Trust

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 27 of 29 · 20 per page

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘It is essential that I should be able to trust you,’ continued the Countess, ‘because if you were to betray my confidence, you would ruin everything, for all three of us.’ ‘You may confide in me as much as you like,’ said the gentlewoman, ‘for you may rest assured that I shall never betray you.’ The Countess then disclosed her true identity and related the whole history of her love from its earliest beginnings, telling her tale so touchingly that the gentlewoman, who had already gleaned some knowledge of the matter from elsewhere, was convinced that she was telling the truth and began to take pity on her. Having told her all the facts, the Countess continued: ‘This, then, is the tale of my misfortunes. As you have heard, there are two things I must obtain if I am to have my husband. And I know of no one who can help me to obtain them except yourself, if it is true, as I have been led to believe, that my husband the Count is deeply in love with your daughter.’ ‘I know not, madam, whether the Count is in love with my daughter,’ replied the gentlewoman. ‘He claims to be, certainly, but how will this make it easier for me to assist you?’ ‘I will tell you,’ said the Countess, ‘but first of all I want to explain how I intend to repay your assistance. I see that your daughter is beautiful and of marriageable age, but it seems, both from what I have been told and from the evidence of my own eyes, that the impossibility of making a good marriage for her compels you to keep her at home. I therefore propose to reward your services by promptly supplying her, from my own resources, with whatever dowry you think she needs for an honourable marriage.’ The lady, being destitute, was attracted by this offer. But she was also proud of spirit, and she replied: ‘Pray explain to me, madam, in what way I can assist you. If it is honourable for me to further your plans, I shall be glad to do so, and afterwards you may reward me in whatever way you please.’ Whereupon the Countess said: ‘What I require you to do is to send some trustworthy person to inform my husband, the Count, that your daughter is prepared to place herself entirely at his disposal, but only on condition that he proves to her that his love is as deep and genuine as he claims; this she will never believe until he sends her the ring which he wears upon his hand and to which she understands that he is deeply attached.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Would to God that he hadn’t,’ said Egano, ‘for he mistook me for you, beat me black and blue with a cudgel, and addressed me by the foulest names that any wicked woman was ever called. I must say I thought it very strange that he should have spoken to you as he did with the intention of dishonouring me. But I see now that, finding you so gay and sociable, he simply wanted to put you to the test.’ Then the lady said: ‘Thanks be to God that he tested me with words, and saved his deeds for you! At least it can be said that his words tried my patience less severely than his deeds tried yours. But since he is so loyal to you, we should do him honour and hold him high in our esteem.’ ‘I agree with you entirely,’ said Egano. In view of what had happened, Egano came to the conclusion that he was blessed with the most faithful wife and the most loyal servant that any nobleman had ever possessed. And for this reason, whilst on many a future occasion they all three had a good laugh over the events of that particular night, at the same time it became far easier than it would otherwise have been for Anichino and the lady to do the thing that brought them pleasure and delight, at any rate for as long as Anichino chose to remain with Egano in Bologna.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘If, Titus, you were less in need of reassurance, I should take you severely to task, seeing that you have abused our friendship by not telling me earlier of this overwhelming passion. Even if you felt that your thoughts were improper, that was no reason for concealing them from your friend, any more than if they were proper: for just as a true friend takes a delight in sharing his friend’s proper thoughts, so he will attempt to wean him away from those that are improper. But enough of that for the present: let us turn to the question that I take to be the more urgent. The fact that you have fallen violently in love with Sophronia, my promised bride, does not surprise me in the least; indeed I should be most surprised if you hadn’t, considering her beauty and your own loftiness of spirit, which renders you all the more susceptible to passionate feelings, the greater the excellence of the object that arouses your liking. And inasmuch as you do right to love Sophronia, at the same time you do wrong to complain about Fortune (though you make no mention of this) for conceding her to me, as though you felt that there would be nothing improper about loving her if she belonged to another. But if you are still as wise as you always were, you should be counting your lucky stars that she was given to me and not to anyone else. For had she belonged to another, no matter how proper your love may have been, he would have preferred to keep her to himself rather than allow you to love her, whereas in my case, if you consider me your friend, as I am, you must hope for a kindlier fate. And the reason is this, that ever since our friendship began, I cannot recall possessing anything that was not as much yours as it was mine.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘even if I were in my native city, and not in yours, I count myself the sort of friend who would never do anything that was contrary to your wishes, either in the present instance or in any other. Besides, I am more than ever bound to respect your wishes in this matter inasmuch as you have wronged one of yourselves, for this young woman comes neither from Cremona nor Pavia, as many people may possibly have supposed, but from Faenza, though neither she nor I nor the person who entrusted her to my care ever discovered whose daughter she was. Hence I am fully prepared to do as you ask.’ The worthy men were surprised to learn that the girl was a native of Faenza, and having thanked Giacomino for taking so generous a view of the matter, they asked him to be so kind as to explain how she had come under his control, and how he knew that she was from Faenza. Giacomino said to them:

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Transformation For a traumatized person, the journey toward a vital, spontaneous life means more than alleviating symptom s it means transformation. When we successfully renegotiate trauma, a fundamental shift occurs in our beings. Transformation is the process of changing something in relation to its polar opposite. In the transformation between a traumatic state and a peaceful state, there are fundamental changes in our nervous systems, feelings, and perceptions that are experienced through the felt sense. The nervous system swings between immobility and fluidity, emotions fluctuate between fear and courage, and perceptions shift between narrow-mindedness and receptivity. Through transformation, the nervous system regains its capacity for self-regulation. Our emotions begin to lift us up rather than bring us down. They propel us into the exhilarating ability to soar and fly, giving us a more complete view of our place in nature. Our perceptions broaden to encompass a receptivity and acceptance of what is, without judgment. We are able to learn from our life experiences. Without trying to forgive, we understand that there is no blame. We often obtain a surer sense of self while becoming more resilient and spontaneous. This new self-assuredness allows us to re-lax, enjoy, and live life more fully. We become more in tune with the passionate and ecstatic dimensions of life. This is a profound metamorphosi s a change that affects the most basic levels of our beings. We will no longer view our world through fearful eyes. Though our planet can be a dangerous place, we will no longer suffer from the constant fear that creates hypervigilanc e a feeling that danger always lurks and the worst often happens. We begin to face life with a developing sense of courage and trust. The world becomes a place where bad things may happen but they can be overcome. Trust, rather than anxiety, forms the field in which all experience occurs. Transformation ripples out into every corner of our lives, much like the debilitating effects of trauma once did. Tim Cahill, the adventurer and writer, puts it this way, “I put my life on the line to save my soul. ” [9] In trauma we have already put our lives on the line, but the reward of salvation is yet to be claimed. Two Faces of Trauma Pieces of a burning fuselage are strewn over a large cornfield scarred by a blackened path of destruction. In this dramatic opening scene from Peter Weir’s extraordinary film, Fearless, Max Klein (played by Jeff Bridges) has just survived a commercial airline crash. He staggers through giant stalks of corn, holding an infant limply in one arm and leading a ten-year-old child with the other. As paramedics and firemen rush around, Max hails a taxi and asks to be taken to a motel. Conveying an eerie sense of numbness, he showers. Under the stream of water, he searches with his hands to reassure himself that he still has a body.

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

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. “You’re a good listener. And that’s all you have to do; just be there to listen. If he doesn’t confide in you, that’s fine, but stay around to keep your eyes and ears open. There’s just one more thing you must promise me.” Another promise. “What?” “That you won’t fall for Rupert even if he makes a pass at you.” “Anaïs! I would never do that!” “Yes, but Rupert can be irresistible.” “I promise you.” I looked into her eyes so she could see my sincerity. “I could never do that to another woman.” “Why not?” “My father, before he left for Mexico, had an affair with my mother’s best friend. I know the pain it caused my mother.” Anaïs nodded, her delicate features taking on her expression of infinite compassion. I added to reassure her, “Besides, Rupert isn’t my type.” [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Rupert’s fellow musicians all arrived on the dot at six o’clock. Anaïs greeted them warmly and introduced me to each, dropping a tidbit that would provide a topic for conversation after she was gone. In no time the instruments and players were in place, forming a semicircle beside the piano. Anaïs and I sat on the scratchy brown couch, off to the side of the musician’s circle. As they tuned their instruments, she picked up the leather journal resting in her lap and her gold-and-black Montblanc and began to write, completely blocking everyone out, including me, as if she had stepped behind a shower curtain and could hear only rushing water. I resolved to bring my diary the next time to write in as she was doing, so I wouldn’t have to just sit there and listen, and so I could record any gossip before I forgot it. Rupert stood and gave a lecture for my benefit about what they were going to play and how they had adapted the score for their instruments and limited abilities. I imagined he must be a good teacher, though his discourse on the Brahms concerto seemed at odds with his Venice Beach tan, white teeth, and toned physique. I found myself imagining Anaïs’s robust sex life with him. When I glanced back at her, she seemed annoyed for being pulled from her diary writing by Rupert’s theatrical emphasis on certain words and phrases: “The second piano concerto, called The Holy Terror!” She capped her pen with a snap. “Tristine is not one of your students, Rupert! Just play.”

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

  “Follow me,” she said, her smile so encouraging I would have followed her anywhere. We entered a softly lit hallway through which I saw straight ahead to a living room, where people in evening clothes sipped martinis. Anaïs ducked left into a small kitchen, and I followed. A dark-skinned, slender woman, whom I later learned was Haitian, rose from her reading chair smoothing her cotton skirt, printed with dancing salamanders. “Millie Fredericks, this is Tristine …” Anaïs looked at me, stricken. “I am so sorry, I don’t have your surname.” She made me spell it and then cried, “Like my friend, the actress Luise Rainer!” Only Anaïs pronounced it, “Rriiiner.” She lowered her voice as if sharing a confidence. “Luise was an intimate friend of mine when she was married to Clifford Odets. I put them in my diary. Are you related to her?” She lifted my chin gently with her manicured fingers. “You have the same beautiful, almond-shaped eyes.” Unused to compliments, I blurted, “I’m not related to anyone important.” Anaïs looked so disappointed, I jumped to add, “Except my godmother, I guess, though we’re not blood related.” “Certainly, your godmother! Tawney is a genuine artist. So pure!” There was an involuntary quiver in my voice when I said, “My godmother told me that you write a diary.” “Do you keep a diary?” Anaïs gave me her extraordinary smile of approval. I nodded. I felt transparent, but also, as never before, completely accepted, completely safe. Growing up, I’d been a misfit in Southern California, neither blond nor cheerful, constantly accused of having my head in a book or in the clouds, and usually dressed in ill-fitting hand-me-downs since my father split. But Anaïs’s smile said: I understand you as you always hoped to be understood; I see your great specialness as you have always dreamt of being seen. “One afternoon we will have a long talk about our diaries!” She beamed. I nodded so vigorously that more leaves fell to the floor. Anaïs laughed gaily, speaking in French with Millie, but seeing my incomprehension, changed back to English. “We’re looking for a crrrystal bowl.” Millie produced one from a cabinet and told me, “Hon, why don’t you dump those leaves in the sink?” I did so and saw they had soiled the front of my pink shirtwaist dress, which I had bought for starting college in the fall with my waitressing tips. Without a word, Millie took a cloth and dabbed at the spots. Then she dusted each leaf before handing it to Anaïs. We oohed and ahhed as Millie presented each gold-specked fan and Anaïs arranged them in the bowl. Waving one flirtatiously, Anaïs said, “Do you think it’s a coincidence we call these leaves maidenhair, while the Chinese, who call it gingko, consider it an aphrodisiac?”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  “You must trust me, Martin.” And now she heard herself speaking very gravely: ‘ Would you trust me enough to do any- thing I asked, even although it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness? ’ His fingers tightened: ‘ Before God, yes. You know that I’d trust you! ” ‘ Very well then, don’t leave Paris — not now.’ ‘ You really want me to stay on, Stephen?,’ * Yes, I can’t explain.’ He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: ‘Allright . . . I'll do whatever you ask me.’ They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: ‘ Let me come as far as the house,’ he pleaded. But she shook her head: ‘ No, no, not now. I’ll write to you - . very soon . . . Good-bye, Martin.’ She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was THE WELL OF LONELINESS 501 finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette. Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty sins — dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of stone steps, and push open a heavy, slow-moving door; the door of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless vigil. She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms — like the tides of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shores of heaven. They were calling upon the Mother of God: ‘ Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et à Pheure de notre mort.’ * Et à Pheure de notre mort,’ Stephen heard herself repeating. He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: ‘ But then He al- ways looks tired,’ she thought vaguely; and she stood there with- out finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in the presence of somebody else’s sorrow. For herself she felt noth- ing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sen- sation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through the wind-swept streets of Montmartre. “CHAPTER 56 y

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Trust the child’s innate ability to heal. Trust your own ability to allow this to happen. To avoid unintentional disruption of the process, don’t shift the child’s position, distract his/her attention, hold the child too tightly, or position yourself too close or too far away for comfort. Notice when the child begins to re-orient him/herself to the external world. Orientation is a sign of completion. Finally, attend to the child’s emotional responses. Once the youngster appears safe and calm (not before, but later is fine), set aside time for storytelling or for re-enacting the incident. Begin by asking the child to tell you what happened. He/she may be experiencing anger, fear, sadness, embarrassment, shame, or guilt. Tell the child about a time when you, or someone you know, felt the same way or had a similar accident. This will help “normalize” what the child is feeling. Let the youngster know that whatever he/she is feeling is OK and worthy of attention. While applying these first-aid measures, trust yourself. Don’t think too much about whether you’re “doing it right.” Trauma cannot always be prevented; it’s a fact of life. But it can be healed. It is an interrupted process naturally inclined to complete itself whenever possible. If you create the opportunity, your child will complete this process and avoid the debilitating effects of trauma. Resolving a Traumatic Reaction Creating an opportunity for healing is similar to learning the customs of a new country. It is not difficult-just different. It requires you and your child to shift from the realm of thought or emotion to the much more basic realm of physical sensation. The primary task is to pay attention to how things feel and how the body is responding. In short, opportunity revolves around sensation. A traumatized child who is in touch with internal sensations is paying attention to impulses from the reptilian core. As a result, the youngster is likely to notice subtle changes and responses, all of which are designed to help discharge excess energy and to complete feelings and responses that were previously blocked. Noticing these changes and responses enhances them. The changes can be extremely subtle: something that feels internally like a rock, for example, may suddenly seem to melt into a warm liquid. These changes have their most beneficial effect when they are simply watched, and not interpreted. Attaching meaning to them or telling a story about them at this time may shift the child’s perceptions into a more evolved portion of the brain, which can easily disrupt the direct connection established with the reptilian core. Bodily responses that emerge along with sensations typically include involuntary trembling, shaking, and crying. The body may want, slowly, to move in a particular way. If suppressed or interrupted by beliefs about being strong (grown up, courageous), acting normal, or abiding by familiar feelings, these responses will not be able to effectively discharge the accumulated energy.

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

  The opposite hypothesis of a mere military stratagem or intentional fraud is still more objectionable, and would compel us either to impute to the first Christian emperor at a venerable age the double crime of falsehood and perjury, or, if Eusebius invented the story, to deny to the "father of church history" all claim to credibility and common respectability. Besides it should be remembered that the older testimony of Lactantius, or whoever was the author of the work on the Deaths of Persecutors, is quite independent of that of Eusebius, and derives additional force from the vague heathen rumors of the time. Finally the Hoc vince which has passed into proverbial significance as a most appropriate motto of the invincible religion of the cross, is too good to be traced to sheer falsehood. Some actual fact, therefore, must be supposed to underlie the tradition, and the question only is this, whether it was an external visible phenomenon or an internal experience. The hypothesis of a natural formation of the clouds, which Constantine by an optical illusion mistook for a supernatural sign of the cross, besides smacking of the exploded rationalistic explanation of the New Testament miracles, and deriving an important event from a mere accident, leaves the figure of Christ and the Greek or Latin inscription: By this sign thou shalt conquer! altogether unexplained. We are shut up therefore to the theory of a dream or vision, and an experience within the mind of Constantine. This is supported by the oldest testimony of Lactantius, as well as by the report of Rufinus and Sozomen, and we do not hesitate to regard the Eusebian cross in the skies as originally a part of the dream,29 which only subsequently assumed the character of an outward objective apparition either in the imagination of Constantine, or by a mistake of the memory of the historian, but in either case without intentional fraud. That the vision was traced to supernatural origin, especially after the happy success, is quite natural and in perfect keeping with the prevailing ideas of the age.30 Tertullian and other ante-Nicene and Nicene fathers attributed many conversions to nocturnal dreams and visions. Constantine and his friends referred the most important facts of his life, as the knowledge of the approach of hostile armies, the discovery of the holy sepulchre, the founding of Constantinople, to divine revelation through visions and dreams. Nor are we disposed in the least to deny the connection of the vision of the cross with the agency of divine Providence, which controlled this remarkable turning point of history. We may go farther and admit a special providence, or what the old divines call a providentia specialissima; but this does not necessarily imply a violation of the order of nature or an actual miracle in the shape of an objective personal appearance of the Saviour.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at moments unmistakably self-assertive. Always willing to help in domestic affairs, such as balancing Anna’s chaotic account books, or making out library lists for Jackson’s, she was nevertheless very guardful of her rights, very quick to assert and maintain her position. Puddle knew what she wanted and saw that she got it, both in and out of the schoolroom. Yet every one liked her; she took what she gave and she gave what she took, yes, but sometimes she gave just a little bit more—and that little bit more is the whole art of teaching, the whole art of living, in fact, and Miss Puddleton knew it. Thus gradually, oh, very gradually at first, she wore down her pupil’s unconscious resistance. With small, dexterous fingers she caught Stephen’s brain, and she stroked it and modelled it after her own fashion. She talked to that brain and showed it new pictures; she gave it new thoughts, new hopes and ambitions; she made it feel certain and proud of achievement. Nor did she belittle Stephen’s muscles in the process, never once did Puddle make game of the athlete, never once did she show by so much as the twitch of an eyelid that she had her own thoughts about her pupil. She appeared to take Stephen as a matter of course, nothing surprised or even amused her it seemed, and Stephen grew quite at ease with her. ‘I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,’ Stephen would say in a tone of satisfaction, ‘you’re like a nice chair; though you are so tiny yet one’s got room to stretch, I don’t know how you do it.’ Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm Stephen while it mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle—they would share that warm smile with its fun and its kindness, so that neither of them could feel hurt or embarrassed. And their friendship took root, growing strong and verdant, and it flourished like a green bay-tree in the schoolroom. Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle had genius—the genius of teaching; the genius of compelling her pupil to share in her own enthusiastic love of the Classics. ‘Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!’ she would say, and her voice would sound full of excitement; ‘the beauty, the splendid dignity of it—it’s like the sea, Stephen, rather terrible but splendid; that’s the language, it’s far more virile than Latin.’ And Stephen would catch that sudden excitement, and determine to work even harder at Greek.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  When shock trauma is the result of an isolated event or series of events and there is no consistent history of previous trauma, I believe that people, in community with family and friends, have a remarkable ability to bring about their own healing. I strongly encourage this practice. I have written this book in relatively non-technical language. It is also for parents, teachers, child care workers, and others who serve as guides and role models for children to be able to give them a gift of incalculable value by helping them immediately resolve their reactions to traumatic events. In addition, doctors, nurses, paramedics, police, fire fighters, rescue workers, and others who work routinely with the victims of accidents and natural disasters will find this information useful, not only for the work that they do with these traumatized individuals, but for themselves. To witness human carnage of any kind, especially on a regular basis, exacts its own toll and is often as traumatic as experiencing the event firsthand. How To Use This Book Give yourself time to absorb the material as you read through the book. Do the exercises suggested in the text. Take it slowly and easily. Trauma is the result of the most powerful drives the human body can produce. It demands respect. You may not hurt yourself by moving through the material quickly or superficially, but you won’t get the same benefit that you would if you take the time to digest the information slowly. If at any time the material or exercises seem disturbing, stop and let things settle. Sit with your experience and see what unfolds. Many of the misconceptions about trauma go surprisingly deep and may affect your experience of as well as your attitude towards yourself. It is important to recognize when this has happened. If you keep a portion of your attention on your reactions to the material, your organism will guide you along at the proper pace. Body sensation, rather than intense emotion, is the key to healing trauma. Be aware of any emotional reaction swelling up inside you, and be aware of how your body is experiencing these emotions in the form of sensations and thoughts. If your emotions feel too intense, i.e., rage, terror, profound helplessness, etc., you need to enlist competent professional help.

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

  Such fulminations against Protestant Bible societies might be in some measure excused if the popes favored Catholic Bible societies, which would be the best proof of zeal for the spread of the Scriptures. But such institutions do not exist. Fortunately papal bulls have little effect in modern times, and in spite of official prohibitions and discouragements, there are zealous advocates of Bible reading among modern Catholics, as there were among the Greek and Latin fathers.9 Nor have the restrictions of the Council of Trent been able to prevent the progress of Biblical scholarship and exegesis even in the Roman church. E pur si muove. The Bible, as well as the earth, moves for all that. Modern Protestant theology is much more just to ecclesiastical tradition than the Reformers could be in their hot indignation against the prevailing corruptions and against the papal tyranny of their day. The deeper study of ecclesiastical and secular history has dispelled the former ignorance on the "dark ages," so called, and brought out the merits of the fathers, missionaries, schoolmen, and popes, in the progress of Christian civilization. But these results do not diminish the supreme value of the sacred Scripture as an ultimate tribunal of appeal in matters of faith, nor the importance of its widest circulation. It is by far the best guide of instruction in holy living and dying. No matter what theory of the mode and extent of inspiration we may hold, the fact of inspiration is plain and attested by the universal consent of Christendom. The Bible is a book of holy men, but just as much a book of God, who made those men witnesses of truth and sure teachers of the way of salvation. § 7. Justification by Faith. The subjective principle of Protestantism is the doctrine of justification and salvation by faith in Christ; as distinct from the doctrine of justification by faith and works or salvation by grace and human merit. Luther’s formula is sola fide. Calvin goes further back to God’s eternal election, as the ultimate ground of salvation and comfort in life and in death. But Luther and Calvin meant substantially the same thing, and agree in the more general proposition of salvation by free grace through living faith in Christ (Acts 4:12), in opposition to any Pelagian or Semi-pelagian compromise which divides the work and merit between God and man. And this is the very soul of evangelical Protestantism.10

• From Trash (1988)

  She led me in past the screened porch to a spacious living room that had an old brocade couch pushed up under the windows and a rug that was worn through in a path from the kitchen to the open bathroom door. There were lots of plants drooping in the heat, dust and cat fur clinging to the bottom of the pots. An enormous dirty white cat was sleeping in a patch of sunlight on one of the pews. Anna dropped down on a big stuffed cushion and watched me perch awkwardly on the near couch. “Where you from?” she asked suddenly, and without thinking about it I answered, “South Carolina.” “Yeah? You got a strange accent.” “Rhode Island—spent some time there when I was a kid and my mama got sick. My family just about disowned me when I come home talking like a Yankee.” “I been to Rhode Island once. Weird place, but all North is weird to me. They talk too fast and ask too many questions.” She lit a cigarette. A big black-and-gray tomcat walked over and plopped in her lap. She began to stroke him without looking down. “Cats OK, huh?” “Mine are. They’ve driven off everybody else’s in the building. Even old Ghost Dance there wakes up when a strange cat comes around, eats them up, and runs them off.” She looked pleased at the thought. “Us sleepy-looking types are dangerous when threatened, you know.” “Oh, I know. I been messed with myself a time or two.” I dropped my bag and pulled out the stack of her apartment ads I’d torn off the bulletin board over at the Women’s Center. I handed them to her and gave her my own slow grin. “I got no problem with going next door if I want to talk politics and I don’t cook much anymore, so the kitchen is yours to keep. I don’t smoke. I do karate, and I like to play pool, though I’m not much good at it. I work days up the street at the camera store, and I want this apartment real bad.” She grinned and shook her head. “You take down all my ads?” “Think so, all I saw anyway. I asked around about you. Sounds like you and I could get along, and I got to move before the week’s up.” She shook her head again and laughed out loud. “You picked up more than an accent in Rhode Island, picked up a few Yankee ways, didn’t you?” “No more than I need to get by.” I dropped my head, looked up at her from under my eyelids, giving her my country-honey drawl. “Shit, Mama, I’m just a good old girl, don’t want no trouble a’tall. Easy to get along with, easy to get for that matter, and peaceable by nature.” “Uh huh.” “Uh huh,” I repeated back to her.

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

  "No one trusted Socrates," he says, "so as to die for his doctrine but Christ, who was partially known by Socrates, was trusted not only by philosophers and scholars, but also by artizans and people altogether unlearned." The Christian faith of Justin is faith in God the Creator, and in his Son Jesus Christ the Redeemer, and in the prophetic Spirit. All other doctrines which are revealed through the prophets and apostles, follow as a matter of course. Below the deity are good and bad angels; the former are messengers of God, the latter servants of Satan, who caricature Bible doctrines in heathen mythology, invent slanders, and stir up persecutions against Christians, but will be utterly overthrown at the second coming of Christ. The human soul is a creature, and hence perishable, but receives immortality from God, eternal happiness as a reward of piety, eternal fire as a punishment of wickedness. Man has reason and free will, and is hence responsible for all his actions; he sins by his own act, and hence deserves punishment. Christ came to break the power of sin, to secure forgiveness and regeneration to a new and holy life. Here comes in the practical or ethical side of this Christian philosophy. It is wisdom which emanates from God and leads to God. It is a new law and a new covenant, promised by Isaiah and Jeremiah, and introduced by Christ. The old law was only for the Jews, the new is for the whole world; the old was temporary and is abolished, the new is eternal; the old commands circumcision of the flesh, the new, circumcision of the heart; the old enjoins the observance of one day, the new sanctifies all days; the old refers to outward performances, the new to spiritual repentance and faith, and demands entire consecration to God. IV. From the time of Justin Martyr, the Platonic Philosophy continued to exercise a direct and indirect influence upon Christian theology, though not so unrestrainedly and naively as in his case.1358 We can trace it especially in Clement of Alexandria and Origen, and even in St. Augustin, who confessed that it kindled in him an incredible fire. In the scholastic period it gave way to the Aristotelian philosophy, which was better adapted to clear, logical statements. But Platonism maintained its influence over Maximus, John of Damascus, Thomas Aquinas, and other schoolmen, through the pseudo- Dionysian writings which first appear at Constantinople in 532, and were composed probably in the fifth century. They sent a whole system of the universe under the aspect of a double hierarchy, a heavenly and an earthly, each consisting of three triads. The Platonic philosophy offered many points of resemblance to Christianity.

• From Trash (1988)

  She led me in past the screened porch to a spacious living room that had an old brocade couch pushed up under the windows and a rug that was worn through in a path from the kitchen to the open bathroom door. There were lots of plants drooping in the heat, dust and cat fur clinging to the bottom of the pots. An enormous dirty white cat was sleeping in a patch of sunlight on one of the pews. Anna dropped down on a big stuffed cushion and watched me perch awkwardly on the near couch. “Where you from?” she asked suddenly, and without thinking about it I answered, “South Carolina.” “Yeah? You got a strange accent.” “Rhode Island—spent some time there when I was a kid and my mama got sick. My family just about disowned me when I come home talking like a Yankee.” “I been to Rhode Island once. Weird place, but all North is weird to me. They talk too fast and ask too many questions.” She lit a cigarette. A big black-and-gray tomcat walked over and plopped in her lap. She began to stroke him without looking down. “Cats OK, huh?” “Mine are. They’ve driven off everybody else’s in the building. Even old Ghost Dance there wakes up when a strange cat comes around, eats them up, and runs them off.” She looked pleased at the thought. “Us sleepy-looking types are dangerous when threatened, you know.” “Oh, I know. I been messed with myself a time or two.” I dropped my bag and pulled out the stack of her apartment ads I’d torn off the bulletin board over at the Women’s Center. I handed them to her and gave her my own slow grin. “I got no problem with going next door if I want to talk politics and I don’t cook much anymore, so the kitchen is yours to keep. I don’t smoke. I do karate, and I like to play pool, though I’m not much good at it. I work days up the street at the camera store, and I want this apartment real bad.” She grinned and shook her head. “You take down all my ads?” “Think so, all I saw anyway. I asked around about you. Sounds like you and I could get along, and I got to move before the week’s up.” She shook her head again and laughed out loud. “You picked up more than an accent in Rhode Island, picked up a few Yankee ways, didn’t you?” “No more than I need to get by.” I dropped my head, looked up at her from under my eyelids, giving her my country-honey drawl. “Shit, Mama, I’m just a good old girl, don’t want no trouble a’tall. Easy to get along with, easy to get for that matter, and peaceable by nature.” “Uh huh.” “Uh huh,” I repeated back to her.

• From Trash (1988)

  The greater skills Mama taught me were less tangible than rules about speed and smiling. What I needed most from her had a lot to do with being as young as I was, as naive, and quick to believe the stories put across the counter by all those travelers heading north. Mama always said I was the smartest of her daughters and the most foolish. I believed everything I read in books, and most of the stuff I heard on the TV, and all of Mama’s carefully framed warnings never seemed to quite slow down my capacity to take people as who they wanted me to think they were. I tried hard to be like my mama, but, as she kept complaining, I was just too quick to trust—badly in need of a little practical experience. My practical education began the day I started work. The first comment by the manager was cryptic but to the point. “Well, sixteen.” Harriet smiled, looking me up and down. “At least you’ll up the ante.” Mama’s friend Mabel came over and squeezed my arm. “Don’t get nervous, young one. We’ll keep moving you around. You’ll never be left alone.” Mabel’s voice was reassuring even if her words weren’t, and I worked her station first. A family of four children, parents, and a grandmother took her biggest table. She took their order with a wide smile, but as she passed me going down to the ice drawer, her teeth were point on point. “Fifty cents,” she snapped, and went on. Helping her clean the table thirty-five minutes later I watched her pick up two lone quarters and repeat, “Fifty cents,” this time in a mournfully conclusive tone. It was a game all the waitresses played. There was a butter bowl on the back counter where the difference was kept, the difference between what you guessed and what you got. No one had to play, but most of the women did. The rules were simple. You had to make your guess at the tip before the order was taken. Some of the women would cheat a little, bringing the menus with the water glasses and saying, “I want ya’ll to just look this over carefully. We’re serving one fine lunch today.” Two lines of conversation and most of them could walk away with a guess within five cents. However much the guess was off went into the bowl. If you said fifty cents and got seventy-five cents, then twenty-five cents to the bowl. Even if you said seventy-five cents and got fifty cents you had to throw in that quarter—guessing high was as bad as guessing short. “We used to just count the short guesses,” Mabel explained, “but this makes it more interesting.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  On seeing that he was a merchant, who was probably carrying a certain amount of money with him, these men resolved to rob him at the earliest opportunity. But in order not to arouse his suspicions, they assumed an air of simplicity and respectability, restricting their conversation to the subject of loyalty and other polite topics, and went out of their way to appear humble and obliging towards him. He consequently thought himself very fortunate to have met them, for he was travelling alone except for a single servant on horseback. As they went along, with the conversation passing as usual from one thing to another, they got on to the subject of the prayers that people address to God, and one of the bandits turned to Rinaldo and said: ‘What about you, sir? What prayer do you generally say when you are travelling?’ ‘To tell the truth,’ Rinaldo replied, ‘in matters of this kind I am rather simple and down-to-earth. I am one of the old-fashioned sort who likes to call a spade a spade, and I don’t know many prayers. All the same, when I am travelling it is my custom never to leave the inn of a morning without reciting an Our Father and a Hail Mary for the souls of Saint Julian’s father and mother, after which I pray to God and the Saint to give me a good lodging for the night to come. On many a day, in the course of my travels, I have met with great dangers, only to survive them all and find myself at nightfall in a safe place and a comfortable lodging. Now I firmly believe this favour to have been obtained for me from God by Saint Julian, in whose honour I recite my prayer; and if on any morning I neglected to say it, I would feel I could do nothing right the whole day, and would come to some harm before the evening.’ ‘Did you say it this morning?’ said the man who had asked him the question. ‘I did indeed,’ replied Rinaldo. The man, who by this time knew what was going to happen, said to himself: ‘A fat lot of good it will do you, for I reckon you are going to have a poor night’s lodging if all goes according to plan.’ Then he turned to Rinaldo and said: ‘I too have travelled a great deal, and although I have heard many people speak highly of this Saint, I have never prayed to him myself. Nevertheless, I have always managed to find good quarters. Perhaps we shall see this evening which of us is the better lodged: you, who have said the prayer, or I, who have not said it. Mind you, I do use another one instead, either the Dirupisti or the Intemerata or the De Profundis, all of which are extremely effective, or so my old grandmother used to tell me.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘If, Titus, you were less in need of reassurance, I should take you severely to task, seeing that you have abused our friendship by not telling me earlier of this overwhelming passion. Even if you felt that your thoughts were improper, that was no reason for concealing them from your friend, any more than if they were proper: for just as a true friend takes a delight in sharing his friend’s proper thoughts, so he will attempt to wean him away from those that are improper. But enough of that for the present: let us turn to the question that I take to be the more urgent. The fact that you have fallen violently in love with Sophronia, my promised bride, does not surprise me in the least; indeed I should be most surprised if you hadn’t, considering her beauty and your own loftiness of spirit, which renders you all the more susceptible to passionate feelings, the greater the excellence of the object that arouses your liking. And inasmuch as you do right to love Sophronia, at the same time you do wrong to complain about Fortune (though you make no mention of this) for conceding her to me, as though you felt that there would be nothing improper about loving her if she belonged to another. But if you are still as wise as you always were, you should be counting your lucky stars that she was given to me and not to anyone else. For had she belonged to another, no matter how proper your love may have been, he would have preferred to keep her to himself rather than allow you to love her, whereas in my case, if you consider me your friend, as I am, you must hope for a kindlier fate. And the reason is this, that ever since our friendship began, I cannot recall possessing anything that was not as much yours as it was mine.

• From Trash (1988)

  The greater skills Mama taught me were less tangible than rules about speed and smiling. What I needed most from her had a lot to do with being as young as I was, as naive, and quick to believe the stories put across the counter by all those travelers heading north. Mama always said I was the smartest of her daughters and the most foolish. I believed everything I read in books, and most of the stuff I heard on the TV, and all of Mama’s carefully framed warnings never seemed to quite slow down my capacity to take people as who they wanted me to think they were. I tried hard to be like my mama, but, as she kept complaining, I was just too quick to trust—badly in need of a little practical experience. My practical education began the day I started work. The first comment by the manager was cryptic but to the point. “Well, sixteen.” Harriet smiled, looking me up and down. “At least you’ll up the ante.” Mama’s friend Mabel came over and squeezed my arm. “Don’t get nervous, young one. We’ll keep moving you around. You’ll never be left alone.” Mabel’s voice was reassuring even if her words weren’t, and I worked her station first. A family of four children, parents, and a grandmother took her biggest table. She took their order with a wide smile, but as she passed me going down to the ice drawer, her teeth were point on point. “Fifty cents,” she snapped, and went on. Helping her clean the table thirty-five minutes later I watched her pick up two lone quarters and repeat, “Fifty cents,” this time in a mournfully conclusive tone. It was a game all the waitresses played. There was a butter bowl on the back counter where the difference was kept, the difference between what you guessed and what you got. No one had to play, but most of the women did. The rules were simple. You had to make your guess at the tip before the order was taken. Some of the women would cheat a little, bringing the menus with the water glasses and saying, “I want ya’ll to just look this over carefully. We’re serving one fine lunch today.” Two lines of conversation and most of them could walk away with a guess within five cents. However much the guess was off went into the bowl. If you said fifty cents and got seventy-five cents, then twenty-five cents to the bowl. Even if you said seventy-five cents and got fifty cents you had to throw in that quarter—guessing high was as bad as guessing short. “We used to just count the short guesses,” Mabel explained, “but this makes it more interesting.”