Desire

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 Another Country (1962)

  He sat down on the bed beside her, and looked at her. She looked down. “You make me feel very strange,” he said. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.” “What do I make you feel?” she asked. And then, “You do the same for me.” She sensed that he was taking the initiative for her sake. He leaned forward and put one hand on her hand; then rose, and walked away from her, leaving her alone on the bed. “What about Richard?” “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen between Richard and me.” She forced herself to look into his eyes, and she put her drink down on the night table. “But it isn’t you that’s come between Richard and me—you don’t have anything to do with that.” “I don’t now, you mean. Or I don’t yet.” He put his cigarette down in the ashtray on the mantelpiece behind him. “But I guess I know what you mean, in a way.” He still seemed very troubled and his trouble now propelled him toward her again, to the bed. He felt her trembling, but still he did not touch her, only stared at her with his troubled and searching eyes, and with his lips parted. “Dear Cass,” he said, and smiled, “I know we have now, but I don’t think we have much of a future.” She thought, Perhaps if we take now, we can have a future, too. It depends on what we mean by “future.” She felt his breath on her face and her neck, then he leaned closer, head down, and she felt his lips there. She raised her hands to stroke his head and his red hair. She felt his violence and his uncertainty, and this made him seem much younger than she. And this excited her in a way that she had never been excited before; she glimpsed, for the first time, the force that drove older women to younger men; and then she was frightened. She was frightened because she had never before found herself playing so anomalous a role and because nothing in her experience had ever suggested that her body could become a trap for boys, and the tomb of her self-esteem. She had embarked on a voyage which might end years from now in some horrible villa, near a blue sea, with some unspeaking, unspeakably phallic, Turk or Spaniard or Jew or Greek or Arabian. Yet, she did not want it to stop. She did not quite know what was happening now, or where it would lead, and she was afraid; but she did not want it to stop.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The damsels, seeing the fish cooked and having taken enough, came forth of the water, their thin white garments all clinging to their skins and hiding well nigh nought of their delicate bodies, and passing shamefastly before the king, returned to the house. The latter and the count and the others who served had well considered the damsels and each inwardly greatly commended them for fair and well shapen, no less than for agreeable and well mannered. But above all they pleased the king, who had so intently eyed every part of their bodies, as they came forth of the water, that, had any then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and as he called them more particularly to mind, unknowing who they were, he felt a very fervent desire awaken in his heart to please them, whereby he right well perceived himself to be in danger of becoming enamoured, an he took no heed to himself thereagainst; nor knew he indeed whether of the twain it was the more pleased him, so like in all things was the one to the other. After he had abidden awhile in this thought, he turned to Messer Neri and asked him who were the two damsels, to which the gentleman answered, 'My lord, these are my daughters born at a birth, whereof the one is called Ginevra the Fair and the other Isotta the Blonde.' The king commended them greatly and exhorted him to marry them, whereof Messer Neri excused himself, for that he was no more able thereunto. Meanwhile, nothing now remaining to be served of the supper but the fruits, there came the two damsels in very goodly gowns of sendal, with two great silver platters in their hands, full of various fruits, such as the season afforded, and these they set on the table before the king; which done, they withdrew a little apart and fell to singing a canzonet, whereof the words began thus: Whereas I'm come, O Love, It might not be, indeed, at length recounted, etc.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He felt tears spring to his eyes. “Richard, we talked about the book and I told you what I thought, I told you that it was a brilliant idea and wonderfully organized and beautifully written and—” He stopped. He had not liked the book. He could not take it seriously. It was an able, intelligent, mildly perceptive tour de force and it would never mean anything to anyone. In the place in Vivaldo’s mind in which books lived, whether they were great, mangled, mutilated, or mad, Richard’s book did not exist. There was nothing he could do about it. “And you yourself said that the next book would be better.” “What are you crying about?” “What?” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nothing.” He walked over to the bar and leaned on it. Some deep and curious cunning made him add, “You talk as though you didn’t want us to be friends any more.” “Oh, crap. Is that what you think? Of course we’re friends, we’ll be friends till we die.” He walked to the bar and put his hand on Vivaldo’s shoulder, leaning down to look into his face. “Honest. Okay?” They shook hands. “Okay. Don’t bug me any more.” Richard laughed. “I won’t bug you any more, you stupid bastard.” Ida came to the doorway. “Lunch is on the table. Come on, now, hurry, before it gets cold.” They were all a little drunk by the time lunch was over, having drunk with it two bottles of champagne; and eventually they sat in the living room again as the sun began to grow fiery, preparing to go down. Paul arrived, dirty, breathless, and cheerful. His mother sent him into the bathroom to wash and change his clothes. Richard remembered the ice that had to be bought for the party and the ginger ale that he had promised Michael, and he went downstairs to buy them. Cass decided that she had better change her clothes and put up her hair. Ida and Vivaldo had the living room to themselves for a short time. Ida put on an old Billie Holiday record and she and Vivaldo danced. There was a hammer knocking in his throat as she stepped into his arms with a friendly smile, one hand in his hand, one hand resting lightly on his arm. He held her lightly at the waist. His fingers, at her waist, seemed to have become abnormally and dangerously sensitive, and he prayed that his face did not show the enormous, illicit pleasure which entered him through his fingertips.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  You must know that there was once in Siena a very agreeable young man and of a worshipful family, by name Rinaldo, who was passionately enamored of a very beautiful lady, a neighbour of his and the wife of a rich man, and flattered himself that, could he but find means to speak with her unsuspected, he might avail to have of her all that he should desire. Seeing none other way and the lady being great with child, he bethought himself to become her gossip and accordingly, clapping up an acquaintance with her husband, he offered him, on such wise as appeared to him most seemly, to be godfather to his child. His offer was accepted and he being now become Madam Agnesa's gossip and having a somewhat more colourable excuse for speaking with her, he took courage and gave her in so many words to know that of his intent which she had indeed long before gathered from his looks; but little did this profit him, although the lady was nothing displeased to have heard him.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then, as Ellis poured himself another applejack and he poured himself another Scotch, he realized that the things which Ellis had, and the things which Richard was now going to have, were things that he wanted very much. Ellis could get anything he wanted by simply lifting up a phone; headwaiters were delighted to see him; his signature on a bill or a check was simply not to be questioned. If he needed a suit, he bought it; he was certainly never behind in his rent; if he decided to fly to Istanbul tomorrow, he had only to call his travel agent. He was famous, he was powerful, and he was not really much older than Vivaldo, and he worked very hard. Also, he could get the highest-grade stuff going; he had only to give the girl his card. And then Vivaldo realized why he hated him. He wondered what he would have to go through to achieve a comparable eminence. He wondered how much he was willing to give—to be powerful, to be adored, to be able to make it with any girl he wanted, to be sure of holding any girl he had. And he looked around for Ida. At the same time, it occurred to him that the question was not really what he was going to “get” but how he was to discover his possibilities and become reconciled to them. Richard, now, was talking, or, rather, listening to Mrs. Ellis; Ida was listening to Loring; Cass sat on the sofa, listening to Miss Wales. Paul stood near her, looking about the room; Cass held him absently and yet rather desperately by the elbow. “Anyway—I’d like to keep in touch with you, maybe you’ve got something.” And Ellis handed him his card. “Why don’t you give me a ring sometime? and I meant what I said to Miss Scott, too. I produce pretty good shows, you know.” He grinned and punched Vivaldo on the shoulder. “You won’t have to lower your artistic standards.” Vivaldo looked at the card, then looked at Ellis. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll bear it in mind.” Ellis smiled. “I like you,” he said. “I’m even willing to suggest an analyst for you. Let’s join the party.” He walked over to Richard and Mrs. Ellis. Vivaldo walked over to Ida. “I’ve been trying to find out about your novel,” Loring said, “but your young lady here is most cagey. She won’t give me a clue.” “I keep telling him that I don’t know anything about it,” Ida said, “but he won’t believe me.” “She doesn’t know much about it,” Vivaldo said. “I’m not sure I know an awful lot about it myself.” Abruptly, he felt himself beginning to tremble with weariness. He wanted to take Ida and go home. But she seemed pleased enough to stay; it was not really late; the last rays of the setting sun were fading beyond the river.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: * Isn’t it time you went off to bed?’ ‘ Don’t send me away.’ 342 THE WELL OF LONELINESS ‘I must, you’re so tired. Come on, there’s a good child, you look tired and sleepy.’ ‘T’m not a bit sleepy! ? ‘ All the same it’s high time. . . . ‘ Are you coming? ’ ‘ Not yet, I must answer some letters.’ Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then — Stephen looked away quickly: ‘ Good night, Mary.’ ‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you've never kissed me? ’ The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over- blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration. Stephen’s heart beat thickly. ‘ Do you want me to kiss you? °? ‘ More than anything else in the world,’ said Mary. Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed to smile: ‘ Very well, my dear.’ She kissed the girl quietly on her cheek, ‘ And now you really must go to bed, Mary.’ After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines to Anna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and to Made- moiselle Duphot — the latter she felt that she had shamefully neglected. But in none of these letters did she mention Mary. Brockett’s effusion she left unanswered. Then she took her un- finished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary and unimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and locking the drawer put the key in her pocket. And now she could no longer keep it at bay, the great joy, the great pain in her heart that was Mary. She had only to call and Mary would come, bringing all her faith, her youth and her ardour. Yes, she had only to call, and yet — would she ever be cruel enough to call Mary? Her mind recoiled at that word; why cruel? She and Mary loved and needed each other. She could give the girl luxury, make her secure so that she need never fight for her living; she should have every comfort that money could buy. Mary was not strong enough to fight for her living. And then THE WELL OF LONELINESS 343

• From The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1915)

  The individual totem commenced by playing a merely complimentary rôle. Those individuals who wished to acquire powers superior to those possessed by everybody, did not and could not content themselves with the mere protection of the ancestor; so they began to look for another assistant of the same sort. Thus it comes about that among the Euahlayi, the magicians are the only ones who have or who can procure individual totems. As each one has a collective totem in addition, he finds himself having many souls. But there is nothing surprising in this plurality of souls: it is the condition of a superior power. But when collective totemism once begins to lose ground, and when the conception of the protecting ancestor consequently begins to grow dim in the mind, another method must be found for representing the double nature of the soul, which is still felt. The resulting idea was that, outside of the individual soul, there was another, charged with watching over the first one. Since this protecting power was no longer demonstrated by the very fact of birth, men found it natural to employ, for its discovery, means analogous to those used by magicians to enter into communion with the forces of whose aid they thus assured themselves. [898] For example, see Strehlow, II, p. 82. [899] Wyatt, _Adelaide and Encounter Bay Tribes_, in Woods, p. 168. [900] Taplin, _The Narrinyeri_, pp. 62 f.; Roth, _Superstition_, etc., § 116; Howitt, _Nat. Tr._, pp. 356, 358; Strehlow, pp. 11-12. [901] Strehlow, I, pp. 13-14; Dawson, p. 49. [902] Strehlow, I, pp. 11-14; Eylmann, pp. 182, 185; Spencer and Gillen, _Nor. Tr._, p. 211; Schürmann, _The Aborig. Tr. of Port Lincoln_, in Woods, p. 239. [903] Eylmann, p. 182. [904] Mathews, _Journ. of the Roy. Soc. of N.S. Wales_, XXXVIII, p. 345; Fison and Howitt, _Kamilaroi and Kurnai_, p. 467; Strehlow, I, p. 11. [905] _Nat. Tr._, pp. 390-391. Strehlow calls these evil spirits _Erintja_; but this word is evidently equivalent to Oruncha. Yet there is a difference in the ways the two are presented to us. According to Spencer and Gillen, the Oruncha are malicious rather than evil; they even say (p. 328) that the Arunta know no necessarily evil spirits. On the contrary, the regular business of Strehlow's Erintja is to do evil. Judging from certain myths given by Spencer and Gillen (_Nat. Tr._, p. 390), they seem to have touched up the figures of the Oruncha a little: these were originally ogres (_ibid._, p. 331). [906] Roth, _Superstition_, etc., § 115; Eylmann, p. 190. [907] _Nat. Tr._, pp. 390 f. [908] _Ibid._, p. 551. [909] _Ibid._, pp. 326 f. [910] Strehlow, I, p. 14. When there are twins, the first one is believed to have been conceived in this manner. [911] Spencer and Gillen, _Nat. Tr._, p. 327. [912] Howitt, _Nat. Tr._, pp. 358, 381, 385; Spencer and Gillen, _Nat. Tr._, p. 334; _Nor. Tr._, pp. 501, 530.

• From Another Country (1962)

  It was not like the thrashing of the night before, when she bucked beneath him like an infuriated horse or a beached fish. Now she was attentive to the point of trembling and because he felt that one thoughtless moment would send her slipping and sliding away from him, he was very attentive, too. Her hands moved along his back, up and down, sometimes seeming to wish to bring him closer, sometimes being tempted to push him away, moved in a terrible, a beautiful indecision, and caused him, brokenly, deep in his throat, to moan. She opened up before him, yet fell back before him, too, he felt that he was traveling up a savage, jungle river, looking for the source which remained hidden just beyond the black, dangerous, dripping foliage. Then, for a moment, they seemed to be breaking through. Her hands broke free, her thighs inexorably loosened, their bellies ground cruelly together, and a curious, low whistle forced itself up through her throat, past her bared teeth. Then she was checked, her hands flew up to his neck, the moment passed. He rested. Then he began again. He had never been so patient, so determined, or so cruel before. Last night she had watched him; this morning he watched her; he was determined to bring her over the edge and into his possession, even, if at the moment she finally called his name, the heart within him burst. This, anyway, seemed more imminent than the spilling of his seed. He was aching in a way he had never ached before, was congested in a new way, and wherever her hands had touched him and then fled, he was cold. Her hands clung to his neck as though she were drowning and she was absolutely silent, silent as a child is silent before it finally summons enough breath to scream, before the blow lands, before the long fall begins. And, ruthlessly, viciously, he pushed her to the edge. He did not know whether her body moved with his or not, her body was so nearly his. He felt the bed throbbing beneath them, and heard it sing. Her hands went wild, flying from his neck to his throat to his shoulders, his chest, she began to thrash beneath him, trying to get away and trying to come closer. Her hands, at last, had their own way and grasped his friendly body, caressing and scratching and burning. Come on. Come on. He felt a tremor in her belly, just beneath him, as though something had broken there, and it rolled tremendously upward, seeming to divide her breasts, as though he had split her all her length. And she moaned. It was a curiously warning sound, as though she were holding up one hand against the ocean. The sound of her helplessness caused all of his affection, tenderness, desire, to return. They were almost there. Come on come on come on come on. Come on! He began to gallop her, whinnying a little with delight, and, for the first time, became a little cold with fright, that so much of himself, so long damned up, must now come pouring out. Her moans gave way to sobs and cries. Vivaldo. Vivaldo. Vivaldo. She was over the edge. He hung, hung, clinging to her as she clung to him, calling her name, wet, itching, bursting, blind. It began to pour out of him like the small weak trickle that precedes disaster in the mines. He felt his whole face pucker, felt the wind in his throat, and called her name again, while all the love in him rushed down, rushed down, and poured itself into her.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The blonde reminded him of Cass. And this made him realize—for the first time, it is astonishing how well the obvious can be hidden—that when he had met Cass, so many years ago, he had been terribly flattered that so highborn a lady noticed such a stinking boy. He had been overwhelmed. And he had adored Richard without reserve, not, as it now turned out, because of Richard’s talent, which, in any case, he had then been quite unable to judge, but merely because Richard possessed Cass. He had envied Richard’s prowess, and had imagined that this envy was love. But, surely, there had been love in it, or they could never have been friends for so long. (Had they been friends? what had they ever, really, said to one another?) Perhaps the proof of Vivaldo’s love resided in the fact that he had never thought of Cass carnally, as a woman, but only as a lady, and Richard’s wife. But, more probably, it was only that they were older and he had needed older people who cared about him, who took him seriously, whom he could trust. For this, he would have paid any price whatever. They were not much older now, he was nearly twenty-nine, Richard was thirty-seven or thirty-eight, Cass was thirty-three or thirty-four: but they had seemed, especially in the blazing haven of their love, much older then. And now—now it seemed that they were all equal in misery, confusion, and despair. He looked at his face in the mirror behind the bar. He still had all his hair, there was no gray in it yet; his face had not yet begun to fall at the bottom and shrivel at the top; and he wasn’t yet all ass and belly. But, still—and soon; and he stole a look at the blonde again. He wondered about her odor, juices, sounds; for a night, only for a night; then abruptly, with no warning, he found himself wondering how Rufus would have looked at this girl, and an odd thing happened: all desire left him, he turned absolutely cold, and then desire came roaring back, with legions. Aha, he heard Rufus snicker, you don’t be careful, motherfucker, you going to get a black hard on. He heard again the laughter which had followed him down the block. And something in him was breaking; he was, briefly and horribly, in a region where there were no definitions of any kind, neither of color, nor of male and female. There was only the leap and the rending and the terror and the surrender. And the terror: which all seemed to begin and end and begin again—forever—in a cavern behind the eye. And whatever stalked there saw, and spread the news of what it saw throughout the entire kingdom of whomever, though the eye itself might perish. What order could prevail against so grim a privacy? And yet, without order, of what value was the mystery? Order.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “You think I’m one of those just-love-to-love girls.” “Baby,” he said, “I sure hope so; we’re going to be great, let me tell you. We haven’t even started yet.” His voice had dropped to a whisper and their two hands knotted together in a teasing tug of war. She smiled. “How many times have you said that?” He paused, looking over her head at the blinds which held back the morning. “I don’t believe I’ve ever said it. I’ve never felt this way before.” He looked down at her again and kissed her again. “Never.” After a moment she said, “Neither have I.” She said it quickly, as though she had just popped a pill into her mouth and were surprised at its taste and apprehensive about its effects. He looked into her eyes. “Is that true?” “Yes.” Then she dropped her eyes. “I’ve got to watch my step with you.” “Why? Don’t you trust me?” “It’s maybe that I don’t trust myself.” “Maybe you’ve never loved a man before,” he said. “I’ve never loved a white man, that’s the truth.” “Oh, well,” he said, smiling, trying to empty his mind of the doubts and fears which filled it, “be my guest.” He kissed her again, a little drunk with her heat, her taste, her smell. “Never,” he said, gravely, “never anyone like you.” Her hand relaxed a little and he guided it down. He kissed her neck and shoulders. “I love your colors. You’re so many different, crazy colors.” “Lord,” she said, and laughed, sharply, nervously, and tried to move her hand away but he held it: the tug of war began again. “I’m the same old color all over.” “You can’t see yourself all over. But I can. Part of you is honey, part of you is copper, some of you is gold—” “Lord. What’re we going to do with you this morning?” “I’ll show you. Part of you is black, too, like the entrance to a tunnel—” “Vivaldo.” Her head hit the pillow from side to side in a kind of torment which had nothing to do with him, but for which, just the same, he was responsible. He put his hand on her forehead, already beginning to be damp, and was struck by the way she then looked at him; looked at him as though she were, indeed, a virgin, promised at her birth to him, the bridegroom; whose face she now saw for the first time, in the darkened bridal chamber, after all the wedding guests had gone. There was no sound of revelry anywhere, only silence, no help anywhere if not in this bed, violation by the bridegroom’s body her only hope. Yet she tried to smile. “I’ve never met a man like you before.” She said this in a low voice, in a tone that mixed hostility with wonder.

• From Wild (2012)

  “Minnesota,” I called as I made my way along a bank of glass-fronted doors with cold drinks lined up in neat rows inside. I passed cans of icy beer and soda pop, bottles of mineral water and juice. I stopped at the door where the racks of Snapples were kept. I put my hand to the glass near the bottles of lemonade—there was both yellow and pink. They were like diamonds or pornography. I could look, but I couldn’t touch. “If you’re done hiking for the day, you’re welcome to camp out in the field behind the store,” the woman said to me. “We let all the PCT hikers stay there.” “Thanks, I think I’ll do that,” I said, still staring at the drinks. Perhaps I could just hold one, I thought. Just press it against my forehead for a moment. I opened the door and pulled out a bottle of pink lemonade. It was so cold it felt like it was burning my hand. “How much is this?” I couldn’t keep myself from asking. “I saw you counting your pennies outside,” the woman laughed. “How much you got?” I gave her everything I had while thanking her profusely and took the Snapple out onto the porch. Each sip sent a stab of heady pleasure through me. I held the bottle with both hands, wanting to absorb every bit of cool I could. Cars pulled up and people got out and went into the store, then came out and drove away. I watched them for an hour in a post-Snapple bliss that felt more like a drugged-up haze. After a while, a pickup slowed in front of the store just long enough for a man to climb out of the back and pull out his backpack behind him before waving the driver away. He turned to me and spotted my pack. “Hey!” he said, a giant smile spreading across his pink beefy face. “It’s one hell of a hot day to hike on the PCT, don’t you think?” His name was Rex. He was a big red-haired guy, gregarious and gay and thirty-eight years old. He struck me as the kind of person who gave a lot of bear hugs. He went into the store and bought three cans of beer and drank them as he sat beside me on the porch, where together we talked into the evening. He lived in Phoenix and held a corporate job he couldn’t properly make me understand, but he’d grown up in a little town in southern Oregon. He’d hiked from the Mexican border to Mojave in the spring—getting off the trail at the very place where I’d gotten on and at about the same time as well—to return to Phoenix for six weeks to tend to some business matters before starting back on the trail at Old Station, having elegantly bypassed all the snow.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She had said enough. She was from the South. And something leaped in Rufus as he stared at her damp, colorless face, the face of the Southern poor white, and her straight, pale hair. She was considerably older than he, over thirty probably, and her body was too thin. Just the same, it abruptly became the most exciting body he had gazed on in a long time. “Honeychild,” he said and gave her his crooked grin, “ain’t you a long ways from home?” “I sure am,” she said, “and I ain’t never going back there.” He laughed and she laughed. “Well, Miss Anne,” he said, “if we both got the same thing on our mind, let’s make it to that party.” And he took her arm, deliberately allowing the back of his hand to touch one of her breasts, and he said, “Your name’s not really Anne, is it?” “No,” she said, “it’s Leona.” “Leona?” And he smiled again. His smile could be very effective. “That’s a pretty name.” “What’s yours?” “Me? I’m Rufus Scott.” He wondered what she was dong in this joint, in Harlem. She didn’t seem at all the type to be interested in jazz, still less did she seem to be in the habit of going to strange bars alone. She carried a light spring coat, her long hair was simply brushed back and held with some pins, she wore very little lipstick and no other make-up at all. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll pile into a cab.” “Are you sure it’s all right if I come?” He sucked his teeth. “If it wasn’t all right, I wouldn’t ask you. If I say it’s all right, it’s all right.” “Well,” she said with a short laugh, “all right, then.” They moved with the crowd, which, with many interruptions, much talking and laughing and much erotic confusion, poured into the streets. It was three o’clock in the morning and gala people all around them were glittering and whistling and using up all the taxicabs. Others, considerably less gala—they were on the western edge of 125th Street—stood in knots along the street, switched or swaggered or dawdled by, with glances, sidelong or full face, which were more calculating than curious. The policemen strolled by; carefully, and in fact rather mysteriously conveying their awareness that these particular Negroes, though they were out so late, and mostly drunk, were not to be treated in the usual fashion; and neither were the white people with them. But Rufus suddenly realized that Leona would soon be the only white person left. This made him uneasy and his uneasiness made him angry. Leona spotted an empty cab and hailed it. The taxi driver, who was white, seemed to have no hesitation in stopping for them, nor, once having stopped, did he seem to have any regrets. “You going to work tomorrow?” he asked Leona. Now that they were alone together, he felt a little shy. “No,” she said, “tomorrow’s Sunday.”

• From Another Country (1962)

  They moved with the crowd, which, with many interruptions, much talking and laughing and much erotic confusion, poured into the streets. It was three o’clock in the morning and gala people all around them were glittering and whistling and using up all the taxicabs. Others, considerably less gala—they were on the western edge of 125th Street—stood in knots along the street, switched or swaggered or dawdled by, with glances, sidelong or full face, which were more calculating than curious. The policemen strolled by; carefully, and in fact rather mysteriously conveying their awareness that these particular Negroes, though they were out so late, and mostly drunk, were not to be treated in the usual fashion; and neither were the white people with them. But Rufus suddenly realized that Leona would soon be the only white person left. This made him uneasy and his uneasiness made him angry. Leona spotted an empty cab and hailed it. The taxi driver, who was white, seemed to have no hesitation in stopping for them, nor, once having stopped, did he seem to have any regrets. “You going to work tomorrow?” he asked Leona. Now that they were alone together, he felt a little shy. “No,” she said, “tomorrow’s Sunday.” “That’s right.” He felt very pleased and free. He had planned to visit his family but he thought of what a ball it would be to spend the day in bed with Leona. He glanced over at her, noting that, though she was tiny, she seemed very well put together. He wondered what she was thinking. He offered her a cigarette putting his hand on hers briefly, and she refused it. “You don’t smoke?” “Sometimes. When I drink.” “Is that often?” She laughed. “No. I don’t like to drink alone.” “Well,” he said, “you ain’t going to be drinking alone for awhile.” She said nothing but she seemed, in the darkness, to tense and blush. She looked out of the window on her side. “I’m glad I ain’t got to worry none about getting you home early tonight.” “You ain’t got to worry about that, nohow. I’m a big girl.” “Honey,” he said, “you ain’t no bigger than a minute.” She sighed. “Sometimes a minute can be a mighty powerful thing.” He decided against asking what she meant by this. He said, giving her a significant look, “That’s true,” but she did not seem to take his meaning. They were on Riverside Drive and nearing their destination. To the left of them, pale, unlovely lights emphasized the blackness of the Jersey shore. He leaned back, leaning a little against Leona, watching the blackness and the lights roll by. Then the cab turned; he glimpsed, briefly, the distant bridge which glowed like something written in the sky. The cab slowed down, looking for the house number.

• From Little Women (1868)

  genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve- buttons in his immaculate wristbands. "Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face. The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.

• From Little Women (1868)

  He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden. 'Will you give me a rose?' said he. 'You must come and get it. I can't come to you, it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he peeped, saying imploringly, 'Let me in! Let me in!' But the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you." "I can't. I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep. "So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?" asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in his buttonhole. "I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor. "What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do something quite clever. Do you know Truth?" "I hope so," said Meg soberly. "The game, I mean?" "What is it?" said Fred. "Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question put by the rest. It's great fun." "Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments. Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo, and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie. "Who are your heroes?" asked Jo. "Grandfather and Napoleon." "Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie. "Margaret." "Which do you like best?" from Fred. "Jo, of course." "What silly questions you ask!" And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone. "Try again. Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred. "It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn came next. "What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself. "A quick temper." "What do you most wish for?" said Laurie. "A pair of boot lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his purpose. "Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most." "Genius.

• From Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  I could hear the audience applauding the dancer in the room next door, and people moving in and out of the tables near us, but these things receded, dreamy and still. In sex there are new rules, sometimes no rules; the body takes charge. We are no longer in the quotidian sphere. Georgia’s curly hair drifted across Penny’s breasts, and my own hunger seemed to explode within. In front of me all this sweet, clean skin, and the rising bouquet of arousal, and in slow motion, a beringed hand slipping to stroke between two legs in the dim and coppery light. Then Georgia rose up from Penny for a moment and I caught Don’s eye, and he was laughing at my punch-drunk face. I looked at Jeannie and she was staring at the women right beside her, almost in her lap; I looked back at Georgia and she’d turned in the midst of the act to watch the pair of naked women embracing on the table next to us, watched by three Japanese men in suits. And I turned to look at the men gathered around the tables a few feet below us and I could see them watching me, watching them. The sexual fantasy not of going to a whore, but of being one, is quite common. There is a whore in each of us, the whore who conquers our desire by selling it, conquers our fear of abandonment by controlling the risks of all her relations. The urge to romanticize the prostitute and her life is just like the urge to imagine her as infinitely sordid or as an inevitable victim—more about us than the whore. The whore scares us, the happy whore most of all, because she doesn’t need conventional rules to survive and thrive. She makes up her own. “I don’t look like this when I go to clients,” Alex tells me toward the end of our interview, curled up cross-legged on the bare mattress in jeans and a soft flannel shirt. Her dark hair is shaggy and loose, and she wears no makeup. “When I go to clients I’m a totally different person. I do run an ad sometimes that specifically says ‘tomboy,’ and I get guys who really like that, and don’t want me to wear makeup. Still, I’ve got to get into the gym and work out and be in shape, and if I gain a little weight it’s ‘oh, no.’ I have to shave all the time, which I’d rather not do. When I work, I’m usually in full-done drag, high heels and makeup and hair done up and a little dress that shows my cleavage.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She could break him: for, to match her will, he would be compelled to descend to stratagems far beneath him. And her mind was filled again with that bright, blue field. She shook with the memory of his weight, her desire, her terror, and her cunning. Not here. Where? Oh, Richard . The cruel sun, and the indifferent air, and the two of them burning on a burning field. She knew that, yes, she must now surrender, now that she had him; she knew that she could not let him go; and, oh, his hands, his hands. But she was frightened, she realized that she knew nothing: Can’t we wait? Wait. No. No . And his lips burned her neck and her breasts. Then let’s go to the woods. Let’s go to the woods . And he grinned. The memory of that grin rushed up from its hiding place and splintered her heart now. You’d have to carry me, or I’d have to crawl, can’t you feel it? Then, Let me in Cass, take me, take me, I swear I won’t betray you, you know I won’t! “I love you, Cass,” he said, his lips twitching and his eyes stunned with grief. “Tell me where you’ve been, tell me why you’ve gone so far away from me.” “Why I ,” she said, helplessly, “have gone away from you? ” The smell of crushed flowers rose to her nostrils. She began to cry. She did not look down. She looked straight up at the sun; then she closed her eyes, and the sun roared inside her head. One hand had left her—where his hand had been, she was cold. I won’t hurt you . Please . Maybe just a little. Just at first . Oh. Richard. Please . Tell me you love me. Say it. Say it now . Oh, yes. I love you. I love you . Tell me you’ll love me forever . Yes. Forever. Forever . He was looking at her, leaning on the bar, looking at her from far away. She dried her eyes with the handkerchief he had thrown in her lap. “Give me a cigarette, please.” He threw her the pack, threw her some matches. She lit a cigarette. “When was the last time you saw Ida and Vivaldo? Tell me the truth.” “Tonight.” “And you’ve been spending all this time—every time you come in here in the early morning—with Ida and Vivaldo?” She was frightened again, and she knew that her tone betrayed her. “Yes.” “You’re lying. Ida hasn’t been with Vivaldo. She’s been with Ellis. And it’s been going on a long time.” He paused. “The question is—where have you been? Who’s been with Vivaldo while Ida’s been away—till two o’clock in the morning?” She looked at him, too stunned for an instant, to calculate. “You mean, Ida’s been having an affair with Steve Ellis?

• From Little Women (1868)

  Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable. "Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other. "It's very well, he's in the rack. I'll get him, and tell it you are here." And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring... "Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her." "Don't go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully... "How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it." "Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen. "Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial. "I won't trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly. This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't know," so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply. He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not." "I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it. "I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?" "Not if I chose to learn it, but. . ." "Please choose to learn, Meg.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  Just as I did with Limori, I overlooked any faults he might exhibit or any human imperfections that were present in him, having been programmed to believe that these flaws were tools that God was using to teach us. If he was crass or rude or drank too much, I thought he was doing these things in order to teach. It was astonishing, really, how easily I was able to transfer my guru-worship from Limori to Gary. She helped that along by promoting Gary to us and touting his clarity and wisdom. Gary had done what all of us aspired to do: he had reached the spiritual pinnacle we were all perpetually aspiring to. Gary’s ascension in the ranks of the group sent the message that it was possible to achieve enlightenment and that continuing to apply all the lessons we were learning would one day ensure our enlightenment as well. Gary was proof that Limori’s teaching worked; he became the embodiment of the spiritual carrot we were all reaching for. However, just as happened with Sheila before him on the first-lieutenant rung of the group hierarchy, Gary eventually fell from Limori’s grace. He and Karen were legally married in Kauai in 1994, but by early 1996 their marriage was imploding. Karen had been concerned with Gary’s excessive drinking since they had become spiritually married and, ultimately, that was one of the central issues that led to her leaving the marriage. Gary began coming to the weekly meditation meetings less frequently during this time, but without an explanation (to me, anyway). When he was not there, the rest of us sat in the circle and shared our confessions or meditated together, co-facilitating one another. I don’t know what specifically initiated the rift between Gary and Limori. My observation was that as Gary and Karen’s marriage crumbled, he began to drift out of Limori’s orbit. On the nights that he did come to the circle to facilitate, he would obliquely refer to the fact that Limori wasn’t returning his calls or that he had not talked to her in quite a while. Before the situation completely soured, he flew up to Wolf’s Den at Limori’s request to stay for a week, but returned after only a few days. His explanation was that his spirit guides had told him that Limori was using too much oil in her cooking and when he had passed this information along to her, she had not liked it and he had been asked to leave the next day. He laughed at the seemingly trivial reason that he had been sent home, but I suspected that his joking was covering up more serious problems in his relationship with our guru. Whatever the reason for the split, I was for the second time witnessing a major change in the group structure, only this time I would be more intimately involved in the outcome.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  She knew Limori’s every preference for food, wine, water, clothing fabric, hair dye and toenail polish. She was the ultimate definition of a personal assistant except that she never got paid and it was a 24/7, 365-day-a-year job. As I became more involved in Limori’s group in the early 1990s, all I ever really found out about Alice’s background was that she had grown children and an ex-husband. Limori used to tell a story of Alice arriving at Limori’s door one day saying she had left her husband and wanted to stay with Limori and serve God from then on. They had met for the first time at some point before this, but I never learned how or when or where. As far as personality goes, I never really saw one in Alice. It wasn’t that she was shy or retiring; she looked everyone directly in the eye and was not ever reluctant about sharing the painful ‘truths’ that ‘Spirit’ was channelling to her. She laughed uproariously when the situation called for it and apparently had quite a temper. Or so Limori used to tell us; I never saw it for myself. But what I noticed most about Alice was that she wasn’t there. I wanted to know more about her, at first because, as I said, I wanted her job. I was so taken with Limori and with the life of someone like Alice who served God twenty-four hours a day that I wanted to be her. I wanted the life of fulfillment and service that she had. But even when I lived with Limori for those few tumultuous months, I never got any greater sense of who Alice was. She existed only to serve. Her own personal opinions about anything were never put forward. And I realize now, it was not just her opinions that were absent; her thoughts and feelings were missing as well. I assumed during all the years I knew Alice that she had always been this way: vacant, quiet, absent, subservient. But it was only when I began to observe these exact personality traits emerge in my friend Lisa that I realized that this zombie-like countenance was a direct result of the way Limori moulded and trained people in her sway. Much, much later, while writing this book, I would come to realize that achieving this thought-less state of being was a necessity for those who served Limori in such an intimate and unrelenting way. Those who became especially close to her, those who served her every day and lived with her permanently, had to develop this way of being absent while they were present as a means of surviving what they were being put through. Alice, and later Lisa, were life-sized examples of the process that Robert Lifton calls thought stopping. The first stage of my understanding of thought stopping came by surprise and was completely unconscious.