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 The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  "Am I angry with you? Or am I not?" he asked softly. She groaned, imploring him. And he placed her over his knee as she had seen the young Prince over the Page's knee, and with her bare hand he gave her a smart torrent of blows that had her crying aloud in an instant. "To whom do you belong?" he demanded in a low, but angry voice. "To you, my Prince, completely!" she cried out. It was dreadful, and then, suddenly unable to control herself she said, "Please, please, my Prince, not in anger, no..." But instantly his left hand clamped over her mouth, and she felt another terrible torrent of hot spanks until her flesh was stinging and she couldn't control her crying. She could feel the Prince's fingers against her lips. But he would hardly be satisfied with this. He had her on her feet now and by her wrists he led her to a corner of the room between the blazing fire and the curtained window. There was a high stool there made of carved wood, and on this he sat while he stood her beside him. She was crying softly, but she dared not beg again, no matter what happened. He was angry, fiercely angry, and though she could endure any pain for his pleasure, this was unbearable for her. She must please him, must make him loving again, and then any pain at all would not be too much. He turned her and she stood facing him as he sat inspecting her. She dared not look him in the face, and then he drew back his cloak, and laying his hand on the golden buckle of his belt said, "Unfasten this." At once she went to obey, with her teeth without being told that was how she might do it. She hoped and prayed he would be pleased. She pulled on the leather, her breath soft and fast, and then pulled the strap back so that the belt came loose. "Now pull it off," said the Prince, "and give it to me." She obeyed at once, even though she knew what would follow. It was a thick, wide leather belt. Maybe it would be no worse than a paddle. Now he told her to raise her hands and her eyes, and she saw above a metal hook just over her head hanging from a chain on the ceiling. "You see here we are not without provisions for disobedient little slaves," he said in his usual gentle voice. "Now clasp that hook, though it will put you on tiptoe, and you will not dream of letting go of it, do you understand me?" "Yes, my Prince," she cried softly.

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  Everyone here wants to say a terrible thing out loud; so many are stifled by lives that keep them silent. This is the place in which we are all finally safe to speak about the awful, secret things that have happened to us, and unveil the disturbing thoughts that have plagued us for hours, days, months, and years as a result. Here at the crisis center no one will tell on us, yet I still struggle with speaking the truth. In the safety of these tiny clinic rooms, when I hear my voice articulate what I’ve been through and how it’s made me feel over so many years, I often feel like it can’t be real. I recount, and recount again, as if to remind myself that, yes, something terrible happened to me. Yes, that’s the reason I turned out this way. I doubt I’ll ever really be sure how I ended up in this place, how my life brought me here, despite the fact that I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind. The brightly colored box of chalk is still open, its contents splayed out on the heavy wood coffee table. But today I have nothing to write. WHAT I REMEMBER: I WAS FACEDOWN WHEN HE PINNED down my wrists, one at each side of my body. His hands were strong and large and rough, but they were, before the moment that he held me down, hands that I had wanted to touch me. I struggled against him when, for a brief moment, he finally loosened his grip, and I saw a possible window of escape. I made a futile effort to cover myself with my hands and push him off me with my body while still under his weight. While I did that, I chanted that word no, until it became like the call of a struggling animal trying to free itself from a trap, haplessly trying to wriggle free from a predator. I started to panic. He was too heavy, having at least fifty pounds on me. I couldn’t breathe. No became a meaningless word while I was under him. It evolved into a plea or prayer instead of an instruction as intended. And then, in all the futility, it was nothing but a cry, a feral squeal with no one to witness it. In the dark, there was no one to call out to, no one to help me, but I cried out the word nonetheless, just as I had been taught to do.

• From The Annotated Lolita (1991)

  The east window happened to be agape in the living room, with the blind mercifully down, however; and behind it the damp black night of a sour New England spring had been breathlessly listening to us. I had always thought that type of haddocky spinster with the obscene mind was the result of considerable literary inbreeding in modern fiction; but now I am convinced that prude and prurient Miss East—or to explode her incognito, Miss Fenton Lebone—had been probably protruding three-quarter-way from her bedroom window as she strove to catch the gist of our quarrel. “... This racket ... lacks all sense of ...” quacked the receiver, “we do not live in a tenement here. I must emphatically ...” I apologized for my daughter’s friends being so loud. Young people, you know—and cradled the next quack and a half. Downstairs the screen door banged. Lo? Escaped? Through the casement on the stairs I saw a small impetuous ghost slip through the shrubs; a silvery dot in the dark—hub of bicycle wheel—moved, shivered, and she was gone. It so happened that the car was spending the night in a repair shop downtown. I had no other alternative than to pursue on foot the winged fugitive. Even now, after more than three years have heaved and elapsed, I cannot visualize that spring-night street, that already so leafy street, without a gasp of panic. Before their lighted porch Miss Lester was promenading Miss Fabian’s dropsical dackel. Mr. Hyde almost knocked it over. Walk three steps and run three. A tepid rain started to drum on the chestnut leaves. At the next corner, pressing Lolita against an iron railing, a blurred youth held and kissed—no, not her, mistake. My talons still tingling, I flew on. Half a mile or so east of number fourteen, Thayer Street tangles with a private lane and a cross street; the latter leads to the town proper; in front of the first drugstore, I saw—with what melody of relief!—Lolita’s fair bicycle waiting for her. I pushed instead of pulling, pulled, pushed, pulled, and entered. Look out! Some ten paces away Lolita, through the glass of a telephone booth (membranous god still with us), cupping the tube, confidentially hunched over it, slit her eyes at me, turned away with her treasure, hurriedly hung up, and walked out with a flourish. “Tried to reach you at home,” she said brightly. “A great decision has been made. But first buy me a drink, dad.” She watched the listless pale fountain girl put in the ice, pour in the coke, add the cherry syrup—and my heart was bursting with love- ache. That childish wrist. My lovely child. You have a lovely child, Mr. Humbert. We always admire her as she passes by. Mr.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Wounding people binds them to you more deeply than kindness. Create tension so you can release it. If you need inspiration, find the part of the target that most irri- tates you and use it as a springboard for some therapeutic conflict. The more real your cruelty, the more effective it is. In 1818, the French writer Stendhal, then living in Milan, met the Countess Metilda Viscontini. For him, it was love at first sight. She was a proud, somewhat difficult woman, and she intimidated Stendhal, who was terribly afraid of displeasing her with a stupid comment or undignified act. Finally, unable to take it any longer, he one day took her hand and confessed his love. Horrified, the countess told him to leave and never come back. Stendhal flooded Viscontini with letters, begging her to forgive him. At last, she relented: she would see him again, but under one condition—he could visit only once every two weeks, for no more than an hour, and only in the presence of company. Stendhal agreed; he had no choice. He now lived for those short fortnightly visits, which became occasions of intense anxiety and fear, since he was never quite sure whether she would change her mind and banish him forever. This went on for over two years, during which the countess never showed him the slightest sign of favor. Stendhal never found out why she had insisted on this arrangement—perhaps she wanted to toy with him or keep him at a distance. All he knew was that his love for her only grew stronger, became unbearably intense, until finally he had to leave Milan. To get over this sad affair, Stendhal wrote his famous book On Love, in which he described the effect of fear on desire. First, if you fear the loved one, you can never get too close or familiar with him or her. The beloved then retains an element of mystery, which only intensifies your love. Sec- ond, there is something bracing about fear. It makes you vibrate with sensa- tion, heightens your awareness, is intensely erotic. According to Stendhal, the closer the loved one brings you to the edge of the precipice, to the feel- ing that they could abandon you, the dizzier and more lost you will be- come. Falling in love means literally falling—losing control, a mix of fear and excitement. Apply this wisdom in reverse: never let your targets get too comfortable for him was in no way curtailed." • For the princess, Riom was a sovereign remedy against boredom. —STENDHAL, LOVE, TRANSLATED BY GILBERT AND SUZANNE SALE 378 • The Art of Seduction with you. They need to feel fear and anxiety. Show them some coldness, a flash of anger they did not expect. Be irrational if necessary. There is always the trump card: a breakup.

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  4 7 Affective realism can also lead to tragic consequences. In July 2007, an American gunner aboard an Apache helicopter in Iraq mistakenly killed a group of eleven unarmed people, including several Reuters photojournalists. The soldier had misjudged a journalist’s camera to be a gun. One explanation for this incident is that affective realism caused the soldier, in the heat of the moment, to imbue a neutral object (a camera) with unpleasant valence. Every day, soldiers must make quick decisions about other people, whether they are embedded in a unit during wartime, on a peacekeeping mission, negotiating in a cross-cultural setting, or collaborating with unit members on a stateside base. These quick judgments are extremely difficult to negotiate, especially in such high-stakes, high-arousal settings where errors are often made at the expense of someone’s life. 4 8 A little closer to home, affective realism may also play a role in police shootings of unarmed civilians. The U.S. Department of Justice analyzed shootings by Philadelphia police officers between 2007 and 2013 and found that 15 percent of the victims were unarmed. In half of these cases, an officer reportedly misidentified “a nonthreatening object (e.g., a cell phone) or movement (e.g., tugging at the waistband)” as a weapon. Many factors may contribute to these tragedies, ranging from carelessness to racial bias, but it is also possible that some of the shooters actually perceive a weapon when none is present due to affective realism in a high-pressure and dangerous context. * The human brain is wired for this sort of delusion, in part because moment-to-moment interoception infuses us with affect, which we then use as evidence about the world. 4 9 People like to say that seeing is believing, but affective realism demonstrates that believing is seeing. The world often takes a backseat to your predictions. (It’s still in the car, so to speak, but is mostly a passenger.) And as you’re about to learn right now, this arrangement is not limited to vision. … Suppose you’re walking alone in the forest, and you hear a rustle in the leaves and see a vague movement on the ground. As always, your body-budgeting regions initiate predictions—say, that there’s a snake nearby. These predictions prepare you to see and hear a snake. At the same time, these regions predict that your heart rate should increase and your blood vessels should dilate, for instance, in preparation to run. A pounding heart and surging blood would cause interoceptive sensations, so your brain must predict those sensations as well. As a result, your brain simulates the snake, the bodily changes, and the bodily sensations. These predictions translate into feeling; in this case, you’ll begin to feel agitated. 5 0 What happens next? Maybe a snake slithers out from the brush. In this case, the sensory input matches your predictions and you run. Or perhaps no snake is present—the leaves were just rustled by the wind—but you see a snake anyway.

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  You could also have a non-emotional experience, like the exhaustion of your long drive to the airport, or the perception of tightness in your chest as a symptom that you’re coming down with a cold. Using this storm of predictions, your brain makes meaning of sensations based on your past experiences with airports and friends and illnesses and related situations. Your brain weighs its predictions based on probabilities; they compete to explain what caused your sensations, and they determine what you perceive, how you act, and what you feel in this situation. Ultimately, the most probable predictions become your perception: say, you are happy and your friend is walking through the gates right now. Not every instance of “Happiness” from your past matches the present situation, because “Happiness” is a goal-based concept composed of wildly diverse instances, but some of them had bits and pieces that matched well enough to win the competition. Do these predictions match the actual sensory input from the world and your body? Or is there prediction error that must be resolved? That’s a matter for your prediction loops to work out and, if necessary, to correct. Let’s suppose your friend arrived safely, and later over coffee, she describes her turbulent plane flight that scared her out of her wits. She constructs an instance of “Fear” with the goal of communicating what it feels like to be strapped into the airplane seat, eyes closed, hot and queasy as the plane bumped up and down, her mind racing about her safety. When she says the word “frightened,” you also construct an instance of “Fear,” but it needn’t have exactly the same physical features as hers; you probably won’t squeeze your eyes shut, for example. Yet you can still perceive her fear and feel empathy for her. As long as your instances concern the same goal (detecting danger) in the same situation (a turbulent airplane ride), you and your friend are communicating clearly enough. On the other hand, if you constructed some other instance of “Fear,” such as the exuberant fear of riding a rollercoaster, you might have trouble understanding why your friend was so upset by the flight. Successful communication requires that you and your friend are using synchronized concepts. Think back to Darwin’s ideas about the importance of variation within a species ( chapter 1 ). Each animal species is a population of unique individuals who vary from one another. No feature or set of features is necessary, sufficient, or even frequent or typical of every individual in the population. Any summary of the population is a statistical fiction that applies to no individual. And most importantly, variation within a species is meaningfully related to the environment in which individuals live.

• From My Year of Rest and Relaxation (2018)

  On the eve of my move to New York, my parents sat me down to talk. “Your mother and I understand that we have a certain responsibility to prepare you for life at a coed institution,” said my father. “Have you ever heard of oxytocin?” I shook my head. “It’s the thing that’s going to make you crazy,” my mother said, swirling the ice in her glass. “You’ll lose all the good sense I’ve worked so hard to build up in you since the day you were born.” She was kidding. “Oxytocin is a hormone released during copulation,” my father went on, staring at the blank wall behind me. “Orgasm,” my mother whispered. “Biologically, oxytocin serves a purpose,” my father said. “That warm fuzzy feeling.” “It’s what bonds a couple together. Without it, the human species would have gone extinct a long time ago. Women experience its effects more powerfully than men do. It’s good to be aware of that.” “For when you’re thrown out with yesterday’s trash,” my mother said. “Men are dogs. Even professors, so don’t be fooled.” “Men don’t attach as easily. They’re more rational,” my father corrected her. After a long pause, he said, “We just want you to be careful.” “He means use a rubber.” “And take these.” My father gave me a small, pink, shell-shaped compact of birth control pills. “Gross,” was all I could say. “And your father has cancer,” my mother said. I said nothing. “Prostate isn’t like breast,” my father said, turning away. “They do surgery, and you move on.” “The man always dies first,” my mother whispered. My dad’s chair screeched on the floor as he pushed himself away from the table. “I was only teasing,” my mom said, batting the smoke of her own cigarette away from her face. “About the cancer?” “No.” That was the end of the conversation. Later, while I packed up to move into the dorm, my mother came and stood in the doorway of my bedroom, holding her cigarette out behind her in the hall as if it would make any difference. The whole house always smelled like stale smoke. “You know I don’t like it when you cry,” she said. “I wasn’t crying,” I said. “And I hope you’re not packing any shorts. Nobody wears shorts in Manhattan. And they’ll shoot you in the street if you go around in those disgusting tennis shoes. You’ll look ridiculous. Your father isn’t paying this much for you to go look ridiculous in New York City.” I wanted her to think that I was crying over my father’s cancer, but that wasn’t quite it. “Well, Goddamnit, if you insist on getting weepy,” my mother said, turning to leave. “You know, when you were a baby, I crushed Valium into your bottle? You had colic and cried for hours and hours, inconsolable and for no good reason. And change your shirt. I can see the sweat under your arms. I’m going to bed.”

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  And she was running, running fast towards the enclosing trees, though she could not escape the paddle. It was as Leon had warned her; it caught her over and over and each time there was some hideous surprise because she was trying to outrun it. She could smell the horse, and when she widened her eyes and gasped for breath, she saw everyone on either side of those torchlit and abundantly decked supper tables. Lords and Ladies drank, supped, laughed, turned to glance at her perhaps, she did not know, she was sobbing and running frantically from the blows, which came harder and harder. "O, please, please, Lady Juliana," she wanted to cry out, but she did not dare to ask for mercy. The path had turned and she was following it only to see more and more Nobles banqueting and dimly before her the figure of the other rider and slave who had greatly outdistanced her. Her throat was burning as much as her sore flesh. "Faster, Beauty, faster, and lift your legs higher," Lady Juliana sang out over the wind. "Ah, yes, better, my darling." And there came another shock of pain, and another. The paddle found her thighs with a hard uplifting slap, and then seemed to scoop up her buttocks. Beauty gave an open-mouthed cry because she could not stop it, and soon she heard her own wordless pleas as clearly as the horse's hooves pounding the cinders. Her throat constricted, even the soles of her feet burned, but nothing hurt as much as the quick, strong paddling. Lady Juliana seemed possessed of some evil genius, catching Beauty from one angle and then another, lifting her up again with the blows, smacking her hard and then three or four times in rapid succession. The path had made another turn, and far ahead Beauty saw the walls of the castle. They were returning now. They would soon reach the Queen's canopied pavilion. Beauty felt as if all the breath had gone out of her, yet mercifully Lady Juliana slowed her pace as did the riders before her. Beauty ran more slowly, knees high, and felt a great relaxation course through her. She could hear her own choking sobs, and feel the tears slipping down her face, and yet a puzzling sensation was passing over her. She felt suddenly calmed in some way. She did not comprehend it. She felt no rebellion suddenly, though the obligation to rebel prodded her. Perhaps she was only exhausted.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  Beauty shook her head. "I will do as you say, my Lord," she said anxiously. "And remember, the Queen is none too pleased with her son's passion for you. A thousand slaves have surrounded him ever since he was a young boy, and in none of them has he found an object of devotion such as you. The Queen does not like it." "O, but what can I do?" Beauty cried softly. "You can show perfect obedience to all your superiors, and do nothing to make yourself seem rebellious or unusual." "Yes, my Lord," Beauty said. "You know that I saw you watching Prince Alexi last night," he said, his voice now a menacing whisper. Beauty winced. She bit her lip and tried not to cry. "I could tell this to the Queen at any moment." "Yes, my Lord," she gasped. "But you are very young and lovely. And for such an offense as that you would face the most terrible punishment; you would be sent out of the castle to the village, and that would be more than you could bear..." Beauty trembled. "The village" -- what could this mean? But Lord Gregory continued: "And no slave of the Queen or the Crown Prince should ever be condemned to such disgraceful punishment, and no favorite slave ever has." He took a deep breath as if to cool his anger. "And when you are properly trained, you shall be a splendid slave. And there is no reason finally why the Prince should not enjoy you, why everyone here should not enjoy you. I am here, therefore, to make something of you, not to see you destroyed." "You are most kind and gracious, my Lord," Beauty whispered, but the words, the village, made their indelible impression. If only she might ask... But a young Lady had come into the room, passing through the door in a great rush, her long yellow hair in thick braids, her dress a rich burgundy color trimmed in ermine. Before Beauty remembered to look down, she caught a full glimpse of the Lady with her ruddy cheeks and large brown eyes which swept the Hall of Punishments now as if searching for someone. "O, Lord Gregory, how nice to see you," she said, and as Lord Gregory bowed, she curtsied gracefully. Beauty was stunned by her loveliness, and then overcome with her own shame and vulnerability. She stared at the Lady's pretty silver slippers and the rings on the fingers of her right had which gathered her skirts easily. "And how may I serve you, Lady Juliana?" asked Lord Gregory. Beauty felt desolate.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  Quickly she stood straight, hands behind her neck, and she struggled to keep her hips from going into some slight humiliating movement. Could he see it? She bit her lip again and felt its soreness. "You've done marvelously well today, you've learned so very much," he said tenderly. His voice could be so soft and yet so firm at the same time. It made her feel almost drowsy; that pleasure was melting inside of her. But then she saw that he was reaching for the paddle behind him. She let out a little gasp before she could stop herself, and she felt his hand on her arm, taking her hands away from the back of her neck, and turning her around. She wanted to cry out, "What have I done?" But his voice came low, crooning in her ear. "And I've learned a very important lesson myself, that pain softens you, makes it easier for you. You are infinitely more malleable from the spanking given you in the Inn than you were before it." She wanted to shake her head, but she didn't dare. The thought of all those who had seen her spanked tormented her. She had been turned so those at the windows could see her buttocks and between her legs, and the soldiers could see her face, and it had been excruciating. Well, it would only be her Prince now. If only she could tell him, for him anything, but those others were such punishment... She knew this was wrong. It was not what he wanted her to think, what he was trying to teach her. But now she couldn't think. He was at her side. He held her chin in his left hand, and he had told her to fold her arms behind her back which was difficult for her. It was worse than clasping her hands behind her neck. This position arched her body, forced her breasts out, and made her breasts and face feel painfully naked. She moaned slightly as he lifted her hair and folded the great mane of it over her right shoulder, away from him. It covered her arm, but he pushed it away from her nipples and pinched both of them hard between his finger and thumb, lifting her breasts and letting them fall naturally as he did so. Her face was positively smarting. But she knew what was to come would be worse. "Spread your legs ever so slightly. You must be firmly planted on the ground," he said, "so that you can withstand the blows of the paddle." She wanted to cry out, and through her tightly pressed lips her sobs sounded very loud to her. "Beauty, Beauty," he crooned. "Do you want to please me?" "Yes, my Prince," she cried, her lip trembling uncontrollably. "Then why are you crying so when you haven't even felt the paddle yet? And your buttocks are only a little sore.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  A beautiful vista now seemed to stretch before Casanova, of months spent in the villa with this delightful creature, all of it courtesy of the mys- terious master who paid for it all. He soon returned to the convent to arrange the next meeting. They would rendezvous in a square in Venice, then retire to the villa. At the appointed time and place, Casanova saw a man approach him. Fearing it was her mysterious friend, or some other man sent to kill him, he recoiled. The man circled behind him, then came up close: it was Mathilde, wearing a mask and men's clothes. She laughed at the fright she had given him. What a devilish nun. He had to admit that dressed as a man she excited him even more. Casanova began to suspect that all was not as it seemed. For one, he found a collection of libertine novels and pamphlets in Mathilde's house. Then she made blasphemous comments, for example about the joy they would have together during Lent, "mortifying their flesh." Now she re- ferred to her mysterious friend as her lover. A plan evolved in his mind to take her away from this man and from the convent, eloping with her and possessing her himself. A few days later he received a letter from her, in which she made a con- fession: during one of their more passionate trysts at the villa, her lover had hidden in a closet, watching the whole thing. The lover, she told him, was the French ambassador to Venice, and Casanova had impressed him. Casanova was not one to be fooled with like this, yet the next day he was back at the convent, submissively arranging for another tryst. This time she showed up at the hour they had named, and he embraced her—only to baron of Saint-Cricq, for example, with his ice cream boots: one very hot day, he ordered at Tortonis two ice creams, the vanilla served in his right boot, the strawberry in his left boot. . . . The Count Saint-Germain loved to bring his friends to the theater, in his voluptuous carriage lined in pink satin and drawn by two black horses with enormous tails; he asked his friends in that inimitable tone of his: "Which piece of entertainment did you wish to see? Vaudeville, the Variety show, the Palais- Royal theater?

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  Of course I had known others who had served, and though they are forbidden to speak of what happens, I knew it was an ordeal and I cherished my freedom. So when my father told me I must go, I ran away from the castle and went roaming through the villages. "I don't know how my father received this news. It was a party of the Queen's soldiers who raided the village where I was and carried me off with a number of common boys and girls for other forms of service. These were given to minor Lords and Ladies to serve in their own manor houses. Princes and Princesses such as we serve only at the Court, as I'm sure you realize. "It was a brilliantly sunny day. I was walking alone in a field south of the village writing poetry in my mind when I saw the Queen's soldiers. I had my broadsword, of course, but I was at once surrounded by some six horsemen. As soon as I realized they meant to take me as a slave I knew they belonged to the Queen. They threw a net over me and quickly disarmed me. I was stripped on the spot, and thrown over the Captain's saddle. "That alone was enough to infuriate me and make me fight for my freedom. You can imagine it, my ankles tied with coarse rope, my naked buttocks in the air, my head dangling. The Captain laid his hands on me often enough when he was idle. He pinched and prodded as suited him, and seemed to enjoy his advantages." Beauty winced at all this. She could well picture it. "It was a long journey to the Queen's Kingdom. I was handled roughly like so much baggage, bound at night to a pole outside the Captain's tent and though no one was allowed to violate me, I was tormented by the soldiers. They would take reeds and sticks and prod my organs, touch my face, my arms and legs, whatever they could. My hands were tied over my head; I stood all that while, sleeping on my feet. The nights were warm enough but it was quite miserable. "However, all of this had a wisdom to it. I was promised to the Queen herself, by virtue of her treaty with my father. And of course I was eager to be rid of these coarse soldiers. Each day's ride was the same, over the Captain's saddle. He often whipped me with his leather gloves playfully. He let the villagers come near the road when we passed. He taunted me, and tousled my hair, and called me pet names. But he could not really use me." "Were you thinking of escape?"

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  "Open your eyes." She did it timidly. But then she lay looking up at him. "This has been so hard for you," he whispered. "You could not even imagine these things happening to you. And you are red with shame, and shaking with fear, and you believe perhaps it's one of the dreams you dreamed in your hundred years. But it's real, Beauty," he said. "And it is only the beginning! You think I've made you my Princess. But I've only started. The day will come my Princess. But I've only started. The day will come when you can see nothing but me as if I were the sun and the moon, when I mean all to you, food, drink, the air you breathe. Then you will truly be mine, and these first lessons...and pleasures..." he smiled, "will seem like nothing." He bent over her. She lay so very still, gazing up at him. "How kiss me," he commanded. "And I mean, really...kiss me." THE JOURNEY AND THE PUNISHMENT AT THE INN THE NEXT morning all the Court was gathered in the Great Hall to see the Prince off, and all of the Court, including the grateful King and Queen, stood with their eyes down, bowing from the waist as the Prince came down the steps with the naked Beauty walking behind him. He had commanded her to clasp her hands on the back of her neck beneath her hair, and to walk just a little to his right so that he might see her in the corner of his eye. And she obeyed, her bare feet making not the slightest sound on the worn stone steps as she followed him. "Dear Prince," said the Queen, when he reached the great front door and saw that his soldiers stood mounted on the drawbridge, "we are in your eternal debt, but she is our only daughter." The Prince turned to look at her. She was yet beautiful, though more than twice Beauty's age, and he wondered if she too had served his great-grandfather. "How can you question me?" the Prince asked patiently. "I have restored your Kingdom, and you know full well if you remember anything of the ways of my land, that Beauty will be much enhanced by her service there." Then the telltale blush came to the Queen as it had to the King before, and she bowed her head in acceptance. "But surely you will allow Beauty some clothing," she whispered, "at least until she reaches the border of your Kingdom." "All those towns between here and my Kingdom have owed their allegiance to us for a century. And in each I will proclaim your restoration and new dominion. Can you ask for more than that? The spring is warm already; Beauty shall suffer no ill effects from serving me immediately."

• From How Emotions Are Made: The Secret Life of the Brain (2017)

  A similar bout of affective realism gave birth to Florida’s controversial “Stand Your Ground” law. This law permits the use of deadly force in self-defense if you reasonably believe you’re in imminent danger of death or great bodily harm. A real-life incident was the catalyst for the law, but not in the way that you might think. Here’s how the story is usually told: In 2004, an elderly couple was asleep in their trailer home in Florida. An intruder tried to break in, so the husband, James Workman, grabbed a gun and shot him. Now here’s the true, tragic backstory: Workman’s trailer was in a hurricane-damaged area, and the man he shot, Rodney Cox, was an employee of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA). Workman, mostly likely under the influence of affective realism, perceived that Cox meant him harm and opened fire on an innocent man. Nevertheless, the inaccurate first story became a primary justification for Florida’s law.47 The very history of stand your ground laws is, ironically, potent evidence against their value. It’s impossible to determine reasonable fear for one’s life in a society where racist stereotypes abound and affective realism literally transforms how people see each other. The whole line of reasoning for stand your ground is gutted by affective realism. If stand your ground doesn’t scare the crap out of you, think about the impact of affective realism on people who legally carry concealed weapons. Affective realism indisputably influences people’s perceptions of threat; therefore it virtually assures that innocent people will be shot by accident. It’s simple: you predict a threat, sensory information from the world says otherwise, but then your control network downplays the prediction error to maintain the prediction of threat. Bam, you’ve shot a harmless fellow citizen. Human brains are built for this sort of delusion, through the same process that produces daydreams and imagination. I will not wade any further into the national debate about firearms for now, but from a purely scientific perspective, consider this. The founding fathers of the United States had good reasons for protecting a “right of the people to keep and bear Arms” in the Second Amendment of the Constitution, but they were not neuroscientists. Nobody in 1789 knew that the human brain constructs every perception and is ruled by interoceptive predictions. Right now, over 60 percent of people in the United States believe that crime is on the rise (though it’s historically low), and they also believe that owning a gun will make them safer. These beliefs are ripe to lead people, through affective realism, to genuinely see a deadly threat where there is none and to act accordingly. Now that we know definitively that our senses don’t reveal objective reality, shouldn’t this critical knowledge influence our laws?48

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  "I cannot do it, I cannot," she thought. "I cannot be made to run. I will fall. I will fall to the ground and cover myself. To be tied, to be bound in front of so many was dreadful enough, but this is impossible..." But another rider was already in place, and a young Princess was forced suddenly forward. The paddle found its mark, the Princess let out a little cry and was immediately running desperately fast along the Bridle Path, the rider after her, spanking her fiercely. Before Beauty could take her eyes off them, another slave was on the way, and her eyes blurred as she saw far ahead a dim line of torches outlining the path that seemed to go on and on through the trees, past an endless vista of feasting Lords and Ladies. "Now, Beauty, you see what is required, and don't cry. If you're crying it will be harder. You must put your mind on running fast, keeping your hands on your neck. Here, place them there now. And you must lift your knees high, and try not to squirm to escape the paddle. It will catch you no matter what you do, but I warn you, no matter how many times I tell you that, you will find yourself trying to run away from it. That is the trick, but remain graceful." Another slave was running, and then another. And the young girl who had cried earlier was upended again, dangling, as she was spanked. "Dreadful of her," said the Princess in front of Beauty. "She'll be spanked hard enough in a moment." Suddenly there were only three slaves before Beauty and the archway. "O, but I can't..." she cried to Leon. "Nonsense, my darling, follow the path. It will unwind slowly before you, you will see its turns well in advance, and stop only if you see the slave before you stopped. Now and then the line is stopped, for as the slaves come before the Queen, they must stop for praise or condemnation. She is on a great pavilion to your right, but don't glance at her when you step out of the paddle will catch you off guard." "O, please, I shall faint, I can't, I can't..." "Beauty, Beauty," said the pretty Princess in front of her, "just follow my example." And Beauty realized with horror there was no one left but this girl.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  And then the Prince said: "Take her back to the Hall now." Without explanations, without farewells, without tenderness! Beauty turned and rushed to him on her hands and knees and gave his boots fervent kisses. Again and again she kissed them both, hoping for what she did not know, one real embrace from him perhaps, something to allay her fears of the Bridle Path. The Prince received her kisses for a long time, and then he lifted her and turned her to Lady Juliana who clasped Beauty's hands behind her back. "Be obedient, beautiful one," she said. "Yes, you ride beside her," said the Prince. "But you must make a good show of it." "Of course, I should very much enjoy making a good show of it," said the Lady Juliana, "and it is best for you both. She is a slave, and all slaves desire a firm mistress and master. If they cannot be free, then they do not like for there to be ambivalence. I shall be most firm with her, but always loving." "Take her back to the Hall," said the Prince. "My mother will not allow me to keep her here." THE BRIDLE PATH AS SOON as Beauty opened her eyes from sleep, she could feel a new excitement in the castle. Torches everywhere brilliantly illuminated the Slaves' Hall, and all about her Princes and Princesses were receiving elaborate preparation. The hair of the Princesses was being combed and studded with flowers. The Princes were being polished with oil, their stiff curls combed just as carefully as those of the young women. But Beauty was hastily taken from bed by Leon who seemed uncommonly excited. "It's Festival Night, Beauty," he said, "and I've allowed you to sleep a long time. We must hurry." "Festival Night," she whispered. But she was already being placed on the table for grooming. At once he parted her hair and started to braid it. She felt the air on her neck and hated it, and she realized he had started the braids very high on her head so she would look even more girlish than Lady Juliana. A long black leather thong was braided into the hair on both sides, and knotted around the ends with a little brass bell affixed to it. When Leon dropped the braids they were heavy against Beauty's breasts and her neck was exposed as well as all of her face. "Charming, charming," Leon mused with his usual air of satisfaction. "But now your boots." And slipping her into a pair of high black leather boots he told her to stand in them while he bent to lace them tightly to her knees and then smooth the leather around her ankles until it was cleaving like a glove there. Not until Beauty lifted her foot did she realize each boot was fitted at the toe and heel with a horseshoe. And the tops were hard and strong so that nothing could hurt her toes.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  She would never forget the men and women in coarse breeches and white aprons, with sleeves rolled to the elbows. How they had gaped at her, enjoyed her helplessness. She could not sleep. And she was filled with a strange new terror. It was dark when the Prince at last sent for her, and as soon as she reached the door of his private dining room, she saw that he was with Lord Stefan. It seemed in that moment her fate was decided. She smiled as she thought of all his boasting to Lord Stefan, and she wanted to enter quickly now, but Lord Gregory held her back at the threshold. Beauty let her eyes mist over. She did not see the Prince in his velvet tunic emblazoned with the coat of arms. Rather she saw those village cobblestone streets, the wives with their wicker brooms, the common lads in the tavern. But Lord Gregory was speaking to her. "Don't you think I see the change in you!" he hissed low in her ear, so that it seemed part of her imagination. Her eyebrows knit in a frown of annoyance and then she dropped her eyes. "You're infected with the same poison as Prince Alexi. I see it working on you every day. You will soon make a mockery of everything." Her pulse quickened. Lord Stefan, at the supper table, looked so forlorn. And the Prince was as proud as ever. "What you need is a severe lesson..." Lord Gregory continued in his acid whisper. "My Lord, you can't mean the village!" Beauty shuddered. "No, I don't mean the village!" He was obviously shocked. "And don't be flippant and bold with me. You know what I mean. The Hall of Punishments." "Ah, your domain, where you are Prince," Beauty whispered. But he did not hear her. And the Prince, with an air of indifference, had snapped his fingers for her to enter. She approached on her hands and knees. But she had only come a few paces into the room when she stopped. "Go on!" Lord Gregory hissed at her angrily; the Prince had not yet noticed. But when he turned and looked at her crossly, still she did not move, her head bowed, her eyes fixed on him. And when she saw the anger and outrage in his face, she turned suddenly and ran on her hands and knees past Lord Gregory and into the passage. "Stop her, stop her!" the Prince cried out before he could prevent himself. And when Beauty saw Lord Gregory's boots beside her, she rose to her full height and ran faster. He caught her by the hair and she screamed as she felt herself pulled back and thrown over his shoulder.

• From The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty (1983)

  I would watch every tear, every change of color." Beauty felt her heart in her throat like a little fist knocking there faster and faster. "I would make her my wife, even..." "Ah, but you are in the grip of madness." "Yes," said the Prince, "she has done that to me. Are others blind?" "No, of course not," said Juliana, "she is lovely. But each seeks his own love, you know that. Would you have everyone else equally mad for her?" "No," he shook his head. And without looking away from the chessboard, he reached out to caress Beauty's breasts, lifting them, squeezing them, so that she winced. But suddenly everyone was rising. Chairs slid back on the stones; the assemblage stood bowing. Beauty turned. The Queen had come into the room. Beauty glimpsed her long green gown, the girdle of gold embroidery about her hips and that sheer white veil that hung down her back to her hem, only thinly concealing her black hair. Beauty went down low on her hands and knees not knowing what she must do. Her forehead touched the stones and she held her breath. Yet she could see the Queen approaching. The Queen stood right before her. "Be seated everyone," said the Queen, "and return to your games. But you, my son, how do you fare with this new passion?" The Prince was obviously at a loss for an answer. "Pick her up, display her," said the Queen. And Beauty realized she was being lifted by her wrists. She rose up quickly, her arms being twisted behind her, her back forced into a painful arc, and suddenly she was standing on her toes moaning. The clamps seemed to tear at her nipples, the jewels between her legs to pull her open. Behind the jewel in her navel, she felt her heart beat, and she felt it too in the lobes of her clamped ears and in her eyelids. She was looking at the floor but all she could see was that shimmering chain and some great indistinct form that was the Queen standing over her. Then suddenly the Queen's hand struck Beauty's breasts so hard that Beauty cried out, and at once felt the Page's fingers over her mouth tightly. She moaned in panic. She felt her tears come, the Page's fingers biting into her cheek. And without meaning to, she struggled. "There, there, Beauty," whispered the Prince. "You do not show my mother your best disposition." Beauty tried to calm herself, but the Page forced her forward more harshly. "She is not so bad," said the Queen, and Beauty could feel the iron in her voice, her cruelty. No matter what the Prince did to her, she did not sense in him such pure cruelty. "She is only afraid of me," said the Queen. "And I wish you were more afraid of me, my son."

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  The borders migrants traverse are sites of immense suffering. Yet each body on the borderline is a contested space where refugees negotiate security or dispossession, depending on who is doing the crossing, and who gets crossed. Calculated Risk When asked, many migrants say the journey itself is no more dangerous than staying still. People do not move out of ignorance or sheer panic; they respond rationally to irrational events. Why remain in a place when oppression or calamity has destroyed every reason to stay? War, genocide, ethnic persecution, and ecological disaster present migrants with an impossible choice between familiar violence and unknown danger. Though women are a minority within the overall migrant population, in countries stricken by war and poverty, the cultural and structural constraints of gender oppression may be all the more reason to want to leave. A rural pregnant teenager orphaned by civil war can either migrate internally to seek factory work in the city, or try her luck on a smuggling boat; she might be misled about the relative risks of the overseas journey, but knows she faces tragic stakes whether and wherever she stays or goes. Jumping on a dilapidated boat bound for the Italian coastline, where about one in eighty-eight migrants died last year (in 2016), or crossing the Arizona desert where thousands have vanished over the past decade is a calculated risk. And the risk of sexual abuse is seen as an inevitable cost of political trespass. On the vast, heavily patrolled corridor along the US-Mexico border, aid organizations estimated in 2014 that 80 percent of women and girls had been raped in transit—an apparent increase from a 2010 Amnesty International study showing that 60 percent were raped. The pattern coincided with a recent spike in the number of young girls traveling alone from Central America to the United States. Victimization in transit is, however, just one extremity of a phalanx of gender-based violence engulfing Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala. The three small Central American countries at the core of the regional exodus have among the world’s highest rates of female homicide—an outgrowth of transnational drug war policies and decades of political and economic crisis. Girls are regularly coerced into gangs or threatened with rape. Mothers have stopped sending their daughters to school to keep them safe. And when hiding indoors gets too dangerous, youth go north, joining thousands of “unaccompanied” children and teens, marching alone to the border, violable at every turn. As human rights lawyer Elvira Gordillo explained in an interview with Splinter, typically, migrants “know the price to pay for getting to the United States . . . is being sexually violated.”

• From Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture (2018)

  UP UNTIL THAT MOMENT, I’D NEVER HELD A VIBRATOR IN MY hand and had rarely seen one in action. Once, in college, I’d walked in on some guys in my boyfriend’s fraternity communally watching porn. Seven guys in a darkened room, scattered on chairs and couches and the floor, staring at the hot glare of the television screen where an overly hairy guy said, Come on, baby. You know you love it, baby while he jammed a dildo as long as his forearm into the asshole of a woman bent over a table. Her moan low, interspersed with piercing cries that did not sound like pleasure. But at the holiday party, amid all its contained civilization, the vibrator felt like the most powerful object in the room. After dinner, the women gathered in yet another part of the grand home and poured more wine. I was ready to leave, still embarrassed by my unexpected snatch of this gift. So I excused myself, lamenting the fact that I had no purse, no place to stow the vibrator. Laughter followed me as I left the room. Hope your friend enjoys that! I FLIPPED ON THE LIGHT IN THE DARKENED KITCHEN AND SAW one of the husbands standing there, leaning against the counter. I knew him a bit, had talked to him when stuck in the corner at a school function. He was an important man—you could tell this by the way the other men deferred to him. A money guy. A hedge fund guy. He was drinking—etched glass in hand, filled with an inch of golden liquor. I stopped in my tracks, surprised to see him. There’d been no shout of Honey, I’m home! He didn’t say anything; the room was still save for the motion of his wrist swirling, swirling, swirling the drink around. A muted shriek of laughter. The women far away on the other side of the house. Fun party? he asked. He brought the drink to his lips and swallowed it, greedily, in one gulp, eyes on mine. Oh, yeah, I said. Look what I picked. I held up the vibrator. He walked toward me, blocking my path around the counter. My nose tingled from all that liquor on his breath. He put the glass down and raised his hand to my collarbone, exposed by the fancy top I’d bought to wear to the party. Dragging his finger from one shoulder, across my throat, to the other. I want to lick you. HIS FACE INCHES FROM MINE, CHARGED AIR WHERE OUR mouths might meet. My body’s wired response to being wanted by a man so sure of his place in the world. Like all those boys, watching the woman bent over the table. Her face screwed up in the pain of performance. Tongues darting around their mouths.