Fear

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 Looking for Alaska (2005)

  My lungs are fair. It’s just running. “Five,” he said. “Four. Three. Two. One. Light it. Light it. Light it.” It lit with a sizzle that reminded me of every July Fourth with my family. We stood still for a nanosecond, staring at the fuse, making sure it was lit. And now, I thought. Now. Run run run run run. But my body didn’t move until I heard Takumi shout-whisper, “Go go go fucking go.” — And we went. Three seconds later, a huge burst of pops. It sounded, to me, like the automatic gunfire in Decapitation, except louder. We were twenty steps away already, and I thought my eardrums would burst. I thought: Well, he will certainly hear it. We ran past the soccer field and into the woods, running uphill and with only the vaguest sense of direction. In the dark, fallen branches and moss-covered rocks appeared at the last possible second, and I slipped and fell repeatedly and worried that the Eagle would catch up, but I just kept getting up and running beside Takumi, away from the classrooms and the dorm circle. We ran like we had golden shoes. I ran like a cheetah—well, like a cheetah that smoked too much. And then, after precisely one minute of running, Takumi stopped and ripped open his backpack. My turn to count down. Staring at my watch. Terrified. By now, he was surely out. He was surely running. I wondered if he was fast. He was old, but he’d be mad. “Five four three two one,” and the sizzle. We didn’t pause that time, just ran, still west. Breath heaving. I wondered if I could do this for thirty minutes. The firecrackers exploded. The pops ended, and a voice cried out, “STOP RIGHT NOW!” But we did not stop. Stopping was not in the plan. “I’m the motherfucking fox,” Takumi whispered, both to himself and to me. “No one can catch the fox.” A minute later, I was on the ground. Takumi counted down. The fuse lit. We ran. But it was a dud. We had prepared for one dud, bringing an extra string of firecrackers. Another, though, would cost the Colonel and Alaska a minute. Takumi crouched down on the ground, lit the fuse, and ran. The popping started. The fireworks bangbangbanged in sync with my heartbeat. When the firecrackers finished, I heard, “STOP OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE!” And though the voice was distant, I could feel his Look of Doom bearing down on me. “The pigs can’t stop the fox; I’m too quick,” Takumi said to himself. “I can rhyme while I run; I’m that slick.” The Colonel warned us about the police threat, told us not to worry. The Eagle didn’t like to bring the police to campus. Bad publicity. So we ran. Over and under and through all manner of trees and bushes and branches. We fell. We got up.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  And yet, what an atrocity! It seemed as if nothing could terminate the tragicomical frenzy of these lunatics, for Marcelle, still naked, kept gesticulating, and her agonizing shrieks of pain expressed unbearable terror and moral suffering; we watched her bite her mother’s face amid arms vainly trying to subdue her. Indeed, by bursting in, the parents managed to wipe out the last shreds of reason, and in the end, the police had to be called, with all the neighbours witnessing the outrageous scandal. 3. Marcelle’s Smell My own parents had not turned up that evening with the pack. Nevertheless, I judged it prudent to decamp and elude the wrath of an awful father, the epitome of a senile Catholic general. I entered our villa by the back door and filched a certain amount of money. Next, quite convinced they would look for me everywhere but there, I took a bath in my father’s bedroom. Finally, by around ten o’clock, I was out in the open country, having left the following note on my mother’s bedside table: “I beseech you not to send the police after me for I am carrying a gun, and the first bullet will be for the policeman, the second for myself.” I have never had any aptitude for what is known as striking a pose, and in this circumstance in particular, I only wished to keep my family at bay, for they relentlessly hated scandal. Still, having written the note with the greatest levity and not without laughing, I thought it might not be such a bad idea to pocket my father’s revolver. I walked along the seashore most of the night, but without getting very far from X because of all the windings of the coast. I was merely trying to soothe a violent agitation, a strange, spectral delirium in which, willy-nilly, phantasms of Simone and Marcelle took shape with gruesome expressions. Little by little, I even thought I might kill myself, and, taking the revolver in hand, I managed to lose any sense of words like hope or despair, but in my weariness, I realized that my life had to have some meaning all the same, and would have one if only certain events, defined as desirable, were to occur. I finally accepted being so extraordinarily haunted by the names Simone and Marcelle . Since it was no use laughing, I could keep going only by accepting or feigning to imagine a fantastic compromise that would confusedly link my most disconcerting moves to theirs. I slept in a wood during the day, and at nightfall I went to Simone’s place: I passed through the garden by climbing over the wall. My friend’s bedroom was lit, and so I cast some pebbles through the window. A few seconds later she came down and almost wordlessly we headed towards the beach. We were delighted to see one another again.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  However, Simone and I realized that Marcelle grasped absolutely nothing of what was going on and she was actually incapable of telling one situation from another. Thus she smiled, imagining how aghast the director of the “haunted castle” would be to see her strolling through the garden with her husband. Also, she was scarcely aware of Simone’s existence; mirthfully, she at times mistook her for a wolf because of her black hair, her silence, and because Simone’s head was docilely rubbing Marcelle’s thigh, like a dog nuzzling his master’s leg. Nonetheless, when I spoke to Marcelle about the “haunted castle,” she did not ask me to explain; she understood that this was the building where she had been wickedly locked up. And whenever she thought of it, her terror pulled her away from me as though she had seen something pass through the trees. I watched her uneasily, and since my face was already hard and sombre, I too frightened her, and almost at the same instant she asked me to protect her when the Cardinal returned . We were lying in the moonlight by the edge of a forest. We wanted to rest a while during our trip back and we especially wanted to embrace and stare at Marcelle. “But who is the Cardinal?” Simone asked her. “The man who locked me in the wardrobe,” said Marcelle. “But why is he a cardinal?” I cried. She replied: “Because he is the priest of the guillotine.” I now recalled Marcelle’s dreadful fear when she left the wardrobe, and particularly two details: I had been wearing a blinding red carnival novelty, a Jacobine liberty cap; furthermore, because of the deep cuts in a girl I had raped, my face, clothes, hands—all parts of me were stained with blood. Thus, in her terror, Marcelle confused a cardinal, a priest of the guillotine, with the blood-smeared executioner wearing a liberty cap: a bizarre overlapping of piety and abomination for priests explained the confusion, which, for me, had remained attached to both my hard reality and the horror continually aroused by the compulsiveness of my actions. 8. The Open Eyes of the Dead Woman For a moment, I was totally helpless after this unexpected discovery; and so was Simone. Marcelle was now half asleep in my arms, so that we didn’t know what to do.

• From The Greatest Controversies of Early Christian History (2013)

  61 Responsibility for Jesus’s Execution  It’s important to note that the Jews did not kill Jesus; the Romans did. Saying that the Jews are responsible for Jesus’s death makes no more sense than saying that because Pilate was a Roman, the Italians are responsible for Jesus’s death.  Roman soldiers fl ogged Jesus, mocked him, and killed him. No Jews were directly involved in the execution. But given that Jewish authorities handed Jesus over to Pilate, aren’t they responsible? The Jewish authorities did not have the authority to condemn Jesus to death when Rome was in charge of the Promised Land. They handed Jesus over to Pilate for what probably seemed to them to be a very good reason: They were afraid of an uprising that could lead to many deaths. o The Jewish historian Josephus tells us about incidents during the Passover in which as many as 20,000 people were killed in riots led by zealous Jews. o The Sadducees didn’t want the preaching of this Galilean prophet to cause a similar uprising; thus, they arranged for him to be handed over to Pontius Pilate.  It’s important to stress that the Jewish people did not reject Jesus. Most of the Jewish people at the time had never even heard of Jesus; even most of the Jewish people in Jerusalem had not heard of him before he came to Jerusalem for the Passover feast. Many of those who did hear of him were attracted to his message, which was, as we’ve seen, thoroughly apocalyptic.  It was only a small group—possibly a handful—of Jewish leaders who found Jesus dangerous and handed him over to Pilate. They did not represent the views of all the Jewish people at the time, let alone Jews throughout all of history. 62 Lecture 9: Did the Jews Kill Jesus? Dunn, The Partings of the Ways. Ehrman, After the New Testament. Gager, The Origin of Anti-Semitism. Ruether, Faith and Fratricide. 1. How do you explain the increased emphasis throughout history that the Jews killed Jesus? 2. What, in your judgment, were the main reasons that the Romans chose to execute Jesus? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  As he undressed, he racked his memory trying to recall what he could about the old duke and his hasty marriage. Glenmoore had been an Eccentric, an Original, always haring off on worldly adventures at which everyone else had shaken their heads. Hugh knew Glenmoore’s son had always considered his father to be something of an embarrassment. Now Hugh wished he’d paid greater attention to the talk. When his sister had married Lucien Remington, he’d become adept at avoiding gossip of any nature. For future reference, he’d have to rethink his reticence. Perhaps there was something useful to be gleaned from the chatter after all. Charlotte was an enigma he would unravel. A lady’s companion was expected to have a sterling reputation, and yet it was fairly obvious by the way she dressed and her skilled seduction that Charlotte was a bit tarnished. Every one of the servants had some affliction or another. It was highly possible that the tempting redhead’s reputation was hers. Damnation, he was thirsty! He’d had nothing but wine since the pot of tea earlier. Shooting a wary glance at the fresh pitcher left by Katie, Hugh sighed in resignation and poured a small ration. There was no help for it. He couldn’t drink liquor the entire duration of the storm. With everything that was happening around him, he was better off sober. He lifted the glass and drained its contents. Then he crawled into the massive bed and promptly fell asleep. Hugh stiffened but made no other movement. All of his senses alert, he listened carefully for the sound that woke him. There it was again—the soft sound of material brushing against itself. Someone else was in the room with him. Throwing back the covers, he leapt from the bed, startling the dark form that stood at the foot of it. He lunged forward, arms out to capture his Peeping Tom. And ended up facedown on the rug. Startled, knowing he should have caught the intruder, Hugh jumped to his feet and spun about, expecting to catch something and finding only air. Running to the nightstand, he lit the taper, then looked around, finding no one and nothing amiss. He cursed as he pulled on his discarded trousers. A man could take only so much. As he reached for the candle, he noted the pitcher next to it and muttered an oath that would have blistered the ears of a seasoned sailor. If the blasted water was to blame for this, he’d be foxed the duration of his visit and be glad of it. In the meantime, though, Hugh didn’t believe he’d imagined the specter at the end of the bed, and he also didn’t believe the individual simply dissipated into thin air. Having Remington as a brother-in-law had taught him a thing or two about appearances, and he’d use what he’d learned to search the walls on either side of the fireplace.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  I don’t blame you for not wanting to know. You know what happens to people who know too much?” “What’s that?” “They become dog chow. Fucking Purina Dog Chow.” Tad looks up. “We handle that account at the agency.” You ask yourself: How did I get here? The hand that Fred bit throbs painfully. You wonder if it’s rabies. You wonder if Alex is all right. “Used to be,” Bernie says, “this was your basic greaseball sector of the economy. You’re dealing with your South American spies and your New Jersey dago element. It was an up-and-down scene—all these Latin types with long knives and short tempers—but there was a lot of room for the entrepreneurial spirit. Now we’re seeing a different kind of money moving into the neighborhood. I’m talking to three-piece bankers with P.O. boxes in Switzerland. That’s one of the things that’s happening to this business. But these guys I can deal with. All they want is a good return on their money. Simple. What I’m scared of is my brother Jews—the Hasidim. They’re moving in in a big way, crowding out the independent. It’s more lucrative than diamonds—hey, they’re not stupid. They know an opportunity when they see one. They’re all set up for something like this. Liquid capital, world-wide organization, secrecy and trust. How can they lose? I’m telling you, most of the blow in the country already has a Yiddish accent.” “You mean the guys with the black hats and funky sideburns?” Tad says. “Believe me,” Bernie says, “it ain’t like they can’t afford a haircut. So what do you think of the Yankees this year?” “Looking good for a pennant,” Tad says. You bail out at the next red light, claiming car sickness. You are halfway up the block when Bernie calls out—“Hey, you! Don’t forget. Dog Chow.” O COUTURE!Your interest in clothing doesn’t normally take you beyond Brooks Brothers and J. Press—and at the moment there seems to be a little credit trouble at both establishments. But this morning you are waiting to enter the ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria, where a fashion designer is showing his fall line. You copped an invitation from your friend at Vogue . He owes you for the time he took your Austin Healey out to Westchester and plowed it into a ten-point buck. You know people who have been hunting for twenty years and have never seen ten points on one deer. The car ended up in a junkyard outside of Pleasantville. You don’t know what happened to the deer, and it’s hard to say what happened to the insurance money except that it was gone in two weeks. At the door, a tall woman with silver hair scrutinizes your invitation. On either side of the door, two large black men in turbans stand with their arms folded across their chests. They are supposed to be Nubian slaves or something. Only an Italian fashion designer could get away with this.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  She slams the door from the inside, takes the seat in front of the desk and stares you down. She doesn’t ask you to sit, so you do. This is shaping up even worse than you anticipated. Still, you feel a measure of detachment, as if you had suffered everything already and this were just a flashback. You wish that you had paid more attention when a woman you met at Heartbreak told you about Zen meditation. Think of all of this as an illusion. She can’t hurt you. Nothing can hurt the samurai who enters combat fully resolved to die. You have already accepted the inevitability of termination, as they say. Still, you’d rather not have to sit through this. “I would like to know what happened.” A dumb question. Far too general. You draw a good breath. “I screwed up.” You might add that the writer of the piece in question really screwed up, that you improved the thing immeasurably, and that the change of scheduling was ill-advised. But you don’t. “You screwed up.” You nod. It’s true. In this case, however, honesty doesn’t make you feel a whole lot better. You’re having trouble meeting her glare. “May I be so bold as to ask for a little elaboration? Really, I’m interested.” Sarcasm now. “Just how did you screw up, exactly?” More ways than you can say. “Well?” You’re already gone. You are out the window with the pigeons. You try to alleviate the terror by thinking how ridiculous her French braids look, like spinnakers on a tugboat. You suspect that deep down she enjoys this. She’s been looking forward to it for a long time. “Do you realize just how serious this is?” she demands. “You have endangered the reputation of this magazine. We have built a reputation for scrupulous accuracy with regard to matters of fact. Our readers depend on us for the truth.” You would like to say, Whoa! Block that jump from facts to truth, but she is off and running. “Every time this magazine goes to press that reputation is on the line, and when the current issue hits the stands you will have compromised that reputation, perhaps irretrievably. Do you know that in fifty years of publication there has only been one printed retraction?” Yes, you know. “Have you considered that everyone on the staff will suffer as a result of your carelessness?” Clara’s office is none too large under the best of circumstances, and it is getting smaller by the minute. You raise your hand. “Can I ask what errors you have found?” She has the list ready to hand: Two accents reversed, an electoral district in central France incorrectly identified as northern, a minister ascribed to the wrong department. “This is just what I’ve been able to find so far. I’m scared to death of what I’ll uncover as I go along. The proofs are a mess. I can’t tell what you’ve verified and what you haven’t.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  Now all we could hope for was to climb in her window after sawing through the bars, and we were at a loss how to identify her window among thirty others, when our attention was drawn to a strange apparition. We had scaled the wall and were now in the park, among trees buffeted by a violent wind, when we spied a second-storey window opening and a shadow holding a sheet and fastening it to one of the bars. The sheet promptly smacked in the gusts, and the window was shut before we could recognize the shadow. It is hard to imagine the harrowing racket of that vast white sheet caught in the squall. It greatly outroared the fury of the sea or the wind in the trees. That was the first time I saw Simone racked by anything but her own lewdness: she huddled against me with a beating heart and gaped at the huge phantom raging in the night as though dementia itself had hoisted its colours on this lugubrious château. We were motionless, Simone cowering in my arms and I half-haggard, when all at once the wind seemed to tatter the clouds, and the moon, with a revealing clarity, poured sudden light on something so bizarre and so excruciating for us that an abrupt, violent sob choked up in Simone’s throat: at the centre of the sheet flapping and banging in the wind, a broad wet stain glowed in the translucent moonlight … A few seconds later, new black clouds plunged everything into darkness, but I stayed on my feet, suffocating, feeling my hair in the wind, and weeping wretchedly, like Simone herself, who had collapsed in the grass, and for the first time, her body was quaking with huge, childlike sobs. It was our unfortunate friend, no doubt about it, it was Marcelle who had opened that lightless window, Marcelle who had tied that stunning signal of distress to the bars of her prison. She had obviously tossed off in bed with such a disorder of her senses that she had entirely inundated herself, and it was then that we saw her hang the sheet from the window to let it dry. As for myself, I was at a loss about what to do in such a park, with that bogus château de plaisance and its repulsively barred windows. I walked around the building, leaving Simone upset and sprawling on the grass. I had no practical goal, I just wanted to take a breath of air by myself.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  Fred tears a swath out of Tad’s pants leg before landing on the floor, careening around the room, upsetting boxes and finally holing up in the bookshelf behind a row of bound volumes of Scientific American . Your hand is on fire. It is connected by red-hot wires to your brain, which is throbbing inside your skull. You shake your arm, spattering little red droplets on the walls. Tad’s face is white. He leans down and gingerly examines the tear in his pants just below the crotch. “Good Christ! One more inch …” He is interrupted by a thump on the door. “Oh, Jesus!” There is another thump and then a hoarse voice: “Open up! I know you’re in there.” You recognize the voice—it could be worse—and put a finger to your lips. Taking a pencil and pad from Clara’s desk, you clumsily write, with your uninjured left hand, Is the door locked? Tad gives you a search-me look. There is a steady wheezing outside the door and another knock. The doorknob turns one way and then the other. Allagash is poking your arm and mouthing frantic interrogatives. The latch clicks and the door swings open. Alex Hardy stands in the doorway. He nods his head gravely as if you were the very two people he expected to find in Clara’s office at midnight. You are trying to devise a quick story that will wash. Tad is brandishing a yardstick that he found behind the door. “You gave us a scare, Alex. I couldn’t imagine who would be wandering around here at this time of night. I was just looking for my wallet. I was in here this morning …” “Pygmies,” Alex says. Tad looks at you inquisitively. You shrug. “I am surrounded by pygmies.” You now see that Alex is stupendously drunk. You wonder if he recognizes you. “I knew the giants,” he says. “I worked with the giants. The guys whose words went out into the world and kicked ass. Okay, girls too. Women, whatever. I’m talking about ambition. I’m talking about talent. Not like these precious turds around here. These goddamned pygmies.” Alex thumps his fist on the wall. The ferret leaps out from hiding and bolts for the door. It snakes its way between Alex’s legs. Alex tries to get out of the way. The ferret’s claws scrabble on the linoleum. Alex struggles for equilibrium, grabbing first at the door frame, then, as he starts to fall, at the coatrack, and finally at a bookshelf which goes down with him. The top hooks of the falling coatrack narrowly miss Tad’s face. Alex is sprawled on the floor in a heap of books. You’re not sure how hard he hit. “Let’s get out before he comes to,” Tad says. “I can’t leave him like this.” You crouch down and check him out. He’s breathing; already the office smells like liquor. “Come on. Do you want to explain what we’re doing here?

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  “Perhaps, but it won’t be too untoward in this company.” At her raised brow, he explained. “Julienne and Remington have been relegated to the fringes of Society for years. Only the most daring and licentious of guests will deign to associate with them. Glenmoore attended only because he wishes to enter into a partnership with Remington, who has the devil’s own luck when it comes to making money.” She tilted her head back to look at him, her entire body tense and expectant, like a bird prepared to take flight. Hugh’s heart sank to his stomach. She didn’t look even remotely like a woman pleased with an offer of marriage. A sick feeling of dread pooled and then hardened in his gut. “Don’t you think we should discuss my proposal?” Charlotte stumbled backward, her eyes wide and stricken. “Good heavens, you weren’t serious!” Hugh moved toward her, his heart racing in near-panic. “You were afraid my affections would be temporary. You worried I would cast you aside and leave you and your menagerie destitute. I’ve resolved that. As my wife, your comfort will be assured.” She shook her head. “We hardly know one another.” “I think we know each other very well.” He stepped closer and reached for her hand, which she didn’t raise to meet his. “Don’t you care for me, Charlotte?” he asked softly. “Even a little?” Her fingers tightened on his. “Of course I care for you, Hugh, very much. But . . .” “I searched for you all afternoon.” “You did?” She began to tremble. “I did.” Lifting her hand, he held it to his cheek, despising the glove that separated his skin from her touch. “I needed to find you, to warn you about Glenmoore, but you kept moving, and I could never catch you. I was quite desperate for you, actually.” “Hugh . . .” He nuzzled into her palm. “I waited in your room for nearly an hour. Where did you go after you left the stables?” “I-I was in Julienne’s room.” “Ahh . . . I was sick with worry. I couldn’t bear to think of you facing Glenmoore alone.” “Oh, Hugh . . .” Her fingers curled, cupping his cheek. “I am accustomed to caring for myself.” He leaned into her touch, the warmth of which burned through her glove and heated his blood. No other woman had ever affected him as Charlotte did. “There is no weakness in relying on someone to assist you and care for you. The only weakness is in allowing yourself to suffer when support is at hand.” Beloved green eyes swam with tears. “But I cannot rely on you, Hugh. I do not know you well enough. Just in the last half hour, I’ve learned things about you that have shocked and disturbed me, not just from Glenmoore, but from your sister as well.”

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  178 Lecture 34: Gandhi, An Autobiography Gandhi was born in 1869. He begins his Autobiography by describing his family and the caste to which they belonged. Gandhi later struggled against the caste system of India. Gandhi’s formal schooling had little impact on him. He believed that the teacher should be the textbook, and the teacher and the teacher’s moral qualities should be what the student retains. At the age of 13, Gandhi was married to a younger girl. At age 35, Gandhi took a vow of celibacy and saw his wife as a creature of pure love. After fi nishing high school and passing his examinations, it was decided that he should become an attorney. In England, Gandhi gradually began to understand how unique his native country was. He met English people who were interested in mystical religions and encouraged him to read the Bhagavad Gita in English, and it became a part of him. The Bhagavad Gita celebrates God as truth and teaches us to follow the path that God has laid out for us. It also says that doing the work of someone else is slavery, but doing the work of God is true liberation. The philosophy of the Bhagavad Gita began to shape Gandhi’s thinking. Gandhi passed his examinations at the age of 21. He found that becoming a barrister was easy. He had to attend 12 dinners, study outline notes, and pass the examinations. Gandhi returned to India, obtained a job, and left his wife at home while he went to South Africa. In South Africa, Gandhi realized that God was telling him not to be afraid, to stand up and recognize the injustice around him as injustice to God, and to put an end to injustice. Gandhi began to teach his fellow Indians that they should not let anyone treat them unjustly, that they should not harm anyone, that they should stand fast in the truth, and that they should struggle for their rights. Gandhi came to the idea of ahimsa, “nonviolence.” This was not a passive idea. Great moral courage is needed to be nonviolent. Gandhi began working with Indians in South Africa. He not only fought for their legal rights but also began a movement for education. First in South Africa, then in India, Gandhi opened commune schools and began to educate his students in ahimsa and satyagraha. The teachers in Gandhi’s schools were parents. Gandhi believed that parents should be the source of education for their children. At one point, an untouchable family came to the commune. The members of Gandhi’s ashram believed that the

• From Books That Have Made History: Books That Can Change Your Life (2005)

  35 mean a crisis, that is, a moment that would never come again. They thought that he was saying that now was the time to strike. “The Kingdom of God is at hand” could be interpreted to mean that the Romans should be overthrown and the kingdom of Israel reestablished. “Repent” could be interpreted to mean that everything should be changed and the existing order should be overthrown. “Believe in the Gospel” might mean that Jesus was teaching a new gospel in con fl ict with the “good news” of Roman propaganda, that is, that the emperor was the savior of mankind. Jesus’s Gospel meant the overthrow of Rome. Jesus was labeled a revolutionary and an enemy of Rome. Although Jesus knew that his position was dangerous, he traveled to Jerusalem, the center of Judaism, during Passover, the most sacred time of the Jewish year, when all Jews celebrate the end of their bondage in Egypt and when all Jews—even the most pro-Roman among them—hoped that Rome might be driven out and Israel restored to greatness. Although the Romans generally showed respect for Jewish sensibilities, they sent a garrison to Jerusalem at Passover to prevent an uprising. Pontius Pilate, the governor of Judaea, was nervous about the emperor Tiberius, who was suspicious, paranoid, and obsessed with treason. Tiberius did not allow his governors to tolerate traitors. After arriving at the Temple, Jesus drove out the moneychangers. Jesus had become dangerous and had to be destroyed but could not be arrested. The Sanhedrin, a council of 71 Jewish elders who governed Judaea, decided to remove Jesus from the support of his followers. To test Jesus, a Pharisee asked him whether he believed that the people should pay taxes. Jesus asked the Pharisee to show him one of his coins. The coin of the Pharisee had an image of Caesar. Jesus said, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.” The Sanhedrin had absolute control over the internal affairs of Judaea. Jesus was arrested and tried before the court of the Sanhedrin. Caiaphas, the high priest, asked Jesus whether he was the Messiah. Jesus answered, “Yes, and you will see the son of God coming, seated at the right hand of God, the father.” The Sanhedrin wished to sentence Jesus to death, but only the governor was allowed to impose a death sentence. Pontius Pilate recognized that the Jews had turned Jesus over to him out of envy. Because a person

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  In doing so she not only isolated Renée but disarmed and dis- tracted her with the associations of the place, the home of the legendary lesbian poet Sappho. Vivien even began to imagine that Natalie was Sap- pho herself. Do not take the target just anywhere; pick the place that will have the most effective associations. The seductive power of isolation goes beyond the sexual realm. When new adherents joined Mahatma Gandhi's circle of devoted followers, they were encouraged to cut off their ties with the past—with their family and friends. This kind of renunciation has been a requirement of many reli- gious sects over the centuries. People who isolate themselves in this way are much more vulnerable to influence and persuasion. A charismatic politi- cian feeds off and even encourages people's feelings of alienation. John F. Kennedy did this to great effect when he subtly disparaged the Eisenhower years; the comfort of the 1950s, he implied, compromised American ideals. He invited Americans to join him in a new life, on a "New Frontier," full of danger and excitement. It was an extremely seductive lure, particularly for the young, who were Kennedy's most enthusiastic supporters. Finally, at some point in the seduction there must be a hint of danger in the mix. Your targets should feel that they are gaining a great adventure in following you, but are also losing something—a part of their past, their cherished comfort. Actively encourage these ambivalent feelings. An ele- ment of fear is the proper spice; although too much fear is debilitating, in small doses it makes us feel alive. Like diving out of an airplane, it is excit- ing, a thrill, at the same time that it is a little frightening. And the only per- son there to break the fall, or catch them, is you. 318 • The Art of Seduction Symbol: The Pied Piper. A jolly fellow in his red and yellow cloak, he lures the children from their homes with the delightful sounds of his flute. Enchanted, they do not notice how far they are walking, how they are leaving their families behind. They do not even notice the cave he eventually leads them into, and which closes upon them forever. Reversal T he risks of this strategy are simple: isolate someone too quickly and you will induce a sense of panic that may end up in the target's taking flight. The isolation you bring must be gradual, and disguised as pleasure— the pleasure of knowing you, leaving the world behind.

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  He brushes his coat with his hands and then walks down to the far end of the car. You feel silly standing there. The old lady is dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. You would like to see if she’s all right, but at this point it wouldn’t do much good. You sit down. It’s ten-fifty when you get to Times Square. You come up on Seventh Avenue blinking. The sunlight is excessive. You grope for your shades. Down Forty-second Street, through the meat district. Every day the same spiel from the same old man: “Girls, girls, girls—check ’em out, check ’em out. Take a free look, gentlemen. Check it out, check it out.” The words and rhythm never vary. Kinky Karla, Naughty Lola, Sexsational Live Revue—girls, girls, girls. Waiting for a light at Forty-second, you scope among the announcements of ancient upcoming events, strangling the lamppost like kudzu, a fresh poster with the headline MISSING PERSON . The photograph shows a smiling, toothy girl, circa Junior Prom. You read: Mary O’Brien McCann; NYU student; blue eyes, brown hair, last seen vicinity Washington Square Park, wearing blue jumper, white blouse . Your heart sinks. You think of those left behind, the dazed loved ones who have hand-lettered this sign and taped it here, who will probably never know what happened. The light has changed. You stop at the corner for a doughnut and coffee to go. It’s 10:58. You’ve worn out the line about the subway breaking down. Maybe tell Clara you stopped to take a free look at Kinky Karla and got bitten by her snake. Into the lobby, your chest constricting in anticipation, your throat getting dry. You used to feel this way walking into school Monday mornings. The dread of not having finished your homework—and where were you going to sit at lunch? It didn’t help being the new kid every year. The stale disinfectant smell of the corridors and the hard faces of teachers. Your boss, Clara Tillinghast, somewhat resembles a fourth-grade tyrant, one of those ageless disciplinarians who believes that little boys are evil and little girls frivolous, that an idle mind is the devil’s playground and that learning is the pounding of facts, like so many nails, into the knotty oak of recalcitrant heads. Ms. Clara Tillinghast, aka Clingfast, aka The Clinger, runs the Department of Factual Verification like a spelling class, and lately you have not accumulated many gold stars. You are hanging on by the skin of your chipped teeth. If the Clinger had her way you would have been expelled long ago, but the magazine has a tradition of never acknowledging its mistakes.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  cause and estimated the ratio of the two frequencies. The judgments were compared to health statistics of the time. Here’s a sample of their findings: Strokes cause almost twice as many deaths as all accidents combined, but 80% of respondents judged accidental death to be more likely. Tornadoes were seen as more frequent killers than asthma, although the latter cause 20 times more deaths. Death by lightning was judged less likely than death from botulism even though it is 52 times more frequent. Death by disease is 18 times as likely as accidental death, but the two were judged about equally likely. Death by accidents was judged to be more than 300 times more likely than death by diabetes, but the true ratio is 1:4. The lesson is clear: estimates of causes of death are warped by media coverage. The coverage is itself biased toward novelty and poignancy. The media do not just shape what the public is interested in, but also are shaped by it. Editors cannot ignore the public’s demands that certain topics and viewpoints receive extensive coverage. Unusual events (such as botulism) attract disproportionate attention and are consequently perceived as less unusual than they really are. The world in our heads is not a precise replica of reality; our expectations about the frequency of events are distorted by the prevalence and emotional intensity of the messages to which we are exposed. The estimates of causes of death are an almost direct representation of the activation of ideas in associative memory, and are a good example of substitution. But Slovic and his colleagues were led to a deeper insight: they saw that the ease with which ideas of various risks come to mind and the emotional reactions to these risks are inextricably linked. Frightening thoughts and images occur to us with particular ease, and thoughts of danger that are fluent and vivid exacerbate fear. As mentioned earlier, Slovic eventually developed the notion of an affect heuristic, in which people make judgments and decisions by consulting their emotions: Do I like it? Do I hate it? How strongly do I feel about it? In many domains of life, Slovic said, people form opinions and make choices that directly express their feelings and their basic tendency to approach or avoid, often without knowing that they are doing so. The affect heuristic is an instance of substitution, in which the answer to an easy question (How do I feel about it?) serves as an answer to a much harder question (What do I think about it?). Slovic

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  give this lovely creature away to another man. One night, overwhelmed by 270 • The Art of Seduction For years after her entry her charms, he held her hand and told her how much she resembled her into the palace, a large mother, whom he once had loved. She trembled—not with excitement, number of court-maidens however, but with fear, for although he was not her father, he was supposed were especially set aside for preparing Kuei-fei 's to be her protector, not a suitor. Her attendants were away and it was a dresses, which were chosen beautiful night. Genji silently threw off his perfumed robe and pulled her and fashioned according to down beside him. She began to cry, and to resist. Always a gentleman, the flowers of the season. For instance, for New Year Genji told her that he would respect her wishes, he would always care for (spring) she had blossoms her, and she had nothing to fear. He then politely excused himself. of apricot, plum and Several days later Genji was helping Tamakazura with her correspon-narcissus; for summer, she dence when he read a love letter from his younger brother, Prince Hotaru, adopted the lotus; for autumn, she patterned who numbered among her suitors. In the letter, Hotaru berated Tama-them after the peony; for kazura for not letting him get physically close enough to talk to her and tell winter, she employed the her his feelings. Tamakazura had not replied; unused to the manners of the chrysanthemum. Of jewelry she was fondest of court, she had felt shy and intimidated. As if to help her, Genji got one of pearls, and the finest his servants to write to Hotaru in her name. The letter, written on beauti-products of the world found ful perfumed paper, warmly invited the prince to visit her. their way into her boudoir and were frequently Hotaru appeared at the appointed hour. He smelled a beguiling in-embroidered on her cense, mysterious and seductive. (Mixed into this scent was Genji's own numerous dresses. • Kuei- perfume.) The prince felt a wave of excitement. Approaching the screen fei was the embodiment of behind which Tamakazura sat, he confessed his love for her. Without mak-all that was lovely and extravagant. No wonder ing a sound, she retreated to another screen, farther away. Suddenly there that no king, prince, was a flash of light, as if a torch had flared up, and Hotaru saw her profile courtier or humble behind the screen: she was more beautiful than he had imagined. Two attendant who ever met her could resist the allurement things delighted the prince: the sudden, mysterious flash of light, and the of her charms. Besides, she brief glimpse of his beloved. Now he was truly in love. was the most artful of Hotaru began to court her assiduously. Meanwhile, feeling reassured that women and knew how to use her natural gifts to the Genji was no longer chasing her, Tamakazura saw her protector more often.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  to drench me before I felt impossible to bring such a thing to pass, she did not mind playing along and your scalding touch. But agreeing to his bold proposal. your fire is such that even Mademoiselle de Valois had a chambermaid named Angelique, who in water I burn. • T I S B E A : So cold and yet burning? • dressed her for bed and slept in an adjoining room. One night as the chap-D O N J U A N : S o much f i r e erone was knitting, de Valois looked up from the book she was reading to is in you. • T I S B E A : How see Angelique carrying her mistress's nightclothes to her room, but for some well you talk! • D O N J U A N : How well you strange reason Angelique looked back at her and smiled—it was Richelieu, understand! • T I S B E A : I expertly dressed as the maid! De Valois nearly gasped from fright, but caught hope to God you're not herself, realizing the danger she was in: if she said anything her family lying. would find out about the notes, and about her part in the whole affair. —TIRSO DE MOLINA, THE PLAYBOY OF SEVILLE, What could she do? She decided to go to her room and talk the young TRANSLATED BY ADRIENNE M. duke out of his ridiculously dangerous maneuver. She said good night to her SCHIZZANO AND OSCAR chaperone, but once she was in her bedroom, the words she had planned M A N D E L were useless. When she tried to reason with Richelieu, he responded with that look in his eye, and then with his arms around her. She could not yell, but now she was unsure what to do. His impetuous words, his caresses, the Pleased with my first danger of it all—her head was whirling, she was lost. What was virtue and success, I determined to her prior boredom compared to an evening with the court's most notorious profit by this happy reconciliation. I called them rake? So while the chaperone knitted away, the duke initiated her into the my dear wives, my faithful rituals of libertinage. companions, the two beings Months later, de Valois's father had reason to suspect that Richelieu had chosen to make me happy. broken through his lines of defense. The chaperone was fired, the precau-I sought to turn their heads, and to rouse in tions were doubled. D'Orléans did not realize that to Richelieu such mea-them desires the strength of sures were a challenge, and he lived for challenges. He bought the house which I knew and which next door under an assumed name and secretly tunneled a trapdoor through would drive away any reflections contrary to my the wall adjoining the duke's kitchen cupboard. In this cupboard, over the plans. The skillful man

• From Bright Lights, Big City (1984)

  “They become dog chow. Fucking Purina Dog Chow.” Tad looks up. “We handle that account at the agency.” You ask yourself: How did I get here? The hand that Fred bit throbs painfully. You wonder if it’s rabies. You wonder if Alex is all right. “Used to be,” Bernie says, “this was your basic greaseball sector of the economy. You’re dealing with your South American spies and your New Jersey dago element. It was an up-and-down scene—all these Latin types with long knives and short tempers—but there was a lot of room for the entrepreneurial spirit. Now we’re seeing a different kind of money moving into the neighborhood. I’m talking to three-piece bankers with P.O. boxes in Switzerland. That’s one of the things that’s happening to this business. But these guys I can deal with. All they want is a good return on their money. Simple. What I’m scared of is my brother Jews— the Hasidim. They’re moving in in a big way, crowding out the independent. It’s more lucrative than diamonds—hey, they’re not stupid. They know an opportunity when they see one. They’re all set up for something like this. Liquid capital, world-wide organization, secrecy and trust. How can they lose? I’m telling you, most of the blow in the country already has a Yiddish accent.” “You mean the guys with the black hats and funky sideburns?” Tad says. “Believe me,” Bernie says, “it ain’t like they can’t afford a haircut. So what do you think of the Yankees this year?” “Looking good for a pennant,” Tad says. You bail out at the next red light, claiming car sickness. You are halfway up the block when Bernie calls out—“Hey, you! Don’t forget. Dog Chow.”

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  But then, on the side of the château, I stumbled upon an unbarred open window on the ground floor; I felt for the gun in my pocket and I entered cautiously: it was a very ordinary drawing-room. An electric flashlight helped me to reach an antechamber; then a stairway. I could not distinguish anything, I did not get anywhere, the rooms were not numbered. Besides, I was incapable of understanding anything, as though I were under a spell: at that moment, I could not even understand why I had the idea of removing my trousers and continuing that anguishing exploration only in my shirt. And yet I stripped off my clothes, piece by piece, leaving them on a chair, keeping only my shoes on. With a flashlight in my left hand and the revolver in my right hand, I wandered aimlessly, haphazardly. A rustle made me switch off my lamp quickly. I stood motionless, whiling away the time by listening to my erratic breath. Long, anxious minutes wore by without my hearing any more noise, and so I flashed my light back on, but a faint cry sent me fleeing so swiftly that I forgot my clothes on the chair. I sensed I was being followed: so I hurriedly climbed out through the window and hid in a garden lane; but no sooner had I turned to observe what might be happening in the château than I spied a naked woman in the window frame; she jumped into the park as I had done and ran off towards a thorn bush. Nothing was more bizarre for me in those utterly thrilling moments than my nudity against the wind on the path of that unknown garden. It was as if I had left the earth, especially because the squall was as violent as ever, but warm enough to suggest a brutal entreaty. I did not know what to do with the gun which I still held in my hand, for I had no pockets left; by charging after the woman who had run past me unrecognized, I would obviously be hunting her down to kill her. The roar of the wrathful elements, the raging of the trees and the sheet, also helped to prevent me from discerning anything distinct in my will or in my gestures. All at once, I halted, out of breath: I had reached the bushes where the shadow had disappeared. Excited by my revolver, I began looking about, when suddenly it seemed as if all reality were tearing apart: a hand, moistened by saliva, had grabbed my cock and was rubbing it, a slobbering, burning kiss was planted on the root of my arse, the naked chest and legs of a woman pressed against my legs with an orgasmic jolt.

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  I scarcely had time to spin around when my come burst in the face of my wonderful Simone: clutching my revolver, I was swept up by a thrill as violent as the storm, my teeth chattered and my lips foamed, with twisted arms I gripped my gun convulsively, and, willy-nilly, three blind, horrifying shots were fired in the direction of the château. Drunk and limp, Simone and I had fled from one another and raced across the park like dogs; the squall was far too wild now for the gunshots to awake any of the sleeping tenants in the château, even if the bangs had been audible inside. But when we instinctively looked up at Marcelle’s window above the sheet slamming in the wind, we were greatly surprised to see that one of the bullets had left a star-shaped crack in one of the panes. The window shook, opened, and the shadow appeared a second time. Dumbstruck, as though about to see Marcelle bleed and fall dead in the windowframe, we remained standing under the strange, nearly motionless apparition. Because of the furious wind, we were incapable of even making ourselves heard. “What did you do with your clothes?” I asked Simone an instant later. She said she had been looking for me and, unable to track me down, she had finally gone to search the interior of the château; but before clambering through the window, she had undressed, thinking she “would feel more free”. And when she had come back out after me, terrified by me, she found that the wind had carried off her dress. Meanwhile, she kept observing Marcelle, and it never crossed her mind to ask me why I was naked. The girl in the window disappeared. A moment that seemed unending crawled by: she switched on the light in her room. Finally, she came back to breathe the open air and gaze at the ocean. Her sleek, pallid hair was caught in the wind, we could make out her features: she had not changed, but now there was something wild in her eyes, something restless, contrasting with the still childlike simplicity of her features. She looked thirteen rather than sixteen. Under her nightgown, we could distinguish her thin but full body, firm, unobtrusive, and as beautiful as her fixed stare. When she finally caught sight of us, the surprise seemed to restore life to her face. She called, but we couldn’t hear. We beckoned. She blushed up to her ears. Simone, weeping almost, while I lovingly caressed her forehead, sent her kisses, to which she responded without smiling. Next, Simone ran her hand down her belly to her pubic hair. Marcelle imitated her, and poising one foot on the sill, she exposed a leg sheathed in a white silk stocking almost up to her blond cunt. Curiously, she was wearing a white belt and white stockings, whereas black-haired Simone, whose cunt was in my hand, was wearing a black belt and black stockings.