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 Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  In the early 1980s, Kenyon’s fortunes seemed to take an upward turn. He moved his family to the pious community of Salem, in Utah County, where he entered into a business partnership with an affable Mormon named Bernard Brady. Kenyon converted Brady to fundamentalism, the two men began selling shares in tax-sheltered financial trusts, and as a side venture they invested in the legendary Dream Mine, which dominated the mountainside above Salem. Soon millions of dollars were flowing into the Blackmore-Brady business account. Each man bought a lavish home below the Dream Mine. Life was good. During this period, Kenyon would make frequent sales trips, roaming across western North America in search of investors. In 1983, during one of these trips, he went to Mexico and secretly married Gwendolyn Stubbs LeBaron, the winsome daughter of Lavina Stubbs and the late Joel LeBaron. Around this time, as well, Kenyon introduced Bernard Brady to a longtime friend of his from Canada, the Prophet Onias, whom Kenyon had first met when he was working as a schoolteacher in Bountiful seventeen years earlier. Onias, who had just moved to Utah County in order to build his City of Refuge below the Dream Mine, was in the process of launching his School of the Prophets, and he invited Brady to join. Flattered and grateful, Brady returned the favor by recruiting into the school five brothers from an “outstanding” Utah County family: Tim, Watson, Mark, Dan, and Ron Lafferty. Not long thereafter, Kenyon’s brief fling with good fortune came to a screeching halt. Brenda and Erica Lafferty were murdered in American Fork on July 24, 1984, and right away the police considered Kenyon Blackmore and Bernard Brady to be prime suspects, along with everyone else even remotely associated with the School of the Prophets. But law enforcement officers had actually become well acquainted with Brady and Blackmore long before the Lafferty murders: in 1983, a federal grand jury had indicted Blackmore, Brady, and nineteen other partners on multiple counts of fraud, charging them with bilking more than $32 million from thirty-eight hundred investors—a swindle described as a “classic Ponzi scheme” by the United States Attorney who prosecuted the case. *

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Anna persisted: ‘Yes, Philip, at times it makes me afraid—I can’t tell you why, but it seems all wrong—it makes me feel—strange with the child.’ He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: ‘Can’t you trust me? Won’t you try to trust me, Anna?’ But Anna shook her head: ‘I don’t understand, why shouldn’t you trust me, Philip?’ And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir Philip committed the first cowardly action of his life—he who would not have spared himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on Anna. In his infinite pity for Stephen’s mother, he sinned very deeply and gravely against Stephen, by withholding from that mother his own conviction that her child was not as other children. ‘There’s nothing for you to understand,’ he said firmly, ‘but I like you to trust me in all things.’ After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip very quiet and reassuring. ‘I’ve wanted her to have a healthy body,’ he explained, ‘that’s why I’ve let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we’d better have a governess now, as you say; a French governess, my dear, if you’d prefer one—Later on I’ve always meant to engage a bluestocking, some woman who’s been to Oxford. I want Stephen to have the finest education that care and money can give her.’ But once again Anna began to protest. ‘What’s the good of it all for a girl?’ she argued. ‘Did you love me any less because I couldn’t do mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count on my fingers?’ He kissed her. ‘That’s different, you’re you,’ he said, smiling, but a look that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold, resolute expression, which meant that all persuasion was likely to be unavailing. Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip shaded the candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing down at Stephen—the child was heavily asleep. ‘Look, Philip,’ whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, ‘look, Philip—she’s got two big tears on her cheek!’ He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: ‘Come away, he muttered, ‘we may wake her.’ CHAPTER 6 1 M rs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a long, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once—but it did not make for respectful obedience.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  had to be closely cross- examined, and whoever failed to satisfy the test was rejected. This entailed a lot of extra time but most of the statements were thus rendered incontrovertible. An officer from the C.I.D. would always be present when these statements were recorded. We might have prevented him, but we had decided from the very beginning not only not to mind the presence of C.I.D. officers, but to treat them with courtesy and to give them all the information that it was possible to give them. This was far from doing us any harm. On the contrary the very fact that the statements were taken down in the presence of the C.I.D. officers made the peasants more fearless. Whilst on the one hand excessive fear of the C.I.D. was driven out of the peasants’ minds, on the other, their presence exercised a natural restraint on exaggeration. It was the business of C.I.D. friends to entrap people and so the peasants had necessarily to be cautious. As I did not want to irritate the planters, but to win them over by gentleness, I made a point of writing to and meeting such of them against whom allegations of a serious nature were made. I met the Planters’ Association as well, placed the ryots’ grievances before them and acquainted myself with their point of view. Some of the planters hated me, some were indifferent and a few treated me with courtesy. 143.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  civility is the most difficult part of Satyagraha. Civility does not here mean the mere outward gentleness and desire to do the opponent good. These should show themselves in every act of a Satyagrahi. In the initial stages, though the people exhibited much courage, the Government did not seem inclined to take strong action. But as the people’s firmness showed no signs of wavering, the Government began coercion. The attachment officers sold people’s cattle and seized whatever movables they could lay hands on. Penalty notices were served, and in some cases standing crops were attached. This unnerved the peasants, some of whom paid up their dues, while others desired to place safe movables in the way of the officials so that they might attach them to realize the dues. On the other hand some were prepared to fight to the bitter end. While these things were going on, one of Sjt. Shankarlal Parikh’s tenants paid up the assessment in respect of his land. This created a sensation. Sjt. Shankarlal Parikh immediately made amends for his tenant’s mistake by giving away for charitable purposes the land for which the assessment had been paid. He thus saved his honour and set a good example to others. With a view to steeling the hearts of those who were frightened, I advised the people, under the leadership of Sjt. Mohanlal Pandya, to remove the crop of onion, from a field which had been, in my opinion wrongly attached. I did not regard this as civil disobedience, but even if it was, I suggested that this attachment of standing crops, though it might be in accordance with law, was morally wrong, and was nothing be in accordance with law, was morally wrong, and was nothing short of looting, and that therefore it was the people’s duty to remove the onion in spite of the order of attachment. This was a good opportunity for the people to learn a lesson in courting fines or imprisonment, which was the necessary consequence of such disobedience. For Sjt. Mohanlal

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  THE STORM We have seen that the two ships cast anchor in the port of Durban on or about the 18th of December. No passengers are allowed to land at any of the South African ports before being subjected to a thorough medical examination. If the ship has any passenger suffering from a contagious disease, she has to undergo a period of quarantine. As there had been plague in Bombay when we met sail, we feared that we might have to go through a brief quarantine. Before the examination every ship has to fly a yellow flag, which is lowered only when the doctor has certified her to be healthy. Relatives and friends of passengers are allowed to come on board only after the yellow flag has been lowered.Accordingly our ship was flying the yellow flag,when the doctor came and examined us. He ordered a five days quarantine because, in his opinion, plague germs took twenty-three days at the most to develop. Our ship was therefore ordered to be put in quarantine until the twenty-third day of our sailing from Bombay. But this quarantine order had more than health reasons behind it. The white residents of Durban had been agitating for our repatriation, and the agitation was one of the reasons for the order. Dada Abdulla and Co. kept us regularly informed about the daily happenings in the town. The whites were holding monster meetings every day. They were addressing all kinds of threats and at times offering even inducements to Dada Abdulla and Co. They were ready to indemnify the Company if both the ships should be sent back. But Dada Abdulla and Co. were not the people to be afraid of threats. Sheth Abdul Karim Haji Adam was then the managing partner of the firm. He was determined to moor the ships at the wharf and disembark the passengers at any cost. He was daily sending me detailed letters. Fortunately the Sjt. Mansukhlal Naazar was then in Durban having gone there to meet me. He was capable and fearless and

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Now it was her turn to be laughed at. After all her casual conversation about other people’s blood, it was horrid to feel her own turn to cold sludge, stop running through her veins, then freeze solid, liable to break like glass and cut her to pieces inside if she moved. Well, but … Iduna had been in some very dangerous places, and she always spoke to the people she met there. Otherwise, life would turn into an ordeal instead of an adventure. Now, she spoke as if to her lover, which of course is the most dangerous audience of all. “Wouldn’t you like to know how I figured it out?” The question was a caress. She made herself wait for the curt, reluctant nod before she continued. “To begin with, there is your name. It means ‘son of the dark one’.” She paused for that to sink in, then said politely, “You have not asked, but my name is Iduna. In ancient Norse mythology, Iduna guarded the golden apples of immortality.” ‘But in our case, my love, the apples are the brightest, truest red imaginable,’ she thought, but did not say. Kerry twitched. But Iduna felt like being a little ruthless. It was rude, forcing someone to make their own introduction. “You have trouble remembering your age and birthday. You’ve told some people you’re twenty-two and other people you’re thirty-five. There are certain historic periods you are very fond of, and when you speak about them, you occasionally lapse into the first person and the present tense. You speak several languages; however, none of them (with the exception of your American English) is contemporary. I am enough of a linguist to recognize nineteenth-century French when I hear it, and your German is full of colloquialisms from the 1930s. You say you were born here, but there is no birth certificate on file for you in any of the five boroughs of New York City.” In the process of investigating Kerry, Iduna had figured out how to dummy up this basic I.D. for herself. ‘You need some help,’ she thought. ‘It’s dangerous to fall behind the times.’ “You are photophobic. You don’t even like the brightly lit area of the bar where all the other S&M dominants stand and model. You wait for your prey in shadows. You have an unusual strength, you are preternaturally quick, and you have an ability to see in the dark and hear things no one else can hear. Your sense of smell is also very keen. I’ve traced some of your employment, and much of it is at places where you can handle blood or blood products.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Mike asked. She started. Had she been asleep? The question reminded her that this bad dream was still in progress, and filled her with dread. “The thirteenth precinct,” he said, putting his cock away and zipping up. “I’ve reserved us a private suite. Just drop me by my bike first.” “You go it, sir,” Mike said. Within ten minutes, they double-parked by a big Honda wearing the state highway-patrol decal. He patted her cheek. “Don’t forget me, huh? We’ll get together for more fun and games real soon, because you have potential.” He got out of the car. His boots crunched on gravel. She watched him kick the machine into life, then peel off. The squad car followed him, and this time there was a siren. Now misery settled in. She cursed herself for a fool. The cop hadn’t exactly raped her, had he? What would they do to her, now that they’d seen her weakness? And had she really been stupid enough to think that bastard would let her go, just because she made him come with her mouth? She tried to defend herself against this onslaught of condemnation. ‘I’m not stupid, I never thought about getting loose,’ she told the angry voices. ‘I just did it because I wanted to, and I was in a situation where I had nothing to lose.’ That was even worse. To just suck him off without thinking of bargaining sex for freedom—to do it just for the pleasure and degradation of it—was stupid, perverted, sick, stupid … They were driving through the Tenderloin when Mike abruptly swung the wheel over and pulled up by a parking meter. The patrolman was backing his cycle into the space behind them. Now she was being hustled over to the side door of a fairly large hotel that had seen much better days. The service elevator was waiting, its doors open. “What is this?” she demanded, ashamed that she was so scared the question came out in a tremor. “This is no police station!” “Course not,” Mike scoffed. Joe smiled. “You might say it’s the annex.” The elevator hoisted itself clumsily, making a grinding noise, as if it had to dig its own shaft up through old rock. The stop was so abrupt that they didn’t so much leave as get thrown out. The hallway smelled terrible, and she did not look around to find out why. They stopped at a door painted smeary white. The fancy woodwork of the door frame was a chipped beige, the design almost obscured by too many layers of paint. The number was painted on with red nail polish. She risked a quick glance down the hall. Shreds of old wallpaper hung here and there.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  In the outside world, you are a particularly despised breed of female: a cunt who rejects cock, a slave who rejects the masters of currency and armies. But we prize you for what the world despises. You make us wealthy.” She smiled at Kay, and EZ (who was kneeling at her side) hid her face against Kay’s thigh. Roxanne stared at the needle. She could not see a trace of blood on it, but her ear had definitely been pierced. It was swelling already. Tyre laid the spike down, took up a new one, and pinched her other lobe. One more stab, and the smooth passage of gold into her flesh. Roxanne found herself holding her breath. Tyre admired her. “There’s a little blood around the jewelry,” she said, “but nothing extreme. They’re centered perfectly. You look stunning. Thanks to me.” She doused her with antiseptic. “Alex,” she called, “if you don’t get over here quick, I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off her tits.” Alex replaced Tyre at the side of the operating table. “I’m going to do your tits first,” she said. “One ring in each nipple. Are you ready?” Roxanne took a few deep breaths. “I’m ready,” she said. “Good. I love you. Are you sure you can hold still?” Roxanne nodded. Alex took a surgical marking pen and put a dot on either side of Roxanne’s right nipple. She picked up a pair of Pennington forceps, opened them, and clamped them shut, centered carefully over the marks where the needle should enter and exit. Then she selected a curved needle, steadied the forceps with her other hand, and pushed the point in. The tissue was surprisingly tough, and resisted penetration. Roxanne bit her lips and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the table. Tyre was nearby, her eyes concerned and full of admiration. “Look at her,” she admonished. “This big, dumb hunk loves you. She’s putting rings in your tits. Look at her if you have trouble remembering why this is being done. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and she wants you.” Alex turned her head and stared into Roxanne’s eyes. “It’s halfway through the nipple,” she said. “I’m being as quick and gentle as I can.” Roxanne dared not look down at the needle. “Look at the needle,” Alex told her. She sobbed and bent her head. It was in her, embedded, but incomplete, unsatisfied. “Can you take this much?” Alex asked her. “Yes.” “All you have to do is take that much one more time. Then the ring fits on the end of the needle, just like when Tyre did your ears, and we draw it right through. Now?” Roxanne shook her head. “No, please, not yet. I’m not ready. I’m too scared.”

• From Sketch for a Theory of the Emotions (1939)

  The sudden passage from a rational apprehension of the world to an apprehension of the same world as magical, when this is motivated by the object itself and accompanied by a disagreeable element — that is horror: if it is accompanied by an agreeable element, it will be admiration (we mention these two examples, but there are naturally many other cases). Thus there are two forms of emotion, according to whether it is we who constitute the magic of the world to replace a deterministic activity which cannot be realized, or whether the world itself is unrealizable and reveals itself suddenly as a magical environment. In the state of horror, we are suddenly made aware that the deterministic barriers have given way. That face which appears at the window, for instance — we do not at first take it as that of a man, who might push the door open and take thirty paces to where we are standing. On the contrary, it is presented, motionless though it is, as acting at a distance. The face outside the window is in immediate relationship with our body; we are living and undergoing its signification; it is with our own flesh that we constitute it, but at the same time it imposes itself, annihilates the distance and enters into us. Consciousness plunged into this magic world drags the body with it in as much as the body is belief and the consciousness believes in it. The behaviour which gives its meaning to the emotion is no longer our behaviour; it is the expression of the face and the movements of the body of the other being, which make up a synthetic whole together with the upheaval in our own organism. Here again, then, we find the same elements and the same structure as we were describing a little while ago, except that in the former case the magic and the meaning of the emotion came from the world and not from ourselves. Naturally, magic, as a real quality of the world, is not strictly limited to the human. It extends to things also, inasmuch as they may present themselves as human (the disturbing impression of a landscape, of certain objects, or of a room which retains the traces of some mysterious visitor) or bear the imprint of the psychic. And, also naturally, the two main types of emotion are not absolutely and strictly distinct; there are often mixtures of the two types and the majority of our emotions are less than pure.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She was watching a brown spaniel that had run out of a side-path, and was looking toward them with lifted nose, making a soft, fluffy bark. A man with a gun strode swiftly, softly out after the dog, facing their way as if about to attack them; then stopped instead, saluted, and was turning down hill. It was only the new gamekeeper, but he had frightened Connie, he seemed to emerge with such a swift menace. That was how she had seen him, like the sudden rush of a threat out of nowhere. He was a man in dark-green velveteens and gaiters ... the old style, with a red face and red moustache and distant eyes. He was going quickly down hill. "Mellors!" called Clifford. The man faced lightly round, and saluted with a quick little gesture, a soldier! "Will you turn the chair round and get it started? That makes it easier," said Clifford. The man at once slung his gun over his shoulder, and came forward with the same curious swift, yet soft movements, as if keeping invisible. He was moderately tall and lean, and was silent. He did not look at Connie at all, only at the chair. "Connie, this is the new gamekeeper, Mellors. You haven't spoken to her ladyship yet, Mellors?" "No, Sir!" came the ready, neutral words. The man lifted his hat as he stood, showing his thick, almost fair hair. He stared straight into Connie's eyes, with a perfect, fearless, impersonal look, as if he wanted to see what she was like. He made her feel shy. She bent her head to him shyly, and he changed his hat to his left hand and made her a slight bow, like a gentleman; but he said nothing at all. He remained for a moment still, with his hat in his hand. "But you've been here some time, haven't you?" Connie said to him. "Eight months, Madam ... your Ladyship!" he corrected himself calmly. "And do you like it?" She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with irony, perhaps with impudence. "Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here...." He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect ... perhaps also in mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. He might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a curious, quick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself. Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair, and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark hazel thicket. "Is that all then, Sir Clifford?" asked the man.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Nevertheless, necessity constraining her, for that she saw herself alone there and had neither knowledge nor inkling where she was, she so goaded those who were yet alive that she made them arise and finding them unknowing whither the men were gone and seeing the ship stranded and full of water, she fell to weeping piteously, together with them. It was noon ere they saw any about the shore or elsewhere, whom they might move to pity and succour them; but about that hour there passed by a gentleman, by name Pericone da Visalgo, returning by chance from a place of his, with sundry of his servants on horseback. He saw the ship and forthright conceiving what it was, bade one of the servants board it without delay and tell him what he found there. The man, though with difficulty, made his way on board and found the young lady, with what little company she had, crouched, all adread, under the heel of the bowsprit. When they saw him, they besought him, weeping, of mercy again and again; but, perceiving that he understood them not nor they him, they made shift to make known to him their misadventure by signs. The servant having examined everything as best he might, reported to Pericone that which was on board; whereupon the latter promptly caused to bring the ladies ashore, together with the most precious things that were in the ship and might be gotten, and carried them off to a castle of his, where, the women being refreshed with food and rest, he perceived, from the richness of her apparel, that the lady whom he had found must needs be some great gentlewoman, and of this he was speedily certified by the honour that he saw the others do her and her alone; and although she was pale and sore disordered of her person, for the fatigues of the voyage, her features seemed to him exceeding fair; wherefore he forthright took counsel with himself, an she had no husband, to seek to have her to wife, and if he might not have her in marriage, to make shift to have her favours.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  THE BLACK PLAGUE - I The Indians were not removed from the location as soon as the Municipality secured its ownership. It was necessary to find the residents suitable new quarters before dislodging them, but as the Municipality could not easily do this, the Indians were suffered to stay in the same ‘dirty’ location, with this difference that their condition became worse than before. Having ceased to be proprietors they became tenants of the Municipality, with the result that their surroundings became more insanitary than ever. When they were proprietors, they had to maintain some sort of cleanliness, if only for fear of the law. The Municipality had no such fear! The number of tenants increased, and with them the squalor and the disorder. While the Indians were fretting over this state of things, there was a sudden outbreak of the black plague, also called the pneumonic plague, more terrible and fatal than the bubonic. Fortunately it was not the location but one of the gold mines in the vicinity of Johannesburg that was responsible for the outbreak. The workers in this mine were for the most part negroes, for whose cleanliness their white employers were solely responsible. There were a few Indians also working in connection with the mine, twenty-three of whom suddenly caught the infection, and returned one evening to their quarters in the location with an acute attack of the plague. Sjt. Madanjit, who was then canvassing subscribers for Indian Opinion and realizing subscriptions, happened to be in the location at this moment. He was a remarkably fearless man. His heart wept to see these victims of the scourage, and he sent a pencil-note to me to the following effect: ‘There has been a sudden outbreak of the black plague. You must come immediately and take prompt

• From Less (2017)

  “It is with her great apologies, Mr. Less.” There are more apologies. “I am also so sorry your suitcase is not here for you. But early this morning we had a call: there is a message.” She hands him an envelope. Inside is a piece of paper with the message in all caps, which reads like an old-fashioned telegram: ARTHUR DO NOT WORRY BUT ROBERT HAS HAD A STROKE BACK HOME NOW PLEASE CALL ME WHEN YOU CAN —MARIAN “Arthur, there you are!” Marian’s voice—almost thirty years since they last spoke; he can only imagine the names she called him after the divorce. But he remembers Mexico City: She sends her love. In Sonoma it is seven at night the previous day. “Marian, what’s happened?” “Arthur, don’t worry, don’t worry, he’s okay.” “What. Happened.” That sigh from across the world, and he takes a moment from his worries to marvel: Marian! “He was just in his apartment, reading, and fell flat on the floor. Luckily, Joan was there.” The nurse. “He bruised himself a little. He’s having trouble talking, a little trouble with his right hand. It’s minor.” She says this sternly. “It’s a minor stroke. ” “What is a minor stroke? Does that mean it’s nothing, or does that mean thank God it wasn’t a major one?” “The thank-God kind. And thank God he wasn’t on the stairs or something. Listen, Arthur, I don’t want you to worry. But I wanted to call you. You know you’re listed first on his emergency contacts. But they didn’t know where you were, so they called me. I’m second.” A little laugh. “Lucky them, I’ve been stuck at home for months!” “Oh, Marian, you broke your hip!” Again the sigh. “Not broken, it turned out. But I’m bruised black and blue. What do we do? Things fall apart. Sorry I had to skip Mexico City; that would have been a nicer reunion.” “I’m so glad you’re there with him, Marian. I’ll be there tomorrow, I have to check on—” “No, no, Arthur, don’t do that! You’re on your honeymoon.” “What?” “Robert’s fine. I’ll be here a week or so. See him when you get back. I wouldn’t have bothered you at all except he insisted. He misses you, of course, at a time like this.” “Marian, I’m not on my honeymoon. I’m in Japan for an article.” But there was no contradicting Marian Brownburn. “Robert said you got married. He said you married Freddy somebody.” “No no, no no,” Arthur says, and finds himself getting dizzy. “Freddy somebody married somebody else. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be right there.” “Listen,” Marian says in her administrative voice. “Arthur. Don’t you get on a plane. He’ll be furious.” “I can’t stay here, Marian. You wouldn’t stay here. We both love him, we wouldn’t stay here while he’s suffering.” “Okay. Let’s set up one of those video calls you boys do…”

• From Less (2017)

  Peeking in the room while he was out. Rooting through the trash bin. Looking at the blanket heaped on the napping couch, the books beside it. And, with dread, what sat half-written in the typewriter’s gap-toothed mouth. For at the beginning, one never knew what he was writing about. Was it you? Before a mirror, behind him, tying his tie for a reading while he smiles, for he knows perfectly well how to tie it. Marian, was it worth it for you? The festival takes place in University City, in a low-ceilinged concrete building associated with the Global Linguistics and Literature Department, whose famous mosaics have for some reason been removed for restoration, leaving it as barren as an old woman without her teeth. Again, the Head does not make an appearance. Less’s day of judgment has arrived; he finds he is shaking with fear. Color-coded carpets lead to various subdepartments, and around any corner Marian Brownburn might appear, tanned and sinewy, as he remembers her on a beach, but when Less is led to a green room (painted a pastel green, supplied with a tower of fruit), he is introduced only to a friendly man in a harlequin tie. “Señor Less!” the man says, bowing twice. “What an honor for you to come to the festival!” Less looks around for his personal Fury; there is no one in the room but him, this man, and Arturo. “Is Marian Brownburn here?” The man bows. “I am sorry it was so much in Spanish.” Less hears his name shouted from the doorway and flinches. It is the Head, his curly white hair in disarray, his face a grotesque shade of red. He motions Less over; Less quickly approaches. “Sorry I missed you yesterday,” says the Head. “I had other business, but I wouldn’t miss this panel for the world.” “Is Marian here?” Less asks quietly. “You’ll be fine, don’t worry.” “I’d just like to see her before we—” “She isn’t coming.” The Head puts his heavy hand on Less’s shoulder. “We got a note last night. She broke her hip; she’s nearly eighty, you know. A shame, because we had so many questions for you both.” Less experiences not a helium-filled sense of relief, but a horrible deflating sorrow. “Is she okay?” “She sends her love to you.” “But is she okay?” “Sure. We had to make a new plan. I’m going to be up there with you! I’ll talk for maybe twenty minutes about my work. Then I’ll ask you about meeting Brownburn when you were twenty-one. Do I have that right? You were twenty-one?” “I’m twenty-five,” Less lies to the woman on the beach.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. However, at last, Ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that belief, much ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself and undeceive her; wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her fast, so she might not get away, he said, 'Sweet my soul, be not angered; that which I could not have of you by simply loving you, Love hath taught me to obtain by practice; and I am your Ricciardo.' Catella, hearing this and knowing him by the voice, would have thrown herself incontinent out of bed, but could not; whereupon she offered to cry out; but Ricciardo stopped her mouth with one hand and said, 'Madam, this that hath been may henceforth on nowise be undone, though you should cry all the days of your life; and if you cry out or cause this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things will come thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may avouch that I brought you hither by practice, I shall say that it is not true, nay, that I caused you come hither for monies and gifts that I promised you, whereof for that I gave you not so largely as you hoped, you waxed angry and made all this talk and this outcry; and you know that folk are more apt to credit ill than good, wherefore I shall more readily be believed than you. Secondly, there will ensue thereof a mortal enmity between your husband and myself, and it may as well happen that I shall kill him as he me, in which case you are never after like to be happy or content. Wherefore, heart of my body, go not about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and myself into strife and peril. You are not the first woman, nor will you be the last, who hath been deceived, nor have I in this practised upon you to bereave you of your own, but for the exceeding love that I bear you and am minded ever to bear you and to be your most humble servant. And although it is long since I and all that I possess or can or am worth have been yours and at your service, henceforward I purpose that they shall be more than ever so. Now, you are well advised in other things and so I am certain you will be in this.'

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  I want you to be able to see everything that’s done to you, so you can’t close your eyes and say it never happened.” She drew her fingernail down the inside of my thigh. “Such delicate skin. Even the gentlest lover would leave her mark on you. And now I have my chance.” She moved again outside the range of my vision, back toward the wardrobe. “Did you see anything over here to tickle your fancy?” She returned with a handful of whips, and made a mock presentation of them to me. “A masochist’s bouquet,” she jeered, bowing. “How about this one?” She held up the most grisly one of the lot. It had several tails that ended in sharp bits of metal. My courage failed me. “Actually, it’s only good for quickies,” she said, “and making hamburger.” I slumped with relief, then saw she was only teasing me. The monologue continued. “Now, this one was given to me as a name day present by a little old nun who only used it on Sundays—and then only on herself.” That one was made of hemp cords, each one ending in three thick knots. She tossed it away, too. “Actually,” she said, discarding the rest, “I want to use something a little more personal.” She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and talked around it as she shrugged out of the kimono. “Something you can remember me by.” Under the kimono, she was wearing blue jeans with a broad leather belt and no T-shirt. I stared at her small, brown breasts, seeing something I couldn’t believe. She smiled at me and traced the criss-cross scars with a forefinger, then turned so I could follow them onto her back. “I wanted you to see these,” she said, “so you’ll know that whatever I do to you has been done to me. I know what you feel, laying there bound, awaiting punishment at my hand. I know.” She unbuckled her belt and drew it slowly through the loops of her Levis. I tried to relax, to stop the tension building in my body, but instead my muscles began to quiver and jerk. She doubled the belt in her hand and drew her arm back, held it poised above me. I cringed, trying to flatten myself against the bed, as it came singing down—to hit the mattress. “Ahh—surprised you.” She trailed it down my body, brought it up again, struck suddenly—and the belt smacked the bed between my legs. I was breathing hard. “Scared?” she asked sympathetically. And did it again. “Do your nipples always pucker when you’re frightened?” Her fingers brushed the edges of my labia, her touch insulting me. “You little whore, you’re wet already, and I haven’t even touched you.” She pushed two fingers slowly inside of me, turning her hand from side to side. “Either you’re not really scared, or you have your wires crossed, honey.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  They made it real clear that my number had better not appear in any questionable ads, and I better get my libido re-educated as quick as possible. And, oh yes, I could always do my maternity stint if I needed some time to reassess my life. Or did I want to sign an affidavit of unfitness to reproduce, and then get sterilized? I laughed at them. Who knows what else they might do to you once you’re unconscious? Brain surgery? Why not? How would you ever know? It wasn’t too bad. They didn’t break my thumbs or anything. They just didn’t let me sleep. They sent a trustee with a tin can around to bang on the cell bars every fifteen minutes or so. Three days. Seventy-two hours. On the second day they gave me back my belt and shoelaces. Think they were trying to give me a hint? Up ahead is a back-to-Africa wagon. A black woman in a white chador is packing it up, getting ready to push it home. They say the Muslim men are raising money to kidnap the women to send them home because they don’t really want to go back to Africa, but I figure it’s okay to buy from a woman’s wagon. Who knows? I’m not sure I would turn down a ticket out of here to any place but the North Pole. “Hey!” I yell. “You got anything left over? Cheap?” She has cold eggrolls, and I sacrifice the price of my second beer for a little grease and protein. Somebody will be at the Labrys who can front me a drink or two. Lefty, that cheap quick-change artist, he better, the last time I scored I bought him dinner . The bar is only a block away. I skip and run, stuffing my face, singing some crazy song. The sign is dark, so I figure somebody has broken the neon tube again or maybe they didn’t pay their bill. But when I get to the door, it’s boarded up, and there are all kinds of yellow Health Department notices all over it—quarantine for sexually transmitted diseases, selling alcohol to minors, insufficient insect control, even one for improper drainage. There are also a whole bunch of posters from “a group of residents concerned with the quality of life in this neighborhood” that say they feel this establishment is an eyesore that lowers property values and encourages woman-hating. I’m surprised this rickety, filthy, beloved firetrap manages to stand up under the weight of its own wickedness. Something rattles down the street. I jump. There she is—my jane, wearing her ridiculous version of perv fashion, kicking a can down the street. She probably got here just a few minutes before me. Her back is to me. I don’t think she’s seen me. This is goddess-sent. I can’t make it through a night of carhopping in the red-light district tonight.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Enraged, he grabbed at me. “You smug little fool,” he snapped. I stepped back, and the hands which had been reaching for my shoulders landed on my breasts. Before coming to class, I had carefully threaded the inside of my bra with straight pins. He yelped and said, “What’s this?” His hands clamped down harder, and he got stuck again. Then he knew. “Oh-ho,” he said, “is this what they’re teaching in self-defense classes these days?” He was reaching under my white student’s gown. It was something I had dreamed about so often, I could not seem to stop him, I was just twisting in his hands. He was hurting me there, even though it must have hurt him, too, pressing up so that all the sharp points penetrated the delicate skin of my vulva. “Is this what you need?” he asked, reaching for the hem of his black professorial robes. I was terrified that he would make me look at his penis. I had never seen one, I didn’t want to, and I was about to scream when Roger, the missing bright boy, came running into the auditorium via the door by the lectern and skidded to a halt a few feet from us. “I came as soon as I heard—” he had time to say before he took in the tableau. “Rape!” he started to bellow. “Rape!” He took me by one shoulder, yanked me away from the professor, and started slapping and punching at him, crying hysterically. I had one of those rare moments of clarity that don’t do you a damned bit of good when you can see the truth about anything you gaze upon. I saw that they were lovers, I saw that Roger separated us not to protect me, but because he could not bear to see his lover touch me, I saw that all of us were doomed. Still I could not weep as loudly as Roger, who had to be pulled off Professor Gregory by four campus cops.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Without you even saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ or ‘Mother may I.’” “Let me go,” she cried, wrestling with his hand. “Let me go, sir ,” he corrected, holding her in place. When she realized he was not pushing her down any further, she stopped struggling. He regarded her coldly, displeased by her refusal to use his title. “Sticks in your craw, doesn’t it?” he said. “But before I’m done with you, you’ll call me ‘sugar’ if I want you to.” He waited, then suddenly insisted, “Suck it!” “No.” “No, sir,” he corrected her again. How clever of him to append that hateful honorific to a refusal. How easy, to begin calling him “sir” while she refused to suck his cock. But I am wise, like all hunted things, she told herself, and I know if I say that word I will descend a step down the ladder into submission. “Yes, sir?” he suggested. “Yes sir, I’d love to suck your big drooling cock, sir?” The atmosphere in the car was charged. Heavy breathing came from the front seat. Something had to break. He turned her loose and reached for his gun in one smooth move. The cold steel of the barrel stroked her cheek, and she froze. Nothing in the world was as big as that gun. He came at her again, backing her into the corner, and took her chin with one hand. “You will take it in your mouth, you know.” The trigger clicked. “Yes, sir,” she said, and slumped. Of course. She was the thing that had to break. “Good. Now open your mouth—just a little—that’s good.” His kid glove pursed her mouth into a kissing shape. The barrel of the gun, tasting of smoke and steel, was poised between her lips. She struggled to open her mouth wider, to swallow it whole and get it over with, but he would not let her. Carefully, patiently, he dictated just how much of the barrel she could take into her mouth and how slowly or quickly it would slide in and out. It was impossible to think of or remember anything else that had happened to her, other than the pistol ravaging her tender, wet mouth. He pressed deeper, into her throat. Despite the constriction produced by fear, she did not gag on it. Not once. She did not dare. Finally, he withdrew the weapon and wiped it on her T-shirt, over her breasts. “Thank me,” he said absently. “Thank you, sir,” she said. The pistol teased her nipples into erection. When he slid it back into its holster, she gave a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Then he took her by the ears and brought her face back to his dick. It was only half hard now, lying in a fat curve on his thigh.

• From Sketch for a Theory of the Emotions (1939)

  The bodily disturbance may continue longer than the behaviour, but the behaviour constitutes the form and the signification of the disorder. On the other hand, the behaviour without this disorder would be mere signification, an emotional schema. The form we have to do with is indeed synthetic: to believe in magical behaviour one must be physically upset. Clearly to understand the emotional process as it proceeds from consciousness, we must remember the dual nature of the body, which on the one hand is an object in the world and on the other is immediately lived by the consciousness. Only then can we grasp what is essential — that emotion is a phenomenon of belief. Consciousness does not limit itself to the projection of affective meanings upon the world around it; it lives the new world it has thereby constituted — lives it directly, commits itself to it, and suffers from the qualities that the concomitant behaviour has outlined. This means that, all ways out being barred, the consciousness leaps into the magical world of emotion, plunges wholly into it by debasing itself. It becomes a different consciousness confronting a different world — a world which it constitutes with its own most intimate quality, with that presence to itself, utterly non- distant, of its point of view upon the world. A consciousness becoming emotional is rather like a consciousness dropping asleep. The one, like the other, slips into another world and transforms the body as a synthetic whole so as to be able to live and to perceive this other world through it. In other words, the consciousness changes its body, or, to put it another way, the body — considered as the point of view upon the universe immediately inherent in consciousness — is raised to the level of the behaviour. That is why the physiological manifestations are, at bottom, disorders of the most ordinary description; they resemble those of fever, of angina pectoris, of artificial over-excitation etc. They merely represent a complete and commonplace upset of the body, such as it is (the behaviour alone will decide whether this disarray is to be a 'diminishment' of life or an 'amplification' of it). In itself it is nothing, it represents no more than an obscuration of the conscious point of view upon the world, in so far as the consciousness realizes and spontaneously lives this obscuration. It is advisable, naturally to understand this obscuration as a synthetic phenomenon, as indivisible. But since, on the other hand, the body is a thing among things, a scientific analysis may be able to distinguish, in the biological body, in the body as a thing, the local disorder of this or that organ.