Contentment

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 Great Transformation (2006)

  The Aryans were not a distinct ethnic group, so this was not a racial term but an assertion of pride and meant something like “noble” or “honorable.” The Aryans were a loose-knit network of tribes who shared a common culture. Because they spoke a language that would form the basis of several Asiatic and European tongues, they are also called Indo-Europeans. They had lived on the Caucasian steppes since about 4500, but by the middle of the third millennium some tribes began to roam farther and farther afield, until they reached what is now Greece, Italy, Scandinavia, and Germany. At the same time, those Aryans who had remained behind on the steppes gradually drifted apart and became two separate peoples, speaking different forms of the original Indo-European. One used the Avestan dialect, the other an early form of Sanskrit. They were able to maintain contact, however, because at this stage their languages were still very similar, and until about 1500 they continued to live peacefully together, sharing the same cultural and religious traditions. 1 It was a quiet, sedentary existence. The Aryans could not travel far, because the horse had not yet been domesticated, so their horizons were bounded by the steppes. They farmed their land, herded their sheep, goats, and pigs, and valued stability and continuity. They were not a warlike people, since, apart from a few skirmishes with one another or with rival groups, they had no enemies and no ambition to conquer new territory. Their religion was simple and peaceful. Like other ancient peoples, the Aryans experienced an invisible force within themselves and in everything that they saw, heard, and touched. Storms, winds, trees, and rivers were not impersonal, mindless phenomena. The Aryans felt an affinity with them, and revered them as divine. Humans, deities, animals, plants, and the forces of nature were all manifestations of the same divine “spirit,” which the Avestans called mainyu and the Sanskrit-speakers manya. It animated, sustained, and bound them all together. Over time the Aryans developed a more formal pantheon. At a very early stage, they had worshiped a Sky God called Dyaus Pitr, creator of the world. 2 But like other High Gods, Dyaus was so remote that he was eventually replaced by more accessible gods, who were wholly identified with natural and cosmic forces.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  3They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said: ‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I could dream true?’ And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’ Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers. Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And Mary, listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little husky, would think that words were more tuneful than music and more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.

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

  Alexander II. died April 21, 1073, and was buried in the basilica of St. John in Lateran on the following day. The city, usually so turbulent after the death of a pope, was tranquil. Hildebrand ordered a three days’ fast with litanies and prayers for the dead, after which the cardinals were to proceed to an election. Before the funeral service was closed, the people shouted, "Hildebrand shall be pope!" He attempted to ascend the pulpit and to quiet the crowd, but Cardinal Hugo Candidus anticipated him, and declared:, "Men and brethren, ye know how since the days of Leo IX. Hildebrand has exalted the holy Roman Church, and defended the freedom of our city. And as we cannot find for the papacy a better man, or even one that is his equal, let us elect him, a clergyman of our Church, well known and thoroughly approved amongst us." The cardinals and clergy exclaimed in the usual formula, "St. Peter elects Gregory (Hildebrand) pope."21 This tumultuary election was at once legalized by the cardinals. He was carried by the people as in triumph to the church of S. Petrus ad Vincula, clothed with the purple robe and tiara, and declared elected, as "a man eminent in piety and learning, a lover of equity and justice, firm in adversity, temperate in prosperity, according to the apostolic precept (1 Tim. 3:2), ’without reproach ... temperate, soberminded, chaste, given to hospitality, ruling his house well’ ... already well brought up and educated in the bosom of this mother Church, for his merits advanced to the office of archdeacon, whom now and henceforth we will to be called Gregory, Pope, and Apostolic Primate."22 It was eminently proper that the man who for nearly a quarter of a century had been the power behind the throne, should at last be pope in name as well as in fact. He might have attained the dignity long before, if he had desired it. He was then about sixty years old, when busy men begin to long for rest. He chose the name Gregory in memory of his departed friend whom he had accompanied as chaplain into exile, and as a protest against the interference of the empire in the affairs of the Church.23 He did not ask the previous confirmation of the emperor, but he informed him of his election, and delayed his consecration long enough to receive the consent of Henry IV., who in the meantime had become emperor. This was the last case of an imperial confirmation of a papal election.24 Hildebrand was ordained priest, May 22, and consecrated pope, June 29, without any opposition. Bishop Gregory of Vercelli, the German chancellor of Italy, attended the consecration. The pope informed his friends, distinguished abbots, bishops, and princes of his election; gave expression to his feelings and views on his responsible position, and begged for their sympathy and prayers.25

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  and join in her sister’s joy with exclamations of her own. The two sets of twins announced their engagements at the conclusion of their rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” at the annual 190 Madeline Moore Talent Contest. The crowd went wild. The applause was thundering. An encore was demanded, and since they hadn’t prepared one, they sang the same song again, to more deafening applause. They won first prize. It was a double wedding, of course, in the girls’ hometown. They were young for marriage, but neither set of parents could argue the rightness of the union. The girls wore identical dresses, though Patty’s was sashed with blue satin and Jeannie’s with pink. After all, they didn’t want to marry the wrong guys by mistake! ‘The grooms _ wore matching black tuxedoes but Gene’s boutonniére was blue and Pat’s was pink. It was a winter wedding, 14 February, in fact. Immediately following the reception, the happy couples boarded a plane for Barbados. Immediately upon disembarking, the happy couples disappeared into their bridal suites, and neither made an appearance the next day, or even the next. On the third day they emerged, all fucked out and ready for some fun in the sun. The boys wasted no time hitting the surf. The girls stretched out in their deck chairs to chat. “Do me,” said Pat. She held out a bottle of suntan lotion and dropped the straps of her blue bikini. “Didn’t your husband?” Jeannie giggled as she slathered lotion on her sister’s shoulders. “Oh God. Gene’s good. Really, really good.” Patty sighed contentedly. “So is Pat,” said Jeannie. “What he lacks in experience,” she whispered, “he makes up for in enthusiasm. Well worth waiting for.” “Well, mine claims I’m his first but if it’s really true, he sure did a lot of research. When we couldn’t fuck any more he ate me out until I begged him to stop.” “But you love oral! It’s me who gets bored with it,” said Jeannie. “T couldn’t stand another orgasm.” Jeannie rolled her eyes. ““Did you do anal?” “Yes; did you?” Yers The girls had decided since they weren’t actually virginal brides, they would remain celibate for the duration of their engagements and save their bums for their husbands. In this way they successfully assuaged any guilt they had about their sexual histories. : “And?” Patty cocked her head at her sister. Jeannie thrust the lotion in her sister’s hands. “Do me,” she said. She dropped the straps of her pink bikini. Double Take 191 “Tell me! Did you like it?” “TI found it humiliating and degrading,” mumbled Jeannie. “So you loved it.” “Yup.” Jeannie giggled. “T thought it-was OR.” “Well, I think it’s my favourite,” announced Jeannie. ‘They hooted in unison. “This is heaven. I wish we could stay here forever.” Patty stretched and sighed contentedly.

• From Cultish (2021)

  Because Moreno’s aim is so transparently to teach her students to reclaim their own personal power, as opposed to asserting her power over them, she’s never felt the need to defend intenSati as not a “real cult.” To me, that lack of defensiveness speaks volumes. By and large, new religion experts are not terribly concerned that the drawbacks of cult fitness stack up to the likes of Scientology, either. “I definitely think some of these workouts are ‘culty,’ but I say that with scare quotes,” commented Stanford anthropologist Tanya Luhrmann. The main “cult” symptom Luhrmann finds in fitness buffs is the belief that if they attend classes regularly, their lives will dramatically improve overall. As long as they attend class five times a week and say the mantras, then that will change the way the world unfolds for them. It’s that sense of excess idealism again—that conviction that this group, this instructor, these rituals, have the power to accomplish more than they probably can. It is entirely possible to exploit that faith. However, what keeps me from roasting the cult fitness industry too dramatically is that ultimately, you’re in charge of your own experience. At Spin class, you control the resistance on your bike; if you want to ignore the “culty lady” at the front of the room (or onscreen) and slow down, you can. If you pray to a higher power, you can do that while chanting about divine inspiration. But if you just want to jump around and party, you can do that, too. And after six months, if things start to get toxic or you just want to try something else, you’re free to. If the bonds you built on the leaderboard are really that strong, they’ll last even after you decide to switch to surfboard Pilates. After all, the studio is not what singularly gives your life meaning. It very well might bring you fulfillment and connection for forty-five minutes at a time, but you’d still be you without it. You’re already blessed with all you need. Part 6 Follow for Follow i. It’s June 2020, one of the most contentious months in contemporary American history, and my Instagram algorithm is on the fritz. Amid posting about the global COVID-19 pandemic and Black Lives Matter, while keeping up with all the New Age swamis, MLM recruiters, and conspiracy theorists I’ve followed over the past year, my Explore page can’t seem to tell whether I’m a social justice warrior, a Plandemic truther, an antivaxxer, a witch, an Amway distributor, or just really obsessed with essential oils. There’s a smug satisfaction that comes with briefly allowing myself to believe I’ve confused the Instagram Eye, whose presence is so omniscient and mysterious (and indispensable to me), sometimes it feels like the only God I’ve ever known.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  The results are by and large supporting our original findings though we have been able to sharpen them greatly. That is, the measures of the conditions (E, C, PR) continue to relate positively and significantly to positive student growth. Additionally, they relate negatively and significantly to student deterioration such as discipline problems and negative attitudes about school. For me, these studies offer adequate evidence that the more the psychological climate of the classroom is person-centered, the more are vital and creative learnings fostered. This statement holds for both elementary and secondary classes. It has yet to be investigated at the college level, but there is no reason to suppose the findings would be sharply different. So I trust it is clear from what I have said that I believe person-centered education can be defined, and that it is effective.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So let us remain friends, as you were saying just now to my wife. And since we have always shared everything in common except our wives, let us share them as well.’ Zeppa having consented to this proposal, all four breakfasted together in perfect amity. And from that day forth, each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the men had two wives, nor did this arrangement ever give rise to any argument or dispute between them.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  Let me move on to another area of my learnings. I find it very satisfying when I can be real, when I can be close to whatever it is that is going on within me. I like it when I can listen to myself. To really know what I am experiencing in the moment is by no means an easy thing, but I feel somewhat encouraged because I think that over the years I have been improving at it. I am convinced, however, that it is a lifelong task and that none of us ever is totally able to be comfortably close to all that is going on within our own experience. In place of the term “realness” I have sometimes used the word “congruence.” By this I mean that when my experiencing of this moment is present in my awareness and when what is present in my awareness is present in my communication, then each of these three levels matches or is congruent. At such moments I am integrated or whole, I am completely in one piece. Most of the time, of course, I, like everyone else, exhibit some degree of incongruence. I have learned, however, that realness, or genuineness, or congruence—whatever term you wish to give it—is a fundamental basis for the best of communication. What do I mean by being close to what is going on in me? Let me try to explain what I mean by describing what sometimes occurs in my work as a therapist. Sometimes a feeling “rises up in me” which seems to have no particular relationship to what is going on. Yet I have learned to accept and trust this feeling in my awareness and to try to communicate it to my client. For example, a client is talking to me and I suddenly feel an image of him as a pleading little boy, folding his hands in supplication, saying, “Please let me have this, please let me have this.” I have learned that if I can be real in the relationship with him and express this feeling that has occurred in me, it is very likely to strike some deep note in him and to advance our relationship. Let me give another example. It is often very hard for me, as for other writers, to get close to my self when I start to write. It is so easy to be distracted by the possibility of saying things which will catch approval or will look good to colleagues or make a popular appeal. How can I listen to the things that I really want to say and write? It is difficult. Sometimes I even have to trick myself to get close to what is in me. I tell myself that I am not writing for publication; I am just writing for my own satisfaction. I write on old scraps of paper so that I don’t

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

  I’m writing e-books aimed at venture capitalists and chief marketing officers, which isn’t as fun as being a columnist at Newsweek , but it’s better than explaining HTML to Marketing Mary. I’m also helping write an update to Inbound Marketing , the book that Halligan and Dharmesh published in 2009. On the side, I’ve started picking up some freelance work, writing articles for Newsweek Japan on topics like robotics and artificial intelligence. Sure, there are still days when I go home and tell Sasha about some astonishingly stupid thing that some bozo has done, but most of the time I can just tune things out. The best thing is that I no longer have to work with Marcia, Jan, and Ashley, the women on the blog team, or Wingman. The only person I deal with is Trotsky, and he and I are becoming pals. I like Trotsky so much that one weekend I invite him and his family to a cookout at my house. I cook steaks and our kids play together. At work, Trotsky sometimes swings by my desk just to talk. Apparently the women on the blog team have noticed that Trotsky and I are getting to be friends, and this bugs them. They don’t like Trotsky. Neither does Spinner, for that matter. Spinner complains to Cranium that Trotsky and I are getting too friendly. Cranium tells Trotsky that he needs to stop hanging out with me at work. That, anyway, is what Trotsky tells me. “The women on the blog team don’t like it,” he says. I can’t believe it. “What is this, middle school?” I say. “Well,” he says, “it’s not just that.” Spinner has told Cranium that some of our banter is making the women who sit near me uncomfortable. One woman who overheard one of our conversations felt it was inappropriate. Trotsky won’t say which woman complained, but he does tell me which conversation it was. We were talking about child care. Trotsky’s wife works full time. They’ve tried day care but are thinking about hiring a nanny. We’ve dealt with the same issue, and first hired a nanny and then resorted to getting au pairs to live with us and watch the kids. It turns out that having a nineteen-year-old German girl living in your house is maybe not the greatest idea. Nothing inappropriate ever happened, but it drove my wife nuts, I tell him. Trotsky says no way would his wife even entertain having an au pair live with them. This conversation has made someone uncomfortable. That person confided in Spinner, who reported us to Cranium. To me the whole thing seems stupid. But Trotsky takes it seriously. “You can get fired for almost anything and survive,” he says. “But the one thing you cannot survive is getting fired for sexual harassment. If that happens, you’ll never work again.” From then on I steer clear of Spinner and the women on the blog team.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  The first simple feeling I want to share with you is my enjoyment when I can really hear someone. I think perhaps this has been a long-standing characteristic of mine. I can remember this in my early grammar school days. A child would ask the teacher a question and the teacher would give a perfectly good answer to a completely different question. A feeling of pain and distress would always strike me. My reaction was, “But you didn’t hear him!” I felt a sort of childish despair at the lack of communication which was (and is) so common. I believe I know why it is satisfying to me to hear someone. When I can really hear someone, it puts me in touch with him; it enriches my life. It is through hearing people that I have learned all that I know about individuals, about personality, about interpersonal relationships. There is another peculiar satisfaction in really hearing someone: It is like listening to the music of the spheres, because beyond the immediate message of the person, no matter what that might be, there is the universal. Hidden in all of the personal

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  We take off from a back strip, away from the crowds. I’m already on the upper wing in my safety harness, securely fastened to the upright struts that protrude from the center of the plane’s structure. Surely, you didn’t think I’d do this without a harness? Some people used to, but they tended to have short careers. Wing Walker 143 We circle the air show once, up high. We’ll talk a little on the radio. Bob worries how long he can keep doing this. The maintenance on the old girl gets harder every year. Then we get the signal to go and we come in fast and low. I'll be in a pose: arm extended gracefully my long hair streaming behind me like Boadicea the warrior queen. Or Xena the warrior princess — I guess more people have heard of her. One leg cocked up. I'll hold the pose and wave to the crowd as Bob takes us up in a hard spiral. And for the next fifteen minutes or so, Bob will twirl with Buttercup, looping the loop, flying upside down, flipping her from side to side, always within sight of the crowds of course. And me? [ll be up there, posing, slow motion dancing, sometimes a handstand, although Bob has to keep her totally steady for that one, so I only do that when he’s been dry for a few days. The wind pummels the breath from my body, and moving a limb is like pushing against cement. The roar of the air and the rumble and creak of the plane beneath my feet fill my head. There’s a crowd? I honestly couldn’t tell you. It’s just me and Buttercup and Bob, flying - in our little space-time continuum. Evenings go something like this:* Me and Bob, in a Motel 6 somewhere, Buttercup in a hangar nearby. We get takeout and sit on one of the double beds, backs against the headboard watching HBO. I trade some of my sweet and sour for Bob’s lo-mein, and we wrangle over who ate the most prawn crackers. We compromise on the wine: he likes sweet, I like dry, so as usual we settle on a Riesling, one of those big double bottles and we'll finish the lot. “You need a man,” Bob says, eyes on Sigourney Weaver, her singlet tastefully ripped as she battles aliens. I grunt. “I can get one anytime I want.” “Not just a one night man,” says Bob. He knows about them. He’s obligingly asked for another room on a few occasions when I can’t go back to their place. “A real man.” “What man can compete with Buttercup?” I ask, adding hastily, “Apart from you.” “T’l] find you a man,” promises Bob. “One like Sigourney.” So far, he hasn't.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  Six Vignettes I tend to learn the most from small, intense experiences which illuminate for me different aspects of what I am doing. They also illustrate in a vivid fashion some of the more abstract concepts of a person-centered approach. Frequently I write them down in order to store them as memories or to provide them for the use of the people involved. I have assembled six of these experiences here, each very different, but each illustrating some point or points. They are all true stories, yet they also have something of the quality of fables. Each one has been, and is, quite precious for my own growth or for my confidence in what I am doing. The first, “I Began to Lose Me,” contains a young woman’s letter describing her experience in therapy. I do not know the woman, nor do I know the therapist. But her experience crams into one letter a whole gold mine of learnings about individual therapy. “The Cavern” is an intensely personal account, again by letter, of how the experiencing of the emptiness of a person—the inner void—can become a rich and fulfilling event, when it is accepted. It, too, is an account of a one-to-one therapy relationship. “Nancy Mourns” tells of an incident which will always remain fresh in my memory, involving my daughter and Nancy and several others in a large person- centered workshop, aimed both at facilitating personal growth and the building of community. “Being Together” is a particularly well-documented story of the long-range effects of an encounter group experience. I was discussing recently with colleagues the rich data we have, in personal letters and contacts, of the frequently far-reaching effects of even a weekend group. Here is a case in which those effects can be shown in a series of “snapshots,” starting with the original experience of one of the workshop participants, and ending with a letter I received from her nine years later. “The Security Guard” is one of several fascinating examples of the kind of energy that emanates from a community-building experience. We influence, in unknown ways, people who have no direct contact at all with the workshop. Here is a clear instance of that influence. “A Kids’ Workshop” brings us back to hard reality. In addition to a rewarding account of how young children respond to a person-centered climate, it clearly

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  I have found that for me interpersonal relationships best exist as a rhythm: openness and expression, and then assimilation; flow and change, then a temporary quiet; risk and anxiety, then temporary security. I could not live in a continuous encounter group For me, being transparently open is far more rewarding than being defensive. This is difficult to achieve, even partially, but enormously enriching to a relationship. It is necessary for me to stay close to the earthiness of real experience. I cannot live my life in abstractions. So real relationships with persons, hands dirtied in the soil, observing the budding of a flower, or viewing the sunset, are necessary to my life. At least one foot must be in the soil of reality. I like my life best when it faces outward most of the time. I prize the times when I am inward-looking—searching to know myself, meditating, and thinking. But this must be balanced by doing things—interacting with people, producing something, whether a flower or a book or a piece of carpentry. Finally, I have a deep belief, which can only be a hypothesis, that the philosophy of interpersonal relationships which I have helped to formulate, and which is contained in this paper, is applicable to all situations involving persons. I believe it is applicable to therapy, to marriage, to parent and child, to teacher and student, to persons with high status and those with low status, to persons of one race relating to persons of another. I am even brash enough to believe that it could be effective in situations now dominated by the exercise of raw power—in politics, for example, especially in our dealings with other nations. I challenge, with all the strength I possess, the current American belief, evident in every phase of our foreign policy, and especially in our insane wars, that “might makes right.” That, in my estimation, is the road to self-destruction. I go along with Martin Buber and the ancient Oriental sages: “He who imposes himself has the small, manifest might; he who does not impose himself has the great, secret might.” REFERENCES BUBER, M. Pointing the way. New York: Harper & Row, 1957. BYNNER, W. (Translator). The way of life according to Laotzu. New York: Capricorn Books, 1962. FRIEDMAN, M. Touchstones of reality. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1972. ROGERS, C. R. The necessary and sufficient conditions of therapeutic personality change. Journal of Consulting Psychology, 1957, 21, 95–103.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Valerie never made a single sound, just stood there motionlessly the way he had asked her to. He proceeded to undo her skirt and pull it down over her legs. She didn’t even lift her feet to step out of it. He knelt down on the floor, lifted one foot after the other, and pulled her skirt from underneath. Then he took hold of her panties and pulled them down the way he had done with her skirt, lifting her feet again to pull the panties from underneath them as well. She stood quietly before him, the first naked woman in his life, her pale skin looking almost white in the light of the bedside lamps. He looked at her for a while the way he looked at the statues, reveling in her pure femininity, admiring her shape and her curves, her quaint breasts, her barely concealed pussy between her slightly parted legs. Then he quickly undressed himself, took Valerie by the shoulders, and lowered her on to the bed. He rolled her towards the middle to make room for himself beside her. Spending quite a long time playing with her breasts, he delighted in the unique experience of touching real-life, soft, pliable breasts with his virgin hands. Valerie kept lying on the bed without moving once, without saying a word, without any suggestions or complaints. Bernard was in heaven. In all his fantasies, he had never pictured anything like this with a real woman. This was so much better than what he was able to do with his doll, and infinitely better than his encounters with the statues. This was real: real, warm, living flesh, In the Absence of Motion 107 trembling ever so slightly under his hands, responding to his touch, making him feel fuzzy and exceedingly pleased. He let go of one of the breasts and moved his freed hand down Valerie’s body until he reached her pussy with the light blond fluff. For the first time, he felt a woman’s genitals, felt the warmth and the freely flowing juices, felt the puffiness of the lips, the protruding clit. It was an incredible experience, especially since he didn’t have to worry at all about any of the things he had always fussed about. Valerie was a perfect statue, a perfect doll. She lay absolutely still, never made a sound or said a word, and just let him do whatever he wanted to do. Emboldened, he knelt beside her and spread her legs apart, then climbed on top of her and buried his by now throbbing and pulsatingly eager penis in the unbelievably wonderful, warm, soft, pliable cave.

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

  Taine, who writes (on Intelligence, i. 50, 58) that often in the daytime, when fatigued and seated in a chair; it is sufficient for him to close one eye with a handkerchief when, "by degrees, the sight of the other eye becomes vague, and it closes. All external sensations are gradually effaced, or cease, at all events, to be remarked; the internal images, on the other hand, feeble and rapid during the state of complete wakefulness, become intense, distinct, colored, steady, and lasting : there is a sort of ecstasy, accompanied by a feeling of expansion and of comfort. Warned by frequent experience, I know that sleep is coming on, and that I must not disturb the rising vision; I remain passive, and in a few minutes it is complete. Architecture, landscapes, moving figures, pass slowly by, and sometimes remain, with incomparable clearness of form and fulness of being; sleep comes on, and I know no more of the real world I am in. Many times, like M. Maury, I have caused myself to be gently roused at different moments of this state, and have thus been able to mark its characters.—The intense image which seems an external object is hut a more forcible continuation of the feeble image which an instant before I recognized as internal some scrap of a forest, some house, some person which I vaguely imagined on closing my eyes, has in a minute become present to me with full bodily details, seas to change into a complete hallucination. Then, waking up on a hand touching me, I feel the figure decay, lose color and evaporate; what had appeared a substance is reduced toe shadow. ... In such a case, I have often seen, for a passing moment, the image grow pale, waste away and evaporate; sometimes, on opening the eyes, a fragment of landscape or the skirt of a dress appears still to float over the fire-irons or on the black hearth." This persistence of dream objects for a few moments after the eyes are opened seems to be no extremely rare experience. Many cases of it have been reported to me directly Compare Müller's Physiology, Baly's tr., p. 945 [136] I say the 'normal 'paths, because hallucinations are not incompatible with some paths of association being left. Some hypnotic patients will not only have hallucinations of objects suggested to them, but will amplify them and act out the situation. But the paths here seem excessively narrow, and the reductions which ought to make the hallucination incredible do not occur to the subject's mind. In general, the narrower a train of 'ideas' is, the wider the consciousness is of each. Under ordinary circumstances, the entire brain probably plays a part in draining any centre which may be ideationally active. When the drainage is reduced in any way it probably makes the active process more intense. [137] M. A. Maury gives a number: op. cit. pp. 126-8. [138] M.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  we are fully open—first to one another, and later to the whole group; we are prepared to explore new and unknown areas of our own lives; we are truly acceptant of our own differences; we are open to the new learnings we will receive from our fresh inward journeys, all stimulated by our staff and group experiences. Thus it can be said that we now prepare ourselves, with much less emphasis on plans or materials. We value our staff process and want that to be available to the group. We have found that by being as fully ourselves as we are able— creative, diverse, contradictory, present, open, and sharing—we somehow become tuning forks, finding resonances with those qualities in all the members of the workshop community. In the relationships we form with the group and its members, the power is shared. We let ourselves “be”; we let others “be.” At our best, we have little desire to judge or manipulate the other’s thoughts or actions. When persons are approached in this way, when they are accepted as they are, we discover them to be highly creative and resourceful in examining and changing their own lives. While we do not persuade, interpret, or manipulate, we are certainly not laissez-faire in our attitude. Instead we find that we can share ourselves, our feelings, our potentialities, and our skills in active ways. We are each free to be as much of ourselves as it is possible for us to be. Part of that way of being has become ingrained: it is our desire to hear. During periods of chaos, or criticism of staff, or expression of deep feelings, we listen intently, acceptantly, occasionally voicing our understanding of what we have heard. We listen especially to the contrary voices, the soft voices, those that are expressing unpopular or unacceptable views. We make a point of responding to a person if he or she spoke openly, but no one responded. We thus tend to validate each person. We do not stop here. We as a staff are continually exploring new facets of our own experience as individuals. Recently, this has meant uncovering the learnings we are gaining from our intimate relationships in our differing lifestyles. It has meant facing openly the increasingly intuitive and psychic aspects of our lives. As we push on into these unknown inner areas, we seem better able to help each new workshop community—individually and collectively—to probe more deeply into their own worlds of shadow and mystery. In turn, each workshop has brought us learnings we did not anticipate.

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

  Books were kept first in armaria or horizontal presses and the librarian was called armarius. About the fourteenth century shelves were introduced along the cloistral walls.1223 As early as the thirteenth century books were fastened by chains to protect them from being stolen by eager readers.1224 The statutes of Trinity College, Cambridge, 1350, required that certain books remain continually in the library, chained to their places, for the use of the fellows. This custom was still in vogue in England in the sixteenth century, when copies of the English Bible were kept chained to the reading desks in the churches. The old Benedictine rule was still enforced for the distribution of books. Lanfranc’s statutes for the English Benedictines, 1070, required the return of the books by the monks the first Sunday in Lent. They were then to be laid out on the floor and distributed for the ensuing year, one book to each monk. Any one failing to read his book was obliged to fall on his face and confess his neglect.1225 The loan of books was not uncommon. Bernard borrowed and lent as did Peter the Venerable.1226 The Cistercians provided for such loans to outside parties and the synod of Paris, 1212, insisted that convents should not recede from this good practice which it pronounced a work of mercy. The book-room, or scriptorium, was part of a complete conventual building. It served as a place of writing and of transcribing manuscripts. Sometimes a monk had his own little book-room, called scriptoriolum, or kept books in his cell. Nicholas, Bernard’s secretary, described his little room as next to the infirmary and "filled with choice and divine books."1227 Peter of Celle, successor to John of Salisbury in the see of Chartres, spoke of his scriptoriolum as filled with books, where he could be free from the vanity and vexations of the world. The place had been assigned to him, he said, for reading, writing, meditating, praying, and adoring the Lord.1228 Abbots themselves joined to their other labors the work of the copyist. So it was with Theodoric of St. Evroult, 1050–1057, a skilful scribe who, according to Ordericus Vitalis,1229 left "splendid monuments of his calligraphic skill," in copies of the Collects, Graduale, and Antiphonary which were deposited in the convent collection. Theodoric also secured the services of others to copy commentaries and the heptateuch.1230 Convents were concerned to secure expert transcribers. Copying was made a special feature of St. Albans by the abbot Paul, 1077–1093. He secured money for a scriptorium and brought scribes from a distance. In the latter part of the eleventh century, Hirschau in Southern Germany was noted for this kind of activity, through its abbot William, who saw that twelve good copyists were trained for his house. These men made many copies and William is said to have presented books to every convent he reformed. The scribe, Othlo of Emmeram, of the same century, has left us a list of the books he gave away.1231

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Sans chandelle et sans cierge?’ ‘Les astres seront allumés Par Madame la Vierge.’ ‘Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Ma Doué, Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Sans orgue résonnante?’ ‘Jésus touchera le clavier Des vagues mugissantes.’ ‘Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Ma Doué, Mais comment ferez vous, l’Abbé, Si l’Ennemi nous trouble?’ ‘Une seule fois je vous bénirai, Les Bleus bénirai double!’ Closing the study door behind her, Stephen thoughtfully climbed the stairs to her bedroom. CHAPTER 331W ith the New Year came flowers from Valérie Seymour, and a little letter of New Year’s greeting. Then she paid a rather ceremonious call and was entertained by Puddle and Stephen. Before leaving she invited them both to luncheon, but Stephen refused on the plea of her work. ‘I’m hard at it again.’ At this Valérie smiled. ‘Very well then, à bientôt. You know where to find me, ring up when you’re free, which I hope will be soon.’ After which she took her departure. But Stephen was not to see her again for a very considerable time, as it happened. Valérie was also a busy woman—there are other affairs beside the writing of novels. Brockett was in London on account of his plays. He wrote seldom, though when he did so he was cordial, affectionate even; but now he was busy with success, and with gathering in the shekels. He had not lost interest in Stephen again, only just at the moment she did not fit in with his brilliant and affluent scheme of existence. So once more she and Puddle settled down together to a life that was strangely devoid of people, a life of almost complete isolation, and Puddle could not make up her mind whether she felt relieved or regretful. For herself she cared nothing, her anxious thoughts were as always centred in Stephen. However, Stephen appeared quite contented—she was launched on her book and was pleased with her writing. Paris inspired her to do good work, and as recreation she now had her fencing—twice every week she now fenced with Buisson, that severe but incomparable master. Buisson had been very rude at first: ‘Hideous, affreux, horriblement English!’ he had shouted, quite outraged by Stephen’s style. All the same he took a great interest in her. ‘You write books; what a pity! I could make you a fine fencer. You have the man’s muscles, and the long, graceful lunge when you do not remember that you are a Briton and become—what you say? ah, mais oui, self-conscious. I wish that I had find you out sooner—however, your muscles are young still, pliant.’ And one day he said: ‘Let me feel the muscles,’ then proceeded to pass his hand down her thighs and across her strong loins: ‘Tiens, tiens!’ he murmured.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  When the chaste and joyful greetings had been repeated three or four times A direct quotation from the opening lines of canto VII of Dante’s Purgatorio (‘Poscia che l’accoglienze oneste e liete/furo iterate tre e quattro volte’). The text of the Decameron contains many such examples of the insertion of familiar quotations from earlier poets, especially Dante, a practice later commended by the stylistic theorists of the Renaissance.10. Lerici A port in Lunigiana near the mouth of the River Magra, where travellers from Genoa and other ‘distant’ parts were accustomed to disembark en route to Tuscany and Emilia.Seventh Story1. Beminedab Thought to be based on the biblical Amminadab fleetingly mentioned in the Book of Numbers and in Saint Matthew’s Gospel, this fictitious name is used by other medieval writers to indicate an oriental ruler of an indeterminate epoch. The name has mildly humorous associations.2. Alatiel Like Beminedab, the name is fictitious, but it happens to be an anagram of La Lieta (‘The Happy Woman’), offering a possible clue to the way in which the story is intended to be read.3. the King of Algarve Algarve, from the Arabic al-Gharb, meaning ‘the West’, was a much more extensive region than the area of that name in modern Portugal. It corresponded roughly to northern Morocco, including a long stretch of the African Mediterranean coast, and the south-western part of the Iberian peninsula. Its wool was greatly prized in European markets. B.’s employers, the Compagnia dei Bardi, imported wool from Algarve via a trading post on the island of Majorca, where Alatiel’s sexual odyssey begins.4. neither he nor they could understand what the other party was saying A recurrent feature of Alatiel’s sexual encounters is her inability to communicate verbally with her various abductors. In an absorbing analysis of this particular novella, Guido Almansi argues that ‘Alatiel is not “a beautiful woman”. She is a superhuman figure; mythic, or at least closely related to a myth. Even her linguistic isolation can be read as an ambivalent sign… On the one hand, her complete ignorance of West European languages is convincing from a narrative standpoint, and serves to give special emphasis to the gesticulations of the characters… Yet her non-communication is also… a sign standing for Alatiel’s isolation, which is due to her superhuman features. Any mating with a mythic character must take place in silence, because there can exist no dialogue, no normative vocabulary, for the relationship between man and myth.’ (The Writer as Liar, p. 124.)5. Alexandrian fashion Presumably the Egyptian danse du ventre, which would explain the boosting of Pericone’s expectations.6. Corinth in the Pelopponese The Italian text reads ‘Chiarenza in Romania’. It was customary to refer to the whole of the Eastern Roman Empire as Romania. Chiarenza is an italianized form of Corinth.7. Saint Stiffen-in-the-Hand The Italian text reads ‘santo Cresa in Mari (‘Saint Grow-in-Hand’), an equivocal phallic metaphor of which the variant ‘san Cresa in Val Cava’ (‘Saint-Grow-in-Hollow-Vale’) turns up towards the end of the story (p.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  HAVING SOLVED HER IRS CRISIS, Anaïs expected that I should also be able to manifest my desires. Whenever I saw her she’d ask, “What about your Don Juan?” grousing that I was doing something wrong by not having seduced Don. I’d come to the opposite conclusion, though. If he and I had violated our house incest taboo, it would have destabilized our commune family, and I would have missed the best two years of my life. I would have missed having genuine friendships with men and the experience of being part of a functioning family. We had embraced the ideal of community devoid of capitalism, and it had worked. Money was never a problem; we each paid less for food and shelter than before. We had the usual roommate disagreements about decorating and cleaning, and our political discussions occasionally led to shouting, especially about sexism, but I always felt a real equality and trust with the guys. I never had a steady boyfriend during my years in the Georgina house, but I never felt lonely. It was enough to be part of this intelligent, hip family with whom I shared meals and our earnest political ideals. We kept track of each other at anti-war demonstrations, boycotted grapes and Coors beer, harbored Berkeley Free Speech orator Mario Savio after his psychotic breakdown, and threw huge holiday parties that were the hot invite among the Westside’s liberal chic. On academic breaks the five of us would pile our sleeping bags into Bob’s van, bring along some joints, and take off on camping trips to Death Valley, the Santa Barbara hot springs, and the High Sierras. We rented a cabin at Lake Arrowhead where we tried acid together, confident that we would all be safe in each other’s company. We hiked, and swam in our birthday suits, and talked deep into the night under the open sky. For a latchkey kid who’d eaten alone in front of the TV and didn’t go on vacations, these were days of heaven. Then one evening I was upstairs in the ballroom working on my doctoral dissertation, which I’d changed three times already from Renaissance tragedy to Restoration comedy to women’s diaries. Actually, I had wanted to write about Anaïs’s Diaries, but my dissertation chair had objected that she was neither important enough, nor dead. He recommended I write about all women’s diaries, from the tenth-century Japanese diarists on through to the present, so I would have enough material for a “proper” PhD dissertation.