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 Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I don’t want you to be late to work, dear.” She nearly pushed Hugo out the door, and when he started back for his umbrella, she grabbed it and ran to him holding it out. Once he was in the elevator, she rushed to the terrace. On the street below, Rupert was backing Cleo into a parking space. Hugo strode from the building and hailed a taxi only six feet away from where Rupert was leaping over the passenger door of his little roadster. Hurry, Hugo, get in the cab. He stepped in just as Rupert dashed to the front door. She watched Hugo’s taxi turn the corner, then ran to buzz Rupert in. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] They emerged from the Holland Tunnel as from the birth canal, the sky expanding into a huge blue dome filled with puffy clouds. The land stretched out from green fields to forests and hills. She had dressed in shades of purple, the color of new consciousness, with a violet wide-brimmed hat and scarf to protect her face and hair in the open convertible. Rupert looked dapper in a dark blue wool coat and a Tyrolean hat. She imagined they were two vibrant, romantic characters from a Frank Capra road movie running away together. Cleo chugged past lakes, farmhouses, grazing sheep, and storybook churches. When, at 9 p.m., Rupert pulled the car into the parking lot of a motel, her body was still chugging forward. He told her they would have to register at the motel as Mr. and Mrs. Pole. She felt a rush of pleasure at the sound of Mrs. Pole. Stop it, she reprimanded herself. This is just casual. It is not meant to last. Rupert said, “You’ll need a wedding ring.” She caught herself visualizing hands clasped with Rupert, each with matching wedding bands. She reminded herself sternly that she was already married, even though she never wore the engraved gold band Hugo had placed on her finger decades before. Years ago, she’d told him it no longer fit comfortably. “I bought you a ring from Woolworth’s for you to use on the trip,” Rupert announced. He dug the band from his coat pocket and placed it in her palm. “You shouldn’t have,” she teased, slipping on the almost weightless ring and waving it in front of him. “Mrs. Pole is ready.” As they were finding their bungalow, Anaïs spied a pay phone. “Oh, Rupert, I need to phone my publisher.” “At this hour?” Rupert eyed her doubtfully. “Yes, he gave me his home number. We have to reschedule some meetings. He said to call whenever I got to a phone.” After calling Hugo collect to assure him she was fine, she returned to the motel room to find Rupert already in pajamas sitting up against the bed’s headboard, studying a map in his lap. She bathed and, wearing only her silk nightgown and the cheap wedding band, cuddled up to him.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  He is more excited and describes seeing them with vivid, clear detail. He imagines feeling the pants with his hands. “Now, Marius,” I ask, “can you feel your legs inside the pants?” “Yes, I can feel my legs, they feel very strong, like the men when they are hunting.” As images and body sensation experiences unfold, he sees an expanse of rocks. I ask him to feel his pants and then look at the rocks. “My legs want to jump; they feel light, not tight like they usually do. They are like springs, light and strong.” He reports seeing the image of a long stick that is lying by a rock and picks it up. “What is it?” I ask. “A spear.” He goes on, “I am following a large polar bear. I am with the men, but I will make the kill.” (Very small movements can be seen in his thigh, pelvic, and trunk muscles, as he imagines jumping from rock to rock in following the trail.) “I see him now. I stop and aim my spear.” “Yes,” I say, “Feel that in your whole body, feel your feet on the rocks, the strength in your legs, and the arching in your back and arms, feel all that power.” (This play in “dream time” helps to stimulate his instinctual, aggressive behaviors that were thwarted when he was overwhelmed by the attacking dogs. It is helping to ‘prime the pump’ with predatory responses that will eventually become resources in neutralizing the immobility-freeze collapse which occurred at the time of the attack). “I see the spear flying,” he says. Again, small postural adjustments can be seen in Marius’ body; he is trembling lightly now in his legs and arms. I encourage him to feel these sensations. He reports waves of excitement and pleasure. “I did it. I hit him with my spear!” “What are the men doing now?” I ask (again hoping to evoke predatory impulses). “They cut the belly open and take out the inside and then cut the fur of f ... t o ... make pants and coats. Then they will carry the meat down to the village.” “Feel your pants, Marius, with your hands on your legs.” I continue to help him create a resource from the sensations in his legs. These resources can then build over time, gradually increasing the possibility of escape. (With Nancy, recall it was all or none.) Tears form in his eyes. “Can you do this?” I ask. “I don’t kno w ... I’m scared.” “Feel your legs, feel your pants.” He shouts in Eskimo, dramatically, in an increasing pitch. “...Yes, I cut the belly open, there is lots of bloo d ... I take out the insides. Now I cut the skin, I rip it off, there is glistening and shimmering. It is a beautiful fur, thick and soft.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And all the other stories of the Second Day reflect this feature of Boccaccio’s narrative technique, to which some commentators have applied the phrase ars combinatoria. In this connection it is instructive to contrast Boccaccio’s treatment of a particular set of circumstances with the way that the same narrative material is handled by others. The story of the three beds (IX, 6), retold by Chaucer in The Reeve’s Tale, is one that had earlier appeared in at least two of the French fabliaux. What distinguishes Boccaccio’s version from the others is the advantage he takes of one further permutation of the story’s basic elements: three beds and a cot in a darkened room, where at different times during the night a husband and wife, their nubile daughter, and two young male lodgers all share their bed by accident or design with more than one of the others. In Chaucer’s version, the tale ends chaotically with the beating and humiliation of the host, a crooked miller, and his awareness that his daughter has been seduced. Boccaccio on the other hand resolves the story to everyone’s satisfaction by having the wife move swiftly into her daughter’s bed, from which she declares that the girl’s honour has remained unimpaired, being supported in her claim by the second lodger’s pretence that his companion has been dreaming. A classic instance of Boccaccio’s delight in telling a complicated, vivid and dramatic narrative is the story of Pietro Boccamazza and Agnolella (V, 3), which incidentally mirrors and documents the lawlessness and factional strife prevalent in the Roman countryside during the ‘Babylonian Captivity’ of the papacy in Avignon. From the initial description of the runaway lovers departing from Rome on horseback to the final account of their marriage and return to the city, the story proceeds via a series of exciting episodes in a manner that foreshadows in rudimentary form the technique adopted by the outstanding narrative poet of the Italian Renaissance, Ludovico Ariosto, in the Orlando furioso. Ariosto so arranges the several strands of the narrative as to lead the reader to a climax in one episode, then switching to another, likewise taking that to a moment of crisis, and so on before he eventually returns to an earlier episode to describe what happened next. In the same way, Boccaccio’s story proceeds alternately from crisis to crisis in the fortunes of the two main

• From The Decameron (1353)

  find them wearisome, whether through constant repetition or for some other reason, I consider they ought to remain unaltered. ‘Having thus confirmed the procedure for the activities upon which we have now embarked, we can rise from this place, and go off in search of our amusement. And when the sun is about to set, we shall sup out of doors, and then we shall have a few songs and other entertainments, after which it will be time to go to bed. Tomorrow morning we shall rise early, whilst it is yet cool, and once more we shall go off somewhere and engage in whatever pastime each of us may prefer. In due course we shall return, as we did today, in order to breakfast together. We shall then dance for a while, and when we have risen from our siesta, we shall return and resume our storytelling, from which I consider that a great deal of pleasure and of profit is derived. ‘I do however wish to initiate a practice which Pampinea, because she was elected late as our queen, was unable to introduce: namely, to restrict the matter of our storytelling 1 within some fixed limit which will be defined for you in advance, so that each of us will have time to prepare a good story on the subject prescribed. ‘Ever since the world began, men have been subject to various tricks of Fortune, and it will ever be thus until the end. Let each of us, then, if you have no objection, make it our purpose to take as our theme those who after suffering a series of misfortunes are brought to a state of unexpected happiness.’ This rule was commended by all the company, gentlemen and ladies alike, and they agreed to be bound by it. But Dioneo said, when the rest had finished talking: ‘My lady, like all the others, I too say that the rule you have given us is highly attractive and laudable. But I would ask you to grant me a special privilege, which I wish to have conferred upon me for as long as our company shall last, namely, that whenever I feel so inclined, I may be exempted from this law obliging us to conform to the subject agreed, and tell whatever story I please. But so that none shall think I desire this favour because I have but a poor supply of stories, I will say at once that I am willing always to be the last person to speak.’ The queen, knowing what a jovial and entertaining fellow he was, and clearly perceiving that he was only asking this favour so that, if the company should grow weary of hearing people talk, he could enliven the proceedings with some story that would move them to laughter, cheerfully granted his request, having first obtained the consent of the others.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Millie reappeared, having removed her pinafore and now wearing dangling, seed pearl earrings. Hugo looked down at me from his height. “We’re going dancing in Harlem. You should come.” “Oh, I couldn’t crash your party,” I replied. “Nonsense, come along,” Hugo said. “We’ll look after you. I’ve ordered a car.” “There won’t be room,” I answered, not knowing then that by car, Hugo meant limo. “And I’m not dressed.” I’d thought my sleeveless pink shirtwaist was smart when I’d arrived, but not anymore. “You shouldn’t miss new experiences.” Anaïs fixed me with her gemstone eyes, imparting the first of many lessons I would eagerly heed. “Have you ever been to Harlem?” “No.” “Do you like jazz?” “I love jazz!” “Well, you don’t know when you’ll be invited again,” she said. And that was that. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Once we were settled in the limo I kept my eyes on Anaïs, who was gazing out the window, looking distant and pensive. We listened to Ella Fitzgerald singing “Autumn in New York” on the radio, as though the deejay had dedicated it especially to us. As the others hummed and sang phrases, I thought I was the dreamer with empty hands sighing for this exotic land. I squeezed my mind as I sometimes did to save the moment in my memory so I wouldn’t forget, so one day I could, as in the song, live it again. I told myself to remember Millie and Jean-Jacques and Caresse swaying, Hugo holding Anaïs’s hand, and Anaïs with her black-crayoned eyes, arched brows, and crimson mouth, looking like the French clown Pierrot we’d learned about in my high school drama class. Anaïs became aware of me watching her and gave me a soft smile, then retrieved from her purse a gold and black box. As though the move had been choreographed, Jean-Jacques pulled out his lighter and flicked it while she brought a gold-tipped Balkan-Sobranie to her lips. Jean-Jacques then offered around his Gitanes before lighting his own. “All the other clubs in Harlem have closed,” Hugo was saying. Exhaling smoke, Anaïs addressed me. “We used to go to a place called the Jitterbug. It was owned by the prize fighter and actor Canada Lee.” Caresse nudged me. “Do you know who he is?” I was excited. I knew the answer. I remembered the Hitchcock movie Lifeboat I’d seen on TV and the Negro actor in it who’d recited the 23rd Psalm for a dead child they had thrown overboard. I’d wept alone in the living room hearing the compassion in that man’s deep, reverberating voice. “He was in Lifeboat!” Anaïs beamed at me approvingly. “He was also blacklisted,” Caresse added. “They hounded that beautiful man into an early grave.” Anaïs said, “Canada Lee was Caresse’s lover.” “Oh.” I looked at fleshy Caresse with her collapsed face in a new light.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  During one of his regular annual visits to Certaldo, on a Sunday morning in the month of August, when all the good folk from the neighbouring hamlets were gathered in the parish church for mass, Friar Cipolla, choosing a suitable moment, came forward and said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, every year it is your custom to send to the poor of the Lord Saint Anthony a portion of your wheat and oats, varying in amount from person to person according to his ability and devotion, so that the blessed Saint Anthony will protect your oxen, asses, pigs and sheep from harm. Moreover it is customary, in particular for those of you who are enrolled as members of our confraternity, to pay those modest sums which fall due every year at this time, and it is precisely to collect these contributions of yours that my superior, Master Abbot, has sent me among you. And so, with God’s blessing, when you hear the bells ring after nones, 5 you will assemble outside the church, where as usual I shall preach the sermon and you will kiss the cross. But in addition to this, since I know how deeply devoted you all are to the Lord Saint Anthony, I shall show you, by way of special favour, a most sacred and beautiful relic, which I myself brought back from a visit I once paid to the Holy Land across the sea; and this is one of the feathers of the Angel Gabriel, which was left behind in the bedchamber of the Virgin Mary when he came to annunciate her in Nazareth.’ And at this point he ended his homily and returned to the mass. Now, among the large congregation present in the church when Friar Cipolla made this announcement, were a pair of very wily young fellows, one of whom was called Giovanni del Bragoniera and the other Biagio Pizzini. Having had a good laugh together over Friar Cipolla’s relic, they decided, though they were his good friends and boon companions, to have a little fun with this feather at the Friar’s expense. They knew that Friar Cipolla was to breakfast with a friend that morning in the citadel, 6 and so they waited until he was safely seated at table, then made their way down into the street, whence they proceeded to the inn where the Friar was staying, their intention being that Biagio should engage Friar Ci-polla’s servant in conversation whilst Giovanni rummaged through the Friar’s belongings and removed this feather, or whatever it was, so that later in the day they could see how he explained its disappearance to the populace.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  There was stunned silence. The others looked at me with a mixture of pity and concern, like arguing parents who become aware of an upset child in the room. My nightmare had come to life. I had stopped the drama by saying the wrong thing—as if I were still a kid coming to my mother’s defense. Anaïs broke the paralysis of the moment. “Out of the mouth of babes.” As if offering me a reward, she wrapped a lock of my hair around her index finger. “Your hair is so silky. It’s the shade mine was at your age. I never appreciated it.” “Because brown hair is so boring,” I said. “Not at all. It has gold and amber highlights. Brown is the color of polished wood and mink coats, of brandy and cellos.” She must really have wanted to make me feel good, because years later I learned that she hated the color brown. Jean-Jacques jumped up. “Mambo avec Mongo, Anaïs?” He took her hand and she rose to join him, but then we all saw Hugo returning to the table. Anaïs brushed right past Jean-Jacques and coquettishly entered Hugo’s arms, calling back to us, “I promised this dance to my husband.” Jean-Jacques turned to me. “You’re it.” He took my hand to lift me out of my chair. “I can’t dance to this,” I objected. I only knew rock and roll and the formless slow dancing we did at St. Cyril’s parish mixers. “Don’t dance. Just move to the rhythm.” Jean-Jacques revealed small, even teeth in a seductive smile. Though he wasn’t tall, he gave that impression because of his erect posture. His posture changed as he danced, hunched like a hipster, slender legs in his finely tailored pants loose and easy. I tried to mirror him. Anaïs sped by with Hugo. “That’s it, Tristine!” Jean-Jacques took me in his arms. “Allow me to move you.” I followed his instructions, amazed that my body twisted and whirled under the guidance of his hands and that my feet kept the rhythm without tripping. He pulled me close so I was aware of my breasts pressed against his chest and of his leg pushing between my thighs. The thumping congas, the blasting trumpet, the squealing sax, our hearts drumming violently, harder, faster, built to a crescendo. When the music stopped, people stood apart, panting, but Jean-Jacques squeezed his body against mine so that our pounding pulses slowed together. I looked around the spinning room to find Anaïs. She and Hugo were speaking in Spanish with Mongo.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Let’s look at a more human scenario: while driving, you see a car coming directly toward you. Your body instinctively mobilizes to defend itself. As you zig-zag out of harm’s way, you feel an intense energy discharge. You notice that the car is a Mercury Cougar. You feel exhilarated by your successful escape. You pull over to the curb and notice that although you have discharged much energy, you still feel somewhat activated. You focus your awareness on the felt sense, and notice minute trembling in your jaws and pelvis which spreads throughout your body. You feel warmth and tingling in your arms and hands as the energy discharges. Feeling calmer now, you begin to review the event. You “play out” different scenarios of the situation and decide that your defensive strategy, although successful, could have been done in other ways. You make a note of these alternatives, and begin to relax. You drive home and tell your family what happened. There is pride in your demeanor, and you feel empowered by the re-telling of the event. Your family is supportive and glad you are safe. You are deeply touched by their concern, and feel their welcoming arms around you. You suddenly feel tired and decide to take a nap before dinner. You are calm and relaxed, and drift off immediately. When you awaken, you feel revitalized. The event is history, and you are ready to engage life with your usual sense of self.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  t an old-fashioned, Kensington luncheon party, not very long after Raftery’s death, Stephen met and renewed her acquaintance with Jonathan Brockett, the playwright. Her mother had wished her to go to this luncheon, for the Carringtons were old family friends, and Anna insisted that from time to time her daughter should accept their invitations. At their house it was that Stephen had first seen this young man, rather over a year ago. Brockett was a connection of the Carringtons; had he not been Stephen might never have met him, for such gatherings bored him exceedingly, and therefore it was not his habit to attend them. But on that occasion he had not been bored, for his sharp, grey eyes had lit upon Stephen; and as soon as he well could, the meal being over, he had made his way to her side and had remained there. She had found him exceedingly easy to talk to, as indeed he had wished her to find him. This first meeting had led to one or two rides in the Row together, since they both rode early. Brockett had joined her quite casually one morning; after which he had called, and had talked to Puddle as if he had come on purpose to see her and her only—he had charming and thoughtful manners towards all elderly people. Puddle had accepted him while disliking his clothes, which were always just a trifle too careful; moreover she had disapproved of his cuff-links—platinum links set with tiny emeralds. All the same, she had made him feel very welcome, for to her it had been any port in a storm just then—she would gladly have welcomed the devil himself, had she thought that he might rouse Stephen.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Being more of a simpleton than a sage, Neighbour Pietro believed all this and took her advice to heart; and he began pestering Father Gianni for all he was worth to teach him the secret. Father Gianni did all he could to talk him out of his folly, but without success, and so he said to him: ‘Very well, since you insist, tomorrow we shall rise, as usual, before dawn, and I shall show you how it’s done. To tell the truth, as you’ll see for yourself, the most difficult part of the operation is to fasten on the tail.’ That night, Pietro and Gemmata were looking forward so eagerly to this business that they hardly slept a wink, and as soon as the dawn was approaching, they scrambled out of bed and called Father Gianni, who, having risen in his nightshirt, came to Pietro’s tiny little bedroom and said: ‘I know of no other person in the world, apart from yourself, for whom I would perform this favour, but as you continue to press me, I shall do it. However, if you want it to work, you must do exactly as I tell you.’ They assured him that they would do as he said. So Father Gianni picked up a lantern, handed it to Neighbour Pietro, and said: ‘Watch me closely, and memorize carefully what I say. Unless you want to ruin everything, be sure not to utter a word, no matter what you may see or hear. And pray to God that the tail sticks firmly in place.’ Neighbour Pietro took the lantern and assured him he would do as he had said. Then Father Gianni got Gemmata to remove all her clothes and to stand on all fours like a mare, likewise instructing her not to utter a word whatever happened, after which he began to fondle her face and her head with his hands, saying: ‘This be a fine mare’s head.’ Then he stroked her hair, saying: ‘This be a fine mare’s mane.’ And stroking her arms, he said: ‘These be fine mare’s legs and fine mare’s hooves.’ Then he stroked her breasts, which were so round and firm that a certain uninvited guest was roused and stood erect. And he said: ‘This be a fine mare’s breast.’ He then did the same to her back, her belly, her rump, her thighs and her legs: and finally, having nothing left to attend to except the tail, he lifted his shirt, took hold of the dibber that he did his planting with, and stuck it straight and true in the place made for it, saying: ‘And this be a fine mare’s tail.’ Until this happened, Neighbour Pietro had been closely observing it all in silence, but he took a poor view of this last bit of business, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, Father Gianni, no tail! I don’t want a tail!’

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I explained I wasn’t feeling well, which was true. I’d returned from Acapulco, not only to the coldest winter in New York history, but also to reviews of my book so chilly that Dutton dropped me. I was depressed and exhausted and I told Hugo I needed time at a rest ranch in California to be able to write again.” “Which was really Rupert’s cabin!” Encouraged by her mischievous smile, I said, “I bet it was romantic staying with a lover in the woods.” “You think that would be romantic?” She looked at me dubiously. “Yeah, Adam and Eve in paradise.” She exhaled a harsh “Ha!” and told me that the national park was too far from the social life she was used to, and that the few locals there were so square that she and Rupert had to pretend they were married. “The US Forest Service had rules that rangers couldn’t have female guests overnight in their cabins so we put on a show that I was Rupert’s writer wife who traveled a lot.” I had gotten it all wrong! “So that’s why Rupert introduced himself as your husband at the restaurant,” I said. “That made me think you’d gotten divorced, but you’re still married to Hugo!” “But, Tristine, we have gotten sidetracked from your recent ordeal with that awful Minor Inch.” “Yes, just before you got here, Renate started to tell me that Christopher Isherwood—” “—was very impressed when he met you.” “I’m surprised he even remembered me.” “Well, Renate reminded him and told him that a terrible injustice was being done to you at that conservative college because you were helping me with an intimate situation of great delicacy. As fortune would have it, Chris had met your Dr. Inch socially and phoned him on your behalf.” “Christopher Isherwood called Dr. Inch?” Preening, she continued, “Then, in New York, I told Gore Vidal about the phone call and invited him into our little conspiracy. Gore, who loves a conspiracy but doesn’t often get to join one, phoned your Dr. Inch, too, and told him what great promise you have in the eyes of the writers’ community.” “But he’s never even met me!” “It is our credo that artists support each other.” “Oh my god. Inch must have pissed himself!” Dr. Inch had lectured reverentially about Vidal’s books to our Twentieth-Century Authors class, and I’d seen a new hardbound of Julian on Dr. Inch’s desk. Anaïs, enjoying my excitement, added, “Gore likes having his fun at the expense of academics. The more he disdains them, the more they prostrate themselves to him.” Now I understood what had turned Dr. Inch around. He might not respect Anaïs, who wasn’t in the Acropolis or even on the marble steps of literary recognition, but he would have been awed and intimidated by calls from her celebrated friends.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  During this lonely time, my new closeness with Renate sustained me. We talked for hours on the phone every night. Renate’s mind was a garden of strange knowledge; there wasn’t an esoteric subject about which she was not informed: Joan of Arc, contraception in the Middle Ages, the culture of the Chumash Indians in Malibu, Jung’s book on flying saucers, the Vedantist concept of pain as illusion. Listening to Renate speak was like reading a book by a great writer. It saddened me that her true talent of discourse was just thrown to the wind, given away; never to receive recompense, recognition, or appreciation except by Anaïs, who’d taken sentences from Renate’s lips and placed them in her fiction. For my part, I would have been happy simply to listen to Renate’s stories all night, especially about Anaïs. But Renate challenged me to keep up with her, making me volley sentences, testing my memory, and heightening my game like a tennis pro with a fledgling. Always our nightly conversations began and ended with our shared business of moving Anaïs’s movie project forward. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] The Old World was an eatery frequented by aspiring actors and directors. Alan Rosen was waiting for us at a street-side patio table where we almost had to shout to be heard over the traffic. After we ordered salads, he said, “I talked with my investors, and we think the safest thing would be for us to tie up all the novels.” Renate kicked my leg under the table but kept her voice professional. “That would be quite expensive, to tie up all of Anaïs’s work.” “You have to help me here.” Alan smiled. “I was thinking $50,000 up front. I’m going to need a five-year option for that price.” I could not believe my ears. $50,000! Renate nodded, not agreeing or disagreeing. “What about the back end?” I asked. I’d been talking to friends, and this was something they always asked about. I wasn’t sure what it was. Alan said, “Look, I know you two want to be producers but I’m not going to promise you anything I can’t deliver. Would you consider taking associate producer if I paid you Writer’s Guild minimum to write the screenplay?” We hadn’t actually thought we could be producers, real or associate, nor screenwriters, but we both kept silent. Finally, I said, “You’ll have to talk to our agent.” We didn’t have an agent, and Renate gave me a surprised look, but she went along with my bluff. Alan said, “I’ll have to get all this OK’d by my people, too.” Alan told us to get started on a film treatment for Spy and have our agent call him.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  I was confused. “You can’t mean you want me to follow him around?” I was, at once, terrified and titillated by the idea. “Yes, I do,” she said, “but in plain sight. You need to befriend Rupert. That is why I asked you to stay for dinner and listen to his music group this evening.” “Is his family coming?” When she’d invited me, I’d fantasized meeting Frank Lloyd Wright’s descendants. “No, Rupert has formed a new chamber group with friends closer to his age. I know you’ll like them, and they’ll like you. Two of them are teachers at his school. They know me as Mrs. Pole, so that is how you should refer to me, either as Anaïs with no last name or as Mrs. Pole.” Her hands went to reach for something again. She saw my eyes follow. “I quit smoking,” she explained. “Rupert and I are both quitting. Do you have the habit?” I shrugged noncommittally. “The only time I miss it is after making love.” She sighed and returned to her agenda. “Tonight, after the musicians finish playing, you should go up to Rupert and tell him how much you enjoyed listening and that you hope to be invited again.” I was furiously scribbling notes; she barely paused for a breath. “Rupert will say you are welcome any time.” “You know he’ll say that?” “Yes. You can then come every Tuesday early enough to hear the gossip.” I looked up. “You just want me to listen for gossip?” “Yes, get the other musicians to trust you. Just be easy and charming.” “Be an actress,” I said. “You told me when we first met that you wanted to be an actress!” Her laugh jingled. “Tristine, do you think you could spare a few weekend afternoons in addition to the chamber group evenings?” “I guess so.” “Good. Then when you are saying goodnight next Tuesday, volunteer to help Rupert clear the land he bought in Silver Lake on which he plans to build me a house.” “Rupert is building a house?” “Yes, unfortunately. His half-brother Eric designed it.” “You don’t like the design?” “Oh, yes I do. Eric is very talented. He’s Frank Lloyd Wright’s grandson, after all. But I don’t want to be tethered to any house. It’s Rupert’s attempt to bury me in permanent soil.” I nodded; I wouldn’t want to be tied down to a house, either. She continued, “Don’t strain yourself when you join Rupert at the building site. He prefers to do the work himself but he enjoys company. Bring him some cold beer. It’ll get him to talk.” She dug a wallet from her purse, pulled out three twenties, and squeezed them into my hand. “For Rupert’s beer.” “That’s a lot of beer,” I said. “For your trouble, gas.” She waved the money away. “Okay, but I really don’t think Rupert is going to confide in me.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I don’t think so. She has a lecture agent who books all her appearances.” “Offer the stipend you get for guest lecturers in your class, and we’ll all come,” the excited secretary urged. Her unabashed eagerness made me want to show Anaïs off to the group, but Clara said, “She’s not going to come to your undergraduate class or visit our little group. It would insult her narcissism now that she’s a star.” I was so tired of hearing this accusation of narcissism against Anaïs that I was determined to show Clara she was wrong. I’d get Anaïs to come talk to our group and my class. It would be a feather in my cap, and Clara would see for herself how egalitarian, witty, eloquent—and feminist—Anaïs really was. I always seemed to be trying to prove something to Clara because compared to her raised political consciousness, mine always came up short. She participated in a dangerous underground for Latin American victims of terror, summered on sugar collectives in Cuba, and stood in solidarity with working class women. So in addition to the UCLA women’s group, I joined an on-campus socialist group for grad students and professors. It turned out, though, that our group didn’t actually do anything except read and discuss texts by Marx, Lenin, and Engels. One evening, I said to the study group—because my landlord wasn’t renewing my lease—“What if, instead of just talking about communism, we tested it ourselves to see if we could make it work?” “What do you mean?” asked Bob, whose beard was the same orange shade as his long hair. He liked experiments; he had a PhD in nuclear physics and had told us that the only jobs he could find in his field were for the US government, so he’d saved his large salary for three years and dropped out at twenty-six with enough money, according to his calculations, to last the rest of his life. I proposed, “What if we become a commune and live together in a house where we each pay according to our ability and receive according to our need?” I didn’t think anyone would go for the idea, especially since my income as a teaching assistant was near bottom, but to my amazement three of the guys said yes. Bob brought along his girlfriend, so we were five; sufficient, we decided, to call ourselves a commune. After we added up what we could collectively pay for rent, we began to look for a mansion to lease. We found a Greene and Greene–style manor house in Santa Monica four blocks from the boardwalk. In August we all moved in, the guys unloading salvaged furniture my mother had been happy to clear from her living room and running my mattress up the curved, balustraded stairway. We joined a Venice food co-op for weekly boxes of organic produce and established a nightly ritual of communal dinners in our chandeliered dining room.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  After we picked up Renate, the three of us cooed over one another’s clothes. Renate wore a low-cut black sheath that could be interpreted as mourning garb, and Anaïs was resplendent in a violet A-line dress. I had to park several blocks up the street on Malibu Colony Road, which was really an alley behind the strip of beach houses. Anaïs, Renate, and I entered the open front door to find guests in shorts and bikini swimsuits milling about. I was immediately self-conscious for being overdressed, but Anaïs and Renate were unfazed. They were used to standing out and carried themselves like regal movie stars of an earlier era. We wandered around until Renate found her friend, James Bridges. He and his partner Jack Larson enclosed Renate in a long hug. She started to tear up but fought it off and, with her formal Viennese manners, introduced Anaïs and me. I stared at Jack Larson because I recognized him as Superman’s sidekick, Jimmy Olsen, from the TV series. James Bridges, whom I now thought of as Superman’s partner’s partner, told us that he’d seen Alan Miller earlier, but that the producer had disappeared upstairs for a high stakes poker game. We should just enjoy ourselves and circulate until the game broke up. Anaïs, Renate, and I settled into director’s chairs on the second-floor deck enjoying the ocean view. Several people wandered out to the deck but, not seeing anyone important, moved on. A few people recognized Renate and awkwardly offered condolences about Peter, then rushed away. Renate shrugged. “People in Hollywood think bad fortune is infectious.” She rose to leave. “I’m going to see if Jack will give me a lift home. I’m afraid I will be the kiss of death for your movie quest, Anaïs.” Just then, we heard a group of men guffawing and cursing on their way down the stairs. Someone growled, “You’re never getting me into another game, Alan. No one can be that lucky.” Through the open French doors, we could see several men shaking hands. Someone punched the arm of a smiling man. “Hey, Alan, if you make a movie with all the money you just skinned, gimme a job, will ya? I’m gonna need it after today.” Anaïs hissed to Renate, “The winner is Alan Miller. Stay!” Renate sank back into her chair just as Alan strolled out onto our deck. He sat in a director’s chair and started counting a huge stack of bills. He had small, well-shaped hands, though the rest of him was muscular and stocky. We all stared at the cash, waiting for him to finish counting. When he got to the end, a young actor who’d gotten up to leave said, “How much?” Alan answered him with a George Raft interpretation. “If I told you I’d have to kill you.” To my surprise, Renate jumped in. “Do you always win?”

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  In order to enhance this learning process, I believe that animals “review” each close encounter and practice possible escape options after the aroused survival energy is discharged. I saw an example of this behavior on the Discovery Channel. Three cheetah cubs had narrowly escaped a pursuing lion by quickly changing their course and climbing high into a tree. After the lion departed, the cubs shinnied down and began to play. Each cub took a turn playing the lion while the other two practiced different escape maneuvers. They practiced - zigging and zagging, then scurrying up the tree until their mother returned from a hunting excursion. Then, they proudly pranced around mom, informing her of their empowering escape from death’s mighty jaws. I believe that the biological taproot of re-enactment occurs in this “second phase” of normalizatio n- the “playful” practice of defensive strategies. How can this innately playful survival mechanism degenerate into an often tragic, pathological, and violent traumatic re-enactment? This is an important question for us to answer, not only for individual trauma sufferers, but for society as a whole. Much of the violence that plagues humanity is a direct or indirect result of unresolved trauma that is acted out in repeated unsuccessful attempts to re-establish a sense of empowerment.. The cheetah cubs discharged most of the intense survival energy they had mobilized during their successful escape from the lion (phase one). After the escape, they appeared exhilarated. Then, they entered phase tw o- they began to “playfully” review the experience which led them towards mastery, and perhaps to feelings of pride and empowerment.

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

  adventurers, without proper preparation of any kind. The priest forsook his cell, the peasant left his plough and placed his wife and children on carts drawn by oxen, and thus went forth to make the journey and to fight the Turk. At the villages along the route the children cried out, "Is this Jerusalem, is this Jerusalem?" William of Malmesbury wrote (IV. 2), "The Welshman left his hunting, the Scot his fellowship with lice, the Dane his drinking party, the Norwegian his raw fish. Fields were deserted of their husbandmen; whole cities migrated .... God alone was placed before their eyes." The unwieldy bands, or swarms, were held together loosely under enthusiastic but incompetent leaders. The first swarm, comprising from twelve thousand to twenty thousand under Walter the Penniless,353 marched safely through Hungary, but was cut to pieces at the storming of Belgrade or destroyed in the Bulgarian forests. The leader and a few stragglers were all that reached Constantinople. The second swarm, comprising more than forty thousand, was led by the Hermit himself. There were knights not a few, and among the ecclesiastics were the archbishop of Salzburg and the bishops of Chur and Strassburg. On their march through Hungary they were protected by the Hungarian king; but when they reached the Bulgarian frontier, they found one continuous track of blood and fire, robbery and massacre, marking the route of their predecessors. Only a remnant of seven thousand reached Constantinople, and they in the most pitiful condition, July, 1096. Here they were well treated by the Emperor Alexius, who transported them across the Bosphorus to Asia, where they were to await the arrival of the regular army. But they preferred to rove, marauding and plundering, through the rich provinces. Finally, a false rumor that the vanguard had captured Nicaea, the capital of the Turks in Asia Minor, allured the main body into the plain of Nicaea, where large numbers were surrounded and massacred by the Turkish cavalry. Their bones were piled into a ghastly pyramid, the first monument of the Crusade. Walter fell in the battle; Peter the Hermit had fled back to Constantinople before the battle began, unable to control his followers. The defeat of Nicaea no doubt largely destroyed Peter’s reputation.354 A third swarm, comprising fifteen thousand, mostly Germans under the lead of the monk Gottschalk, was massacred by the Hungarians. Another band, under count Emich of Leiningen, began its career, May, 1096, by massacring and robbing the Jews in Mainz and other cities along the Rhine. Albert of Aachan,355 who describes these scenes, does not sympathize with this lawlessness, but saw a divine judgment in its almost complete annihilation in Hungary.

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

  The discoveries in the New World and the nautical exploits, which carried Portuguese sailors around the Cape of Good Hope, also stimulated this feeling of restlessness. While the horizon of the natural world was being enlarged and new highways of commerce were being opened, thoughtful men had questions whether the geography of the spiritual world, as outlined in the scholastic systems, did not need revision. The resurrection of the Bible as a popular book stimulated the curiosity and questioning. The Bible also was a new world. The trade, the enterprise, the thought awakened during the last 70 years of the Middle Ages were incomparably more vital than had been awakened by the Crusades and the Crusaders’ tales. When the Reformation came, the chief centres of business in Germany and England became, for the most part, seats of the new religious movement, Nürnberg, Ulm, Augsburg, Geneva, Strassburg, Frankfurt, Lübeck and London. The Renaissance, as has already been set forth, was another potent factor contributing to the forward impulse of the last century of the Middle Ages. All the faculties of man were to be recognized as worthy of cultivation. Europe arose as out of a deep sleep. Men opened their eyes and saw, as Mr. Taine put it. The Renaissance made the discovery of man and the earth. The Schoolmen had forgotten both. Here also a new world was revealed to view and Ulrich von Hutten, referring to it and to the age as a whole could exclaim, "O century, studies flourish, spirits are awaking. It is a pleasure to live!" But in the Renaissance Providence seems to have had the design of showing again that intellectual and artistic culture may flourish, while the process of moral and social decline goes on. No regenerating wave passed over Italy’s society or cleansed her palaces and convents. The outward forms of civilization did not check the inward decline. The Italian character, says Gregorovius, "in the last 30 years of the 15th century displays a trait of diabolical passion. Tyrannicide, conspiracies and deeds of treachery were universal." In the period of Athenian greatness, the process of the intellectual sublimation of the few was accompanied by the process of moral decay in the many. So now, art did not purify. The Renaissance did not find out what repentance was or feel the need of it. Savonarola’s admiring disciple, Pico della Mirandola, presented a memorial to the Fifth Lateran which declared that, if the prelates "delayed to heal the wounds of the Church, Christ would cut off the corrupted members with fire and sword. Christ had cast out the money-changers, why should not Leo exile the worshippers of the many golden calves?" In Italy, remarks Ranke, "no one counted for a cultured person who did not cherish some erroneous views about Christianity."

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Being more of a simpleton than a sage, Neighbour Pietro believed all this and took her advice to heart; and he began pestering Father Gianni for all he was worth to teach him the secret. Father Gianni did all he could to talk him out of his folly, but without success, and so he said to him: ‘Very well, since you insist, tomorrow we shall rise, as usual, before dawn, and I shall show you how it’s done. To tell the truth, as you’ll see for yourself, the most difficult part of the operation is to fasten on the tail.’ That night, Pietro and Gemmata were looking forward so eagerly to this business that they hardly slept a wink, and as soon as the dawn was approaching, they scrambled out of bed and called Father Gianni, who, having risen in his nightshirt, came to Pietro’s tiny little bedroom and said: ‘I know of no other person in the world, apart from yourself, for whom I would perform this favour, but as you continue to press me, I shall do it. However, if you want it to work, you must do exactly as I tell you.’ They assured him that they would do as he said. So Father Gianni picked up a lantern, handed it to Neighbour Pietro, and said: ‘Watch me closely, and memorize carefully what I say. Unless you want to ruin everything, be sure not to utter a word, no matter what you may see or hear. And pray to God that the tail sticks firmly in place.’ Neighbour Pietro took the lantern and assured him he would do as he had said. Then Father Gianni got Gemmata to remove all her clothes and to stand on all fours like a mare, likewise instructing her not to utter a word whatever happened, after which he began to fondle her face and her head with his hands, saying: ‘This be a fine mare’s head.’ Then he stroked her hair, saying: ‘This be a fine mare’s mane.’ And stroking her arms, he said: ‘These be fine mare’s legs and fine mare’s hooves.’ Then he stroked her breasts, which were so round and firm that a certain uninvited guest was roused and stood erect. And he said: ‘This be a fine mare’s breast.’ He then did the same to her back, her belly, her rump, her thighs and her legs: and finally, having nothing left to attend to except the tail, he lifted his shirt, took hold of the dibber that he did his planting with, and stuck it straight and true in the place made for it, saying: ‘And this be a fine mare’s tail.’ Until this happened, Neighbour Pietro had been closely observing it all in silence, but he took a poor view of this last bit of business, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, Father Gianni, no tail! I don’t want a tail!’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, every year it is your custom to send to the poor of the Lord Saint Anthony a portion of your wheat and oats, varying in amount from person to person according to his ability and devotion, so that the blessed Saint Anthony will protect your oxen, asses, pigs and sheep from harm. Moreover it is customary, in particular for those of you who are enrolled as members of our confraternity, to pay those modest sums which fall due every year at this time, and it is precisely to collect these contributions of yours that my superior, Master Abbot, has sent me among you. And so, with God’s blessing, when you hear the bells ring after nones,5 you will assemble outside the church, where as usual I shall preach the sermon and you will kiss the cross. But in addition to this, since I know how deeply devoted you all are to the Lord Saint Anthony, I shall show you, by way of special favour, a most sacred and beautiful relic, which I myself brought back from a visit I once paid to the Holy Land across the sea; and this is one of the feathers of the Angel Gabriel, which was left behind in the bedchamber of the Virgin Mary when he came to annunciate her in Nazareth.’ And at this point he ended his homily and returned to the mass. Now, among the large congregation present in the church when Friar Cipolla made this announcement, were a pair of very wily young fellows, one of whom was called Giovanni del Bragoniera and the other Biagio Pizzini. Having had a good laugh together over Friar Cipolla’s relic, they decided, though they were his good friends and boon companions, to have a little fun with this feather at the Friar’s expense. They knew that Friar Cipolla was to breakfast with a friend that morning in the citadel,6 and so they waited until he was safely seated at table, then made their way down into the street, whence they proceeded to the inn where the Friar was staying, their intention being that Biagio should engage Friar Ci-polla’s servant in conversation whilst Giovanni rummaged through the Friar’s belongings and removed this feather, or whatever it was, so that later in the day they could see how he explained its disappearance to the populace. Friar Cipolla had a servant, variously known as Guccio Balena, or Guccio Imbratta, or Guccio Porco,7 who was such a coarse fellow that he could have given lessons in vulgarity to Lippo Topo8 himself, and whom Friar Cipolla frequently used to make fun of in conversation with his cronies, saying: