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 The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  You know, or…? SA: Well, I have protections put in place where only Native American actors or First Nations will play the Native American characters in my book, in the movie. And it’s by my definitions, the approvals are based on my definitions of what Native American and First Nations is, because there are all sorts of folks who claim Indian-ness and there’re all sorts of Native American—in five-inch-thick parentheses—who claim to be Native in the acting world. So by my definitions, by the author and executive producer of The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian movie, I get to choose who gets to be in the movie. JW: And you’re involved…you’re writing the script? SA: I’m writing the script. I’m a producer. Directing is a possibility. JW: So hopefully with that protection in place…You think about how many lives the book has touched, and we know that there are some kids who still don’t get to books. You must know with Smoke Signals the reach a film can have. It must be exciting—as writers we’re not made to be optimists, and as a reservation Indian, you’re especially not—but the idea that a film could come out of it and reach that many more people, young people especially, must be thrilling. SA: Twenty years since Smoke Signals , the first movie I made, has been out, and I would be in an airport, I was in a Chicago airport once and I heard from across the distance, “Hey, Victor.” JW: “Hey, Victor.” [ Laughs ] SA: So I am highly aware that movies have a lot more cultural power and a lot more political power than books do. And especially in this Internet era? To think that this movie plays theaters hopefully and then hits Netflix…No matter how well it does in the theaters, it’s going to hit Netflix eventually, or whatever Netflix becomes, or whatever competition to Netflix might arise. JW: Now, writing the script yourself puts a different kind of pressure on, because Absolutely True Diary is the favorite book of so many people. I mean, that’s their favorite book, and you had better be faithful, or get it right, or nail it. Do you feel that? Are you going to feel that from readers? SA: I’m a chronic rewriter. So the producers actually had to rein me in, to stick more with the book. I was willing to change everything. My first draft of the screenplay, it was set in an Amish community. JW: [ Laughs ] “The scene where Junior becomes a Jedi, we’re a little confused by…” SA: So I am perfectly willing to change everything, so long as it’s my decision. But they reined me back in, and it is very faithful to the book. JW: Oh, good. Can you imagine that first reader coming up to you and saying— SA: Saying, “I hate the movie, you broke my heart.” JW: “You’ve ruined your own book, Mister Alexie.”

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  SA: The most powerful ones are the ones I get from the teachers or the kids themselves about reluctant readers. The thing I hear all the time is, “This is the first book I ever finished,” which is on one level very sad, an indictment of our education system, but on the other level, you think, well, maybe I’m the gateway book, the gateway drug. Maybe my book will lead this kid into other books. But to have had that influence on somebody who didn’t like books, who didn’t like to read and then all of a sudden I get these letters from these kids: “This is the first book I’ve finished.” “I stole it from the library.” I get very excited. And teachers write me letters and say, “I can’t keep this in my classroom because all these kids steal it.” JW: Oh, that’s so great. SA: One of the great moments for me was maybe about six or seven years ago, I read in New York and this entire class of kids from the Bronx came. It was a public school in the Bronx, so it was all brown kids of various ethnicities and races and countries, you know, a lot of them are first-generation immigrants. It was really amazing to see this incredibly diverse group of kids so identify with this reservation Indian boy. And you know, we’re from the same place in the world, I mean, Eastern Washington from Springdale and Wellpinit, from the rez and just off the rez, and to think that we could have any standing or any influence over anybody , let alone some kid in the Bronx? It’s astonishing. It never fails to astonish me. JW: But I think that’s the universal quality of books written for teens up to young adults, is that idea…the universal. I remember reading A Wrinkle in Time and you know, my dad wasn’t a professor, but you identify with those kids. You identify with Charlie going into the chocolate factory. You become that character, and I think that’s what that book’s done so amazingly. I spoke at an alternative school, and the first question I get from this kid is, “Do you know Sherman Alexie?” “No, I never met him.” “That’s the only book I ever read; I love that book.” SA: [ Laughs ] JW: Again, here’s a kid with a tough childhood. That has to be a recurring theme you hear over the last ten years.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  They couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I mean, sure, that kind of thing happens in the NBA and in college and in the big high schools. But nobody jumped like that in a small school basketball gym. Nobody blocked a shot like that. NOBODY TOOK A BALL OUT OF A GUY’S HANDS AS HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO DUNK! But I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. I wanted to score. I’d taken the ball from Rowdy and now I wanted to score in his face. I wanted to absolutely demoralize him. I raced for our hoop. Rowdy was screaming behind me. My teammates told me later that I was grinning like an idiot as I flew down the court. I didn’t know that. I just knew I wanted to hit a jumper in Rowdy’s face. Well, I wanted to dunk on him. And I figured, with the crazy adrenaline coursing through my body, I might be able to jump over the rim again. But I think part of me knew that I’d never jump like that again. I only had that one epic jump in me. I wasn’t a dunker; I was a shooter. So I screeched to a stop at the three-point line and head-faked. And Rowdy completely fell for it. He jumped high over me, wanting to block my shot, but I just waited for the sky to clear. As Rowdy hovered above me, as he floated away, he looked at me. I looked at him. He knew he’d blown it. He knew he’d fallen for a little head-fake. He knew he could do nothing to stop my jumper. He was sad, man. Way sad. So guess what I did? I stuck my tongue out at him. Like I was Michael Jordan. I mocked him. And then I took my three-pointer and buried it. Just swished that sucker. AND THE GYM EXPLODED! People wept. Really. My dad hugged the white guy next to him. Didn’t even know him. But hugged and kissed him like they were brothers, you know? My mom fainted. Really. She just leaned over a bit, bumped against the white woman next to her, and was gone. She woke up five seconds later. People were up on their feet. They were high-fiving and hugging and dancing and singing. The school band played a song. Well, the band members were all confused and excited, so they played a song, sure, but each member of the band played a different song. My coach was jumping up and down and spinning in circles. My teammates were screaming my name. Yep, all of that fuss and the score was only 3 to 0. But, trust me, the game was over. It only took, like, ten seconds to happen. But the game was already over. Really. It can happen that way. One play can determine the course of a game. One play can change your momentum forever.

• From Manhunt (2022)

  A sprawling, unmade bed lay beside the entire setup, its tangled sheets and blankets smelling of sweat, sex, and something delicate and floral. Beth flushed, still befuddled from sleep. “Uh, I know, like, super basic Python and Ruby, but I’ll do what I can.” “One of our people in Boston got this to us last week,” said Rachel, swinging herself down onto a scarred piano bench beside Persephone’s chair and leaning her crutches against the wall. Beth peered over Persephone’s shoulder. A fat packet of torn, stained, and recycled paper spilled across the desk beside the keyboard, every page dark with printed diagrams. Code jammed the monitors in a dozen overlapping windows, complex and alien. “What am I even looking at here?” “Military computer system,” said Persephone in a whiny, resentful voice that immediately drove Beth insane. “Nothing wireless. Hardened—ruggedized, I guess it’s called. So you can’t knock it out with an EMP or a surge.” “Not military,” said Rachel, bending over to scratch her stump. Beth had heard from one of the other Fort Dykers that she’d lost the leg in Iraq. “Naval. Gunnery hardware and software for some kind of battleship.” “This is way, way past anything I’ve worked on.” “I told you,” Persephone groused, twisting strands of greasy hair around her finger. “We’re wasting our time. We’re just going to have to work harder.” Beth diplomatically ignored this, scooping the printed packet off the desk and thumbing through the opaque diagrams. “I did do a little freelance web security back in college, though. What are you trying to do?” Rachel’s eyes gleamed with mischievous delight. “Find a way to wreck it.” IV. The Elephant IV THE ELEPHANT Fran looked smug as she stepped out of the hall’s shadow and into the sunlight spilling through the wall-length window. Pleased with herself, like a cat lapping up spilled cream. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” “Are you out of your fucking mind?” Ramona hissed, scrambling out from behind her desk. She crossed the floor between them in three long strides and grabbed the trans girl by her slender throat, a thrill of excitement pulsing in the long muscles of her thighs as that self-satisfied smile flickered and vanished. She pushed until Fran’s back hit the wall. It felt good to come close to hitting her. Good to hurt someone so easily. “You want to get us both killed?” “No one’s going to know,” Fran husked, clutching uselessly at Ramona’s hand. She was up on her tiptoes. “Not unless you make a scene and give it up.” Dead tranny in my office? Who’d say a fucking thing?

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Read differently? SA: True Diary coincided with this rise in young adult literature. I mean, Harry Potter was a kids’ book. When you look back at the chronology of Harry Potter, I don’t think there’s ever been a more dramatic example of somebody getting better, getting so much better as a writer in the public eye, like the dramatic increase. The first couple of Harry Potter books are very much children’s books, but as they went on, as the kids got older, and as J. K. Rowling got more experience, the books became...I mean, they’re biblical. Holy crap, they’re biblical. I’m going to argue right here that I think the Harry Potter books and the movies combined are more important in American culture than any other book or any other TV show, any other cultural phenomenon. I think they have more spiritual power, I think they have more political power, more everything. The first one came out in 1998, which is incredible when you think about Harry Potter. But my career and my thoughts about young adult were right in the middle of all that and so when young adult literature exploded—The Hunger Games; John Green; Thirteen Reasons Why, which is like the massive thing on Netflix right now—I accidentally became part of this amazing new phenomenon, the young adult book being a universally praised and admired genre. It remains the bestselling genre. If you want to sell books as a writer, write young adult. JW: And it seems like another boundary or border was crossed, because adult readers, of course, came along, but it also said kids can handle six hundred pages, they can handle dialogue about masturbation. It also stopped underestimating the fifteen-year-old reader, the thirteen-year-old reader. SA: It stopped being condescending. It really is a form of political rebellion. Young readers becoming political rebels by insisting on their own genre. When The Outsiders was published, nobody thought about it as being young adult. When The Catcher in the Rye was published, nobody thought about it as being young adult. Lord the Flies, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn...when we talk about so many of the great books of our past, they would be classified as young adult now. And that would be a great thing. We all became writers because of something we read when we were twelve. And I get to be that guy. It’s awesome. Interview with Ellen Forney How long have you been drawing comics? I’ve drawn pictures from as far back as I can remember, but I didn’t start drawing narrative comics until I was in high school.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Meets swell broad in Marseilles.” He is trying uncertainly to find his voice: Rex Fraser mounted the knoll and setting his hat more securely against the wind squinted at the huddle of unpainted shacks below him. “So this,” he said to his horse, “is Montana City.” Hubbard entered the School of Engineering at George Washington University in the fall of 1930. He was a poor student—failing German and calculus—but he excelled in extracurricular activities. He began writing for the school newspaper. A new literary magazine at GWU provided a venue for his first published works of fiction. He became director of the gliding club, a thrilling new pastime that was just catching on (Hubbard’s gliding license was #385). The actual study of engineering was a secondary pursuit, as his failing grades reflected. In September 1931, Hubbard and his friend Philip “Flip” Browning took a few weeks off to barnstorm through the Midwest in an Arrow Sport biplane. “ We carefully wrapped our ‘baggage,’ threw the fire extinguisher out to save half a horsepower, patched a hole in the upper wing, and started off to skim over four or five states with the wind as our only compass,” Hubbard writes. By now, he had taken to calling himself “Flash.” Hubbard’s account of this adventure, “ Tailwind Willies,” was his first commercially published story, appearing in The Sportsman Pilot in January 1932. It was the launch of an unprecedented career. (He would go on to publish more books than any other author, according to the 2006 Guinness World Records , with 1,084 titles.) In the spring of 1932, at the height of the Great Depression, Hubbard undertook a venture that displayed many of the hallmarks of his future exploits. He posted a notice on several university campuses: “ Restless young men with wanderlust wanted for the Caribbean Motion Picture Expedition. Cost to applicant $250 payable at the dock in Baltimore before sailing. Must be healthy, dependable, resourceful, imaginative, and adventurous. No tea-hounds or tourist material need apply.” The goals of the expedition were grand and various—primarily, to make newsreels for Fox Movietone and Pathé News, while exploring the pirate haunts of the Caribbean and voodoo rites in Haiti. There were also vague plans to “ collect whatever one collects for exhibits in museums.” “It’s difficult at any age to recognize a messiah in the making,” wrote one of the young men, James S. Free, a journalist who signed on to the expedition. He was twenty-three years old, two years older than Hubbard. They were going to be partners in the adventure, along with Hubbard’s old flying buddy, Phil Browning. “I cannot claim prescient awareness that my soon-to-be business partner possessed the ego and talents that would later develop his own private religion,” Free wrote in a notebook he titled “Preview of a Messiah.” Hubbard was living with his parents in Washington, DC, when Free arrived.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I’m never going to quit living life this hard, you know? I’m never going to surrender to anybody. Never, ever, ever.” “How bad do you want to win?” “I never wanted anything more in my life.” “Good luck, Arnold, we’ll be watching.” The gym was packed two hours before the game. Two thousand people yelling and cheering and stomping. In the locker room, we all got ready in silence. But everybody, even Coach, came up to me and patted my head or shoulder, or bumped fists with me, or gave me a hug. This was my game, this was my game. I mean, I was still just the second guy off the bench, just the dude who provided instant offense. But it was all sort of warrior stuff, too. We were all boys desperate to be men, and this game would be a huge moment in our transition. “Okay, everybody, let’s go over the game plan,” Coach said. We all walked over to the chalkboard area and sat on folding chairs. “Okay, guys,” Coach said. “We know what these guys can do. They’re averaging eighty points a game. They want to run and run and run. And when they’re done running and gunning, they’re going to run and gun some more.” Man, that wasn’t much of a pep talk. It sounded like Coach was sure we were going to lose. “And I have to be honest, guys,” Coach said. “We can’t beat these guys with our talent. We just aren’t good enough. But I think we have bigger hearts. And I think we have a secret weapon.” I wondered if Coach had maybe hired some Mafia dude to take out Rowdy. “We have Arnold Spirit,” Coach said. “Me?” I asked. “Yes, you,” Coach said. “You’re starting tonight.” “Really?” “Really. And you’re going to guard Rowdy. The whole game. He’s your man. You have to stop him. If you stop him, we win this game. It’s the only way we’re going to win this game.” Wow. I was absolutely stunned. Coach wanted me to guard Rowdy. Now, okay, I was a great shooter, but I wasn’t a great defensive player. Not at all. There’s no way I could stop Rowdy. I mean, if I had a baseball bat and bulldozer, maybe I could stop him. But without real weapons—without a pistol, a man-eating lion, and a vial of bubonic plague—I had zero chance of competing directly with Rowdy. If I guarded him, he was going to score seventy points. “Coach,” I said. “I’m really honored by this. But I don’t think I can do it.” He walked over to me, kneeled, and pushed his forehead against mine. Our eyes were, like, an inch apart.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  But, man, oh, man, we were sending some serious hate signals across the gym. I mean, you have to love somebody that much to also hate them that much, too. Our captains, Roger and Jeff, ran out to the center circle to have the game talk with the refs. Then our band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” And then our five starters, including me, ran out to the center circle to go to battle against Wellpinit’s five. Rowdy smirked at me as I took my position next to him. “Wow,” he said. “You guys must be desperate if you’re starting.” “I’m guarding you,” I said. “What?” “I’m guarding you tonight.” “You can’t stop me. I’ve been kicking your ass for fourteen years.” “Not tonight,” I said. “Tonight’s my night.” Rowdy just laughed. The ref threw up the opening jump ball. Our big guy, Roger, tipped it back toward our point guard, but Rowdy was quicker. He intercepted the pass and raced toward his basket. I ran right behind him. I knew that he wanted to dunk it. I knew that he wanted to send a message to us. I knew he wanted to humiliate us on the opening play. And for a second, I wondered if I should just intentionally foul him and prevent him from dunking. He’d get two free throws but those wouldn’t be nearly as exciting as a dunk. But, no, I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t foul him. That would be like giving up. So I just sped up and got ready to jump with Rowdy. I knew he’d fly into the air about five feet from the hoop. I knew he’d jump about two feet higher than I could. So I needed to jump quicker. And Rowdy rose into the air. And I rose with him. AND THEN I ROSE ABOVE HIM! Yep, if I believed in magic, in ghosts, then I think maybe I was rising on the shoulders of my dead grandmother and Eugene, my dad’s best friend. Or maybe I was rising on my mother and father’s hopes for me. I don’t know what happened. But for once, and for the only time in my life, I jumped higher than Rowdy. I rose above him as he tried to dunk it. I TOOK THE BALL RIGHT OUT OF HIS HANDS! Yep, we were, like, ten feet off the ground, but I was still able to reach out and steal the ball from Rowdy. Even in midair, I could see the absolute shock on Rowdy’s face. He couldn’t believe I was flying with him. He thought he was the only Indian Superman. I came down with the ball, spun, and dribbled back toward our hoop. Rowdy, screaming with rage, was close behind me. Our crowd was insanely loud.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Peone, dear Rowdy, I love you so much. And I will miss you forever. In Like a Lion I’d never guessed I’d be a good basketball player. I mean, I’d always loved ball, mostly because my father loved it so much, and because Rowdy loved it even more, but I figured I’d always be one of those players who sat on the bench and cheered his bigger, faster, more talented teammates to victory and/or defeat. But somehow or another, as the season went on, I became a freshman starter on a varsity basketball team. And, sure, all of my teammates were bigger and faster, but none of them could shoot like me. I was the hired gunfighter. Back on the rez, I was a decent player, I guess. A rebounder and a guy who could run up and down the floor without tripping. But something magical happened to me when I went to Reardan. Overnight, I became a good player. I suppose it had something to do with confidence. I mean, I’d always been the lowest Indian on the reservation totem pole—I wasn’t expected to be good so I wasn’t. But in Reardan, my coach and the other players wanted me to be good. They needed me to be good. They expected me to be good. And so I became good. I wanted to live up to expectations. I guess that’s what it comes down to. The power of expectations. And as they expected more of me, I expected more of myself, and it just grew and grew until I was scoring twelve points a game. AS A FRESHMAN! Coach was thinking I would be an all-state player in a few years. He was thinking maybe I’d play some small-college ball. It was crazy. How often does a reservation Indian kid hear that? How often do you hear the words “Indian” and “college” in the same sentence? Especially in my family. Especially in my tribe. But don’t think I’m getting stuck up or anything. It’s still absolutely scary to play ball, to compete, to try to win. I throw up before every game. Coach said he used to throw up before games. “Kid,” he said, “some people need to clear the pipes before they can play. I used to be a yucker. You’re a yucker Ain’t nothing wrong with being a yucker.” So I asked Dad if he used to be a yucker. “What’s a yucker?” he asked. “Somebody who throws up before basketball games,” I said. “Why would you throw up?” “Because I’m nervous.” “You mean, because you’re scared?” “Nervous, scared, same kind of things, aren’t they?” “Nervous means you want to play. Scared means you don’t want to play.” All right, so Dad made it clear. I was a nervous yucker in Reardan. Back in Wellpinit, I was a scared yucker.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I figure Rowdy and I have spent an average of eight hours a day together for the last fourteen years. That’s eight hours times 365 days times fourteen years. So that means Rowdy and I have spent 40,880 hours in each other’s company. Nobody else comes anywhere close to that. Trust me. Rowdy and I are inseparable. Because Geometry Is Not a Country Somewhere Near France I was fourteen and it was my first day of high school. I was happy about that. And I was most especially excited about my first geometry class. Yep, I have to admit that isosceles triangles make me feel hormonal. Most guys, no matter what age, get excited about curves and circles, but not me. Don’t get me wrong. I like girls and their curves. And I really like women and their curvier curves. I spend hours in the bathroom with a magazine that has one thousand pictures of naked movie stars: Naked woman + right hand = happy happy joy joy Yep, that’s right, I admit that I masturbate. I’m proud of it. I’m good at it. I’m ambidextrous. If there were a Professional Masturbators League, I’d get drafted number one and make millions of dollars. And maybe you’re thinking, “Well, you really shouldn’t be talking about masturbation in public.” Well, tough, I’m going to talk about it because EVERYBODY does it. And EVERYBODY likes it. And if God hadn’t wanted us to masturbate, then God wouldn’t have given us thumbs. So I thank God for my thumbs. But, the thing is, no matter how much time my thumbs and I spend with the curves of imaginary women, I am much more in love with the right angles of buildings. When I was a baby, I’d crawl under my bed and snuggle into a corner to sleep. I just felt warm and safe leaning into two walls at the same time. When I was eight, nine, and ten, I slept in my bedroom closet with the door closed. I only stopped doing that because my big sister, Mary, told me that I was just trying to find my way back into my mother’s womb. That ruined the whole closet thing. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against my mother’s womb. I was built in there, after all. So I have to say that I am pro-womb. But I have zero interest in moving back home, so to speak. My sister is good at ruining things. After high school, my sister just froze. Didn’t go to college, didn’t get a job. Didn’t do anything. Kind of sad, I guess. But she is also beautiful and strong and funny. She is the prettiest and strongest and funniest person who ever spent twenty-three hours a day alone in a basement. She is so crazy and random that we call her Mary Runs Away. I’m not like her at all.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Because Penelope had publicly declared that I was cute enough to ALMOST date, all of the other girls in school decided that I was cute, too. Because I got to hold hands with Penelope, and kiss her good-bye when she jumped on the school bus to go home, all of the other boys in school decided that I was a major stud. Even the teachers started paying more attention to me. I was mysterious. How did I, the dorky Indian guy, win a tiny piece of Penelope’s heart? What was my secret? I looked and talked and dreamed and walked differently than everybody else. I was new. If you want to get all biological, then you’d have to say that I was an exciting addition to the Reardan gene pool. So, okay, those are all the obvious reasons why Penelope and I were friends. All the shallow reasons. But what about the bigger and better reasons? “Arnold,” she said one day after school, “I hate this little town. It’s so small, too small. Everything about it is small. The people here have small ideas. Small dreams. They all want to marry each other and live here forever.” “What do you want to do?” I asked. “I want to leave as soon as I can. I think I was born with a suitcase.” Yeah, she talked like that. All big and goofy and dramatic. I wanted to make fun of her, but she was so earnest. “Where do you want to go?” I asked. “Everywhere. I want to walk on the Great Wall of China. I want to walk to the top of pyramids in Egypt. I want to swim in every ocean. I want to climb Mount Everest. I want to go on an African safari. I want to ride a dogsled in Antarctica. I want all of it. Every single piece of everything.” Her eyes got this strange faraway look, like she’d been hypnotized. I laughed. “Don’t laugh at me,” she said. “I’m not laughing at you,” I said. “I’m laughing at your eyes.” “That’s the whole problem,” she said. “Nobody takes me seriously.” “Well, come on, it’s kind of hard to take you seriously when you’re talking about the Great Wall of China and Egypt and stuff. Those are just big goofy dreams. They’re not real.” “They’re real to me,” she said. “Why don’t you quit talking in dreams and tell me what you really want to do with your life,” I said. “Make it simple.” “I want to go to Stanford and study architecture.” “Wow, that’s cool,” I said. “But why architecture?” “Because I want to build something beautiful. Because I want to be remembered.” And I couldn’t make fun of her for that dream. It was my dream, too. And Indian boys weren’t supposed to dream like that. And white girls from small towns weren’t supposed to dream big, either.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  SA: Well, think of the books that we read when we were kids and how formative they are. I think of It by Stephen King or The Snowy Day when I was much younger, the picture book by Ezra Jack Keats. I didn’t have imaginary playmates growing up like some kids did; I had books. Books were my imaginary playmates. Books were my siblings and sometimes books were the best version of a parent I could have. So to think I might have even a fraction of that power for a kid with True Diary is amazing. JW: You must see it. I see kids carrying the book around. You must get letters from kids that just blow you away. SA: The most powerful ones are the ones I get from the teachers or the kids themselves about reluctant readers. The thing I hear all the time is, “This is the first book I ever finished,” which is on one level very sad, an indictment of our education system, but on the other level, you think, well, maybe I’m the gateway book, the gateway drug. Maybe my book will lead this kid into other books. But to have had that influence on somebody who didn’t like books, who didn’t like to read and then all of a sudden I get these letters from these kids: “This is the first book I’ve finished.” “I stole it from the library.” I get very excited. And teachers write me letters and say, “I can’t keep this in my classroom because all these kids steal it.” JW: Oh, that’s so great. SA: One of the great moments for me was maybe about six or seven years ago, I read in New York and this entire class of kids from the Bronx came. It was a public school in the Bronx, so it was all brown kids of various ethnicities and races and countries, you know, a lot of them are first-generation immigrants. It was really amazing to see this incredibly diverse group of kids so identify with this reservation Indian boy. And you know, we’re from the same place in the world, I mean, Eastern Washington from Springdale and Wellpinit, from the rez and just off the rez, and to think that we could have any standing or any influence over anybody, let alone some kid in the Bronx? It’s astonishing. It never fails to astonish me.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Cole could not well acquaint me with, in any expectation of my offering for service: for, sufficiently easy as I was in my circumstances, it must have been the temptation of an immense interest indeed, that could have induced me to embrace such a job, neither had I ever expressed, nor indeed, felt the least impulse or curiosity to know more of a taste, that promised so much more pain than pleasure to those that stood in no need of such violent goads: what then should move me to subscribe myself voluntarily to a party of pain, foreknowing it such? Why, to tell the plain truth, it was a sudden caprice, a gust of fancy for trying a new experiment, mixed with the vanity of approving my personal courage to Mrs. Cole, that determined me, at all risks, to propose myself to her and relieve her from any further look-out. Accordingly, I at once pleased and surprised her, with a frank and unreserved tender of my person to her and her friend’s absolute disposal on this occasion. My good temporal mother was, however, so kind as to use all the arguments she could imagine to dissuade me: but, as I found they only turned on a motive of tenderness to me, I persisted in my resolution, and thereby acquitted my offer of any suspicion of its not having been sincerely made, or out of compliment only. Acquiescing then thankfully in it, Mrs. Cole assured me “that bating the pain I should be put to, she had no scruple to engage me to this party, which she assured me I should be liberally paid for, and which, the secrecy of the transaction preserved safe from the ridicule that otherwise vulgarly attended it; that for her part, she considered pleasure, of one sort or other, as the universal port of destination, and every wind that blew thither a good one, provided it blew nobody any harm; that she rather compassionated, than blamed those unhappy persons, who are under a subjection they cannot shake off, to those arbitrary tastes that rule their appetites of pleasures with an unaccountable control: tastes too, as infinitely diversified, as superior to, and independent of all reasoning as the different relishes or palates of mankind in their viands, some delicate stomach nauseating plain meats, and finding no savour but in highseasoned, luxurious dishes, whilst others again pique themselves upon detesting them.” I stood now in no need of this preamble of encouragement, or justification: my word was given, and I was determined to fulfill my engagements.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  The organizer of the event, Bill Dendiu, recalled that Miscavige was not pleased that Haggis had been invited. Dendiu defended his decision because Haggis was now a bona fide celebrity. “ He has had a string of hit TV shows and by my estimation is a very devoted member of the church,” he told Miscavige. Paul and Diane met Miscavige and other top-level members of the church for dinner. “Paul takes no shit from anybody,” Dendiu recalled. “The fact that he did not suck up to Miscavige—and in fact, had a couple of little zingers or one-liners for him while we were at the dinner—that got me some additional browbeating.” He added: “You have to understand that no one challenges David Miscavige.” The Dianetics car crashed in the first lap. Paul and Diane flew home in Travolta’s plane, with Travolta himself at the controls. SUZETTE HUBBARD BLEW in February 1988. Five years earlier she had met Guy White, a Sea Org marketing executive, on the RPF running program, which at the time was in Griffith Park in Los Angeles—about fifty people running all day long, even after dinner, stuffing themselves on bread and honey to keep themselves going. Suzette was warned by an auditor that Guy was gay. In fact, Guy didn’t know if he was gay or not. When he joined the staff, he had to respond to a questionnaire that asked, “ Have you ever been involved in prostitution, homosexuality, illegal sex or perversion? Give who, when, where, what in each instance.” He had never actually had a homosexual relationship and had been celibate for a decade; moreover, it was generally assumed that homosexuality was a false identity, a “valence,” in Hubbard’s language, and that such longings would disappear when he got to OT III. Suzette and Guy married in March 1986, three months after her father died. Their son, Tyson, was born nine months and a day later. It was strange having a child on Gold Base. Suzette had been pregnant when the order was issued banning Sea Org members from having children,2 and the only other child around was Roanne, Diana Hubbard’s daughter. Other Sea Org members looked upon the children longingly. “ People could see what they could never have,” Guy White said. The fact that Tyson had been born so soon after Hubbard’s death, and that he had shockingly red hair, stirred speculation that he might be a reincarnation of the founder. “ Is he? Is he?” they asked themselves. Every church or mission maintains an office for the day Hubbard returns. A pen and a yellow legal pad await him at each of his desks. His personal bathrooms have toothbrushes and identical sets of Thom McAn sandals beside the shower. On Gold Base, his modest original house was razed and replaced with a $10 million mansion. A full-time staff attends the empty residence, regularly laundering the founder’s clothes and keeping the house ready for his white-glove inspection.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "'Ah!' said the cantinière; 'this is the little game you like, is it?' "And she answered the blow by a smarter one on her friend's backside. "Thereupon the consumptive girl began to run round the room, and the cantinière toddled after her in the most provoking attitude, each trying to slap the other. "As the old prostitute passed Biou, he gave her a loud smack with his open palm, and soon after, most of the other students followed suit, evidently much excited by this little game of flagellation, until the buttocks of the two women were of a crimson red. "The cantinière having at last managed to seize her friend, she sat down, and laid her across her knees, saying, 'Now, my friend, you will get it to your heart's content.' "And suiting the action to the words, she belaboured her soundly; that is, striking her as strongly as her chubby little hands allowed her. "The young woman having at last succeeded in getting up, both the women thereupon began to kiss and fondle each other. Then, with thighs against thighs and breasts against breasts, they stood a moment in that position; after which, they brushed aside the bushy hair that covered the lower part of the so-called Mount of Venus, and opening their thick brown and bulgy lips, they placed one clitoris in contact with the other, and these as they touched wagged with delight; then, encircling their arms round each other's backs, with their mouths close together, breathing each other's fetid breath, the one sucking alternately the other's tongue, they began to rub mightily together. They twisted, they writhed, and they shook, putting themselves into all kinds of contortions for some time, yet hardly able to stand on account of the intensity of the rapture they felt. "At last, the consumptive girl, clasping with her hands the backside of the other one, and thus opening the huge pulpy buttocks, called out,— "'Une feuille de rose.' "Of course I greatly wondered what she meant, and I asked myself where she could find a rose-leaf, for there was not a flower to be seen in the house; and then I said to myself,—having got one what will she do with it? "I was not left to wonder long, for the cantinière did to her friend what she had done to her.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  It transports me into a state which is not my own. Under the influence of music I really seem to feel what I do not feel, to understand what I do not understand, to have powers which I cannot have. Music seems to me to act like yawning or laughter; I have no desire to sleep, but I yawn when I see others yawn; with no reason to laugh, I laugh when I hear others laugh. And music transports me immediately into the condition of soul in which he who wrote the music found himself at that time. I become confounded with his soul, and with him I pass from one condition to another. But why that? I know nothing about it? But he who wrote Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer Sonata’ knew well why he found himself in a certain condition. That condition led him to certain actions, and for that reason to him had a meaning, but to me none, none whatever. And that is why music provokes an excitement which it does not bring to a conclusion. For instance, a military march is played; the soldier passes to the sound of this march, and the music is finished. A dance is played; I have finished dancing, and the music is finished. A mass is sung; I receive the sacrament, and again the music is finished. But any other music provokes an excitement, and this excitement is not accompanied by the thing that needs properly to be done, and that is why music is so dangerous, and sometimes acts so frightfully. “In China music is under the control of the State, and that is the way it ought to be. Is it admissible that the first comer should hypnotize one or more persons, and then do with them as he likes? And especially that the hypnotizer should be the first immoral individual who happens to come along? It is a frightful power in the hands of any one, no matter whom. For instance, should they be allowed to play this ‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ the first presto,—and there are many like it,—in parlors, among ladies wearing low necked dresses, or in concerts, then finish the piece, receive the applause, and then begin another piece? These things should be played under certain circumstances, only in cases where it is necessary to incite certain actions corresponding to the music. But to incite an energy of feeling which corresponds to neither the time nor the place, and is expended in nothing, cannot fail to act dangerously. On me in particular this piece acted in a frightful manner. One would have said that new sentiments, new virtualities, of which I was formerly ignorant, had developed in me. ‘Ah, yes, that’s it! Not at all as I lived and thought before! This is the right way to live!’ “Thus I spoke to my soul as I listened to that music.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  This boy we had often seen, and bought his flowers, out of pure compassion, and nothing more; but just at this time as he stood presenting us his basket, a sudden whim, a start of wayward fancy, seized Louisa; and, without consulting me, she calls him in, and beginning to examine his nosegays, culls out two, one for herself, another for me, and pulling out half a crown, very currently gives it him to change, as if she had really expected he could have changed it: but the boy, scratching his head, made his signs explain his inability in place of words, which he could not, with all his struggles, articulate. Louisa, at this, says: “Well, my lad, come up stairs with me, and I will give you your due,” winking at the same time to me, and beckoning me to accompany her, which I did, securing first the street-door, that by this means, together with the shop, became wholly the care of the faithful house-maid. As we went up, Louisa whispered me “that she had conceived a strange longing to be satisfied, whether the general rule held good with regard to this changeling, and how far nature had made him amends, in her best bodily gifts, for her denial of the sublimer intellectual ones; begin, at the same time, my assistance in procuring her this satisfaction.” A want of complaisance was never my vice, and I was so far from opposing this extravagant frolic, that now, bit with the same maggot, and my curiosity conspiring with hers, I entered plump into it, on my own account. Consequently, soon as we came into Louisa’s bed-chamber, whilst she was amusing him with picking out his nosegays, I undertook the lead, and began the attack. As it was not then very material to keep much measures with a mere natural, I made presently free with him, though at my first motion of meddling, his surprise and confusion made him receive my advances but awkwardly: nay, insomuch that he bashfully shied, and shied back a little; till encouraging him with my eyes, plucking him playfully by the hair, sleeking his cheeks, and forwarding my point by a number of little wantonnesses, I soon turned him familiar, and gave nature her sweetest alarm: so that aroused, and beginning to feel himself, we could, amidst all the innocent laugh and grin I had provoked him into, perceive the fire lighting in his eyes, and, diffusing over his cheeks, blend its glow with that of his blushes. The emotion in short of animal pleasure glared distinctly in the simpleton’s countenance; yet struck with the novelty of the scene, he did not know which way to look or move; but tame, passive, simpering, with his mouth half open, in stupid rapture, stood and tractably suffered me to do what I pleased with him. His basket was dropt out of his hands, which Louisa took care of.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  This was a prologue not unworthy of the revels that ensued. In the midst of all the frolic and wantonness, which this joyous band had presently, and all naturally, run into, an elegant supper was served in, and we sat down to it, my spark elect placing himself next to me, and the other couples without order or ceremony. The delicate cheer and good wine soon banished all reserve; the conversation grew as lively as could be wished, without taking too loose a turn: these professors of pleasure knew too well, how to stale impressions of it, or evaporate the imagination of words, before the time of action. Kisses however were snatched at times, or where a handkerchief round the neck interposed its feeble barrier, it was not extremely respected: the hands of the men went to work with their usual petulance, till the provocation on both sides rose to such a pitch, that my particulars’s proposal for beginning the country dances was received with instant assent: for, as he laughingly added, he fancied the instruments were in tune. This was a signal for preparation, that the complaisant Mrs. Cole, who understood life, took for her cue of disappearing; no longer so fit for personal service herself, and content with having settled the order of battle, she left us the field, to fight it out at discretion. As soon as she was gone, the table was removed from the middle, and became a side-board; a couch was brought into its place, of which when I whisperingly inquired the reason, of my particular, he told me, “that as it was chiefly on my account that his convention was met, the parties intended at once to humour their taste of variety in pleasures, and by an open public enjoyment, to see me broke of any taint of reserve or modesty, which they looked on as the poison of joy; that though they occasionally preached pleasure, and lived up to the text, they did not enthusiastically set up for missionaries, and only indulged themselves in the delights of a practical instruction of all the pretty women they liked well enough to bestow it upon, and who fell properly in the way of it; but that as such a proposal might be too violent, too shocking for a young beginner, the old standers were to set an example, which he hoped I would not be averse to follow, since it was to him I was devolved in favour of the first experiment; but that still I was perfectly at my liberty to refuse the party, which being in its nature one of pleasure, supposed an exclusion of all force or constraint.” My countenance expressed, no doubt, my surprise as my silence did my acquiescence.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against my mother’s womb. I was built in there, after all. So I have to say that I am pro-womb. But I have zero interest in moving back home, so to speak. My sister is good at ruining things. After high school, my sister just froze. Didn’t go to college, didn’t get a job. Didn’t do anything. Kind of sad, I guess. But she is also beautiful and strong and funny. She is the prettiest and strongest and funniest person who ever spent twenty-three hours a day alone in a basement. [image "An illustration of a person wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt, distressed blue jeans, and sandals. The person has a lightning-bolt tattoo on the back of their neck." file=image_rsrc4RU.jpg] She is so crazy and random that we call her Mary Runs Away. I’m not like her at all. I am steady. I’m excited about life. I’m excited about school. Rowdy and I are planning on playing high school basketball. Last year, Rowdy and I were the best players on the eighth-grade team. But I don’t think I’ll be a very good high school player. Rowdy is probably going to start varsity as a freshman, but I figure the bigger and better kids will crush me. It’s one thing to hit jumpers over other eighth graders; it’s a whole other thing to score on high school monsters. I’ll probably be a benchwarmer on the C squad while Rowdy goes on to all-state glory and fame. I am a little worried that Rowdy will start to hang around with the older guys and leave me behind. I’m also worried that he’ll start to pick on me, too. I’m scared he might start hating me as much as all of the others do. But I am more happy than scared. And I know that the other kids are going to give me crap for being so excited about school. But I don’t care. I was sitting in a freshman classroom at Wellpinit High School when Mr. P strolled in with a box full of geometry textbooks. And let me tell you, Mr. P is a weird-looking dude. But no matter how weird he looks, the absolutely weirdest thing about Mr. P is that sometimes he forgets to come to school. [image "A comic-style illustration of Mister P, a character approximately 4 feet tall. He is bald with dandruff and food stains on his face. He has visible nose hair and is carrying a briefcase, weighing about 50 pounds." file=image_rsrc4RV.jpg] Let me repeat that: MR. P SOMETIMES FORGETS TO COME TO SCHOOL! Yep, we have to send a kid down to the teachers’ housing compound behind the school to wake Mr. P, who is always conking out in front of his TV. That’s right. Mr. P sometimes teaches class in his pajamas.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I dribbled with my right hand toward Roger, knowing that he was going to try to steal the ball. If he stayed in front of me and reached for the ball with his left hand, then there was no way I could get past him. He was too big and strong, too immovable. But he reached for the ball with his right hand, and that put him a little off balance, so I spun-dribbled around him, did a 360, and raced down the court. He was right behind me. I thought I could outrun him, but he caught up to me and just blasted me. Just me skidding across the floor again. The ball went bouncing into the stands. I should have stayed down. But I didn’t. Instead, I jumped up, ran into the stands, grabbed the loose ball, and raced toward Roger standing beneath the basket. I didn’t even dribble. I just ran like a fullback. Roger crouched, ready to tackle me like he was a middle linebacker. He screamed; I screamed. And then I stopped short, about fifteen feet from the hoop, and made a pretty little jump shot. Everybody in the gym yelled and clapped and stomped their feet. Roger was mad at first, but then he smiled, grabbed the ball, and dribbled toward his hoop. He spun left, right, but I stayed with him. He bumped me, pushed me, and elbowed me, but I stayed with him. He went up for a layup and I fouled him. But I’d learned there are NO FOULS CALLED IN FULL-COURT ONE-ON-ONE, so I grabbed the loose ball and raced for my end again. But Coach blew the whistle. “All right, all right, Arnold, Roger,” Coach said. “That’s good, that’s good. Next two, next two.” I took my place at the back of the line and Roger stood next to me. “Good job,” he said and offered his fist. I bumped his fist with mine. I was a warrior! And that’s when I knew I was going to make the team. Heck, I ended up on the varsity. As a freshman. Coach said I was the best shooter who’d ever played for him. And I was going to be his secret weapon. I was going to be his Weapon of Mass Destruction. Coach sure loved those military metaphors. Two weeks later, we traveled up the road for our first game of the season. And our first game was against Wellpinit High School. Yep. It was like something out of Shakespeare. The morning of the game, I’d woken up in my rez house, so my dad could drive me the twenty-two miles to Reardan, so I could get on the team bus for the ride back to the reservation. Crazy.