Boredom

Passages

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

Page 12 of 15 · 20 per page

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  As you’ve explored the profoundest subjective rewards of the erotic adventure you’ve probably come face to face with one of the most fundamental of all erotic paradoxes: even though passion and fulfillment have a close, reciprocal relationship, there is an unavoidable tension between them. While the idea of perpetual fulfillment holds an undeniable appeal, the truth is that never-ending fulfillment, if there ever were such a thing, would ultimately lead to boredom—the polar opposite of passion. Of course, passion seeks fulfillment as its greatest reward. In so many ways fulfillment enhances passion because it teaches us an enormous amount about the secrets of arousal. It is equally true, however, that fulfillment inevitably subdues passion because it quenches need, and thus desire. And without desire there is no reason for passion. You might think of the passion-fulfillment paradox as part of the larger human drama in which satisfactions of all kinds sow the seeds of discontent. But for those who accept the ways of the erotic mind, passion and fulfillment are accurately seen as two essential parts of a whole. When you know what you want and are lucky enough to find it, you feel not only uplifted and enlivened, but also satiated—not a bad feeling at all. Yet it’s just a matter of time until new desires begin to stir. You’re dancing to the age-old rhythms of eros. APPENDIXTHE SEXUAL EXCITEMENT SURVEY Dear Reader: I’ve included this modified version of the SES so you can see how I gathered information about peak sex for my research. More important, I hope you’ll actively use it as a tool for expanding your self-awareness. Part I is concerned with your most memorable real-life peak encounters, while Part II focuses on fantasy. Responding to all the questions can stimulate your thoughts. However, particularly crucial items appear in boxes. These open-ended questions ask you to write about your personal experiences in as much detail as you wish. If you’d like to help expand my research, consider sending me your responses (anonymously, of course). This choice is completely optional, a decision you can put off until later if you prefer. Only if you send in your answers is it necessary to respond to Part III (personal background information). If you decide to become a research participant, simply print or type the number of each question on sheets of paper. There’s no need to write out the questions. Remember not to put your name anywhere. For questions with lettered or numbered choices, select the appropriate letter or number of your answer. For questions in boxes, please type or print your stories, using as many pages as you wish. Mailing instructions are at the end of the survey. PART I: REAL-LIFE ENCOUNTERS Think back over all your sexual encounters with other people. Allow your mind to focus on two specific encounters that were among the most arousing of your entire life. Describe each of them in as much detail as you wish. 1. Describe exciting encounter.

• From Sources of the Self: The Making of the Modern Identity (1989)

  But I don't think we can grasp this richness and comple xity unless w e see how the modern understanding of the self developed out of earlier pictures of human identity. This book attempts to define the modern identity in describing its genesis. I focus on three major facets of this identity: first, modern inwardness, the sense of ourselves as beings with inne r dep ths, and t h e connected notion that we are 'selves ' ; second, the affirmation of ordinary life which develops from the early m odern period; third, the express i vist notion of nature as an inner m oral source. The first I try to trace through Augustine to Descartes and Montaigne, a nd on to our own day; the second I take from the Reformation through the Enlightenment to its contemporary forms; and the third I describe from its origin in the late e i ghteenth century through the transformations of the nineteenth century , and on to its manifestations in twentieth-century literature. The main body of the book, Parts 11-V, is taken up with this picture of the developing modern identity. The treatment i s a combination of the analytical and the chronological. But because my entire way of proceeding involves mapping connections between senses of the self and moral visions, between identity and the good, I didn't feel I c o uld launch into this study without some p reliminary discussion of these links. This seemed all the more necessary in that the moral philosophies dominant today tend to obscure these connec tions. In order to see the m, we have to appreciate the place of the good, in more than one sense, in our moral outlook and life. But this is precisely what contemporary moral philosophies have most trouble admitting. The book therefore begins with a section which tries to make the case very briefly for a picture of the relation between self and morals, which I then draw on in the rest of the work. Those who are utterly bored by m odern philosoph y might want to skip Part I. Those who are bored by history, if by some mistake they find this work in their hands, should read nothing else. The whole study is, as I indicated, a prelude to our being able to come to grips with the phenomena of modernity in a more fruitful and less one-sided way than is usual. I didn't have space in this already too big book to paint a full-scale alternative picture of these phenomena. I will have to leave this, as well as the analysis linking the modern identity to our epistemology and philosophy of language, to later works.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Eventually, however, as the frequency and intensity of sex begin to taper off, signs of sexual cooling become impossible to ignore. In most cases this happens gradually over a period of years. However, if one partner, most likely a man, has trouble feeling love and lust toward the same person, his desire may plummet very quickly after the intensity of early limerence calms. For these men—and some women too—genuine closeness is a complete turn-off. But even among couples who are capable of enjoying the interplay of love and lust, two opposite forces contribute to a progressive reduction in sexual enthusiasm: (1) boredom and emotional disengagement, and (2) increasing closeness, familiarity, and comfort. Most couples develop sexual routines. For some these routines are acceptable—even comforting—especially if they are punctuated with occasional surprises. Others are so bored by routine that they find it increasingly difficult to generate sufficient sexual energy to become highly aroused or have orgasms. Without noticing, many also drift apart emotionally. Not only do they spend less time together, they talk about practical matters—such as what to do about the kids, problems with the house, or finances—with fewer of the heart-to-heart discussions that once brought them closer. As they settle in, other couples become increasingly intertwined. Some grow so close and comfortable that they act more like siblings than lovers; sex might even feel a bit incestuous. Also, the same intimacy that makes for a wonderful connection can obliterate the last vestiges of desire-enhancing obstacles. They become so close that the chemistry between them is neutralized. Cooled passions, whether a result of emotional disengagement and boredom, or closeness and comfort, sooner or later become a challenge for almost every couple. If their original bond was based on passion alone, they may miss the intensity so terribly that they terminate the relationship. Obviously, passionate couples are more likely to survive sexual cooling if more than sex holds them together. Companionate couples are typically among the first to feel the loss of genital arousal, partly because they felt it least to begin with and partly because they establish comfort so quickly. It is difficult to predict how these couples will respond. Some who never shared high erotic intensity, and continue to enjoy the simple pleasures of sensuality and affection, aren’t particularly troubled. Others face a serious crisis, especially if one or both develops a sexual dysfunction or loses interest in sex altogether. Although hardly anyone welcomes it, many couples respond to sexual cooling with humor and grace. In my experience, these are the ones who recognize the reduction of erotic zest as a natural occurrence that calls for creative adaptations and adjustments. The secrets of their success will be our focus in the next section.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  The reasons for her dilemma quickly became apparent as she described how much she had enjoyed sex with Hugh before they married. Both were active in the church youth group. But Alice was a bit wilder and enjoyed seducing Hugh, who, although horny, believed in abstaining from sex until marriage because he hoped to become a minister. When I explained the naughtiness factor, Alice understood it immediately and soon realized what had gone wrong with her sex life. “The moment we married,” Alice proclaimed, “I felt completely different about sex. Now it was proper, a duty, a bore!” Her challenge was to restore a little naughtiness to her relationship, not an easy task for a minister’s wife. As you zero in on the cornerstones that are most important to you erotically, think of each one as operating on a continuum, ranging from subtle to dramatic. Many of The Group’s stories have considerable drama. But keep in mind that less can be more. Sometimes just a hint of naughtiness, a tease of anticipation, or a whisper of domination is the right amount. Not only is there tremendous variation in the intensity with which each cornerstone comes into play, but timing is also important. Both longing and ambivalence usually create erotic tension preceding sex. The first passionate embrace may actually cause a reduction in longing or ambivalence—accompanied by an explosion of excitement. On the other hand, violating prohibitions and searching for power are often most exciting during an encounter. Sometimes a cornerstone fuels arousal throughout an entire encounter or fantasy. But the effect of any cornerstone may also come and go in an instant when, for example, a fleeting thought of someone watching boosts excitement with a short-lived burst of naughtiness. Keep in mind that you may not always be aware of the things that excite you. Sometimes a cornerstone works on the edge of consciousness—a subtle impulse you don’t have to, and may not want to, think about. Sometimes awareness actually gets in the way, especially if you are being excited in ways you wish you weren’t. Then consciousness turns to self-consciousness; the spell is broken. But in some cases awareness seems to be crucial for full enjoyment of the cornerstone. After all, if you’re not aware of feeling naughty, how can you possibly enjoy being naughty? What’s the point of unconsciously longing for someone? Why bother surrendering if no one notices? Observing the effects of the four cornerstones reminds us again that intense eroticism is paradoxical and unpredictable. Almost anything that arouses us may—under different circumstances, or with greater or lesser intensity—also turn us off. And virtually anything that inhibits us sexually can reappear later as a turn-on. Once we grasp the implications of this, we are able to appreciate more fully the richness and complexity of our erotic minds. With this deepened appreciation, we can enlarge our perspective further still by considering some of the most ancient and powerful of all aphrodisiacs.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  abandoned in the interests of peace. Oh, I’m becoming so sensible! We’ve got to be reasonable about everything we do here: studying, listen ing, holding our tongues, helping others, being kind, making compromises and I don’t know what else! I’m afraid my common sense, which was in short supply to begin with, will be used up too quickly and I won’t have any left by the time the war is over. Yours, Anne WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 13, 1943 Dearest Kitty, This morning I was constantly interrupted, and as a result I haven’t been able to finish a single thing I’ve begun. We have a new pastime, namely, filling packages with powdered gravy. The gravy is one of Gies & Co.’s products. Mr. Kugler hasn’t been able to find anyone else to fill the packages, and besides, it’s cheaper if we do the job. It’s the kind of work they do in prisons. It’s incredibly boring and makes us dizzy and giggly. Terrible things are happening outside. At any time of night and day, poor helpless people are being dragged out of their homes. They’re allowed to take only a knapsack and a little cash with them, and even then, they’re robbed of these possessions on the way. Families are torn apart; men, women and children are separated. Children come home from school to find that their parents have disap peared. Women return from shopping to find their houses sealed, their famthes gone. The Christians in Holland are also living in fear because their sons are being sent to Germany. Everyone is scared. Every night hundreds of planes pass over Holland on their way to German cities, to sow their bombs on German soil. Every hour hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of people are being killed in Russia and Africa. No one can keep out of the conflict, the entire world is at war, and even though

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  We started work at nine-thirty; I sat down at ten-thirty, got Up again at eleven, sat down again at eleven-thirty. My ears were humming with the following refrain: snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, etc., etc. My eyes were swimming: green, green, worm, string, rotten pod, green, green. To fight the boredom and have something to do, I chattered all morning, saying whatever came into my head and making everyone laugh. The monotony was killing me. Every string I pulled made me more certain that I never, ever, want to be just a housewife! At twelve we finally ate breakfast, but from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen we had to strip pods again. When I stopped, I felt a bit seasick, and so did the others. I napped until four, still in a daze because of those wretched peas. Yours, Anne M. Frank SATURDAY, JULY 15,1944 Dearest Kitty, We’ve received a book from the library with the challenging title What Do You Think of the Modern Young Girl? I’d like to discuss this subject today. The writer criticizes “today’s youth” from head to toe, though without dismissing them all as “hopeless cases.” On the contrary, she believes they have it within their power to build a bigger, better and more beautiful world, but that they occupy themselves with superficial things, without giving a thought to true beauty. In some passages I had the strong feeling that the writer was directing her disapproval at me, which is why I finally want to bare my soul to you and defend myself against this attack. I have one outstanding character trait that must be obvious to anyone who’s known me for any length of time: I have a great deal of self-knowledge. In everything I do, I can watch myself as if I were a stranger. I can stand c across from the everyday Anne and, without being biased or making excuses, watch what she’s doing, both the good and the bad. This self-awareness never leaves me, and every time I open my mouth, I think, “You should have said that differently” or “That’s fine the way it is.” I condemn myself in so many ways that I’m beginning to realize the truth of Father’s adage: “Every child has to raise itself.” Parents can only advise their children or point them in the right direction. Ultimately, people shape their own characters. In addition, I face life with an extraordinary amount of courage. I feel so strong and capable of bearing burdens, so young and free! When I first realized this, I was glad, because it means I can more easily withstand the blows life has in store. But I’ve talked about these things so often.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Yours, Anne FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944 Dearest Kitty, This morning I was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to chew my stale news over and over again until you’re so fed up with the monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish Anne would dig up something new. Sorry, I know you find it dull as ditchwater, but imagine how sick and tired I am of hearing the same old stuff. If the talk at mealtime isn’t about politics or good food, then Mother or Mrs. van D. trot out stories about their childhood that we’ve heard a thousand times before, or Dussel goes on and on about beautiful racehorses, his Charlotte’s extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened patients. It all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. We know the punch line of every joke before it gets told, so that whoever’s telling it is left to laugh alone. The various milkmen, grocers and butchers of the two former housewives have been praised to the skies or run into the ground so many times that in our imaginations they’ve grown as old as Methuselah; there’s absolutely no chance of anything new or fresh being brought up for discussion in the Annex. Still, all this might be bearable if only the grown-ups weren’t in the habit of repeating the stories we hear from Mr. Kleiman, jan or Miep, each time embellishing them with a few details of their own, so that I often have to pinch my arm under the table to keep myself from setting the enthusiastic storyteller on the right track. Little children, such as Anne, must never, ever correct their elders, no matter how many blunders they make or how often they let their imaginations run away with them. Jan and Mr. Kleiman love talking about people who have gone underground or into hiding; they know we’re eager to hear about others in our situation and that we truly sympathize with the sorrow of those who’ve been arrested as well as the joy of prisoners who’ve been freed. Going underground or into hiding has become as routine as the proverbial pipe and slippers that used to await the man of the house after a long day at work. There are many resistance groups, such as Free Netherlands, that forge identity cards, provide financial support to those in hiding, organize hiding places and find work for young Christians who go underground. It’s amazing how much these generous and unselfish people do, risking their own lives to help and save others. The best example of this is our own helpers, who have managed to pull us through so far and will hopefully bring us safely to shore, because otherwise they’ll find themselves sharing the fate of those they’re trying to protect.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  To the reader who is tired of so much Erkenntnisstheoric I can only say that I am so myself, but that it is indispensable, in the actual state of opinions about Sensation, to try to clear up just what the word means. Locke's pupils seek to do the impossible with sensations, and against them we must once again insist that sensations 'clustered together' cannot build up our more intellectual states of mind. Plato's earlier pupils used to admit Sensation's existence, grudgingly, but they trampled it in the dust as something corporeal, non-cognitive, and vile.[11] His latest followers seem to seek to crowd it out of existence altogether. The only reals for the neo-Hegelian writers appear to be relations, relations without terms, or whose terms are speciously such and really consist in knots, or gnarls relations finer still in infinitum. "Exclude from what we have considered real all qualities constituted by relation, we find that none are left." "Abstract the many relations from the one thing and there is nothing. . . . Without the relations it would not exist at all."[12] "The single feeling is nothing real." "On the recognition of relations as constituting the nature of ideas, rests the possibility of any tenable theory of their reality." Such quotations as these from the late T. H. Green[13] would be matters of curiosity rather than of importance, were it not that sensationalist writers themselves believe in a so-called 'Relativity of Knowledge,' which, if they only understood it, they would see to be identical with Professor Green's doctrine. They tell us that the relation of sensations to each other is something belonging to their essence, and that no one of them has an absolute content: "That, e.g., black can only be felt in contrast to white, or at least in distinction from a paler or a deeper black; similarly a tone or a sound only in alternation with others or with silence; and in like manner a smell, a taste, a touch, only, so to speak, in statu nascendi, whilst, when, the stimulus continues, all sensation disappears. This all seems at first sight to be splendidly consistent both with itself and with the facts. But looked at more closely, it is seen that neither is the case."[14] The two leading facts from which the doctrine of universal relativity derives its wide-spread credit are these: 1) The psychological fact that so much of our actual knowledge is of the relations of things—even our simplest sensations in adult life are habitually referred to classes as we take them in; and 2) The physiological fact that our senses and brain must have periods of change and repose, else we cease to feel and think.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  The result of all this flux is that the merely descriptive literature of the emotions is one of the most tedious parts of psychology. And not only is it tedious, but you feel that its subdivisions are to a great extent either fictitious or unimportant, and that its pretences to accuracy are a sham. But unfortunately there is little psychological writing about the emotions which is not merely descriptive. As emotions are described in novels, they interest us, for we are made to share them. We have grown acquainted with the concrete objects and emergencies which call them forth, and any knowing touch of introspection which may grace the page meets with a quick and feeling response. Confessedly literary works of aphoristic philosophy also flash lights into our emotional life, and give us a fitful delight. But as far as "scientific psychology" of the emotions goes, I may have been surfeited by too much reading of classic works on the subject, but I should as lief read verbal descriptions of the shapes of the rocks on a New Hampshire farm as toil through them again. They give one nowhere a central point of view, or a deductive or generative principle. They distinguish and refine and specify in infinitum without ever getting on to another logical level. Whereas the beauty of all truly scientific work is to get to ever deeper levels. Is there no way out from this level of individual description in the case of the emotions? I believe there is a way out, but I fear that few will take it. The trouble with the emotions in psychology is that they are regarded too much as absolutely individual things. So long as they are set down as so many eternal and sacred psychic entities, like the old immutable species in natural history, so long all that can be done with them is reverently to catalogue their separate characters, points, and effects. But if we regard them as products of more general causes (as 'species' are now regarded as products of heredity and variation), the mere distinguishing and cataloguing becomes of subsidiary importance. Having the goose which lays the golden eggs, the description of each egg already laid is a minor matter. Now the general causes of the emotions are indubitably physiological. Prof. C. Lange, of Copenhagen, in the pamphlet from which I have already quoted, published in 1885 a physiological theory of their constitution and conditioning, which I had already broached the previous year in an article in Mind.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  She takes me too seriously, far too seriously, and spends a lot of time thinking about her loony sister, looking at me closely whenever I open my mouth and wondering, “Is she acting, or does she really mean it?” It’s because we’re always together. I don’t want the person I confide in to be around me all the time. When will I untangle my jumbled thoughts? When will I find inner peace again? Yours, Anne TUESDAY, MARCH 14, 1944 Dearest Kitty, It might be amusing for you (though not for me) to hear what we’re going to eat today. The cleaning lady is working downstairs, so at the moment I’m seated at the van Daans’ oilcloth-covered table with a handkerchief sprinkled with fragrant prewar perfume pressed to my nose and mouth. You probably don’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, so let me “begin at the begin- ning.” The people who supply us with food coupons have been arrested, so we have just our five black-market ra- -, tion books-no coupons, no fats and oils. Since Miep and Mr. Kleiman are sick again, Bep can’t manage the shop- ping. The food is wretched, and so are we. As of tomor- row, we won’t have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine. We can’t eat fried potatoes for breakfast (which we’ve been doing to save on bread), so we’re having hot cereal instead, and because Mrs. van D. thinks we’re starving, we bought some half-and-half. Lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled kale. This explains the precautionary measure with the handkerchief. You wouldn’t believe how much kale can stink when it’s a few years old! The kitchen smells like a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine. Ugh, just the thought of having to eat that muck makes me want to throw up! Besides that, our potatoes have contracted such strange diseases that one out of every two buckets of pommes de terre winds up in the garbage. We entertain ourselves by trying to figure out which disease they’ve got, and we’ve reached the conclusion that they suffer from cancer, smallpox and measles. Honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of the war is no picnic. If only the whole stinking mess were over! To tell you the truth, the food wouldn’t matter so much to me if life here were more pleasant in other ways. But that’s just it: this tedious existence is starting to make us all disagreeable. Here are the opinions of the five grown-ups on the present situation (children aren’t allowed to have opinions, and for once I’m sticking to the rules): Mrs. van Daan: “I’d stopped wanting to be queen of the kitchen long ago. But sitting around doing nothing was boring, so I went back to cooking. Still, I can’t help complaining: it’s impossible to cook without oil, and all those disgusting smells make me sick to my stomach. Besides, what do I get in return for my efforts?

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  The gentlemen arrived from Frankfurt, and Father was already shaking at the thought of how the talks would go. “If only I could be there, if only I were downstairs,” he exclaimed. “Go lie down with your ear to the floor. They’ll be brought to the private office, and you’ll be able to hear everything.’ Father’s face cleared, and yesterday morning at ten-thirty Margot and Pim (two ears are better than one) took up their posts on the floor. By noon the talks weren’t finished, but Father was in no shape to continue his listen ing campaign. He was in agony from having to lie for hours in such an unusual and uncomfortable position. At two-thirty we heard voices in the hall, and I took his place; Margot kept me company. The conversation was so long-winded and boring that I suddenly fell asleep on the cold, hard linoleum. Margot didn’t dare touch me for fear they’d hear us, and of course she couldn’t shout. I slept for a good half hour and then awoke with a start, having forgotten every word of the important discussion. Luckily, Margot had paid more attention. Yours, Anne FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1943 Dearest Kitty, Oh my, another item has been added to my list of sins. Last night~ was lying in bed, waiting for Father to tuck me in an say my prayers with me, when Mother came into the room, sat on my bed and asked very gently, “Anne, Daddy isn’t ready. How about if I listen to your prayers tonight?” “No, Momsy,” I replied. Mother got up, stood beside my bed for a moment and then slowly walked toward the door. Suddenly she turned, her face contorted with pain, and said, “I don’t want to be angry with you. I can’t make you love me!” A few tears slid down her cheeks as she went out the door. I lay still, thinking how mean it was of me to reject her so cruelly, but I also knew that I was incapable of answering her any other way. I can’t be a hypocrite and pray with her when I don’t feel like it. It just doesn’t work that way. I felt

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Margot would say. Herman Koopman also has a filthy mind, just like Jopie de Beer, who’s a terrible flirt and absolutely girl-crazy. Leo Blom is Jopie de Beer’s best friend, but has been ruined by his dirty mind. Albert de Mesquita came from the Montessori School and skipped a grade. He’s really smart. Leo Slager came from the same school, but isn’t as smart. Ru Stoppelmon is a short, goofy boy from Almelo who transferred to this school in the middle of the year. C.N. does whatever he’s not supposed to. Jacques Kocernoot sits behind us, next to C., and we (G. and I) laugh ourselves silly. Harry Schaap is the most decent boy in our class. He’s nice. Werner Joseph is nice too, but all the changes taking place lately have made him too quiet, so he seems boring. Sam Salomon is one of those tough guys from across the tracks. A real brat. (Admirer!) Appie Riem is pretty Orthodox, but a brat too. SATURDAY, JUNE 20,1942 Writing in a diary is a really strange experience for someone like me. Not only because I’ve never written anything before, but also because it seems to me that later on neither I nor anyone else will be interested in the musings of a thirteen- year-old schoolgirl. Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I feel like writing, and I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest. “Paper has more patience than people.” I thought of this saying on one of those days when I was feeling a little depressed and was sitting at home with my chin in my hands, bored and listless, wondering whether to stay in or go out. I finally stayed where I was, brooding. Yes, paper does have more patience, and since

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  I can smell them everywhere I go. I come upstairs to get away from all that red and what do I see? People washing strawberries!” The rest of the strawberries were canned. That evening: two jars came unsealed. Father quickly turned them into jam. The next morning: two more lids popped up; and that afternoon: four lids. Mr. van Daan hadn’t gotten the jars hot enough when he was sterthzing them, so Father ended up making jam every evening. We ate hot cereal with strawberries, buttermilk with strawberries, bread with strawberries, strawberries for dessert, straw- berries with sugar, strawberries with sand. For two days there was nothing but strawberries, strawberries, strawberries, and then our supply was either exhausted or in jars, safely under lock and key. “Hey, Anne,” Margot called out one day, “Mrs. van Hoeven has let us have some peas, twenty pounds!” “That’s nice of her,” I replied. And it certainly was, but it’s so much work. . . ugh! “On Saturday, you’ve aJI got to shell peas,” Mother announced at the table. And sure enough, this morning after breakfast our biggest enamel pan appeared on the table, filled to the brim with peas. If you think shelling peas is boring work, you ought to try removing the inner linings. I don’t think many people realize that once you’ve pulled out the linings, the pods are soft, delicious and rich in vitamins. But an even greater advantage is that you get nearly three times as much as when you eat just the peas. Stripping pods is a precise and meticulous job that might be suited to pedantic dentists or finicky spice experts, but it’s a horror for an impatient teenager like me. We started work at nine-thirty; I sat down at ten-thirty, got Up again at eleven, sat down again at eleven-thirty. My ears were humming with the following refrain: snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, snap the end, strip the pod, pull the string, pod in the pan, etc., etc. My eyes were swimming: green, green, worm, string, rotten pod, green, green. To fight the boredom and have something to do, I chattered all morning, saying whatever came into my head and making everyone laugh. The monotony was killing me. Every string I pulled made me more certain that I never, ever, want to be just a housewife! At twelve we finally ate breakfast, but from twelve-thirty to one-fifteen we had

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  blow her nose all the time. Next she grumbled that the sun wasn’t shining, the invasion hadn’t started, we weren’t allowed to look out the windows, etc., etc. We couldn’t help but laugh at her, and it couldn’t have been that bad, since she soon joined in. Our recipe for potato kugel, modified due to lack of onions: Put peeled potatoes through a food mill and add a little dry government-issue flour and salt. Grease a mold or ovenproof dish with paraffin or stearin and bake for 21/2 hours. Serve with rotten strawberry compote. (Onions not available. Nor oil for mold or dough!) At the moment I’m reading Emperor Charles V, written by a professor at the University of Gottingen; he’s spent forty years working on this book. It took me five days to read fifty pages. I can’t do any more than that. Since the book has 598 pages, you can figure out just how long it’s going to take me. And that’s not even counting the second volume. But. . . very interesting! The things a schoolgirl has to do in the course of a single day! Take me, for example. First, I translated a passage on Nelson’s last battle from Dutch into English. Then, I read more about the Northern War (1700-21) involving Peter the Great, Charles XII, Augustus the Strong, Stanislaus Leczinsky, Mazeppa, von Gorz, Bran- denburg, Western Pomerania, Eastern Pomerania and Denmark, plus the usual dates. Next, I wound up in Brazil, where I read about Bahia tobacco, the abundance of coffee, the one and a half million inhabitants of Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco and Sao Paulo and, last but not least, the Amazon River. Then about Negroes, mulattoes, mestizos, whites, the illiteracy rate -- over 50 percent -- and malaria. Since I had some time left, I glanced through a genealogical chart: John the Old, William Louis, Ernest Casimir I, Henry Casimir I, right up to little Margriet Franciska (born in 1943 in Ottawa). Twelve o’clock: I resumed my studies in the attic, reading about deans, priests, ministers, popes and . . . whew, it was one o’clock! At two the poor child (ho hum) was back at work. Old World and New World monkeys were next. Kitty, tell me quickly, how many toes does a hippopotamus have? Then came the Bible, Noah’s Ark, Shem, Ham and Japheth. After that, Charles V. Then, with Peter, Thack- eray’s book about the colonel, in

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Optimists and pessimists -- not to mention the realists -- air their opinions with unflagging energy, and as with everything else, they’re all certain that they have a monopoly on the truth. It annoys a certain lady that her spouse has such supreme faith in the British, and a certain husband attacks his wife because of her teasing and dispar- aging remarks about his beloved nation! And so it goes from early in the morning to late at night; the funny part is that they never get tired of it. I’ve discovered a trick, and the effect is overwhelming, just like pricking someone with a pin and watching them jump. Here’s how it works: I start talking about politics. All it takes is a single question, a word or a sentence, and before you know it, the entire family is involved! As if the German “Wehrmacht News” and the English BBC weren’t enough, they’ve now added special air-raid announcements. In a word, splendid. But the other side of the coin is that the British Air Force is operating around the clock. Not unlike the German propaganda machine, which is cranking out lies twenty- four hours a day! So the radio is switched on every morning at eight (if not earlier) and is listened to every hour until nine, ten or even eleven at night. This is the best evidence yet that the adults have infinite patience, but also that their brains have turned to mush (some of them, I mean, since I wouldn’t want to insult anyone). One broadcast, two at the most, should be enough to last the entire day. But no, those old nincompoops. . . never mind, I’ve already said it all! “Music While You Work,” the Dutch broadcast from England, Frank Phillips or Queen Wilhelmina, they each get a turn and fInd a willing listener. If the adults aren’t eating or sleeping, they’re clustered around the radio talking about eating, sleeping and politics. Whew! It’s getting to be a bore, and it’s all I can do to keep from turning into a dreary old crone myself! Though with all the old folks around me, that might not be such a bad idea! Here’s a shining example, a speech made by our beloved Winston Churchill.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Dearest Kitty, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday it was too hot to hold my fountain pen, which is why I couldn’t write to you. Friday the drains were clogged, Saturday they were fixed. Mrs. Kleiman came for a visit in the afternoon and told us a lot about Jopiej she and Jacque van Maarsen are in the same hockey club. Sunday Bep dropped by to make sure there hadn’t been a break-in and stayed for breakfast. Monday (a holiday because of Pentecost), Mr. Gies served as the Annex watchman, and Tuesday we were finally allowed to open the windows. We’ve seldom had a Pentecost weekend that was so beautiful and warm. Or maybe “hot” is a better word. Hot weather is horrible in the Annex. To give you an idea of the numerous complaints, I’ll briefly describe these sweltering days. Saturday: “Wonderful, what fantastic weather,” we all said in the morning. “If only it weren’t quite so hot,” we said in the afternoon, when the windows had to be shut. Sunday: “The heat’s unbearable, the butter’s melt-ing, there’s not a cool spot anywhere in the house, the bread’s drying out, the milk’s going sour, the windows can’t be opened. We poor outcasts are suffocating while everyone else is enjoying their Pentecost.” (According to Mrs. van D.) Monday: “My feet hurt, I have nothing cool to wear, I can’t do the dishes in this heat!” Grumbling from early in the morning to late at night. It was awful. I can’t stand the heat. I’m glad the wind’s come up today, but that the sun’s still shining. Yours, Anne M. Frank FRIDAY, JUNE 2, 1944 Dear Kitty, “If you’re going to the attic, take an umbrella with you, preferably a large one!” This is to protect you from “household showers.” There’s a Dutch proverb: “High and dry, safe and sound,” but it obviously doesn’t apply to wartime (guns!) and to people in hiding (cat box!). Mouschi’s gotten into the habit of

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Sundays sorting out and looking over my movie-star collection, which has grown to a very respectable size. Mr. Kugler makes me happy every Monday by bringing me a copy of Cinema & Theater magazine. The less worldly members of our household often refer to this small indulgence as a waste of money, yet they never fail to be surprised at how accurately I can list the actors in any given movie, even after a year. Bep, who often goes to the movies with her boyfriend on her day off, tells me on Saturday the name of the show they’re going to see, and I then proceed to rattle off the names of the leading actors and actresses and the reviews. Moms recently remarked ; that I wouldn’t need to go to the movies later on, because ! I know all the plots, the names of the stars and the reviews by heart. Whenever I come sailing in with a new hairstyle, I I can read the disapproval on their faces, and I can be sure someone will ask which movie star I’m trying to imitate. My reply, that it’s my own invention, is greeted with ~ skepticism. As for the hairdo, it doesn’t hold its set for ~ more than half an hour. By that time I’m so sick and tired i of their remarks that I race to the bathroom and restore my hair to its normal mass of curls. Yours, Anne FRIDAY, JANUARY 28, 1944 Dearest Kitty, This morning I was wondering whether you ever felt like a cow, having to chew my stale news over and over again until you’re so fed up with the monotonous fare that you yawn and secretly wish Anne would dig up something new. Sorry, I know you find it dull as ditchwater, but imagine how sick and tired I am of hearing the same old stuff. If the talk at mealtime isn’t about politics or good food, then Mother or Mrs. van D. trot out stories about their childhood that we’ve heard a thousand times before, or Dussel goes on and on about beautiful racehorses, his Charlotte’s extensive wardrobe, leaky rowboats, boys who can swim at the age of four, aching muscles and frightened patients. It all boils down to this: whenever one of the eight of us opens his mouth, the other seven can finish the story for him. We know the punch line of every joke before it gets told, so that whoever’s telling it is left to laugh alone. The various milkmen,

• From Disrupted: My Misadventure in the Start-Up Bubble (2014)

  Once again I give him my best “team player” smile and tell him this all sounds great. “You know,” I say, “I could really use your advice on how to set up this new blog. Do you think you could help me out? I love your writing. Would you be willing to maybe write some articles for the blog? I think we can do something really great with this.” Zack says sure, he’d love to do that. I tell him I’ll get on his calendar and set a meeting so we can discuss some ideas. A few days later, I arrive at the office and find that my desk is empty. The blog girls, smirking, say they don’t know what happened to my stuff. I go to the telemarketing center and wander around. There, on a desk against a wall, piled in a sad heap, I find my belongings: my laptop, my monitor, my books, pictures of my kids. Someone has just tossed my things into a cardboard box, carried them here, and plunked them on a desk. Ten [image "image" file=Image00003.jpg] Life in the Boiler RoomHi, is that Jeff?… Hey Jeff, this is Pete from HubSpot up in Boston. How’s the weather down there in Tampa?… I bet it is! Hey, I wish we’d get some of that sunshine up here, right?… So Jeff, I saw that you downloaded one of our e-books, so I thought I would follow up to see if I could answer any questions you might have… Right. Sure. Okay. Well when would be a good time?… Jeff, what’s your marketing plan this year? What are your goals? Have you thought about what you need to do to hit those goals?… Okay, sure. So when would be a good time for us to have a talk? Pete is a big ginger-haired guy who moonlights as a cheerleader for the Boston Celtics. Loud Pete, I call him. He stands ten feet away from me, wearing a headset and reciting variations of that script, again and again, all day long, in a booming voice. He laughs, he roars, he cracks himself up. He asks questions, gets hung up on, dials again. All. Day. Long. There are dozens more like him in this room. This is the telemarketing center, and it reminds me of the boiler-room operations you see in the movies, with people arranged in rows, some standing, some sitting, packed in close to each other, barking into headsets. Imagine Glengarry Glen Ross , but instead of four sales guys there are a hundred, and they are all in their early twenties, all talking at once, all saying the same things, over and over again. To be sure, the telemarketers at HubSpot are not selling penny stocks or fake real estate. They are selling a real product. I don’t see anything fraudulent or illegal in what they are doing. It’s just tacky and low-tech. At HubSpot these people are called business development representatives, or BDRs.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  In some situations I can display a rare patience. I have in me sufficient resources to remain silent and give my mind a free reign, accepting the fact that others are living their lives alongside me. I can cope uncomplainingly with the manias, petty tyrannies or even outright attacks of others and I can turn inwards when necessary. I let them get on and do my thing. Looking back on it, I now realise just how patient I proved to be in sexual relationships. Feeling nothing, not minding and accomplishing well the whole ritual to its conclusion. Not getting hung up about the same tastes as my partner, and getting on with it, etc. Indifferent because mentally so well tucked away at my very core that I could control my body as a puppeteer does a puppet. So I went on seeing Romain. Thanks to the impression he gave of being a bastard with tenderness he had quite a lot of success with women, and I enjoyed imagining the surprise or the disappointment of those who thought they were about to do it with a stud. I saw the astonished eyes of one of these women, probing mine for the comfort afforded by sharing a disappointing experience: ‘But Romain… he doesn’t move!’ I listened to the destroyed creature with the calm of a sage. I have spoken of the boredom that sometimes gripped me when meeting up with friends, and of the escape route I discovered by going off with one of them for a fuck. But fucking can be boring! Still, I prefer that particular boredom. I take in my stride a cunnilingus that neither turns me on or off, decide against redirecting a finger which fails to find my clitoris, and finally, I can be perfectly happy when my partner comes even if I myself don’t get much out of it because, in the long run, this being not quite on the button is a drag; I can tolerate all that so long as either before or afterwards the conversation is stimulating, my dinner partners are unusual, or I can wander round an apartment I really like, pretending I am living a different life… My train of thought is so absent from contingencies that it won’t be hampered by a mere body, even if that body is wrapped in the arms of another body. Better still, the thought is all the freer if whoever you are talking to is concentrating on the body; surely it isn’t then going to resent him for using it as an erotic accessory!

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  As time went by, the shyness that I experienced in company was replaced by boredom. Even amongst friends whose company I enjoy, even if at first I follow the conversation and I am no longer afraid to join in, there always comes a moment when I suddenly lose interest. It’s a question of time: all of a sudden I have had enough; whatever subject we are tackling I feel as if I’m turning to stone like when I watch one of those TV soaps which recreates humdrum domesticity too accurately. It is irreversible. In these instances, tacit gestures – sometimes unseen ones – provide some escape. Even though I am not very enterprising, I have often improvised a little pressure from my thigh or a little crossing of ankles with the man next to me at the table, or – better still – the woman (it is less likely to have consequences) in the hopes of feeling that I am really a distant observer of this earnest assembly, busying myself with something else somewhere else. In the context of a communal life, on holiday for example, when a group of people do all sorts of things together, I have often felt the need to absent myself from outings and meals by doing this, acting randomly when the need arose. There were some particularly frenetic summers, defined by the incessant traffic between sexual partners, sporadically united in little orgies under the sun behind the low wall of a garden that overlooked the sea, or at night in the comings and goings between the many bedrooms of a villa. One evening I decide not to join in the fun, and Paul, who knows me well, gently makes fun of my decision; Paul – who sometimes forcibly holds me back, locking both of us into the bathroom if necessary, just to excite my impatience to mingle in the mêlée of bodies – promises to send me a friend of his that I have not yet met; someone who has nothing to do with the art world, a car mechanic. He knows that I would rather meet him than go to the restaurant with the others and sit wearily on a terrace or in the corner of a nightclub waiting for the same weariness to overcome the rest of them. I don’t pay much attention to his proposition and I look forward to an evening alone. There is something delicious about those moments when the emptiness around you opens up not only the space around you but also, somehow, the enormity of the time ahead. With unconscious economy, we make the most of this given opportunity by lazily settling into the very depths of an armchair as if to leave as much space as possible to the onrushing time. The kitchen is right at the back of the villa, and I go and make myself a sandwich. My mouth is full when Paul’s friend appears in the doorway that leads out to the garden.