Tenderness

Passages

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

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• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I’ve been using my displacement trick here in the hospital. Instead of writing in my diary about my pain, I write about music. I imagine death as a rising symphonic crescendo. My secret to happiness is that I give myself completely to the joyous moments when they come. And when it comes to the catastrophes, I use my imagination to displace myself.” She stroked his cheek. “You’re an artist, my talented Ian Hugo. You can transcend this pain with your imagination. Just think of me as on another journey.” He kissed her fingers as they brushed his mouth, and she bent down closer to him. “As for the joyous moments, dearest, we savored them together, and I am so happy it was with you. You have been my true husband for fifty years. Nothing and no one can take that away from us.” He was gazing at her now in wonder, as in their courtship days and early marriage. “Please, Hugo, get off the floor. There’s a chair you can sit on.” He grabbed for his cane but could not manage to get off his knees even when he pushed himself against the bed. He flailed, losing his balance, and caught himself on the bars of the hospital bed with both hands, his ebony cane falling to the floor. Once he realized he hadn’t broken anything he laughed, chagrined, and Anaïs laughed with him to ease his embarrassment. “Oh, we are a pair, aren’t we? One on crutches and the other in a hospital bed!” When their laughter finally subsided, Anaïs, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, said, “Stay there. I think I like you kneeling.” She touched his face again. “Now, please, listen to me carefully. This is important. Rupert is young, sixteen years younger than I am. He is physically able to lift me and prepare the foods I have to eat. He can take care of me. Would you deprive me of that comfort? That is why I have to stay with Rupert.” It wasn’t the only reason, of course. Sex had given her a connection with Rupert that she’d never shared with Hugo, but she had been so candid, finally, that this omission to save what remained of Hugo’s ego was inconsequential. Struggling for dignity, Hugo said, “I can’t go against your wishes, but at least let me come visit you regularly now that I know the truth.” “No, it’s too expensive, and it will be too hard on your health. There should be only one invalid at a time.” “But I can’t go on being banished like this,” he begged. “I’ll die of worry.” “I’ll speak to Rupert. I’ll ask him to let you phone,” she promised. But, of course, first she had to tell Rupert he was not her only husband. Rupert was in no state to listen to anything when he barged into her room.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “How about really getting a movie made from one of your novels?” It was evidence of just how little I knew about the movie business that I would have suggested this. Anaïs liked that idea, though. “Which of my novels do you think would be best as a movie?” “Without question, A Spy in the House of Love.” “Yes, I think so, too.” She nodded. “We just need a producer to option the book and commission a script.” “I don’t know any producers,” I said. “Or a director who can get a movie made,” she said. “What about your friend Curtis Harrington?” “I thought about Curtis, but he only does horror films and, anyway, he’s gone commercial.” The way she said “gone commercial,” it sounded like heinous treason. She knitted her thin brows. “Renate’s the one who knows everybody in the movie industry.” “But she’s grieving now,” I said, feeling on delicate ground. I’d never known anyone who’d endured tragedy as huge as Renate’s, but instinctively I recognized there could be no pain like the death of one’s child. Anaïs was pensive for a long while, and in the quiet, it felt as if we were saying a prayer for Renate. Finally, Anaïs stated, “It would be good for Renate to take on this movie project with us.” I didn’t know which part of Anaïs’s pronouncement shocked me more: that she thought getting involved with a movie project would be good for Renate after her son’s death, or that I would be participating. Anaïs continued enthusiastically, “I’ll call Renate to see if she’ll meet with us.” “I don’t think I should be there,” I said. “You have to be there.” “I don’t think she’s going to want to see me at a time like this.” “How old are you?” “Twenty-one.” “Peter’s age,” Anaïs said softly. She looked at me tenderly, and in that moment I understood a momentous thing was about to happen in my life. It was an alarming idea, akin to providing a new kitten for a friend whose beloved cat had died. Anaïs had begun to see me as Renate’s replacement for Peter. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] The next time Anaïs phoned me she reported, to my relief, that Renate was still refusing any visits. To keep our movie project moving along, she suggested we have lunch at the Chateau Marmont café. She asked if I would pick her up; Rupert no longer allowed her to drive because she’d smashed up the T-bird again. The Chateau Marmont parking lot was closed off, so I parked on Sunset, and we hiked up the steep driveway to the hotel. A handsome young waiter with gelled hair took our lunch orders, and Anaïs pulled from her purse a nine-by-twelve envelope filled with thermofaxed pages. Handing it to me, she smiled. “It’s from my diary of my Paris years. I’ll need to have it back, though, so don’t let it out of your sight and don’t let Neal see it.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Because I love you so much, I could never leave you and never divorce you. So I did something worse, something illegal.” She watched her words tear off the blinders he’d worn through their marriage. His face slowly fell and his voice capitulated. “I know lawyers who can take care of messes like that.” “I have a lawyer. A woman lawyer. It’s taken care of. But I’m dying and I have to clear things up with you.” This man had suffered so many shattering blows, she thought with compassion. The loss of his income and pension, his health, his pride in accepting an allowance from her. Now this, his memory of their happy marriage. “You were everything to me: father, husband, friend, and lover,” she assured him, “and it will always be so. I will make sure that after my death you will continue to receive your income and that your medical care will be covered by my estate.” “You’re not going to die! I’ll get you the best doctors at Sloan Kettering. You can’t stay in the hands of these bushwhack, West Coast doctors!” “This is where I want to be. I want to die in the house Rupert built for me here. Until then, I want to swim in my pool and feel the California light.” He was weeping. “Please don’t cry, Hugo. Please forgive me. My healer, Dr. Brugh Joy, believes it is my guilt for loving more than one man and my deceptions that caused my cancer.” He looked up. “No!” “You can help save my life, dearest, but only by absolving me. The situation I created was unusual, but please try to see it within the realm of the human and thus forgivable. Please forgive me, and be my savior one more time.” “Yes, yes, I forgive you! There is nothing to forgive. I always knew I only had a part of you. You were a creature of flight and had to fulfill your nature.” What a beautiful thing for him to say, she thought, and then he admitted, “I knew that to hold onto you, I had to let you go, or I would lose you completely.” He looked up from where he still knelt on the floor. “Thank you for staying my wife.” “Even if not yours alone?” “Yes.” He started to weep again. “Stop, Hugo, darling. I can’t bear to see you cry. Look in my eyes as we used to do for hours when we were first in love.” He raised his faded gray eyes to her obediently. She leaned down toward him to touch the side of his face. “Do you remember when I told you I had found the secret to happiness?” He wiped his eyes, trying for stoicism, for manliness. “I’m sorry, I don’t, Anaïs.” “My trick of displacement?” “Please don’t tease my bad memory. I’ve just received a shock.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The story of Federigo shares with all the other stories of the Fifth Day (except the last) a narrative line that ends in a happy marriage. One or two modern observers have taken this, along with evidence drawn from his other writings, to support the view that the author of the Decameron, far from encouraging adulterous liaisons, was a deeply committed moralist opposed to any departures from the norm of legitimate conjugal love. 48 Significant in this connection is the ending of the tale of Nastagio degli Onesti (V, 8), where (as already noted) the lover, having succeeded in transforming a young woman’s enmity into love, insists first on marrying her to preserve her good name. The virtues of conjugal love are celebrated in many of the other stories, for instance in the tales of the Marchioness of Montferrat (I, 5), of Bernabò and Zinevra (II, 9), and of Messer Torello (X, 9). This last, one of the most touching narratives in the whole of the Decameron, presents amor conjugalis in a particularly attractive light, focusing as it does not only on the bond of affection between husband and wife, but also on their nuclear family as a whole. But, as in so many other respects, it is impossible to construct a coherent theory about the overall moral tone of the Decameron on the basis of the tales just cited. There are at least as many stories, including the tale of Tedaldo degli Elisei (III, 7), which point to a contrary conclusion. The ambivalence of the authorial stance accounts in large measure for the work’s endless fascination. Its morality is open-ended. The theme of Love in the Decameron is one that defies exhaustive analysis. Perhaps the best way to summarize this whole question is by quoting Filomena’s words in the preamble to her story of Madonna Francesca (IX, 1): In the course of our conversation, dear ladies, we have repeatedly seen how great and mighty are the forces of Love. Yet I do not think we have fully exhausted the subject, nor would we do so if we were to talk of nothing else for a whole year. 49 * * *

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  In the sixteenth century the monks were the bitterest enemies of the Reformation and of all true progress. And yet the greatest of the reformers was a pupil of the convent, and a child of the monastic system, as the boldest and most free of the apostles had been the strictest of the Pharisees. § 35. Paul of Thebes and St. Anthony. I. Athanasius: Vita S. Antonii (in Greek, Opera, ed. Ben. ii. 793–866). The same in Latin, by Evagrius, in the fourth century. Jerome: Catal. c. 88 (a very brief notice of Anthony); Vita S. Pauli Theb. (Opera, ed. Vallars, ii. p. 1–12). Sozom: H. E. l. i. cap. 13 and 14. Socrat.: H. E. iv. 23, 25. II. Acta Sanctorum, sub Jan. 17 (tom. ii. p. 107 sqq.). Tillemont: Mem. tom. vii. p. 101–144 (St. Antoine, premier père des solitaires d’Egypte). Butler (R.C.): Lives of the Saints, sub Jan. 17. Möhler (R.C.): Athanasius der Grosse, p. 382–402. Neander: K. G. iii. 446 sqq. (Torrey’s Engl. ed. ii. 229–234). Böhringer: Die Kirche Christi in Biographien, i. 2, p. 122–151. H. Ruffner: l.c. vol. i. p. 247–302 (a condensed translation from Athanasius, with additions). K. Hase: K. Gesch. § 64 (a masterly miniature portrait). The first known Christian hermit, as distinct from the earlier ascetics, is the fabulous Paul of Thebes, in Upper Egypt. In the twenty-second year of his age, during the Decian persecution, A.D. 250, he retired to a distant cave, grew fond of the solitude, and lived there, according to the legend, ninety years, in a grotto near a spring and a palm tree, which furnished him food, shade, and clothing,307 until his death in 340. In his later years a raven is said to have brought him daily half a loaf, as the ravens ministered to Elijah. But no one knew of this wonderful saint, till Anthony, who under a higher impulse visited and buried him, made him known to the world. After knocking in vain for more than an hour at the door of the hermit, who would receive the visits of beasts and reject those of men, he was admitted at last with a smiling face, and greeted with a holy kiss. Paul had sufficient curiosity left to ask the question, whether there were any more idolaters in the world, whether new houses were built in ancient cities and by whom the world was governed? During this interesting conversation, a large raven came gently flying and deposited a double portion of bread for the saint and his guest. "The Lord," said Paul, "ever kind and merciful, has sent us a dinner.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Just before Andreuccio reached her, she opened her arms wide and descended three steps to meet him. Then she clasped him round the neck and remained for some time without speaking, as though hindered by a surge of powerful emotion. Finally, her eyes filling with tears, she kissed his brow and said, in a somewhat faltering voice: ‘Oh, Andreuccio my dear, how delighted I am to see you.’ Not knowing what to make of this barrage of affection, he replied, in tones of deep astonishment: ‘My lady, the pleasure is mine.’ Then she took him by the hand, and led him up to the main room of her house, from whence, without another word, she passed with him into her bedroom, which was all fragrant with roses, orange-blossom and other pleasant odours. There he saw an exquisite curtained bed, a large number of dresses hanging from pegs, as is the custom in those parts, and other very beautiful, expensive looking objects. He had never seen such finery before, and was firmly convinced that the lady must be nothing less than a genuine aristocrat. Having made him sit by her side on a chest at the foot of the bed, she began to address him as follows: ‘Andreuccio, I am quite sure you must be astonished at me for embracing you like this and bursting into tears, for you do not know me and it may be that you have never even heard of me before. But you are now to hear something that will possibly increase your astonishment, for the fact is that I am your sister. I have always longed to meet all of my brothers, and now that God has been good enough to allow me to see one of them, I shall no longer die disconsolate when the time comes for me to depart this life. But in case you know nothing of this, I will tell you all about it. ‘Pietro, who is my father as well as yours, lived for many years in Palermo, as I suppose you may have heard. Being a good and amiable man, he was greatly loved there, and he is still loved there to this day by those who knew him. But of all his profound admirers, none loved him more than my mother, who was a widowed lady of gentle birth. Indeed, she loved Pietro so deeply, that she abandoned all fear of her father, her brothers and her good name, and their friendship became so intimate that it led to the birth of the person you see here now, sitting beside you. ‘When I was still a little girl, Pietro’s business called him away from Palermo and he returned to Perugia, leaving my mother and me to fend for ourselves, and as far as I have been able to discover, he never gave either of us another thought.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimes happened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a pain above his right eye: ‘I must take some phenacetin,’ he said sadly, ‘I’m always getting this curious pain above my right eye—do you think it’s the sinus?’ He was very intolerant of all pain. His hostess sent for the phenacetin, and Brockett gulped down a couple of tablets: ‘Valérie doesn’t love me any more,’ he sighed, with a woebegone look at Stephen. ‘I do call it hard, but it’s always what happens when I introduce my best friends to each other—they foregather at once and leave me in the cold; but then, thank heaven, I’m very forgiving.’ They laughed and Valérie made him get on to the divan where he promptly lay down on the lute. ‘Oh God!’ he moaned, ‘now I’ve injured my spine—I’m so badly upholstered.’ Then he started to strum on the one sound string of the lute. Valérie went over to her untidy desk and began to write out a list of addresses: ‘These may be useful to you, Miss Gordon.’ ‘Stephen!’ exclaimed Brockett, ‘Call the poor woman Stephen!’ ‘May I?’ Stephen acquiesced: ‘Yes, please do.’ ‘Very well then, I’m Valérie. Is that a bargain?’ ‘The bargain is sealed,’ announced Brockett. With extraordinary skill he was managing to strum ‘O Sole Mio’ on the single string, when he suddenly stopped: ‘I knew there was something—your fencing, Stephen, you’ve forgotten your fencing. We meant to ask Valérie for Buisson’s address; they say he’s the finest master in Europe.’ Valérie looked up: ‘Does Stephen fence, then?’ ‘Does she fence! She’s a marvellous, champion fencer.’ ‘He’s never seen me fence,’ explained Stephen, ‘and I’m never likely to be a champion.’ ‘Don’t you believe her, she’s trying to be modest. I’ve heard that she fences quite as finely as she writes,’ he insisted. And somehow Stephen felt touched, Brockett was trying to show off her talents. Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook his head: ‘No, thank you, dear one, I’m staying.’ So she wished them good-bye; but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring to Valérie Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caught her own name. 6‘Well, what did you think of Miss Seymour?’ inquired Puddle, when Stephen got back about twenty minutes later. Stephen hesitated: ‘I’m not perfectly certain. She was very friendly, but I couldn’t help feeling that she liked me because she thought me—oh, well, because she thought me what I am, Puddle. But I may have been wrong—she was awfully friendly. Brockett was at his very worst though, poor devil! His environment seemed to go to his head.’ She sank down wearily on to a chair: ‘Oh, Puddle, Puddle, it’s a hell of a business.’ Puddle nodded.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of the two-legged creature who had once reigned supreme in those princely but now depleted stables. And the lamplight streamed out through uncurtained windows to meet her, so that she walked on lamplight. A slim streak of gold led right up to the porch of old Williams’ comfortable cottage. She found him sitting with the Bible on his knees, peering crossly down at the Scriptures through his glasses. He had taken to reading the Scriptures aloud to himself—a melancholy occupation. He was at this now. As Stephen entered she could hear him mumbling from Revelation: ‘And the heads of the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone.’ He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: ‘Miss Stephen!’ ‘Sit still—stop where you are, Williams.’ But Williams had the arrogance of the humble. He was proud of the stern traditions of his service, and his pride forbade him to sit in her presence, in spite of their long and kind years of friendship. Yet when he spoke he must grumble a little, as though she were still the very small child who had swaggered round the stables rubbing her chin, imitating his every expression and gesture. ‘You didn’t ought to have no ’orses, Miss Stephen, the way you runs off and leaves them;’ he grumbled, ‘Raftery’s been off ’is feed these last days. I’ve been talkin’ to that Jim what you sets such store by! Impudent young blight, ’e answered me back like as though I’d no right to express me opinion. But I says to ’im: “You just wait, lad,” I says, “You wait until I gets ’old of Miss Stephen!” ’ For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and could never refrain from nagging when he got there. Deposed he might be, but not yet defeated even by old age, as grooms knew to their cost. The tap of his heavy oak stick in the yard was enough to send Jim and his underling flying to hide curry-combs and brushes out of sight. Williams needed no glasses when it came to disorder. ‘Be this place ’ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder?’ was now his habitual greeting. His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: ‘Sit down, Miss Stephen,’ and she dusted a chair. Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, still open, on the table.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  A gentle placement of your hand in the center of the back, behind the heart, can communicate support and reassurance without interfering with the child’s natural bodily responses. Excessive patting or rocking can interrupt the recovery process (similar to the over-zealous child who, with good intentions, mishandles a wounded bird). As the dazed look begins to wear off, carefully guide the child’s attention to his/her sensations. In a soft voice, ask, “What do you feel in your body?” Slowly and quietly, repeat the answers you’re given in the form of a questio n ”You feel bad in your body? ” then wait for a nod or other response. You can be more specific with your next question: “Where do you feel that bad feeling?” (let the child show you). If the child points to a specific place, ask, “How do you feel in your tummy (head, arm, leg, etc.)?” If the child reports a distinct sensation, gently inquire about its exact location, size, shape, color, weight, and other characteristics. Gently guide the child to the present moment (i.e., “How does the lump (owie, scrape, burn, etc.) feel now?” Allow a moment or two of silence between questions. This will permit the completion of any cycle that the child is moving through without the distraction of another question. If you are uncertain whether the cycle has been completed, wait for the child to give you cues (a deep relaxed breath, the cessation of crying or trembling, a stretch, a smile, the making or breaking of eye contact). The completion of this cycle may not mean that the recovery process is over. Another cycle may follow. Keep the child focused on sensations for a few more minutes just to make sure the process is complete. Do not stir up discussion about the accident. There will be plenty of time later for telling stories about it, playing it through, or drawing pictures of it. Now is the time for discharge and rest. Validate the child’s physical responses throughout this period of time. Children often begin to cry or tremble as they come out of shock. If you have a desire to stop this natural process, resist it. The physical expression of distress needs to continue until it stops or levels out on its own. The completion of this process usually takes a few minutes. Studies show that children who take this opportunity after an accident have fewer problems recovering. Your task is to let the child know that crying and trembling are normal, healthy reactions. A reassuring hand on the back or shoulder, along with a few gently spoken words such as “That’s OK,” or “That’s goo d just let the scary stuff shake right out of you,” can help immensely. Your primary function is to create a safe environment for the child to complete his/her natural responses to being hurt.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And before our lives are spent, I beg you if possible to settle your affairs in Lombardy and come once more to visit me; for not only will I rejoice to see you, but I shall then be able to repair the omissions which your haste to depart imposes upon me. Until such time as this should come about, let it not weary you to visit me with your letters, and ask of me whatever you please, for you may be sure that there is no other person on earth whose wants I would supply more readily.’ Messer Torello, being unable to control his tears, was prevented from replying at any length. And so in few words he declared it was impossible for him ever to forget Saladin’s courteous deeds and sterling worth, and that without fail he would do as Saladin had requested, whenever the opportunity arose. So Saladin enfolded him tenderly in his arms, kissed him, and, weeping copiously, wished him God-speed and withdrew. Then all his nobles took their leave of Messer Torello and accompanied Saladin to the hall where the bed had been set. But the hour was now late, and the magician being anxious to conduct the affair to a speedy conclusion, a physician came to Messer Torello with a certain potion, which he persuaded him to drink, explaining that it would fortify him for what lay ahead. Soon afterwards he fell asleep, and as he slept he was conveyed on Saladin’s orders to the sumptuous bed, upon which Saladin placed a large, beautiful and priceless crown, which he marked in such a way that in due course it was clearly seen to have been sent from Saladin to Messer Torello’s wife. Then on Messer Torello’s finger he placed a ring containing a large ruby, whose value, since it glowed and glittered like a flaming torch, was well-nigh impossible to assess. He next had Messer Torello girded with a sword, so richly ornamented that it, too, could not easily be valued. Nor was this all, for he pinned a brooch to Messer Torello’s breast, studded with pearls whose like were never seen, and many other precious stones besides. And on either side of his sleeping form, he caused an enormous golden bowl, overflowing with doubloons, to be placed, whilst all around him he set numerous rings and belts and strings of pearls and other objects, which would take too long to describe. This done, he kissed Messer Torello once more, and told the magician to make haste, whereupon before his very eyes the bed and Messer Torello suddenly disappeared in their entirety, leaving Saladin behind to converse with his nobles about him. As he had requested, Messer Torello was deposited, along with all the aforesaid jewels and finery, in the church of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro in Pavia, where he still lay asleep when the bell was rung for matins and the sexton entered the church carrying a lantern.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the garden still admiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or two she would feed the pigeons—yes, she was starting to cross the lawn to the shed in which she kept pigeon-mixture—but presently she would be coming in. Stephen sat down and began to think quickly. Martin Hallam—he must be about thirty-nine. He had fought in the war and been badly wounded—she had thought of him during that terrible advance, the smitten trees had been a reminder. . . . He must often have been very near her then; he was very near now, just out at Passy, and he wanted to see her; he offered his friendship. She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mind must conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims’ dance—oh, but very young—with a bony face that glowed when he talked of the beauty of trees, of their goodness . . . a tall, loose-limbed young man who slouched when he walked, as though from much riding. The hills . . . winter hills rust-coloured by bracken . . . Martin touching the ancient thorns with kind fingers. ‘Look, Stephen—the courage of these old fellows!’ How clearly she remembered his actual words after all these years, and her own she remembered: ‘You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had except Father—our friendship’s so wonderful somehow. . . .’ And his answer: ‘I know, a wonderful friendship.’ A great sense of companionship, of comfort—it had been so good to have him beside her; she had liked his quiet and careful voice, and his thoughtful blue eyes that moved rather slowly. He had filled a real need that had always been hers and still was, a need for the friendship of men—how very completely Martin had filled it, until. . . . But she resolutely closed her mind, refusing to visualize that last picture. He knew now that it had been a ghastly mistake—he understood—he practically said so. Could they take up their friendship where they had left it? If only they could . . . She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk. Glancing at his letter, she rang up a number. ‘Hallo-yes?’ She recognized his voice at once. ‘Is that you, Martin? It’s Stephen speaking.’ ‘Stephen . . . oh, I’m so glad! But where on earth are you?’ ‘At my house in Paris—35, Rue Jacob.’ ‘But I don’t understand, I thought . . .’ ‘Yes, I know, but I’ve lived here for ages—since before the war. I’ve just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny, isn’t it? Why not come to dinner to-night if you’re free—eight o’clock.’ ‘I say! May I really?’ ‘Of course . . . come and dine with my friend and me.’ ‘What number?’ ‘Thirty-five—35, Rue Jacob.’ ‘I’ll be there on the actual stroke of eight!’ ‘That’s right—good-bye, Martin.’ ‘Good-bye, and thanks, Stephen.’

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard that he had gone to Paris for some months, as was often his custom when the climate of London had begun to get on his nerves. He had drifted away like thistledown, without so much as a word of warning. He had not said good-bye nor had he written, so that Stephen felt that she had never known him, so completely did he go out of her life during his sojourn in Paris. Later on she was to learn, when she knew him better, that these disconcerting lapses of interest, amounting as they did to a breach of good manners, were highly characteristic of the man, and must of necessity be accepted by all who accepted Jonathan Brockett. And now here he was back again in England, sitting next to Stephen at the Carringtons’ luncheon. And as though they had met but a few hours ago, he took her up calmly just where he had left her. ‘May I come in to-morrow?’ ‘Well—I’m awfully busy.’ ‘But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.’ ‘I’m afraid she’ll be out.’ ‘Then I’ll just sit and wait until she comes in; I’ll be quiet as a mouse.’ ‘Oh, no, Brockett, please don’t; I should know you were there and that would disturb me.’ ‘I see. A new book?’ ‘Well, no—I’m trying to write some short stories; I’ve got a commission from The Good Housewife.’ ‘Sounds thrifty. I hope you’re getting well paid.’ Then after a rather long pause: ‘How’s Raftery?’ For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition, regretted his question. ‘Not . . . not. . . .’ he stammered. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘Raftery’s dead—he went lame. I shot him.’ He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery’s death could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to shoot Raftery. She thought: ‘What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he actually feels something almost like grief—it’s my grief he’s getting—and to-morrow, of course, he’ll forget all about it.’ Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him in contact—a strong brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration. 2For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening. ‘You’ll get awfully little to eat,’ warned Stephen, who was tired to death and who did not want him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  ‘It’s quite all right now,’ said Stephen quickly, very much afraid the young woman meant to cry. ‘Will he live, do you think?’ inquired a weak voice. ‘Yes, of course; but your hand—come along to the chemist.’ ‘Oh, never mind that, I’m thinking of Tony!’ ‘He’s all right. We’ll take him straight off to the vet when your hand’s been seen to; there’s quite a good one.’ The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her own maimed condition. She kept pressing his face against her shoulder, presumably so that he should not see the needle. ‘Don’t look, darling—you mustn’t look at it, honey!’ Stephen heard her whispering to Tony. At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen had time to examine her companion. It occurred to her that she had better introduce herself, so she said: ‘I’m Stephen Gordon.’ ‘And I’m Angela Crossby,’ came the reply; ‘we’ve taken The Grange, just the other side of Upton.’ Angela Crossby was amazingly blonde, her hair was not so much golden as silver. She wore it cut short like a mediæval page; it was straight, and came just to the lobes of her ears, which at that time of pompadours and much curling gave her an unusual appearance. Her skin was very white, and Stephen decided that this woman would never have a great deal of colour, nor would her rather wide mouth be red, it would always remain the tint of pale coral. All the colour that she had seemed to lie in her eyes, which were large and fringed with long fair lashes. Her eyes were of rather an unusual blue that almost seemed to be tinted with purple, and their candid expression was that of a child—very innocent it was, a trustful expression. And Stephen as she looked at those eyes felt indignant, remembering the gossip she had heard about the Crossbys.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  At the urgent request of Luther, who wished to hold him fast, and to promote his health and comfort, he married (having no vow of celibacy to prevent him) as early as August, 1520, Catharina Krapp, the worthy daughter of the burgomaster of Wittenberg, who faithfully shared with him the joys and trials of domestic life. He had from her four children, and was often seen rocking the cradle with one hand, while holding a book in the other. He used to repeat the Apostles’ Creed in his family three times a day. He esteemed his wife higher than himself. She died in 1557 while he was on a journey to the colloquy at Worms: when he heard the sad news at Heidelberg, he looked up to heaven, and exclaimed, "Farewell! I shall soon follow thee." Next to the "Lutherhaus" with the "Luthermuseum," the most interesting dwelling in the quaint old town of Wittenberg on the banks of the Elbe is the house of Melanchthon in the Collegienstrasse. It is a three-story building, and belongs to the Prussian government, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV. having bought it from its former owner. Melanchthon’s study is on the first story; there he died. Behind the house is a little garden which was connected with Luther’s garden. Here, under the shade of the tree, the two Reformers may often have exchanged views on the stirring events of the times, and encouraged each other in the great conflict. The house bears in German the inscription on the outer wall: — "Here lived, taught, and died Philipp Melanchthon." § 41. Luther and Melanchthon. P. Schaff: Luther und Melanchthon, In his "Der Deutsche Kirchenfreund," Mercersburg, Pa., vol. III. (1850), pp. 58–64. E. L. Henke: Das Verhältniss Luthers und Melanchthons zu einander. Festrede am 19 April, 1860. Marburg (28 pages). Compare also Döllinger: Die Reformation, vol. i. 349 sqq. "Wo sich das strenge mit dem Zarten, Wo Starkes sich und Mildes paarten, Da giebt es einen guten Klang." (Schiller.) In great creative epochs of the Church, God associates congenial leaders for mutual help and comfort. In the Reformation of the sixteenth century, we find Luther and Melanchthon in Germany, Zwingli and Oecolampadius, Farel and Viret, Calvin and Beza in Switzerland, Craniner, Latimer, and Ridley in England, Knox and Melville in Scotland, working together with different gifts, but in the same spirit and for the same end. The Methodist revival of the eighteenth century was carried on by the co-operation of the two Wesleys and Whitefield; and the Anglo-Catholic movement of the nineteenth, by the association of Pusey, Newman, and Keble.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Several years ago, Dr. James Prescott (then with the National Institute of Mental Health), presented important anthropological research on the effect of infant and child-rearing practices on violent behavior in aboriginal societie s [13] . He reported that the societies that practiced close physical bonding and the use of stimulating rhythmical movement had a low incidence of violence. Societies with diminished or punitive physical contact with their children showed clear tendencies toward violence in the forms of war, rape, and torture. The work of Dr. Prescott (and others), points to something we all know intuitively: that the time around birth and infancy is a critical period. Children assimilate the ways that their parents relate to each other and the world at a very young age When parents have been traumatized, they have difficulty teaching their young a sense of basic trust. Without this sense of trust as a resource, children are more vulnerable to trauma. One solution to breaking the cycle of trauma is to involve infants and mothers in an experience that generates trust and bonding before the child has completely absorbed the parents’ distrust of themselves and others. In Norway, exciting work is now being done in this area. My colleague, Eldbjörg Wedaa, and I are using what we know about this critical period of infancy. This approach allows an entire group of people to begin transforming the traumatic remnants of previous encounters. This method requires a room, a few simple musical instruments, and blankets that are strong enough to hold a baby’s weight. The process works as follows: a group composed of mothers and infants from opposing factions (religious, racial, political, etc.) is brought together at a home or a community center. The encounter begins with this mixed group of mothers and infants taking turns teaching one another simple folk songs from their respective cultures. Holding their babies, the mothers rock and dance while they sing the songs to their children. A facilitator uses simple instruments to enhance the rhythm in the songs. The movement, rhythm, and singing strengthen the neurological patterns that produce peaceful alertness and receptivity. As a result, the hostility produced by generations of strife begins to soften. At first, the children are perplexed by these goings-on, but soon they become more interested and involved. They are enthusiastic about the rattles, drums, and tambourines that the facilitator passes to them. Characteristically, without rhythmical stimulation, children of this age will do little more than try to fit objects such as these into their mouths. Here, however, the children will join in generating the rhythm with great delight, often squealing and cooing with glee.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Validate the child’s physical responses throughout this period of time. Children often begin to cry or tremble as they come out of shock. If you have a desire to stop this natural process, resist it. The physical expression of distress needs to continue until it stops or levels out on its own. The completion of this process usually takes a few minutes. Studies show that children who take this opportunity after an accident have fewer problems recovering. Your task is to let the child know that crying and trembling are normal, healthy reactions. A reassuring hand on the back or shoulder, along with a few gently spoken words such as “That’s OK,” or “That’s goo d just let the scary stuff shake right out of you,” can help immensely. Your primary function is to create a safe environment for the child to complete his/her natural responses to being hurt. Trust the child’s innate ability to heal. Trust your own ability to allow this to happen. To avoid unintentional disruption of the process, don’t shift the child’s position, distract his/her attention, hold the child too tightly, or position yourself too close or too far away for comfort. Notice when the child begins to re-orient him/herself to the external world. Orientation is a sign of completion. Finally, attend to the child’s emotional responses. Once the youngster appears safe and calm (not before, but later is fine), set aside time for storytelling or for re-enacting the incident. Begin by asking the child to tell you what happened. He/she may be experiencing anger, fear, sadness, embarrassment, shame, or guilt. Tell the child about a time when you, or someone you know, felt the same way or had a similar accident. This will help “normalize” what the child is feeling. Let the youngster know that whatever he/she is feeling is OK and worthy of attention. While applying these first-aid measures, trust yourself. Don’t think too much about whether you’re “doing it right.” Trauma cannot always be prevented; it’s a fact of life. But it can be healed. It is an interrupted process naturally inclined to complete itself whenever possible. If you create the opportunity, your child will complete this process and avoid the debilitating effects of trauma. Resolving a Traumatic Reaction Creating an opportunity for healing is similar to learning the customs of a new country. It is not difficult-just different. It requires you and your child to shift from the realm of thought or emotion to the much more basic realm of physical sensation. The primary task is to pay attention to how things feel and how the body is responding. In short, opportunity revolves around sensation.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Tell my lady that she is not to worry on my account until it is convenient for her to come. But tell her to come as soon as she can.’ The maid closed the window and retired to bed, whereupon the lady said to her lover: ‘What do you say to that, my dearest? Do you think I’d keep him out there freezing to death if I cared for him, as you suspect?’ Her lover’s doubts were by now almost totally dispelled, and she got into bed with him, where they disported themselves merrily and rapturously for hours on end, laughing and making fun of the hapless scholar. The scholar was walking up and down the courtyard to keep himself warm, and since there was nowhere for him to sit down or take shelter, he kept cursing the lady’s brother for tarrying so long with her. Whenever he heard a sound, he thought it must be the lady opening a door to let him in, but his hopes were dashed every time. After cavorting with her lover till the early hours of the morning, the lady said: ‘What do you think of this scholar, my darling? Which would you say was the greater: his wisdom, or my love for him? Will the cold I am causing him to suffer dispel the coldness that entered your heart when I spoke of him in jest to you the other day?’ ‘But of course, my precious,’ replied the lover. ‘Now I can see quite clearly that you care for me as deeply as I care for you, who are the true source of my well-being, my repose and my delight, and the haven of all my desires.’ ‘Then give me a thousand kisses at least,’ said the lady, ‘so that I may see whether you are telling me the truth.’ Whereupon, clasping her firmly to his bosom, her lover kissed her, not a thousand times, but more than a hundred thousand. But after they had billed and cooed in this fashion for a while, the lady said: ‘Come, let’s get up and see whether those flames, in which this weird lover of mine was always claiming to be consumed, show any sign of abating.’ They accordingly got up and returned once more to the window and on looking down into the yard, they saw the scholar performing a sort of eightsome reel in the snow, for which the sound of his chattering teeth provided the backing. And because of the extreme cold, he was moving his feet at such a furious pace that they had never seen a dance to compare with it. ‘What do you say to that, my sweetheart?’ said the lady. ‘Don’t you think it clever of me to make men dance without the aid of trumpets or bagpipes?’ ‘I do indeed, my darling,’ replied her lover, shaking with laughter. Then the lady said:

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  154 Lecture 21: food and the family meal—Boundaries • A man could also signal his love and devotion to his wife through the portioning of food at a sacrificial meal. Samuel’s mother, Hannah, receives a certain portion at a sacrificial meal that is meant to communicate her husband’s love, despite her lack of children at the time. • In each of these meals, the male hosts seat the guests and determine the portions, and through the portioning of food, the hosts communicate the chosen and loved status of one of the recipients. Dietary Laws and Maintenance of Identity • One of the key ways in which food becomes a marker of identity is through the food laws known as kashrut, or kosher food regulations. The word “kosher” means “fit” or “appropriate.” • Dietary laws are found in Leviticus 11 and, with some slight changes, in Deuteronomy 14. In both cases, the food laws are couched in the language of “holiness.” • To be “holy” in the Bible means to be “set apart.” Observing a kosher diet was designed to set the Israelite people apart from those around them. Observing the laws was also part of the covenant with God. In order to be part of God’s holy household, the Israelites must keep his diet. • The list of food regulations begins with meat. Again, because meat was a luxury, it is listed first. o The Israelites may eat any animal that has a cloven hoof and chews the cud, which includes oxen, sheep, goats, and several undomesticated animals. They may not eat pork; this restriction set them apart from the Philistines, Assyrians, and Babylonians. o Also forbidden are numerous flying creatures, although locusts, grasshoppers, and crickets are permitted. 155 • Trying to use logic or science to explain the particularities of these food laws has proven an elusive goal. The Bible does not provide any sort of logical or health-related justification for eating one animal and not another. Instead, we must go back to the statement: “Be holy for I am holy.” These laws define the Israelites as a nation set apart and a people holy to their god. Borowski, Daily Life in Biblical Times, pp. 63–73. MacDonald, Not Bread Alone. 1. How does food serve as a boundary marker in ancient Israel? 2. Why might the kosher food laws have become more important once the Judeans were exiled to Babylonia and after they were resettled in Judah? 3. What role does meat play in the ancient Israelite diet? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  He was on his way to party with the over-twenty-ones. There were several older students at the school in the postgraduate program. He had that easy and familiar humor of Oklahoma Indians. I felt at home in his voice and with his teasing. “Cat got your tongue?” he said. I kept my head down, and my hair was a curtain covering half my face. My knees were just scraped. “Looks like you’ll live,” he said, laughing. I smiled. He helped me up and ditched his party to go with me to the dance. We discovered that we were both James Brown freaks, and when we danced, we got off the dance floor only for him to take a smoke break. We talked about our plans to be artists, about our families. He was Cherokee and familiar like my relatives and neighbors. “My father is Creek,” I told him as he cupped his hand around a match to steady the flame before lighting up. I built my father up as a descendant of warriors, when he was running around somewhere south of Okmulgee with a different woman every night. His parents were both Cherokee. His father was mixed with German. His mother was full-blooded and had been adopted by another full-blood family in Tahlequah when her parents died not long after she was born. Many of our people died young of tuberculosis and other diseases that took root from loss. We discovered that our mothers were probably distantly related on the Cherokee side. His first memory, he told me that night as we continued to talk under a night sky rich with falling stars, was of a boy with burned skin being brought to his grandfather for a healing. The skin was flayed over the boy’s face in waves. He watched as his grandfather sang and prayed, then took water in his mouth and spat on the burn. He did this many times. The boy and the boy’s father returned two weeks later with some bags of groceries and a wood carving in gratitude for the healing. There was no sign or mark of the burn on the boy’s body. “My story is like a falling star,” I said as we watched a small universe blaze and fall from the sky. “That star was a person. It was a being of fire that laughed and cried. Someone is missing that star in the sky. The star’s lover is bereft, calling its name.” As I spoke, I realized that I did not want to be alone beneath the eternal sweep of the sky. His eyes told me, neither did he. He took my hand and pulled me close against him. I liked his earthy smell, his muscular definition. We became lovers. I was sixteen. [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] I got involved with the school theater program as a production assistant for our fall school production of Shelagh Delaney’s A Taste of Honey .

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  160 Lecture 22: National Identity—Intermarriage law not to come with her. She says that each should return to her mother’s home, where she can have a new marriage negotiated. Orpah complies, but Ruth refuses, swearing a loyalty oath to Naomi (Ruth 1:16–17). The two return to Judah, arriving just at the beginning of the barley harvest. • The first piece of information we receive once the two women arrive in Judah concerns a “kinsman of Naomi” on her husband’s side, a wealthy man named Boaz (Ruth 2:1). Every detail in the description of Boaz suggests that he will rescue these women, who have no husbands to serve as their protectors. But it is the careful planning of Naomi and Ruth that results in a “rescue.” o Ruth goes to the local fields to glean grain behind the reapers. Boaz learns from his reapers that this new arrival in the fields is “Ruth the Moabite who came back with Naomi.” This identification emphasizes her foreignness. o Boaz then tells Ruth to glean only in his fields. He will ensure that she is not harmed by any young men and will provide water for her. When Ruth asks Boaz why he has treated her so generously given that she is a foreigner, Boaz tells her that he has heard of her kindness to Naomi. Israelite law stipulates that farmers must leave some grain for the poor to glean; in going to the fields, Ruth places herself in the role of “the poor.” © Dr Jorgen/Wikimedia Commons/Public Domain.