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.

Page 447 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  What we benevolent ones - and, I believe, he himself - call his rough exterior has not made him very fond of... In short, mother, I suspect Arges. It would be bad for Erika if there was an accident, but it was Tony who hurt me the most. You see, she's right when she says that Hagenstrom took matters into his own hands with satisfaction. It concerns us all, and an ignominious outcome would affect us all, because Weinschenk belongs to the family and sits at our table. As for me, I'll get over it. I know how to behave. I have to be completely unfamiliar with the matter in public, I'm not allowed to attend the negotiations - although Breslauer would interest me - and I'm not allowed to worry about anything at all, if only to protect myself from accusations of any thirst for influence. But Tony? I can't imagine how sad a conviction would be for her. You have to hear her fear ring out in her loud protests against slander and envious intrigues … the fear that, after all the misery she endures, she will also lose this last, honorable position, the worthy household of her daughter. Oh, watch out, she'll keep protesting Weinschenk's innocence, the more she will be urged to doubt it... But he can also be innocent, of course, quite innocent... We must wait and see, mother, and treat him and Tony and Erika tactfully. But I don't foresee anything good..." * Under such circumstances, Christmas came this time, and little Johann, with the help of the tear-off calendar that Ida had made for him and on the last page of the calendar, followed a Christmas tree was marked, with a pounding heart, the approach of the incomparable time. The omens were multiplying... A life-size, colorful picture of Knecht Ruprecht had been hanging on the wall in Grandma's dining room since the first Advent. One morning Hanno found his bedspread, bed sheet and clothes strewn with crackling tinsel. Then, a few days later, in the afternoon in the living room, while Papa was lying on the chaise longue with the newspaper and Hanno was reading the poem about the witch at Endor in Gerok's »Palm Leaves«, an »old man« became, as every year and yet this time, quite surprisingly. reported, who "asked after the little one." He was invited in, that old man, and came shuffling in his steps, in a long fur coat, rough sides turned out, and trimmed with spangles of gold and snowflakes, matching cap, black features on his face, and an enormous white beard, which, like the preternaturally thick eyebrows, was interspersed with glittering tinsel. As every year, he declared in a brazen voice thatthis sack - on his left shoulder - for good children who could pray, contained apples and golden nuts, but that on the other hand this rod - on his right shoulder - was intended for the bad children... It was Knecht Ruprecht.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  And then my dear blessed Jean..." Indeed, the solemn program which the late Consul had set for the solemnity must be maintained, and the sense of their responsibility for the dignified course of the evening, which must be filled with the mood of deep, solemn, and fervent merriment, must be maintained restlessly back and forth - from the columned hall, where the Marien choirboys were already gathering, to the dining room, where Riekchen Severin put the finishing touches on the tree and the gift board the corridor, where a few strange old people stood around shyly and embarrassed, house poor who were also supposed to take part in the gift giving, and back into the landscape room, where she punished every superfluous word and noise with a mute sideways glance. It was so quiet that one could hear the sounds of a distant barrel organ, soft and clear as that of a music box, finding its way here from some snow-covered street. For although there were now twenty people sitting and standing in the room, the peace was greater than in a church and the atmosphere, as the senator whispered very carefully to his uncle Justus, reminded one a little of that of a funeral. Incidentally, there was hardly any danger; this mood might be torn apart by a sound of youthful high spirits. A glance would have sufficed to notice that almost all the members of the family gathered here were of an age when the expressions of life had long since taken on established forms. Senator Thomas Buddenbrook, whose pallor belied the alert, energetic, and even humorous expression on his face; Gerda, his wife, who, leaning back motionless in an armchair and turning her beautiful white face upwards, allowed her close-set, bluish-shadowed, strangely shimmering eyes to be fascinated by the flickering glass prisms of the chandelier; his sister, Mrs. Permaneder; Jürgen Kröger, his cousin, the quiet, plainly dressed official; his cousins Friederike, Henriette and Pfiffi, the first two of whom had become even thinner and taller, and the latter appeared even smaller and corpulent than before, but who shared a stereotypical facial expression throughout, a pointed and malevolent smile directed at all persons and things with a general mediant skepticism , as if they kept saying, "Really? We would like to doubt that for the time being«...; finally poor, ash-grey Klothilde, whose thoughts were probably directed straight towards supper: – they were all over forty, while the lady of the house, her brother Justus and his wife, like little Therese Weichbrodt, were already well over sixty, and but all of whom shared a stereotyped facial expression, a pointed and malevolent smile directed at all persons and things with a general mediant skepticism, as if they were constantly saying, "Really?

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  We would like to doubt that for the time being«...; finally poor, ash-grey Klothilde, whose thoughts were probably directed directly to supper: - they were all over forty, while the lady of the house with her brother Justus and his wife was already well over sixty, like little Therese Weichbrodt, and but all of whom shared a stereotyped facial expression, a pointed and malevolent smile directed at all persons and things with a general mediant skepticism, as if they were constantly saying, "Really? We would like to doubt that for the time being«...; finally poor, ash-grey Klothilde, whose thoughts were probably directed directly to supper: - they were all over forty, while the lady of the house with her brother Justus and his wife was already well over sixty, like little Therese Weichbrodt, and "For real? We would like to doubt that for the time being«...; finally poor, ash-grey Klothilde, whose thoughts were probably directed directly to supper: - they were all over forty, while the lady of the house with her brother Justus and his wife was already well over sixty, like little Therese Weichbrodt, and "For real? We would like to doubt that for the time being«...; finally poor, ash-grey Klothilde, whose thoughts were probably directed straight towards supper: – they were all over forty, while the lady of the house, her brother Justus and his wife, like little Therese Weichbrodt, were already well over sixty, and the old Consul Buddenbrook, née Stuwing, and the completely deaf Madame Kethelsen, were already in their seventies. Only Erika Weinschenk was in the prime of her youth; but when her light blue eyes – Herr Grünlich’s eyes – slid over to her husband, the director, whose shaven head, gray at the temples, with the narrow mustache that grew into the corners of his mouth, stood out against the idyllic wallpaper landscape next to the sofa, she could one notices that her full bosom heaved in silent but heavy breathing ... Anxious and confused thoughts of customs, bookkeeping, witnesses, public prosecutor, defense attorney and judge might oppress her, yes, there was probably no one in the room who did not have these unChristmas thoughts in his senses would have been located. The accused condition of Mrs. Permaneder's son-in-law, the awareness of the entire family of the presence of a member, of a crime against the law, stripped of civil order and business integrity, and perhaps doomed to disgrace and imprisonment, gave the assembly an utterly alien and monstrous character. A Buddenbrook family Christmas Eve with a suspect in their midst! Frau Permaneder leaned back in her armchair with a more stern majesty, the smiles of the Buddenbrook ladies from Breite Strasse became even more pointed... And the children? The somewhat sparse offspring? Was he, too, receptive to the faint horror of this so completely new and unknown circumstance? As for little Elisabeth, it was impossible to judge her state of mind.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  He read of the struggles Zeus had to endure in order to gain power, and now and then listened for a moment across to the living room, where Aunt Klothilde's future was being discussed at length. Klothilde was by far the happiest of all that evening, and accepted the congratulations and teasing bestowed upon her from all sides with a smile that transfigured her ashen face; her voice broke with joyful emotion as she spoke. – She had been accepted into the »Johanniskloster«. The senator had surreptitiously obtained her admission to the board of directors, although certain gentlemen had secretly grumbled about nepotism. People talked about this thankful institution, which corresponded to the aristocratic convents in Mecklenburg, Dobberthien and Ribnitz and aimed at the dignified old-age provision of destitute girls from well-earned and long-established families. The poor Klothilde was now helped to a small but secure pension, which is with the years would increase, and for her age, when she had risen to the highest class, even to a peaceful and clean dwelling in the monastery itself... Little Johann lingered a little with the grown-ups, but he soon returned to the hall, which, now that it shone less brightly and no longer aroused the astonished awe of its splendor as at first, exercised a new kind of charm. It was a very strange pleasure to roam around in it after the end of the performance, as if on a half-dark stage, and to look a little behind the scenes: to look closely at the lilies of the large fir tree with their golden stamens, the animal and human figures of the crib construction in taking the hand to locate the candle that had lit the transparent star over Bethlehem's stable, and lifting the long hanging tablecloth to see the mass of boxes and wrapping paper piled under the table. The conversation in the landscape room also became less and less attractive. With inescapable necessity, the subject of conversation had gradually become the one uncanny matter about which no one had hitherto been kept silent in honor of the festive evening, but which had occupied everyone's minds for almost no moment: Director Weinschenk's trial. Hugo Weinschenk himself lectured about it, with a certain wild cheerfulness in his face and movements. He reported on the details of the hearing of witnesses, which was now interrupted by the party, vigorously criticized the all too noticeable bias of the President, Doctor Philander, and with sovereign mockery criticized the scornful tone that the prosecutor, Doctor Hagenstrom, considered appropriate to use against him and the defense witnesses. Incidentally, Breslauer had very wittily refuted various incriminating statements and assured him in the most definite manner that a conviction was out of the question for the time being. Now and then the senator would throw in a question out of politeness, and Frau Permaneder, sitting on the sofa with her shoulders hunched, sometimes murmured a terrible curse Moritz Hagenstrom. But the rest were silent.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  They were so silent that the director gradually fell silent too; and while over there in the hall time passed quickly for little Hanno, as if in heaven, there was a heavy, uneasy, anxious stillness in the landscape room, which still prevailed when, at half past eight, Christian returned from the club, from the Christmas party for the bachelors and suitiers. A cold cigar butt stuck between his lips and his gaunt cheeks were flushed. He came through the hall and said as he entered the landscape room: "Children, the hall is wonderful! Weinschenk, we should have brought Breslauer with us today; I'm sure he's never seen anything like it." A quiet, punishing sidelong glance met him from the Consul's eyes. He answered it with an impartial and uncomprehending questioning face. - At nine o'clock we went to table. As every year on this evening, the table was set in the columned hall. The consul spoke the traditional grace with a heartfelt expression: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest And bless what you have given us.« whereupon, as is also customary on this evening, she ended with a small admonishing speech, which mainly called for commemoration of all those who did not have it as good on this Christmas Eve as the Buddenbrook family ... And when this was done, one sat settle down with a clear conscience to a sustainable meal, which soon began with carp in melted butter and old Rhine wine. The senator slipped a few scales of the fish into his purse so that the money would not run out throughout the year; Christian, however, remarked gloomily that that was of no use, and Consul Kröger dispensed with such precautionary measures, since he no longer had to fear any fluctuations in the exchange rate and had long since been in port with his one and a half shillings. The old gentleman sat as far away as possible from his wife, with whom he had hardly spoken a word for years because she would not stop. to secretly give money to the disinherited Jakob, who in London, Paris or America - only she knew for sure - led his uprooted life of adventure. He scowled as, at the second course, the conversation turned to the absent family members and as he watched the frail mother wipe her eyes. The ones in Frankfurt and Hamburg were mentioned, Pastor Tiburtius in Riga was thought of without ill will, and the senator quietly toasted the health of Messrs. Grünlich and Permaneder with his sister Tony, who in a certain sense also belonged to it ... The turkey stuffed with a porridge of chestnuts, raisins and apples received universal praise. Comparisons were made with those of previous years, and it was found that this was the largest for a long time.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  "Thank you, I'm not eating," she said, and pushed everything away by shrugging her shoulders, laying her head back, and retreating lonely to the height of her indignation, to have nothing but beer, cold Bavarian beer, which she had been accustomed to drinking since the time of her marriage in Munich, into her empty stomach, whose nerves were in turmoil and which took bitter revenge. Because towards the end of the meal she had to get up, go down into the garden or the yard and there, leaning on Ida Jungmann orsmellySeverin, endure the most terrible nausea. Her stomach emptied of its contents, and then continued to contract painfully, to remain in that convulsive state for minutes; unable to give anything more, she choked and suffered for so long... It was about 3 PM, a windy, rainy January day. When Frau Permaneder got to the corner of the Fischergrube, she turned and hurried down the sloping street and into her brother's house. After a hasty knock, she entered the office from the hallway, let her eyes fly over the desks to the senator's window seat, and nodded her head so pleadingly that Thomas Buddenbrook immediately put down his pen and went to meet her. "Well?" he asked, raising an eyebrow... "One moment, Thomas...something urgent...it can't wait..." He opened the padded door to his private office for her, pulled it shut behind him as they both entered, and gave his sister a questioning look. "Tom," she said in a trembling voice, wringing her hands in her fur muff, "you have to hand it over... lay it out for the time being... you have to put it down, please, the bail... We don't have it... Where should we get twenty-five thousand Kurantmarks from now? ... You will get it back completely ... oh, probably only too soon ... you understand ... it happened that ... in short, the trial is at the point that Hagenstrom has requested immediate arrest or bail of twenty-five thousand Kurantmarks. And Weinschenk gives you his word of honor to stay where you are..." "Has it really come to this," said the senator, shaking his head. "Yes, that's where they got it, the scoundrels, the miserable ones...!" And with a sob of impotent anger, Frau Permaneder sank into the oilcloth-covered armchair that stood next to her. "And they're going to take it further, Tom, they're going to take it to the end..." "Tony," he said, sitting at an angle in front of the mahogany desk, crossing his legs and resting his head on his hand... "Speak honestly, do you still believe in his innocence?" She sobbed a few times, then answered, softly and desperately, 'Oh, no, Tom... how could I? Just me, who had to experience so much evil? I couldn't do it right from the start, although I tried so honestly. Life, you know, makes it so terribly difficult to believe in anyone's innocence...

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  Oh no, doubts about his good conscience have bothered me for a long time, and Erika herself... she's gone mad about him... she has confessed to me with tears … mad at him by his behavior at home. Of course we didn't say anything... His outside was getting rougher and rougher... and all the while he was demanding that Erika be cheerful and allay his worries and smashed dishes when she was serious. You don't know how it was when he locked himself up with his files late at night for hours... and if you knocked, you could hear him jump up and call out, 'Who's there! What is there!< …" they were silent. 'But may he be guilty! Ms. Permaneder began again, her voice rising. 'He didn't work for his pocket, but for society's; and then … Lord my God, there are considerations to be observed in this life, Tom! After all, he married into our family... he belongs to us after all... You can't put one of us in jail, good heavens!..." He shrugged. 'You shrug, Tom... So you're willing to put up with it, put up with that bastard daring to put the crown on it? You have to do something! He mustn't be convicted!... You're the mayor's right hand... my God, can't the Senate pardon him immediately?... I want to tell you... just before I came to you, I was about to go to Cremer go and beg him in every way to intervene, intervene… He’s the chief of police…” "Oh, child, what follies." 'Foolishness, Tom? - And Erika? And the child?' she said, holding out the muff she was holding in both her hands, imploringly. Then she was silent for a moment and dropped her arms; her mouth widened, her chin, which puckered up, began to tremble, and while two large tears spilled from under her lowered lids, she added very softly: "And I . . . ?" "Oh, Tony, Courage!" said the senator, and touched and moved by her helplessness, he moved close to brush back her hair for comfort. 'It's not all over yet. He's not sentenced yet. Everything can go well. Now I'll put the bail first, of course I won't say no to it. And then Breslauer is a clever person..." She shook her head, crying. 'No, Tom, it won't go well, I don't believe in it. They're going to judge him and pocket him, and then one comes difficult time for Erika and the child and me. Her dowry is no longer there, it's in the fittings, the furniture and the pictures... and when you sell it you hardly get a quarter of it... And we always used up the salary... Weinschenk didn't save anything. We'll move back in with mother, if she lets us, until he's free...and then it almost gets worse, because then where does he and us go?... We can just sit on the stones,' she said, sobbing. "On the stones?" 'Well, that's a figure of speech...

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  for a moment," he said and led her up the stairs, across the corridor and through the portico into the landscape room, which was already heated because of the damp and cold autumn weather. “You will understand my excitement… have a seat! Calm me down, if it is at all possible!' "A thousand thousand, my dear Senator!" answered Doctor Grabow, who had leaned back comfortably, his chin in his cravat and was holding the brim of his hat against his stomach with both hands, while Doctor Long-necked, a squat, brunette gentleman with a pointed beard, stood upright standing hair, beautiful eyes and a vain facial expression, had put his top hat on the carpet next to him and looked at his extraordinarily small, black-haired hands... I beg of you... a patient of the relative resilience of our dear lady consul... My faithfulness, as a serving counselor I know this resilience. Really amazing for her years... I'll tell you..." "Yes, just now, in her years..." said the senator anxiously, twirling the long tip of his mustache. "Of course I'm not saying that your dear mother will be able to go for a walk again tomorrow," Doctor Grabow went on gently away. “The patient will not have made that impression on you, dear Senator. There's no denying that the catarrh has taken an annoying turn in the last twenty-four hours. I didn't really like the chills last night and today there is indeed a bit of stitch and shortness of breath. There is also some fever - oh, insignificant, but it is fever. In short, dear Senator, one has to accept the accepted fact that the lungs are a little affected . . .' "Pneumonia, then?" asked the senator, looking from one doctor to the other... 'Yes - pneumonia ,' said Doctor Longneck, bowing gravely and correctly. "Indeed, a small pneumonia on the right side," replied the family doctor, "which we must try to localize very carefully..." "Then there is at least cause for serious concern?" The senator sat very still, staring straight at the speaker. "Concern? O...we must, as I said, be concerned about curtailing the disease, relieving the cough, tackling the fever... well, the quinine will do its duty... And one more thing, dear Senator... Don't be alarmed by the individual symptoms opposite, right? Should the shortness of breath get a little worse, maybe there should be some delirium during the night, or a bit of phlegm tomorrow... you know, reddish-brown sputum, even though there is blood on it... It's all quite logical, quite relevant, quite normal. Please also prepare our dear, esteemed Madame Permaneder, who manages the nursing care with so much devotion... By the way , How is she doing? I completely forgot to ask how her stomach has been the past few days…” "As usual. I don't know anything new. Concerns about her well-being naturally take a back seat now..." "Understood. By the way...a thought occurs to me.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  Your sister needs rest, especially at night, and Mamsell Severin alone shouldn't be enough... how about a nurse, dear senator? We have our good Catholic Gray Sisters who you always stand up for so kindly...The Sister Superior will be happy to serve you.” "So you think it's necessary?" “I propose it. It's so pleasant... The sisters are invaluable. With your experience and level-headedness, you have such a calming effect on the sick ... especially with these diseases, which, as I said, are associated with a series of somewhat sinister symptoms ... So, to repeat it: calm blood, won't you, my dear Senator? By the way, we'll see... we'll see... We'll be calling again this evening..." "Confident," said Doctor Longneck, picking up his top hat and rising with his older colleague. But the senator remained seated, he wasn't finished yet, still had a question in mind, wanted to do one more rehearsal... "Gentlemen," he said, "one more word... My brother Christian is nervous, short, doesn't take much... Would you advise me to tell him about the illness? Perhaps . . . suggest his return—?” "Your brother Christian isn't in town?" »No, in Hamburg. In the interim. In stores, as far as I know..." Doctor Grabow glanced at his colleague; then, laughing, he shook the senator's hand and said: 'Let him go about his business! Why frighten him needlessly? Should there be any turn in the state of mind that makes its presence desirable, say: to calm the patient, to lift her spirits... well, there will still be time... still time..." While the gentlemen walked back through the portico and corridor and stood for a while on the landing, they talked about other things, about politics, about the upheavals and upheavals of the war that had just ended... 'Well, good times are coming, aren't they, Senator? Money in the country... And a fresh mood far and wide..." And the senator half agreed. He confirmed that the outbreak of war had given a great boost to the trade in grain from Russia and mentioned the large dimensions which the import of oats for the purpose of supplying the army had assumed at that time. But the profit was distributed very unevenly... The doctors left, and Senator Buddenbrook turned to return to the sickroom once more. He thought about what Grabow had said... There had been so much underhandedness in it... One could sense that he was wary of making a decisive statement. The only clear word had been "pneumonia," and that word was no more comforting to have Dr. Longneck translate it into the language of science. Pneumonia in the Consul years... Just that there were two doctors coming and going gave it a worrying aspect. Grabow had arranged it very lightly and almost imperceptibly.

• From Buddenbrooks: The Decline of a Family (1901)

  He was thinking of retiring sooner or later, he had said, and since the young Longneck was called to take over his practice, he - Grabow - made it a pleasure to When the senator entered the dim bedroom, his expression was bright and his demeanor energetic. He was so accustomed to concealing worry and weariness under an expression of superior assurance that when he opened the door, that mask slipped over his face almost of its own accord, by a very brief act of will. Frau Permaneder sat by the four-poster bed, the curtains of which were drawn back, and held the hand of her mother, who, propped up by pillows, turned her head towards the person entering and looked searchingly into his face with her light blue eyes. It was a look of controlled calm and of a tense, inescapable urgency that, being a little off to one side, had something almost lurking about it. Aside from the pallor of the skin, the a few spots of feverish blush poked out on her cheeks, this face showed absolutely no weariness or weakness. The old lady was very attentive to the matter, even more so than those around her, because in the end she was the first person involved. She distrusted this disease and was not at all willing to lie back and let things take their course... "What did you say, Thomas?" she asked in a voice so firm and lively that a violent cough set in, which she tried to hold back with closed lips, but which broke out and forced her to press her hand to her right side. "You said," the senator replied when the fit was over, stroking her hand... "You said our good mother would be on her feet in a few days. You know you can't do it yet, that's because that stupid cough has of course affected the lungs a bit... it's not exactly pneumonia,' he said, seeing her eyes grow even more intense... 'although yes even if it weren't the end of all things, alas, there are worse things! In short, the lungs are a bit irritated, they both say, and they may be right about that... Where is Severin then?” "To the pharmacy," said Frau Permaneder. 'See, it's back at the pharmacy again and you, Tony, look like you're about to fall asleep. No, that's no longer possible. If it's just for a few days... we must have a nurse here, don't you agree? Wait, I'll ask my Gray Sister Matron if one is available right now..." 'Thomas,' the Consul said, her voice now careful not to unleash the urge to cough again, 'believe me, you are causing offense with your constant protection of Catholics over Black Protestants. You have provided some direct benefits and do nothing for the others. I assure you, Pastor Pringsheim complained to me about it in no uncertain terms the other day..." 'Yes, that's no use to him.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  There is the noise of feet shuffling and seats slamming, the steady, frittering noise of people moving about aimlessly, of people fluttering their programs and pretending to read and then dropping their programs and scuffling under their seats, thankful for even the slightest accident which will prevent them from asking themselves what they were thinking about because if they knew they were thinking about nothing they would go mad. In the harsh glare of the lights they look at each other vacuously and there is a strange tenseness with which they stare at one another. And the moment the conductor raps again they fall back into a cataleptic state—they scratch themselves unconsciously or they remember suddenly a show window in which there was displayed a scarf or a hat; they remember every detail of that window with amazing clarity, but where it was exactly, that they can’t recall; and that bothers them, keeps them wide awake, restless, and they listen now with redoubled attention because they are wide awake and no matter how wonderful the music is they will not lose consciousness of that show window and that scarf that was hanging there, or the hat. And this fierce attentiveness communicates itself; even the orchestra seems galvanized into an extraordinary alertness. The second number goes off like a top—so fast indeed that when suddenly the music ceases and the lights go up some are stuck in their seats like carrots, their jaws working convulsively, and if you suddenly shouted in their ear Brahms, Beethoven, Mendeleev, Herzegovina , they would answer without thinking—4, 967, 289. By the time we get to the Debussy number the atmosphere is completely poisoned. I find myself wondering what it feels like, during intercourse, to be a woman—whether the pleasure is keener, etc. Try to imagine something penetrating my groin, but have only a vague sensation of pain. I try to focus, but the music is too slippery. I can think of nothing but a vase slowly turning and the figures dropping off into space. Finally there is only light turning, and how does light turn, I ask myself. The man next to me is sleeping soundly. He looks like a broker, with his big paunch and his waxed mustache. I like him thus. I like especially that big paunch and all that went into the making of it. Why shouldn’t he sleep soundly? If he wants to listen he can always rustle up the price of a ticket. I notice that the better dressed they are the more soundly they sleep. They have an easy conscience, the rich. If a poor man dozes off, even for a few seconds, he feels mortified; he imagines that he has committed a crime against the composer. In the Spanish number the house was electrified. Everybody sat on the edge of his seat—the drums woke them up. I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  Find me a room in a quiet street, somewhere near here. I’ve got to stay around here… I’ve got credit here. Listen, promise me you’ll do that for me. I’ll buy you a meal now and then. Come around anyway, because I go nuts talking to these foolish cunts. I want to talk to you about Havelock Ellis. Jesus, I’ve had the book out for three weeks now and I haven’t looked at it. You sort of rot here. Would you believe it, I’ve never been to the Louvre—nor the Comédie-Française. Is it worth going to those joints? Still, it sort of takes your mind off things, I suppose. What do you do with yourself all day? Don’t you get bored? What do you do for a lay? Listen… come here! Don’t run away yet… I’m lonely. Do you know something—if this keeps up another year I’ll go nuts. I’ve got to get out of this fucking country. There’s nothing for me here. I know it’s lousy now, in America, but just the same. … You go queer over here… all these cheap shits sitting on their ass all day bragging about their work and none of them is worth a stinking damn. They’re all failures—that’s why they come over here. Listen, Joe, don’t you ever get homesick? You’re a funny guy… you seem to like it over here. What do you see in it?… I wish you’d tell me. I wish to Christ I could stop thinking about myself. I’m all twisted up inside… it’s like a knot in there. … Listen, I know I’m boring the shit out of you, but I’ve got to talk to someone. I can’t talk to those guys upstairs… you know what those bastards are like… they all take a byline. And Carl, the little prick, he’s so goddamned selfish. I’m an egotist, but I’m not selfish. There’s a difference. I’m a neurotic, I guess. I can’t stop thinking about myself. It isn’t that I think myself so important. … I simply can’t think about anything else, that’s all. If I could fall in love with a woman that might help some. But I can’t find a woman who interests me. I’m in a mess, you can see that can’t you? What do you advise me to do? What would you do in my place? Listen, I don’t want to hold you back any longer, but wake me up tomorrow—at one-thirty—will you? I’ll give you something extra if you’ll shine my shoes. And listen, if you’ve got an extra shirt, a clean one, bring it along, will you? Shit, I’m grinding my balls off on that job, and it doesn’t even give me a clean shirt. They’ve got us over here like a bunch of niggers. Ah, well, shit! I’m going to take a walk… wash the dirt out of my belly. Don’t forget, tomorrow!” For six months or more it’s been going on, this correspondence with the rich cunt, Irene.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  Recently I’ve been reporting to Carl every day in order to bring the affair to a head, because as far as Irene is concerned this thing could go on indefinitely. In the last few days there’s been a perfect avalanche of letters exchanged; the last letter we dispatched was almost forty pages long, and written in three languages. It was a potpourri, the last letter—tag ends of old novels, slices from the Sunday supplement, reconstructed versions of old letters to Llona and Tania, garbled transliterations of Rabelais and Petronius—in short, we exhausted ourselves. Finally Irene decides to come out of her shell. Finally a letter arrives giving a rendezvous at her hotel. Carl is pissing in his pants. It’s one thing to write letters to a woman you don’t know; it’s another thing entirely to call on her and make love to her. At the last moment he’s quaking so that I almost fear I’ll have to substitute for him. When we get out of the taxi in front of her hotel he’s trembling so much that I have to walk him around the block first. He’s already had two Pernods, but they haven’t made the slightest impression on him. The sight of the hotel itself is enough to crush him: it’s a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which Englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look. In order to make sure that he wouldn’t run away I stood by while the porter telephoned to announce him. Irene was there, and she was waiting for him. As he got into the lift he threw me a last despairing glance, one of those mute appeals which a dog makes when you put a noose around its neck. Going through the revolving door I thought of Van Norden. … I go back to the hotel and wait for a telephone call. He’s only got an hour’s time and he’s promised to let me know the results before going to work. I look over the carbons of the letters we sent her. I try to imagine the situation as it actually is, but it’s beyond me. Her letters are much better than ours—they’re sincere, that’s plain. By now they’ve sized each other up. I wonder if he’s still pissing in his pants. The telephone rings. His voice sounds queer, squeaky, as though he were frightened and jubilant at the same time. He asks me to substitute for him at the office. “Tell the bastard anything! Tell him I’m dying. …” “Listen, Carl… can you tell me…?” “Hello! Are you Henry Miller?” It’s a woman’s voice. It’s Irene. She’s saying hello to me. Her voice sounds beautiful over the phone… beautiful. For a moment I’m in a perfect panic. I don’t know what to say to her.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  I’d like to say: “Listen, Irene, I think you are beautiful… I think you’re wonderful.” I’d like to say one true thing to her, no matter how silly it would sound, because now that I hear her voice everything is changed. But before I can gather my wits Carl is on the phone again and he’s saying in that queer squeaky voice: “She likes you, Joe. I told her all about you. …” At the office I have to hold copy for Van Norden. When it comes time for the break he pulls me aside. He looks glum and ravaged. “So he’s dying, is he, the little prick? Listen, what’s the lowdown on this?” “I think he went to see his rich cunt,” I answer calmly. “What! You mean he called on her?” He seems beside himself. “Listen, where does she live? What’s her name?” I pretend ignorance. “Listen,” he says, “you’re a decent guy. Why the hell don’t you let me in on this racket?” In order to appease him I promise finally that I’ll tell him everything as soon as I get the details from Carl. I can hardly wait myself until I see Carl. Around noon next day I knock at his door. He’s up already and lathering his beard. Can’t tell a thing from the expression on his face. Can’t even tell whether he’s going to tell me the truth. The sun is streaming in through the open window, the birds are chirping, and yet somehow, why it is I don’t know, the room seems more barren and poverty-stricken than ever. The floor is slathered with lather, and on the rack there are the two dirty towels which are never changed. And somehow Carl isn’t changed either, and that puzzles me more than anything. This morning the whole world ought to be changed, for bad or good, but changed, radically changed. And yet Carl is standing there lathering his face and not a single detail is altered. “Sit down… sit down there on the bed,” he says. “You’re going to hear everything… but wait first… wait a little.” He commences to lather his face again, and then to hone his razor. He even remarks about the water… no hot water again. “Listen, Carl, I’m on tenterhooks. You can torture me afterward, if you like, but tell me now, tell me one thing… was it good or bad?” He turns away from the mirror with brush in hand and gives me a strange smile. “Wait! I’m going to tell you everything. …” “That means it was a failure.” “No,” he says, drawing out his words. “It wasn’t a failure, and it wasn’t a success either. … By the way, did you fix it up for me at the office? What did you tell them?” I see it’s no use trying to pull it out of him. When he gets good and ready he’ll tell me. Not before. I lie back on the bed, silent as a clam.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  I vividly remember the day she was able to tell her best friend about her past. Fortunately her young friend was genuinely healthy; she was curious and compassionate, not judgmental. Sharing the cult secret helped Ganga unload a heavy burden and begin to integrate her two worlds. There were gaps in her cognitive development. At first we thought she had a reading disability, but just spending time reading with her brought her up to her grade level within two years. She has probably stayed in the concrete operations level of cognitive development a year or two longer than so-called normal children, but now seems to be moving ahead conceptually with her peers. When we brought Ganga home, her social development was also a year or two behind her peers. At first, she looked like a teenager and acted like a toddler. Eventually she learned appropriate behavior from experience, gentle coaching, and most notably natural consequences. When other children threatened to beat her up because she loud-mouthed them on the bus, we stayed out of it; when she forgot to hand in a critical paper at school, she suffered the consequences of a lower grade. Because she had been so protected, it was important to let her learn how the real world works. How else will she learn to deal with it? Her self-esteem was quite low. This is typical of most cult members, and growing up in such an environment is devastatingfor children. One psychologist who evaluated Ganga said, "She seems to have been persuaded that she must try harder to be good in a way that ignores her own basic needs of nurturance." We have helped her rebuild herself-esteem bycreatingan atmosphere of safety and trust. It is also nonjudgmental, cherishing, empathetic, and supportive of her feelings. We believe in her, respect her, and expect her to succeed. Our daughter's disconnection from and dislike for herself will take years to change, but we are on the way to wholeness. Today she is more self-reliant than most of her peers; she has lots of friends and is doing well in school. In a gradual, informal way, we have educated her about thought-reform processes and the dynamics of influence. We have shown her articles about other cults, discussing how this related to the Ranch (the ashram where she lived). Sometimes we were too direct, and she would get defensive. Because she was the guru's claimed daughter, however, she saw a lot of what went on behind the scenes in these groups and, in some ways, understood more clearly than many adults. Two areas we haven't explored but which might be effective are dream work and supportgroups. Our daughter seems to process her cult experience in cycles or waves. The peak of the wave is the anxious and pensive time when she tends to have vivid dreams about the Ranch. Working with a reputable therapist in interpreting these dreams might be truly helpful.

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  Right now, I have a partner who wants me to explore anal sex and this has never come up for me before. In my typical fashion, I bought a book and am doing some reading and self-exploration to see if this is something I might reach some comfort with or, hopefully, desire for. I don’t have any great moral issue with it, I just haven’t had it as a need or desire. She is being really patient with me. Not everyone will dive right into a new adventure. And even if you’re well experienced in the sexual arts, there are a lot of reasons you may be hesitant to pick up on your partner’s desires. • What if I don’t like it? You may be afraid you’ll erupt with a resounding “ewwww!”—which will make your partner think twice about entrusting her precious desires to you in the future. • You want what!? You may simply not understand your partner’s desire. (OK, you understand that she wants you to put a 6-inch acrylic plug in her butt—but you don’t get why she wants that.) • Why do I feel this way? You may be utterly confused about your feelings. Your immediate reaction may be one of strangeness or even revulsion. It’s not comfortable to look at things that disturb us and that we don’t understand. • What if I’m no good at it? Why expect yourself to be smooth with an activity you’ve never tried? • I just can’t see her as a Top. Are you OK with the activity—but not with this particular partner? (Are you willing to be convinced?) • What if I bust up laughing? Uh-huh. Think you’ll feel ridiculous with a silicone dildo strapped to your pelvis? Can’t imagine pulling off a repairman-and-housewife role-play scenario? Well, maybe you will fall into a heap of giggles—maybe she will, too, and you’ll have a wonderful (albeit not-so-sexy) time together. Having gotten the giggles out of your system, next time you may collapse in a heap of sexual exhaustion instead. • What if she changes? Well, she may be changing—in fact, she may be undergoing a profound transformation in gender or sexual identity. Or she may be revealing to you a part of herself she has never shown to anyone before. She may also just want to dress up and fuck you silly, OK? • That’s just wrong! Do you think that lesbians shouldn’t like penetration, watch gay male porn, engage in age-related role play, or fantasize about having a penis? What judgments like these do you hold for yourself? How much sexual delight are these ideas costing you? • This freaks me out. Are you fearing abandonment if this doesn’t work out? Do you feel jealous (or fear you’ll feel jealous)? Are you in competition with your partner?

• From The Genius of Judy: How Judy Blume Rewrote Childhood for All of Us (2023)

  Accessed online: https://people.com/archive/the-jacqueline-susann-of-kids-books-judy-blume-grows-up-with-an-adult-novel-vol-10-no-16 .“I could have had affairs, but instead I got married” : Weidt, Presenting Judy Blume , p. 18.“I would say, ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ ” : Judy Blume, Letters to Judy , p. 107. Larry was having a particularly hard time : Weidt, Presenting Judy Blume , p. 17.“It was very hard for me to get married again” : John Neary, “The ‘Jacqueline Susann of Kids’ Books,’ Judy Blume, Grows Up with an Adult Novel.”“In spite of my vow to respect her privacy” : Judy Blume, Letters to Judy , p. 151.“It is a town with very frustrated, resentful, talented women” : Weidt, Presenting Judy Blume , p. 18.“You’re the one who’s making the bombs” : Judy Blume, Tiger Eyes (New York: Bradbury Press, 1981). I worked from the 2014 reprint from Simon & Schuster, p. 163.Judy had two abortions during that time : Nicole Sperling, “How Judy Blume Finally Got a ‘Yes’ from Hollywood,” New York Times , March 7, 2023. Accessed online: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/07/business/media/judy-blume-hollywood.html .The Career, as she called it : John Neary, “The ‘Jacqueline Susann of Kids’ Books,’ Judy Blume, Grows Up with an Adult Novel.”“I think I know who you are” : Judy Blume, Starring Sally J. Freedman as Herself (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Bradbury Press, 1977), p. 117.“They had to change cars,” her mom explains : Ibid., p. 69.“What would your mothers say if they knew what you’d been doing?” : Ibid., p. 194.“While Ms. Blume’s book is teeming with social value” : Julia Whedon, “The Forties Revisited,” New York Times , May 1, 1977.“Blume’s approach will be resented as frivolous by many readers” : As quoted in Weidt, Presenting Judy Blume , p. 67.Chapter Fifteen Monogamy“Oh Mother, dammit! Why did you bring me up to think that this was what I wanted?” : Judy Blume, Wifey (New York: Berkley Books, 1978), p. 119.In April 1977, she penned a respectful note to Mercier : Box 27 of the Judy Blume Papers at Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library. Accessed April 1, 2022.In the meantime, she scarfed down way too many glazed donuts : Judy Blume, Wifey , Introduction, p. x.Lisbeth “explained it as Sandy’s need to control her own destiny” : Ibid., p. 16.“What are you doing?” : Ibid., p. 61.“I used to know that [sex scenes] were good” : Brandon Sanchez, “Sex Between the Pages of the New Yorker Festival,” Vulture . https://www.vulture.com/2023/10/new-yorker-festival-2023-book-sex-scenes-judy-blume.html#_ga=2.9118197.170374204.1701972221-1398311225.1701972221 .“That’s why I douche with vinegar…” : Judy Blume, Wifey , p. 23.“I won’t forbid you from seeing him, Sandy” : Ibid., p. 88.“Make his interests your interests” : Ibid., p. 60. “She wasn’t sure. If he beat her, she could complain” : Ibid., p. 190.“To me she’ll always be Sarah” : Ibid., p. 30.“They’re still different no matter how hard you try to pretend they’re not” : Ibid., p. 42.“The natives are restless everywhere” : Ibid., p. 107.“Don’t worry Mr. Pressman, we’re known for our discretion at Four Corners” : Ibid., p.

• From While You Were Out (2023)

  A team of horses pulled a big wooden box as a little boy in short pants, the one Billy’s age, stepped out in front of his mother and gave a salute. The following Thursday was Thanksgiving, and Nancy announced at breakfast that our mother would be coming home later that day, if only temporarily. This was wonderful news. I still had no idea what had landed my mother in the hospital again, and it was looking like I never would. But there were hints. I knew if I listened hard enough and looked for clues, I might be able to figure this out once and for all. We were nervous wrecks that day waiting for our mother to arrive. Holmer shampooed the living room rug while Patty and I passed the time playing Barbies, using our mother’s ashtrays as bathtubs and making tiny towels out of pieces of toilet paper. Grandpa roasted the turkey while Grandma peeled potatoes or, as she called them in her fake Irish accent, “ba-daydas.” At around 3:30 that afternoon, just as the sky was turning purple, we heard the driveway gravel pop, a sure sign that someone was close. We scrambled to the bedroom window and smushed our faces into the cold glass for a better look. It’s her! Patty gasped, and once again, I could hear her wheezing like someone had sewn a tiny harmonica inside her four-year-old chest. We stood on tiptoes for a fuller view. Patty’s heavy breathing fogged the glass, so I gave it a good lick. The sharp taste of the cleaning solution made my tongue sting and my eyes water. Sure enough, there was our mother, a little wobbly from the looks of it, holding Holmer’s arm and making her way up the stone path toward our front door. I zoomed down the stairs, resolved to be good. I still didn’t know where our mother had been or how long she’d be home, but I worried that if I misbehaved, she might leave again and never come back. I’m trying to re-create the scene of what happened next, but my mind is a jumble of tiny snippets from so long ago. I remember little pieces that don’t fit together in a tidy narrative. I recall my mother plopping down next to the fireplace in one of the blue velveteen living room chairs, sipping a drink, and fidgeting with her hem. She didn’t really look at us, and we were not to stare at her. Nor were we to jump on her or ask too many questions. I remember Jake and me sitting at the dining room table making finger puppets out of the canned pitted black olives that were only served on special occasions like this. A good day to you, sir, I imagine myself saying, bowing my index finger toward Jake, stealing little glances at my mother when I could. Nancy is playing “Für Elise” on the piano while Patty and Billy practice their somersaults in the corner.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  “My God!” she was yelling, “where is that string? My God! I can’t find the string!” “Did you look under the bed?” said Fillmore. Finally she quieted down. But only for a few minutes. The next thing was: “My God! I’m bleeding again. I just had my period and now there are gouttes again. It must be that cheap champagne you buy. My God, do you want me to bleed to death?” She comes out with a kimono on and a towel stuck between her legs, trying to look dignified as usual. “My whole life is just like that,” she says. “I’m a neurasthenic. The whole day running around and at night I’m drunk again. When I came to Paris I was still an innocent girl. I read only Villon and Baudelaire. But as I had then 300,000 Swiss francs in the bank I was crazy to enjoy myself, because in Russia they were always strict with me. And as I was even more beautiful then than I am now. I had all the men falling at my feet.” Here she hitched up the slack which had accumulated around her belt. “You mustn’t think I had a stomach like that when I came here… that’s from all the poison I was given to drink… those horrible apéritifs which the French are so crazy to drink. … So then I met my movie director and he wanted that I should play a part for him. He said I was the most gorgeous creature in the world and he was begging me to sleep with him every night. I was a foolish young virgin and so I permitted him to rape me one night. I wanted to be a great actress and I didn’t know he was full of poison. So he gave me the clap… and now I want that he should have it back again. It’s his fault that I committed suicide in the Seine. … Why are you laughing? Don’t you believe that I committed suicide? I can show you the newspapers… there is my picture in all the papers. I will show you the Russian papers some day… they wrote about me wonderfully. … But darling, you know that first I must have a new dress. I can’t vamp this man with these dirty rags I am in. Besides, I still owe my dressmaker 12,000 francs. …” From here on it’s a long story about the inheritance which she is trying to collect. She has a young lawyer, a Frenchman, who is rather timid, it seems, and he is trying to win back her fortune. From time to time he used to give her a hundred francs or so on account. “He’s stingy, like all the French people,” she says. “And I was so beautiful, too, that he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. He kept begging me always to fuck him.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  Anytime I disagreed with something Limori said, which wasn’t very often, or with the way she treated someone, I would tell myself, or others would tell me, “But what she says is The Truth.” The unspoken part of that message was, “You cannot argue with it or dismiss it or not use the advice she is giving you.” And further, “If you do disagree with The Truth, then obviously you are serving the Dark and not the Light.” Anything said with enough conviction will appear to be true. I was reminded of this one night recently while renting a movie. I was at the counter of my local independent video store, paying for my video, when another customer approached the counter and asked the women serving me, “Who directed The Magnificent Seven ?” The store clerk paused for just a second and then said, “Sergio Leone.” The tone in her voice and the expression on her face made me believe her. This, combined with the fact that she was behind the counter and therefore a film expert, gave me no reason to doubt her. I had no idea who directed The Magnificent Seven but at that moment I would have sworn it was Sergio Leone. It isn’t. As I fished money out of my wallet to pay for my rental, the sales clerk said to the other customer, “Let me double-check.” Turns out the correct answer was John Sturges. But this little exchange reminded me of an expression Michael coined while we were in Limori’s circle: Not always wrong but never in doubt. He most often applied it to Gary, one of Limori’s top protégés, but I would later realize it applied to Michael himself and most accurately to Limori. It was not only what Limori said that sucked me into her grasp, it was how she said it. No matter what, every word she spoke was offered with complete conviction. She could say the most outrageous things and sound as if she were simply stating a scientific fact. “Lisa is the incarnation of the Angel Gabriel” seemed as grounded in reality as saying, “Ice forms at temperatures below zero degrees Celsius.” And, just like the video sales clerk, she had set herself up in an area of expertise where she had absolute authority, only hers was spirituality. A few years ago, I took an online marketing class. One of the first lessons was this: In order to create more sales, set yourself up as an expert in your field. Human psychology causes us to trust those we believe are experts. Limori obviously understood this principle long before I did. My passage from that of an outsider who was new to the group to a full-fledged member could be charted by my grasp of the group language.