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 Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She did manage to control the mayhem inside her when he offered to drive her to LAX, saying he had to concentrate now on his studies, and even when he dropped her at the United terminal without a word about seeing her again. As she waited three hours for her flight, though, she wept uncontrollably amongst strangers who avoided looking at her. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] When she opened the door to her apartment with Hugo, she saw in the diffused light that Hugo’s book, glasses, and slippers lay where he always placed them. She was safe. She was home. Hugo slept, breathing heavily through his mouth, as she slipped past him and shut the bathroom door. She needed to wash off her excesses with Rupert so that when she awoke, she would be Hugo’s beloved wife again. She rose before Hugo the next morning to buy fresh croissants at the corner bakery. At breakfast he winked at her over his New York Times. “For a woman who has just driven cross-country and endured thirteen hours on a plane, you look beautiful, Mrs. Guiler.” “Why thank you, Mr. Beguiler.” There were advantages to being five years younger than her husband. Of course, the lowered blinds and the soft pink lighting that she’d installed in the apartment helped. She was thrilled to be in her own kitchen with her own husband, enjoying their Sunday brunch ritual. Hugo perused the arts section of the Times while she studied the book reviews. He turned his narrow, chiseled head to her. “Did you know Thurema Sokol is performing at Weill Recital Hall tonight?” “Of course. She had to return for the performance.” Anaïs was always amazed at how readily an appropriate lie would come to her in a pinch, yet when she tried to write fiction, she couldn’t make it up. All she could do was rewrite and disguise her diary entries. “It says that Thurema also performed at Weill last Thursday night. But how is that possible? Weren’t both of you still in Los Angeles then?” This is it. She stopped breathing. He’d caught her. “Oh, Thurema left Los Angeles before me. I decided to stay on for a few days to sightsee.” “But how could Thurema have driven back so quickly?” “She flew back.” “But you said she had to drive because she is afraid of flying.” “Yes, but she had no choice this time. At least she avoided one flight.” “What about her car?” “She got another musician to drive it back for her.” Hugo nodded. Did he know she was lying? Was he intentionally giving her enough rope to hang herself? Or was his love and trust so great that he simply accepted whatever she told him? She could never tell. People referred to her as a mystery woman, but he had his mysteries too.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  I have headaches. I feel nervous all the time. I have shortness of breath, racing heart, disorientation, and panic. I’m always cold, and I have dry mouth. I have trouble swallowing. I have no energy or motivation, and when I do accomplish something, I feel no sense of satisfaction. I feel overwhelmed, confused, lost, helpless, and hopeless daily. I have uncontrollable outbursts of rage and depression. Get On with Your Life If it hurts, hide it. — Michael Martin Murphy from Cowboy Logic Because the symptoms and emotions associated with trauma can be extreme, most of us (and those close to us) will recoil and attempt to repress these intense reactions. Unfortunately, this mutual denial can prevent us from healing. In our culture there is a lack of tolerance for the emotional vulnerability that traumatized people experience. Little time is allotted for the working through of emotional events. We are routinely pressured into adjusting too quickly in the aftermath of an overwhelming situation. Denial is so common in our culture that it has become a cliché. How often have you heard these words? “Pull yourself together, its over now. You should forget about it. Grin and bear it. It’s time to get on with your life.” Who Is Traumatized? Our ability to respond appropriately when faced with danger and threat is determined by a number of different factors: The event itself. How threatening is it? How long does it last? How often does it occur? Threatening events that are intense and continuous present the greatest challenges. Severely threatening incidents that occur repeatedly (but with some reprieve) can be equally challenging. War and childhood abuse are two of the most common examples of traumatizing events that often exceed an individual’s survival resources. The context of a persons life at the time of the traumatizing event. Support (or lack of it) by family and friends can have a dramatic impact on us. Also significant is the toll taken by poor health, ongoing stress, fatigue, or poor nutrition. Physical characteristics of the individual. Some people are constitutionally (genetically) more resilient to stressful events than others. Strength, speed, and overall physical fitness can also be important in some situations. Even more important is a person’s age or level of physiological development and resilience. Being left alone in a cold room can be totally overwhelming to an infant, frightening to a toddler, distressing to a ten-year-old, and only mildly uncomfortable to an adolescent or adult. A person’s learned capabilities. Infants and children, or anyone lacking the experience or skills to handle a threatening situation, are more vulnerable to traumatization.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Keep the child quiet and still. If the injury requires immediate movement, support or carry the child, even if he/she appears capable of moving on his/her own. Children who make great efforts to show their strength often do so to deny the fear they are feeling. If you sense that the child is cold, gently drape a sweater or blanket over his/her shoulders and trunk. Encourage (insist, if necessary) the child to take sufficient time to rest in a safe place. This is of particular importance if you notice signs of shock or dazedness (glazed eyes, pale complexion, rapid or shallow breathing, trembling, disorientation, a sense of being somewhere else). If the child’s demeanor is excessively emotional or overly calm (before the storm), rest is very important. You can help the child settle down by being relaxed, quiet, and still yourself. If hugging or holding seem appropriate, do so in a gentle, non-restricting way. A gentle placement of your hand in the center of the back, behind the heart, can communicate support and reassurance without interfering with the child’s natural bodily responses. Excessive patting or rocking can interrupt the recovery process (similar to the over-zealous child who, with good intentions, mishandles a wounded bird). As the dazed look begins to wear off, carefully guide the child’s attention to his/her sensations. In a soft voice, ask, “What do you feel in your body?” Slowly and quietly, repeat the answers you’re given in the form of a questio n ”You feel bad in your body? ” then wait for a nod or other response. You can be more specific with your next question: “Where do you feel that bad feeling?” (let the child show you). If the child points to a specific place, ask, “How do you feel in your tummy (head, arm, leg, etc.)?” If the child reports a distinct sensation, gently inquire about its exact location, size, shape, color, weight, and other characteristics. Gently guide the child to the present moment (i.e., “How does the lump (owie, scrape, burn, etc.) feel now?” Allow a moment or two of silence between questions. This will permit the completion of any cycle that the child is moving through without the distraction of another question. If you are uncertain whether the cycle has been completed, wait for the child to give you cues (a deep relaxed breath, the cessation of crying or trembling, a stretch, a smile, the making or breaking of eye contact). The completion of this cycle may not mean that the recovery process is over. Another cycle may follow. Keep the child focused on sensations for a few more minutes just to make sure the process is complete. Do not stir up discussion about the accident. There will be plenty of time later for telling stories about it, playing it through, or drawing pictures of it. Now is the time for discharge and rest.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  If you feel overwhelmed or deeply disturbed during any part of this exercise, please stop. The exercise may be too activating for some people. If this is true for you, I suggest you seek qualified professional help. For this exercise you will need a pencil, paper, and a clock or watch with a second hand or a digital display. (If you don’t have such a timepiece, you can do the exercise without it.) With pencil in hand and the clock or watch where you can see it, find a comfortable position and contact your felt sense. Tune into your arms and legs, and feel the sensation of your body being supported by whatever you are sitting on; now add to your awareness any other sensations that are presen t the feeling of your clothes on your skin, the weight of the book in your lap, etc. You will need this awareness to do the exercise. Once you have a sense of how your body feels on the level of sensation, continue when you are comfortable. Proceed step by step through the exercise. For the best results do the entire exercise in one sitting. Read through it before you do it. As you read and experience it, get in touch with your feelings and thoughts through the felt sense. Part One: Sit comfortably and pretend you are in an airplane flying at 30,000 feet across the country. There has been some turbulence, but nothing out of the ordinary. Keep your awareness engaged as fully as possible and tune into your felt sense. Imagine that you suddenly hear a loud explosio n- BOO M- followed by complete silence. The plane’s engines have stopped. How does your body respond? Notice the response in your breathin g In your heartbea t The temperature in different parts of your bod y — In vibrations and involuntary twitching and the intensity of movement s — In your overall postur e In your eye s In your nec k In your sight and hearin g In your muscle s In your abdome n In your leg s For each item, make a short note of your responses. Make a note of the current time in minutes and seconds. Take a deep breath and relax. Let your body return to the level of comfort you experienced before you started the exercise. Focus on the felt sense of that comfort and when you feel that you are ready to move on to the next part of the exercise. Make a note of the time in minutes and seconds.

• 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 Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

   exaggerated emotional and startle responses  nightmares and night terrors  abrupt mood swings: e.g., rage reactions or temper tantrums, shame  reduced ability to deal with stress (easily and frequently stressed out)  difficulty sleeping Several of the symptoms above can also show up in the next phase of development, as well as in the last. The list is not for diagnostic purposes. It is a guide to help you get a feel for how trauma symptoms behave. Symptoms that generally occur in this next stage of development include:  panic attacks, anxiety, and phobias  mental “blankness” or “spaciness”  exaggerated startle response  extreme sensitivity to light and sound  hyperactivity  exaggerated emotional responses  nightmares and night terrors  avoidance behavior (avoiding certain circumstances)  attraction to dangerous situations  frequent crying  abrupt mood swings: e.g., rage reactions or temper tantrums, shame  exaggerated or diminished sexual activity  amnesia and forgetfulness  inability to love, nurture, or bond with other individuals  fear of dying, going crazy, or having a shortened life  reduced ability to deal with stress (easily and frequently stressed out)  difficulty with sleep The final group of symptoms are those that generally take longer to develop. In most cases they have been preceded by some of the earlier symptoms. You may notice that some symptoms appear on all three lists. There is no fixed rule that determines which symptom the organism will choose to enlist, or when it will choose to enlist it. Remember, none of these lists are by any means complete. Symptoms that generally develop last include:  excessive shyness  muted or diminished emotional responses  inability to make commitments  chronic fatigue or very low physical energy  immune system problems and certain endocrine problems such as thyroid dysfunction  psychosomatic illnesses, particularly headaches, neck and back problems, asthma, digestive, spastic colon, and severe premenstrual syndrome  depression, feelings of impending doom  feelings of detachment, alienation, and isolatio n— ”living dead”  diminished interest in life  fear of dying, going crazy, or having a shortened life  frequent crying  abrupt mood swings, e.g., rage reactions or temper tantrums, shame  exaggerated or diminished sexual activity  amnesia and forgetfulness  feelings and behaviors of helplessness  inability to love, nurture, or bond with other individuals  difficulty with sleep  reduced ability to deal with stress and to formulate plans Obviously, not all these symptoms are caused exclusively by trauma, nor has everyone who exhibits one or more of these symptoms been traumatized. The flu, for instance, can cause malaise and abdominal discomfort that is similar to trauma symptoms. However, there is a difference; symptoms produced by the flu generally go away in a few days. Those produced by trauma do not.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  On a sweltering summer day in 1976, twenty-six children ranging in age from five to fifteen years were kidnapped from their school bus outside a small California town. They were shoved into two dark vans, driven to an abandoned quarry, and then imprisoned in an underground vault for approximately thirty hours. They escaped, and were immediately taken to a local hospital. There, they received treatment for physical injuries, but were returned home without even cursory psychological examinations. As far as the two hospital physicians could tell, the children were “all right.” The doctors simply did not recognize that anything was wrong or that the children’s progress would need to be closely monitored. A few days later a local psychiatrist was asked to address the Chowchilla parents. He stated emphatically that there might be a psychological problem in only one of the twenty-six children. He was expressing the standard psychiatric belief at that time. Eight months after the event, another psychiatrist, Lenore Terr, began one of the first scientific follow-up studies of children who had been traumatized. The study included these children. Rather than one in the twenty-six children showing aftereffects, Terr found the reverse to be tru e nearly all of the children showed severe long-term effects on their psychological, medical, and social functioning. For many of these children the nightmare had just begun. They experienced recurring nightmares, violent tendencies, and impaired ability to function normally in personal and social relations. The effects were so debilitating that the lives and family structures of these children were all but destroyed in the years that followed. The one child who was less severely affected was fourteen-year-old Bob Barklay. Here is a brief summary of what happened to him during the traumatic event. The children had been imprisoned in “the hole” (a trailer buried beneath hundreds of pounds of dirt and rock in an abandoned quarry) for nearly a day when one of them leaned against a wooden pole that was supporting the roof. The makeshift support fell and the ceiling began to collapse on them. By this time, most of them were suffering from severe shoc k, frozen and apathetic, they were almost unable to move. Those who realized the seriousness of the situation began to scream. These children could see that if they weren’t able to escape soon, they would all die. It was in this moment of crisis that Bob Barklay enlisted the help of another boy to dig their way out. Following Bob’s lead, the boys were able to scoop out enough dirt to dig a small tunnel through the ceiling and into the quarry.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockett turned up in person: ‘Hallo, my dears, I’ve come over to see you. Everything all right? Are you being looked after?’ He sat down in the only comfortable chair and proceeded to make himself charming to Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris being let, he had tried to get rooms at their hotel but had failed, so had gone instead to the Meurice. ‘But I’m not going to take you to lunch there,’ he told them, ‘the weather’s too fine, we’ll go to Versailles. Stephen, ring up and order your car, there’s a darling! By the way, how is Burton getting on? Does he remember to keep to the right and to pass on the left?’ His voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassured him good-humouredly, she knew that he was apt to be nervous in motors. They lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking great pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, they evidently knew him: ‘Oui, monsieur, tout de suite—à l’instant, monsieur!’ Other clients were kept waiting while Brockett was served, and Stephen could see that this pleased him. All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour, as a lover might talk of a mistress. ‘Stephen, I’m not going back for ages. I’m going to make you simply adore her. You’ll see, I’ll make you adore her so much that you’ll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There’s nothing so stimulating as love—you’ve got to have an affair with Paris!’ Then looking at Stephen rather intently, ‘I suppose you’re capable of falling in love?’ She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she thought: ‘He’s putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity’s positively childish at times,’ for she saw that his face had fallen. ‘Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me—’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t be silly! There’s nothing to tell,’ smiled Stephen. But she made a mental note to be careful. Brockett’s curiosity was always most dangerous when apparently merely childish. With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying to force her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to give herself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sent for the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by item, frowning. ‘Maître d’hotel!’ ‘Oui monsieur?’ ‘You’ve made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy—and here’s another mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; I do wish to God you’d be careful!’ When Brockett felt cross he always felt mean. ‘Correct this at once, it’s disgusting!’ he said rudely. Stephen sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked up unabashed: ‘Well, why pay for what we’ve not ordered?’ Then he suddenly found his temper again and left a very large tip for the waiter.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There they disported themselves merrily together for a long while, and afterwards Gabriotto asked her why she had forbidden him to come on the previous evening, whereupon the girl explained to him about the dream she had experienced during the night before, and told him about the forebodings it had aroused in her. On hearing her explanation, Gabriotto burst out laughing and told her that it was very silly to take any notice of dreams, since they were caused either by overeating or undereating, and they invariably turned out to be meaningless. Then he said: ‘If I were the sort of person who takes dreams seriously, I would not have come to see you, not so much because of your own dream but because of one that I too experienced on the night before last. In it, I seemed to be out hunting in a fine and pleasant wood, and I captured the most beautiful and fetching little doe you ever saw. It was whiter than the driven snow, and it quickly grew so attached to me that it followed me about everywhere. For my part, I was apparently so fond of the animal that I put a golden collar round its neck and kept it on a golden chain to prevent it from straying. ‘But then I dreamt that, whilst the doe was asleep, resting its head upon my chest, a coal-black greyhound appeared as if from nowhere, starving with hunger and quite terrifying to look upon. It advanced towards me, and I seemed powerless to resist, for it sank its teeth into my left side and gnawed away until it reached my heart, which it appeared to tear out and carry off in its jaws. The pain of it was so excruciating that I came to my senses, and the first thing I did on waking up was to run my hand over my left side just to make sure that it was still intact; but on discovering that I had come to no harm, I laughed at myself for being so credulous. But in any case, what does it signify? I have had the same kind of dream before, and much more terrifying ones, and they have never affected my life in the slightest degree, either one way or the other. So let us forget all about them and concentrate on enjoying ourselves.’ If the girl was already feeling frightened on account of her own dream, her fears were magnified on learning about Gabriotto’s. She did her best to conceal them, however, for she did not wish to upset him. Although she took some solace in returning his kisses and caresses, she was filled with mysterious forebodings and kept looking into his face more often than usual. And every so often she cast her eyes round the garden to make sure that there was no sign of any black thing approaching.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  She thrust a flat hand at Millie, who was startled but nodded that she understood and retreated back through the arch. From the other side she heard Millie tell Hugo, “That’s enough for today.” Rupert gave Anaïs a shocked look of disapproval, likely mistaking her signal to Millie as unspeakable rudeness to a black woman with a crippled man. He hissed at Anaïs, “I’m going to bring them back here, so you can apologize,” and took off to fetch them. She seized Rupert’s arm, whispering, “Let’s go back to the hotel room and make love.” Rupert grabbed her hip and whispered back, “I’m going to fuck the rudeness right out of you, Anaïs,” as, to her relief, she heard the scrape of Hugo’s crutches on the gravel grow fainter. CHAPTER 21 Manhattan, New York, 1965 ANAÏS AS SHE WAITED FOR THE teller at the Park Avenue branch of First National City Bank to bring her $1,600 in cash, Anaïs calculated what was left in the proprietary account Hugo had set up for her. She had started with a principal of $50,000 that she was supposed to have left untouched except for the interest, but the last time she’d checked it had dwindled to $14,600, given her many withdrawals as “earnings” from her fictional jobs for each husband. The teller to whom Anaïs had given her passbook was taking a very long time. Anaïs needed that $1,600 today. Rupert expected her “earnings” to pay for the hotel; Hugo said he needed it to pay rent that month. Please God, don’t let there be a problem. The teller was leaning over the desk of a young man in an ill-fitting suit. What business was it of theirs if she was draining her account? Her heart pounding rapidly, she listed the things she had to get done to prepare for the crucial dinner with George Moore and his wife the following evening: hair and nails at Elizabeth Arden, pick up Hugo’s dry cleaning, get back to the hotel in time to find a place to hide the dry cleaning, meet Rupert for dinner. Next morning, up at five; remember to take Hugo’s cleaned shirts and suit with her to the apartment; into bed with Hugo; out of bed with Hugo; lunch with Rupert; back in the afternoon for final rehearsal with Hugo on his crutches; dress for dinner; phone Rupert from a phone booth to make sure that, as arranged, he was meeting her bookstore owner friend Maxwell for a movie; help Hugo into the taxi; and, finally, charm the bank president into hiring Hugo back. “Mrs. Hugo Guiler?” Anaïs looked up. The teller had brought over the man with whom she’d been in discussion, introducing him as her manager. He asked, “Did you not know that your husband closed this account?” Anaïs reached for the counter to steady herself. “That’s impossible,” she said calmly. “That account is in my name only. You must have it confused with Hugo’s other accounts here.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And no sooner did he catch sight of them than he called out to them, almost in tears, saying: ‘Alas, my friends, somebody’s stolen my pig.’ Bruno then went up to him, and, speaking out of the corner of his mouth, he said: ‘Fancy that! So you’ve had a bit of sense at last, have you?’ ‘Pah!’ exclaimed Calandrino. ‘I’m telling you the gospel truth.’ ‘That’s the way,’ said Bruno. ‘Go on shouting like that, so that people will think it’s really happened.’ Whereupon Calandrino began to shout even louder, saying: ‘God’s body, man, I tell you it’s been stolen, it really has.’ ‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Bruno. ‘Keep it up, give the thing plenty of voice and make yourself heard, so as to make it sound convincing.’ ‘You’ll drive me to perdition in a minute,’ said Calandrino. ‘Do I have to hang myself by the neck before I can convince you that it really has been stolen?’ ‘Get away with you!’ said Bruno. ‘How can that be, when I saw it there myself only yesterday? Are you trying to make me believe it’s flown away?’ ‘It’s gone, I tell you,’ said Calandrino. ‘Go on,’ said Bruno, ‘you’re joking.’ ‘I swear to you I’m telling the truth,’ said Calandrino. ‘What am I to do now? I can’t go back home without the pig. My wife will never believe me, but even if she does, she’ll make my life a misery for the next twelve months.’ ‘Upon my soul,’ said Bruno, ‘it’s a serious business, if you’re speaking the truth. But as you know, Calandrino, I was telling you only yesterday that you ought to say this. I wouldn’t like to think that you were fooling your wife and us too at the same time.’ Calandrino protested loudly, saying: ‘Ah! why are you so intent on driving me to despair and provoking me to curse God and all the Saints in Heaven? I tell you the pig was stolen from me during the night.’ ‘If that’s the case,’ said Buffalmacco, ‘we’ll have to see if we can find some way of getting it back.’ ‘How are we to do that?’ asked Calandrino. So Buffalmacco said: ‘Whoever took your pig, we can be quite sure that he didn’t come all the way from India to do it. It must have been one of your neighbours. So all you have to do is to bring them all together so that I can give them the bread and cheese test, 1 and we’ll soon see who’s got it.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bruno, ‘your bread and cheese will work miracles, I’m sure, on some of the fine folk who live around here. It’s quite obvious that one of

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  It was the English department secretary who had given me the stationery. She told me that Dr. Inch wanted to meet with me in his office. I had never been called into a professor’s office before and I assumed it was because the secretary had conveyed a question I’d asked, about how I’d apply for a Fulbright scholarship to Italy. My heart took flight with fantasies of getting a Fulbright. I could live in Rome with Gerardo Palmieri as my lover or maybe in Siena with several Italian lovers. Dr. Inch, a slight, faded man, seemed dwarfed behind his huge wood desk covered with tall stacks of books and papers. He rose to search for something in one of his piles. After not finding it, he sat again, and peered at me disapprovingly. “I received a phone call, young woman, from a Mr. Guiler who said he had in his possession an invitation addressed to his wife from you on behalf of the English department.” I was stunned. “How did Hugo get that letter? It wasn’t mailed to him.” “So you admit you wrote it?” “It was for Anaïs Nin. She’s a writer. I’m apprenticing to her.” I hoped that Dr. Inch, as a literature professor, would look kindly on the fact that I was working for a writer. “I’ve never heard of her, and for your information, I choose whom to invite to speak on behalf of the English department!” “It wasn’t a real invitation; it was just for her to show around to eastern colleges.” I hoped I wasn’t breaking Anaïs’s confidence. I had to defend myself. Dr. Inch crossed his arms. “Now I know you are lying to me.” “I’m not! Why do you think I’m lying?” “East Coast colleges wouldn’t care whom West Coast colleges invite. They aren’t impressed by that.” My stomach sank. Of course, he was right. I hadn’t thought that taking a few sheets of stationery was a big deal but suddenly I realized that it was everything, my whole future. Dr. Inch could impede my graduation and applications to grad school. “All I did was type the letter for her,” I pleaded. “You didn’t just type the letter. You procured the stationery for it. We have your signature on record. This is a case of fraud, and I will see that you receive the consequences you deserve. I looked up your record, young lady. State scholarships are not intended for bad apples.” Oh, my God. I could lose my scholarship, everything I’d worked so hard for! “I’m not a bad apple! I’m not. I’m getting As. You can check. What are you going to do?” “I haven’t decided whether to recommend your suspension to the academic senate or the dean. You will be hearing from me. In the meanwhile, speak of this with no one.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Petrarch had written a similar volume about famous men, De viris illustribus, and it is possible that Boccaccio’s work was intended as a companion volume, at the same time forming the tribute of a discipulus to his magister. Whilst it is proper to emphasize Boccaccio’s new sense of didactic purpose after the immensely important encounter with Petrarch in 1351, it would be misleading to convey the impression, as several of his biographers have done, that his involvement in humanistic studies led him to reject his earlier writings in the vernacular, in particular the Decameron. In this connection there is a story, better described as threadbare than well-worn, concerning a vision he is said to have experienced in 1362, when a mysterious messenger, originally nameless but referred to in later versions of the episode as Gioacchino Ciani, a Carthusian monk of Siena, warned him on behalf of one Pietro Petroni, recently deceased in the odour of sanctity, that his life was approaching its end and that the time had come for him to repent the foolishness of his ways. In consequence of this vision, Boccaccio is said to have resolved to destroy all of his writings that could be construed as profane, including of course his masterpiece. But the truth of the matter is that Boccaccio, even if he experienced any such vision, never took such a resolution. The sole source for the legend of the mysterious messenger is a letter of Petrarch’s (Seniles, I, 5) dated 28 May 1362, in which the older poet refers to a letter he claims to have received from Boccaccio describing the strange visitation and expressing concern over the prospect of imminent death. Petrarch takes great pains to reassure his friend, and adduces numerous examples from classical and biblical times to dispose of the argument that both of them (not just Boccaccio alone) were devoting too much of their time to the study and practice of literature and poetry. The question is discussed within the context of the debate about the relative merits of literary studies on the one hand and devotional practices on the other, a debate which had been going on at least since the age of Dante, and which in its simplest form could be expressed as Poetry vs Theology. It is at the end of this same letter, incidentally, that Petrarch suggests that they should pool their respective libraries (Boccaccio had apparently suggested that he should sell his own library to his magister), and live together under one roof. Whether or not he took seriously Petrarch’s suggestion that he should come and live with him, one cannot be certain. It is possible that he felt that such close propinquity to the magister would in some way damage what had up to that time been a fruitful relationship.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Ten days had passed and he had not phoned. She could not understand it. How could this man forget her when their rhythms had been so perfectly in sync? The hell with it! She had to know what had happened. Hugo would be back in two days for the weekend, then off again on another business trip. She had to phone Rupert, she rationalized, so he didn’t end up calling when Hugo was home. As the phone at the printer’s rang, she tried to ignore the sickening anxiety in her stomach. She needed to sound light, casual when she announced herself. He sounded nonchalant when he responded, “Oh, hello, darling.” He started making excuses: he’d cut his finger in the press, and it had gotten infected. She expressed sympathy and then let it drop that she would be out of town for several days so if he’d like to get together, it would have to be immediately or not until Tuesday. There was a long pause before he said, “Why don’t I call you on Tuesday then? Would you like to have dinner?” “I’d love that.” “Good then.” She hung up, confused and aching. He was not in love with her. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] She was at her Olivetti, retyping her manuscript, when she heard Hugo’s trudging gait. He moves like an old man, she thought. He’s only fifty but everything he does is slow and deliberate like an eighty-five-year-old. She sprang up to greet him and carry his bag into the bedroom. “You must be exhausted,” she offered as she drew him a bath. He flopped on the bed and slowly recounted his visit with her relatives, his delay at the Havana airport, his negotiations with his clients. The steam from the hot water she’d left running suffused the room, making her think of the heavy atmosphere Hugo brought with him. It descended on her like a low, gray cloud, suffocating her until he would leave and she could breathe freely again. At midnight she gave up typing and slipped into their king bed as she’d learned to do, so smoothly that Hugo registered no change. At 4 a.m. she was awakened by the glare of light in her face. Since he went to bed at 8 p.m., he awoke at dawn and read with the light on. They were completely out of sync. She fumed silently, pulling her pillow over her head. Because he hadn’t slept through the night, he dozed most of the day, and when he finally roused himself, he bore down on her. “We need to go over the budget.” We need to get a divorce, she thought. But out of habit and duty she sat by his side at the kitchen table. He’d point to a number in one of the columns recorded in his banker’s ledger. “What cost $86.79 on February fourth? Where is the check stub for it, Anaïs? You forgot again!”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I think she was.” I had to give Don something, and anyone could figure that out. He and I stayed up until 2 a.m. talking about Anaïs and her place in twentieth-century literature. We talked about Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, hot talk, suggestive words falling on top of each other. As it got later, there were longer pauses. I was hoping this was the night Don would come to my room. Renate was right; all he would have to do after was slip back to his bed in the sunroom, and no one would be the wiser. My heart was hopping in my ribcage with anticipation, but a loop of anxiety ran up and down my spine, recalling Anaïs’s look at me during Clara’s attack. What if Anaïs thought I’d betrayed her? Don must have noticed the anxiety on my face and perhaps misinterpreted it. He rose, yawning. “I’ve got to get some sleep. The damn sun through my windows will be waking me in three hours.” I didn’t get any sleep that night, not because I was getting Don’s kisses and thrusts, or even imagining them. I was turning on my pillow, twisting with agony at the thought that Anaïs believed I’d purposely lured her into Clara’s lair. The next morning, as Bob and I were determining if our homemade yogurt had set, the phone rang and I grabbed the commune kitchen receiver. “Something terrible has happened!” I heard Anaïs cry. “Come to the house tomorrow. Renate will be here.” The anxiety that had been running along my spine now circuited into all my nerves. I didn’t know how I could face Anaïs’s anger, and I feared Renate, who was capable of putting a curse on anyone who dared hurt Anaïs. When I arrived at Anaïs’s house, I saw that the front door had been left ajar for me. Renate was already there. I cried out, “I didn’t say anything to Clara about Hugo, Anaïs! I swear!” She looked at me severely. “Who was that woman who talked about Hugo?” “Clara Doherty. She was only invited because she’s part of my women’s group.” “How does she know about my staying with Hugo in New York?” Renate gasped. “Tristine, did you—” “No! I don’t know how she knows. She has a boyfriend in Paris.” “She probably heard gossip from that troublemaker Jean Franchette.” Anaïs frowned. “He’s always spreading lies about me.” I was confused for a moment. Who was Jean Franchette? I’d never heard of him. And what lies? Clara had spilled the truth. “It’s always those Marxist women who try to get me,” Anaïs flicked her French-tipped nails. “Don’t ever let that woman near me again.” “I won’t. I promise.” “I told you not to do any more public events!” Renate turned from Anaïs to me, scowling. “It’s too much stress.” I moaned, “I’m so sorry, Anaïs. It wasn’t supposed to be so public. But thank you for doing it. My students were thrilled.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Anaïs smiled with approval as I pulled out a Bic ballpoint. I looked for something to write on. She offered her purse, but it was too soft. I dug out the Penguin orange-and-white paperback of Lady Chatterley’s Lover that I’d borrowed from the library to reread, set the letter on top of it, and signed my name. I was eager to have that letter out of my sight. I replaced the plastic cap on the Bic. “Oh, don’t put it away yet,” she said. “Just write in ‘and a series of lectures over a two-year period.’” I looked at her askance. She insisted with a note of sarcasm, “You know, use your little editor’s arrow.” She took the signed letter from me and studied it again. “Right here.” She pointed. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Why not?” “The English department would never send out a revised letter without it being retyped.” “But it’s not coming from them. It’s coming from you, on behalf of the English department. It says, right here.” She pointed to the line that made me the most uncomfortable: On behalf of the English department at the University of Southern California, I am inviting Anaïs Nin … I said, “If the letter doesn’t look right, it won’t impress the East Coast colleges …” “Fine, but it has to go out today.” “Why?” “So it will get there before I arrive. Why are you asking so many questions? Just write it in. I brought a stamp.” I wrote in as small a hand as I could manage, and as I was writing, she was dictating yet another phrase to add, pointing with her white tipped nail. “Here add, ‘to include screenings of Ian Hugo’s films.’” Before I could object, she said, “Just insert it!” When I finished, she seized the letter and envelope, sealed the flap, affixed the stamp she’d brought, and took my arm, guiding me as a gentleman would. “I’m taking you to lunch to thank you for this little service,” she chirped, starting down the flight of steps. “We can look for a mailbox as we walk.” Arm in arm, we made our way down Fifth Street to Olive as unkempt people pushed by us. At the corner of Pershing Square she spied a mailbox into which she dropped the letter. After that we wandered up and down inclines and through narrow, seedy streets, as she repeated, “I know we’re in the right neighborhood, we just have to keep walking.” She directed us to an alley with uneven paving and piles of trash. “We’ll just cut through here, and it will show up.” But we emerged at a busy intersection I was sure we’d crossed before. She darted across the boulevard full of traffic. I hesitated as the light turned yellow, but then chased after her, cars honking at me before I reached the other side. My anxiety skyrocketed. I was lost and following her, and she didn’t know where she was going.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Perfect. Why don’t we meet here again on Thursday when you have the stationery and I’ll dictate the letter then.” “Don’t you have your own stationery?” “Of course, but this requires something else. But if you can’t get it …” She seemed terribly disappointed. I couldn’t risk being cut off because of her displeasure again. “I want to help you! I just need to understand,” I blurted. “I know I must have said or done the wrong thing at your apartment in New York. I really wanted to see you again and you said you were going to take me shopping and put me together with Jean-Jacques, and I still don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m afraid I’ll mess up again and somehow ruin your secret because I don’t know what it is.” “I’m so sorry, Tristine. You didn’t do anything wrong in New York. I was just afraid. When you said you wanted to see me in Los Angeles …” She sighed. “My life is so complicated between the coasts.” “Was it Rupert? Were you already having an affair with Rupert?” I couldn’t help myself now. “Renate told me he’s jealous and that’s why you said that Ian Hugo took us to Harlem instead of—” “That’s true.” She averted her eyes. “I want to be your apprentice.” I sat upright to look professional. “I’ll get the stationery. Whatever you want me to do. You can trust me, Anaïs. I want to help you!” My declaration captured her attention, and she contemplated me. She held my gaze for a long time, during which it seemed we had been staring into each other’s eyes since the beginning of time, connected in an ancient bond of women’s sympathy for one another. Her eyes dropped to her pale, veined hands clenched in her lap. “I’m afraid I will shock you, so I have to think how to explain. I don’t know where to begin.” She looked at me again, her face now distressed. “This is all so complicated. I don’t know how to trust you not to … Even I—” She stopped, helpless with anxiety. She turned her face away, and I saw her sad Pierrot clown face that I recalled from the limo ride to Harlem. I wanted desperately for her to confide in me, and my desire made me uncharacteristically expressive. “I think secrets are like big hairy apes.” I could see I’d gained her attention. “You have to spend all your time guarding them so they don’t get out.” “Yes! Because if the ape gets out,” she said, “it will be horribly destructive.” I touched her icy hand. “But if you share the secret with someone you can trust, you don’t have to guard it all alone.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Clara said, “Mon Dieu, everyone in Paris knows about you and your double life! Hugo still has friends there, you know.” Anaïs’s panicked eyes darted to me and back to Clara. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said coolly. I glanced around and, to my horror, saw Rupert stationed on the front porch, standing in the cold by the open door. He must have heard Clara say that Anaïs had a double life and still lived with Hugo! Yet his countenance remained blank. An actor playing possum? I jumped up. “It’s getting late, and we don’t want to exhaust Anaïs when she’s been so generous to meet with us.” There were groans and thirty hands shot up. Anaïs recognized only Don. I felt a charge between them before he asked, “Were you the model for Ida Verlaine in Henry Miller’s Sexus?” “You’d better ask Henry that question.” She laughed gaily, turning away to scan the room for Rupert. “Ah! I see my escort is here! I’m so sorry I cannot stay longer.” The crowd parted before her as she moved through them to the front door, squeezing proffered hands and returning eager gazes with her radiant, reassuring smile. I tried to catch her eye but couldn’t. Bob rushed up with her cape, and she wrapped it around her before sweeping away. She did not take Rupert’s arm as they strode to the T-Bird parked up the street. That night, no one could have guessed they were married, the way she kept her distance. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Later, as I was coming out of the bathroom Don and I shared, I saw that he was at a desk in the ballroom studying. Evidently, he’d sent his date home. He gestured that I should come join him. I got my books and papers from my room so it would look as if I were studying, too. Right away Don asked, “Who was the younger guy she called her escort? Is that her rich husband?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. To people in Los Angeles, Anaïs usually introduced Rupert as her husband but since she had identified him as just her escort that night, I said, “A friend, I guess.” “What was all that about her having a double life?” Don gave me his irresistible Don Juan grin, and I noticed how neatly his blond mustache was trimmed over his white teeth. He seemed to be looking at me differently, not as a sister. Perhaps Anaïs’s fairy dust had succeeded in bathing me in its flattering light. “I don’t know anything about a double life. I think Clara just has old gossip. Anaïs used to be married to Hugo,” I said, though I felt uncomfortable lying to Don; it wasn’t something we did in our commune. Don said, “It’s common knowledge she had an affair with Henry Miller. Was she married to Hugo then?”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] “How did Hugo see the letter?” I heard how out of control my voice must have sounded to Renate through the receiver. Anaïs was in New York and hadn’t given me her new phone number there, so I’d phoned Renate as soon as I got back to my apartment. “You mean the letter you mailed to Anaïs? How do you know Hugo saw the letter?” I should have known Renate would answer my question with one of her own. I recounted what had just happened in Dr. Inch’s office. I was hyperventilating by the time Renate said gravely, “This is very serious. Let me think about it. Perhaps there’s a solution to protect you at that uptight university.” I didn’t think there was anything Renate or Anaïs could do about the destruction of my college career; they were so peripheral to that world. “Anaïs can’t show that letter now to any eastern colleges!” I warned. “She won’t. I’ll talk to her. Here’s what I want you to do. When you next see Dr. Inch, find out exactly what he told Hugo. Then be prepared for a meeting at my house with Anaïs the moment she gets back from New York. Don’t worry.” How could I not worry? Questions flew around in my mind like moths, eating holes in my brain. What would I do with my life if I couldn’t become a college professor? I didn’t want to end up a restaurant hostess like Renate; I’d held enough waitressing jobs to know what a dead end that was. Why had I thrown away everything I’d worked for just to please Anaïs Nin? Dr. Inch had said Hugo called Anaïs his wife. Was my suspicion right that they pretended they were married now, the way they’d pretended they were not married when Hugo was Ian Hugo? These were not honest people! And what was the truth about the letter, anyway? Dr. Inch had said that even if it really were from the USC English department, it wouldn’t impress eastern colleges, so what was the real reason Anaïs had me write and send it? What kind of game had she gotten me mixed up in? The questions flew around madly and collided with one another for a week. Another week went by, and I didn’t hear from Renate, Anaïs, or Dr. Inch. I made myself focus on my classwork, hoping that my good grades would bring me leniency when the university’s discipline came down on my head. Just before Thanksgiving break, I got a call to come back to Dr. Inch’s office. As I pedaled my bike onto the campus, I imagined begging Dr. Inch to let my punishment be a public flogging before the Tommy Trojan statue, rather than expulsion, so my humiliation would be over all at once.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Out of desperation, I hit on a trick I that I’ve used many times since to deal with my stage fright. I make believe that I’m someone else going up on stage. I have been, at different times, Tom Wolfe, Hillary Clinton, and, once, the Holy Ghost. I decide that I won’t go up there and that this more capable being will go in my body, and he or she will do the talking. That night, I decided since the audience wanted Anaïs Nin, I would let Anaïs go on stage in my body. I assumed her graceful, erect posture as I climbed the fearsome steps to the podium. I set down my paper, paused and smiled as she would have, endowing love and understanding to the audience. I was grateful for the glaring lights that made the crowd a black empty space. “I apologize that unlike Jamie Herlihy, I cannot entertain you. I’m here because Anaïs is in the hospital, and she asked me at the last minute to read an essay I wrote about Diary II.” There was dull silence. I looked down at the papers in my shaking hands. Was the light bright enough to read? Barely. “I really do apologize that this literary criticism will be boring to many of you,” I said with Anaïs’s little laugh. “But this is what she asked of us, so please bear with me.” I spoke a little about the importance of Anaïs’s Diary and what she’d shared with me about her editing process, that each volume had been edited for its central theme. Dead silence. I explained that the topic of my paper was the theme of Diary II, Anaïs’s theory of subjective time as equivalent to relativity. I thought I heard a few groans. I knew the topic was as abstract, as intangible as the black nothingness out there, but all I could do was go forward. I began to read, concentrating on what I was saying. Looking out into the void, I used my dramatic training to emphasize what little conflict there was in my paper: Anaïs’s arguments with Henry Miller, her belief in the value of the diary’s immediacy versus his belief in the distillation of memory required for literature. As I read, I heard Anaïs’s voice coming through me, not her accent, but her rising and falling cadence, and since I quoted from her Diary extensively, her words mixed with mine. I poured all my love for her into reading her words. At one point, when reading a passage of hers about the power of the present moment, I paused for emphasis and held the pause. The present moment. The only sound was the rhythmic breathing in the darkened auditorium, in and out, the beating wings of a great seabird, carrying us together to Anaïs’s hospital bed.