Anxiety

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 Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  the Cape, she still could not see where the great Saturn V ended, it just kept stretching upward, more than 250 feet taller than the rocket that had carried Lovell on his Gemini missions, a colossus lit white by floodlights against an inky black sky. “I don’t want you to worry,” Lovell said, holding Marilyn’s hand. “When we lift off, the rocket is going to tilt, it might even look like it’s going to fall over, but that’s normal, it’s exactly how they designed it. Also, the Earth is going to shake in a different kind of way. That’s normal, too.” By the morning of December 19, just forty-eight hours before lift-off, journalists were swarming at the Houston homes of the astronauts. Valerie and Susan were gracious, smiling for everyone, their hair and makeup done, all of them expressing support and admiration for their husbands. Valerie always wore the same dress for appearances on television—yellow, with a close-fitting waist and knee-length skirt. Her mother noticed and asked her about it. Valerie had to confess: It was the only good dress she owned. Her husband was about to become one of the most famous men in the world, yet he still earned military pay, about $16,000 per year (plus another $16,000 from Life magazine), which went only so far with five children to feed. That night, Valerie decided to slip out of the house with three-year-old Eric to go for some groceries. She stole out the back gate and headed for the garage but was greeted in her driveway by an ocean of reporters and bursting flashbulbs. The next day, photographs ran across the country showing Eric in his mother’s arms, sucking his thumb, along with the caption THUMBS UP FOR DAD! Valerie loved the photo, but she knew it meant she would be a captive in her own home from that moment forward. On December 20, the day before the flight, the Soviets let the world know what they thought about Apollo 8. “It is not important to mankind who will reach the Moon first and when he will reach it,” said cosmonaut Gherman Titov, the second man ever to orbit Earth. Not many in the Soviet Union were worried. Even with the American countdown clock at T minus 24 hours, few Soviets believed NASA would be crazy enough to launch. That afternoon, Charles Lindbergh and his wife, Anne Morrow, joined the astronauts in Florida for lunch. Anders suspected the visit to be a

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  AIMING FOR HOME On board Apollo 8, Borman wasn’t certain that the crew’s message had even been heard. “Did you read everything that we had to say there?” he radioed to Houston. “Loud and clear,” Mattingly confirmed. “Thank you for a real good show.” That settled, Borman got down to the matter that had concerned him for months: Trans Earth Injection. Perhaps more than any other part of the mission, Trans Earth Injection, or TEI, had haunted NASA managers, planners, and controllers. Without it, Apollo 8 could not return home. Since entering lunar orbit, the spacecraft had been traveling steadily at about 3,600 miles per hour. And unless it could gain enough speed to overcome the lunar gravity holding it in orbit, it would never leave the Moon. To do that, Apollo 8 would need to increase its speed to about 6,000 miles per hour. Onboard thrusters weren’t nearly powerful enough to provide that kind of boost. Only the SPS engine—the same one the crew had used to enter lunar orbit—had the muscle it would take. As before, the engine needed to burn for just the right amount of time, with just the right amount of thrust, and in the right direction, to send the spacecraft and its crew home safely. If it burned too long or too strong (or both), Apollo 8 could be hurled off into space without enough propellant to correct the bad trajectory and set course back to Earth, and would be doomed to pursue its own orbit around the Sun. If it burned too short or too weak (or both), the spacecraft could coast off into space without sufficient momentum either to return to the Moon or to fall back to Earth, or it might crash into the lunar surface, adding another crater to the Moon. But perhaps the worst result would come if the engine failed to light at all. In that case, Apollo 8 would remain a possession of the Moon for

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  listen is to say what they want to hear, to fill their ears with whatever is pleasant to them. This is the essence of seductive language. Inflame people's emotions with loaded phrases, flatter them, comfort their insecurities, envelop them in fantasies, sweet words, and promises, and not only will they listen to you, they will lose their will to resist you. Keep your language vague, letting them read into it what they want. Use writing to stir up fantasies and to create an idealized portrait of your- self. Seductive Oratory On May 13, 1958, right-wing Frenchmen and their sympathizers in the army seized control of Algeria, which was then a French colony. They had been afraid that France's socialist government would grant Algeria its independence. Now, with Algeria under their control, they threatened to take over all of France. Civil war seemed imminent. At this dire moment all eyes turned to General Charles de Gaulle, the World War II hero who had played a crucial role in liberating France from After Operation Sedition, we are being treated to the Nazis. For the last ten years de Gaulle had stayed away from politics, dis- Operation Seduction. gusted with the infighting among the various parties. He remained very —MAURICE KRIEGEL-popular, and was generally seen as the one man who could unite the country, VALRIMONT ON CHARLES DE but he was also a conservative, and the right-wingers felt certain that if he GAULLE, SHORTLY AFTER THE GENERAL ASSUMED POWER came to power he would support their cause. Days after the May 13 coup, the French government—the Fourth Republic—collapsed, and the parliament called on de Gaulle to help form a new government, the Fifth Repub-My mistress staged a lock- lic. He asked for and was granted full powers for four months. On June 4, out. . . . \ I went back to days after becoming the head of government, de Gaulle flew to Algeria. verses and compliments, \ The French colonials were ecstatic. It was their coup that had indirectly My natural weapons. Soft brought de Gaulle to power; surely, they imagined, he was coming to thank words \ Remove harsh door-chains. There's magic them, and to reassure them that Algeria would remain French. When he in poetry, its power \ Can arrived in Algiers, thousands of people filled the city's main plaza. The pull down the bloody mood was extremely festive—there were banners, music, and endless chants moon, \ Turn bach the sun, make serpents burst of "Algérie française," the French-colonial slogan. Suddenly de Gaulle ap- asunder \ Or rivers flow peared on a balcony overlooking the plaza. The crowd went wild. The upstream. \ Doors are no general, an extremely tall man, raised his arms above his head, and the match for such spellbinding, the toughest \

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  No vetting. Just him. By this time, the unmanned Zond 6 had already flown around the Moon, passing within 1,500 miles of its surface, and was headed back to home. So confident in the mission were Soviet planners that they took the uncharacteristic step of announcing, during the flight, that the explicit purpose of the mission was to prepare for a manned journey to the Moon. All that remained was for the spacecraft to execute its complex reentry and touch down under parachute in Kazakhstan. Execution was near flawless. Zond 6 completed its reentry having endured no more than four to seven g’s. The flight of Zond 6 made it clear to NASA that the Soviets were ready to send men to the Moon ahead of Apollo 8. And the Soviets didn’t intend to stop there. One of their experts said that the flight of Zond 6 paved the way for manned flights not just to the Moon but to Mars, Venus, and other planets. What NASA, and even the CIA, did not know was that Zond 6 had experienced two serious problems during its flight. The first, a partial depressurization of the cabin, occurred just before reentry. The second, a failure of the parachute system, caused the spacecraft to plummet into the ground. Both incidents would have been fatal had a crew been on board. That meant the Soviets had a decision to make. Given the problems with Zond 6, should they risk sending a crew to the Moon aboard Zond 7 in early December? Or should they make one more unmanned lunar flight to make certain those problems had been worked out? Those who wanted to go, including the cosmonauts, felt certain the problems on Zond 6 could be fixed, and were willing to take their chances. Those who preferred to play it safe couldn’t stand the thought of losing another cosmonaut in flight, as they had in a 1967 accident that still haunted the country. And many of them didn’t believe the Americans crazy enough, in any case, to launch Apollo 8 in December. The Soviets had already sent two flights capable of carrying men to the Moon; the Americans had sent none. NASA, they figured, would soon come to its senses and order Apollo 8 to stand down. In Houston, many worried that NASA might decide the same. Nervous personnel counted down the number of days until the next Soviet lunar launch window opened. In Kazakhstan, the Soviets moved a new Zond

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  HOW’S FIFTY-FIFTY? Thanksgiving was just three days away, and less than four weeks remained until the scheduled launch of Apollo 8. While most Americans got ready to celebrate the holiday, Borman, Lovell, and Anders were hard at work with the SimSup. The focus during these pre-Thanksgiving sessions would be on two key aspects of the flight. The first, Lunar Orbit Insertion (LOI), would come when the spacecraft arrived at the Moon and fired its Service Propulsion System (SPS) engine in order to slow down enough to be captured by lunar gravity and go into orbit around the Moon. The second, Trans Earth Injection (TEI), would come when the spacecraft fired that same engine to pick up enough speed to leave lunar orbit and head back to Earth. Both of these critical maneuvers would occur around the far side of the Moon, completely out of touch with the engineers on Earth who might catch any equipment malfunctions or slip-ups by the crew. More than almost anything else, it was TEI that worried the astronauts, controllers, engineers, and NASA officials. The SPS engine had no backup —if it misfired or didn’t fire at all, the spacecraft and crew could crash into the Moon, fly off into endless space, or be trapped in a slowly decaying lunar orbit that would ultimately impact the lunar surface. The simulations began early in the morning. More than once the astronauts perished because someone didn’t fix problems correctly or in time. In those cases, the crew and controllers held a short briefing afterward, discussed how they’d failed and what could be improved, then tried again. Over and over, scenarios were run, often for full days at a time, the more catastrophic the better, until repetition began to groove instinct into all the participants, and dying helped the men learn to survive. —

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  newsstands. The cover image, set against a brilliant blue sky, showed two space travelers, one American, the other Soviet, sprinting toward the cratered lunar surface. Four words appeared on the cover: RACE FOR THE MOON. The story inside summarized NASA’s plans to send Apollo 8 to the Moon and the Soviets’ push to send Zond 7 before the Americans could launch. Even at this late date, with just days remaining until the Soviet launch window opened on December 8, the race was too close to call. In Moscow, the Soviets appeared to be celebrating early. Already, they had named a seventy-mile-wide crater on the far side of the Moon, photographed by Zond 6, in honor of two Soviet scientist brothers. In Florida, Anders was doing some naming of his own. Working from photos taken by unmanned spacecraft, he began assigning names to several of the most interesting and prominent craters never before seen by human eyes, ones he expected to see during his flight. Whether the International Astronomical Union would accept those designations once the crew had actually seen the craters remained to be determined. It was around this time that Mueller asked the Apollo 8 astronauts to sign a statement confirming that they’d been properly trained by NASA. To Anders, that came as a bitter disappointment. Mueller was the boss— he should have been the one to tell the crew they’d been properly trained. Instead, he seemed to want a waiver in case anything went wrong. By early December, the eyes of the world were trained on Kazakhstan. Cosmonauts were already at the launchpad there, awaiting the mission’s final go-ahead. On December 8, many at NASA held their breath. If the Soviets were going to send a manned spacecraft to the Moon, this was the forty-eight- hour window during which they would do it. More than a decade in the making, the Space Race was coming down to a matter of hours. The first day passed. The Soviets now had twenty-four hours to make their move to the Moon. The second day passed. The Soviets now had just a few hours remaining. If they were going to beat the United States they had to do it now.

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  dared show up without brushing his teeth. The Sun was just rising when they arrived at the command module simulator at Cape Kennedy. It was Monday, September 9, 1968, less than fifteen weeks before Apollo 8’s scheduled mission. Despite the early hour, the room was crowded with flight controllers and technicians, many of whom were in their twenties, some just out of college. At age forty, Borman and Lovell were nearly twice as old as some of the men gathered around the simulator; even Anders, at thirty-four, seemed an elder statesman here. As test and fighter pilots, the astronauts had flown cutting-edge machines, but even they needed time to process the sight of the Apollo simulator. Standing about twenty feet high, it was a hodgepodge of sharp- cornered modules that appeared jammed together by cubist painters, jazz musicians, and mad scientists. There seemed no front or back, or even up or down, just shapes. Hundreds of cables dangled from the contraption like dreadlocks, while two narrow staircases—one circular, the other straight—led inside, or at least somewhere. Bracketing the structure were consoles of computers, instruments, and monitors for the instructors. Fluorescent white light bathed the room. After a briefing, a technician directed the crew to the straight staircase, a steep incline of fourteen carpeted steps with spaghetti-thin handrails that led to the simulator’s hatch. For the most part, the astronauts would not need to wear their flight suits in the simulator, which was good news on this day, since their flight suits still hadn’t been made. Once inside the cabin, the crew lay back in their seats (also called couches, since they supported the men’s bodies from head to toe), Anders on the right, Lovell in the center, Borman on the left. Anders stared at the panels of lights and indicators that were flickering to life, knowing it would take the entirety of his focus over the next hundred days to learn to ride the real thing out of this world. Borman looked at Lovell and Anders. He’d always been a sharp student of character, and as he sat there, he believed he had the best crew ever assembled by NASA. The closing of the hatch echoed inside the cabin. “All right,” Borman said to his crewmates. “Let’s learn how to go to the Moon.”

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  his adviser and speechwriter. “How could I have been so stupid, to let them go ahead?” To Khrushchev, the answer was simple: The young American president was indecisive and weak. Three weeks after Gagarin journeyed around the globe, Alan Shepard flew the inaugural Mercury mission. The former Navy test pilot became the first American in space. The fifteen-minute solo flight inspired ticker tape parades, but facts couldn’t be ignored: The astronaut had simply gone up and down, while the cosmonaut had made it into orbit—a significant difference in terms of the technology required. As always, the Soviets were far ahead, and with each victory they made a statement to the world, not just about the superiority of their political system and way of life, but about the future. On May 25, 1961, just a month after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Kennedy addressed a special joint session of Congress on “urgent national needs.” He warned that a battle was being waged around the world between freedom and tyranny, one in which achievement in space could prove decisive. Then he threw down a gauntlet. “I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important for the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish.” The room stood silent. The United States hadn’t even put a man into orbit around Earth; now the president was committing the country to landing astronauts on the Moon, and on an eight-and-a-half year deadline, no less. Even if NASA knew how to fly a man to the Moon—and it did not—it lacked the infrastructure, industry, manpower, and technology required to do it. And yet the president stood there insisting it would be done. And soon. The stakes could hardly have been higher. If America fell short, its failure could not be denied or buried. It would be proof that the nation couldn’t do what its leader said was most important, that its greatest minds had failed, that it might not be the world’s best hope for the future. It would weaken morale at NASA. And it would embolden the Soviet Union, a nation that wouldn’t hesitate to exploit an American

• From Rocket Men: The Daring Odyssey of Apollo 8 and the Astronauts Who Made Man’s First Journey to the Moon (2018)

  overcome Borman. But Borman never wavered in his insistence that his crew go to sleep. A few minutes later, Lovell and Anders had gone quiet and were finally resting. It was a military chain of command, even at the Moon. When Apollo 8 regained contact with Houston, there were just two hours—one revolution—remaining before the big television broadcast. CapCom Ken Mattingly asked for an update on the crew’s sleep. Borman reported that Lovell and Anders were currently resting, and that he’d had “about three or four hours earlier today.” In fact, Borman had managed only eighty minutes’ rest since arriving at the Moon. During this coast over the near side, Borman radioed for a weather report on Earth. Mattingly reported that all looked well, including in the Pacific, where Apollo 8 would splash down. “They told us that there is a beautiful Moon out there,” Mattingly said. “Now, I was just saying that there’s a beautiful Earth out there,” Borman replied. A few minutes later, Borman asked, “Hey, Ken, how’d you pull a duty on Christmas Eve? You know, it happens to bachelors every time, doesn’t it?” “I wouldn’t be anywhere else tonight,” Mattingly replied. The astronauts’ wives had settled in for the historic television broadcast, scheduled for eight thirty that evening. The astronauts’ children seemed calmer than their mothers and the family friends, and more focused on Christmas presents than on Christmas orbits. Two of the wives chose to be home with family and friends. Marilyn, who’d never before been apart from her husband for Christmas, was asking the crowd inside her family room, “Why is everyone here? You should be home with your families!” but even though it was Christmas Eve, not a single person would leave. At her home, Valerie, who’d been apart from Bill only once during Christmas, in 1957, when he was stationed in Iceland and she was home with two babies, was bringing doughnuts and coffee to the journalists and state troopers massed on the front lawn, and getting her kids ready to listen to their dad. Only, Susan Borman was not at home. To find respite from reporters and commotion, she’d taken her sons to a friend’s house in Houston to eat dinner and watch the telecast in peace. There, she thought back to

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  She rolled back onto her side. “Go away.” “Why me?” he repeated. “Why do you find it so hard to believe?” she mumbled into the pillow. “Women throw themselves at you all the time. Why should I be any different?” He moved toward the bed. “Am I something to boast to your friends about?” Julienne tucked tighter into the pillows, pulling the sheet with her. “As if I would ever tell anyone that I’d succumbed to your charms. Which I won’t!” she added hastily. “Succumb, that is. Now, please leave!” “What if I spread the tale?” he asked. “What if I tell every member of my club that I rode between your thighs? That I ruined you, and you screamed with pleasure while I did it?” His mouth curved in a predatory smile. “And you will scream with pleasure.” She snorted. “I’ll do no such thing.” “What if I tell everyone, Julienne?” “You wouldn’t.” “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” “You don’t know me well either. For if you did, you wouldn’t be so fearful of my intentions.” Turning away, Lucien stared into the dying fire. “You are distraught over your brother.” “I am,” she admitted, her clear voice telling him as she faced him again. “I will have to bail him out of this mess, just as I’ve always done.” He sighed. “If I touch you, you’ll be ruined, and the marriage you require to save your brother will be jeopardized.” “I’m aware of that. My actions tonight were foolish at best, but I knew the possible consequences and I weighed them carefully. I’d planned to sit in a quiet corner and observe. I wanted to watch you in your element, a place where the rules are completely yours and you are not bound by the strictures that suppress you in Society. It is unfortunate that Ridgely chose my table to share, but not unexpected.” “Lady Julienne. If you’d been found out—” “The scandal would have destroyed all chances of an advantageous marriage, I know. But perhaps that would be best for Montrose. I don’t care much for the thought of being a sacrifice on the matrimonial altar. Facing the consequences of our actions is the best way to learn responsibility, but I am to blame for shielding him too well. As for this moment, is it so wrong to want the pleasure other women experience? Is it so terrible to steal a little passion in a life that will be bereft of it? There are ways . . . ways to . . . ways that would leave me a virgin—” Lucien turned in stunned amazement. “How would you know of such ‘ways’?” She flushed from the top of her breasts to her hairline. “I read . . . things.” “You read ‘things’?” His eyes widened. “Erotica?”

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  The woman seems to be an ethnic group unto herself. She has no eyebrows or eyelashes and her hairline is extremely high, not far from the top of her skull. Was she in an accident, or is she just chic? She is staring at your homemade bandage, which this season is gray and spotted. “Mister …” “Allagash,” you say, pulling yourself up into military posture. It’s the first name that comes to mind. You’re not about to use your own. “From Vogue? ” she says. “Since last week.” She nods and returns your invitation. She narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose as if to say she will feed you to the giant Nubians if you’re lying. You spot the bar and it appears to be open. The veteran department-store buyers are huddled in the vicinity, clutching glasses. They look like they would rather be in Florida. It could be a mistake to start in at the bar right away; indeed, by any reasonable standard of conduct it is a mistake to be here at all, using someone else’s name, with a vague notion of disrupting the proceedings. You excuse your way up to the bar and order vodka. “With ice,” you say, when the bartender asks how you want it. “And one for my date,” you add. With your two drinks in your hands, you move away from the bar and strike a determined pose in the middle of the crowd, looking around the room with furrowed brow as if you were searching for your very good friend The Revlon Girl. You don’t want to be too conspicuous. There is a slim chance that one of Amanda’s friends will recognize you and sic the giant Nubians on you before you have had a chance to do whatever it is you are here to do. This, you realize, is how the terrorist feels as he waits in the crowd with the bomb in his briefcase, believing that everyone can look through a window in his head and see murder on his mind. Your knees are shaky. You drink one of your two drinks. Alas, you would not make a very good terrorist. Then you remember seeing a briefcase standing beside the bar and a small flash of cognition, coincident with the first tingle of alcohol, flickers in your brain. You walk back to the bar. The briefcase is still there. The owner appears to be the balding man with the Bain de Soleil complexion talking to two Oriental girls. His back is turned to the briefcase. You lean against the bar on your elbows, looking bored. “Can I get you something?” the bartender inquires. He frowns when you say no, and you think there is a trace of suspicion in the way he looks you over before turning away. “I don’t know how to sail the damn thing,” the balding man says. “I pay some Greeks to do that.” The girls consult, putting their heads together, and then they laugh.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  It seemed as if she had gotten on about the business of making her life work while we were still trying to reconstruct the world. Toni seemed so grown-up and capable and settled and prosperous in comparison to Muriel and me. She was a year younger than I was, and she owned her own car and rented a summer house at Huntington Station and never had to worry about what she spent for food. Very much in the closet at work and school, Toni still had a reputation for having “unconventional” friends. We saw a lot of Toni; Muriel saw more of her than I did, since I was in school until 10:00 four nights a week. I had just finished my advanced algebra homework, still confused about the function of sines, and climbed into bed when I heard Muriel’s key in the door. I felt the rush of damp air around her from the spring storm outside before I saw her now-gaunt face, glistening with wet from the long walk across town. “You still up?” She shed her navy sweater onto the couch and came in to sit down on the edge of our bed. Happy to see her home before I slept and in a good mood, I sat up and reached for my glasses. Her note had said that she and Toni were going for a beer. “Where’s Toni; why didn’t she drive you home?” I kissed her. She smelled of beer and smoke and April rain. “She got a flat near the hospital today so she didn’t have the car.” Neither of us was used to including wheels in our lives. “I got an eight on my quadratics exam tonight.” Trig had been a major stumbling block in math that term. “Where did you-all go?” “We went to the Swing but it was closed up, and I don’t know if it’s for tonight or for good. So then we went to a new place over on Bleecker called the Mermaid, but they had a dollar minimum which is shit-for-the-birds during the week, so we wound up at the Riv.” The Riviera was not primarily a gay bar, but its sawdust floors and cheap beer made it everybody’s standby on Sheridan Square. “How’s Toni?” Muriel chuckled. “Getting looser all the time. She didn’t even have her head-nurse’s cap with her tonight.” Muriel reached over and took a puff from my cigarette. “How would you feel if Toni and I slept together?” I looked at her deep brown eyes, shining and open for the first time in so long. So that was it. Her expectant half-smile helped cushion my surprise at how easily this whole question had arisen, again. “Well, have you?” “Not yet, of course not. You know I’d tell you.” She spoke with such animation and lightness of spirit that I had to smile in spite of myself.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  What’s really at stake? A concern about the uses of knowledge itself. There’s a sense in which all knowledge is dangerous, the reason being that not everyone is in the same condition as knowers or potential knowers. Perhaps most people don’t need “a wider scale of experience”. It may be that, without subtle and extensive psychic preparation, any widening of experience and conscious ness is destructive for most people. Then we must ask what justifies the reckless unlimited confidence we have in the present mass availability of other kinds of knowledge, in our optimistic acquiescence in the transformation of and extension of human capacities by machines. Pornography is only one item among the many dangerous commodities being circulated in this society and, unattractive as it may be, one of the less lethal, the less costly to the community in terms of human suffering. Except perhaps in a small circle of writer-intellectuals in France, pornography is an inglorious and mostly despised department of the imagination. Its mean status is the very antithesis of the considerable spiritual prestige enjoyed by many items which are far more noxious. In the last analysis, the place we assign to pornography depends on the goals we set for our own consciousness, our own experience. But the goal A espouses for his consciousness may not be one he’s pleased to see B adopt, because he judges that B isn’t qualified or experienced or subtle enough. And B may be dismayed and even indignant at A’s adopting goals that he himself professes; when A holds them, they become presumptuous or shallow. Probably this chronic mutual suspicion of our neighbour’s capacities—suggesting, in effect, a hierarchy of competence with respect to human consciousness—will never be settled to everyone’s satisfaction. As long as the quality of people’s consciousness varies so greatly, how could it be? In an essay on the subject some years ago, Paul Goodman wrote: “The question is not whether pornography, but the quality of the pornography.” That’s exactly right. One could extend the thought a good deal further. The question is not whether consciousness or whether knowledge, but the quality of the consciousness and of the knowledge. And that invites consideration of the quality of fineness of the human subject—the most problematic standard of all. It doesn’t seem inaccurate to say most people in this society who aren’t actively mad are, at best, reformed or potential lunatics. But is anyone supposed to act on this knowledge, even genuinely live with it? If so many are teetering on the verge of murder, de-humanization, sexual deformity and despair, and we were to act on that thought, then censorship much more radical than the indignant foes of pornography ever envisage seems in order. For if that’s the case, not only pornography but all forms of serious art and knowledge—in other words, all forms of truth—are suspect and dangerous.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “’Tis not his history that is the problem, but yours. You are afraid to rely on anyone. You have fended for yourself and all of us for so long, you don’t know how to allow someone else to lighten your load.” “You are too young to understand, Gwen.” “How could living with Montrose possibly be any worse than the way we are living now? Even if he were to become destitute, which I doubt, from what I’ve managed to overhear, we would live no less in poverty than we do at this moment, and we would have him!” Standing, Charlotte lifted her chin, fighting off the tears that threatened. She had managed hardly a wink of sleep in the last two nights, and the conversation with Lord Merrick had her thoughts in chaos. Looking around, she saw the curious glances. “I refuse to discuss this any further while we have an audience.” She swept out of the room with Guinevere fast on her heels. “Think on it, Charlotte. Think how happy we have all been. Tom and Henry carry themselves with a pride they never had before, because Lord Montrose has never condescended to them or made them feel inferior for their handicaps. Katie adores him. Even Artemis has a grudging like of him.” Gwen’s voice became breathless as she chased Charlotte up the stairs. “It wasn’t an accident that I went to his room that night. I wanted him to find the secret door. I wanted him to know to look deeper.” Charlotte halted on the upper landing, her breath coming in heaving gasps. She spun around. “Beg your pardon?” Gwen held out a hand and leaned against the railing, catching her breath. “When Tom and Henry told me about the earl, I thought he might be the one. When Katie told me the story about the pitchers, I began to think of how I could be certain. And when I saw your face with its rosy glow and bright eyes, I knew he was the one, and Artemis did, too. Why you cannot see it is beyond me!” Shocked, Charlotte could say nothing. “I have admired you for as long as I’ve known you, Charlotte. Please don’t take that away from me.” Gwen moved past her and disappeared around the corner, leaving Charlotte with a tear-ravaged face and far too much to consider. [image file=image_rsrc3ZP.jpg] Charlotte pushed aside the sheer curtain that covered the window and looked out upon the winter scene below. Her heart thrummed a restless rhythm as she watched Hugh and Lucien Remington walk their mounts back to the stables, the horses’ hooves leaving clear tracks in the snow.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  He grinned affectionately and ignored her comment. “I shall see you next week.” As her son left, Amanda Remington sat back in her chair and contemplated her next course of action. She knew what her son needed, even if he didn’t. And she would see that he got it. Chapter Nine Hugh La Coeur, the sixth Earl of Montrose, paused on the step of his carriage and grimaced at the imposing three-story, columned entrance to Remington’s. The morning sun shone brightly on the white façade as various members of the peerage exited and entered the popular gentlemen’s club. Behind him, traffic was heavy on St. James. The steady clatter of rolling carriage wheels, horses’ hooves, and harnesses reminded him that life was still bustling forward for the rest of London, while he prepared to face his largest and most ruthless creditor. With a deep, fortifying breath, Hugh climbed the steps to the watered-glass, double-door entrance. A footman in black-and-silver livery welcomed him inside, and Hugh handed his hat, gloves, and cane to one of two waiting attendants. He stepped into the round entrance foyer, with its black-and-white marbled floors, and again admired the massive chandelier that hung three stories up, with a large round table centered below it. A gigantic floral arrangement dominated the center of the table, its heady fragrance permeating every corner of the foyer. Straight ahead was the gaming area. From there, one could find either the staircases that led to the upper floors—where the fencing studio, courtesans, and private rooms were located— or to the lower floors, where the pugilist rings were kept. To the left was the kitchen. To the right were the offices of Lucien Remington. Hugh took one last, wistful look at the gaming rooms and then turned to his right. He walked through the huge wooden door, with its oval glass center, and handed his card to the secretary, expecting to wait. He was surprised when he was announced without delay. Nervous trepidation plagued him as he entered the sanctum of Lucien Remington. He’d never been in the offices before, and he took in his surroundings with a curious eye. The first thing he noticed was the carved mahogany desk, which directly faced the door. The massive piece of furniture was flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling windows, and the desktop was littered with paperwork, silent confirmation of the strength and breadth of Remington’s empire. The room was done in masculine shades of deep green, cream, and gold. An immense fireplace to the left was the focal point of a conversation area holding a settee and two leather wingback chairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases took up all the available wall space. To the right, sunlit windows afforded views of the street below. “Good afternoon, Lord Montrose. I trust your trip to the country was pleasant.”

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  It was the first time either one of them had broached the subject of their pasts. There had been a silent agreement between them to live only in the moment, but they approached England far too quickly. Soon they would present themselves to the world as Lord and Lady Merrick, yet they were hardly more than intimate strangers. He knew her body in minute detail, but her past and visions for their future remained a mystery. Olivia sighed. “My father maintains a plantation there.” “And you prefer it to London?” “I enjoy the freedom.” Sebastian frowned. There was something she wasn’t telling him. “And what of the Season? You are a diamond, my love. Your popularity is assured.” Even as he said the words, his gut clenched. Men would swarm around his wife like bees to honey, her marital status making her even more desirable. The thought of other men drooling over Olivia while he was at sea made him murderous. She looked out over the water, avoiding his gaze. “In the past, I’ve enjoyed the Season. I simply didn’t feel up to it this year.” There was more, he knew, but Sebastian hesitated to press her further. Their time on the ship had been idyllic, and he didn’t wish to ruin it. Harsh reality would intrude soon enough. “And now that you’ve wed, do you intend to make England your home?” That comment brought her gaze back to his. “Of course. Your home is my home now.” “My home is at sea.” Olivia nodded her agreement without hesitation, causing a sharp pain in his chest. What had he expected? That she would cry and beg for him to remain with her? Hadn’t he capitulated merely to sate his lust, with the added bonus of acquiring the wife and heirs his cursed title demanded? Simply because he’d found his desire unquenchable and his need of deeper origin than he’d realized, did not mean his wife was experiencing the same. He placed his hand on her shoulder and absently stroked the side of her throat with his thumb. “I shall visit you often.” He felt, rather than heard, her deeply indrawn breath. Olivia leaned into him. “How often is ‘often’ to you?” “I should pose that question to you, sweet,” he replied, passing the decision to her, while in truth he knew he would crave her and seek her out like a thirsty man would water. “We are in this marriage together.” She hesitated before speaking. “Should you decide to come home at least every six months, you will be able to ascertain if I am breeding or not.” Sebastian stilled. “Breeding.” Good God. He could imagine it, picture it clearly—Olivia increasing with his child. “You’re hurting me,” she whispered, her hand prying at his fingers on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Dazed, he handed her the bottle and began to rub the marks left by his fingertips. “You startled me.”

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  The guy sitting next to you swivels and says, “Those fucking bums don’t know how to handle the full court press.” You nod and fill your mouth with beer. He seems to expect a response, so you ask him what period it is. He looks you up and down, as if you were carrying a volume of poetry or wearing funny shoes. “Third quarter, ” he answers. Then he turns away. You keep meaning to cultivate an expertise in spectator sport. More and more you realize that sports trivia is crucial to male camaraderie. You keenly feel your ignorance. You are locked out of the largest fraternity in the country. You’d like to be the kind of guy who can walk into a bar or an eatery and break the ice with a Runyonism about the stupidity of a certain mid-season trade. Have something to hash out with truck drivers and stockbrokers alike. In high school, you went in for lone-wolf sports—tennis and skiing. You’re not really sure what a zone defense is. You don’t understand the sports metaphors in the political columns. Men don’t trust a man who missed the Super Bowl. You would like to devote a year to watching every athletic event on ABC and reading all fifty-two issues of Sports Illustrated . In the meantime your strategy is to view one playoff game in each sport so as to manage remarks like, “How about that slap shot by LaFleur in the third period against Boston?” Third quarter? It’s five-twenty and raining when you leave the bar. You walk down to the Times Square subway station. You pass signs for GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS , and one that says YOUNG BOYS . Then, in a stationery store, DON’T FORGET MOTHER’S DAY . The rain starts coming down harder. You wonder if you own an umbrella. You’ve left so many in taxis. Usually, by the time the first raindrop hits the street, there are men on every corner selling umbrellas. Where do they come from, you have often wondered, and where do they go when it’s not raining? You imagine these umbrella peddlers huddled around powerful radios waiting for the very latest from the National Weather Service, or maybe sleeping in dingy hotel rooms with their arms hanging out the windows, ready to wake at the first touch of precipitation. Maybe they have a deal with the taxi companies, you think, to pick up all the left-behind umbrellas for next to nothing. The city’s economy is made up of strange, subterranean circuits that are as mysterious to you as the grids of wire and pipe under the streets. At the moment, though, you see no umbrella vendors whatsoever. You wait fifteen minutes on the downtown platform. Everywhere you look you see the Missing Person. An announcement is made that the express is out of service. The tunnel smells of wet clothing and urine.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You dutifully called the White House and tried to explain the importance of this distinction. You spent several hours on hold. Those who actually believed you were serious would not commit themselves. Others just cussed you out. Meanwhile, the magazine was going to press. The Druid called three times and encouraged you to keep trying. Finally, with the composing room screaming for the final pages, an accommodation of sorts was reached, unknown to the President and his staff. While Webster’s Second distinguished the meanings of the two words, the racier Third Edition listed them as synonyms. The Druid gave you a final call to explain this and to approve—not without trepidation—the original quote. The magazine went to press. Government continued apace. At one o’clock you go out for a sandwich. Megan asks you to bring her a Tab. Downstairs, you semi-revolve through the doors and think about how nice it would be not to have to return at all, ever. You also think about how nice it would be to hole up in the nearest bar. The glare from the sidewalk stuns you; you fumble in your jacket pocket for your shades. Sensitive eyes, you tell people. You shuffle off to the deli and pick up a pastrami-on-rye and an egg cream. The bald man behind the counter whistles cheerfully as he slices the meat. “Nice and lean today,” he says. “And now for a little mustard—just how your mom used to make it.” “What do you know about it,” you ask. “Just passing the time, pal,” he says, wrapping it all up. All of this, the dead meat on ice behind glass, everything, puts you off your meal. Outside, waiting for a light, you are accosted by a man leaning up against a bank. “My man, check it out here. Genuine Cartier watches. Forty dollars. Wear the watch that’ll make ’em watch you. The genuine article. Only forty bucks.” The man stands beside the torso of a mannequin, the arms of which are covered with watches. He holds one out to you. “Check it out.” If you take it, you’ll feel committed. But you don’t want to be rude. You take the watch and examine it. “How do I know it’s real?” “How do you know anything’s real? Says Cartier right there on the face, right? Looks real. Feels real. So what’s to know? Forty bucks. How can you lose?” It appears authentic. Slim, rectangular face, regal roman numerals, sapphire-tipped winding knob. The band feels like good leather. But if it’s real, it’s probably hot. And if it isn’t hot it can’t be real. “Thirty-five bucks to you. My cost.” “How come so cheap?” “Low overhead.” You haven’t owned a watch in years. Knowing the time at any given moment might be a good first step toward organizing the slippery flux of your life. You’ve never been able to see yourself as the digital kind of guy. But you could use a little Cartier in your act.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  You get a seat and hoist a copy of the New York Post . The Post is the most shameful of your several addictions. You hate to support this kind of trash with your thirty cents, but you are a secret fan of Killer Bees, Hero Cops, Sex Fiends, Lottery Winners, Teenage Terrorists, Liz Taylor, Tough Tots, Sicko Creeps, Living Nightmares, Life on Other Planets, Spontaneous Human Combustion, Miracle Diets and Coma Babies. The Coma Baby is on page two: COMA BABY SIS PLEADS: SAVE MY LITTLE BROTHER . There is a picture of a four- or five-year-old girl with a dazed expression. She is the living daughter of a pregnant woman who, after an automobile accident, has been lying in a coma for a week. The question that has confronted Post readers for days is whether or not the Coma Baby will ever see the light of the delivery room. The train shudders and pitches toward Fourteenth Street, stopping twice for breathers in the tunnel. You are reading about Liz Taylor’s new boyfriend when a sooty hand taps your shoulder. You do not have to look up to know you are facing a casualty, one of the city’s MIAs. You are more than willing to lay some silver on the physically handicapped, but folks with the long-distance eyes give you the heebie-jeebies. The second time he taps your shoulder you look up. His clothes and hair are fairly neat, as if he had only recently let go of social convention, but his eyes are out-to-lunch and his mouth is working furiously. “My birthday,” he says, “is January thirteenth. I will be twenty-nine years old.” Somehow he makes this sound like a threat to kill you with a blunt object. “Great,” you say, going back to the paper. When you next look up the man is halfway down the car, staring intently at an ad for a business training institute. As you watch, he sits down in the lap of an old lady. She tries to get out from under him but he has her pinned. “Excuse me, sir, but you’re sitting on me,” she says. “Sir, sir. Excuse me.” Almost everyone in the car is watching and pretending they’re not. The man folds his arms across his chest and leans farther back. “Sir, please get off of me.” You can’t even believe it. Half a dozen healthy men are within spitting distance. You would have jumped up yourself but you assumed someone closer to the action would act. The woman is quietly sobbing. As each moment passes it becomes harder and harder to do anything without calling attention to the fact that you hadn’t done anything earlier. You keep hoping the man will stand up and leave her alone. You imagine the headline in the Post: GRANNY CRUSHED BY NUT WHILE WIMPS WATCH . “Please, sir.” You stand up. At the same time, the man stands up.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  Elaine and Amanda are doing lines on Yasu Wade’s desk and swearing in French. The Coma Mom is stretched out on your desk in a white gown. IV bottles are hanging from the bookshelves, tubes plugged into her arms. The gown is open around her midsection. You approach and discover that her belly is a transparent bubble. Inside you can see the Coma Baby. He opens his eyes and looks at you. “What do you want?” he says. “Are you going to come out,” you ask. “No way, José. I like it in here. Everything I need is pumped in.” “But Mom’s on her way out.” “If the old lady goes, I’m going with her.” The Coma Baby sticks his purple thumb in his mouth. You try to reason with him, but he does a deaf-and-dumb routine. “Come out,” you say. Then there is a knock on the door, and you hear Clara Tillinghast’s voice: “Open up. It’s the doctor.” “They’ll never take me alive,” the Baby says. The phone is ringing. The receiver squirts out of your hand like a trout. You keep expecting things to be solid and they’re not. You recover the receiver from the floor and apply it to your face. One end goes next to your ear and the other next to your mouth. “Allô? ” You expect the speaker to be French. It’s Megan Avery. She wanted to make sure you were awake. Oh yes, you were just making some breakfast. Sausage and eggs. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “But I didn’t want you getting in Dutch with Clara again. I thought I’d just make sure you were awake.” In Dutch? You make a note to look up this expression in Partridge’s dictionary of slang when you get to work. The clock says nine-fifteen. You slept through the eight-thirty alarm. You thank Meg and tell her you will see her at work. “You’re sure you’re awake?” she says. It certainly feels like it: headache, sour stomach—all the vital signs. The generalized dread attendant upon regaining consciousness becomes localized around the image of Clara Tillinghast. You can face the fact that you will probably lose your job, but you do not think you can face Clara. Not on four hours of teeth-grinding sleep. Nor can you stand the sight of those page proofs—the evidence of your failure. In your dreams you have been on the phone to Paris, waiting for the piece of information that would save your life. You were barricaded inside the Department of Factual Verification. Someone was pounding the door. You were holding the line. The operator broke in intermittently, speaking in a language you could not even partly understand. The palms of your hands have been flayed by your fingernails. All night you lay with your arms held rigidly at your sides, your fists clenched. You consider calling in sick.