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 Another Country (1962)

  I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in the world.” Then the door opened and Cass stood before them, dressed in a rusty orange frock, her hair pulled back and falling around her shoulders. She held a cigarette in one hand, with which she made a gesture of exaggerated welcome. “Come in, children,” she said, “I’m delighted to see you, but there’s absolute chaos in this house today. Everything’s gone wrong.” She closed the door behind them. They heard a child screaming somewhere in the apartment, and Richard’s voice raised in anger. Cass listened for a moment, her forehead wrinkled with worry. “That’s Michael,” she said, helplessly, “He’s been impossible all day—fighting with his brother, with his father, with me. Richard finally gave him a spanking and I guess he’s going to leave him in his room.” Michael’s screams diminished and they heard the voices of Michael and his father working out, apparently, the terms of a truce. Cass lifted her head. “Well. I’m sorry to keep you standing in the hall. Take off your things, I’ll show you into the living room and give you things to drink and to nibble on—you’ll need them, lunch is going to be late, of course. Ida, how are you? I haven’t seen you in God knows when.” She took Ida’s coat and shawl. “Do you mind if I don’t hang them up? I’ll just dump them in the bedroom, other people are coming over after lunch.” They followed her into the large bedroom. Ida immediately walked over to the large, full-length mirror and worriedly patted her hair and applied new lipstick. “I’m just fine, Cass,” she said, “but you’re the one—! You got a famous husband all of a sudden. How does it feel?” “He’s not even famous yet, ” said Cass, “and, already I can’t stand it. Somehow, it just seems to reduce itself to having drinks and dinners with lots of people you certainly wouldn’t be talking to if they weren’t”—she coughed—“in the profession . God, what a profession. I had no idea.” Then she laughed. They started toward the living room. “Try to persuade Vivaldo to become a plumber.” “No, dear,” said Ida, “I wouldn’t trust Vivaldo with no tools whatever. This boy is just as clumsy as they come. I’m always expecting him to fall over those front feet he’s got. Never saw anybody with so many front feet.” The living room was down two steps and the wide windows opened on a view of the river. Ida seemed checked, but only for an instant by the view of the river. She walked into the center of the room. “This is wonderful. You people have really got some space.” “We were really very lucky,” Cass said. “The people who had it had been here for years and years and they finally decided to move to Connecticut—or someplace like that.

• From Another Country (1962)

  For how long? And how do you know that?” “How do you — not know it?” “Why—everytime I saw them, they seemed perfectly natural and happy together——” “But many of the times you say you’ve been with them. you couldn’t have been with them because Ida’s been with Steve! ” She still could not quite get it through her head, even though she knew that it was true and although she knew that precious seconds were passing, and that she must soon begin to fight for herself. “How do you know? ” “Because Steve told me! He’s got a real thing about her, he’s going out of his mind.” Now, she did begin to calculate—desperately, cursing Ida for not having given her warning. But how could she have? She said, coldly, “Ellis at the mercy of a great passion—? don’t make me laugh.” “Oh, I know you think we’re made of the coarsest of coarse clay, and are insensitive to all the higher vibrations. I don’t care. You can’t have been seeing much of Ida—that I know. Have you been seeing much of Vivaldo? Answer me, Cass.” She said, wonderingly—for it was this she could not get through her head: “And Vivaldo doesn’t know ——” “And you don’t, either? You’re the only two in town who don’t. What mighty distractions have you two found?” She winced and looked up at him. She saw that he was controlling himself with a great and terrible effort; that he both wanted to know the truth, and feared to know it. She could not bear the anguish in his eyes, and she looked away. How could she ever have doubted that he loved her! “Have you been seeing a lot of Vivaldo? Tell me.” She rose and walked to the window. She felt sick—her stomach seemed to have shrunk to the size of a small, hard, rubber ball. “Leave me alone. You’ve always been jealous of Vivaldo, and we both know why, though you won’t admit it. Sometimes I saw Vivaldo, sometimes I saw Vivaldo with Ida, sometimes I just walked around, sometimes I went to the movies.” “Till two o’clock in the morning?” “Sometimes I’ve come in at midnight, sometimes I’ve come in at four! Leave me alone! Why is it so important to you now? I’ve lived in this house like a ghost for months, half the time you haven’t known I was here—what does it matter now?” His face was wet and white and ugly. “ I have lived here like a ghost, not you. I’ve known you were here, how could I not know it?” He took one step toward her. He dropped his voice. “Do you know how you made your presence known? By the way you look at me, by the contempt in your eyes when you look at me. What have I done to deserve your contempt? What have I done, Cass?

• From Another Country (1962)

  It had been a long time. He had become bored by the people with whom one turned on, and really rather bored with marijuana. Either it did not derange his senses enough, or he was already more than sufficiently deranged. And he found the hangover crushing and it interfered with his work and he had never been able to make love on it. Still, it had been a long time. It was only ten past eleven, he did not know what he was going to do with himself. He wanted to enter into, or to forget, the chaos at his center. “Maybe,” he said. “Let me buy a round first. What’re you drinking?” “We could make it on back to my pad,” said Harold, scowling his little scowl. “I’m having beer,” said Lorenzo. His expression indicated that he would rather have had something else, but did not wish to seem to be taking advantage of Vivaldo. Vivaldo turned to Belle. “And you?” She dropped her hand and leaned forward. “Do you think I could have a brandy Alexander?” “God,” he said, “if you can drink it, I guess they can make it.” She leaned back again, unsmiling, oddly ladylike, and he looked at Harold. “Beer, dad,” Harold said. “Then we’ll split.” So he walked over to the bar, and ordered the round, making a special trip to carry the brimming, viscous Alexander. He knew that Lorenzo liked rye and so he bought him a straight one and a bottle of beer, and a beer for Harold, and a double bourbon for himself. Let’s go for broke, he thought, the hell with it. Let’s see what happens. And he really could not tell, because he did not want to know, whether he was acting out of panic or recklessness or pain. There was certainly something he did not want to think about: he did not want to think about where Ida was, or what she was doing now. Not now, later for you, baby. He did not want to go home and lie awake, waiting, or walk up and down, staring at his typewriter and staring at the walls. Later for all that, later. And beneath all this was the void where anguish lived and questions crouched, which referred only to Vivaldo and to no one else on earth. Down there, down there, lived the raw, unformed substance for the creation of Vivaldo, and only he, Vivaldo, alone, could master it. “Here’s how,” he said, and, unsteadily, they raised their glasses, and drank. “Thanks, Vivaldo,” said Lorenzo, and downed his whiskey in a single swallow. Vivaldo looked at the young face, which was damp and a little gray and would soon be damper and grayer.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus stuck out his tongue at Vivaldo, who was watching him with a faintly quizzical frown. Leona returned and set a fresh beer before Vivaldo and said, “You boys finish up now, I’m going to get dressed.” She gathered her clothes together and vanished into the bathroom. There was silence at the table for a moment. “She going to stay here with you?” Vivaldo asked. “I don’t know yet. Nothing’s been decided yet. But I think she wants to—” “Oh, that’s obvious. But isn’t this place a little small for two?” “Maybe we’ll find a bigger place. Anyway—you know—I’m not home a hell of a lot.” Vivaldo seemed to consider this. Then, “I hope you know what you’re doing, baby. I know it’s none of my business, but——” Rufus looked at him. “Don’t you like her?” “Sure, I like her. She’s a sweet girl.” He took a swallow of his beer. “The question is—how much do you like her?” “Can’t you tell?” And Rufus grinned. “Well, no, frankly—I can’t. I mean, sure you like her. But—oh, I don’t know.” There was silence again. Vivaldo dropped his eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Rufus. “I’m a big boy, you know.” Vivaldo raised his eyes and said, “It’s a pretty big world, too, baby. I hope you’ve thought of that.” “I’ve thought of that.” “Trouble is, I feel too paternal towards you, you son of a bitch.” “That’s the trouble with all you white bastards.” They encountered the big world when they went out into the Sunday streets. It stared unsympathetically out at them from the eyes of the passing people; and Rufus realized that he had not thought at all about this world and its power to hate and destroy. He had not thought at all about his future with Leona, for the reason that he had never considered that they had one. Yet, here she was, clearly intending to stay if he would have her. But the price was high: trouble with the landlord, with the neighbors, with all the adolescents in the Village and all those who descended during the week ends. And his family would have a fit. It didn’t matter so very much about his father and mother—their fit, having lasted a lifetime, was now not much more than reflex action. But he knew that Ida would instantly hate Leona. She had always expected a great deal from Rufus, and she was very race-conscious. She would say, You’d never even have looked at that girl, Rufus, if she’d been black. But you’ll pick up any white trash just because she’s white. What’s the matter—you ashamed of being black? Then, for the first time in his life, he wondered about that—or, rather, the question bumped against his mind for an instant and then speedily, apologetically, withdrew. He looked sideways at Leona. Now she was quite pretty.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “It’s kind of an interesting play,” Ellis said, cautiously, “and, from what I’ve heard of you, it ought to do very good things for you.” He turned back to Ida and Vivaldo. “Could I persuade you to have one drink with me in some secluded, air-conditioned bar? I really don’t think,” he said to Ida, “that you ought to make a habit of working in such infernos. You’ll end up dying of tuberculosis, like Spanish bullfighters, who are always either too hot or too cold.” “Oh, I guess we have time for one drink,” said Ida, looking doubtfully at Vivaldo, “what do you think, sweetie?” “It’s your night,” said Vivaldo. They started toward the door. “I’d like to mix maybe just a little bit of business in with this drink,” said Ellis. “I figured that,” said Vivaldo. “What an eager beaver you are.” “The secret,” said Ellis, “of my not inconsiderable success.” He turned to Ida. “I thought you told me yesterday that Dick Silenski and his wife would be here—?” Something happened, then, in her face and in his—in his, wry panic and regret, quickly covered; in hers, an outraged warning, quickly dissembled. They entered the wide, hot street. “Eric saw them,” she said, calmly, “something happened, they couldn’t come.” “The kids got into a fight in the park,” said Eric. “Some colored kids beat them up.” He heard Ida’s breathing change; he told himself he was a bastard. “I left them waiting for the doctor.” “You didn’t tell me that,” cried Vivaldo, “Jesus! I’d better call them up!” “That isn’t what you told me, either,” said Ida. “They weren’t very badly hurt,” said Eric, “just bloody noses. But they thought they’d better have a doctor look at them and of course they didn’t want to leave them alone.” “I’ll call them,” said Vivaldo, “as soon as we get to a bar.” “Yes, sweetie,” said Ida, “you’d better do that. What a terrible thing to have happen.” Vivaldo said nothing; kicked at a beer can on the sidewalk. They were walking west through a dark wilderness of tenements, of dirty children, of staring adolescents, and sweating grownups. “When you say colored boys,” Ida pursued, after a moment, “do you mean that was the reason for the fight?” “There didn’t,” said Eric, “seem to be any other reason. They’d never seen the boys before.” “I imagine,” said Ida, “that it was in some kind of retaliation—for something some other boys had done to them.” “I guess that must be it,” said Eric.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric stood up, looking out over the sea, almost poised to run. Yves liked to hold his breath under water for as long as possible, a test of endurance which Eric found pointless and, in Yves’ case, frightening. Then Yves’ head appeared again, and his arm flashed. And, even from this distance, Eric could see that Yves was laughing —he had known that Eric would be watching from the garden. Yves began swimming toward the beach. Eric sat down. The kitten rushed over and rubbed itself against his legs. It was the end of May. They had been in this house for more than two months. Tomorrow they were leaving. Not for a long time, perhaps never again, would Eric sit in a garden watching Yves in the water. They would take the train for Paris in the morning and, after two days there, Yves would put Eric on the boat for New York. Eric was to get settled there and then Yves was to join him. Now that it had all been decided and there could be no turning back, Eric felt a sour and savage apprehension. He watched as Yves stepped out of the water. His brown hair was bleaching from the sun and glowed about his head; his long, wiry body was as brown as bread. He bent down to lift off the scarlet bikini. Then he pulled on an old pair of blue jeans which he had expropriated from Eric. They were somewhat too short for him, but no matter—Yves was not very fond of Americans, but he liked their clothes. He stalked up the slope, toward the house, the red cloth of the bikini dangling from one hand. Yves had never mentioned going to America and had never given Eric any reason to suppose that he nourished such a desire. The desire arrived, or was, in any case, stated, only when the possibility arose: for Eric had slowly graduated from near-starvation to dubbing French films to bit roles in some of the American films produced abroad. One of these bits had led to television work in England; and then a New York director had offered him one of the principal supporting parts in a Broadway play. This offer had presented Eric with the enormous question he had spent three years avoiding. To accept it was to bring his European sojourn to an end; not to accept it was to transform his sojourn into exile. He and Yves had been together for more than two years and, from the time of their meeting, his home had been with Yves. More precisely and literally, it was Yves who had come to live with him, but each was, for the other, the dwelling place that each had despaired of finding. Eric did not want to be separated from Yves.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  Though I was satisfied with the way I had handled this incident, I know I have more personal work to do in that area, and I would have been far more uncomfortable had I not liked Brenda so much, and known how hard it was for her to criticize me. I had no doubt, also, that I would have felt far more threatened had my patient been an angry male. I’ve always been uneasy in confrontation, personally and professionally, and have carefully avoided any administrative position that might require it—for example, a chairmanship, committee head, or deanship. Only once, a few years after I had finished my residency, did I agree to be interviewed for a chairmanship—at my alma mater, Johns Hopkins. Fortunately—for me and for them—they selected another candidate for the position. I’ve always told myself that avoiding administrative positions was a wise move because my real strength lay in clinical research, practice, and writing, but I have to admit now that my fear of conflicts, and my general shyness, played a significant role in it. My wife, knowing I prefer only small social events of four or, at the most, six people, finds it hilarious that I became an expert in group therapy. But, in fact, my experience in leading therapy groups turned out to be therapeutic, not only for my patients but for me as well: it greatly increased my comfort in group situations. And, for a long time, I have felt little anxiety in addressing large audiences. But then, such performances are always on my own terms: I want no part of a spontaneous confrontational public debate: I don’t think quickly in such situations. One of the advantages of old age is that audiences now treat me with great deference: it’s been years, decades, since a colleague or a questioner in the audience has verbally challenged me. I halt my bike ride for ten minutes to watch the Gunn High School tennis team practice, thinking back to my days on the Roosevelt High School tennis team. I played number six on the six-player team, but was a much better player than Nelson at the number-five slot. Whenever we played one another, however, he intimidated me with his aggressiveness and cursing, and, even more, by his halting play at crucial points and standing still in silent prayer for a few moments. The coach was unsympathetic and told me to “grow up and handle it.” I continue biking and think of the many attorneys and CEOs I’ve treated who thrive on conflict, and I marvel at their appetite for battle. I’ve never understood how they got to be that way, nor, of course, how I came to be so conflict-avoidant. I think of elementary school bullies who threatened to beat me up after school. I remember reading stories of kids whose fathers taught them how to box, and how I pined for such a father.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Nobody’s seen him,” Ida cried, “for nearly six weeks! Until last night! I know my brother, he doesn’t do things like this. He always come by the house, no matter where he’d been, or what was happening, just so we wouldn’t worry. He used to bring money and things—but even when he was broke, he come anyway. Don’t tell me he’s just sleeping it off somewhere. Six weeks is a long time.” She subsided a little, subsided to a venomous murmur. “And you know what happened—between him and that damn crazy little cracker bitch he got hung up with.” “All right,” Richard said, helplessly, after a considerable silence, “have it your own way.” Cass said, “But there’s no need to go rushing off in the rain right away. Rufus knows Vivaldo is going to be here. He may come by. I was hoping you would all stay for supper.” She smiled at Ida. “Won’t you, please? I’m sure you’ll feel better. It may all be cleared up by this evening.” Ida and Vivaldo stared at each other, having, it seemed, become allies in the course of the afternoon. “Well?” asked Vivaldo. “I don’t know. I’m so tired and evil I don’t seem to be able to think straight.” Richard looked as though he thoroughly agreed with this; and he said, “Look. You’ve been to the police. You’ve told everyone you could. You’ve checked the hospitals, and”—he looked at her questioningly—“the morgue”—and she nodded, not dropping her eyes. “Well. I don’t see any point in rushing out in this damn Sunday-afternoon rain, when you hardly even know where you’re going. And we all saw him last night. So we know he’s around. So why not relax for a couple of hours? Hell, in a couple of hours you may find out you haven’t got to go anywhere, he’ll turn up.” “Really,” said Cass, “there’s a very good chance he’ll turn up here today.” Ida looked at Cass. Then Cass realized that something in Ida was enjoying this—the attention, the power she held for this moment. This made Cass angry, but then she thought: Good. It means that whatever’s coming, she’ll be able to get through it. Without quite knowing it, from the moment Ida stepped through the door, she was preparing herself for the worst. “Well,” said Ida, looking at Vivaldo, “I asked Mama to call me here—just in case.” “Well, then,” said Cass, “it seems to me it’s settled.” She looked at the clock. “The boys should be home in about another hour. I think what I’ll do is fix us all a fresh drink.” Ida grinned. “That’s a very friendly idea.” She was terribly attractive when she grinned. Her face, then, made one think of a mischievous street boy. And at the same time there glowed in her eyes a marvelously feminine mockery. Vivaldo kept watching her, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  10. How to combine strategies. Throughout, I’ll offer real-life examples from people I’ve talked to and share current research to help you navigate these emotionally taxing moments. More importantly, though, this book will show you how to build and embrace an identity as someone who wants and is able to interact with angry people productively and effectively. It takes more than just tools to be successful in navigating the anger and hostility of others. Those tools are important, of course. You need to have them and you need to be able to use them. Beyond that, though, you need to have healthy outcomes in mind and you need to be able to stick to those goals as things get heated. This book will show you how to keep those goals in mind and embrace an identity as a calm and confident navigator of other people’s anger. * This has actually happened more than once in the past two years. In one instance, a flight attendant had her nose broken after being punched twice by a passenger. In another, a flight attendant was punched multiple times and had several teeth chipped. * I asked a librarian friend of mine about this after the call and she said that, like any service-type job, she had to deal with angry patrons sometimes. She also told me that she had felt the same uptick in hostility as the person who called me. * People are sometimes surprised to learn that I put myself in this category. While I am unlikely to express my anger in a hostile or aggressive way, I find myself frequently angry about a variety of social issues. * I heard from more than one person that they found reading my last book personally challenging for this very reason. They told me they had started to see the harm they might be doing to themselves and others, and seeing that harm made introspection really scary for them. PART ONE UNDERSTANDING ANGRY PEOPLE

• From Paul and Palestinian Judaism (40th Anniversary Edition) (2017)

  Once the law was satisfied, 'a man was free to do what he liked. There was thus scope for works of supererogation, "good works" in the technical sense of the term.' Bultmann continues: 'These provided a basis for merit in the proper sense of the word. The accumulation of merits might serve to atone for breaches of the Law' (p. 69). The legalistic conception of man's relation to God led to the view that at the judgment all of one's works would be counted and weighed, the verdict on a man's fate being determined by the balance of merits and demerits. As a result, 'the prospect of salvation became highly uncertain. Who could be sure he had done enough in this life to be saved?' (p. 70). An example is provided by the death-bed scene of R. Johanan hen Zakkai, who wept because he was uncertain of his fate. Thus coupled with uncertainty there developed an acute consciousness of sin and a 'morbid sense of guilt' (p. 70). But Jewish legalism led not only to an unhealthy anxiety, but also to smug self-righteousness: 'It is a remarkable fact that side by side with this sense of sin and urge to repentance we find the "righteous" proud and self- conscious' (p. 71). From a passage in IV Ezra Bultmann concludes that even repentance was not a valid religious impulse; rather, it became simply another good work which could secure merit in God's sight. 'In the end the whole range of man's relation with God came to be thought of in terms of merit ... ' (p. 71). At the beginning of this summary of Bultmann's view, we noted that Bultmann cited Moore alongside Bousset without noting that Moore contradicts Bousset at point after point. It is even more revealing of how Weber's view continued despite the objections of experts in Rabbinics to note Bultmann's treatment of Sjoberg's work, Gott und die Sunder im palastinischen Judentum. 40 We shall subsequently have occasion to deal 40 Published in 1939. Tannaitic Literature [I with some of Sjoberg's principal views. It will suffice here to note that he consciously based his work on Moore's 'fundamental book', while hoping in some respects to correct and go beyond Moore. 41 Sjoberg also cited as works which viewed Rabbinic Judaism in the correct light those of such authors as Herford, Buchler, Marmorstein, Bonsirven and Montefiore. 42 He explicitly noted that the three works which were most in use by Christian theologians-those by Weber, Schurer and Bousset-although they contain much useful material, present 'kein richtiges Bild des Judentums' . 43 He was further of the view that this negative evaluation of those works was becoming increasingly widespread.

• From Another Country (1962)

  We came on over here and started talking and finished up Eric’s whiskey. And he had quite a lot of whiskey—so, you see.” “Yes, I know you think it’s against the law to stop drinking as long as there’s anything left to drink. Listen. Has Cass called?” “Yes.” “Did you talk to her? ” “No. Eric did.” “Oh? What did Eric tell you?” “What do you mean, what did Eric tell me?” “I mean, what did Cass say? ” “She said she was in trouble. Richard’s found out about them.” “Isn’t that awful? What else did she say?” “Well—I think that that sort of cluttered up her mind. She doesn’t seem to have said anything else. Did you know anything about all this?” “ Yes . Richard was here. Has he been there?” “No.” “Oh, Vivaldo, it was awful. I felt so sorry for him. I thought that you might be at Eric’s, but I said you’d gone off to see your family in Brooklyn and I didn’t have the phone number or the address. It’s very sad, Vivaldo, he’s very bitter, he wants to hurt you. He feels that you betrayed him—” “Yes, well, I think it may be easier for him to feel that way. How long was he there?” “Not long. Only about ten minutes. But it seemed longer. He said some terrible things—” “I’m sure. Does he still want to see me?” “I don’t know.” There was a pause. “Are you coming home now?” “Yes, right away. Are you going to be there?” “I’ll be here. Come on. Oh. Where’s Eric?” “He’s gone—uptown—” “To meet Cass?” “Yes.” She sighed. “Lord, what a mess. Come on home, sweetie, if Richard’s going to shoot you you don’t want him to do it while you’re wandering around Eric’s house. That would really be too much.” He laughed. “You’re right. You seem to be in a good mood today.” “I’m really in a terrible mood. But I’m being brave about it, I’m pretending to be Greer Garson. ” He laughed again. “Does it help?” “Well, no, baby, but it makes everything pretty funny.” “All right. I’ll be along in a minute.” “Okay, sweetie. ’Bye.” “Good-bye.” He hung up with an exultant relief that no trouble seemed to be awaiting him at home with Ida. He felt that he had got away with something. He stepped into Eric’s shower, scrubbed and sang; but when he stepped out he realized that he was terribly hungry and weak. While he was dressing, Eric’s doorbell rang. He was sure that it was Richard, at last, and he hurriedly buckled his belt and pulled on his shoes before pressing the buzzer. He started, idiotically, to make up the bed, but realized that there would not be time, and, anyway, it could not possibly make any difference to Richard whether the bed was made or not. He waited, hearing the downstairs door open and close.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Not long after that I sensed God calling me to speak on sexual purity to youth groups, teaching them all the things I wish I had learned when I was their age. But I argued, “Lord, you’ve got the wrong person! I’m not a trained speaker and my life is certainly no example for young people to follow!” However, through studying the life of Moses in Henry Blackaby’s Experiencing God workbook, God convinced me that He knew what He was doing and that I was being ridiculous to argue with Him as if He didn’t. My fervency for sexual purity grew until it became a fire in my bones that felt as if it would consume me if I didn’t open my mouth and spit out the words. But in hindsight, I see that I fell more in love with speaking than with the Lord. I was still worshiping another god. Pridefully, I assumed that this “dying” deal was a onetime shot, and I thought I had won that battle once and for all. I figured once you are dead, you are dead, right? You can’t get “deader”! But I soon discovered that dying to my worldly desires was a daily requirement. My living sacrifice had been crawling off the altar without my awareness. I continued indulging in “little” temptations here and there, especially in a particular relationship with a friend (I’ll call him John). Over the course of many years, John and I occasionally had lunch together and discussed ministry visions and dreams. Our conversations stimulated me mentally and spiritually, and we would often talk at length on the phone, usually while my husband was at work. I thought nothing of it because we weren’t hiding anything from anyone. Over the years we often bantered cute remarks back and forth, but at one point I told my husband that some of John’s comments seemed to border on flirtatiousness. Knowing John well himself, Greg dismissed my concern as an overreaction. However, John’s flirting became so obvious that I felt I had to confront him over lunch one day. In response to one of his wisecracks, I said, “It’s beginning to sound like you are not just playing around anymore and you are scaring me. I’m a little concerned about our friendship and wonder if we need to establish some firmer boundaries?” John confirmed my suspicion when he responded, “Why? Are you tempted too?” He went on to say that he had been in love with me for a long time and that he would give up his marriage and ministry if I would run away with him. Was I tempted? Certainly.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Je crois que je vais rester tranquille. » Un éclair de déception passe sur le visage de Miller, mais Wallace a atteint sa limite. Il ne peut pas se résoudre à passer davantage de temps dans le monde extérieur. Il a envie de couler, de s’enfouir, de se cacher. « C’est dommage, fait Yngve. Ce serait sympa. — Mais si, allez », fait Emma, lui tirant le bras. Il lui jette un regard qu’il espère suffisamment déconfit et pathétique. Il en a assez des gens, assez du monde. Il n’en peut plus. Il est plein à ras bord. Il ne peut encaisser tout ça une seconde de plus. Il ne peut pas continuer comme ça, avec eux. « Je ne peux pas. Je vais y aller, d’ailleurs. » Tout se passe exactement comme vendredi. Les jours se suivent et se répètent. Il embrasse Emma sur la joue. « J’y vais aussi », fait Miller. Wallace a envie de hurler. Il ne sait pas s’il peut supporter de revivre le week-end entier. Il ne sait pas comment il va supporter ce mouvement de repli du temps sur lui-même. Mais il ne hurle pas. Il ravale son cri. « Mais on va faire du bateau, hein ? », insiste Yngve, tentant d’arracher la promesse avant que Miller sorte de table. « On va faire du bateau. Mettons 15 heures. — OK. J’appellerai pour réserver. — Parfait. Merci, Yngve. — Pas de problème, voyons », fait Yngve. Wallace sort déjà de table, et Miller le rejoint à grandes foulées. Une fois dans la rue perpendiculaire, protégé du regard de leurs amis, Miller cherche sa main. Wallace le laisse faire. « Ça va ? demande Miller. — Oui, oui. Mais je suis crevé et j’ai envie de rentrer. Je préférerais être seul, si ça ne te dérange pas. — D’accord. Je suis désolé pour ce qu’a dit Vincent. — Je l’avais cherché. » Wallace baisse les yeux sur la rue devant eux. Miller presse sa main dans un geste fait pour le réconforter, suppose Wallace, le rassurer. Que cherche-t-il à lui prouver ? Que tente-t-il d’aplanir, de réparer ? « Mais non. Tu ne méritais pas ça. — Qui mérite jamais quoi que ce soit ? — Dis pas n’importe quoi. — Non. C’est pas grave. — Si. — Je ne peux pas avoir cette discussion encore une fois, Miller. » Wallace s’arrête brusquement. Il retire sa main. « Je ne peux pas. Je ne suis pas en colère. Je ne suis pas fâché. Mais je ne peux pas recommencer cette conversation. — Wallace. — Non, Miller.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Rufus walked to Vivaldo’s window. “So you been all up and down that street, too,” he said. “We’ve all been up the same streets. There aren’t a hell of a lot of streets. Only, we’ve been taught to lie so much, about so many things, that we hardly ever know where we are.” Rufus said nothing. He walked up and down. Vivaldo said, “Maybe you should stay here, Rufus, for a couple of days, until you decide what you want to do.” “I don’t want to bug you, Vivaldo.” Vivaldo picked up Rufus’ empty glass and paused in the archway which led into his kitchen. “You can lie here in the mornings and look at my ceiling. It’s full of cracks, it makes all kinds of pictures. Maybe it’ll tell you things it hasn’t told me. I’ll fix us another drink.” Again he felt that he was smothering. “Thanks, Vivaldo.” Vivaldo dragged his ice out and poured two drinks. He came back into the room. “Here. To all the things we don’t know.” They drank. “You had me worried,” said Vivaldo. “I’m glad you’re back.” “I’m glad to see you,” said Rufus. “Your sister left me a phone number to call in case I saw you. It’s the lady who lives next door to you. I guess maybe I should call her now.” “No,” said Rufus, after a moment, “it’s too late. I’ll go on up there in the morning.” And this thought, the thought of seeing his parents and his sister in the morning, checked and chilled him. He sat down again in the easy chair and leaned back with his hands over his eyes. “Rufus,” Leona had said—time and again—“ain’t nothing wrong in being colored.” Sometimes, when she said this, he simply looked at her coldly, from a great distance, as though he wondered what on earth she was trying to say. His look seemed to accuse her of ignorance and indifference. And, as she watched his face, her eyes became more despairing than ever but at the same time filled with some immense sexual secret which tormented her. He had put off going back to work until he began to be afraid to go to work. Sometimes, when she said that there was nothing wrong in being colored, he answered, “Not if you a hard-up white lady.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They each hated their jobs—which did not help their relationship with one another—but Ida was the most popular waitress her boss had, which gave her a certain leeway, and Vivaldo could no longer accept those more demanding and more lucrative jobs which offered him a future he did not want. They were both, as it were, racing before a storm, struggling to “make it” before they were sucked into that quicksand, which they saw all around them, of an aimless, defeated, and defensive bohemia. And this meant that they could not hope to improve their physical situation, being scarcely able to maintain the apartment that they had. Vivaldo had often suggested that they move out of the Village, into the lower East Side, where cheap lofts were available, lofts which could be made extremely attractive. But Ida had vetoed this. Her most important reason was never stated, but Vivaldo eventually realized that she had a horror of that neighborhood because Rufus’ last attempt at domestic life, or at life itself, had been made down there. She told Vivaldo, “I wouldn’t feel safe, honey, coming home at night or coming home in the daytime. You don’t know those people the way I do, because they’ve never treated you the way they’ve treated me. Some of those cats, baby, if they catch you alone on a subway platform, or coming up the steps to your apartment, they don’t think nothing of opening up their pants and asking you to give them a blow job. That’s right . And, look, baby, I was down there, it was on Mott Street, with Rufus, a couple of years ago, to see some people for Sunday brunch. They were white. And we went out on the fire escape to look at a wedding procession down the street. So some of the people on the block saw us. Well, do you know that three white men came up to that apartment, one with a blackjack and one with a gun and one with a knife, and they threw us out of there. They said”—and she laughed—“that we were giving their street a bad name.” She watched his face for a moment. “It’s true,” she said, gently. Then, “Let’s just stay here, Vivaldo, until we can do better. It’s rough, but it’s not as rough as it might be.” So they tried to keep their door open, but there were risks attached to this, particularly if Ida were home, lounging on the sofa in her brief blue playsuit or practicing arrangements with the help of the record player.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “What are you going to do now? When does”—he gestured toward the letter, which was somewhere beneath his belly button—“Yves get here?” “In about two weeks. According to that letter. It may be a little longer. It may be sooner.” “Have you told Cass that?” “No. I’ll tell her tomorrow.” “How do you think she’ll take it?” “Well, she’s always known he was on his way. I don’t know how she’ll take—his actual arrival.” In the streets, they heard footsteps, walking fast, and someone whistling. Eric stared at the wall again, frowning heavily. Other voices were heard in the street. “I guess the bars are beginning to close,” said Eric. “Yes.” Vivaldo leaned up, looking toward the blinds which held back the jungle. “Eric. How’s one going to get through it all? How can you live if you can’t love? And how can you live if you do?” And he stared at Eric, who said nothing, whose face gleamed in the yellow light, as mysteriously impersonal and as fearfully moving as might have been a death mask of Eric as a boy. He realized that they were both beginning to be drunk. “I don’t see how I can live with Ida, and I don’t see how I can live without her. I get through every day on a prayer. Every morning, when I wake up, I’m surprised to find that she’s still beside me.” Eric was watching him, perfectly rigid and still, seeming scarcely to breathe, only his unmoving eyes were alive. “And yet”—he caught his breath—“sometimes I wish she weren’t there, sometimes I wish I’d never met her, sometimes I think I’d go anywhere to get this burden off me. She never lets me forget I’m white, she never lets me forget she’s colored. And I don’t care, I don’t care—did Rufus do that to you? Did he try to make you pay?” Eric dropped his eyes, and his lips tightened. “Ah. He didn’t try. I paid.” He raised his eyes to Vivaldo’s. “But I’m not sad about it any more. If it hadn’t been for Rufus, I would never have had to go away, I would never have been able to deal with Yves.” And then, rising and walking to the window, from which more and more voices rose, “Maybe that’s what love is for.” “Are you sleeping with anyone besides Cass?” Eric turned. “No.” “I’m sorry. I just thought you might be. I’m not sleeping with anyone except Ida.” “We can’t be everywhere at once,” said Eric. They listened to the footfalls and voices in the street: someone was singing, someone called, someone was cursing. Someone ran. Then silence, again. “You know,” said Eric, “it’s true that you can make kids without love. But if you do love the person you make the kids with, it must be something fantastic.” “Ida and I could have great kids,” said Vivaldo. “Do you think you will?”

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Imagine an actor preparing to perform in a play. She memorizes her lines, gets inside the character’s head, and tries to imagine how this person would feel and act. She rehearses being that person. She thinks intently about doing what that person would do and saying what that person would say exactly the way she would say it. The more she’s rehearsed being that character, the sharper and more “automatic” her performance. Something similar happens when we fantasize sexually or emotionally about inappropriate or sinful behavior. We are rehearsing when we think about the conversations we would have with a particular man if we were ever alone with him, when we entertain thoughts of an intimate rendezvous, or wish that a certain man would take special notice of us. When we rehearse these scenarios, we imagine what we’ll say and do in these encounters. Then when Satan lays the trap and leads that man your direction, guess what? We are more than likely going to play the part exactly the way we have rehearsed it. When we don’t guard our minds in our relationships with men, we weaken our resistance before any encounter takes place. But we do have some choice in the matter. We don’t have to be sitting ducks. We can train our minds to mind. TRAINING OUR MINDS TO MIND One of my favorite sayings is: “You can’t keep a bird from flying over your head, but you can keep him from building a nest in your hair!” Even though inappropriate thoughts inevitably pop up into every person’s mind, we do not have to entertain them. Such thoughts are not sin, but dwelling on such thoughts is essentially rehearsing for rebellion, and acting on such thoughts is sin. We can’t keep from being tempted, but we can avoid rehearsing, and we can certainly refuse to sin. No temptation becomes sin without our permission. So how do we keep the bird from building a nest in our hair? How do we avoid dwelling on random thoughts to the point that we are “rehearsing” rather than “rebuking” them? There are three primary ways, and I call them the Three Rs: • Resisting • Redirecting • Renewing RESISTING TEMPTATION AT THE GATE Allowing your mind to be filled with images of sexually immoral or inappropriate behavior is like filling your mind with garbage. Garbage eventually rots, putrefying the soul and infecting your life and the lives of those you are closest to. One of the primary ways to avoid inappropriate fantasies and sexual misconduct is to resist such images and thoughts by limiting their access to your minds. This will require close monitoring of your reading, viewing, and listening habits, but once you make a habit of censorship, it will become second nature.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  It would have been absolutely unthinkable for me, or, for that matter, for any of my close friends, to have decided to take what is now called a “gap” year, to join an organization like the Peace Corps (which did not yet exist), or volunteer for humanitarian work in other countries, or choose one of the many other options so commonplace in the world of my children and their peers. For all of us there was the ever-present pressure of the medical admission process. It never occurred to any of us to take any longer than necessary to reach medical school. But I felt an additional pressure: I needed to lock in my relationship with Marilyn. I needed to succeed, to show her I would have a solid career and would become a person of such consequence that she would be persuaded to marry me. She was half a year behind me, and her French teacher urged her to apply to Wellesley College, which immediately accepted her. In her senior year of high school, her sorority big sister advised her that she was too young to be permanently pinned down and she should, at least occasionally, go out with other guys. This did not sit well with me and I still remember the names of the two boys she dated. As soon as she left for Wellesley, I grew extremely anxious about losing her: I felt I couldn’t compete with the Ivy League guys she would be meeting. I wrote her constantly expressing my worry that I could not possibly be interesting enough for her, that she was meeting other men, that I might lose her. My whole life at that time was lived in the pre-med sciences, in which Marilyn took no interest whatsoever. I saved Marilyn’s letters, and a few years ago, Wellesley , the college magazine, published a number of them. D uring those years, I was so weighed down with anxiety and had such great difficulty sleeping that I should have seen a therapist, but it didn’t seem like an option then. However, if I were to have seen a therapist like me then, I imagine the dialogue would have gone something like this: D R. Y ALOM: You said on the phone your anxiety was almost unbearable. Tell me more about that. I RVIN: Look at my fingernails, bitten to the quick. I’m ashamed of them and I try to hide my nails when I’m with anyone: look at them. A vise-like pressure in my chest. My sleep is screwed up completely. I use Dexedrine and coffee to pull all-nighters to study for exams and now I can’t sleep without sleeping pills. D R. Y ALOM: What are you taking? I RVIN: Seconal, every night. D R. Y ALOM: Who prescribes it for you? I RVIN: I just snitch it from my folks. For as long as I can remember they’ve both popped a Seconal every single night. I’ve wondered if perhaps insomnia is genetic.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I mean, right now.” “That’s what I thought you meant.” They both laughed. Yet, it crossed his mind that she meant it. “Anyone I know?” “Are you kidding? Just think of the people you know.” He smiled. “All right. But please don’t do anything silly, Cass.” She looked down. “I don’t think I will,” she murmured. Then, “Let’s get the bill.” They signaled the waiter, and paid him, and walked into the streets again. The sun was going down, but the heat had not lessened. The stone and steel and wood and brick and asphalt which had soaked in the heat all day would be giving it back all night. They walked two blocks, to the corner of Fifth Avenue, in silence; and in this silence something lived which made Vivaldo oddly reluctant to leave Cass alone. The corner on which they stood was absolutely deserted, and there was very little traffic. “Which way are you going?” he asked her. She looked up and down the Avenue—up and down. From the direction of the park there came a green and yellow cab. “I don’t know. But I think I’ll go to that movie.” The cab stopped, several blocks from them, waiting for a red light. Cass abruptly put up her hand. Again, he volunteered. “Would you like me to come with you? I could act as your protection.” She laughed. “No, Vivaldo, thank you. I don’t want to be protected any more.” And the cab swerved toward them. They both watched it approach, it slowed and stopped. He looked at her with his eyebrows very high. “Well—” he said. She opened the door and he held it. “Thank you, Vivaldo,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days. Or call me, I’ll be home.” “Okay, Cass.” He made a fist and touched her on the chin. “Be good.” “You, too. Good-bye.” She got into the cab and he slammed the door. She leaned forward to the driver, the cab rolled forward, downtown. She turned back to wave at him and the cab turned west. It was like waving good-bye to land: and she could not guess what might have befallen her when, and if, she ever saw land again.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “No. No, I hadn’t meant to suggest that.” He tried to smile. “He was very wrapped up in his music, he was very much—himself. I was younger then, I may not always have—understood.” He felt sweat in his armpits, on his forehead, between his legs. “Oh.” She looked at him from very far away. “You may have wanted more from him than he could give. Many people did, men and women.” She allowed this to hang between them for an instant. Then, “He was terribly attractive, wasn’t he? I always think that that was the reason he died, that he was too attractive and didn’t know how—how to keep people away.” She sipped her drink. “People don’t have any mercy. They tear you limb from limb, in the name of love. Then, when you’re dead, when they’ve killed you by what they made you go through, they say you didn’t have any character. They weep big, bitter tears—not for you. For themselves, because they’ve lost their toy.” “That’s a terribly grim view,” he said, “of love.” “I know what I’m talking about. That’s what most people mean, when they say love.” She picked up a cigarette and waited for him to light it. “Thank you. You weren’t here, you never saw Rufus’s last girl friend—a terrible little whore of a nymphomaniac, from Georgia. She wouldn’t let him go, he tried all kinds of ways of getting away from her. He even thought of running away to Mexico. She got him so he couldn’t work—I swear, there’s nothing like a Southern white person, especially a Southern woman, when she gets her hooks into a Negro man.” She blew a great cloud of smoke above his head. “And now she’s still living, the filthy white slut, and Rufus is dead.” He said, hoping that she would really hear him but knowing she would not, perhaps could not, “I hope you don’t think I loved your brother in that terrible way that you describe. I think we really were very good friends, and—and it was an awful shock for me to hear that he was dead. I was in Paris when I heard.” “Oh! I’m not accusing you. You and I are going to be friends. Don’t you think so?” “I certainly hope so.” “Well, that settles it, as far as I’m concerned.” Then, smiling, with her eyes very big, “What did you do in Paris all that time?” “Oh”—he smiled—“I tried to grow up.” “Couldn’t you have done that here? Or didn’t you want to?” “I don’t know. It was more fun in Paris.” “I’ll bet.” She crushed out her cigarette. “Have you grown up?” “I don’t know,” he said, “any longer, if people do.” She grinned. “You’ve got a point there, Buster.” Vivaldo came back to the table. She looked up at him. “Well? How are the kids?”