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 In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  To review, human beings have been designed over millennia, through natural selection and social evolution, to live with and to move through extreme events and loss, and to process feelings of helplessness and terror without becoming stuck or traumatized. When we experience difficult and particularly horrible sensations and feelings, our tendency, however, is to recoil and avoid them. Mentally, we split off or “dissociate” from these feelings. Physically, our bodies tighten and brace against them. Our minds go into overdrive trying to explain and make sense of these alien and “bad” sensations. So, we are driven to vigilantly attempt to locate their ominous source in the outside world. We believe that if we feel the sensations, they will overwhelm us forever. The fear of being consumed by these “terrible” feelings leads us to convince ourselves that avoiding them will make us feel better and, ultimately, safer. There are many examples of this in our lives: we may avoid a café or certain songs that remind us of a former loved one or avoid the intersection where we were rear-ended a year ago. Unfortunately, the opposite is true. When we fight against and/or hide from unpleasant or painful sensations and feelings, we generally make things worse. The more we avoid them, the greater is the power they exert upon our behavior and sense of well-being. What is not felt remains the same or is intensified, generating a cascade of virulent and corrosive emotions. This forces us to fortify our methods of defense, avoidance and control. This is the vicious cycle created by trauma. Abandoned feelings, in the form of blocked physical sensations, create and propel the growing shadow of our existence. As we saw with Sharon, when we focus in a particular way on physical sensations, in a short period of time they shift and change; and so do we. Premature CognitionSharon’s misdirected beliefs (though largely subconscious) are efforts to understand, to make sense of her experience and to help her justify why she feels so bad. These “explanations” will do nothing to help her move through her fright response and complete the inhibited actions that form the basis of her continued trauma response (the how). Mentation, at this stage, only interferes with resolution. For this reason I coach her to resist the seduction to understand and, instead, to fully engage with what she is now physically feeling in her body. The consequence of “premature cognition” is to take the person out of his or her sensate experience before it completes and has the opportunity to generate new perceptions and new meanings.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 2: The merits of the elect will be discussed, not to remove the uncertainty of their beatitude from the hearts of those who are to be judged, but that it may be made manifest to us that their good merits outweigh their evil merits, and thus God’s justice be proved. Reply to Objection 3: Gregory is speaking of the just who will still be in mortal flesh, wherefore he had already said: “Those who will still be in the body, although already brave and perfect, yet through being still in the flesh must needs be troubled with fear in the midst of such a whirlwind of terror.” Hence it is clear that this fear refers to the time immediately before the judgment, most terrible indeed to the wicked, but not to the good, who will have no apprehension of evil. The arguments in the contrary sense consider judgment as regards the payment of rewards. Whether the wicked will be judged?Objection 1: It would seem that none of the wicked will be judged. For even as damnation is certain in the case of unbelievers, so is it in the case of those who die in mortal sin. Now it is declared because of the certainty of damnation (Jn. 3:18): “He that believeth not is already judged.” Therefore in like manner neither will other sinners be judged. Objection 2: Further, the voice of the Judge is most terrible to those who are condemned by His judgment. Now according to the text of Sentent. iv, D, 47 and in the words of Gregory (Moral. xxvi) “the Judge will not address Himself to unbelievers.” If therefore He were to address Himself to the believers about to be condemned, the unbelievers would reap a benefit from their unbelief, which is absurd. On the contrary, It would seem that all the wicked are to be judged, because all the wicked will be sentenced to punishment according to the degree of their guilt. But this cannot be done without a judicial pronouncement. Therefore all the wicked will be judged.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 2: Fear is twofold, servile and filial, as we shall state further on ([1644]SS, Q[19], A[2]). Servile fear regards punishment, and will be impossible in the life of glory, since there will no longer be possibility of being punished. Filial fear has two acts: one is an act of reverence to God, and with regard to this act, it remains: the other is an act of fear lest we be separated from God, and as regards this act, it does not remain. Because separation from God is in the nature of an evil: and no evil will be feared there, according to Prov. 1:33: “He . . . shall enjoy abundance without fear of evils.” Now fear is opposed to hope by opposition of good and evil, as stated above (Q[23], A[2]; Q[40], A[1] ), and therefore the fear which will remain in glory is not opposed to hope. In the lost there can be fear of punishment, rather than hope of glory in the Blessed. Because in the lost there will be a succession of punishments, so that the notion of something future remains there, which is the object of fear: but the glory of the saints has no succession, by reason of its being a kind of participation of eternity, wherein there is neither past nor future, but only the present. And yet, properly speaking, neither in the lost is there fear. For, as stated above (Q[42], A[2]), fear is never without some hope of escape: and the lost have no such hope. Consequently neither will there be fear in them; except speaking in a general way, in so far as any expectation of future evil is called fear. Reply to Objection 3: As to the glory of the soul, there can be no desire in the Blessed, in so far as desire looks for something future, for the reason already given (ad 2). Yet hunger and thirst are said to be in them because they never weary, and for the same reason desire is said to be in the angels. With regard to the glory of the body, there can be desire in the souls of the saints, but not hope, properly speaking; neither as a theological virtue, for thus its object is God, and not a created good; nor in its general signification. Because the object of hope is something difficult, as stated above ([1645]Q[40], A[1]): while a good whose unerring cause we already possess, is not compared to us as something difficult. Hence he that has money is not, properly speaking, said to hope for what he can buy at once. In like manner those who have the glory of the soul are not, properly speaking, said to hope for the glory of the body, but only to desire it.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  From Him there comes the evil of punishment, but this is evil not absolutely but relatively, and, absolutely speaking, is a good. Because, since a thing is said to be good through being ordered to an end, while evil implies lack of this order, that which excludes the order to the last end is altogether evil, and such is the evil of fault. On the other hand the evil of punishment is indeed an evil, in so far as it is the privation of some particular good, yet absolutely speaking, it is a good, in so far as it is ordained to the last end. In relation to God the evil of fault can come to us, if we be separated from Him: and in this way God can and ought to be feared. Reply to Objection 1: This objection considers the object of fear as being the evil which a man shuns. Reply to Objection 2: In God, we may consider both His justice, in respect of which He punishes those who sin, and His mercy, in respect of which He sets us free: in us the consideration of His justice gives rise to fear, but the consideration of His mercy gives rise to hope, so that, accordingly, God is the object of both hope and fear, but under different aspects. Reply to Objection 3: The evil of fault is not from God as its author but from us, in for far as we forsake God: while the evil of punishment is from God as its author, in so far as it has character of a good, since it is something just, through being inflicted on us justly; although originally this is due to the demerit of sin: thus it is written (Wis. 1:13, 16): “God made not death . . . but the wicked with works and words have called it to them.” Whether fear is fittingly divided into filial, initial, servile and worldly fear?Objection 1: It would seem that fear is unfittingly divided into filial, initial, servile and worldly fear. For Damascene says (De Fide Orth. ii, 15) that there are six kinds of fear, viz. “laziness, shamefacedness,” etc. of which we have treated above ([2458]FS, Q[41], A[4]), and which are not mentioned in the division in question. Therefore this division of fear seems unfitting. Objection 2: Further, each of these fears is either good or evil. But there is a fear, viz. natural fear, which is neither morally good, since it is in the demons, according to James 2:19, “The devils . . . believe and tremble,” nor evil, since it is in Christ, according to Mk. 14:33, Jesus “began to fear and be heavy.” Therefore the aforesaid division of fear is insufficient.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  In the summer camp, this feeling of being unique was badly shattered the very first day. We were awakened too early, when our limbs were still numb, by the gruff voice of a soldier. I was terrified not to find myself in my accustomed bed and my gaze sought in vain the green bars of our window, which seemed to retreat prodigiously to the far end of a vastly expanded room. Our wall that was distempered blue and always seemed so familiar and soft had become ugly beneath a coat of coarse brown paint. Without being at all ill-natured, the soldier was shouting at us that we were a bunch of lazy kids and that we would have to make our own beds and be ready in a quarter of an hour if we wanted him to give us any breakfast. After that, he left the room and I began to recall the dreadful trip, discovering that I had become an anonymous little boy, far from his parents, in this shivering dawn, among a crowd of other little boys, all as roughly awakened as I. The soldier hadn’t even scolded me as an individual. I had to make my bed, like all the others, and lost my head when I saw the huge bundle of sheets and blankets. At what end should I begin? I never had imagined that I would one day have to make my own bed for that was a woman’s job. Almost weeping, I asked my neighbor for help. He was a Mohammedan kid, and just as helpless as I. The paradise that we had expected was turning out to be a boarding school for foundlings and wards of the nation. We were expected, besides, to sweep the dormitories, to help in the kitchen, and to keep our own kit in order. We shared the tasteless chow of the army, with its heavy portions of starches that were either badly prepared or cooked too long, and its gravies of inferior quality. The only ones who took to this life easily were the kids from public institutions. These I despised and pitied because of their frightful lack of parents, and I feared them because they were so brutal. We never associated with them and they seemed to ignore us too. The very first day, it was explained to me in a whisper: “They have no parents, and that’s why they’re like that.” They were indeed different, not like us, nor do I rely, for this, on distorted memories. Each time I have had to do with children from public institutions, I have experienced this same shifty laughter and brutality, these expressions of loneliness and privation. I at least had parents, though I was away from them for the time being. But the mere faculty of being able to reduce the distance between us by thinking of my father, of my mother, of our alley, this gave my heart some security and balance.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  But the mere threat had bound me closely to the victim and made me feel all the terrors of a real calvary. I could feel the anguish of the small boy who, all trembling, was now being carried, like the sacrificial lamb, on the shoulders of our supervisor. How would I ever be able to forget his distraught eyes and rejoice now with all the other boys? The procession began to form and, in the greenish light of the dark old synagogue, behind our improvised high priest who was bearing the live offering up to the altar, a most unusual line was already marching past. In single file, with serious expressions on their faces, the children went slowly, raising their faces as if in ecstasy toward the tabernacle that contained the sacred scrolls. The tiny blinking lights of the mortuary lamps hung close together all along the walls and surrounded the procession with a solemn lighting that gave it the same shadows as all the ceremonies of our elders. The children might indeed be playing, but their shadows were the same as all those of their fathers and their ancestors. Surely, the old synagogue was being deceived and was vesting in them all the solemnity of which it was capable. My heart beat faster, under the pressure of fear and confused emotion. What was going to happen to the poor child, my God, what was going to happen to him? Were they really going to cut off his penis? The mere thought of it gave me a vague but not unpleasant pain in my own loins. My body, as usual, was going ahead of me, already in tune with the ceremony. The older boys began to sing the ritual for circumcision while the rest of the crowd, in unison, repeated it. The younger kids were singing, with their shrill voices, in tones of respect, but quite calmly and without being exaggeratedly abject. The chant offered to the Lord Jehovah the new sacrificial offering that we bore, and reminded him, on this occasion, of the Covenant and of His own duties towards His people. They all smiled with a certain dignity, raising their heads whenever this was required, lowering their gaze whenever the text ordered it. This was exactly as our fathers did it, and we were all rehearsing our own future parts. But I was both ashamed and scared, as I have said, and even today I’m to a great extent disgusted and horrified, but I still cannot manage to feel entirely alien to this procession, not in any way accessory to this sacrifice that is constantly repeated.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  When his parents returned, we agreed to explore whether there might be a traumatic charge still associated with this recent experience. We all gathered in the cabin where I was staying. With parents, grandparents and Sammy watching, I placed his stuffed Pooh Bear on the edge of a chair in such a way that it fell to the floor. Sammy shrieked, bolted for the door and ran across a footbridge and down a narrow path to the creek. Our suspicions were confirmed. His most recent visit to the hospital was neither harmless nor forgotten. Sammy’s behavior told us that this game was potentially overwhelming for him. Sammy’s parents brought him back from the creek. He clung dearly to his mother as we prepared for another game. We reassured him that we would all be there to help protect Pooh Bear. Again he ran—but this time only into the next room. We followed him in there and waited to see what would happen next. Sammy ran to the bed and hit it with both arms while looking at me expectantly. “Mad, huh?” I said. He gave me a look that confirmed my question. Interpreting his expression as a go-ahead sign, I put Pooh Bear under a blanket and placed Sammy on the bed next to him. “Sammy, let’s all help Pooh Bear.” I held Pooh Bear under the blanket and asked everyone to help. Sammy watched with interest but soon got up and ran to his mother. With his arms held tightly around her legs, he said, “Mommy, I’m scared.”q Without pressuring him, we waited until Sammy was ready and willing to play the game again. The next time, grandma and Pooh Bear were held down together, and Sammy actively participated in their rescue. When Pooh Bear was freed, Sammy ran to his mother, clinging even more tightly than before. He began to tremble and shake in fear, and then, dramatically, his chest expanded in a growing sense of excitement and pride. Here we see the transition between traumatic reenactment and healing play. The next time he held on to his mommy, there was less clinging and more excited jumping. We waited until Sammy was ready to play again. Everyone except Sammy took a turn being rescued with Pooh Bear. Each time, Sammy became more vigorous as he pulled off the blanket and escaped into the safety of his mother’s arms.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  On the other hand, sin can be the punishment of sin accidentally in three ways. First, when one sin is the cause of another, by removing an impediment thereto. For passions, temptations of the devil, and the like are causes of sin, but are impeded by the help of Divine grace which is withdrawn on account of sin. Wherefore since the withdrawal of grace is a punishment, and is from God, as stated above ([1893]Q[79], A[3]), the result is that the sin which ensues from this is also a punishment accidentally. It is in this sense that the Apostle speaks (Rom. 1:24) when he says: “Wherefore God gave them up to the desires of their heart,” i.e. to their passions; because, to wit, when men are deprived of the help of Divine grace, they are overcome by their passions. In this way sin is always said to be the punishment of a preceding sin. Secondly, by reason of the substance of the act, which is such as to cause pain, whether it be an interior act, as is clearly the case with anger or envy, or an exterior act, as is the case with one who endures considerable trouble and loss in order to achieve a sinful act, according to Wis. 5:7: “We wearied ourselves in the way of iniquity.” Thirdly, on the part of the effect, so that one sin is said to be a punishment by reason of its effect. In the last two ways, a sin is a punishment not only in respect of a preceding sin, but also with regard to itself. Reply to Objection 1: Even when God punishes men by permitting them to fall into sin, this is directed to the good of virtue. Sometimes indeed it is for the good of those who are punished, when, to wit, men arise from sin, more humble and more cautious. But it is always for the amendment of others, who seeing some men fall from sin to sin, are the more fearful of sinning. With regard to the other two ways, it is evident that the punishment is intended for the sinner’s amendment, since the very fact that man endures toil and loss in sinning, is of a nature to withdraw man from sin. Reply to Objection 2: This objection considers sin essentially as such: and the same answer applies to the Third Objection. Whether any sin incurs a debt of eternal punishment?Objection 1: It would seem that no sin incurs a debt of eternal punishment. For a just punishment is equal to the fault, since justice is equality: wherefore it is written (Is. 27:8): “In measure against measure, when it shall be cast off, thou shalt judge it.” Now sin is temporal. Therefore it does not incur a debt of eternal punishment.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  We had always “treated” each other, spoken past each other, each of us fearing, controlling, deceiving the other. I’m certain that’s why I had always wanted to speak honestly and directly to Paula. And why I hated being forced to “treat” her falsely. The night after the funeral, I had a powerful dream. My mother and many of her friends and relatives, all dead, are seated very quietly on a flight of stairs. I hear my mother’s voice calling—shrieking—my name. I am particularly aware of Aunt Minny, sitting on the top stair, who is very still. Then she begins to move, slowly at first, then more and more quickly until she is vibrating faster than a bumblebee. At that point everyone on the stairs, all the big people of my childhood, all dead, begin to vibrate. My Uncle Abe reaches out to pinch my cheek, clucking, “Darling Sonny,” as he used to do. Then others reach out for my cheeks. At first affectionate, the pinching grows fierce and painful. I awake in terror, cheeks throbbing, at three A.M. The dream depicted a duel with death. First, I am called by my dead mother and see all the dead of my family sitting in eerie stillness on the stairs. Then I try to negate deathly quiescence by infusing the dead with the movement of life. I especially note my Aunt Minny, who had died the year before after a cataclysmic stroke had left her completely paralyzed for several months, unable to move a muscle in her body aside from her eyes. In the dream Minny begins to move but quickly veers out of control and into frenzy. Next I try to alleviate my dread of the dead by imagining them affectionately pinching my cheeks. But that dread breaks through once again, the pinching grows fierce and malignant, and I am overwhelmed with death anxiety. The image of my aunt vibrating like a bumblebee haunted me for days. I couldn’t shake it loose. Perhaps, I thought, it is a message telling me that my own frenzied life pace is but a clumsy attempt to quell death anxiety. Is the dream not telling me to slow down and attend to the things I really value? The idea of value brought Paula back to my mind. Why hadn’t I called her? She was one who had faced death and stared it down. I remembered the way she had guided the meditation at the end of our meetings: her eyes fixed on the candle flame, her sonorous voice leading all of us into deeper, quieter regions. Had I ever told her how much those moments meant to me? So many things I had never said to her. I would say them now. On the flight home from my mother’s funeral, I resolved to renew my friendship with her.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  I answer that, When Christ shall come to judge He will appear in the form of glory, on account of the authority becoming a judge. Now it pertains to the dignity of judicial power to have certain signs that induce people to reverence and subjection: and consequently many signs will precede the advent of Christ when He shall come to judgment, in order that the hearts of men be brought to subjection to the coming judge, and be prepared for the judgment, being forewarned by those signs. But it is not easy to know what these signs may be: for the signs of which we read in the gospels, as Augustine says, writing to Hesychius about the end of the world (Ep. lxxx), refer not only to Christ’s coming to judgment, but also to the time of the sack of Jerusalem, and to the coming of Christ in ceaselessly visiting His Church. So that, perhaps, if we consider them carefully, we shall find that none of them refers to the coming advent, as he remarks: because these signs that are mentioned in the gospels, such as wars, fears, and so forth, have been from the beginning of the human race: unless perhaps we say that at that time they will be more prevalent: although it is uncertain in what degree this increase will foretell the imminence of the advent. The signs mentioned by Jerome are not asserted by him; he merely says that he found them written in the annals of the Hebrews: and, indeed, they contain very little likelihood. Reply to Objection 1: According to Augustine (Ad Hesych., Ep. lxxx) towards the end of the world there will be a general persecution of the good by the wicked: so that at the same time some will fear, namely the good, and some will be secure, namely the wicked. The words: “When they shall say: Peace and security,” refer to the wicked, who will pay little heed to the signs of the coming judgment: while the words of Lk. 21:26, “men withering away,” etc., should be referred to the good. We may also reply that all these signs that will happen about the time of the judgment are reckoned to occur within the time occupied by the judgment, so that the judgment day contains them all. Wherefore although men be terrified by the signs appearing about the judgment day, yet before those signs begin to appear the wicked will think themselves to be in peace and security, after the death of Antichrist and before the coming of Christ, seeing that the world is not at once destroyed, as they thought hitherto. Reply to Objection 2: The day of the Lord is said to come as a thief, because the exact time is not known, since it will not be possible to know it from those signs: although, as we have already said, all these most manifest sings which will precede the judgment immediately may be comprised under the judgment day.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Objection 3: Further, of all dangers a good man fears most that which affects his good name. But the fear of disgrace is not reckoned to influence a constant man, because, according to the law (vii, ff, de eo quod metus, etc.), “fear of disgrace is not included under the ordinance, ‘That which is done through fear’” [*Dig. iv, 2, Quod metus causa]. Therefore neither does any other kind of fear influence a constant man. Objection 4: Further, in him who is compelled by fear, fear leaves a sin, for it makes him promise what he is unwilling to fulfill, and thus it makes him lie. But a constant man does not commit a sin, not even a very slight one, for fear. Therefore no fear influences a constant man. On the contrary, Abraham and Isaac were constant. Yet they were influenced by fear, since on account of fear each said that his wife was his sister (Gn. 12:12; 26:7). Further, wherever there is mixed violence, it is fear that compels. But however constant a man may be he may suffer violence of that kind, for if he be on the sea, he will throw his merchandise overboard if menaced with shipwreck. Therefore fear can influence a constant man. I answer that, By fear influencing a man we mean his being compelled by fear. A man is compelled by fear when he does that which otherwise he would not wish to do, in order to avoid that which he fears. Now the constant differs from the inconstant man in two respects. First, in respect of the quality of the danger feared, because the constant man follows right reason, whereby he knows whether to omit this rather than that, and whether to do this rather than that. Now the lesser evil or the greater good is always to be chosen in preference; and therefore the constant man is compelled to bear with the lesser evil through fear of the greater evil, but he is not compelled to bear with the greater evil in order to avoid the lesser. But the inconstant man is compelled to bear with the greater evil through fear of a lesser evil, namely to commit sin through fear of bodily suffering; whereas on the contrary the obstinate man cannot be compelled even to permit or to do a lesser evil, in order to avoid a greater. Hence the constant man is a mean between the inconstant and the obstinate. Secondly, they differ as to their estimate of the threatening evil, for a constant man is not compelled unless for grave and probable reasons, while the inconstant man is compelled by trifling motives: “The wicked man seeth when no man pursueth” (Prov. 28:1).

• From Laid and Confused: Why We Tolerate Bad Sex and How to Stop (2023)

  “Since many of us were shamed in childhood either in our families of origin or in school settings, a learned pattern of going along with the program and not making a fuss is the course of action we most frequently choose as a way to avoid conflict. As children, conflict was often the setting for put-downs and humiliation, the place where we were shamed. Many of us learned that passivity lessened the possibility of attack.” —bell hooks, All About Love “If I don’t like how somebody is going down on me, I don’t know how to explain the correction. I don’t know how to teach that skill. I think one of the biggest things we’re not taught is how to communicate, but men aren’t taught how to figure it out either. I would like to be able to explain how to do things right and what I prefer. But even better and more efficient would be for the guy to try and check in with me and see what’s working. I’ve never been with anyone who has done that.” —Charlotte, cis bi woman, 31 It was the night I planned to lose my microvirginity, and I was terrified. “Microvirginity” is what I came to call a yearlong period of sexlessness, my longest stretch since puberty. While I struggled with the absence of human touch and intimacy, I was mostly grateful for the break. For one, it had freed up more time for creative projects, like making bread one single time. But more powerfully, I sensed a dulling of that bone-deep longing I ordinarily had for sex to fulfill everything—to validate my worth, to boost my serotonin, to tell me I’m pretty. Without sex or harebrained romantic entanglements, I learned to scavenge for these things on my own, providing for myself the best I could. If I felt the urge to text an ex, I sat with that urge, then changed course by FaceTiming a friend: there, a serotonin boost. If I longed for superficial validation, I sat with that urge, then posted a selfie to Instagram Story using a filter that gives you rhinoplasty and cheek fillers: there, some dads called me pretty. Eventually, the time came to retest sex. With a newfound distaste for bullshit, antics, and shenanigans, I realized I wanted sex, for sex’s sake. Anticipating my third date with a guy I liked, set to take place at my home under the pretense of watching a movie, I recognized an opportunity to apply everything I’d learned about myself and my sexuality to the act itself. I was nervous and excited. There would be a human penis inside me, a human penis attached to a human person for whom I had romantic, sexual feelings. I spent the day tidying my apartment, tracking down loose coins and pills in furniture crevices, shaving my body, worrying—I’d spent half a year researching bad sex. Could I really have sex that was less bad? On the night of the show?

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  Nevertheless, like a tracked animal, I thought first of saving my own skin. I relied on what connections I had among the French and on my admiration for France. It is not easy to believe in the betrayal of a myth. First, I put my papers in order and hid some vaguely political writings in the laundry-room; then I piously buried in Henry’s garden a number of poems that were almost finished and many more drafts. I’m not quite sure what it was I most feared, whether the bombings, the inquisitive hands of the children, or German police-raids. Not once did it occur to me that I might never come back. Then I started to move. I went to all the people I could count on. Luckily, at the head of my list was one of the highest French dignitaries in the country. Until the eve of the German invasion, I had been his son’s tutor. An incident to which I had not given its full meaning now came back to me. One day, quite recently, he had sent for me in his office. I had gone full of respect and proud to be able to tell the guard on duty that I had an appointment with His Excellency. He was an aristocrat in the diplomatic service of the Republic, tall, dry, theatrical, with white hair, fine features, and a discreet voice and gestures which greatly impressed me. I myself was incapable of speaking without becoming excited and of expressing myself without movements of my whole body, so that I admired men who could be brief and speak with no agitation. He wanted to know about his son’s work. At the end of our talk, he thanked me and said I could come and see him if ever I needed him. At the time, I did not realize the importance of these words. I was grateful that so important a personality should allow me to have recourse to his influence on my behalf, and the simplicity of his manner had impressed me. On another occasion, I had been received by his wife. I had never approached a woman of such high rank. I left full of wonder for the perfect balance between her simplicity and dignity, for her elocution, her manner, her reserve, her blond hair, her fine features and hands, and for Heaven knows what else. It seemed that the splendid idea I had of French culture was all contained in one exalted individual.

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

  There is no need to call to mind the whole theory of consciousness in order to understand this principle clearly. A few simple observations will suffice, and it is remarkable that the psychologists of emotion have never thought of making them. It is obvious indeed that the man who is frightened is afraid of something. Even if it is a case of one of those indefinite anxieties that one feels in the dark, in a sinister and deserted alley, etc., it is still of certain aspects of the night, or of the world, that one is afraid. And without doubt, all the psychologists have noted that emotion is touched off by some perception — a representative signal, etc. But for them, as it appears, emotion then parts company with the object to become absorbed in itself. Little reflection is needed to discover that, on the contrary, emotion returns to the object every moment and feeds upon it. They describe flight in fear, for instance, as though the flight were not first and foremost a flight from a certain object, as though that object did not remain constantly in the act of flight as its theme, the reason for it, as what one is fleeing from. And how can we speak about anger, in which one strikes, reviles and threatens, without mentioning the person who represents the objective unity of all those insults, menaces and blows? In a word, the emotional subject and the object of the emotion are united in an indissoluble synthesis. Emotion is a specific manner of apprehending the world. That is what Dembo alone has a glimpse of, although he does not give a reason for it. The subject who is seeking the solution of a practical problem is outside in the world, he is aware of the world at every moment throughout all his actions. If he fails in his attempt and grows irritated, the irritation itself is still a way in which the world appears to him. And it is not necessary that the subject, between his failure in action and his anger, should turn back upon himself and interpose a reflective consciousness, There may be continuous passage from the nonreflective consciousness 'instrumental world' (action) to the non-reflective consciousness 'hateful world' (anger). The latter is a transformation of the former.

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

  Secondly, that the consciousness is caught in its own snare. Precisely because it is living in the new aspect of the world by believing in it, the consciousness is captured by its own belief, exactly as it is in dreams and hysteria. The consciousness of the emotion is captive, but by this it must not be understood to be fettered by anything whatever outside itself. It is captive to itself in this sense — that it does not dominate the belief that it is doing its utmost to live, and this precisely because it is living that belief and is absorbed in living it. It must not be imagined that consciousness is spontaneous in the sense that it is always free to deny a thing and to affirm it at one and the same moment. Such a spontaneity would be self-contradictory. It is of the essence of consciousness to transcend itself, and it is therefore impossible for it to withdraw within itself and to doubt whether it is outside in the object. It knows itself only in the world. And doubt, of its very nature, can be nothing but the constitution of an existential quality of the object; the doubtful, or the reflective activity of reduction — that is, the property of a new consciousness directed towards the positional consciousness. Thus, when consciousness is living the magical world into which it has precipitated itself, it tends to perpetuate that world, by which it is captivated: the emotion tends to perpetuate itself. It is in this sense that we may say it is undergone; the consciousness is moved by its emotion and heightens it. The faster one flees the more one is afraid. The magical world appears, takes form, and then closes in on the consciousness and clutches it: it cannot even wish to escape, it may seek to flee from the magical object, but to flee from it is to give it more magical reality than ever. And this very condition of captivity is not in itself realized by the consciousness, which attributes it to the objects — it is they that are captivating, imprisoning it, they have taken possession of the consciousness. Liberation can come only from a purifying reflection or from the total disappearance of the emotional situation.

• From The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma (2014)

  Flooded by Sensations and ImagesOn February 11, 2001, Julian was serving as a military policeman at an air force base. During his daily phone conversation with his girlfriend, Rachel, she mentioned a lead article she’d read that morning in the Boston Globe. A priest named Shanley was under suspicion for molesting children. Hadn’t Julian once told her about a Father Shanley who had been his parish priest back in Newton? “Did he ever do anything to you?” she asked. Julian initially recalled Father Shanley as a kind man who’d been very supportive after his parents got divorced. But as the conversation went on, he started to go into a panic. He suddenly saw Shanley silhouetted in a doorframe, his hands stretched out at forty-five degrees, staring at Julian as he urinated. Overwhelmed by emotion, he told Rachel, “I’ve got to go.” He called his flight chief, who came over accompanied by the first sergeant. After he met with the two of them, they took him to the base chaplain. Julian recalls telling him: “Do you know what is going on in Boston? It happened to me, too.” The moment he heard himself say those words, he knew for certain that Shanley had molested him—even though he did not remember the details. Julian felt extremely embarrassed about being so emotional; he had always been a strong kid who kept things to himself. That night he sat on the corner of his bed, hunched over, thinking he was losing his mind and terrified that he would be locked up. Over the subsequent week images kept flooding into his mind, and he was afraid of breaking down completely. He thought about taking a knife and plunging it into his leg just to stop the mental pictures. Then the panic attacks started to be accompanied by seizures, which he called “epileptic fits.” He scratched his body until he bled. He constantly felt hot, sweaty, and agitated. Between panic attacks he “felt like a zombie”; he was observing himself from a distance, as if what he was experiencing were actually happening to somebody else. In April he received an administrative discharge, just ten days short of being eligible to receive full benefits. When Julian entered my office almost a year later, I saw a handsome, muscular guy who looked depressed and defeated. He told me immediately that he felt terrible about having left the air force. He had wanted to make it his career, and he’d always received excellent evaluations. He loved the challenges and the teamwork, and he missed the structure of the military lifestyle.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  I kept a diary regularly, and it filled three books, but if I were to try to sum up this period today I would not be able to do it. Naturally, there were the few episodes of sheer horror that I can never forget. The vision, for instance, of a comrade who, stripped to the waist and attached to a wrecked tank, had become delirious in the middle of the night. And the sight too of the two machine gun volleys at night, one of which killed a wretched escaping worker while the other killed poor Basmouth in his own excrement because he had dared to leave his tent during curfew. Then there was also the stupid allied Spitfire attack which, having spared the guards, left two perfectly silent corpses in the middle of the deathly consternation of the landscape; and a few other incidents besides. But on the whole, this period remains a solid and alien block within my memory. Events helped to speed my decision. The Germans were yielding ground every day with their backs to the sea, and the camps accordingly retreated northwards. In two months we moved five times and were obviously becoming useless. Rumor had it, and this was confirmed by discreet information in letters we received, that we were to be shipped to Germany. We dared not consider the more probable alternative of extermination on the spot, but we were reminded of it by a Czech noncommissioned officer in a German uniform whose Volkswagen we retrieved from a ditch. He confirmed the signs of the coming Nazi collapse and the preparations for a retreat. The Germans no longer had enough ships and would certainly not set us free. We should therefore expect the worst and escape immediately. One morning, we thought the hour for our mass executions had struck. The whistle which usually roused us at dawn failed to sound. From habit we awoke at the same hour, surprised at such a respite. Soon the camp began to buzz, but no one moved, of course, so as to avoid the beginning of work. We formulated hundreds of suppositions as to the cause of our luck: our whistling guard had had a stroke, Germany had been defeated, the Nazis had suddenly become humanitarian, our guards had all gone out of their minds together... We joked as though we were in a holiday camp, and we had difficulty in refraining from pillow fights. At last, as time passed, we risked a few steps outside the tents. Our new camp was on a bare slope with an open horizon at the bottom of the valley. The army huts had been built a few yards higher up; to get out of their field of vision and escape being shot, one would have to run for several miles. Up there, nothing had moved.

• From The Pillar of Salt (1953)

  My mother ran to the grocer’s just as the store was closing down. Then we barricaded our doors and windows, the front door with two bars of wrought iron. After that, we sat and listened for any unusual sounds. But we were far from the ghetto and could only study the deathly silence of our own neighborhood, periodically broken by the rattling noise of empty streetcars. My father had an occupation for such stay-in periods: he then made heavy canvas feed bags for horses. From time to time, he dropped his work and rushed to the window. As he grew paler, I recognized on his face the marks of the terror which he had transmitted to me in my earliest childhood. Will I ever be able to rid myself of that cold clamminess at the back of my neck, and of the absurd feeling of being paralyzed and disarmed in the face of a humiliating death? It was in high school that I discovered how painful it is to be a Jew. Until then, the world had been alien to me, hostile of course, but no more so than anything unknown. I was not the cause of my own suffering, I did not feel alien to myself as I do today. Can I make myself more clear? Anti-Semitism seemed to be a characteristic of the others, much as they might have a way of speaking or of dressing. They were not Jews, as I was, so they were anti-Semites. Naturally, it was not very pleasant, but no less so than the brutality of Sicilians or the prerogatives of the French. It did not fit any particular characteristic of my own, for I did not feel Jewish in any way that might provoke anti-Semitism. In short, I felt neither accused nor guilty. In high school, I began to suffer because they forced me to ask myself what I was. This problem never could have arisen at the Alliance School where we had all been Jews, all but a tiny minority which had soon been reduced to discretion. But in high school a constant flow of remarks made me ponder the problem of the ideal Jew and forced me to study myself in order to discover in me the typical characteristics. Such introspection calls up ghosts, and through sheer rebelliousness, I defended my own ghosts and thus assured them an existence of their own. I, an artisan’s son and poor, defended merchants and financiers in the presence of non-Jews, trying to explain historically why some Jews went into trade as though I had personally been responsible for Jewish trade and believed that non-Jewish trades were indeed more acceptable. As I condemned Jewish trade, I attacked it in the face of Jews, too, but far more virulently than the anti-Semites did and more openly. This insidious and argumentative form of racial prejudice, disguised as objectivity, was tolerated by my upper-middle-class Jewish classmates.

• From Momma and the Meaning of Life (1999)

  “You’re making my blood run cold, Artemis!” Ernest exclaimed. “That was my dream. Dreams are a private domain, each person’s most private, sovereign sanctuary. How could you know my dream?” Artemis sat silent, head bowed. “And so many other questions, Artemis. The depth of my feelings that evening—that magical glow, that irresistible desire. Not to take anything away from you and your charm, but that desire was of an unnatural intensity. Could it have been chemical? Maybe the chanterelles?” Artemis bowed her head lower. “And then when we were in bed, I touched your cheek. Why were you weeping? I felt wonderful; I thought it was mutual. Why the tears? Why pain for you?” “I wasn’t crying for me, Ernest, but for you. And not because of what had happened between us—that was wonderful for me too. No, I wept because of what was about to happen to you.” “About to happen? Am I going mad? This is getting worse and worse. Artemis, tell me the truth!” “I don’t think the truth will satisfy you, Ernest.” “Try me. Trust me.” Artemis stood up, left the room briefly, and returned with a vellum folder from which she extracted a sheaf of paper, yellowed and old. “The truth? The truth is here,” she said, holding it out, “in this letter my grandmother wrote a long time ago to my mother, Magda. It’s dated June 13, 1931. Shall I read it to you, Ernest?” He nodded. And, by the light of three candles as the redolent food waited in its containers, Ernest listened to Artemis’s grandmother’s story, the story behind his dream. To Magda, my dear daughter, on her seventeenth birthday, in the hope that this message is neither too late nor too early. It is time for you to know the answers to the important questions in your life. Where have we come from? Why have you been uprooted so many times? Who and where is your father? Why have I sent you away and not kept you with me? The family history, which I write here, is something you must know and must pass on to your daughters.

• From The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma (2014)

  As I got to know Annie, I inferred from the notes she wrote and the drawings she gave me that she had been dreadfully abused by both her father and her mother as a very young child. The full story was only gradually revealed, as she slowly learned to call up some of the things that had happened to her without her body being hijacked into uncontrollable anxiety. I learned that Annie was extraordinarily skilled and caring in her work with special-needs kids. (I tried out quite a few of the techniques she told me about with the children in our own clinic and found them extremely helpful). She would talk freely about the children she taught but would clam up immediately if we verged on her relationships with adults. I knew she was married, but she barely mentioned her husband. She often coped with disagreements and confrontations by making her mind disappear. When she felt overwhelmed she’d cut her arms and breasts with a razor blade. She had spent years in various forms of therapy and had tried many different medications, which had done little to help her deal with the imprints of her horrendous past. She had also been admitted to several psychiatric hospitals to manage her self-destructive behaviors, again without much apparent benefit. In our early therapy sessions, because Annie could only hint at what she was feeling and thinking before she would shut down and freeze, we focused on calming the physiological chaos within. We used every technique that I had learned over the years, like breathing with a focus on the out breath, which activates the relaxing parasympathetic nervous system. I also taught her to use her fingers to tap a sequence of acupressure points on various parts of her body, a practice often taught under the name EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique), which has been shown to help patients stay within the window of tolerance and often has positive effects on PTSD symptoms.[1] The Legacy of Inescapable ShockBecause we can now identify the brain circuits involved in the alarm system, we know, more or less, what was happening in Annie’s brain as she sat that first day in my waiting room: Her smoke detector, her amygdala, had been rewired to interpret certain situations as harbingers of life-threatening danger, and it was sending urgent signals to her survival brain to fight, freeze, or flee. Annie had all these reactions simultaneously—she was visibly agitated and mentally shut down.