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 86 of 145 · 20 per page

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

  When his son Henry, in 1553, went to Strassburg, Wittenberg, and Vienna to prosecute his theological studies, be wrote down for him wise rules of conduct, of which the following are the most important: 1) Fear God at all times, and remember that the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. 2) Humble yourself before God, and pray to him alone through Christ, our only Mediator and Advocate. 3) Believe firmly that God has done all for our salvation through his Son. 4) Pray above all things for strong faith active in love. 5) Pray that God may protect your good name and keep thee from sin, sickness, and bad company. 6) Pray for the fatherland, for your dear parents, benefactors, friends, and all men, for the spread of the Word of God; conclude always with the Lord’s Prayer, and use also the beautiful hymn, Te Deum laudamus [which he ascribes to Ambrose and Augustin]. 7) Be reticent, be always more willing to hear than to speak, and do not meddle with things which you do not understand. 8) Study diligently Hebrew and Greek as well as Latin, history, philosophy, and the sciences, but especially the New Testament, and read daily three chapters in the Bible, beginning with Genesis. 9) Keep your body clean and unspotted, be neat in your dress, and avoid above all things intemperance in eating and drinking. 10) Let your conversation be decent, cheerful, moderate, and free from all uncharitableness.317 He recommended him to Melanchthon, and followed his studies with letters full of fatherly care and affection.318 He kept his parents with him till their death, the widow of Zwingli (d. 1538), and two of her children, whom he educated with his own. Notwithstanding his scanty income, he declined all presents, or sent them to the hospitals. The whole people revered the venerable minister of noble features and white patriarchal beard.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “—–leaving so soon!” said Miss Wales. “And we never got a chance to talk!” “Vivaldo,” said Cass, “I’ll call you this week. Ida, I can’t call you, will you call me? Let’s get together.” “I’m waiting for a script from you, you bum,” said Ellis, “just as soon as you climb down out of that makeshift ivory tower. Nice meeting you, Miss Scott.” “He means it,” said Mrs. Ellis. “He really means it.” “I was happy to meet you both,” said Ingram, “very happy. Good luck with your novel.” Richard walked them to the door. “Are we still friends?” “Are you kidding? Of course, we’re still friends.” But he wondered if they were. The door closed behind them and they stood in the corridor, staring at each other. “Shall we go home?” he asked. She watched him, her eyes very large and dark. “You got anything to eat down there?” “No. But the stores are still open. We can get something.” She took his arm and they walked to the elevator. He rang the bell. He stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes. “Good,” she said. “We’ll get something and I’ll cook you a decent supper.” “I’m not very hungry,” he said. They heard the elevator door slam beneath them and the elevator began to rise. The smell of the chicken she had fried the night before still hung in the room, and the dishes were still in the sink. The wishbone lay drying on the table, surrounded by the sticky glasses out of which they had drunk beer, and by their sticky coffee cups. Her clothes were thrown over a chair, his were mainly on the floor. He had awakened, she was asleep. She slept on her side, her dark head turned away from him, making no sound. He leaned up a little and watched her face. Her face would now be, forever, more mysterious and impenetrable than the face of any stranger. Strangers’ faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one separate.” 7 The Pharisees said to Him, “Why then did Moses command us to GIVE HER A CERTIFICATE OF DIVORCE AND SEND HER AWAY ?” [Deut 24:1–4 ] 8 He said to them, “Because your hearts were hard and stubborn Moses permitted you to divorce your wives; but from the beginning it has not been this way. 9 “I say to you, whoever divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another woman commits adultery a .” 10 The disciples said to Jesus, “If the relationship of a man with his wife is like this, it is better not to marry.” 11 But He said to them, “Not all men can accept this statement, but only those to whom [the capacity to receive] it has been given. 12 “For there are eunuchs who have been born that way from their mother’s womb [making them incapable of consummating a marriage]; and there are eunuchs who have been made eunuchs by men [for royal service]; and there are eunuchs who have b made themselves so for the sake of the kingdom of heaven. He who is able to accept this, let him accept it.” Jesus Blesses Little Children 13 Then children were brought to Jesus so that He might place His hands on them [for a blessing] and pray; but the disciples reprimanded them. 14 But He said, “Leave the children alone, and do not forbid them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” 15 After placing His hands on them [for a blessing], He went on from there. The Rich Young Ruler 16 And someone came to Him and said, “Teacher, what [essentially] good thing shall I do to obtain eternal life [that is, eternal salvation in the Messiah’s kingdom]?” [Lev 18:5 ; Mark 10:17–30 ; Luke 18:18–30 ] 17 Jesus answered, “Why are you asking Me about what is [essentially] good? There is only One who is [essentially] good; but if you wish to enter into eternal life, keep the commandments.” [Luke 10:28 ] 18 He said to Jesus, “Which commandments?” And Jesus answered, “Y OU SHALL NOT COMMIT MURDER ; Y OU SHALL NOT COMMIT ADULTERY ; Y OU SHALL NOT STEAL ; Y OU SHALL NOT GIVE FALSE TESTIMONY ; [Ex 20:12–16 ; Deut 5:16–20 ] 19 H ONOR YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER ; and LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF ” [that is, unselfishly seek the best or higher good for others].

• From Another Country (1962)

  Henry was younger, or seemed younger, than his wife. He was a trial to Grace, and probably to them all, because he drank too much. He was the handyman and one of his duties was the care of the furnace. Eric still remembered the look and the smell of the glaring furnace room, the red shadows from the furnace playing along the walls, and the sticky-sweet smell of Henry’s breath. They had spent many hours together there, Eric on a box at Henry’s knee, Henry with his hand on Eric’s neck or shoulder. His voice fell over Eric like waves of safety. He was full of stories. He told the story of how he had met Grace, and how he had seduced her, and how (as he supposed) he had persuaded her to marry him; told stories of preachers and gamblers in his part of town—they seemed, in his part of town, to have much in common, and, often, to be the same people—how he had outwitted this one and that one, and how, once, he had managed to escape being put on the chain gang. (And he had explained to Eric what a chain gang was.) Once, Eric had walked into the furnace room where Henry sat alone; when he spoke, Henry did not answer; and when he approached him, putting his hand on Henry’s knee, the man’s tears scalded the back of his hand. Eric no longer remembered the cause of Henry’s tears, but he would never forget the wonder with which he then touched Henry’s face, or what the shaking of Henry’s body had caused him to feel. He had thrown himself into Henry’s arms, almost sobbing himself, and yet somehow wise enough to hold his own tears back. He was filled with an unutterably painful rage against whatever it was that had hurt Henry. It was the first time he had felt a man’s arms around him, the first time he had felt the chest and belly of a man; he had been ten or eleven years old. He had been terribly frightened, obscurely and profoundly frightened, but he had not, as the years were to prove, been frightened enough. He knew that what he felt was somehow wrong, and must be kept a secret; but he thought that it was wrong because Henry was a grown man, and colored, and he was a little boy, and white.

• From Girls & Sex (2016)

  At the end of each session, Denison pulled several handfuls of condoms from a silver tackle box she carried everywhere with her, sort of like Mary Poppins’s carpet bag: it also held the vulva puppet, a model of a penis (nicknamed Richard) for demonstrating proper condom use, individual capsules of personal lubricant, and other tools of her trade. “Keep talking, keep asking questions,” she would say. “Knowledge is power.” True, I saw a group of boys make a show of scooping up the condoms and tossing them in the air. “Children, be free!” one of them said, laughing. But more often students, both boys and girls, approached respectfully. Some took the condoms casually; others sidled up, pretended to pick up an errant index card or pen, and then subtly slipped one or two condoms into their pockets. A few kids always hung around as the room emptied, hoping for a private moment with Denison. One girl wanted clarification on the definition of statutory rape. Another wanted to know about Denison’s career path so she could emulate it. One afternoon, the last student to approach her was a boy with dark curly hair and wide brown eyes. He ground the toe of his sneaker into the floor as he confided that his girlfriend was pushing to have intercourse, but he wasn’t ready. “You’d be surprised at how often boys tell me that,” Denison told him. “It must be hard and feel lonely.” The boy nodded, his eyes welling up. Denison talked to him for a while, in a voice too low for me to hear. Then she gave him her phone number and e-mail address and told him to feel free to contact her. He nodded and walked away, a little less alone. THIS BOOK IS about girls, about the ongoing obstacles to their full, healthy sexual expression and the costs of that to their well-being. But I want to leave Denison there, with a boy, because making change has to include them as well. It’s no longer enough simply to caution young men against “getting a girl pregnant,” or, more likely in the current climate, to warn about the shifting definition of rape. Parents need to discuss the spectrum of pressure, coercion, and consent with their sons, the forces urging them to see girls’ limits as a challenge to overcome. Boys need to understand how they, too, are harmed by sexualized media and porn. They need to see models of masculine sexuality that are not grounded in aggression against women, in denigration or conquest. They need to know about shared pleasure, mutuality, reciprocity—to transform from baseball players to pizza eaters. That may not be as hard to do as one might think.

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  There is no question here of summarizing this institutional process even briefly. I only wish to indicate some of the modifications that Christianity brought to the earlier thematic of the pastorate: those allowing the importance attributed to the confessions of the flesh to be understood. That is, those that tend to make the pastorate a government of men through the manifestation of their individual truth. They have two main aspects which the Latin patrology brings into clear focus. — 1. The first concerns the nature and form of the ties that attach the shepherd to the entire flock and to each one of the sheep. a. In the ancient thematic of the pastorate, the shepherd owes his flock zeal, his attention, his vigilance and vigils, his devotion; a relation of charity, necessary to the flock’s survival. In Christianity, it’s the very life of the shepherd that must be capable of being offered to the flock for the flock: he defends against the wolves, he gives his existence for it; and it is by his sacrifice that the sheep gain access to eternal life.65 On the Christlike model, the death of the shepherd, his death in this world at least, is the necessary condition of the salvation of the flock. A sacrificial relation where the shepherd is exchanged against each and all, gaining his own merit in this way by the act that saves the others.66 b. Before Christianity, the reciprocity between the shepherd and the flock obeyed a principle of overall causality: fatness of the flock, wealth of the shepherd; poor condition of the livestock, poverty of their master. In the Christian form of the pastorate, the reciprocity is not about causality but identification; and it is established, moreover, point by point; each suffering by each sheep is a pain felt by the shepherd; its progress is his own improvement. The shepherd’s compassion is an immediate identity; he feels “deep in his heart, the infirmity of the weak souls”; he considers the “advancement of his brethren as his own” and takes pleasure therein.67 c. The Christian shepherd doesn’t just have to account for each animal, but for each fault, each fall, each step taken. On the fateful day, he will be rebuked for the sins of the sheep, if he was[n’t]*2 able to prevent those sins by his teaching, his vigilance, his strictness or his charity. Even those who denied, even the lapsi will be able to argue that they were not supported, encouraged, supplied with teaching and saving counsel.68

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  • Principle of an emotional tie that constitutes both the goal and the necessary condition of the good marriage. If a man has to choose the woman he will marry so carefully (a large part of the third Homily on marriage is devoted to defining the principles of this choice), it’s because one has to be able to love her: by taking the right one, “we will benefit by never needing to repudiate her, but also by loving her with a deep tenderness.”38 In a passage of the short treatise Against Remarriage (which is thought to date from the same period as the one on virginity), he proposes a very down-to-earth interpretation of marriage, making it one of the points in its favor: a man loves what he has authority over, and especially what he is the first and sole master of, as with clothes and belongings. The same must certainly be true in the case of a wife (“who is more prized by a husband than anything else”). When one is sure he is the first and exclusive possessor, he receives her with “eagerness,” “affection,” and “good will.”39 It’s obviously another tone that one finds in the later homilies—and particularly in that imagined speech addressed to a young wife by an ideal Christian husband. There the affection is not framed in a relation of possession and mastery, but in a certain form of soul-to-soul relation, which has several aspects: recognition of the wife’s qualities of soul; desire to win her affection; wanting to have the same way of thinking as her—and the definitive union can be established only in the life to come. And since that is the final objective of the marriage, life here below counts for little and the husband is ready to sacrifice his own life to that end: “I gave up everything, and went on till I fell in with the excellence of thy soul, which I value above all gold […] I courted thee, and I love thee, and prefer thee to my own soul. For the present life is nothing. And I pray, and beseech, and do all I can, that we may be counted worthy so to live this present life, as that we may be able also there in the world to come to be united to one another in perfect security […] I value thy affection above all things, and nothing is so bitter or so painful to me, as ever to be at variance with thee. Yes, though it should be my lot to lose my all, and to become poorer than Irus, and undergo the most extreme hazards, and suffer any pain whatsoever, all will be tolerable and endurable, so long as thy feelings are true towards me.”40 And the text ends, in a very characteristic way, with a formula that is exactly opposite to the one with which an analogous speech in Xenophon opened.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  In some cases you may have no idea. You may not know them well enough to have a clear sense of any genetic predispositions. But based on what you do know about their biological family history (or maybe their tendency toward impulsive behaviors that aren’t anger related), answer the following questions about them: To what degree do you think their anger was inherited?Does the knowledge that their anger is likely, in part, the product of their genetic history provide any empathy?* The DSM, published by the American Psychiatric Association, is a 1,000-plus-page book describing all of the diagnosable mental health conditions. It lists everything from Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, with Psychotic Features to Anorexia Nervosa, Binge Eating/Purging Type to Non-Rapid Eye Movement Sleep Arousal Disorder, Sleepwalking Type, with Sleep Related Eating. * What many of them haven’t realized yet is that violence isn’t the only way to hurt people. There are all sorts of ways to take advantage of people that don’t include aggression. A politician, CEO, or police officer who uses their position of power as a means of taking advantage of people may very well have antisocial personality disorder. † There’s a long and complex explanation for why anger isn’t thoroughly listed as its own disorder in the DSM that includes the document’s roots in psychodynamic thinking, perceptions of anger as controllable compared with other emotions, and a fear of its use as an insanity defense. Regardless of the reasons, though, one of the consequences is angry people not getting care when they need it. ‡ Not his real name. * I fully realize that this is a common pattern in abusive relationships, by the way, and this is not an attempt to minimize or justify the pain and suffering he had undoubtedly caused his girlfriend. I’m just painting a full picture for you. * This is a refrain I have heard from just about everyone I talked to who lived with an outwardly angry person. They talked about how exhausting it was, and many used the expression, “walking on eggshells.” * See how “hip and cool” I sound. * This is likely one of the consequences of anger not being adequately found in the DSM-5-TR. As a general rule, things that are in the DSM receive far more attention and funding for research than things not in the DSM. * Never doubt the very real provoking nature of our memories. We can make ourselves mad all over again by just remembering a time we were provoked. So when I think back on some of those hostile social-media comments I have received, my heart rate actually increases, my muscles actually tense up, and I actually start to sweat. * I have a permanent crease in between my eyes which I’m convinced has less to do with anger and more to do with stress and focus.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  health consequences. 26 Of course, none of this matters unless it informs the way we think about the angry people in our lives so that we may deal more effectively with them. We can’t intervene in another person’s biology, so why is this important? For me, it goes back to something I brought up in the introduction – that we should try to approach the angry people in our lives from a place of compassion and understanding. To really understand the angry people we deal with, we need an understanding of where that anger comes from. The “E” in “G × E” As I was looking at the current research on genetics and testosterone, I found a recent study that gave me pause. It was a 2018 paper 27 that looked at both genetic factors and childhood environmental factors in the prediction of testosterone. The authors of the study, Dr. Kesson Magid and colleagues from Durham University, argue that testosterone levels were better predicted by childhood experiences than by genetics. It’s a smaller study, only 359 participants compared to the 400,000-person study I describe above, so I am cautious about drawing too many conclusions from it. At the same time, though, it gets at the E part of the G × E interaction we’ve been talking about. All of these biological differences (such as genes, brain structures, hormones) we’ve been talking about as predictors of anger, they are absolutely rooted in our genes. At the same time, though, our experiences – particularly those in childhood – matter. Nathan wasn’t just the product of his dad’s genes. He was the product of his dad’s parenting. His anger also came from his dad’s behavior, his dad’s worldview, and from dynamics of their relationship. In the next chapter, we’ll talk more specifically about those developmental factors and how they influence anger. ACTIVITY: WHAT DOES BIOLOGY HAVE TO DO WITH IT? Regarding any angry people in your life, take some time to think about what might be the

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Gisippus looked and seeing that it was Titus, perceived full well that he did this to save him, as grateful for the service aforetime received from him; wherefore, weeping for pity, 'Varro,' quoth he, 'indeed it was I slew him and Titus his solicitude for my safety is now too late.' Titus on the other hand, said, 'Prætor, do as thou seest, this man is a stranger and was found without arms beside the murdered man, and thou mayst see that his wretchedness giveth him occasion to wish to die; wherefore do thou release him and punish me, who have deserved it.' Varro marvelled at the insistence of these two and beginning now to presume that neither of them might be guilty, was casting about for a means of acquitting them, when, behold, up came a youth called Publius Ambustus, a man of notorious ill life and known to all the Romans for an arrant rogue, who had actually done the murder and knowing neither of the twain to be guilty of that whereof each accused himself, such was the pity that overcame his heart for the innocence of the two friends that, moved by supreme compassion, he came before Varro and said, 'Prætor, my fates impel me to solve the grievous contention of these twain and I know not what God within me spurreth and importuneth me to discover to thee my sin. Know, then, that neither of these men is guilty of that whereof each accuseth himself. I am verily he who slew yonder man this morning towards daybreak and I saw this poor wretch asleep there, what while I was in act to divide the booty gotten with him whom I slew. There is no need for me to excuse Titus; his renown is everywhere manifest and every one knoweth him to be no man of such a condition. Release him, therefore, and take of me that forfeit which the laws impose on me.'

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  Like our emotions, our worldviews are built through interactions with our siblings, our friends, teachers, the celebrities or leaders we pay attention to, and others. ACTIVITY: THE THOUGHTS OF OTHERS Returning once more to that angry person in your life, think again about a time they were really angry, but play close attention to the thoughts they articulated. What did they say that might illustrate what they were thinking? Thinking about the categories of thought described above, what types of thoughts was this person demonstrating?How might those thoughts be reflective of a broader worldview that informs how they see the world?To the degree that you know, what aspects of their development might have influenced or led this worldview?“Give Me Time” I thought Ephraim’s answer to my question about how people can best interact with him was important and interesting. He said, “To give me time.” He’s not asking people to bend over backwards for him or to disregard their own feelings in favor of his. He just wants people to give him space and time to work through his own thoughts and feelings before he responds. It took him a little longer to work through change and he wanted people to recognize that and give him that opportunity. Now, Ephraim struck me as a much more emotionally sensitive and insightful person than most people we might interact with. He also struck me as considerate in ways we don’t expect of angry people. He was concerned about the impact his anger was having on others, especially his fiancée. With most angry people in our lives, we might not get that sort of thoughtfulness and dealing effectively with them may require more of us. In Part Two , I tackle ten strategies for effectively dealing with angry people. * I know some people are just screaming at the book right now because of how wrong they think I am about this scenario. If you’re one of those people, just hang on. We’re going to get through this. † I should note by the way that as soon as some people came out to defend the offender in this scenario, others came to defend the protagonist. Online arguments broke out over which not-real person in my not-real scenario was at fault.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  But Greg was busy making connections and discerning how he could help me heal from these wounds. He compassionately responded, “Could that be why you don’t like it when I wake you up in the middle of the night to hug and kiss you?” Although I had never made that connection before, I had to confess that I didn’t like to be startled with physical affection, especially in the middle of the night. This was a great relief to Greg, as he had always taken my lack of response as disinterest in him. Greg also asked, “Is this why you don’t kiss me near as often since I’ve grown a mustache?” Once again, I felt as if he hit the nail on the head. The very next morning, Greg shaved his face completely clean, and we spent half an hour catching up on all the kisses that mustache had unknowingly robbed us of. When we allow the person who is most committed to loving us unconditionally to see what is truly on the inside of us, regardless of how ashamed or broken we feel over it, the rewards are endless. We can gain confidence and courage, experience healing of painful memories, and enjoy genuine intimacy with the person we love and trust the most. KEEPING FOXES OUT OF THE VINEYARD This passage in Song of Songs has often caught my eye: Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards, our vineyards that are in bloom. (2:15) The vineyard is a metaphor for the relationship shared between lovers. I believe a fully blossoming vineyard symbolizes a relationship in which mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical intimacy is at its peak. But I’ve often wondered what the foxes that ruin the vineyard are a symbol of. As I thought and prayed about this, I began to recall the many things in our marriage which were like foxes ruining our vineyard, creating distance rather than intimacy in my marriage. Greg and I have worked to recognize these “intimacy busters” and turn them around to become “intimacy boosters.” The list on Chapter 10 sums up many of the principles we’ve been talking about in this chapter. As you cultivate genuine intimacy with your husband by avoiding the intimacy busters and enjoying the intimacy boosters, you will experience the kind of mental, emotional, spiritual, and physical pleasure that God intends for your marriage relationship. [image file=image_rsrc247.jpg] Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth— for your love is more delightful than wine…. My lover is to me a sachet of myrrh resting between my breasts…. How handsome you are, my lover! Oh, how charming! And our bed is verdant…. Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest is my lover among the young men. I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my taste. He has taken me to the banquet hall, and his banner over me is love…. Awake, north wind,

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il s’appuie contre la porte. Miller lui tend son téléphone. « Tu as oublié ça. — Merci, je pensais te le demander demain. — Demain ? » Il parle d’une voix blessée, et exaspérée. Wallace pousse un soupir. « Quand je te verrais à la fac. C’est pas un problème. Tu n’étais pas obligé de l’apporter. — Tu es parti », répète Miller. Il porte une espèce de haut court sous un cardigan. Une tenue de sport. Son estomac se contracte et se décontracte. Il est hors d’haleine. Couvert de sueur. Il a couru jusqu’ici, comprend Wallace. Quelque chose en lui se radoucit. « Tu veux entrer ? » Miller l’embrasse à pleine bouche, fait deux pas en avant et referme la porte derrière lui. Sa bouche a goût de dentifrice, bien sûr. Ses lèvres sont chaudes, insistantes. Wallace se laisse embrasser et plaquer contre le mur. Ils heurtent le balai qui tombe à grand fracas. « Je ne savais pas si tu voudrais jamais me reparler, dit Miller. Quand est-ce que c’est devenu si important pour moi ? Je ne sais pas. » En entendant ça, Wallace voudrait rire, ou se sentir insulté, mais il n’y arrive pas. Miller est tellement vrai, tellement sincère dans ses doutes que ce serait cruel de se moquer de lui. Wallace se dégage prestement, va s’asseoir sur le canapé à côté de la fenêtre, et replie ses jambes sous lui. Miller se met à tripoter le tabouret de bar, à le faire tourner en tous sens. « Merci de m’avoir rapporté mon téléphone, c’est gentil. — On va aller bruncher, répond vivement Miller. À quelques-uns. Tu es le bienvenu. » Wallace est déjà sur le point de décliner lorsque Miller ajoute : « Ça me ferait plaisir que tu viennes. » Petits services, se dit Wallace. Des petits services, clairement définis. Il s’humecte les lèvres. « OK. — Bien. Super. » Ils vont au brunch ensemble. Ils ont rendez-vous dans un des cafés sur la place, où on peut s’asseoir dehors derrière des petites cloisons vertes. Ils s’installent à une large table, juste tous les deux au départ. Miller pétrit nerveusement le genou de Wallace sous la table. Wallace garde les yeux baissés sur son café. Le monde est trop lumineux, trop saturé. Il préférerait dormir, être endormi. Il n’y a pas beaucoup de circulation sur la place. Des familles en visites guidées du Capitole ; leurs accents du Midwest à couper au couteau voguent dans l’atmosphère. Plus loin, il entend quelques bribes de mélodies ; les musiciens de rue se chauffent pour la journée. Le soleil tape sur sa nuque. Il y a un canard sur son pull. Leurs amis ne tardent pas à les rejoindre. Miller retire sa main de son genou. Lukas, Yngve, Thom, Cole, Vincent et Emma. Ils changent de table pour une autre, en longueur.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Elle a pleuré. « Où est Thom ? », demande Wallace, et on dirait qu’Emma s’effondre pour laisser place à un simple trait sombre. Elle se rapproche de lui. « Allons voir si les pommes de terre sont cuites, OK ? » Elle prend Wallace par le coude et ils traversent la cuisine. Le carrelage irrégulier émet des craquements sous leurs pieds. Roman lève les yeux sur lui et esquisse un faible sourire qui s’évanouit aussitôt, ni froid ni chaleureux. « Roman, dit Wallace. — Wallace. » Cole se tourne vers Wallace et le serre bien fort dans ses bras, en faisant tout de même attention à ne pas mouiller la chemise de Wallace. Son parfum sent un peu la cardamome moulue. « T’es venu, dit-il. — Eh oui. Je suis venu. — Ça me fait vraiment plaisir », dit-il, appuyant ses poignets humides sur les épaules de Wallace. « Wallace », dit Vincent, et il se penche pour passer un bras maladroit autour des épaules de Wallace, en contournant Cole. Il lui presse le bras. « Content de te voir. » Zoe se trouve maintenant à la gauche de Wallace. Ils sont pressés l’un contre l’autre, coincés entre Emma, qui ouvre une bouteille de vin, et Cole et Vincent à l’évier. Zoe tient le pic à glace et le petit maillet. Ses doigts ont l’air très sûrs. De près, il remarque qu’elle a une large bouche pleine de dents très coûteuses, comme il s’y attendait. Ses yeux sont placés haut sur son visage. Elle lui sourit. « Zoe, dit-elle en guise de présentation. Enchantée. — Pareil, dit-il, avec plus de chaleur qu’il n’en éprouve. Alors, qu’est-ce que tu fais en ville ? » C’est la question qu’ils posent tout le temps aux gens qui ne sont pas dans leur programme. Qu’est-ce qui pousse quelqu’un à venir ici ? Pourquoi cette ville bâtie sur trois lacs ? « Fac de droit, dit-elle. — Je vois. Et escalade, si j’ai bien compris ? » Zoe positionne le pic sur un bloc de glace et d’un seul geste adroit, elle le pulvérise. « Absolument. Mon père est prof d’escalade à Denver. Donc c’est de famille, faut croire. — C’est ta ville d’origine ? — Non, au départ, je suis de Billings. Mais mes parents déménageaient beaucoup. J’ai grandi un peu partout, en fait, mais mon chez-moi c’est Billings. Mais j’ai fait mes premières années de fac à Boston. — Harvard ? » Zoe rougit. Elle éclate un autre morceau de glace. Wallace regarde la lame grise plonger dans le cœur de la glace. « Eh oui », dit-elle, d’un ton cavalier. Wallace acquiesce d’un hochement de tête. « Et toi ? — Auburn. — C’est où ? demande-t-elle en riant. — En Alabama. — Ah – Crimson Tide. — Non. Les autres. Les Tigers. — Ah. » D’une main rapide, elle sépare les blocs de glace en deux, en quatre.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear witness to Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old garden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin, and two married couples of white fan-tail pigeons who lived in a house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in at her window and landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where they strutted until she fed them with maize. And because they were Mary’s and Mary loved them, Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as they were, and would pa- tiently coax them back into the garden with bribes for their plump little circular crops. In the turret room that had been Puddle’s sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary’s rescues — tiny bright coloured birds with dejected plumage, and eyes that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary was always bringing them home from the terrible bird shops along the river, for her love of such helpless and suffering things was so great that she in her turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would haunt her for days, so that Stephen would often exclaim half in earnest: ‘Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything, darling, only don’t look unhappy! ’ The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent, thanks to Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the most ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world for what we must hope was a warm, wild heaven — there were several small graves already in the garden. Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more desolate creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and right into Stephen’s immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and appallingly thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on THE WELL OF LONELINESS 381 its nose, its back, its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its ears were long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless, but curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was as smooth as though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes were the colour of amber. Mary said: ‘Oh, Stephen — he wanted to come. He’s got a sore paw; look at him, he’s limping! ’ Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood there gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious, dishevelled head: * I suppose this means that we’re going to keep him.’ ‘ Darling, Im dreadfully afraid it does — he says he’s sorry to be such a mongrel.’

• From Another Country (1962)

  He slept very silently and his face looked tormented and very young. She started to wake him, but left him there, and tiptoed into the room where Paul and Michael slept. Paul lay on his belly, the sheet tangled at his feet, and his arms thrown up. With a shock, she saw how heavy he was, and how tall: he was already at the outer edge of his boyhood. It had happened so fast, it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. She looked at the sleeping head and wondered what thoughts it contained, what judgments, watched one twitching leg and wondered what his dreams were now. Gently, she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. She looked at the secretive Michael, curled on his side like a worm or an embryo, hands hidden between his legs, and the hair damp on his forehead. But she did not dare to touch his brow: he woke too easily. As quietly as possible, she retrieved his sheet from the floor and lay it over him. She left their room and walked into the bathroom. Then she heard, in the living room, Richard’s feet hit the floor. She washed her face, combed her hair, staring at her weary face in the mirror. Then she walked into the living room. Richard sat on the sofa, the glass of vodka in his hands, staring at the floor. “Hello,” she said, “What made you fall asleep in here?” She had left her handbag in the bathroom. She walked to the bar and picked up a package of cigarettes and lit one. She asked, mockingly, “You weren’t, were you, waiting up for me?” He looked at her, drained his glass, and held it out. “Pour me a drink. Pour yourself a drink, too.” She took his glass. Now, his face which in sleep had looked so young, looked old. A certain pain and terror passed through her. She thought, insanely, as she turned her back on him, of Cleopatra’s lament for Antony: His face was as the heavens . Was that right? She could not remember the rest of it. She poured two drinks, vodka for him, whiskey for her. The ice bucket was empty. “Do you want ice?” “No.” She handed him his drink. She poured a little water into her whiskey. She looked, covertly, at him again—her guilt began. His face was as the heavens, Wherein were set the stars and moon . “Sit down, Cass.” She left the bar and sat down in the easy chair facing him. She had left the cigarettes on the bar. Which kept their course and lighted, This little O, the earth . He asked, in a friendly tone, “Where are you just coming from, Cass?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  As for Messer Torello, he could not contain his tears; wherefore, being hindered thereby, he answered, in a few words, that it was impossible his benefits and his nobility should ever escape his mind and that he would without fail do that which he enjoined him, whenas occasion should be afforded him; whereupon Saladin, having tenderly embraced him and kissed him, bade him with many tears God speed and departed the chamber. The other barons then all took leave of him and followed the Soldan into the hall where he had caused make ready the bed. Meanwhile, it waxing late and the nigromant awaiting and pressing for despatch, there came a physician to Messer Torello with a draught and making him believe that he gave it him to fortify him, caused him drink it; nor was it long ere he fell asleep and so, by Saladin's commandment, was carried into the hall and laid upon the bed aforesaid, whereon the Soldan placed a great and goodly crown of great price and inscribed it on such wise that it was after manifestly understood to be sent by him to Messer Torello's lady; after which he put on Torello's finger a ring, wherein was a carbuncle enchased, so resplendent that it seemed a lighted flambeau, the value whereof could scarce be reckoned, and girt him with a sword, whose garniture might not lightly be appraised. Moreover, he let hang a fermail on his breast, wherein were pearls whose like were never seen, together with other precious stones galore, and on his either side he caused set two great basins of gold, full of doubloons, and many strings of pearls and rings and girdles and other things, which it were tedious to recount, round about him. This done, he kissed him once more and bade the nigromant despatch, whereupon, in his presence, the bed was incontinent taken away, Messer Torello and all, and Saladin abode devising of him with his barons.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The script of the new play was on the plain wooden table which, along with the fireplace in the dining room, had persuaded them to rent the house; on the table, too, were a few books, Yves’ copies of Blaise Cendrars and Jean Genet and Marcel Proust, Eric’s copies of An Actor Prepares and The Wings of the Dove and Native Son. Yves’ sketch pad was on the the floor. So were his tennis shoes and his socks and his underwear, all of these embracing Eric’s sport shirts and sandals and bathing trunks—less explicit and more somber than Yves’ bikini, these last, as Eric himself was less explicit and more sombre. Yves clattered into the bedroom. “Are you going to take that shower or not?” “Yes. Right away.” “Well, start. I am leaving now, I will be back in a moment.” “I know your moments. Try not to get too drunk with the natives.” He grinned and stood up. Yves picked up a pair of socks from the floor, put them on, and put on his tennis shoes, and a faded blue pullover. “Ah. Celui-là, je te jure.” He took a comb from his pocket and pulled it through his hair, with the result that it stood up more wildly than ever. “I’ll put you on your bicycle.” They walked past the mimosas. “Hurry back,” said Eric; smiling, staring at Yves. Yves picked up his bicycle. “I will be back before you are dry.” He rolled the bicycle through the gate and onto the road. Eric stood in the garden, watching him. The light was still very bright but, in the mysterious way of southern light, was gathering itself together and would soon be gone. Already, the sea looked darker. Once past the gate, Yves did not look back. Eric turned into the house. He stepped into the shower, which was off the bedroom. He fumbled with the knobs, and the water came crashing over him, first too cold, but he forced himself to take it, then too hot; he fumbled with the knobs until the water became more bearable. He soaped himself, wondering if he were really getting fat. His belly seemed firm enough, but he had always had a tendency to be chunky and square; it was just as well that he would soon, in New York, be going again to the gym. And the thought of the gym, while the water fell down over him, he was alone with his body and the water, caused many painful and buried things to stir in him.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Ida had moved to the door by which she had entered and stood there, hesitating. “Go on,” her mother said, “get your coat and mine, too. I’m going to walk down the block with you.” Ida left and Mrs. Scott smiled and said, “If she thought I was coming with you today, she be highly displeased. She want you all to herself today.” She picked up the empty beer glasses and carried them into the kitchen. “When they were younger,” she said to Vivaldo, “Rufus just couldn’t do no wrong, far as Ida was concerned.” She ran water to rinse out the glasses. “She always been real afraid of the dark, you know? but, shucks, honey, many’s the time Ida used to crawl out of her bed, middle of the night, and go running through this dark house to get in bed with Rufus. Look like she just felt safe with him. I don’t know why, Rufus sure didn’t pay her much mind.” “That’s not true,” said Rufus, “I was always real sweet to my little sister.” She put the glasses down to drain and dried her hands. She peered into a hand mirror and patted her hair and then carefully put on her hat. “You used to tease her something awful,” she said. Ida returned, wearing a coat trimmed with fur, and with her mother’s coat over her arm. “Ah!” cried Rufus, “she’s glamorous!” “She’s beautiful,” said Vivaldo. “Now, if you-all going to make fun of me,” said Ida, “I ain’t going to come with you nowhere.” Mrs. Scott put on her coat and looked critically at her bareheaded daughter. “If she don’t stop being so glamorous, she going to end up with the flu.” She pulled Ida’s collar up higher and buttoned it. “Can’t get nobody in this family to wear a hat,” she said, “and then they wonder why they always full of cold.” Ida made an impatient gesture. “She afraid a hat going to mess up her hair. But she ain’t afraid of the wind doing nothing to it.” They laughed, Ida a little unwillingly, as though she were embarrassed that the joke was being shared with Vivaldo. They walked down the wintry block. Children were playing stickball in the streets, but it was otherwise nearly empty. A couple of boys were standing on a nearby stoop and they greeted Ida and Rufus and Mrs. Scott and looked with interest at Vivaldo; looked at him as though he were a member of an enemy gang, which, indeed, he had been, not very long before. An elderly woman slowly climbed the brownstone steps of a run-down building. A black sign jutted out from the building, saying, in white letters, MOUNT OLIVE APOSTOLIC FAITH CHURCH. “I don’t know where your father done got to,” said Mrs. Scott. “He right around the corner, in Jimmy’s Bar,” said Ida, shortly. “I doubt if he be home by the time I get back.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric rose and crossed to Yves, and they stood for a moment like two wrestlers, watching each other with a kind of physical calculation, smiling and pale. Yves always seemed, a moment before the act, tentative and tremulous; not like a girl—like a boy: and this strangely innocent waiting, this virile helplessness, always engendered in Eric a positive storm of tenderness. Everything in him, from his heights and depths, his mysterious, hidden source, came rushing together, like a great flood barely channeled in a narrow mountain stream. And it chilled him like that—like icy water; and roared in him like that, and with the menace of things scarcely understood, barely to be controlled; and he shook with the violence with which he flowed toward Yves. It was this violence which made him gentle, for it frightened him. And now he touched Yves lightly and wonderingly on the cheek. Yves’ smile faded, he watched Eric, they moved into each other’s arms. There were the wine bottle and the glasses on the table, their plates, the platter, the bread; Yves had left a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the table, it was nearly nothing but ash now, long and gray; and the kitchen light was on. “You say you don’t care about the chicken?” Eric whispered, laughing. Yves laughed, giving off a whiff of garlic, of peppery sweat. Their arms locked around each other, then they drew apart, and, holding hands, stumbled into the bedroom, into the great haven of their bed. Perhaps it had never before seemed so much like a haven, so much their own, now that the terrible floodwaters of time were about to overtake it. And perhaps they had never before so belonged to each other, had never before given or taken so much from each other, as they did now, burning and sobbing on the crying bed. They labored together slowly, violently, a long time: both feared the end. Both feared the morning, when the moon and stars would be gone, when this room would be harsh and sorrowful with sunlight, and this bed would be dismantled, waiting for other flesh. Love is expensive, Yves had once said, with his curiously dry wonder. One must put furniture around it, or it goes. Now, for a while, there would be no furniture—how long would this night have to last them? What would the morning bring? the imminent morning, behind which were hidden so many mornings, so many nights. And they moaned. Soon, Yves whispered, sounding insistent, like a child, and with a terrible regret. Soon. Eric’s hands and mouth opened and closed on his lover’s body, their bodies strained yet closer together, and Yves’ body shook and he called Eric’s name as no one had ever called this name before. Eric. Eric. Eric. The sound of his breath filled Eric, heavier than the far-off pounding of the sea.