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 The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely join hands with the conspiracy of silence. She would never condone such fearless plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she would turn Puddle out bag and baggage, and that would leave Stephen alone. No, she dared not speak plainly because of the girl for whose sake she should now, above all, be outspoken. But supposing the day should arrive when Stephen herself thought fit to confide in her friend, then Puddle would take the bull by the horns: ‘Stephen, I know. You can trust me, Stephen.’ If only that day were not too long in coming— For none knew better than this little grey woman, the agony of mind that must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized nature is first brought face to face with its own affliction. None knew better the terrible nerves of the invert, nerves that are always lying in wait. Super-nerves, whose response is only equalled by the strain that calls that response into being. Puddle was well acquainted with these things—that was why she was deeply concerned about Stephen. But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be very gentle and very patient: ‘Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I made it myself—’ And then with a smile, ‘I put four lumps of sugar!’ Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: ‘Puddle—I’m a brute—you’re so good to me always.’ ‘Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that’s why I put in those four lumps of sugar. Let’s go for a really long walk, shall we, dear? I’ve been wanting a really long walk now for weeks.’ Liar—most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hated long walks, especially with Stephen who strode as though wearing seven league boots, and whose only idea of a country walk was to take her own line across ditches and hedges—yes, indeed, a most kind and self-sacrificing liar! For Puddle was not quite so young as she had been; at times her feet would trouble her a little, and at times she would get a sharp twinge in her knee, which she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless she must keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened her heart—the fear of that questioning, wounded expression which now never left the girl’s eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out her most practical shoes—her heaviest shoes which were said to be damp-proof—and limped along bravely by the side of her charge, who as often as not ignored her existence.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Lecture 31—Paul and the Roman Empire 211 must ensure that those in the minority are treated fairly under the rule of law. ‹ Several chapters later, the charge of subversion is raised again, this time, in a Jewish context. At a meeting with leaders of the Christian community in Jerusalem, Paul is told that rumors are spreading that he is trying to get Jews everywhere to abandon their tradition in favor of joining the Christian community. T o counter that impression, these leaders ask Paul to make a public display of obedience to Jewish law. He agrees and goes through a ritual of purification that eventually takes him to the temple. That is where the conflict explodes. ● Members of the Jewish community assume that Paul has brought non- Jews into the temple, which was forbidden. Opposition against him turns violent, and the Roman forces quickly intervene, seizing Paul. Paul is given a hearing in Jerusalem, then taken to the city of Caesarea for additional hearings; each time, he insists that he is not guilty of the charges made against him. ● For example, in chapter 24, Paul is brought before the Roman governor. During the hearing, the prosecuting attorney accuses Paul of fomenting social unrest and violating the sanctity of the Jerusalem temple. But Paul denies the charges. He insists that he worships the God of Israel, adheres to the Jewish Scriptures, and believes in the resurrection of the dead—just as many other Jews do. ● Paul remains in prison in Caesarea for two years. When a new governor arrives, Paul’s opponents repeat the charges against him, but Paul demands that his case be brought directly to the emperor—his right as a Roman citizen. ‹ In chapter 27, Paul is placed on a ship with a Roman guard. After a shipwreck, he ultimately reaches Rome, where the story ends, leaving Paul under house arrest and waiting for a hearing with the emperor. Later sources say that Paul was beheaded in Rome during the reign of Nero, sometime in the mid-60s of the 1 st century. Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation212 The stories of Paul’s martyrdom inform later artistic portrayals of him holding a sword; the sword not only recalls his death by beheading but also symbolizes the militant power of his message. Lecture 31—Paul and the Roman Empire 213 Suggested Reading Rowe, World Upside-Down. Skinner, The Trial Narratives. Questions to Consider 1. The book of Acts depicts controversies over how to understand the Christian community’s place in the Roman world. Where would the author say that conflict arose because people had misunderstood Paul and his associates? What were the principal causes of misunderstanding? 2. Acts also presents Paul’s message as an alternative to other religious options of the period. According to the writer, what made Paul’s message distinctive?

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  century B.C. It’s a story that grapples with issues of cultural change, and it’s marked by the tension between resistance and adaptation. As political realities shift and cultural practices are transformed, when is it better to resist change and when is it better to adapt? In this lecture, we’ll consider several aspects of this question: the context and changes that generated the issue, the stories of those who the resisted changes, and the ongoing struggle for political independence. Context of 1 Maccabees ‹The book of 1 Maccabees starts with Alexander the Great, who ruled from 334 to 323 B.C. In the short span of his life, he conquered the Persian Empire and dramatically altered the political landscape. With Alexander’s conquests, the region from Greece in the west to Egypt in the south and Pakistan in the east became part of the Greek Empire. ‹Up to this point, all the conquering powers—the Assyrians, Babylonians, and Persians—came from the east. But with the conqueror coming from the west, the language used for government and commerce changed to Greek. What’s more, the cities that Alexander founded and refurbished were centers for spreading Greek culture and would come to shape societies throughout the Mediterranean world. ‹After Alexander’s death, his empire was divided up among several successors. Eventually, the eastern Mediterranean was dominated by two rulers, who both founded Hellenistic dynasties: Seleucus I (who ruled Syria and regions to the north and east) and Ptolemy I (who ruled Egypt). In between the territory ruled Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation 146 by these dynasties was Judea, where Jerusalem was located. In the 2 nd century B.C., Judea was under Seleucid control. ‹The villain of 1 Maccabees is Antiochus IV, also called Antiochus Epiphanes. He came to power in 175 B.C., and his western capital was the city of Antioch in Syria. The writer of 1 Maccabees warns that Antiochus is “a sinful root,” an opponent of faithful Jews. ‹Questions of adapting to or resisting Greek influence intensified as Antiochus asserted greater control over Jerusalem and the surrounding region. He sent his army to push back a growing threat from his Egyptian rivals, the Ptolemies. Then, he raided the temple in Jerusalem and established a fortress there, where troops were stationed to control opposition to Seleucid rule. ‹Things reached the breaking point when Antiochus tried to suppress Jewish practice and impose his own religious tradition by force. According to 1 Maccabees 1, he banned the offering of Jewish sacrifices in the temple and prohibited the observance of the Sabbath and other holidays. Copies of the Jewish law were destroyed, and people who had their children circumcised were put to death. One flash point in the Jewish response to Greek culture was the establishment of a gymnasium in Jerusalem, where young athletes competed naked; to fit in at the gymnasium, some Jews had their circumcisions surgically reversed.

• From Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation (2016)

  Reading Biblical Literature: Genesis to Revelation 102 identity as a people. For Hosea, worshipping Baal was like having an extramarital affair. And just as sexual infidelity could end a marriage, religious infidelity could end Israel’s covenant with the God of the Exodus. If that happened, Israel would no longer exist as a people. ‹Hosea’s task was to shock people by his marriage to Gomer. He could expect people to react to the scandal by asking how he could possibly allow the marriage to continue. The prophet could then ask how God could possibly allow his marriage with Israel to continue, given their infidelity. ‹To underscore God’s outrage at the situation, Hosea gives the three children in this family symbolic names. The first child is Jezreel, a name associated with a place of violence and destruction in Israel. The second child is Lo-ruhamah, which means “not pitied,” and the third child is Lo-ammi, which means “not my people.” The dominant form of local fertility cults centered on the god Baal, who was said to make rainfall (Baal’s temple at Palmyra). Lecture 15—Justice and Love in Amos and Hosea 103 ‹Chapter 2 shows dramatic movement. It begins with divine outrage at Israel’s infidelity in disturbing language. But it ends with the prospect of reconciliation and the hope that God’s marriage with Israel can be restored. ●Hosea 2:2 sets the basic direction. It’s a plea from God that Israel—his wife— give up her adulterous relationships. Change is what God desires. But starting Hosea’s portrayal of God as an outraged husband may evoke images of domestic violence, whether in the prophet’s time or in our own.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  And on Wednesday morning there was old Puddle waiting to waylay the anxious young man who had been commanded to dig up some copy about the new novelist, Stephen Gordon. Then Puddle had smiled at the anxious young man and had shepherded him into her own little sanctum, and had given him a comfortable chair, and had stirred the fire the better to warm him. And the young man had noticed her charming smile and had thought how kind was this ageing woman, and how damned hard it was to go tramping the streets in quest of erratic, unsociable authors. Puddle had said, still smiling kindly: ‘I’d hate you to go back without your copy, but Miss Gordon’s been working overtime lately, I dare not disturb her, you don’t mind, do you? Now if you could possibly make shift with me—I really do know a great deal about her; as a matter of fact I’m her ex-governess, so I really do know quite a lot about her.’ Out had come notebook and copying pencil; it was easy to talk to this sympathetic woman: ‘Well, if you could give me some interesting details—say, her taste in books and her recreations, I’d be awfully grateful. She hunts, I believe?’ ‘Oh, not now!’ ‘I see—well then, she did hunt. And wasn’t her father Sir Philip Gordon who had a place down in Worcestershire and was killed by a falling tree or something? What kind of pupil did you find Miss Gordon? I’ll send her my notes when I’ve worked them up, but I really would like to see her, you know.’ Then being a fairly sagacious young man: ‘I’ve just read The Furrow, it’s a wonderful book!’ Puddle talked glibly while the young man scribbled, and when at last he was just about going she let him out on to the balcony from which he could look into Stephen’s study. ‘There she is at her desk! What more could you ask?’ she said triumphantly, pointing to Stephen whose hair was literally standing on end, as is sometimes the way with youthful authors. She even managed occasionally, to make Stephen see the journalists herself. 4 Stephen got up, stretched, and went to the window. The sun had retreated behind the clouds; a kind of brown twilight hung over the Embankment, for the wind had now dropped and a fog was threatening. The discouragement common to all fine writers was upon her, she was hating what she had written. Last night’s work seemed inadequate and unworthy; she decided to put a blue pencil through it and to rewrite the chapter from start to finish. She began to give way to a species of panic; her new book would be a ludicrous failure, she felt it, she would never again write a novel possessing the quality of The Furrow. The Furrow had been the result of shock to which she had, strangely enough, reacted by a kind of unnatural mental vigour.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  So is it with me; for while I carry about with me the passions which dwell in me, I am everywhere tormented with the same restlessness, so that I really get not much help from this solitude." In the sequel of the letter, and elsewhere, he endeavors, however, to show that seclusion from worldly business, celibacy, solitude, perpetual occupation with the Holy Scriptures, and with the life of godly men, prayer and contemplation, and a corresponding ascetic severity of outward life, are necessary for taming the wild passions, and for attaining the true quietness of the soul. He succeeded in drawing his friend Gregory to himself. Together they prosecuted their prayer, studies, and manual labor; made extracts from the works of Origen, which we possess, under the name of Philocalia, as the joint work of the two friends; and wrote monastic rules which contributed largely to extend and regulate the coenobite life. In the year 364 Basil was made presbyter against his will, and in 370, with the co-operation of Gregory and his father, was elected bishop of Caesarea and metropolitan of all Cappadocia. In this capacity he had fifty country bishops under him, and devoted himself thenceforth to the direction of the church and the fighting of Arianism, which had again come into power through the emperor Valens in the East. He endeavored to secure to the catholic faith the victory, first by close connection with the orthodox West, and then by a certain liberality in accepting as sufficient, in regard to the not yet symbolically settled doctrine of the Holy Ghost, that the Spirit should not be considered a creature. But the strict orthodox party, especially the monks, demanded the express acknowledgment of the divinity of the Holy Ghost, and violently opposed Basil. The Arians pressed him still more. The emperor wished to reduce Cappadocia to the heresy, and threatened the bishop by his prefects with confiscation, banishment, and death. Basil replied: "Nothing more? Not one of these things touches me. His property cannot be forfeited, who has none; banishment I know not, for I am restricted to no place, and am the guest of God,

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Mrs. Breakspeare sent for Stephen one morning; she was sitting at a Louis Quinze writing-table which had somehow survived the wreck of the château and was now in her gloomy, official dug-out. Her right hand reposed on an ordnance map, she looked like a very maternal general. The widow of an officer killed in the war, and the mother of two large sons and three daughters, she had led the narrow, conventional life that is common to women in military stations. Yet all the while she must been filling her subconscious reservoir with knowledge, for she suddenly blossomed forth as leader with a fine understanding of human nature. So now she looked over her ample bosom not unkindly, but rather thoughtfully at Stephen. ‘Sit down, Miss Gordon. It’s about Llewellyn, whom I asked you to take on as second driver. I think the time has now arrived when she ought to stand more on her own in the Unit. She must take her chance like every one else, and not cling quite so close—don’t misunderstand me, I’m most grateful for all you’ve done for the girl—but of course you are one of our finest drivers, and fine driving counts for a great deal these days, it may mean life or death, as you yourself know. And—well—it seems scarcely fair to the others that Mary should always go out with you. No, it certainly is not quite fair to the others.’ Stephen said: ‘Do you mean that she’s to go out with every one in turn—with Thurloe for instance?’ And do what she would to appear indifferent, she could not quite keep her voice from trembling. Mrs. Breakspeare nodded: ‘That’s what I do mean.’ Then she said rather slowly: ‘These are strenuous times, and such times are apt to breed many emotions which are purely fictitious, purely mushroom growths that spring up in a night and have no roots at all, except in our imaginations. But I’m sure you’ll agree with me, Miss Gordon, in thinking it our duty to discourage anything in the nature of an emotional friendship, such as I fancy Mary Llewellyn is on the verge of feeling for you. It’s quite natural of course, a kind of reaction, but not wise—no, I cannot think it wise. It savours a little too much of the schoolroom and might lead to ridicule in the Unit. Your position is far too important for that; I look upon you as my second in command.’ Stephen said quietly: ‘I quite understand. I’ll go at once and speak to Blakeney about altering Mary Llewellyn’s time-sheet.’ ‘Yes, do, if you will,’ agreed Mrs. Breakspeare; then she stooped and studied her ordnance map, without looking again at Stephen.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2On New Year’s Eve Mrs. Antrim gave a dance in order, or so she said, to please Violet, who was still rather young to attend the hunt balls, but who dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violet was plump, pert and adolescent, and had lately insisted on putting her hair up. She liked men, who in consequence always liked her, for like begets like when it comes to the sexes, and Violet was full of what people call: ‘allure,’ or in simpler language, of sexual attraction. Roger was home for Christmas from Sandiest, so that he would be there to assist his mother. He was now nearly twenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which he tentatively fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of the world who has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was hoping to join his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his self-importance. Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon’s existence, she would almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she had always disliked her; what she called Stephen’s ‘queerness’ aroused her suspicion—she was never quite clear as to what she suspected, but felt sure that it must be something outlandish: ‘A young woman of her age to ride like a man, I call it preposterous!’ declared Mrs. Antrim. It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no way outgrown her dread of the Antrims; there was only one member of that family who liked her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-pecked Colonel. He liked her because, a fine horseman himself, he admired her skill and her courage out hunting. ‘It’s a pity she’s so tall, of course—’ he would grumble, ‘but she does know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my children might have been brought up at Margate, they’re just about fitted to ride the beach donkeys!’ But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in his own house he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to endure Mrs. Antrim and Violet—and then Roger was home from Sandiest. Their antagonism had never quite died, perhaps because it was too fundamental. Now they covered it up with a cloak of good manners, but these two were still enemies at heart, and they knew it. No, Stephen did not want to go to that dance, though she went in order to please her mother. Nervous, awkward and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that night, little thinking that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was waiting to catch her just round the corner. Yet so it was, for during that evening Stephen met Martin and Martin met Stephen, and their meeting was great with portent for them both, though neither of them could know it.

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

  They are a small religious group, not an established denomination. 6. The group or at least the core members live together in an intentional community isolated from the rest of society. 7. There is often extreme paranoia in the group; members believe they are in danger and that governments or people outside the group are closely monitoring and heavily persecuting them. People on “the outside” are demonized. 8. Information and contacts from outside the cult are severely curtailed. Other Factors 9. The group leadership assembles an impressive array of guns, rifles, other murder weapons, poison, or weapons of mass destruction. They may prepare defensive structures. 10. They follow a form of Christian theology (or a blend of Christianity with another religion), with major and unique deviations from traditional beliefs in the area of end-time prophecy. Even though this definition narrowly focuses on so-called end-times or doomsday theology as its prerequisite, nevertheless it again conforms to the three categories of characteristics Lifton identifies. That is, the so-called doomsday cults are personality driven, and a charismatic leader dominates all of them. They also exhibit “social encapsulation” factors, which correspond to various aspects of the thought-reform process. And they have all done harm, which in the groups cited was so horrible that it became historically noteworthy. Intentional Communities or Cultic Compounds? We should note that thousands of counterculture communities were created and developed during the 1960s and 1970s.501 Many of these intentional communities, or communes, have endured to the present. Benjamin Zablocki, professor of sociology at Rutgers University, broke down such communities into ten categories.502 Alternative familiesCooperativesCounterculturalEgalitarianPoliticalPsychologicalRehabilitationReligiousSpiritualExperimentalZablocki studied hundreds of intentional communities, everything from an Israeli kibbutz to a Hutterite collective. He found that the dropout rate in many of these communities was approximately 25 percent. People who left often cited as a primary cause questions that arose concerning the group’s internal dynamics; typically their concerns centered on the exercise of power and authority.503 Sociologist Stephen Kent, in his own study of the counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s, found that what was initially an idealistic movement focused on social and political activism in certain instances later contributed to various forms of spirituality or morphed into guru worship. This development could be seen in such groups as the Unification Church, Hare Krishna (ISKCON), and the Children of God.504 At times destructive cults with group compounds have tried to portray such heavily controlled environments as intentional communities or benign communes. A cult compound, however, can be differentiated from a benign community in the following three ways.

• From The Girls (2016)

  from the dreamworld into my waking life. And how jarring it would be to realize that I was not married, that I had not cracked the code to flight, and there would be a real sorrow. The actual moment Russell told Suzanne to go to Mitch Lewis’s house and teach him a lesson—I kept thinking I had witnessed it: the black night, the cool flicking chirps of crickets, and all those spooky oaks. But of course I hadn’t. I’d read about it so much that I believed I could see it clearly, a scene in the exaggerated colors of a childhood memory. I’d been waiting in Suzanne’s room at the time. Irritable, desperate for her return. I’d tried to talk to her at multiple points that night, tugging at her arm, tracking her gaze, but she kept brushing me off. “Later,” she said, and that was all it took for me to imagine her promise fulfilling itself in the darkness of her room. My chest tightened when I heard footsteps enter the room, mind swelling with the thought—Suzanne was here—but then I felt the soft glancing hit and my eyes flew open—it was just Donna. She’d thrown a pillow at me. “Sleeping Beauty,” she said, sniggering. I tried to settle back into pretty repose; the sheet overheated from the nervous shuffle of my body, ears suggestible for any sound of Suzanne’s return. But she didn’t come to the room that night. I waited as long as I could, alert to every creak and jar, before passing into the drowsy patchwork of unwilling sleep. In fact, Suzanne had been with Russell. The air of his trailer probably going stuffy from their fucking, Russell unraveling his plan for Mitch, he and Suzanne staring up at the ceiling. I can imagine how he got right up to the edge before swerving around the details, so maybe Suzanne would start to think she’d had the same idea, that it was hers, too. “My little hellhound,” he had cooed to her, his eyes pinwheeling from a mania that could be mistaken for love. It was strange to think Suzanne would be flattered in this moment, but certainly she was. His hand scratching her scalp, that same agitated pleasure men like to incite in dogs, and I can imagine how the pressure started to build, a desire to move along the larger rush. “It should be big,” Russell had said. “Something they can’t ignore.” I see him twisting a lock of Suzanne’s hair around a finger and pulling, the barest tug so she wouldn’t know if the throb she felt was pain or pleasure.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He wrote: ‘I’m longing to see you again and Valérie Seymour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that you never rang her up. It’s a pity you’re so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I call it, you’ll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a complex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle life—better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only the other day she wrote: “When you see Stephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour.” You might write her a line, and you might write to me—already I’m finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I’m just crazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all, we’re told to rejoice with those who rejoice—may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And by the way, Valérie’s very forgiving, so don’t feel shy about telephoning to her. She’s one of those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snubbing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.’ Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: ‘Isn’t it time you went off to bed?’ ‘Don’t send me away.’ ‘I must, you’re so tired. Come on, there’s a good child, you look tired and sleepy.’ ‘I’m not a bit sleepy!’ ‘All the same it’s high time. . . .’ ‘Are you coming?’ ‘Not yet, I must answer some letters.’ Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephen looked away quickly: ‘Good night, Mary.’ ‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you’ve never kissed me?’ The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over-blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration. Stephen’s heart beat thickly. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ ‘More than anything else in the world,’ said Mary. Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed to smile: ‘Very well, my dear.’ She kissed the girl quietly on her cheek, ‘And now you really must go to bed, Mary.’ After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines to Anna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and to Mademoiselle Duphot—the latter she felt that she had shamefully neglected. But in none of these letters did she mention Mary. Brockett’s effusion she left unanswered. Then she took her unfinished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary and unimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and locking the drawer put the key in her pocket.

• From An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (1995)

  Initially it was a way of avoiding the awfulness of what was going on in front of me; after a while, however, curiosity became a compelling force in its own right. I focused on the questions and stopped seeing the body. As has been true a thousand times since, my curiosity and temperament had taken me to places I was not really able to handle emotionally, but the same curiosity, and the scientific side of my mind, generated enough distance and structure to allow me to manage, deflect, reflect, and move on. When I was fifteen, I went with my fellow candy stripers on a group outing to St. Elizabeths, the federal psychiatric hospital in the District of Columbia. It was, in its own way, a far more horrifying experience than attending the autopsy. All of us were nervous during the bus ride over to the hospital, giggling and making terribly insensitive school-girlish remarks in a vain effort to allay our anxieties about the unknown and what we imagined to be the world of the mad. I think we were afraid of the strangeness, of possible violence, and what it would be like to see someone completely out of control. “You’ll end up in St. Elizabeths” was one of our childhood taunts, and, despite the fact I had no obvious reason to believe that I was anything else but passably sane, irrational fears began to poke away at my mind. I had a terrible temper, after all, and though it rarely erupted, when it did it frightened me and anyone near its epicenter. It was the only crack, but a disturbing one, in the otherwise vacuum-sealed casing of my behavior. God only knew what ran underneath the fierce self-discipline and emotional control that had come with my upbringing. But the cracks were there, I knew it, and they frightened me.

• From An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (1995)

  A week or so later, we met at the hospital restaurant. He was as talkative and funny as ever, so we spent several pleasant minutes catching up on departmental activities, teaching, research grants, and psychiatric politics. With my hands clenched in my lap and my heart in my throat, I told him about the clinical privileges form, my manic-depressive illness, and the treatment I was receiving for it. My closest colleague at Hopkins already knew about my illness, as I had always told those physicians with whom I most closely practiced. At UCLA, for example, I had discussed my illness in detail with the physicians who, with me, had set up the UCLA Affective Disorders Clinic and then, subsequently, with the doctor who had been the medical director of the clinic during virtually all of the years I was its director. My chairman at UCLA also knew that I was being treated for manic-depressive illness. I felt then, as I do now, that there should be safeguards in place in the event that my clinical judgment became impaired due to mania or severe depression. If I did not tell them, not only would the care of patients be jeopardized, but I would be placing my colleagues in an untenable position of professional and legal risk as well. I made it clear to each of the doctors I worked closely with that I was under the care of an excellent psychiatrist, taking medication, and had no alcohol or drug abuse problem. I also asked them to feel free to ask my psychiatrist whatever questions they felt they needed to about my illness and my competence to practice (my psychiatrist, in turn, was asked to communicate both to me, and to whomever else he thought necessary, if he had any concerns about my clinical judgment). My colleagues agreed that if they had any doubts whatsoever about my clinical judgment they would tell me directly, immediately remove me from any patient care responsibilities, and alert my psychiatrist. I think that all of them have, at one time or another, spoken with my psychiatrist in order to obtain information about my illness and treatment; fortunately, none have ever had to contact him because of concerns about my clinical performance. Nor have I ever had to give up my clinical privileges, although I have, on my own, canceled or rescheduled appointments when I felt it would be in the best interests of patients.

• From An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (1995)

  Sitting on one of the hard, uncomfortable chairs that are so characteristic of medical conferences, I was semi-oblivious to the world. My mind was on hold after having been lulled into a mild hypnotic state by the click, click, click of the changing of slides in a carousel. My eyes were open, but my brain was swaying gently in its hammock, tucked away in the far back reaches of my skull. It was dark and stuffy in the room, but beautiful and snowing outside. A group of my colleagues and I were in the Colorado Rockies, and anyone with any sense at all was skiing; yet there were more than a hundred doctors in the room, and the slides were going click, click, click. I caught myself thinking, for the hundredth time, that being crazy doesn’t necessarily mean being stupid, and what on earth was I doing indoors instead of being out on the slopes? Suddenly, my ears perked up. A flat, numbingly objective voice was mumbling something about giving an “update on structural brain abnormalities in bipolar illness.” My structurally abnormal brain came to attention, and a chill shot down my spine. The mumbling continued: “In the bipolar patients we have studied, there is a significantly increased number of small areas of focal signal hyperintensities [areas of increased water concentration] suggestive of abnormal tissue. These are what neurologists sometimes refer to as ‘unidentified bright objects,’ or UBOs.” The audience laughed appreciatively. I, who could ill afford any more loss of brain tissue—God knows what little chunks of gray matter had crossed the River Styx after my nearly lethal lithium overdose—laughed with somewhat less than total enthusiasm. The speaker went on, “The medical significance of these UBOs is unclear, but we know that they are associated with other conditions, such as Alzheimer’s, multiple sclerosis, and multi-infarct dementias.” I was right; I should have gone skiing. Against my better judgment, I pointed my head in the direction of the screen. The slides were riveting, and, as always, I was captivated by the unbelievable detail of the structure of the brain that was revealed by the newest versions of MRI techniques. There is a beauty and an intuitive appeal to the brain-scanning methods, especially the high-resolution MRI pictures and the gorgeous multicolored scans from the PET studies. With PET, for example, a depressed brain will show up in cold, brain-inactive deep blues, dark purples, and hunter greens; the same brain when hypomanic, however, is lit up like a Christmas tree, with vivid patches of bright reds and yellows and oranges. Never has the color and structure of science so completely captured the cold inward deadness of depression or the vibrant, active engagement of mania.

• From An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (1995)

  Obtaining tenure was not only a matter of academic and financial security for me. I had had, within months of starting as an assistant professor, my first episode of psychotic mania. The years leading up to tenure, which extended from 1974 to 1981, consisted of more than just the usual difficulties of competing in the very energetic and aggressive world of academic medicine. They were, more important, marked by struggles to stay sane, stay alive, and to come to terms with my illness. As the years went by I became more and more determined to pull out some good from all of the pain, to try and put my illness to some use. Tenure became a time of both possibility and transformation; it also became a symbol of the stability I craved and the ultimate recognition I sought for having competed and survived in the normal world. After I was assigned to the adult inpatient service for my first teaching and clinical responsibilities, I soon grew restless, to say nothing of finding it increasingly difficult to keep a straight face while interpreting the psychological test results of patients from the ward. Trying to make sense out of Rorschach tests, which seemed a speculative venture on a good day, often made me feel as though I might as well be reading tarot cards or discussing the alignment of the planets. This was not why I had gotten a Ph.D., and I was beginning to understand Bob Dylans lines “Twenty years of schoolin’ and they put you on the day shift.” Only it was twenty-three years, and I was still pulling a lot of night shift as well. My intellectual interests were widely and absurdly scattered during my early years on the faculty. I was, among other things, starting up a research project on hyraxes, elephants, and violence (a lingering remnant of the chancellor’s garden party); writing up findings from the LSD, marijuana, and opiate studies I had done in graduate school; contemplating a study, to be done with my brother, that would examine the economics of dam-building behavior in beavers; conducting pain research and studies of phantom breast syndrome with my colleagues in the anesthesiology department; coauthoring an undergraduate textbook on abnormal psychology; acting as co-investigator on a study of the effects of marijuana on nausea and vomiting in cancer chemotherapy patients; and trying to figure out a legitimate way to do animal behavior studies at the Los Angeles Zoo. It was too much and too diffuse. My personal interests eventually forced me to focus on what I was doing and why. I gradually narrowed down my work to the study and treatment of mood disorders.

• From The Girls (2016)

  Russell but didn’t see him anywhere. “He went to the city for a bit,” Suzanne said. We both turned at the sound of screeching: it was just Donna, trying to do a handstand on the porch, the flail of her kicking feet. She’d knocked over Tom’s beer, though he was the one apologizing, looking around as if he’d find a mop. “Jesus,” Suzanne said. “Relax.” She wiped her sweating hands on her dress, her eyes pinging a little— speed made her stiff as a china cat. The high school girls used it to stay skinny, but I’d never done it: it seemed at odds with the droopy high I associated with the ranch. It made Suzanne harder to reach than usual, a change I didn’t want to acknowledge to myself. I assumed she was just angry. Her gaze never exactly focusing, stopping at the brink. We were talking like we always did, passing a joint that made Tom cough, but I was noticing other things at the same time with a slight drift of unease—the ranch was less populated than before, no strangers milling around with empty plates, asking what time dinner would be ready. Shaking back their hair and invoking the long car ride to L.A. I didn’t see Caroline anywhere, either. “She was weird,” Suzanne said when I asked about Caroline. “Like you could see her insides through her skin. She went home. Some people came and picked her up.” “Her parents?” The thought seemed ludicrous, that anyone at the ranch even had parents. “It’s cool,” Suzanne said. “A van was heading north, I think Mendocino or something. She knew them from somewhere.” I tried to picture Caroline back at her parents’ house, wherever that was. I didn’t push much further than those thoughts, Caroline safe and elsewhere. Tom was clearly uncomfortable. I was sure he was used to college girls with part-time jobs and library cards and split ends. Helen and Donna and Suzanne were raw, a sour note coming off them that struck me, too, returned from two weeks with miraculous plumbing and proximity to Tamar’s obsessive grooming, the special nylon brush she used only on her fingernails. I didn’t want to notice the hesitation in Tom, the shade of a

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen’s. Oh, no, it was the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination! Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer. 4That winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes: ‘Mary, please come—Barbara can’t get up, it’s a pain in her side. Oh, my God—we quarrelled . . .’ Her voice was shrill and she spoke very fast: ‘Listen—last night—there was snow on the ground, it was cold—I was angry . . . I can’t remember . . . but I know I was angry—I get like that. She went out—she stayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she was shivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, whatever? She can’t move; it’s an awful pain in her side . . .’ Stephen said quietly: ‘We’ll come almost at once, but first I’m going to ring up my own doctor.’ 5Barbara was lying in the tiny room with the eye-shaped window that would not open. The stove had gone out in the studio, and the air was heavy with cold and dampness. On the piano lay some remnants of manuscript music torn up on the previous evening by Jamie. Barbara opened her eyes: ‘Is that you, my bairn?’ They had never heard Barbara call her that before—the great, lumbering, big-boned, long-legged Jamie. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ ‘Come here close . . .’ The voice drifted away. ‘I’m here—oh, I’m here! I’ve got hold of your hand. Look at me, open your eyes again—Barbara, listen, I’m here—don’t you feel me?’ Stephen tried to restrain the shrill, agonized voice: ‘Don’t speak so loud, Jamie, perhaps she’s sleeping;’ but she knew very well that this was not so; the girl was not sleeping now, but unconscious.

• From Comrade Loves of the Samurai (1972)

  'Since I saw you my heart has not ceased to beat violently. When I am alone, flaming tears run down my cheeks. I am in actual agony; and my words in this letter are all confused. Your face and your whole person are so refined and elegant. I have heard it said that you arc the most splendid flower of the Western Provinces; but to me you seem the most precious jewel in the universe. For indeed your beauty exceeds all the flowers of the world. For me, you are as princely a beauty as the Empress Seishi, or the celebrated poetess Komachi, or the young Yukihira* or the new-born Nari-hira. I cannot forget you even in my sleep; and when I awake I am excruciated. I have prayed the god Fuyisaki to have pity on my unhappy love. I wish to drown myself in the river Kikutji, to put an end to my pain. I am ready to sacrifice my life for one evening's love with you. One evening of love with you is more precious than a thousand years of life. I shall gladly do all that you command me. I would rather have half an hour's life than drag out mere miserable existence for a hundred years. From morning to evening, by day and by night, your face does not leave me, and I endure a thousand deaths for love of you. I am wretched. I am cursed by a cruel Karma.' But, my dear friend, I am blessed rather than cursed. He has read my letter and sent me such a kind answer. Oh, how tender and sympathetic he is! I am happy and contented; I am the happiest man under the sun. I cannot speak enough of his kindness, for he is truly good. That is all that I can say now. Presently, as soon as he finds an opportunity, he is coming to spend a whole evening with me. All that troubles me is that the day is not yet fixed. I know that this waiting for the day is an agony which all lovers have to endure; and I comfort myself by telling myself so. I wish I could show you this noble young man. His name is Aineme Okayima. When he comes to see me, we shall drink wine together and have a pleasant conversation by ourselves. I should like the night to last for ever, and that the dawn should never come to put an end to our meeting. This is all that I can tell you at present: there is nothing further. I hope to be calmer and more balanced after seeing him. Till then, farewell, dear comrade, From your far-distant friend. [image file=image_rsrc1KS.jpg] 11 At Last Rewarded for his ConstancyWHEN HIDEYOSHI RULED JAPAN AFTER THE Ashikaya dynasty had died out, he lived at Fushimi; and all the Lords and Princes of all the Provinces of Japan were obliged to live near him.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  CHAPTER 44 1 V alérie’s rooms were already crowded when Stephen and Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near the door—they had not been announced; one never was for some reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour’s. People looked at Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face, had immediately riveted their attention. ‘Quel type!’ murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neighbour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. ‘It’s a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth—is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth?’ Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers. His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair-haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming peculiar, mon ami—and yet you are still sufficiently virile. . . .’ He laughed. ‘Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing to give you a rival.’ Then he started to tease. ‘But what about you? I dislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even although they are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating, those mossy horns, and exceedingly painful when they start to grow—like wisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too have my recollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, as the English say—such a practical people!’ ‘You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,’ snapped the lady. And now Valérie was making her way to the door. ‘Miss Gordon! I’m most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn. Have you had any tea? No, of course not, I’m an abominable hostess! Come along to the table—where’s that useless Brockett? Oh, here he is. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn and Miss Gordon some tea.’ Brockett sighed. ‘You go first then, Stephen darling, you’re so much more efficient than I am.’ And he laid a soft, white hand on her shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When they reached the buffet, he calmly stood still. ‘Do get me an ice—vanilla?’ he murmured. Every one seemed to know every one else, the atmosphere was familiar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate friends, and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and equally charming and kind to Mary. Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactful allusions to Stephen’s talent: ‘This is Stephen Gordon-you know, the author; and Miss Llewellyn.’ Her manner was natural, and yet Stephen could not get rid of the feeling that every one knew about her and Mary, or that if they did not actually know, they guessed, and were eager to show themselves friendly. She thought:’ Well, why not?

• From The Letter to the Hebrews (The New Daily Study Bible) (2002)

  (2) But, to obtain the blessings of God, two things are necessary. (a) Trust is necessary. We must believe that what God says is true. We must be willing to stake our lives on his promises. (b) Obedience is necessary. It is just as if a doctor were to say to us: ‘I can cure you if you obey my instructions implicitly.’ It is just as if a teacher were to say: ‘I can make you a scholar if you follow my curriculum exactly.’ It is just as if a trainer were to say to an athlete: ‘I can make you a champion if you do not deviate from the discipline that I lay down.’ In any area of life, success depends on obedience to the word of the expert. God, if we may put it so, is the expert in life, and real happiness depends on obedience to him. (3) To the offer of God, there is a limit. That limit is the duration of life. We never know when that limit will be reached. We speak easily about ‘tomorrow’; but, for us, tomorrow may never come. All we have is today. It has been said: ‘We should live each day as if it were a lifetime.’ God’s offer must be accepted today; the trust and the obedience must be given today – for we cannot be sure that there will be a tomorrow for us. Here we have the supreme offer of God; but it is only for perfect trust and full obedience, and it must be accepted now – or it may be too late. THE REST WE DARE NOT MISSHebrews 4:1–10