Confusion

Passages

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

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• From Querelle (1953)

  The first one, the true one. Now, if they really loved each other, did they, too, make love? Like pederasts. Pederasts were shameful. To mention them in this brothel was comparable to the evocation of Satan in the choir of a basilica. 1;1adame Lysiane despised them. No one of them ever crossed her doorstep. She only admitted certain clients with bizarre tastes who demanded things one did not otherwise expect women to do, and no doubt these _were tainted with a touch of queerness : but it was women they went upstairs with, and so one could assume that it was women they liked. In their own way. But homosexuals-never. "But what am I trying to do there? Robert's no faggot . . . " In her mind's eye she saw her lover's regular, tough, composed features-but with incredible speed these faded into an image of the sailor's face, and this again became Robert's, changing into Querelle's, and Querelle, again, into Robert . . . A composite face with an unchanging expression : hard eyes, mouth severe and calm, the chin solid, and over all that, a peculiar air of innocence in regard to the unceasing confusi�n. Querelle never dared mention Mario's name. Sometimes he wondered if anyone knew about his escapade with the detective. But why would he brag about it. It didn't look as if Madame Lysiane had heard anything about it. Having met her that first day he walked into La Feria, he had ignored her ever since. But little by little, with her habitual authority, she zts I JEAN GENET imposed herself on him and took possession of him, swathing him into gestures and lines of motion whose curves were very wide and beautiful. Those harmonious masses of fl�h, that dignified bearing exuded a heat, almost a kind of steam, beclouding Querelle's senses before he was aware of the witchcraft being worked upon him. Casually he glanced at the golden chain on her breasts, the bracelets ·on her wrists, and, always vaguely, he felt himself swaddled in opulence. Sometimes he mused, looking at her from a distance, that the brothelkeeper had a beautiful wife, his brother a beautiful mistress; but when she came closer to him, Madame Lysiane was merely a source of warm, amazingly fecund, but almost unreal radiation. "You wouldn't have a match, Madame Lysiane?'' "Certainly, my dear, I'll get you a light." She refused the cigarette the sailor offered her, with a smile. "But why don't you have one? I've never seen you smoking. It's a Craven, you know." ''I never smoke in here. I allow the girls to do it, because it would make a bad impression to be so severe, but I never do, myself. It just wouldn't be class, to have the patronne sit there, puffing away." She did not sound offended at all. She spoke directly, explaining what was self-evident and not open to further discussion.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Very well, I will talk to her. But how is it she does not think of it herself?” said Darya Alexandrovna, and for some reason she suddenly at that point recalled Anna’s strange new habit of half-closing her eyes. And she remembered that Anna drooped her eyelids just when the deeper questions of life were touched upon. “Just as though she half-shut her eyes to her own life, so as not to see everything,” thought Dolly. “Yes, indeed, for my own sake and for hers I will talk to her,” Dolly said in reply to his look of gratitude. They got up and walked to the house. Chapter 22 When Anna found Dolly at home before her, she looked intently in her eyes, as though questioning her about the talk she had had with Vronsky, but she made no inquiry in words. “I believe it’s dinner time,” she said. “We’ve not seen each other at all yet. I am reckoning on the evening. Now I want to go and dress. I expect you do too; we all got splashed at the buildings.” Dolly went to her room and she felt amused. To change her dress was impossible, for she had already put on her best dress. But in order to signify in some way her preparation for dinner, she asked the maid to brush her dress, changed her cuffs and tie, and put some lace on her head. “This is all I can do,” she said with a smile to Anna, who came in to her in a third dress, again of extreme simplicity. “Yes, we are too formal here,” she said, as it were apologizing for her magnificence. “Alexey is delighted at your visit, as he rarely is at anything. He has completely lost his heart to you,” she added. “You’re not tired?” There was no time for talking about anything before dinner. Going into the drawing-room they found Princess Varvara already there, and the gentlemen of the party in black frock-coats. The architect wore a swallow-tail coat. Vronsky presented the doctor and the steward to his guest. The architect he had already introduced to her at the hospital. A stout butler, resplendent with a smoothly shaven round chin and a starched white cravat, announced that dinner was ready, and the ladies got up. Vronsky asked Sviazhsky to take in Anna Arkadyevna, and himself offered his arm to Dolly. Veslovsky was before Tushkevitch in offering his arm to Princess Varvara, so that Tushkevitch with the steward and the doctor walked in alone.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  It seems that you see beforehand what time brings with it, if I rightly hear; and have a different manner with the present.” “Like one who has imperfect vision, we see the things,” he said, “which are remote from us; so much light the Supreme Ruler still gives to us; when they draw nigh, or are, our intellect is altogether void; and except what others bring us, we know nothing of your human state. Therefore thou mayest understand that all our knowledge shall be dead, from that moment when the portal of the Future shall be closed.” 13 Then, as compunctious for my fault, I said: “Now will you therefore tell that fallen one, that his child is still joined to the living. And if I was mute before, at the response, let him know, it was because my thoughts already were in that error which you have

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  The pattern for anger, for example, consists of a set of voxels across the brain, but that pattern need not appear in any individual brain scan for anger. The pattern is an abstract summary. In fact, no individual voxel appeared in all the scans of anger. 48 When properly applied, pattern classification is an example of population thinking. A species, you may recall, is a collection of diverse individuals, so it can be summarized only in statistical terms. The summary is an abstraction that does not exist in nature—it does not describe any individual member of the species. Where emotion is concerned, on different occasions and in different people, different combinations of neurons can create instances of an emotion category like anger. Even when two experiences of anger feel the same to you, they can have different brain patterns via degeneracy. But we can still summarize many varying instances of anger to describe how, in abstract terms, they might be distinguishable from all the varying instances of fear. (Analogy: no two Labrador Retrievers are identical, but they’re all distinguishable from Golden Retrievers.) My long search for fingerprints in the face, body, and brain brought me to a realization that I had not expected—that we need a new theory of what emotions are and where they come from. In the chapters that follow, I introduce you to this new theory, which accounts for all the findings of the classical view as well as all the inconsistencies you’ve just seen. By moving beyond fingerprints and following the evidence, we will seek a better and more scientifically justified understanding, not only of emotion but also of ourselves. 2 Emotions Are Constructed Please take a look at the black splotches in figure 2-1. Figure 2-1: Mystery blobs If this is your first time viewing these blobs, your brain is working hard to make sense of them. Neurons in your visual cortex are processing the lines and edges. Your amygdala is firing rapidly because the input is novel. Other brain regions are sifting through your past experiences to determine if you’ve encountered anything like this input before and are conversing with your body to prepare it for an as-yet-undetermined action. Most likely, you are in a state called experiential blindness, seeing only black blobs of unknown origin. To cure your experiential blindness, look at the image on page 308 (appendix B). Then come back to this page. You should no longer see formless blobs but a familiar object. What just happened in your brain to change your perception of these blobs? Your brain added stuff from the full photograph into its vast array of prior experiences and constructed the familiar object you now see in the blobs. Neurons in your visual cortex changed their firing to create lines that aren’t present, linking the blobs into a shape that isn’t physically there.

• From Querelle (1953)

  The voice was still calm, and it was a strange feeling for Robert to discuss such accusations so reasonably. At first, he found it hard to discern the components. The notion of his brother was completely invisible, only the idea of those "filthy 'doings" was present. Yet Robert wasn't thinking : his stare was too rigid, his body too motionless for him to be able to think intelligently. He did not know how to think. But the deliberateness of his speech, its apparent calm ( though there were tremors of some almost imperceptible emotion ) , and the repetition of the word "filth" increased his confusion. He lay spellbound, as if by some litany of misery whose refrain echoes 188 I JEAN GENET through the most secret reaches of our pain. The idea of filthy doings embarrassed him, offended his family feelings. Mournfully he said to himself: "Well, there goes the family, down the drain!'' He did not know how, but he knew he was guilty, and to a considerable degree. Lysiane said nothing. Suddenly she looked stupid and helpless. Uncomprehending, she looked at her lover talking to her from the bottom of the ocean. She was afraid of losing him. Every time he was alone with himself, and especiaiiy when he went on his twilight walks to prowl round the hiding place of his treasure, that docker's exclamation kept roiling round his brain : "Wow, what a piece a ass I Wanna try it?" When he was striding over the grass, under the trees, in the fog, sure-footed and looking impassive, he knew that something inside him kept on worrying those words like a bone. He had been violated. He was a Little Red Riding Hood, and a big bad wolf, much stronger than he, had put his paw into his little basket; he was a sweet flower girl, and a street urchin came and stole his carnations, laughing and kicking the display to pieces, and wanted to make off with his treasure-which he was now coming close to : in his inmost heart, Quereiie was afraid. He felt a spasm of anguish in his stomach. Madame Lysiane watched Robert as he was lugubriously digesting his own verbal symbol of hurt, like some pill that would dissolve him. She was afraid of such a dissolution. "But that's what you said, filthy things." "So I said it, so what, it doesn't mean anything. Oh, darling, I'm so unhappy." He looked at her. She had lost her authority of womanhood, of being the lady of the house. She had been declawed. Her face was soft now. She was merely a middle-aged woman, with no make-up on, no glamor, but brimming with tenderness, a bursting reservoir of tenderness that wished for nothing so much as to overflow into the room, over an entranced Robert's 189 I QUERELLE feet, in long, hot waves, in which little sly fish would then sport about . . . Lysiane shivered. "Why don't you get back in."

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  What puzzled and distracted him above everything was that the majority of men of his age and circle had, like him, exchanged their old beliefs for the same new convictions, and yet saw nothing to lament in this, and were perfectly satisfied and serene. So that, apart from the principal question, Levin was tortured by other questions too. Were these people sincere? he asked himself, or were they playing a part? or was it that they understood the answers science gave to these problems in some different, clearer sense than he did? And he assiduously studied both these men’s opinions and the books which treated of these scientific explanations. One fact he had found out since these questions had engrossed his mind, was that he had been quite wrong in supposing from the recollections of the circle of his young days at college, that religion had outlived its day, and that it was now practically non-existent. All the people nearest to him who were good in their lives were believers. The old prince, and Lvov, whom he liked so much, and Sergey Ivanovitch, and all the women believed, and his wife believed as simply as he had believed in his earliest childhood, and ninety-nine hundredths of the Russian people, all the working people for whose life he felt the deepest respect, believed. Another fact of which he became convinced, after reading many scientific books, was that the men who shared his views had no other construction to put on them, and that they gave no explanation of the questions which he felt he could not live without answering, but simply ignored their existence and attempted to explain other questions of no possible interest to him, such as the evolution of organisms, the materialistic theory of consciousness, and so forth. Moreover, during his wife’s confinement, something had happened that seemed extraordinary to him. He, an unbeliever, had fallen into praying, and at the moment he prayed, he believed. But that moment had passed, and he could not make his state of mind at that moment fit into the rest of his life. He could not admit that at that moment he knew the truth, and that now he was wrong; for as soon as he began thinking calmly about it, it all fell to pieces. He could not admit that he was mistaken then, for his spiritual condition then was precious to him, and to admit that it was a proof of weakness would have been to desecrate those moments. He was miserably divided against himself, and strained all his spiritual forces to the utmost to escape from this condition. Chapter 9 These doubts fretted and harassed him, growing weaker or stronger from time to time, but never leaving him. He read and thought, and the more he read and the more he thought, the further he felt from the aim he was pursuing.

• From Escape (2007)

  Cathleen became even more distressed at the way Merril ignored Ruth. Why would a man of God allow his wife to behave in such a manner? In the FLDS culture, people believe that the mentally ill have invited evil spirits into themselves. Cathleen could not fathom why Merril would allow a wife who’d been taken over by an evil spirit to be running around his home and scaring his children with her bizarre behavior. Poor Cathleen. Here was a woman who felt she had been worthy enough to marry a prophet of God. Now she was married to a man who seemed completely ungodly and who allowed a contaminated woman to interact with his children. It got worse. Merril continued to ignore Ruth until she pulled out all the stops. She announced that she was pregnant. Merril congratulated her. “This baby I am pregnant with is not your baby,” she said. Silence. Ruth was confessing a sin unto death: adultery. Surely, thought Cathleen, this must be at the root of the evil that had overtaken her. Merril looked at her and said calmly, “Ruth, if you are pregnant, then the baby is mine.” “I can assure you that the child I am carrying is not yours because this child is God’s.” Merril told her that all children were of God. “I have proven worthy enough to carry the child of Jesus Christ. He has come to me and I am pregnant with his baby,” she said in a strange, trancelike voice. Cathleen could not sit in Merril’s office any longer. Adultery, but with Jesus Christ! Ungodliness was rampant. The devil had inhabited Ruth’s body. Cathleen fled. Ruth’s mother had been mentally ill, and because of that, her father was allowed to enter plural marriage—his ticket to the celestial kingdom. Ruth, when she was stable enough to have a semblance of coherent thoughts, saw mental illness as a sacrifice for God. The ravages of her mother had helped her father on his path to celestial glory. Ruth always had grandiose fantasies when she was most disturbed. If it wasn’t Jesus’ baby, she was carrying the child of Joseph Smith or God. When I came home with Tammy after helping her move from Uncle Roy’s, I saw Ruth in the kitchen and realized she was sicker than I’d ever seen her before. She was crying because one of the children had left a pair of socks on the floor. What frightened me was that I sensed that she was on the verge of violence. She stormed off into her bedroom. I followed her and found her on her knees, begging for God’s mercy between sobs. “Ruth, are you all right?” “No.” She looked at me blankly. “I haven’t been able to sleep all week, and even when I lie down and try to, I can’t sleep.” Her speech was slow and her words seem to lurch out.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  resolved for me.” And now my Master was recalling me: wherefore I, in more haste, besought the spirit to tell me who was with him. He said to me: “With more than a thousand lie I here; the second Frederick 14 is here within, and the Cardinal; 15 and of the rest I speak not.” Therewith he hid himself; and I towards the ancient Poet turned my steps, revolving that saying which seemed hostile to me. He moved on; and then, as we were going, he said to me: “Why art thou so bewildered?” And I satisfied him in his question. “Let thy memory retain what thou hast heard against thee,” that Sage exhorted me; “and now mark here”; and he raised his finger. “When thou shalt stand before the sweet ray of that Lady, whose bright eye seeth all, from her shalt thou know the journey of thy life.” 16 Then to the sinister hand he turned his feet; we left the wall, and went towards the middle, by a path that strikes into a valley, which even up there annoyed us with its fetor. 1. The essential doctrine of Epicurus’ philosophy is that the highest happiness is of a negative nature, consisting in absence of pain. This is how Dante himself expounds the philosophy in Conv. iv. 6. The present passage contains rather a corollary of Epicurus’ teaching. Epicurus’ summum bonum is conceivable on earth, whereas the Catholic Church teaches that life on earth is but “a running unto death,” and that true happiness is to be found only in the life beyond.—Note that heresy, as defined in this verse, is elsewhere designated by Dante as the worst form of bestiality (Conv. ii. 9), This accounts for the position of the heretics in the City of Dis (cf. Canto xi). 2. Perhaps the wish to see some more of his fellow-citizens. 3. See Canto iii. 4. The Uberti family were leaders of the Ghibelline faction in Florence (see Par. xvi, note 25). Farinata, the present speaker, was born at the beginning of the thirteenth century and became head of his house in 1239. 5. Cf. Par. xvi. 6. The Guelfs were overthrown by the Ghibellines in 1248 and in 1260; but each time they managed to regain the upper hand (in 1251 and 1266, respectively). The Uberti were held in special aversion, for even after a general pacification between the two factions had taken place, in 1280, they were among the families who were forbidden to return. 7. Cavalcante Cavalcanti is mentioned in the Decameron, sixth day, ninth story. 8. Guido Cavalcanti (born between 1250 and 1259) was the son of Cavalcante and the son-in-law of Farinata, whose daughter he married at a time when marriages between Guelfs and Ghibellines were frequently resorted to as a means of reconciling the two factions. He and Dante are the chief representatives of the Florentine school of lyrical poetry, which superseded the Bolognese school of Guido Guinicelli (see Purg. xi).

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  “Keep the change, you filthy animal,” Nolan says, and more gunfire rains down on them. It’s that scene from Home Alone where there’s a movie playing, an old movie, and the man on the screen pulls out a gun and shoots someone who had come to betray him or something like that. Nolan aims his fingergun squarely at Milton’s chest and fires as if he, too, were nothing more than an animal. The gesture’s cruelty jolts him momentarily, and in an instant, an awful transfiguration: Nolan, the hunter, fierce and terrible, come to shoot them all down. Milton digs his fingers into the ground to steady himself. There’s a hand on his shoulder, and Milton jumps. A girl he doesn’t know. “Hey,” she says, “isn’t it your birthday?” “How did you know?” “I saw it online. We’re friends there.” “We are?” Milton strains to remember where he has seen her face before. At school, maybe, or out with everyone like tonight. But she is plainly pretty, pale and blond with delicate features. He’s familiar with the look, everything straightened and cleared, frosted and dyed and perfect. “We are,” she says. Her voice is musical and high. “I’m Edie.” “Milton.” “Oh, I know. Happy birthday, by the way.” “Thanks,” he says. Even though he doesn’t ask her to or make a gesture that’s welcoming or open, she sits next to him. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” “What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Some celebration.” “I know, it’s great.” “Then why are you here?” she asks. “Nolan wanted to come, and I couldn’t tell him no.” “That boy,” she says, and it makes Milton lean toward her. “What do you mean?” “Oh, I don’t know. People have a hard time telling him no. Or he has a hard time hearing it, I should say.” There’s something resigned about the way that sounds to him, and Milton wants to press her on it, but before he can, Abe and Nolan have made their way over. “You can’t sit around here talking all night. We gotta get you high,” Nolan says. Then, noticing Edie, he smiles. “Hello, Edie.” “Nolan,” she drawls. “How you been?” “Oh, you know.” She shrugs. “How’s your sister?” Nolan asks, and something mean catches the underside of his words. But Edie sighs, rises from the ground. Abe snickers to himself nearby. Edie turns her head subtly, her eyes ranging over all their faces. They are not alone. They are at the edge of the crowd. The holler and hoop of the others. The music pressing down on them all, percussive, driving in the way Nolan remembers church music to be. So solid in its presence that he had once asked his mother if it was the Holy Spirit, and she had laughed and said, No, boy, that’s just the drums. Edie’s shoulders open and she tilts her chin up stiffly. “Better every day,” she says firmly.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  “Not quite, countess. Of course, his misfortune....” “Yes, a misfortune which has proved the highest happiness, when his heart was made new, was filled full of it,” she said, gazing with eyes full of love at Stepan Arkadyevitch. “I do believe I might ask her to speak to both of them,” thought Stepan Arkadyevitch. “Oh, of course, countess,” he said; “but I imagine such changes are a matter so private that no one, even the most intimate friend, would care to speak of them.” “On the contrary! We ought to speak freely and help one another.” “Yes, undoubtedly so, but there is such a difference of convictions, and besides....” said Oblonsky with a soft smile. “There can be no difference where it is a question of holy truth.” “Oh, no, of course; but....” and Stepan Arkadyevitch paused in confusion. He understood at last that they were talking of religion. “I fancy he will fall asleep immediately,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch in a whisper full of meaning, going up to Lidia Ivanovna. Stepan Arkadyevitch looked round. Landau was sitting at the window, leaning on his elbow and the back of his chair, his head drooping. Noticing that all eyes were turned on him he raised his head and smiled a smile of childlike artlessness. “Don’t take any notice,” said Lidia Ivanovna, and she lightly moved a chair up for Alexey Alexandrovitch. “I have observed....” she was beginning, when a footman came into the room with a letter. Lidia Ivanovna rapidly ran her eyes over the note, and excusing herself, wrote an answer with extraordinary rapidity, handed it to the man, and came back to the table. “I have observed,” she went on, “that Moscow people, especially the men, are more indifferent to religion than anyone.” “Oh, no, countess, I thought Moscow people had the reputation of being the firmest in the faith,” answered Stepan Arkadyevitch. “But as far as I can make out, you are unfortunately one of the indifferent ones,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch, turning to him with a weary smile. “How anyone can be indifferent!” said Lidia Ivanovna. “I am not so much indifferent on that subject as I am waiting in suspense,” said Stepan Arkadyevitch, with his most deprecating smile. “I hardly think that the time for such questions has come yet for me.” Alexey Alexandrovitch and Lidia Ivanovna looked at each other. “We can never tell whether the time has come for us or not,” said Alexey Alexandrovitch severely. “We ought not to think whether we are ready or not ready. God’s grace is not guided by human considerations: sometimes it comes not to those that strive for it, and comes to those that are unprepared, like Saul.” “No, I believe it won’t be just yet,” said Lidia Ivanovna, who had been meanwhile watching the movements of the Frenchman. Landau got up and came to them. “Do you allow me to listen?” he asked.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  And my Comfort began to say to me, turning full round: “Why dost thou again distrust? believest thou not me with thee and that I do guide thee? It is already evening 1 there, where the body buried lies within which I made shadow: Naples possesses it, and from Brindisi ’tis taken. 2 Now, if before me no shadow falls, marvel not more than at the heavenly spheres, that one doth not obstruct the light from the other. To suffer torments, heat and frost, bodies such as these that power disposes, which wills not that its workings be revealed to us. Mad is he who hopes that our reason may compass that infinitude which one substances in three persons fills. Be ye content, O human race, with the quia! 3 For if ye had been able to see the whole, no need was there for Mary to give birth; 4 and ye have seen such sages desire fruitlessly, whose desire had else been satisfied, which is given them for eternal grief. I speak of Aristotle and of Plato, and of many others.” And here he bent his brow, and said no more, and remained troubled. We reached meanwhile the mountain’s foot: there found we the cliff so steep that vainly there would legs be nimble. ’Twixt Lerici and Turbia, 5 the way most desolate, most solitary, is a stairway easy and free, compared with that. “Now who knows on which hand the scarp doth slope,” said my Master, halting his steps, “so that he may climb who wingless goes?” And while he held his visage low, searching in thought anent the way, and I was looking up about the rocks, on the left hand appeared to me a throng of souls, who moved their feet towards us, and yet seemed not to advance, so slow they came. “Master,” said I, “lift up thine eyes, behold there one who will give us counsel; if of thyself thou mayest have it not.” He looked at them, and with gladsome mien answered: “Go we thither, for slowly they come, and do thou confirm thy hope, sweet son.” As yet that people were so far off (I mean after a thousand paces of ours) as a good slinger would carry with his hand, when they all pressed close to the hard rocks of the steep cliff, and stood motionless and close, as he halts to gaze around who goes in dread.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  I raised my eyes, and thought to see Lucifer as I had left him; and saw him with the legs turned upwards; and the gross people who see not what that point is which I had passed, let them judge if I grew perplexed then. “Rise up!” said the Master, “upon thy feet: the way is long, and difficult the road; and already to middle tierce the Sun returns.” 5 It was no palace-hall, there where we stood, but natural dungeon with an evil floor and want of light. “Before I pluck myself from the Abyss,” said I when risen up, “O Master! speak to me a little, to draw me out of error. Where is the ice? and this, how is he fixed thus upside down? and how, in so short a time, has the Sun from eve to mom made transit?” And he to me: “Thou imaginest that thou art still upon the other side of the centre, where I caught hold on the hair of the evil Worm which pierces through the world. Thou wast on that side, so long as I descended; when I turned myself, thou then didst pass the point to which all gravities from every

• From Collected Essays (1998)

  We had not, ourselves, used very pretty methods. Presumably, this left us in no position to throw stones at Nehru, Nasser, Sukarno, etc., should they de cide, as they almost surely would, to usc dictatorial methods in order to hasten the "social evolution." In any case, Wright said, these men, the leaders of their countries, once the new social order was established, would voluntarily surrender the "personal power." He did not say what would happen then, but I supposed it would be the second coming. Saturday was the last day of the conference, which was scheduled to end with the invitation to the audience to engage with the delegates in the Euro-African dialogue. It was a day marked by much confusion and excitement and discontent this last on the part of people who fe lt that the conference had been badly run, or who had not been allowed to read their reports. (They were often the same people.) It was marked, too, by rather a great deal of plain speaking, both on and otl� but mostly off, the record. The hall was even more hot and crowded than it had been the first day and the pho tographers were back. The entire morning was taken up in an attempt to agree on a "cultural inventory." This had to be done before the con te rence could draft those resolutions which they were, today, to present to the world. This task would have been extremely difficult even had there obtained in the black world a greater unity-geographical, spiritual, and historical-than is actually the case. Under the circumstances, it was an endeavor com plicated by the nearly indefinable complexities of the word PRINCES AND POWERS culture, by the fa ct that no coherent statement had yet been made concerning the relationship of black cultures to each other, and, finally, by the necessity, which had obtained throughout the conference, of avoiding the political issues. The inability to discuss politics had certainly handicapped the conference, but it could scarcely have been run otherwise. The political question would have caused the conference to lose itself in a war of political ideologies. Moreover, the con fe rence was being held in Paris, many of the delegates repre sented areas which belonged to France, most of them represented areas which were not free. There was also to be considered the delicate position of the American delegation, which had sat throughout the conference uncomfortably aware that they might at any moment be fo rced to rise and leave the hall.

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  Because he’d make me grilled cheese at 3 a.m., and I’d get him five tacos on Taco Tuesdays, and once, when I was sick, he delivered a single white rose, a plain buttered bagel (my favorite), and a card with a bulldog wearing an ice pack, where inside he wrote that I was his favorite. Because when I said I didn’t want to have sex, he didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. Because when I would plead, he would plead (my panic, his smile). Because I preferred not to fight or appear culpable. Because I’d lie: “It’s fine,” I’d say, desperate, like I could discover another sensation, dispel the anxiety through a sleight of psyche, and keep on loving him. Because lying is just performing, and perform is what we’re encouraged to do. Because besides, even if I’d said, No, Stop, there are those who’d think I’d meant Yes, Please, anyway. Because I was at a loss for even the wrong words; because words escape us, they fail us, they miss. Because I woke up one night to him hard and upon me from behind, jabbing me—my vagina, my heart, my threshold—and I said, “What the—?” semiasleep, “WHAT THE—?” and he said, “Don’t be mad” as warm semen trickled down my inner thighs, coating and staining them. Because I didn’t know what to call that. Still, I slept beside him almost every night until graduation, willingly, just because. Because! Grilled cheeses at 3 a.m.! Taco Tuesdays! Bulldogs wearing ice packs! Because I remember leaving Student Health Services and passing black-and-white posters of a group of resolved faces underneath a statistic in large bold red font—“one in four college women experiences sexual violence”—and thinking What a god-awful statistic that has nothing at all to do with me, a woman in love. Because I’d told my friends, on the rare occasion I saw them, “We’re violently in love.” Because what you call art or “art” or superficial distraction or clickbait is alive and haunted and an ideological weapon of mass self-destruction. Because I didn’t inquire, What power structures are operating here?, and opted to believe that consent is an individual, uncomplicated yes/no articulation and action. Because even after I’d read preeminent scholar-activist-feminists, if my boyfriend said he loved me while hurting me, then I’d consent to be hurt. Because beggars can’t be choosers. Because you could say it was a choice, one muddled by inculcation, mood, altruistic deceit, fear, insecurity, risk, cornering, the chaos of the heart, and free will. Because I didn’t want to entertain the idea that there was anything going on that should have to be contested and stopped. Because though it takes a while to nail those sex tips worth trying, it takes longer to figure out what’s not okay. Because who fantasizes about ethical sex, about moral principles that govern a group’s behavior?

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  He says, “Still, you shouldn’t let everyone see. You don’t want some guy to see you taking those and think he can take advantage of you and there will be no consequences.” You put the pill on the back of your tongue and the envelope back in your bag. James watches as you bring your water glass to your lips. You swallow. Hard. IF RAPE CULTURE HAD A FLAG, IT WOULD BE ONE OF THOSE BOOB INSPECTOR T-shirts. If rape culture had its own cuisine, it would be all this shit you have to swallow. If rape culture had a downtown, it would smell like Axe body spray and that perfume they put on tampons to make your vagina smell like laundry detergent. If rape culture had an official language, it would be locker-room jokes and an awkward laugh track. Rape culture speaks in every tongue. If rape culture had a national sport, it would be . . . well . . . something with balls, for sure. YOU DRINK TOO MUCH AT THE PARTY BECAUSE IT’S COLLEGE and you’re always drinking too much. The party is terribly generic with beer pong and a bass-heavy sound track. Everyone is drinking foamy beer out of red Solo cups. You think there might even be a black light somewhere. Daniel knows you don’t drink beer, so he has brought you a bottle of cheap vodka, which you drink mixed with even cheaper orange juice. You flit around for a while, talking to one group of people, then another. A boy in the kitchen—a baseball player—takes his dick out to show everyone how big it is. It is, in fact, very big. The last thing you remember is lying down on the couch. Just to close my eyes, you think, just for a minute. When you wake up, you are in a bed in an upstairs bedroom you have never seen. Daniel is in the bed next to you. Your clothes are on, but your shoes are off. “Hey,” you say, pressing into your temples. Maybe if you press them hard enough the pounding will stop. “You fell asleep,” he says, before you even ask. “I carried you up here.” You say, “You carried me?” “Yeah. I didn’t want to just leave you down there with all those dudes, passed out on the couch like bait or something.” “Did you take my shoes off?” “Yeah. So you could sleep.” Your mouth feels dry. Everything is blurry. You rub your eyes and take in a breath so you can thank Daniel when he says, “I took your contacts out, too.” You don’t know where your gratitude goes, but suddenly it’s gone. THESE STORIES AREN’T WORTH TELLING. THERE’S NO ARC TO them, no dramatic climax. There’s nothing at stake, not really. You imagine your listener, leaning in, “And then what happened?” And you have to say, “Nothing. That’s the whole story.” “Oh,” she says, her mouth a firm line.

• From The Divine Comedy (1950)

  who is that who writhes himself, 3 quivering more than all his fellows,” I said, “and sucked by ruddier flame?” And he to me: “If thou wilt have me carry thee down there, by that lower bank, thou shalt learn from him about himself and about his wrongs.” And I: “Whatever pleases thee, to me is grateful: thou art my lord, and knowest that I depart not from thy will; also thou knowest what is not spoken.” Then we came upon the fourth bulwark; we turned and descended, on the left hand, down there into the perforated and narrow bottom. The kind Master did not yet depose me from his side, till he brought me to the cleft of him who so lamented with his legs. “O whoe’er thou be that hast thy upper part beneath, unhappy spirit, planted like a stake!” I began to say; “if thou art able, speak.” I stood, like the friar who is confessing a treacherous assassin that, after being fixed, 4 recalls him and thus delays the death; and he cried: “Art thou there already standing, Boniface? 5 art thou there already standing? By several years the writ has lied to me. Art thou so quickly sated with that wealth, for which thou didst not fear to seize the comely Lady 6 by deceit, and then make havoc of her?” I became like those who stand as if bemocked, not comprehending what is answered to them, and unable to reply. Then Virgil said: “Say to him quickly, ‘I am not he, I am not he whom thou thinkest.’ ” And I replied as was enjoined me. Whereat the spirit quite wrenched his feet; thereafter, sighing and with voice of weeping, he said to me: “Then what askest thou of me? If to know who I am concerneth thee so much, that thou hast therefore passed the bank, learn that I was clothed with the Great Mantle; and verily I was a son of the She-bear, so eager to advance the Whelps, that I pursed wealth above, and here myself. Beneath my head are dragged the others who preceded me in simony, cowering within the fissures of the stone. I too shall fall down thither, when he comes for whom I took thee when I put the sudden question. But longer is the time already, that I have baked my feet and stood inverted thus, than he 7 shall stand planted with glowing feet: for after him, from westward, there shall come a lawless Shepherd, of uglier deeds, fit to cover him and me. A new Jason 8 will it be, of whom we read in Maccabees; and as to that high priest his king was pliant, so to this shall be he who governs France.” I know not if here I was too hardy, for I answered him in this strain: “Ah! now tell me how much treasure Our Lord required of St. Peter, before he put the keys into his keeping?

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  “You’re not much of an Anne Boleyn,” Sigrid said, and the name darted through Marta’s mind like a swift silver fish. There was something there, a glimmer of recognition—or, no, maybe just a desire to have the conversation over with. She had not thought much about history in some time, in years, really. She had studied chemical engineering as an undergraduate and now she worked at a waste-processing plant in Baraboo. She might have told Sigrid this, except that the look on Sigrid’s face, with its precise concentration, wedged inside her like a splinter. “Definitely not Catherine Howard.” “I don’t know who they are, but I’ll take your word for it,” Marta said. The wine was too sweet for her. She didn’t much like wine. She preferred Coors or Old Milwaukee, beer of the pale, weak variety. It may have been the result of spending all her time in college around engineers, who drank shitty beer and leaned over their notebooks and parsed their calculations long into the night. She had often woken up on their couches smelling sour and raw, with rulers stuck to her thighs. That’s how she had met Peter and fallen in with him: they saw each other so much that it seemed natural that they should date, and when he asked her to the movies, she’d said, Okay, all right, sounds good. On that first date with Sigrid, she was still sad about Peter, and uneasy, and if this was how dating women was going to be, a series of increasingly esoteric questions, she wasn’t sure she liked it that much, either. “This won’t work,” Sigrid said, and Marta felt a little pulse of fear. “What won’t work?” “This,” she said, gesturing wildly. “You retreating, falling into silence. It won’t work.” “I’m sorry,” Marta said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do. I don’t know anything about Henry the Eighth, or whoever.” “That’s fine,” Sigrid said. “You say that, except I told you before, when you asked me, that I didn’t know much about it. And you kept going, so I don’t know.” “It’s fine,” Sigrid said, and she leaned over the table and crossed her arms.

• From Escape (2007)

  As if these responsibilities weren’t enough, I was told that some of the most precious spirits from the other side were waiting to come to earth as my children. The blessing continued as the patriarch told me that educational opportunities would continue to come my way and that I would end up as a valiant member of God’s chosen. These blessings were contingent on my remaining faithful until the end of my life. In return, I had the promise that I would be lifted up on the last day and protected. After my blessing was over I felt confused. Not many women in the FLDS had ever lived lives that were valued as having an impact on others in their community. My blessing sounded like a destiny I wasn’t really seeking. Merril never asked me about my blessing. I’m sure he assumed it was nothing special. Hawaii: Seven Days but Only Two Nights The moment I heard that Merril was planning a trip to Hawaii I knew there would be trouble in paradise. But I underestimated what an unmitigated disaster it would turn out to be. I was upset when I heard about the trip for the first time at my father’s house. My dad and Merril had become business partners again after my marriage. They’d worked together before on a deal that turned out badly and my father decided he was never going to do business with him again, but after my marriage their partnership accelerated. They were investing in motels, rest homes, and a restaurant or two. They would often travel together to check on their businesses. Six months before, they’d gone to Washington, D.C. Merril took Barbara with him. He usually always traveled with Barbara because she was the love of his life. But now he had three more wives and the pressure was on him to include more than just Barbara on his trips. Merril had an image to protect. In the FLDS culture, a man is supposed to treat each of his wives equally. There’s always favoritism, but in theory a family is supposed to be united behind the husband, who’s called the priesthood head. A woman’s only avenue to God is through her husband. We were raised to believe we could not receive direct revelations from God on our own. Whatever God had to communicate or reveal to a woman could be transmitted only through her husband. This doctrine was unassailable and had been so for generations in the culture I was born into.

• From Filthy Animals (2021)

  The opening of Simon’s shirt, the blue flannel unbuttoned, sagged like the tongue of some loyal animal and revealed the smooth, pale white of his throat and chest. Hartjes wanted to want him, the same way he wanted to see the rise and swell of Simon’s chest, the firm clench of his stomach, and to feel hot all over with need and the slick, gathering wet that sluiced the glide into desire. He wanted it all, yet what he felt, what he really felt in the seat of his body, where his soul nestled and hummed, was the companionable happiness that came with friendship. But he could see hunger in Simon’s eyes, hunger and other things, other shapes of feelings that he wanted to ask Simon about but couldn’t bring himself to. Simon put his hand to his own throat and worked the shirt open more, ran his hand up his neck and to his mouth and then back down through the shirt, popping the buttons open so that his white undershirt showed, and then lower into the front of his pants, like he was searching for loose change. But Hartjes just kept at his feet, his thumb between the two toes, clean and white, and his fingers on the heel, making the foot arch, bend until he could feel the tendons stretching. He sank lower in his chair, spread his thighs, and let that brace him. Simon groaned and grunted and sometimes lifted his hips or shivered as if he were cold. Hartjes gripped Simon’s ankle and held it as tight as he could. And then he let go, and Simon, having slid low in his chair, seemed to surface in himself, his eyes glossy, his breath ragged. It had been enough for him to watch Simon abandon himself. It had been enough to cause it, to see it, to be a part of Simon’s desire, so that even if Hartjes could not bring himself to want it, he could at least enjoy the sight of Simon wanting, needing. He was hard. They both were hard, but what was to be done for it? Let it rest , he thought. A thick blue vein throbbed at the base of Simon’s throat, pulsed when Simon swallowed. His chest was red. His throat was red. He was watching Hartjes, and Hartjes watched the animal part of Simon submerge itself into the icy pool of higher brain function. “It’s always like this,” Simon said a moment or two later. “It’s not,” Hartjes said. “It’s not like anything.” “What is it with you? Why is it always so hot and cold?” “It’s not anything, Simon. It’s not.” “Okay, champ.” Simon got up from the table. He buttoned his shirt. Blue light from the window fell across him.

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  Daddy set up our dining room that day to look like a photography studio, putting up the blue backdrop screen that he used with his Real Models without talking much. He was always very serious when taking pictures. He told me to put on my bathing suit, but I didn’t actually have one, despite my plans with my friends. My last known bathing suit had gotten lost in the six months we were homeless. According to the boys at school, only my legs, forehead, and smile were getting bigger, not my butt or breasts. As much as I loved the water, I hadn’t had a reason to replace it. All I had was my new blue-and-white polka-dot bra and panty set that Mommy just bought me from JCPenney. “It’s no different than a bikini, Tracey,” he said. “Real models wear much less than this.” But I wasn’t a real model, and he was my daddy. He sent me to get the baby oil from the bathroom, then flipped open the pink top, and poured the oil into his hands. He showed me how to apply it, the way his real models did. My father rubbed the oil on the uppermost part of my back and shoulders as if he were frosting one of the delicate cakes he baked. He wanted my body to glisten. “Just relax, Tracey, you’re doing fine, there is nothing to worry about.” I didn’t feel fine, but I tried to reassure myself. I know Daddy is a photographer, I thought. I know he takes good pictures. I know Mommy thought it was a good idea. She didn’t want Old Man Tate to take my pictures. Maybe if Mommy was here I would be more comfortable. I should say something to Daddy, tell him I want to wait. I didn’t. Instead, I kept telling myself, If I’m ever going to be a Real Model, I have to get used to this. Finally the photo shoot ended, and I went to change clothes in my room when he called to me. “Yes, Daddy?” “I need you to come in here for a minute.” Daddy had an idea: he asked me to lie down on the bed for a few shots in my bra and panties. I was confused; all the other pictures were taken in the makeshift dining room studio. “Everything will be okay, Tracey,” he said. “Just relax.” He laid me down gently and, one hand holding his camera, the other moved the crotch of my brand-new blue-and-white polka-dot panties to one side. For once, I was glad I didn’t have a little sister. I TOLD MOMMY A WEEK LATER. She looked at me hard and then she hugged me even harder. She asked why I’d waited seven days to tell her, but I didn’t have an answer. Mommy didn’t say anything else; we just went and rode home from her job in silence.