Embarrassment

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 How to Deal with Angry People (2023)

  They become a lens through which we view the person. It feeds into that perception problem because he starts thinking of me as a stupid and irresponsible employee and forgets the parts of the job I’m good at or the ways I’m responsible. So, putting this all together, we have an exhausted and stressed person (pre-anger state) encountering a situation where their goals are blocked (precipitant) in a way they find to be both embarrassing and catastrophic (appraisal). The situation was caused by an irresponsible employee (appraisal). He became quite enraged over this (feeling state), and expressed it by finding me and yelling at me (expression). Using this Information to De-Escalate So what does this diagram get me as the victim of the angry outburst? Two things: How to Intervene First, it helps tell me where to intervene in the moment. In this case, the anger was stemming from a few particular sources: Stress and exhaustionMisinformation about what happenedPerceptions of me as irresponsibleAs his employee, it’s not really my place to try and deal with the stress and exhaustion. Plus, that’s a difficult task in a situation like this. No one likes being told to relax or to take a break (especially by an employee). I can, however, work to address the misinformation. Ultimately, in this case the de-escalation was simply to clarify that misinformation. Understanding Patterns Second, over time, diagramming angry incidents like this can give you a sense for patterns when you regularly interact with an angry person. In this case, his anger at me often stemmed from his perceptions of me as irresponsible and incompetent. I can take steps to address those perceptions either through direct conversation (“I get the sense you think I’m irresponsible. Can we talk about what I can do to change that?”) or through more indirect approaches (I can find ways to demonstrate my responsibilities/competence to him). Similarly, when you know enough about a person to understand their triggers (both provocations and mood states), you’re better able to work through those things effectively. You can avoid situations you know will set them off. You can recognize when they are in a mood that is likely to lead to anger before the anger happens, and you can take some steps to preempt the anger. TIP Pay attention to patterns in how and why a person gets angry. Being able to identify those patterns allows you to better work through potential angry incidents in the future. When the Anger is Warranted Of course, there is one more reason why we might want to think about the anger from the other person’s perspective. In the case above, I wasn’t at fault. I didn’t do anything wrong (this time) and my boss’s anger at me was misdirected.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Eric, without moving his head, suddenly opened his eyes and looked blankly around the table. Then he looked sick, rose, and hurriedly vanished. All the students laughed. They were caustic about their vanished comrade, feeling that the character represented by Eric lacked courage. The film ground on, and Eric appeared twice more, once, silent, deep in the background, during a youthful council of war, and, finally, at the very end of the film, on a rooftop, with a machine gun in his hand. As he delivered his one line—“Nom de Dieu, que j’ai soif!”—the camera shifted to show him framed in the sights of an enemy gun; blood suddenly bubbled from Eric’s lips and he went sliding off the rooftop, out of sight. With Eric’s death, the movie also died for them, and, luckily, very shortly, it was over. They walked out of the cool darkness into the oven of July. “Who’s going to buy me that drink?” Eric asked. He smiled a pale smile. It was something of a shock to see him, standing on the sidewalk, shorter than he had appeared in the film, in flesh and blood. “Anyway, let’s get away from here before people start asking me for my autograph.” And he laughed. “It might happen, my dear,” said Cass, “you’ve got great presence on the screen.” “The movie’s not so much,” said Vivaldo, “but you were terrific.” “I didn’t really have anything to do,” said Eric. “No,” said Ida, “you didn’t. But you sure did the hell out of it.” They walked in silence for a few moments. “I’m afraid I can only have one drink with you,” Cass said, “and then I’ll have to go home.” “That’s right,” Ida said, “let’s don’t be hanging out with these cats until all hours of the morning. I got too many people to face tomorrow. Besides”—she glanced at Vivaldo with a small smile—“I don’t believe they’ve seen each other alone one time since Eric got off the boat.” “And you think we better give them an evening off,” Cass said. “If we don’t give it to them, they going to take it. But, this way, we can make ourselves look good—and that always comes in handy.” She laughed. “That’s right, Cass, you got to be clever if you want to keep your man.” “I should have started taking lessons from you years ago,” Cass said. “Now, be careful,” said Eric, mildly, “because I don’t think that’s very flattering.” “I was joking,” Cass said. “Well, I’m insecure,” said Eric.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The cab sped uptown, past men in front of barber shops, in front of barbeque joints, in front of bars; sped past side streets, long, dark, noisome, with gray houses leaning forward to cut out the sky; and in the shadow of these houses, children buzzed and boomed, as thick as flies on flypaper. Then they turned off the Avenue, west, crawled up a long, gray street. They had to crawl, for the street was choked with unhurrying people and children kept darting out from between the cars which were parked, for the length of the street, on either side. There were people on the stoops, people shouting out of windows, and young men peered indifferently into the slow-moving cab, their faces set ironically and their eyes unreadable. “Did Rufus ever have you up here?” she asked. “To visit his family, I mean.” “Yes,” said Vivaldo. “A long time ago. I had almost forgotten it. I had forgotten it until Ida reminded me. She was in pigtails then, the cutest little colored girl you ever saw. She was about fifteen. Rufus and I took her to Radio City.” She smiled at his description of Ida, and at his tone, which was unconsciously erotic. The cab crossed the Avenue and stopped on the far corner of the block they had come through, where the chapel stood. Two women stood on the steps of the chapel, talking together in low tones. As Cass watched and Vivaldo paid the driver, a young man joined them and they went inside. Suddenly, with a curse, she put her hand on her uncovered head. “Vivaldo,” she said, “I can’t go in there.” He stared at her blankly, while the taxi driver paused in the act of handing him his change. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing. Nothing. But a woman’s head has to be covered . I can’t go in there without a hat.” “Of course you can!” But at the same moment he remembered that he had never in his life seen a bareheaded woman in a church. “No, no, I can’t . They’re all wearing hats, all of them. It would be an insult if I didn’t, it would be like coming here in slacks.” She paused. “It’s a church , Vivaldo, it’s a funeral, it would be an insult.” He had already conceded her point and he stared at her helplessly. The cab driver still held the change and watched Vivaldo with a careful lack of expression. “Well, haven’t you got a scarf, or something?” “No.” She dug in her handbag, the pockets of her coat, close to tears. “No. Nothing.” “Listen, buddy,” the driver said. Vivaldo’s face lightened. “What about your belt? Can’t you tie that around your head? It’s black.” “Oh, no. That’ll never work. Besides—they’d know it was my belt.” “Try it.” To end the argument and prove her point, she took off her belt and tied it around her head. “You see?

• From Another Country (1962)

  Cass looked up at them with that smile which was at once chilling and warm. It was warm because it was affectionate; it chilled Rufus because it was amused. “Well, I’m not sure I’m speaking to either of you. You’ve been neglecting us shamefully. Richard has crossed you off his list.” She looked at Leona and smiled. “I’m Cass Silenski.” “This is Leona,” Rufus said, putting one hand on Leona’s shoulder. Cass looked more amused than ever, and at the same time more affectionate. “I’m very happy to meet you.” “I’m glad to meet you,” said Leona. They sat down on the stone rim of the fountain, in the center of which a little water played, enough for small children to wade in. “Give an account of yourselves,” Cass said. “Why haven’t you come to see us?” “Oh,” said Vivaldo, “I’ve been busy. I’ve been working on my novel.” “He’s been working on a novel,” said Cass to Leona, “ever since we’ve known him. Then he was seventeen and now he’s nearly thirty.” “That’s unkind,” said Vivaldo, looking amused at the same time that he looked ashamed and annoyed. “Well, Richard was working on one, too. Then he was twenty-five and now he’s close to forty. So—” She considered Vivaldo a moment. “Only, he’s had a brand-new inspiration and he’s been working on it like a madman. I think that’s one of the reasons he’s been rather hoping you’d come by—he may have wanted to discuss it with you.” “What is this new inspiration?” Vivaldo asked. “Offhand, it sounds unfair.” “Ah!”—she shrugged merrily, and took a deep drag on her cigarette—“I wasn’t consulted, and I’m kept in the dark. You know Richard. He gets up at some predawn hour and goes straight to his study and stays there until it’s time to go to work; comes home, goes straight to his study and stays there until it’s time to go to bed. I hardly ever see him. The children no longer have a father, I no longer have a husband.” She laughed. “He did manage to grunt something the other morning about it’s going very well.” “It certainly sounds as though it’s going well.” Vivaldo looked at Cass enviously. “And you say it’s new?—it’s not the same novel he was working on before?” “I gather not. But I really know nothing about it.” She dragged on her cigarette again, crushed it under her heel, immediately began searching in her bag for another. “Well, I’ll certainly have to come by and check on all this for myself,” said Vivaldo. “At this rate, he’ll be famous before I am.” “Oh, I’ve always known that,” said Cass, and lit another cigarette. Rufus watched the pigeons strutting along the walks and the gangs of adolescents roaming up and down. He wanted to get away from this place and this danger. Leona put her hand on his.

• From Another Country (1962)

  As Cass watched and Vivaldo paid the driver, a young man joined them and they went inside. Suddenly, with a curse, she put her hand on her uncovered head. “Vivaldo,” she said, “I can’t go in there.” He stared at her blankly, while the taxi driver paused in the act of handing him his change. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing. Nothing. But a woman’s head has to be covered. I can’t go in there without a hat.” “Of course you can!” But at the same moment he remembered that he had never in his life seen a bareheaded woman in a church. “No, no, I can’t. They’re all wearing hats, all of them. It would be an insult if I didn’t, it would be like coming here in slacks.” She paused. “It’s a church, Vivaldo, it’s a funeral, it would be an insult.” He had already conceded her point and he stared at her helplessly. The cab driver still held the change and watched Vivaldo with a careful lack of expression. “Well, haven’t you got a scarf, or something?” “No.” She dug in her handbag, the pockets of her coat, close to tears. “No. Nothing.” “Listen, buddy,” the driver said. Vivaldo’s face lightened. “What about your belt? Can’t you tie that around your head? It’s black.” “Oh, no. That’ll never work. Besides—they’d know it was my belt.” “Try it.” To end the argument and prove her point, she took off her belt and tied it around her head. “You see? It’ll never work.” “What’re you people going to do?” the driver asked. “I ain’t got all day.” “I’ll have to buy something,” Cass said. “We’ll be late.” “Well, you go on in. I’ll just drive to a store somewhere and I’ll come right back.” “Ain’t no stores around here, lady,” the driver said. “Of course there are stores somewhere near here,” Cass said, sharply. “You go on in, Vivaldo; I’ll come right back. What’s the address here?” Vivaldo gave her the address and said, “You’ll have to go to 125th Street, that’s the only place I know where there are any stores.” Then he took his change from the driver and tipped him. “The lady wants to go to 125th street,” he said. The driver turned in his seat resignedly, and turned on his meter. “You go on in, Vivaldo,” Cass said again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” “You have enough money on you?” “Yes. Go on in.”

• From Real Life (2020)

  Des blancs de poulet, du bœuf haché, du poisson, un assortiment de légumes surgelés, une pizza, quelques bacs à glaçons. Le froid lui fait du bien : il a encore un peu chaud aux joues du tennis et de la promenade entre le bord du lac et son appartement. Ses amis et leurs amis mangent rarement de la viande. En général, à leurs dîners, il y a plusieurs plats de légumes, plusieurs gratins de haricots, de pâtes et de fromage, de longues tiges vertes, du quinoa, des pois, des noix, des confitures, des baies et des graines. Un jour, dans les premiers temps, il a préparé des boulettes de viande suédoises comme en faisaient ses tantes pour les grandes tablées. De la viande rouge, de l’oignon, du piment, de l’ail et une sauce riche improvisée avec de la cannelle, du cumin, du vinaigre, de la chicorée et du sucre brun, le tout dans un plat à motifs nordiques acheté dans une brocante. Il s’était présenté à la porte, juste à l’abri de la pluie, le plat tiède sur les bras, tentant de sourire malgré sa nervosité. À l’époque, Yngve, Cole et Lukas habitaient ensemble une maison à la lisière du centre, dans l’un des rares quartiers résidentiels qui subsistaient, comme c’est souvent le cas dans les villes universitaires, où la frontière entre la ville et le village dont elle est issue devient floue et poreuse, et où il est possible, quand on regarde vers le bout d’une rue, de voir la marche du temps. Les persiennes, les porches, les colonnes blanches, les portes-fenêtres, les balançoires sur les vérandas, la limonade sur la rampe ou le thé qui infuse lentement sur des tables en osier, des maisons qui à une autre époque abritaient des familles, mais contiennent à présent les meubles dépareillés et les assiettes ébréchées qui représentent toute leur vie, à eux qui viennent de sortir de second ou de troisième cycle, maturité encore aussi frêle que les ailes d’une mite qui vient d’éclore. Quand la porte s’est ouverte, ce n’était pas un de ses amis, mais une fille sur laquelle Yngve avait plus ou moins des vues à l’époque, une grande brune d’Arizona, ou un autre endroit aride et sans intérêt. Elle avait posé un regard sur les boulettes et fait la grimace. Puis elle lui avait demandé s’il était perdu, ou s’il avait besoin de quelque chose. Yngve avait tout expliqué par la suite, un bras autour du cou de Wallace, riant tout bas à son oreille. « Désolé, désolé.

• From Shoe Dog: A Memoir by the Creator of Nike (2016)

  NIGHT We love going to the movies. We always have. But tonight we have a dilemma. We’ve seen all the violent movies, which Penny likes best, so we’re going to have to venture outside our comfort zone, try something different. A comedy, maybe. I leaf through the paper. “How about The Bucket List—at the Century? Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman?” She frowns: I guess. It’s Christmastime, 2007. THE BUCKET LIST turns out to be anything but a comedy. It’s a movie about mortality. Two men, Nicholson and Freeman, both terminally ill with cancer, decide to spend their remaining days doing all the fun things, the crazy things, they’ve always wanted to do, to make the most of their time before they kick the bucket. An hour into the movie, there’s not a chuckle to be had. There are also many strange, unsettling parallels between the movie and my life. First, Nicholson always makes me think of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which makes me think of Kesey, which takes me back to my days at the University of Oregon. Second, high on the bucket list of Nicholson’s character is seeing the Himalayas, which transports me to Nepal. Above all, Nicholson’s character employs a personal assistant—a sort of surrogate son—named Matthew. He even looks a bit like my son. Same scruffy goatee. When the movie ends, when the lights come up, Penny and I are both relieved to stand and return to the bright glare of real life. The theater is a new sixteen-screen colossus in the heart of Cathedral City, just outside Palm Springs. These days we spend much of the winter there, hiding from the chilly Oregon rains. Walking through the lobby, waiting for our eyes to adjust, we spot two familiar faces. At first we can’t place them. We’re still seeing Nicholson and Freeman in our minds. But these faces are equally familiar—equally famous. Now we realize. It’s Bill and Warren. Gates and Buffett. We stroll over. Neither man is what you’d call a close friend, but we’ve met them several times, at social events and conferences. And we have common causes, common interests, a few mutual acquaintances. “Fancy meeting you here!” I say. Then I cringe. Did I really just say that? Is it possible that I’m still shy and awkward in the presence of celebrities? “I was just thinking about you,” one of them says. We shake hands, all around, and talk mostly about Palm Springs. Isn’t this place lovely? Isn’t it wonderful to get out of the cold? We talk about families, business, sports. I hear someone behind us whisper, “Hey, look, Buffett and Gates—who’s that other guy?” I smile. As it should be. In my head I can’t help doing some quick math. At the moment I’m worth $10 billion, and each of these men is worth five or six times more. Lead me from the unreal to the real. Penny asks if they enjoyed the movie.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The sun had begun to decline towards the evening, and the heat was in great part abated, when the stories of the young ladies and of the three young men came to an end; whereupon quoth the queen blithesomely, "Henceforth, dear companions, there remaineth nought more to do in the matter of my governance for the present day, save to give you a new queen, who shall, according to her judgment, order her life and ours, for that[72] which is to come, unto honest pleasance. And albeit the day may be held to endure from now until nightfall, yet,--for that whoso taketh not somewhat of time in advance cannot, meseemeth, so well provide for the future and in order that what the new queen shall deem needful for the morrow may be prepared,--methinketh the ensuing days should commence at this hour. Wherefore, in reverence of Him unto whom all things live and for our own solacement, Filomena, a right discreet damsel, shall, as queen, govern our kingdom for the coming day." So saying, she rose to her feet and putting off the laurel-wreath, set it reverently on the head of Filomena, whom first herself and after all the other ladies and the young men likewise saluted as queen, cheerfully submitting themselves to her governance. [Footnote 72: _i.e._ that day.] Filomena blushed somewhat to find herself invested with the queendom, but, calling to mind the words a little before spoken by Pampinea,[73]--in order that she might not appear witless, she resumed her assurance and in the first place confirmed all the offices given by Pampinea; then, having declared that they should abide whereas they were, she appointed that which was to do against the ensuing morning, as well as for that night's supper, and after proceeded to speak thus: [Footnote 73: See ante, p. 8.] "Dearest companions, albeit Pampinea, more of her courtesy than for any worth of mine, hath made me queen of you all, I am not therefore disposed to follow my judgment alone in the manner of our living, but yours together with mine; and that you may know that which meseemeth is to do and consequently at your pleasure add thereto or abate thereof, I purpose briefly to declare it to you.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She peered into a hand mirror and patted her hair and then carefully put on her hat. “You used to tease her something awful,” she said. Ida returned, wearing a coat trimmed with fur, and with her mother’s coat over her arm. “Ah!” cried Rufus, “she’s glamorous!” “She’s beautiful,” said Vivaldo. “Now, if you-all going to make fun of me,” said Ida, “I ain’t going to come with you nowhere.” Mrs. Scott put on her coat and looked critically at her bareheaded daughter. “If she don’t stop being so glamorous, she going to end up with the flu.” She pulled Ida’s collar up higher and buttoned it. “Can’t get nobody in this family to wear a hat,” she said, “and then they wonder why they always full of cold.” Ida made an impatient gesture. “She afraid a hat going to mess up her hair. But she ain’t afraid of the wind doing nothing to it.” They laughed, Ida a little unwillingly, as though she were embarrassed that the joke was being shared with Vivaldo. They walked down the wintry block. Children were playing stickball in the streets, but it was otherwise nearly empty. A couple of boys were standing on a nearby stoop and they greeted Ida and Rufus and Mrs. Scott and looked with interest at Vivaldo; looked at him as though he were a member of an enemy gang, which, indeed, he had been, not very long before. An elderly woman slowly climbed the brownstone steps of a run-down building. A black sign jutted out from the building, saying, in white letters, MOUNT OLIVE APOSTOLIC FAITH CHURCH. “I don’t know where your father done got to,” said Mrs. Scott. “He right around the corner, in Jimmy’s Bar,” said Ida, shortly. “I doubt if he be home by the time I get back.” “Because I know you ain’t intending to be home before four in the morning,” said Mrs. Scott, smiling. “Well, he ain’t going to be home by then ,” said Ida, “and you know it well as I do.” A girl came toward them now, narrow-hipped, swift, and rough-looking. She, too, was bareheaded, with short, dirty, broken-off hair. She wore a man’s suede jacket, too large for her, and she held it at the neck with her hand. Vivaldo watched Ida watching the girl approach. “Here come Willa Mae,” said Mrs. Scott, “Poor little thing.” Then the girl stood before them, and she smiled. When she smiled her face was very different. She was very young . “How you-all today?” she asked. “Rufus, I ain’t seen you for the longest time.” “Just fine,” Rufus said. “How you making it?” He held his head very high and his eyes were expressionless. Ida looked down at the ground and held on to her mother. “Oh”—she laughed—“I can’t complain. Wouldn’t do no good nohow.” “You still at the same place?” “Sure. Where you think I’m going to move to?”

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Yes,” said Vivaldo. “A long time ago. I had almost forgotten it. I had forgotten it until Ida reminded me. She was in pigtails then, the cutest little colored girl you ever saw. She was about fifteen. Rufus and I took her to Radio City.” She smiled at his description of Ida, and at his tone, which was unconsciously erotic. The cab crossed the Avenue and stopped on the far corner of the block they had come through, where the chapel stood. Two women stood on the steps of the chapel, talking together in low tones. As Cass watched and Vivaldo paid the driver, a young man joined them and they went inside. Suddenly, with a curse, she put her hand on her uncovered head. “Vivaldo,” she said, “I can’t go in there.” He stared at her blankly, while the taxi driver paused in the act of handing him his change. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing. Nothing. But a woman’s head has to be covered. I can’t go in there without a hat.” “Of course you can!” But at the same moment he remembered that he had never in his life seen a bareheaded woman in a church. “No, no, I can’t. They’re all wearing hats, all of them. It would be an insult if I didn’t, it would be like coming here in slacks.” She paused. “It’s a church, Vivaldo, it’s a funeral, it would be an insult.” He had already conceded her point and he stared at her helplessly. The cab driver still held the change and watched Vivaldo with a careful lack of expression. “Well, haven’t you got a scarf, or something?” “No.” She dug in her handbag, the pockets of her coat, close to tears. “No. Nothing.” “Listen, buddy,” the driver said. Vivaldo’s face lightened. “What about your belt? Can’t you tie that around your head? It’s black.” “Oh, no. That’ll never work. Besides—they’d know it was my belt.” “Try it.” To end the argument and prove her point, she took off her belt and tied it around her head. “You see? It’ll never work.” “What’re you people going to do?” the driver asked. “I ain’t got all day.” “I’ll have to buy something,” Cass said. “We’ll be late.” “Well, you go on in. I’ll just drive to a store somewhere and I’ll come right back.” “Ain’t no stores around here, lady,” the driver said. “Of course there are stores somewhere near here,” Cass said, sharply. “You go on in, Vivaldo; I’ll come right back. What’s the address here?” Vivaldo gave her the address and said, “You’ll have to go to 125th Street, that’s the only place I know where there are any stores.” Then he took his change from the driver and tipped him. “The lady wants to go to 125th street,” he said.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Cela faisait deux ans qu’il n’était pas venu au lac avec ses amis, et il en était gêné car une si longue absence semblait exiger une explication, or il n’en avait pas. C’était peut-être à cause de la foule, de l’insistance du corps des autres, de la façon dont les oiseaux traçaient des cercles au-dessus de leurs têtes, avant de fondre en piqué sur les tables pour voler de la nourriture ou farfouiller à leurs pieds, comme si eux aussi étaient là pour tenir salon. Des menaces dans tous les recoins. Il y avait également le problème du bruit, le braiement de chacun, déterminé à couvrir la voix de tout le monde, la musique minable, les enfants et les chiens, les radios des types des fraternités sur les berges, les autoradios dans la rue, la masse beuglante de centaines de vies en désaccord. Le bruit exigeait de Wallace des efforts vagues et bizarres. Là, parmi les tables en bois bordeaux les plus proches de l’eau, il reconnut quatre d’entre eux. Ou, pour être plus précis, il vit Miller, qui était extraordinairement grand, le plus facile à repérer. Puis Yngve et Cole, qui étaient seulement grands , et enfin Vincent, qui culminait un peu au-dessous de la taille moyenne. Miller, Yngve et Cole ressemblaient à un trio de chevreuils pâles à deux pattes, des membres d’une espèce à part, et il eût été excusable, pour un observateur pressé, de les prendre pour des frères. Comme Wallace et tous leurs amis, ils étaient venus dans cette ville du Midwest pour leur troisième cycle de biochimie. Leur promotion était restreinte, pour la première fois depuis longtemps, et elle était la première depuis plus de trente ans à inclure un Noir. Dans ses moments les plus cyniques, Wallace se disait que ces deux particularités étaient liées : que c’était le rétrécissement, la diminution du nombre de candidats, qui avait rendu possible son admission. Wallace était sur le point de faire demi-tour – il n’était pas certain de pouvoir supporter la compagnie des autres, alors que tout à l’heure encore, elle lui avait semblé si nécessaire – lorsque Cole leva les yeux et remarqua sa présence. Il se mit à agiter les bras, comme s’il essayait de se faire plus grand afin de se faire voir, même s’il devait être évident que Wallace avait les yeux fixés sur eux. Plus de demi-tour possible, finalement. Il les salua d’un geste. On était vendredi. Wallace descendit l’escalier à moitié vermoulu et s’approcha du lac à l’odeur d’algue prononcée et nauséabonde. Suivant le mur courbe, il longea les coques des bateaux, les pierres sombres qui dépassaient de l’eau, la jetée, garnie elle aussi de groupes qui riaient, et en passant, il jeta un coup d’œil à la vaste étendue verte du lac lui-même, aux bateaux qui filaient, voiles blanches et sûres contre le vent et le ciel bas, immense. C’était parfait.

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

  Facial hair has been less abundant in this century than in centuries past (except in the 1960s), partly because medical opinion turned against them. As people became increasingly aware of the role of germs in spreading diseases, beards came to be viewed as repositories of germs. Previously, they had been advised by doctors as a means to protect the throat and filter air to the lungs. But by 1907 a Parisian scientist was walking the city with two men, one with and one without a mustache, to test the health hazards of the former. After their walk through the Louvre and other sites, they each kissed a woman whose lips had been sterilized. The residue was wiped off and dipped in a sterile solution and left standing for four days. The residue from the clean-shaven man contained merely harmless yeast, but the residue from the mustached man was “swarming with malignant microbes … diphtheria, putrefactive germs, minute bits of food, a hair from a spider’s legs and other odds and ends.” Beards never quite recovered. In a 1904 article in Harper’s Weekly, a columnist lamented the aesthetic effects of seeing every male face clean shaven: “The revelations are sometimes frightful: retreating chins, blubber lips, silly mouths, brutal jaws, fat and flabby necks, which had lurked unsuspected in their hairy coverts now appear.… Good heavens, he asks himself, is that the way Jones always looked?” In 1982 columnist Otto Fredrick shaved off his mustache. “To my dismay I saw in the mirror a face that I had not seen for more than a decade and I hardly recognized it. How had I acquired those deep vertical lines of discontent across both ends of my mouth?” Beards and mustaches have been used by men in much the same way that women use makeup to camouflage unattractive features and to mask the signs of aging. A well-placed mustache can make an asymmetrical nose or mouth look more symmetrical, and beards and goatees can change the apparent shape of the chin and jaw line. In psychologists’ studies, beards have a significant impact on face recognition. It would appear that emphasizing all the characteristic male features would make a man more handsome. If we look at magazine ads, we seem to see chiseled faces, all brows and jaws and piercing, narrowed eyes looking back at us from advertisements. In Botticelli’s Young Man, painted in the 1480s, he exaggerated the male characteristics of the young man’s handsome face by painting the different areas of his face as if seen from different angles. The artist appears to look straight into the boy’s eyes and lower lip, but views his chin, nose, and brow ridge from below.

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

  One of the newer cosmetic surgery techniques involves injecting a small amount of the nerve poison that causes botulism into the forehead between the brows. This temporarily paralyzes the corrugator muscle, the one that knits the brows together. After the “botox” treatment, the vertical lines between the brows disappear, no matter how vexed or perplexed a person is. A more permanent procedure is to snip the corrugator muscle. But how does one accurately convey feelings after paralyzing facial muscles? The corrugator normally knits when we hear unpleasant sounds, see objects we abhor or are frightened by, or when we see another person’s face with a knit corrugator. One way we communicate emotions is by facial mimicry, unconsciously adopting the expressions of others. Facial muscle activity is intimately related to our experience of emotion and is a readout of our reactions. Botox injections and other paralytic procedures are not the only ones to tamper with facial expressions. Brow lifts can inadvertently give the face a look of permanent wide-eyed surprise. One study compared the actual placement of brows after brow lifts with the opinions of cosmetic surgeons and cosmetologists about the ideal placement of brows. When looking at computer-altered faces differing only in brow height and shape, both groups preferred eyebrows at or below the supraorbital rim and disliked eyebrows above the rim. One hundred postoperative photographs taken from sixteen frequently cited articles on brow lifts, however, show the eyebrow placed above the rim. This gives the woman a look of permanent surprise. We will talk more about altering facial features in Chapter 5. Surgery on the skin tends to restore youth and erase signs of bad habits. But for the (mainly) women who opt for it, the change that may come from altering the upper third of the face is toward a more naive, open-eyed look and away from any sign of worry or anger. A lifted face looks perkier, but inevitably less commanding. The current vogue is for expressionless, blank-faced models. Diderot said that beauty in a woman is a vacant face, “a face of a young woman … innocent, naive, still without expression.” Is this the face women want to put forward as they grow older? Paul Ekman, the world’s expert on facial expression, believes that the nuances of expression may be as much under genetic control as the shape of our noses or the curve of our lips. When we alter expression we may also be altering family resemblance, the signature displays that are as heritable as the sound of our voice or the way we laugh. Beauty and Skin Color

• From Another Country (1962)

  “How do you do?” She gave him her hand, briefly. The brevity was not due to discourtesy or coldness, simply to lack of habit. Insofar as she saw him at all, she saw him as Rufus’ friend, one of the inhabitants of the world in which her son had chosen to live. “Sit down, do. Ida’ll be right out.” “She ready?” “Lord, she been getting ready for days. Done drove me nearly wild.” They sat down. Vivaldo sat near the window which looked out on a dirty back yard and the back fire escape of other buildings. Across the way, a dark man sat in front of his half-open window, staring out. In spite of the cold, he wore nothing but an undershirt. There was nothing in the yard except cans, bottles, papers, filth, and a single tree. “If anything had happened and you hadn’t showed up, I hate to think of the weeping and wailing that would have gone on in this house.” She paused and looked toward the door which led to the rest of the apartment. “Maybe you boys like a little beer while you waiting?” “That all you got to offer us?” Rufus asked, with a smile. “Where’s Bert?” “Bert’s down to the store and he ain’t back yet. You know how your father is. He going to be sorry he missed you.” She turned to Vivaldo. “Would you like a glass of beer, son? I’m sorry we ain’t got nothing else—–” “Oh, beer’s fine,” said Vivaldo, looking at Rufus, “I’d love a glass of beer.” She rose and walked into the kitchen. “What your friend do? He a musician?” “Naw,” said Rufus, “he ain’t got no talent.” Vivaldo blushed. Mrs. Scott returned with a quart bottle of beer and three glasses. She had a remarkably authoritative and graceful walk. “Don’t you mind my boy,” she said, “he’s just full of the devil, he can’t help it. I been trying to knock it out of him, but I ain’t had much luck.” She smiled at Vivaldo as she poured his beer. “You look kind of shy. Don’t you be shy. You just feel as welcome here as if you was in your own house, you hear?” And she handed him his glass. “Thank you,” said Vivaldo. He took a swallow of the beer, thinking she’d probably be surprised to know how unwelcome he felt in his own house. And then, again, perhaps she wouldn’t be surprised at all. “You look as though you dressed up to go out someplace, too, old lady.” “Oh,” she said, deprecatingly, “I’m just going down the block to see Mrs. Braithwaite. You remember her girl, Vickie? Well, she done had her baby. We going to the hospital to visit her.” “Vickie got a baby? Already?” “Well, the young folks don’t wait these days, you know that.” She laughed and sipped her beer. Rufus looked over at Vivaldo with a frown. “Damn,” he said. “How’s she doing?”

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

  Penis size has little to do with the size of the rest of the body, and a tall bulky man can have a smaller penis than a short thin man. The archived data from the Kinsey Institute of Sex Research show that the average penis of a college man is three to four inches when flaccid and five to seven inches when erect (with the range for the erect penis being 3.75 to 9.6 inches). A recent sample of over a thousand men between the ages of twenty and sixty-nine years old showed that the Kinsey data were still basically correct although there were a greater proportion of shorter erections with lengths in the 4.5 to 5.75 range representing forty percent of the total. Man’s concern with penis length is ironic—compared to most other primates, he is gigantically endowed. Four-hundred-and-fifty-pound gorillas commanding harems of females have penises that are a little over an inch when erect. Among the great apes only chimps have proportionately bigger testes than humans (but not bigger penises). But we humans have the capacity to create supernormal stimuli, and we use it. The simplest way is to pad. In the movie Spinal Tap, a hilarious send-up of a rock group, the bassist was stopped by an airport metal detector for carrying a foil-wrapped cucumber in his pants. Today, over ten thousand American men have tried a more permanent solution: surgery to lengthen or widen their penises (the procedure has also been performed on men in Japan, Australia, Germany, Britain, and other countries). The lengthening procedure does not involve any plastic inserts or fleshy attachments—the surgeon cuts two ligaments that attach the penis to the pubic bone and this allows the penis to extend fully from the body, externalizing a portion usually hidden inside the body. As one plastic surgeon said, “penis exposure” might be the most appropriate term for the procedure. After the penile suspensory ligaments are released, the angle of erection is less acute but the penis gains about one to two inches in length. Penises are widened by the injection of fat, although this procedure is not always aesthetically successful since the head or glans cannot be enlarged. This may leave the organ looking a bit like a tied balloon. Why do men bother? One physician studied three hundred men (of one thousand applicants in one clinic) who were approved for penis-enhancing surgery. The majority expressed what the physician, Dr. R. H. Stubbs, called “locker room phobia,” a sense of discomfort in front of other men. Fewer than a third came as a result of complaints or criticisms from their female sexual partners. The locker room phobia suggests that males view their penises as a means of competing with other males.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Mais ça dit juste préparation d’ADN, là sur le côté, je veux dire. » Dana, avec ses yeux noisette et larges comme ceux d’un chat, avait fait claquer sa langue contre son palais trois fois de suite, rapidement, un bruit désapprobateur. « Non, Wallace, avait-elle répliqué d’une voix lente, ferme. Je ne suis pas attardée. Je pense que je le saurais, si je m’étais trompée de kit. » Wallace était resté sonné, un peu surpris par l’intensité de la réaction, mais c’était sa paillasse à elle, son expérience. Elle pouvait faire ce qui lui chantait. Donc il s’était éloigné, les joues en feu. « OK, bon, si tu as besoin de quoi que ce soit. — Ce ne sera pas le cas. » Il l’avait observée tout le reste de la journée. Il était en deuxième année à l’époque, elle en première ; ils étaient jeunes, ils cherchaient encore leur voie. Que savait Wallace ? Après tout, il s’était toujours senti un peu mal à l’aise au labo, un peu hésitant. Et il pensait que tout le monde éprouvait la même chose. Doutait de soi. Rechignait à demander de l’aide car ça impliquait d’exposer ses faiblesses. Il avait voulu lui dire quelque chose à ce sujet, qu’il savait que ça pouvait être effrayant d’admettre son ignorance, mais que les autres se faisaient un plaisir d’aider, en général. Il avait voulu se montrer bon camarade, encourageant. Mais au lieu de ça, Dana avait tracé une frontière épaisse et impénétrable entre eux deux. Il était une chose. Elle en était une autre. Elle était douée. Lui non. Mais à la fin de cette journée, Dana fixait ses colonnes, se demandant ce qui avait pu dérailler. Debout, elle scrutait les analyses de pureté d’ADN qui, bien sûr, étaient aberrantes. Le relevé détaillé disait qu’il n’y avait pas du tout de protéines dans le tube. Mais elle ne comprenait pas pourquoi. N’avait-elle pas suivi les indications ? Simone se posta au bout de sa paillasse et examina les résultats avec elle. Elle fit signe de s’approcher à Wallace, qui s’exécuta timidement. La nuit était tombée en un voile sombre et lisse par la fenêtre. Il vit le reflet d’eux trois dans la vitre. « Tu sais ce qui s’est passé, Wallace ? demanda Simone. — À quel sujet ? — Les résultats de Dana. Elle dit que tu as mélangé les kits. » Wallace fronça les sourcils et secoua la tête. « Non.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Tu es là. On est tous là. On est là. — Quel sens de l’observation, putain ! — On pourrait pas juste profiter du petit bout d’été qui reste ? — Mais bien sûr, trop bien – maintenant qu’il est fini. Génial. — Une nouvelle année commence, hasarda Yngve. Tu sais ce que ça signifie. — Nouvelle année, nouvelles données », entonnèrent Cole et Yngve d’une seule voix, les yeux pétillants d’un optimisme solaire, acharné. Cela fit rire un peu Wallace. Pendant un instant, il s’oublia, et se raccrocha à leur enthousiasme, à leur foi dans le possible. Nouvelle année, nouvelles données. Il ne le croyait pas pour lui-même. C’était juste une phrase toute faite. Une façon de tenir le coup. Il cogna ses poings fermement sur la table. « Je touche du bois. — N’importe quoi, dit Vincent. — Allez, quoi. » Cole passa le bras autour des épaules de Vincent, mais celui-ci le repoussa. Il lâcha son pot et de la glace coula sur le bord du récipient, éclaboussant la table. Une goutte blanche – tiède comme un crachat – atterrit sur le poignet de Wallace. « Qu’est-ce que vous feriez si vous n’aviez pas ça ? Si vous deviez vous débrouiller tout seuls ? » demanda Vincent. Il les regarda tour à tour. Miller avait haussé les sourcils. Yngve rougit un peu. Wallace récupéra quelques-unes des serviettes de Cole pour se nettoyer le poignet. « Nous débrouiller tout seuls ? Désolé, mais tu travailles dans la finance . T’es pas franchement un galérien non plus, répliqua Cole. — J’ai pas dit que j’étais un galérien. Tout ce que je dis c’est : et si vous deviez vous débrouiller ? Penser par vous-mêmes ? Organiser votre propre vie, putain ? Vous seriez paumés. — Je n’organise pas ma vie ? Mon projet ? Mes expériences ? T’es en train de me dire qu’on n’organise pas notre vie ensemble ? On a des meubles , Vincent. — Parce que j’ai acheté des meubles. Quand je suis arrivé ici, en gros, tu vivais dans une fraternité avec ces deux-là », trancha Vincent, désignant sèchement Yngve et Miller, qui restèrent stoïques. « Des planches de contreplaqué posées sur des seaux en guise de tables basses. T’y connais rien, en meubles, exactement comme tu serais totalement incapable de trouver un vrai boulot, avec une assurance, des impôts à payer. On peut même pas prendre de vraies vacances. Cinq jours dans l’Indiana – le pied. Merveilleux. — On a passé l’été dernier dans le Mississippi avec tes parents, non ? — Oui, mais ta famille déteste les gays, Cole. Ça fait une différence. » Wallace rit puis referma la bouche le plus hermétiquement qu’il le put. Une fois de plus, il éprouva une pointe de honte à voir une affaire privée devenir atrocement publique sous ses yeux. Et pourtant il ne pouvait détourner le regard.

• From Push (1996)

  She don't look me like I'm crazy but say, If you just sit there the river gonna rise up drown you! Writing could be the boat carry you to the other side. One time in your journal you told me you had never really told your story. I think telling your story git you over that river Precious. I still don't move. She say, "Write." I tell her, "I am tired. Fuck you!" I scream, "You don't know nuffin' what I been through!" I scream at Ms Rain. I never do that before. Class look shock. I feel embarrass, stupid; sit down, I'm made a fool of myself on top of everything else. "Open your notebook Precious." "I'm tired," I says. She says, "I know you are but you can't stop now Precious, you gotta push." And I do. SAPPHIRE - PUSH (EN) (PDF).pdf IV 2/27/89 Ms Rain say more now, much more. She wan more from me. More than 15 minutes an she write back. Say walk wif it. The journal? I say. Yeah, she say, Walk wif da journl. Everywhere you go, journl journal go. You know I go walk with Abdul etc., take journal, write stuff in journal. learnin lot: to too two. three diffrent 2 words. Each one is diffrent different. Four for fore. Three four words. Stori Ms Rain tell me to koncentrate on my story. When I kft can not spell a word Ms Rain tell me sound out firs lettr c and draw a lin. Thas concentrate. Latrer she will fill in rite spelling for me. But my spelling is impruv. Way way improve. Ms Rain say I seem dpress deprssjoji is she say angrer turn in. Jermaine say not necessarily rally (Whutevr Ms Rain say Jermaine don agree) Rite write write more she say talk more say gte get V2 hos staf to get babee sitter xtra hr so I can go to meatings, movie. You no I never (good spell) bin a movie, cep vidios on Mama's VCR. I never bin chuc. Rhonda goe ALL the time. Want take me an Ms Rain. She want take hole skool sins she bin savd. For a monf it bin like this. I feel daze. Ms Rain see it say you not same girl i kno. is tru. I am a difrent persn anybuddy wood be don't u think? dont u think. Ms Rain say go back back back far you can rember. what four? I say whut i got to rmember i nevr dun forgit mama daddy scool Y why go thru ALL (i like that word) DAT ALL DAT ALL DAT SHIT But Ms Rain worred worryed worried about mi. Thas nice sumebuddy care but I don want to worri her. She sen note 2way hous for me to cum scool Vi hr erly to write. And go downtown wif Rhonda for insect talk grup and chuc. I think I AM MAD.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Yes,” said Vivaldo. “A long time ago. I had almost forgotten it. I had forgotten it until Ida reminded me. She was in pigtails then, the cutest little colored girl you ever saw. She was about fifteen. Rufus and I took her to Radio City.” She smiled at his description of Ida, and at his tone, which was unconsciously erotic. The cab crossed the Avenue and stopped on the far corner of the block they had come through, where the chapel stood. Two women stood on the steps of the chapel, talking together in low tones. As Cass watched and Vivaldo paid the driver, a young man joined them and they went inside. Suddenly, with a curse, she put her hand on her uncovered head. “Vivaldo,” she said, “I can’t go in there.” He stared at her blankly, while the taxi driver paused in the act of handing him his change. “What’re you talking about?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you?” “Nothing. Nothing. But a woman’s head has to be covered. I can’t go in there without a hat.” “Of course you can!” But at the same moment he remembered that he had never in his life seen a bareheaded woman in a church. “No, no, I can’t. They’re all wearing hats, all of them. It would be an insult if I didn’t, it would be like coming here in slacks.” She paused. “It’s a church, Vivaldo, it’s a funeral, it would be an insult.” He had already conceded her point and he stared at her helplessly. The cab driver still held the change and watched Vivaldo with a careful lack of expression. “Well, haven’t you got a scarf, or something?” “No.” She dug in her handbag, the pockets of her coat, close to tears. “No. Nothing.” “Listen, buddy,” the driver said. Vivaldo’s face lightened. “What about your belt? Can’t you tie that around your head? It’s black.” “Oh, no. That’ll never work. Besides—they’d know it was my belt.” “Try it.” To end the argument and prove her point, she took off her belt and tied it around her head. “You see? It’ll never work.” “What’re you people going to do?” the driver asked. “I ain’t got all day.” “I’ll have to buy something,” Cass said. “We’ll be late.” “Well, you go on in. I’ll just drive to a store somewhere and I’ll come right back.” “Ain’t no stores around here, lady,” the driver said. “Of course there are stores somewhere near here,” Cass said, sharply. “You go on in, Vivaldo; I’ll come right back. What’s the address here?” Vivaldo gave her the address and said, “You’ll have to go to 125th Street, that’s the only place I know where there are any stores.” Then he took his change from the driver and tipped him. “The lady wants to go to 125th street,” he said.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  For the good of the house, Dickie ordered champagne; it was warm and sweet and unpleasantly heady. Only Jeanne and Mary and Dickie herself had the courage to sample this curious beverage. Wanda stuck to her brandy and Pat to her beer, while Stephen drank coffee; but Valérie Seymour caused some confu- sion by gently insisting on a lemon squash — to be made with fresh lemons. Presently the guests began to arrive in couples, THE WELL OF LONELINESS 445 Having seated themselves at the tables, they quickly became ob- livious to the world, what with the sickly champagne and each other. From a hidden recess there emerged a woman with a basket full of protesting roses. The stout vendeuse wore a wide wedding ring — for was she not a most virtuous person? But her glance was both calculating and shrewd as she pounced upon the more obvious couples; and Stephen watching her progress through the room, felt suddenly ashamed on behalf of the roses. And now at a nod from the host there was music; and now at a bray from the band there was dancing. Dickie and Wanda opened the ball — Dickie stodgy and firm, Wanda rather unsteady. Others fol- lowed. Then Mary leant over the table and whispered: ‘ Won’t you dance with me, Stephen? ’ Stephen hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she got up abruptly and danced with Mary. The handsome young man with the tortured eyebrows was bowing politely before Valérie Seymour. Refused by her, he passed on to Pat, and to Jeanne’s great amusement was promptly accepted. Brockett arrived and sat down at the table. He was in his most prying and cynical humour. He watched Stephen with coldly observant eyes, watched Dickie guiding the swaying Wanda, watched Pat in the arms of the handsome young man, watched the whole bumping, jostling crowd of dancers. k The blended odours were becoming more active. Brockett lit a cigarette. ‘ Well, Valérie darling? You look like an outraged Elgin marble. Be kind, dear, be kind; you must live and let live, this is life. . . .’ And he waved his soft, white hands. Observe it—it’s very wonderful, darling. This is life, love, defiance, emancipation! ’ Said Valérie with her calm little smile: ‘1 think I preferred it when we were all martyrs! ’ The dancers drifted back to their seats and Brockett ma- neeuvred to sit beside Stephen. ‘ You and Mary dance well to- gether,’ he murmured. ‘Are you happy? Are you enjoying yourselves? ’ 446 THE WELL OF LONELINESS Stephen, who hated this inquisitive mood, this mood that would feed upon her emotions, turned away as she answered him, rather coldly: ‘ Yes, thanks — we’re not having at all a bad evening.’