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 Another Country (1962)

  She felt his eyes on her, and also felt, with dread, how slowly the storm in him gathered, how long it would take to break. “Forgive your coarse-grained husband, but I’ve always felt that he had no sense of himself at all. He’s not even sure he knows what’s between his legs, or what to do with it—but I guess I have to take that back now.” Here we go, she thought. She said, wearily, helplessly, “I know it sounds strange, Richard.” Tears came to her eyes. “But he’s a very wonderful person. I know. I know him better than you do.” He said, making a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sob, “I guess you do—though he may have preferred it the other way around. Did you ever think of that? You must be one of the very few women in the world—” “Don’t, Richard. Don’t. It won’t change anything, it won’t help.” He came and stood over her. “Let’s get this straight. We’ve been married almost thirteen years, and I’ve been in love with you all that time, and I’ve trusted you, and, except for a couple of times in the army, I haven’t had anything to do with any other woman. Even though I’ve thought about it. But it never seemed worth it. And I’ve worked, I’ve worked very hard, Cass, for you and our children, so we could be happy and so our marriage would work. Maybe you think that’s old-fashioned, maybe you think I’m dumb, I don’t know, you’re so much more—sensitive than I am. And now—and then—” He walked over to the bar and set his glass down. “Suddenly, for no reason, just when it begins to seem that things are really going to work out for us, all of a sudden—you begin to make me feel that I’m something that stinks, that I ought to be out of doors. I didn’t know what had happened, I didn’t know where you’d gone—all of a sudden. I’ve listened to you come into this house and go and look at the boys, and then crawl into bed—I swear, I could hear every move you made—and I’d stay on in the office like a little boy, because I didn’t know how, how, to come close to you again. I kept thinking, She’ll get over it, it’s just some strange kind of feminine shift that I can’t understand. I even thought, my God, that maybe you were going to have another baby and didn’t want to tell me yet.” He bowed his head on the bar. “And, Jesus, Jesus—Eric! You walk in and tell me you’ve been sleeping with Eric.” He turned and looked at her. “How long?” “A few weeks.” “Why?” She did not answer. He came toward her again. “Answer me, baby.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  In the evening, on the other hand, he would make the rounds of the cafés and cinemas, dressed in the height of fashion and with many variations of costume. What was more, in time of war, he would strut forth sometimes in the uniform of a lieutenant of Hussars, sometimes in that of an English officer, of an aviator or of a surgeon. In civil life, he was quite as free and easy, thinking nothing of introducing Breton under the name of André Salmon, while he took unto himself, but quite without vanity, the most wonderful titles and adventures. He never said good morning nor good evening nor good-bye, and never took any notice of letters, except those from his mother, when he had to ask for money. He did not recognize his best friends from one day to another….” Do you recognize me, lads? Just a Brooklyn boy communicating with the red-haired albinos of the Zuni region. Making ready, with feet on the desk, to write “strong works, works forever incomprehensible,” as my dead comrades were promising. These “strong works”—would you recognize them if you saw them? Do you know that of the millions who were killed not one death was necessary to produce “the strong work”? New beings , yes! We have need of new beings still. We can do without the telephone, without the automobile, without the high-class bombers—but we can’t do without new beings. If Atlantis was submerged beneath the sea, if the Sphinx and the Pyramids remain an eternal riddle, it is because there were no more new beings being born. Stop the machine a moment! Flash back! Flash back to 1914, to the Kaiser sitting on his horse. Keep him sitting there a moment with his withered arm clutching the bridle rein. Look at his moustache! Look at his haughty air of pride and arrogance! Look at his cannon-fodder lined up in strictest discipline, all ready to obey the word, to get shot, to get disemboweled, to be burned in quick-lime. Hold it a moment, now, and look at the other side: the defenders of our great and glorious civilization, the men who will war to end war. Change their clothes, change uniforms, change horses, change flags, change terrain. My, is that the Kaiser I see on a white horse? Are those the terrible Huns? And where is Big Bertha? Oh, I see—I thought it was pointing towards Notre Dame? Humanity, me lads, humanity always marching in the van … And the strong works we were speaking of? Where are the strong works? Call up the Western Union and dispatch a messenger fleet of foot—not a cripple or an octogenarian, but a young one! Ask him to find the great work and bring it back. We need it.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Where was she? Where was she? With Ellis, certainly. Where? She had called the restaurant; but she had not called him. And she would say, “But we didn’t have any plans for tonight, sweetie, I knew you were seeing Cass, and I was sure you’d have supper with her!” Where was she? the hell with her. She would say, “Oh, honey, don’t be like that, suppose I made a fuss every time you went out and had a drink with someone else? I trust you, now, you’ve got to trust me. Suppose I really make it as a singer and have to see lots of people, what’re you going to do then?” She trusted him because she didn’t give a damn about him, the hell with her. The hell with her. The hell with her. Oh, Ida. She would say, “Mama called me after you left and she was real upset; Daddy got into a fight this week end and he was cut kind of bad and I just left the hospital this very minute. Mama wanted me to stay with her but I knew you’d be worried, so I came on home. You know, they don’t like the idea of my living down here with you one bit, maybe they’ll get used to it, but I’m sure that’s what makes my Daddy so evil, he just can’t get over Rufus, you know, sugar, please make me a little drink, I’m just about dead.” The hell with her. The hell with her. She would say, “Oh, Vivaldo, why do you want to be so mean when you know how much I love you?” She would sound exasperated and very close to tears. And then, even though he knew that she was using him against himself, hope rose up hard in him, his throat became tight with pain, he willed away all his doubts. Perhaps she loved him, perhaps she did: but if she did, how was it, then, that they remained so locked away from one another? Perhaps it was he who did not know how to give, did not know how to love. Love was a country he knew nothing about. And he thought, very unwillingly, that perhaps he did not love her. Perhaps it was only because she was not white that he dared to bring her the offering of himself. Perhaps he had felt, somewhere, at the very bottom of himself, that she would not dare despise him. And if this was what she suspected, well, then, her rage was bottomless and she would never be conquered by him.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Yes, you did. You meant exactly what I thought you meant. And you know why? Because you can’t help it, that’s why. Can’t none of you white boys help it. Every damn one of your sad-ass white chicks think they got a cunt for peeing through, and they don’t piss nothing but the best ginger ale, and if it wasn’t for the spooks wouldn’t a damn one of you white cock suckers ever get laid. That’s right. You are a fucked-up group of people. You hear me? A fucked-up group of people.” “All right,” he said, wearily, “so we’re a fucked-up group of people. So shut up. We’re in enough trouble here, as it is.” And they were, because the landlord and the neighbors and the cop on the corner disapproved of Ida’s presence. But it was not the most tactful thing he could have said at that moment. She said, with a contrition absolutely false and murderous, “That’s true. I forgot.” She turned from him into the kitchen again, reached up in the cupboard and hurled all of his dishes, of which, thank heaven, there were not many, to the floor. “I just think I’ll give them something to complain about,” she said. There were only two glasses and she smashed these against the refrigerator. Vivaldo had placed himself against the record player, and, as Ida stalked the kitchen, water standing in her eyes, he began to laugh. She rushed at him, slapping and clawing, and he held her off with one hand, still laughing. His belly hurt. Other people in the building were pounding on their pipes and on the walls and on the ceiling, but he could not stop laughing. He ended up on the floor, on his back, howling, and finally, Ida, unwillingly, began to laugh, too. “Get up off the floor, you fool. Lord, what a fool you are.” “I’m just a fucked-up group of people,” he said. “Lord, have mercy on me.” Ida laughed, helplessly, and he pulled her down on top of him. “Have mercy on me, baby,” he said. “Have mercy.” The pounding continued, and he said, “There sure are a fucked-up group of people in this house, they won’t even let you make love in peace.” Now, Cass returned, with her hair recombed and new make-up on and with her eyes bright and dry. She seated herself in the booth again and picked up her drink. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she said. Then, “Thank you, Vivaldo. If I couldn’t have found a friend to talk to, I think I would have died.” “You wouldn’t have,” he said, “but I know what you mean. Here’s to you, Cass.” And he raised his glass. It was twenty minutes to eight, but, now, he was afraid to call the restaurant. He would wait until he and Cass had separated. “What are you going to do?” he asked. “I don’t know. I think I may break—is it the sixth commandment? Adultery.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They were standing on the corner, in the lights spilling outward from a bar. The light illumined and horribly distorted her face, so that her eyes looked like coals of fire and her mouth stretched joylessly back upon the gums. “For old times’ sake.” “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m going on home. I’ve had a long, hard day.” “Rushing home to your chick?” “Good thing to rush home to, if you’ve got one,” Dick Lincoln said, putting his pink, nerveless hand on Jane’s shoulder. Somehow, she bore it; but not without another girlish twitch. She said, “Vivaldo’s got a great chick.” She turned to Dick Lincoln. “I bet you think you’re a liberal,” she said, “but this boy, baby, he’s miles ahead of you. He’s miles ahead of me; why, if I was as liberal as my friend, Vivaldo, here”—she laughed; a very tall Negro boy passed them, looking at them briefly—“why, I wouldn’t be with you, you poor white slob. I’d be with the biggest, blackest buck I could find!” Vivaldo felt his skin prickling, Dick Lincoln blushed. Jane laughed, and Vivaldo realized that others, both black and white, were watching them. “Maybe I should have gone with her brother,” Jane said, “would you have liked me better if I had? Or were you going with him, too? Can’t ever tell about a liberal,” and she turned her face, laughing, into Dick Lincoln’s shoulder. Lincoln stared helplessly into Vivaldo’s eyes. “She’s all yours, mister,” Vivaldo said, and at this Jane looked up at him, not laughing at all, her face livid, and old with rage. And all his anger left him at once. “So long,” he said, and turned away. He wanted to leave before Jane precipitated a race riot. And he also realized that he had become the focus of two very different kinds of attention. The blacks now suspected him of being an ally—though not a friend, never a friend!—and the whites, particularly the neighborhood Italians, now knew that he could not be trusted. “Hurry home,” Jane called behind him, “hurry home! Is it true that they’ve got hotter blood than ours? Is her blood hotter than mine?” And laughter rang down the street behind this call, the suppressed, bawdy laughter of the Italians—for, after all, Vivaldo was one of them, and a male, and apparently, a gifted one—and the delighted, vindictive laughter of the Negroes. For a moment, behind him, they were almost united—but then, each, hearing the other’s laughter, choked their laughter off. The Italians heard the laughter of black men; the black men remembered that it was a black girl Vivaldo was screwing. He crossed the Avenue. He wanted to go home and he wanted to eat and he wanted to get drunk and, also, perhaps out of simple fury, he wanted to get laid—but he did not feel that anything good would happen to him tonight.

• From Another Country (1962)

  I didn’t mean what you thought I meant. I wasn’t trying to put you down.” “Yes, you did. You meant exactly what I thought you meant. And you know why? Because you can’t help it, that’s why. Can’t none of you white boys help it. Every damn one of your sad-ass white chicks think they got a cunt for peeing through, and they don’t piss nothing but the best ginger ale, and if it wasn’t for the spooks wouldn’t a damn one of you white cock suckers ever get laid. That’s right. You are a fucked-up group of people. You hear me? A fucked-up group of people.” “All right,” he said, wearily, “so we’re a fucked-up group of people. So shut up. We’re in enough trouble here, as it is.” And they were, because the landlord and the neighbors and the cop on the corner disapproved of Ida’s presence. But it was not the most tactful thing he could have said at that moment. She said, with a contrition absolutely false and murderous, “That’s true. I forgot.” She turned from him into the kitchen again, reached up in the cupboard and hurled all of his dishes, of which, thank heaven, there were not many, to the floor. “I just think I’ll give them something to complain about,” she said. There were only two glasses and she smashed these against the refrigerator. Vivaldo had placed himself against the record player, and, as Ida stalked the kitchen, water standing in her eyes, he began to laugh. She rushed at him, slapping and clawing, and he held her off with one hand, still laughing. His belly hurt. Other people in the building were pounding on their pipes and on the walls and on the ceiling, but he could not stop laughing. He ended up on the floor, on his back, howling, and finally, Ida, unwillingly, began to laugh, too. “Get up off the floor, you fool. Lord, what a fool you are.” “I’m just a fucked-up group of people,” he said. “Lord, have mercy on me.” Ida laughed, helplessly, and he pulled her down on top of him. “Have mercy on me, baby,” he said. “Have mercy.” The pounding continued, and he said, “There sure are a fucked-up group of people in this house, they won’t even let you make love in peace.” Now, Cass returned, with her hair recombed and new make-up on and with her eyes bright and dry. She seated herself in the booth again and picked up her drink. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she said. Then, “Thank you, Vivaldo. If I couldn’t have found a friend to talk to, I think I would have died.” “You wouldn’t have,” he said, “but I know what you mean. Here’s to you, Cass.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Cass looked at the dark, proud head, which was half-turned away from her. “Do you hate white people, Ida?” Ida sucked her teeth in anger. “What the hell has that got to do with anything? Hell, yes, sometimes I hate them, I could see them all dead. And sometimes I don’t. I do have a couple of other things to occupy my mind.” Her face changed. She looked down at her fingers, she twisted her ring. “If any one white person gets through to you, it kind of destroys your—single-mindedness. They say that love and hate are very close together. Well, that’s a fact.” She turned to the window again. “But, Cass, ask yourself, look out and ask yourself—wouldn’t you hate all white people if they kept you in prison here?” They were rolling up startling Seventh Avenue. The entire population seemed to be in the streets, draped, almost, from lampposts, stoops, and hydrants, and walking through the traffic as though it were not there. “Kept you here, and stunted you and starved you, and made you watch your mother and father and sister and lover and brother and son and daughter die or go mad or go under, before your very eyes? And not in a hurry, like from one day to the next, but, every day, every day, for years, for generations? Shit. They keep you here because you’re black, the filthy, white cock suckers, while they go around jerking themselves off with all that jazz about the land of the free and the home of the brave. And they want you to jerk yourself off with that same music, too, only, keep your distance. Some days, honey, I wish I could turn myself into one big fist and grind this miserable country to powder. Some days, I don’t believe it has a right to exist. Now, you’ve never felt like that, and Vivaldo’s never felt like that. Vivaldo didn’t want to know my brother was dying because he doesn’t want to know that my brother would still be alive if he hadn’t been born black.” “I don’t know if that’s true or not,” Cass said, slowly, “but I guess I don’t have any right to say it isn’t true.” “No, baby, you sure don’t,” Ida said, “not unless you’re really willing to ask yourself how you’d have made it, if they’d dumped on you what they dumped on Rufus. And you can’t ask yourself that question because there’s no way in the world for you to know what Rufus went through, not in this world, not as long as you’re white.” She smiled. It was the saddest smile Cass had ever seen. “That’s right, baby. That’s where it’s at.”

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  I know that the only way to get at them is to reach up inside them, through the scrotum; one has to get up inside and twist their sacred entrails for them. That’s what Rimbaud did. That’s what Lautréamont did. Unfortunately, those who call themselves their successors have never learned this technique. They give us a lot of piffle about the revolution—first the revolution of the word, now the revolution in the street. How are they going to make themselves heard and understood if they are going to use a language which is emasculated? Are they writing their beautiful poems for the angels above? Is it communication with the dead which they are trying to establish? You want to communicate. All right, communicate! Use any and every means. If you expect the world to fall for your lingo because it is the right lingo, or even the left lingo, you are going to be cruelly deceived. It’s like the “pug” who goes into the ring expecting to get it over with quickly. Generally he gets flattened stiff as a board. He thinks he’ll deliver an uppercut or a swift one to the solar plexus. He forgets to defend himself. He lays himself wide open. Everybody who’s gone out to fight has had to first learn something about the strategy of the ring. The man who refuses to learn how to box becomes what is called, in the language of the ring, “a glutton for punishment.” Speaking for myself, I’ll say that I’ve taken all the punishment I could assimilate. From now on I use my head, my bean, as they say. I watch for an opening. I do a little fancy stepping. I duck. I feint. I spar a bit, I bide my time. When the moment comes I let go with all my might. I am against revolutions because they always involve a return to status quo . I am against the status quo both before and after revolutions. I don’t want to wear a black shirt or a red shirt. I want to wear the shirt that suits my taste. And I don’t want to salute like an automaton either. I prefer to shake hands when I meet someone I like. The fact is, to put it simply, I am positively against all this crap which is carried on first in the name of this thing, then in the name of that. I believe only in what is active, immediate and personal. I was writing Surrealistically in America before I had ever heard the word. Of course I got a good kick in the pants for it. I wrote for seven years in America without once having a manuscript accepted. I had to beg, borrow and steal in order to get by. Finally I got out of the country.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  have modified it. For an angry person, this manipulation might look a few different ways. Their anger might lead to them manipulating situations in a way that is harmful or controlling of others. They may expect for a situation to go so poorly that they try to control people in advance. The angry co-worker might send assertive or even aggressive emails in advance of a meeting, doing something they don’t want them to do (maybe even something they were not planning on doing). Alternatively, they may use their anger to manipulate people as Izzy’s dad did. When things felt out of control to him, his anger served to keep other people in line. Angry people manipulate others, intentionally or unintentionally, by scaring them into behaving the way they want them to. Evocation Finally, evocation is a little more complicated. Human beings, usually unintentionally, evoke responses from people through their interactions with them. The way people approach situations and the way they approach other people might encourage people to respond to them in particular ways. An outgoing person approaches interactions with strangers in a friendly and outgoing way. Consequently, the people they interact with have a tendency to mirror that style and respond in a similarly positive way. By being friendly, they are evoking friendliness from others. Meanwhile, though, an angry person may unintentionally evoke unfriendliness from people. They may even evoke provocations from them. For instance, an angry person may go into a situation (a family get-together, a trip to the post office) anticipating a frustrating experience. That anticipation of frustration might lead them to approach the situation with impatience, a disrespectful tone, or just a general terseness. That impatience might evoke the same sort of rudeness and terseness in response so they are essentially creating the kind of provocation they were anticipating. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Mais le moment passa, comme l’ombre qui tombait en travers sur la table. « Je peux aller au kiosque acheter un truc. Si tu veux, dit-il. — Non. C’est bon. J’ai besoin de rien. — T’es sûr ? » Miller haussa les sourcils, et son scepticisme fit à Wallace l’effet d’une gifle. Tous les deux, ils n’avaient jamais été le genre d’amis à se rendre service, mais ils se voyaient constamment. À la machine à glaçons ; dans la cuisine, quand ils descendaient des étagères des assiettes et des bols abandonnés pour manger leurs déjeuners rapides et tristes ; dans la chambre froide où étaient conservés les réactifs délicats ; dans les toilettes mauves hideuses – ils étaient réunis de force comme des cousins acariâtres, mécontents, et ils se balançaient des piques avec l’affabilité d’ennemis trop paresseux pour s’engager vraiment dans une action violente et hostile. En décembre dernier, à la fête du département de sciences de la vie, Wallace avait fait une remarque cavalière sur la tenue de Miller, qu’il avait décrit en gros comme le costume folklorique du grand trailer park du Midwest. Tout le, monde avait ri, y compris Miller, mais pendant plusieurs mois, par la suite, Miller l’avait ressorti à chaque fois qu’ils se voyaient : Tiens, voilà Wallace, j’imagine que la victime de la mode va y aller de son petit commentaire, sur quoi un éclair passait dans ses yeux, et il décochait un sourire en coin glacial. En avril, Miller lui avait rendu la monnaie de sa pièce. Wallace était arrivé en retard au séminaire du département et avait dû rester debout au fond de la salle. Miller était là aussi. Ils donnaient un cours en tant qu’assistants avant le séminaire, et l’heure s’était éternisée, mais Miller était parti en avance, tandis que Wallace s’était attardé pour répondre aux questions des étudiants de licence. Debout contre les lambris, ils regardaient le lent défilé des diapos. L’intervenant était célèbre dans le champ de la protéomique. Il n’y avait plus de places assises. Wallace avait éprouvé une joie un peu mesquine en constatant que Miller n’avait pas pu trouver de siège non plus. Mais à ce moment-là, Miller s’était penché sur l’oreille de Wallace, son haleine chaude et moite, et il avait dit : Je croyais qu’ils avaient fait passer les gens comme toi devant ? Wallace avait éprouvé un frisson malgré lui en sentant la proximité de Miller mais, à cet instant, son impression s’était transformée complètement. Le côté droit de son corps était devenu engourdi et brûlant. Quand Miller avait baissé les yeux sur lui, il avait dû le voir sur son visage – qu’ils n’étaient pas non plus ce genre d’amis là, que la liste des choses sur lesquelles ils pouvaient plaisanter ensemble n’incluait pas la race de Wallace. Après la conférence, dans la queue agitée pour récupérer du café et des cookies rassis à l’œil, Miller avait tenté de s’excuser, mais Wallace avait refusé de l’écouter.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Mais il ne s’arrête pas. Il entend les pas de Miller derrière lui, mais ça ne fait que l’inciter à accélérer son allure, dépassant les affiches annonçant des expériences, les prospectus d’offres d’emploi, les tableaux d’affichage familiers avec leurs petits dessins et dictons naïfs, la rangée de casiers où, dans les années 80, les gens rangeaient leurs affaires. Il marche tellement vite que ses pieds s’emmêlent. Il est de nouveau en haut de l’escalier qui surplombe l’atrium lorsque Miller le rattrape. « Qu’est-ce qui se passe ? » Chaque mot est réfléchi, étiré. « Apparemment, je suis un gros misogyne. — Hein ? N’importe quoi. C’était quoi ces cris ? » Les yeux de Miller sont bienveillants, inquiets. Il prend le bras de Miller, et c’est comme tout à l’heure, dans la cuisine. Wallace se sent vibrer, de colère, de peur – qui peut le dire ? « Rien. Rien, dit-il. — Fais pas ça. — Fais pas quoi ? Dire la vérité ? C’était rien. — Manifestement si. — Eh bien, c’est pas ton problème », dit Wallace et il se dégage de la prise de Miller. « Je vais me démerder. » Miller est à la fois fâché et agacé. Il tend la main, Wallace l’esquive. « Allez, quoi. — Non, je vais très bien. — C’est faux. » Miller lui prend la main et le tire vers lui. Ils se rendent à la bibliothèque du deuxième étage, dans l’une des petites pièces avec des portes qui ferment à clef. Miller fait asseoir Wallace sur la table et se place entre ses jambes. Il ne le laisse pas botter en touche. La pièce sent vaguement la poussière et le feutre. La moquette est d’un mauve hideux. Miller sent le shampooing et le savon. Il a encore les yeux bouffis de la nuit dernière, à cause des piments et des nachos à la jetée. « Je suis en colère », dit Wallace quand il devient clair que Miller ne va pas dire quelque chose ou initier la conversation. Il a les bras pliés sur la poitrine et une expression patiente. « Ça se voit. — Elle a dit que les femmes étaient les nouveaux nègres et pédés. — Je ne comprends même pas ce que ça veut dire. — Elle me déteste. — Ça paraît probable. — Tu ne m’aides pas », dit Wallace. « Je suis désolé que ça se passe si mal », dit Miller et il embrasse doucement Wallace. « Je suis désolé. — Arrête d’être gentil avec moi. Toi aussi, tu me détestais, encore l’autre jour, non ? — Je ne te détestais pas. Je ne te comprenais pas – je ne te comprends pas – mais je ne t’ai jamais détesté. » Comme c’est bizarre, se dit Wallace. Comme c’est bizarre de dire une chose pareille. Il n’arrive pas à regarder Miller.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Il y a une pause, un bégaiement. Cole se tend. Les yeux de Roman se tournent vers eux. Le visage de Vincent devient verdâtre. « Quoi ? Qu’est-ce que t’as dit ? demande-t-il. — Je t’ai vu sur l’appli hier soir, alors je me demandais juste si… tu sais, si vous aviez renoncé à l’exclusivité, tous les deux ? » Il promène les yeux entre Cole et Vincent, comme s’il les interrogeait sur des échantillons de couleur. Il pose la question d’une voix légère, mais en vérité, à ce moment-là, il a envie de mourir. Mais ça lui fait du bien, pour une fois, de voir quelqu’un se faire choper. Cole baisse la main et serre fort le genou de Wallace, si fort que ça lui fait presque mal, et cette douleur suffit presque à faire passer ce moment pénible. Son pouls cogne violemment dans sa tête. « Je… je… — C’est vrai, Vincent ? » demande Cole, enchaînant sur le mensonge de Wallace, car pour lui, à l’inverse de Wallace, cette vérité est essentielle. « Je ne… Je n’étais pas… je… — Waouh, fait Roman, applaudissant doucement. Super. Je suis content pour vous deux. — Super, fait Klaus. C’est la meilleure décision qu’on ait prise, tous les deux. — Tu étais sur l’appli ? » demande Cole, laissant sa colère et sa peine l’emporter. Il se tourne sur sa chaise. « On en parlait, c’est tout. Mais toi, tu l’as fait dans mon dos ? Pourquoi ? » Wallace observe très attentivement le visage de Vincent. Son air pincé, avide, s’est accentué, aiguisé. Il a des miettes collées à l’intérieur de la lèvre inférieure. Sa bouche est luisante de graisse. Ses sourcils épais, qui dépassent par-dessus ses petits yeux comme un promontoire protecteur, ont foncé. Il y a des gens que le choc met violemment à nu, sans défenses, mais Vincent n’est pas de ceux-là. Il s’est rassemblé sur lui-même, rapetissé, durci, et Wallace se sent à la fois fier de lui et lésé d’une réaction plus tangible. Oui, se dit Wallace, c’est ça, ne les laisse pas te voir transpirer, Vincent ; tu fais bien. Mais, plus égoïstement, il éprouve un élan de colère, privé qu’il est de sa récompense pour les avoir mis sur la sellette. C’est une partie hideuse, mesquine de Wallace qui se réjouit, frissonne, regrettant juste que Vincent ne soit pas un peu plus explosif de caractère. « Oh putain, fait Lukas. Oh putain. — Oh mon dieu. » Yngve s’est levé de son bout de table et s’approche d’eux, mais il se ravise, hésitant à se mêler de leur dispute, et retourne s’asseoir. « Je regardais, c’est tout, Cole. Je ne comptais pas faire quoi que ce soit. Je regardais. — Mais pourquoi tu ne me l’as pas dit ? Pourquoi tu ne m’en as pas parlé avant ? — Je ne sais pas.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Wallace enfonce les ongles aussi fort qu’il le peut dans le dos de Miller, les plonge dans sa peau ; il les glisse jusqu’aux hanches de Miller, laissant de longues estafilades sombres. Miller laisse échapper un petit cri de douleur et plante les yeux dans ceux de Wallace. Que voit-il là ? se demande Wallace. Qu’est-ce qui le regarde depuis la mer obscure de sa colère ? Quelles étranges pierres noires se font connaître de lui ? Miller essaie de l’embrasser, et Wallace lui mord la lèvre, serre de toutes ses forces ses hanches avec ses genoux. Ce geste encourage Miller, qui le pénètre plus brutalement, et Wallace ne fait que mordre plus fort, griffer plus fort, comme s’il escaladait une haute montagne, comme si sa vie en dépendait. « Va te faire foutre, dit Miller, la lèvre enflée. Va te faire foutre, Wallace. — Va te faire foutre, Miller », répond Wallace, et il se redresse brusquement, enfonce les dents dans l’épaule de Miller, encore bronzée et chaude malgré les heures écoulées. Il le mord comme un sauvage. Miller le repousse par terre, et sa tête heurte bruyamment le sol ; et ils commencent à se donner des coups de poing et des coups de pied, à lutter, à rouler et à se pousser contre tout ce qu’ils peuvent. Miller heurte le côté du bar américain mais projette sa longue jambe blanche et repousse Wallace contre le canapé. Wallace, respirant par le nez, l’haleine brûlante, le pouls cognant bruyamment dans le crâne, flanque un coup de poing dans la cuisse de Miller, qui se met à bleuir. Puis Miller l’empoigne, agrippe son poignet, et le plaque sur le sol malpropre. Wallace observe le ventilateur au plafond, qui tourne inlassablement au-dessus de sa tête. Sur lui, Miller halète, et transpire. Il fait tellement chaud partout. De la sueur dégouline du bout du nez de Miller sur le torse de Wallace. Goutte à goutte. Une petite flaque sur la peau de Wallace, d’eau salée, une mer qui s’étale sur le désert brun de son corps. Miller tente de reprendre haleine. Wallace lui crache dessus, et Miller s’écarte, ce qui permet à Wallace de se dégager le poignet. Il donne un coup dans la poitrine de Miller. Puis un autre. Et encore un autre, plusieurs fois, et Miller le laisse faire. Il absorbe les chocs. Wallace cogne, cogne, sa main le brûle et devient insensible sous l’impact, à la fois dure et molle, qui ne cause plus aucun dégât, n’agissant plus que sous l’effet de la mémoire musculaire. Miller le prend dans ses bras, l’attire contre lui. Plus de coups. Non. Dans le lit de Wallace, ils sont allongés. Miller est sur le côté pour ne pas appuyer sur les hématomes douloureux de son torse et de son dos. Wallace est couché sur le ventre.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  All-or-nothing thinking is when people categorize things as all bad or all good . They take a situation or an idea and label or define it as being a particular way, failing to account for the nuance within that situation or idea. As I’m writing this, for example, it’s pouring down with rain outside and will likely continue for the next few hours. I could define this as terrible or disappointing because it’s going to ruin my run later and keep my kids from being able to play outside. In doing so, though, I would be ignoring the fact that the rain is feeding my garden that desperately needs the water (not to mention the crops of local farmers). The rain isn’t inherently bad. It’s just a thing that’s happening and has both positive and negative influences on my life and the broader community. This sort of thinking happens in describing people too. Instead of recognizing human beings as having complex motivations, angry people might label others as cruel , stupid , or dishonest. Those labels become the lens by which they interpret their behavior. When a person who has been labeled dishonest tries to explain themselves, it is assumed to be a lie. When a person who has been labeled stupid offers a solution to a problem, it is ignored. Once again, we’ve been able to identify a variety of thought types that fall into this all-or-nothing category. Here are a few examples of the thoughts we might see from angry people, including examples of how those thoughts might lead to anger: Overgeneralizing: This is the tendency to broaden experiences out into a much bigger pattern. When a thing happens, they might describe it as always happening instead of thinking of it as a single incident. For instance, when a child forgets to do their homework, the angry parent might say, “Why does he always do that?” or even “He is completely irresponsible.”Inflammatory labeling: This is when they label people or situations in highly negative or even cruel ways. They describe situations as completely terrible or disastrous. They describe people as total idiots, fools, or worthless. In doing so, they fail to realize that people are more complicated than they realize and that their motivations for doing something in a particular moment are similarly complicated.Differing versions of fairness: Some people evaluate outcomes in terms of fairness, but not in a way that is consistent with how others view fairness. Anger emerges because they feel injustice that others don’t necessarily see or agree with.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  On the one hand, “ghosting” appears very common and some see it as a reasonable way to end relationships, particularly if those relationships were unhealthy. At the same time, essays on how to deal with ghosting are actively hostile to the “ghosts,” routinely describing them as immature or even too unskilled to communicate directly. The ghosts themselves were not available to respond. CHAPTER 12 STRATEGY SEVEN: STEP AWAY FROM ONLINE RAGE The “Non-Ignorable Role” of Anger Online In 2014 Rui Fan and colleagues set out to discover the online contagiousness of particular emotions.62 They wanted to know which emotions spread most quickly across social media. Using Weibo, a Chinese platform they described as similar to Twitter, they captured approximately 70 million posts from 278,654 users. They coded the emotionality of these posts (based on emoticon usage, caps, and other factors) into four categories: disgust, sadness, joy, and anger. They then looked to see which posts were most likely to be liked or shared by others. What they found was fascinating, though, not necessarily surprising to anyone who has spent considerable time online over the past decade. People didn’t typically share posts associated with disgust or sadness, at least not compared with their sharing of joyful or angry posts. They did share joyful posts, when they were connected to the person who shared the original post. They shared angry posts, though, whether they were connected to the person or not. In other words, people joined in the joy of others when they knew them, but joined in the anger whether they knew them or not. This led the authors to write “we conjecture that anger plays a non-ignorable role in massive propagations of the negative news about the society.”* How Online Emotions Are Similar/Different What the study above really shows is something most of you have already noticed, that anger is omnipresent online. You likely encounter angry people in your online interactions a couple of times a week to a couple of times per day. Maybe they are people you know and are interacting with via email, text, or Messenger, or maybe they are strangers you encounter on social media and will never connect with again. What’s fascinating, though, is that even though the consequences of an online argument with a stranger may be different than such an argument with a friend, the causes of such anger are very similar. There are relatively simple explanations for why we encounter angry people online as often as we do, and it’s because social media and electronic forms of communication like email and texting have changed how we experience and express our emotions in significant ways.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Oh, hell, Cass, I can have a damn baby, and then I’ll know. Babies aren’t my kick, but, you know, I can find out if I want to. The way Vivaldo carries on, I’m likely to find out, whether I want to or not,” and, incongruously, she giggled. “But”—she sighed—“it doesn’t work the other way around. You don’t know, and there’s no way in the world for you to find out, what it’s like to be a black girl in this world, and the way white men, and black men, too, baby, treat you. You’ve never decided that the whole world was just one big whorehouse and so the only way for you to make it was to decide to be the biggest, coolest, hardest whore around, and make the world pay you back that way.” They were in the park. Ida leaned forward and lit a cigarette with trembling hands, then gestured out the window. “I bet you think we’re in a goddam park. You don’t know we’re in one of the world’s great jungles. You don’t know that behind all them damn dainty trees and shit, people are screwing and sucking and fixing and dying. Dying, baby, right now while we move through this darkness in this man’s taxicab. And you don’t know it, even when you’re told; you don’t know it, even when you see it.” She felt very far from Ida, and very small and cold. “How can we know it, Ida? How can you blame us if we don’t know? We never had a chance to find out. I hardly knew that Central Park existed until I was a married woman.” And she, too, looked out at the park, trying to see what Ida saw; but, of course, she saw only the trees and the lights and the grass and the twisting road and the shape of the buildings beyond the park. “There were hardly any colored people in the town I grew up in—how am I to know?” And she hated herself for her next question, but she could not hold it back: “Don’t you think I deserve some credit, for trying to be human, for not being a part of all that, for—walking out?” “What the hell,” asked Ida, “have you walked out on, Cass?” “That world,” said Cass, “that empty life, that meaningless life!” Ida laughed. It was a cruel sound and yet Cass sensed, very powerfully, that Ida was not trying to be cruel. She seemed to be laboring, within herself, up some steep, unprecedented slope. “Couldn’t we put it another way, honey—just for kicks? Couldn’t we, sort of, blame it on nature? and say that you saw Richard and he got you hot, and so you didn’t really walk out—you just got married?”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Quand ils se sont quittés tout à l’heure, les choses étaient tendues mais ça allait, franchement. Il n’imaginait pas, c’est vrai, que Miller puisse abriter une telle frustration ou une telle colère à son égard. Il a pris leur au revoir agréable comme un signe que tout allait bien, sans problème, entre eux. Mais, comme le dit Miller, il n’a pensé qu’à lui, à son propre sentiment d’être inadapté, d’être trop abîmé. Il ne s’est pas arrêté pour réfléchir au fait que Miller, venant de révéler ses violences passées, puisse se sentir vulnérable lui aussi. Il ne s’est pas arrêté pour se demander comment Miller avait pu se sentir en se réveillant dans un lit vide, pour la seconde fois. C’est vrai qu’il est coupable de myopie, et cette prise de conscience le plombe. « Mais comment tu t’es retrouvé dans une bagarre ? Pourquoi tu t’es battu, Miller ? Ça, c’est pas ma faute. — Tu as raison. Tu as raison, Wallace, c’est pas ta faute. Un mec m’est rentré dedans sans le faire exprès, je lui ai dit : Attention , et il m’a traité de pédé. T’imagines ? » Encore un rire, bref et lugubre. « Il m’a traité de pédé, alors fallait que je le corrige. Parce que je ne suis pas un pédé, Wallace, je te jure. » À chaque fois qu’il prononce le mot pédé, c’est comme s’il le crachait, comme s’il balançait un coup de poing dans le ventre à Wallace. Le mot s’enfonce en lui. « Non, c’est vrai. Tu as été très clair là-dessus. — Bon, tant mieux. — Pourquoi t’es venu ici, alors ? Juste pour me gueuler dessus ? Tu es juste venu pour me traiter de pédé égoïste ? Tu veux me cogner, moi aussi ? » Wallace lève enfin la tête, écarquille les yeux, entrouvrant à peine les lèvres, comme il a appris à le faire en Alabama, cherchant l’attention et la violence des hommes dans les bois. Il écarte ses épaules, avance d’un pas. « Tu veux me cogner aussi ? Tu es venu me casser la gueule ? C’est ça ? » Une veine épaisse palpite dans le cou de Miller, et se tord comme un vermisseau sous sa peau. Wallace le voit dans la flaque de lumière qui éclaire son épaule et sa gorge, par le col ouvert de son pull. Miller montre les dents, et prend une longue inspiration rauque. Ses narines se dilatent. « Me tente pas. Me tente pas, Wallace. — Vas-y, alors. Vas-y, si t’en as envie. » La main de Miller jaillit si vite que Wallace parvient à peine à suivre des yeux son geste. Il empoigne la gorge de Wallace. Sa paume rugueuse est brûlante sur sa peau. Ses doigts s’enfoncent, sans le faire saigner, mais il serre, il appuie.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —La negra es la última —explica Pike, su voz es más profunda y juguetona de lo habitual—. Si la pones en la tronera, pierdes el juego. —¿Qué obtengo si gano? —¿Qué deseas? Ella ríe suavemente, y escucho el ruido de pies arrastrándose. No puedo verlos ya que están a la vuelta de la esquina en la mesa de billar, pero ella está haciendo algo, y aprieto el pomo de la puerta con frustración. Y luego escucho su voz baja. —Creo que eso es si yo gano —responde él a lo que sea que esté haciendo ella, y puedo escuchar la sonrisa en su voz. —Mmm hmmm. —Gime ella, y pongo los ojos en blanco, no estoy segura si le está haciendo algo a él, o él a ella. ¿Qué demonios? ¿Es en serio? ¿Cuánto tiempo han estado aquí? Él sabía que yo podría llegar a casa en cualquier momento. Soy una niña, ¡por Dios! ¿Cómo se supone que terminaré los deberes de la universidad y dormiré si ellos van a hacerlo toda la noche? Estoy segura que esto es lo que él estaba planeando. Si querían jugar billar, pudieron haber ido a The Cue. La trajo aquí por sexo. Doy marcha atrás a través de la cocina y dentro del cuarto de lavandería, abriendo deprisa la puerta de la lavadora, y vaciando la cerveza de raíz en el contenedor con vaso de papel y todo. Cierro de un golpe la tapa de nuevo, enciendo la máquina y entonces abro la puerta de la secadora, sacando toda su mierda y cerrándola de un golpe también. Sí quería tratarme como una niña, entonces aquí vamos. Subo corriendo las escaleras y entro en mi habitación, enciendo mi radio casetera y pongo Bad Medicine altísimo, mientras me quito la ropa del día y me pongo un pantalón de pijama y una camiseta corta. Tomando la agarradera de la casetera, bajo las escaleras hasta la mesa de la cocina y me siento frente al último modelo de paisaje en el que estoy trabajando para la universidad, con la música todavía resonando a mi lado. Son casi diez segundos antes de escuchar las pesadas pisadas de Pike en las escaleras del sótano, y tenso mi mandíbula, preparándome. Entra a la cocina y viene directamente hacia la mesa, presionando el botón Stop/Eject de mi reproductor. La casa queda inmediatamente en silencio, y alzo mi cabeza de golpe fingiendo una mirada inocente en mi rostro. —Oh, lo siento —digo—. Pensé que no había nadie. Pike se endereza pinchándome con una mirada que dice que soy una terrible mentirosa. —Hola, Jordan. —April entra a la cocina detrás de él—. ¿Cómo estás? Le doy una tensa sonrisa. —Bien. —Y regreso mi atención a mi modelo, ensuciándome con algo de falso lodo. Pike aún está mirándome fijamente, hay un largo e incómodo silencio mientras April, probablemente, intenta descubrir qué está sucediendo. —Me… marcharé —dice finalmente.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —Está bien. —Le resta importancia y deja el agua, girándose de nuevo hacia el cortacésped—. De todos modos necesito sol y el ejercicio. —Yo lo terminaré. —La detengo, adelantándome hacia el cortacésped. Pero me sujeta por el brazo. —Lo tengo —asegura, la furia mostrándose en sus ojos—. En serio. No estamos aquí de gratis. Puedo ocuparme de algunas labores. —No vestida así, no lo harás. Frunce el ceño. —¿Disculpa? Me acerco, bajando la voz mientras hablo con ella. —Mi vecino ha estado pegado a su balcón vigilando cada uno de tus movimientos —digo con aspereza—. Dios sabe lo que está pensando. —Ese no es mi problema —protesta—. Tenía calor. Salté a la piscina. Tengo la ropa puesta. —Sí, como una segunda piel —termino por ella, mostrando los dientes—. No puedes hacer esas cosas aquí. Es un vecindario familiar. No el club de striptease de tu hermana. —¡Estoy en el patio trasero! —masculla, tensándose—. ¿A quién le importa cómo estoy vestida? —¡A sus esposas! Arquea una ceja y su pecho se mueve con furiosas respiraciones. Bajo la mirada hacia ella, calmando mi voz. —Las mujeres en el vecindario no aprecian a las calienta pollas paseándose alrededor y tentando a sus maridos, ¿está bien? —lo digo planamente, para que entienda. Pero solo deja salir una risa amarga como si no pudiera creer que lo digo en serio. —Uh… sí, vaya. —Asiente y toma una respira profundamente, alzando la barbilla y mirándome fijamente—. Um, está bien, ésta es la cuestión… Soy consciente que probablemente las cosas eran un poco diferentes cuando eras un adolescente… ¡HACE OCHENTA Y NUEVE AÑOS! —replica. —Fue hace veinte años, gracias. —Pero hoy en día —continúa—, no le echamos la culpa a las mujeres por el comportamiento de los hombres. —Fija la mirada, luego hay una pequeña mueca en sus labios—. Si él quiere mirar, no puedo evitarlo. Si quiere irse a algún sitio privado y darse un poco de amor, oye, nunca lo sabré. ¡No es mi problema! Aprieto los puños. Maldita mocosa. No puedo recuperar el aliento, pero no rompemos el contacto visual. Tiene razón. Sé que tiene razón. No está haciendo nada malo. Solo… No me gusta él mirando. Mirándola. Después de unos segundos, me recompongo y me enderezo, disfrutando ser treinta centímetros más alto. —Cole hace el trabajo del césped. O yo —le indico, rodeándola hacia el cortacésped—. ¿Lo entiendes? No espero su respuesta mientras camino alrededor, dirigiéndome hacia el cortacésped. Pero escucho su dulce y baja voz detrás de mí. —Sí, papi. Parpadeo largo y fuerte, la mano picándome con la urgencia de darle una nalgada a alguien por primera vez en mi vida. No he hablado con Pike desde la discusión de ayer. Me niego a llamarlo una pelea. Apenas nos conocemos. ¿Cómo podemos estar peleando?

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Ella continúa alejándose poco a poco, pero le devuelve la sonrisa y señala con el pulgar hacia mi casa, ambos intercambian unas palabras y asienten. Volviéndose, se dirige hacia mí, y mi mirada se dirige hacia él todavía de pie detrás de ella, viendo que sus ojos se deslizan por su trasero. Mis pulmones se llenan de calor, el instinto empieza a hacer efecto. Ni siquiera lo intentes, imbécil. Ella se acerca, alzando la mirada y reduciendo la velocidad por solo un segundo cuando me ve. Levanto mi barbilla, manteniendo mi tono de voz plano. —¿Qué fue todo eso? Parpadea, subiendo las escaleras del porche. —Oh, él, uh… tiene a sus hijos esta noche —dice—, pero olvidó que tenía un juego de béisbol, así que me pidió que los cuidara. Dije que sí. Solo estaba dándome un recorrido por la casa y diciéndome las normas. —¿Por qué tú? —La sigo. Me devuelve la mirada, y me doy cuenta que eso sonó grosero. —Quiero decir, él ya debe tener una fila de niñeras —añado—. Solo tenía curiosidad de por qué te lo pidió. —No lo sé. —Se encoge de hombros y agarra su bolso, revisándolo para asegurarse que tiene lo que necesita—. Probablemente porque estoy justo en la puerta de al lado y piensa que todavía necesito dinero para mis dulces —bromea— . Está bien. En serio. No tengo nada más que hacer. Llegaré tarde, ¿está bien? ¿Tarde? El juego es alrededor de las diez. Seguramente él se reunirá con el equipo en el bar después. Y entonces el depravado va a venir a casa borracho, donde estará una linda niñera. Maldición no. Se mueve hacia la puerta, lanza su bolso sobre su hombro, y doy un paso adelante. —Espera… —digo. Se da la vuelta, pero sus ojos solo se deslizan sobre mí, nunca fijamente. Está tratando de ignorarme. —Si quieres —menciono gentilmente—, puedes traer a los niños aquí. Pueden nadar en la piscina. Finalmente, encuentra sus ojos con los míos, y noto que están rojos. No está feliz, pero está tratando de esconderlo. Jesús. Sacude la cabeza, luciendo arrepentida. —Acabas de salir del trabajo. Quieres relajarte, y ellos harán mucho ruido. Deja caer su mirada de nuevo, luciendo nerviosa. ¿Soy yo o es algo más? Hice lo correcto la noche anterior. No quiero que se sienta rechazada, porque ella haría a cualquier hombre el más afortunado del mundo. Algún día. Aunque, quizás no está molesta porque lo detuve. Quizás está molesta por todo lo que sucedió. Doy otro paso, bajando mi voz como si tuviera miedo de que los vecinos puedan escucharnos. —¿Estás molesta conmigo? —le pregunto. Abre sus ojos de repente, respondiendo rápidamente. —No. —Y entonces piensa antes de hablar—. Solo estoy tratando de aclarar algunas… cosas en mi cabeza. Puedo ver las lágrimas brotando de sus ojos, y me duele. ¿Por qué siempre quiero abrazarla?