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)

  “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)

  “Yes.” Anaïs gave Henry her glorious smile. “I forgot to congratulate you on your Supreme Court victory. Your work was recognized as literary. Thirty years after I recognized it.” Henry said, “You’ll be making a mistake, Anaïs, if you cut the sex from your diary. Get your book banned like mine, hmm, hmm. That’s what makes the books sell.” Anaïs rose to leave, and I stood, but Henry set his sights on Rupert. “What about you, Rupert? How are you gonna feel when you read about Anaïs in heat with me?” “That was a long time ago,” Rupert said pleasantly. “Before I met Anaïs.” “Good attitude, Rupert kid, very good. Hmm, hmm. Besides, what do you have to complain about? She married you. I asked her to marry me, did ya know that? She wouldn’t leave Hugo. She never could leave Hugo, doncha know?” “We really have to get going.” Anaïs swept up two of the signed releases and deposited them in her bag. Henry raised his voice. “But what about Hugo, Anaïs? He’s going to know you are a liar when he reads your diary. A liar! Are you going to ask him for a release? Are you finally going to ask him for a divorce?” Oh my God. Henry had said it! I looked at Rupert for his reaction. He must have been zoning out, or maybe he just dismissed whatever Henry said as claptrap, because his eyes remained on Anaïs, concerned only by how upset she appeared. I tried again to derail Henry. “After Tropic of Cancer, which of your novels do you think I should read?” I asked. He ignored me. “Are you going to ask Hugo for a divorce?” he called to Anaïs as she hurried to the door where Rupert was waiting. “Do you want me to talk to him about it?” “I’ll send you the edited pages, Henry,” she trilled as we all exited. “Liar! Liar!” he yelled after us. As soon as we were settled in the T-bird, Rupert screeched onto Ocampo Drive as if wanting to leave Henry Miller in the dust. Anaïs said, “It’s sad that Henry has gone senile. He was always so much older than me.” “He sure is a crazy old coot!” Rupert responded, darting left onto Sunset. I chimed in, “Anaïs, I don’t know how you can stand that man.” She put up a palm, silencing me. “I’m editing the diary and I can’t allow my present feelings about Henry to color how I portrayed him then.” Lowering her hand, she took Rupert’s free hand. “The problem with Henry is that he’s never outgrown his adolescent romanticism. Like with that Hoki girl; he only loves what he cannot have. The moment he gets it, he loses his desire and becomes impotent. He can only perform in the realm of fantasy.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But Angiulieri, who was as handsome a man as he was courteous, feeling that he was leading a poor sort of life in Siena on the meagre allowance he was given by his father, and hearing that the new papal ambassador in the March of Ancona was a certain cardinal who was very well disposed towards him, resolved to make his way there in the belief that by doing this he would better his lot. And having spoken to his father on the subject, he came to an arrangement with him whereby he would receive six months’ allowance in advance, so that he could purchase new clothes and a good horse, and go there looking reasonably respectable. No sooner did he begin to look round for someone to take with him as his servant than his plans reached the ears of Fortarrigo, who immediately called on Angiulieri and begged him with all the eloquence at his command to take him with him, saying that he would be willing to act as his servant, his valet, and his general factotum without requiring any other payment than his food and lodging. But Angiulieri refused his offer, not because he had the slightest doubt of his ability to perform these duties, but because Fortarrigo was an inveterate gambler and furthermore he occasionally got very drunk. Fortarrigo assured him that he would guard against both these weaknesses and swore repeatedly that he would keep his promise, to which he added such a torrent of entreaties that Angiulieri finally yielded and agreed to take him. So early one morning they set forth together, reaching Buonconvento4 in time for breakfast. Since it was a very warm day, after breakfast Angiulieri asked the innkeeper to prepare a bed for him, and with Fortarrigo’s assistance he got undressed and lay down to rest, telling Fortarrigo to call him at the hour of nones.5 As soon as Angiulieri was asleep, Fortarrigo went straight to the tavern, where after a few drinks he started to gamble with one or two other people there, and within a short space of time he had lost every penny he possessed, along with every stitch of clothing he was wearing. Being anxious to recoup his losses, he made his way back in nothing but his shirt to the room where Angiulieri was resting, and, perceiving that he was fast asleep, took all the money from his purse and returned to the gaming-table, where he lost Angiulieri’s money as well.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The other ladies, having hearkened to Pampinea, not only commended her counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from their session there, they were to set off out of hand. But Filomena, who was exceeding discreet, said, "Ladies, albeit that which Pampinea allegeth is excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for running, as meseemeth you would do. Remember that we are all women and none of us is child enough not to know how [little] reasonable women are among themselves and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they know how to order themselves. We are fickle, wilful, suspicious, faint-hearted and timorous, for which reasons I misdoubt me sore, an we take not some other guidance than our own, that our company will be far too soon dissolved and with less honour to ourselves than were seemly; wherefore we should do well to provide ourselves, ere we begin." "Verily," answered Elisa, "men are the head of women, and without their ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how may we come by these men? There is none of us but knoweth that of her kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would not be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare, it behoveth us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we go for diversion and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof." Whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there entered the church three young men,--yet not so young that the age of the youngest of them was less than five-and-twenty years,--in whom neither the perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk, no, nor fear for themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench, the fire of love. Of these one was called Pamfilo,[19] another Filostrato[20] and the third Dioneo,[21] all very agreeable and well-bred, and they went seeking, for their supreme solace, in such a perturbation of things, to see their mistresses, who, as it chanced, were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain of the other ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men. [Footnote 19: See ante, p. 8, note.]

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  For instance, if the lights go off while I am anxiously trying to make sense of the papers on my desk, I am not able to take this unexpected event in stride. I jump, as an irrational thought that someone may be trying to break into my house flashes through my mind. I realize this is probably not true, but my startled movements have knocked a pile of once neatly stacked and vital papers to the floor. Flooded by a sudden surge of irrational anger, I waste energy by pounding the desk in frustrated rage. Unhelpful thoughts barrage me: Is the back door locked? Who was supposed to pay the electric bill? Is Pouncer (my dog) in or out? I find matches and light one, dimly illuminating the messy desk. Where is the electric bill? My attention lapses; I forget that the match is lit and drop it just as it burns my fingers. My papers catch on fire. I feel a sense of terror move through me and I feel paralyzed, unable do anything about the fire. Seconds later, I regain some ability to move but immobility has impaired my motor coordination. I am awkward and ineffective as I flail at the flames. Sensing the danger in my lack of coordination, I become more frantic and realize too late that in my desperation to handle the situation, I have been using the only finished draft of my book to put out the flames. The flames die out on their own. My attempt to make sense of the messy desk begins again. What are all these papers? Did I put this here? Where is the electric bill? I am unable to take in the implications of what I find, and although I have often been offered advice and suggestions by friends and others on how I might get better organized, I continue doing what I have always done. What else can I do? In this state, I am not able to learn, not able to acquire new behaviors, not able to break out of the debilitating patterns which will eventually dominate my life. Without the ability to learn new behaviors, make plans, or synthesize new information, I am deprived of the options available to help me reduce the disarray that threatens to take over my life. Chronic Helplessness Chronic helplessness occurs as the freezing, orienting, and defending responses become so fixated and weakened that they move primarily along predetermined and dysfunctional pathways. Chronic helplessness joins hypervigilance and the inability to learn new behaviors as yet another common feature of the traumatized person’s reality. As helplessness becomes an inextricable part of their lives, they will have a difficult time behaving in any way that is not helpless.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You must remember that we are all women, and every one of us is sufficiently adult to acknowledge that women, when left to themselves, are not the most rational of creatures, and that without the supervision of some man or other their capacity for getting things done is somewhat restricted. We are fickle, quarrelsome, suspicious, cowardly, and easily frightened; and hence I greatly fear that if we have none but ourselves to guide us, our little band will break up much more swiftly, and with far less credit to ourselves, than would otherwise be the case. We would be well advised to resolve this problem before we depart.’ Then Elissa said: ‘It is certainly true that man is the head of woman, 6 and that without a man to guide us it rarely happens that any enterprise of ours is brought to a worthy conclusion. But where are we to find these men? As we all know, most of our own menfolk are dead, and those few that are still alive are fleeing in scattered little groups from that which we too are intent upon avoiding. Yet we cannot very well go away with total strangers, for if self-preservation is our aim, we must so arrange our affairs that wherever we go for our pleasure and repose, no trouble or scandal should come of it.’ Whilst the talk of the ladies was proceeding along these lines, there came into the church three young men, 7 in whom neither the horrors of the times nor the loss of friends or relatives nor concern for their own safety had dampened the flames of love, much less extinguished them completely. I have called them young, but none in fact was less than twenty-five years of age, and the first was called Panfilo, the second Filostrato, and the last Dioneo. Each of them was most agreeable and gently bred, and by way of sweetest solace amid all this turmoil they were seeking to catch a glimpse of their lady-loves, all three of whom, as it happened, were among the seven we have mentioned, whilst some of the remaining four were closely related to one or other of the three. No sooner did they espy the young ladies than they too were espied, whereupon Pampinea smiled and said: ‘See how Fortune favours us right from the beginning, in setting before us three young men of courage and intelligence, who will readily act as our guides and servants if we are not too proud to accept them for such duties.’ Then Neifile, whose face had turned all scarlet with confusion since she was the object of one of the youth’s affections, said: ‘For goodness’ sake do take care, Pampinea, of what you are saying! To my certain knowledge, nothing but good can be said of any one of them, and I consider them more than competent to fulfil the office of which we were speaking.

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

  Curtis raised an eyebrow at me before guiding us over to Basil Rathbone and Florence Marly, whom he told us were committed for his next film, Queen of Blood. I was so excited to meet real movie stars that I would have waited an hour for them to finish their conversation, but when they continued for several minutes without making eye contact, Rupert directed me to the kitchen. A dour maid was replenishing a large bowl of spiked eggnog and handed us some in gargoyle-faced mugs. Taking our drinks, Rupert and I returned to the expansive living room. We settled on the corner of a burgundy velvet settee. I kept an eye out for Renate but never saw her, so Rupert and I socialized with some friendly nobodies like us. A fellow in embroidered jeans and a sloppy sweater who apparently knew Rupert came up and offered to fortify our eggnogs with the Remy Martin bottle in his hand. Staring down at me, he said, “Rupert, who’s your young friend?” Rupert responded politely, “This is Tristine. I’m sorry, I know your face. You work in New York a lot … off Broadway? I just can’t remember your name.” “Bruce Nigel. Nice to meet you, Christine.” Bruce winked at me, then asked Rupert, “Where’s Anaïs?” “She’s got a gig in New York. It’s going to keep her there through the holidays.” “Oh yeah? Where’s she staying?” “She stays in a friend’s apartment above the Sign of the Dancing Bear bookstore.” “Bullshit!” Bruce waved a dismissive hand at Rupert. “Anaïs really has you going, doesn’t she?” “What are you talking about?” Rupert bristled. “You don’t know where Anaïs stays, do you?” My antennae shot up, but Rupert seemed unfazed. “I know she stays with Maxwell, the bookstore owner. He isn’t into women.” “No, it’s Hugo something,” Bruce said. “Ian Hugo?” Rupert asked, and I could see a splotch of redness moving up his neck. “No. Hugo is his first name. Her husband, for Chrisakes. His last name starts with a g. They have parties at their Village apartment.” Rupert asked, “Hugo Guiler?” I couldn’t believe what was happening. “What plays have you been in, Bruce?” I tried to change the conversation. Ignoring me, he said smugly, “Hugo Guiler, that’s her husband.” “Well your info is about eight years old, Bruce,” Rupert retorted. “Hugo Guiler is Anaïs’s ex-husband. I’m her husband now.” Bruce waved a hand that said Rupert didn’t know shit, and carried his bottle back to the kitchen. “What a weird guy,” I said, and tried to engage Rupert in talking about the Warren Report on President Kennedy’s assassination. “Do you believe that Oswald and Ruby were both working alone?” Rupert began to expound on his latest Kennedy assassination theory, as I knew he would, just as Bruce reappeared with a slip of paper in his hand.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘do not torment yourself: your troubles will soon be over.’ On hearing his voice, the lady looked up at him and sobbed, saying: ‘Good sir, you appear to be a pilgrim and a stranger; how can you know anything of my troubles and torments?’ ‘Madam,’ replied the pilgrim, ‘I come from Constantinople and I have just arrived in this city, to which I was sent by God to convert your tears into joy and deliver your husband from death.’ ‘But if you come from Constantinople,’ said the woman, ‘and if you have only just arrived, how can you know anything of me or my husband?’ Starting from the beginning, the pilgrim provided a full account of Aldobrandino’s predicament and told her exactly who she was, how long she had been married, and many other things that he knew concerning her private affairs. This recital greatly astonished the lady, who took him to be some kind of prophet and knelt down at his feet, beseeching him in God’s name, if he really had come to save Aldobrandino, to do so quickly before it was too late. ‘Stand up, my lady,’ said the pilgrim, assuming a very saintly air, ‘and cry no more. Listen closely to what I am about to say, and take good care never to repeat it to anyone. God has revealed to me that your tribulation arises from a certain sin you once committed, which He intends that you should purge, partially at any rate, by means of this present affliction. He is very anxious that you should make amends for it, because otherwise you would assuredly be plunged into much greater suffering.’ ‘I have committed many sins, sir,’ said the lady, ‘and I do not know which particular one it is that the Lord God desires me to atone for out of all the rest. So if you know which one it is, please tell me, and I shall do whatever I can to make amends for it.’ ‘I know very well what it is, madam,’ said the pilgrim. ‘And I shall now ask you a few questions about it, not for my own benefit, but merely to enable you to acknowledge the sin of your own free will, and repent more fully. But let us come to the point. Tell me, do you remember whether you ever had a lover?’ On hearing this question, the lady fetched a deep sigh and was greatly amazed, for she was under the impression that nobody had ever discovered her secret, albeit there had been a certain amount of gossip since the murder of the man who had been buried for Tedaldo, because of certain things which had been said, rather unwisely, by the friend in whom Tedaldo had confided. ‘It is obvious,’ she replied, ‘that God reveals all of men’s secrets to you, and I therefore see no reason for attempting to conceal my own.

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

  “That’s true.” Wistfully, she lowered her delicate chin. Then she looked up and set her beryl eyes on me. “Actually, that is where the story you need to understand begins: in 1947, probably before you were born.” I quickly calculated. “No, I was born. I was three years old.” She took a deep breath, touched my hand lightly, and began the story of her search for passion. She may not have been able to create a plot in her novels, but in person, with her soft, lilting voice, she was as captivating as Scheherazade, dropping one veil, only to entice with another. CHAPTER 6 Greenwich Village, New York, 1947 ANAÏS AT FORTY-FOUR, SHE WAS MAD for sex and wild with anxiety. Hugo had given her money to hire someone to set the type for Gemor Press, and she’d hired Gonzolo Mores, one of her impoverished Paris lovers who had followed her to the US. For a time, she was having sex with Gonzolo in the Village studio she kept for him, and with Henry Miller, who had also followed her to New York, and with a half dozen other men, sometimes five different men in a day—younger ones, older ones, soldiers and film directors, men she met at parties, some straight, some not. She paused only when bedridden with bouts of exhaustion. Her only anchor in this tumultuous period was the tangible work of handprinting her novels. Gonzolo, after a burst of energy, had fallen back on his old habit of drinking wine before noon, and so Anaïs had taken over his task of positioning the type on the old clamshell press. One freezing winter night, she was working alone in the East Village studio where the hand press was housed. Wrapped in her winter coat with a dirty printer’s smock covering it, she locked in letters of Bernhard Gothic Light. Her fingers were blackened from inking the plate. Her back ached from working the pedal. Yet she loved this work for the respite it gave from her abiding restlessness. She had come to the point where she felt she would have to leave both Hugo and the United States. She had not been able to flower as a woman or as a writer in New York as she had in Paris. She was dissipating her time and her talent. Her relationship with Hugo had become a formality of duty and appearance, and she wanted out of its imprisonment. Yet she did not know how she could get Hugo to live without her; nor, when she was honest with herself, how she would get by without him, financially or emotionally.

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

  The eternal ingénue—that’s what Anaïs was and what I wanted to be: forever young and light and carefree. I made a note of the Latin term but later, when I looked it up at Doheny Library, I found that the archetype of the woman who never ages, never loses her sexuality, and never becomes a mother had a dark side too—of being unable to stick to anything, of always being afraid of being trapped, of never growing up. Anaïs shifted her position on the stacked pillows. “I’ve been meaning to ask, have you seen your godmother?” “I stayed with Lenore last Easter break. We went to her show at the American Craft Museum.” “You cannot tell Lenore that you saw me in LA.” “Okay,” I said, “But I don’t see what harm.” “That’s just the point. You don’t know what harm!” “Then tell me. Tell me the rest of the story about you and Rupert. Did he try to find someone else to have children with?” My question appeared to pierce her like a blade. “I suppose that’s a natural question. He was only twenty-eight then.” “But he was in love with you,” I said. “Not yet.” She gave a wry smile. CHAPTER 8 Los Angeles, California, 1947 ANAÏS UPON THEIR ARRIVAL IN LOS Angeles, Rupert insisted they first go to the beach in Santa Monica. Anaïs sat on the shore shivering as he played like a puppy in the surf. Charging out of the water, his embrace wetting her clothes, he whooped, “I could take you right here.” Instead he took her with rough, impersonal sex in a rundown Hollywood motel room, and she had perhaps the best orgasm of her life. Putting on his clothes afterwards, he announced, “I have to go back to my mother’s tonight. They’re waiting for me.” “I can’t stay alone in this dump!” Panic pressed against her esophagus. “You’ll be safe. Lock the door.” “You expect me to believe that a twenty-eight-year-old man has to sleep at his mummy’s house? It’s the girlfriend, isn’t it?” He stepped back as though from a frothing animal. “I’ll see you in the morning.” As the motel door slammed behind him, she knew her uncontrolled anxiety had been ruinous. She ran after him, through the motel courtyard and onto the street, still in her bathrobe. “Rupert, please. Don’t leave me here!” He didn’t look back as he slid into Cleo and took off. Anaïs chased the car as it sped down the hill. Slipping on the steep, cracked pavement, she fell and caught herself, scraping her hand. Out of breath, she sat on the road as the last of twilight dimmed and watched as Cleo turned at the corner, huffing dark smoke from the exhaust pipe, and disappeared out of sight.

• 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)

  Anaïs placed a folded hand under her delicate chin. “I’m thinking of telling Hugo that the ranch owner was so annoyed at people calling to leave messages for guests that she had the phone disconnected, and that the phone company assigned the number to the men who answered.” “Excellent plan,” Renate said. “And with Tristine and the lecture series, you are now covered for the next two years.” So that was why Anaïs had made me change the invitation letter to a series of lectures! She could no longer tell Hugo that she was writing at the California rest ranch, but she could say repeatedly that she was coming to give the pre-arranged lectures at USC and staying with me. As this last piece fell into place, the chill I’d felt was encompassed by blackness, as if I were inside the freezer and someone had closed the door. Did they expect me to lie to Hugo for the next two years? I would have to memorize every detail of what Anaïs had told him. Renate had been able to pull off their ruse for seven years, but eventually even she had screwed up. Anaïs asked me, concerned, “Do you think you can do this?” “Yes,” I said with a conviction I didn’t feel. I didn’t have sufficient experience with lying. I was unqualified for this assignment, but now it was too late to tell Anaïs. “So, everything is settled.” Renate rose, indicating it was time for us to leave. But when Anaïs and I stood, Renate commanded, “We must make an oath with Tristine.” Alarmed, I looked to Anaïs. She simply shrugged and nodded with a resigned smile that I should humor Renate. “Put your hand over mine,” Renate instructed me. She extended her elevated right hand. I placed mine over hers. Anaïs placed her right hand over mine. Her hand was soft and cold. Renate stacked her left hand over Anaïs’s, and we followed suit until our six hands were piled like pancakes. Renate began, “Tristine swears not to repeat what she has learned or may learn about Anaïs’s life. She may discuss it only with Anaïs or Renate.” I felt a frisson of excitement. “Say ‘I swear,’” Renate urged, and I did. Renate continued, “We vow to keep Anaïs’s secrets, revealed now or in the future, under pain of personal disaster. The person who betrays this oath, unless released by Anaïs, shall be visited with betrayals increased in magnitude to the tenth degree. Repeat after me: ‘This I swear in the name of Archangel Raphael to the East, Uriel to the North, Gabriel to the West and Michael to the South. So be it. Amen.’” We repeated Renate’s words, but Anaïs’s voice was so faint, I heard only my own. The hocus pocus reminded me of the silly solemnity of my ADPi sorority initiation, and I was tempted to giggle—but the chill from Anaïs’s hand penetrated mine, and I could tell that Renate was completely serious. CHAPTER 15

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

  Los Angeles, California, 1964 TRISTINE HUGO PHONED ME THREE DAYS later. “Hello, Tristine.” I wasn’t ready! I went into actress mode. I told myself this was improvisation. The givens were that I was a sophisticated young woman who was friends with Anaïs Nin, such good friends that she stayed in my apartment when she was in LA. Ready, set, go. Perhaps with too much gusto, I responded, “Hugo! It’s been a long time. It’s great to hear from you.” “Thank you, Tristine. And thank you for helping Anaïs when she’s there.” “Oh, no problem. Do you have a message for her?” “No, is she staying there now?” “She’s not here at the moment, but I can get her a message.” “Well, no. I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I hope you won’t mind if I ask you some personal questions.” Uh-oh. I couldn’t figure out whether to say yes, he could, or no, he couldn’t. He must have gotten tired of waiting for me to reply because he went on. “Anaïs told me that you’ve moved universities. She gave me your new address at USC.” Moved universities? I hadn’t moved. I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Yes.” “Hmm. I’ve heard that USC has a good football team.” “That’s what everyone says. I don’t—” “Actually, that’s not what I wanted to ask you about.” Oh god, I’m not going to be able to do this! “I have a friend whose son was going to enroll there,” Hugo continued. “My friend says that the surrounding neighborhood is quite dangerous. A lot like Harlem before the riots this summer.” “But the campus is safe.” “How many blocks would you say your apartment is from campus?” “Oh, it’s only a few blocks from campus,” I fudged. Twelve blocks could still be a few. “And my building is safe.” I wished. “I never worried when Anaïs was staying at your apartment near UCLA. Westwood is a good neighborhood. But that rich-kids school you’re at now is in the ghetto. Go figure.” I was trying to figure. Hugo thought Anaïs had stayed with me before when I was at UCLA? But I’d never gone to UCLA or lived in Westwood. I just held my tongue while Hugo continued to admonish me to be careful on my “new” campus. Finally, given my silence, he stopped and asked, “So what are you majoring in?” “English lit.” “Well, why would an undergraduate transfer across town for that?” I hadn’t transferred, but he certainly thought I had. Okay, I prompted myself, go with what the other actor gives you. Preserve the illusion of reality: Why would an undergraduate transfer colleges? For a great professor! But USC didn’t have any. Well, there was one great art history professor who was gay, but they’d fired him. Think! Think! Got it! “I’m applying to UCLA for grad school, and they prefer to take undergraduates from colleges other than UCLA. So I had to leave to be able to come back.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  THIRD STORY Melchizedek 1 the Jew, with a story about three rings, avoids a most dangerous trap laid for him by Saladin. 2 Neifile’s story was well received by all the company, and when she fell silent, Filomena began at the queen’s behest to address them as follows: The story told by Neifile reminds me of the parlous state in which a Jew once found himself. Now that we have heard such fine things said concerning God and the truth of our religion, it will not seem inappropriate to descend at this juncture to the deeds and adventures of men. So I shall tell you a story which, when you have heard it, will possibly make you more cautious in answering questions addressed to you. It is a fact, my sweet companions, that just as folly often destroys men’s happiness and casts them into deepest misery, so prudence extricates the wise from dreadful perils and guides them firmly to safety. So clearly may we perceive that folly leads men from contentment to misery, that we shall not even bother for the present to consider the matter further, since countless examples spring readily to mind. But that prudence may bring its reward, I shall, as I have promised, prove to you briefly by means of the following little tale: Saladin, whose worth was so great that it raised him from humble beginnings to the sultanate of Egypt and brought him many victories over Saracen and Christian kings, had expended the whole of his treasure in various wars and extraordinary acts of munificence, when a certain situation arose for which he required a vast sum of money. Not being able to see any way of obtaining what he needed at such short notice, he happened to recall a rich Jew, Melchizedek by name, who ran a money-lending business in Alexandria, and would certainly, he thought, have enough for his purposes, if only he could be persuaded to part with it. But this Melchizedek was such a miserly fellow that he would never hand it over of his own free will, and the Sultan was not prepared to take it away from him by force. However, as his need became more pressing, having racked his brains to discover some way of compelling the Jew to assist him, he resolved to use force in the guise of reason. So he sent for the Jew, gave him a cordial reception, invited him to sit down beside him, and said: ‘O man of excellent worth, many men have told me of your great wisdom and your superior knowledge of the ways of God.

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

  She had told herself that she was doing this fling as much for her marriage as for herself. If she did not allow Sabina these excursions, she would not be able to stay in her marriage with Hugo. She’d told herself to keep this affair light. As long as she did not let herself fall in love with Rupert, she would be all right. Her marriage would be all right. But she had fallen in love with Rupert. Driving through the last stretch of fragrant orange groves on the way to Los Angeles, Rupert broke a long silence by asking, “Before you and your husband decided on divorce, did you want to have children?” Her stomach somersaulted. “In the beginning we both thought we would have children,” she answered, “but our life was so busy, it didn’t seem like a good idea.” “I want children,” Rupert announced. She thought she had worried about everything, but she hadn’t anticipated this. “I thought you wanted a life of adventure and freedom. That’s why you are choosing forestry.” “I do, but I’m conflicted because I also want a home and a family. I want life to be in harmony like music, and you can’t have music without a stable foundation.” She was in turmoil. At forty-four she might still bear him a child but could she take care of one? No, she could not imagine herself in that role now. They fell into silence again, inhaling the sweet scent of blossoming orange trees. CHAPTER 7 Malibu, California, 1964 TRISTINE THE RING OF THE PHONE in Renate’s living room brought Anaïs out of her narrative. She lunged for the receiver but changed her mind. “Hurry, Tristine, we have to leave. We don’t want Ronnie or Peter to find us here.” I didn’t understand why but quickly gathered my stuff, and we exited through the carport door. In front of our side-by-side cars, both with badly dented fenders, Anaïs gave me a kiss on each cheek. Then she wrapped her arms around me in a hug that held the warmth I’d longed for. “Do you think I could follow you back to where the highway inclines to Sunset?” she asked. “I have a terrible sense of direction and I’m afraid of missing the exit.” Another similarity between Anaïs and me, I noted. I got lost easily, too, though I chose not to tell her because I could manage the Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset and I wanted her to trust in me.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Like hyperarousal and constriction, helplessness is an overt reflection of the physiological processes happening in the body. When our nervous systems shift into an aroused state in response to danger, and we cannot defend ourselves or flee, the next strategy the nervous system employs is immobilization. Nearly every creature that lives has this primitive response wired into its repertoire of defensive strategies. We will return again and again to this intriguing response in the chapters that follow. It plays a leading role in both the development and transformation of trauma. And Then There Was Trauma Hyperarousal, constriction, helplessness, and dissociation are all normal responses to threat. As such, they do not always end up as traumatic symptoms. Only when they are habitual and chronic do symptoms develop. As these stress reactions remain in place, they form the groundwork and fuel for the development of subsequent symptoms. Within months, these symptoms at the core of the traumatic reaction will begin to incorporate mental and psychological characteristics into their dynamics until eventually they reach into every corner of the trauma sufferer’s life. In short, with trauma, the stakes are high. Ideally, the exercises in this chapter combined with other experiences you have had will help you identify how these reactions feel. As they become chronic, hyperarousal, constriction, helplessness, and dissociation together produce an anxiety so intense it can become unbearable. Eventually, the symptoms can coalesce into traumatic anxiety, a state that pervades the trauma sufferer’s every waking (and sleeping) moment. The symptoms that comprise the core of the traumatic reaction are the surest way to know that trauma has occurre d- if you can recognize how they feel. As the constellation of symptoms grows increasingly complex, some combination of these four components of the core of the traumatic reaction will always be present. When you can recognize them, these components will help you distinguish between symptoms that are due to trauma and those that are not. 11. Symptoms of Trauma When our nervous systems prepare us to meet danger, they shift into highly energized states. If we can discharge this energy while actively and effectively defending against threat (or shortly after the threatening event), the nervous system will move back toward a normal level of functioning. Our felt sense will feel complete, self-satisfied, and heroic. If the threat has not been dealt with successfully, the energy stays in our bodies. We have now created a self-perpetuating dilemma. On a physiological level, our bodies and minds work in tandem as one integrated system. We know that we are in danger when we perceive an external threat and our nervous system becomes highly aroused.

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

  “I see.” I could feel my forehead furrow and consciously tried to smooth it. If I wrote her biography I would be entirely identified with Anaïs for the next three years at least, probably my whole life. I already grated at being seen as just an extension of her. Often my association with her was the only thing people found interesting about me. Her shadow was so large, and the contours of mine were so similar, that I feared my identity would always be subsumed under hers. But how could I say no to Anaïs when she had created the teaching job that was supporting me, had fulfilled her role as my mentor in countless ways, had reached out to rescue me from despair in Indiana and tucked me under her downy wing? I knew how indebted I was to her and that it was my turn to repay her for my apprenticeship. If I was anything, I was a good soldier. The loyal one. The one who goes down with the ship. How could I say no to Anaïs? “Why don’t you think about it and let me know.” She smiled. The following week she phoned early, before I’d had my coffee. Tensing my shoulders as though expecting a guillotine’s blade, I waited for her to ask my decision about writing her biography. Her request was more urgent, though. In a strange, hoarse whisper she said she’d been flying back from a speaking engagement in northern California, when her abdominal pain became excruciating. “I have to go back in the hospital today, and I was supposed to appear Saturday at Royce Hall for that UCLA Fine Arts Speakers event.” “They can reschedule it,” I said. “No, it’s sold out. They say it’s too late to cancel. I want you to go in my place.” “I couldn’t,” I gasped. How could I do that with a few days’ notice? How could I take her place in any case? “People just want you.” “You won’t have to do it alone. I asked Jamie Herlihy, too, and he said yes immediately.” I heard the implied reprimand. She urged, “You can just read the paper you wrote about Diary II.” The idea of standing at a podium and reading a long paper of literary criticism to 2,000 Anaïs Nin fans who’d come for her feted charisma truly seemed like a bad idea. “Your audience will walk out. They’ll demand their money back.” “Jamie will just talk informally, so it won’t all be your reading,” Anaïs implored. Unlike me, Jamie Herlihy was a literary star in his own right. He had written All Fall Down and Midnight Cowboy. His wit and Irish theatricality could hold an audience, while for me, a nobody, to read a long academic paper, when people had paid their money to see Anaïs … They would be outraged.

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

  I noticed how tired Anaïs looked under her makeup and wondered if her cancer had really retreated. Her penciled-on eyebrows lifted in alarm. “Excuse me. I have to take care of something. Bob is trying to put Rupert in the film.” We watched the director’s young assistant position fill lights around Rupert, who was sitting in a chair while Snyder held a meter next to his face. “Anaïs, he’s just using Rupert as a stand-in for your shot.” “No, I know what I’m talking about.” She squeezed my hand with her cold fingers before she rushed inside. I wanted her to stay. I needed her to reassure me that she was curing the cancer. That if I did decide to go to Indiana, she would be fine when I got back. I started toward the house, circling around the pool, stepping carefully because there was no light on that side of the yard. I glanced up and saw Anaïs leading Snyder out through the glass doors onto the flagstone patio. I stopped in my tracks, not wanting to interrupt, unable to tell if they’d noticed me. “Bob, we talked about this.” Anaïs’s voice wavered with anxiety. “Rupert is not to be in the film.” “Be reasonable!” Snyder made no attempt to keep his voice down. “Your audience will want to see your handsome husband. Rupert is very photogenic, you know.” Snyder pressed his stubby fingers together in supplication. “Yes, I know. But we agreed that Rupert would not appear.” Anaïs didn’t want Rupert in the film, of course, because Hugo would inevitably see it. But Rupert had been introduced as her husband to the director, as was customary in the LA arts circle we ran in. She could hardly explain that she had another husband in New York from whom she kept Rupert a secret. Snyder was a “small time” documentary filmmaker and “not very high class,” as Anaïs had described him to me. He could not be trusted. “I need to remind you, Bob,” Anaïs said, “that you agreed this film would be about my professional life, not my personal life.” “Are you trying to tell me how to shoot my movie? We need a balance, a balance. I’m the filmmaker here. I know.” She didn’t take the bait. She lowered her voice. “The audience of my work knows me only as Anaïs Nin, my professional name, which is also my maiden name. It would be too confusing to bring in Rupert Pole as my husband.” “Oh, that’s no problem.” Snyder sounded relieved. “All the young women are keeping their maiden names now. It just shows how ahead of the times you are. All we have to do is have you identify Rupert as your husband in the voiceover.” Right, I thought. Have Anaïs announce on film, for Hugo to hear, “This is my husband Rupert Pole.” I was shocked when Snyder then spoke as if he were some important Hollywood director and she were just his actress:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In case Federigo should become suspicious of her and take offence, Monna Tessa decided that, come what may, she must get up out of bed and apprise him of the fact that Gianni was there, and so she said to her husband: ‘That’s all very well. You can spout as many words as you like, but as far as I’m concerned I shan’t feel safe or secure until we exorcize it, and now that you are here we can do it.’ ‘Exorcize it?’ said Gianni. ‘How are we to do that?’ ‘I know exactly how to exorcize it,’ said his wife, ‘because the day before yesterday, when I went to the pardoning at Fiesole, I came across a hermitess, who as God is my witness, Gianni dear, is the most saintly woman you ever met, and when she saw how terrified I was of the werewolf, she taught me a fine and godly prayer, telling me that she had tried it many a time before becoming a recluse, and that it had always worked for her. Heaven knows that I would never have sufficient courage to try it out by myself, but now that you are here, I want us to go and exorcize it.’ Gianni thought this an excellent idea, and so they both got up out of bed and tiptoed over to the door, on the other side of which Federigo, his suspicions already aroused, was still waiting. On reaching the door, Gianni’s wife said to him: ‘As soon as I give you the word, have a good spit.’11 ‘Right you are,’ said Gianni. Then the lady began the exorcism, saying: ‘Werewolf, werewolf, black as any crow, you came here with your tail erect, keep it up and go; go into the garden, and look beneath the peach, and there you’ll find roast capons, and a score of eggs with each; raise the flask up to your lips, and take a swig of wine; then get you gone and hurt me not, nor even Gianni mine.’ And so saying she turned to her husband, and said: ‘Spit, Gianni.’ And Gianni spat. Federigo, who was standing outside and heard every syllable, had stopped feeling jealous, and despite all his frustration he had to hold his sides to prevent himself from bursting out laughing. And in a low murmur, as Gianni was doing his spitting, he groaned: ‘The teeth!’ When Monna Tessa had exorcized the werewolf three times in this same fashion, she and her husband returned to bed.