Excitement

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 American Swing (2008)

  165 00:08:09,113 --> 00:08:11,616 ♪ I WANNA KISS YOU ALL OVER... ♪ 166 00:08:11,616 --> 00:08:15,036 Reporter: WHAT DID HE SAY? DO YOU REMEMBER? 167 00:08:15,036 --> 00:08:16,829 - ( giggles ) - OUT WITH IT! 168 00:08:16,829 --> 00:08:19,957 I WAS ON MY WAY TO THE LADIES' ROOM 169 00:08:19,957 --> 00:08:23,377 AND HE TOLD ME TO COME ON IN THE WATER. 170 00:08:23,377 --> 00:08:25,463 AND I TOLD HIM I COULDN'T RIGHT THEN 171 00:08:25,463 --> 00:08:27,798 BECAUSE I WAS ON MY WAY TO THE LADIES' ROOM. 172 00:08:27,798 --> 00:08:30,593 AND HE SAID, "COME ON IN. THE WATER'S NICE AND WARM 173 00:08:30,593 --> 00:08:32,386 AND THAT'S HOW IT GOT THAT WAY." 174 00:08:32,386 --> 00:08:35,223 THAT'S IT, THAT'S LARRY-- MR. TASTE. 175 00:08:35,223 --> 00:08:37,808 - YOU GOT TO KNOW MARY BETTER THAN ME... - YES. 176 00:08:37,808 --> 00:08:41,521 ...PHYSICALLY AND MENTALLY. ( laughs ) 177 00:08:41,521 --> 00:08:45,233 THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN YOUR FIRST FEMALE, I THINK. REALLY, HUH? 178 00:08:45,233 --> 00:08:46,859 - NO. - NO? 179 00:08:46,859 --> 00:08:49,195 IT MUSHROOMED FROM THERE. 180 00:08:49,195 --> 00:08:51,072 GOT AHOLD OF A HOTEL-- 181 00:08:51,072 --> 00:08:54,408 THIS HOTEL BASEMENT POOL AREA. 182 00:08:54,408 --> 00:08:56,452 YEAH, SO THIS CALL CAME IN FROM SOMEBODY-- 183 00:08:56,452 --> 00:08:58,287 I DON'T REMEMBER WHO IT IS ANYMORE, 184 00:08:58,287 --> 00:09:01,958 SOME FRIEND OR ACQUAINTANCE AND SAID, "THERE'S THIS LIVE SEX CLUB 185 00:09:01,958 --> 00:09:04,460 WHERE PEOPLE ARE HAVING SEX IN FRONT OF EVERYBODY." 186 00:09:04,460 --> 00:09:07,046 AND I SAID, "YOU MEAN A GAY BAR?" 187 00:09:07,046 --> 00:09:09,590 AND THEY SAID, "NO NO, THESE ARE STRAIGHT PEOPLE." 188 00:09:09,590 --> 00:09:12,969 ♪ AM I DREAMING ♪ 189 00:09:12,969 --> 00:09:15,096 ♪ THAT YOU'RE WITH ME? ♪ 190 00:09:15,096 --> 00:09:17,473 - ♪ AM I DREAMING... ♪ - Steve: PLATO'S WAS ALWAYS 191 00:09:17,473 --> 00:09:19,600 FOR COUPLES ONLY. 192 00:09:19,600 --> 00:09:23,062 AND OF COURSE WE ALWAYS INVITED SINGLE LADIES. 193 00:09:23,062 --> 00:09:25,314 IT WAS A TACKY LITTLE PLACE. 194 00:09:25,314 --> 00:09:27,858 AND SITTING BEHIND THERE IS THIS GUY LARRY-- 195 00:09:27,858 --> 00:09:30,861 WHO I LATER LEARNED IS LARRY LEVENSON. HE SEEMED IN CHARGE 196 00:09:30,861 --> 00:09:33,364 AND HE'S SITTING THERE IN A TOWEL, 197 00:09:33,364 --> 00:09:34,574 AND THAT'S IT. 198 00:09:34,574 --> 00:09:37,159 ONE OF THE BEST PARTS OF IT FOR ME 199 00:09:37,159 --> 00:09:39,328 WAS THAT IT WAS RELAXED IN THE SENSE THAT PEOPLE 200 00:09:39,328 --> 00:09:41,372 WERE COMING AND NOT NECESSARILY DOING ANYTHING. 201 00:09:41,372 --> 00:09:43,332 NOT EVEN NECESSARILY TAKING THEIR CLOTHES OFF. 202 00:09:43,332 --> 00:09:45,126 TWO OF THE MEN... 203 00:09:45,126 --> 00:09:47,336 WERE WEARING NO CLOTHES 204 00:09:47,336 --> 00:09:50,089 EXCEPT FOR BLACK SOCKS AND SHOES. 205 00:09:50,089 --> 00:09:54,385 AND WALKING AROUND THAT WAY, KINDA LIKE THAT STAG-FILM LOOK. 206 00:09:54,385 --> 00:09:56,554 SO I WROTE IT UP. 207 00:09:56,554 --> 00:09:58,764 I PLAYED IT PRETTY BIG.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX FINAL WORKS I was a teenager when I first heard Einstein’s response to quantum theory: “God doesn’t play dice with the universe.” Like most science-minded adolescent boys, I revered Einstein and was astounded to hear that he believed in God. The fact called into question my own religious skepticism, and I sought an explanation from my junior high school science teacher. His answer: “Einstein’s God is the God of Spinoza.” “What does that mean?” I asked. “Who is Spinoza?” I learned that Spinoza was a seventeenth-century philosopher and pioneer of the scientific revolution. Though he often referred to God in his writing, his Jewish community had excommunicated him for heresy when he was twenty-four, and many, if not most, scholars regard him as a closet atheist. It would have been dangerous, my teacher told me, for Spinoza to express skepticism about the existence of God in the seventeenth century, and he protected himself by frequently employing the term “God.” However, whenever Spinoza uses the word “God,” most scholars understand him to mean the orderly laws of nature . I picked out a life of Spinoza from the library’s A–Z biography section and, though I didn’t understand much of it, I resolved that someday I would learn more about Einstein’s hero. About seventy years later, I came across a book that rekindled my interest. I learned how, after Spinoza’s excommunication from Judaism, he had refused to attach himself to any religious community. Instead he had worked as a glass-grinder making lenses for spectacles and telescopes, lived frugally in isolation, and composed philosophical and political tracts that changed the course of history. That book was Betraying Spinoza by Rebecca Goldstein, a novelist and philosopher. One by one I had devoured her extraordinary novels, but it was Betraying Spinoza , part philosophy, part fiction, and part biography, that set my mind on fire. The thought of writing a novel about Spinoza percolated in my brain, but I felt entirely stymied. How could I write a novel about a man who had lived mostly in his thoughts, whose life was solitary and without intrigue or romance, spending his adulthood in rented rooms, grinding lenses and scribbling with quill and ink? Fortuitously, I was invited to Amsterdam to address an association of Dutch psychotherapists. Though, as I have aged, I rarely look forward to overseas travel, I welcomed this opportunity and agreed to give a workshop with the proviso that they arrange a Spinoza day, during which a knowledgeable guide would accompany my wife and me to Spinoza sites in the Netherlands: his birthplace, various residences, his grave, and, most important of all, the small Spinoza museum, the Spinozahuis, in the small town of Rijnsburg. So, after a daylong presentation in Amsterdam, Marilyn and I and our guides—the president of the Dutch Spinoza Society and a well-informed Dutch philosopher—set out on our mission.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  All my life I have been a lover of narrative, and I have often smuggled therapy stories, some only a few lines long, some lasting a few pages, into my professional writing. Over the years many readers of my group therapy text had informed me that they were willing to put up with many pages of dry theory because they knew there would be another teaching story coming around the bend. So, at age fifty-six, I resolved to make a major life change. I would continue to teach young psychotherapists through my writing, but I would elevate the story to a privileged position: I would put the story first and allow it to be the primary vehicle for my teaching. I felt the time had come to liberate the storyteller within me. Before leaving for Japan it was imperative to get the hang of my newfangled gadget: a laptop computer. So we rented a cabin for three weeks in Ashland, Oregon, a town we had visited many times for its extraordinary theater festival. We saw plays in the evenings but during the daytime I assiduously practiced writing on the laptop. When I felt confident about its use, we took off for our first stop: the consultation in Tokyo. I was a one-finger typist at that point. All my prior books and articles had been written in longhand (or, in one case, dictated). But to use this new computer I had to learn to type, and I succeeded via an unusual method: I spent my long flight to Japan playing one of the early video games in which my spaceship was attacked by alien vessels firing missiles in the shape of letters of the alphabet, which could only be repelled by pressing the corresponding key on the keyboard. It was an extraordinarily effective pedagogical device and by the time the plane landed in Japan I knew how to type. A fter our visit to Tokyo we flew to Beijing, where we met four American friends and, with a guide, which was mandatory during those years, set off on a two-week tour of China. We went to the Great Wall, the Forbidden City, and, on a river trip, to Guilin, where we were enthralled by the pencil-like mountains in the distance. On all these journeys I continued to contemplate how I would write a collection of therapy stories. One day in Shanghai I was feeling a bit under the weather and did not accompany the others on their full-day tour, but spent the morning resting. From my briefcase crammed with dictated session notes, I randomly selected one folder (out of twenty-five) and read over the summaries of the seventy-five therapy sessions I had had with Saul, a sixty-year-old biochemistry researcher. That afternoon, while meandering alone through the back streets of Shanghai, I came upon a large, handsome, and long-abandoned Catholic church. Entering through the unlocked door, I wandered down the aisles until my eye caught the confessional booth.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  “The ERR—what does that stand for?” “Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg—the task force of Nazi leader Alfred Rosenberg, the man in charge of looting Jewish possessions throughout Europe.” My heart began to race. “But, why? Why? Europe was in flames. Why would they bother to confiscate this small village library when they could loot all those Rembrandts and Vermeers?” “No one knows the answer to that,” my guide replied. “The only clue we have is a sentence in the report written by the officer in charge of the raid—it was given as evidence at the Nuremberg trials. Now it is in the public domain and you can easily bring it up on the Internet. It says in effect that the Spinoza library contains works of great importance for the exploration of the Spinoza problem.” “Spinoza problem?” I asked, growing even more intrigued. “What does that mean? What kind of problem did the Nazis have with Spinoza? And why would they preserve all the books in this library rather than burning them like everything else Jewish throughout Europe?” Like a mime duo, my hosts hunched their shoulders and showed their palms—they had no answers. I left the museum with an intriguing and unsolved puzzle! Manna from heaven for a famished novelist! I got what I came for. “I’ve got a book now,” I told Marilyn. “I’ve got a plot and a title!” and, as soon as I returned home, I began writing The Spinoza Problem . B efore long, I developed an entirely plausible explanation for the Nazis’ “Spinoza problem.” I learned in my reading that Goethe, the literary idol of all Germans, including the Nazis, was fascinated by Spinoza’s work. In fact, Goethe had mentioned in one of his letters that he carried Spinoza’s Ethics in his pocket for an entire year! Surely this must have presented an enormous problem for a Nazi ideologue: How could Germany’s greatest writer have been so devoted to Spinoza, a Portuguese-Dutch Jew? I decided to intertwine two life narratives—that of Benedict Spinoza, the seventeenth-century Jewish philosopher, and that of Alfred Rosenberg, a pseudo-philosopher and Nazi propagandist. As a fiercely anti-Semitic member of Hitler’s inner circle, Rosenberg had ordered the confiscation of Spinoza’s library, and it was Rosenberg who ordered that the books be saved rather than burned. In 1945 at the Nuremberg trials, Rosenberg was sentenced to death by hanging along with eleven other top-ranked Nazis. I began by writing alternating chapters—Spinoza’s life set in the seventeenth century and Rosenberg’s in the twentieth—and developed a fictional connection between the two characters. Soon, however, it became too cumbersome to keep shifting back and forth between two eras and I decided to write the entire Spinoza story first, then Rosenberg’s afterward, and then finally interlaced the two stories with the necessary sanding and polishing to ensure a snug fit.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The plane tilted, dropped and rose, and the whole earth slanted, now leaning against the windows of the plane, now dropping out of sight. The sky was a hot, blank blue, and the static light invested everything with its own lack of motion. Only things could be seen from here, the work of people’s hands: but the people did not exist. The plane rose up, up, as though loath to descend from this high tranquility; tilted, and Yves looked down, hoping to see the Statue of Liberty, though he had been warned that it could not be seen from here; then the plane began, like a stone, to drop, the water rushed up at them, the motors groaned, the wings trembled, resisting the awful, downward pull. Then, when the water was at their feet, the white strip of the landing flashed into place beneath them. The wheels struck the ground with a brief and heavy thud, and wires and lights and towers went screaming by. The hostess’ voice came over the speaker, congratulating them on their journey, and hoping to see them soon again. The hostess was very pretty, he had intermittently flirted with her all night, delighted to discover how easy this was. He was drunk and terribly weary, and filled with an excitement which was close to panic; in fact, he had burned his way to the outer edge of drunkenness and weariness, into a diamond-hard sobriety. With the voice of the hostess, the people of this planet sprang out of the ground, pushing trucks and waving arms and crossing roads and vanishing into, or erupting out of buildings. The voice of the hostess asked the passengers please to remain seated until the aircraft had come to a complete halt. Yves touched the package which contained the brandy and cigarettes he had bought in Shannon, and he folded his copies of France-Soir and Le Monde and Paris-Match , for he knew that Eric would like to see them. On the top of a brightly colored building, people were driven against the sky; he looked for Eric’s flaming hair, feeling another excitement, an excitement close to pain, well up in him. But the people were too far away, they were faceless still. He watched them move, but there was no movement which reminded him of Eric. Still, he knew that Eric was there, somewhere in that faceless crowd, waiting for him, and he was filled, all at once, with an extraordinary peace and happiness. Then the plane came slowly to a halt. As the plane halted, the people in the cabin seemed, collectively, to sigh, and discovered that the power of movement had been returned to them. Off came safety belts, down came packages, papers, and coats. The faces they had worn when hanging, at the mercy of mysteries they could not begin to fathom, in the middle of the air, were now discarded for the faces which they wore on earth.

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

  What choice do we have? We looked out, and here they came, a mob of salesmen, walking like zombies toward our booth. They picked up the Nikes, held them to the light. They touched the swoosh. One said to another, “The hell is this?” “Hell if I know,” said the other. They started to barrage us with questions. Hey—what IS this? That’s a Nike. The hell’s a Nike? It’s the Greek goddess of victory. Greek what now? Goddess of vic— And what’s THIS? That’s a swoosh. The hell’s a swoosh? The answer flew out of me: It’s the sound of someone going past you. They liked that. Oh, they liked it a whole lot. They gave us business. They actually placed orders with us. By the end of the day we’d exceeded our grandest expectations. We were one of the smash hits of the

• From Another Country (1962)

  So we’ve got to iron that out.” “But they’re willing to do almost anything to get Eric,” Cass said. “That’s not entirely true,” said Eric, “don’t listen to her. They’re just very interested, that’s all. I don’t believe anything until it happens.” He took a blue handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped his face. “Let’s go in,” he said. “Baby,” said Vivaldo, “you’re going to be a star.” He kissed Eric on the forehead. “You son of a bitch.” “Nothing is set,” said Eric, and he looked at Cass. He grinned. “I’m really part of an economy drive. They can get me cheap, you know, and they’ve got almost everybody you ever heard of lined up for the other roles—so my agent explained to me that my name goes below the title—” “ But in equal size,” said Cass. “One of those and introducing deals,” said Eric, and laughed. He looked pleased about his good news for the first time. “Well, baby, it looks like you’ve made it now,” said Ida. “Congratulations.” “Your clairvoyant Frenchman,” Cass said, “was right.” “Only what are they going to do about that ante-bellum accent?” asked Vivaldo. “Look,” said Eric, “let’s go see this movie. I speak French in it.” He threw an arm around Vivaldo’s shoulder. “Impeccably.” “Hell,” Vivaldo said, “I don’t really feel like seeing a movie. I’d much rather take you out and get you stinking drunk.” “You’re going to,” said Eric, “as soon as the movie’s over.” And they came, laughing, through the doors just as the French film began. The titles were superimposed over a montage of shots of Paris in the morning: laborers on their bicycles, on their way to work, coming down from the hills of Montmartre, crossing the Place de la Concorde, rolling through the great square before Notre Dame. In great close-ups, the traffic lights flashed on and off, the white batons of the traffic policemen rose and fell; it soon became apparent that one had already picked up the central character and would follow him to his destination; which, if one could judge from the music would be a place of execution. The film was one of those politics, sex, and vengeance dramas the French love to turn out, and it starred one of the great French actors, who had died when this film was completed. So the film, which was not remarkable in itself, held this undeniable necrophilic fascination.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Calandrino, hearing this, fancied himself already at it and went singing and skipping, so overjoyed that he was like to jump out of his skin. On the morrow, having brought the rebeck, he, to the great diversion of all the company, sang sundry songs thereto; and in brief, he was taken with such an itch for the frequent seeing of her that he wrought not a whit, but ran a thousand times a day, now to the window, now to the door and anon into the courtyard, to get a look at her, whereof she, adroitly carrying out Bruno's instructions, afforded him ample occasion. Bruno, on his side, answered his messages in her name and bytimes brought him others as from her; and whenas she was not there, which was mostly the case, he carried him letters from her, wherein she gave him great hopes of compassing his desire, feigning herself at home with her kinsfolk, where he might not presently see her. On this wise, Bruno, with the aid of Buffalmacco, who had a hand in the matter, kept the game afoot and had the greatest sport in the world with Calandrino's antics, causing him give them bytimes, as at his mistress's request, now an ivory comb, now a purse and anon a knife and such like toys, for which they brought him in return divers paltry counterfeit rings of no value, with which he was vastly delighted; and to boot, they had of him, for their pains, store of dainty collations and other small matters of entertainment, so they might be diligent about his affairs.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN PASSAGE TO INDIA T his journey was extraordinarily eventful, and even now, thirty-five years later, a great many details remain in my mind. In fact, as I recently have become more interested in, and more respectful of, meditation practices, the events of this journey have taken on a preternatural vividness. I land in Bombay, now Mumbai, at the time of the annual Chaturthi festival when huge crowds are celebrating enormous statues of the elephant-headed god, Ganesh. I haven’t traveled alone for a long time and am thrilled about this new world and new adventure. The following day I begin a two-hour journey from Mumbai to Igatpuri, sitting in a train compartment with three lovely Indian sisters who are clothed in bright saffron and magenta gowns. The most beautiful of the three sits next to me and I inhale her intoxicating cinnamon and cardamom fragrance. The two others sit across from me. I glance at my traveling companions surreptitiously from time to time—their beauty takes my breath away—but mostly I look out the window at the astonishing sights. The train follows a riverbank full of hordes of people wading and chanting as they immerse small statues of Ganesh in the water, many of them also holding yellow papier-mâché globes. I point out the window and speak to the woman next to me, “Pardon me, but could you tell me what is happening? What are they chanting?” She turns and looks directly into my eyes and answers me in exquisite Indian-tinged English, “They say, ‘Beloved Canapati, come again next year.’” “Canapati?” I ask. The two other women titter. My companion answers, “Our language and customs are very confusing, I know. But perhaps you know this god’s more common name, Ganesh.” “Thank you. And may I ask why they immerse him in the river?” “The ritual teaches us the cosmic law: the cycle of form to formlessness is eternal. The Ganesh statues are formed of clay, and in the water they dissolve to formlessness. The body perishes but the god residing in it remains constant.” “How interesting. Thank you. And one last question: Why are people holding those yellow paper globes?” All three women again titter at the question. “Those globes represent the moon. There is an old legend about Ganesh in which he ate too many ladoos…” “Ladoos?” “A ladoo is one of our pastries, a fried flour ball with cardamom syrup. Ganesh loved them and one night ate so many that he fell over and his stomach burst. The moon, the one witness to this event, found it all quite hilarious and laughed and laughed. Enraged, Ganesh banished the moon from the universe. But very soon everyone, even the gods, missed the moon so much that an assembly of them petitioned the Lord Shiva, Ganesh’s father, to persuade Ganesh to relent.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  At last, to show her lover, to whom she had discovered everything and who was whiles somewhat vexed with her for this and had conceived some jealousy of Rinieri, that he did wrong to suspect her thereof, she despatched to the scholar, now grown very pressing, her maid, who told him, on her mistress's part, that she had never yet had an opportunity to do aught that might pleasure him since he had certified her of his love, but that on the occasion of the festival of the Nativity she hoped to be able to be with him; wherefore, an it liked him, he was on the evening of the feast to come by night to her courtyard, whither she would go for him as first she might. At this the scholar was the gladdest man alive and betook himself at the appointed time to his mistress's house, where he was carried by the maid into a courtyard and being there locked in, proceeded to wait the lady's coming. The latter had that evening sent for her lover and after she had supped merrily with him, she told him that which she purposed to do that night, adding, 'And thou mayst see for thyself what and how great is the love I have borne and bear him of whom thou hast taken a jealousy.' The lover heard these words with great satisfaction and was impatient to see by the fact that which the lady gave him to understand with words.

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE THE GIFT OF THERAPY R ilke’s book Letters to a Young Poet has occupied a special niche in my mind, and for years I imagined writing such a work for young therapists, but I could never find a shape and structure for that project. That changed one day in 1999 when Marilyn and I visited the Huntington Gardens in San Marino in Southern California. We went there to see the extraordinary grounds, and especially the Japanese garden and its bonsai trees. Toward the end of our visit, I wandered into the Huntington Library and browsed through a new exhibit, “Best Sellers of the English Renaissance.” Best sellers? That caught my attention. I was struck by the fact that six of the ten bestsellers in the sixteenth century were books of “tips.” For example, Thomas Tusser’s A Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandry , from 1570, offered a hundred tips about crops, livestock, and good housekeeping to farmers and farmers’ wives. It was reprinted eleven times by the end of the century. Almost always, my books have germinated slowly in my mind, with no single moment of conception. The Gift of Therapy is the single exception. By the time I left that Renaissance bestseller exhibition I knew exactly what my next book would be. I would write a book of tips for young therapists . A patient’s face came to mind, a writer I had seen years before. After abandoning two unfinished novels she had announced to me that she would never again start another unless some idea for a book came along and bit her on the ass. Well, that day at the Huntington, a book bit me on the ass, and I put everything else aside and the next day began to write. The process was straightforward. Since my early days at Stanford I had kept a file labeled “Thoughts for teaching,” into which I dropped ideas and vignettes from my clinical work. I simply raided my “Thoughts for teaching” file. I read my notes over and over until one caught my fancy and I fleshed it out in several paragraphs. The tips were written in no particular order, but, at the end, I surveyed what I had written and grouped them into five clusters: 1. The nature of the therapist-patient relationship 2. Methods of exploring existential concerns 3. Issues arising in the everyday conduct of therapy 4. The use of dreams 5. The hazards and the privileges of being a therapist I had originally been hoping for a hundred tips, as in A Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandry , but by the time I reached eighty-four, I had entirely eviscerated my file. (I started building it up again as I continued to see patients, and nine years later, in a second edition, I added eleven more tips.) From the very beginning I had a title in mind: I would modify Rilke’s title and call it Letters to a Young Therapist .

• From Becoming Myself: A Psychiatrist's Memoir (2017)

  CHAPTER THIRTY LYING ON THE COUCH A fter living in the clouds with When Nietzsche Wept , I was tugged back to earth by my textbook The Theory and Practice of Group Psychotherapy , which was squealing for attention. Now ten years old, it needed an update and a facelift if it was to continue competing with other textbooks. For the next year and a half I felt yoked to the plough as I spent day after day in the medical school library at Stanford reviewing the group research of the past decade, adding relevant new research, and, the most painful part, shaving off older material. All the while, in the back of my mind, another novel was percolating. On my bicycle rides and during quiet moments before falling asleep, I experimented with plotlines and characters, and I soon began working on a tale I would title Lying on the Couch . I was amused by the double entendre: my book would deal with a lot of lying and a lot of psychotherapy on the couch. Having completed my apprenticeship as a novelist, I discarded my training wheels and no longer fretted with fitting the characters and events into a certain historically accurate time and place. On this new project I was going to have the pleasure of composing an entirely fictional plotline peopled only by made-up characters, and unless the world is loonier than I imagined, this was going to be fiction that could never have happened. Yet underlying the surreal events of a comic novel, I intended to explore serious and substantial questions. Should we, as the early psychoanalysts insisted, withhold our real selves and offer only interpretations and a blank screen? Or should we instead be open and genuine and disclose our own feelings and experiences to our patients? And if so, what pitfalls might lie in store? I have written much in the professional psychiatric literature about the overarching importance of the therapy relationship. The mutative force in therapy is not intellectual insight, not interpretation, not catharsis, but is, instead, a deep, authentic meeting between two people. Contemporary psychoanalytic thinking has also gradually arrived at the conclusion that interpretation is not enough. As I write these words, one of the most widely cited psychoanalytic articles in recent years is titled “Non-Interpretive Mechanisms in Psychoanalytic Therapy: The ‘Something More’ Than Interpretation.” That “something more,” referred to as “now moments” or “moments of meeting,” is not too different from what is presented in the article my fictional character Ernest is attempting to write in Lying on the Couch , titled “On In-Betweenness: The Case for Authenticity in Psychotherapy.” In my own practice I strive continuously for an authentic meeting with my patients, both in group and individual therapy. I tend to be active, personally engaged, and often focus on the here-and-now: rarely does a session pass without my inquiring about our relationship. But how much of his/her own self should the therapist reveal?

• From Another Country (1962)

  “Great meeting you, Silenski,” he said. Though he was compelled to look up to Richard, he did so with his head at an odd and belligerent angle, as though he were looking up in order more clearly to sight down. The hand he extended to Richard with a bulletlike directness suggested also the arrogant limpness of hands which have the power to make or break: only custom prevented the hand from being kissed. “I’ve been hearing tremendous things about you. Maybe we can have a chat a little later.” And his smile was good-natured, open, and boyish. When he was introduced to Ida, he stood stock-still, throwing out his arms as though he were a little boy. “You’re an actress,” he said. “You’ve got to be an actress.” “No,” said Ida, “I’m not.” “But you must be. I’ve been looking for you for years. You’re sensational!” “Thank you, Mr. Ellis,” she said, laughing, “but I am not an actress.” Her laugh was a little strained but Vivaldo could not know whether this was due to nerves or displeasure. People stood in smiling groups around them. Cass stood behind the bar, watching. Ellis smiled conspiratorially and pushed his head a little forward. “What do you do, then? Come on, tell me.” “Well, at the moment,” Ida said, rather pulling herself together, “I work as a waitress.” “A waitress. Well, my wife’s here, so I won’t ask you where you work.” He stepped a little closer to Ida. “But what do you think about while you walk around waiting on tables?” Ida hesitated, and he smiled again, coaxing and tender. “Come on. You can’t tell me that all you want is to get to be head waitress.” Ida laughed. Her lips curved rather bitterly, and she said, “No.” She hesitated and looked toward Vivaldo, and Ellis followed her look. “I’ve sometimes thought of singing. That’s what I’d like to do.” “Aha!” he cried, triumphantly, “I knew I’d get it out of you.” He pulled a card out of his breast pocket. “When you get ready to make the break, and let it be soon, you come and see me. Don’t you forget.” “You won’t remember my name, Mr. Ellis.” She said it lightly and the look with which she measured Ellis gave Vivaldo no clue as to what was going on in her mind. “Your name,” he said, “is Ida Scott. Right?” “Right.” “Well, I never forget names or faces. Try me.” “That’s true,” said his wife, “he never forgets a name or a face. I don’t know how he does it.” “I,” said Vivaldo, “am not an actress.” Ellis looked startled, then he laughed. “You could have fooled me,” he said. He took Vivaldo by the elbow. “Come and have a drink with me. Please.” “I don’t know why I said that. I was half-kidding.” “But only half. What’s your name?” “Vivaldo. Vivaldo Moore.” “And you’re not an actress—?” “I’m a writer. Unpublished.” “Aha! You’re working on something?” “A novel.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There, being asked by the women at what she served God in the desert, she answered (Neerbale having not yet lain with her) that she served Him at putting the devil in hell and that Neerbale had done a grievous sin in that he had taken her from such service. The ladies asked, 'How putteth one the devil in hell?' And the girl, what with words and what with gestures, expounded it to them; whereat they set up so great a laughing that they laugh yet and said, 'Give yourself no concern, my child; nay, for that is done here also and Neerbale will serve our Lord full well with thee at this.' Thereafter, telling it from one to another throughout the city, they brought it to a common saying there that the most acceptable service one could render to God was to put the devil in hell, which byword, having passed the sea hither, is yet current here. Wherefore do all you young ladies, who have need of God's grace, learn to put the devil in hell, for that this is highly acceptable to Him and pleasing to both parties and much good may grow and ensue thereof." * * * * * A thousand times or more had Dioneo's story moved the modest ladies to laughter, so quaint and comical did his words appear to them; then, whenas he had made an end thereof, the queen, knowing the term of her sovranty to be come, lifted the laurel from her head and set it merrily on that of Filostrato, saying: "We shall presently see if the wolf will know how to govern the ewes better than the ewes have governed the wolves." Filostrato, hearing this, said, laughing, "An I were hearkened to, the wolves had taught the ewes to put the devil in hell, no worse than Rustico taught Alibech; wherefore do ye not style us wolven, since you yourselves have not been ewen. Algates, I will govern the kingdom committed to me to the best of my power." "Harkye, Filostrato," rejoined Neifile, "in seeking to teach us, you might have chanced to learn sense, even as did Masetto of Lamporecchio of the nuns, and find your tongue what time your bones should have learnt to whistle without a master."

• From Little Women (1868)

  So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on. Amy, flying up—"Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo, darting to my window—"How sweet! We must go there sometime, won't we Papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots—"No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a brewery." A pause—then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. "A colliery," remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down," says Amy. "See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the Flirtations of Captain Cavendish , and I have the scenery all to myself. Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said... "Now, then, mum?" I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi', or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Everyone rides—old men, stout ladies, little children—and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it?

• From Little Women (1868)

  Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving... AMY PARIS Dear girls, In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred. Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the 'parley vooing ', as Uncle calls it. Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes , and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Presently, supper-time being come, the painters left work and went down into the courtyard, where they found Filippo and Niccolosa and tarried there awhile, to oblige Calandrino. The latter fell to ogling Niccolosa and making the oddest grimaces in the world, such and so many that a blind man would have remarked them. She on her side did everything that she thought apt to inflame him, and Filippo, in accordance with the instructions he had of Bruno, made believe to talk with Buffalmacco and the others and to have no heed of this, whilst taking the utmost diversion in Calandrino's fashions. However, after a while, to the latter's exceeding chagrin, they took their leave and as they returned to Florence, Bruno said to Calandrino, 'I can tell thee thou makest her melt like ice in the sun. Cock's body, wert thou to fetch thy rebeck and warble thereto some of those amorous ditties of thine, thou wouldst cause her cast herself out of window to come to thee.' Quoth Calandrino, 'Deemest thou, gossip? Deemest thou I should do well to fetch it?' 'Ay, do I,' answered Bruno; and Calandrino went on, 'Thou wouldst not credit me this morning, whenas I told it thee; but, for certain, gossip, methinketh I know better than any man alive to do what I will. Who, other than I, had known to make such a lady so quickly in love with me? Not your trumpeting young braggarts,[432] I warrant you, who are up and down all day long and could not make shift, in a thousand years, to get together three handsful of cherry stones. I would fain have thee see me with the rebeck; 'twould be fine sport for thee. I will have thee to understand once for all that I am no dotard, as thou deemest me, and this she hath right well perceived, she; but I will make her feel it othergates fashion, so once I get my claw into her back; by the very body of Christ, I will lead her such a dance that she will run after me, as the madwoman after her child.' 'Ay,' rejoined Bruno, 'I warrant me thou wilt rummage her; methinketh I see thee, with those teeth of thine that were made for virginal jacks,[433] bite that little vermeil mouth of hers and those her cheeks, that show like two roses, and after eat her all up.' [Footnote 432: _Giovani di tromba marina._ The sense seems as above; the commentators say that _giovani di tromba marina_ is a name given to those youths who go trumpeting about everywhere the favours accorded them by women; but the _tromba marina_ is a _stringed_ (not a wind) _instrument_, a sort of primitive violoncello with one string.] [Footnote 433: "Your teeth did dance like virginal jacks."--_Ben Jonson._]

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Thence his discourse turned to the flocks in the monasteries, and their holy ways, a sweet-smelling savour unto Thee, and the fruitful deserts of the wilderness, whereof we knew nothing. And there was a monastery at Milan, full of good brethren, without the city walls, under the fostering care of Ambrose, and we knew it not. He went on with his discourse, and we listened in intent silence. He told us then how one afternoon at Triers, when the Emperor was taken up with the Circensian games, he and three others, his companions, went out to walk in gardens near the city walls, and there as they happened to walk in pairs, one went apart with him, and the other two wandered by themselves; and these, in their wanderings, lighted upon a certain cottage, inhabited by certain of Thy servants, poor in spirit, of whom is the kingdom of heaven, and there they found a little book containing the life of Antony. This one of them began to read, admire, and kindle at it; and as he read, to meditate on taking up such a life, and giving over his secular service to serve Thee. And these two were of those whom they style agents for the public affairs. Then suddenly, filled with a holy love, and a sober shame, in anger with himself cast his eyes upon his friend, saying, “Tell me, I pray thee, what would we attain by all these labours of ours? what aim we at? what serve we for? Can our hopes in court rise higher than to be the Emperor’s favourites? and in this, what is there not brittle, and full of perils? and by how many perils arrive we at a greater peril? and when arrive we thither? But a friend of God, if I wish it, I become now at once.” So spake he. And in pain with the travail of a new life, he turned his eyes again upon the book, and read on, and was changed inwardly, where Thou sawest, and his mind was stripped of the world, as soon appeared. For as he read, and rolled up and down the waves of his heart, he stormed at himself a while, then discerned, and determined on a better course; and now being Thine, said to his friend, “Now have I broken loose from those our hopes, and am resolved to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I begin upon. If thou likest not to imitate me, oppose not.” The other answered, he would cleave to him, to partake so glorious a reward, so glorious a service. Thus both being now Thine, were building the tower at the necessary cost, the forsaking all that they had, and following Thee. Then Pontitianus and the other with him, that had walked in other parts of the garden, came in search of them to the same place; and finding them, reminded them to return, for the day was now far spent. But they relating their resolution and purpose, and how that will was begun and settled in them, begged them, if they would not join, not to molest them. But the others, though nothing altered from their former selves, did yet bewail themselves (as he affirmed), and piously congratulated them, recommending themselves to their prayers; and so, with hearts lingering on the earth, went away to the palace. But the other two, fixing their heart on heaven, remained in the cottage. And both had affianced brides, who when they heard hereof, also dedicated their virginity unto God.

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

  Commencing at nightfall, all sorts of processions, dances and songs had taken place by torchlight; the general effervescence was constantly increasing. At a given moment, twelve assistants each took a great lighted torch in their hands, and one of them holding his like a bayonet, charged into a group of natives. Blows were warded off with clubs and spears. A general mêlée followed. The men leaped and pranced about, uttering savage yells all the time; the burning torches continually came crashing down on the heads and bodies of the men, scattering lighted sparks in every direction. "The smoke, the blazing torches, the showers of sparks falling in all directions and the masses of dancing, yelling men," say Spencer and Gillen, "formed altogether a genuinely wild and savage scene of which it is impossible to convey any adequate idea in words."[706] One can readily conceive how, when arrived at this state of exaltation, a man does not recognize himself any longer. Feeling himself dominated and carried away by some sort of an external power which makes him think and act differently than in normal times, he naturally has the impression of being himself no longer. It seems to him that he has become a new being: the decorations he puts on and the masks that cover his face figure materially in this interior transformation, and to a still greater extent, they aid in determining its nature. And as at the same time all his companions feel themselves transformed in the same way and express this sentiment by their cries, their gestures and their general attitude, everything is just as though he really were transported into a special world, entirely different from the one where he ordinarily lives, and into an environment filled with exceptionally intense forces that take hold of him and metamorphose him. How could such experiences as these, especially when they are repeated every day. for weeks, fail to leave in him the conviction that there really exist two heterogeneous and mutually incomparable worlds? One is that where his daily life drags wearily along; but he cannot penetrate into the other without at once entering into relations with extraordinary powers that excite him to the point of frenzy. The first is the profane world, the second, that of sacred things.