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 Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

• From Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  The court said, “We conclude that in the absence of such actions as render the adult believer himself gravely disabled as defined in the law of this state; the processes of this state cannot be used to deprive the believer of his freedom of action and to subject him to involuntary treatment.”646 Ted Patrick nevertheless continued to do both voluntary and involuntary interventions regardless of court rulings, and he paid a price for his anticult activism. He was repeatedly arrested, criminally prosecuted, and imprisoned on kidnapping charges stemming from his involuntary deprogramming efforts. Patrick was also sued in various cult-related cases two dozen times for claims totaling $100 million.647 Ted Patrick was accused of violence. He said, “The cults tell them [cult members] that I rape women and beat them.”648 However, researchers Conway and Siegelman said, “No parent, ex-cult member or other reliable witness we talked to ever substantiated any of those charges.”649 Former cult deprogrammer Steve Hassan, who participated in involuntary cult interventions during the late 1970s, points out, “Deprogrammers were falsely portrayed as beating and raping people to force them to recant their religious beliefs. For the record, I know of no instance of deprogramming (and I’ve met hundreds of deprogrammees) that involved any physical abuse such as beating or rape. No family I have ever met would go to the extreme of rescuing a loved one through deprogramming and allow anyone to harm their child in any way.”650 Legal Concerns Concern developed among cult-intervention specialists and cult-watching organizations regarding the use of the word deprogrammer . Hassan notes, “By the late 1970s, the question of mind control had become intertwined in the public eye with the issue of forcible deprogramming. This occurrence was partly the result of public relations campaigns financed by certain major cults to discredit critics and divert the debate from the cults themselves.”651 Conway and Siegelman wrote that all the legal action taken against deprogrammers “brought a global chill” to the issue.”652 Hassan reflects, “The truth is that [involuntary] deprogramming is extremely risky in legal terms.”653 For some time, however, Hassan continued to recognize the need for such involuntary interventions.

• From The City of God

  50 Books That Matter: The City of God the course the empire was taking, it could not really imagine the empire would end, or that its sacred precincts would be violated. „The people for whom the sack was most disastrous—and the people who had the largest voice in recording its details for posterity—were the upper-class survivors and victims who had lost the most in the sack itself. But for most people, the sack had little direct effect on their lives. Yet many people across the Mediterranean world were shocked by the sack, both psychologically and ideologically. „Why did the sack have this effect? To understand, you have to know at least a little about how Romans saw the world and the spaces outside their imperium, as well as how they saw their imperium itself. Imperium „The Imperium Romanum was where the Romans were obeyed. There were many different ways to issue commands, and to obey them, but the key was obedience, not necessarily direct and continuous control. The Roman idea of limes, of “limits,” at this time was understood to signify how far Rome would go out, not a set of borders (rivers and walls) that Rome would be safe within. „People still believed that after the turbulence of the third-century “crisis” of the empire, and with the conversion of Constantine, there would be newfound peace and stability within the borders and a just and omnipotent God would oversee the imperium’s security. Certainly there was no thought that the barbarians would ever invade the empire, or that they would even want to. „The imperium, with the awkward exception of the complicated and often-ignored Persian Empire to its east, was not surrounded by rival states, but by wilderness. It did not have borders; it had frontiers.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Not yet,” cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again, “but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.” “But she must not go round by London,” cried Marianne, in the same hurried manner. “I shall never see her, if she goes by London.” Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present. It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of:—he listened to them in silent despondence;—but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother. The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon—or such a companion for her mother,—how gratefully was it felt!—a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!—as far as the shock of such a summons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy. He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips had moved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather. Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence. When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative. Another pause. Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said, “Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?” “At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise. “No, my mother is in town.” “I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to enquire for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars.” She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,— “Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars.” “Mrs. Robert Ferrars!” was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,— “Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.” His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was. “Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”

• From The City of God

  68 Books That Matter: The City of God „We can trace the origins of that debt pretty clearly. In the winter of 411–12, Marcellinus reported to Augustine his difficulties in responding to Roman refugees still devoted to the old gods, who angrily blamed the Christians for the sack of Rome and all the imperium’s problems. „According to Marcellinus, Volusianus, a pagan Roman nobleman considering conversion, was wavering. Volusianus worried that Christ’s teachings about returning good for evil and turning the other cheek were incompatible with the morals of citizenship, and Marcellinus wanted to know how to respond. „Augustine suggested that the crucial point is that “a city [is] but a group of men united by a specific bond of peace,” and such a peace was secured best by those with the proper disposition. Recognizing that much of the Christian morality was not immediately applicable to public affairs, he argued that Christianity’s theological virtues were in fact a better basis for the civic virtues than paganism—that rather than disabling civic virtue, they properly enable it. This passage succinctly expresses how Augustine imagined morality to relate to politics, an idea developed much more fully in The City of God. The Challenge of Diversity „The foregoing exchange is but one example of the diverse audience Augustine had in mind in writing The City of God. The various challenges by his enemies forced him to articulate carefully his theological views. Further, he imaginatively entered into their worldviews, apprehending both their insights and what made them worry about his own views. Consider the range of audiences Augustine confronted: ›Civic-minded Roman patriots assumed that whatever happiness humans are to have, we will have in this life. They believed in the basic decency of Roman tradition, including the various political and religious ritual practices and cultural 69 Lecture 4—Augustine’s Pagan and Christian Audience forms that Augustine found morally and spiritually abhorrent. Augustine’s debate with these voices dominates and orders the first five books. ›Philosophically minded elite Romans who sought wisdom and happiness through retreat into solitude and contemplation—people whom Augustine perceived as tragically prideful, meriting pity more than scorn. He primarily engages them in books six through ten. ›Even within the largely Christian confines of North Africa, many interlocutors contested with him. The Donatist dispute had begun to recede, but it had convinced Augustine that the church must frankly admit its constitution as a mixed group on the way to salvation, not a fortress of righteousness against an irredeemably sinful outside world. A page from The City of God by Augustine of Hippo

• From The City of God

  99 Lecture 5 Transcript—The Problem of Suffering (Book 1) Now, Augustine begins in Book 1 with the most direct response he offers to the immediate challenge posed by the sack of Rome, the question of the inequity of unmerited suffering and what we are to do about it. Here he talks directly about the sufferings experienced by the inhabitants of Rome during the sack in 410, and answers pagan accusations—and Christian worries—that the sack itself was evidence against the Christians’ faith in the providential governance of a loving God. The core of the pagan challenges was quite frank. The Christians are responsible for the sack of Rome, they said, and all the other calamities associated with the decline of Rome, because they have taught their adherents not to care for the city, and they have so insulted and abused the old gods as to cause them to desert their posts, as it were, of guardianship over its walls. To this, Augustine replies in three ways. First, the Roman gods didn’t protect their devotees. Second, the Christian churches were protected, which would be odd if the old gods were the ones offended at the Christians and they were still active. And third, the question is itself confused. The key is the character of wrong attachment to the world, and the question should be to what use we put suffering, not who we can blame for it. Furthermore, he says, the history of Rome itself reveals that calamities far predate the Christians. In Book 2, Chapter 3, he writes, “Let them recall with us, therefore, the many and diverse calamities by which the Roman commonwealth was consumed before Christ came in the flesh.” Rome wasn’t so hot before the Christians. And Augustine will spend the next few books explaining, in detail, from the pagans’ favored historians, how very, very much this is true. Before we get there, though, Augustine has a more fundamental question to take on, a question that haunts his entire career, and will definitely reappear throughout the whole of The City of God— namely, the problem of evil, suffering, and the general ill-fit between

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister’s danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings’s compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;—and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_ what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere. Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;—but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had failed;—the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet—not more herself—remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister’s bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne’s disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne’s illness; and in the first of John’s, there had been this sentence:—“We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;” which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication,— “I suppose you know, ma’am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.” Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant’s inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor’s countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne’s situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood’s assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. “Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—Delaford,—that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;—pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward—she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;—happy or unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him. Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,—but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent. “When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma’am?” was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on. “I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.” This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give. Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon; neither his air, nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted: she could not be mistaken,—it was Edward. She moved away and sat down. “He comes from Mr. Pratt’s purposely to see us. I will be calm; I will be mistress of myself.” In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion. Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke. “I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination.” “My engagements at present,” replied Willoughby, confusedly, “are of such a nature—that—I dare not flatter myself—” He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, “It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy.” He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight. Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned. Elinor’s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother’s. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby’s behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;—the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne’s love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible. But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister’s affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful. “Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,” said she, as she sat down to work, “and with how heavy a heart does he travel?”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.” Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.—I have had it above these three years.” She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. “I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.” “You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. “I am sure,” said she, “I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.” “I certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor; “but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety.” As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.

• From Cults Inside Out: How People Get In and Can Get Out (2014)

  The young woman’s husband and family were shocked when they discovered her growing commitment to Falun Gong, which they viewed as a confusing contradiction of the family’s chosen faith and lifestyle. It was an extreme contradiction of that life to engage in a contradictory and alien belief system, which now seemed to dominate her thinking and potentially might influence her children. How could the ultra-Orthodox family remain united in such a conflicted situation and continue their circumscribed life filled with traditional observances and religious restrictions? Why had she become involved with Falun Gong? Didn’t she recognize the inherent conflicts posed by her involvement? Ultra-Orthodox Hasidic Judaism has survived for hundreds of years, largely unchanged within an encapsulated subculture, first largely in Europe and now primarily in the United States and Israel. Most Hasidic Jews largely refrain from interaction with mainstream society outside of business and perhaps political concerns and prefer to live in insular, tightly knit communities. We can see this in the neighborhoods and/or villages they inhabit in New York and Israel. The Chabad Lubavitch is more open and accessible than other Hasidic sects, but Schneerson only recently implemented this change as an outreach effort. Modern Chabad outreach includes fund-raising and proselytizing. These activities, along with messianic claims made about Schneerson, have drawn criticism and generated some controversy. The family members who retained me for this intervention are the only ultra-Orthodox clients I have had to date. Despite being Jewish myself, my background is with Reform Judaism, which is often considered the most liberal branch of Jewish faith, and Orthodox Jews do not see it as being sufficiently observant. Though I have received many complaints and inquiries from ultra-Orthodox Jews, whom destructive cults have adversely affected, they have been reluctant to retain someone they see as an outsider to help them with such concerns. But after many discussions and considerable deliberation, it seems this family concluded that the risk of not retaining a cult-intervention specialist was unacceptable to them. They felt that Falun Gong was tearing apart the very fabric of their family. I arrived at the preparation meeting on a Thursday morning. Our meeting took place at the country home where the extended family planned to gather for the beginning of the Sabbath on Friday. The young woman’s parents and her husband attended the preparation meeting. The intervention was planned to take place in this somewhat isolated country house. Everyone present was deeply concerned that if the woman’s involvement with Falun Gong continued, a divorce and child custody battle would be inevitable. First, I told those gathered that likely the young woman had initially no idea that Falun Gong contradicted Judaism or that it is was actually a belief system based on faith claims. I explained that a destructive cult is deceptive and that genuine full disclosure isn’t part of the recruitment process. That is why they must not blame or shame the young mother.

• From The City of God

  40 Books That Matter: The City of God broke communion—the churches who took a harder line on this— were called the Donatist churches, after one of their leaders, Donatus. The crucial thing that divided the two sides was whether there were absolute and final limits to toleration of morally corrupt people— people who had demonstrated some moral corruption. The Donatists wanted to draw clear lines and hold them absolutely; the churches Augustine joined said that was unforgiving. By the time he came to authority, this argument was a century old and both sides were deeply suspicious of one another. It’s one of Augustine’s signal accomplishments to finally convince the Roman authorities to break the will of the Donatist leaders. The Pelagian controversy was an enormously complicated debate about the nature of free will in relation to sin and grace. Could humans earn salvation? And if not that, was it possible for humans after redemption to improve on their own? Was divine grace an external aid, like a coach? Or was it an internal energy and orientation, like a good diet and plenty of vitamins? Pelagius, a British monk working as a spiritual guru to ascetic elites in Rome, thought Augustine’s emphasis on the priority of grace deflated the urgency of individuals’ moral striving, effaced individual responsibility, and degraded human dignity. In reply, Augustine thought Pelagius didn’t understand the actual nature of God’s saving work or the direness of the human condition after the Fall. The debate between them, and then between some of Pelagius’s disciples and Augustine, continued for the rest of Augustine’s life, and indeed beyond. It has been perhaps one of the great theological battles in the Western churches for the past 1,600 years. The end of the Donatist controversy and the beginning of the Pelagian controversy and the beginning of the writing of The City of God all happened at the same time. The Donatist controversy came to its climax and resolution in the Council of Carthage in 411. That was a council in which Augustine played perhaps the most prominent

• From The City of God

  128 Books That Matter: The City of God exemplifying the sad fate of a fallen and needy rebellious creature in a world where such rebellion can only ever be futile. While we’ll see this fleshed out a bit more in later books in The City, here the demons serve to exhibit a particular feature of Augustine’s account of moral psychology, what he labels the libido dominandi. Now, Book 3 analyzes and diagnoses the Roman psyche and the character of pagan longing, and in it he uncovers what he takes to be the basic psychic dynamism at the heart of this desire for this- worldly happiness. The way that the Romans’ fixation on physical evils and concomitant blindness to moral failings means missing the way that their very conquests turn out, over time, to become chains. He calls the psychological energy driving this enslavement the libido dominandi. This means something like that desire which conquers us with the desire to conquer. Now, the libido dominandi is a tricky term. We can capture some of its sense in the tense, equivocating, semantic ambivalence of the English translation: dominating lust. Here, we get the idea of the lust to dominate that is also, and at the same time, the lust that dominates. The master is revealed to be the slave in his own need to be a master. No one is more enslaved to anxieties than the one who is always on his toes to ensure that no one else makes him look like a sucker. That person is most governed by his own fears who always acts preemptively to avoid those fears. Now this idea of the libido dominandi is susceptible to two sorts of moralistic misreadings, and each of which undoes the irony that Augustine sees at the heart of the notion. On one misreading, the category turns out to be all about sex, focusing on our sense of the libido; of lust. On this reading, the problem is that humans are in the grip of lust—we are beasts, in some way subhuman. But there’s a second reading, and on this reading the category is all about violence, all about domination: the dominandi. On this reading, all we want, really, is subjugation, and we’re not so much beasts as devils: perversely, sadistically, superhuman.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, “that it rained very hard,” though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship’s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight;—and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o’clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;—he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. “What is the matter with Brandon?” said Sir John. Nobody could tell. “I hope he has had no bad news,” said Lady Middleton. “It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly.”

• From The City of God

  79 Lecture 4 Transcript—Augustine’s Pagan and Christian Audience Third, even within the largely Christian confines of North Africa, Augustine found many interlocutors to contest him. There were the Donatists, whom we heard about last time. By the time The City of God was being written, this dispute had begun to recede in import— after all, Marcellinus had helped with that at the Council of Carthage. But even so, Donatism convinced Augustine that the church needed to frankly admit its constitution as a mixed body on the way to salvation, not a fortress of righteousness against an irredeemably sinful outside world. Fourth, there were the Pelagians, initially a small group of Christian intellectuals, at least as educated and at least as elite as Augustine, who found his vision of the nature of human sin and the need for divine grace theologically confused and spiritually and psychologically distasteful. Fifth, behind or alongside all of these, there are his fellow Christians— elites who get his literary allusions and ordinary believers in the pews, people who would probably never read The City of God but who might hear their bishop or priest quote it in a sermon as containing the wisdom of that great Christian mage, Augustine. Especially as the book goes on into the latter books, after 11, Augustine was most afraid it seems of misleading these people in thinking that they could trust him to do their thinking for them. Now, part of the power of the work, in its own time and thereafter, lies in how it heard all these diverse worries and how Augustine’s sheer rhetorical and argumentative genius braids them together in its pages. They’re all constantly there, and while their appearance may become unmistakable only on a few occasions, they are continually influencing the course of his argument, kind of the way that dark and distant celestial bodies affect, through their gravitational power, the orbits of planets that are visible to the naked eye. Most basically, on the principle of never let a crisis go to waste, Augustine used the sack of Rome to rethink the meaning of Rome

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton’s guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood’s card. On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!—she hardly knew how she could bear it! These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law. “Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!” said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together—for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time:—“there is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on—that is to be my mother!” Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Morton’s mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her—to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For him she felt much compassion;—for Lucy very little—and it cost her some pains to procure that little;—for the rest of the party none at all. As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward. Elinor’s office was a painful one.—She was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister’s chief consolation,—to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it. She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward’s engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. That belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “A woman of seven and twenty,” said Marianne, after pausing a moment, “can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other.” “It would be impossible, I know,” replied Elinor, “to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders.” “But he talked of flannel waistcoats,” said Marianne; “and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble.” “Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?” Soon after this, upon Elinor’s leaving the room, “Mama,” said Marianne, “I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?” “Had you any idea of his coming so soon?” said Mrs. Dashwood. “I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?” “I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.” “I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time.”