοίους ἴδον ἀνέρας .. , οἷον Πειρίθοον (for οἷος Πειρίθοος), Il. 1. 263; πρὸς ἄνδρας τολμηρούς, οἵους καὶ ᾿Αθηναίους Thuc. 7. 21, cf. Xen. Mem. 2. 9, 3; περὶ τοῦ τοι- οὕτου .., οἵου τοῦ ἑνός Plat. Parm. 161 Β. 2. in many Homeric expressions, the omission of the anteced. clause is to be noticed, as of ἀγορεύεις, οἷά μ᾽ €opryas, where the relat. refers to a clause to be supplied from the context, fo conclude from what you say. from what you have done, Il. 18. 95., 22. 347, Od. 4-611. 8. οἷος, οἵα, οἷον, esp. in Att., often stand for ὅτι τοῖος, Tota, τοῖον, so that the relat. introduces the reason for the preceding statement, ἄνακτα χόλος λάβεν, οἷον ἄκουσεν because of such words as he heard, Il. 6. 166, cf. Od. 16. 93., 17. 479 : ἐμακάριζον τὴν μητέρα οἵων τέκνων ἐκύρησε Hdt. 1. 31; ἀγανάκτησιν ἔχει ὑφ᾽ οἵων κακοπαθεῖ Thuc. 2. 41; τὴν ἐμαυτοῦ τύχην [ἀπέκλαιονἾ, οἵου ἀνδρὸς .. ἐστερημένος εἴην Plat. Phaedo 117 C, cf. Soph. Ο. T. οι. 4. if it is to be intimated that the reason is self-evident, and the assertion beyond doubt, then δή is added, τοιόσδε. οἷος δὴ σύ, such as all know you to be. II. 24. 376; v. infr. v. 2, and cf. οἱοσδή- ποτε.---Αα yet more definite force is given to the Comparison in οἷός περ, just as.., οἵη περ φύλλων γενεή, τοίη δὲ Kal ἀνδρῶν 1]. 6.146: cf. Aesch. Ag. 607, 1046, Xen. Cyr. 1. 6, 19. 5. but if the Com- parison or Inference only denotes a general or doubtful resemblance, then Homer uses οἷός τε (which must be distinguished from οἷός τε c. inf., v. infr. 111. 2), οἷός τε πελώριος ἔρχεται ΓΑρης some such one as Ares, Il. 7. 208, cf. 17. 157, Od. 7. 106, etc.:—so, οἷός που 20. 35 :—s0, also, οἷός τις, οἷόν τι generalises a Comparison, the sort of person who.., etc., Il. 5. 638, Od. 9. 348; οἶσθα εἰς οἷόν τινα κίνδυνον ἔρχει .. ; Plat. Prot. 313 A. 6. when a Comparison involves a definition of Time, οἷος ὅτε is used, like as when. Od. το. 462., 22. 227 7. οἷος οὖν, οἷος δήποτε answer to Lat. gualiscungue, C. 1. 3407. 21. 8. 1036

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

  περιπέτεια, ἡ, (περιπετῆ) a turning right about, i.e. a sudden change of condition or fortune, Arist. H. A. 8. 2,19, Polyb. 1. 13, 11, etc.; rarely from bad to good, Id. 22.9, 16:—generally, any strange occurrence, unexpected event, ld. 9. 12. 6., 38.1, 2, al. 2. esp. the sudden reverse of circumstances on which the plot in a Tragedy hinges, such as Oedipus’ discovery of his parentage, ἐστι δὲ π. ἡ εἰς ἐναυτίον τῶν πρατ- τομένων μεταβολή Arist. Poét. 11,1, cf. 6, 17., 16, 5, Rhet. 1. 11, 24; and v. mepumerns II. TepitreTys, és, (περιπίπτω) falling round, ἀμφὶ μέσσῃ προσκείμενος π. Φ , ἐλ περιπάτησις --- περιπλάσσω. | lying with his arms clasped round her waist, Soph. Ant. 1223; cf. περί- κειμαι. 2. surrounded by, wrapt in, πέπλοισι Aesch. Ag. 233; but, 3. ἔγχος π. the sword round which (i.e. on which) he has fallen, Soph. Aj. 907; (so, πεπτῶτα περὶ ξίφει Ib. 828); cf. περιπίπτω 1. 2, περιπτυχή». Ii. falling in with, falling into evil, 7. κατα- στῆσαί τινα δεινῷ μηδενί Dem. 1490. 3; π. γίγνεσθαι, -- περιπίπτειν, to fall among, τοῖς σταυροῖς καὶ τοῖς ὀρύγμασι Plut. Pomp. 62 ; πολέμοις Id. Cic. 42; π. εἶναι τῇ χολῇ τινός Luc. Pseudol. 1; π. γενέσθαι αὐτὸς ἑαυτῷ, ἀλλήλοις Plut. Phoc. 33, Anon. ap. Suid.; π. γενέσθαι τῇ αἰτίᾳ to become liable το... Plut. C. Gracch. 10; π. ποιεῖν τινὰ ἑαυτῷ to put him at one’s mercy, Id, Marcell. 26. Til. changing or turn- ing suddenly, of a man’s fortunes, esp. from good to bad, περιπετέα ἐποιήσαντο σφίσι .. τὰ πρήγματα a sudden reverse, Hdt. 8. 20; π. τύχαι Eur. Andr. 982: cf. περιπέτεια. περυπέτομαι, Dep. to fly around, Ar. Av. 165, 1721; c. acc., 7. τὰ πε- λάγη Luc. Hale. 1; τὴν ἑκάστου γνώμην π. 14. Hist. Conscr. 1 :—the form περυπέταμαν occurs in the Mss. of Arist. H. A. 9. 1,15; and περιίπταμαι, Ib. 5. 9, 2, Dio C. 58. 5, etc. περιπετρίζομαι, Pass. to be dashed upon a rock, Hesych. περίπετρος, ov, surrounded by rocks, Hesych. περιπέττω, Att. for περιπέσσω. q. Vv. περιπευκήσ, és, (πεύκη) very sharp, keen or painful, βέλος Ul. 11. 845; cf. ἐχεπευχής. περιπεφρασμένως, Adv. very thought{ully, Hesych. περιπεφύὕλαγμένως, Adv. very cautiously, Erotian. περιπηγήϑΞ, ἐς, congealed around, λίβανος .. 7. θάμνοις Nic. Al. 107. περίπηγμα, τό, a piece of wood fastened round, Math. Vett. 78, 127. περιπήγνῦμι and - ὕω (Plut. 2. 433 B); also περιπήττω (v. sub fin.) : fut. -πήξω. To fix round, to make a fence round, c. acc. loci, περὶ δὲ πάξαις AAtTw Pind. O. το (11). 54; 7. τῷ σώματι χιτῶνα Plut. 2. 966 Ὁ: —Pass., with pf. περιπέπηγα, ἄγχιστρα π. τοῖς ἰχθύσι Ael. N. A. 15. 10; ais π. ἣ σαρκώδης οὐσία Galen. :---περιπαγῆναί τινι αὐχένα to have one’s neck fixed in it, Ar. Fr. 286. 2. to make to congeal round, τὴν τέφραν τῷ βωμῷ Plut. 2. 433 B:—Pass., τὰ ὑποδήματα π. are frozen on the feet, Xen. An. 4. 5,14; τὸ ὕδωρ περιπήττεταί τινι Strab. 568.

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

  πᾶπαϊ (not mamai, Hdn. π. μον. λέξ. 27. 13), exclam. of suffering, Trag.; esp. of bodily pain, Lat. vae, Aesch. Pers. 1029, Soph. Ph. 734 sq., Ar. Ach. 1214; doubled, Aesch. l.c., Ag. 1114; φεῦ παπαῖ, παπαῖ μάλ᾽ αὖθις Soph. Ph. 702 ; also, παππαπαππαπαῖ Ib. 7543 παπαῖ, ἀπαπ- παπαῖ, παπαπαππαπαππαπαππαπαῖ Ib. 746. IL. of surprise, like Lat. papae, vah, atat, Hdt. 8. 26, Soph. Fr. 165, Plat. Legg. 704 B; c. gen., παπαῖ τῶν ἐπαίνων Luc. Contempl. 23 ;—also, παπαπαπαῖ Ar. Thesm. 1101. πᾶπαιάξ, Comic exaggeration of παπαῖ, ἀππαπαῖ παπαιάξ Ar. Vesp. 235, cf. Luc. Fugit. 33. II. as exclam. of surprise, Eur. Cycl. 153, Ar. Lys. 924. ἸΠαπαῖος, 6, a Scythian name of Zeus, Hdt. 4. 59. πάπας, v. sub πάππας. παπάω, to handle, Incert. ap. E. M. 651.1. παπίας, a, 0, a janitor or keeper of the Palace, Manass. Chron. 4697, Tzetz. πάποκα, Dor. for πῆ ποτε, Theocr. 8. 34., 11. 68. παππάζω, (πάππας) to call any one papa, οὐδέ τέ μιν παῖδες προτὶ γούνασι παππάζουσι Il. 5. 408; cf. παππίζω. II. absol. to say papa, to prattle like a child, παππάζεσκες Q. Sm. 3. 474. παππάξ, παπαππάξ, παπαπαππάξ, sounds to imitate a crepitus ven- tris, Arist. Nub. 390 sq. mamas, ov, 6, papa, a child’s word for πατήρ. father, (as μάμμα for μήτηρ) ; mostly in vocat., manna φίλε Od. 6.57; χαῖρε π. φίλτατε Philem. Mer. 2, cf. Valck. Hdt. 4. 59: in acc., πάππαν καλεῖν, like παπ- πάζειν Ar. Pax 120, Eccl. 645:—a nom. πάπας, C.1. 2664; gen. πάπα, Eus. H. E. 7. 7; also παπᾶς, Cornut. N. D. p. 143; and πᾶς, Eust. 565. 17, E. M., etc.; which should prob. be πᾶ, for Eust. adds ὥσπερ καὶ pa μήτηρ; and Festus Pa pro patre. Cf. ἄππα, ampa, ampus, ἄττα, τέττα. παππασμός, ov, ὁ, a calling out papa, Suid. πάνυγρος =. παρα. παππ-επί-πωππος, ὅ, one’s grandfather's grandfather, Nicoph. Incert. 1; cf. φαυλεπίφαυλος. παππίας, ov, 0, Dim. of mamma, dear little papa, a term of endearment, Ar. Vesp. 297, Pax 128, Ephipp. Φιλ. 2. παππίδιον [πὶ], 7é,=foreg., Ar. Eq. 1215, Vesp. 655. παππίζω, -- παππάζω, to coax or wheedle one’s father, Ar. Vesp.609,— where it has been restored for παππάζουσα from Cod. Ven. and Suid. : so Eust. (565. 22) remarks, παππίζειν λέγειν διὰ τοῦ ει κωμῳδίας ἴδιον. ᾿παππικός, 7, ὄν, of or for a grandfather. Adv. - κῶς, Byz. παππόθεν, Adv. from the grandfather, Theod. Prodr. παππο-κτόνος, ov, grandfather-slaying, Lyc. 1034. παπτο-πἄτρικός, 7, Ov, of father and grandfather, ancestral, Manass. Chron. 5030; παππό-πατρος, ov, Ib. 5915; παππο-πατρῷος, a, ον, Ib. 5575 :-—Adv. παππο-πατρόθεν, Ib. 4509.

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

  a bit. The beatings grew less frequent. I began to spend the bulk of my time with my father’s mother, who lived across the street from Aunt Terry. A quiet woman, little more than five feet tall, my grandmother kept busy with her domestic routines. Cleaning her house, gardening, sewing and cooking took up all her time. She wore simple dresses adorned with aprons, a style reminiscent of her many years as a farm wife in Louisiana. She’d raised nine children in a small house while her husband worked in the fields, growing cotton and other agricultural products. Kerosene lamps provided light when it was dark; an icebox kept food cold, and my father milked the family cow every morning. Television had not yet infiltrated their home. Superstitions were rampant. It was a far cry from South Central Los Angeles. My grandmother had never been to school. She had never learned to read, write or drive a car. In all my life, I had seen her as a passenger in a car only twice. She grew up speaking Creole, broken French, giving her English a blunt, clipped accent. For all that, she was practical and hardworking. I felt cared for at her home, a refuge from my unraveling aunt. In the fall of 1976, I started first grade at a four-story Catholic school. I was proud to finally be a big girl, my Catholic school uniform a banner of proof. The following February, I was kidnapped. T CHAPTER EIGHT he Kidsnatchers IT WAS night when she came for me. Her shorn head, large hoop earrings and jean jacket were non-identifiers. She came with a friend. They were clearly a pair, dressed the same. When my uncle Danny, whose home I’d been visiting over the weekend, opened the door, my cousins and I fell silent, sensing danger. Were they here to rob us? I thought my uncle would slam the door in the women’s faces, lock it and call the police, but instead he invited them in. They sat on the couch. Aunt Rosa offered them coffee while Uncle Danny talked to them as if they were normal people. We children scuttled into the hall, peeping around the corner at this bizarre intrusion. Who were they? The leaner one dipped her head, rested her index finger against her temple, propped her elbow against the armrest. A familiar movement. Little by little I began to recognize her, the jaw line, the chin and the timbre of her voice, silvery, gentle. I came out from my hiding place, a little closer and a little closer, until I reached out and touched her arm. “Excuse me. Are you my mom?”

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Maybe that day’s bounty bumped my sales up, plus Lecia’s inflicting copies on virtually everybody she knew—clients, friends, cleaning people. Out of the trunk of her car, she hawks them like a hot dog vendor (I swear), and being as she could sell snow to an Eskimo, she reorders often. In any bookstore, she remerchandises so that my book’s in front. So the book was a sleeper hit, which floored me. Before it came out, I’d actually warned the publisher not to print so many, since the thought of them growing cobwebs in warehouses flooded me with dread. Having spent my fifteen-year career reading to a few loyal pals, I was shocked to find that now bookstore crowds wrapped around the block as I signed till my hand cramped. Mail flooded in. Magazines would pay me astonishing sums to write a few thousand words. Lecia and Mother were wild with glee, my sister joking that I’d never have to call collect again. But in another way, nothing much changed. A single mom can’t hit the road and stay gone. Mostly I lived like before. I taught. I stood around a Little League field with a clipboard and a whistle around my neck. Maybe once a week, some mom might say she’d seen me in People magazine. Then once or twice a month I’d make a surreal overnight trip where I felt—as writer Ian McEwan once said—like an employee of my former self. The big win? Money. My bills were paid. I could hire a student to help with Dev, grocery shop, fold laundry. Other than that and some journalism jobs —and the monthly photo session or far flung reading or lecture—I was a single mom in a small town. Which is how I wind up in a sweltering theme park come August—by selling books. Before I went on the road, I promised Dev if we made it on one big best-seller list, I’d take him to Disney World. For a week: my idea of an electric chair with no off switch. Still, being there turned out to be a thrill, but for one hair-raising ride called the Tower of Terror, where they dropped us in an elevator a dozen floors. In the group photo, everyone’s hands are up in the air as they grin. I’m hunkered down as if for a bomb blast. (I have too many frames per second for Tower of Terror.) After five days of more palatable rides, Dev and I abandon the blistering park, so I can rent a speedboat we can’t afford. With his new blue captain’s hat on, he steers us bouncing over the waves. At night, while he soaks in the bathtub, I talk to Walt for way longer than I promised his kids I would. He’s suffering some asbestos-related disease caught in a car factory as a teenager. Now it’s devouring the lungs in his barrel chest, and every breath costs him. In St. Paul the year before, I’d visited him.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  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. On the very top of her thigh are a series of red slash marks, inflicted with surgical proficiency at varying depths. How’d you do that? I say. Pam sold me a lightbulb. Sold it to you.... For cigarettes. She sold Betty the lighter. We all do it, Mary. I’ve done it for years. It’s a messed-up thing to do.

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

  συγκῦὕρέω : aor. -εκύρησα and -έκυρσα :---ἰο come together by chance, μήπως συγκύρσειαν 650 ἔνι μώνυχες ἵπποι 1]. 23. 435; so of ships, Hat. 8.92: to meet with an accident, τῇδε συγκύρσαι τύχῃ Soph. O. C. 1404; κήτεσι πολλοῖς συγκεκυρηκέναι Diod. 17.106; τραγικοῖς πάθεσι Id. 20. 21; εἰς ἐν μοίρας ἐυνέκυρσας art involved in one and the same fate, Eur. Andr. 1172. 2. c. part. like τυγχάνω, συνέκυρσε θέων happened to be running, Emped. 260; εἰ συνεκύρησε... παραπεσοῦσα νηῦς whether it fell in the way by chance, Hdt. 8. 87. II. of events and accidents, like συμβαίνω, to happen, occur, ἢν δέ τι δεινὸν συγκύρσῃ Theogn. 698 B; τάδε οἶδα .. τοῖς ἐν Ἰταλίῃ συγκυρήσαντα Hdt. 4.15; σ. μοι ἁδονά Eur. Ion 1448 ; τίς τύχα μοι ξυγκυρήσει ; 1ἅ. 1. Τ΄. 874; impers., c. inf., συνεκύρησε γενέσθαι it came to pass that .., Hdt. 9. 90; τὰ συγκυρή- σαντα what had occurred, Id. 1.119; ὃ καὶ συνεκύρησε Polyb. 2. 65, 7, cf. Diod. 1. 1; παρά τινος on his part, Dion. H. 5. 56: so in Pass., τὸ ἐς Λακεδαιμονίους συγκεκυρημένον Hat. 9. 37. IIT. of places, to be contiguous to, τινι Polyb. 3.59, 7, etc.; πρὸς τόπον Plut. Aristid. ΤΙ. συγκύρημα [Ὁ], τό, a coincidence, Polyb. 4. 86, 2, Dion. H. 9. 38, etc.: a combination, Eust. 1363. 15. συγκύρησις, 7, concurrence, coincidence, κατὰ συγκυρήσεις καιρῶν Diog. L. 10.98: a conjuncture, Polyb. 9. 12, 6. συγκῦρία, 7, ἃ rarer form for foreg., τὰ ἀπὸ συγκυρίης chance events, Hipp. 49. 28; διὰ συγκυρίαν 14. Vet. Med. 11; κατὰ σ. Ey. Luc. Io. 31, Eust. 376. 12. συγκῦριολογέομαι, Pass. ¢o be styled Lord together with, τινι Athanas. συγκυρκᾶἄνάω, -- συγκυκάω, Epinic. Μνησ. τ. σύγκυρμα, τό, -- συγκύρημα, Boisson. Anecd. 3.57. συγκῦρόω, to sanction along with, Walz Rhett. 9. 271. σύγκυρσις, ἡ, -- συγκύρησις, Synes. 134 B. συγκωθωνίζομαι, Dep. zo tipple together, Ath. 19 Ὁ. σύγκωλος, ov, with limbs set close together, σκέλη Xen. Cyn. 5, 30. συγκωμάζω, fut. dow Dor. ἄξω, to march together in a κῶμος, Pind. O. II (10). 16; τινὶ πρός τινα Antig. Caryst. ap. Ath. 603E: generally, to join in revelling, τινί Posidipp. ap. Ath. 414 E, Luc. Salt. 11. σύγκωμος, 6, 7, partner in a κῶμος. a fellow-reveller, Eur. Bacch. 1171, Ar. Ach. 264; c. dat., σ. Διονύσῳ Aesch. Fr. 392 (as Pors. for σύγκοινοϑ) :—Tzetz. has also συγκωμαστήπ, οὔ, 6. , συγκωμῳδέω, fo satirise as in a comedy, τινί τι Luc. Pisc. 26. συγξαίνω, to card wool with or together, Crates ap. Plut. 2. 830 C. συγξενϊτεύω, zo live abroad along with another, C. 1. 6341, Nicet. Eug. 9. 247, Jo. Chrys. συγξέω, fut. -ξέσω, to smooth by scraping or planing :—Pass., metaph. of style, to be polished, Dion. H. de Comp. 22 ad f.; cf. Alcidam, Soph. 20, Plut. 2. 853 D. συγξηραίνω, to dry up together, Galen. συγξῦὕρέω, to shear, clip together, Byz.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  The Duchessa’s tale about the general and the three soldiers had convinced me numbers would not disturb her, nor observers distract her. “That evening the Duchessa announced to the Duke she would go with me into town; and the Duke yawned as he had done so many times before and said how nice it was of me to entertain Her Grace during the evening; but he, alas, was addicted to his after-supper nap. They excused themselves and I went to wait for Catherine in the conservatory. “In a quarter of an hour, she came down in a brown traveling cloak. Minutes later we hurried along the narrow street, passing that same door where I first had Guido. Soon we reached the graveyard. “Pietro opened the door, saw I was with someone, shut it to a crack, and demanded what I wanted as though I were a stranger. I begged him to let us in, explaining that it was all right. A moment later, Guido squeezed out. For minutes of inane conversation I tried to explain my companion’s presence by innuendo: the grave digger stubbornly refused to acknowledge he knew me. At last I bluntly announced that Catherine wanted to take part in his sport. I reached between his legs and seized him in his wool pants: ‘How would you like to have this fine lady down beneath the table sucking that great sausage of yours while you gnaw the delicacies you’ve shoveled up. Here, I heard you joking with the boy about the pretty thing so untimely taken by a fall from her horse.’ “Guido finally appeared to understand. “He laughed, nodded, pushed open the door. “Catherine caught her breath. ‘. . . But I know the girl!’ “I confess, I was shocked. “ ‘It’s the young wife of our cousin’s groom; she fell riding and hit her head.’ “Guido looked concerned all over again. “ ‘Does that bother you?’ I asked. “Catherine shook her head, perhaps too quickly. ‘No . . .’ The hood fell from her loose hair. “In the corner, Pietro, shirtless, twisted his quite respectable cock between the buttons of his pants, as though it were a handkerchief, pawing his dirty feet on one another. From marks on the corpse’s belly, I guessed that Guido had let his son start already, seeing I had arrived late. Now Guido led the lady to the table with one hand, while pulling his shirt from his belt with the other. He thumbed apart his wooden fly buttons, gazed on the body a moment, then bent to the neck. “Nothing, however, could induce Pietro to join the older laborer, now that this strange lady had joined.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  When Dove pushed back onto his knees, Nig shoved her side with his foot. He buttoned one fly button. “It takes you a while, boy. But you get the idea.” Dove stood up, his face glistening. He stepped from one foot to the other with a happy, nervous movement. “Come on, Dove!” “Sure you don’t want to tear off another piece?” Nig grinned and scratched his crotch. “Wipe your mouth, boy! Come on, get out your fish-knife!” Reaching into his pocket, the one without the hole, Dove grinned back. When Robby turned the corner, she was still crawling. When he reached her, she had stopped, curled up in the gutter, head and one arm on the sidewalk. And there was a lot of blood behind her. Under her open blouse her bra was pulled down around her stomach. One foot was bare. Astonishment grew as he neared, repulsion and fascination battling to replace it. The fascination astonished him as well. He kneeled by her, his knee soaking through in the puddle where she lay. Three of the yellow bruises were going blackish. He picked up the hair from her face, limp and puffy. It suddenly scored with lines of pain as she surfaced to consciousness. He whispered, “Hey, are you . . . ?” and stopped, astounded at the absurdity of that, too. He caught her shoulder, to get his arm around her. His heart was beating loud and slow, and the night felt very cold. Except where she lay in the cradle of his arm. Her hand swung up at his face. Reflexively, thinking somehow she might hurt herself, he caught it. Her hand twisted about on its very small wrist. Her lips snarled back. She made a high, screeching sound that finally broke, and broke again, till she shook with rasping sobs. And she kept hitting at his chest and head. He tried to duck and at the same time not drop her. She hit him above the eye, so he raised his head—her movements were all despair and no strength—and saw the church door open. A tall priest (white collar, tweed jacket), stepped out— She clawed at Robby’s face. He grunted and pushed her hand away, terribly relieved by the advent of someone official. “What the . . . Peggy-Ann! Boy, what are you doing to—” The father came quickly down the steps into the street lamp glare. Robby saw his expression and wondered. “Get away from that girl!” Realization struck him the same time as the priest’s foot. It hit his shoulder, glanced his ear. Robby fell back, scraping the heels of his palms on the wet cement. He scrambled, trying to hold the side of his head. The priest stood over the girl.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Played with the balls; let the shaft rub the nub of his middle finger. Nig groaned. Dove opened his fly and played with himself. Nig reached back, caught Dove’s cock. “Bitch,” he growled, “give this white boy some head. Hey, swing that pussy around!” Dove kneeled by her face. She tried to twist her head. Nig pushed it back. Put his knuckles against her jaw. Dove slid back and forth in her limp mouth. “Oh, baby, suck him good! Suck, baby!” She didn’t. But Dove could feel Nig’s beat shaking her. Nig’s breath coarsened. His rhythm doubled. Dove felt her tongue move once on the side of his cock. He pressed in to the hair; and came. Nig stood up over her, massaging his bright, black penis. “Go on.” He gestured toward her. “You better get it before it all runs out.” Dove scurried around between her legs. She moaned and turned her head. Nig watched his brother’s yellow head waggle in the fork. Once, when Dove got too violent, she gave a small scream. Nig put his foot on her mouth. Her jaw moved under his instep, and once she tried to pull his ankle away. “Yeah, that’s it. Eat my shit.” Nig grinned. “Eat it.” Now Dove lay across her, his buttocks tightening, tightening, his face on her neck. When Dove pushed back onto his knees, Nig shoved her side with his foot. He buttoned one fly button. “It takes you a while, boy. But you get the idea.” Dove stood up, his face glistening. He stepped from one foot to the other with a happy, nervous movement. “Come on, Dove!” “Sure you don’t want to tear off another piece?” Nig grinned and scratched his crotch. “Wipe your mouth, boy! Come on, get out your fish-knife!” Reaching into his pocket, the one without the hole, Dove grinned back. When Robby turned the corner, she was still crawling. When he reached her, she had stopped, curled up in the gutter, head and one arm on the sidewalk. And there was a lot of blood behind her. Under her open blouse her bra was pulled down around her stomach. One foot was bare. Astonishment grew as he neared, repulsion and fascination battling to replace it. The fascination astonished him as well. He kneeled by her, his knee soaking through in the puddle where she lay. Three of the yellow bruises were going blackish. He picked up the hair from her face, limp and puffy. It suddenly scored with lines of pain as she surfaced to consciousness. He whispered, “Hey, are you . . . ?” and stopped, astounded at the absurdity of that, too. He caught her shoulder, to get his arm around her. His heart was beating loud and slow, and the night felt very cold. Except where she lay in the cradle of his arm. Her hand swung up at his face.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “That evening the Duchessa announced to the Duke she would go with me into town; and the Duke yawned as he had done so many times before and said how nice it was of me to entertain Her Grace during the evening; but he, alas, was addicted to his after-supper nap. They excused themselves and I went to wait for Catherine in the conservatory. “In a quarter of an hour, she came down in a brown traveling cloak. Minutes later we hurried along the narrow street, passing that same door where I first had Guido. Soon we reached the graveyard. “Pietro opened the door, saw I was with someone, shut it to a crack, and demanded what I wanted as though I were a stranger. I begged him to let us in, explaining that it was all right. A moment later, Guido squeezed out. For minutes of inane conversation I tried to explain my companion’s presence by innuendo: the grave digger stubbornly refused to acknowledge he knew me. At last I bluntly announced that Catherine wanted to take part in his sport. I reached between his legs and seized him in his wool pants: ‘How would you like to have this fine lady down beneath the table sucking that great sausage of yours while you gnaw the delicacies you’ve shoveled up. Here, I heard you joking with the boy about the pretty thing so untimely taken by a fall from her horse.’ “Guido finally appeared to understand. “He laughed, nodded, pushed open the door. “Catherine caught her breath. ‘. . . But I know the girl!’ “I confess, I was shocked. “ ‘It’s the young wife of our cousin’s groom; she fell riding and hit her head.’ “Guido looked concerned all over again. “ ‘Does that bother you?’ I asked. “Catherine shook her head, perhaps too quickly. ‘No . . .’ The hood fell from her loose hair. “In the corner, Pietro, shirtless, twisted his quite respectable cock between the buttons of his pants, as though it were a handkerchief, pawing his dirty feet on one another. From marks on the corpse’s belly, I guessed that Guido had let his son start already, seeing I had arrived late. Now Guido led the lady to the table with one hand, while pulling his shirt from his belt with the other. He thumbed apart his wooden fly buttons, gazed on the body a moment, then bent to the neck. “Nothing, however, could induce Pietro to join the older laborer, now that this strange lady had joined. The Duchessa coaxed him. His father called him with descriptions of the delights awaiting the two of them. I even went to entertain him. He pushed my hand away when I reached; pushed my face away when I bent. “What had made the boy grunt, moan, and gasp before, he now repulsed.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Idly asking Dev why he wants to go to church, I’m confident that no sentence he utters will rouse me from my Sunday loll. But he says: to see if God’s there. The phrase straightens my slouchy spine. Some native faith lets him stare out the window at the aluminum sky and see a scrim before heaven. Okay, I say, and I ring up a sober Episcopalian (an oxymoron, he alleges in the car), the only guy I know who goes to church. If I’d had a pal attending a mosque or temple or zendo, we’d have gone there. So disinterested am I, so devoid of curiosity, that I climb into my friend’s car toting a paperback, like the one I carry to soccer fields stiff with frost, to pass time. It’s a capital-C Church, with gray stones right out of some horror-movie castle. It sits amid red maples between the university on one side and housing projects on the other. Soon as the engine dies, Dev bolts for the huge oak doors, his loafers slapping up the leaf-strewn walk. He has on a hand-me-down sport coat. With his green clip-on bow tie, he looks like some refugee from a 1950s wedding. Going in makes me a little watery. In the foyer, I expect to find some Ozzie and Harriet episode in progress, the women in pillbox hats and white gloves and ear bobs, the men in lizard-green jackets and wing tips, everybody in that old fluorescent light the color of cucumber that makes white people look so seedy. But this parish is half black, with people wearing jeans and khakis. Even the ancient blue-haired ladies have pants on. Organ music starts in the sanctuary, and we drift into a barnlike structure with tall stained glass windows where saints I don’t know are doing saintly things I can’t figure out. We stand and sit and pray for over an hour. People take turns talking at the granite altar. Dev belts out hymns in his brassy alto while I flip pages. Afterward, people eat pastries in the foyer. Kids streak around. A few parents from Dev’s school say hey. Somebody brings me coffee like I like. This uninvited niceness seems like a trap. I keep waiting for them to ask me for money. In the car, I ask Dev whether God was there, expecting him to be as cynical as I am. Instead, he cocks his head and squints, as if saying, Where were you? We stop going to the Episcopal church after a few weeks because I find it too cold—not emotionally but physically. To heat that vaulted space would cost a fortune, I guess. Still, the scalding baths I take to get blood back into my feet after service feel like penance.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  “That evening the Duchessa announced to the Duke she would go with me into town; and the Duke yawned as he had done so many times before and said how nice it was of me to entertain Her Grace during the evening; but he, alas, was addicted to his after-supper nap. They excused themselves and I went to wait for Catherine in the conservatory. “In a quarter of an hour, she came down in a brown traveling cloak. Minutes later we hurried along the narrow street, passing that same door where I first had Guido. Soon we reached the graveyard. “Pietro opened the door, saw I was with someone, shut it to a crack, and demanded what I wanted as though I were a stranger. I begged him to let us in, explaining that it was all right. A moment later, Guido squeezed out. For minutes of inane conversation I tried to explain my companion’s presence by innuendo: the grave digger stubbornly refused to acknowledge he knew me. At last I bluntly announced that Catherine wanted to take part in his sport. I reached between his legs and seized him in his wool pants: ‘How would you like to have this fine lady down beneath the table sucking that great sausage of yours while you gnaw the delicacies you’ve shoveled up. Here, I heard you joking with the boy about the pretty thing so untimely taken by a fall from her horse.’ “Guido finally appeared to understand. “He laughed, nodded, pushed open the door. “Catherine caught her breath. ‘. . . But I know the girl!’ “I confess, I was shocked. “ ‘It’s the young wife of our cousin’s groom; she fell riding and hit her head.’ “Guido looked concerned all over again. “ ‘Does that bother you?’ I asked. “Catherine shook her head, perhaps too quickly. ‘No . . .’ The hood fell from her loose hair. “In the corner, Pietro, shirtless, twisted his quite respectable cock between the buttons of his pants, as though it were a handkerchief, pawing his dirty feet on one another. From marks on the corpse’s belly, I guessed that Guido had let his son start already, seeing I had arrived late. Now Guido led the lady to the table with one hand, while pulling his shirt from his belt with the other. He thumbed apart his wooden fly buttons, gazed on the body a moment, then bent to the neck. “Nothing, however, could induce Pietro to join the older laborer, now that this strange lady had joined. The Duchessa coaxed him. His father called him with descriptions of the delights awaiting the two of them. I even went to entertain him. He pushed my hand away when I reached; pushed my face away when I bent. “What had made the boy grunt, moan, and gasp before, he now repulsed.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  The Duchessa’s tale about the general and the three soldiers had convinced me numbers would not disturb her, nor observers distract her. “That evening the Duchessa announced to the Duke she would go with me into town; and the Duke yawned as he had done so many times before and said how nice it was of me to entertain Her Grace during the evening; but he, alas, was addicted to his after-supper nap. They excused themselves and I went to wait for Catherine in the conservatory. “In a quarter of an hour, she came down in a brown traveling cloak. Minutes later we hurried along the narrow street, passing that same door where I first had Guido. Soon we reached the graveyard. “Pietro opened the door, saw I was with someone, shut it to a crack, and demanded what I wanted as though I were a stranger. I begged him to let us in, explaining that it was all right. A moment later, Guido squeezed out. For minutes of inane conversation I tried to explain my companion’s presence by innuendo: the grave digger stubbornly refused to acknowledge he knew me. At last I bluntly announced that Catherine wanted to take part in his sport. I reached between his legs and seized him in his wool pants: ‘How would you like to have this fine lady down beneath the table sucking that great sausage of yours while you gnaw the delicacies you’ve shoveled up. Here, I heard you joking with the boy about the pretty thing so untimely taken by a fall from her horse.’ “Guido finally appeared to understand. “He laughed, nodded, pushed open the door. “Catherine caught her breath. ‘. . . But I know the girl!’ “I confess, I was shocked. “ ‘It’s the young wife of our cousin’s groom; she fell riding and hit her head.’ “Guido looked concerned all over again. “ ‘Does that bother you?’ I asked. “Catherine shook her head, perhaps too quickly. ‘No . . .’ The hood fell from her loose hair. “In the corner, Pietro, shirtless, twisted his quite respectable cock between the buttons of his pants, as though it were a handkerchief, pawing his dirty feet on one another. From marks on the corpse’s belly, I guessed that Guido had let his son start already, seeing I had arrived late. Now Guido led the lady to the table with one hand, while pulling his shirt from his belt with the other. He thumbed apart his wooden fly buttons, gazed on the body a moment, then bent to the neck. “Nothing, however, could induce Pietro to join the older laborer, now that this strange lady had joined.

• From The Tides of Lust (1973)

  Niger barked from the head of the alley. The captain’s face showed both confusion and recognition. As he reached the street Niger ran up and nosed his palm. Absently, he roughed the black fur. “Hey, Captain!” He looked up. The sunburned drifter loped into the street. “Hey,” again. Robby’s hands came out of his pockets. “Any action in that place with all the curtains on the windows?” He gestured toward The Hall of Mirrors. The captain shrugged. “Nothin’, huh?” Robby’s elbow swung out from his side as he began walking with the captain. “Where did the kids go? Pretty little girl!” The swinging elbow hit the captain’s arm. “You ever get any of that? She had that sweet look hungry pussy gets when it’s walking around on the street.” Niger, reaching the corner first, barked again. “How you doing?” the captain asked. “Find anything yet?” “Shit,” Robby drawled. “I ain’t even been close enough to smell none.” He shoved his fists forward and squinted at the sky. Then his head came back. He spat. “I’m just walking around here, feelin’ through the holes in my pockets, playing with my prick and looking for a place to put it. Sure as shit ain’t nothing else to do.” He nodded at his own profundity. “You going back to your boat?” “Going to see about that woman.” “Yeah?” “The one you saw around the boat.” Robby shook his head. “You niggers have all the fuckin’ luck.” The captain let laughter. And laughing, he clapped Robby’s shoulder, then turned the corner, while the dog leaped, half a block away. —A CARTOON: DISNEY—The wooden steps rattled under the beast’s claws. Niger burst the door. The man wheeled on the stool and grabbed the edge of the drawing board. His forehead scored with surprise. His boots hit the floor (he started to stand); then, as the dog leaped backwards, and back again, the craggy face cracked on a grin. “Down, boy! Down—” And looked up because a barefoot buck was standing in his door. The man’s grin fell away. Astonishment lay under. The dog circled, then sat by the captain, forepaw on the black foot. The tongue lolled and shook over the black gums. The captain raised his hands and settled his thumbs under his belt. The shapes in his forearms changed size. “You’re Jonathan Proctor.” Proctor nodded. Grey hair, short. Grey brows marked his face with a frown. “Who are you?” Slender. Hands very wide. The left hung by hooked fingers from the board’s edge. The nails were thick. White hair pawed the back of his collar, clawed from his chest over the edges of his shirt. “I’m captain for The Scorpion.” And looked at the: Painted panels of Masonite, some twelve feet high: A gutted horse sat in flaming money. Two naked figures hid in its carcass, toying at each other’s genitals.