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 15 of 15 · 20 per page

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother’s permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy’s attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game. “I am glad,” said Lady Middleton to Lucy, “you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria’s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it.” This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, “Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper.” “You are very good, I hope it won’t hurt your eyes—will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood’s is not,” said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; “for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes.” “Oh,” cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, “I dare say Lucy’s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood’s.” Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto,— “I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.” “I should always be happy,” replied Elinor, “to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood—_that_ must be recommendation enough to her husband.” “But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward’s going into orders.” “Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.” They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh, “I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood?” “No,” answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, “on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied—the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. “Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. “The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us.” “They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,” said Elinor, “by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.” CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. “I am so glad to see you!” said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, “for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.” They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. “Not go to town!” cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, “I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied—the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. “Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. “The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us.” “They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,” said Elinor, “by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.” CHAPTER XX. As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again. “I am so glad to see you!” said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, “for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.” They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. “Not go to town!” cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, “I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in—a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them. Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening’s engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Lila snorted in disgust and flung a paper clip into a little dish. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, honey,” she said. “Can you please cut the boilerplate?” Henriette, slightly shocked, thought for a moment. “I guess the truth is I’m sort of bored and scared. I don’t want to go through life alone, obviously. I want a loving partner. I want a little more out of sex. I’ve made some bad choices. When I was with my ex I almost never came, because I can’t come without my vibrator and the sound of it embarrassed me. I always felt I was doing the wrong thing around him.” “That’s fixable,” said Lila. “That’s not the real problem. I can find a new guy.” “Of course you can.” “The real problem is I’ve used the darn vibrator so much lately that it’s made me numb! Not just numb, but I sometimes get really sharp tingling pains—not good tingles. Angry hurting tingles.” Lila picked up the phone. “Krock, could you ask Zilka to bring in the Cable of Induhash? The big spool of it, mm-hm.” She smiled at Henriette. “Go on.” “So, yeah, I think I’ve damaged the nerves. It’s just so hard to reach that delicious point now. I press and press, it’s like my clit is not getting good reception anymore. And honestly, is it worth the effort? And if it isn’t worth it, what is? Making a really nice soufflé, that’s satisfying. Volunteering at the park cleanup, that’s satisfying. But then there is the middle of the night, and my clitoris is just sitting there like a little numb pebble, and I’m full of filthy ideas, and I think, grrrrr!” Lila stood and paced. She stared out at the horizon, pon-dering. “Now Henriette,” she said finally, “you’re an attractive young woman, with lovely smooth skin, wearing a lovely short skirt.” “Thank you,” said Henriette, pleased. “It seems that you have given yourself a tiny case of sleepy clit or even—clitordynia.” “You mean my clit has died?” “No, that’s just a fancy way of saying that it hurts you sometimes. So let’s take a look under the hood.” “You mean right now?” “Yes, I do.” Henriette opened her legs and pulled her underpants to the side and showed Lila her clit. “How utterly precious,” said Lila. There was a knock, and she opened the door for Krock and Zilka. “Take a look at this utterly precious pussy, you two,” she said. “It’s nice,” said Zilka. Krock knelt and looked closely. “J’adore these lips,” he said. “So dark, so fleshy.” “That’s enough, Krock,” said Lila, kneeling too and gently pushing Krock out of the way. “Henriette has been telling me that she’s got numbness and sometimes pain in her tender clitty when she uses a vibrator. She’s much too lovely to be suffering that discomfort.”

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Sara walked away after a bit, and I trailed after her. Unsure what to do next, we opened one of the closed doors along the expansive hallway and peeked into an empty classroom. There were wooden desks and a blackboard with sweeping erasure strokes, the powdery chalk residue all that was left of the last lesson. We stepped into the room and closed the door quietly behind us. I examined a shelf of books, an eclectic assortment of academic texts and spiritual New Age readers. Examples of the children’s schoolwork hung on the walls, short essays, science papers, and artwork. One essay explored the benefits of meditation. I read it with bland interest. Ray meditated twice a day, and once a day, he and Theresa chanted. The book they chanted from was sectioned into colors, each color representing the energy of a particular chakra. The words of the chants were meant to be said in quick succession one word flowing into the next, until their voices just became one long babbling, incoherent rush, as if they were auctioning off prayers, punctuated now and then by clear affirmations, “And so he said!” or “And in the name of the light!” Prayer beads were picked up, jingled, and laid back down. This sometimes went on for a good hour. Meditation time meant that Sara and I had to be really quiet. Typically, Ray flung open the door of his room during the meditation, his narrow face twisted in rage to scream that we were making too much noise. Too much noise meant the scratching sounds that my pencil made while writing in my notebook, breathing, or just basically being alive. For an activity that was supposed to bring a feeling of calm, and deep contentment, as well as furthering oneself on the path of spiritual mastery, or so the author of the paper on meditation espoused, it was, in my opinion, failing my stepfather on all levels. When I’d finished reading “The Benefits of Meditation,” I looked for something else to do and realized that I had already examined everything. Sara had settled into a school desk, absorbed in one of the many Archie comics from our collection. I left and reentered the hallway, peering around my murky surroundings before leaving the building for an aimless walk around the property. Unfortunately, I had finished my novel on the ride to LA and was in need of a good used bookstore. I must have walked for a solid half hour before I decided to head back to see if the meditation had ended yet. As I approached the small hill that the main structure resided on, I saw in the distance a line of schoolchildren led by a woman, their teacher, I assumed, marching rhythmically in my direction. The children and the woman were shouting something, but they were too far away for me to make out what they were yelling.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  And like the time we enlisted an old poppa-san to guide us through the mine fields out on the Batangan Peninsula. The old guy walked with a limp, slow and stooped over, but he knew where the safe spots were and where you had to be careful and where even if you were careful you could end up like popcorn. He had a tightrope walker's feel for the land beneath him—its surface tension, the give and take of things. Each morning we'd form up in a long column, the old poppa-san out front, and for the whole day we'd troop along after him, tracing his footsteps, playing an exact and ruthless game of follow the leader. Rat Kiley made up a rhyme that caught on, and we'd all be chanting it together: Step out of line, hit a mine; follow the dink, you're in the pink. All around us, the place was littered with Bouncing Betties and Toe Poppers and booby-trapped artillery rounds, but in those five days on the Batangan Peninsula nobody got hurt. We all learned to love the old man. It was a sad scene when the choppers came to take us away. Jimmy Cross gave the old poppa-san a hug. Mitchell Sanders and Lee Strunk loaded him up with boxes of C rations. There were actually tears in the old guy's eyes. "Follow dink," he said to each of us, "you go pink." If you weren't humping, you were waiting. I remember the monotony. Digging foxholes. Slapping mosquitoes. The sun and the heat and the endless paddies. Even in the deep bush, where you could die any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a strange boredom. It was boredom with a twist, the kind of boredom that caused stomach disorders. You'd be sitting at the top of a high hill, the flat paddies stretching out below, and the day would be calm and hot and utterly vacant, and you'd feel the boredom dripping inside you like a leaky faucet, except it wasn't water, it was a sort of acid, and with each little droplet you'd feel the stuff eating away at important organs. You'd try to relax. You'd uncurl your fists and let your thoughts go. Well, you'd think, this isn't so bad. And right then you'd hear gunfire behind you and your nuts would fly up into your throat and you'd be squealing pig squeals. That kind of boredom.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  “Are you going to help me?” “I’ve been working. What about them?” I pointed at the other two girls. They both looked up, pausing in their conversation. Rachel said, “Mind your own business,” but they both unfurled their skinny legs and stood up to resume the activity. Minutes later, one of the demonstrators came to retrieve me. “Celena, come with me. I’m going to put you on socks with Chloe.” I followed the demonstrator to a vacant dorm building. We climbed the porch steps and opened the door. Inside sat one small girl in a large room filled only with boxes. A formidable hill of mismatched socks lay in front of her next to an even smaller pile of matched socks tucked into each other. Off to the side were more socks of various colors and sizes laid out singly in long rows, all in need of a match. The box before her was half full of still more socks, but most worrisome were the boxes that had not yet been attended to. They filled the room in stacks. Chloe glanced up at us, her narrow face wan with resignation and boredom, but her brown eyes lit up when she saw that she had company. We worked all day sorting, matching and talking. The next day was a repeat of the first. I longed for the weekend to be over. The following week our regular academic lessons were supplemented with more psychology, including a lesson about Freud’s analysis of the human psyche and an introduction to Maslow and his theory of self-actualization. These lessons were over my head. Some of the older children understood the information, throwing out terms like “inner critic,” “reality principle,” “autonomy” and “transcendence” as we sat grouped at round tables, filling out charts and bubbles. Completely lost, I retreated into daydreams. The next afternoon we were given a non-coed sex workshop. Having showered and changed into our pajamas, we were ushered into the living room to lounge on large throw pillows and beanbags, lending the feeling of a slumber party. Styrofoam cups of hot cider with cinnamon sticks were distributed. Linda sat in a chair, waiting as we received our drinks. Whisperers circulated among us about this newest seminar topic. Once we’d settled down, Linda smiled, her round moon face gleaming in the subdued lighting. She spread her hands graciously, leaning toward us. “We are here to talk about our bodies and our sexuality. This is an open, safe space. You are free to say anything you like on the subject of sex and to share your thoughts.” She sat back. The silence provided its own sound, a ringing in my ears. Most of us were frozen with our cider in our hands. A few girls tittered. Linda opened her hands magnanimously and I focused on her long slim fingers while I sipped my drink. “At some point or another we discover masturbation, and it’s a very nice feeling, wouldn’t you all agree?” she said.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  “Are you going to help me?” “I’ve been working. What about them?” I pointed at the other two girls. They both looked up, pausing in their conversation. Rachel said, “Mind your own business,” but they both unfurled their skinny legs and stood up to resume the activity. Minutes later, one of the demonstrators came to retrieve me. “Celena, come with me. I’m going to put you on socks with Chloe.” I followed the demonstrator to a vacant dorm building. We climbed the porch steps and opened the door. Inside sat one small girl in a large room filled only with boxes. A formidable hill of mismatched socks lay in front of her next to an even smaller pile of matched socks tucked into each other. Off to the side were more socks of various colors and sizes laid out singly in long rows, all in need of a match. The box before her was half full of still more socks, but most worrisome were the boxes that had not yet been attended to. They filled the room in stacks. Chloe glanced up at us, her narrow face wan with resignation and boredom, but her brown eyes lit up when she saw that she had company. We worked all day sorting, matching and talking. The next day was a repeat of the first. I longed for the weekend to be over. The following week our regular academic lessons were supplemented with more psychology, including a lesson about Freud’s analysis of the human psyche and an introduction to Maslow and his theory of self-actualization. These lessons were over my head. Some of the older children understood the information, throwing out terms like “inner critic,” “reality principle,” “autonomy” and “transcendence” as we sat grouped at round tables, filling out charts and bubbles. Completely lost, I retreated into daydreams. The next afternoon we were given a non-coed sex workshop. Having showered and changed into our pajamas, we were ushered into the living room to lounge on large throw pillows and beanbags, lending the feeling of a slumber party. Styrofoam cups of hot cider with cinnamon sticks were distributed. Linda sat in a chair, waiting as we received our drinks. Whisperers circulated among us about this newest seminar topic. Once we’d settled down, Linda smiled, her round moon face gleaming in the subdued lighting. She spread her hands graciously, leaning toward us. “We are here to talk about our bodies and our sexuality. This is an open, safe space. You are free to say anything you like on the subject of sex and to share your thoughts.” She sat back. The silence provided its own sound, a ringing in my ears. Most of us were frozen with our cider in our hands. A few girls tittered. Linda opened her hands magnanimously and I focused on her long slim fingers while I sipped my drink. “At some point or another we discover masturbation, and it’s a very nice feeling, wouldn’t you all agree?” she said.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  The debate raged for seventeen days, but it doesn’t seem to have been exciting to be there in person. Melanchthon lobbied for notaries to record everything that was said. Eck was strongly against this idea, but Melanchthon won, and so everything that was pronounced must be scribbled down. Thus the audience and debate participants had to wait idly as the writing caught up to each statement before things could again move forward. Many of the Leipzig theologians, who ate their meal just before the afternoon sessions, struggled to stay awake and often failed entirely so that they had to be awakened when it was over, at which point they would file out to enjoy another hearty meal. After a few days of these halting forensics, most of the Wittenberg students had seen and heard enough—and had spent all their money—so in groups they eventually all dribbled back to Wittenberg. Even after seventeen days, many of the things they had wrangled over had only been touched upon. Despite all that was said, much more time was needed to do proper justice to the great and eternally important subjects. But the important Duke George could not occupy his castle with this endless wrangling until doomsday. It so happened that he soon planned to entertain Joachim, the Margrave of Brandenburg. The margrave was returning from the diet at which the new emperor had just been elected, and it wouldn’t do to have the Pleissenburg cluttered up with all of these theologians and rabble. So he determined that the Leipzig debate must come to an end.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  But at Tübingen, Melanchthon often found himself bored by fabulistic sermons. One priest piously spoke of how the wooden soles of the Dominican monks’ shoes were made from the actual Tree of Knowledge in Eden. For just such painful moments, Melanchthon carried with him a Latin Bible, which his great-uncle Reuchlin had given him. A number of times during especially sappy sermons he found himself thirsty for something from the Word of God and, finding none being poured from the pulpit, opened his own Bible and drank a goodly draught therefrom. Several times he was seen to do this, however, and was gravely scolded. After all, who did this saucy fellow think he was to read a Bible in church? Things at Tübingen proved less than ideal in other ways, so when his great-uncle Reuchlin learned that Wittenberg was looking for a Greek scholar, he promptly and heartily recommended his young nephew for the post. When the call came from Frederick and Spalatin, Reuchlin wrote to Philip with the happy news: Lo! A letter has arrived from our gracious Prince, signed with his own hand, in which he promises you pay and favor. I will not now address you in the language of poetry, but will quote the faithful promise of God to Abraham: “Get thee out of thy country, and from thy kindred, and from the house of thy father, and go unto a land that I will show thee; and I will make thee into a great nation, and I will bless thee, and magnify thy name, and thou shalt be a blessing.” So the Spirit tells me, and so I hope the future will be for you, my Philip, my work and my consolation.20 When he arrived at Wittenberg late in August, Melanchthon was a mere lad of twenty-one. He was already so renowned and sought after at that young age that when he stopped in Leipzig on his way to Wittenberg, the Leipzig faculty tripped over themselves to entice him to take a position with them. Even Erasmus in Rotterdam had raved about him. Not only was Melanchthon young, but he was also physically very slight and even now looked far more like a shy fifteen-year-old than what one might have expected in a university professor. Some weren’t at all sure about him, having far preferred the Leipzig Humanist Peter Mosselanus for the job. On his arrival, Melanchthon was on the receiving end of a few snubs and heard some rascally students making fun of him. Perhaps they noticed one shoulder was lower than the other or had heard he was a stutterer. In any case, when he gave his inaugural address at Wittenberg four days later, he soon put all worries to rest and then some. His subject was the decline of learning under Scholasticism and how Humanism brought the promise of a new resurgence. Luther was mightily impressed. In his letter to Spalatin, he wrote,