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 Detransition, Baby (2021)

  For a moment, Amy almost forgot to be miserable. A tip-off? What did this guy think this was? But then it occurred to Amy that if she could see Reese’s R, maybe Reese could see her A. Maybe Reese had been tracking Amy’s movement for months! Maybe that’s why she felt safe to cheat whenever she wanted! Amy had tagged herself like some sort of research dolphin! No. C’mon. That’s paranoid. Right? Totally paranoid. But... The R was moving too fast for Reese to be on foot. Was she on a bus? No! She was in his car! “They're gonna get away!” she cried. “We have to follow them.” “Okay,” said her driver. “But you have to update your destination in ‘location’ in the Uber app. I can’t just drive where you say.” “What?” “IT won't get paid except for the destination in the phone. Create a second destination.” “But I don’t know their destination!” Her driver shrugged. “I can’t go except for where you put in.” This was bullshit! In the movies, you get in a taxicab and shout “Follow that car!” Uber ruined everything. “Tl give you cash for the extra.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s not the way Uber works. I could get in trouble.” She didn’t know what to say. They'd had a rapport! Okay, no, she hadn’t really flirted with him when he gave her the chance, but... “Fine, how do I change destinations?” “Well, actually what would be best would be to add a second destination, since we are basically almost at yours.” “T don’t know how to do that!” Amy wailed. “Tll show you,” he said, and pulled over. “No! Don’t pull over, they'll get away!” “Tt’s faster than telling you!” he cried back. She shoved her phone to him, and absurdly, he began to explain, step by step how to add a second destination to the Uber route. Goddammit! she wanted to scream. My heart is breaking and there is no pathos in this world! Instead, as he went through the steps she said, “Okay, yes, thank you. Yes, I understand now. Yep. They were on the corner of Bedford and Metropolitan when I last looked. Let’s put that in as the second destination. Yes. That’s great. Perfect.” Of course, by the time he handed the phone back to her, and turned his attention back to the wheel, the R had crept farther north. The green flag waved and a race commenced: Amy’s smartphone typing skills as she updated the location on the fly against Reese’s indeterminate travel. “T think they’re going to the park,” Reese cried. “Which park!?” The driver had returned to her team, ready to fly ahead. “McCarren.” “Tll take Franklin north!” he shouted. “It’s faster, I promise!”

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  students’ essay exams in the conventional way. I would pick up one test booklet at a time and read all that student’s essays in immediate succession, grading them as I went. I would then compute the total and go on to the next student. I eventually noticed that my evaluations of the essays in each booklet were strikingly homogeneous. I began to suspect that my grading exhibited a halo effect, and that the first question I scored had a disproportionate effect on the overall grade. The mechanism was simple: if I had given a high score to the first essay, I gave the student the benefit of the doubt whenever I encountered a vague or ambiguous statement later on. This seemed reasonable. Surely a student who had done so well on the first essay would not make a foolish mistake in the second one! But there was a serious problem with my way of doing things. If a student had written two essays, one strong and one weak, I would end up with different final grades depending on which essay I read first. I had told the students that the two essays had equal weight, but that was not true: the first one had a much greater impact on the final grade than the second. This was unacceptable. I adopted a new procedure. Instead of reading the booklets in sequence, I read and scored all the students’ answers to the first question, then went on to the next one. I made sure to write all the scores on the inside back page of the booklet so that I would not be biased (even unconsciously) when I read the second essay. Soon after switching to the new method, I made a disconcerting observation: my confidence in my grading was now much lower than it had been. The reason was that I frequently experienced a discomfort that was new to me. When I was disappointed with a student’s second essay and went to the back page of the booklet to enter a poor grade, I occasionally discovered that I had given a top grade to the same student’s first essay. I also noticed that I was tempted to reduce the discrepancy by changing the grade that I had not yet written down, and found it hard to follow the simple rule of never yielding to that temptation. My grades for the essays of a single student often varied over a considerable range. The lack of coherence left me uncertain and frustrated. I was now less happy with and less confident in my grades than I had been earlier, but I recognized that this was a good sign, an indication that the new procedure was superior. The consistency I had enjoyed earlier was spurious; it produced a feeling of cognitive ease, and my System 2 was happy to lazily accept the final grade. By allowing myself to be strongly influenced by the first question in evaluating subsequent ones, I spared myself the dissonance of finding the same student doing very well on some questions and badly on others. The uncomfortable inconsistency that was revealed when I switched to the new procedure was real: it reflected both the inadequacy of any single question as a

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “This is mine,” he whispers aggressively. “All mine. Do you understand?” He eases his finger in and out as he gazes down at me, gauging my reaction, his eyes burning. “Yes, yours. Do it,” I breathe as desire, hot and heavy, surges through my bloodstream, affecting…everything. My nerve endings, my breathing. My heart is pounding, trying to leave my chest, the blood thrumming in my ears. Abruptly, he moves, doing several things at once: withdrawing his fingers, leaving me wanting, unzipping his fly, and pushing me down onto the couch so he’s lying on top of me. “Hands on your head,” he commands through gritted teeth as he kneels, forcing my legs wider, and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. He takes out a foil packet, gazing down at me, his expression dark, before shrugging off his jacket so it falls to the floor. He rolls the condom down over his impressive length. I place my hands on my head, and I know it’s so I won’t touch him. I’m so turned on. I feel my hips already moving up to meet him, wanting him inside me, like this—rough and hard. Oh…the anticipation. “We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand? Don’t come or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth. Holy crap…how do I stop? With one swift thrust, he’s fully inside me. I groan loudly, gutturally, and revel in the fullness of his possession. He puts his hands on mine on top of my head, his elbows hold my arms out and down, and his legs pinion me. I’m trapped. He’s everywhere, overwhelming me, almost suffocating. But it’s heavenly, too—this is my power, this is what I do to him, and it’s a hedonistic, triumphant feeling. He moves quickly and furiously inside me, his breathing harsh at my ear, and my body responds, melting around him. I mustn’t come. No. But I’m meeting him thrust for thrust, a perfect counterpoint. Abruptly, and all too soon, he rams into me and stills as he finds his release, air hissing through his teeth. He relaxes momentarily, so I feel his entire, delicious weight on me. I’m not ready to let him go, my body craving relief, but he’s so heavy, and in that moment, I can’t push against him. All of a sudden, he withdraws, leaving me aching and hungry for more. He glares down at me. “Don’t touch yourself. I want you frustrated. That’s what you do to me by not talking to me, by denying me what’s mine.” His eyes blaze anew, angry again.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I stood up and stared down at him sitting smugly, and he blew a thin stream of smoke at my face, and I’d had enough. “I’m tired of following orders, asshole! I’m not going to sit with you and discuss the finer points of her relationship with Jake, goddamn it. I can’t say it any clearer: I don’t want to know about them. I already know what she told me, and that’s all I need to know, and you can be a condescending prick as long as you’d like, but I’m not going to sit around and chat with you about how goddamned much she loved Jake! Now give me my cigarettes.” The Colonel threw the pack on the ground and was up in a flash, a fistful of my sweater in his hand, trying but failing to pull me down to his height. “You don’t even care about her!” he shouted. “All that matters is you and your precious fucking fantasy that you and Alaska had this goddamned secret love affair and she was going to leave Jake for you and you’d live happily ever after. But she kissed a lot of guys, Pudge. And if she were here, we both know that she would still be Jake’s girlfriend and that there’d be nothing but drama between the two of you—not love, not sex, just you pining after her and her like, ‘You’re cute, Pudge, but I love Jake.’ If she loved you so much, why did she leave you that night? And if you loved her so much, why’d you help her go? I was drunk. What’s your excuse?” The Colonel let go of my sweater, and I reached down and picked up the cigarettes. Not screaming, not through clenched teeth, not with the veins pulsing in my forehead, but calmly. Calmly. I looked down at the Colonel and said, “Fuck you.” — The vein-pulsing screaming came later, after I had jogged across Highway 119 and through the dorm circle and across the soccer field and down the dirt road to the bridge, when I found myself at the Smoking Hole. I picked up a blue chair and threw it against the concrete wall, and the clang of plastic on concrete echoed beneath the bridge as the chair fell limply on its side, and then I lay on my back with my knees hanging over the precipice and screamed. I screamed because the Colonel was a self-satisfied, condescending bastard, and I screamed because he was right, for I did want to believe that I’d had a secret love affair with Alaska. Did she love me? Would she have left Jake for me? Or was it just another impulsive Alaska moment? It was not enough to be the last guy she kissed. I wanted to be the last one she loved. And I knew I wasn’t.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  So she gets off campus, drunk and all pissed off, and she’s furious at herself over whatever it is, and she’s driving along and sees the cop car and then in a flash everything comes together and the end to her labyrinthine mystery is staring her right in the face and she just does it, straight and fast, just aims at the cop car and never swerves, not because she’s drunk but because she killed herself.” “That’s ridiculous. She wasn’t thinking about Jake or fighting with Jake. She was making out with me. I tried to bring up the whole Jake thing, but she just shushed me.” “So who called her?” I kicked off my comforter and, my fist balled, smashed my hand against the wall with each syllable as I said, “I! DON’T! KNOW! And you know what, it doesn’t matter. She’s dead. Is the brilliant Colonel going to figure out something that’s gonna make her less freaking dead?” But it did matter, of course, which is why I kept pounding at our cinder-block walls and why the questions had floated beneath the surface for a week. Who’d called? What was wrong? Why did she leave? Jake had not gone to her funeral. Nor had he called us to say he was sorry, or to ask us what happened. He had just disappeared, and of course, I had wondered. I had wondered if she had any intention of keeping her promise that we would be continued. I had wondered who called, and why, and what made her so upset. But I’d rather wonder than get answers I couldn’t live with. “Maybe she was driving there to break up with Jake, then,” the Colonel said, his voice suddenly edgeless. He sat down on the corner of my bed. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to know.” “Yeah, well,” he said. “I want to know. Because if she knew what she was doing, Pudge, she made us accomplices. And I hate her for that. I mean, God, look at us. We can’t even talk to anyone anymore. So listen, I wrote out a game plan: One. Talk to eyewitnesses. Two. Figure out how drunk she was. Three. Figure out where she was going, and why.” “I don’t want to talk to Jake,” I said halfheartedly, already resigned to the Colonel’s incessant planning. “If he knows, I definitely don’t want to talk to him. And if he doesn’t, I don’t want to pretend like it didn’t happen.” The Colonel stood up and sighed. “You know what, Pudge? I feel bad for you. I do. I know you kissed her, and I know you’re broken up about it. But honestly, shut up. If Jake knows, you’re not gonna make it any worse. And if he doesn’t, he won’t find out.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The next morning, she woke up to an Amazon gift certificate for five hundred dollars delivered to the email account she used for fetish site communiqués. He’d sent it with a note. I saw you didn’t get a car home, even though I gave you money for one. I wasn’t paying for the pleasure of your company, but since that seems to be what you want from me (despite your little outburst to the contrary) I've sent you what I think you’re worth. Use it to buy some yoga pants to please me, and do whatever you wish with the rest. She entered the code into Amazon, and considered doing as she had done with the fifty, buying the cheapest pair of yoga pants that she could find so that she could pocket the rest. But looking at her options, she decided, fuck it, when unexpected yoga pants come your way, go full Lululemon. She hit the Purchase button, and said aloud, “T hate him.” But, considering it didn’t even cross her mind not to buy yoga pants at all, the heat that came over her wasn’t only from hate. She replied with a screenshot of the receipt and he wrote back an hour later. God, that was so easy. I didn’t even have to work to make you into a whore. I haven't fucked you yet, asshole, she wrote back. He replied with a second Amazon gift card for the same amount, along with an OpenTable reservation for seven-thirty P.M. that Friday to a steak house, and the instructions: Wear those yoga pants. Don’t tuck. “T fucking hate him,” Reese said aloud again, as she dutifully scheduled the date on her calendar. As she shaved her legs in her cramped tub before the date, she reached down and idly rubbed her shaving cream—covered clit, and said it again. If there is such a thing as a hate-fuck, theirs was a hate-courtship, with plenty of hate-foreplay. One week, in the midst of a January cold snap, he rented her a room at the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park, near his office. Once he had installed her in the room, he took away her clothes, leaving her only a one-piece swimsuit and the hotel bathrobes, so that she’d freeze if she left. She spent four days looking out at the frigid Hudson River, living off room service and waiting for him to stop by during his breaks to fuck her (or depending on his time constraints, to hold her face into a pillow with one hand, and jerk off onto her back with the other), turned on and resentful the whole time. At night, she invited friends to the room, and they drank bottles of wine on his room service tab, but she followed the rules, and didn’t ask to be brought anything else to wear.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His breathing is ragged and harsh, whereas mine is almost nonexistent as I desperately scrabble around my psyche looking for some internal strength. The belt cuts into my flesh again. “Three!” Tears spring unwelcome into my eyes. This is harder than I thought—so much harder than the spanking. He’s not holding anything back. “Four!” I yell as the belt bites me again, and now the tears are streaming down my face. I don’t want to cry. It angers me that I am crying. He hits me again. “Five.” My voice is more a choked, strangled sob, and in this moment I think I hate him. One more, I can do one more. My backside feels as if it’s on fire. “Six,” I whisper as the blistering pain cuts across me again, and I hear him drop the belt behind me, and he’s pulling me into his arms, all breathless and compassionate…and I want none of him. “Let go… No…” And I find myself struggling out of his grasp, pushing him away. Fighting him. “Don’t touch me!” I hiss. I straighten and stare at him, and he’s watching me as if I might bolt, eyes wide, bemused. I dash the tears angrily out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, glaring at him. “This is what you really like? Me, like this?” I use the sleeve of the bathrobe to wipe my nose. He gazes at me warily. “Well, you are one fucked-up son of a bitch.” “Ana,” he pleads, shocked. “Don’t you dare ‘Ana’ me! You need to sort your shit out, Grey!” And with that, I turn stiffly, and I walk out of the playroom, closing the door quietly behind me. I clasp the door handle behind me and briefly lean back against the door. Where to go? Do I run? Do I stay? I am so mad, scalding tears spill down my cheeks, and I brush them furiously aside. I just want to curl up. Curl up and recuperate in some way. Heal my shattered faith. How could I have been so stupid? Of course it hurts. Tentatively, I rub my backside. Ah! It’s sore. Where to go? Not his room. My room, or the room that will be mine—no, is mine…was mine. This is why he wanted me to keep it. He knew I would need distance from him. I launch myself stiffly in that direction, conscious that Christian may follow me. It is still dark in the bedroom, dawn only a whisper in the skyline. I climb awkwardly into bed, careful not to sit on my aching and tender backside. I keep the bathrobe on, wrapping it around me, and curl up and really let go—sobbing hard into my pillow.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I need to speak to you about antagonizing Christian,” I hiss quietly in her ear as she embraces me. “He needs antagonizing. Then you can see what he’s really like. Be careful, Ana—he’s so controlling,” she whispers. “See you later.” I KNOW WHAT HE’S REALLY LIKE—YOU DON’T! I scream at her in my head. I’m fully aware that her actions come from a good place, but sometimes she just oversteps boundaries, and right now she’s so far over that she’s in the neighboring state. I scowl, and she pokes her tongue out at me, making me smile. Playful Kate is novel. Must be Elliot’s influence. We wave them off at the doorway, and Christian turns to me. “We should go, too—you have interviews tomorrow.” Mia embraces me warmly as we say our goodbyes. “We never thought he’d find anyone!” she gushes. Christian rolls his eyes again…and I purse my lips. Why can he do that when I can’t? I want to roll my eyes back at him, but I don’t dare, not after his threat in the boathouse. “Take care of yourself, Ana dear,” Grace says kindly. Christian, embarrassed or frustrated by the lavish attention I’m receiving from the remaining Greys, grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. “Let’s not frighten her away or spoil her with too much affection,” he grumbles. “Christian, stop teasing,” Grace scolds him indulgently, her eyes glowing with love and affection for him. Somehow, I don’t think he’s teasing. I surreptitiously watch their interaction. It’s obvious Grace adores him with a mother’s unconditional love. He bends and kisses her stiffly. “Mom,” he says, and there’s an undercurrent in his voice—reverence maybe? “Mr. Grey, goodbye and thank you.” I hold out my hand to him, and he hugs me, too! “Please, call me Carrick. I do hope we see you again very soon, Ana.” Our farewells said, Christian leads me to the car, where Taylor is waiting. Has he been waiting here the whole time? Taylor opens my door, and I slide into the back of the Audi. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. What a day. I am exhausted, physically and emotionally. After a brief conversation with Taylor, Christian clambers into the car beside me. He turns to face me. “Well, it seems my family likes you, too,” he says. Too? The depressing thought about how I came to be invited pops unbidden and very unwelcome into my head. Taylor starts the car and heads away from the circle of light in the driveway to the darkness of the road. I gaze at Christian, and he’s staring at me. “What?” he asks, his voice quiet. I flounder momentarily. No—I’ll tell him. He’s always complaining that I don’t talk to him. “I think you felt trapped into bringing me to meet your parents.” My voice is quiet and hesitant. “If Elliot hadn’t asked Kate, you’d never have asked me.” I can’t see his face in the dark, but he tilts his head.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Oh no. What kind of life did he have before the Greys rescued him? I’m seized by a sense of raw outrage. Poor, fucked-up, kinky, philanthropic Christian—though I’m sure he wouldn’t see himself this way and would repel any thoughts of sympathy or pity. Abruptly, everyone bursts into applause and stands. I follow, though I haven’t heard half his speech. He’s doing all these good works, running a huge company, and chasing me at the same time. It’s overwhelming. I remember the brief snippets of conversations he’s had about Darfur… It all falls into place. Food. He smiles briefly at the warm applause—even Kate is clapping—then he resumes his seat. He doesn’t look my way, and I’m off-kilter trying to assimilate this new information about him. One of the vice chancellors rises, and we begin the long, tedious process of collecting our degrees. There are more than four hundred to be given out, and it takes just over an hour before I hear my name. I make my way up to the stage between the two giggling girls. Christian gazes down at me, his look warm but guarded. “Congratulations, Miss Steele,” he says as he shakes my hand, squeezing it gently. I feel the charge of his flesh on mine. “Do you have a problem with your laptop?” I frown as he hands me my degree. “No.” “Then you are ignoring my emails?” “I only saw the mergers and acquisitions one.” He looks quizzically at me. “Later,” he says, and I have to move on because I’m holding up the line. I go back to my seat. Emails? He must have sent another. What did it say? The ceremony takes another hour to conclude. It’s interminable. Finally, the chancellor leads the faculty members off the stage to yet more rousing applause, preceded by Christian and Kate. Christian does not glance at me, even though I’m willing him to do it. My inner goddess is not pleased. As I stand and wait for our row to disperse, Kate calls to me. She’s heading my way from behind the stage. “Christian wants to talk to you,” she shouts. The two girls who are now standing beside me turn and gape at me. “He’s sent me out here,” she continues. Oh… “Your speech was great, Kate.” “It was, wasn’t it?” She beams. “Are you coming? He can be very insistent.” She rolls her eyes, and I grin. “You have no idea. I can’t leave Ray for long.” I glance up at Ray and hold my fingers up indicating five minutes. He nods, giving me an okay sign, and I follow Kate into the corridor behind the stage.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I can’t talk this through with Kate without revealing too much, but one question about her day and Kate is off. It’s reassuring to sit and listen to her normal chatter. The hot news is that Ethan may be coming to live with us after their vacation. That will be fun—Ethan is a hoot. I frown. I don’t think Christian will approve. Well, tough. He’ll just have to suck it up. I have a couple of teacups of wine and decide to call it a night. It’s been one very long day. Kate hugs me, then grabs the phone to call Elliot. I check the mean machine after I brush my teeth. There’s an email from Christian. From: Christian Grey Subject: You Date: May 26 2011 23:14 To: Anastasia Steele Dear Miss Steele, You are quite simply exquisite. The most beautiful, intelligent, witty, and brave woman I have ever met. Take some Advil—this is not a request. And don’t drive your Beetle again. I will know. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Oh, not drive my car again! I type out my reply. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Flattery Date: May 26 2011 23:20 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey, Flattery will get you nowhere, but since you’ve been everywhere, the point is moot. I will need to drive my Beetle to a garage so I can sell it—so will not graciously accept any of your nonsense over that. Red wine is always more preferable to Advil. Ana P.S. Caning is a HARD limit for me. I hit send. From: Christian Grey Subject: Frustrating Women Who Can’t Take Compliments Date: May 26 2011 23:26 To: Anastasia Steele Dear Miss Steele, I am not flattering you. You should go to bed. I accept your addition to the hard limits. Don’t drink too much. Taylor will dispose of your car and get a good price for it, too. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Taylor—Is He the Right Man for the Job? Date: May 26 2011 23:40 To: Christian Grey Dear Sir, I am intrigued that you are happy to risk letting your right-hand man drive my car but not some woman you fuck occasionally. How can I be sure that Taylor is the man to get me the best deal for said car? I have, in the past, probably before I met you, been known to drive a hard bargain. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Careful! Date: May 26 2011 23:44 To: Anastasia Steele Dear Miss Steele, I am assuming it is the RED WINE talking, and that you’ve had a very long day. Though I am tempted to drive back over there to ensure that you don’t sit down for a week, rather than an evening. Taylor is ex-army and capable of driving anything from a motorcycle to a Sherman tank. Your car does not present a hazard to him.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “No,” he growls. “I’ve told you this.” And I know that’s it. I cannot ask him any further questions about her because he will lose it with me. “Are you done?” he snaps. “For now.” He takes a deep breath and visibly relaxes in front of me, like a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders or something. “Right—my turn.” His glare turns steely, speculative. “You haven’t responded to my email.” I flush. Oh, I hate the spotlight on me, and it seems he’s going to get angry every time we have a discussion. I shake my head. Perhaps that’s how he feels about my questions; he’s not used to being challenged. The thought is revelatory, distracting, and unnerving. “I was going to respond. But now you’re here.” “You’d rather I wasn’t?” His expression is impassive again. “No, I’m pleased.” “Good.” He gives me a genuine, relieved smile. “I’m pleased I’m here, too—in spite of your interrogation. So, while it’s acceptable to grill me, you think you can claim some kind of diplomatic immunity just because I’ve flown all this way to see you? I’m not buying it, Miss Steele. I want to know how you feel.” Oh no… “I told you. I’m pleased you’re here. Thank you for coming all this way.” “It’s my pleasure.” His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses me gently. I feel myself responding automatically. The water is still warm, the bathroom still steamy. He stops and pulls back, gazing down at me. “No. I think I want some answers first before we do any more.” More? There’s that word again. And he wants answers…answers to what? I don’t have a secret past—I don’t have a harrowing childhood. What could he possibly want to know about me that he doesn’t already know? I sigh, resigned. “What do you want to know?” “Well, how you feel about our would-be arrangement, for starters.” I blink at him. Truth or dare time—my subconscious and inner goddess glance nervously at each other. Hell, let’s go for truth. “I don’t think I can do it for an extended period of time. A whole weekend being someone I’m not.” I stare at my hands. He tips my chin up, and he’s smirking, amused. “No, I don’t think you could, either.” And part of me feels slightly affronted and challenged. “Are you laughing at me?” “Yes, but in a good way,” he says with a small smile. He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly. “You’re not a great submissive,” he breathes as he holds my chin, his eyes dancing with humor. I stare at him, shocked, then I burst out laughing—and he joins me. “Maybe I don’t have a good teacher.” He snorts. “Maybe. Perhaps I should be stricter with you.” He cocks his head to one side and gives me an artful smile.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “No.” I am so not backing down on this. No one is going to dictate to me what I eat. How I fuck, yes, but eat…no, no way. He purses his lips. “I need to know you’re not hungry.” I frown. Why? “You’ll have to trust me.” He gazes at me for a moment, and he relaxes. “Oh, touché, Miss Steele. I concede the food and the sleep.” “Why can’t I look at you?” “That’s a Dom/sub thing. You’ll get used to it.” Will I? “Why can’t I touch you?” “Because you can’t.” His mouth sets in a mulish line. “Is it because of Mrs. Robinson?” He looks quizzically at me. “Why would you think that?” And immediately he understands. “You think she traumatized me?” I nod. “No, Anastasia. She’s not the reason. Besides, Mrs. Robinson wouldn’t take any of that shit from me.” Oh…but I have to. I pout. “So nothing to do with her.” “No. And I don’t want you touching yourself, either.” What? Ah yes, the no-masturbation clause. “Out of curiosity, why?” “Because I want all your pleasure.” His voice is husky but determined. Oh… I have no answer for that. On one level, it’s up there with “I want to bite that lip”; on another, it’s so selfish. I frown and take a bite of cod, trying to assess mentally what concessions I’ve gained. The food, the sleep. He’s going to take it slow, and we haven’t discussed soft limits. But I’m not sure I can face that over food. “I’ve given you a great deal to think about, haven’t I?” “Yes.” “Do you want to go through the soft limits now, too?” “Not over dinner.” He smiles. “Squeamish?” “Something like that.” “You’ve not eaten very much.” “I’ve had enough.” “Three oysters, four bites of cod, and one asparagus stalk, no potatoes, no nuts, no olives, and you’ve not eaten all day. You said I could trust you.” Jeez. He’s kept an inventory. “Christian, please, it’s not every day I sit through conversations like this.” “I need you fit and healthy, Anastasia.” “I know.” “And right now, I want to peel you out of that dress.” I swallow and feel the pull deep in my belly. Muscles that I’m now more acquainted with clench at his words. But I can’t have this. His most potent weapon, used against me again. He’s so good at sex—even I’ve figured this out. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I murmur quietly. “We haven’t had dessert.” “You want dessert?” he snorts. “Yes.” “You could be dessert,” he murmurs suggestively. “I’m not sure I’m sweet enough.” “Anastasia, you’re deliciously sweet. I know.” “Christian. You use sex as a weapon. It really isn’t fair,” I whisper, staring down at my hands, and then looking directly at him.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I hope you and your sense of irony have a safe flight. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Kate and I pull up outside the drop-off area at Sea-Tac Airport departure terminal. Leaning across, she hugs me. “Enjoy Barbados, Kate. Have a wonderful vacation.” “I’ll see you when I get back. Don’t let Mr. Moneybags grind you down.” “I won’t.” We hug again—and then I’m on my own. I head over to check-in and stand in line, waiting with my carry-on luggage. I haven’t bothered with a suitcase, just a smart rucksack that Ray gave me for my last birthday. “Ticket, please?” The bored young man behind the desk holds up his hand without looking at me. Mirroring his boredom, I hand over my ticket and my driver’s license as ID. I am hoping for a window seat if at all possible. “Okay, Miss Steele. You’ve been upgraded to first class.” “What?” “Ma’am, if you’d like to go through to the first-class lounge and wait for your flight there…” He seems to have woken up and is beaming at me like I’m Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny rolled into one. “Surely there’s some mistake.” “No, no.” He checks his computer screen again. “Anastasia Steele—upgrade.” He simpers. Ugh. I narrow my eyes. He hands me my boarding pass, and I head toward the first-class lounge muttering under my breath. Damn Christian Grey, interfering control freak—he just can’t leave well enough alone. Chapter Twenty-TwoI am manicured, massaged, and I’ve had two glasses of champagne. The first-class lounge has many redeeming features. With each sip of Moet, I feel slightly more inclined to forgive Christian and his intervention. I open my MacBook, hoping to test the theory that it works anywhere on the planet. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Over-Extravagant Gestures Date: May 30 2011 21:53 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey, What really alarms me is how you knew which flight I was on. Your stalking knows no bounds. Let’s hope that Dr. Flynn is back from vacation. I have had a manicure, a back massage, and two glasses of champagne—a very nice start to my vacation. Thank you. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: You’re Most Welcome Date: May 30 2011 21:59 To: Anastasia Steele Dear Miss Steele, Dr. Flynn is back, and I have an appointment next week. Who was massaging your back? Christian Grey CEO with Friends in the Right Places, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Aha! Payback time. Our flight has been called, so I shall email him from the plane. It will be safer. I almost hug myself with mischievous glee. There is so much room in first class. Champagne cocktail in hand, I settle myself into the sumptuous leather window seat as the cabin slowly fills. I call Ray to tell him where I am—a mercifully brief call, as it’s so late for him. “Love you, Dad,” I murmur. “You, too, Annie. Say hi to your mom. Good night.” “Good night.” I hang up.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Darling, you sound so lost. You’ve never brought a boy home. You never even had a boyfriend when we were in Vegas. I thought something might develop with that guy you met in college, José.” “Mom, José’s just a friend.” “I know, sweetheart. But something’s up, and I don’t think you’re telling me everything.” Her face is etched with motherly concern as she studies me. “I just needed some distance from Christian to get my thoughts straight, that’s all. He tends to overwhelm me.” “Overwhelm?” “Yeah. I miss him, though.” I frown. I have not heard from Christian all day. No emails, nothing. I’m tempted to call him to see if he’s okay. My worst fear is that he’s been in a car accident; my second worst fear is that Mrs. Robinson has gotten her evil claws into him again. I know it’s irrational, but where she’s concerned, I seem to have lost all sense of perspective. “Darling, I have to visit the restroom.” My mother’s brief absence allows me another chance to check my BlackBerry. I have been trying surreptitiously to check my email all day. Finally—a response from Christian! From: Christian Grey Subject: Dinner Companions Date: June 1 2011 21:40 ET To: Anastasia Steele Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia. Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. He was having dinner with her. My scalp prickles as adrenaline and fury lance through my body, all my worst fears realized. How could he? I am away for two days, and he runs off to that evil bitch. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: OLD Dinner Companions Date: June 1 2011 21:42 ET To: Christian Grey She’s not just an old friend. Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into? Did you get too old for her? Is that the reason your relationship finished? I press send as my mother returns. “Ana, you’re so pale. What’s happened?” I shake my head. “Nothing. Let’s have another drink,” I mutter mulishly. Her brow furrows, but she glances up and attracts the attention of one of the waiters, pointing to our glasses. He nods. He understands the universal language of “another round, please.” As she does, I quickly glance at my BlackBerry. From: Christian Grey Subject: Careful… Date: June 1 2011 21:45 ET To: Anastasia Steele This is not something I wish to discuss via email. How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink? Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Holy fuck, he’s here. Chapter Twenty-ThreeI glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him. “Ana, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “It’s Christian. He’s here.” “What? Really?” She glances around the bar, too. I have neglected to mention Christian’s stalker tendencies to my mom.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Until Friday, Mrs. Adams.” “Will you have dinner with us tomorrow evening? And please, call me Carla.” “I’d be delighted to, Carla.” “Excellent. If you two will excuse me, I need to visit the restroom.” Mom…you’ve just been. I watch her desperately as she stands and walks off, leaving us alone together. “So, you’re mad at me for having dinner with an old friend.” Christian turns his burning, wary gaze to me, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing each knuckle gently. He wants to do this now? “Yes,” I murmur as my heated blood courses through me. “Our sexual relationship was over long ago, Anastasia. I don’t want anyone but you. Haven’t you worked that out yet?” “I think of her as a child molester, Christian.” I hold my breath waiting for his reaction. Christian blanches. “That’s very judgmental. It wasn’t like that,” he whispers, shocked. He releases my hand. Judgmental? “Oh, how was it, then?” I snap. The Cosmos are making me brave. He frowns at me, bewildered. I continue. “She took advantage of a vulnerable fifteen-year-old boy. If you had been a fifteen-year-old girl and Mrs. Robinson was a Mr. Robinson, tempting you into a BDSM lifestyle, that would have been okay? If it was Mia, say?” He gasps and scowls at me. “Ana, it wasn’t like that.” I glare at him. “Okay, it didn’t feel like that to me,” he continues quietly. “She was a force for good. What I needed.” “I don’t understand.” It’s my turn to look bewildered. “Anastasia, your mother will be back shortly. I’m not comfortable talking about this now. Later, maybe. If you don’t want me here, I have a plane on standby at Hilton Head. I can go.” He’s angry with me…no. “No—don’t go. Please. I’m thrilled you’re here. I’m just trying to make you understand. I’m angry that as soon as I left, you had dinner with her. Think about how you are when I get anywhere near José. José is a good friend. I have never had a sexual relationship with him. Whereas you and her—” I stop, unwilling to take the thought further. “You’re jealous?” He stares at me, dumbfounded, and his eyes soften slightly, warming. “Yes, and angry about what she did to you.” “Anastasia, she helped me. That’s all I’ll say about that. And as for your jealousy, put yourself in my shoes. I haven’t had to justify my actions to anyone in the past seven years. Not one person. I do as I wish, Anastasia. I like my autonomy. I didn’t go to see Mrs. Robinson to upset you. I went because every now and then we have dinner. She’s a friend and a business partner.” Business partner? Holy crap. This is news. He gazes at me, assessing my expression. “Yes, we’re business partners. The sex is over between us. It has been for years.” “Why did your relationship end?” His mouth narrows and his eyes gleam. “Her husband found out.” Holy shit!

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  faces a threat of a loss, it is allowed to transfer the loss to others. A substantial majority of respondents believed that it is not unfair for a firm to reduce its workers’ wages when its profitability is falling. We described the rules as defining dual entitlements to the firm and to individuals with whom it interacts. When threatened, it is not unfair for the firm to be selfish. It is not even expected to take on part of the losses; it can pass them on. Different rules governed what the firm could do to improve its profits or to avoid reduced profits. When a firm faced lower production costs, the rules of fairness did not require it to share the bonanza with either its customers or its workers. Of course, our respondents liked a firm better and described it as more fair if it was generous when its profits increased, but they did not brand as unfair a firm that did not share. They showed indignation only when a firm exploited its power to break informal contracts with workers or customers, and to impose a loss on others in order to increase its profit. The important task for students of economic fairness is not to identify ideal behavior but to find the line that separates acceptable conduct from actions that invite opprobrium and punishment. We were not optimistic when we submitted our report of this research to the American Economic Review. Our article challenged what was then accepted wisdom among many economists that economic behavior is ruled by self-interest and that concerns for fairness are generally irrelevant. We also relied on the evidence of survey responses, for which economists generally have little respect. However, the editor of the journal sent our article for evaluation to two economists who were not bound by those conventions (we later learned their identity; they were the most friendly the editor could have found). The editor made the correct call. The article is often cited, and its conclusions have stood the test of time. More recent research has supported the observations of reference-dependent fairness and has also shown that fairness concerns are economically significant, a fact we had suspected but did not prove. Employers who violate rules of fairness are punished by reduced productivity, and merchants who follow unfair pricing policies can expect to lose sales. People who learned from a new catalog that the merchant was now charging less for a product that they had recently bought at a higher price reduced their future purchases from that supplier by 15%, an average loss of $90 per customer. The customers evidently perceived the lower price as the reference point and thought of themselves as having sustained a loss by paying more than appropriate. Moreover, the customers who reacted the most strongly were those who bought more items and at higher prices. The losses far exceeded the gains from the increased purchases produced by the lower prices in the new catalog.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Can we talk about this some other time—somewhere more private?” he growls. “I don’t think you’ll ever convince me that she’s not some kind of pedophile.” “I don’t think of her that way. I never have. Now that’s enough!” he snaps. “Did you love her?” “How are you two getting on?” My mother has returned, unseen by either of us. I plaster a fake smile on my face as both Christian and I lean back hastily…guiltily. She studies me once more. “Fine, Mom.” Christian sips his drink, watching me closely, his expression guarded. What is he thinking? Did he love her? I think if he did, I will lose it, big time. “Well, ladies, I shall leave you to your evening.” No…no…he can’t leave me hanging like this. “Please put these drinks on my tab, room number 612. I’ll call you in the morning, Anastasia. Until tomorrow, Carla.” “Oh, it’s so nice to hear someone use your full name.” “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” Christian murmurs, shaking her outstretched hand, and she actually simpers. Oh, Mom—et tu, Brute? I stand, gazing at him, imploring him to answer my question, and he kisses my cheek chastely. “Laters, baby,” he whispers in my ear. Then he’s gone. Damned control freak bastard. My anger returns in full force. I slump into my chair and turn to face my mother. “Well, strike me down with a feather, Ana. He’s a catch. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, though. I think you need to talk to each other. Phew—the UST in here, it’s unbearable.” She fans herself theatrically. “MOM!” “Go talk to him.” “I can’t. I came here to see you.” “Ana, you came here because you’re confused about that boy. It’s obvious you two are crazy about each other. You need to talk to him. He’s just flown three-thousand-odd miles to see you, for heaven’s sake. And you know how awful it is to fly.” I look down at my Cosmo. “What?” she snaps. “He has his own plane,” I inform her, embarrassed, “and it’s only two and a half thousand miles, Mom.” Why am I embarrassed? Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow,” she says. “Ana, there’s something going on between you two. I’ve been trying to fathom it since you arrived here. But the only way you are going to sort the problem, whatever it is, is to talk it through with him. You can do all the thinking you like—but until you actually talk, you’re not going to get anywhere.” I frown at my mother. “Ana, honey, you’ve always had a tendency to overanalyze everything. Go with your gut. What does that tell you, sweetheart?” I stare at my fingers. “I think I’m in love with him.” “I know, darling. And he with you.” “No!” “Yes, Ana. Hell—what do you need? A neon sign flashing on his forehead?” Tears prick the corner of my eyes. “Ana, darling. Don’t cry.” “I don’t think he loves me.”

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  I walked into the employment bureau of the telegraph company—the Cosmodemonic Telegraph Company of North America—toward the close of the day, prepared to go through with it. I had just come from the public library and I had under my arm some fat books on economics and metaphysics. To my great amazement I was refused the job. The guy who turned me down was a little runt who ran the switchboard. He seemed to take me for a college student, though it was clear enough from my application that I had long left school. I had even honored myself on the application with a Ph.D. degree from Columbia University. Apparently that passed unnoticed, or else was suspiciously regarded by this runt who had turned me down. I was furious, the more so because for once in my life I was in earnest. Not only that, but I had swallowed my pride, which in certain peculiar ways is rather large. My wife of course gave me the usual leer and sneer. I had done it as a gesture, she said. I went to bed thinking about it, still smarting, getting angrier and angrier as the night wore on. The fact that I had a wife and child to support didn’t bother me so much; people didn’t offer you jobs because you had a family to support, that much I understood only too well. No, what rankled was that they had rejected me , Henry V. Miller, a competent, superior individual who had asked for the lowest job in the world. That burned me up. I couldn’t get over it. In the morning I was up bright and early, shaved, put on my best clothes and hotfooted it to the subway. I went immediately to the main offices of the telegraph company . . . up to the twenty-fifth floor or wherever it was that the president and the vice-presidents had their cubicles. I asked to see the president.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  The city grows like a cancer; I must grow like a sun. The city eats deeper and deeper into the red; it is an insatiable white louse which must die eventually of inanition. I am going to starve the white louse which is eating me up. I am going to die as a city in order to become again a man. Therefore I close my ears, my eyes, my mouth. Before I shall have become quite a man again I shall probably exist as a park, a sort of natural park in which people come to rest, to while away the time. What they say or do will be of little matter, for they will bring only their fatigue, their boredom, their hopelessness. I shall be a buffer between the white louse and the red corpuscle. I shall be a ventilator for removing the poisons accumulated through the effort to perfect that which is imperfectible. I shall be law and order as it exists in nature, as it is projected in dream. I shall be the wild park in the midst of the nightmare of perfection, the still, unshakeable dream in the midst of frenzied activity, the random shot on the white billiard table of logic, I shall know neither how to weep nor protest, but I shall be there always in absolute silence to receive and to restore. I shall say nothing until the time comes again to be a man. I shall make no effort to preserve, no effort to destroy. I shall make no judgments, no criticisms. Those who have had enough will come to me for reflection and meditation; those who have not had enough will die as they lived, in disorder, in desperation, in ignorance of the truth of redemption. If one says to me, you must be religious, I shall make no answer. If one says to me, I have no time now, there’s a cunt waiting for me, I shall make no answer. Or even if there be a revolution brewing, I shall make no answer. There will always be a cunt or a revolution around the corner, but the mother who bore me turned many a corner and made no answer, and finally she turned herself inside out and I am the answer . Out of such a wild mania for perfection naturally no one would have expected an evolution to a wild park, not even I myself, but it is infinitely better, while attending death, to live in a state of grace and natural bewilderment. Infinitely better, as life moves toward a deathly perfection, to be just a bit of breathing space, a stretch of green, a little fresh air, a pool of water. Better also to receive men silently and to enfold them, for there is no answer to make while they are still frantically rushing to turn the corner.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  But it is there, I am sure of it. I look at people murderously. If I could throw a bomb and blow the whole neighborhood to smithereens I would do it. I would be happy seeing them fly in the air, mangled, shrieking, torn apart, annihilated. I want to annihilate the whole earth. I am not a part of it. It’s mad from start to finish. The whole shooting match. It’s a huge piece of stale cheese with maggots festering inside it. Fuck it! Blow it to hell! Kill, kill, kill: Kill them all, Jews and Gentiles, young and old, good and bad. . . . I grow light, light as a feather, and my pace becomes more steady, more calm, more even. What a beautiful night it is! The stars shining so brightly, so serenely, so remotely. Not mocking me precisely, but reminding me of the futility of it all. Who are you, young man, to be talking of the earth, of blowing things to smithereens? Young man, we have been hanging here for millions and billions of years. We have seen it all, everything, and still we shine peacefully every night, we light the way, we still the heart. Look around you, young man, see how still and beautiful everything is. Do you see, even the garbage lying in the gutter looks beautiful in this light. Pick up the little cabbage leaf, hold it gently in your hand. I bend down and pick up the cabbage leaf lying in the gutter. It looks absolutely new to me, a whole universe in itself. I break a little piece off and examine that. Still a universe. Still unspeakably beautiful and mysterious. I am almost ashamed to throw it back in the gutter. I bend down and deposit it gently with the other refuse. I become very thoughtful, very, very calm. I love everybody in the world. I know that somewhere at this very moment there is a woman waiting for me and if only I proceed very calmly, very gently, very slowly, I will come to her. She will be standing on a corner perhaps and when I come in sight she will recognize me—immediately. I believe this, so help me God! I believe that everything is just and ordained. My home? Why it is the world—the whole world! I am at home everywhere, only I did not know it before. But I know now. There is no boundary line any more. There never was a boundary line: it was I who made it. I walk slowly and blissfully through the streets. The beloved streets. Where everybody walks and everybody suffers without showing it. When I stand and lean against a lamppost to light my cigarette even the lamppost feels friendly. It is not a thing of iron—it is a creation of the human mind, shaped a certain way, twisted and formed by human hands, blown on with human breath, placed by human hands and feet.