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 Art of Seduction (2001)

  When a person is playful, he momentarily disregards the binding necessities which compel him, in business and morals, in domestic and community life. . . . • What galls us is that the binding necessities do not permit us to shape our world as we please. . . . What we most deeply desire, however, is to create our world for ourselves. Whenever we can do that, even in the slightest degree, we are happy. Now in play we create our own world. . . . —PROFESSOR H.A. OVERSTREET, INFLUENCING HUMAN BEHAVIOR The Natural • 61 edge. In 1864, she was to appear as Cupid in the Offenbach operetta Or- pheus in the Underworld. Society was dying to see what she would do to cause a sensation, and soon found out: she came on stage practically naked, except for expensive diamonds here and there, barely covering her. As she pranced on stage, the diamonds fell off, each one worth a fortune; she did not stoop to pick them up, but let them roll off into the footlights. The gentlemen in the audience, some of whom had given her those diamonds, applauded her wildly. Antics like this made Cora the toast of Paris, and she reigned as the city's supreme courtesan for over a decade, until the Franco- Prussian War of 1870 put an end to the Second Empire. People often mistakenly believe that what makes a person desirable and se- ductive is physical beauty, elegance, or overt sexuality. Yet Cora Pearl was not dramatically beautiful; her body was boyish, and her style was garish and tasteless. Even so, the most dashing men of Europe vied for her favors, often ruining themselves in the process. It was Cora's spirit and attitude that enthralled them. Spoiled by her father, she imagined that spoiling her was natural—that all men should do the same. The consequence was that, like a child, she never felt she had to try to please. It was Cora's powerful air of independence that made men want to possess her, tame her. She never pre- tended to be anything more than a courtesan, so the brazenness that in a lady would have been uncivil in her seemed natural and fun. And as with a spoiled child, a man's relationship with her was on her terms. The moment he tried to change that, she lost interest. This was the secret of her astound- ing success. Spoiled children have an undeservedly bad reputation: while those who are spoiled with material things are indeed often insufferable, those who are spoiled with affection know themselves to be deeply seductive. This be- comes a distinct advantage when they grow up. According to Freud (who was speaking from experience, since he was his mother's darling), spoiled children have a confidence that stays with them all their lives.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  15.5: This whole discipline clause. I’m not sure I want to be whipped, flogged, or corporally punished. I am sure this would be in breach of clauses 2–5. And also “for any other reason.” That’s just mean—and you told me you weren’t a sadist. 15.10: Like loaning me out to someone else would ever be an option. But I’m glad it’s here in black and white. 15.14: The Rules. More on those later. 15.19: Touching myself without your permission. What’s the problem with this? You know I don’t do it anyway. 15.21: Discipline—please see clause 15.5 above. 15.22: I can’t look into your eyes? Why? 15.24: Why can’t I touch you? Rules: Sleep—I’ll agree to six hours. Food—I am not eating food from a prescribed list. The food list goes or I do—deal breaker. Clothes—as long as I only have to wear your clothes when I’m with you…okay. Exercise—We agreed on three hours, this still says four. Soft Limits: Can we go through all of these? No fisting of any kind. What is suspension? Genital clamps—you have got to be kidding me. Can you please let me know the arrangements for Wednesday? I am working until five p.m. that day. Good night. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Issues Date: May 24 2011 00:07 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, That’s a long list. Why are you still up? Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Burning the Midnight Oil Date: May 24 2011 00:10 To: Christian Grey Sir, If you recall, I was going through this list when I was distracted and bedded by a passing control freak. Good night. Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Stop Burning the Midnight Oil Date: May 24 2011 00:12 To: Anastasia Steele GO TO BED, ANASTASIA. Christian Grey CEO & Control Freak, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Oh, shouty capitals! I switch off. How can he intimidate me when he’s six miles away? I shake my head. My heart still heavy, I climb into bed and instantly fall into a deep but troubled sleep. Chapter ThirteenThe following day, I call my mom after I get home from work. It’s been a relatively peaceful day at Clayton’s, allowing me far too much time to think. I’m restless, nervous about my showdown with Mr. Control Freak tomorrow, and at the back of my mind, I’m worried that perhaps I’ve been too negative in my response to the contract. Perhaps he’ll call the whole thing off. My mom is oozing contrition, desperately sorry not to make my graduation. Bob has twisted some ligament, which means he’s hobbling all over the place. Honestly, he’s as accident-prone as I am. He’s expected to make a full recovery, but it means he’s resting up, and my mother has to wait on him hand and sore foot. “Ana, honey, I’m so sorry,” my mom whines into the phone. “Mom, it’s fine. Ray will be there.” “Ana, you sound distracted. Are you okay, baby?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His voice is so soft, menacing, and it’s damned hot. My insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid desire. He gazes at me, waiting, eyes blazing. Tentatively, I uncurl my legs. Should I run? This is it; our relationship hangs in the balance, right here, right now. Do I let him do this or do I say no, and then that’s it? Because I know it will be over if I say no. Do it! my inner goddess pleads with me. My subconscious is as paralyzed as I am. “I’m waiting,” he says. “I’m not a patient man.” Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. I’m panting, afraid, turned on. Blood pounding through my body, my legs like jelly. Slowly, I crawl over to him until I am beside him. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now stand up.” Oh crap, can’t he just get this over with? I’m not sure if I can stand. Hesitantly, I clamber to my feet. He holds his hand out, and I place the condom in his palm. Suddenly he grabs me, tipping me across his lap. With one smooth movement, he angles his body so my torso is resting on the bed beside him. He throws his right leg over both of mine and plants his left forearm on the small of my back, holding me down so I cannot move. Oh fuck. “Put your hands up on either side of your head,” he orders. I obey immediately. “Why am I doing this, Anastasia?” he asks. “Because I rolled my eyes at you.” I can barely speak. “Do you think that’s polite?” “No.” “Will you do it again?” “No.” “I will spank you each time you do it, do you understand?” Very slowly, he pulls down my sweatpants. Oh, how demeaning is this? Demeaning and scary and hot. He’s making such a meal of this. My heart is in my mouth. I can barely breathe. Shit, is this going to hurt? He places his hand on my naked behind, softly fondling me, stroking around and around with his flat palm. And then his hand is no longer there…and he hits me—hard. Ow! My eyes spring open in response to the pain, and I try to rise, but his hand moves between my shoulder blades, keeping me down. He caresses me again where he’s hit me, and his breathing’s changed—it’s louder, harsher. He hits me again and again, quickly in succession. Holy fuck it hurts. I make no sound, my face screwed up against the pain. I try to wriggle away from the blows—spurred on by adrenaline spiking and coursing through my body. “Keep still,” he growls, “or I’ll spank you for longer.” He’s rubbing me now, and the blow follows. A rhythmic pattern emerges: caress, fondle, hard slap. I have to concentrate to handle this pain. My mind empties as I endeavor to absorb the grueling sensation. He doesn’t hit me in the same place twice in succession—he’s spreading the pain.

• From From Shame to Sin: The Christian Transformation of Sexual Morality in Late Antiquity (2013)

  The shift from an apologetic to an imperial mode was halting and not always predictable. In sum, it meant a deeper engagement with society and with the moral entanglements of the sexual agent as a part of society. This shift is detectible already in the Divine Institutes of Lactantius, an apology written against the backdrop of the great persecution but a work that nevertheless points toward the new, imperial sensibility of Christian sexual ethics. Lactantius is intensely aware of the moral agent’s embeddedness in the world. When he turns to consider the libido, “which must be severely repressed, because it does the most severe harm,” it is a faculty tempted and threatened by the habits of the Roman world. The devil had contrived ingenious tests of the moral will and institutionalized them in Roman society. “So that no one would have to abstain from sex with another out of fear of punishment, he established brothels and exposed the sexual modesty of unfortunate women, to the ruin of the men who use them as much as the women who are forced to suffer.” To the audience that Lactantius was addressing, the brothel presented an especially diabolical source of temptation, because it removed all material impediments to the fulfillment of desire. Still the devil was not finished with his tricks. “He also joined males with males and designed unholy coitus in violation of the laws of God and nature.” What most disturbed Lactantius was a shared feature of same-sex eros and prostitution: they were socially acceptable. “Among them these outrages are a light matter, virtually respectable.” Lactantius still spoke, in the apologetic tradition, of depraved sexual habits among “them,” the mainstream non-Christians. But the line between the Christian and the outside world has started to grow decidedly thin, and within only a few generations it will have quietly vanished.3

• From Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  Relationships are usually superficial within cults, because sharing deep personal feelings, especially negative ones, is highly discouraged. This feature of cult life prevails even though a member may feel they are closer to their comrades than they have ever been to anyone before. Indeed, when cult members go through hardship (fundraising in freezing cold or broiling heat) or persecution (being harassed by outsiders or arrested for violating the law), they often feel a depth of camaraderie and shared martyrdom that is exceptional. But because the only real allegiance is to the leader, a closer look shows that such ties are actually quite shallow, and sometimes just private fantasy. Manipulation through Fear and Guilt Cult members come to live within a narrow corridor of fear, guilt and shame. Problems are always their fault—the result of their weak faith, their lack of understanding, their “bad ancestors,” evil spirits, and so forth. They perpetually feel guilty for not meeting standards. The leader, doctrine and group are always right. They are wrong. They also come to believe that evil is out to get them. Phobias are the ultimate fear weapon of mind control. Shame and guilt are used daily through a variety of methods, including holding up some member for an outstanding accomplishment or by finding problems in the group and blaming members for causing them. In every destructive cult I have encountered, fear is a major motivator. Each group has its devil lurking around the corner, waiting for members so it can tempt and seduce them, to kill them or drive them insane. The more vivid and tangible the devil, the more intense the cohesiveness it fosters. Emotional Highs and Lows Life in a cult can be like a roller-coaster. Members swing between the extreme happiness of experiencing the “truth” with an insider elite, and the crushing weight of guilt, fear and shame. Problems are always due to their inadequacies, not the group’s issues. They perpetually feel guilty for failing to meet objectives or not conforming to standards. If they raise objections, members are likely to get the “silent treatment” or be transferred to another part of the group. These extremes take a heavy toll on a person’s ability to function. When members are in a high state, they can convert their zeal into great productivity and persuasiveness. But when they crash, they can become completely dysfunctional. Most groups don’t allow the “lows” to last very long. They typically send the member back through indoctrination programs to charge them up again. It is not uncommon for someone to receive a formal reindoctrination several times a year. The Scientology ‘Rehabilitation Project Force’ usually takes several years to complete and reduces members to abject slavery.

• From Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  Support groups for former cult members can be especially beneficial. One woman who attended such a group in Boston contacted me, after she heard me on a local radio show. Deborah had been involved with a political cult for ten years. One day she told me she broke one of the group’s rules. She had lunch alone with a non-member, and rather than face being “grilled” by the cult leader in front of the entire membership, she called up her parents and asked them for a plane ticket. She later decided that she was afraid to go home and wound up living on the streets of Boulder for several months, until she was able to slowly work her way back into society. When I met her, she was a successful businesswoman. Even though she had been out of the cult for eight years, she had never talked about her experiences in it until she began meeting with other ex-members. “I feel like the whole thing is one big black box, and I’m afraid to open it up,’’ she explained. But soon, with the help of the group, she did open it. She mustered the courage to share an issue she was dealing with. “I know that I am being hampered in my ability to trust my boyfriend and make a commitment to him. I think it is connected to what I went through,” she shared. We were all amazed at how successfully Deborah was able to compartmentalize her mind control experience, for such a long time. When she did start talking about it, huge chunks of time were still unaccounted for. The more she talked, the more we asked her questions and prodded her memory. Month by month, she got more and more in touch with what had happened to her. She had been subjected to an unusually intense degree of emotional and personal abuse while in the group. “I’m really glad I was able to meet and talk with other former members,” she explained. “It’s nice to see other bright, talented people who went through something like what I went through. I just could never talk about the group to anyone without them thinking that I was crazy or sick.” Being part of a support group can show people how mind control operates in a variety of different organizations. It also enables those who are still grappling with issues of undue influence that it is possible to recover and become a happy, productive person. For most people who leave a destructive cult, the first step should be getting a handle on their group experience. Then, if there are other issues or problems that existed before their membership, they can begin to resolve them also. Support groups can also be a mixed bag, if they aren’t run by experienced professionals. With the best of intentions, people in support groups can wind up further traumatized if there aren’t clear rules and boundaries of respect.

• From Combating Cult Mind Control: The Guide to Protection, Rescue and Recovery from Destructive Cults (1988)

  In the meanwhile, destructive cult groups continue to grow more numerous and powerful, operating with virtual free license to enslave people. It is ironic that in the United States, a country that cherishes freedom and liberty, citizens are better protected from sales pressure at a used-car lot than they are from organizations whose intent is to hijack their minds and hearts. Until the law sets restrictions on such practices and recognizes the existence of modern mind control techniques, people are mostly left to protect themselves. Perhaps the single most important thing to realize in dealing with destructive cults is that we are all vulnerable. The most we can do to protect ourselves is inform ourselves thoroughly about the ways in which destructive cults operate, and be “good consumers” when approaching any group we might be interested in joining. Friends or relatives of people seeking some kind of major group involvement or passing through times of unusual stress should remain alert to sudden personality changes in those people. If you do suspect that someone you know is coming under the influence of a mind control person or organization, act quickly to seek competent help. Most medical problems respond better to early detection and treatment, and the same principle holds true here. Be a good consumer about any group that interests you, before you make any commitments. First and foremost, do careful research. One place to start is with my own free site, freedomofmind.com. Other helpful sites include icsahome.com, openmindsfoundation.org, and apologeticsindex.org. However, please don’t assume that if a group isn’t mentioned on any of these sites as potentially worrisome, it’s automatically okay. Dig deeper. In Google or some other search engine, type the name of the organization (with the entire name inside quotation marks) and the word cult; also try the name of the group (again, inside quotation marks) and the word scam or scandal. Try variations with the name of the leader of the group, and words like criminal, abuser or sex. Look at more than the first page or two of results. Cults have learned how to bury negative articles and blogs by manipulating search engines. In the 21st century, when it comes to any group, it’s important to do at least as much background research as you would before buying a TV, computer or car. Chapter 4–Understanding Mind Control When I do trainings or lectures at colleges, I usually challenge my audience with this question: “How would you know if you were under mind control?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Did you get me tipsy on purpose?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because you overthink everything, and you’re reticent, like your stepdad. A drop of wine in you and you start talking, and I need you to communicate honestly with me. Otherwise you clam up, and I have no idea what you’re thinking. In vino veritas, Anastasia.” “And you think you’re always honest with me?” “I endeavor to be.” He looks down at me warily. “This will only work if we’re honest with each other.” “I’d like you to stay and use this.” I hold up the second condom. He smiles and his eyes glow with humor. “Anastasia, I have crossed so many lines here tonight. I have to go. I’ll see you on Sunday. I’ll have the revised contract ready for you, and then we can really start to play.” “Play?” Holy shit. My heart leaps into my mouth. “I’d like to do a scene with you. But I won’t until you’ve signed, so I know you’re ready.” “Oh. So I could stretch this out if I don’t sign?” He gazes at me assessing, then his lips twitch into a smile. “Well, I suppose you could, but I may crack under the strain.” “Crack? How?” My inner goddess has woken and is paying attention. He nods slowly, then he grins, teasing. “Could get really ugly.” His grin is infectious. “Ugly, how?” “Oh, you know, explosions, car chases, kidnapping, incarceration.” “You’d kidnap me?” “Oh yes.” He grins. “Hold me against my will?” Jeez, this is hot. “Oh yes.” He nods. “And then we’re talking TPE 24/7.” “You’ve lost me,” I breathe. My heart is pounding… Is he serious? “Total Power Exchange—around the clock.” His eyes are shining, and his excitement is palpable even from where I sit. Holy shit. “So you have no choice,” he says sardonically. “Clearly.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice as my eyes reach for the heavens. “Oh, Anastasia Steele, did you just roll your eyes at me?” Crap. “No!” I squeak. “I think you did. What did I say I’d do to you if you rolled your eyes at me again?” Shit. He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Come here,” he says softly. I blanch. He’s serious. I sit staring at him, completely immobile. “I haven’t signed.” “I told you what I’d do. I’m a man of my word. I’m going to spank you, and then I’m going to fuck you very quick and very hard. Looks like we’ll need that condom after all.”

• From The Lover (1984)

  I’m fifteen and a half. Crossing the river. Going back to Saigon I feel I’m going on a journey, especially when I take the bus, and this morning I’ve taken the bus from Sadec, where my mother is the headmistress of the girls’ school. It’s the end of some school vacation, I forget which. I’ve spent it in the little house provided with my mother’s job. And today I’m going back to Saigon, to the boarding school. The native bus left from the marketplace in Sadec. As usual my mother came to see me off, and put me in the care of the driver. She always puts me in the care of the Saigon bus drivers, in case there’s an accident, or a fire, or a rape, or an attack by pirates, or a fatal mishap on the ferry. As usual the driver had me sit near him in the front, in the section reserved for white passengers. • • • I think it was during this journey that the image became detached, removed from all the rest. It might have existed, a photograph might have been taken, just like any other, somewhere else, in other circumstances. But it wasn’t. The subject was too slight. Who would have thought of such a thing? The photograph could only have been taken if someone could have known in advance how important it was to be in my life, that event, that crossing of the river. But while it was happening, no one even knew of its existence. Except God. And that’s why—it couldn’t have been otherwise—the image doesn’t exist. It was omitted. Forgotten. It never was detached or removed from all the rest. And it’s to this, this failure to have been created, that the image owes its virtue: the virtue of representing, of being the creator of, an absolute. So it’s during the crossing of a branch of the Mekong, on the ferry that plies between Vinh Long and Sadec in the great plain of mud and rice in southern Cochin China. The Plain of the Birds. I get off the bus. I go over to the rails. I look at the river. My mother sometimes tells me that never in my whole life shall I ever again see rivers as beautiful and big and wild as these, the Mekong and its tributaries going down to the sea, the great regions of water soon to disappear into the caves of ocean. In the surrounding flatness stretching as far as the eye can see, the rivers flow as fast as if the earth sloped downward. I always get off the bus when we reach the ferry, even at night, because I’m always afraid, afraid the cables might break and we might be swept out to sea. In the terrible current I watch my last moments. The current is so strong it could carry everything away—rocks, a cathedral, a city. There’s a storm blowing inside the water. A wind raging.

• From The Lover (1984)

  I see the war as I see my childhood. I see wartime and the reign of my elder brother as one. Partly, no doubt, because it was during the war that my younger brother died: his heart, as I’ve said, had given out, given up. As for my elder brother, I don’t think I ever saw him during the war. By that time it didn’t matter to me whether he was alive or dead. I see the war as like him, spreading everywhere, breaking in everywhere, stealing, imprisoning, always there, merged and mingled with everything, present in the body, in the mind, awake and asleep, all the time, a prey to the intoxicating passion of occupying that delightful territory, a child’s body, the bodies of those less strong, of conquered peoples. Because evil is there, at the gates, against the skin. We go back to the apartment. We are lovers. We can’t stop loving each other. Sometimes I don’t go back to the boarding school. I sleep with him. I don’t want to sleep in his arms, his warmth, but I do sleep in the same room, the same bed. Sometimes I stay away from high school. At night we go and have dinner in town. He gives me my shower, washes me, rinses me, he adores that, he puts my make-up on and dresses me, he adores me. I’m the darling of his life. He lives in terror lest I meet another man. I’m never afraid of anything like that. He’s also afraid, not because I’m white, but because I’m so young, so young he could go to prison if we were found out. He tells me to go on lying to my mother, and above all to my elder brother, never to say anything to anyone. I go on lying. I laugh at his fear. I tell him we’re much too poor for my mother to start another lawsuit, and anyway she’s lost all those she ever did start, against the land registrar, against the officials, the government, the law, she doesn’t know how to conduct them properly, how to keep calm, wait, go on waiting, she can’t, she makes a scene and spoils her chances. With this one it would be the same, so no need to be afraid.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  They’d left me a towel. How thoughtful. The water had seeped under the duct tape and loosened the adhesive’s grip on my skin, but the tape was wrapped around me three layers deep in places, which necessitated wiggling like a fish out of water. Finally it loosened enough for me to slip my left hand up and out against my chest and rip the tape off. I wrapped myself in the sandy towel. I didn’t want to go back to my room and see Chip, because I had no idea what Kevin had meant—maybe if I went back to the room, they’d be waiting for me and they’d get me for real; maybe I needed to show them, “Okay. Got your message. He’s just my roommate, not my friend.” And anyway, I didn’t feel terribly friendly toward the Colonel. Have a good time, he’d said. Yeah, I thought. I had a ball. So I went to Alaska’s room. I didn’t know what time it was, but I could see a faint light underneath her door. I knocked softly. “Yeah,” she said, and I came in, wet and sandy and wearing only a towel and soaking boxers. This was not, obviously, how you want the world’s hottest girl to see you, but I figured she could explain to me what had just happened. She put down a book and got out of bed with a sheet wrapped around her shoulders. For a moment, she looked concerned. She looked like the girl I met yesterday, the girl who said I was cute and bubbled over with energy and silliness and intelligence. And then she laughed. “Guess you went for a swim, huh?” And she said it with such casual malice that I felt that everyone had known, and I wondered why the whole damn school agreed in advance to possibly drown Miles Halter. But Alaska liked the Colonel, and in the confusion of the moment, I just looked at her blankly, unsure even of what to ask. “Give me a break,” she said. “Come on. You know what? There are people with real problems. I’ve got real problems. Mommy ain’t here, so buck up, big guy.” I left without saying a word to her and went to my room, slamming the door behind me, waking the Colonel, and stomping into the bathroom. I got in the shower to wash the algae and the lake off me, but the ridiculous faucet of a showerhead failed spectacularly, and how could Alaska and Kevin and those other guys already dislike me?

• From The Lover (1984)

  It was a few months before our final parting, in Saigon, late one evening, we were on the big terrace of the house in the rue Testard. Dô was there. I looked at my mother, I could hardly recognize her. And then, in a kind of sudden vanishing, a sudden fall, I all at once couldn’t recognize her at all. There, suddenly, close to me, was someone sitting in my mother’s place who wasn’t my mother, who looked like her but who had never been her. She looked rather blank, she was gazing at the garden, a certain point in the garden, it looked as if she was watching for something just about to happen, of which I could see nothing. There was a youthfulness about her features, her expression, a happiness which she was repressing out of what must have been habitual reticence. She was beautiful. Dô was beside her. Dô seemed not to have noticed anything. My terror didn’t come from what I’ve just said about her, her face, her look of happiness, her beauty, it came from the fact that she was sitting just where my mother had been sitting when the substitution took place, from the fact that I knew no one else was there in her place, but that that identity irreplaceable by any other had disappeared and I was powerless to make it come back, make it start to come back. There was no longer anything there to inhabit her image. I went mad in full possession of my senses. Just long enough to cry out. I did cry out. A faint cry, a call for help, to crack the ice in which the whole scene was fatally freezing. My mother turned her head. For me the whole town is inhabited by the beggar woman in the road. And all the beggar women of the towns, the rice fields, the tracks bordering Siam, the banks of the Mekong—for me the beggar woman who frightened me is inhabited by them. She comes from everywhere. She always ends up in Calcutta wherever she started out from. She’s always slept in the shade of the cinnamon-apple trees in the playground. And always my mother has been there beside her, tending her foot eaten up with maggots and covered with flies. Beside her, the little girl in the story. She’s carried her two thousand kilometers. She’s had enough of her, wants to give her away. Go on, take her. No more children. No more child. All dead or thrown away, it amounts to a lot after a whole life. The one asleep under the cinnamon-apple trees isn’t yet dead. She’s the one who’ll live longest. She’ll die inside the house, in a lace dress. She’ll be mourned.

• From The Lover (1984)

  At that time, the time of Cholon, of the image, of the lover, my mother has an access of madness. She knows nothing of what’s happened in Cholon. But I can see she’s watching me, she suspects something. She knows her daughter, her child, and hovering around that child, for some time, there’s been an air of strangeness, a sort of reserve, quite recent, that catches the eye. The girl speaks even more slowly than usual, she’s absent-minded, she who’s usually so interested in everything, her expression has changed, she’s become a spectator even of her mother, of her mother’s unhappiness, it’s as if she were witnessing its outcome. There’s a sudden terror in my mother’s life. Her daughter’s in the direst danger, the danger of never getting married, never having a place in society, of being defenseless against it, lost, alone. My mother has attacks during which she falls on me, locks me up in my room, punches me, undresses me, comes up to me and smells my body, my underwear, says she can smell the Chinese’s scent, goes even further, looks for suspect stains on my underwear, and shouts, for the whole town to hear, that her daughter’s a prostitute, she’s going to throw her out, she wishes she’d die, no one will have anything to do with her, she’s disgraced, worse than a bitch. And she weeps, asking what she can do, except drive her out of the house so she can’t stink the place up any more. Outside the walls of the locked room, my brother. He answers my mother, tells her she’s right to beat the girl, his voice is lowered, confidential, coaxing, he says they must find out the truth, at all costs, must find out in order to save the girl, save the mother from being driven to desperation. The mother hits her as hard as she can. The younger brother shouts at the mother to leave her alone. He goes out into the garden, hides, he’s afraid I’ll be killed, he’s afraid, he’s always afraid of that stranger, our elder brother. My younger brother’s fear calms my mother down. She weeps for the disaster of her life, of her disgraced child. I weep with her. I lie. I swear by my own life that nothing has happened to me, nothing, not even a kiss. How could I, I say, with a Chinese, how could I do that with a Chinese, so ugly, such a weakling? I know my elder brother’s glued to the door, listening, he knows what my mother’s doing, he knows the girl’s naked, being beaten, and he’d like it to go on and on to the brink of harm. My mother is not unaware of my elder brother’s obscure and terrifying intent.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  An availability cascade is a self-sustaining chain of events, which may start from media reports of a relatively minor event and lead up to public panic and large-scale government action. On some occasions, a media story about a risk catches the attention of a segment of the public, which becomes aroused and worried. This emotional reaction becomes a story in itself, prompting additional coverage in the media, which in turn produces greater concern and involvement. The cycle is sometimes sped along deliberately by “availability entrepreneurs,” individuals or organizations who work to ensure a continuous flow of worrying news. The danger is increasingly exaggerated as the media compete for attention-grabbing headlines. Scientists and others who try to dampen the increasing fear and revulsion attract little attention, most of it hostile: anyone who claims that the danger is overstated is suspected of association with a “heinous cover-up.” The issue becomes politically important because it is on everyone’s mind, and the response of the political system is guided by the intensity of public sentiment. The availability cascade has now reset priorities. Other risks, and other ways that resources could be applied for the public good, all have faded into the background. Kuran and Sunstein focused on two examples that are still controversial: the Love Canal affair and the so-called Alar scare. In Love Canal, buried toxic waste was exposed during a rainy season in 1979, causing contamination of the water well beyond standard limits, as well as a foul smell. The residents of the community were angry and frightened, and one of them, Lois Gibbs, was particularly active in an attempt to sustain interest in the problem. The availability cascade unfolded according to the standard script. At its peak there were daily stories about Love Canal, scientists attempting to claim that the dangers were overstated were ignored or shouted down, ABC News aired a program titled The Killing Ground, and empty baby-size coffins were paraded in front of the legislature. A large number of residents were relocated at government expense, and the control of toxic waste became the major environmental issue of the 1980s. The legislation that mandated the cleanup of toxic sites, called CERCLA, established a Superfund and is considered a significant achievement of environmental legislation. It was also expensive, and some have claimed that the same amount of money could have saved many more lives if it had been directed to other priorities. Opinions about what actually happened at Love Canal are still sharply divided, and claims of actual damage to health appear not to have been substantiated. Kuran and Sunstein wrote up the Love Canal story almost as a pseudo-event, while on the other side of the debate, environmentalists still speak of the “Love Canal disaster.” Opinions are also divided on the second example Kuran and Sunstein used to

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Crap. He looks completely and utterly lost, like I’ve pulled the rug from under his feet. Taking a deep breath, I move around the table until I am standing in front of him, gazing into his apprehensive eyes. “You hate it that much?” His eyes are filled with horror. “Well…no,” I reassure him. That’s how he feels about people touching him? “No. I feel ambivalent about it. I don’t like it, but I don’t hate it.” “But last night, in the playroom, you—” “I do it for you, Christian, because you need it. I don’t. You didn’t hurt me last night. That was in a different context, and I can rationalize that internally, and I trust you. But when you want to punish me, I worry that you’ll hurt me.” His eyes darken like a turbulent storm. Time moves and expands and slips away before he answers softly. “I want to hurt you. But not beyond anything you couldn’t take.” Fuck! “Why?” He runs his hand through his hair, and he shrugs. “I just need it.” He pauses, gazing at me with anguish, and he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.” “Can’t or won’t?” “Won’t.” “So you know why.” “Yes.” “But you won’t tell me.” “If I do, you will run screaming from this room, and you’ll never want to return.” He stares at me warily. “I can’t risk that, Anastasia.” “You want me to stay.” “More than you know. I couldn’t bear to lose you.” Oh my. He gazes down at me, and suddenly, he pulls me into his arms and he’s kissing me, kissing me passionately. It takes me completely by surprise, and I sense his panic and desperate need in his kiss. “Don’t leave me. You said you wouldn’t leave me, and you begged me not to leave you in your sleep,” he murmurs against my lips. Oh…my nocturnal confessions. “I don’t want to go.” And my heart clenches, turning itself inside out. This is a man in need. His fear is naked and obvious, but he’s lost…somewhere in his darkness. His eyes are wide and bleak and tortured. I can soothe him, join him briefly in the darkness and bring him into the light. “Show me,” I whisper. “Show you?” “Show me how much it can hurt.” “What?” “Punish me. I want to know how bad it can get.” Christian steps back away from me, completely confused. “You would try?” “Yes. I said I would.” But I have an ulterior motive. If I do this for him, maybe he will let me touch him. He blinks. “Ana, you’re so confusing.” “I’m confused, too. I’m trying to work this out. And you and I will know, once and for all, if I can do this. If I can handle this, then maybe you—” My words fail me, and his eyes widen again.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I know what you’re trying to do—and trust me, you’ve succeeded. Next time you’ll be in the cargo hold, bound and gagged in a crate. Believe me when I say that attending to you in that state will give me so much more pleasure than merely upgrading your ticket. I look forward to your return. Christian Grey Palm-Twitching CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Holy crap. That’s the problem with Christian’s humor—I can never be sure if he’s joking or if he’s seriously angry. I suspect on this occasion he’s seriously angry. Surreptitiously, so the flight attendant can’t see, I type a reply under the blanket. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Joking? Date: May 30 2011 22:30 To: Christian Grey You see, I have no idea if you’re joking—and if you’re not, then I think I’ll stay in Georgia. Crates are a hard limit for me. Sorry I made you mad. Tell me you forgive me. A From: Christian Grey Subject: Joking Date: May 30 2011 22:31 To: Anastasia Steele How can you be emailing? Are you risking the life of everyone on board, including yourself, by using your BlackBerry? I think that contravenes one of the rules. Christian Grey Two Palms Twitching CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Two palms! I put my BlackBerry away, sit back while the plane taxis to the runway, and pull out my tattered copy of Tess—some light reading for the journey. Once we’re airborne, I tip my seat back, and soon I’m drifting off to sleep. The flight attendant wakes me as we start our descent into Atlanta. Local time is 5:45 a.m., but I’ve only had four hours’ sleep or so. I feel groggy but grateful for the glass of orange juice she hands me. I glance nervously at my BlackBerry. There are no further emails from Christian. Well, it’s nearly three in the morning in Seattle, and he probably wants to discourage me from screwing up the avionics system or whatever prevents planes from flying if mobile phones are switched on. The wait in Atlanta is only an hour. And again I’m luxuriating in the confines of the first-class lounge. I am tempted to curl up and go to sleep on one of the plush, inviting couches that sink softly under my weight. But it will just not be long enough. To keep myself awake, I start a long stream-of-consciousness email to Christian on my laptop. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Do you like to scare me? Date: May 31 2011 06:52 ET To: Christian Grey

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He knows I am referring to the touch thing. For a moment, he looks torn, but then a steely resolve settles on his features, and he narrows his eyes, gazing at me speculatively as if weighing up alternatives. Abruptly, he clasps my arm in a firm grip and turns, leading me out of the great room, up the stairs, and to the playroom. Pleasure and pain, reward and punishment—his words from so long ago echo through my mind. “I’ll show you how bad it can be, and you can make up your own mind.” He pauses by the door. “Are you ready for this?” I nod, my mind made up, and I’m vaguely light-headed, faint as all the blood leaves my face. He opens the door and, still grasping my arm, grabs what looks like a belt from the rack beside the door, then leads me over to the red leather bench in the far corner of the room. “Bend over the bench,” he murmurs softly. Okay. I can do this. I bend over the smooth soft leather. He’s left my bathrobe on. In a quiet part of my brain, I’m vaguely surprised that he hasn’t made me take it off. Holy fuck, this is going to hurt…I know. “We’re here because you said yes, Anastasia. And you ran from me. I am going to hit you six times, and you will count with me.” Why the hell doesn’t he just get on with it? He always makes such a meal of punishing me. I roll my eyes, knowing full well he can’t see me. He lifts the hem of my bathrobe, and for some reason, this feels more intimate than being naked. He gently caresses my behind, running his warm hand all over both cheeks and down to the tops of my thighs. “I am doing this so you remember not to run from me, and as exciting as it is, I never want you to run from me,” he says. And the irony is not lost on me. I was running to avoid this. If he’d opened his arms, I’d run to him, not away from him. “And you rolled your eyes at me. You know how I feel about that.” Suddenly, it’s gone—that nervous edgy fear in his voice. He’s back from wherever he’s been. I hear it in his tone, in the way he places his fingers on my back, holding me—and the atmosphere in the room changes. I close my eyes, bracing myself for the blow. It comes hard, snapping across my backside, and the bite of the belt is everything I feared. I cry out involuntarily and take a huge gulp of air. “Count, Anastasia!” he commands. “One!” I shout at him, and it sounds like an expletive. He hits me again, and the pain pulses and echoes along the line of the belt. Holy shit…that smarts! “Two!” I scream. It feels so good to scream.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  happened by a process called associative activation: ideas that have been evoked trigger many other ideas, in a spreading cascade of activity in your brain. The essential feature of this complex set of mental events is its coherence. Each element is connected, and each supports and strengthens the others. The word evokes memories, which evoke emotions, which in turn evoke facial expressions and other reactions, such as a general tensing up and an avoidance tendency. The facial expression and the avoidance motion intensify the feelings to which they are linked, and the feelings in turn reinforce compatible ideas. All this happens quickly and all at once, yielding a self-reinforcing pattern of cognitive, emotional, and physical responses that is both diverse and integrated—it has been called associatively coherent. In a second or so you accomplished, automatically and unconsciously, a remarkable feat. Starting from a completely unexpected event, your System 1 made as much sense as possible of the situation—two simple words, oddly juxtaposed—by linking the words in a causal story; it evaluated the possible threat (mild to moderate) and created a context for future developments by preparing you for events that had just become more likely; it also created a context for the current event by evaluating how surprising it was. You ended up as informed about the past and as prepared for the future as you could be. An odd feature of what happened is that your System 1 treated the mere conjunction of two words as representations of reality. Your body reacted in an attenuated replica of a reaction to the real thing, and the emotional response and physical recoil were part of the interpretation of the event. As cognitive scientists have emphasized in recent years, cognition is embodied; you think with your body, not only with your brain. The mechanism that causes these mental events has been known for a long time: it is the association of ideas. We all understand from experience that ideas follow each other in our conscious mind in a fairly orderly way. The British philosophers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries searched for the rules that explain such sequences. In An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, published in 1748, the Scottish philosopher David Hume reduced the principles of association to three: resemblance, contiguity in time and place, and causality. Our concept of association has changed radically since Hume’s days, but his three principles still provide a good start. I will adopt an expansive view of what an idea is. It can be concrete or abstract, and it can be expressed in many ways: as a verb, as a noun, as an adjective, or as a clenched fist. Psychologists think of ideas as nodes in a vast network, called associative memory, in which each idea is linked to many others. There are different types of links: causes are linked to their effects (virus

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  the human equivalents of assessments of safety and familiarity. For a specific example of a basic assessment, consider the ability to discriminate friend from foe at a glance. This contributes to one’s chances of survival in a dangerous world, and such a specialized capability has indeed evolved. Alex Todorov, my colleague at Princeton, has explored the biological roots of the rapid judgments of how safe it is to interact with a stranger. He showed that we are endowed with an ability to evaluate, in a single glance at a stranger’s face, two potentially crucial facts about that person: how dominant (and therefore potentially threatening) he is, and how trustworthy he is, whether his intentions are more likely to be friendly or hostile. The shape of the face provides the cues for assessing dominance: a “strong” square chin is one such cue. Facial expression (smile or frown) provides the cues for assessing the stranger’s intentions. The combination of a square chin with a turned-down mouth may spell trouble. The accuracy of face reading is far from perfect: round chins are not a reliable indicator of meekness, and smiles can (to some extent) be faked. Still, even an imperfect ability to assess strangers confers a survival advantage. This ancient mechanism is put to a novel use in the modern world: it has some influence on how people vote. Todorov showed his students pictures of men’s faces, sometimes for as little as one-tenth of a second, and asked them to rate the faces on various attributes, including likability and competence. Observers agreed quite well on those ratings. The faces that Todorov showed were not a random set: they were the campaign portraits of politicians competing for elective office. Todorov then compared the results of the electoral races to the ratings of competence that Princeton students had made, based on brief exposure to photographs and without any political context. In about 70% of the races for senator, congressman, and governor, the election winner was the candidate whose face had earned a higher rating of competence. This striking result was quickly confirmed in national elections in Finland, in zoning board elections in England, and in various electoral contests in Australia, Germany, and Mexico. Surprisingly (at least to me), ratings of competence were far more predictive of voting outcomes in Todorov’s study than ratings of likability. Todorov has found that people judge competence by combining the two dimensions of strength and trustworthiness. The faces that exude competence combine a strong chin with a slight confident-appearing smile. There is no evidence that these facial features actually predict how well politicians will perform in office. But studies of the brain’s response to winning and losing candidates show that we are biologically predisposed to reject candidates who lack the attributes we value—in this research, losers evoked stronger indications

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  You know how much I dislike you spending money on me. Yes, you’re very rich, but still it makes me uncomfortable, like you’re paying me for sex. However, I like traveling first class, it’s so much more civilized than coach. So thank you. I mean it—and I did enjoy the massage from Jean-Paul. He was very gay. I omitted that bit in my email to you to wind you up, because I was annoyed with you, and I’m sorry about that. But as usual you overreact. You can’t write things like that to me—bound and gagged in a crate. (Were you serious or was it a joke?) That scares me… You scare me… I am completely caught up in your spell, considering a lifestyle with you that I didn’t even know existed until last week, and then you write something like that and I want to run screaming into the hills. I won’t, of course, because I’d miss you. Really miss you. I want us to work, but I am terrified of the depth of feeling I have for you and the dark path you’re leading me down. What you are offering is erotic and sexy, and I’m curious, but I’m also scared you’ll hurt me—physically and emotionally. After three months you could say goodbye, and where will that leave me if you do? But then I suppose that risk is there in any relationship. This just isn’t the sort of relationship I ever envisaged having, especially as my first. It’s a huge leap of faith for me. You were right when you said I didn’t have a submissive bone in my body…and I agree with you now. Having said that, I want to be with you, and if that’s what I have to do, I would like to try, but I think I’ll suck at it and end up black and blue—and I don’t relish that idea at all. I am so happy you have said you will try more. I just need to think about what “more” means to me, and that’s one of the reasons why I wanted some distance. You dazzle me so much I find it very difficult to think clearly when we’re together. They are calling my flight. I have to go. More later. Your Ana I press send and make my way sleepily to the departure gate to board a different plane. This one has only six seats in first class, and once we are in the air, I curl up under my soft blanket and fall asleep.