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 Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Still, over that first year that Ames worked for Katrina, she kept her personal life just that. Instead of talking about her divorce, Ames intuited it. He noted the slight woundedness and exasperation that clung to her, the nearly teenage angst and willingness to test bad ideas that led to a certain oh-fuck-it-ness about her work and a straightforward honesty with her employees. She developed a visceral suspicion of conventional narratives. The anodyne corporate clients who came to the agency occasionally saw one or two much darker and more experimental pitches for their online marketing campaigns slipped in among the conventional fare. Dadaism for the Clorox bleach campaign. Cyborgian despair for Anker batteries. A series of radio ads for Purina in which Jon Lovitz catered to nineties nostalgia by reprising his cult role as critic Jay Sherman in order to give negative reviews to various puppies. It made her good at her work. Ames interpreted her tendency to re- narrativize as divorce-induced. Well into their romance, after theyd already slept together numerous times, she brought up the subject of her divorce. They were in his bed, on their sides, facing each other, he propped up on an elbow, she with her face resting on one of his forest-green pillowcases, her glossy brown hair stepping down from head to pillow to bed. The bedside light shining behind her illuminated the outer crescents of her face—he still instinctively noticed the curve of a brow. “T know that people in the office probably told you about the miscarriage,” she said. “I stupidly talked about it with a few people. Telling Abby anything is a mistake.” He laughed, because, yeah, Abby Was a gossip. “When you get a divorce,” she said after a moment, “everyone expects you to provide a story to justify it. Every woman I’ve ever met who has had a divorce has a story to explain herself. But in real life the story and actual reasons for the divorce diverge. In reality, everything is more ambivalent. My own reasons are closer to a tone than a series of causes and effects. But when I talk about it, I know people want a cause and effect, a clear why.” “All right,” Ames said. “So what’s the tone of your divorce?” “T like to call it the Ennui of Heterosexuality.” “IT see. Do you still suffer from the ennui of heterosexuality?” Ames asked, gesturing grandly at their postcoital bedroom tableau. “T suffered from a miscarriage,” she replied defiantly, puncturing his irony. Ames quickly apologized.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Ana, honey.” The voice is soft and warm, full of love and sweet memories of times gone by. A gentle hand brushes my face. My mom wakes me, and I’m wrapped around my laptop, hugging it to me. “Ana, sweetheart,” she continues in her soft, singsong voice while I surface from sleep, blinking in the pale-pink light of dusk. “Hi, Mom.” I stretch out and smile. “We’re going out for dinner in thirty minutes. You still want to come?” she asks kindly. “Oh, yes, Mom, of course.” I try very hard but fail to stifle my yawn. “Now that’s an impressive piece of technology.” She points to my laptop. Oh crap. “Oh…this?” I strive for casual, surprised nonchalance. Will Mom notice? She seems to have grown more astute since I acquired a “boyfriend.” “Christian lent it to me. I think I could pilot the space shuttle with it, but I just use it for emails and internet access.” Really, it’s nothing. Eyeing me suspiciously, she sits down on the bed and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Has he emailed you?” Oh, double crap. “Yeah.” My nonchalance is wearing thin, and I flush. “Perhaps he’s missing you, huh?” “I hope so, Mom.” “What does he say?” Oh, triple crap. I frantically try to think of something acceptable from that email I can tell my mother. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear about Doms and bondage and gagging, but then I can’t tell her because there’s the NDA. “He’s told me to enjoy myself but not too much.” “Sounds reasonable. I’ll leave you to get ready, honey.” Leaning over, she kisses my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here, Ana. It’s wonderful to see you.” And with that loving statement, she leaves. Hmm, Christian and reasonable… Two concepts that I thought were mutually exclusive, but after his email, maybe all things are possible. I shake my head. I’ll need time to digest his words. Probably after dinner—and I can reply to him then. I climb out of bed and quickly slip out of my T-shirt and shorts and head to the shower. I have brought Kate’s gray halter-neck dress that I wore for my graduation. It’s the only dressy item I have. One good thing about the heat is that the creases have dropped out, so I think it will do for the golf club. As I dress, I open the laptop. There is nothing new from Christian, and I feel a stab of disappointment. Very quickly, I type him an email. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Verbose? Date: May 31 2011 19:08 ET To: Christian Grey Sir, you are quite the loquacious writer. I have to go to dinner at Bob’s golf club, and just so you know, I am rolling my eyes at the thought. But you and your twitchy palm are a long way from me so my behind is safe, for now. I loved your email. Will respond when I can. I miss you already.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Christ, be quiet.” The food—fried okra, steamed corn on the cob, and pot roast that was so tender it fell right off the plastic fork—convinced me that Dolores was an even better cook than Maureen. Culver Creek’s okra had less grease, more crunch. Dolores was also the funniest mom I’d ever met. When Alaska asked her what she did for work, she smiled and said, “I’m a culnary engineeyer. That’s a short-order cook at the Waffle House to y’all.” “Best Waffle House in Alabama.” The Colonel smiled, and then I realized, he wasn’t embarrassed of his mom at all. He was just scared that we would act like condescending boarding-school snobs. I’d always found the Colonel’s I-hate-the-rich routine a little overwrought until I saw him with his mom. He was the same Colonel, but in a totally different context. It made me hope that one day, I could meet Alaska’s family, too. — Dolores insisted that Alaska and I share the bed, and she slept on the pull-out while the Colonel was out in his tent. I worried he would get cold, but frankly I wasn’t about to give up my bed with Alaska. We had separate blankets, and there were never fewer than three layers between us, but the possibilities kept me up half the night. forty-six days before BEST THANKSGIVING FOOD I’d ever had. No crappy cranberry sauce. Just huge slabs of moist white meat, corn, green beans cooked in enough bacon fat to make them taste like they weren’t good for you, biscuits with gravy, pumpkin pie for dessert, and a glass of red wine for each of us. “I believe,” Dolores said, “that yer s’posed to drink white with turkey, but—now I don’t know ’bout y’all—but I don’t s’pose I give a shit.” We laughed and drank our wine, and then after the meal, we each listed our gratitudes. My family always did that before the meal, and we all just rushed through it to get to the food. So the four of us sat around the table and shared our blessings. I was thankful for the fine food and the fine company, for having a home on Thanksgiving. “A trailer, at least,” Dolores joked. “Okay, my turn,” Alaska said. “I’m grateful for having just had my best Thanksgiving in a decade.” Then the Colonel said, “I’m just grateful for you, Mom,” and Dolores laughed and said, “That dog won’t hunt, boy.” I didn’t exactly know what that phrase meant, but apparently it meant, “That was inadequate,” because then the Colonel expanded his list to acknowledge that he was grateful to be “the smartest human being in this trailer park,” and Dolores laughed and said, “Good enough.” And Dolores?

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  sweater woven in a corporate approximation of a Native American pattern. To Reese’s surprise, Katrina comes in for a hug. Katrina’s shoulder blades slide delicately beneath her hands. “T haven’t been up to this neighborhood in so long! But Girls was filmed here, wasn’t it?” “Oh wow!” Thalia interjects. “Amazing you should mention that! Reese loves that show!” Greenpoint’s chance at being a cool area ended when Lena Dunham set the first season of Girls there, and it became associated with clueless white girls in both fact and popular conception. “It’s the opposite of my favorite show,” Reese corrects. “Meet Thalia. Thalia, Katrina—Katrina, Thalia.” Thalia flashes Katrina one of her gorgeous smiles that knocks aside everything in its path. Occasionally, Reese worries about the appearance of her living in Greenpoint—to live in Brooklyn and inhabit one of the few neighborhoods overwhelmingly inhabited by white people? It doesn’t look good. Still, Reese likes Greenpoint precisely for its Polish people. Her apartment is located on the North End, along Newtown Creek, the Superfund site that separates Brooklyn from Queens, and the one part of Greenpoint that’s largely retained its Polish residents. In South Greenpoint, on the border with Williamsburg, the Poles have sold their ramshackle buildings to developers and retired to Warsaw as millionaires. Her block hasn’t yet succumbed. Living among the old Poles suits her. Elsewhere girls complained about aggression, catcalls, slurs, the constant fear of catching the attention of some man who realizes he’s been attracted to a transsexual and has himself a good ol’-fashioned panic. But those old women pushing around their grocery dollies, the white-whiskered men in faded windbreakers, they cannot trouble themselves to so much as glance at Reese. Any effort to get them to consider such a thing as some American’s gender presentation is destined to break apart against the stony shores of a massive Slavic indifference. The only women who approach her with anything resembling curiosity or friendliness are those who mistakenly greet her in Polish; their faces slam shut when she responds in apologetic English. Greenpoint is the only place she’s ever lived where she feels no injunction to put on makeup before a quick errand, because no one deigns to take note of her one way or another. “T hope you weren’t waiting too long,” says Katrina to the two women. She doesn’t expect a real response—lateness in the era of smartphones having become a social rite for which one apologizes without quite taking responsibility, as when you apologize for a spell of bad weather to a friend visiting from out of town. “No,” says Reese, and she begins the walk north, toward her apartment. Thalia politely steps a few feet ahead, allowing Katrina and Reese to walk side by side—the sidewalk is too congested to walk three abreast. On the way, Katrina glances over Reese’s shoulder at the Brooklyn Bazaar. “Do a lot of trans people live in this neighborhood?”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  This information did not illuminate the situation for Reese. Making face scrubs with a real estate agent? Is this cis culture? What’s next week? Nail art with your financial planner? “T have to admit,” Reese now confesses to Sexy-Smart Yoga Instructor, “I don’t know doTERRA.” Sexy-Smart beams at Reese; she has that habit of charmingly touching the person whom she addresses on the arm. “Oh! A virgin. Don’t worry, I'll take care of you.” She winks. You really must be sexy to successfully land such a nakedly mercantile wink on a target like Reese. But this woman lands it, and Reese, despite all her cynicism and familiarity with informal sex work, can’t help but experience a moment of involuntary relief and gratitude that she will be losing her doTERRA virginity to such an amazing woman. By the time that Reese has munched on some appetizers and had a glass of chardonnay, she’s gathered that dOoTERRA is another entry in the ranks of companies reliant on a model of party-plan direct sales—it’s like Cutco knives, Mary Kay, or Tupperware—only it targets, with its upscale essential oils, the anxiety of those wellness- obsessed women who are just a little too beholden to middle-class propriety to permit themselves to take up crystals and anti-vaxxing screeds. So Reese will be sold essential oils this evening. She doesn’t even mind. She’s just happy to meet Katrina’s friends, discussing either kitchen remodels, recalcitrant husbands, or recalcitrant children. As they mill about, they do not have the air of tremendously moneyed people, but Reese detects that alien assurance of educated folks who have always had jobs, or at least a clear path to earning. A temporality that said yes, another paycheck will arrive somewhere soon on your way to the next life event. Ensconced in a nook by the window, snacking off a plate of crudités, Katrina confides to Reese that she and some of the others are trying to be supportive of Kathy, who has been getting into some weird intersection of capitalism and witchy shit, post-breakup with her long-term boyfriend. “We did a sound bath last month,” Katrina whispers confidentially. “Fifty bucks each. At this ridiculous, opulent penthouse in Tribeca. We all lay on blankets for ninety minutes, while these people that Kathy met at Burning Man came and played steel drums arrhythmically and held tuning forks above our heads. They said the vibrations would clear our auras.” “Did it work?” Reese asks.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Hey, stop this,” he commands. “There is nothing about you that is cheap, Anastasia. I won’t have you thinking that. I just sent you some old books that I thought might mean something to you, that’s all. Have some champagne.” His eyes warm and soften, and I smile tentatively up at him. “That’s better,” he murmurs. He picks up the champagne, takes off the foil top and cage, twists the bottle rather than the cork, and opens it with a small pop and a practiced flourish that doesn’t spill a drop. He half fills the cups. “It’s pink,” I murmur, surprised. “Bollinger Grande Année Rosé 1999—an excellent vintage,” he says with relish. “In teacups.” He grins. “In teacups. Congratulations on your degree, Anastasia.” We clink cups, and he takes a drink, but I can’t help thinking this is really about my capitulation. “Thank you,” I murmur and take a sip. Of course it’s delicious. “Shall we go through the soft limits?” He smiles, and I blush. “Always so eager.” Christian takes my hand and leads me to the couch, where he sits and tugs me down beside him. “Your stepfather’s a very taciturn man.” Oh…not soft limits, then. I just want to get this out of the way; the anxiety is gnawing at me. “You managed to get him eating out of your hand.” I pout. Christian laughs. “Only because I know how to fish.” “How did you know he liked fishing?” “You told me. When we went for coffee.” “Oh, did I?” I take another sip. Wow, he has a memory for detail. Hmm…this champagne really is very good. “Did you try the wine at the reception?” Christian makes a face. “Yes. It was foul.” “I thought of you when I tasted it. How did you get to be so knowledgeable about wine?” “I’m not knowledgeable, Anastasia. I just know what I like.” His eyes shine, almost silver, and it makes me flush. “Some more?” he asks, referring to the champagne. “Please.” Christian rises gracefully and collects the bottle. He fills my cup. Is he getting me tipsy? I eye him suspiciously. “This place looks pretty bare. Are you ready for the move?” “More or less.” “Are you working tomorrow?” “Yes, my last day at Clayton’s.” “I’d help you move, but I promised to meet my sister at the airport.” Oh…this is news. “Mia arrives from Paris very early on Saturday. I’m heading back to Seattle tomorrow, but I hear Elliot is giving you two a hand.” “Yes, Kate is very excited about that.” Christian frowns. “Yes, Kate and Elliot, who would have thought?” he murmurs, and for some reason he doesn’t look pleased. “So what are you doing about work in Seattle?” When are we going to talk about the limits? What’s his game? “I have a couple of interviews for internships.” “You were going to tell me this when?” He arches a brow. “Um…I’m telling you now.” He narrows his eyes. “Where?”

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  3 The Lazy Controller I spend a few months each year in Berkeley, and one of my great pleasures there is a daily four-mile walk on a marked path in the hills, with a fine view of San Francisco Bay. I usually keep track of my time and have learned a fair amount about effort from doing so. I have found a speed, about 17 minutes for a mile, which I experience as a stroll. I certainly exert physical effort and burn more calories at that speed than if I sat in a recliner, but I experience no strain, no conflict, and no need to push myself. I am also able to think and work while walking at that rate. Indeed, I suspect that the mild physical arousal of the walk may spill over into greater mental alertness. System 2 also has a natural speed. You expend some mental energy in random thoughts and in monitoring what goes on around you even when your mind does nothing in particular, but there is little strain. Unless you are in a situation that makes you unusually wary or self-conscious, monitoring what happens in the environment or inside your head demands little effort. You make many small decisions as you drive your car, absorb some information as you read the newspaper, and conduct routine exchanges of pleasantries with a spouse or a colleague, all with little effort and no strain. Just like a stroll. It is normally easy and actually quite pleasant to walk and think at the same time, but at the extremes these activities appear to compete for the limited resources of System 2. You can confirm this claim by a simple experiment. While walking comfortably with a friend, ask him to compute 23 × 78 in his head, and to do so immediately. He will almost certainly stop in his tracks. My experience is that I can think while strolling but cannot engage in mental work that imposes a heavy load on short-term memory. If I must construct an intricate argument under time pressure, I would rather be still, and I would prefer sitting to standing. Of course, not all slow thinking requires that form of intense concentration and effortful computation—I did the best thinking of my life on leisurely walks with Amos. Accelerating beyond my strolling speed completely changes the experience of walking, because the transition to a faster walk brings about a sharp

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I open my eyes, and I’m draped in Christian Grey. He’s wrapped around me like a victory flag. He’s fast asleep with his head on my chest, his arm over me, holding me close, one of his legs thrown over and hooked around both of mine. He’s suffocating me with his body heat, and he’s heavy. I take a moment to absorb that he’s still in my bed and it’s light outside—morning. He has spent the whole night with me. My right arm is stretched, no doubt in search of a cool spot, and as I process the fact that he’s still with me, the thought occurs that I can touch him. Tentatively, I lift my hand and run the tips of my fingers down his back. Deep in his throat, I hear a faint, distressed groan, and he stirs. He nuzzles my chest, inhaling deeply as he wakes. Sleepy, blinking gray eyes meet mine beneath his tousled mop of hair. “Good morning,” he mumbles and frowns. “Jesus, even in my sleep I’m drawn to you.” He moves slowly, unpeeling his limbs from me as he gets his bearings. I become aware of his erection against my hip. He notices my wide-eyed reaction, and he smiles a slow, sexy smile. “Hmm, this has possibilities, but I think we should wait until Sunday.” He leans down and nuzzles my ear with his nose. I flush, but then I feel seven shades of scarlet from his heat. “You’re very hot,” I murmur. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he murmurs and presses himself against me, suggestively. I flush some more. That’s not what I meant. He props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at me, amused. He bends and, to my surprise, plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “Sleep well?” he asks. I nod, staring up at him, and I realize I’ve slept very well, except maybe for the last half hour when I was too hot. “So did I.” He frowns. “Yes, really well.” He raises his eyebrows in confused surprise. “What’s the time?” I glance at my alarm. “It’s seven thirty.” “Seven thirty? Shit!” He scrambles out of bed and drags on his jeans. It is my turn to look amused as I sit up. Christian Grey is late and flustered. This is something I have never seen before. I belatedly realize that my behind is no longer sore. “You are such a bad influence on me. I have a meeting. I have to go—I have to be in Portland at eight. Are you smirking at me?” “Yes.” He grins. “I’m late. I don’t do late. Another first, Miss Steele.” He pulls on his jacket and then bends down, grasping my head, his hands on either side. “Sunday,” he says, and the word is pregnant with an unspoken promise. Everything deep in my body uncurls and then clenches in delicious anticipation. The feeling is exquisite.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I call Kate. When she doesn’t answer, I leave her a groveling message to tell her I am alive and have not succumbed to Bluebeard. Well, not in the sense she would be worried about—or perhaps I have. Oh, this is so confusing. I try to categorize and analyze my feelings for Christian Grey but it’s an impossible task. I shake my head in defeat… I need alone time, away from here to think. I find two welcome hair ties at the same time in my bag and quickly tie my hair in pigtails. Yes! The more girly I look perhaps the safer I’ll be from Bluebeard. I also take out my iPod and plug my headphones in. There’s nothing like music to cook by. I slip it into the breast pocket of Christian’s shirt, turn it up loud, and start dancing. Holy hell, I’m hungry. I am daunted by his kitchen. It’s so sleek and modern, and none of the cupboards has handles. It takes me a few seconds to deduce that I have to push the cupboard doors to open them. Perhaps I should cook Christian breakfast. He was eating an omelet the other day…um, yesterday at The Heathman. Jeez, so much has happened since then. I check in the fridge, where there are plenty of eggs, and decide I want pancakes and bacon. I set about making some batter, dancing my way around the kitchen. Being busy is good. It allows a bit of time to think but not too deeply. Music blaring in my ears also helps to stave off deep thought. I came here to spend the night in Christian Grey’s bed and managed it, even though he doesn’t let anyone in his bed. I smile, mission accomplished. Big time. Big, big time, and I’m distracted by the memory of last night. His words, his body, his lovemaking… I close my eyes as my body hums at the recollection, and my muscles contract deliciously deep in my belly. My subconscious scowls at me… Fucking—not lovemaking, she screams at me like a harpy. I ignore her, but deep down I know she has a point. I shake my head to concentrate on the task at hand. There is a state-of-the-art range. I think I have the hang of it. I need somewhere to keep the pancakes warm, and I start on the bacon. Amy Studt is singing in my ear about misfits. This song used to mean so much to me; that’s because I’m a misfit. I have never fit in anywhere and now…I have an indecent proposal to consider from King Misfit himself. Why is he this way? Nature or nurture? It’s so alien to anything I know.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  And no one thought a thing when the people of the world, movie stars and entertainers, bought fancy things.She gave Brother Terrell an entirely different perspective, reminding him that people sacrificed, some giving everything they owned, so the gospel could be preached, not so we could pile up riches on earth. Her refrain became: “How many cars can you drive? How many houses can you live in? How many suits can you wear?” He darted away without answering and said he had to go to town to make a few business calls. He couldn’t make calls from our house phone, he said. Someone might trace them. The persecution complex was turning into paranoia, nursed along by tussles with law enforcement, the Klan, and no doubt by his secret relationship with my mother. Mama rationalized it as a natural response to all the horrible things the Lord had shown him in visions. The Old Testament prophets were not happy-go-lucky guys, she said. Probably not, but I hoped Brother Terrell would not pull a Jeremiah and take to the streets of our new hometown, crying judgment and eating dung. Anything was possible. The people in Groesbeck were the friendliest I had encountered outside the tent—a congeniality purchased, at least in part, with our newfound affluence. Bankers, lawyers, and shopkeepers went out of their way to say hello on the street. Kids at school assumed I was worth knowing. A seventh-grade cheerleader wanted to be my best friend. Girls invited me to slumber parties. I threw parties, and kids actually came. I nagged my mother into letting me see a movie endorsed by Billy Graham that was playing at the local theater. Afterward, I was able to see every movie that came to town, no matter the rating. Football games, bowling, and skating outings followed. Groesbeck gave me a chance to fit in, to be normal, but I couldn’t quite pull it off. After hours of making and hanging posters encouraging the juniorhigh football team to “Fight, Goats, Fight!” I was jonesing for excitement. Normal was not in my repertoire, nor was it in Mama’s. She didn’t have a clue that I was the only girl in seventh grade who dated high-school seniors. By eighth grade I was dating college guys, with Mama’s blessing, and smoking pot (no blessing involved). The only caveat: My boyfriends and I had to attend the Bible study she led on Friday nights before we headed down one of the country roads to make out or get stoned. She never questioned why I showed up late for curfew (ran out of gas, again) with glassy red eyes (oh, those dusty roads). She didn’t want to be suspicious like her daddy, she said. She didn’t want to make me feel guilty every time I looked at a boy.In reality (whatever that was), my mother didn’t have much time to wonder about my activities.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  In the noncelebrity area, Reese passes a photo booth in front of a sad little square of red carpet, so that civilians could activate a machine in order to make it look like a photographer had taken a red-carpet photo of them. Reese considers pressing the button for herself and posting the results to her social media, but rules it out: To stage an elaborate selfie on a fake red carpet would be demeaning. “Katrina says she’s by the shampoo table,” Ames reads to Reese from a text, then glances up from his phone, perplexed. “Shampoo table? What’s a shampoo table?” “There!” Reese points. A celebrity designer whose features have been pleasingly redrawn with fillers stands before a booth decorated with images of his own face. Two assistants are giving away shampoo to an eager crowd of the noncelebrities. Reese is suddenly covetous, because the bottles look full-sized, not sample-sized. Wait, maybe even family-sized! “Katrina, this is Reese. Reese, this is Katrina,” Ames says to a woman who has peeled away from the crowd. “Hi,” says Katrina, and by way of greeting lifts her chin to indicate the celebrity designer’s booth. “Did you get the free shampoo?” “No! Not yet!” Reese says, and despite herself, she is disarmed. Katrina hands her a sagging tote bag, heavy with the shampoo, and an additional selection of what looks to be an assortment of lip balms and skin moisturizers. “I grabbed an extra one for you.” Reese peers into the tote bag, then holds it at her side, pleased. “It’s confirmed,” Reese says to Ames. “You have good taste in women.” Katrina leads them through the crowd. A brief thrill passes over Reese as she makes meaningful eye contact with a hot middle-aged butch in a white suit who looks like Robin Wright but is not Robin Wright, because this woman can lean against a wall more louchely than Robin Wright could ever dream of doing. But no, Reese! Do not be distracted! Reese breaks off eye contact regretfully and moves on, dutifully following Katrina and Ames who, Reese now notices, hold hands. Reese decides to postpone any feelings about this state of hand affairs for the moment. In the back of one of the conference rooms, beside a coffee bar, Katrina finds an empty couch. As the three settle in, Reese finds herself reluctant to be the first to talk. “Do you want one of those fancy martinis?” Ames asks Reese, and Reese nods. Off to one side of the room stands a Ketel One bar, where bartenders fill glasses with premixed craft cocktails. Ames stands and lets go of Katrina’s hand. “What about you? Can I get you something besides a martini?” Indirect as it is, this is the first acknowledgment of Katrina’s pregnancy, and Reese’s attention narrows.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I announced. “Just because they were interesting people doesn’t mean I care to hear their musings on nighttime.” “It’s about depression, dumb-ass.” “Oooooh, really? Well, jeez, then it’s brilliant,” I answered. She sighed. “All right. The snow may be falling in the winter of my discontent, but at least I’ve got sarcastic company. Sit down, will ya?” I sat down next to her with my legs crossed and our knees touching. She pulled a clear plastic crate filled with dozens of candles out from underneath her bed. She looked at it for a moment, then handed me a white one and a lighter. We spent all morning burning candles—well, and occasionally lighting cigarettes off the burning candles after we stuffed a towel into the crack at the bottom of her door. Over the course of two hours, we added a full foot to the summit of her polychrome candle volcano. “Mount St. Helens on acid,” she said At 12:30, after two hours of me begging for a ride to McDonald’s, Alaska decided it was time for lunch. As we began to walk to the student parking lot, I saw a strange car. A small green car. A hatchback. I’ve seen that car, I thought. Where have I seen the car? And then the Colonel jumped out and ran to meet us. Rather than, like, I don’t know, “hello” or something, the Colonel began, “I have been instructed to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner at Chez Martín.” Alaska whispered into my ear, and then I laughed and said, “I have been instructed to accept your invitation.” So we walked over to the Eagle’s house, told him we were going to eat turkey trailer-park style, and sped away in the hatchback. — The Colonel explained it to us on the two-hour car ride south. I was crammed into the backseat because Alaska had called shotgun. She usually drove, but when she didn’t, she was shotgun-calling queen of the world. The Colonel’s mother heard that we were on campus and couldn’t bear the thought of leaving us familyless for Thanksgiving. The Colonel didn’t seem too keen on the whole idea—“I’m going to have to sleep in a tent,” he said, and I laughed. — Except it turns out he did have to sleep in a tent, a nice four-person green outfit shaped like half an egg, but still a tent. The Colonel’s mom lived in a trailer, as in the kind of thing you might see attached to a large pickup truck, except this particular one was old and falling apart on its cinder blocks, and probably couldn’t have been hooked up to a truck without disintegrating. It wasn’t even a particularly big trailer. I could just barely stand up to my full height without scraping the ceiling. Now I understood why the Colonel was short—he couldn’t afford to be any taller.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  what it would be like to live on a warmer planet when we did not even know what it is like to live in California. Soon after that exchange, my colleague David Schkade and I were granted research funds to study two questions: Are people who live in California happier than others? and What are the popular beliefs about the relative happiness of Californians? We recruited large samples of students at major state universities in California, Ohio, and Michigan. From some of them we obtained a detailed report of their satisfaction with various aspects of their lives. From others we obtained a prediction of how someone “with your interests and values” who lived elsewhere would complete the same questionnaire. As we analyzed the data, it became obvious that I had won the family argument. As expected, the students in the two regions differed greatly in their attitude to their climate: the Californians enjoyed their climate and the Midwesterners despised theirs. But climate was not an important determinant of well-being. Indeed, there was no difference whatsoever between the life satisfaction of students in California and in the Midwest. We also found that my wife was not alone in her belief that Californians enjoy greater well-being than others. The students in both regions shared the same mistaken view, and we were able to trace their error to an exaggerated belief in the importance of climate. We described the error as a focusing illusion. The essence of the focusing illusion is WYSIATI, giving too much weight to the climate, too little to all the other determinants of well-being. To appreciate how strong this illusion is, take a few seconds to consider the question: How much pleasure do you get from your car? An answer came to your mind immediately; you know how much you like and enjoy your car. Now examine a different question: “When do you get pleasure from your car?” The answer to this question may surprise you, but it is straightforward: you get pleasure (or displeasure) from your car when you think about your car, which is probably not very often. Under normal circumstances, you do not spend much time thinking about your car when you are driving it. You think of other things as you drive, and your mood is determined by whatever you think about. Here again, when you tried to rate how much you enjoyed your car, you actually answered a much narrower question: “How much pleasure do you get from your car when you think about it?” The substitution caused you to ignore the fact that you rarely think about your car, a form of duration neglect. The upshot is a focusing illusion. If you like your car, you are

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He rolls his eyes. “Talk to her if you must.” He sounds exasperated. “Make sure she doesn’t mention anything to Elliot.” I bristle at his insinuation. Kate isn’t like that. “She wouldn’t do that, and I wouldn’t tell you anything she tells me about Elliot—if she were to tell me anything,” I add quickly. “Well, the difference is that I don’t want to know about his sex life,” Christian mutters dryly. “Elliot’s a nosy bastard. But only about what we’ve done so far… She’d probably have my balls if she knew what I wanted to do to you,” he adds so softly I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear it. “Okay,” I agree readily, smiling up at him, relieved. The thought of Kate with Christian’s balls is not something I want to dwell on. His lip quirks up at me, and he shakes his head. “The sooner I have your submission the better, and we can stop all this.” “Stop all what?” “You, defying me.” He reaches down, cups my chin, and plants a swift, sweet kiss on my lips as the doors to the elevator open. He grabs my hand and leads me into the underground garage. Me, defying him…how? Beside the elevator, I can see the black 4x4 Audi, but it’s the sleek black sporty number that blips open and lights up when he points the key fob at it. It’s one of those cars that should have a very leggy blond, wearing nothing but a sash, sprawled across the hood. “Nice car,” I murmur dryly. He glances up and grins. “I know.” And for a split second, sweet, young, carefree Christian is back. It warms my heart. He’s so excited. Boys and their toys. I roll my eyes but can’t stifle my smile. He opens the door for me and I climb in. Whoa…it’s low. He moves around the car with easy grace and folds his long frame elegantly in beside me. How does he do that? “So what sort of car is this?” “It’s an Audi R8 Spyder. It’s a lovely day; we can take the top down. There’s a baseball cap in there. In fact there should be two.” He points to the glove box. “And sunglasses if you want them.” He starts the ignition, and the engine roars behind us. He places his bag in the space behind our seats, presses a button, and the roof slowly retracts. With the flick of a switch, Bruce Springsteen surrounds us. “Gotta love Bruce.” He grins and eases the car out of the parking space and up the steep ramp, where we pause for the gate to lift. Then we’re out into the bright Seattle May morning. I reach into the glove box and retrieve the baseball caps. The Mariners. He likes baseball? I pass him a cap, and he puts it on. I pull my hair through the back of mine and pull the peak down low.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Christian nuzzles my hair again, inhaling deeply. “Well done, baby,” he whispers, quiet joy in his voice. His words curl around me like a soft, fluffy towel from The Heathman Hotel, and I’m so pleased that he’s happy. He picks at the strap on my camisole. “Is this what you sleep in?” he asks gently. “Yes,” I breathe sleepily. “You should be in silks and satins, you beautiful girl. I’ll take you shopping.” “I like my sweats,” I murmur, trying and failing to sound irritated. He kisses my head again. “We’ll see,” he says. We lie for a few more minutes, hours, who knows, and I think I doze. “I have to go,” he says, and leaning down, he kisses my forehead gently. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft. I think about his question. My backside is sore. Well, glowing now, and amazingly I feel, apart from exhausted, radiant. The realization is humbling, unexpected. I don’t understand. “I’m okay,” I whisper. I don’t want to say more than that. He rises. “Where’s your bathroom?” “Down the hall to the left.” He scoops up the other condom and heads out of the bedroom. I rise stiffly and put my sweatpants back on. They chafe a little against my still-smarting behind. I’m so confused by my reaction. I remember him saying—I can’t remember when—that I would feel so much better after a good hiding. How can that be so? I really don’t get it. But strangely, I do. I can’t say that I enjoyed the experience. In fact, I would still go a long way to avoid it, but now…I have this safe, weird, bathed-in-afterglow, sated feeling. I put my head in my hands. I just don’t understand. Christian reenters the room. I can’t look him in the eye. I stare down at my hands. “I found some baby oil. Let me rub it on your behind.” What? “No. I’ll be fine.” “Anastasia,” he warns. I want to roll my eyes but quickly stop myself. I stand facing the bed. Sitting beside me, he gently pulls my sweatpants down again. Up and down like whores’ drawers, my subconscious remarks bitterly. In my head, I tell her where to go. Christian squirts baby oil into his hand and then rubs my behind with careful tenderness—from makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid. “I like my hands on you,” he murmurs, and I have to agree. Me, too. “There,” he says when he’s finished, and he pulls my pants up again. I glance over at my clock. It’s 10:30. “I’m leaving now.” “I’ll see you out.” I still can’t look at him. Taking my hand, he leads me to the front door. Fortunately, Kate is still not home. She must still be having dinner with her folks and Ethan. I’m really glad she’s not been around to hear my chastisement. “Don’t you have to call Taylor?” I ask, avoiding eye contact.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  She had stuffed a towel into the bottom of our door and insisted it was safe, but I worried—about the cigarette and the “girlfriend.” “All I have to do now,” she said, “is convince you to like her and convince her to like you.” “Monumental tasks,” the Colonel pointed out. He lay on the top bunk, reading for his English class. Moby-Dick. “How can you read and talk at the same time?” I asked. “Well, I usually can’t, but neither the book nor the conversation is particularly intellectually challenging.” “I like that book,” Alaska said. “Yes.” The Colonel smiled and leaned over to look at her from his top bunk. “You would. Big white whale is a metaphor for everything. You live for pretentious metaphors.” Alaska was unfazed. “So, Pudge, what’s your feeling on the former Soviet bloc?” “Um. I’m in favor of it?” She flicked the ashes of her cigarette into my pencil holder. I almost protested, but why bother. “You know that girl in our precalc class,” Alaska said, “soft voice, says thees, not this. Know that girl?” “Yeah. Lara. She sat on my lap on the way to McDonald’s.” “Right. I know. And she liked you. You thought she was quietly discussing precalc, when she was clearly talking about having hot sex with you. Which is why you need me.” “She has great breasts,” the Colonel said without looking up from the whale. “DO NOT OBJECTIFY WOMEN’S BODIES!” Alaska shouted. Now he looked up. “Sorry. Perky breasts.” “That’s not any better!” “Sure it is,” he said. “Great is a judgment on a woman’s body. Perky is merely an observation. They are perky. I mean, Christ.” “You’re hopeless,” she said. “So she thinks you’re cute, Pudge.” “Nice.” “Doesn’t mean anything. Problem with you is that if you talk to her you’ll ‘uh um uh’ your way to disaster.” “Don’t be so hard on him,” the Colonel interrupted, as if he was my mom. “God, I understand whale anatomy. Can we move on now, Herman?” “So Jake is going to be in Birmingham this weekend, and we’re going on a triple date. Well, triple and a half, since Takumi will be there, too. Very low pressure. You won’t be able to screw up, because I’ll be there the whole time.” “Okay.” “Who’s my date?” the Colonel asked. “Your girlfriend is your date.” “All right,” he said, and then deadpanned, “but we don’t get along very well.” “So Friday? Do you have plans for Friday?” And then I laughed, because the Colonel and I didn’t have plans for this Friday, or for any other Friday for the rest of our lives. “I didn’t think so.” She smiled. “Now, we gotta go do dishes in the cafeteria, Chipper.

• From From Shame to Sin: The Christian Transformation of Sexual Morality in Late Antiquity (2013)

  Th e peculiar vigilance toward the body that we encounter in Roman medicine is the product of an affl uent society. Medicine was a branch of learning that fl ourished with the support of public and private patrons in a wealthy empire. Abundance cre- ated the anxieties of imbalance that fueled an interest in medical knowl- edge. Th e medical literature addressed the concerns of a well- fed elite whose physical labors were few and artifi cial. Th e doctors spoke to the greying crowd, who could take comfort in hearing that wine was healthful and  FROM SHAME TO SIN sexual deceleration was natural. Roman medicine was neither morbid nor ascetic; it was bourgeois, and a little geriatric.  Th e eternal moderation expected of Roman men was, ultimately, a fl ex- ible demand. For most of the population, who lived along the edges of subsistence, moderation was imposed, without pity, by the unrelenting pressures of their material condition; destitution was the better part of vir- tue. Sex outside the house was limited to occasional moments of release, a day at the spectacles, a religious festival, or a visit to a tavern. It was the more privileged classes who had to navigate the choppy waters of sexual restraint by the strength of the will alone. Th e city and the school off ered perpetual temptation. Rich youngbloods were characteristically plea sure seekers. Th e house hold itself was a haunt of allurements: private baths, spa- cious groves, shaded promenades, all attended by an army of servants. Th e dinner party remained the central venue of social intercourse in the Roman Empire, and unsurprisingly it is here that endless tales of erotic intrigue turn up. Th ough Roman men increasingly dined in the company of their wives, the all- male symposium— with trains of female as well as male ser- vants and entertainers— was always a staple of sociability. “What happens to the boys when they’re in their cups, and what the men dare when Pan has hold of them, would take a long time to tell,” said the satirist. But to a phi los o pher, nowhere was the battle between desire and moderation so starkly fought. At the symposia, the quality of a man’s character was re- vealed.

• From Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  And there is no desire to be of help to others even, because why rob them of a privilege which must be earned? Life stretches out from moment to moment in stupendous infinitude. Nothing can be more real than what you suppose it to be. Whatever you think the cosmos to be it is and it could not possibly be anything else as long as you are you and I am I. You live in the fruits of your action and your action is the harvest of your thought. Thought and action are one, because swimming you are in it and of it, and it is everything you desire it to be, no more, no less. Every stroke counts for eternity. The heating and cooling system is one system, and Cancer is separated from Capricorn only by an imaginary line. You don’t become ecstatic and you are not plunged into violent grief; you don’t pray for rain, neither do you dance a jig. You live like a happy rock in the midst of the ocean: you are fixed while everything about you is in turbulent motion. You are fixed in a reality which permits the thought that nothing is fixed, that even the happiest and mightiest rock will one day be utterly dissolved and fluid as the ocean from which it was born. This is the musical life which I was approaching by first skating like a maniac through all the vestibules and corridors which lead from the outer to the inner. My struggles never brought me near it, nor did my furious activity, nor my rubbing elbows with humanity. All that was simply a movement from vector to vector in a circle which, however the perimeter expanded, remained withal parallel to the realm I speak of. The wheel of destiny can be transcended at any moment because at every point of its surface it touches the real world and only a spark of illumination is necessary to bring about the miraculous, to transform the skater to a swimmer and the swimmer to a rock. The rock is merely an image of the act which stops the futile rotation of the wheel and plunges the being into full consciousness. And full consciousness is indeed like an inexhaustible ocean which gives itself to sun and moon and also includes the sun and moon. Everything which is is born out of the limitless ocean of light—even the night. Sometimes, in the ceasless revolutions of the wheel, I caught a glimpse of the nature of the jump which it was necessary to make. To jump clear of the clockwork—that was the liberating thought. To be something more, something different , than the most brilliant maniac of the earth! The story of man on earth bored me. Conquest, even the conquest of evil, bored me. To radiate goodness is marvelous, because it is tonic, invigorating, vitalizing. But just to be is still more marvelous, because it is endless and requires no demonstration.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Holy hell, if my mind could just keep up with my body. He leans forward and kisses me quickly. He grabs his stuff from my side table and his shoes—which he doesn’t put on. “Taylor will come and sort your Beetle. I was serious. Don’t drive it. I’ll see you at my place on Sunday. I’ll email you a time.” And like a whirlwind, he’s gone. Christian Grey spent the night with me, and I feel rested. And there was no sex, only cuddling. He told me he never slept with anyone—but he’s slept three times with me. I grin and slowly climb out of my bed. I feel more optimistic than I have for the last day or so. I head for the kitchen, needing a cup of tea. After breakfast, I shower and dress quickly for my last day at Clayton’s. It is the end of an era—goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, WSU, Vancouver, the apartment, my Beetle. I glance at the mean machine—it’s only 7:52. I have time. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Assault and Battery: The After-Effects Date: May 27 2011 08:05 To: Christian Grey Dear Mr. Grey, You wanted to know why I felt confused after you…which euphemism should we apply—spanked, punished, beat, assaulted me. Well, during the whole alarming process, I felt demeaned, debased, and abused. And much to my mortification, you’re right, I was aroused, and that was unexpected. As you are well aware, all things sexual are new to me—I only wish I were more experienced and therefore more prepared. I was shocked to feel aroused. What really worried me was how I felt afterward. And that’s more difficult to articulate. I was happy that you were happy. I felt relieved that it wasn’t as painful as I thought it would be. And when I was lying in your arms, I felt…sated. But I feel very uncomfortable, guilty even, feeling that way. It doesn’t sit well with me, and I’m confused as a result. Does that answer your question? I hope the world of Mergers and Acquisitions is as stimulating as ever…and that you weren’t too late. Thank you for staying with me. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Free Your Mind Date: May 27 2011 08:24 To: Anastasia Steele Interesting…if slightly overstated title heading, Miss Steele. To answer your points: I’ll go with spanking—as that’s what it was. So you felt demeaned, debased, abused, and assaulted—how very Tess Durbeyfield of you. I believe it was you who decided on the debasement, if I remember correctly. Do you really feel like this or do you think you ought to feel like this? Two very different things. If that is how you feel, do you think you could just try to embrace these feelings, deal with them, for me? That’s what a submissive would do. I am grateful for your inexperience. I value it, and I’m only beginning to understand what it means. Simply put…it means that you are mine in every way.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  And in this quiet moment as I close my eyes, spent and sated, I think I’m in the eye of the storm. And despite all he’s said, and what he hasn’t said, I don’t think I have ever been so happy. Chapter Twenty-FourChristian stands in a steel-barred cage. Wearing his soft, ripped jeans, his chest and feet are mouthwateringly naked, and he’s staring at me. His private-joke smile is etched on his beautiful face and his eyes are a molten gray. In his hands he holds a bowl of strawberries. He ambles with athletic grace to the front of the cage, gazing intently at me. Holding up a plump, ripe strawberry, he extends his hand through the bars. “Eat,” he says, his tongue caressing the front of his palate as he enunciates the t. I try to move toward him, but I’m tethered, held back by some unseen force around my wrist, holding me. Let me go. “Come, eat,” he says, smiling his delicious crooked smile. I pull and pull… Let me go! I want to scream and shout, but no sound emerges. I am mute. He stretches a little farther, and the strawberry is at my lips. “Eat, Anastasia.” His mouth forms my name, lingering sensually on each syllable. I open my mouth and bite, the cage disappears, and my hands are free. I reach up to touch him, graze my fingers through his chest hair. “Anastasia.” No. I moan. “Come on, baby.” No. I want to touch you. “Wake up.” No. Please. My eyes flicker unwillingly open for a split second. I’m in bed and someone is nuzzling my ear. “Wake up, baby,” he whispers, and the effect of his sweet voice spreads like warm melted caramel through my veins. It’s Christian. It’s still dark, and the images of him from my dream persist, disconcerting and tantalizing in my head. “Oh no,” I groan. I want back at his chest, back to my dream. Why is he waking me? It’s the middle of the night, or so it feels. Holy shit. Does he want sex—now? “Time to get up, baby. I’m going to switch on the side light.” His voice is quiet. “No,” I groan. “I want to chase the dawn with you,” he says, kissing my face, my eyelids, the tip of my nose, my mouth, and I open my eyes. The side light is on. “Good morning, beautiful.” I groan, and he smiles. “You are not a morning person.” Through the haze of light, I squint and see Christian leaning over me, smiling. Amused. Amused at me. Dressed! In black. “I thought you wanted sex,” I grumble. “Anastasia, I always want sex with you. It’s heartwarming to know that you feel the same,” he says dryly. I gaze at him as my eyes adjust to the light, but he still looks amused…thank heavens. “Of course I do, just not when it’s so late.”