Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Another Country (1962)

  The first to arrive was Richard’s editor, Loring Montgomery, a chunky, spectacled, man, with smooth, graying hair, who was younger than he looked—nearly ten years younger, in fact, than Richard. He had a diffident manner and a nervous giggle. With him was Richard’s agent, a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman, who wore much silver and a little gold, and whose name was Barbara Wales. She, too, had a giggle but it was not nervous, and a great deal of manner but it was not diffident. She apparently felt that her status as Richard’s agent created a bond of intimacy between herself and Cass; who, helplessly and miserably mesmerized, and handicapped by the volume of Miss Wales’ voice and the razorlike distinctness of her syllables, trotted obediently behind her into the bedroom where coats and hats were to be deposited and where the women could repair their make-up. “The bar is over here,” Richard called, “whatever you’re drinking, come and get it.” “I could stand another drink,” Vivaldo said. “I’ve been drinking all day and I can’t get drunk.” “Are you trying to?” asked Ida. He looked at her and smiled. “No,” he said, “no, I’m not trying to. But if I were, I couldn’t make it, not today.” They stood facing the window. “You’re going to have supper with me, aren’t you?” “You’re not hungry, already?” “No. But I’m going to be hungry around suppertime.” “Well,” she said, “ask me around suppertime.” “You’re not suddenly going to decide you have to go home, or anything? You’re not going to run out on me?” “No,” she said, “I’m going to stick with you until the bitter end. You’ve got to talk to that agent, you know.” “Do I have to?” He looked in the direction of the glittering Miss Wales. “Of course you do. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons Richard wanted you here this afternoon. And you have to talk to the editor, too.” “Why? I haven’t got anything to show him.” “Well, you will. I’m sure Richard arranged all this partly for you. Now, you’ve got to cooperate.” “And what are you going to be doing while I’m having all these conferences?” “I’ll talk to Cass. Nobody’s really interested in us; we don’t write.” He kissed her hair. “You are the cutest thing,” he said. The doorbell rang. This time it was Steve Ellis, who had come with his wife. Ellis was a short, square man with curly hair and a boyish face. The face was just beginning, as is the way with boyish faces, not so much to harden as to congeal. He had a reputation as the champion of doomed causes, reaction’s intrepid foe; and he walked into the drawing rooms of the world as though he expected to find the enemy ambushed there. His wife wore a mink coat and a flowered hat, seemed somewhat older than he, and was inclined to be talkative.

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

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

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

• From Another Country (1962)

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

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

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

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

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

• From How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  in an intimate relationship 5 ,” I would encourage you to set this book down and seek help from someone who can assist you in getting to safety. The National Domestic Violence Hotline, for instance, is a valuable resource in the US for anyone who may be in an abusive relationship. See the further reading and resources section at the end of the book for details of organizations in the US, UK, Australia, and New Zealand. Now is a good time to point out a very important distinction that not everyone recognizes. There is a difference between anger and aggression. Anger is a feeling state. It’s an emotion brought on by the belief that we are being treated unfairly or having our goals blocked. It’s exceedingly common, with most people saying they experience it a few times a day to a few times a week. 6 It’s different from the acts of harm that are sometimes associated with it. Those acts of harm reflect aggression, which is a behavior where a person intends to hurt a person verbally or physically. This distinction is really important, especially in terms of this book. The world is full of angry people who aren’t necessarily aggressive people. Anger can be expressed in near infinite ways and physical violence is a relatively rare consequence. People are far more likely to suffer other sorts of consequences such as feeling scared or sad after an angry outburst; they could get into a verbal altercation, damage property, drive dangerously, or use alcohol or other drugs. The angry people you interact with might not be abusive to you or anyone, but that doesn’t make interacting with them easy. They can still have a very toxic influence on your life, leaving you feeling exhausted, overwhelmed, anxious, or even angry yourself. Feeling Unprepared and Uncertain I am a psychology professor who has been studying anger and other emotions for more than 20 years. I have conducted research on healthy and unhealthy expressions of anger, taught courses on anger and other emotions, and early in my career I did clinical work with angry clients. I have also made a point of connecting with people via my research and social media to better understand

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

  For this reason, our discussion of the nature of Rabbinic religious experience must be brief and limited. Yet it is an important point in the present work that there is, or should be, a congruence between the pattern of religion - how it works - and the religious experience which tends to characterize the life of its adherents. If an incongruence occurs, if the traditional pattern is not responsive to new religious needs, attitudes and feelings, there is a religious crisis. This will be seen in detail when we come to IV Ezra. It has been a common view among Christian scholars that there is such an incongruence in Judaism generally and in Rabbinic Judaism in particular. God, it has been said, became very remote in the period after the return from Babylon. He was no longer spoken of familiarly, but only by circumlo- cutions; and angels were necessary as intermediaries. 2 Yet Judaism possessed no means of access to the remote God save obedience to the Torah, which is manifestly insufficient and inadequate. This situation led to a religion. of anxiety on the one hand (could one do enough works to earn favour with the distant God?) and smug self-reliance on the other hand (some could). 3 This estimate of Jewish religious experience -anxiety coupled with 1 In addition to the works which are discussed below, see Biichler, Types, pp. 6<)ff., on 'the religious emotions of the Jew'. 2 A familiar statement of the view is that ofR. Bultmann,Jesusand the Word, pp. 138f. Bultmann was aware of the strong tradition in Judaism of the presence of God (p. 140), but seems to have thought that that tradition weakened in later Judaism. Cf. also Primitive Christianity, p. 6o: '[God] was no longer a vital factor in the present ... '; p. 61 : the idea of God's transcendence meant that 'God was no longer bound to his people'. 3 Bultmann, Primitive Christianity, pp. 70£., relying on Bousset, Religion des Judentums, pp. 392-4. 10] The nature of religious life and experience 213 arrogant self-righteousness - rests on three theories about Jewish theology, all wrong. They are the view that a man must do more good deeds than he commits transgressions, that God was viewed as inaccessible, and that the individual felt himself to be lost, having no access to the remote God. We have spent the bulk of the chapter thus far in an effort to show that the traditional view in Christian scholarship that Rabbinic soteriology consists of weighing deeds is wrong-it is not supported by the texts which are taken to support it and it is contradicted by another all-pervasive view. We should now point out how Bousset (and, following him, Bultmann and numerous other New Testament scholars) connected this view of Jewish soteriology with the conclusion that it led to a completely ina_dequate religious experience. Thus Bousset argued that despite what would appear to be the certainty of salvation implicit in Judaism, there was a deep un- certainty.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The yellow electric light, self-consciously indirect, would by now have been discovered to be useless and would have been turned off. The girl would have taken off her shoes and turned on her radio or her hi-fi set and would be lying on the bed. The gray light, coming in through the monk’s-cloth blinds, would, with the malice of the noncommittal, be examining every surface, corner, angle, of the unloved room. The music would not be loud. They would have poured drinks by now and the girl’s drink would be on the table. The boy’s would be between his hands. He would be sitting on the bed, turned a little away from the girl, staring at the floor. His cap would have been pushed further back. And the silence, beneath the music, would be tremendous with their fear. Presently, one of them would make a move to conquer this. If it were the girl, the movement would be sighing and halting—sighing because of need, halting because of hostility. If it were the boy, the movement would be harshly or softly brutal: he would lunge over the girl as though rape were in his mind, or he would try to arouse her lust by means of feathery kisses, meant to be burning, which he had seen in the movies. Friction and fantasy could not fail to produce a physiological heat and hardness; and this sheathed pressure between her thighs would be the girl’s signal to moan. She would toss her head a little and hold the boy more tightly and they would begin their descent into confusion. Off would come the cap—as the bed sighed and the gray light stared. Then his jacket would come off. His hands would push up the sweater and unlock the brassière. Perhaps both might wish to pause here and begin a discovery of each other, but neither would dare. She moaned and clung to darkness, he removed the sweater. He struggled unlovingly with her breasts; the sound of her gasps foreshadowed his failure. Then the record on the hi-fi came to an end, or, on the radio, a commercial replaced the love song. He pulled up her skirt. Then the half-naked girl, with a small, apologetic murmur, rose from the bed, switched off the machine. Standing in the center of the room, she might mock her nakedness with a small, cruel joke. Then she would vanish into the john. The boy would finish his drink and take off everything except his undershorts. When the girl reappeared, both would be ready.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Ensuite, tout le monde était sorti s’asseoir dans la piscine gonflable, l’eau déjà tiédie par le soleil, mais suffisamment fraîche et, de toute façon, c’était au caractère l’inédit de l’acte qu’ils prenaient tant plaisir, et ça ne comptait pas pour rien. Ils habitent à quelques minutes à pied de chez Wallace, et le saladier n’est pas chaud cette fois, mais un peu frais. Le ciel du début de soirée est pâle. Il est à peine plus de 18 h 30. Il est à l’heure. Il peut les voir par la fenêtre en arrivant, tous éclairés par les lumières jaunes de la cuisine, souriants, riant. Des guirlandes blanches ont été accrochées à la rampe. Il s’ancre intérieurement. Ça va aller. Tout va bien se passer. Il n’a que des amis ici. Il entrouvre la porte du bout du pied et passe la tête par l’embrasure. « Bonsoir, bonsoir ! » lance-t-il en entrant. « Wallace ! », fait un chœur de voix qui s’élèvent de la cuisine. Il retire ses chaussures sans se pencher, les laisse à la porte et traverse le courant d’air chaud pour rejoindre la cuisine, où sept ou huit personnes sont déjà rassemblées. Cole et Vincent nettoient des légumes racines dans la cuvette gris foncé de l’évier, se bousculant avec affection. Roman est assis par terre, il joue avec un petit lapin. Emma s’approche de Wallace avec un verre de vin et lui passe un bras autour du cou. Lukas et Yngve découpent du céleri et des carottes sur le plan de travail. « Oh, vous faites un ragoût de lapin ? » demande Wallace en posant son saladier dans un coin. « Ne fais pas des plaisanteries comme ça sur Lila », dit Lukas, qui pointe son couteau vers Wallace. Il plaisante, mais à peine, à entendre sa voix. « J’adore le ragoût de lapin, fait Yngve. J’adore, j’adore, j’adore. » Lukas lui coule un regard blessé et de léger dégoût, comme s’il venait d’essuyer une trahison totale. De l’autre côté de la cuisine, à côté de Cole et Vincent, il y a une femme qui pile de la glace. Elle est grande, solide, avec des épaules larges et un cou gracile. Elle porte un dos-nu, et Wallace aperçoit une constellation de taches de rousseur brun poussière sur ses omoplates. Elle respire la santé. Son rire est grave et un peu rauque. Elle se tourne vers Cole pour lui dire quelque chose ; elle est très jolie. Elle a les yeux bleu foncé. Emma lui chuchote à l’oreille, la voix pâteuse à cause du vin. « C’est Zoe. Yngve essaie de caser Miller. — Ah, il me semble que Cole m’en a touché un mot au tennis », dit Wallace, et il essaie de sourire, mais il a déjà mal aux joues et la soirée n’est même pas encore commencée. « Je crois qu’elle fait de l’escalade, un truc comme ça ? » Emma boit encore une longue gorgée de vin. Elle a les yeux rouges.

• From Real Life (2020)

  C’est juste que je ne sais pas quoi faire. — S’il ne te trompe pas, s’il cherche juste… — Chercher, c’est tromper, Wallace. » Sa voix est coupante, c’est comme presser la main contre un couteau oublié au soleil. Il luit dans ses yeux une colère inflexible. Wallace déglutit à grand-peine. « Bon, je crois qu’il va falloir que tu en parles avec lui, alors. — Je ne sais pas comment, fait Cole, et ses épaules s’affaissent. Je ne sais pas par où commencer. Merde. » Le tennis, c’est fini pour aujourd’hui. Cole se laisse tomber sur le banc et se prend la tête entre les mains. Il ne pleure pas, mais il respire fort. Wallace se place au bord du banc et pose la main sur l’épaule de Cole. Il est trempé de sueur, tout chaud. C’est comme la fois en première année, dans le van, sous la pluie, et Wallace sent cette nostalgie lointaine revenir affleurer en lui. « Ça va s’arranger. — Je n’en suis pas certain. — Mais si. C’est obligé », dit Wallace, profitant d’une montée, non pas d’assurance, mais de désespoir pour aider son ami à voir le bout de cette crise, quoi qu’il en coûte. « C’est normal. Tous les couples se disputent. Ils se cachent des choses, ils s’engueulent. Ça veut dire que tu es dans quelque chose qui mérite le prix que tu lui accordes. » Cole a les yeux humides lorsqu’il relève les yeux de la courbe de ses paumes. Ses joues sont moites, de sueur ou de larmes, Wallace ne sait pas trop. Ses lèvres s’entrouvrent, et il laisse échapper un son doux et triste. « Hé, dit Wallace. Hé. — Non, tu as raison. Il faut que je me comporte en adulte, que je me dégonfle pas. Putain, qu’est-ce qu’il fait chaud ici. — Tu m’étonnes. On peut aller au lac si tu veux. » Cole réfléchit, regarde les courts déserts. On entend le grondement du stade. Une voiture passe sur la route. Les corbeaux ont recommencé leur cacophonie dans les arbres. L’ombre projetée par la clôture est médiocre et criblée de petits trous de lumière. On croirait regarder le ciel sous un filet. Une perle de sueur isolée le long de l’oreille de Cole. Wallace est tenté de la récupérer au bout de son doigt, pour dire : Fais un vœu, mais ça ne marche pas avec l’eau. On ne trouve pas de vœux dans l’eau salée, pas de magie, à part, dans certains cas, la manière dont les gouttes se transforment en étoiles quand on les disperse, par exemple au bout d’un doigt, en soufflant dessus. « OK, bonne idée. OK. » Ils se lèvent du banc, les muscles raides et les articulations douloureuses.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Elle s’efforce, à sa façon, de le dire avec autant de douceur et de bienveillance que possible. « C’est mon travail, dit-il. C’est mon travail, Katie. Je fais de mon mieux. Et si ce n’est pas assez rapide à ton goût, je suis désolé. — Je veux bien, mais tu ne peux pas prendre ton temps comme ça quand le travail des autres est sur la sellette, Wallace. — Je ne prends pas mon temps. Je fais mon travail. Je fais ce que je peux. — Eh bien, parfois, je crois qu’il faut céder sa place, si ton mieux n’est pas suffisant. Genre si, objectivement, tu n’es pas à la hauteur, c’est égoïste de rester et de bloquer tout le monde. — Je te bloque, Katie ? C’est ce que tu penses ? » Katie ne lui répond rien. Elle ne le regarde pas. Elle s’est appuyée de tout son poids contre la paillasse, les jambes croisées. On entend des coups répétés dans l’autre partie du labo, des tintements d’ustensiles en verre. De l’eau qui coule. Wallace a froid. Ses doigts se raidissent. S’il bloque Katie, il va s’effacer. S’il gêne sa progression, il lui accordera ce qu’elle veut. Mais elle sait aussi bien que lui que le fait qu’elle soit capable de réaliser l’expérience mieux et plus vite que lui ne signifie pas qu’elle ait le temps d’effectuer le travail de Wallace en plus du sien. Ce n’est pas pour rien que le projet dans son ensemble a été réparti de cette manière : Wallace devait se charger de l’aspect technique tandis que Katie s’occupait du champ d’expérimentation plus rigoureux : parce qu’elle ne pouvait pas tout faire. Vient un moment où l’on doit reconnaître ses limites, et accepter que l’aptitude à effectuer une tâche ne revient pas automatiquement à en avoir la possibilité. Elle est frustrée par cette réalité. L’agacement se lit sur son visage. Elle pousse un soupir. « Bon, bouclons ça – j’en ai marre d’attendre, conclut-elle en tournant les talons. Boucle ça, Wallace. — Entendu. » Les mots de Katie l’ont piqué au vif. Il a mal à la tête. Le laboratoire est d’une luminosité aveuglante. Que faire ? Il a à peine le temps de réfléchir que Simone émerge de la petite salle de repos. En le voyant, elle change de direction pour venir vers lui. « Wallace », dit-elle, d’une voix rauque, qui, inexplicablement, évoque l’accent du Sud. « Tu as un moment ? — Oui. Bien sûr. — Parfait, dit-elle, souriant à présent. Allons dans mon bureau. » Le bureau de Simone est à un angle du bâtiment. Il a vue sur le pont, au loin, et sur une rangée d’arbres petits mais robustes. On aperçoit aussi un genévrier et, à cette hauteur, les courts de tennis et même un croissant de lac sont visibles.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Des guêpes leur tournent autour dans la nuit, attirées par les traces de bière collante sur la table et par leurs glaces. Il leur fait les gros yeux, comme si ça allait les chasser. Brigit pousse un petit rire. « J’arrive pas à croire que demain c’est déjà lundi, dit-elle en renversant la tête en arrière. Tu y crois toi ? — Ça se produit toutes les semaines. À croire que c’est une mode. — L’humour, c’est pas ton truc. — Je sais bien. On a tous nos défauts. Et nos qualités. — T’es pas gentil », dit-elle, sèchement, mais sans menace. « J’ai appris que tu avais eu une discussion avec Katie. — Qui t’a dit ça ? — Katie. — Ah, j’aurais dû m’en douter. — Si tu veux… enfin tu sais. — Je sais. Je sais, merci. Mais j’ai pas le choix, à part faire ce que j’ai à faire, j’imagine. — OK », fait Brigit, mais elle n’est pas convaincue. Son front est plissé d’inquiétude. Wallace se demande ce que Katie a pu dire exactement, comment elle a formulé les choses. « Elle n’était pas très contente que tu sois parti aujourd’hui, au fait. — Je sais, elle avait l’air furax. Mais elle a toujours l’air furax. — C’est vrai, j’avoue. C’est juste parce qu’elle s’apprête à présenter sa thèse – bientôt elle sera partie, et on n’aura plus de problème. — Et après c’est toi, dit doucement Wallace. Ensuite c’est ton tour. — Et ensuite c’est ton tour ! », fait gaiement Brigit, et Wallace s’affaisse, tombe dans le silence. La glace est bien froide, parfaite. La vanille est un goût vide. Il passe la cuiller le long de ses lèvres, pour les anesthésier. Le papier qui enveloppe la coupelle en gaufrette est trempé à présent. Brigit, sentant qu’elle a franchi une limite entre eux, lui jette un regard contrit. Mais de quoi s’excuse-t-elle ? Quel intérêt de s’excuser auprès de lui à ce stade ? « Simone… », commence-t-il, pressant sa langue contre l’arrière de ses dents, les yeux tournés vers l’eau. « Simone m’a demandé de réfléchir à ce que je veux. Si je veux vraiment rester ici. Rester à la fac. — Oh putain, fait Brigit, levant les yeux au ciel. Quelle connasse prétentieuse. — Brigit. — C’est vrai, c’est ce qu’elle est. C’est quoi, cette question ? — Une question très sérieuse. J’ai eu des emmerdes avec Dana, hier. Ça ne mérite pas de revenir dessus, mais Simone en a après moi. » Brigit reprend son sérieux. « Elle envisage de te mettre dehors ? » Wallace ne répond pas. Il prend une nouvelle cuillerée de glace, savoure sa fraîcheur parfaite. Brigit lui presse le bras. « Franchement, elle y pense ? — Elle me demande de réfléchir très sérieusement à ce que je veux. Et c’est logique.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Et en plus, il est blanc, ce qui n’est jamais un désavantage auprès des gays. Mais Wallace ne dit rien de tel car il risquerait de perturber la vision de Cole, qui considère l’homme gay moyen comme superficiel et un peu bête – c’est vrai, ils sont superficiels et un peu bêtes, mais pas plus que n’importe quelle population. Si Wallace a supprimé l’appli, c’est seulement qu’il en avait marre de se voir invisible pour les autres, du silence croissant de sa messagerie. Il ne cherchait pas, de toute façon, mais en même temps, il voulait être regardé comme tout le monde, être vu. « J’ai vu Vincent dessus, la nuit dernière. — Ah bon ? Et qu’est-ce que tu faisais dessus, toi ? — Je soupçonnais qu’il était inscrit. Alors j’ai créé un faux profil. — C’est pas un peu… ? — Je sais, je sais, mais il fallait que je voie s’il était inscrit. Et il y était. Tu imagines ? — Vous en avez déjà parlé, tous les deux ? — Non. Enfin si… On a dit qu’on y penserait, tu vois ? À ouvrir notre couple. Je ne sais pas pourquoi je ne suffis pas. — Peut-être que tu suffis. Ce n’est pas la question. Peut-être qu’il a juste envie… d’un truc différent. Je ne sais pas. — Mais pourquoi il fait ça en douce ? — Je ne sais pas. — C’est ça qui me tue, Wallace. Qu’il fasse ça dans mon dos. — Et il l’a fait ? — Pas que je sache. Merde. J’en sais rien. En principe, on doit réfléchir à adopter un chien, tu vois ? On doit penser à notre mariage. À s’installer. Et c’est maintenant qu’il veut ouvrir notre couple. » Wallace pousse un long soupir. Il referme la main sur l’épaule de Cole. « Allez, viens. On fait des balles. » Wallace et Cole jouent au tennis ensemble depuis leur première année de troisième cycle. Ils sont de force à peu près égale : Wallace a un bon revers fluide à une main et Cole a une facilité pour les coups droits. Wallace a tendance à lober sans maîtrise sur ses coups droits et le revers de Cole est saccadé, laborieux. Quand ils font un match, ça se joue à quelques points, mais Cole l’emporte en général car son service est plus régulier, et quand il est acculé, il arrive à sortir quelques aces qui laissent Wallace déséquilibré, agitant les bras en vain.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Pendant les séminaires de l’après-midi, il se surprenait à s’assoupir, bercé par les discours sur le séquençage complet et la résonance magnétique nucléaire des protéines. Les professeurs inspiraient bruyamment de l’air et parlaient de cette voix suave, apprêtée, rendue populaire par certaines vidéos sur l’art et la science largement diffusées. C’était toujours : Je vais vous raconter une histoire ou Je vais partager avec vous trois fascinants arcs narratifs, ou J’aimerais vous accompagner sur le chemin de là à là . Et sur les sièges rigides de l’amphi, où il n’y avait ni réseau ni wi-fi, où tout le bois était blond, les murs habillés de lambris ondoyant et le sol couvert d’un revêtement favorisant le confort acoustique, Wallace dérivait comme dans des eaux où il lui était impossible de nager. Il buvait plus de caféine qu’il n’en avait ingurgité de toute sa vie et passait ses après-midi affligé de violentes diarrhées. Wallace buvait tant de café que le monde semblait un peu plus lumineux, sur le point de devenir convexe, comme si chaque rai de lumière le cherchait, lui, personnellement. Et un jour, Henrik lui donna un conseil : La caféine est un excitant . Wallace en resta perplexe. On aurait dit un aphorisme bidon. Henrik lui disait ça à chaque fois que Wallace revenait de la cafétéria en sous-sol avec une tasse de café, à chaque fois qu’ils prenaient l’ascenseur ensemble après un séminaire au cours duquel Wallace s’était servi tasse sur tasse au buffet gratuit. Il avait des palpitations. La bouche sèche. Le bout des doigts raide et gonflé. Il avait la sensation qu’on l’expulsait de sa peau comme une saucisse de son boyau. Des bruits bizarres le faisaient sursauter en pleine nuit quand il travaillait tout seul au labo. Un jour, pendant ses dissections, sa main fut prise d’une violente convulsion, un spasme soudain qui le traversa, et il laissa échapper le scalpel. La lame atterrit dans sa cuisse avec un bruit mat, malsain. Elle ne pénétra pas très profond, mais suffisamment, et Wallace comprit, à ce moment précis, exactement ce qu’avait voulu dire Henrik. Les carreaux blancs sont un océan de lumière dans le milieu d’après-midi, et des pages grises défilent sous les yeux fatigués de Wallace. Il presse le pouce contre l’articulation de ses doigts, un à un, provoquant un craquement franc de la jointure. Un oiseau s’est posé sur l’avant-toit plat et blanc, dehors. Il se nettoie l’intérieur de l’aile. Une petite créature ronde, plumes grises et ventre blanc. Une tête minuscule, presque indiscernable du corps. Juste une petite boule de plumes. L’ombre du volatile sautille sur le sol, et Wallace le regarde jusqu’à ce qu’il disparaisse dans les airs. En venant au labo, Wallace s’est arrêté à la bibliothèque pour emprunter le livre dont a parlé Thom. Le samedi, quand il y a moins de chances que Simone soit là, il lit au labo.