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.

Page 37 of 145 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The woman was a kindly soul, and after leaving her for a while in the cottage whilst she quickly gathered up her nets, she returned and wrapped her from head to foot in her own cloak, then took her with her to Susa. And on arriving in the town, she said: ‘Gostanza, I am going to take you to the house of a very kind Saracen lady, who employs me regularly on various errands. She is elderly and tender-hearted: I shall commend you to her as warmly as I possibly can, and I am quite certain that she will gladly take you in and treat you as a daughter. Once you are under her roof, you are to serve her as loyally as you can, so as to win and retain her favour until such time as God may send you better fortune.’ Carapresa was as good as her word. When the lady, who was getting on in years, had heard her story, she looked into Gostanza’s eyes, burst into tears, gathered her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead. Then she led her by the hand into the house, where she lived with certain other women, isolated from all male company. The women worked with their hands in various ways, producing a number of different objects made of silk, palm, and leather, and within a few days, the girl, having learned to make some of these objects, was sharing the work with the others. Her benefactress and the other ladies were remarkably kind and affectionate towards her, and before very long they had taught her to speak their language. Now, whilst the girl was living in Susa, having long been given up as dead by her family, it happened that the King of Tunis, whose name was Mulay Abd Allah, was threatened by a powerful young grandee, who came from Granada, and who claimed that the kingdom of Tunis belonged to him. And having assembled an enormous army, he marched against the King to drive him from the realm. Tidings of these events came to the ears of Martuccio Gomito as he lay in prison, and as he was well versed in the language of the Saracens, on learning that the King of Tunis was making strenuous efforts to defend himself, he said to one of the men who were guarding him and his companions: ‘If I could speak to the King, I am sure I could advise him how to win this war of his.’ The gaoler reported Martuccio’s words to his superior, who immediately passed them on to the King. The King therefore ordered Martuccio to be brought before him, and asked him what advice he had in mind.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Knowing that Federigo had been in love with her for a long time, and that she had never deigned to cast so much as a single glance in his direction, she said to herself: ‘How can I possibly go to him, or even send anyone, to ask him for this falcon, which to judge from all I have heard is the finest that ever flew, as well as being the only thing that keeps him alive? And how can I be so heartless as to deprive so noble a man of his one remaining pleasure?’ Her mind filled with reflections of this sort, she remained silent, not knowing what answer to make to her son’s request, even though she was quite certain that the falcon was hers for the asking. At length, however, her maternal instincts gained the upper hand, and she resolved, come what may, to satisfy the child by going in person to Federigo to collect the bird and bring it back to him. And so she replied: ‘Bear up, my son, and see whether you can start feeling any better. I give you my word that I shall go and fetch it for you first thing tomorrow morning.’ Next morning, taking another lady with her for company, his mother left the house as though intending to go for a walk, made her way to Federigo’s little cottage, and asked to see him. For several days, the weather had been unsuitable for hawking, so Federigo was attending to one or two little jobs in his garden, and when he heard, to his utter astonishment, that Monna Giovanna was at the front-door and wished to speak to him, he happily rushed there to greet her. When she saw him coming, she advanced with womanly grace to meet him. Federigo received her with a deep bow, whereupon she said: ‘Greetings, Federigo!’ Then she continued: ‘I have come to make amends for the harm you have suffered on my account, by loving me more than you ought to have done. As a token of my esteem, I should like to take breakfast with you this morning, together with my companion here, but you must not put yourself to any trouble.’ ‘My lady,’ replied Federigo in all humility, ‘I cannot recall ever having suffered any harm on your account. On the contrary I have gained so much that if ever I attained any kind of excellence, it was entirely because of your own great worth and the love I bore you.

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

  Who live no more, repulse me, suffering not That I should join their company beyond The river, and I now must wander round The spacious portals of the House of Death."684 Christianity intensified this regard for the departed, and gave it a solid foundation by the doctrine of the immortality of the soul and the resurrection of the body. Julian the Apostate traced the rapid spread and power of that religion to three causes: benevolence, care of the dead, and honesty.685 After the persecution under Marcus Aurelius, the Christians in Southern Gaul were much distressed because the enraged heathens would not deliver them the corpses of their brethren for burial.686 Sometimes the vessels of the church were sold for the purpose. During the ravages of war, famine, and pestilence, they considered it their duty to bury the heathen as well as their fellow-Christians. When a pestilence depopulated the cities in the reign of the tyrannical persecutor Maximinus, "the Christians were the only ones in the midst of such distressing circumstances that exhibited sympathy and humanity in their conduct. They continued the whole day, some in the care and burial of the dead, for numberless were they for whom there was none to care; others collected the multitude of those wasting by the famine throughout the city, and distributed bread among all. So that the fact was cried abroad, and men glorified the God of the Christians, constrained, as they were by the facts, to acknowledge that these were the only really pious and the only real worshippers of God."687 Lactantius says: "The last and greatest office of piety is the burying of strangers and the poor; which subject these teachers of virtue and justice have not touched upon at all, as they measure all their duties by utility. We will not suffer the image and workmanship of God to lie exposed as a prey to beasts and birds; but we will restore it to the earth, from which it had its origin; and although it be in the case of an unknown man, we will fulfil the office of relatives, into whose place, since they are wanting, let kindness succeed; and wherever there shall be need of man, there we will think that our duty is required."688 The early church differed from the pagan and even from the Jewish notions by a cheerful and hopeful view of death, and by discarding lamentations, rending of clothes, and all signs of extravagant grief. The terrors of the grave were dispelled by the light of the resurrection, and the idea of death was transformed into the idea of a peaceful slumber.

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

  Anaïs was alone when I arrived, propped against a pillow, writing in a small journal with her winged glasses on. She looked tiny in the metal hospital bed. She wore a lacy negligee and a pink terrycloth turban that matched the color of her rouged cheeks. To my surprise the room was bare of flowers or gifts. When word had gone out the previous year that Anaïs needed a transfusion, young women had circled the block at the Women’s Building downtown to give blood. Yet she appeared to have been forgotten now. She glanced up and removed her glasses. Her heavily outlined eyes, once jewel bright, had faded to dull gunmetal. “Come in, Tristine.” She leaned forward, an invitation to kiss her shrunken cheeks. Above her head hung a translucent bag containing yellowish liquid. When I leaned in to kiss her, I saw that the evil-looking tubing was attached to a needle embedded in her bruised hand and I felt queasy. Losing my balance, I fell towards the bed, her startled eyes flashing into mine. I threw out a hand to catch myself on the edge of her mattress. She winced. As I pulled myself upright I cried, “I’m so sorry! I hurt you!” She dismissed my concern with a wave of that poor hand, the tubing following like puppet strings. “I’m fine,” she assured me with a weak smile. “Pull up a chair.” I started to lug over a heavy steel chair, the only one in the room; but it made such an ugly screech scraping the floor, I just perched my bottom on its edge. I placed my large purse on my knees and dug in it for the little toy bird I’d brought. Mother, who to her credit was never jealous of my devotion to Anaïs, had found the little stuffed bird in one of her boxes of junk. It had looked festive at Mother’s house with its real red feathers decorated with tiny pearls and mirrors, so I’d brought it to the hospital instead of flowers. As Anaïs took it from my hand, though, I thought what a puny gift it was, really just a Christmas decoration. Trying to enhance it, I said, “I brought him to sing to you. But you’ll have to imagine his song.” Anaïs cupped the bird in her palms tenderly as if he were breathing. “I love him!” she cried, and made the same fuss over that token gift as she’d made over my armful of Ginkgo leaves the first time we met. I found myself whispering as to a child, “His feet have wire in them so we can put him wherever you want.” “Attach him to the bed post!” she exclaimed, pointing to the foot of the hospital bed. “He’ll sing to me first thing when I wake up.”

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

  I pushed away the negative thought, believing it could harm her. Maybe the problem, I considered, was that I needed a room of my own. Anaïs had a writing room of her own, even if it was the size of a closet. I asked Philip if we could put up some walls to create a private office for me. He had another idea. He bought me a big blue tent and pitched it so that it covered most of the downstairs deck. It was a romantic space, inviting fantasies of Arabian nights—its blue walls rippling in the breeze, the surf crashing on boulders a few yards away—but it proved unsuitable for writing. I sat huddled in the damp cold, using a Coleman lantern for light. Huge waves would swamp the tent when storms hit. When the sun dried the canvas walls I’d sweep out the sand, a Sisyphean task. I did find a use for the tent, though, with some of the women who had been in my consciousness-raising group. We’d accomplished our action of establishing a Women’s Studies program, but our work of consciousness wasn’t over because there were areas where we were still internally oppressed. I invited six friends to meet in the tent to explore that most primitive, forbidden, and inaccessible part of ourselves: our sexuality. What we liked. What we didn’t. What we needed courage to change. When I told Anaïs, she begged me to tape-record the sessions for her. So on the first night, gathered on large pillows in a circle, the surf pounding the rocks nearby, I asked my women friends for permission to start a tape recorder. “Why?” Clara demanded, flipping back a ringlet of copper hair. I should have remembered how much Clara disliked Anaïs. “Because she has cancer and can’t join us,” I said, “and this is something she’s always cared about.” When we voted, the majority ruled that I could start the recorder, on the condition that, as in our consciousness group, nothing any of us said would be repeated outside those canvas walls—with the one exception that Anaïs could listen to the tapes. Clara objected, “You’re all crazy. You don’t know what she’s going to do with those tapes.” Persuaded by Clara’s caution but moved by Anaïs’s illness, the group decided that Anaïs should have a limited window to listen to the tapes, and then I had to retrieve and destroy them. Even so, Clara insisted that when she was speaking the recorder be off. So began the tent tapes. We explored our sexual experiences and feelings, and put them into words for the first time with the same radical honesty we had brought to the consciousness-raising group. We used the same format as in the early days of the group, each woman speaking in turn on the night’s chosen theme, forming a circle around the Coleman lantern.

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  Jesus did not counsel his disciples to forgive seventy times seven in order that they might convert their enemies or make them more favorably disposed. He counselled it as an effort to approximate complete moral perfection, the perfection of God. He did not ask his followers to go the second mile in the hope that those who had impressed them into service would relent and give them freedom. He did not say that the enemy ought to be loved so that he would cease to be an enemy. He did not dwell upon the social consequences of these moral actions, because he viewed them from an inner and a transcendent perspective. Nothing is clearer than that a pure religious idealism must issue in a policy of non-resistance which makes no claims to be socially efficacious. It submits to any demands, however unjust, and yields to any claims, however inordinate, rather than assert self-interest against another. “You will meekly bear,” declared Epictetus, “for you will say on every occasion ‘It seemed so to him.’” This type of moral idealism leads either to asceticism, as in the case of Francis and other Catholic saints, or at least to the complete disavowal of any political responsibility, as in the cast of Protestant sects practicing consistent non-resistance, as, for instance, the Anabaptists, Mennonites, Dunkers and Doukhobors. The Quakers assumed political responsibilities, but they were never consistent non-resisters. They disavowed violence but not resistance. While social consequences are not considered in such a moral strategy, it would be short-sighted to deny that it may result in redemptive social consequences, at least within the area of individual and personal relationships. Forgiveness may not always prompt the wrongdoer to repentance; but yet it may. Loving the enemy may not soften the enemy’s heart; but there are possibilities that it will. Refusal to assert your own interests against another may not shame him into unselfishness; but on occasion it has done so. Love and benevolence may not lead to complete mutuality; but it does have that tendency, particularly within the area of intimate relationships. Human life would, in fact, be intolerable if justice could be established in all relationships only by self-assertion and counter-assertion, or only by a shrewd calculation of claims and counter-claims. The fact is that love, disinterestedness and benevolence do have a strong social and utilitarian value, and the place they hold in the hierarchy of virtues is really established by that value, though religion may view them finally from an inner or transcendent perspective. “The social virtues,” declares David Hume, “are never regarded without their beneficial tendencies nor viewed as barren and unfruitful. The happiness of mankind, the order of society, the harmony of families, the mutual support of friends, are always considered as a result of their gentle dominion over the breasts of men.” {158} The utilitarian and social emphasis is a little too absolute in the words of Hume, but it is true within limits.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Monna Sismonda had been listening the whole time, and as soon as she heard her husband leaving the house, she opened the bedroom door and re-lit the lamp, to discover her maidservant lying there, all bruised and battered, and crying her eyes out. Having consoled her as best she could, she led the girl back to her own room, where she covertly arranged for her to be nursed back to health and waited upon, and rewarded her so handsomely from Arriguccio’s own coffers that the girl was more than contented. No sooner was the maid safely bestowed in her room than Monna Sismonda returned, remade the bed, and tidied up the whole room so as to make it look as if no one had slept there. Having re-lit the main lamp, she dressed herself and combed her hair to give the impression that she had not yet gone to bed, then she lit another lamp, which she took out on to the landing with some of her sewing. She then sat down and began to sew, and waited to see how things would develop. On leaving the house, Arriguccio had hurried round to his wife’s brothers’ house as fast as his legs would carry him, and hammered away at the door until someone came to let him in. Hearing that it was Arriguccio, the lady’s three brothers and her mother got up out of bed, called for lights to be lit, and came down to ask him what had brought him to see them, all alone, at that hour of the night.

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

  Miltitz discovered on his journey a wide-spread and growing sympathy with Luther. He found three Germans on his side, especially in the North, to one against him. He heard bad reports about Tetzel, and summoned him; but Tetzel was afraid to travel, and died a few months afterwards (Aug. 7, 1519), partly, perhaps, in consequence of the severe censure from the papal delegate. Luther wrote to his opponent a letter of comfort, which is no more extant. Unmeasured as he could be in personal abuse, he harbored no malice or revenge in his heart.208 Miltitz held a conference with Luther in the house of Spalatin at Altenburg, Jan. 6, 1519. He was exceedingly polite and friendly; he deplored the offence and scandal of the Theses-controversy, and threw a great part of the blame on poor Tetzel; he used all his powers of persuasion, and entreated him with tears not to divide the unity of the holy Catholic Church. They agreed that the matter should be settled by a German bishop instead of going to Rome, and that in the mean time both parties were to keep silence. Luther promised to ask the pardon of the Pope, and to warn the people against the sin of separating from the holy mother-church. After this agreement they partook of a social supper, and parted with a kiss. Miltitz must have felt very proud of his masterpiece of ecclesiastical diplomacy. Luther complied with his promises in a way which seems irreconcilable with his honest convictions and subse-quent conduct. But we must remember the deep conflicts of his mind, the awful responsibility of his undertaking, the critical character of the situation. Well might he pause for a while, and shrink back from the idea of a separation from the church of his fathers, so intimately connected with his religious life as well as with the whole history of Christianity for fifteen hundred years. He had to break a new path which became so easy for others. We must all the more admire his conscientiousness. In his letter to the Pope, dated March 3, 1519, he expressed the deepest personal humility, and denied that he ever intended to injure the Roman Church, which was over every other power in heaven and on earth, save only Jesus Christ the Lord over all. Yet he repudiated the idea of retracting his conscientious convictions. In his address to the people, he allowed the value of indulgences, but only as a recompense for the "satisfaction" given by, the sinner, and urged the duty of adhering, notwithstanding her faults and sins, to the holy Roman Church, where St. Peter and St. Paul, and many Popes and thousands of martyrs, had shed their blood.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen had felt rather bored just at first at the prospect of teaching the new member her duties, but after a while it came to pass that she missed the girl when she was not with her. And after a while she would find herself observing the way Mary’s hair grew, low on the forehead, the wide setting of her slightly oblique grey eyes, the abrupt sweep back of their heavy lashes; and these things would move Stephen, so that she must touch the girl’s hair for a moment with her fingers. Fate was throwing them continually together, in moments of rest as in moments of danger; they could not have escaped this even had they wished to, and indeed they did not wish to escape it. They were pawns in the ruthless and complicated game of existence, moved hither and thither on the board by an unseen hand, yet moved side by side, so that they grew to expect each other. ‘Mary, are you there?’ A superfluous question—the reply would be always the same. ‘I’m here, Stephen.’ Sometimes Mary would talk of her plans for the future while Stephen listened, smiling as she did so. ‘I’ll go into an office, I want to be free.’ ‘You’re so little, you’d get mislaid in an office.’ ‘I’m five foot five!’ ‘Are you really, Mary? You feel little, somehow.’ ‘That’s because you’re so tall. I do wish I could grow a bit!’ ‘No, don’t wish that, you’re all right as you are—it’s you, Mary.’ Mary would want to be told about Morton, she was never tired of hearing about Morton. She would make Stephen get out the photographs of her father, of her mother whom Mary thought lovely, of Puddle, and above all of Raftery. Then Stephen must tell her of the life in London, and afterwards of the new house in Paris; must talk of her own career and ambitions, though Mary had not read either of her novels—there had never been a library subscription. But at moments Stephen’s face would grow clouded because of the things that she could not tell her; because of the little untruths and evasions that must fill up the gaps in her strange life-history. Looking down into Mary’s clear, grey eyes, she would suddenly flush through her tan, and feel guilty; and that feeling would reach the girl and disturb her, so that she must hold Stephen’s hand for a moment. One day she said suddenly: ‘Are you unhappy?’ ‘Why on earth should I be unhappy?’ smiled Stephen.

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

  “Wow!” He took in the 10,000 square feet of open space punctuated by painted columns, wooden looms, and long worktables. Lenore’s towering woven sculptures hung from the high cathedral ceilings: one a ten-by-ten black cross made entirely of tight little knots, another a circle filled with open airy threads enclosed by a solid, dense weave. The tallest weavings, twenty feet high, were narrow, woven totems that swung slightly to and fro, great sacred beings that seemed to breathe and watch us. As if we were in church, Jean-Jacques whispered, “Where do you sleep?” I pointed to a muslin screen that partially concealed my rollaway bed. Once I’d collapsed on it, I realized I couldn’t get up again. The loft was rising over my head, circling under the bed, and coming up repeatedly from the metal frame at my feet. My hands grabbed the mattress and held on. “The room,” I murmured. “Stay there,” Jean-Jacques said. Where would I go? He rifled around in Lenore’s bathroom and brought back two aspirin with a glass of water. He supported my spine as I swallowed the pills. “These will help in the morning.” I sank back down on the feather pillow, and though I worried that I’d never be able to get up to pee, I did feel better from his care. It made me think of my mother’s tenderness when she used to bring me baby aspirin and a rubber hot-water bottle. Maybe that’s why it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to be unbuttoning the front of my dress as if I were a sleepy child. “Let’s get you some air,” he said. He tried to pull my slip over my head. “No,” I said weakly. He stopped and, sitting on the edge of the cot, leaned down to kiss me. I responded, lost in his musk of exertion, Gitanes, and French cologne. His fingers traced my arms and his lips softly brushed mine. I’d expected, because he was French, that he would put his tongue in my mouth, which I didn’t like when the boys my age tried it. But Jean-Jacques just kept touching his lips to mine tenderly, and I responded with the same light touch. When, after a long, dreamy time his tongue entered my mouth, it wasn’t slobbery or pushy at all. Unwrapping himself from me gently, he stood up, looked at me, bent to place a finger to my lips, then quickly removed his slacks. He was wearing gray satin shorts, sort of like a prizefighter’s, but smaller, and in the dim light I saw a horizontal tent protruding in the front of them. Only then did I realize his intentions. “I’m a virgin,” I said, my voice so faint I wondered if he’d heard. He must have, for after a moment’s pause, he said, “I respect that. Don’t worry.”

• 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 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 The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Messer Torello, the time is approaching for you to be severed from me, and since I can neither go with you nor send another in my place, being prevented from doing so by the manner of your travelling, I am forced to take my leave of you here and now, which is why I have come. But before bidding you farewell, I implore you in the name of our love and our friendship to remember me. 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.

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

  “Wow!” He took in the 10,000 square feet of open space punctuated by painted columns, wooden looms, and long worktables. Lenore’s towering woven sculptures hung from the high cathedral ceilings: one a ten-by-ten black cross made entirely of tight little knots, another a circle filled with open airy threads enclosed by a solid, dense weave. The tallest weavings, twenty feet high, were narrow, woven totems that swung slightly to and fro, great sacred beings that seemed to breathe and watch us. As if we were in church, Jean-Jacques whispered, “Where do you sleep?” I pointed to a muslin screen that partially concealed my rollaway bed. Once I’d collapsed on it, I realized I couldn’t get up again. The loft was rising over my head, circling under the bed, and coming up repeatedly from the metal frame at my feet. My hands grabbed the mattress and held on. “The room,” I murmured. “Stay there,” Jean-Jacques said. Where would I go? He rifled around in Lenore’s bathroom and brought back two aspirin with a glass of water. He supported my spine as I swallowed the pills. “These will help in the morning.” I sank back down on the feather pillow, and though I worried that I’d never be able to get up to pee, I did feel better from his care. It made me think of my mother’s tenderness when she used to bring me baby aspirin and a rubber hot-water bottle. Maybe that’s why it seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to be unbuttoning the front of my dress as if I were a sleepy child. “Let’s get you some air,” he said. He tried to pull my slip over my head. “No,” I said weakly. He stopped and, sitting on the edge of the cot, leaned down to kiss me. I responded, lost in his musk of exertion, Gitanes, and French cologne. His fingers traced my arms and his lips softly brushed mine. I’d expected, because he was French, that he would put his tongue in my mouth, which I didn’t like when the boys my age tried it. But Jean-Jacques just kept touching his lips to mine tenderly, and I responded with the same light touch. When, after a long, dreamy time his tongue entered my mouth, it wasn’t slobbery or pushy at all. Unwrapping himself from me gently, he stood up, looked at me, bent to place a finger to my lips, then quickly removed his slacks. He was wearing gray satin shorts, sort of like a prizefighter’s, but smaller, and in the dim light I saw a horizontal tent protruding in the front of them. Only then did I realize his intentions. “I’m a virgin,” I said, my voice so faint I wondered if he’d heard. He must have, for after a moment’s pause, he said, “I respect that. Don’t worry.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  In the end Mary had had to find collar and lead and tie David up to the desk in the study, where he brooded and sucked his white satin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grateful. But at long last Adèle was arrayed to be wed, and must show herself shyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing with her good, honest face; with her round, bright eyes like those of a blackbird. Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her heart, this girl who had waited so long for her mate—had so patiently and so faithfully waited. 2In the church were a number of friends and relations; together with those who will journey for miles in order to attend a funeral or wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress suit, and Stephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy and warm it smelt, although scented. But his hand was unsteady as he groped for the ring, because he was feeling both proud and humble; because, loving much, he must love even more and conceive of himself as entirely unworthy. And something in that fumbling, unsteady hand, in that sleekly greased hair and those ill-fitting garments, touched Stephen, so that she longed to reassure, to tell him how great was the gift he offered—security, peace, and love with honour. The young priest gravely repeated the prayers—ancient, primitive prayers, yet softened through custom. In her mauve silk dress Pauline wept as she knelt; but Pierre’s handkerchief was spread out on the stool to preserve the knees of his new grey trousers. Next to Stephen were sitting Pauline’s two brothers, one in uniform, the other retired and in mufti, but both wearing medals upon their breasts and thus worthily representing the army. The baker was there with his wife and three daughters, and since the latter were still unmarried, their eyes were more often fixed upon Jean in his shoddy dress suit than upon their Missals. The greengrocer accompanied the lady whose chickens it was Pauline’s habit to prod on their breastbones; while the cobbler who mended Pierre’s boots and shoes, sat ogling the buxom and comely young laundress. The Mass drew to its close. The priest asked that a blessing might be accomplished upon the couple; asked that these two might live to behold, not only their own but their children’s children, even unto the third and fourth generation. Then he spoke of their duty to God and to each other, and finally moistened their bowed young heads with a generous sprinkling of holy water. And so in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires—that bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces—Jean and his Adèle were made one flesh in the eyes of their church, in the eyes of their God, and as one might confront the world without flinching.

• 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 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.