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 1 of 15 · 20 per page

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  No one can possibly say anything new about her,' said a fat, red-faced, flaxen-headed lady, without eyebrows and chignon, wearing an old silk dress. This was Princess Myaky, noted for her simplicity and the roughness of her manners, and nicknamed enfant terrible. Princess Myaky, sitting in the middle between the two groups, and listening to both, took part in the conversation first of one and then of the other. 'Three people have used that very phrase about Kaulbach to me today already, just as though they had made a compact about it. And I can't see why they liked that remark so.' The conversation was cut short by this observation, and a new subject had to be thought of again. 'Do tell me something amusing but not spiteful,' said the ambassa dor's wife, a great proficient in the art of that elegant conversation called by the English small-talk. She addressed the attaché, who was at a loss now what to begin upon. 'They say that that's a difficult task, that nothing's amusing that isn't spiteful,' he began with a smile. 'But I'll try. Get me a subject. It all lies in the subject. If a subject's given me, it's easy to spin something round it. I often think that the celebrated talkers of last century would have found it difficult to talk cleverly now. Everything clever is so stale . . . ' 'That has been said long ago,' the ambassador's wife interrupted him, laughing. The conversation began amiably, but just because it was too amiable it came to a stop again. They had to have recourse to the sure, never-failing topic—gossip. 'Don't you think there's something Louis Quinze about Tushkevitch?' he said, glancing towards a handsome, fair-haired young man, standing at the table. 'Oh yes! He's in the same style as the drawing-room, and that's why it is he's so often here.' This conversation was maintained, since it rested on allusions to what could not be talked of in that room—that is to say, of the relations of Tushkevitch with their hostess. Round the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been meanwhile vacillating in just the same way between three inevitable topics: the latest piece of public news, the theatre, and scandal. It, too, came finally to rest on the last topic, that is, ill-natured gossip. 'Have you heard the Maltishtchev woman—the mother, not the daughter—has ordered a costume in diable rose colour?' 'Nonsense! No, that's too lovely!' 'I wonder that with her sense—for she's not a fool, you know—that she doesn't see how funny she is.'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Vronsky, too, glanced out of window and into Anna's eyes, and, turning at once to Golenishtchev, he said— 'Do you know this Mihailov?' 'I have met him. But he's a queer fish, and quite without breeding. You know, one of those uncouth new people one's so often coming across nowadays, one of those free-thinkers, you know, who are reared d'emblée in theories of atheism, scepticism, and materialism. In former days,' said Golenishtchev, not observing, or willing to observe, that both Anna and Vronsky wanted to speak, 'in former days the freethinker was a man who had been brought up in ideas of religion, law, and morality, and only through conflict and struggle came to free-thought; but now there has sprung up a new type of born free-thinkers who grow up without even having heard of principles of morality or of religion, of the existence of authorities, who grow up directly in ideas of negation in everything, that is to say, savages. Well, he's of that class. He's the son, it appears, of some Moscow butler, and has never had any sort of bringing-up. When he got into the academy and made his reputation he tried, as he's no fool, to educate himself. And he turned to what seemed to him the very source of culture—the magazines. In old times, you see, a man who wanted to educate himself—a Frenchman, for instance—would have set to work to study all the clas sics and theologians and tragedians and historians and philosophers, and, you know, all the intellectual work that came in his way. But in our day he goes straight for the literature of negation, very quickly assimilates all the extracts of the science of negation, and he's ready. And that's not all—twenty years ago he would have found in that literature traces of conflict with authorities, with the creeds of the ages; he would have perceived from this conflict that there was something else; but now he comes at once upon a literature in which the old creeds do not even furnish matter for discussion, but it is stated baldly that there is nothing else—evolution, natural selection, struggle for existence—and that's all. In my article I've…' 'I tell you what,' said Anna, who had for a long while been exchanging wary glances with Vronsky, and knew that he was not in the least interested in the education of this artist, but was simply absorbed by the idea of assisting him and ordering a portrait of him; 'I tell you what,' she said, resolutely interrupting Golenishtchev, who was still talking away, 'let's go and see him!' Golenishtchev recovered his self-possession and readily agreed. But as the artist lived in a remote suburb, it was decided to take the carriage. An hour later Anna, with Golenishtchev by her side and Vronsky on the front seat of the carriage, facing them, drove up to a new ugly house in the remote suburb.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The marshal of the province, though he was vaguely conscious in the air of some trap being prepared for him, and though he had not been called upon by all to stand, had still made up his mind to stand. All was silence in the room. The secretary announced in a loud voice that the captain of the guards, Mihail Stepanovitch Snetkov, would now be balloted for as marshal of the province. The district marshals walked carrying plates, on which were balls, from their tables to the high table, and the election began. 'Put it in the right side,' whispered Stepan Arkadyevitch, as with his brother Levin followed the marshal of his district to the table. But Levin had forgotten by now the calculations that had been explained to him, and was afraid Stepan Arkadyevitch might be mistaken in saying 'the right side'. Surely Snetkov was the enemy. As he went up, he held the ball in his right hand, but thinking he was wrong, just at the box he changed to the left hand, and undoubtedly put the ball to the left. An adept in the business, standing at the box and seeing by the mere action of the elbow where each put his ball, scowled with annoyance. It was no good for him to use his insight. Everything was still, and the counting of the balls was heard. Then a single voice rose and proclaimed the numbers for and against. The marshal had been voted for by a considerable majority. All was noise and eager movement towards the doors. Snetkov came in, and the nobles thronged round him, congratulating him, 'Well, now is it over?' Levin asked Sergey Ivanovitch. 'It's only just beginning,' Sviazhsky said, replying for Sergey Ivanovitch with a smile. 'Some other candidate may receive more votes than the marshal.' Levin had quite forgotten about that. Now he could only remember that there was some sort of trickery in it, but he was too bored to think what it was exactly. He felt depressed, and longed to get out of the crowd. As no one was paying any attention to him, and no one apparently needed him, he quietly slipped away into the little room where the refreshments were, and again had a great sense of comfort when he saw the waiters. The little old waiter pressed him to have something, and Levin agreed. After eating a cutlet with beans and talking to the waiters of their former masters, Levin, not wishing to go back to the hall, where it was all so distasteful to him, proceeded to walk through the galleries.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  You look at those little old men now,' he said, pointing to a club member with bent back and projecting lip, shuffling towards them in his soft boots, 'and imagine that they were shlupiks like that from their birth up.' 'How shlupiks?' 'I see you don't know that name. That's our club designation. You know the game of rolling eggs: when one's rolled a long while it becomes a shlupik. So it is with us; one goes on coming and coming to the club, and ends by becoming a shlupik. Ah, you laugh! but we look out, for fear of dropping into it ourselves. You know Prince Tchetchensky?' inquired the prince; and Levin saw by his face that he was just going to relate something funny. 'No, I don't know him.' 'You don't say so! Well, Prince Tchetchensky is a well-known figure. No matter, though. He's always playing billiards here. Only three years ago he was not a shlupik and kept up his spirits and even used to call other people shlupiks. But one day he turns up, and our porter . . . you know Vassily ? Why, that fat one! He's famous for his bon mots. And so Prince Tchetchensky asks him, "Come, Vassily, who's here? Any shlupiks here yet?" And he says, "You're the third." Yes, my dear boy, that he did!' Talking and greeting the friends they met, Levin and the prince walked through all the rooms: the great room where tables had already been set, and the usual partners were playing for small stakes; the divan-room, where they were playing chess, and Sergey Ivanovitch was sitting talking to somebody; the billiard-room, where, about a sofa in a recess, there was a lively party drinking champagne—Gagin was one of them. They peeped into the 'infernal regions', where a good many men were crowding round one table, at which Yashvin was sitting. Trying not to make a noise, they walked into the dark reading-room, where under the shaded lamps there sat a young man with a wrathful countenance, turning over one journal after another, and a bald general buried in a book. They went, too, into what the prince called the intellectual room, where three gentlemen were engaged in a heated discussion of the latest political news. 'Prince, please come, we're ready,' said one of his card-party, who had come to look for him, and the prince went off. Levin sat down and listened, but recalling all the conversation of the morning he felt all of a sudden fearfully bored. He got up hurriedly, and went to look for Oblonsky and Turovtsin, with whom it had been so pleasant.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  But to Anna's taste Liza was far more attractive. Betsy had said to Anna that she had adopted the pose of an innocent child, but when Anna saw her, she felt that this was not the truth. She really was both innocent and corrupt, but a sweet and passive woman. It is true that her tone was the same as Sappho's; that like Sappho she had two men, one young and one old, tacked on to her, and devouring her with their eyes. But there was something in her higher than what surrounded her. There was in her the glow of the real diamond among glass imitations. This glow shone out in her exquisite, truly enigmatic eyes. The weary, and at the same time passionate, glance of those eyes, encircled by dark rings, impressed one by its perfect sincerity. Everyone looking into those eyes fancied he knew her wholly, and knowing her, could not but love her. At the sight of Anna her whole face lighted up at once with a smile of delight. 'Ah, how glad I am to see you!' she said, going up to her. 'Yesterday at the races all I wanted was to get to you, but you'd gone away. I did so want to see you, yesterday especially. Wasn't it awful?' she said, looking at Anna with eyes that seemed to lay bare all her soul. 'Yes; I had no idea it would be so thrilling,' said Anna, blushing. The company got up at this moment to go into the garden. 'I'm not going,' said Liza, smiling and settling herself close to Anna. 'You won't go either, will you? Who wants to play croquet?' 'Oh, I like it,' said Anna. 'There, how do you manage never to be bored by things? It's delightful to look at you. You're alive, but I'm bored.' 'How can you be bored? Why, you live in the liveliest set in Petersburg,' said Anna. 'Possibly the people who are not of our set are even more bored; but we—I certainly—are not happy, but awfully, awfully bored.' Sappho smoking a cigarette went off into the garden with the two young men. Betsy and Stremov remained at the tea-table. 'What, bored!' said Betsy. 'Sappho says they did enjoy themselves tremendously at your house last night.' 'Ah, how dreary it all was!' said Liza Merkalov. 'We all drove back to my place after the races. And always the same people, always all the same. Always the same thing. We lounged about on sofas all the evening. What is there to enjoy in that? No: do tell me how you manage never to be bored?' she said, addressing Anna again. 'One has but to look at you and one sees, here's a woman who may be happy or unhappy, but isn't bored. Tell me how you do it?' 'I do nothing,' answered Anna, blushing at these searching questions.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  There was visiting the watering-place that year a real German Fürstin, in consequence of which the crystallising process went on more vigorously than ever. Princess Shtcherbatsky wished, above everything, to present her daughter to this German princess, and the day after their arrival she duly performed this rite. Kitty made a low and graceful curtsey in the very simple, that is to say, very elegant frock that had been ordered her from Paris. The German princess said, 'I hope the roses will soon come back to this pretty little face,' and for the Shtcherbatskys certain definite lines of existence were at once laid down from which there was no departing. The Shtcherbatskys made the acquaintance too of the family of an English Lady Somebody, and of a German countess and her son, wounded in the last war, and of a learned Swede, and of M. Canut and his sister. But yet inevitably the Shtcherbatskys were thrown most into the society of a Moscow lady, Marya Yevgenyevna Rtishtchov and her daughter, whom Kitty disliked, because she had fallen ill, like herself, over a love affair, and a Moscow colonel, whom Kitty had known from childhood, and always seen in uniform and epaulettes, and who now, with his little eyes and his open neck and flowered cravat, was uncommonly ridiculous and tedious, because there was no getting rid of him. When all this was so firmly established, Kitty began to be very much bored, especially as the prince went away to Carlsbad and she was left alone with her mother. She took no interest in the people she knew, feeling that nothing fresh would come of them. Her chief mental interest at the watering-place consisted in watching and making theories about the people she did not know. It was characteristic of Kitty that she always imagined everything in people in the most favourable light possible, especially so in those she did not know. And now as she made surmises as to who people were, what were their relations to one another, and what they were like, Kitty endowed them with the most marvellous and noble characters, and found confirmation of her idea in her observations. Of these people the one that attracted her most was a Russian girl who had come to the watering-place with an invalid Russian lady, Madame Stahl, as everyone called her. Madame Stahl belonged to the highest society, but she was so ill that she could not walk, and only on exceptionally fine days made her appearance at the springs in an invalid carriage. But it was not so much from ill-health as from pride—so Princess Shtcherbatsky interpreted it—that Madame Stahl had not made the acquaintance of anyone among the Russians there. The Russian girl looked after Madame Stahl, and besides that, she was, as Kitty observed, on friendly terms with all the invalids who were seriously ill, and there were many of them at the springs, and looked after them in the most natural way.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  It was a set made up of elderly, ugly, benevolent, and godly women, and clever, learned, and ambitious men. One of the clever people belonging to the set had called it 'the conscience of Petersburg society.' Alexey Alexandrovitch had the highest esteem for this circle; and Anna, with her special gift for getting on with everyone, had in the early days of her life in Petersburg made friends in this circle also. Now, since her return from Moscow, she had come to feel this set insufferable. It seemed to her that both she and all of them were insincere, and she felt so bored and ill at ease in that world that she went to see the Countess Lidia Ivanovna as little as possible. The third circle with which Anna had ties was pre-eminently the fashionable world—the world of balls, of dinners, of sumptuous dresses, the world that hung on to the court with one hand, so as to avoid sinking to the level of the demi-monde. For the demi-monde the members of that fashionable world believed that they despised, though their tastes were not merely similar, but in fact identical. Her connection with this circle was kept up through Princess Betsy Tverskoy, her cousin's wife, who had an income of a hundred and twenty thousand roubles, and who had taken a great fancy to Anna ever since she first came out, showed her much attention, and drew her into her set, making fun of Countess Lidia Ivanovna's coterie. 'When I'm old and ugly I'll be the same,' Betsy used to say; 'but for a pretty young woman like you it's early days for that house of charity.' Anna had at first avoided as far as she could Princess Tverskoy's world, because it necessitated an expenditure beyond her means, and besides in her heart she preferred the first circle. But since her visit to Moscow she had done quite the contrary. She avoided her serious-minded friends, and went out into the fashionable world. There she met Vronsky, and experienced an agitating joy at those meetings. She met Vronsky specially often at Betsy's, for Betsy was a Vronsky by birth and his cousin. Vronsky was everywhere where he had any chance of meeting Anna, and speaking to her, when he could, of his love. She gave him no encouragement, but every time she met him there surged up in her heart that same feeling of quickened life that had come upon her that day in the railway carriage when she saw him for the first time.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The galleries were full of fashionably dressed ladies, leaning over the balustrade and trying not to lose a single word of what was being said below. With the ladies were sitting and standing smart lawyers, high school teachers in spectacles, and officers. Everywhere they were talking of the election, and of how worried the marshal was, and how splendid the discussions had been. In one group Levin heard his brother's praises. One lady was telling a lawyer— 'How glad I am I heard Koznishev! It's worth losing one's dinner. He's exquisite! So clear and distinct all of it ! There's not one of you in the law-courts that speaks like that. The only one is Meidel, and he's not so eloquent by a long way.' Finding a free place, Levin leaned over the balustrade and began looking and listening. All the noblemen were sitting railed off behind barriers according to their districts. In the middle of the room stood a man in a uniform, who shouted in a loud high voice— 'As candidate for the marshalship of the nobility of the province we call upon staff-captain Yevgeney Ivanovitch Apuhtin!' A dead silence followed, and then a weak old voice was heard: 'Declined!' 'We call upon the privy councillor Pyotr Petrovitch Bol,' the voice began again. 'Declined!' a high boyish voice replied. Again it began, and again 'Declined'. And so it went on for about an hour. Levin, with his elbows on the balustrade, looked and listened. At first he wondered and wanted to know what it meant; then feeling sure that he could not make it out he began to be bored. Then recalling all the excitement and vindictiveness he had seen on all the faces, he felt sad; he made up his mind to go, and went downstairs. As he passed through the entry to the galleries he met a dejected high-school boy walking up and down with tired-looking eyes. On the stairs he met a couple—a lady running quickly on her high heels and the jaunty deputy prosecutor. 'I told you you weren't late,' the deputy prosecutor was saying at the moment when Levin moved aside to let the lady pass. Levin was on the stairs to the way out, and was just feeling in his waistcoat pocket for the number of his overcoat, when the secretary overtook him. 'This way, please, Konstantin Dmitrievitch; they are voting.' The candidate who was being voted on was Nevyedovsky, who had so stoutly denied all idea of standing. Levin went up to the door of the room; it was locked. The secretary knocked, the door opened, and Levin was met by two red-faced gentlemen, who darted out. 'I can't stand any more of it,' said one red-faced gentleman. After them the face of the marshal of the province was poked out. His face was dreadful-looking from exhaustion and dismay.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'That's the best way,' Stremov put in. Stremov was a man of fifty, partly grey, but still vigorous-looking, very ugly, but with a characteristic and intelligent face. Liza Merkalov was his wife's niece, and he spent all his leisure hours with her. On meeting Anna Karenin, as he was Alexey Alexandrovitch's enemy in the government, he tried, like a shrewd man and a man of the world, to be particularly cordial with her, the wife of his enemy. ' "Nothing,"' he put in with a subtle smile, 'that's the very best way. I told you long ago,' he said, turning to Liza Merkalov, 'that if you don't want to be bored, you mustn't think you're going to be bored. It's just as you mustn't be afraid of not being able to fall asleep, if you're afraid of sleeplessness. That's just what Anna Arkadyevna has just said.' 'I should be very glad if I had said it, for it's not only clever but true,' said Anna, smiling. 'No, do tell me why is it one can't go to sleep, and one can't help being bored?' 'To sleep well one ought to work, and to enjoy oneself one ought to work too.' 'What am I to work for when my work is no use to anybody? And I can't and won't knowingly make a pretence about it.' 'You're incorrigible,' said Stremov, not looking at her, and he spoke again to Anna. As he rarely met Anna, he could say nothing but commonplaces to her, but he said those commonplaces as to when she was returning to Petersburg, and how fond Countess Lidia Ivanovna was of her, with an expression which suggested that he longed with his whole soul to please her and show his regard for her and even more than that. Tushkevitch came in, announcing that the party were awaiting the other players to begin croquet. 'No, don't go away, please don't,' pleaded Liza Merkalov, hearing that Anna was going. Stremov joined in her entreaties. 'It's too violent a transition,' he said, 'to go from such company to old Madame Vrede. And besides, you will only give her a chance for talking scandal, while here you arouse none but such different feelings of the highest and most opposite kind,' he said to her.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'But she was always in weak health.' 'Were you at the opera yesterday?' 'Yes, I was.' 'Lucca was very good.' 'Yes, very good,' he said, and as it was utterly of no consequence to him what they thought of him, he began repeating what they had heard a hundred times about the characteristics of the singer's talent. Countess Bol pretended to be listening. Then, when he had said enough and paused, the colonel, who had been silent till then, began to talk. The colonel too talked of the opera, and about culture. At last, after speaking of the proposed folle journée at Turin's, the colonel laughed, got up noisily, and went away. Levin too rose, but he saw by the face of the countess that it was not yet time for him to go. He must stay two minutes longer. He sat down. But as he was thinking all the while how stupid it was, he could not find a subject for conversation, and sat silent. 'You are not going to the public meeting? They say it will be very interesting,' began the countess. 'No, I promised my belle-soeur to fetch her from it,' said Levin. A silence followed. The mother once more exchanged glances with a daughter. 'Well, now I think the time has come,' thought Levin, and he got up. The ladies shook hands with him, and begged him to say mille choses to his wife for them. The porter asked him, as he gave him his coat, 'Where is your honour staying?' and immediately wrote down his address in a big handsomely-bound book. 'Of course I don't care, but still I feel ashamed and awfully stupid,' thought Levin, consoling himself with the reflection that everyone does it. He drove to the public meeting, where he was to find his sister-in-law, so as to drive home with her. At the public meeting of the committee there were a great many people, and almost all the highest society. Levin was in time for the report which, as everyone said, was very interesting. When the reading of the report was over, people moved about, and Levin met Sviazhsky, who invited him very pressingly to come that evening to a meeting of the Society of Agriculture, where a celebrated lecture was to be delivered, and Stepan Arkadyevitch, who had only just come from the races, and many other acquaintances; and Levin heard and uttered various criticisms on the meeting, on the new fantasia, and on a public trial. But, probably from the mental fatigue he was beginning to feel, he made a blunder in speaking of the trial, and this blunder he recalled several times with vexation. Speaking of the sentence upon a foreigner who had been condemned in Russia, and of how unfair it would be to punish him by exile abroad, Levin repeated what he had heard the day before in conversation from an acquaintance.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'There are some among us, too, like our friend Nikolay Ivanovitch, or Count Vronsky, that's settled here lately, who try to carry on their husbandry as though it were a factory; but so far it leads to nothing but making away with capital on it.' 'But why is it we don't do like the merchants? Why don't we cut down our parks for timber?' said Levin, returning to a thought that had struck him. 'Why, as you said, to keep the fire in. Besides, that's not work for a nobleman. And our work as noblemen isn't done here at the elections, but yonder, each in our corner. There's a class instinct, too, of what one ought and oughtn't to do. There's the peasants, too, I wonder at them sometimes; any good peasant tries to take all the land he can. However bad the land is, he'll work it. Without a return too. At a simple loss.' 'Just as we do,' said Levin. 'Very, very glad to have met you,' he added, seeing Sviazhsky approaching him. 'And here we've met for the first time since we met at your place,' said the landowner to Sviazhsky, 'and we've had a good talk too.' 'Well, have you been attacking the new order of things?' said Sviazhsky with a smile. 'That we're bound to do.' 'You've relieved your feelings?' XXX S VIAZHSKY took Levin's arm, and went with him to his own friends. This time there was no avoiding Vronsky. He was standing with Stepan Arkadyevitch and Sergey Ivanovitch, and looking straight at Levin as he drew near. 'Delighted! I believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you . . . at Princess Shtcherbatsky's,' he said, giving Levin his hand. 'Yes, I quite remember our meeting,' said Levin, and blushing crimson, he turned away immediately, and began talking to his brother. With a slight smile Vronsky went on talking to Sviazhsky, obviously without the slightest inclination to enter into conversation with Levin. But Levin, as he talked to his brother, was continually looking round at Vronsky, trying to think of something to say to him to gloss over his rudeness. 'What are we waiting for now?' asked Levin, looking at Sviazhsky and Vronsky. 'For Snetkov. He has to refuse or to consent to stand,' answered Sviazhsky. 'Well, and what has he done, consented or not?' 'That's the point, that he's done neither,' said Vronsky. 'And if he refuses, who will stand then?' asked Levin, looking at Vronsky. 'Whoever chooses to,' said Sviazhsky. 'Shall you?' asked Levin. 'Certainly not. I,' said Sviazhsky, looking confused, and turning an alarmed glance at the malignant gentleman, who was standing beside Sergey Ivanovitch. 'Who then? Nevyedovsky?' said Levin, feeling he was putting his foot into it. But this was worse still. Nevyedovsky and Sviazhsky were the two candidates. 'I certainly shall not, under any circumstances,' answered the malignant gentleman.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  The princess laughed at her husband for his Russian ways, but she was more lively and good-humoured than she had been all the while she had been at the waters. The colonel smiled, as he always did, at the prince's jokes, but as far as regards Europe, of which he believed himself to be making a careful study, he took the princess's side. The simple-hearted Marya Yevgenyevna simply roared with laughter at everything absurd the prince said, and his jokes made Varenka helpless with feeble but infectious laughter, which was something Kitty had never seen before. Kitty was glad of all this, but she could not be light-hearted. She could not solve the problem her father had unconsciously set her by his good-humoured view of her friends, and of the life that had so attracted her. To this doubt there was joined the change in her relations with the Petrovs, which had been so conspicuously and unpleasantly marked that morning. Everyone was good-humoured, but Kitty could not feel good-humoured, and this increased her distress. She felt a feeling such as she had known in childhood, when she had been shut in her room as a punishment, and had heard her sisters' merry laughter outside. 'Well, but what did you buy this mass of things for?' said the princess, smiling, and handing her husband a cup of coffee. 'One goes for a walk, one looks in a shop, and they ask you to buy. "Ehrlaucht, Durchlaucht?" Directly they say "Durchlaucht" I can't hold out. I lose ten thalers.' 'It's simply from boredom,' said the princess. 'Of course it is. Such boredom, my dear, that one doesn't know what to do with oneself.' 'How can you be bored, prince? There's so much that's interesting now in Germany,' said Marya Yevgenyevna. 'But I know everything that's interesting: the plum-soup I know, and the pea-sausages I know. I know everything.' 'No, you may say what you like, prince, there's the interest of their institutions,' said the colonel. 'But what is there interesting about it? They're all as pleased as brass halfpence. They've conquered everybody, and why am I to be pleased at that? I haven't conquered anyone; and I'm obliged to take off my own boots, yes, and put them away too; in the morning, get up and dress at once, and go to the dining-room to drink bad tea! How different it is at home! You get up in no haste, you get cross, grumble a little, and come round again. You've time to think things over, and no hurry.' 'But time's money, you forget that,' said the colonel. 'Time, indeed, that depends! Why, there's time one would give a month of for sixpence, and time you wouldn't give half an hour of for any money. Isn't that so, Katinka? What is it? why are you so depressed?' 'I'm not depressed.' 'Where are you off to? Stay a little longer,' he said to Varenka.

• 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. None of the criticisms which I have heard of it have made me doubt its essential truth. I will therefore devote the next few pages to explaining what it is. I shall limit myself in the first instance to what may be called the coarser emotions, grief, fear, rage, love, in which every one recognizes a strong organic reverberation, and afterwards speak of the subtler emotions, or of those whose organic reverberation is less obvious and strong.

• From Satyricon (1)

  In the winter of 1895 a dinner was given in a New York studio. This dinner, locally known as the “Girl in the Pie Dinner,” was based upon Petronius, Martial, and the thirteenth book of Athenaeus. In the summer of 1919, I had the questionable pleasure of interviewing the chef-caterer who got it up, and he was, at the time, engaged in trying to work out another masterpiece to be given in California. The studio, one of the most luxurious in the world, was transformed for the occasion into a veritable rose grotto, the statuary was Pompeian, and here and there artistic posters were seen which were nothing if not reminiscent of Boulevard Clichy and Montmartre in the palmiest days. Four negro banjo players and as many jubilee singers titillated the jaded senses of the guests in a manner achieved by the infamous saxophone syncopating jazz of the Barbary Coast of our times. The dinner was over. The four and one half bottles of champagne allotted to each Silenus had been consumed, and a well-defined atmosphere of bored satiety had begun to settle down when suddenly the old-fashioned lullaby “Four and Twenty Blackbirds” broke forth from the banjoists and singers. Four waiters came in bearing a surprisingly monstrous object, something that resembled an impossibly large pie. They, placed it carefully in the center of the table. The negro chorus swelled louder and louder--“Four and Twenty Blackbirds Baked in a Pie.” The diners, startled into curiosity and then into interest, began to poke their noses against this gigantic creation of the baker. In it they detected a movement not unlike a chick’s feeble pecking against the shell of an egg. A quicker movement and the crust ruptured at the top. A flash of black gauze and delicate flesh showed within. A cloud of frightened yellow canaries flew out and perched on the picture frames and even on the heads and shoulders of the guests. But the lodestone which drew and held the eyes of all the revellers was an exquisitely slender, girlish figure amid the broken crust of the pie. The figure was draped with spangled black gauze, through which the girl’s marble white limbs gleamed like ivory seen through gauze of gossamer transparency. She rose from her crouching posture like a wood nymph startled by a satyr, glanced from one side to the other, and stepped timidly forth to the table. CHAPTER 56. Contumelia--Contus and Melon (malum). All translators have rendered “contus” by “pole,” notwithstanding the fact that the word is used in a very different sense in Priapeia, x, 3: “traiectus conto sic extendere pedali,” and contrary to the tradition which lay behind the gift of an apple or the acceptance of one. The truth of this may be established by many passages in the ancient writers. In the “Clouds” of Aristophanes, Just Discourse, in prescribing the rules and proprieties which should in govern the education and conduct of the healthy young man says:

• From Satyricon (1)

  What were we miserable wretches to do, shut up in this newfangled labyrinth. The idea of taking a hot bath had commenced to grow in favor, so we finally asked the porter to lead us to the place and, throwing off our clothing, which Giton spread out in the hall to dry, we went in. It was very small, like a cold water cistern; Trimalchio was standing upright in it, and one could not escape his disgusting bragging even here. He declared that there was nothing nicer than bathing without a mob around, and that a bakery had formerly occupied this very spot. Tired out at last, he sat down, but when the echoes of the place tempted him, he lifted his drunken mouth to the ceiling, and commenced murdering the songs of Menacrates, at least that is what we were told by those who understood his language. Some of the guests joined hands and ran around the edge of the pool, making the place ring with their boisterous peals of laughter; others tried to pick rings up from the floor, with their hands tied behind them, or else, going down upon their knees, tried to touch the ends of their toes by bending backwards. We went down into the pool while the rest were taking part in such amusements. It was being heated for Trimalchio. When the fumes of the wine had been dissipated, we were conducted into another dining-room where Fortunata had laid out her own treasures; I noticed, for instance, that there were little bronze fishermen upon the lamps, the tables were of solid silver, the cups were porcelain inlaid with gold; before our eyes wine was being strained through a straining cloth. “One of my slaves shaves his first beard today,” Trimalchio remarked, at length, “a promising, honest, thrifty lad; may he have no bad luck, so let’s get our skins full and stick around till morning.” CHAPTER THE SEVENTY-FOURTH.

• 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 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,

• 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 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 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.”