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 Little Women (1868)

  So she dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment... "Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to see Mr. Dashwood." Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion. "A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this suits." While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages. "Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure sign of a novice. "No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the Blarneystone Banner ." "Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week." Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week. When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  “The VCR allowed you to watch it in the safety and comfort of your own home,” Royalle said. “It gave people a private place rather than having to go sit in a grimy public place. That privacy was the only way women were going to start exploring this type of movie.” Her then father-in-law, a Swede named Store Sjöstedt who had made his fortune producing spaghetti westerns for Paramount Pictures, had gone on to finance a few big-budget X-rated features, including Roommates and Games Women Play. Both films were released in 1981 and were part of a wave of such movies made with the aim of integrating pornography into mainstream culture. This trend began with Deep Throat (1972), Behind the Green Door (1972), The Devil in Miss Jones (1973) and a handful of other hard-core movies that played in regular cinemas. Despite the proliferation of pornographic businesses in the Internet age, the Deep Throat era is still known as the golden age of porn. With terms like “porno chic” finding a place in The New York Times and other reputable publications, the golden age reflected a sense of acceptance that was even more important than how much money these films were making. This trend did not last long. The inevitable backlash drove these films back into the porn cinemas, and increasingly onto videocassette. Royalle’s father-in-law gave her her first VCR—a huge, clunky machine that was state-of-the-art at the time. “I got my idea for Femme just a couple of years after that. I recognized that women are curious. I was a feminist back in college and we were very pro-sex. And that combined with the advent of the VCR and cable TV gave me a safe place to look. That’s really what motivated me.” Though she got out of performing, the experience remained with her. “It didn’t go away. On a couple of different levels I was bothered by the fact that even though I thought I was perfectly fine to do it—I wasn’t hurting anyone—there was a little voice in me that was feeling some amount of embarrassment and shame over it. I didn’t want to drag that around with me. I’ve always been very analytical by nature. I thought, I have to explore this and find out why this is an issue for me. Why do I have two voices here? I went into therapy with a very bright woman and worked through all of this stuff and I realized that I had to try to separate myself from societal norms and try to judge myself.

• From Wild (2012)

  I could see that the road to Three Lakes had only recently become free of snow. Great gashes had split open in places across it and streams of melting snow flowed in wide gaping gullies along its sides. I followed it up beneath a dense canopy of trees without seeing anyone. Midafternoon, I felt a familiar tug inside me. I was getting my period, I realized. My first on the trail. I’d almost forgotten it could come. The new way I’d been aware of my body since beginning my hike had blunted the old ways. No longer was I concerned about the delicate intricacies of whether I felt infinitesimally fatter or thinner than I had the day before. There was no such thing as a bad hair day. The smallest inner reverberations were obliterated by the frank pain I always felt in the form of my aching feet or the muscles of my shoulders and upper back that knotted and burned so hard and hot that I had to pause several times an hour to do a series of moves that would offer a moment of relief. I took off my pack, dug through my first aid kit, and found the jagged hunk of natural sponge I’d put in a small ziplock bag before my trip began. I’d used it only a few times experimentally before I took it on the PCT. Back in Minneapolis, the sponge had seemed like a sensible way to deal with my period given my circumstances on the trail, but now that I held it, I was less than sure. I attempted to wash my hands with water from my bottle, dousing the sponge as I did so, and then squeezed it out, pulled down my shorts, squatted on the road, and pushed the sponge into my vagina as far as I could, wedging it against my cervix. As I pulled up my shorts, I heard the sound of an engine approaching, and a moment later a red pickup truck with an extended cab and oversized tires rounded a bend. The driver hit the brakes when he saw me, startled at the sight. I was startled too, and deeply grateful that I wasn’t still squatting and half naked with my hand jammed into my crotch. I waved nervously as the truck pulled up beside me. “Howdy,” a man said, and reached through his open window. I took his hand and shook it, conscious of where mine had just been. There were two other men in the truck with him—one in the front and another in the back seat with two boys. The men looked to be in their thirties, the boys about eight. “You headed up to Three Lakes?” the man asked. “Yeah.” He was handsome and clean-cut and white, like the man beside him and the boys in the back. The other man was Latino and long-haired, a hard round belly rising before him.

• From Wild (2012)

  I went to work, integrating the new with the old, feeling as if I were taking a test that I was bound to fail. When I was done, Albert returned and methodically unpacked my pack. He placed each item in one of two piles—one to go back into my pack, another to go into the now-empty resupply box that I could either mail home or leave in the PCT hiker free box on the porch of the Kennedy Meadows General Store for others to plunder. Into the box went the foldable saw and miniature binoculars and the megawatt flash for the camera I had yet to use. As I looked on, Albert chucked aside the deodorant whose powers I’d overestimated and the disposable razor I’d brought with some vague notion about shaving my legs and under my arms and—much to my embarrassment—the fat roll of condoms I’d slipped into my first aid kit. “Do you really need these?” Albert asked, holding the condoms. Albert the Georgia Daddy Eagle Scout, whose wedding band glinted in the sun, who cut off the handle of his own toothbrush, but no doubt carried a pocket-sized Bible in his pack. He looked at me stone-faced as a soldier, while the white plastic wrappers of a dozen ultrathin nonlubricated Trojan condoms made a clickety-clack sound as they unfurled like a party streamer from his hand. “No,” I said, feeling as if I was going to die of shame. The idea of having sex seemed absurd to me now, though when I’d packed my supplies it had struck me as a reasonable prospect, back before I had a clue of what hiking the Pacific Crest Trail would do to my body. I’d not seen myself since I was at the motel in Ridgecrest, but after the men had gone off to nap, I’d taken the opportunity to gaze at my face in the mirror attached to the side of Ed’s truck. I looked tan and dirty, despite my recent dunk in the river. I’d become remotely leaner and my dark blonde hair a tad lighter, alternately flattened and sprung alive by a combination of dried sweat, river water, and dust. I didn’t look like a woman who might need twelve condoms. But Albert didn’t pause to ponder such things—whether I’d get laid or not, whether I was pretty. He pushed on, pillaging my pack, inquiring sternly each time before tossing another item I’d previously deemed necessary into the get-rid-of pile. I nodded almost every time he held an item up, agreeing it should go, though I held the line on both The Complete Stories and my beloved, intact copy of The Dream of a Common Language. I held the line on my journal, in which I recorded everything I did that summer. And when Albert wasn’t looking, I tore one condom off the end of the fat roll of condoms he’d tossed aside and slid it discreetly into the back pocket of my shorts.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Perhaps Vivaldo was the only person there who had ever seen her out of blue jeans and sweaters. “Hi, everybody,” she said, and smiled her bright, hostile smile. She sat down. “Haven’t seen any of you for months.” “Still painting?” Cass asked. “Or have you given that up?” “I’ve been working like a dog,” Jane said, continuing to look around her and avoiding Vivaldo’s eyes. “Seems to suit you,” Cass muttered, and put on her coat. Jane looked at Rufus, beginning, it seemed, to recover her self-possession. “How’ve you been, Rufus?” “Just fine,” he said. “We’ve all been dissipating,” said Richard, “but you look like you’ve been being a good girl and getting your beauty sleep every night.” “You look great,” said Vivaldo, briefly. For the first time she looked directly at him. “Do I? I guess I’ve been feeling pretty well. I’ve cut down on my drinking,” and she laughed a little too loudly and looked down. Richard was paying the waiter and had stood up, his trench coat over his arm. “Are you all leaving?” “We’ve got to,” said Cass, “we’re just dull, untalented, old married people.” Cass glanced over at Rufus, saying, “Be good now; get some rest.” She smiled at him. He longed to do something to prolong that smile, that moment, but he did not smile back, only nodded his head. She turned to Jane and Vivaldo. “So long, kids. See you soon.” “Sure,” Jane said. “I’ll be over tomorrow,” said Vivaldo. “I’m expecting you,” Richard said, “don’t fail me. So long, Jane.” “So long.” “So long.” Everyone was gone except Jane and Rufus and Vivaldo. I wouldn’t mind being in jail but I’ve got to stay there so long.... The seats the others had occupied were like a chasm now between Rufus and the white boy and the white girl. “Let’s have another drink,” Vivaldo said. So long.... “Let me buy,” Jane said. “I sold a painting.” “Did you now? For a lot of money?” “Quite a lot of money. That’s probably why I was in such a stinking mood the last time you saw me—it wasn’t going well.” “You were in a stinking mood, all right.” Wouldn’t mind being in jail.... “What’re you having, Rufus?” “I’ll stick to Scotch, I guess.” But I’ve got to stay there.... “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know what makes me such a bitch.” “You drink too much. Let’s just have one drink here. Then I’ll walk you home.” They both looked quickly at Rufus. So long.... “I’m going to the head,” Rufus said. “Order me a Scotch with water.” He walked out of the back room into the roaring bar. He stood at the door for a moment, watching the boys and girls, men and women, their wet mouths opening and closing, their faces damp and pale, their hands grim on the glass or the bottle or clutching a sleeve, an elbow, clutching the air.

• From Another Country (1962)

  She fumbled in her handbag. He watched her. “You are married?” he asked at last. “Yes.” She smiled. “With two children.” “Boy or girl?” “Two boys.” “That is very good,” he said. She paid him. “Good-bye. I wish you well.” He smiled. It was a really friendly smile. “I also wish you well. You are very nice. Good night.” “Good night.” She opened the door and the light shone full on their faces for a moment. His face was very young and direct and hopeful, and caused her to blush a little. She slammed the cab door behind her, and walked into her house without looking back. She heard the cab drive away. The light was on in the living room, and Richard, fully dressed except for his shoes, lay on the sofa, asleep. He was usually in bed, or at work, when she came home. She stared at him for a moment. There was a half-glass of vodka on the table next to him, and a dead cigarette in the ashtray. He slept very silently and his face looked tormented and very young. She started to wake him, but left him there, and tiptoed into the room where Paul and Michael slept. Paul lay on his belly, the sheet tangled at his feet, and his arms thrown up. With a shock, she saw how heavy he was, and how tall: he was already at the outer edge of his boyhood. It had happened so fast, it seemed almost to have happened in a dream. She looked at the sleeping head and wondered what thoughts it contained, what judgments, watched one twitching leg and wondered what his dreams were now. Gently, she pulled the sheet up to his shoulders. She looked at the secretive Michael, curled on his side like a worm or an embryo, hands hidden between his legs, and the hair damp on his forehead. But she did not dare to touch his brow: he woke too easily. As quietly as possible, she retrieved his sheet from the floor and lay it over him. She left their room and walked into the bathroom. Then she heard, in the living room, Richard’s feet hit the floor. She washed her face, combed her hair, staring at her weary face in the mirror. Then she walked into the living room. Richard sat on the sofa, the glass of vodka in his hands, staring at the floor. “Hello,” she said, “What made you fall asleep in here?” She had left her handbag in the bathroom. She walked to the bar and picked up a package of cigarettes and lit one. She asked, mockingly, “You weren’t, were you, waiting up for me?” He looked at her, drained his glass, and held it out. “Pour me a drink. Pour yourself a drink, too.” She took his glass. Now, his face which in sleep had looked so young, looked old. A certain pain and terror passed through her.

• From Little Women (1868)

  I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim as I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoiled.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die. "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window... "Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake." "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing." "How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs.

• From Little Women (1868)

  When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, "Is Laurie an accomplished boy?" "Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother. "And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy. "Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so much." "I see. It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully. "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March. "Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh. CHAPTER EIGHT JO MEETS APOLLYON "Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity. "Never mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply. Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away, dear" is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely." "I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it." "You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?" "Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering." Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket. "I know! I know! You're going to the theater to see the Seven Castles! " she cried, adding resolutely, "and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and it was mean not to tell me in time." "Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece.

• From Little Women (1868)

  He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant. He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life. It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind. "Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last evening. She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my friend." "Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see. "Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new." "That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered tone. "Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like you to see him." Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially...

• From Little Women (1868)

  basket after the old lady. "Please don't—it's—it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. "Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?" Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies' diverted his mind from the comical mishap. "I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the 'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet. "There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady. "Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh. In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their

• From Little Women (1868)

  Will you come in? It won't take long." Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries. When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the whole. "Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers. "What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went in. "May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air. "They eat them when they can get them." "Do you care for nuts?" "Like a squirrel." "Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?" Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again. "Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block. "Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it. "I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me." "Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it. "I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?" "Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator. "Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care.

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

  It all felt so absurd that I was sure someone was going to jump out of a hiding place and yell, “Surprise! You’re on Candid Camera.” I was also deeply, deeply embarrassed that this discussion was being held in front of Jessica, although apparently she had known that this was coming for a couple of months. Even now, more than a decade later as I recount this story, I can feel the tension and anxiety of that day and that situation re-emerge in my body. My hands, arms and shoulders are filled with a peculiar energized feeling that I experience at times of great stress and my stomach is in knots; feelings that I had all but suppressed on that bizarre and fateful day. My body was telling me, in the only way it could, that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. But my brain had been hijacked and I had stopped listening to my body long ago. I felt the all-too-familiar feeling of my logical brain and authentic self fighting with my cult self, although of course this was a feeling I would not have been able to name at the time. My cult self was by now much more in control of me, naturally, after eight years of indoctrination and exposure to the unusual, unreasonable, damaging and debilitating requests made of us in God’s name. But even by the sick and twisted standards that I’d become comfortable with, this seemed a little too ridiculous to believe. But remember what I said about Limori knowing what everyone’s lever was? She knew me just as well as she knew anyone in her sway, so she knew I had two primary levers: Michael and God. So she took these two great loves of mine and used them to her best advantage. I remember asking a few questions and reminding them both that the timing of this request was a little questionable, as I was leaving town in two days to spend five weeks hiking in England. And then I agreed to do what God was asking. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that whenever these sorts of bombs were dropped into our lives (for example, that a couple should break up or someone should move to live at Wolf’s Den or someone was being used by very dark energy, and so on), Limori made sure to parcel out the information in small pieces. She would not, for example, get on the phone with Michael and abruptly announce, “God says you should take a mistress. It should be Alexandra. Tell Jessica tomorrow and then tell Alexandra.” Had she delivered information in that way we would never have been so hooked into her manipulation or nearly as compliant and obedient. She was extraordinarily skilled at easing her disciples into challenging, painful situations very slowly, degree by strategic degree, while always, always maintaining that everything she asked of us was because God had requested it.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately. "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling. "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg with a tragic gesture. Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even 'Croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun. "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's dinner table. They did sober themselves for Beth's sake. Laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner. Here lies Pip March, Who died the 7th of June; Loved and lamented sore, And not forgotten soon. At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper. Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs.

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

  We must remove these hooks from inside you so that they cannot be used in such a way. Bring everything into the light and it will no longer have a hold on you.” We were given three hours. There was to be no talking among us, but we could go anywhere on the property. I wrote earnestly, searching every nook, cranny and memory inside me and dragging up whatever I could think of that was shameful or secret. As did everyone else, it seemed: all around the grounds, on lawn chairs by the water and on porches and at kitchen tables, we wrote until our wrists ached. After lunch, as we settled back into our seats around the living room, I felt that I could see pride and relief on everyone’s faces. Some chagrin too, but mostly pride. Limori asked us how the experience was, and a few of us chimed up with explanations of what the exercise had been like. She listened and nodded sagely, as always, and then dropped the bomb. “Now, you will all read out loud to the group what you have written.” “What?!” Amber exclaimed. “I didn’t know we would be sharing this information.” Her face was deeply flushed and she moved restlessly in her seat, eyes wide and shocked. “I know,” Limori said. “I didn’t say earlier that you would be sharing what you’ve written but Azeen says that in order to completely clear out the shadows from within you, each of you must do exactly that.” More of us shifted in our seats and squirmed with discomfort. “Who wants to go first?” Limori looked around the room, her eyes passing over each one of us until one brave soul volunteered to do what each of us was dreading. And so the afternoon passed. And then we continued for the duration of the following day. It took up to an hour (sometimes more) for each person to read aloud what they’d written and then have Limori/Azeen respond to what had been shared. We confessed to everything from shoplifting chocolate bars as a seven-year-old to adultery and more. Lisa told us of a child she’d given up for adoption when she was a teenager and an abortion she’d had in her early twenties, events that even her husband didn’t know about. Norman, whose wife Nelly was also a member of the group but not there among us at the workshop, volunteered that he’d insisted on having anal intercourse with his wife. I am a fairly private person so the experience of listening to everyone’s deepest, darkest secrets hour after hour was agonizing. When it was my turn to read what I’d written, my secrets and shameful events paled in comparison to those of some of the others in the group; I wasn’t perfect by any means, just young. I hadn’t had as much time or inclination to accumulate secrets, though I still flushed to my roots while I read what I had written.

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

  “How do you get by with such a small purse?” she asked wonderingly, a little wistfully. She was about my age, in her mid-thirties, with crisply permed blond hair and careful makeup. I told her I’d worked years to have a purse so light and lean, and then we talked for a while about all the things without which we can’t seem to get by, for which we must carry everywhere a bag of some size hung awkwardly off our shoulders. She listed a few: makeup, hairbrush, hair spray, perfume, hand lotion, barrettes. I wanted to tell her I’d given up my larger purse because I’ve never been very good at these feminine skills, that my purses seemed to fill with books and receipts instead, just as my fingernails tend to chip and my hair hangs loose. But what I really felt was defensive. She said my purse was small. And while I may practice a casual pride about my freedom from the rituals of sexual relations in the 1990s, what I often feel is a niggling concern—and I reach in my purse and wonder why the hell I can never remember to carry a comb. There’s a lot to be said for gender roles. Mainly, they allow us to meet strangers on solid ground. One treats men one way, women another, period. Gender roles give us prescribed behaviors, the safety of the familiar, of knowing what to expect. Gender roles seem to make things easier, but we’ve all felt them at least as much as a source of pain, false expectations, thin hopes, disillusionment, and loss. Gender roles tell us we must fit a few categories and must choose, must pick one gender with which to be sexual, one gender in which to be professional, to be parental, to be everything. Leaving your gender role in any way gets you punished. The transsexual is in league with the effeminate man as well as the sexually aggressive woman, the politically powerful woman, the sexually or socially retiring man. Jacques Lacan traced much anguish to every child’s break from his or her mother, every person’s discovery of the unattainably separate Other. This break, said Lacan, was true castration, this loss was real phallus envy, and we all, male and female, suffer it. The real tragedy of adult life is finding out that one’s objects of desire, one’s own whole self, can only be longed for and never truly possessed. Distinct gender roles are a panacea to our lonesomeness. Inadequate, all; neurotic, all. At least we can know the limits by which we dress, talk, and behave.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else." "That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr. "I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy. "Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy. "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a bolder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty." "So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told her." "I wish I'd known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly. "You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery. Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best,

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  This might seem a far cry from the convent. But in my own way, I shared what Savage calls the “first time intensity” of my generation. The raw, disturbing beat of rock ’n’ roll had penetrated my convent school, even though I was neither able nor equipped to answer its summons. I did not like being a teenage girl in the 1950s. I was awkward, plain, bookish, and unpopular with boys. I looked absurd in the fashions of the day: the wide, swirling skirts, pert ponytails, and back-combed beehives. In 1961, the year before I entered the convent, my parents tried to entice me from my intended course by talking me into joining a young people’s group at the Birmingham Catholic Ball. It was a ghastly affair. Encased in a stiff brocaded dress with a skirt that stuck out aggressively, my feet squeezed into an agonizing pair of pink satin shoes with long pointed toes, I was hobbled. On the few occasions when I was invited to dance, and grimly quickstepped, waltzed, and fox-trotted with a herd of others, I felt like a prisoner going round and round the exercise yard. At one point my partner and I left the main room and for ten blissful minutes managed to escape. We weren’t doing anything unlawful; we weren’t smoking, drinking alcohol, or kissing—just sitting on the stairs and talking—but a friend of my mother’s pounced on me and frog-marched me back into the ballroom. I felt like a Victorian girl who had been compromised in some way. There had to be more to life than this. Of course, there were alternatives to the convent. Young girls were told that, within reason, they could do anything they wanted: they could study, travel, and have a career—until they got married. But even though I shrank from the appalling prospect of being an old maid, marriage did not look particularly appealing either, since most of the women I knew spent their lives ceaselessly cleaning, baking, and washing, chores that I detest to this day. When my father had business problems, my mother took a job and started an interesting career in the medical school of Birmingham University. I could see how she blossomed in this new environment, but the cooking and washing up still had to be done. By contrast, the nuns seemed remarkably unencumbered. They had no men to tell them what to do, ran their own lives, and were, presumably, engaged in the higher things of life. I wanted that radical freedom.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  “I think she’s coming round now.” The voice was male and familiar. Slowly, as from a deep well, the memories came back to me. The lecture . . . John Jones . . . “Keep back and let her get some air.” To my right I could see a large scuffed brogue and an expanse of worn corduroy trouser. I knew that in a few moments I would feel embarrassed, but right now the world had shattered into separate, meaningless shapes, none of which seemed related to anything else. “Look, I think we’d better call it a day,” Mr. Jones was saying. I tried to raise my head, but it was pushed firmly down again. “I don’t think any of us feel like carrying on with the lecture. Does anybody know who this poor lady is?” “Yes, I do—she’s at my college. I can take her home. Karen, it’s Jane.” I peered up at her and tried to smile. She looked strange from this unfamiliar angle and I realized that she was alarmed. Gradually I began to be aware of the disruption I had caused. “I am . . . so sorry,” I muttered, as I always did after one of these attacks. “So sorry.” “For heaven’s sake.” Mr. Jones sounded genuinely astonished, and when I looked round at him, his large, kind face was creased with concern. “You didn’t do it on purpose. We’re just sad for you.” That was a bit of a change. I blinked uncertainly. “You still don’t look too good to me. How are you feeling? That was quite a long faint. Better get her to a doctor?” that last, clearly, was addressed to Jane. “Definitely.” Jane sounded uncharacteristically subdued. “Do you think we could phone for a taxi?” I closed my eyes, mentally shaking my head. Sympathy, doctors, taxis—I could not take it all in. I must have tried to protest feebly, but nobody took any notice and I lay there gratefully, thankful that it was over, but feeling hugely tired. As we drove up the Banbury Road toward St. Anne’s and climbed the short flight of stairs to my room in the Gatehouse, Jane kept up a determined flow of chatter. The fright that I had seen in her eyes had gone, and she was now recasting the whole event in her usual ebullient manner. “I always longed to faint at school,” she said cheerfully as she opened the large window overlooking the college lawn. We could see students hurrying past in ones and twos, going about the business of a normal Tuesday morning. “I always thought it would be a sign of such sensitivity and refinement. I tried everything. Put blotting paper in my shoes, held my breath. Nothing happened. Not a hope. I’m just too horribly healthy.”

• From Little Women (1868)

  I love to teach, and this is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it. His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!" Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him. "Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away. "Yes, I do. I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not." "Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you." "Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power. He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of herself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute. The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study. "Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady. "It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now. "That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony?