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 The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Yeah, maybe it was just a stupid and immature school yard fight. Or maybe it was the most important moment of my life. Maybe I was telling the world that I was no longer a human target. “You meet me after school right here,” I said. “Why?” he asked. I couldn’t believe he was so stupid. “Because we’re going to finish this fight.” “You’re crazy,” Roger said. He got to his feet and walked away. His gang stared at me like I was a serial killer, and then they followed their leader. I was absolutely confused. I had followed the rules of fighting. I had behaved exactly the way I was supposed to behave. But these white boys had ignored the rules. In fact, they followed a whole other set of mysterious rules where people apparently DID NOT GET INTO FISTFIGHTS. “Wait,” I called after Roger. “What do you want?” Roger asked. “What are the rules?” “What rules?” I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there red and mute like a stop sign. Roger and his friends disappeared. I felt like somebody had shoved me into a rocket ship and blasted me to a new planet. I was a freaky alien and there was absolutely no way to get home. Grandmother Gives Me Some Advice I went home that night completely confused. And terrified. If I’d punched an Indian in the face, then he would have spent days plotting his revenge. And I imagined that white guys would also want revenge after getting punched in the face. So I figured Roger was going to run me over with a farm tractor or combine or grain truck or runaway pig. I wished Rowdy was still my friend. I could have sent him after Roger. It would have been like King Kong battling Godzilla. I realized how much of my self-worth, my sense of safety, was based on Rowdy’s fists. But Rowdy hated me. And Roger hated me. I was good at being hated by guys who could kick my ass. It’s not a talent you really want to have. My mother and father weren’t home, so I turned to my grandmother for advice. “Grandma,” I said. “I punched this big guy in the face. And he just walked away. And now I’m afraid he’s going to kill me.” “Why did you punch him?” she asked. “He was bullying me.” “You should have just walked away.” “He called me ‘chief.’ And ‘squaw boy.’ ” “Then you should have kicked him in the balls.” She pretended to kick a big guy in the crotch and we both laughed. “Did he hit you?” she asked. “No, not at all,” I said. “Not even after you hit him?” “Nope.” “And he’s a big guy?” “Gigantic. I bet he could take Rowdy down.” “Wow,” she said. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” I asked. “What does it mean?”

• From Less (2017)

  Less has studied German since he was a boy. His first teacher, when he was nine, was Frau Fernhoff, a retired piano instructor, who had them all (him, sharp-witted Georgia beanpole Anne Garret, and odd-smelling but sweet Giancarlo Taylor) stand up and shout, “Guten Morgen, Frau Fernhoff!” at the beginning of each afternoon lesson. They learned the names of fruits and vegetables (the beautiful Birne and Kirsche, the faux-ami Ananas, the more-resonant-than-“onion” Zwiebel ), and described their own prepubescent bodies, from their Augenbrauen to their großer Zehen. High school led to more sophisticated conversation (“Mein Auto wurde gestohlen!”) and was led by buxom Fräulein Church, an enthusiastic teacher in wrap dresses and scarves who had grown up in a German district of New York City and who often spoke of her dream of following the Von Trapp trail in Austria. “The key to speaking a new language,” she told them, “is to be bold instead of perfect.” What Less did not know was that the charming Fräulein had never been to Germany, nor spoken German with Germans outside of Yorkville. She was ostensibly German speaking, just as seventeen-year-old Less was ostensibly gay. Both had the fantasy; neither had carried it out. Bold instead of perfect, Less’s tongue is bruised with errors. Male friends tend to switch to girls in the Lessian plural, becoming Freundin instead of Freund; and, by using auf den Strich instead of unterm Strich, he can lead intrigued listeners to believe he is going into prostitution. But, even at four and nine, Less has yet to be disabused of his skills. Perhaps the fault lies with Ludwig, the folk-singing German exchange student who lived with his family, took Less’s ostensibility away, and never corrected his German—for who corrects what is spoken in bed? Perhaps it was the grateful, dankbaren East Berliners whom Less met on a trip with Robert—escaped poets living in Paris—astonished to hear their mother tongue working in the mouth of this slim young American. Perhaps it was too much Hogan’s Heroes. But Less arrives in Berlin, taxiing to his temporary apartment in Wilmersdorf, swearing he will not speak a word of English while he is here. Of course, the real challenge is to speak a word of German. Again, a translation: “Six greetings, class. I am Arthur Less.”

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  For a year, during every session we played while we talked. I observed the play and tried to listen to what she was teaching me about her world, her emotional experience, and her vulnerabilities. Since it was not clear whether Lara had in fact been sexually abused, I decided not to include her in my research. It was surprising then when she suggested that we play Little Red Riding Hood. “It’s my favorite fairy tale.” She smiled. “Except there are no wolves in our story, remember?” Years before it was adapted by the Grimm Brothers, “Little Red Riding Hood” made its debut in a version written by Charles Perrault in 1697. Perrault’s story was adapted from the folktale, and in it he described the moment the child met the wolf, referred to as “Mister Wolf,” implying that the wolf stood for a human being. In Perrault’s version, when Little Red Riding Hood arrives at her grandmother’s house, the wolf is lying in bed and asks her to undress and join him. Little Red Riding Hood is alarmed to see his disrobed body and says, “Grandmother, what long arms you have,” to which the wolf replies, “The better to hug you with.” Perrault’s version ends with the wolf devouring Little Red Riding Hood, followed by a short poem that teaches the moral of the story: that good girls should be cautious when approached by men. As for wolves, he adds, these take on many different forms, and the nice ones are the most dangerous of all, especially those who follow young girls in the streets and into their homes. Perrault presented his readers with a somewhat refined version of the popular folktale, which was originally filled with sexual seduction, rape, and murder. His version speaks to the deceiving nature of nice wolves, who hurt their victims while pretending to offer something special, presenting sexual perversion as a form of love. It was to become even more highly refined over the years to the point where the sexual innuendo was entirely omitted and the story transformed into a children’s fairy tale. While fairy tales usually differentiate between good and bad people in ways that help children organize their world and feel safe, “nice wolves” leave children confused, unsure of what is dangerous and what is not. Abused children end up feeling that they themselves are bad, that they have done something wrong. That confusion of tongues between love and perversion will haunt them for years. “You are Little Red Riding Hood,” Lara says, and hands me the puppet of the girl with the red dress. “She is going to visit her grandmother,” she says and then whispers, “The girl thinks the grandmother is an old lady but she is actually a wolf.” “A wolf?” I repeat her words and remember how she kept stating there were to be no wolves in our story.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  During the first week of school my parents had told me that we were planning to move to a new apartment, closer to the new school, but until then I should wait at the candy store after school and they would pick me up from there . Every day, I walked to the candy store on the corner and waited, exactly as they’d told me to do. Moses, the owner of the store, was a kindly old man with a white mustache and a big smile. I liked him. I believed that he liked me too, and I especially liked that he gave me candy. As a little girl, there was nothing I loved more than candy. My mother, in an attempt to feed us healthy food, did not allow it in the house. She used to serve us plates with sliced apples and dried fruit. “Candy made by nature,” she called it. When Moses offered me candy for the first time, I was thrilled and ate it as fast as I could. He looked at me and smiled. “I see that you really love it.” The following day he offered me ice cream that he kept in a freezer in the back of the store. “What kind do you like?” He had a cone in each hand. “Vanilla or chocolate?” I pointed to the vanilla one. “Why did I know you would choose that one?” he teased, and then asked if I wanted to come pick out something from the back of the store. “I will let you choose whatever you like,” he said. Moses always smiled, and his kisses were ticklish and wet. Once in a while his wife would come to the store and he would put a little chair for me in the front and ignore me until she left. When my dad arrived to pick me up, Moses would tell him what a good girl I was and wave goodbye. “See you tomorrow.” I liked waiting for my parents there, but as time passed I started feeling nauseous. “Moses gives you too much candy,” my mother would say. “That’s why your stomach hurts.” But that wasn’t the reason. I wasn’t sure why; I just knew that I didn’t like it when he hugged me so tight. I still liked him even when I didn’t. In third grade I stopped liking Moses. We moved to our new home and I tried to avoid walking near his store. Only years later was I able to put it all together and understand what had really happened in the first few months of second grade. I never told anyone, and I wasn’t always sure if it had actually happened or if I’d imagined it.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  You can leave the camp in one of two ways: you can wait until the end of the weekend to take the bus home or you can try to hitch a ride and hope that the right person will pick you up and drive you back to the city. Perhaps most importantly, you are isolated from your own mind. How can that happen? If your day starts at seven a.m. and ends at midnight, and is extremely active and filled with group events, it becomes difficult to turn inward and reflect. By the end of the day when your head hits the pillow, you just do not have the energy to stay awake. In the workshops, there is virtually no privacy. Some members actually accompany others to the bathroom and wait outside the stall.... You are intensely pressured to identify with the group. The whole is much more important than the individual.... You are put in the position of competing with the interests of the whole, which generates guilt.... The workshop lectures are an emotional roller coaster and an intellectual barrage. To deal adequately with the concepts explored in a three-day workshop would take months and months, if not years and years. By the end of the workshop, you have been through an intense period of no reflection, constant activ ity, no privacy, immense pressure toward identification with the group, suspicion of your desires to be separate from the group, roller-coaster emotions, and a barrage of ideas that have left you confused and unsure of yourself.8 In addition to these overt examples, certain common and socially accepted interactions might be part of the bag of tricks used by schmoozers, con artists, and cult recruiters to manipulate, influence, control, and, in the end, get recruits to say yes, come back for more, sign up, and make a commitment. For example, a good recruiter knows that people will respond to certain buzzwords, such as love, peace, brotherhood. He might explain that these idealized goals can be attained if the recruit behaves "properly." In most cases, the desired behavioral change is accomplished in small incremental steps; conversion to the new worldview is a gradual process. Often the person does not even realize the extent to which she has changed or is getting more deeply involved. Some methods used during cult recruitment and indoctrination are similar to hypnotic techniques used in various clinical or therapeutic contexts. In a cult environment, however, this type of manipulation has a dual purpose: (i) to install deep hypnotic suggestions that are meant to change behavior and patterns of thinking; and (2) to maintain control of the individual. Clinical psychologist Jesse Miller notes the similarities between procedures used in some cults and those used in hypnosis.' In trance induction, the hypnotist serves as a "biofeedback machine," commenting on the subject's every action: "Your eyelids are getting heavy; you are seated in the chair; I am seated next to you; there is a noise in the hallway," and so on.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She laughed. We shuffled off our clothes, and she turned down the lamp, and we lay beneath the blankets in our damp petticoats. When she fell asleep I put my hands to her cheeks, and kissed her brow where she had bruised it. I woke to find it still the night, but a little lighter. I didn’t know what had disturbed me; when I looked about me, however, I saw that Florence had raised herself a little on the pillow, and was gazing at me, apparently quite wide awake. I reached for her hand again, and kissed it, and felt my insides give a kind of lurch. She smiled; but there was a darkness to the smile, that made me feel chill. ‘What’s up?’ I murmured. She stroked my hair. ‘I was only thinking...’ ‘What?’ She wouldn’t answer. I propped myself up beside her, quite wide awake myself, now. ‘What, Florence?’ ‘I was looking at you in the darkness: I have never seen you sleep before. You looked like quite a stranger to me. And then I thought, you are a stranger to me ...’ ‘A stranger? How can you say that? You have lived with me, for more than a year!’ ‘And last night,’ she answered, ‘for the first time, I discovered you were once a music-hall star! How can you keep a thing like that a secret? Why would you want to? What else have you done that I don’t know about? You might have been in prison, for all I know. You might have been mad. You might have been gay!’ I bit my lip; but then, remembering how kind she had been about the gay girls at the Boy, I said quickly, ‘Flo, I did go on the streets one time. You won’t hate me for it, will you?’ She took her hand away at once. ‘On the streets! My God! Of course I won’t hate you, but - oh, Nance! To think of you as one of them sad girls...’ ‘I wasn’t sad,’ I said, and looked away. ‘And to tell the truth I - well, I wasn’t quite a girl, either.’ ‘Not a girl?’ she said. ‘What can you mean?’ I scraped at the silken edge of the blanket with my nail. Should I tell my story - the story I had kept so close, so long? I saw her hand upon the sheet and, as my stomach gave another slide, I remembered again her fingers, easing me open, and her fist inside me, slowly turning... I took a breath. ‘Have you ever,’ I said, ‘been to Whitstable ... ?’ Once I began it, I found I could not stop.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  He claimed that there was no need to change one's beliefs, philosophies, or lifestyle, and that TM was a scientifically verifiable way "to solve the problems of individuals and society." I signed up, going quickly from introductory lectures to preparatory courses to residence courses. As the months passed, I devoted more and more time to the TM center and attended eighteen residence courses over the next few years. I associated less and less with my stressed out friends, whose lifestyles I considered to be less evolved. During this time, I also began to manifest the first signs of meditation's side effects: the loss of short-term memory, a lessened ability to focus, and a chronic mild head pressure. The TM movement explained away these side effects as signs of stress release, or "unstressing." As my commitment grew, I participated in the TM-Sidhi program, which purported to teach meditators how to fly, walk through walls, and find lost objects hidden from view, among other things (though the cost, $4,500, was a high price to pay to find my lost car keys). This increased meditation exacerbated my periods of "spacing out," which were again interpreted by the movement as signs of my expanded consciousness. I began to feel confused about other inconsistencies between theory and practice, and the TM officials told me that more meditation would cure my confusion. So I squelched my doubts-until I met the Swami. When I heard that a "genuine" Indian swami, Swami Prakashanand Saraswati, was going to speak at a local church, I jumped at the chance to hear him. The Swami spoke of loving God, a topic played down in the TM movement. He also spoke of the danger of promoting Sidhi powers at the expense of devotion to God. Finally, I felt that someone was addressing my difficulties: Swami was able to describe the uncomfortable side effects of TM's practices. He seemed sincere-and his long beard and orange robes were certainly convincing. I was in conflict, but my loyalty to TM kept me from immediately jumping ship. As luck would have it, the Swami moved in next door. After years of reading Eastern philosophy that states, "When the devotee is ready, master comes," I thought that God must have been telling me something. The Swami's pull was too strong to resist. Despite the loss of friends I loved dearly, I left the TM movement and became one of Swami's disciples. TM now seemed like kindergarten. Being involved with the Swami was like being accepted into a spiritual Ph.D. program. With TM, the changes in my life had been gradual over the course of nine years. The Swami turned up the heat! Changes took place rapidly. His followers, most of them former TMers, were well conditioned. Years of TM processing and indoctrination made us prime adherents, ready to surrender. The Swami demanded regular attendance at meetings known as satsangs, and before long, I was encouraged to live in his Philadelphia ashram.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  When I was admitted to a university and began to study, I explained this to some people, who responded, "Oh, really?" In COG I was reinforced for things that were in accordance with the cult much more than I am now reinforced for things this society values butthe cult condemns. COG had a ready-made system I could appeal to for approval. In the cult, I knew how to receive endorsement if I wanted it. Not so in the outside world. I soon discovered that I had no clue what the rules were. Reading good, non-superstitious books by ex-members of cults or experts, attending a cult-awareness conference to which I received a John G. Clark scholarship, and speaking with other former members have helped me the most. Buying the books, spending money on airfare to the conference, and calling .long distance to a childhood friend who also left COG-these may seem wasteful, considering I work for minimum wage, but also it is considered "sensible" not to run away from home. Many people are quite concerned about "my relationship with the Lord," or they want me to know that "He was taking care of me the whole time." When I question that, they respond, "God has a plan." Sometimes people say, "But you know, they were false prophets. The Bible says many false prophets will arise and that the Devil mixes the truth with lies, and that's what so-and-so does," and on and on. We were taught all that in the cult, too; only the false prophets were just somebody else. One of the hardest things for people to understand, I think, is that when a person escapes from a cult alone, she still carries the cult mindset in many ways, which can make life difficult. I didn't know any other way to think than the magical thinking and the black-versus-white kind of reasoning I'd been taught. What probably helped me most to learn to think are the math and philosophy courses I've taken. At first, it was most distressing to try to do an algebra assignment; I would look at the problems and go blank. It was difficult to sit still long enough to get anywhere. Eventually, however, I found it oddly reassuring to follow the given steps and arrive at the exact same number that was printed on the answer sheet. I learned that by following steps, I could arrive at an answer; not everything follows whims, as COG leaders did. The quadratic formula is not a revelation from God or a cult leader; therefore, it is not likely to be suddenly changed before an exam. I have learned there are rewards for reasoning in ways that do not end with absolute answers. I was dumbfounded at a professor's comment on my literature essay; he said that I needed to present reasons for the other side when I had presented my argument as an open-and-shut case.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  She encouraged me to tell my personal history to my friends and listen to theirs. My painful childhood memories were always validated while happy ones were disregarded. I became convinced of having had a miserable childhood; it seemed as though my new friends were the only ones who could understand since their family lives had been as miserable as mine. I came to depend on my therapist for all major life decisions. After all, my friends always wanted to know "what my therapist thought" about any major change I was considering. Sometimes my therapist would tell me what she thought I should do even if I didn't ask. She seemed to know me so well and appeared interested in helping me make the best decisions so I could be happy and productive. If I thought her advice was wrong for me, my friends and roommates would tell me that I should trust my therapist, and that I wasn't far enough along in my therapy to understand what was best for me. It wasn't until many years later, after I left the group, that I realized that the decisions I was advised to make were dictated by the leader of the group and were designed to keep members dependent on the group. Saul, the leader and founder, trained and supervised all the therapists in the group. In that way, he exercised great control over each person's life. Therapists who didn't obey Saul's orders were threatened with expulsion from the group and thus instantaneous loss of their livelihoods. Patients who didn't obey were also threatened with expulsion, which meant loss of friends, jobs, and emotional support. Saul had our best interests at heart, we were told, and we should be honored that he was thinking about and advising us. Over the years, the group got much tighter. Saul considered himself not only a genius in the field of psychotherapy but also a brilliant political thinker. We started a political theater company to educate the public about the dangers of nuclear war, nuclear power, and the military-industrial complex. We monitored nuclear power plants in the area and listened to news reports constantly so we could evacuate in case of any emergency (in a fleet of buses we maintained for that purpose). When we became aware of the danger of AIDS, we stopped eating in restaurants and sterilized our telephones, keyboards, and even our dogs' paws after they walked on city streets. The first line of a book by Saul reads, "The world is a dangerous place"; the longer the group existed under his control, the more we all acted as if that were true. The only safe place seemed to be in the group. Janet was a member of the Sullivanians for seventeen years, until a life-threatening illness shifted her perspective and caused her to question the quality of life the cult was providing her. Who Joins and WhyIs there a certain type of person who is more likely to join a cult?

• From Less (2017)

  So it is that, almost a decade later, Arthur Less wears the same expression as he emerges from the plane in Osaka and, finding no one to greet him, experiences that quicksand sensation every traveler recognizes: Of course there is no one to greet me; why would anyone remember, and what am I supposed to do now? Above him, a fly orbits a ceiling lamp in a trapezoidal pattern, and in life’s constant imitation, Arthur Less begins a similar orbit around the Arrivals terminal. He passes a number of counters whose signs, while ostensibly in English, mean nothing to him ( JASPER !, AERONET , GOLD-MAN ), reminding him of that startling moment while reading a book when he finds it is all complete gibberish and realizes that he is, in fact, dreaming. At the final counter ( CHROME ), an elderly man calls out to him; Arthur Less, by now fluent in global sign language, understands this is a private bus company and the Kyoto city council has left him a ticket. The name on the ticket: DR. ESS. Less experiences a brief wonderful vertigo. Outside, the minibus is waiting; it is clearly meant only for Less. A driver exits; he is wearing the cap and white gloves of a cinema chauffeur; he nods to Arthur Less, who finds himself bowing before he enters the bus, chooses a seat, wipes his face with a handkerchief, and looks out the window at this, his final destination. Only an ocean left to cross now. He has lost so much along the way: his lover, his dignity, his beard, his suit, and his suitcase. I have neglected to mention that his suitcase has not made it to Japan.

• From A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (1921)

  It is indeed possible to suppose that Paul’s activity in the matter was due not to his arrival in Antioch but to a new perception (note the word elSov) of the significance of the question at issue. Possibly he himself had not, till this controversy cleared the air, seen how far the principles of the gospel that he preached must carry him in his anti- legalism, had offered no active opposition to Peter’s attempt to bring the Jewish Christians under the law, and only when the movement began to spread to the Gentile Christians (see v. ‘4 fin.) saw clearly that the only position consistent with the gospel was that if the law was not binding upon the Gentile, neither could it be really so upon the Jew, and that when obedience to it by Gentile or Jew became an obstacle in the way of the gospel, then both Jew and Gentile must cease to obey its statutes. But on this hypothesis Paul himself was involved only less deeply than Peter in the latter’s confusion of thought and it is therefore hardly likely that he would have spoken in the words of sharp condemnation of Peter which he employs in v. " and in this verse. The verb é990redéw, used only here (and in later eccl. writers where its use may be traced to this passage, Ltft.), means “to make a straight path” rather than “to walk erect.” Cf. de06node¢ Batvovtec, Nicander, Al. 419; and Sophocles, Greek Lexicon of Rom. and Byz. Period. Cf. Paul’s frequent use of repttatéw, “to walk,” as a figure for moral con- duct, chap. 51° Rom. 6484, etc. The present word is apparently not simply a general ethical term for doing right, but, as the context implies, denotes straightforward, unwavering, and sincere conduct in contrast with the pursuing of a crooked, wavering, and more or less insincere course, such as Paul has just attributed to Peter and those who fol- lowed him. The present tense describes the fact from the point of view of Paul’s original perception of it—“they are not acting straightforwardly.” It is not, however, a historical present (Sief.) but the present of the direct form retained in indirect discourse even after a past tense (BMT 341 [b]). The preposition zeés probably means “towards,” “in relation to” (chap. 61° 2 Cor. 12 Col. 45), and the phrase moé¢ ... edayy- constitutes a definitive limitation of be8orododcty, yielding the sense “pursue a straight course in relation to the truth of the gospel,” “to deal honestly and consistently with it, Tiy-TA III not juggling, or warping, or misrepresenting it.” oé¢ may indeed mean “in conformity with” (Lk. 1247 2 Cor. 51° Eph. 3; so Th. Ltft. Ell. Sief.), and the phrase constitute an epexegesis of ép%onododcty, yielding the sense “pursuing a straightforward (righteous) course, viz., one in accordance with the truth of the gospel.” But the fact that Paul regularly employs xatk with meprmatéw in the sense “in con- formity to”? (2 Cor. 10% 3?

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I thought of Diana’s rough kisses of the night before - of how they had stirred me, and sickened me, while my heart was still smarting after Kitty. I groaned; and when Blake looked up I said, in a half-hearted sort of way: ‘Don’t you get tired, Blake, of serving Mrs Lethaby?’ The question made her cheeks flush pink. She looked back to the hearth, then said, ‘I should get tired, miss, with any mistress.’ I answered that I supposed she would. Then, because it was novel to talk to her - and because Diana had gone out without waking me, and I was peevish and bored - I said: ‘So you don’t think Mrs Lethaby a hard one, then?’ She coloured again. ‘They are all hard, miss. Else, how would they be mistresses?’ ‘Well — but do you like it here? Do you like being a maid here?’ ‘I have a room to myself, which is more than most maids get. Besides,’ she stood, and wiped her hands on her apron, ‘Mrs Lethaby don’t half pay a decent wage.’ I thought of how she came every morning with the coffee, and every night with jugs of water for the bowls. I said, ‘Don’t think me rude, but - whenever do you spent it?’ ‘I am saving it, miss!’ she said. ‘I aim to emigrate. My friend says, in the colonies a girl with twenty pounds can set up as a landlady of a rooming-house, with girls of her own.’ ‘Is that so?’ She nodded. ‘And you’d like to run a rooming-house?’ ‘Oh yes! They will always need rooming-houses in the colonies, you see, for the people coming in.’ ‘Well, that’s true. And, how much have you saved?’ She flushed again. ‘Seven pounds, miss.’ I nodded. Then I thought and said: ‘But the colonies, Blake! Could you bear the journey? You should have to live in a boat - suppose there were storms?’ She picked up the scuttle of coal. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t mind that, miss!’ I laughed; and so did she. We had never chatted so freely before. I had grown used to calling her only ‘Blake’ as Diana did; I had grown used to her curtseys; I had grown used to having her see me as I was now: swollen-eyed and swollen-mouthed, naked in a bed with the sheet at my bosom, and the marks of Diana’s kisses at my throat. I had grown used to not looking at her, not seeing her at all. Now, as she laughed, I found myself gazing at her at last, at her pinking cheeks and at her lashes, which were dark, and thinking, Oh! — for she was really rather handsome. And, as I thought it, there came the old self-consciousness between us.

• From Bigorexia

  Every woman wants to stay feminine. Building muscle for a woman is not as easy as it is for a guy. And then, you know, women have to reach to different methods to get muscle. But that takes away them from the femininity because, if you take certain things, your facial structure changes. The more muscle you build to, you know, the harder it is to come down again, and it just becomes harder and harder the bigger you get. [leg curl machine rattles] [loud bang] [crowd cheers] [crowd continues to cheer] [muffled chat] -Do we sign in? All right. -[woman] Yeah. -Just you? -Yeah. When I first was trying to figure everything out, I was taking all these gender identity exams and I kept scoring exactly the same way on all of them, extremely feminine, but also extremely masculine. I was like in the 99% tile on both. It's not as simple as male and female, and it's not like there's just these two boxes. For me it's a lot blurrier than that, but I definitely always had the female gender identity. [gentle music] When I was a small child, I would just be daydreaming and picturing myself as female and I couldn't understand why, but that's just what felt natural. But being forced to play a stereotypical masculine role made me extremely uncomfortable. But you basically just reach a point where you can't lie to yourself anymore, and, you know, and you got to deal with it or you're just going to be miserable. And I understand, I know what I look like, and I know I don't fit into the stereotypical, you know, female, but I'm okay with that now. And you go through, like, what young teenage girls go through, trying to figure out fashion, and makeup, and hair, and what works for you, and your skin colors, and, you know, all that kind of stuff. [interviewer] How do your transition affect your size? On one hand, like, you know, I'm slimming down, and being able to wear things I couldn't wear and-- um, and that felt really, really good. But then also, as an athlete, like, to go from squatting 1,000 pounds and then, all of a sudden, you're down to 900, than 800, than 700, and then six, and then I'm, like, going, "How far is this going to go?" [chuckles] Like, I was prepared to lose some strength, for sure, and definitely plan to lose a bunch of muscle, but it was more drastic than I expected. And it's funny, the only time I feel big is, is when I'm presenting very feminine. [chuckles] Then I feel, like, huge, kind of like, "Damn, why aren't you smaller?" In our society, being a big, muscular person, you generally get treated really well. And it's just-- it's hard to, like, walk away from all that, especially to embrace something that society does not see in a positive light.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  ¿La pregunta fue insultante? No quise que lo fuera. Me di cuenta que él sabe mucho sobre mí, y apenas sé nada sobre él. Sabe quiénes son mis padres, qué le pasó a Cole y a mi amigo, que amo las cosas de los 80, que crecí sin una madre, lo que estudio en la universidad… Pero él todavía es un gran misterio. —Lo siento si eso sonó mal —le digo cuando no responde—. Es una hermosa casa. Es solo que Cole mencionó que tú y su madre se conocieron en la secundaria, donde eras una especie de estrella de béisbol. Debes amar el deporte. Solo tengo curiosidad por qué no veo trofeos o imágenes, o algo así en la casa. No hay fotos recientes de ti y Cole, tampoco música, ni libros… Nada que describa lo que te gusta. Respira, se aclara la garganta y un sudor frío recorre mi cuello. —Está todo empacado en el sótano —me dice—. Supongo que nunca lo saqué después de mudarme a la casa. —¿Cuánto tiempo has estado en esa casa? —Eh… —se voz se desvanece como si estuviera pensando—, supongo que la compré hace diez años. ¿Diez años? —Pike… —digo, tratando de no reírme. Exhala una risa en mi oído, y sonrío, sacudiendo la cabeza. —Supongo que suena raro, ¿eh? —pregunta. ¿Que todavía no hayas desempacado todo? Sí. Giro sobre mi espalda, manteniendo mi brazo metido debajo de mi cabeza. —Entiendo que botemos ciertas cosas a medida que envejecemos —le digo—. Pero has tenido una vida desde que te mudaste a ese lugar, ¿cierto? No veo nada de tu personalidad. Lugares que has visitado, baratijas que has recogido a lo largo de los años… —Sí, lo sé, yo eh… Vacila de nuevo, dejando escapar un suspiro, y el sonido de su aliento vibra en mi oído, enviando hormigueos por mi espina dorsal. Ojalá pudiera ver su rostro. Es tan difícil leerlo por teléfono. Todo lo que puedo imaginar es la forma en que baja los ojos a veces, como si no quisiera que alguien supiera lo que está sintiendo, o la forma en que asiente, como si temiera lo que va a salir de su boca si habla. Finalmente continúa: —Cole se hizo más importante —admite—. En algún momento, quién era yo y lo que quería se volvió irrelevante. Entiendo. Cuando tienes hijos, tus esperanzas se transfieren a ellos. Tu vida queda relegada a lo que ellos necesitan. Lo entiendo. Pero Cole es un adulto ahora, y Pike ha estado solo por un tiempo. ¿Qué hace cuando no está en el trabajo? —Me encantaría ver algunas de las cosas —le digo—. Si alguna vez quieres desempacar, te ayudaré. —Nah, está bien. Frunzo el ceño por la rapidez con que me rechaza. —¿Quieres decir que no puedo ver anuarios antiguos, y si tú y Cole eran iguales a la misma edad? —bromeo. Suelta una risita tranquila. —Dios no. ¿De regreso a cuando lo único importante que tenía que hacer era mi cabello?

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I hesitated, suddenly flustered. ‘Well, I -’ ‘He ain’t my husband! He’s my brother.’ Her brother! She continued to smile at my confusion, and then to laugh: for a moment she was the pert girl I had spoken with in Green Street, all those months before... But then the baby, in the room above us, gave a cry, and we both raised our eyes to the sound, and I felt myself blush. And when she saw that, her smile faded. ‘Cyril ain’t mine,’ she said quickly, ‘though I call him mine. His mother used to lodge with us, and we took him on when she - left us. He is very dear to us, now...’ The awkward way she said it showed there was some story there - perhaps the mother was in prison; perhaps the baby was really a cousin‘s, or a sister’s, or a sweetheart’s of Ralph’s. Such things happened often enough in Whitstable families: I didn’t think much of it. I only nodded; and then I yawned. And seeing me, she yawned too. ‘Good-night, Miss Astley,’ she said from behind her hand. She did not look like the Green Street girl now. She looked only weary again, and plainer than ever. I waited a moment while she stepped upstairs - I heard her shuffling above me, and guessed of course that she must share her chamber with the baby - then I took up a lamp, and made my way out to the privy. The yard was very small, and overlooked on every side by walls and darkened windows; I lingered for a second on the chilly flags, gazing at the stars, sniffing at the unfamiliar, faintly riverish, faintly cabbagey, scents of East London. A rustling from the neighbouring yard disturbed me and I started, fearing rats. It was not rats, however, but rabbits: four of them, in a hutch, their eyes flashing like jewels in the light I turned on them. I slept in my petticoats, half-lying, half-sitting between the two armchairs, with the blankets wrapped around me and my dress laid flat upon them for extra warmth. It does not sound very comfortable; it was, in fact, extraordinarily cosy, and for all that I had so much to keep me ill and fretful, I found I could only yawn and smile to feel the cushions so soft beneath my back, and the dying fire warm beside me.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Dr. Schenkel, of Heidelberg, who in his Charakterbild Jesu (third ed. 1864, pp. 231 sqq.) had adopted the vision-theory in its higher form as a purely spiritual, though real manifestation from heaven, confesses in his latest work, Das Christusbild der Apostel (1879, p. 18), his inability to solve the problem of the resurrection of Christ, and says: "Niemals wird es der Forschung gelingen, das Räthsel des Auferstehungsglaubens zu ergründen. Nichts aber steht fester in der Geschichte als die Thatsache dieses Glaubens; auf ihm beruht die Stiftung der christlichen Gemeinschaft ... Der Visionshypothese, welche die Christuserscheinungen der Jünger aus Sinnestäuschungen erklären will, die in einer Steigerung des ’Gemüths und Nervenlebens’ ihre physische und darum auch psychische Ursache hatten,... steht vor allem die Grundfarbe der Stimmung in den Jüngern, namentlich in Petrus, im Wege: die tiefe Trauer, das gesunkene Selbstvertrauen, die nagende Gewissenspein, der verlorne Lebensmuth. Wie soll aus einer solchen Stimmung das verklärte Bild des Auferstandenen hervorgehen, mit dieser unverwüstlichen Sicherheit und unzerstörbaren Freudigkeit, durch welche der Auferstehungsglaube die Christengemeinde in allen Stürmen und Verfolgungen aufrecht zu erhalten vermochte?" CHAPTER III.THE APOSTOLIC AGE§ 20. Sources and Literature of the Apostolic Age. I. Sources. 1. The Canonical Books of the New Testament.—The twenty-seven books of the New Testament are better supported than any ancient classic, both by a chain of external testimonies which reaches up almost to the close of the apostolic age, and by the internal evidence of a spiritual depth and unction which raises them far above the best productions of the second century. The church has undoubtedly been guided by the Holy Spirit in the selection and final determination of the Christian canon. But this does, of course, not supersede the necessity of criticism, nor is the evidence equally strong in the case of the seven Eusebian Antilegomena. The Tübingen and Leyden schools recognized at first only five books of the New Testament as authentic, namely, four Epistles of Paul-Romans, First and Second Corinthians, and Galatians—and the Revelation of John. But the progress of research leads more and more to positive results, and nearly all the Epistles of Paul now find advocates among liberal critics. (Hilgenfeld and Lipsius admit seven, adding First Thessalonians, Philippians, and Philemon; Renan concedes also Second Thessalonians, and Colossians to be Pauline, thus swelling the number of genuine Epistles to nine.) The chief facts and doctrines of apostolic Christianity are sufficiently guaranteed even by those five documents, which are admitted by the extreme left of modern criticism.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Practice placing an intention into individuals until you can successfully and easily place an intention into or on a Being and/or a body.” But even if you could do that, how would you know if you succeeded? If you were transmitting the intention “Scratch your head” and a person did so, was he responding to your psychic order or was it simply coincidental? It was difficult to evaluate. Haggis thought that Hubbard was such a brilliant intellect that the failure to grasp these concepts and abilities must be his alone. He finally confided to a counselor at the Celebrity Centre that he didn’t think he was a very good Scientologist because he couldn’t bring himself to believe. He said he felt like a fraud and thought he might have to leave the church. She told him, “There are all sorts of Scientologists,” just as there are many varieties of Jews and Christians with varying levels of belief. The implication was that Haggis could believe whatever he wanted, to “pick and choose,” as he says. Haggis’s career was going so well that in 1987 he was approached by Ed Zwick and Marshall Herskovitz to write for a new television series called thirtysomething. They were looking for distinctive voices. “I love the fact that you guys are doing a show that’s about emotions,” Haggis told them. “I hate writing about emotions. And I don’t like to talk about my own.” But he seemed to be looking for a chance to push himself creatively. With his first script, Zwick and Herskovitz told him, “This is really good, but where does it come from?” Haggis didn’t know what they meant. “Where does it come from—within you?” they explained. The thought that his own experience mattered was a revelation. Zwick and Herskovitz sensed that Haggis wasn’t happy on the show; in any case, he got a lucrative offer to create his own series and left after the first season. But he had won two Emmys, for writing and producing, and the experience transformed him as a writer. From working with Zwick and Herskovitz, Haggis became interested in directing. He finally got the chance to do a brief ad for the church about Dianetics. He decided against the usual portrayal of Scientology as a triumphal march toward enlightenment, choosing instead to shoot a group of people talking about practical ways they had used Dianetics in their lives. It was casual and naturalistic. Church authorities hated it. They told him it looked like a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  She couldn’t begin to guess what game Caity was playing this time. Not that Caity tells her anything. Never has. Not really. She’s missed that part of the mother-daughter relationship. She has the feeling Vix has, too. Ah well … maybe they’ll do a better job with their daughters. The idea of Caity having a daughter makes her laugh, until she realizes that would make her a grandmother! Now there’s an experience she can do without for another ten years, at least. [image file=Image00006.jpg] “I’M TRYING TO give my life meaning,” Caitlin said when Vix called. “Does that make any sense to you?” When Vix didn’t answer right away Caitlin added, “Why am I asking you? Your life has always had meaning.” “You sure you’re not confusing meaning with struggle?” “How do I know? Do you think by trying not to be ordinary I’ve become neurotic?” “Are you seeing a shrink … is that what this is about?” “Of course I’m seeing a shrink. Do you know anyone who isn’t … besides you?” “I can’t afford therapy.” “I’m sure Abby would help.” “Is that a jab?” “Does it feel like one?” “Yes.” After a long pause Vix said, “I’m sorry about your friend.” “Friends.” “Both of them?” “I’d rather not discuss it. My shrink is helping me understand that my involvement was inappropriate. In my quest for family I mistook them for … Oh, what’s the difference? Remember when John Lennon was killed? Remember how Lamb fell apart?” “Not really.” “Well, he did. Flying me in from New Mexico so I could keep the midnight vigil with him. Also inappropriate, in case you’re wondering.” “Are you sure your shrink is … qualified?” “Can anyone ever be sure? It depends on the results, doesn’t it?” “I guess …” Another long pause then Vix said, “I thought you were in Mexico, at a monastery. Why didn’t you let me know you were on the Vineyard?” “You sound angry. Are you angry?” “Why would I be angry?” “You tell me. I mean, last I heard you had no interest in living on the Vineyard.” “Neither did you … you haven’t set foot on it since you were …” “Seventeen,” Caitlin said. Vix couldn’t ask any of the questions running through her head. Have you seen him? Is he going with anyone? Does he ask about me? “ So … have you seen Von?” Caitlin laughed. She knew damn well what Vix was really asking. “Of course. Von and his ridiculous wife. And Bru and Trisha and everyone else. I haven’t turned into a hermit. I’m just taking a break … a reality check kind of thing.” She paused, then said, “I’m sorry about your father.” “He should be okay.” “I’m glad.” “He’s got a … friend,” Vix told her. “Frankie. She calls him Chick Pea.” “Oh God …” They both laughed. “I miss you, Vix.” “I miss you, too.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Of all the writings of the apostolic fathers none have been so much discussed, especially in modern times, as the Ignatian Epistles. This arises partly from the importance of their contents to the episcopal question, partly from the existence of so many different versions. The latter fact seems to argue as strongly for the hypothesis of a genuine basis for all, as against the supposition of the full integrity of any one of the extant texts. Renan describes the Ignatian problem as the most difficult in early Christian literature, next to that of the Gospel of John (Les Évang. p. x). The Ignatian controversy has passed through three periods, the first from the publication of the spurious Ignatius to the publication of the shorter Greek recension (A. D. 1495 to 1644); the second from the discovery and publication of the shorter Greek recension to the discovery and publication of the Syrian version (A. D. 1644 to 1845), which resulted in the rejection of the larger Greek recension; the third from the discovery of the Syrian extract to the present time (1845–1883), which is favorable to the shorter Greek recension. 1. The Larger Greek Recension of Seven Epistles with eight additional ones. Four of them were published in Latin at Paris, 1495, as an appendix to another book; eleven more by Faber Stapulensis, also in Latin, at Paris, 1498; then all fifteen in Greek by Valentine Hartung (called Paceus or Irenaeus) at Dillingen, 1557; and twelve by Andreas Gesner at Zurich, 1560. The Catholics at first accepted them all as genuine works of Ignatius; and Hartung, Baronius, Bellarmin defended at least twelve; but Calvin and the Magdeburg Centuriators rejected them all, and later Catholics surrendered at least eight as utterly untenable. These are two Latin letters of Ignatius to St. John and one to the Virgin Mary with an answer of the Virgin; and five Greek letters of Ignatius to Maria Castabolita, with an answer, to the Tarsenses, to the Antiochians, to Hero, a deacon of Antioch, and to the Philippians. These letters swarm with offences against history and chronology. They were entirely unknown to Eusebius and Jerome. They are worthless forgeries, clothed with the name and authority of Ignatius. It is a humiliating fact that the spurious Ignatius and his letters to St. John and the Virgin Mary should in a wretched Latin version have so long transplanted and obscured the historical Ignatius down to the sixteenth century. No wonder that Calvin spoke of this fabrication with such contempt. But in like manner the Mary of history gave way to a Mary of fiction, the real Peter to a pseudo-Peter, and the real Clement to a pseudo-Clement. Here, if anywhere, we see the necessity and use of historical criticism for the defense of truth and honesty.

• From Between Us

  Attend to another person, grasp their circumstances, and know what they feel. I hope you now understand that we can neither directly read emotions from other people’s faces, nor simply “catch” the emotions of other people. We can think we can, but our perception need not match the interpretation of the target—even less so when they are from a different culture. It is challenging to “meditate on someone else’s motives, beliefs and history,” as Zaki suggests we do, when the distance with your own motives, beliefs, and history is large. Just imagining how you would feel in a similar situation will not do the job. If you tried, you would almost certainly make sense of a given situation in a way that fits your culture’s values and relationship goals. You would be likely to have emotions that are “right” in your culture. You would interact with others who draw from the same collective repertoire of emotional episodes as you do. As Coates points out: “It is funny when you have never been in that environment, but very serious when you don’t have anything else to lean on, if you are from a place where all you have is like the basic, physical respect . ” Projecting your own feelings is of limited value when you try to understand emotions that are embedded in another cultural reality. I met Hazel Markus thirty years ago at a conference that she and Shinobu Kitayama organized on the topic of culture and emotion. Neither of us knew at the time that Markus was to become my American mentor, but right away I felt we meshed. When we ran into each other in the women’s restroom, I showed my empathy, or so I thought: she had so much on her mind being one of the organizers—I had seen her really busy. So I looked at her warmly, and said: “You look a little tired.” Upon which Hazel looked startled, turned to the mirror and confirmed that, yes, she needed to refresh her lipstick. I stumbled, and added that I did not mean to suggest she looked bad. Research by psychologist Birgit Koopmann-Holm, herself of German descent and living in the United States, suggests that I was projecting the understanding of the situation that would have applied in my (then Dutch) cultural environment onto Hazel.