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 Great Authors of the Western Literary Tradition (2004)

  44 Lecture 8: Homer—The Odyssey Odysseus is. While Eumaeus is present, Odysseus must not indicate that he realizes who Telemachus is. Thus, he must suppress all emotion during his fi rst sight of his son in 20 years. Finally, Telemachus sends Eumaeus to the palace; this leaves father and son alone. Athena tells Odysseus to reveal his true identity to Telemachus; she makes him younger and handsome again. Odysseus goes back into the hut and tells Telemachus who he is. At fi rst, Telemachus does not believe that this is his father. Odysseus can offer no proof; Telemachus has to decide to accept him “as is.” Telemachus does so, and the two weep in each other’s arms. A simile comparing their weeping to the cries of birds whose young have been stolen stresses what Odysseus and Telemachus have lost. This scene contrasts directly with Athena’s reaction when Odysseus fi rst arrived back on Ithaca. Odysseus asks Athena why she has not helped him during the 10 years of his absence. Athena responds that she did not want to argue with Poseidon, who hated Odysseus, and that she knew Odysseus would reach Ithaca some day. She seems utterly oblivious to the difference 10 years make in a human life. With Athena’s help, Odysseus and Telemachus kill all the suitors. Odysseus and Penelope are fi nally reunited. Penelope does not immediately greet Odysseus; instead, she sits and looks at him. Telemachus scolds her, but Penelope says that Odysseus and she have private ways of recognizing one another. Penelope tests Odysseus by implying that their marriage bed could be moved. Odysseus reacts with anger and describes the bed in terms that prove his identity. One of the bed’s posts is a still-rooted olive tree; the bed is a symbol of Odysseus’s and Penelope’s marriage, of Athena’s patronage, and of Penelope’s fi delity. Penelope rushes to Odysseus and kisses him. One of the most famous similes in the Odyssey describes their reunion. These reunions refl ect the reality of human life in all its complexity. The Odyssey’s story of a man foregoing immortality to return to human life af fi rms the importance and worthiness of being human. It is only through the sorrows of life that we can truly be human and only in contrast to those that we can know joy. ■ 45 Homer, Odyssey. Austin, Archery at the Dark of the Moon. Clay, Wrath of Athena. Nagler, “Dread Goddess Revisited.” Olson, Blood and Iron. Vernant, “Refusal of Odysseus.” 1. All three epics we have read— Gilgamesh, the Iliad, and the Odyssey— deal with human reconciliation to and acceptance of death. Which epic’s treatment do you fi nd most powerful or most moving? Why? 2. My treatment of the symbol of Odysseus’s and Penelope’s bed seems to imply conscious artistry on the part of “an author.” Is this a valid way to approach the Odyssey, given what we know about its process of composition? Questions to Consider Essential Reading Supplementary Reading

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I received a surprising call one day from the Swedish Ambassador to the United States, who told me that EJI had been selected for the Olof Palme International Human Rights Award. They invited me to Stockholm to receive it. I had studied Sweden’s progressive approach to the rehabilitation of criminal offenders as a graduate student and had long marveled at how focused on recovery their system appeared. Their punishments were humane, and their policymakers took rehabilitation of criminal offenders very seriously, which made me excited about the award and the trip. That they were giving an award named after a beloved prime minister who had been tragically murdered by a deranged man to someone who represented people on death row revealed a lot about their values. The trip to Stockholm was planned for January. They sent a film crew to interview me a month or two before the trip, and the crew also wanted to speak with a few clients. I made arrangements for them to interview Walter. “I can come down for this interview,” I told Walter. “No, you don’t need to do that. I don’t have to travel, so I’m okay to talk to them. Don’t spend time driving all the way down here.” “Do you want to go to Sweden?” I asked, half-joking. “I don’t know exactly where that is, but if you have to fly a long way to get there, no, I’m not too interested. I think I’d like to stay on the ground from now on.” We laughed and he sounded fine. He then became quiet and asked one final question before we hung up. “Maybe you can come and see me when you get back? I’m okay, but we can just hang out.” It was an unusual request from Walter so I eagerly agreed. “Sure, that would be great. We can go fishing,” I teased. I’d never gone fishing in my life, and Walter found that so scandalous that he never stopped questioning me about it. When we traveled together, I never ordered fish to eat, and he was sure I didn’t eat fish because I’d never caught a fish. I tried to follow his logic and made promises, but we had never gotten around to taking a fishing trip. The Swedish film crew was eager to meet the challenge of finding Walter’s trailer in the backwoods of South Alabama. I told them how to get there. I’d always been with Walter when he spoke to the press, but I felt like this was probably safe. “He doesn’t give speeches. He’s usually very direct and succinct,” I told the interviewers. “He’s great, but you should ask him good questions. And it’s probably better if you talk to him outside, too. He prefers to be outdoors.” They nodded sympathetically but seemed confused by my anxiety. I called Walter before leaving for Sweden, and he told me that the interview had gone fine, which was reassuring.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  On my way out, I saw a group of black women and children huddled together in the back of the courtroom. Seven or eight of them were watching me intensely. The hearing had been set in the late afternoon when there were no other proceedings scheduled. I was curious about who these people might be, but honestly, I was too tired to really care. I smiled and nodded a weary greeting to the three women who seemed most focused on me, which they took as a cue to approach me as I was about to walk out the door. The woman who spoke seemed nervous and somewhat fearful. She spoke hesitantly: “I’m Rena Mae’s mother—the victim’s mother. They said they would help us, but they never did. MaryLynn can’t hear right, her hearing ain’t never been right since that bomb, and her sister has nerve problems. I got ’em, too. We were hoping you would help us.” The stunned look on my face prompted her to say more. “I know you’re busy. It’s just that we could use the help.” I realized that she’d cautiously offered her hand to me as she spoke, and I held it in mine. “I’m so very sorry you haven’t received the help you’ve been promised. But I actually represent Herbert Richardson in this case,” I said as gently as I could. “We know that. I know you might not be able to do anything right now, but when this is over, can you help us? They said we’d get some money for medical help and help for my daughter’s hearing.” A young woman had quietly approached the woman as she spoke to me and embraced her. While she was probably in her early twenties, she acted in every other respect like a very small child. She leaned her head into her mother’s side like a much younger child would and looked at me sadly. Another woman approached and spoke somewhat defiantly. “I’m her auntie,” she said. “We don’t believe in killin’ people.” I wasn’t exactly sure what she was trying to say, but I looked at her and replied, “Yes, I don’t believe in killing people, either.” The aunt seemed to relax a little. “All this grievin’ is hard. We can’t cheer for that man you trying to help but don’t want to have to grieve for him, too. There shouldn’t be no more killing behind this.” “I don’t know what I can do to help you all but I do want to help. Please contact me after August 18, and I’ll see what I can find out.” The aunt then asked me if she could have her son write to me because he was in prison and needed a lawyer. She sighed with relief when I gave her my card.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  HILARY. The Lord suffers us at no time to be wanting in peaceableness of temper, and therefore bids us be reconciled to our adversary quickly, while on the road of life, lest we be cast into the season of death before peace be joined between us. JEROME. The word here in our Latin books is ‘consentiens,’ in Greek, εὐνοῶν, which means, ‘kind,’ ‘benevolent.’ AUGUSTINE. (Serm. in Mont. i. 11.) Let us see who this adversary is to whom we are bid to be benevolent, It may then be either the Devil, or man, or the flesh, or God, or His commandments. But I do not see how we can be bid be benevolent, or agreeing with the Devil; for where there is good will, there is friendship, and no one will say that friendship should be made with the Devil, or that it is well to agree with him, having once proclaimed war against him when we renounced him; nor ought we to consent with him, with whom had we never consented, we had never come into such circumstances, JEROME. Some, from that verse of Peter, Your adversary the Devil, &c. (1 Pet. 5:8.) will have the Saviour’s command to be, that we should be merciful to the Devil, not causing him to endure punishment for our sakes. For as he puts in our way the incentives to vice, if we yield to his suggestions, he will be tormented for our sakes. Some follow a more forced interpretation, that in baptism we have each of us made a compact with the Devil by renouncing him. If we observe this compact, then we are agreeing with our adversary, and shall not be cast into prison. AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) I do not see again how it can be understood of man. For how can man be said to deliver us to the Judge, when we know only Christ as the Judge, before whose tribunal all must be sisted. How then can he deliver to the Judge, who has himself to appear before Him? Moreover if any has sinned against any by killing him, he has no opportunity of agreeing with him in the way, that is in this life; and yet that hinders not but that he may be rescued from judgment by repentance. Much less do I see how we can be bid be agreeing with the flesh; for they are sinners rather who agree with it; but they who bring it into subjection, do not agree with it, but compel it to agree with them. JEROME. And how can the body be cast into prison if it agree not with the spirit, seeing soul and body must go together, and that the flesh can do nothing but what the soul shall command?

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  AUGUSTINE. (de Ser. Dom. lib. 1. c. 19.) He says this of garments, houses, farms, beasts of burdens, and generally of all property. But a Christian ought not to possess a slave as he does a horse or money. If a slave is more honourably governed by thee than by him who desires to take him from thee, I know not whether any one would dare to say, that he ought to be despised, as a garment (ut vestimentum.) CHRYSOSTOM. (Hom. 13. ad Pop. Ant.) Now we have a natural law implanted in us, by which we distinguish between what is virtue, and what is vice. Hence it follows, And as ye would that men should do unto you, do ye also to them. He does not say, Whatever ye would not that men should do unto you, do not ye. For since there are two ways which lead to virtue, namely, abstaining from evil, and doing good, he names one, signifying by it the other also. And if indeed He had said, That ye may be men, love the beasts, the command would be a difficult one. But if they are commanded to love men, which is a natural admonition, wherein lies the difficulty, since even the wolves and lions observe it, whom a natural relation compels to love one another. It is manifest then that Christ has ordained nothing surpassing our nature, but what He had long before implanted in our conscience, so that thy own will is the law to thee. And if thou wilt have good done unto thee, thou must do good to others; if thou wilt that another should shew mercy to thee, thou must shew mercy to thy neighbour. 6:32–3632. For if ye love them which love you, what thank have ye? for sinners also love those that love them. 33. And if ye do good to them which do good to you, what thank have ye? for sinners also do even the same. 34. And if ye lend to them of whom ye hope to receive, what thank have ye? for sinners also lend to sinners, to receive as much again. 35. But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil. 36. Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I looked over at my mother, who was still staring at me. I lunged at the boy to give him a very awkward hug. I think I startled him by grabbing him like that, but when he realized that I was trying to hug him, his body relaxed and he hugged me back. My friends looked at me oddly as I spoke. “Uh…also, uh…I love you!” I tried to say it as insincerely as I could get away with and half-smiled as I spoke. I was still hugging the boy, so he couldn’t see the disingenuous look on my youthful face. It made me feel less weird to smile like it was a joke. But then the boy hugged me tighter and whispered in my ear. He spoke flawlessly, without a stutter and without hesitation. “I love you, too.” There was such tenderness and earnestness in his voice, and just like that, I thought I would start crying. — I was in my office, talking to Jimmy Dill on the night of his execution, and I realized I was thinking about something that had happened nearly forty years earlier. I also realized that I was crying. The tears were sliding down my cheeks—runaways that escaped when I wasn’t paying attention. Mr. Dill was still laboring to get his words out, desperately trying to thank me for trying to save his life. As it got closer and closer to the time of his execution, it became harder for him to speak. The guards were making noise behind him, and I could tell he was upset that he couldn’t get his words out right, but I didn’t want to interrupt him. So I sat there and let the tears fall down my face. The harder he tried to speak, the more I wanted to cry. The long pauses gave me too much time to think. He would never have been convicted of capital murder if he had just had the money for a decent lawyer. He would never have been sentenced to death if someone had investigated his past. It all felt tragic. His struggle to form words and his determination to express gratitude reinforced his humanity for me, and it made thinking about his impending execution unbearable. Why couldn’t they see it, too? The Supreme Court had banned the execution of people with intellectual disability, but states like Alabama refused to assess in any honest way whether the condemned are disabled. We’re supposed to sentence people fairly after fully considering their life circumstances, but instead we exploit the inability of the poor to get the legal assistance they need—all so we can kill them with less resistance. On the phone with Mr. Dill, I thought about all of his struggles and all the terrible things he’d gone through and how his disabilities had broken him.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  GREGORY. (in Hom. 37. in Ev.) Or because the cross is so called from torturing. In two ways we bear our Lord’s cross, either when by abstinence we afflict our bodies, or when through compassion of our neighbour we think all his necessities our own. But because some exercise abstinence of the flesh not for God’s sake but for vain-glory, and shew compassion, not spiritually but carnally, it is rightly added, And, cometh after me. For to bear His cross and come after the Lord, is to use abstinence of the flesh, or compassion to our neighbour, from the desire of an eternal gain. 14:28–3328. For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it? 29. Lest haply, after he hath laid the foundation, and is not able to finish it, all that behold it begin to mock him, 30. Saying, This man began to build, and was not able to finish. 31. Or what king, going to make war against another king, sitteth not down first, and consulteth whether he be able with ten thousand to meet him that cometh against him with twenty thousand? 32. Or else, while the other is yet a great way off, he sendeth an ambassage, and desireth conditions of peace. 33. So likewise, whosoever he be of you that for-saketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple. GREGORY. (37. in Ev.) Because He had been giving high and lofty precepts, immediately follows the comparison of building a tower, when it is said, For which of you intending to build a tower does not first count &c. For every thing that we do should be preceded by anxious consideration. If then we desire to build a tower of humility, we ought first to brace ourselves against the ills of this world. BASIL. (in Esai. 2.) Or the tower is a lofty watch-tower fitted for the guardianship of the city and the discovery of the enemy’s approach. In like manner was our understanding given us to preserve the good, to guard against the evil. For the building up whereof the Lord bids us sit down and count our means if we have sufficient to finish. GREGORY OF NYSSA. (lib. de Virg. 17.) For we must be ever pressing onward that we may reach the end of each difficult undertaking by successive increases of the commandments of God, and so to the completion of the divine work. For neither is one stone the whole fabric of the tower, nor does a single command lead to the perfection of the soul. But we must lay the foundation, and according to the Apostle, thereupon must be placed store of gold, silver, and precious stones. (1 Cor. 3:12.) Whence it is added, Lest haply after he hath laid the foundation, &c.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I laughed even more. “Well, I guess I try to be.” She took my hands and rubbed my palms. “Well, it hurts to catch all them stones people throw.” She kept stroking my hands, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt unusually comforted by this woman. It would take me nearly five hours to drive back to Montgomery once I got things settled for Mr. Caston and Mr. Carter. I needed to keep moving, but it felt nice sitting there with the woman now earnestly massaging my palms in a way that was so sweet, even though it seemed strange, too. “Are you trying to make me cry?” I asked. I tried to smile. She put her arm around me and smiled back. “No, you done good today. I was so happy when that judge said that man was going home. It gave me goose bumps. Fifty years in prison, he can’t even see no more. No, I was grateful to God when I heard that. You don’t have anything to cry about. I’m just gonna let you lean on me a bit, because I know a few things about stonecatching.” She squeezed me a bit and then said, “Now, you keep this up and you’re gonna end up like me, singing some sad songs. Ain’t no way to do what we do and not learn how to appreciate a good sorrow song. “I’ve been singing sad songs my whole life. Had to. When you catch stones, even happy songs can make you sad.” She paused and grew silent. I heard her chuckle before she continued. “But you keep singing. Your songs will make you strong. They might even make you happy.” People buzzed down the busy corridors of the courthouse while we sat silently. “Well, you’re very good at what you do,” I finally said. “I feel much better.” She slapped my arm playfully. “Oh, don’t you try to charm me, young man. You felt just fine before you saw me. Them men are going home and you were fine walking around here. I just do what I do, nothing more.” When I finally excused myself, giving her a kiss on the cheek and telling her I needed to sign the prisoners’ release papers, she stopped me. “Oh, wait.” She dug around in her purse until she found a piece of wrapped peppermint candy. “Here, take this.” The gesture made me happy in a way that I can’t fully explain. “Well, thank you.” I smiled and leaned down to give her another kiss on the cheek. She waved at me, smiling. “Go on, go on.” Chapter Fourteen Cruel and Unusual O n the morning of May 4, 1989, Michael Gulley, fifteen, and Nathan McCants, seventeen, convinced thirteen-year-old Joe Sullivan to accompany them when they broke into an empty house in Pensacola, Florida.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  GLOSS. (ord.) Justice and mercy are so united, that the one ought to be mingled with the other; justice without mercy is cruelty; mercy without justice, profusion—hence He goes on to the one from the other. REMIGIUS. The merciful (misericors) is he who has a sad heart; he counts others’ misery his own, and is sad at their grief as at his own. JEROME. Mercy here is not said only of alms, but is in every sin of a brother, if we bear one another’s burdens. AUGUSTINE. (ubi sup.) He pronounces those blessed who succour the wretched, because they are rewarded in being themselves delivered from all misery; as it follows, for they shall obtain mercy. HILARY. So greatly is God pleased with our feelings of benevolence towards all men, that He will bestow His own mercy only on the merciful. CHRYSOSTOM. The reward here seems at first to be only an equal return; but indeed it is much more; for human mercy and divine mercy are not to be put on an equality. GLOSS. (ap. Anselm.) Justly is mercy dealt out to the merciful, that they should receive more than they had deserved; and as he who has more than enough receives more than he who has only enough, so the glory of mercy is greater than of the things hitherto mentioned. 5:88. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. AMBROSE. (in Luc. vi. 22.) The merciful loses the benefit of his mercy, unless he shews it from a pure heart; for if he seeks to have whereof to boast, he loses the fruit of his deeds; the next that follows therefore is, Blessed are the pure in heart. GLOSS. (ap. Anselm.) Purity of heart comes properly in the sixth place, because on the sixth day man was created in the image of God, which image was shronded by sin, but is formed anew in pure hearts by grace. It follows rightly the beforementioned graces, because if they be not there, a clean heart is not created in a man. CHRYSOSTOM. By the pure are here meant those who possess a perfect goodness, conscious to themselves of no evil thoughts, or again those who live in such temperance as is mostly necessary to seeing God according to that of St. Paul, Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see God. For as there are many merciful, yet unchaste, to shew that mercy alone is not enough, he adds this concerning purity. JEROME. The pure is known by purity of heart, for the temple of God cannot be impure.

• From Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (2014)

  I jumped in my car and raced to Atmore. As I drove down the interstate to reach the prison, I noticed the long rays of sunlight retreating even as the heat of the Alabama summer persisted. When I arrived at the prison, it was completely dark. Outside the prison entrance were dozens of men with guns sitting on the backs of trucks that lined the long road to the prison parking area. They were state troopers, local police officers, deputy sheriffs, and what appeared to be part of a National Guard unit. I don’t know why the State felt they needed a militia to guard the entrance to the prison on the night of an execution. It was surreal to see all of these armed men gathered near midnight to make sure a life would be taken without incident. It fascinated me that someone thought there might be some violent, armed resistance to the scheduled execution of an indigent black man. I entered the prison and saw an older white woman—the correctional officer who managed the visitation yard. I had become a regular at death row visiting my new clients at least once a month, so she saw me frequently but had never been particularly friendly. Tonight she approached me with unusual warmth and familiarity when I arrived. I thought she was going to hug me. Men in suits and ties hovered in the lobby, eyeing me suspiciously as I walked into the visitation room at a little past nine. The visitation area at Holman is a large circular room surrounded by glass so that officers can look in from any vantage point. There are a dozen small tables with chairs inside for visiting family who come on visitation days, typically scheduled two or three times a month. During the week of a scheduled execution, only the condemned prisoner facing a scheduled death is permitted to have family visits. When I got inside the visiting room, the family had less than an hour left with Herbert. He was calmer than I had ever seen him. He smiled at me when I walked in and gave me a hug. “Hey y’all, this is my lawyer.” He said it with a pride that was surprising and moving to me. “Hello everyone,” I said. Herbert still had his arm around my shoulder, and I wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t think of anything before Herbert jumped in again. “I told the prison people that I want all my possessions distributed just as I’ve said or my lawyer will sue you till you all have to work for him.” He chuckled, and people laughed.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  PSEUDO-CHRYSOSTOM. There were three reasons why the Angel appeared to Joseph with this message. First, that a just man might not be led into an unjust action, with just intentions. Secondly, for the honour of the mother herself, for had she been put away, she could not have been free from evil suspicion among the unbelievers. Thirdly, that Joseph, understanding the holy conception, might keep himself from her with more care than before He did not appear to Joseph before the conception, that he should not think those things that Zacharias thought, nor suffer what he suffered in falling into the sin of unbelief concerning the conception of his wife in her old age. For it was yet more incredible that a virgin should conceive, than that a woman past the age should conceive. CHRYSOSTOM. Or, The Angel appeared to Joseph when he was in this perplexity, that his wisdom might be apparent to Joseph, and that this might be a proof to him of those things that he spoke. For when lie heard out of the mouth of the Angel those very things that he thought within himself, this was an undoubted proof, that he was a messenger from God, who alone knows the secrets of the heart. Also the account of the Evangelist is beyond suspicion, as he describes Joseph feeling all that a husband was likely to feel. The Virgin also by this was more removed from suspicion, in that her husband had felt jealousy, yet took her home, and kept her with him after her conception. She had not told Joseph the things that the Angel had said to her, because she did not suppose that she should be believed by her husband, especially as he had begun to have suspicions concerning her. But to the Virgin the Angel announced her conception before it took place, lest if he should defer it till afterwards she should be in straits. And it behoved that Mother who was to receive the Maker of all things to be kept free from all trouble. Not only does the Angel vindicate the Virgin from all impurity, but shews that the conception was supernatural, not removing his fears only, but adding matter of joy; saying, That which is born in her is of the Holy Spirit. GLOSS. (ord.) To be born in her, and born of her, are two different things; to be born of her is to come into the world; to be born in her, is the same as to be conceived. Or the word born is used according to the foreknowledge of the Angel which he has of God, to whom the future is as the past.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  However, the existence of the hermaphrodite re veals, in intimidating exaggeration, the truth concerning eve!)' human being-which is why the hermaphrodite is called a freak. The human being does not, in general, enjoy being intimidated by what he/she finds in the mirror. The hermaphrodite, therefore, may make his/her living in side shows or brothels, whereas the merely androgynous are running banks or fi lling stations or maternity wards, churches, armies or countries. The last time you had a drink, whether you were alone or with another, you were having a drink with an androgynous human being; and this is true for the last time you broke bread or, as I have tried to suggest, the last time you made love. There seems to be a vast amount of confusion in the West ern world concerning these matters, but love and sexual ac tivity arc not synonymous: Only by becoming inhuman can the human being pretend that they are. The mare is not obliged to love the stallion, nor is the bull required to love the cow. They are doing what comes naturally. But this by no means sums up the state or the possibilities of the human being in whom the awakening of desire fuels imagination and in whom imagination fuels desire. In other words, it is not possible for the human being to be as simple as a stallion or a marc, because the human imagination is perpetually required to examine, control and redefine reality, 8! 4 FREAKS AND AMERICAN IDEAL OF MANHOOD 81 5 of which we must assume ourselves to be the center and the key. Nature and revelation are perpetually challenging each other; this relentless tension is one of the keys to human his tory and to what is known as the human condition. Now, I can speak only of the Western world and must rely on my own experience, but the simple truth of this universal duality, this perpetual possibility of communion and comple tion, seems so alarming that I have watched it lead to addic tion, despair, death and madness. Nowhere have I seen this panic more vividly than in my country and in my generation. The American idea of sexuality appears to be rooted in the American idea of masculinity. Idea may not be the precise word, for the idea of one's sexuality can only with great vio lence be divorced or distanced fr om the idea of the self. Yet something resembling this rupture has certainly occurred (and is occurring) in American life, and violence has been the American daily bread since we have heard of America.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  The second round was unspectacular at first; the St Albans boy was by no means unattractive, I decided, if of a rather slow-witted, suspicious expression—and he managed to place a couple of good body-shots under Alastair’s guard, shots that were rare in this kind of fight. Then Alastair sent through a vicious jab to the black boy’s face, where we heard not only the muffled smack of the glove but beneath it a strange, squinching little sound, as of the yielding of soft, adolescent bone and gristle. As the boy fell back Alastair followed up, before anyone could stop him, with a second blow of punitive accuracy. Cutting the air between them with his arm, the referee held Alastair off, gestured him away, and as he did so caught up his left glove in his hand. Across its blancoed surface, smeared by the impact of the second blow, was the bright trace of blood. Bill turned to me with a look of relief. ‘He’s done it,’ he said. ‘They’ll have to stop it now. Yes, he’s done it.’ The shouts in the hall were modified with a sympathy easily accorded to the loser, and Alastair, himself looking rather stunned, cheated somehow by his own victory, jogged about in the ring, punching the air, which was all that was left for him, and showing he had hardly noticed, he needed a fight. After brief deliberations between the ref and the officious, serious judges (this was their life, after all) the unanimous decision was announced. Then Alastair relaxed, hugged and patted his opponent with a careless fondness, and did his lively round of thanks and handshakes. I was moved by the propriety of this. Bill of course went off with his champion, and after I’d watched the opening of the next fight, which didn’t promise to go so well for Limehouse, I wondered what the hell I was doing and sloped off too through the audience and out by the swinging blue doors. Through another door on the right I heard the familiar fizz of showers and felt the familiar need to see what was going on in them. There was such an innocence to the place that they saw nothing suspicious in my presence there—nothing either in Bill’s, who, freed from adult prerogatives, absorbed himself with earnest complicity in this little manly world. The mood here also was one of pure sportsmanship, of candid bustle, like a chorus dressing room. Both teams shared the facilities, and Alastair and his opponent sat side by side on a bench, Alastair undoing, with patient, soldierly tenderness, the bandages that bound the black boy’s hands, and then offering his own hands to be undone, his wrists lying intimately on the other’s hairless thigh. The black boy wore a plaster woefully along his already puffing cheekbone.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  Joey felt a pang of incredulous affection. Could she actually be less competent than the other bums in the typing pool? Everyone in it was a bad worker, except Evelyn. Evelyn was the only other girl there. She was an energetic, square-jawed woman who would type eighty words a minute. She wore tight jeans and cowboy shirts and thick black eyeliner that gathered in blobs in the corners of her eyes. Her streaked blond hair hung in her face and made her look masked and brutal. She had a collection of books about various mass murderers on her desk, and she could tell you all their personal histories. The other three typists were fat, morose homosexuals who sat at their desks and ate from bags of cookies and complained. They had worked in the bookstore for years and they all talked desperately of “getting out.” Ariel had been around the longest. He was six feet three inches tall and had round, demure shoulders, big hips and square fleshy breasts that embarrassed him. He had a small head, a long, bumpy nose and large brown eyes that were by turns sweetly candid or forlorn, but otherwise had a disturbing blank quality. He had enjoyed a brief notoriety in punk rock circles for his electric piano music. He talked about his past success in a meek, wistful voice, and showed people old pictures of himself dressed in black, wearing black wing-tipped sunglasses. He was terribly sensitive, and Tommy took advantage of his sensitivity to make fun of him. “Ariel is the spirit of the typing pool,” Tommy would chatter as he ran from clerk to clerk with stacks of papers. “Whenever any of you are craving inspiration, just gaze on Ariel.” “Please, Tom, I’m on the verge of tears,” Ariel would answer funereally. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Tommy would scream. — When Joey first noticed Daisy, he wondered why this pretty young woman had chosen to work in a filthy, broken-down store amid unhappy homosexuals. As time went on, it seemed less and less inappropriate. She was comfortable in the typing pool. She was happy to listen to the boys talk about their adventures in leather bars, where men got blow jobs in open wooden booths or pissed on other men. She told jokes about Helen Keller and sex. She talked about her boyfriends and her painting. She was always crouching at Evelyn’s desk, whispering and laughing about something, or looking at Evelyn’s back issues of True Detective magazine. She wore T-shirts with pictures of cartoon characters on them, and bright-colored pants. Her brown hair was bobbed in a soft curve that ended on either side of her high cheekbones. When she walked, her shoulders and long neck were erect in a busy, almost ducklike way, but her hips and waist were fluid and gently mobile.

• From Bad Behavior (1988)

  If he tried to be strict, she would tease and flatter him. The few times he lost his temper and punished her, she punished him with silence. When he dragged her up the stairs and spanked her, she ran away from home. She called a week later and spoke to Virginia, but she hung up when Jarold got on the phone. It was the first time that Virginia had seen Jarold cry. “Magdalen has real charm,” said Jarold to Lily. “She can charm the birds off the trees. You don’t have any of that. You don’t have any personality at all.” Virginia was surprised at the intensity of Jarold’s dislike for Lily. And, although Lily never expressed it openly, Virginia felt that Lily hated him too. Lily never argued with him; she barely acknowledged his presence. When she had to speak to him, her voice was clipped and subtly condescending, as though he were beneath defiance. One evening, Lily and Virginia were sitting together in lawn chairs in the back yard when Charles and Daniel approached them with a big piece of wood. The boys had shot four squirrels, skinned them and nailed the skins to it. They displayed the skins proudly, and Virginia praised them. Lily said nothing until they left. Then she said that she thought it was sick. “I know, it seems awful,” said Virginia. “But they’re little boys and it means something to them. They do it to impress their father.” Virginia was unnerved by the sudden look of contempt on Lily’s face. “I know,” she said. — Lily’s stay gradually became more and more unpleasant and eventually became a discomfiting memory that hung over the house for quite a while. But there were bright spots that stood out of the unpleasantness so vividly that they seemed to come from somewhere else altogether. Virginia would spend afternoons with Lily after school. They’d change into jeans and T-shirts and drive into the mountains where they’d gone the first day. Sometimes they’d stop at a Dairy Queen and buy pink-spotted cups of ice cream in melting puddles of syrup. They’d sit on the car hood, slowly swinging their legs and eating the ice cream with pink plastic spoons, talking about the bossy girl in Lily’s home ec class, or the boy she thought was “different.” Virginia spoke about her high school days, when she was beautiful and popular and all the girls tried to be friends with her. She’d give Lily social advice about how to choose her friends. When they’d get to the mountains, they’d leave the car and walk. They’d become quiet and concentrate on the walk. They’d find paths, then break branches from trees and use them to clear their way.

• From The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce: A 25-Year Landmark Study (2000)

  Paula’s wonderful care of her pet rabbit reflects this loss. In mothering the rabbit, she rediscovers and resurrects the loving mother she has lost. By identifying with the mother she loves, she rehearses the memory, keeping it fresh and alive. She is in her imagination the well-cared-for rabbit, and she is also the loving available mother whom she loved and lost when she was four years old. Of course, there are many millions of married mothers of young children who work full-time, but they have a husband to help them with the job of parenting when both return home in the evening. This joint support is critical for those who want or need to work while raising young children. Two parents can spell each other in daily routines and when children fall sick. Recent studies show that compared with fathers a decade ago, fathers in today’s two-income families spend more time with their young children. There really are four hands rather than two. Intact families with two people working also have higher incomes than single-parent families and can spend more on child care and other kinds of help. I recall one divorced mother who, having done one too many loads of laundry at 3 A.M., decided to hell with sleep, she would just stay up all night every night to get everything done. She pulled it off for three days and then collapsed. The parent who shares responsibility with the other parent works very hard but is not on permanent, continual overload with the full responsibility for making every decision alone, with taking care of every bill, with worrying about every needed repair. She can take time out even after a busy tiring day to sit on the floor and play with her toddler. She can enjoy the child, replenish her own emotional reserves, and allow herself a few happy hours to herself even once or twice a week. In our comparison group of intact families, most of the women reduced their work hours when their first child was very young. If they had more children, more than half dropped out of the workforce for a few years and went back when the youngest entered grade school. Unlike the single parent striving alone, these were choices they could afford to make. THIRTEENCourt-Ordered Visiting, the Child’s ViewShortly after her eighth birthday, Paula’s father reentered her life. Like many men after divorce, he eventually used the crisis to pull his life together and was now feeling chipper about himself and recovered from his financial debacle and humiliating betrayal by a trusted friend. Now he genuinely wanted to spend time with his children, to get to know them again, to be given a second chance.

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  Presently, it discovers it has you, and since it has already de cided it wants to live, it gives you a toothless smile when you come near it, gurgles or giggles when you pick it up, holds you tight by the thumb or the eyeball or the hair, and, having already opted against solitude, howls when you put it down. You begin the extraordinary journey of beginning to know and to control this creature. You know the sound-the mean ing-of one cry from another; without knowing that you know it. You know when it's hungry-t hat's one sound. You know when it's wet-that's another sound. You know when it's angry. You know when it's bored. You know when it's frightened. You know when it's suffering. You come or you go or you sit still according to the sound the baby makes. And you watch over it where I was born, even in your sleep, be cause rats love the odor of newborn babies and are much, much bigger. 356 NO NAM E IN THE STR EE T By the time it has managed to crawl under every bed, nearly sutfocate itself in every drawer, nearly strangle itself with string, somehow, God knows how, trapped itself behind the radiator, been pulled back, by one leg, from its suicidal in vestigation of the staircase, and nearly poisoned itself with everything-it s hand being quicker than your eye-it can possibly get into its mouth, you have either grown to love it or you have lef t home. I, James, in August. George, in January. Barbara, in August. Wilmer, in October, David, in December. Gloria, Ruth, Elizabeth, and (when we thought it was over!) Paula Maria, named by me, born on the day our father died, all in the summertime. The youngest son of the New Orleans branch of the fam ily-f amily, here, is used loosely and has to be; we knew al most nothing about this branch, which knew nothing about us; Daddy, the great good friend of the Great God Almighty, had simply fled the South, leaving a branch behind. As I have said, he was the son of a slave, and his youngest daughter, by his first marriage, is my mother's age and his youngest son is nine years older than I. This boy, who did not get along with his father, was my elder brother, as far as I then knew, and he sometimes took me with him here and there.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  I squared my shoulders and tried to appear worthy. ‘He’s looking good.’ Nigel smiled at me slyly. ‘He was down here earlier on, splashing about, diving and that. Showing off. I wouldn’t mind a bit of that, I thought. Gave me a really fresh look too.’ ‘You little slut,’ I said, and flicked at him with my towel as I darted off. But I was reassured by how he had got it wrong, for though Phil was taken with his own body he almost stubbornly never tarted. His love was all bottled up and kept for me. I thought of him with such tenderness in the shower and the changing-room that I was hardly aware of the bustle around me. I had not been good enough to him. I had often been sarcastic, and used him as a kind of beautiful pneumatic toy. He was the only true, pure, simple thing I could see in my life at the moment, and I wished I was with him, and wanted to thank him, and say I was sorry. I decided I would go up to the Queensberry and hope to catch him before he went out. Then I would go to James, who was true and pure too of course in his way, and worrying about his looming court appearance. I went through the deeply familiar streets and squares, through the equally intimate cooling and soft-fingered evening. Then there were the high plane trees and the bold splashing fountains—my mood escaping all the while from its bleak morning pacings and ambling into a more romantic melancholy. I became somehow picturesque to myself, prone as ever to the aesthetic solution. I was about to go round to the side of the hotel, where I was well enough known now, but I was suddenly tired of my laundryman’s-eye view of life, and swung up the main shrub-flanked steps and into the hall. I had become so used to the back stairs that I was quite surprised to see svelte couples coming down for pre-dinner drinks, others checking in, their anxieties melting as uniformed boys magicked their monogrammed luggage away. One or two people, waiting to meet friends, half-concentrated on the lit showcases where scarves, watches, perfumes and china figurines were displayed, or revolved the squeaking postcard racks, soothed by the customary London views. I loitered too for a minute, charmed—or at least amazed—by all this bought pleasantness.

• From The Swimming-Pool Library (1988)

  He was terribly vulnerable, I now saw. A few days before, when I ran into him and he invited me to tea, he was feebly trying to open the wrong locker (it was the old confusion between 16 and 91). He clearly had no recollection of where he had left his clothes, and was wholly dependent on the little disc attached to his key. As he fumbled and muttered to himself the tenant of 16 came up, a trim little student I’d seen around. ‘No dear, you’re 91 and I’m 16,’ he said impatiently, and found himself equipped with a joke—‘give or take a year or two.’ Charles didn’t understand at first, and as 16 propelled him away I felt an unusual upsurge of kindness for him as against the sexy complicity with the boy that I would normally have encouraged. I came to Charles’s rescue, suspecting he would allow me to be gently protective. When he didn’t, at first, even recognise me, I knew that it was necessary. ‘I suppose the place must have changed a lot?’ I blandly hazarded. But he wasn’t with me; he even screwed up his eyes as he stared through me, perhaps reliving some hurtful episode. I let a few moments pass, looked over the spines of black-bound art folios— Donatello, Sandro Botticelli, Giovanni Bellini —which lay on the table beside me. My grandfather had them too, in the library at Marden, and I recalled childhood afternoons looking at their fine-toned sepia plates; they must have been a special series in the Thirties. ‘You’re not cold, are you, William?’ Charles suddenly asked. I assured him I was fine, though the sunless room was surprisingly cool after the glare of the streets. ‘We don’t get any sun here—only in the attic. Those houses block it out. We’re very cut off here, of course.’ It was an odd remark to make of a house almost in the precincts of St Paul’s Cathedral, but as I looked out of the window I knew what he meant. The ear picked up a constant faint rumble of traffic, but the little clock sounded far louder; no one passed by outside and it was hard to imagine a breeze ruffling the papers strewn about in the rich stuffy air of the room where we sat. ‘It’s a shady little street,’ he added. ‘In the old days it was known as Gropecunt Lane, where the lightermen and what-have-you used to come up for the whores. There’s a reference to it in Pepys—I can’t find it now.’ ‘It’s a beautiful house.’ ‘Do you like it? It’s a very special house, more special than you might think. I bought it at the end of the war—it was all knocked to hell round here of course by the bloomin’ Blitz.

• From The Best American Erotica 2001 (2001)

  body around as they each pulled the pareo from the other’s body, and each fucked their cocks into the other’s mouth. Pali slid on top and, arching from the root, sent the tip of his prick beyond Gregg’s throat muscle, forcing him to control his breath. Gregg hummed into the head of Pali’s dick. They turned and turned back on the bed, again and again, without releasing each other. The Vikings game played out down stairs, and the Pastor tossed in his chair, thinking of yet an other guest one-on-one with Gregg. Gregg pushed Pali back on the bed, his knees on either side of Pali’s waist. He pressed his asshole onto Pali’s standing dick and took it slowly in. Gregg’s cock branched hard into Pali’s sliding fist. Each inner ring of his ass opened until Pali’s cock was buried deep inside. Pali’s stroking blurred. Gregg’s cum shot onto the wall beside the bed and ran down Pali’s wrist. Pali took Gregg’s legs in his arms and brought Gregg belly down onto the bed, arching his hips into Gregg’s clutching cheeks. Pali’s face was empty like a runner’s. Gregg’s groans carried into the living room. Pali came inside Gregg’s smooth, shaking ass. Then he kissed Gregg’s thick shoulders, pressed his face against Gregg’s, and closed his eyes. © “Our wives will be coming back from their shopping trip to Chicago tonight. It’s only been a weekend, but I miss the grandchildren!” said the Pastor at breakfast the next morning. Pali watched Gregg, who was working the Sunday crossword puzzle. Before you could say, Kafefe! Pali was back on the free way headed toward the towers of the Twin Cities. This time the Pastor himself drove him. Gregg stayed home, trying to repair a bicycle for one of his young daughters.