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 155 of 182 · 20 per page

• 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.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Paul Haggis met Tommy at the Celebrity Centre in 1989, when he was seventeen years old—“ a sweet and bright boy.” Their meeting came at a critical moment in Tommy’s life. He had just broken up with his girlfriend. Archer had taken him to the Celebrity Centre for counseling, where he took a course called Personal Values and Integrity. Tommy’s presence immediately caused a stir inside the church. The president of the Celebrity Centre, Karen Hollander, fixed on the idea that Tommy should be her personal assistant. He was young, very rich, and handsome enough to be a movie star himself. He had grown up mixing with famous people. It would be a perfect fit. Whenever celebrities came in, there would be Anne Archer’s son. But that required coaxing Tommy to join the Sea Org. Hollander called in the younger members of her staff to woo him. “ You can either go to college and get a wog education, or you can join Sea Org and be doing the best service you could ever do for mankind—and for yourself,” John Peeler, Hollander’s secretary at the time, would tell him. Although Anne and Terry say they wanted Tommy to get a college education, they knew of the efforts to recruit him and didn’t stand in the way. That fall, Tommy entered Columbia University, but lasted only a single semester. Over Christmas break, he went back into Hollander’s office, and when he came out, he excitedly told Peeler he had just signed the billion-year contract. His job for Hollander was to attend to the celebrities who lounged around the president’s office. Lisa Marie Presley was often there, as were Kirstie Alley, and writer-director Floyd Mutrux. John Travolta would drop by occasionally. Also in this crowd was a clique of young actors who had grown up in the church, including Giovanni Ribisi and his sister Marissa, Jenna Elfman, and Juliette Lewis. Davis would arrange for them all to go to movies together. He was charming, attractive, he had a great sense of humor, and eventually, David Miscavige began to notice. “ Miscavige liked the fact that he was young and looked trendy and wore Brioni or Armani suits,” Mike Rinder observed. “He had a cute BMW. It was an image that Miscavige liked.” Davis moved into Sea Org berthing in a dodgy neighborhood on Wilcox Street in West Hollywood. It was quite a step down from the luxurious life he had enjoyed until then. He was quickly introduced to some of the inner secrets of the organization. In about 1994, he was involved in an embarrassing cover-up when a well-known spokesperson for the church was captured in a video having sex with several other men. Amy Scobee says that church executives were frantic that their spokesperson would be exposed as being gay.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Haggis’s career was going so well that in 1987 he was approached by Ed Zwick and Marshall Herskovitz to write for a new television series called thirtysomething . They were looking for distinctive voices. “ I love the fact that you guys are doing a show that’s about emotions,” Haggis told them. “I hate writing about emotions. And I don’t like to talk about my own.” But he seemed to be looking for a chance to push himself creatively. With his first script, Zwick and Herskovitz told him, “This is really good, but where does it come from?” Haggis didn’t know what they meant. “Where does it come from—within you ?” they explained. The thought that his own experience mattered was a revelation. Zwick and Herskovitz sensed that Haggis wasn’t happy on the show; in any case, he got a lucrative offer to create his own series and left after the first season. But he had won two Emmys, for writing and producing, and the experience transformed him as a writer. From working with Zwick and Herskovitz, Haggis became interested in directing. He finally got the chance to do a brief ad for the church about Dianetics. He decided against the usual portrayal of Scientology as a triumphal march toward enlightenment, choosing instead to shoot a group of people talking about practical ways they had used Dianetics in their lives. It was casual and naturalistic. Church authorities hated it. They told him it looked like a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Then, out of the blue, Haggis got a huge break. He did a favor for a friend who wanted to create a new series that would star Chuck Norris, whose career as an action-movie hero had gone into decline. Haggis wrote the pilot for Walker, Texas Ranger , which ran for eight seasons and was broadcast in a hundred countries. Haggis was credited as a co-creator. “It was the most successful thing I ever did,” he said. “Two weeks of work. And they never even used my script.” With his growing accomplishments and wealth, Haggis became a bigger prize for the church. He agreed to teach a workshop on television writing while he was still the executive producer of Facts of Life , and that brought a number of aspiring scriptwriters into the Celebrity Centre. Then, in 1988, Scientology sponsored a Dianetics car in the Indianapolis 500, and Paul and Diane were invited to attend. Executives from the major book chains were attracted to the Scientology reception by the presence of stars, including Kirstie Alley and John Travolta, and also by the fact that Hubbard’s books have traditionally sold extraordinarily well. B. Dalton ordered 65,000 copies of Dianetics and Waldenbooks asked for 100,000. Dianetics went back on the New York Times paperback best-seller list for advice books, thirty-eight years after it was originally published. David Miscavige was at the race. It was one of the few times he and Haggis ever met.

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

  Many of them view English class as an exercise in endurance—and for some, survival. Assigned books are so often the lima beans of the high school experience, to be suffered or dodged. Sometimes, however, a novel comes along that flaunts the label “selected text.” It instructs students while captivating them. They cannot put it down. They come to class each morning ready to talk about the “crazy stuff” that happened in the book last night. They read too fast and finish before the due date. Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian is this book, the unicorn of assigned reading: a book every kid wants to read. Why? I asked a few students who recently read The Diary , as we call it. “It’s relatable to kids and stuff they’ve gone through.” “It’s funny, so it keeps you reading. Even the sad parts are funny.” “It gives us a chance to talk about stereotypes.” “It was so good—this is the only book I’ve ever read.” That final comment is a reprise of a line I hear every year, sometimes more than once per year. You may wonder, how do students make it to high school without ever having read a book? Despite the best intentions and efforts of all these students’ elementary, middle, and high school teachers, librarians, parents, and others, these students have never found a love for reading. They’ve not felt the connection to a character that compelled them to reach for that book again. They haven’t found a story line that warrants giving up outside time, or social time, or video-game time for reading time. The Diary , by stark contrast, does all of that and more: It opens an avenue for students to talk to each other about literature and about heavy themes handled with a light touch. The savvy teacher elicits and unpacks these themes, never skimming over the crucial features of the text that allow readers to move past the surface comedy and spectatorship that propel us through the plot. These themes—themes of adolescence, racism, loss, family, redemption, friendship, and prejudice—touch nearly every aspect of this text. The book opens up an American experience with nuance, humanity, and honesty, one about American Indians, who are nearly always invisible in contemporary American culture. When I save The Diary for the end of the year, many students lament that I didn’t assign them such good books all year long. I agree, dear students: Sometimes in my desire to teach important lessons, I select the classics, and these texts aren’t always as compelling as this delicious Alexie novel. My best response is that if you eat your lima beans, you earn your dessert. And now, dear readers, I hope you, too, enjoyed your dessert. —Anna Baldwin English teacher, Arlee High School Arlee, Montana F AN A RTWORK A comic strip inspired by The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Emilia Burkhart, student, age 11.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I grab an armload of my purchases and nudge the stereo with my toe as I walk past it. The first song Isaac ever gave me kicks on. It’s loud. I make it louder until it’s pounding through the house. I’m sure they can hear it outside: a one-man party. I carry everything to the white room and pry off the lids of the cans with a butter knife: crimson, yellow, cobalt, bubblegum pink, deep purple—like a bruise—and three different greens to match the summer leaves. I stick my hand in the red paint first, and rub my fingertips together. It falls heavy, spilling on my clothes and the floor where I am kneeling. I scoop up more, ‘til my hands are brimming. Then I throw it—a handful of red paint at my white, white wall. Color explodes. It spreads. It runs. I take more—I take all of the colors—and I stain my white room. I stain it with all the colors of Isaac, as Florence Welch sings me her song. It’s then that my phone rings. I don’t pick it up, but when I listen to the message later that night, Detective soft s Garrison informs me that Saphira is dead. Dead by her own hand. Good, I think at first, but then my chest aches. He doesn’t tell me how she did it but something tells me she opened her own veins. Bled out. She liked her patients to bleed out their thoughts and feelings; she would have chosen to go that way. Saphira and her god-complex would never have tolerated being tried in a court of law. She thought people were stupid. It would have been beneath her to be judged. I call him the next morning. There would be no trial. He sounds disappointed when he tells me, but I feel relieved. It’s an end to the nightmare. I couldn’t have handled months and months of a trial. Wasting my last days seeking human justice. I think I forgive her for believing she was God, I’m not sure God will. Garrison informs me that there is an ongoing investigation into Saphira’s accomplices. “Everyone we have questioned is shocked. She was well respected in the mental health community. No family in the country. No friends. She seems to have just snapped, lost touch with reality.” Who has time for friends when you’re performing human experiments? I think. “What about the blood on the books?” I ask. “Was it human?” There is a long pause. “The lab test indicated that it was animal blood. A ram or a goat, we can’t be a hundred percent sure. We found your books in her home, along with your case file from-” “I figured,” I say quickly. “There was something else,” he says. “We found the footage of your time in the house.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “What are you going to do with it?” “It’ll go into evidence,” he says. “Good.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The conversion of the Salian Franks took place under the lead of their victorious king Chlodwig or Clovis (Ludovicus, Louis), the son of Childeric and grandson of Merovig (hence the name of Merovingians). He ruled from the year 481 to his death in 511. With him begins the history not only of the French empire, its government and laws, but also of the French nation, its religion and moral habits. He married a Christian princess, Chlotilda, a daughter of the king of the Burgundians (493), and allowed his child to be baptized. Before the critical battle at Tolbiac101 near Cologne against the invasion of the Allemanni, he prayed to Jesus Christ for aid after having first called upon his own gods, and promised, in case of victory, to submit to baptism together with his warriors. After the victory he was instructed by Bishop Remigius of Rheims. When he heard the story of the crucifixion of Christ, he exclaimed: "Would I had been there with my valiant Franks to avenge him!" On Christmas, in the year 496, he descended before the cathedral of Rheims into the baptismal basin, and three thousand of his warriors followed him as into the joys of paradise. "When they arose from the waters, as Christian disciples, one might have seen fourteen centuries of empire rising with them; the whole array of chivalry, the long series of the crusades, the deep philosophy of the schools, in one word all the heroism, all the liberty, all the learning of the later ages. A great nation was commencing its career in the world—that nation was the Franks."102 But the change of religion had little or no effect on the character of Clovis and his descendants, whose history is tarnished with atrocious crimes. The Merovingians, half tigers, half lambs, passed with astonishing rapidity from horrible massacres to passionate demonstrations of contrition, and from the confessional back again to the excesses of their native cruelty. The crimes of Clovis are honestly told by such saintly biographers as Gregory of Tours and Hincmar, who feel no need of any excuse for him in view of his services to religion. St. Remigius even advised the war of conquest against the Visigoths, because they were Arians.