Anger

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• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Everyone was kind and civil, but the point evaded seemed to crop up again in the end, and again to bar the way. What was particularly trying, was that Levin could not make out with whom he was struggling, to whose interest it was that his business should not be done. That no one seemed to know; the solicitor certainly did not know. If Levin could have understood why, just as he saw why one can only approach the booking-office of a railway station in single file, it would not have been so vexatious and tiresome to him. But with the hindrances that confronted him in his business, no one could explain why this existed. But Levin had changed a good deal since his marriage; he was patient, and if he could not see why it was all arranged like this, he told himself that he could not judge without knowing all about it, and that most likely it must be so, and he tried not to fret. In attending the elections, too, and taking part in them, he tried now not to judge, not to fall foul of them, but to comprehend as fully as he could the question which was so earnestly and ardently absorbing honest and excellent men whom he respected. Since his marriage there had been revealed to Levin so many new and serious aspects of life that had previously, through his frivolous attitude to them, seemed of no importance, that in the question of the elections too he assumed and tried to find some serious significance. Sergey Ivanovitch explained to him the meaning and object of the proposed revolution at the elections. The marshal of the province in whose hands the law had placed the control of so many important public functions—the guardianship of wards (the very department which was giving Levin so much trouble just now), the disposal of large sums subscribed by the nobility of the province, the high schools, female, male, and military, and popular instruction on the new model, and finally, the district council—the marshal of the province, Snetkov, was a nobleman of the old school,—dissipating an immense fortune, a goodhearted man, honest after his own fashion, but utterly without any comprehension of the needs of modern days. He always took, in every question, the side of the nobility; he was positively antagonistic to the spread of popular education, and he succeeded in giving a purely party character to the district council which ought by rights to be of such an immense importance. What was needed was to put in his place a fresh, capable, perfectly modern man, of contemporary ideas, and to frame their policy so as from the rights conferred upon the nobles, not as the nobility, but as an element of the district council, to extract all the powers of self-government that could possibly be derived from them.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  You'll say again that I'm a reactionist, or some other terrible word; but all the same it does annoy and anger me to see on all sides the impoverishing of the nobility to which I belong, and, in spite of the amalgamation of classes, I'm glad to belong. And their impoverishment is not due to extravagance—that would be nothing; living in good style—that's the proper thing for noblemen: it's only the nobles who know how to do it. Now the peasants about us buy land, and I don't mind that. The gentleman does nothing, while the peasant works and supplants the idle man. That's as it ought to be. And I'm very glad for the peasant. But I do mind seeing the process of impoverishment from a sort of—I don't know what to call it—innocence. Here a Polish speculator bought for half its value a magnificent estate from a young lady who lives in Nice. And there a merchant will get three acres of land, worth ten roubles, as security for the loan of one rouble. Here, for no kind of reason, you've made that rascal a present of thirty thousand roubles.' 'Well, what should I have done? Count every tree?' 'Of course, they must be counted. You didn't count them, but Ryabinin did. Ryabinin's. children will have means of livelihood and education, while yours maybe will not!' 'Well, you must excuse me, but there's something mean in this counting. We have our business and they have theirs, and they must make their profit. Anyway, the thing's done, and there's an end of it. And here come some poached eggs, my favourite dish. And Agafea Mihalovna will give us that marvellous herb-brandy….' Stepan Arkadyevitch sat down at the table and began joking with Agafea Mihalovna, assuring her that it was long since he had tasted such a dinner and such a supper. 'Well, you do praise it, anyway,' said Agafea Mihalovna, 'but Konstantin Dmitritch, give him what you will—a crust of bread—he'll eat it and walk away.' Though Levin tried to control himself, he was gloomy and silent. He wanted to put one question to Stepan Arkadyevitch, but he could not bring himself to the point, and could not find the words or the moment in which to put it. Stepan Arkadyevitch had gone down to his room, undressed, again washed, and attired in a night-shirt with goffered frills, he had got into bed, but Levin still lingered in his room, talking of various trifling matters, and not daring to ask what he wanted to know. 'How wonderfully they make this soap,' he said, gazing at a piece of soap he was handling, which Agafea Mihalovna had put ready for the visitor but Oblonsky had not used. 'Only look; why, it's a work of art.' 'Yes, everything's brought to such a pitch of perfection nowadays,' said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with a moist and blissful yawn.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  On learning from the porter's wife, who came out to them, that Mihailov saw visitors at his studio, but that at that moment he was in his lodging only a couple of steps off, they sent her to him with their cards, asking permission to see his picture. X T HE artist Mihailov was, as always, at work when the cards of Count Vronsky and Golenishtchev were brought to him. In the morning he had been working in his studio at his big picture. On getting home he flew into a rage with his wife for not having managed to put off the landlady, who had been asking for money. 'I've said it to you twenty times, don't enter into details. You're fool enough at all times, and when you start explaining things in Italian you're a fool three times as foolish,' he said, after a long dispute. 'Don't let it run so long; it's not my fault. If I had the money . . .' 'Leave me in peace, for God's sake!' Mihailov shrieked, with tears in his voice, and, stopping his ears, he went off into his working room, the other side of a partition wall, and closed the door after him. 'Idiotic woman!' he said to himself, sat down to the table, and, opening a portfolio, he set to work at once with peculiar fervour at a sketch he had begun. Never did he work with such fervour and success as when things went ill with him, and especially when he quarrelled with his wife. 'Oh! damn them all!' he thought as he went on working. He was making a sketch for the figure of a man in a violent rage. A sketch had been made before, but he was dissatisfied with it. 'No, that one was better . . . where is it?' He went back to his wife, and scowling, and not looking at her, asked his eldest little girl, where was that piece of paper he had given them? The paper with the discarded sketch on it was found, but it was dirty, and spotted with candle-grease. Still, he took the sketch, laid it on his table, and, moving a little away, screwing up his eyes, he fell to gazing at it. All at once he smiled and gesticulated gleefully. 'That's it! that's it!' he said, and, at once picking up the pencil, he began rapidly drawing. The spot of tallow had given the man a new pose. He had sketched this new pose, when all at once he recalled the face of a shopkeeper of whom he had bought cigars, a vigorous face with a prominent chin, and he sketched this very face, this chin on to the figure of the man. He laughed aloud with delight.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  As he drove up to the Karenins' entrance he looked at his watch and saw it was ten minutes to nine. A high, narrow carriage with a pair of greys was standing at the entrance. He recognised Anna's carriage. 'She is coming to me,' thought Vronsky, and better she should. I don't like going into that house. But no matter; I can't hide myself,' he thought, and with that manner peculiar to him from childhood, as of a man who has nothing to be ashamed of, Vronsky got out of his sledge and went to the door. The door opened, and the hall-porter with a rug on his arm called the carriage. Vronsky, though he did not usually notice details, noticed at this moment the amazed expression with which the porter glanced at him. In the very doorway Vronsky almost ran up against Alexey Alexandrovitch. The gas jet threw its full light on the bloodless, sunken face under the black hat and on the white cravat, brilliant against the beaver of the coat. Karenin's fixed, dull eyes were fastened upon Vronsky's face. Vronsky bowed, and Alexey Alexandrovitch, chewing his lips, lifted his hand to his hat and went on. Vronsky saw him without looking round get into the carriage, pick up the rug and the opera-glass at the window and disappear. Vronsky went into the hall. His brows were scowling, and his eyes gleamed with a proud and angry light in them. 'What a position!' he thought. 'If he would fight, would stand up for his honour, I could act, could express my feelings; but this weakness or baseness . . . He puts me in the position of playing false, which I never meant and never mean to do.' Vronsky's ideas had changed since the day of his conversation with Anna in the Vrede garden. Unconsciously yielding to the weakness of Anna—who had surrendered herself up to him utterly, and simply looked to him to decide her fate, ready to submit to anything—he had long ceased to think that their tie might end as he had thought then. His ambitious plans had retreated into the background again, and feeling that he had got out of that circle of activity in which everything was definite, he had given himself entirely to his passion, and that passion was binding him more and more closely to her. He was still in the hall when he caught the sound of her retreating footsteps. He knew she had been expecting him, had listened for him, and was now going back to the drawing-room. 'No,' she cried, on seeing him, and at the first sound of her voice the tears came into her eyes. 'No; if things are to go on like this, the end will come much, much too soon.' 'What is it, dear one?' 'What? I've been waiting in agony for an hour, two hours. . . .

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Receive him. Alexey Vronsky is the soul of honour, and he is going away to Tashkend.' 'Thank you, princess, for your sympathy and advice. But the question of whether my wife can or cannot see anyone she must decide herself.' He said this from habit, lifting his brows with dignity, and reflected immediately that whatever his words might be, there could be no dignity in his position. And he saw this by the suppressed, malicious, and ironical smile with which Betsy glanced at him after this phrase. XX A LEXEY A LEXANDROVITCH took leave of Betsy in the drawing-room, and went to his wife. She was lying down, but hearing his steps she sat up hastily in her former attitude, and looked in a scared way at him. He saw she had been crying. 'I am very grateful for your confidence in me.' He repeated gently in Russian the phrase he had said in Betsy's presence in French, and sat down beside her. When he spoke to her in Russian, using the Russian 'thou' of intimacy and affection, it was insufferably irritating to Anna. 'And I am very grateful for your decision. I, too, imagine that since he is going away, there is no sort of necessity for Count Vronsky to come here. However, if…' 'But I've said so already, so why repeat it?' Anna suddenly interrupted him with an irritation she could not succeed in repressing. 'No sort of necessity,' she thought, 'for a man to come and say good-bye to the woman he loves, for whom he was ready to ruin himself, and has ruined himself, and who cannot live without him. No sort of necessity!' She compressed her lips, and dropped her burning eyes to his hands with their swollen veins. They were rubbing each other. 'Let us never speak of it,' she added more calmly. 'I have left this question to you to decide, and I am very glad to see…' Alexey Alexandrovitch was beginning. 'That my wish coincides with your own,' she finished quickly, exasperated at his talking so slowly while she knew beforehand all he would say. 'Yes,' he assented; 'and Princess Tverskoy's interference in the most difficult private affairs is utterly uncalled for. She especially . . .' 'I don't believe a word of what's said about her,' said Anna quickly. 'I know she really cares for me.' Alexey Alexandrovitch sighed and said nothing. She played nervously with the tassel of her dressing-gown, glancing at him with that torturing sensation of physical repulsion for which she blamed herself, though she could not control it. Her only desire now was to be rid of his oppressive presence. 'I have just sent for the doctor,' said Alexey Alexandrovitch. 'I am very well; what do I want the doctor for?'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He was angry with everyone, and said nasty things to everyone, reproached everyone for his sufferings, and insisted that they should get him a celebrated doctor from Moscow. To all inquiries made him as to how he felt, he made the same answer with an expression of vindictive reproachfulness: 'I'm suffering horribly, intolerably! ' The sick man was suffering more and more, especially from bedsores, which it was impossible now to remedy, and grew more and more angry with every one about him, blaming them for everything, and especially for not having brought him a doctor from Moscow. Kitty tried in every possible way to relieve him, to soothe him; but it was all in vain, and Levin saw that she herself was exhausted both physically and morally, though she would not admit it. The sense of death, which had been evoked in all by his taking leave of life on the night when he had sent for his brother, was broken up. Every one knew that he must inevitably die soon, that he was half dead already. Everyone wished for nothing but that he should die as soon as possible, and every one, concealing this, gave him medicines, tried to find remedies and doctors, and deceived him and themselves and each other. All this was falsehood, disgusting, irreverent deceit. And owing to the bent of his character, and because he loved the dying man more than anyone else did, Levin was most painfully conscious of this deceit. Levin, who had long been possessed by the idea of reconciling his brothers, at least in face of death, had written to his brother Sergey Ivanovitch, and having received an answer from him, he read this letter to the sick man. Sergey Ivanovitch wrote that he could not come himself, and in touching terms he begged his brother's forgiveness. The sick man said nothing. 'What am I to write to him?' said Levin. 'I hope you are not angry with him?' 'No, not the least!' Nikolay answered, vexed at the question. 'Tell him to send me a doctor.' Three more days of agony followed; the sick man was still in the same condition. The sense of longing for his death was felt by everyone now at the mere sight of him, by the waiters and the hotel-keeper and all the people staying in the hotel, and the doctor and Marya Nikolaevna and Levin and Kitty. The sick man alone did not express this feeling, but on the contrary was furious at their not getting him doctors, and went on taking medicine and talking of life.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  The passion for unity and smoothness is in some minds so insatiate that, in spite of the logical clearness of these reasonings and conclusions, many will fail to be influenced by them. They establish a sort of disjointedness in things which in certain quarters will appear intolerable. They sweep away all chance of 'passing without break' either from the material to the mental, or from the lower to the higher mental; and they thrust us back into a pluralism of consciousness—each arising discontinuity in the midst of two disconnected worlds, material and mental—which is even worse than the old notion of the separate creation of each particular soul. But the malcontents will hardly try to refute our reasonings by direct attack. It is more probable that, turning their back upon them altogether, they will devote themselves to sapping and mining the region roundabout until it is a bog of logical liquefaction, into the midst of which all definite conclusions of any sort may be trusted ere long to sink and disappear. Our reasonings have assumed that the 'integration' of a thousand psychic units must be either just the units over again, simply rebaptized, or else something real, but then other than and additional to those units; that if a certain existing fact is that of a thousand feelings, it cannot at the same time be that of one feeling; for the essence of feeling is to be felt, and as a psychic existent feels , so it must be . If the one feeling feels like no one of the thousand, in what sense can it be said to be the thousand? These assumptions are what the monists will seek to undermine. The Hegelizers amongst them will take high ground at once, and say that the glory and beauty of the psychic life is that in it all contradictions find their reconciliation; and that it is just because the facts we are considering are facts of the self that they are both one and many at the same time. With this intellectual temper I confess that I cannot contend. As in striking at some unresisting gossamer with a club, one but overreaches one's self, and the thing one aims at gets no harm. So I leave this school to its devices. The other monists are of less deliquescent frame, and try to break down distinctness among metal states by making a distinction . This sounds paradoxical, but it is only ingenious. The distinction is that between the unconscious and the conscious being of the mental state . It is the sovereign means for believing what one likes in psychology, and of turning what might become a science into a tumbling-ground for whimsies.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  If no one turned round when we entered, answered when we spoke, or minded what we did, but if every person we met 'cut us dead,' and acted as if we were non-existing things, a kind of rage and impotent despair would ere long well up in us, from which the cruellest bodily tortures would be a relief; for these would make us feel that, however bad might be our plight, we had not sunk to such a depth as to be unworthy of attention at all. Properly speaking, a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him and carry an image of him in their mind. To wound any one of these his images is to wound him.[257] But as the individuals who carry the images fall naturally into classes, we may practically say that he has as many different social selves as there are distinct groups of persons about whose opinion he cares. He generally shows a different side of himself to each of these different groups. Many a youth who is demure enough before his parents and teachers, swears and swaggers like a pirate among his 'tough' young friends. We do not show ourselves to our children as to our club-companions, to our customers as to the laborers we employ, to our own masters and employers as to our intimate friends. From this there results what practically is a division of the man into several selves; and this may be a discordant splitting, as where one is afraid to let one set of his acquaintances know him as he is elsewhere; or it may be a perfectly harmonious division of labor, as where one tender to his children is stern to the soldiers or prisoners under his command. The most peculiar social self which one is apt to have is in the mind of the person one is in love with. The good or bad fortunes of this self cause the most intense elation and dejection—unreasonable enough as measured by every other standard than that of the organic feeling of the individual. To his own consciousness he is not, so long as this particular social self fails to get recognition, and when it is recognized his contentment passes all bounds. A man's fame , good or bad, and his honor or dishonor, are names for one of his social selves. The particular social self of a man called his honor is usually the result of one of those splittings of which we have spoken.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  And why, some day, walking in the street with our attention miles away from that quest, does the answer saunter into our minds as carelessly as if it had never been called for—suggested, possibly, by the flowers on the bonnet of the lady in front of us, or possibly by nothing that we can discover? If reason can give us relief then, why did she not do so earlier? The truth must be admitted that thought works under conditions imposed ab extra . The great law of habit itself—that twenty experiences make us recall a thing better than one, that long indulgence in error makes right thinking almost impossible—seems to have no essential foundation in reason. The business of thought is with truth—the number of experiences ought to have nothing to do with her hold of it; and she ought by right to be able to hug it all the closer, after years wasted out of its presence. The contrary arrangements seem quite fantastic and arbitrary, but nevertheless are part of the very bone and marrow of our minds. Reason is only one out of a thousand possibilities in the thinking of each of us. Who can count all the silly fancies, the grotesque suppositions, the utterly irrelevant reflections he makes in the course of a day? Who can swear that his prejudices and irrational beliefs constitute a less bulky part of his mental furniture than his clarified opinions? It is true that a presiding arbiter seems to sit aloft in the mind, and emphasize the better suggestions into permanence, while it ends by dropping out and leaving unrecorded the confusion. But this is all the difference. The mode of genesis of the worthy and the worthless seems the same. The laws of our actual thinking, of the cogitatum , must account alike for the bad and the good materials on which the arbiter has to decide, for wisdom and for folly. The laws of the arbiter, of the cogitandum , of what we ought to think, are to the former as the laws of ethics are to those of history. Who but an hegelian historian ever pretended that reason in action was per se a sufficient explanation of the political changes in Europe? There are, then, mechanical conditions on which thought depends, and which , to say the least, determine the order in which is presented the content or material for her comparisons, selections, and decisions .

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Discrepant reports of other observations he explains as due to incomplete ablation. Luciani, Goltz, and Lannegrace, however, contend that they have made complete bilateral extirpations of Munk's Sehsphäre more than once, and found a sort of crude indiscriminating sight of objects to return in a few weeks.[20] The question whether a dog is blind or not is harder to solve than would at first appear; for simply blinded dogs, in places to which they are accustomed, show little of their loss and avoid all obstacles; whilst dogs whose occipital lobes are gone may run against things frequently and yet see notwithstanding. The best proof that they may see is that which Goltz's dogs furnished: they carefully avoided, as it seemed, strips of sunshine or paper on the floor, as if they were solid obstacles. This no really blind dog would do. Luciani tested his dogs when hungry (a condition which sharpens their attention) by strewing pieces of meat and pieces of cork before them. If they went straight at them, they saw ; and if they chose the meat and left the cork, they saw discriminatingly . The quarrel is very acrimonious; indeed the subject of localization of functions in the brain seems to have a peculiar effect on the temper of those who cultivate it experimentally. The amount of preserved vision which Goltz and Luciani report seems hardly to be worth considering, on the one hand; and on the other, Munk admits in his penultimate paper that out of 85 dogs he only 'succeeded' 4 times in his operation of producing complete blindness by complete extirpation of his 'Sehsphäre'.[21] The safe conclusion for us is that Luciani's diagram, Fig. 14, represents something like the truth. The occipital lobes are far more important for vision than any other part of the cortex, so that their complete destruction makes the animal almost blind. As for the crude sensibility to light which may then remain, nothing exact is known either about its nature or its seat. In the monkey , doctors also disagree. The truth seems, however, to be that the occipital lobes in this animal also are the part connected most intimately with the visual function. The function would seem to go on when very small portions of them are left, for Ferrier found no 'appreciable impairment' of it after almost complete destruction of them on both sides. On the other hand, he found complete and permanent blindness to ensue when they and the angular gyri in addition were destroyed on both sides. Munk, as well as Brown and Schaefer, found no disturbance of sight from destroying the angular gyri alone, although Ferrier found blindness to ensue.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Effort of attention is thus the essential phenomenon of will.[509] Every reader must know by his own experience that this is so, for every reader must have felt some fiery passion's grasp. What constitutes the difficulty for a man laboring under an unwise passion of acting as if the passion were unwise? Certainly there is no physical difficulty. It is as easy physically to avoid a fight as to begin one, to pocket one's money as to squander it on one's cupidities, to walk away from as towards a coquette's door. The difficulty is mental; it is that of getting the idea of the wise action to stay before our mind at all. When any strong emotional state whatever is upon us the tendency is for no images but such as are congruous with it to come up. If others by chance offer themselves, they are instantly smothered and crowded out. If we be joyous, we cannot keep thinking of those uncertainties and risks of failure which abound upon our path; if lugubrious, we cannot think of new triumphs, travels, loves, and joys; nor if vengeful, of our oppressor's community of nature with ourselves. The cooling advice which we get from others when the fever-fit is on us is the most jarring and exasperating thing in life. Reply we cannot, so we get angry; for by a sort of self-preserving instinct which our passion has, it feels that these chill objects, if they once but gain a lodgment, will work and work until they have frozen the very vital spark from out of all our mood and brought our airy castles in ruin to the ground. Such is the inevitable effect of reasonable ideas over others —if they can once get a quiet hearing; and passion's cue accordingly is always and everywhere to prevent their still small voice from being heard at all. "Let me not think of that! Don't speak to me of that!" This is the sudden cry of all those who in a passion perceive some sobering considerations about to check them in mid-career. "Hœc tibi erit janua leti," we feel. There is something so icy in this cold-water bath, something which seems so hostile to the movement of our life, so purely negative, in Reason, when she lays her corpse-like finger on our heart and says, "Halt! give up! leave off! go back! sit down!" that it is no wonder that to most men the steadying influence seems, for the time being, a very minister of death.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  In childhood it takes this form. The boys who pullout grasshoppers' legs and butterflies' wings, and disembowel every frog they catch, have no thought at all about the matter. The creatures tempt their hands to a fascinating occupation, to which they have to yield. It is with them as with the 'boy-fiend' Jesse Pomeroy, who cut a little girl's throat, 'just to see how she'd act.' The normal provocatives of the impulse are all living beasts, great and small, toward which a contrary habit has not been formed—all human beings in whom we perceive a certain intent towards us, and a large number of human beings who offend us peremptorily, either by their look, or gait, or by some circumstance in their lives which we dislike. Inhibited by sympathy, and by reflection calling up impulses of an opposite kind, civilized men lose the habit of acting out their pugnacious instincts in a perfectly natural way, and a passing feeling of anger, with its comparatively feint bodily expressions, may be the limit of their physical combativeness. Such a feeling as this may, however, be aroused by a wide range of objects. Inanimate things, combinations of color and sound, bad bills of fare, may in persons who combine fastidious taste with an irascible temperament produce real ebullitions of rage. Though the female sex is often said to have less pugnacity than the male, the difference seems connected more with the extent of the motor consequences of the impulse than with its frequency. Women take offence and get angry, if anything, more easily than men, but their anger is inhibited by fear and other principles of their nature from expressing itself in blows. The hunting-instinct proper seems to be decidedly weaker in them than in men. The latter instinct is easily restricted by habit to certain objects, which become legitimate 'game,' while other things are spared. If the hunting-instinct be not exercised at all, it may even entirely die out, and a man may enjoy letting a wild creature live, even though he might easily kill it. Such a type is now becoming frequent; but there is no doubt that in the eyes of a child of nature such a, personage would seem a sort of moral monster.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Emulation or Rivalry, a very intense instinct, especially rife with young children, or at least especially undisguised. Everyone knows it. Nine-tenth of the work of the world is done by it. We know that if we do not do the task some-one else will do it and get the credit, so we do it. It has very little connection with sympathy, but rather more with pugnacity, which we proceed in turn to consider. Pugnacity; anger; resentment. In many respects man is the most ruthlessly ferocious of beasts. As with all gregarious animals, 'two souls,' as Faust says, 'dwell with-in his breast,' the one of sociability and helpfulness, the other of jealousy and antagonism to his mates. Though in a general way he cannot live without them, yet, as regards certain individuals, it often falls out that he cannot live with them either. Constrained to be a member of a tribe, he still has a right to decide, as far as in him lies, of which other members the tribe shall consist. Killing off a few obnoxious ones may often better the chances of those that remain. And killing off a neighboring tribe from whom no good thing comes, but only competition, may materially better the lot of the whole tribe. Hence the gory cradle, the bellum omnium contra omnes, in which our race was reared; hence the fickleness of human ties, the ease with which the foe of yesterday becomes the ally of to-day, the friend of to-day the enemy of to-morrow; hence the fact that we, the lineal representatives of the successful enactors of one scene of slaughter after another, must, whatever more pacific virtues we may also possess, still carry about with us, ready at any moment to burst into flame, the smouldering and sinister traits of character by means of which they lived through so many massacres, harming others, but themselves unharmed.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  "There are outbreaks of rage so groundless and unbridled that all must admit them to be expressions of disease. For the medical layman hardly anything can be more instructive than the observation of such a pathological attack of rage, especially when it presents itself pure and unmixed with other psychical disturbances. This happens in that rather rare disease named transitory mania. The patient predisposed to this—otherwise an entirely reasonable person—will be attacked suddenly without the slightest outward provocation, and thrown (to use the words of the latest writer on the subject, O. Schwartzer, Die transitorische Tobsucht, Wien, 1880), 'into a paroxysm of the wildest rage, with a fearful and blindly furious impulse to do violence and destroy.' He flies at those about him; strikes, kicks, and throttles whomever he can catch; dashes every object about which he can lay his hands on; breaks and crushes what is near him; tears his clothes; shouts, howls, and roars, with eyes that flash and roll, and shows meanwhile all those symptoms of vaso-motor congestion which we have learned to know as the concomitants of anger. His face is red, swollen, his cheeks hot, his eyes protuberant and their whites bloodshot, the heart beats violently, the pulse marks 100-120 strokes a minutes. The arteries of the neck are full and pulsating, the veins are swollen, the saliva flows. The fit lasts only a few hours, and ends suddenly with a sleep of from 8 to 12 hours, on waking from which the patient has entirely forgotten what has happened."[425] In these (outwardly) causeless emotional conditions the particular paths which are explosive are discharged by any and every incoming sensation. Just as, when we are seasick, every smell, every taste, every sound, every sight, every movement, every sensible experience whatever, augments our nausea, so the morbid terror or anger is increased by each and every sensation which stirs up the nerve-centres. Absolute quiet is the only treatment for the time. It seems impossible not to admit that in all this the bodily condition takes the lead, and that the mental emotion follows. The intellect may, in fact, be so little affected as to play the cold-blooded spectator all the while, and note the absence of a real object for the emotion.[426] A few words from Henle may close my reply to this first objection:

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  High authorities have doubted this power of imagination to falsify present impressions of sense.[108] Yet it unquestionably exists. Within the past fortnight I have been annoyed by a smell, faint but unpleasant, in my library. My annoyance began by an escape of gas from the furnace below stairs. This seemed to get lodged in my imagination as a sort of standard of perception; for, several days after the furnace had been rectified, I perceived the 'same smell' again. It was traced this time to a new pair of India rubber shoes which had been brought in from the shop and laid on a table. It persisted in coming to me for several days, however, in spite of the fact that no other member of the family or visitor noticed anything unpleasant. My impression during part of this time was one of uncertainty whether the smell was imaginary or real; and at last it faded out. Everyone must be able to give instances like this from the smell-sense. When we have paid the faithless plumber pretending to mend our drains, the intellect inhibits nose from perceiving the same unaltered odor, until perhaps several days go by. As regards the ventilation heating of rooms, we are apt to feel for some time as we think we ought to feel. If we believe the ventilator is shut, we feel the room close. On discovering it open, the oppression disappears. An extreme instance is given in the following extract: "A patient called at my office one day in a state of great excitement from the effects of an offensive odor in the horse-car she had come and which she declared had probably emanated from some very sick person who must have been just carried in it. There could be no doubt that something had affected her seriously, for she was very pale, with nausea, difficulty in breathing, and other evidences of bodily and mental distress. I succeeded after some difficulty and time, in quieting her, and she left, protesting that the smell was unlike anything she had before experienced and was something dreadful. Leaving my office soon after, it so happened that I found her at the street-corner, waiting for a car: we thus entered the car together. She immediately cal attention to the same sickening odor which she had experienced other car, and began to be affected the same as before, when I pointed out to her that the smell was simply that which always emanates from the straw which has been in stables. She quickly recognized it as the same, when the unpleasant effects which arose while she was possessed with another perception of its character at once passed away."[109]

• From The Incendiaries (2018)

  I don’t know what’s happened, why you’ve turned against Jejah, but, please, let’s go to bed. We’ll argue in the morning, if you like. I looked in the news, I said. From the spring before last, in Yanji, China. I searched headlines. John Leal’s a U.S. citizen. If he’d been abducted by North Korean agents, his organization would have reported it. It would be a big fucking deal. “Edwards student missing, presumed kidnapped.” But there’s nothing, Phoebe. I couldn’t find a single mention of him. Will— I think he’s lying. Well, I don’t. If you were taking up, oh, Buddhism, I wouldn’t mind. If you’d decided to collect old coins— Oh, she said, leaning back. Old coins. Will, if that’s what you want, I’ll be less of a hobbyist. I have to stop living in sin. No, let me finish. I’ve waited for God to hand me a revelation, but I don’t think that’s how He loves us. Hold on. This isn’t about you, Will. I’ve given it a lot of thought. If I did what people here do—if I chased high-paid jobs, and I wrote fifteen-page papers on Milton, I have no idea who that would help. But if I could find out what I am. If I have a soul. I’ve thought about what St. Augustine said, that we have to beg the Lord to know Him. It wasn’t until the 18th century that the church established belief as a precondition of Christian faith—if I act as though I believe, maybe I’ll also experience the divine. If I don’t, I’ll have tried. Isn’t that what you did? She reached across the table, waiting for me to admit that yes, I had. But I was also picturing the two of them in the car’s claustral space: a private, long drive, the partial curtain of Phoebe’s hair swinging. She laughed, ignoring phone calls. He’d have instructed Phoebe about what to tell me, tonight. It was central to his appeal that he liked giving orders. Is this his idea? I asked. No. Did he stay with you last night? It wasn’t, she said. He did, but it’s not— So, let’s be honest. This isn’t about being a born-again virgin for Christ. It’s about you, the wide-eyed acolyte, fucking the guru. Will, you don’t mean this. Sure, I do. It’s what people do in cults like Jejah. You do realize, of course, that it’s a cult. That’s what’s changed, if you’re wondering. I wasn’t sure, at first, but it’s the truth. He’s a low-rent Jesus freak with Franciscan affectations. So, how does it work: do you take turns, fucking him, or is it one big orgy, just a giant Christ-loving pile? I wish you’d told me, though. I’d have joined you— She pushed the cup off the table. A wet stain swelled across the floorboards, broken glass glittering. I’ll get it, I said. Don’t, she said, crying.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  7 “When you reached this place, Sihon the king of Heshbon and Og the king of Bashan came out to meet us in battle, but we defeated them; 8 and we took their land and gave it as an inheritance to the tribe of Reuben, the tribe of Gad, and the half-tribe of Manasseh. 9 “So keep the words of this covenant and obey them, so that you may prosper and be successful in everything that you do. 10 “All of you stand today before the LORD your God—your chiefs, your tribes, your elders and your officers, even all the men of Israel, 11 your little ones, your wives, and the stranger (resident alien, foreigner) who is in your camps, from b the one who chops and gathers your firewood to the one who draws your water— 12 so that you may enter into the covenant of the LORD your God, and into His oath and agreement which the LORD your God is making with you today, 13 so that He may establish you today as His people and that He may be your God, just as He spoke to you and as He swore to your fathers, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. 14 “It is not with you alone that I am making this covenant and this oath, 15 but with those [future Israelites] who are not here with us today, as well as with those who stand here with us today in the presence of the LORD our God 16 (for you know how we lived in the land of Egypt, and how we passed through the nations along the way; 17 and you have seen their detestable acts and their [repulsive] idols of wood and stone, [lifeless images] of silver and gold, which they had with them), 18 so that there will not be among you a man or woman, or family or tribe, whose heart turns away today from the LORD our God, to go and serve the [false] gods of these nations; so that there will not be among you a root [of idolatry] bearing poisonous fruit and wormwood (bitterness). 19 “It will happen that when he (a renegade) hears the words of this oath, and he c imagines himself as blessed, saying, ‘I will have peace and safety even though I walk within the stubbornness of my heart [rejecting God and His law], in order that the watered land dwindles away along with the dry [destroying everything],’ 20 the LORD will not be willing to forgive him, but then the anger of the LORD and His d jealousy will burn against that man, and every curse which is written in this book will rest on him; the LORD will blot out his name from under heaven. 21 “Then the LORD will single him out for disaster from all the tribes of Israel [making an example of him], according to all the curses of the covenant that are written in this Book of the Law.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  [2 Tim 2:19 ] 6 “Do this: Take censers for yourselves, Korah and all your company, 7 then put fire in them and place incense on them in the presence of the LORD tomorrow; and the man whom the LORD chooses shall be the one who is holy. You have gone far enough, you sons of Levi.” 8 Then Moses said to Korah, “Hear now, you sons of Levi, 9 does it seem but a small thing to you that the God of Israel has separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself, to do the service of the tabernacle of the LORD , and to stand before the congregation to minister to them; 10 and that He has brought you near [to Him], Korah and all your brothers, sons of Levi with you? Would you seek the priesthood also? 11 “Therefore you and all your company are gathered together against the LORD ; but as for Aaron, who is he that you murmur against him?” 12 Then Moses sent to call Dathan and Abiram, the sons of Eliab; but they said [defiantly], “We will not come up. 13 “Is it a small thing that you have brought us up out of a land [of plenty] a flowing with milk and honey to kill us in the wilderness, but you would also lord it over us? 14 “Indeed, you have not brought us into a land flowing with milk and honey, nor given us an inheritance of fields and vineyards. Will you gouge out the eyes of these men? We will not come up!” 15 Then Moses became very angry and said to the LORD , “Pay no attention to their offering! I have not taken one donkey from them, nor have I harmed any one of them.” 16 Moses said to Korah, “You and all your company are to appear before the LORD tomorrow, both you and they along with Aaron. 17 “Each of you take his censer and put incense on it, and each of you bring his censer before the LORD , two hundred and fifty censers; also you and Aaron shall each bring his censer.” 18 So they each took his own censer and put fire on it and laid incense on it; and they stood at the doorway of the Tent of Meeting (tabernacle), with Moses and Aaron. 19 Then Korah assembled all the congregation against Moses and Aaron at the doorway of the Tent of Meeting (tabernacle). And the glory and brilliance of the LORD appeared to all the congregation. 20 Then the LORD spoke to Moses and Aaron, saying, 21 “Separate yourselves from among this congregation, so that I may consume them immediately.” 22 But they fell on their faces [before the LORD ], and said, “O God, God of the spirits of all flesh!

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Sad! no, bored! I had to go getting summonses for two poachers I caught, and oh well, I don't like people." He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his voice. "Do you hate being a gamekeeper?" she asked. "Being a gamekeeper, no! So long as I'm left alone. But when I have to go messing around at the police station, and various other places, and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me ... oh well, I get mad ..." and he smiled, with a certain faint humour. "Couldn't you be really independent?" she asked. "Me? I suppose I could, if you mean manage to exist on my pension. I could! But I've got to work, or I should die. That is, I've got to have something that keeps me occupied. And I'm not in a good enough temper to work for myself. It's got to be a sort of job for somebody else, or I should throw it up in a month, out of bad temper. So altogether I'm very well off here, especially lately...." He laughed at her again, with mocking humour. "But why are you in a bad temper?" she asked. "Do you mean you are _always_ in a bad temper?" "Pretty well," he said, laughing. "I don't quite digest my bile." "But what bile?" she said. "Bile!" he said. "Don't you know what that is?" She was silent, and disappointed. He was taking no notice of her. "I'm going away for a while next month," she said. "You are! Where to?" "Venice." "Venice! With Sir Clifford? For how long?" "For a month or so," she replied. "Clifford won't go." "He'll stay here?" he asked. "Yes! He hates to travel as he is." "Ay, poor devil!" he said, with sympathy. There was a pause. "You won't forget me when I'm gone, will you?" she asked. Again he lifted his eyes and looked full at her. "Forget?" he said. "You know nobody forgets. It's not a question of memory." She wanted to say: "What then?" but she didn't. Instead, she said in a mute kind of voice: "I told Clifford I might have a child." Now he really looked at her, intense and searching. "You did?" he said at last. "And what did he say?" "Oh, he wouldn't mind. He'd be glad, really, so long as it seemed to be his." She dared not look up at him. He was silent a long time, then he gazed again on her face. "No mention of _me_, of course?" he said. "No. No mention of you," she said. "No, he'd hardly swallow me as a substitute breeder.--Then where are you supposed to be getting the child?" "I might have a love affair in Venice," she said. "You might," he replied slowly. "So that's why you're going?" "Not to have the love affair," she said, looking up at him, pleading. "Just the appearance of one," he said.

• From Understanding the Old Testament (2019)

  leCtUre 15 | amos, ProPhet of JUstiCe 99 The Finale of Amos’s Speech There is a distinct difference in the rhetoric against Judah. Judah is not condemned for war crimes. They are condemned for rejecting the law of God. This opens the door for the start of the grand finale in verse 6: “For three transgressions of Israel, and for four, I will not revoke the punishment, because they sell the righteous for silver and the needy for a pair of sandals.” Israel is called out for several crimes, and they’re all against the poor. The line regarding sandals is about debt slavery. Then, Amos 2:7 decries the violation of a law that prohibits a woman from being a concubine for the whole house. If she is the concubine for the son, the father must treat her as a daughter. The next verse highlights another problem: “They reclined by every altar on garments taken in pledge.” In Amos 2:8, they are accused of sleeping on garments taken in pledge, and keeping the pledge garments overnight is forbidden. The fact that they’re sleeping in the temple of God shows the hypocrisy of these abuses. The Woes In a section of the middle of the book, Amos has three woes. One starts in 5:7, another in 5:18, and then in 6:1. The middle of those is the structural center of the book. Amos 5:18 reads, “Woe to you who desire the day of the Lord.” This is the earliest reference we have to the day of the Lord—or end of time—anywhere in the Bible. The passage doesn’t introduce the concept of the end of the world. Instead, it’s criticizing people who long for it. Why would someone long for the end of the world? Such people are looking forward to God coming in glory and conquering all of their enemies. Amos cuts off this security blanket by pointing out the day of the Lord will involve judgment. Later, Amos denounces the hypocrisy of thinking that one can treat the poor horribly, but make animal sacrifices and be fine.