Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  So when the classical view reasserted itself in the 1960s, half a century of anti-essentialist research was swept into history’s dustbin. And we are all the poorer for it, considering how much time and money are being wasted today in pursuit of illusory emotion essences. At press time, Microsoft is analyzing facial photographs in an attempt to recognize emotion. Apple has recently purchased Emotient, a startup company using artificial intelligence techniques in an effort to detect emotion in facial expressions. Companies are programming Google Glass ostensibly to detect emotion in facial expressions in an effort to help autistic children. Politicians in Spain and Mexico are engaging in so-called neuropolitics to discern voter preferences from their facial expressions. Some of the most pressing questions about emotion remain unanswered, and important questions remain obscured, because many businesses and scientists continue practicing essentialism while the rest of us are figuring out how emotions are made. 38 It’s hard to give up the classical view when it represents deeply held beliefs about what it means to be human. Nevertheless, the facts remain that no one has found even a single reliable, broadly replicable, objectively measurable essence of emotion. When mountains of contrary data don’t force people to give up their ideas, then they are no longer following the scientific method. They are following an ideology. And as an ideology, the classical view has wasted billions of research dollars and misdirected the course of scientific inquiry for over a hundred years. If people had followed evidence instead of ideology seventy years ago, when the Lost Chorus pretty solidly did away with emotion essences, who knows where we’d be today regarding treatments for mental illness or best practices for rearing our children. 39 ... Every scientific journey is a story. Sometimes it’s a story of gradual discovery: “Once upon a time, people didn’t know very much, but we learned more and more over the years, and today we know lots of stuff.” Other times, it’s a tale of radical change: “Everyone used to believe something that seemed correct, but boy were we wrong! Now the fascinating truth is here.” Our journey is more of a story within a story. The inner story is how emotions are made, wrapped in an outer story of what it means to be human. “For two thousand years, people believed something about emotions, despite abundant counterevidence all around us. The human brain, you see, is wired to mistake its perceptions for reality. Today, powerful tools have yielded a more evidence-based explanation that’s almost impossible to ignore . . . yet some people still manage.” The good news is that we’re in a golden age of mind and brain research. Many scientists are now on a path forged by the data, rather than ideology, to understand emotion and ourselves.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  I went to the Heidelberg main library and began looking through guidebooks. Most of them were routine, with glossy photos of the Schloss and old engravings of the pasty-faced Electors of the Palatinate. Finally I came across a library-bound one, English and German on facing pages, with cheap, yellowing paper, black and white photographs and old Gothic type. The publication date was 1937, and every ten pages or so a paragraph or a photo or a small block of type was covered over with a square of oak-tag. These little squares were firmly glued down so that you couldn’t lift the corners, but the minute I saw them I knew I wouldn’t rest until I had unglued them all and discovered what was underneath. I checked out the book (along with four others so the librarian wouldn’t be suspicious) and raced home where I carefully steamed the offending pages over a tea-kettle spout. It was interesting to see what the censor had thought to censor: A photograph of the amphitheater in all its glory: flags rippling in the wind, hands flying upward in a Nazi salute, hundreds of little pinpoints of light—representing Aryan heads—or perhaps, Aryan brains. A passage describing the amphitheater as “One of the monumental buildings of the Third Reich, a Giantic [sic] Openairtheatre which aims at uniting thousands of Fellow-Germans for Festive and Solemn-Hours in a common Experience of Loyalty to the Fatherland and Inspirations of the Nature.” A paragraph describing the (now rutted and bumpy) Heidelberg-Frankfurt Autobahn as the “Giantic [sic] and Monumental Creation of the New Age which is so much Promising.” A paragraph describing Germany as “This Nation favored to the Gods and placed in the First Ranks of the Great and Powerful Nations…” A photograph of the main assembly hall of the university with swastikas hanging from every Gothic arch…. A photograph of the mensa with swastikas hanging from every Roman arch…. And so on and so on throughout the book. I was in a frenzy of outrage and moral indignation. I sat down at my desk and scrawled a furious column about honesty, dishonesty, and almighty History. I asked for truth above beauty, History above beauty, and honesty above all. I fumed and sputtered and spouted. I pointed to the offensive oak-tag patches in the guidebook as examples of all that was odious in life and art. They were like Victorian fig leaves on Greek sculptures, like nineteenth-century clothes painted over erotic frescoes of the quattrocento. I alluded to the way Ruskin had burned Turner’s paintings of the Venice brothels, how Boswell’s greatgrandchildren had tried to obliterate the bawdy parts of his journals, and compared these to the way the Germans tried to deny their own history. Such sins of omission! And it was all so pointless! Nothing human was worth denying. Even if it was unspeakably ugly, we could learn from it, couldn’t we? Or could we? I never questioned that at all. The truth—I was certain—would make us free.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Outside a flurry of whistle-blowing started up. ‘For fuckssake – we were clearly in here – you should have made yourself known.’ ‘Sorry, sorry, pardon,’ said the woman, and began to back herself out of the room. ‘ No ,’ said Victoria. ‘Don’t leave – I’m asking you a question. Hello? Speak English?’ ‘Victoria, please,’ said Howard. ‘Excuse me, sorry,’ continued the maid; she opened the door and, bowing and nodding, made good her escape. The door eased itself slowly to its click. They were left together in the room. ‘ God , that makes me angry,’ said Victoria. ‘Anyway. Bollocks. Sorry.’ She laughed softly and took a step towards Howard. Howard took a step back. ‘I think that’s rather spoilt the . . .’ he said, as Victoria approached, saying shhhh and removing one shoulder of her coat. She pressed her body against his and pushed her thigh gently into his balls. Howard now produced a well-worn phrase that went perfectly with the coat and the corset and the garters and the fluffy-toed mules Victoria had brought along in her schoolbag. ‘I’m sorry – I can’t do this!’  On Beauty  ‘It’s very simple. Ah’ve saved all the images to your hard drive – and awl you gotta do is put them in the order that you’re gonna need for the lecture, and you put any quotes or diagrams down, in order – just like a normal word-processing file. And then we’ve put it all in the right format. See this?’ Smith J. Miller leaned over Howard’s shoulder and touched his fingers to Howard’s keyboard. He had baby breath: warm and odourless and fresh like steam. ‘Click and drag. Click and drag. And you can take stuff off the web too. Saved a good Rembrandt site for you, see? Now, that has high-definition images of all the paintings you’ll need. ’Kay?’ Howard nodded mutely. ‘Now, ah’m going to lunch, but ah’ll be back in the afternoon to pick this up off you and turn it into pah -point. ’Kay? This is the future.’ Howard looked dejectedly at the hardware before him. ‘Howard,’ said Smith, putting a hand to his shoulder, ‘this is gonna be a real good lecture. It’s a nice atmosphere, it’s a nice little gallery, and everybody’s on your side. A little wine, a little cheese, a little lecture, everybody goes home. It’s gonna be slick, it’s gonna be professional. Nothing to worry about. You’ve done this a million times. ’Cept this time you got a little help from Mr Bill Gates. Now, ah’ll be back at about three to pick this up.’ Smith delivered one last squeeze to Howard’s left shoulder and picked up his slim briefcase. ‘Wait – ’ said Howard. ‘Have we sent all the invitations?’ ‘Did that in November.’ ‘Burchfield, Fontaine, French – ’ ‘Howard, everybody who can make a difference for you here has been invited. It’s all done.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  the gods and doing reverence to their images, we use to kiss our right hand and turn about with our whole body.” 187 LUCIUS APULEIUS bant. Sacra diae praetereuntur, templa deformantur, pulvinaria proteruntur,! caerimoniae negleguntur ; in- coronata simulaera et arae viduae frigido cinere foedatae. Puellae supplicatur, et in humanis vul- tibus deae tantae numina placantur, et in matutino progressu virginis victimis et epulis Veneris absentis nomen propitiatur, iamque per plateas commeantem populi frequenter floribu» sertis et solutis appre- cantur. * Haee honorum caelestium ad puellae mortalis cultum immodica translatio verae Veneris vehe- menter incendit animos, et impatiens indignationis, capite quassanti fremens altius, sic secum disserit : 30 *En rerum naturae prisca parens, en elementorum origo initialis, en orbis totius alma Venus, quae cum mortali puella partiario maiestatis honore tractor et nomen meum caelo conditum terrenis sordibus pro- fanatur! Nimirum communi numinis piamento vicariae venerationis incertum sustinebo, et ima- ginem meam circumferet puella moritura. Frustra me pastor ille, cuius iustitiam fidemque magnus comprobavit lupiter, ob eximiam Speciem tantis praetulit deabus. Sed non adeo gaudens ista, quae- cumque est, meos honores usurpaverit: iam faxo ! Salmasius’ correction of the MS9’ proferuntur, 188 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK IV to worship her. Her liturgies were left out, her temples defaced, her couches ! contemned, her cere- monies neglected, and her bare altars unswept and foul with the ashes of old burnt sacrifice. For why, every person honoured and worshipped this maiden instead of Venus, calling upon the divinity of that great goddess in a human form, and in the morning at her first coming abroad, offered unto her oblations, provided banquets, called her by the name of Venus which was not Venus indeed, and in her honour, as she walked in the streets, presented flowers and garlands in most reverent fashion. “This sudden change and alteration of celestial honour unto the worship of a mortal maiden did greatly inflame and kindle the mind of very Venus, who (unable to temper herself from indignation, shaking her head in raging sort) reasoned with her- self in this manner: ‘ Behold I, the original of nature, the first beginning of all the elements, behold IJ, the Lady Venus of all the world, am now joined with a mortal maiden as a partaker of my honour ; my name, registered in the city of heaven, is profaned and made vile by terrene absurdities. If I shall suffer any mortal creature to present my majesty in earth, and must be content with sharing the godhead and receiving worship through other, or that any girl that one day is to die shall bear about a false sur- mised shape of my person, then in vain did Paris that shepherd (in whose just judgement and con- fidence the great Jupiter had affiance) prefer me above the other great goddesses for the excellency of my beauty: but she, whatsoever she be, shall not 1 Pulvinaria : cushions used in certain public feasts and processions of the gods. 189 31 LUCIUS APULEIUS

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  Thus Fotis lamented in pitiful sort, but I that was now a perfect ass, and for Lucius a brute beast, did yet retain the sense and understanding of a man. And I did devise a good space with myself, whether it were best for me to kill this mischievous and 137 LUCIUS APULEIUS appetens necare deberem : sed ab incepto temerario melior me sententia revocavit, ne morte multata Fotide salutares mihi suppetias rursus extinguerem. Deiecto itaque et quassanti capite ac demussata tem- porali contumelia durissimo casui meo serviens ad equum illum vectorem meum probissimum in stabu- lum concedo, ubi alium etiam Milonis quondam hos- pitis mei asinum stabulantem inveni ; atque ego rebar, si quod inesset mutis animalibus tacitum ac naturale sacramentum, agnitione ac miseratione quadam in- ductum equum illum meum hospitium ac loca lautia mihi praebiturum: ‘sed pro lupiter hospitalis. et Fidei secreta numina! Praeclarus ille vector meus cum asino capita conferunt in meamque perniciem illieo consentiunt et, verentes scilicet cibariis suis, vix me praesepio videre proximantem ; deiectis auri- bus iam furentes infestis calcibus: insequuntur, et abigor quam procul ab hordeo quod apposueram vesperi meis manibus illi gratissimo famulo. 27 . Sic affectus atque in solitudinem relegatus angulo stabuli concesseram, dumque de insolentia collegarum meorum mecum cogito atque in alterum diem auxilio rosario Lucius denuo futurus equi perfidi vindictam meditor, respicio pilae mediae, quae stabuli trabes sustinebat, in ipso fere meditullio Eponae deae simu- lacerum residens aediculae, quod accurate corollis roseis equidem recentibus fuerat ornatum. Denique 138 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK III wicked harlot by tearing her with my mouth and kicking her with my heels. Buta better thought reduced me from so rash a purpose, for I feared lest by the death of Fotis I should be deprived of all remedy and help. Then drooping and shaking my head, and dissimulating my ire for the nonce, and bending to my adversity, I went into the stable to my own good horse that once carried me, where I found another ass of Milo's sometime mine host, and I did verily think that my own horse (if there were any natural conscience or faithfulness in brute beasts) would know me and take pity upon me, and proffer me a good lodging for that night. But fie upon Jupiter that is the god of hospitality and the secret divinity of Faith ! Forsee, my good horse and the ass as it were consented together to work my harm lest I should eat up their provender, and scarce did they see me come nigh the manger, but they put down their ears and kicked me with their heels from their meat, which I myself had given that grateful servant of mine, the horse, the night before.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  “It’s all a question of faith,” he said. “It has always been a question of faith. My word, or the word of the multitude? You chose the multitude. But that doesn’t make it right. And what’s more—you know it. I feel sorry for you. You’re so damned weak. You never did have any guts.” He pounded the clay into a thin pancake. “Brian—you have to try to understand my position. I felt I was going to crack under the strain. Your parents were screaming at me all the time. The doctors were preaching. I stopped knowing who I was—” “You were under a strain? You! Who got locked up—you or me? Who got dosed with Thorazine—you or me? Who got sold down the river—you or me?” “Both of us,” I said crying. Great big salty drops were running down my face and into the corners of my mouth. They tasted good. Tears have such a comforting taste. As if you could weep a whole new womb and crawl into it. Alice in her own sea of tears. “Both of us! That’s a laugh!” “It’s true,” I said, “we both got hurt. You don’t have the monopoly on pain.” “Go,” he said, picking up the flattened clay and beginning to roll it into a snake, “get thee to a nunnery, Ophelia. Drown yourself for all I care—” “You never seem to remember that you made an attempt on my life, do you?” I knew I shouldn’t say this, but I was just so angry. “Your life! If you loved me—if you knew the goddamned meaning of sacrifice—if you weren’t such a spoiled brat, you wouldn’t give me this shit about your life!” “Brian, don’t you remember?” “Remember what? I remember how you got me locked up—that’s what I remember—” Suddenly it dawned on me that there were two versions of the nightmare we had been through—his version and my version—and that they coincided in no way at all. Brian not only had no empathy for my unhappiness; he had no awareness of it. He didn’t even remember the events which had sent him to the hospital. How many other versions of our reality were there? My version, Brian’s, his parents’, my parents’, the doctors’, the nurses’, the social workers’…There were an infinite number of versions, an infinite number of realities. Brian and I had been through a nightmare together, and now it turned out that we had been through nothing together. We had entered an experience through the same door, but then wandered off into separate tunnels, staggered through separate darknesses alone, and emerged finally at opposite ends of the earth. Brian stared at me coldly as if I were his sworn enemy. For the life of me, I cannot remember our parting words to each other.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  He had to move position to where the phlegm was not in his sightline. ‘I know that guy,’ said Levi as he shuffled across the carpet. Choo laughed. ‘No, I do . . . I mean I don’t know him know him, but he’s this guy that . . . well, my pops hates his ass, he’s like, you even mention his name and he’s like – ’ Choo pointed his long forefinger right in Levi’s face. ‘If you know him, know this: that man is a liar and a thief. We know all about him, in our community, we follow his progress – writing his lies, claiming his glories. You rob the peasants of their art and it makes you a rich man! A rich man! Those artists died poor and hungry. They sold what they had for a few dollars out of desperation – they didn’t know! Poor and hungry ! I served him his wine – ’ Here Choo lifted his hand and pretended to pour out a glass, with a crude servile look on his face. ‘Don’t ever sell your soul, my brother. It isn’t worth twenty-two dollars. I was weeping inside. Don’t ever sell it for a few dollars. Everybody tries to buy the black man. Every body,’ he said, pounding the carpet with a fist, ‘tries to buy the black man. But he can’t be bought. His day is coming.’ ‘I hear you,’ confirmed Levi and, not wanting to be an ungrateful guest, took the joint that was, once again, offered to him. This same morning, in Wellington, Kiki also paid an unannounced call. ‘It’s Clotilde, isn’t it?’ The girl stood shivering, holding the door ajar. She gazed at Kiki  on beauty and being wrong vacantly. She was so slender Kiki could see her hip bones through her jeans. ‘I’m Kiki – Kiki Belsey? We met before.’ Now Clotilde opened the door a little wider and, upon recogniz-ing Kiki, became distressed. She gripped the door handle, twisting the plank of her upper body. She had no English words to convey her news. ‘ Oh . . . madame, oh, mon Dieu, Meeses Kipps – Vous ne le savez pas? Mme Kipps n’est plus ici . . . Vous comprenez? ’ ‘Sorry, I – ’ ‘ Meeses Kipps – elle a e´te´ très malade, et tout d’un coup elle est morte! Dead!’ ‘Oh, no, no, I know . . .’ said Kiki, fanning her hands up and down, putting out the fire of Clotilde’s anxiety. ‘Oh, God, I should have called ahead – yes, Clotilde, yes, I comprehend . . .

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  I felt my life needed a shake-up. There was another thing, too: moth holes had appeared in the plush of matrimonial comfort. During the last weeks I had kept noticing that my fat Valeria was not her usual self; had acquired a queer restlessness; even showed something like irritation at times, which was quite out of keeping with the stock character she was supposed to impersonate. When I informed her we were shortly to sail for New York, she looked distressed and bewildered. There were some tedious difficulties with her papers. She had a Nansen, or better say Nonsense, passport which for some reason a share in her husband’s solid Swiss citizenship could not easily transcend; and I decided it was the necessity of queuing in the préfecture, and other formalities, that had made her so listless, despite my patiently describing to her America, the country of rosy children and great trees, where life would be such an improvement on dull dingy Paris. We were coming out of some office building one morning, with her papers almost in order, when Valeria, as she waddled by my side, began to shake her poodle head vigorously without saying a word. I let her go on for a while and then asked if she thought she had something inside. She answered (I translate from her French which was, I imagine, a translation in its turn of some Slavic platitude): “There is another man in my life.” Now, these are ugly words for a husband to hear. They dazed me, I confess. To beat her up in the street, there and then, as an honest vulgarian might have done, was not feasible. Years of secret sufferings had taught me superhuman self-control. So I ushered her into a taxi which had been invitingly creeping along the curb for some time, and in this comparative privacy I quietly suggested she comment her wild talk. A mounting fury was suffocating me—not because I had any particular fondness for that figure of fun, Mme Humbert, but because matters of legal and illegal conjunction were for me alone to decide, and here she was, Valeria, the comedy wife, brazenly preparing to dispose in her own way of my comfort and fate. I demanded her lover’s name. I repeated my question; but she kept up a burlesque babble, discoursing on her unhappiness with me and announcing plans for an immediate divorce. “Mais qui est-ce?” I shouted at last, striking her on the knee with my fist; and she, without even wincing, stared at me as if the answer were too simple for words, then gave a quick shrug and pointed at the thick neck of the taxi driver. He pulled up at a small café and introduced himself. I do not remember his ridiculous name but after all those years I still see him quite clearly—a stocky White Russian ex-colonel with a bushy mustache and a crew cut; there were thousands of them plying that fool’s trade in Paris.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  She struggled to find a route through this cool, featureless irony Zora and her friends seemed to cherish so. ‘What?’ said Zora, archly innocent, repelling genuine inquiry. ‘I don’t know these things. I don’t know what’s happening with the sleeping arrangements.’ She turned away again and opened the double doors of the fridge, taking a step forward into its cavernous interior. ‘I just prefer to leave you two to have your little soap opera. If the drama must continue, it must continue.’ ‘There’s no drama.’ Zora used both hands to lift up a massive carton of juice, high and away from her body, like a cup she’d won. ‘Whatever you say, Mom.’ ‘Just do me a favour, Zoor – just cool it this morning. I’d like to get through the day without everybody yelling.’ ‘Like I said – whatever you say.’ Kiki sat down at the kitchen table. She worked a wood-wormed groove at its edge with her finger. She could hear Zora’s eggs sizzle and spit under the pressure of the cook’s impatience, the stench of  the anatomy lesson burning pans already part of the process from the moment the gas was lit. ‘So where’d Levi get to?’ asked Zora brightly. ‘I have no idea. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. He didn’t come back from work.’ ‘I hope he’s using protection.’ ‘Oh, God , Zora.’ ‘What? You should make a list of the subjects we’re not allowed to talk about any more. So I know.’ ‘I think he went to a club. I’m not sure. I can’t keep him home.’ ‘No, Mom,’ said Zora in a two-note trill, meant to pacify the paranoid, the tediously menopausal. ‘Of course no one’s saying that.’ ‘As long as he’s in on school nights. I don’t know what else I can do. I’m his mother – I’m not a jailer.’ ‘Look, I don’t care . Salt?’ ‘On the side – just there.’ ‘So, you doing anything today? Yoga?’ Kiki flopped forward in her chair and held her calves in both hands. The weight of herself tugged her further forward than most people. If she wanted, she could put her palms flat on the floor. ‘I don’t think so. I tore something last time.’ ‘Well, I won’t be here for lunch. I can only really eat one meal a day at this point. I’m going shopping – you should come,’ offered Zora, without enthusiasm. ‘We haven’t done that in for ever. I need some new shit to wear. I hate everything I own.’ ‘You look fine.’ ‘Right. I look fine.

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  238, 311 [1972], [Stewart, J., concurring], as cited in Pillsbury 1989, 655n2). Since then, the Supreme Court has worked hard to remove emotional considerations from sentencing. Presumably, they assume that if a judge follows the rules, without the aid of emotion, then the outcome will be fair. Of course, the brain’s wiring reveals that no judgment is ever free of body-budgeting considerations, and therefore a judge can implement the rules with affective realism ( chapter 4 ) without ever knowing it. Ironically, judges know they need affect to do their job. Here is a quote from one judge: “Now, there’s two things that can happen to you. Either you’re going to remain a decent person and become terribly upset by it all because your emotions—because your feelings are being pricked by all of this constantly or you’re going to become—you’re going to grow a skin on you as thick as a rhino, in which case I believe you’re going to become an inadequate judicial officer because once you lose the human—the feeling for humanity you can’t really—I don’t believe you can do the job” (Anleu and Mack 2005, 612). See heam.info/judges-1 . “more to be nurtured than feared”: Brennan 1988, as cited in Wistrich et al. 2015. Brennan foreshadowed Antonio Damasio. Science is on Justice Brennan’s side here: no one is immune to affective realism ( chapter 4 ). [back] 58. Aurora, Colorado, in 2012: Wikipedia, s.v. “2012 Aurora Shooting,” last modified April 21, 2016, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Aurora_shooting . construct an experience of anger: We might say that anger is appropriate, and even useful, because it is a form of social reality that shows the judge to be committed to preserving moral order in a society that promotes respect for others. See Berns 1979, in Pillsbury 1989, 689n112; also see Ortony et al. 1990. victim of some sort himself: Pillsbury 1989. There is a longstanding controversy over the role of empathy and emotions in judicial practice. Interested readers should see heam.info/empathy-2 . ignorance of the defendant’s perspective: Anger as ignorance comes from contemplative philosophies such as Buddhism. punishing the offender during sentencing: Pillsbury 1989. It is difficult for a judge to see himself as similar to a defendant, which might be why judges are more likely to hand out maximum sentences (ibid., 705n155). of emotion in the courtroom: See heam.info/empathy-3 . For an example of how enhanced emotional granularity improves moral decision-making, see Cameron et al. 2013. [back] 59. a host of other illnesses: Copeland et al. 2013. [back] 60. early adversity have shorter telomeres: Kiecolt-Glaser et al. 2011. [back] 61. disease of prediction gone wrong: Borsook 2012. [back] 62. “cruel and unusual punishment”: Convention (III) relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War. Geneva, August 12, 1949. Prisoners of war “are entitled in all circumstances to respect for their persons and their honour” (article 14) and “must at all times be protected . . . against insults and public curiosity” (article 13). U.S.

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  in chiefly the servant, who only-was reported to-know all the matter. By and by this rope-ripe slave came in, who, nothing abashed at the fear of so great a judgement, or at the presence of the judges in con- clave, orat his own guilty conscience, began ‘to tell and to swear as true all those lies which he so: finely feigned. With a bold countenance he presented himself ‘before the justices, and confirmed the accu- sation -against-the young man, saying: “ O:yejudges, on a day when this young man loathed and hated his stepmother he called me, desiring me to poison his brother, whereby he might revenge himself, and if 1 would do it, and keep the matter secret, he promised to give me a good reward for my pains; but when the young man perceived that I would not accord to his will, he threatened to slay me: ‘whereupon‘he went himself.and bought. poison, and after tempered it with wine, and then gave it me to give to the child; but when he thought that I did it not, but kept it to be a witness of his crime, he offered it to his brother with his own-hands." When the varlet with a feigned and trembling countenance had ended these words, which seemed a likelihood of truth, the _judgement-was-ended : neither was ‘there found any judge or counsellor so merciful to the young man accused as would not judge him culpable, but rather gave sentence that he should‘ be put and sewn in the leather sack for parricides.1 Wherefore, since the sentences of all were alike, and all did agree to the same verdict, there wanted nothing but (as the ancient custom 'was)'to put the sentences into a brazen .pot, and when once they were cast thither, the decision of fate being finally taken, it should 1 The parricide was sewn up in a sack with a dog, a cock, a snake, and an ape, and thrown into a river or the sea. i 487 LUCIUS APULEIUS commutari licebat, sed mancipabatur potestas capitis in manum carnificis, unus e curia senior, prae ceteris compertae fidei atque auctoritatis praecipuae medi- cus, orificium urnae manu contegens ne quis mitteret caleulum temere, haec ad ordinem pertulit : * Quod aetatis sum, vobis approbatum me vixisse gaudeo, nec patiar falsis criminibus petito reo mani- festum homicidium perpetrari,nec vos, qui iureiurando astricti iudicatis, inductos servuli mendacio peierare. Ipse non possum calcata numinum religione conscien- tiam meam fallens perperam pronuntiare : ergo ut

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  sentire debetis,” et aggressus insigni facilitate naviter cuncta praeministrat. Verrit, sternit, coquit, tucceta concinnat, apponit scitule, sed praecipue poculis erebris grandibusque singulos ingurgitat. Interdum tamen insimulatione promendi quae posce- bat usus, ad puellam commeabat assidue, partesque surreptas clanculo et praegustatas a se potiones offerebat hilaris: at illa sumebat appetenter, et non- nunquam basiare volenti promptis saviolis allu- bescebat. Quae res oppido mihi displicebat : « Hem oblita es nuptiarum tuique. mutui cupitoris, puella virgo? Et illi nesciocui recenti marito, quem tibi parentes iunxerunt, hune advenam cruentumque percussorem praeponis? Nec te conscientia stimulat, sed affectione calcata inter lanceas et gladios istos scortari tibi libet ? Quid, si quo modo latrones ceteri persenserint ? Non rursum recurres ad asinum et rursum exitium mihi parabis? Re vera ludis de alieno corio." Dum ista sycophanta ego mecum maxima cum indignatione disputo, de verbis eorum quibusdam dubiis, sed non obscuris prudenti asino, cognosco non Haemum illum praedonem famosum sed Tlepo- lemum sponsum puellae ipsius. Nam procedente ser- mone paulo iam clarius, contempta mea praesentia quasi vere mortui, “ Bono animo es” inquit * Charite 316 202 Mila d'air THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK VII jollity.” Whereupon by and by with pleasant cheer he prepared all things very cleverly ; and trimming up the house he set the table in order and cooked the meal, and brought the pottage and dainty dishes to the table; but above all, he plied them well with great pots and jugs of wine. Sometimes (feigning to fetch somewhat they required) he would go to the maiden and give her pieces of meat which he had privily taken away, and would give her cups of wine whence he had already drunken, which she willingly took in good part. Moreover, he kissed her twice or thrice, whereof she was well pleased, and would gladly kiss him in return again; but I (not well content thereat) thought in myself: * O wretched maid, hast thou forgotten thy marriage, and thy lover whom thou didst love, thou a virgin maid, and dost esteem this stranger and bloody thief above thy dear husband which thy parents ordained for thee ? Now perceive I well thou hast no remorse of con- science, but more delight to do utterly away with thy love and play the harlot here amongst so many weapons and swords. What, knowest thou not how the other thieves, if they knew thy demeanour, would put thee back to the ass’s death as they had once appointed, and so work my destruction likewise? Well do now I perceive that thou dost take pleasure and sport at the risk of another's hide.”

• From The Golden Ass (Metamorphoses) (2)

  “ Thus she complained, and immediately departed and went to, her golden chamber, where she found her son wounded, as it was told unto her; whom when she beheld she stood at the door and cried out very loudly in this sort: ‘Is this an honest thing? Is this honourable to thy parents and to thine own good name? Is this reason that thou hast first vio- lated and broken the commandment of thy mother and sovereign mistress? And whereas thou shouldest have vexed my enemy with a loathsome and base love, thou hast done contrary: for (being but of tender and unripe years) thou hast with too licen- tious appetite embraced her, that my most mortal foe shall be made a daughter unto me; Thou pre- sumest and thinkest (thou trifling boy, thou varlet, and without all love) that thou art alone my true child, and that I am not able by reason of mine 1 Zit. “not yet clothed as a man.” 243 30 LUCIUS APULEIUS generosum, nec me iam per aetatem posse concipere : velim ergo scias multo te meliorem filium alium genituram ; immo, ut contumeliam magis sentias, aliquem de meis adoptaturam vernulis eique dona- turam istas pinnas et flammas et arcum et ipsas sagittas etomnem meam supellectilem, quam tibi non ad hos usus dederam : nec enim de patris tui bonis ad instructionem istam quicquam concessum est. Sed male prima pueritia inductus es et acutas manus habes et maiores tuos irreverenter pulsasti totiens et ipsam matrem tuam, me inquam ipsam parricida denudas cotidie et percussisti saepius et quasi viduam utique contemnis, nec vitricum tuum fortissi- - mum illum maximumque bellatorem metuis. Quidni? Cui saepius in angorem mei paelicatus puellas pro- pinare consuesti. Sed iam faxo te lusus huius pae- niteat et sentias acidas et amaras istas nuptias. Sed nunc irrisui habita quid agam? Quo me conferam ? Quibus modis stelionem istum cohibeam ? . Petamne auxilium ab inimica mea Sobrietate, quam propter huius ipsius luxuriam offendi saepius? At rusticae squalentisque feminae colloquium prorsus horresco. Nec tamen vindictae solacium undeunde spernendum est: illa mihi prorsus adhibenda est nec ulla alia, quae castiget asperrime nugonem istum, pharetram explicet et sagittas dearmet, arcum enodet, taedam deflammet, immo et ipsum corpus eius acrioribus remediis coerceat. Tunc iniuriae meae litatum credi- derim, cum eius comas, quas istis manibus meis 244 THE GOLDEN ASS, BOOK V

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  “I wish it worked that way. But it doesn’t. You’re always reliving your childhood whether you admit it or not—what the hell do you think you’re doing with Adrian Goodlove? He looks exactly like your father—or maybe you hadn’t noticed.” “I hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t look anything like my father.” Bennett snorted. “That’s a laugh.” “Look—I’m not going to argue with you about whether or not he looks like my father, but this is the first goddamned time you’ve ever showed any interest in me or acted as if you loved me at all. I have to bloody well fuck someone before your very eyes or you don’t give a damn about me. That’s pretty funny, isn’t it? Doesn’t your psychoanalytic theory tell you anything about that? Maybe it’s your Oedipal problem now. Maybe I’m your mother and Adrian resembles your father. Why don’t we all sit down and have a group grope about it? Actually, I think Adrian’s in love with you. I’m just the go-between. It’s you he really wants.” “It wouldn’t surprise me at all. I told you I think he’s queer.” “Why don’t we all sleep together and find out?” “No, thanks. But don’t let me stop you if that’s what you want.” “I won’t.” “Go ahead,” Bennett screamed with more passion than I had ever heard him muster. “Go off with him! You’ll never do any serious work again. I’m the only person in your life who’s held you together this long—but go ahead and leave! You’ll screw yourself up so thoroughly that you’ll never do anything worthwhile again.” — “How can you expect to have anything interesting to write about if you’re so afraid of new experiences?” Adrian asked. I had just told him that I wouldn’t go with him but had decided to return home with Bennett instead. We were sitting in Adrian’s Triumph, parked on a back street near the university. (Bennett was at a meeting on “Aggression in Large Groups.”) “I plunge into new experiences all the time. That’s just the trouble.” “Bullshit. You’re a scared little princess. I offer you an experience that could really change you, one you really could write about, and you run away. Back to Bennett and New York. Back to your safe little marital cubbyhole. Christ—I’m glad I’m not married anymore if this is what it leads to. I thought you had more guts than this. After reading all your ‘sensual and erotic’ poems—in inverted commas—I thought better of you than this.” He gave me a disgusted look. “If I spent all my time being sensual and erotic, I’d be too tired to write about it,” I pleaded. “You’re a fake,” he said, “a total fake. You’ll never have anything worthwhile to write about if you don’t grow up. Courage is the first principle. You’re just scared.” “Don’t bully me.” “Who’s bullying you? I’m just leveling with you. You’ll never know fuck-all about writing if you don’t learn courage.”

• From On Beauty (2005)

  And that’s true. This stuff is close . It’s recent.’ ‘As long as we encourage a culture of victimhood,’ said Monty, with the rhythmic smoothness of self-quotation, ‘we will continue to raise victims. And so the cycle of underachievement continues.’ ‘Well,’ said Kiki, holding on to a fence-post so she could hop heavily over a big puddle, ‘I don’t know . . . I just think it stinks of a kind of, well, a kind of self-hatred when we’ve got black folks arguing against opportunities for black folks. I mean – we don’t need to be arguing among ourselves at this point. There’s a war on! We got black kids dying on the front line on the other side of the world, and they’re in that army ’cos they think college has got nothing to offer them. I mean, that’s the reality here.’ Monty shook his head and smiled. ‘Mrs Belsey – are you informing me that I am to let unqualified students into my classes to prevent them from joining the United States Army?’ ‘Call me Kiki – well, OK, maybe that’s not the argument I want to pursue – but this self-hatred . When I look at Condoleezza, and Co -lin – God! I want to be sick – I see this rabid need to separate themselves away from the rest of us – it’s like ‘‘We got the opportunity and now the quota’s full and thank you very much, adios.’’ It’s that right-wing black self-hatred – I’m sorry if I offend you by saying that, but I mean . . . isn’t that a part of it? I’m not even talking politics now, I’m talking about a kind of, of, of psychology .’ They had reached the top of Wellington Hill and now heard the various church bells ring in the midday. Laid out beneath them, tucked up in its bed of snow, was one of the most peaceful, affluent, well-educated and pretty towns in America. ‘Kiki, if there’s one thing I understand about you liberals, it’s how much you like to be told a fairytale. You complain about  on beauty and being wrong creation myths – but you have a dozen of your own. Liberals never believe that conservatives are motivated by moral convictions as profoundly held as those you liberals profess your selves to hold. You choose to believe that conservatives are motivated by a deep self-hatred, by some form of . . . psychological flaw . But, my dear, that’s the most comforting fairytale of them all!’  Zora Belsey’s real talent was not for poetry but persistence. She could dispatch three letters in an afternoon, all to the same recipient.

• From Fear of Flying (1973)

  I explored Heidelberg like a spy, finding all the landmarks of the Third Reich which were deliberately not mentioned in the guidebooks. I found the place where the synagogue had stood before it was burned down. After I learned to drive, I was able to go even farther afield and I found an abandoned railroad siding and an old freight car with REICHSBAHN lettered on its flank. (All the shiny new trains were labeled BUNDESBAHN.) I felt like one of those fanatical Israelis who tracks down Nazis in Argentina. Only I was tracking down my own past, my own Jewishness in which I had never been able to believe before. What infuriated me most, I think, was the way the Germans had changed their protective coloration, the way they talked peace and humanitarianism, the way they all claimed to have fought on the Russian Front. It was their hypocrisy I abhorred. At least if they’d come out openly and said: We loved Hitler, one might have weighed their humanity with their honesty and perhaps forgiven them. In the three years I lived in Germany I only met one man who admitted that. He was a former Nazi and he became my friend. Horst Hummel ran a printing business out of a tiny office in the old town. His desk was piled high with books, papers, and all kinds of junk, and he was always on the telephone or always shouting directions to the three cowering Assistenten who worked for him. He was about five feet tall, very paunchy, and wore thick amber-tinted glasses which accentuated the rings under his eyes. After meeting him for the first time, Bennett always referred to him as the Gnome. For the most part, Herr Hummel (as I called him in the beginning) spoke English well, but he made occasional howlers which compromised all his previous fluency. One day when I told him that I had to go home and make dinner for Bennett, he said: “If your Mann is hungry, then you must go home and cook him.” Hummel printed everything from menus to advertising flyers to The Heidelberg Officers’ Wives’ Club Newsletter—a glossy four-page tabloid studded with typographical errors, doggerel about the plight of an army wife, and pictures of army matrons decked out in flowered hats, orchid corsages, and rhinestone-glinting harlequin glasses. They were always accepting awards from each other for various public services. For his own amusement, Hummel also printed a weekly pamphlet called Heidelberg Alt und Neu. It consisted mostly of advertising for restaurants and hotels, train schedules, movie programs, and the like.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  He disliked and feared conversations with his children that concerned race, as he suspected this one would. ‘And don’t be telling me I’m paranoid,’ snapped Levi, slinging his damp vest on the table. ‘I just don’t want to live here any more, man . . . all everybody does is stare.’ ‘Has anyone seen the cream?’ said Kiki, appearing from behind the door of the fridge. ‘ Not the canned, not the single, not the half and half – the double English. It was on the table.’ She spotted Levi’s vest. ‘ Not there, young man. In your room – which , by the way, is an absolute disgrace . If you want to move out of that basement any day soon, you’re going to have to make some changes. I’d be ashamed to have your room where anybody could see it!’ Levi frowned and continued speaking to his father. ‘And then some crazy old lady on Redwood started asking about my mom.’ ‘Levi,’ said Kiki, walking over to him, ‘are you here to help or what?’ ‘How do you mean? About Kiki?’ asked Howard with interest, taking a seat at the table. ‘This old lady on Redwood – I was minding my business – and she’s looking at me, looking at me, all the way down the street, like everybody in this town – she stops me, speaking to me – she looked like she was trying to work out if I was gonna kill her.’ This of course was not true. But Levi had a point to make, and he would have to bend the truth to make it. ‘And then she started talking about my mom this, my mom that. Black lady.’ Howard made a noise of objection, but was overruled. ‘No, no, but that don’t make no difference. Any black lady who be white enough to live on Redwood thinks ’ zackly the same way as any old white lady.’ ‘Who is white enough,’ corrected Zora. ‘It’s the worst kind of pretension, you know, to fake the way you speak – to steal somebody else’s grammar. People less fortunate than you. It’s grotesque.  On Beauty You can decline a Latin noun, but apparently you can’t even – ’ ‘The cream – anybody? It was right here .’ ‘I think you might be overreacting just a tad,’ said Howard, exploring the fruit bowl with his fingers. ‘Where was this?’ ‘On Redwood . How many times, yo? This crazy old black lady.’ ‘I don’t know how come it is that I put down something and five minutes later it . . . Redwood? ’ asked Kiki sharply. ‘How far down Redwood?’ ‘Just on the top corner, before the nursery.’ ‘A black old lady? No one like that lives on Redwood.

• From On Beauty (2005)

  Then she lifted her hands and brought them down hard on the arms of the chair. ‘And? What are you saying?’ ‘Who, for example,’ said Jack, glancing at a sheet of paper on his desk, ‘is Chantelle Williams?’  On Beauty ‘She’s a receptionist, Jack. For an optician, I believe. I don’t know which optician. What’s your point?’ ‘A receptionist . . .’ ‘She also happens to be one of the most exciting young female talents I’ve come across in years,’ announced Claire. ‘Claire, it still remains that she is not a student registered at this institution,’ said Jack quietly, neatly meeting hyperbole with sobriety. ‘And therefore not strictly speaking eligible for – ’ ‘Jack, I can’t believe we’re doing this . . . it was agreed three years ago that if I wanted to take on extra students, above and beyond my requirements, then that was under my discretion. There are a lot of talented kids in this town who don’t have the advantages of Zora Belsey – who can’t afford college, who can’t afford our summer school, who are looking at the army as their next best possibility, Jack, an army that’s presently fighting a war – kids who don’t – ’ ‘I am well aware,’ said Jack, a little tired of being lectured by highly strung women this morning, ‘of the educational situation for economically disadvantaged young people in New England – and you know I have always supported your sterling attempts . . .’ ‘Jack – ’ ‘. . . to offer your impressive abilities . . .’ ‘Jack, what are you saying?’ ‘. . . to young people who would not otherwise have these opportunities . . . but the bottom line here is that people are asking questions about the fairness of classes being open to non-Wellington – ’ ‘Who’s asking? English Department people?’ Jack sighed. ‘Quite a few people, Claire. And I redirect those questions. Have done for a while. But if Zora Belsey is successful in bringing a lot of unwelcome attention to your, shall we say, selective admissions process – then I don’t know if I will still be able to continue redirecting those questions.’ ‘Is it Monty Kipps? I heard he ‘‘objected’’,’ said Claire bitterly, and made her fingers quote, unnecessarily, Jack felt, ‘to Belsey’s Affirmative Action Committee working on campus. God, he hasn’t  the anatomy lesson even been here a month! Is he the new authority around here now or something?’ Jack blushed. He could blackmail with the best of them, but he could not involve himself very deeply in personal conflict.

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  I set the oven to the same temperature. I count the number of sprays of water I spritz into the oven to make the bread crusty. It’s all very systematic, and yet, the result is sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier, sometimes sweeter. That’s because baking has additional context that the recipe doesn’t mention, like the amount of force I use in kneading, the humidity in the kitchen, and the precise temperature at which the dough rises. Holism explains why bread baked in my home in Boston is never as tasty as bread baked at my friend Ann’s house in Berkeley, California. The Berkeley loaf has a superior flavor because of the different yeasts floating naturally in the air and the elevation above sea level. These additional variables can dramatically impact the end product, and expert bakers know this. Holism, emergent properties, and degeneracy are the very antithesis of fingerprints. 21 After bodily and neural fingerprints, the next core assumption of the classical view we discard is how emotions evolved. The classical view proposes that we have a gift-wrapped animal brain—ancient emotion circuits passed down from ancestral animals, wrapped in uniquely human circuitry for rational thought—like icing on an already-baked cake. This view is often touted as “the” evolutionary theory of emotion, when in reality it is just one evolutionary theory. Construction incorporates the latest scientific findings about Darwinian natural selection and population thinking. For example, the many-to-one principle of degeneracy—many different sets of neurons can produce the same outcome—brings about greater robustness for survival. The one-to-many principle—any single neuron can contribute to more than one outcome—is metabolically efficient and increases the computational power of the brain. This kind of brain creates a flexible mind without fingerprints. 22 The final major assumption of the classical view is that certain emotions are inborn and universal: all healthy people around the world are supposed to display and recognize them. The theory of constructed emotion, in contrast, proposes that emotions are not inborn, and if they are universal, it’s due to shared concepts. What’s universal is the ability to form concepts that make our physical sensations meaningful, from the Western concept “Sadness” to the Dutch concept Gezellig (a specific experience of comfort with friends), which has no exact English translation. By analogy, think about cupcakes and muffins. These two types of baked goods have the same shape and are based on the same set of ingredients: flour, sugar, shortening, and salt. Both have similar accompanying ingredients such as raisins, nuts, chocolate, carrots, and bananas. You cannot distinguish a muffin from a cupcake by its chemistry, in the way you can easily distinguish flour from salt, or a bee from a bird. And yet, one is a breakfast food while the other is a dessert. Their major distinguishing feature is the time of day at which they are eaten.

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  And as an ideology, the classical view has wasted billions of research dollars and misdirected the course of scientific inquiry for over a hundred years. If people had followed evidence instead of ideology seventy years ago, when the Lost Chorus pretty solidly did away with emotion essences, who knows where we’d be today regarding treatments for mental illness or best practices for rearing our children. 3 9 … Every scientific journey is a story. Sometimes it’s a story of gradual discovery: “Once upon a time, people didn’t know very much, but we learned more and more over the years, and today we know lots of stuff.” Other times, it’s a tale of radical change: “Everyone used to believe something that seemed correct, but boy were we wrong! Now the fascinating truth is here.” Our journey is more of a story within a story. The inner story is how emotions are made, wrapped in an outer story of what it means to be human. “For two thousand years, people believed something about emotions, despite abundant counterevidence all around us. The human brain, you see, is wired to mistake its perceptions for reality. Today, powerful tools have yielded a more evidence-based explanation that’s almost impossible to ignore . . . yet some people still manage.” The good news is that we’re in a golden age of mind and brain research. Many scientists are now on a path forged by the data, rather than ideology, to understand emotion and ourselves. This new, data-driven understanding leads to innovative ideas about how to live a fulfilling and healthful life. If your brain operates by prediction and construction and rewires itself through experience, then it’s no overstatement to say that if you change your current experiences today, you can change who you become tomorrow. The next few chapters delve into these implications in the areas of emotional intelligence, health, law, and our relationships with other animals. 4 0 1 The Search for Emotion’s “Fingerprints” O nce upon a time, in the 1980s, I thought I would be a clinical psychologist. I headed into a Ph.D. program at the University of Waterloo, expecting to learn the tools of the trade as a psychotherapist and one day treat patients in a stylish yet tasteful office. I was going to be a consumer of science, not a producer. I certainly had no intention of joining a revolution to unseat basic beliefs about the mind that have existed since the days of Plato. But life sometimes tosses little surprises in your direction.