“Going on?” I fumbled by way of a question. “Nothing.” I thoughtabout it some more. “Nothing,” I repeated, as if what I was vaguelybeginning to get a hint of was so amorphous that it could just as easily beshoved away by my repeated “nothing” and thereby fill the unbearable gapsof silence. “Nothing.”

Now, in the silence of the moment, I stared back, not to defy him,or to show I wasn’t shy any longer, but to surrender, to tell him this is who Iam, this is who you are, this is what I want, there is nothing but truthbetween us now, and where there’s truth there are no barriers,

“I’m not wise at all. I told you, I know nothing. I know books, and Iknow how to string words together—it doesn’t mean I know how to speakabout the things that matter most to me.”

This time I looked out to the sea and, with a vague and weary tone thatwas my last diversion, my last cover, my last getaway, said, “Yes, I knowwhat I’m saying and you’re not mistaking any of it. I’m just not very goodat speaking. But you’re welcome never to speak to me again.

“What things that matter?”Was he being disingenuous?“You know what things. By now you of all people should know.”Silence.“Why are you telling me all this?”“Because I thought you should know.”“Because you thought I should know.” He repeated my words slowly,trying to take in their full meaning, all the while sorting them out,

This was probably the firsttime in my life that I spoke to an adult without planning some of what I wasgoing to say. I was too nervous to plan anything

Did I want to be like him? Did I want to be him? Or did I just want tohave him? Or are “being” and “having” thoroughly inaccurate verbs in thetwisted skein of desire, where having someone’s body to touch and beingthat someone we’re longing to touch are one and the same, just oppositebanks on a river that passes from us to them, back to us and over to themagain in this perpetual circuit where the chambers of the heart, like thetrapdoors of desire, and the wormholes of time, and the false-bottomeddrawer we call identity share a beguiling logic according to which theshortest distance between real life and the life unlived, between who we areand what we want, is a twisted staircase designed with the impish cruelty ofM. C. Escher. When had they separated us, you and me, Oliver?

owthoroughly trenchant was his ability to sort contradictory signals, I have nodoubt that he must have already suspected something.

his is like coming home, like cominghome after years away among Trojans and Lestrygonians, like cominghome to a place where everyone is like you, where people know, they justknow—coming home as when everything falls into place and you suddenlyrealize that for seventeen years all you’d been doing was fiddling with thewrong combination. Which was when I decided to convey without budging,without moving a single muscle in my body, that I’d be willing to yield ifyou pushed, that I’d already yielded, was yours, all yours, except that youwere suddenly gone and though it seemed too true to be a dream, yet I wasconvinced that all I wanted from that day onward was for you to do theexact same thing you’d done in my sleep.

So this is who he also is, I said to myself after seeing how he’d flippedfrom ice to sunshine.I might as well have asked: Do I flip back and forth in just the sameway?P.S. We are not written for one instrument alone; I am not, neither areyou.

After I had finished explaining my transcription, I became aware ofthe keenest glance coming from my left. It thrilled and flattered me; he wasobviously interested—he liked me. It hadn’t been as difficult as all that,then. But when, after taking my time, I finally turned to face him and takein his glance, I met a cold and icy glare—something at once hostile andvitrified that bordered on cruelty.

There is a law somewhere that says that when one person is thoroughlysmitten with the other, the other must unavoidably be smitten as well. Amorch’a null’amato amar perdona.

Hesaw through everybody, but he saw through them precisely because the firstthing he looked for in people was the very thing he had seen in himself andmay not have wished others to see

I would have blushed, and blushed because I had blushed, fuddledwith words and ultimately broken down—and then where would I be? Whatwould he say?Better break down now, I thought, than live another day juggling all ofmy implausible resolutions to try again later

Speechless,I would have admitted things I hadn’t mapped out for myself or didn’tknow I had it in me to admit. Speechless, I would have gotten to where mybody longed to go far sooner than with any bon mot prepared hours aheadof time.

I repeated his phrase as if it were a prophetic mantra meant to reflecthow he lived his life and how I was attempting to live mine.

Or making fun of me. Or seeing through me.It stung me when he finally came out with it. Only someone who hadcompletely figured me out would have said it. “If not later, when?”

When had it started? Andhow was it that I hadn’t been there when it started? And why wasn’t I told?Why wasn’t I able to reconstruct the moment when they progressed from xto y? Surely the signs were all around me. Why didn’t I see them?

I always tried to keep him within my field of vision. I never let him driftaway from me except when he wasn’t with me. And when he wasn’t withme, I didn’t much care what he did so long as he remained the exact sameperson with others as he was with me. Don’t let him be someone else whenhe’s away. Don’t let him be someone I’ve never seen before. Don’t let himhave a life other than the life I know he has with us, with me

Like all caubois, she said: theyknow everything there is to know about food, because they can’t hold aknife and fork properly. Gourmet aristocrats with plebian manners. Feedhim in the kitchen.

It was not only thenational hymn of their southern youth, but it was the best they could offerwhen they wished to entertain royalty.

“Is it better to speak or die?”

Hanging on a hook was this morning’s redbathing suit which he hadn’t swum in, which was why it was hanging thereand not drying on the balcony. I picked it up, never in my life having priedinto anyone’s personal belongings before. I brought the bathing suit to myface, then rubbed my face inside of it, as if I were trying to snuggle into itand lose myself inside its folds—

finally safe from them, and from him—but at what price, and did I want tobe so safe from anyone

But all of these hours were strained by fear, as if fear were a broodingspecter, or a strange, lost bird trapped in our little town, whose sooty wingflecked every living thing with a shadow that would never wash.

When I think back to that summer, I can never sort the sequence ofevents. There are a few key scenes. Otherwise, all I remember are the“repeat” moments.

and these, as I have mentioned in the previous chapter, aresymbolic of Elio himself.

The Ovidian allusions underscore Elio’s double-role as pursuer and pursued.

and I never waited long enough to knowwhether I was even wanted there; look away because I was too scared to stareanyone back; look away because I didn’t want to give anything away

Like Narcissus, each perceives the signs given by the other, but they cannot be sure exactly howto interpret those signs because they do not have any opportunity to talk about the significance oftheir gestures unless they find themselves in a private place. Narcissus notes that his reflection’sgestures mirror his own, but Elio and Oliver do not seem to realize that their signs of love arealmost exactly the same until they have the opportunity to speak about those signs. Nevertheless,in either case, it is the words that are missing: Narcissus needs his reflection to confirm withwords his suspicion that the reflection loves him back, just as Elio and Oliver both need spokenconsent from the other before pursuing their desire for each other.

After the two lovers have at last slept together, we learn that what each perceived as theother’s indifference and dislike had actually been signs of their affection all along. In fact, welearn that the signs they misunderstand are largely signs that each himself uses to conveyaffection, so that they are almost literally in love with their own reflections.

The height of their emotional and physical connection is marked by their exchange andconformity of identity: their love is all about each seeing himself in the other

Elio says that he “repeated his phrase as if it were a prophetic mantra meant to reflecthow he lived his life and how I was attempting to live mine” (Aciman 2007: 51). These examplesfurther highlight Aciman’s theme of repetition which underscores his more potent references tothe myth of Echo and Narcissus.

he channels Echo often in the novel whenhe describes his contemplative repetitions of things Oliver says to him in his dreams or inactuality. He has a dream that Oliver says, “you’ll kill me if you stop,” which happens in hisdreams on various other occasions, and Elio holds onto this phrase until the two of them finallyconsummate their love and Elio repeats the phrase aloud several times

Oliver’s response “hated it?” turns Elio’sstatement into a question, just as Echo turns Narcissus’ question into a statement: dixerat “ecquisadest?” et “adest!” responderat Echo (“He had said, ‘Is anyone here?’ and ‘She is here!’ Echohad responded,” Ov. Met. 6.379)

ndeed, Elio later emphasizes his fear ofspeaking when he likens himself to a knight in a novella he is reading who cannot decidewhether it is better “to speak or to die” in order to resolve his concealed love for a princess(Aciman 2007: 63). We later learn that the knight does decide to speak, but “fudges” and doesnot say everything that he wants to say (Aciman 2007: 68)

Now Elio stares intently at Oliver,but is “fleeing” with the same gesture, playing both the role of the pursuer and the pursued lover.Narcissus, in the same way, conveys both signs of pursuing and being pursued with his gestures,as the reflection of his attempts to court his reflection look to him like gestures appropriate forone being courted

Acimanoften writes summary dialogues between his characters that give us the gist of their conversationwithout including quotation marks.

This sets up Aciman’s thematic comparison of Elio and Oliverwith Alcibiades and Socrates, which I will address in the following chapter.

Through Elio’s espousal of Sappho’s affective language, which is marked as effeminate,his performance of gender subverts our gender expectations

It is notsurprising, then, that his representations of Elio’s relationship with Oliver through references toancient Greek and Roman literature should perform, by themselves, a queer reading of thosetraditional categories of gender and sexual power dynamics.

Aciman has intended for his narrator to resist a single interpretation because Elio is himselfmeant to reflect the condition of people to be dynamic and difficult to categorize.

even after my colortheory was entirely disproved and gave me no confidence to expectkindness on “blue” days or to watch out for “red” days

You makeme like who I am, who I become when you’re with me, Oliver. If there isany truth in the world, it lies when I’m with you, and if I find the courage tospeak my truth to you one day, remind me to light a candle in thanksgivingat every altar in Rome

I remembered the scene in the Bible when Jacob asks Rachel for waterand on hearing her speak the words that were prophesied for him, throws uphis hands to heaven and kisses the ground by the well.

He reads Paul Celan

Had he told her the nice things I’d been saying about her? She seemedupset. Did she mind my sudden intrusion into their little world?

ot like me, insidious, sinister, andbase.

but in urging him tospeak about her behind her back, I’d turn Chiara into the object of man-to-man gossip. It would allow us to warm up to one another through her, tobridge the gap between us by admitting we were drawn to the same woman.

“No harm. Except I like to go it alone, if you don’t mind.”

because I wanted to see if her arousal took thesame turns as mine, so that I might trace mine on hers and see which of thetwo was the genuine article.

I described her naked body, which I’d seen two years before. I wantedhim aroused. It didn’t matter what he desired so long as he was aroused.

wouldhave done anything to ruin every opportunity they had to be alone

I was watching. I dreaded losing him to her. Dreaded losing her to himtoo. Yet thinking of them together did not dismay me. It made me hard,even though I didn’t know if what aroused me was her naked body lying inthe sun, his next to hers, or both of theirs together.

It threw me back to age six.I shrugged my shoulders, meaning, Go ahead, I couldn’t care less. Butno sooner had they left than I scrambled upstairs and began sobbing into mypillow.

If I hurt my face, I’d wanthim to look at me and wonder why, why might anyone do this to himself,until, years and years later—yes, Later!—he’d finally piece the puzzletogether and beat his head against the wall.

If he werein a wheelchair, I would always know where he was, and he’d be easy tofind. I would feel superior to him and become his master, now that he wascrippled

wanted him dead too, so that if I couldn’t stop thinking about him andworrying about when would be the next time I’d see him, at least his deathwould put an end to it.

His life, like his papers, even when it gave every impression of beingchaotic, was always meticulously compartmentalized.

All this to say nothing of his poker and bridge playing at night,which flourished by means totally unknown to us

He was okay with casual.How come you’re not at the beach with the others?Go back to your plunking.Later!Yours!Just making conversation.Casual chitchat.Nothing.

Whenhe came to my assistance to help me understand a fragment by Heraclitus,because I was determined to read “his” author, the words that sprang to mewere not “gentleness” or “generosity” but “patience” and “forbearance,”which ranked higher.

no one lusted after every ripple ofmuscle, no one took him to bed every night and on spotting him in themorning lying in his heaven by the pool, smiled at him, watched a smilecome to his lips, and thought, Did you know I came in your mouth lastnight?

until I realized, almost to my shame, that part of me didn’t mind hisdying, that there was even something almost exciting in the thought of hisbloated, eyeless body finally showing up on our shores

One day I saw Oliver sharing the same ladder with the gardener, tryingto learn all he could about Anchise’s grafts, which explained why ourapricots were larger, fleshier, juicier than most apricots in the region.

that part of his body that must have been fairer than the rest because it neverapricated—and near it, if I dared to bite that far, his apricock

I was seventeen that year and, being the youngest at the tableand the least likely to be listened to, I had developed the habit of smugglingas much information into the fewest possible words

nd you’re basically scrambling to come toterms with something, which, unbeknownst to you, has been brewing forweeks under your very nose and bears all the symptoms of what you’reforced to call I want.

soles, of his throat, of the bottom of his forearms, which hadn’t really beenexposed to much sun. Almost a light pink, as glistening and smooth as theunderside of a lizard’s belly. Private, chaste, unfledged, like a blush on anathlete’s face or an instance of dawn on a stormy night. It told me thingsabout him I never knew to ask

I could grow to like him, though. From rounded chin to rounded heel.Then, within days, I would learn to hate him.

No name added, no jest to smooth out the ruffled leave-taking,nothing. His one-word send-off: brisk, bold, and blunted—take your pick,he couldn’t be bothered which.

is one in which death isacknowledged, with no aversion or discomfort, to exist inherently in the defining nature of livingcreatures.

Whilst Stephen’s early attitude to death denotes his submission to authority, Joana’s earliestattitudes declare her deviation from social normality.

Stephen’sattitude to death is consequently important in his early characterisation, for it both reflects theinfluence of Catholic doctrine upon him and, in his assimilation of Catholic principle into hisevery-day life and the suggested superficiality of his understanding, implies his dutifulness tosurrounding authority.

s expressed by Héléne Cixous, young Stephen initially struggles “to be acceptableto the others™:

Tn both his alignment withCatholic principle and his anxious completion of duties, one perceives a desperation to avoid anyform of transgression, reflecting, perhaps, his state of vulnerability during his early days atClongowes.

y reflecthis eagerness to serve and abide to the Law'* that surrounds him.

betray Stephen’s lack of any real, profound understanding of the weight and meaning of thismoral incentive.

appearing to a reader as irrational and extreme

he simplicity and matter-of-factness with which Stephenassimilates the fear of spiritual death into his nightly routine, and his inherent belief that failureto complete his duties will condemn him to hell,

However,there is a discrepancy in severity between the every-day, straight-forward tasks listed and theconcluding reference to hell and death and, despite this, Stephen treats these elements incombination, indiscriminately.

that Catholic doctrine has been ingrained within him:

This fear of damnation is directly associated withStephen’s Catholic context, for, within the Catholic paradigm, physical death will be succeededby eternal punishment if one has committed severe transgressions.

Stephen’s impetus to quickly fulfil his nightly duties is, seemingly, a fear of spiritual death — hedoes not want to be condemned to hell.

In this moment, Stephen, a pupil at Clongowes School, anxiously tries to complete the sequenceof tasks that must precede sleep.

short, monosyllabic words of the end of the sentence (“so that he might...”).

polysyndeton

Importantly, Stephen’s firstdirect reference to death is aligned with Catholic doctrine:

To investigate the question posed, instances in the narratives of Stephen and Joana that refer todeath will be identified, and the characters’ attitudes and emotional states will be explored,observing how these states have been evoked by the writers. Critical works discussing 4 Portraitand Near to the Wild Heart, and those comparing the works of Clarice Lispector with those ofJames Joyce, will be studied.

However, whilst Cixous explores Stephen’s wishto engage freely and creatively with reality as a reason for his rejection of priesthood,” this essayidentifies a shift in Stephen’s preoccupation, from fearing damnation to prioritising the processof living.

he threw me a very large one, saying, “Yours,”

He had never had apricotjuice in his life. She stood facing him with her salver flat against her apron,trying to make out his reaction as he quaffed it down. He said nothing atfirst. Then, probably without thinking, he smacked his lips.

The Latin word was praecoquum, from pre-coquere, pre-cook, toripen early, as in ‘precocious,’ meaning premature

“I know myself. If I have three, I’ll have a fourth, and more.” I had neverheard someone his age say, I know myself. It intimidated me

Oliver timido? That was new. Could all of his gruff Americanisms benothing more than an exaggerated way of covering up the simple fact thathe didn’t know—or feared he didn’t know—how to take his leavegracefully?

He had, it took me a while to realize, four personalities depending onwhich bathing suit he was wearing. Knowing which to expect gave me theillusion of a slight advantage. Red: bold, set in his ways, very grown-up,almost gruff and ill-tempered—stay away. Yellow: sprightly, buoyant,funny, not without barbs—don’t give in too easily; might turn to red in notime. Green, which he seldom wore: acquiescent, eager to learn, eager tospeak, sunny—why wasn’t he always like this? Blue: the afternoon hestepped into my room from the balcony, the day he massaged my shoulder,or when he picked up my glass and placed it right next to m

ed Loebedition of Lucretius that never left his side

I was Glaucus and he was Diomedes. In the name of some obscure cultamong men, I was giving him my golden armor for his bronze. Fairexchange. Neither haggled, just as neither spoke of thrift or extravagance.

“Listen to this,” he’d sometimes say, removing his headphones,breaking the oppressive silence of those long sweltering summer mornings.“Just listen to this drivel.” And he’d proceed to read aloud something hecouldn’t believe he had written months earlier.“Does it make any sense to you? Not to me.”“Maybe it did when you wrote it,” I said.He thought for a while as though weighing my words.“That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in months”

About Heidegger’s interpretation of a fragment by Heraclitus.

The very possibility of meeting his family suddenly alarmed me—tooreal, too sudden, too in-my-face, not rehearsed enough. Over the years I’dlodged him in the permanent past, my pluperfect lover, put him on ice,stuffed him with memories and mothballs like a hunted ornamentconfabulating with the ghost of all my evenings. I’d dust him off from timeto time and then put him back on the mantelpiece. He no longer belonged toearth or to life. All I was likely to discover at this point wasn’t just howdistant were the paths we’d taken, it was the measure of loss that was goingto strike me—a loss I didn’t mind thinking about in abstract terms butwhich would hurt when stared at in the face, the way nostalgia hurts longafter we’ve stopped thinking of things we’ve lost and may never have caredfor.

Would I like him, wouldhe like me, would either of us understand why the other became who he is,would either be surprised to learn that each of us had in fact run into anOliver of one sort or another, man or woman, and that we were verypossibly, regardless of who came to stay with us that summer, one and thesame person still?

I should have learned to do what he’d have done. Shrugged myshoulders—and been okay with pre-come. But that wasn’t me. It wouldnever have occurred to me to say, So what if he saw? Now he knows

“Later, maybe,”I said, echoing his word but also trying to say as little as possible beforehe’d spot I was out of breath.

I asked, “Must we?” This was theclosest I would ever come to saying, Stay. Just stay with me. Let your handtravel wherever it wishes, take my suit off, take me, I won’t make a noise,won’t tell a soul, I’m hard and you know it, and if you won’t, I’ll take thathand of yours and slip it into my suit now and let you put as many fingersas you want inside me

What struck me was not just his amazing gift for reading people, forrummaging inside them and digging out the precise configuration of theirpersonality, but his ability to intuit things in exactly the way I myself mighthave intuited them. This, in the end, was what drew me to him with acompulsion that overrode desire or friendship or the allurements of acommon religion.

Only once during his very first few days did I get a sense that thiswillful but accommodating, laid-back, water-over-my-back, unflappable,unfazed twenty-four-year-old who was so heedlessly okay with so manythings in life was, in fact, a thoroughly alert, cold, sagacious judge ofcharacter and situations

My father told him his insights into Heraclitus were brilliantbut needed firming up, that he needed to accept the paradoxical nature ofthe philosopher’s thinking, not simply explain it away. He was okay withfirming things up, he was okay with paradox. Back to the drawing board—he was okay with the drawing board as well.

the urge to scramble andunscramble what was never really coded in the first place

miracleof the Resurrection. You could never stare long enough but needed to keepstaring to find out why you couldn’t

I was going forthe devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he’d readmy mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.

A few hourslater, when I remembered that he had just finished writing a book onHeraclitus and that “reading” was probably not an insignificant part of hislife, I realized that I needed to perform some clever backpedaling and lethim know that my real interests lay right alongside his

I had put reading last on my list, thinking that, with the willful, brazenattitude he’d displayed so far, reading would figure last on his.

He asked what I did. I played tennis. Swam. Went out at night. Jogged.Transcribed music. Read.

The water wasinsufficiently cold, not fizzy enough, leaving behind an unslaked likeness ofthirst

If Not Later, When?

billowy blue shirt, wide-open collar, sunglasses, straw hat, skin everywhere

“Later!”

She loved me for the dangers I had passed,And I loved her that she did pity them.

Let husbands knowTheir wives have sense like them. They see and smellAnd have their palates both for sweet and sour,As husbands have

I am not valiant neither,But ever puny whipster gets my sword.But why should honor outlive honesty?Let it go all

But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,Will do as if for surety. He holds me well

So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true.So speaking as I think, alas, I die

Dear general, I never gave you cause

Demand me nothing. What you know, you know.From this time forth I never will speak word.

Myself will straight aboard, and to the stateThis heavy act with heavy heart relate.

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate,Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speakOf one that loved not wisely, but too well.Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought,Perplexed in the extreme.

Set you down this,And say besides that in Aleppo once,Where a malignant and a turbaned TurkBeat a Venetian and traduced the state,I took by the throat the circumcisèd dog,And smote him, thus

My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago

Had she been true,If heaven would make me such another worldOf one entire and perfect chrysolite,I’d not have sold her for it

Oh, I were damned beneath all depth in hell,But that I did proceed upon just groundsTo this extremity.

Oh, the more angel she

Nobody. I myself. Farewel

A murder, which I thought a sacrifice

Yet I’ll not shed her blood,Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snowAnd smooth as monumental alabaster.Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.

For, of my heart, those charms, thine eyes, areblotted.Thy bed, lust-stained, shall with lust’s blood bespotted

And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons.'Tis but a man gone

Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend

And have not we affections,Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?Then let them use us well, else let them know,The ills we do, their ills instruct us so

Why the wrong is but a wrong i' th' world, and havingthe world for your labor, ’tis a wrong in your ownworld, and you might quickly make it right

Why, who would not make her husband acuckold to make him a monarch?

In troth, I think thou wouldst not

I will hear further reason for this.RODERIGOI'll come and hear what reasons you have for doing this.IAGOAnd you shall be satisfied

I will show you such anecessity in his death that you shall think yourselfbound to put it on him.

Why, by making him uncapable of Othello’s place:knocking out his brains.

Oh, fie upon them! Some such squire he wasThat turned your wit the seamy side withoutAnd made you to suspect me with the Moor.

Fie, there is no such man. It is impossible

He called her “whore.” A beggar in his drinkCould not have laid such terms upon his callet.

I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia.I cannot weep, nor answers have I none,But what should go by water.

But, alas, to make meThe fixèd figure for the time of scornTo point his slow and moving finger at!Yet could I bear that too, well, very well.But there where I have garnered up my heart,Where either I must live or bear no life,The fountain from the which my current runsOr else dries up—to be discarded thence!

Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

Othello's description of Emilia'sjob compares Emilia to the keeper of abrothel

"The lowest one. The old woman in the white kimono."

Alas, alas!It is not honesty in me to speakWhat I have seen and known. You shall observe him,And his own courses will denote him soThat I may save my speech. Do but go afterAnd mark how he continues.

Is this the natureWhom passion could not shake?

To LODOVICO) Concerning this, sir—(To DESDEMONA) Oh,well-painted passion!(To LODOVICO) I am commanded home.(To DESDEMONA) Getyou away,I’ll send for you anon.(To LODOVICO) Sir, I obey themandateAnd will return to Venice.(To DESDEMONA) Hence,avaunt!

Good, good, the justice of it pleases! Very good!

Ay, let her rot and perish and be damned tonight, forshe shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone. Istrike it and it hurts my hand. Oh, the world hath not asweeter creature, she might lie by an emperor’s sideand command him tasks

I am a very villain else.

Look how he laughs already!

Do but encave yourself,And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scornsThat dwell in every region of his face

Your case is better.Oh, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock,To lip a wanton in a secure couch,And to suppose her chaste. No, let me know,And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be

A hornèd man’s a monster and a beast.

Nature would not investherself in such shadowing passion without someinstruction. It is not words that shake me thus.

With her, on her, what you will.

As like enough it will, I would have it copied.Take it and do ’t, and leave me for this time.

But jealous souls will not be answered so.They are not ever jealous for the cause,But jealous for they’re jealous. It is a monsterBegot upon itself, born on itself

Either from Venice, or some unhatched practiceMade demonstrable here in Cyprus to him,Hath puddled his clear spirit, and in such casesMen’s natures wrangle with inferior things,Though great ones are their object.

Nay, we must think men are not gods,Nor of them look for such observancesAs fit the bridal.

My lord is not my lord, nor should I know himWere he in favor as in humor altered

Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio,My advocation is not now in tune.

Tis not a year or two shows us a man.They are all but stomachs, and we all but food.To eat us hungerly, and when they are full,

She told her, while she kept it'Twould make her amiable and subdue my fatherEntirely to her love, but if she lost itOr made gift of it, my father’s eyeShould hold her loathèd and his spirits should huntAfter new fancies.

I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me.Lend me thy handkerchief.

A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands,But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts

This hand of yours requiresA sequester from liberty, fasting, and prayer,Much castigation, exercise devout,For here’s a young and sweating devil here,That commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand,A frank one

I think the sun where he was bornDrew all such humors from him.

And but my noble MoorIs true of mind and made of no such baseness

and for one to say a soldier lies,’tis stabbing

Witness that here Iago doth give upThe execution of his wit, hands, heart,To wronged Othello’s service. Let him command,And to obey shall be in me remorse,What bloody business ever

Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throneTo tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,For ’tis of aspics' tongues

I’ll tear her all to pieces

If imputation and strong circumstancesWhich lead directly to the door of truthWill give you satisfaction, you may have ’t

As Dian’s visage, is now begrimed and blackAs mine own face.

By the world,I think my wife be honest and think she is not.I think that thou art just and think thou art not

O world,To be direct and honest is not safe.I thank you for this profit, and from henceI’ll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence

Never pray more

And O you mortal engines, whose rude throatsThe immortal Jove’s dead clamors counterfeit,Farewell! Othello’s occupation’s gone

He that is robbed, not wanting what is stol'n,Let him not know’t, and he’s not robbed at all.

The Moor already changes with my poison.Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisonsWhich at the first are scarce found to distaste,But with a little act upon the bloodBurn like the mines of sulfur

No, but she let it drop by negligenceAnd, to th' advantage, I being here, took ’t up.Look, here it is.

Haply, for I am blackAnd have not those soft parts of conversationThat chamberers have, or for I am declinedInto the vale of years—yet that’s not much—

In the meantime,Let me be thought too busy in my fears—As worthy cause I have to fear I am—And hold her free, I do beseech your honor

In Venice they do let God see the pranksThey dare not show their husbands. Their bestconscience

You cannot, if my heart were in your hand,Nor shall not, whilst ’tis in my custody

But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches himAnd makes me poor indeed

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls

Though I perchance am vicious in my guess,As, I confess, it is my nature’s plagueTo spy into abuses, and oft my jealousyShapes faults that are not, that your wisdom,From one that so imperfectly conceits,Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble

As where’s that palace whereinto foul thingsSometimes intrude not? Who has that breast so pureWherein uncleanly apprehensionsKeep leets and law-days and in sessions sitWith meditations lawful?

Nay, yet there’s more in this.I prithee speak to me as to thy thinkings,As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughtsThe worst of words