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.

Page 139 of 182 · 20 per page

• From Little Women (1868)

  It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture. It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me... "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney." Wasn't that nonsensical? We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved à la mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given 'em the latest Yankee shine." It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling. I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all the way.

• From Little Women (1868)

  The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?" "One usually does at a ball." Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible. "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?" "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with. "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support... A daughter of the gods, Devinely tall, and most divinely fair," was all the satisfaction she got, however.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  “Flash was a big deal back then. We’d charge double for a Flash website. Now you see companies moving away from Flash and going back to simple HTML because it’s better for search engines, but back then getting a glossy Flash website was a big deal.” She also worked with a scripting language called PHP. “You could build really cool membership sites—if you knew how to customize the code. It was pretty straightforward and easy to develop these sites, but there was a lot of money to be made because you could charge thousands of dollars for a simple site. “For me it was just fascinating learning about everything that was changing in technology on the Web and meeting all these brilliant people that were coding. We had hackers working for us, doing search-engine optimization. These were the guys that knew how to hack into systems, and we had them dealing with security of our servers. Learning about bandwidth, hosting, processing online. For me, getting into the industry was just all of that.” Until 2005, Patel worked for companies whose public faces were those of mainstream dotcoms but whose innovations and major revenue streams were quietly based in adult content. After 2005, she worked for a number of overtly adult companies, including Kink.com. While the technological challenges continued to keep her intellectually engaged, she found after a while that the fetishes she marketed got to be too much for her. This part of her story is typical. From the outside, it may seem that anyone who works in the adult industry is into everything, and that once you cross the first line, it’s much easier to cross the others. The truth, though, is that everyone has lines they won’t cross, limitations to what they enjoy, comfort thresholds beyond which it’s just time to move on. Patel ended up as the director of product development and affiliate marketing for Playboy Enterprises. Playboy’s content, while trending sometimes harder and sometimes softer, is overall closer to Patel’s comfort zone. Her portfolio includes adult.com and Club Jenna, the online presence of Jenna Jameson. While Patel sometimes contemplates leaving the adult industry altogether, she feels fortunate to have found a place within the industry where she was challenged technologically without having to experience an affront to her sensibilities. Playboy itself is one of a handful of publicly traded adult companies that have become legitimate mainstream investment options. Intensely legal, transparent and accountable, such companies also work to make their products and brands as close to mainstream as they can. Though Playboy has made greater inroads into mainstream business and culture than any of its peers, many others play the same game. Barcelona-based Private Media, for instance, is also publicly traded, and did 19.7 million euros in sales in 2008.

• From Little Women (1868)

  'Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard alee, and man the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. 'Go in and win, my hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course the British beat—they always do." "No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside. "Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers ran blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosun's mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he doesn't confess his sins double quick,' said the British captain. The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set, 'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..." "Oh, gracious! What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and facts out of one of his favorite books. "Well, they went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was curious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, 'I'll give you a box of pearls if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found by a..." "Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out. "The little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. 'Your geese will tell you, they know everything.' said the old woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed..." "'Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly. "'Just the thing,' said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The knight in whom I'm interested went back to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and married, but one.

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

  This is why the very idea of a religious ceremony of some importance awakens the idea of a feast. Inversely, every feast, even when it has purely lay origins, has certain characteristics of the religious ceremony, for in every case its effect is to bring men together, to put the masses into movement and thus to excite a state of effervescence, and sometimes even of delirium, which is not without a certain kinship with the religious state. A man is carried outside himself and diverted from his ordinary occupation and preoccupations. Thus the same manifestations are to be observed in each case: cries, songs, music, violent movements, dances, the search for exciteants which raise the vital level, etc. It has frequently been remarked that popular feasts lead to excesses, and cause men to lose sight of the distinction separating the licit from the illicit;[1221] there are also religious ceremonies which make it almost necessary to violate the rules which are ordinarily the most respected.[1222] Of course this does not mean that there is no way to distinguish these two forms of public activity. The simple merry-making, the profane corrobbori, has no serious object, while, as a whole, a ritual ceremony always has an important end. Still it is to be remembered that there is perhaps no merry-making in which the serious life does not have some echo. The difference consists rather in the unequal proportions in which the two elements are combined. III A more general fact confirms the views which precede. In their first book, Spencer and Gillen presented the Intichiuma as a perfectly definite ritual entity: they spoke of it as though it were an operation destined exclusively for the assurance of the reproduction of the totemic species, and it seemed as though it ought to lose all meaning, if this unique function were set aside. But in their _Northern Tribes of Central Australia_, the same authors use a different language, though perhaps without noticing it. They recognize that these same ceremonies may take place either in the regular Intichiuma or in the initiation rites.[1223] So they serve equally in the making of animals or plants of the totemic species, or in conferring upon novices the qualities necessary to make them regular members of the men's society.[1224] From this point of view, the Intichiuma takes on a new aspect. It is no longer a distinct ritual mechanism, resting upon principles of its own, but a particular application of more general ceremonies which may be utilized for very different ends. For this reason, in their later work, before speaking of the Intichiuma and the initiation they consecrate a special chapter to the totemic ceremonies in general, making abstraction of the diverse forms which they may take, according to the ends for which they are employed.[1225]

• From Little Women (1868)

  Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats. On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added 'a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll. "Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture. "Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting. As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was 'a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies. "While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands," said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success. "You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself. Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The coffee cups, as he thoughtfully washed them, were real, and the water which ran into them, over his heavy, long hands. Sugar and milk were real, and he set them on the table, another reality, and cigarettes were real, and he lit one. Smoke poured from his nostrils and a detail that he needed for his novel, which he had been searching for for months, fell, neatly and vividly, like the tumblers of a lock, into place in his mind. It seemed impossible that he should not have thought of it before: it illuminated, justified, clarified everything. He would work on it later tonight; he thought that perhaps he should make a note of it now; he started toward his work table. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver at once, stealthily, as though someone were ill or sleeping in the house, and whispered into it, “Hello?” “Hello, Vivaldo. It’s Eric.” “Eric!” He was overjoyed. He looked quickly toward the bathroom door. “How did things go?” “Well. Cass is beautiful, as you know. But life is grim.” “As I know. Has anything been decided?” “Not really, no. She just called me a few minutes ago—I haven’t been home long. Oh, thanks for your note. She thinks that she might go up to New England for a little while, with the kids. Richard hasn’t come home yet.” “Where is he?” “He’s probably out getting drunk.” “Who with?” “Well, Ellis, maybe—” They both halted at the name. The wires hummed. Vivaldo looked at the bathroom door again. “You knew about that, Eric, didn’t you, this morning.” “Knew about what?” He dropped his voice lower, and struggled to say it: “Ida. You knew about Ida and Ellis. Cass told you.” There was silence for a moment. “Yes.” Then, “Who told you? ” “Ida.” “Oh. Poor Vivaldo.” After a moment: “But it’s better that way, isn’t it? I didn’t think that I was the one to tell you—especially—well, especially not this morning.” Vivaldo was silent. “Vivaldo—?” “Yes?” “Don’t you think I was right? Are you sore at me?” “Don’t be silly. Never in this world. It’s—much better this way.” He cleared his throat, slowly, deliberately, for he suddenly wanted to weep. “Vivaldo, it’s a terrible time to ask you, I know—but do you think it’s at all likely that you—and Ida—will feel up to coming over to my joint tomorrow night, or the night after?” “What’s up?” “Yves will be here in the morning. I know he’d like to meet my friends.” “That was the cablegram, huh?” “Yes.” “Are you glad, Eric?” “I guess so. Right now, I’m just scared. I don’t know whether to try to sleep—it’s so early , but it feels like midnight—or go to a movie, or what.” “I’d love to go to a movie with you. But—I guess I can’t.” “No.

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

  These two phases are contrasted with each other in the sharpest way. In the first, economic activity is the preponderating one, and it is generally of a very mediocre intensity. Gathering the grains or herbs that are necessary for food, or hunting and fishing are not occupations to awaken very lively passions.[699] The dispersed condition in which the society finds itself results in making its life uniform, languishing and dull.[700] But when a corrobbori takes place, everything changes. Since the emotional and passional faculties of the primitive are only imperfectly placed under the control of his reason and will, he easily loses control of himself. Any event of some importance puts him quite outside himself. Does he receive good news? There are at once transports of enthusiasm. In the contrary conditions, he is to be seen running here and there like a madman, giving himself up to all sorts of immoderate movements, crying, shrieking, rolling in the dust, throwing it in every direction, biting himself, brandishing his arms in a furious manner, etc.[701] The very fact of the concentration acts as an exceptionally powerful stimulant. When they are once come together, a sort of electricity is formed by their collecting which quickly transports them to an extraordinary degree of exaltation. Every sentiment expressed finds a place without resistance in all the minds, which are very open to outside impressions; each re-echoes the others, and is re-echoed by the others. The initial impulse thus proceeds, growing as it goes, as an avalanche grows in its advance. And as such active passions so free from all control could not fail to burst out, on every side one sees nothing but violent gestures, cries, veritable howls, and deafening noises of every sort, which aid in intensifying still more the state of mind which they manifest. And since a collective sentiment cannot express itself collectively except on the condition of observing a certain order permitting co-operation and movements in unison, these gestures and cries naturally tend to become rhythmic and regular; hence come songs and dances. But in taking a more regular form, they lose nothing of their natural violence; a regulated tumult remains tumult. The human voice is not sufficient for the task; it is reinforced by means of artificial processes: boomerangs are beaten against each other; bull-roarers are whirled. It is probable that these instruments, the use of which is so general in the Australian religious ceremonies, are used primarily to express in a more adequate fashion the agitation felt. But while they express it, they also strengthen it. This effervescence often reaches such a point that it causes unheard-of actions. The passions released are of such an impetuosity that they can be restrained by nothing. They are so far removed from their ordinary conditions of life, and they are so thoroughly conscious of it, that they feel that they must set themselves outside of and above their ordinary morals. The sexes unite contrarily to the rules governing sexual relations. Men exchange wives with each other. Sometimes even incestuous unions, which in normal times are thought abominable and are severely punished, are now contracted openly and with impunity.[702] If we add to all this that the ceremonies generally take place at night in a darkness pierced here and there by the light of fires, we can easily imagine what effect such scenes ought to produce on the minds of those who participate. They produce such a violent super-excitation of the whole physical and mental life that it cannot be supported very long: the actor taking the principal part finally falls exhausted on the ground.[703]

• From Wild (2012)

  It occurred to me that now would be the perfect time to take a photograph, but to unpack the camera would entail such a series of gear and bungee cord removals that I didn’t even want to attempt it. Plus, in order to get myself in the picture, I’d have to find something to prop the camera on so I could set its timer and get into place before it took the shot, and nothing around me looked too promising. Even the fence post that the PCT blaze was attached to seemed too desiccated and frail. Instead, I sat down in the dirt in front of my pack, the same way I’d done in the motel room, wrested it onto my shoulders, and then hurled myself onto my hands and knees and did my dead lift to stand. Elated, nervous, hunching in a remotely upright position, I buckled and cinched my pack and staggered the first steps down the trail to a brown metal box that was tacked to another fence post. When I lifted the lid, I saw a notebook and pen inside. It was the trail register, which I’d read about in my guidebook. I wrote my name and the date and read the names and notes from the hikers who’d passed through in the weeks ahead of me, most of them men traveling in pairs, not one of them a woman alone. I lingered a bit longer, feeling a swell of emotion over the occasion, and then I realized there was nothing to do but go, so I did. The trail headed east, paralleling the highway for a while, dipping down into rocky washes and back up again. I’m hiking! I thought. And then, I am hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was this very act, of hiking, that had been at the heart of my belief that such a trip was a reasonable endeavor. What is hiking but walking, after all? I can walk! I’d argued when Paul had expressed his concern about my never actually having gone backpacking. I walked all the time. I walked for hours on end in my work as a waitress. I walked around the cities I lived in and visited. I walked for pleasure and purpose. All of these things were true. But after about fifteen minutes of walking on the PCT, it was clear that I had never walked into desert mountains in early June with a pack that weighed significantly more than half of what I did strapped onto my back. Which, it turns out, is not very much like walking at all. Which, in fact, resembles walking less than it does hell.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  How did I burn then, my God, how did I burn to re-mount from earthly things to Thee, nor knew I what Thou wouldest do with me? For with Thee is wisdom. But the love of wisdom is in Greek called “philosophy,” with which that book inflamed me. Some there be that seduce through philosophy, under a great, and smooth, and honourable name colouring and disguising their own errors: and almost all who in that and former ages were such, are in that book censured and set forth: there also is made plain that wholesome advice of Thy Spirit, by Thy good and devout servant: Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ. For in Him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead bodily. And since at that time (Thou, O light of my heart, knowest) Apostolic Scripture was not known to me, I was delighted with that exhortation, so far only, that I was thereby strongly roused, and kindled, and inflamed to love, and seek, and obtain, and hold, and embrace not this or that sect, but wisdom itself whatever it were; and this alone checked me thus unkindled, that the name of Christ was not in it. For this name, according to Thy mercy, O Lord, this name of my Saviour Thy Son, had my tender heart, even with my mother’s milk, devoutly drunk in and deeply treasured; and whatsoever was without that name, though never so learned, polished, or true, took not entire hold of me. I resolved then to bend my mind to the holy Scriptures, that I might see what they were. But behold, I see a thing not understood by the proud, nor laid open to children, lowly in access, in its recesses lofty, and veiled with mysteries; and I was not such as could enter into it, or stoop my neck to follow its steps. For not as I now speak, did I feel when I turned to those Scriptures; but they seemed to me unworthy to he compared to the stateliness of Tully: for my swelling pride shrunk from their lowliness, nor could my sharp wit pierce the interior thereof. Yet were they such as would grow up in a little one. But I disdained to be a little one; and, swollen with pride, took myself to be a great one.

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

  There are occasions when this strengthening and vivifying action of society is especially apparent. In the midst of an assembly animated by a common passion, we become susceptible of acts and sentiments of which we are incapable when reduced to our own forces; and when the assembly is dissolved and when, finding ourselves alone again, we fall back to our ordinary level, we are then able to measure the height to which we have been raised above ourselves. History abounds in examples of this sort. It is enough to think of the night of the Fourth of August, 1789, when an assembly was suddenly led to an act of sacrifice and abnegation which each of its members had refused the day before, and at which they were all surprised the day after.[683] This is why all parties, political, economic or confessional, are careful to have periodical reunions where their members may revivify their common faith by manifesting it in common. To strengthen those sentiments which, if left to themselves, would soon weaken, it is sufficient to bring those who hold them together and to put them into closer and more active relations with one another. This is the explanation of the particular attitude of a man speaking to a crowd, at least if he has succeeded in entering into communion with it. His language has a grandiloquence that would be ridiculous in ordinary circumstances; his gestures show a certain domination; his very thought is impatient of all rules, and easily falls into all sorts of excesses. It is because he feels within him an abnormal over-supply of force which overflows and tries to burst out from him; sometimes he even has the feeling that he is dominated by a moral force which is greater than he and of which he is only the interpreter. It is by this trait that we are able to recognize what has often been called the demon of oratorical inspiration. Now this exceptional increase of force is something very real; it comes to him from the very group which he addresses. The sentiments provoked by his words come back to him, but enlarged and amplified, and to this degree they strengthen his own sentiment. The passionate energies he arouses re-echo within him and quicken his vital tone. It is no longer a simple individual who speaks; it is a group incarnate and personified.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  The real draw of the VCR would turn out to be the rental and purchase of factory-produced videotapes. But even this was not an immediate mainstream success. People liked going out to the movies. A select group of cineastes, though, were interested in a very specific type of movie that they could only fully enjoy with a solo viewing. So it was that pornographic movies led the VCR revolution. They were not quite the first out the door, but they were the ones that threw it open wide and changed forever the nature of media consumption. They proved the market. In 1976, a bright light named Andre Blay approached the major Hollywood studios with a proposal to release their movies on prepackaged videotapes for home consumption. His initial mail-order business did not deal in adult films, though it did offer the advantage of supplying uncut, unedited versions of Hollywood films that were unavailable on television. His business demonstrated sufficient demand for prepackaged videos— within a year, videos were driving VCR sales rather than the other way around—that retailers were willing to buy in. “Arthur Morowitz, a New York video distributor … took the next logical step,” writes Greenberg. “In May 1978, Morowitz opened his first Video Shack store at 49th and Broadway with an inventory of 600 titles (the majority X-rated) and no VCRs.” While mainstream movie theatres saw the VCR as a threat to their trade, porn cinemas became early adopters, savvily expanding their business into the home market to compensate for their declining cinema revenues. Porn consumers exploded the demand for videotape and machine rentals. They were a ready-made market comprising individuals who wanted to watch adult movies in the privacy of their own home. In 1979, less than one per cent of American households owned a videocassette recorder. How could VCR companies survive with such dismal market penetration? It was thanks to pornography consumers, who were willing to pay top dollar for both the machines and the tapes. That premium helped offset the small size of the market, and keep it viable for everyone from VCR manufacturers to local rental stores. “Every independent video store—this was before Blockbuster got the whole thing for themselves—they had a back room full of porn,” said Glasser. “I remember in the early seventies, I saw people with their 16-mm or 8-mm films of porn they showed in their apartments. So obviously, if you get a nice videocassette format for the masses, hey, there’s the porn. It’s a much easier way to watch it and to get it.”

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

  This aptitude of society for setting itself up as a god or for creating gods was never more apparent than during the first years of the French Revolution. At this time, in fact, under the influence of the general enthusiasm, things purely laïcal by nature were transformed by public opinion into sacred things: these were the Fatherland, Liberty, Reason.[690] A religion tended to become established which had its dogmas,[691] symbols,[692] altars[693] and feasts.[694] It was to these spontaneous aspirations that the cult of Reason and the Supreme Being attempted to give a sort of official satisfaction. It is true that this religious renovation had only an ephemeral duration. But that was because the patriotic enthusiasm which at first transported the masses soon relaxed.[695] The cause being gone, the effect could not remain. But this experiment, though short-lived, keeps all its sociological interest. It remains true that in one determined case we have seen society and its essential ideas become, directly and with no transfiguration of any sort, the object of a veritable cult. All these facts allow us to catch glimpses of how the clan was able to awaken within its members the idea that outside of them there exist forces which dominate them and at the same time sustain them, that is to say in fine, religious forces: it is because there is no society with which the primitive is more directly and closely connected. The bonds uniting him to the tribe are much more lax and more feebly felt. Although this is not at all strange or foreign to him, it is with the people of his own clan that he has the greatest number of things in common; it is the action of this group that he feels the most directly; so it is this also which, in preference to all others, should express itself in religious symbols. But this first explanation has been too general, for it is applicable to every sort of society indifferently, and consequently to every sort of religion. Let us attempt to determine exactly what form this collective action takes in the clan and how it arouses the sensation of sacredness there. For there is no place where it is more easily observable or more apparent in its results. III The life of the Australian societies passes alternately through two distinct phases.[696] Sometimes the population is broken up into little groups who wander about independently of one another, in their various occupations; each family lives by itself, hunting and fishing, and in a word, trying to procure its indispensable food by all the means in its power. Sometimes, on the contrary, the population concentrates and gathers at determined points for a length of time varying from several days to several months. This concentration takes place when a clan or a part of the tribe[697] is summoned to the gathering, and on this occasion they celebrate a religious ceremony, or else hold what is called a corrobbori[698] in the usual ethnological language.

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

  Among the Warramunga, the final rite presents some rather particular characteristics. There seems to be no shedding of blood here, but the collective effervescence is translated in another manner. Among his people, before the body is definitely interred, it is exposed upon a platform placed in the branches of a tree; it is left there to decompose slowly, until nothing remains but the bones. Then these are gathered together and, with the exception of the humerus, they are placed inside an ant-hill. The humerus is wrapped up in a bark box, which is decorated in different manners. The box is then brought to camp, amid the cries and groans of the women. During the following days, they celebrate a series of totemic rites, concerning the totem of the deceased and the mythical history of the ancestors from whom the clan is descended. When all these ceremonies have been terminated, they proceed to the closing rite. A trench one foot deep and fifteen feet long is dug in the field of the ceremony. A design representing the totem of the deceased and certain spots where the ancestor stopped is made on the ground a little distance from it. Near this design, a little ditch is dug in the ground. Ten decorated men then advance, one behind another, and with their hands crossed behind their heads and their legs wide apart they stand astraddle the trench. At a given signal, the women run from the camp in a profound silence; when they are near, they form in Indian file, the last one holding in her hands the box containing the humerus. Then, after throwing themselves on the ground, they advance on their hands and knees, and pass all along the trench, between the legs of the men. The scene shows a state of great sexual excitement. As soon as the last woman has passed, they take the box from her, and take it to the ditch, near which is an old man; he breaks the bone with a sharp blow, and hurriedly buries it in the debris. During this time, the women have remained at a distance, with their backs turned upon the scene, for they must not see it. But when they hear the blow of the axe, they flee, uttering cries and groans. The rite is accomplished; the mourning is terminated.[1257] II

• From Little Women (1868)

  If we do so, you just say to us, as old Chloe did in Uncle Tom , 'Tink ob yer marcies, chillen!' 'Tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them. CHAPTER FIVE BEING NEIGHBORLY "What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. "Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver. "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read Ivanhoe , and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin.

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

  After a year of Wednesday nights, I knew the Pear Tree Story off by heart and had added many new words to my vocabulary such as ego , spirit , chakra , and negative energy and learned their group-specific definitions via discussions each week. With a little trepidation but more excitement, I began participating as well in the weekend workshops that Limori held locally. The first one I attended was in her home in Port Moody. There were perhaps twenty of us there, seated around her living room in a circle of chairs, with the other living room furniture moved to other parts of the house. There was never a formal agenda or structure to these workshops; Limori was not teaching a methodology that could be replicated or a paradigm that could be memorized. She was acting at the behest of God, we believed, and therefore we were willing to let her lead us wherever she said God wanted us to go. We spent some of the time during the workshops meditating, and would report afterwards on what we’d “seen” or felt or experienced during the mediation. Limori would then, from her seat at the top of the circle, comment on our experience and explain what her spirit guides said it signified. The meditations themselves were often guided; that is, someone in the group would lead us through a visualization (in the early days it was usually Limori but later others of us were granted permission to do this) and then we might spend some time in silence. The meditations could last up to an hour, but were more often thirty or forty minutes long. We were there to learn at the feet of someone we believed was a spiritual master and had God’s ear. To that end, during these workshops, God was available through Limori via her spirit guide, Azeen, to provide us with guidance about changes we needed to make in our lives and personal selves in order to better serve Him and strengthen our ability to be spiritually “clear.” Unspoken was the eternal hope that we would eventually be able to receive His guidance ourselves. At some point during the first day of the workshop, either before or after a meditation, Limori would look around the room until eventually her gaze would fall on one person. She would make a few introductory enquiries about that person’s life, both inner and outer, until she discovered an “ego position” that the person was dealing with. Then the rest of us would sit back, relieved that the spotlight had momentarily fallen on someone else and, like an audience at a tennis match, our heads would swivel back and forth between Limori and her chosen subject as they talked. Or, rather, as the person confessed and Limori gave them God’s guidance about what the root cause of their particular problem was and what they should do about it. During the Saturday afternoon of my first workshop, Limori’s eyes land on Gary.

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

  Fitted with huge picture windows, it offered a spectacular view of the lake and its far shores. The lodge was furnished gracefully but without flash. Limori had a way of creating physical beauty wherever she went, even in these somewhat primitive circumstances. Limori and Matthew’s bedroom was on the far side of the living room. Alice and her then-husband John slept in a cabin nearby that, before the arrival of electricity, had been an icehouse. We were each assigned a cabin to share with two or three others. There were about twenty of us; the five men stayed in one cabin and the women in the others. The cabins were without running water or electricity, and each had a woodstove for heat and a nearby outhouse. During that first workshop, all twenty of us shared the one bathroom in the lodge. We were each given a five-minute window every other day to shower so that we would not overwhelm the septic system. In later years, as the business of the lodge expanded, a shower house would be built to service the cabins. Throughout the late afternoon and early evening, cars bearing fellow group members arrived. The passengers would disembark and receive the same welcome and tour that we’d had. Some of Limori’s followers lived in BC’s interior, and those of us from Vancouver saw them only at workshops such as this. It was a bit like a reunion as everyone slowly gathered in the living room, even though some of us had seen each other just a few days earlier. As the crowd grew, a feeling of anticipation began to permeate the atmosphere, and I became conscious of my curiosity about what would occur this week. Once everyone had arrived, we were all seated in the living room and without instruction we grew quiet, ready to listen to whatever Limori and her “spirit guides” had to offer us. She was there in regal splendour as usual, dressed in a custom-made silk skirt and matching top, while the rest of us were mostly in jeans. As the chatter in the room slowly petered out, she clasped her hands around her belly, closed her eyes and made the small nodding motions and quiet, private murmurs of assent to the spirit voices she was listening to that we had come to learn meant she was “tuning in.” She would often laugh at something Spirit had said and then open her eyes, still chuckling, and let us in on the joke she and Azeen were sharing. A few guidelines were outlined for the week, such as the instruction that no one was to leave the property. Limori emphasized that she had drawn in good spirits to protect us while we were here but if we strayed past the property boundaries we could break the protective seal at the property line and endanger ourselves and everyone else.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?" "Yes, if the girls will too." "We will. Now, Laurie." "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?" Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things—nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly." "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly. "I said 'pleasant people', you know," and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face. "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books. "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly. "Wouldn't I though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream." "Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly. "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie. "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else." "I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire. "We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect.

• From Another Country (1962)

  Most of them, after the set, were going to make it to the home of a famous Negro singer who had just scored in his first movie. Because the joint was new, it was packed. Lately, he had heard, it hadn’t been doing so well. All kinds of people had been there that night, white and black, high and low, people who came for the music and people who spent their lives in joints for other reasons. There were a couple of minks and a few near-minks and a lot of God-knows-what shining at wrists and ears and necks and in the hair. The colored people were having a good time because they sensed that, for whatever reason, this crowd was solidly with them; and the white people were having a good time because nobody was putting them down for being white. The joint, as Fats Waller would have said, was jumping. There was some pot on the scene and he was a little high. He was feeling great. And, during the last set, he came doubly alive because the saxophone player, who had been way out all night, took off on a terrific solo. He was a kid of about the same age as Rufus, from some insane place like Jersey City or Syracuse, but somewhere along the line he had discovered that he could say it with a saxophone. He had a lot to say. He stood there, wide-legged, humping the air, filling his barrel chest, shivering in the rags of his twenty-odd years, and screaming through the horn Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me? And, again, Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me? This, anyway, was the question Rufus heard, the same phrase, unbearably, endlessly, and variously repeated, with all of the force the boy had. The silence of the listeners became strict with abruptly focused attention, cigarettes were unlit, and drinks stayed on the tables; and in all of the faces, even the most ruined and most dull, a curious, wary light appeared. They were being assaulted by the saxophonist who perhaps no longer wanted their love and merely hurled his outrage at them with the same contemptuous, pagan pride with which he humped the air. And yet the question was terrible and real; the boy was blowing with his lungs and guts out of his own short past; somewhere in that past, in the gutters or gang fights or gang shags; in the acrid room, on the sperm-stiffened blanket, behind marijuana or the needle, under the smell of piss in the precinct basement, he had received the blow from which he never would recover and this no one wanted to believe. Do you love me? Do you love me?

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

  I drove to the workshop with three other women from the group. It took all day: east on Highway 1 out of Vancouver, then north up the Fraser Canyon, trail of the Cariboo gold rush in the 1860s and ‘70s. When we hit Williams Lake we turned northwest and followed Highway 20 as it angles toward the coast again. Wolf’s Den sits midway between Williams Lake and Bella Coola on the coast. Throughout the drive all four of us chattered away as only women can. We took turns driving, ate junk food, stopped frequently for bio breaks and, of course, discussed spirituality. The sun shone as mile after mile of quiet, single-lane highway spooled away in our wake. I’d never seen this part of BC before and was fascinated as we squeezed between the walls of the Fraser Canyon and then were spat out onto rolling grassland at the canyon’s top end a few hours later. I was nervous about attending my first spiritual workshop. And excited. I’d never participated in anything like this before. There was the familiar sense of spiritual purposefulness that sang quietly in the background of my mind. Like the Blues Brothers, my fellow travellers and I were on a mission from God, and it felt so good to be certain of something. Beyond Williams Lake, there were several hundred miles of the highway, still unpaved at that time, and the journey slowed down as we allowed for potholes and the corduroy effect that large transport trucks leave in their wake. Finally, road-weary and cramped, we pulled off the highway and bounced down a long gravel driveway that eventually terminated at the lodge. This was Limori’s unofficial ashram, the seat of her growing empire, although I didn’t think of it as such as the time. She and her ever-present sidekick Alice greeted us warmly with hugs and inquiries about our journey. We were shown around the lodge, then later the property. It was the first time any of us had been here. Limori was the warm, genial hostess, clearly enjoying her role as matriarch of the brood that was gathering under her wings. She was also obviously proud of the work that those who lived at Wolf’s Den had done under her tutelage and direction, to rescue the lodge and its outlying cabins from the neglect and wear they had suffered in recent years. She proudly showed us through all the buildings, pointing out all that had been done and mentioning the numerous changes that were to come. The lodge and all the cabins were rustic split-log design, perfectly befitting the surrounding wilderness landscape. The lodge had a fair-sized kitchen, which opened to the main living room via a pass-through window and a set of swinging doors. This room, with red carpet salvaged form Limori’s home in Port Moody, would serve as the main workshop space and the place we would eat our meals, buffet style.