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 Real Life (2020)

  Les meilleurs joueurs du monde pourraient faire ça pendant des heures sans la moindre erreur. Cole envoie souvent une balle dans le filet ou dans le couloir, et Wallace doit se déplacer avec vélocité pour la sauver, la rattraper dans les airs et la renvoyer gentiment. Il est surpris qu’il y ait tant de problèmes dans le couple de Cole et Vincent. Ils sont ensemble depuis bientôt sept ans. Quand Wallace a rencontré Cole, ils étaient assis côte à côte sur un tronc d’arbre à un feu de camp destiné à accueillir les nouveaux. Les flammes réchauffaient leurs cuisses et leurs visages, et Cole lui avait parlé de sa passion du tennis. Il n’avait rien dit d’un petit ami, ni même précisé qu’il était gay, mais il y avait eu quelque chose dans la manière dont ils s’étaient regardés dans les yeux, dans la main que Cole avait posée sur le genou de Wallace, dans l’insistance de ses doigts pétrissant la surface de sa peau, qui avait donné de l’espoir à Wallace. Toute la première année avait été un flirt sophistiqué. Il allait partout avec Cole. Dîner, déjeuner, jouer au tennis. Ils bavardaient tranquillement dans le monospace de Cole une fois chassés du court par la pluie, grelottants et trempés. Un instant, il ne restait du monde qu’une traînée grise et ils s’étaient regardés et avaient vu là un possible. Cole s’était penché vers lui par-dessus la console centrale, sentant la sueur et la pluie, sa lèvre intérieure pleine, rebondie et rouge, et Wallace s’était incliné aussi par instinct, deux corps en mouvement. Mais quelque chose les avait retenus. Une force les avait immobilisés juste avant le contact, et Wallace était sorti sous la pluie. Il n’avait pas entendu si Cole l’avait appelé, et ça valait peut-être mieux. Quelques mois plus tard, à la fin de ce premier été, au début de la deuxième année, il rentrait chez lui, les bras chargés de courses, quand il s’était dit qu’il devrait appeler Cole pour se rabibocher avec lui. Juste à ce moment-là, il avait repéré un groupe de ses amis, marchant dans l’autre sens. Il leur avait fait signe, les mains pleines, et ils lui avaient rendu son salut et s’étaient approchés. Cole, Emma et Yngve, et Vincent, qu’à l’époque il ne connaissait pas. « Salut, avait dit Wallace. — Salut », avaient-ils répondu. Puis Vincent s’était avancé, la main tendue, et avait déclaré : « Bonjour, je suis Vincent, le copain de Cole. » Et Cole avait détourné les yeux de honte. Leur relation a toujours paru tellement solide à Wallace. Ils ont un caractère égal, inébranlable – sauf peut-être hier soir, où c’est vrai que Vincent avait l’air un peu à cran. Est-ce qu’il était en quête même à ce moment-là ?

• 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 Another Country (1962)

  Yes, it was, she told him, but she had been dreaming about it all her life—half-facing him again, with a little smile. There was something halting in her manner which he found very moving. She was like a wild animal who didn’t know whether to come to the outstretched hand or to flee and kept making startled little rushes, first in one direction and then in the other. “I was born here,” he said, watching her. “I know,” she said, “so it can’t seem as wonderful to you as it does to me.” He laughed again. He remembered, suddenly, his days in boot camp in the South and felt again the shoe of a white officer against his mouth. He was in his white uniform, on the ground, against the red, dusty clay. Some of his colored buddies were holding him, were shouting in his ear, helping him to rise. The white officer, with a curse, had vanished, had gone forever beyond the reach of vengeance. His face was full of clay and tears and blood; he spat red blood into the red dust. The elevator came and the doors opened. He took her arm as they entered and held it close against his chest. “I think you’re a real sweet girl.” “You’re nice, too,” she said. In the closed, rising elevator her voice had a strange trembling in it and her body was also trembling—very faintly, as though it were being handled by the soft spring wind outside. He tightened his pressure on her arm. “Didn’t they warn you down home about the darkies you’d find up North?” She caught her breath. “They didn’t never worry me none. People’s just people as far as I’m concerned.” And pussy’s just pussy as far as I’m concerned, he thought—but was grateful, just the same, for her tone. It gave him an instant to locate himself. For he, too, was trembling slightly. “What made you come North?” he asked. He wondered if he should proposition her or wait for her to proposition him. He couldn’t beg. But perhaps she could. The hairs of his groin began to itch slightly. The terrible muscle at the base of his belly began to grow hot and hard. The elevator came to a halt, the doors opened, and they walked a long corridor toward a half-open door. She said, “I guess I just couldn’t take it down there any more. I was married but then I broke up with my husband and they took away my kid—they wouldn’t even let me see him—and I got to thinking that rather than sit down there and go crazy, I’d try to make a new life for myself up here.” Something touched his imagination for a moment, suggesting that Leona was a person and had her story and that all stories were trouble. But he shook the suggestion off. He wouldn’t be around long enough to be bugged by her story. He just wanted her for tonight.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Miller leva la main et pressa le bout de ses doigts contre les lèvres de Wallace, qu’il écarta avec son pouce. Miller le regardait avec intensité, sans nervosité ni timidité. Il l’avait déjà fait, c’était évident, il avait déjà été dans cette position de pouvoir, de contrôle. Malgré cela, il subsistait un peu de retenue, de gêne. Il y avait quelque chose de spasmodique dans la façon dont il passa de nouveau son pouce sur les lèvres de Wallace. Wallace referma la bouche autour de son doigt et suça tendrement le sel sur son ongle. « Pourquoi t’es comme ça ? », demanda Miller. Wallace ne répondit pas. Il tira sur le tee-shirt de Miller et se redressa afin que leurs corps se touchent. Miller debout entre ses jambes, juste un peu penché, et là, leurs lèvres qui se rencontrèrent, la friction passagère, la chaleur, le tremblement humide. Wallace n’avait été embrassé que deux fois à présent, mais il ne parvenait pas à comprendre pourquoi il avait fallu si longtemps pour arriver à ce degré d’intimité, une sensation si incroyable qu’il eut aussitôt peur de la perdre. Miller l’embrassa de nouveau, et Wallace poussa involontairement un petit gémissement qui ne fit qu’encourager Miller à l’embrasser de plus belle. Wallace eut la sensation d’être fouillé, comme si chaque baiser, appliqué sur une partie différente de sa bouche, de sa mâchoire et de sa joue, visait à lui arracher la réponse à une question qui n’était pas posée. Les mains de Miller se posèrent sur ses hanches, puis ses flancs, et remontèrent de plus en plus jusqu’à sa mâchoire, où elles s’immobilisèrent. La voile les avait rendues rugueuses, une texture excitante sur la peau de Wallace. Ses baisers, froids et amers, avaient goût de bière et de glace. Il mordit la lèvre de Wallace. « J’aime ça, dit Miller. Plus que je ne l’aurais cru. — C’est chouette », dit Wallace. Apparemment, ce n’était pas la réflexion attendue car Miller fronça les sourcils et fit mine de s’écarter. Mais Wallace enserra sa taille de ses jambes et le retint. « Hé, tu vas où ? — Tu n’avais pas l’air trop emballé. Je ne veux pas te pousser à faire des trucs dont tu n’as pas envie. — Si, si, je suis à fond », dit Wallace, et il guida la main de Miller entre ses jambes, sur son érection. Miller laissa échapper un petit cri étranglé et sursauta comme s’il venait de se rappeler que Wallace était un homme, comme lui, mais celui-ci n’en prit pas ombrage. Il referma la main sur Wallace, serra, peut-être un peu trop fort, et posa ses lèvres dans son cou. « Je… je sais pas comment on fait, dit Miller. — T’en fais pas. C’est pas très compliqué. » Miller rit. « Je suis pas vierge. C’est juste… Ça, c’est… Enfin tu vois. » Il esquissa un geste vague.

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  Aside from advertising reproductive potential, a slim waist is generally a good indicator of good health. Belly fat in both sexes is associated with greater risk of heart attack, diabetes, stroke, hypertension, gall bladder disease, and some cancers. If one is looking at health alone, a slim waist would be desirable. However, we must remember that these chronic diseases are largely products of modern life. Thus, although waist-to-hip ratio is an excellent modern indicator of health in general, its primary evolutionary importance for detection of beauty probably had more to do with what it signified about fertility. In the United States obesity has such a great influence on people’s perceptions of attractiveness that neither breast size nor waist-to-hip ratio can compete. While men prefer the hourglass shape, it won’t lead them to prefer an obese woman with a waist or large breasts over a thin or average-weight woman with a more tubular body. In Devendra Singh’s studies the heaviest figures are judged to be eight to ten years older than the slimmer ones (even though the faces are identical). Their decreased youthfulness may contribute to their lessened attractiveness. But in our fat-phobic culture issues of social status are likely to play their role too, and social status and body fat have a significant negative correlation, particularly for women. Women’s fashion has consistently called attention to the waist with corsets, wide belts, hip huggers, and crop tops. Corsets have been a fashion constant for five hundred years. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the first use of the word “corset” was in a 1299 account of the wardrobe of the household of King Edward I. Not only were waists thinned and busts pushed higher by corsets, but hips were fanned out with pads, cushions, and wire cages called farthingales, panniers, crinolines, and bustles. Some widened the woman at the side, some encased her in a cone, others plumped up her behind. Women escaped these caricatures of the female shape only early in the twentieth century when designers Madeleine Vionnet and Paul Poiret introduced more fluid styles. But fashion continually comes back to highlight the waist, from Dior’s New Look of 1947 with cinched-in waists and a wide skirt to playful renditions of corsets by Vivienne Westwood and John Paul Gaultier. The desire to exaggerate the female hourglass may help to explain a seemingly unrelated fashion phenomenon—high heels. One would think that, if anyone wanted heels, it would be men, since they are much more obsessed with their height. Platform shoes were originally worn by both sexes but as heels evolved from chunky in shape to long thin spikes they were meant exclusively for women. Heels reached their apogee in 1953 with the stiletto, created in Italy and popularized in Paris.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “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. A taxi ahead of them had just discharged a crowd of people and was disappearing down the block. “Here we are,” said Rufus; “Looks like a real fine party,” the taxi driver said, and winked. Rufus said nothing. He paid the man and they got out and walked into the lobby, which was large and hideous, with mirrors and chairs. The elevator had just started upward; they could hear the crowd. “What were you doing in that club all by yourself, Leona?” he asked. She looked at him, a little startled. Then, “I don’t know. I just wanted to see Harlem and so I went up there tonight to look around. And I just happened to pass that club and I heard the music and I went in and I stayed. I liked the music.” She gave him a mocking look. “Is that all right?” He laughed and said nothing. She turned from him as they heard the sound of the closing elevator door reverberate down the shaft. Then they heard the drone of the cables as the elevator began to descend. She watched the closed doors as though her life depended on it. “This your first time in New York?”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In Argos, city of Achia far more famous for its kings of past time than great in itself, there was once a nobleman called Nicostratus, to whom, when already neighbouring on old age, fortune awarded a lady of great family to wife, whose name was Lydia and who was no less high-spirited than fair. Nicostratus, like a nobleman and a man of wealth as he was, kept many servants and hounds and hawks and took the utmost delight in the chase. Among his other servants he had a young man called Pyrrhus, who was sprightly and well bred and comely of his person and adroit in all that he had a mind to do, and him he loved and trusted over all else. Of this Pyrrhus Lydia became so sore enamoured that neither by day nor by night could she have her thought otherwhere than with him; but he, whether it was that he perceived not her liking for him or that he would none of it, appeared to reck nothing thereof, by reason whereof the lady suffered intolerable chagrin in herself and being altogether resolved to give him to know of her passion, called a chamberwoman of hers, Lusca by name, in whom she much trusted, and said to her, 'Lusca, the favours thou hast had of me should make thee faithful and obedient; wherefore look thou none ever know that which I shall presently say to thee, save he to whom I shall charge thee tell it. As thou seest, Lusca, I am a young and lusty lady, abundantly endowed with all those things which any woman can desire; in brief, I can complain of but one thing, to wit, that my husband's years are overmany, an they be measured by mine own, wherefore I fare but ill in the matter of that thing wherein young women take most pleasure, and none the less desiring it, as other women do, I have this long while determined in myself, since fortune hath been thus little my friend in giving me so old a husband, that I will not be so much mine own enemy as not to contrive to find means for my pleasures and my weal; which that I may have as complete in this as in other things, I have bethought myself to will that our Pyrrhus, as being worthier thereof than any other, should furnish them with his embracements; nay, I have vowed him so great a love that I never feel myself at ease save whenas I see him or think of him, and except I foregather with him without delay, methinketh I shall certainly die thereof. Wherefore, if my life be dear to thee, thou wilt, on such wise as shall seem best to thee, signify to him any love and beseech him, on my part, to be pleased to come to me, whenas thou shalt go for him.'

• From Another Country (1962)

  It was being borne in on her that he wanted her : this meant that she no longer knew what he wanted. “You’ve slept with lots of girls like me before, haven’t you? With colored girls.” “I’ve slept with lots of all kinds of girls.” There was no laughter between them now; they whispered, and the heat between them rose. Her odor rose to meet him, it mingled with his own, sharper sweat. He was between her thighs and in her hands, her eyes stared fearfully into his. “But with colored girls, too?” “Yes.” There was a long pause, she sighed a long, shuddering sigh. She arched her head upward, away from him. “Were they friends of my brother’s?” “No. No. I paid them.” “Oh.” Her head dropped, she closed her eyes, she brought her thighs together, then opened them. The covers were in his way and he threw them off and then for a moment, half-kneeling, he stared at the honey and the copper and the gold and the black of her. Her breath came in short, sharp, trembling gasps. He wanted her to turn her face to him and open her eyes. “Ida. Look at me.” She made a sound, a kind of moan, and turned her face toward him but kept her eyes closed. He took her hand again. “Come on. Help me.” Her eyes opened for a second, veiled, but she smiled. He lowered himself down upon her, slowly, allowing her hands to guide him, and kissed her on the mouth. They locked together, shaking, her hands fluttered upward and settled on his back. I paid them . She sighed again, a different sigh, long and surrendering, and the struggle began. 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.

• From Another Country (1962)

  He paid the man and they got out and walked into the lobby, which was large and hideous, with mirrors and chairs. The elevator had just started upward; they could hear the crowd. “What were you doing in that club all by yourself, Leona?” he asked. She looked at him, a little startled. Then, “I don’t know. I just wanted to see Harlem and so I went up there tonight to look around. And I just happened to pass that club and I heard the music and I went in and I stayed. I liked the music.” She gave him a mocking look. “Is that all right?” He laughed and said nothing. She turned from him as they heard the sound of the closing elevator door reverberate down the shaft. Then they heard the drone of the cables as the elevator began to descend. She watched the closed doors as though her life depended on it. “This your first time in New York?” Yes, it was, she told him, but she had been dreaming about it all her life—half-facing him again, with a little smile. There was something halting in her manner which he found very moving. She was like a wild animal who didn’t know whether to come to the outstretched hand or to flee and kept making startled little rushes, first in one direction and then in the other. “I was born here,” he said, watching her. “I know,” she said, “so it can’t seem as wonderful to you as it does to me.” He laughed again. He remembered, suddenly, his days in boot camp in the South and felt again the shoe of a white officer against his mouth. He was in his white uniform, on the ground, against the red, dusty clay. Some of his colored buddies were holding him, were shouting in his ear, helping him to rise. The white officer, with a curse, had vanished, had gone forever beyond the reach of vengeance. His face was full of clay and tears and blood; he spat red blood into the red dust. The elevator came and the doors opened. He took her arm as they entered and held it close against his chest. “I think you’re a real sweet girl.” “You’re nice, too,” she said. In the closed, rising elevator her voice had a strange trembling in it and her body was also trembling—very faintly, as though it were being handled by the soft spring wind outside. He tightened his pressure on her arm. “Didn’t they warn you down home about the darkies you’d find up North?” She caught her breath. “They didn’t never worry me none. People’s just people as far as I’m concerned.” And pussy’s just pussy as far as I’m concerned, he thought—but was grateful, just the same, for her tone.

• From Every Woman's Battle: Discovering God's Plan for Sexual and Emotional Fulfillment (2003)

  Why would Scripture use these two phrases in the same sentence? Could they perhaps be connected? I think they are. I believe a woman’s desire and the issue of rulership or power are related in a way that unwraps some of the mystery behind a woman’s sexual conduct (or misconduct, rather). I believe that the desire for power (and the belief that men possess the power women crave) is what causes many women to seduce men, as well as what prompts some to use sex as a bargaining tool in their marriage. It’s not as much sex or love that these women are in pursuit of as it is the power behind bringing a man to his knees with her charms. When we discovered as young women that our curvaceous bodies or pretty faces would turn heads, it awakened us to a form of power that we may have never known as preadolescent girls. For some of us, that power was intoxicating…perhaps even addicting. Turning the head of a peer became a small thrill, while turning the head of an older, important man held huge payoffs for our egos. Whether it was the captain of the football team, the college professor, or the head of the department at work, sharing in the power of important people by aligning ourselves with them in relationship gave us a distorted sense of significance. When men resist allowing a woman to share in their power or rob them of their personal resolve, some women have been known to become quite manipulative, using sexual prowess or emotional entanglements in order to firmly establish or hold on to their sense of power. Unfortunately, even victory in these manipulation games leaves us power-hungry and powerless over our fleshly desires. If you want to know how to satisfy your hunger for power (which is a normal part of the human condition but can certainly drive you much further into this battle than you want to go), I’ll let you in on a secret: The sense of power that will satisfy your soul is not found in men. It is found only in God. Does God give His power to men? Yes. But do you need to go through a man to receive God’s power? No. The only middleman you need to tap into God’s power is the Holy Spirit. And when you discover the power of the Holy Spirit to help you live an abundantly fulfilled life, you will know that seductive power pales in comparison. THE PURSUIT OF POWER AND LONGING FOR LOVE

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, she let fetch the proper instruments and sent every one forth of the chamber, except only Lusca; after which, locking herself in, she made Nicostratus lie down on a table and thrusting the pincers into his mouth, what while the maid held him fast, she pulled out one of his teeth by main force, albeit he roared out lustily for the pain. Then, keeping to herself that which she had drawn, she brought out a frightfully decayed tooth she had ready in her hand and showed it to her husband, half dead as he was for pain, saying, 'See what thou hast had in thy mouth all this while.' Nicostratus believed what she said and now that the tooth was out, for all he had suffered the most grievous pain and made sore complaint thereof, him seemed he was cured; and presently, having comforted himself with one thing and another and the pain being abated, he went forth of the chamber; whereupon his wife took the tooth and straightway despatched it to her gallant, who, being now certified of her love, professed himself ready to do her every pleasure. The lady, albeit every hour seemed to her a thousand till she should be with him, desiring to give him farther assurance and wishful to perform that which she had promised him, made a show one day of being ailing and being visited after dinner by Nicostratus, with no one in his company but Pyrrhus, she prayed them, by way of allaying her unease, to help her go into the garden. Accordingly, Nicostratus taking her on one side and Pyrrhus on the other, they carried her into the garden and set her down on a grassplot, at the foot of a fine pear-tree; where, after they had sat awhile, the lady, who had already given her gallant to know what he had to do, said, 'Pyrrhus, I have a great desire to eat of yonder pears; do thou climb up and throw us down some of them.' Pyrrhus straightway climbed up into the tree and fell to throwing down of the pears, which as he did, he began to say, 'How now, my lord! What is this you do? And you, madam, are you not ashamed to suffer it in my presence? Think you I am blind? But now you were sore disordered; how cometh it you have so quickly recovered that you do such things? An you have a mind unto this, you have store of goodly chambers; why go you not do it in one of these? It were more seemly than in my presence.'

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  Of course, visual beauty is not the only way we communicate our evolutionarily important mate signals. As Margaret Mitchell wrote at the start of Gone With the Wind, “Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it.…” Human seduction involves a subtle body language of invitations and rejections. Psychologist Monica Moore has catalogued the many signals that women use to convey their interest to men, signals that predict who will be approached by whom ninety percent of the time. She says that the frequency and intensity of these gestures are better predictors of which women will be approached by men than their physical beauty. Women give darting glances, toss their heads, lick their lips, flip their hair, give coy smiles, and engage in solitary dances. They parade around a room with shoulders thrown back and hips swaying. What men do to elicit these signals has not been catalogued, although one would imagine a synchronous set of signals coming the other way. Moore’s research suggests that most of the time people give signals that they want to be approached or left alone (signals that may be unconscious), and that part of attractiveness is simply inviting another person’s attention. But people sometimes approach when not invited, and sometimes issue invitations when merely flirting with possibilities. Body language cannot make a beautiful person less beautiful, just less approachable, and that can be reversed with a flick of the finger. But the same flick of the finger (or more likely the hair) may call attention to a less beautiful person, who gets the opportunity to take it from there. Voice In the Fellini film 8 1/2 one of the characters gathers all the women he has ever been attracted to into one room. One is an airline employee who walks back and forth in her uniform, announcing flights. He had never seen her but he had heard her voice once at an airport while waiting to switch planes, and she stayed in his memory as an object of desire. David Letterman once listed the “top ten words that sound romantic when spoken by Barry White.” They included “doo-hickey” and “gingivitis.” Of course the soul singer is best known for “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” but the point is that he can make anything sound good. As Darwin noted, many animals rely on cries, grunts, and other vocalizations to express their “love, rage, and jealousy.” Male insects repeat the same note rhythmically through their stridulating organs to call to or attract females, and frogs and toads croak incessantly during breeding seasons. Size and pitch are correlated, and females respond most to the lowest croaks, which tend to be issued by the largest males.

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  Flamboyant signals of health in populations susceptible to disease are well documented in the animal world. Biologists William Hamilton and Marlene Zuk studied hundreds of songbirds and found that the most brightly colored birds come from the most heavily parasitized populations. If this seems paradoxical, remember that, by the logic of evolution, the species most susceptible to parasites should be the showiest because they are under evolutionary pressure to advertise their hereditary resistance. The bright coloration makes it visually easy to separate the bright and healthy from the dull and parasite-ridden. A heavily parasitized peacock cannot divert the resources necessary to keep up its metabolically expensive tail, any more than a protein- or iron-deficient human can spare the fuel to grow a thick lustrous mane of hair. Extreme displays in disease-ridden populations help to guide mates to the healthiest partners. Hundreds of neotropical birds show the same association between health and bright colors and showy displays. Most people do not end up with mates who have the glossiest hair or the clearest skin of all potential mates. Instead, couples tend to be very well matched in looks. As the Sex in America survey put it, “It’s not that you never see a stranger across a crowded room and fall instantly in love. It’s more that that stranger you notice will look just like you.” In other words, the person will be roughly equivalent to you in beauty. The better one looks, the better-looking one’s partner is likely to be; it’s another incentive to look as good as possible. Fair Sex? More women than men diet and women outnumber men in eating disorders nine to one. Eighty-nine percent of patients for “aesthetic procedures” done by members of the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons in 1996 were women. Women are more likely than men to dye their hair, shop for clothes, wear jewelry and makeup, wear perfume, and pinch their toes into ill-fitting shoes for the sake of beauty. There are two reasons why this is true: the first is men. Men value the looks of their sexual and romantic partners more than women do—or at least they say and think they do and have said so and thought so for a long time. In 1939 men and women were asked how important good looks are in a marriage partner. On a 0–3 scale, men ranked looks at 1.5, and women ranked them at .94. In 1989, when men and women were asked the same question, looks had become more important for both sexes but the male-female difference remained stable. Men rated the importance of looks as 2.1, and women ranked them at 1.67.

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  Have all of these changes altered our tastes in beauty and made age and fertility cues in women obsolete? In a world guided solely by thought, not instinct, the answer would be yes. But we are products of evolution and cannot change instincts as quickly as we can change our tastes or update our information. The frenzy over beauty and the enormous business in mimicking youth show that we are still turned on by the usual suspects. It may be difficult to change human nature, and easier to start by fooling her. With the rise of the physical fitness cult, plastic surgery, and advances in beauty technology, the appearance of a woman in her thirties, forties, and even fifties can mimic that of an ancestral woman in her late teens and twenties. One could say that this mimicry is the goal of the billion-dollar beauty industry. And it has been very successful. The highest-paid U.S. actress in 1996 was Demi Moore, whose virtually nude body was the star of Striptease. Demi Moore is the mother of three children with the body of a teenage nullipara. A man may have no interest in getting a woman pregnant, he may take elaborate precautions not to, but his mate detectors are still firing, and he is still inexplicably turned on by the woman who flashes abundant evidence of her fertility. And women are still imitating the appearance of this visually preferred age group, even if they never want to be pregnant at all. The Importance of Being Resourceful Some physical qualities lure the other sex like a bear to honey. Darwin called this distinctly sexual advantage “sexual selection.” But beautiful ornaments develop not just to charm the opposite sex with bright colors and lovely songs, but to intimidate rivals and win the intrasex competition—think of huge antlers. When evolutionists talk about the beauty of human males, they often refer more to their weapons of war than their charms, to their antlers rather than their bright colors. In other words, male beauty is thought to have evolved at least partly in response to male appraisal. Male looks are important in establishing dominance hierarchies among men. Males form ranks quickly, even as boys. In boys’ camps, rank order develops in cabins within an hour. The top-ranked boy is not necessarily the biggest, but often the best-looking, most athletic boy who shows the most mature physique. The top boy initiates and organizes, and lower-ranking boys obey and question. Their submissiveness is rewarded by the dominant boy’s protection and his leadership.

• From Another Country (1962)

  And she carried him, as the sea will carry a boat: with a slow, rocking and rising and falling motion, barely suggestive of the violence of the deep. They murmured and sobbed on this journey, he softly, insistently cursed. Each labored to reach a harbor: there could be no rest until this motion became unbearably accelerated by the power that was rising in them both. Rufus opened his eyes for a moment and watched her face, which was transfigured with agony and gleamed in the darkness like alabaster. Tears hung in the corners of her eyes and the hair at her brow was wet. Her breath came with moaning and short cries, with words he couldn’t understand, and in spite of himself he began moving faster and thrusting deeper. He wanted her to remember him the longest day she lived. And, shortly, nothing could have stopped him, not the white God himself nor a lynch mob arriving on wings. Under his breath he cursed the milk-white bitch and groaned and rode his weapon between her thighs. She began to cry. I told you, he moaned, I’d give you something to cry about, and, at once, he felt himself strangling, about to explode or die. A moan and a curse tore through him while he beat her with all the strength he had and felt the venom shoot out of him, enough for a hundred black-white babies. He lay on his back, breathing hard. He heard music coming from the room inside, and a whistle on the river. He was frightened and his throat was dry. The air was chilly where he was wet. She touched him and he jumped. Then he forced himself to turn to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes were wet still, deep and dark, her trembling lips curved slightly in a shy, triumphant smile. He pulled her to him, wishing he could rest. He hoped she would say nothing but, “It was so wonderful,” she said, and kissed him. And these words, though they caused him to feel no tenderness and did not take away his dull, mysterious dread, began to call desire back again. He sat up. “You’re a funny little cracker,” he said. He watched her. “I don’t know what you going to say to your husband when you come home with a little black baby.” “I ain’t going to be having no more babies,” she said, “you ain’t got to worry about that.” She said nothing more; but she had much more to say. “He beat that out of me, too,” she said finally. He wanted to hear her story. And he wanted to know nothing more about her. “Let’s go inside and wash up,” he said. She put her head against his chest. “I’m afraid to go in there now.” He laughed and stroked her hair. He began to feel affection for her again. “You ain’t fixing to stay here all night, are you?” “What are your friends going to think?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  Then, after a long, high time, while he shook beneath every accelerating tremor of her body, he forced her beneath him and he entered her. For a moment he thought she was going to scream, she was so tight and caught her breath so sharply, and stiffened so. But then she moaned, she moved beneath him. Then, from the center of his rising storm, very slowly and deliberately, he began the slow ride home. And she carried him, as the sea will carry a boat: with a slow, rocking and rising and falling motion, barely suggestive of the violence of the deep. They murmured and sobbed on this journey, he softly, insistently cursed. Each labored to reach a harbor: there could be no rest until this motion became unbearably accelerated by the power that was rising in them both. Rufus opened his eyes for a moment and watched her face, which was transfigured with agony and gleamed in the darkness like alabaster. Tears hung in the corners of her eyes and the hair at her brow was wet. Her breath came with moaning and short cries, with words he couldn’t understand, and in spite of himself he began moving faster and thrusting deeper. He wanted her to remember him the longest day she lived. And, shortly, nothing could have stopped him, not the white God himself nor a lynch mob arriving on wings. Under his breath he cursed the milk-white bitch and groaned and rode his weapon between her thighs. She began to cry. I told you, he moaned, I’d give you something to cry about, and, at once, he felt himself strangling, about to explode or die. A moan and a curse tore through him while he beat her with all the strength he had and felt the venom shoot out of him, enough for a hundred black-white babies. He lay on his back, breathing hard. He heard music coming from the room inside, and a whistle on the river. He was frightened and his throat was dry. The air was chilly where he was wet. She touched him and he jumped. Then he forced himself to turn to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes were wet still, deep and dark, her trembling lips curved slightly in a shy, triumphant smile. He pulled her to him, wishing he could rest. He hoped she would say nothing but, “It was so wonderful,” she said, and kissed him. And these words, though they caused him to feel no tenderness and did not take away his dull, mysterious dread, began to call desire back again. He sat up. “You’re a funny little cracker,” he said. He watched her. “I don’t know what you going to say to your husband when you come home with a little black baby.” “I ain’t going to be having no more babies,” she said, “you ain’t got to worry about that.”

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  The female’s interest in this prime physical specimen is fueled by her desire to have viable offspring. Do males with fancy ornaments make the best fathers? While there is no evidence that they lavish better care on their offspring, they do seem to pass on hardier genes. Peacocks with elaborate trains sire offspring with a better chance of survival than peacocks with less flamboyant tails. Barn swallows with longer tail ornaments have better long-range survival than swallows with shorter tail ornaments, and tend to have long-lived offspring. Red-throated three-spine sticklebacks are less likely to lose eggs from the nest through predation than their drab companions. The red throat functions as a threat to other males and a charm to females—suggesting that some showy traits are effective in both love and war. Flies of the diopsidae family have eyes on long stems, some of which are longer than the entire length of their bodies. Females prefer males with the longest stems, and it turns out that these males have a hidden benefit, a “tough Y” chromosome that increases the chance of producing sons in a population that is overwhelmingly female. Big ornaments also tend to be more symmetrical than small ornaments and, as we will see, females prefer symmetry. Symmetrical traits are difficult to produce, especially if they are large and subject to sexual selection. But if large ornaments are a handicap, an honest advertisement of genetic quality, symmetry is exactly what you would expect. Animals that can develop large ornaments should be better able to buffer developmental stresses than small animals. Since secondary sexual characteristics are maintained by circulating hormones, which compromise immune function, only the most fit animals can maintain them and retain immunocompetence. In their natural state, male swallows have tail feathers that are about twenty percent longer than the tail feathers of the females. The males with the longest tails attract more mates than other males. But their long tails are also more symmetrical than the shorter tails. Zoologist Anders Moller wanted to know whether tail length and symmetry independently affect female choice. To find out, he performed minor cosmetic surgery, snipping and gluing tail feathers onto male birds to make the tails shorter, longer, symmetrical, and asymmetrical. To be sure that glued-on feathers per se were not of interest, Moller also snipped and re-pasted the feathers of other males without altering their size or symmetry. Females cared about both size and symmetry: males with long but asymmetrical tails were not as popular as the males with long symmetrical tails.

• From Little Women (1868)

  I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us must marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about 'ein wonderschones Blondchen' , Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes. Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also. "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines.

• 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.