Gratitude

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  But Thou, Lord, abidest for ever, yet not for ever art Thou angry with us; because Thou pitiest our dust and ashes, and it was pleasing in Thy sight to reform my deformities; and by inward goads didst Thou rouse me, that I should be ill at ease, until Thou wert manifested to my inward sight. Thus, by the secret hand of Thy medicining was my swelling abated, and the troubled and bedimmed eyesight of my mind, by the smarting anointings of healthful sorrows, was from day to day healed. And Thou, willing first to show me how Thou resistest the proud, but givest grace unto the humble, and by how great an act of Thy mercy Thou hadst traced out to men the way of humility, in that Thy Word was made flesh, and dwelt among men:—Thou procuredst for me, by means of one puffed up with most unnatural pride, certain books of the Platonists, translated from Greek into Latin. And therein I read, not indeed in the very words, but to the very same purpose, enforced by many and divers reasons, that In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God: the Same was in the beginning with God: all things were made by Him, and without Him was nothing made: that which was made by Him is life, and the life was the light of men, and the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not. And that the soul of man, though it bears witness to the light, yet itself is not that light; but the Word of God, being God, is that true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world. And that He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, and the world knew Him not. But, that He came unto His own, and His own received Him not; but as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God, as many as believed in His name; this I read not there.

• From Wild (2012)

  I did not so much look like a woman who had spent the past three weeks backpacking in the wilderness as I did like a woman who had been the victim of a violent and bizarre crime. Bruises that ranged in color from yellow to black lined my arms and legs, my back and rump, as if I'd been beaten with sticks. My hips and shoulders were covered with blisters and rashes, inflamed welts and dark scabs where my skin had broken open from being chafed by my pack. Beneath the bruises and wounds and dirt I could see new ridges of muscle, my flesh taut in places that had recently been soft. I filled the tub with water and got in and scrubbed myself with a washcloth and soap. Within a few minutes, the water became so dark with the dirt and blood that washed off my body that I drained it and filled it up again. In the second bath of water I reclined, feeling more grateful than perhaps I ever had for anything. After a while, I examined my feet. They were blistered and battered, a couple of my toenails entirely blackened by now. I touched one and saw that it had come almost entirely loose from my toe. That toe had been excruciating for days, growing ever more swollen, as if my toenail would simply pop off, but now it only hurt a little. When I tugged on the nail, it came off in my hand with one sharp shot of pain. In its place there was a layer of something over my toe that wasn't quite skin or nail. It was translucent and slightly shiny, like a tiny piece of Saran Wrap.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  And Thou sentest Thine hand from above, and drewest my soul out of that profound darkness, my mother, Thy faithful one, weeping to Thee for me, more than mothers weep the bodily deaths of their children. For she, by that faith and spirit which she had from Thee, discerned the death wherein I lay, and Thou heardest her, O Lord; Thou heardest her, and despisedst not her tears, when streaming down, they watered the ground under her eyes in every place where she prayed; yea Thou heardest her. For whence was that dream whereby Thou comfortedst her; so that she allowed me to live with her, and to eat at the same table in the house, which she had begun to shrink from, abhorring and detesting the blasphemies of my error? For she saw herself standing on a certain wooden rule, and a shining youth coming towards her, cheerful and smiling upon her, herself grieving, and overwhelmed with grief. But he having (in order to instruct, as is their wont not to be instructed) enquired of her the causes of her grief and daily tears, and she answering that she was bewailing my perdition, he bade her rest contented, and told her to look and observe, “That where she was, there was I also.” And when she looked, she saw me standing by her in the same rule. Whence was this, but that Thine ears were towards her heart? O Thou Good omnipotent, who so carest for every one of us, as if Thou caredst for him only; and so for all, as if they were but one!

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Christianity, indeed, does not come "with observation." Its deepest workings are silent and inward. The operations of divine grace commonly shun the notice of the historian, and await their revelation on the great day of account, when all that is secret shall be made known. Who can measure the depth and breadth of all those blessed experiences of forgiveness, peace, gratitude, trust in God, love for God and love for man, humility and meekness, patience and resignation, which have bloomed as vernal flowers on the soil of the renewed heart since the first Christian Pentecost? Who can tell the number and the fervor of Christian prayers and intercessions which have gone up from lonely chambers, caves, deserts, and martyrs’ graves in the silent night and the open day, for friends and foes, for all classes of mankind, even for cruel persecutors, to the throne of the exalted Saviour? But where this Christian life has taken root in the depths of the soul it must show itself in the outward conduct, and exert an elevating influence on every calling and sphere of action. The Christian morality surpassed all that the noblest philosophers of heathendom had ever taught or labored for as the highest aim of man. The masterly picture of it in the anonymous Epistle to Diognetus is no mere fancy sketch, but a faithful copy from real life.600

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The crown of Plutarch’s character is his humility, which was so very rare among ancient philosophers, especially the Stoics, and which comes from true self-knowledge. He was aware of the native depravity of the soul, which he calls "a storehouse and treasure of many evils and maladies."599 Had he known the true and radical remedy for sin, he would no doubt have accepted it with gratitude. We do not know how far the influence of these saints of ancient paganism, as we may call Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, and Plutarch, extended over the heathens of their age, but we do know that their writings had and still have an elevating and ennobling effect upon Christian readers, and hence we may infer that their teaching and example were among the moral forces that aided rather than hindered the progress and final triumph of Christianity. But this religion alone could bring about such a general and lasting moral reform as they themselves desired. § 94. Christian Morality. The ancient world of classic heathenism, having arrived at the height of its glory, and at the threshold of its decay, had exhausted all the resources of human nature left to itself, and possessed no recuperative force, no regenerative principle. A regeneration of society could only proceed from religion. But the heathen religion had no restraint for vice, no comfort for the poor and oppressed; it was itself the muddy fountain of immorality. God, therefore, who in his infinite mercy desired not the destruction but the salvation of the race, opened in the midst of this hopeless decay of a false religion a pure fountain of holiness, love, and peace, in the only true and universal religion of his Son Jesus Christ. In the cheerless waste of pagan corruption the small and despised band of Christians was an oasis fresh with life and hope. It was the salt of the earth, and the light of the world. Poor in this world’s goods, it bore the imperishable treasures of’ the kingdom of heaven. Meek and lowly in heart, it was destined, according to the promise of the Lord without a stroke of the sword, to inherit the earth. In submission it conquered; by suffering and death it won the crown of life. The superiority of the principles of Christian ethics over the heathen standards of morality even under its most favorable forms is universally admitted. The superiority of the example of Christ over all the heathen sages is likewise admitted. The power of that peerless example was and is now as great as the power of his teaching. It is reflected in every age and every type of purity and goodness. But every period, while it shares in the common virtues and graces, has its peculiar moral physiognomy. The ante-Nicene age excelled in unworldliness, in the heroic endurance of suffering and persecution, in the contempt of death, and the hope of resurrection, in the strong sense of community, and in active benevolence.

• From Little Women (1868)

  After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her. At any rate she deserved both. "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his. "Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself. After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very appropriate and pretty, and Beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needlewoman, and they were finished before anyone got tired of them. Then she wrote a short, simple note, and with Laurie's help, got them smuggled onto the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up. When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed... "Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!" "Oh, Beth, he's sent you..." began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy, but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window. Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  Thou hast taught me, good Father, that to the pure, all things are pure; but that it is evil unto the man that eateth with offence; and, that every creature of Thine is good, and nothing to be refused, which is received with thanksgiving; and that meat commendeth us not to God; and, that no man should judge us in meat or drink; and, that he which eateth, let him not despise him that eateth not; and let not him that eateth not, judge him that eateth. These things have I learned, thanks be to Thee, praise to Thee, my God, my Master, knocking at my ears, enlightening my heart; deliver me out of all temptation. I fear not uncleanness of meat, but the uncleanness of lusting. I know; that Noah was permitted to eat all kind of flesh that was good for food; that Elijah was fed with flesh; that endued with an admirable abstinence, was not polluted by feeding on living creatures, locusts. I know also that Esau was deceived by lusting for lentiles; and that David blamed himself for desiring a draught of water; and that our King was tempted, not concerning flesh, but bread. And therefore the people in the wilderness also deserved to be reproved, not for desiring flesh, but because, in the desire of food, they murmured against the Lord. Placed then amid these temptations, I strive daily against concupiscence in eating and drinking. For it is not of such nature that I can settle on cutting it off once for all, and never touching it afterward, as I could of concubinage. The bridle of the throat then is to be held attempered between slackness and stiffness. And who is he, O Lord, who is not some whit transported beyond the limits of necessity? whoever he is, he is a great one; let him make Thy Name great. But I am not such, for I am a sinful man. Yet do I too magnify Thy name; and He maketh intercession to Thee for my sins who hath overcome the world; numbering me among the weak members of His body; because Thine eyes have seen that of Him which is imperfect, and in Thy book shall all be written.

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  And, I believe, Thou hast already done what I ask; but accept, O Lord, the free-will offerings of my mouth. For she, the day of her dissolution now at hand, took no thought to have her body sumptuously wound up, or embalmed with spices; nor desired she a choice monument, or to be buried in her own land. These things she enjoined us not; but desired only to have her name commemorated at Thy Altar, which she had served without intermission of one day: whence she knew the holy Sacrifice to be dispensed, by which the hand-writing that was against us is blotted out; through which the enemy was triumphed over, who summing up our offences, and seeking what to lay to our charge, found nothing in Him, in Whom we conquer. Who shall restore to Him the innocent blood? Who repay Him the price wherewith He bought us, and so take us from Him? Unto the Sacrament of which our ransom, Thy handmaid bound her soul by the bond of faith. Let none sever her from Thy protection: let neither the lion nor the dragon interpose himself by force or fraud. For she will not answer that she owes nothing, lest she be convicted and seized by the crafty accuser: but she will answer that her sins are forgiven her by Him, to Whom none can repay that price which He, Who owed nothing, paid for us. May she rest then in peace with the husband before and after whom she had never any; whom she obeyed, with patience bringing forth fruit unto Thee, that she might win him also unto Thee. And inspire, O Lord my God, inspire Thy servants my brethren, Thy sons my masters, whom with voice, and heart, and pen I serve, that so many as shall read these Confessions, may at Thy Altar remember Monnica Thy handmaid, with Patricius, her sometimes husband, by whose bodies Thou broughtest me into this life, how I know not. May they with devout affection remember my parents in this transitory light, my brethren under Thee our Father in our Catholic Mother, and my fellow-citizens in that eternal Jerusalem which Thy pilgrim people sigheth after from their Exodus, even unto their return thither. That so my mother’s last request of me, may through my confessions, more than through my prayers, be, through the prayers of many, more abundantly fulfilled to her. Book X

• From Little Women (1868)

  It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie order, but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright pedals. "You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke, for the idea of the child's really going never entered her head. "Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the Laurences' door. "Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right mind," cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite speechless by the miracle. They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice called out, "come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for..." But she didn't finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms round his neck and kissed him. If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished. But he liked it. Oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly! And was so touched and pleased by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was. When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of expressing her satisfaction, Amy nearly fell out of the window in her surprise, and Meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, "Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end." CHAPTER SEVEN AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION "That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.

• From Talk Dirty to Me: An Intimate Philosophy of Sex (1994)

  I was influenced to my own surprise, and in surprising ways, by the written work of Norman O. Brown and William Irwin Thompson. I have also relied over the years on a large body of work created by several feminist scholars, including Carole Vance, Ellen Willis, Ann Snitow, Lisa Duggan, Paula Webster, and Kate Ellis. Both as a writer and a neurotic, I appreciate the depth of humor and clarity of thought in new writing by Leslie Feinberg, Trish Thomas, Cris Gutierrez, Sunah Cherwin, Lani Kaahumanu, and many others. I feel grateful in several ways to the staff of Good Vibrations, a resource beyond measure. I am especially grateful to Harper’s for publishing an early essay by the same name in which I explored many of these ideas, for giving me room in which to find this voice, and for continuing to be the most reliably intelligent magazine in the country. Lastly, I give thanks to Kyogen Carlson for his steady, guiding light. —April, 1994 ContentsCover Other Books by This Author Title Page Copyright Dedication Acknowledgments Epigraph Introduction Part I: Desire Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Part II: Arousal Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Part III: Climax Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Part IV: Resolution Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Epilogue About the Author “and we rose up like wheat, acre after acre of gold and we harvested, we harvested.” —Anne Sexton INTRODUCTIONI wrote Talk Dirty to Me almost twenty years ago. I was in my thirties, and I still found sex bewildering—to be precise, I found my own anxieties and shyness about sex bewildering. Everyone I knew thought about sex, most of us talked about sex, but lucid conversation was hard to find. I have been told that I was brave to write this book, but I wrote it precisely because I was a coward. I didn’t think much about a reader’s discomfort; I was exploring my own. (And no one but me knows what I didn’t say or how carefully I cast the light to throw shadows over what I wanted to hide.)

• From The Confessions of Saint Augustine (354)

  What shall I render unto the Lord, that, whilst my memory recalls these things, my soul is not affrighted at them? I will love Thee, O Lord, and thank Thee, and confess unto Thy name; because Thou hast forgiven me these so great and heinous deeds of mine. To Thy grace I ascribe it, and to Thy mercy, that Thou hast melted away my sins as it were ice. To Thy grace I ascribe also whatsoever I have not done of evil; for what might I not have done, who even loved a sin for its own sake? Yea, all I confess to have been forgiven me; both what evils I committed by my own wilfulness, and what by Thy guidance I committed not. What man is he, who, weighing his own infirmity, dares to ascribe his purity and innocency to his own strength; that so he should love Thee the less, as if he had less needed Thy mercy, whereby Thou remittest sins to those that turn to Thee? For whosoever, called by Thee, followed Thy voice, and avoided those things which he reads me recalling and confessing of myself, let him not scorn me, who being sick, was cured by that Physician, through whose aid it was that he was not, or rather was less, sick: and for this let him love Thee as much, yea and more; since by whom he sees me to have been recovered from such deep consumption of sin, by Him he sees himself to have been from the like consumption of sin preserved. What fruit had I then (wretched man!) in those things, of the remembrance whereof I am now ashamed? Especially, in that theft which I loved for the theft’s sake; and it too was nothing, and therefore the more miserable I, who loved it. Yet alone I had not done it: such was I then, I remember, alone I had never done it. I loved then in it also the company of the accomplices, with whom I did it? I did not then love nothing else but the theft, yea rather I did love nothing else; for that circumstance of the company was also nothing. What is, in truth? who can teach me, save He that enlighteneth my heart, and discovereth its dark corners? What is it which hath come into my mind to enquire, and discuss, and consider? For had I then loved the pears I stole, and wished to enjoy them, I might have done it alone, had the bare commission of the theft sufficed to attain my pleasure; nor needed I have inflamed the itching of my desires by the excitement of accomplices. But since my pleasure was not in those pears, it was in the offence itself, which the company of fellow-sinners occasioned.

• From Little Women (1868)

  So I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, 'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I'd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling." "Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along. "Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely." "Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a shiver. "I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again." Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said, "Thank you, deary," but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed. No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, "Come girls." Beth went to the piano and played the father's favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler. "Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another. They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek... "Jo, dear, what is it?

• From Little Women (1868)

  detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of- door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked—freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will. When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times—"Aunt March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green. "Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times three!" That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed, from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to Grandma's—for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words—"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth." During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  He relies on you to bring that knowing, that wisdom, here to the group but also to the other parts of your life. Your co-workers may be jealous of who you are, which is why they argue with you. But you can simply face them, without drawing them into a quarrel, and know that Azeen is with you. Okay?” “Yes.” “Good girl. Now get off my knee; my leg is falling asleep.” We all laughed as I stood up and returned to my seat. She had the pitch-perfect timing of a comedienne and always knew how to close with a joke. The sense of community that Limori offered and the friendships I found in the group began to fill a void in me. There were many incidents like the one I’ve just described, where I was singled out and made to feel that the sense of worth I’d been searching for did exist somewhere inside me. And this didn’t just happen to me; Limori made the same sort of fuss at different times over my mother, over Michael and Jessica and over each person who came into the group. The longer the person stayed, the greater the number of incidents of special treatment they could rely on receiving. For me personally, in addition to being exposed to what was essentially a seduction, I also had my own little transcendent moment. It was private and personal, but somehow I managed to attribute it to Limori’s greatness, rather than to my own spiritual journey, and it served to bond me to her even more strongly. After six months of living in an alcove in my mother’s upstairs hallway in Kitsilano, I had finally made the mental adjustment to the upward difference in the price of rental suites compared to Calgary and was ready to commit to leaving the parental nest. I found a basement suite in a charming, tree-lined neighbourhood called West Point Grey, which was perfectly suited to my dog, Patches, and me. It had a backyard she could claim as her own and was within walking distance of my job at the library. It had all the standard features of a basement suite – low ceilings, tiny windows at ground level, constant noise overhead from the main part of the house and an odd, elongated shape – as well as a few additional idiosyncrasies. The kitchen was an eight-foot-long stretch of countertop that contained a hot plate, sink, microwave and fridge, but no stove or oven, and there were very few cupboards. One entered the suite through the laundry room, which flooded when it rained (and it’s almost always raining in Vancouver), due to a poorly placed downspout from the second floor. The bedroom was so small that it was reminiscent of a coffin, as Michael remarked the first time he saw it.

• From Educated (2018)

  This story is not about Mormonism. Neither is it about any other form of religious belief. In it there are many types of people, some believers, some not; some kind, some not. The author disputes any correlation, positive or negative, between the two. The following names, listed in alphabetical order, are pseudonyms: Aaron, Audrey, Benjamin, Emily, Erin, Faye, Gene, Judy, Peter, Robert, Robin, Sadie, Shannon, Shawn, Susan, Vanessa. To my brothers Tyler, Richard and Tony I owe the greatest debt for making this book possible, first in the living of it, then in the writing of it. From them and their wives, Stefanie, Kami and Michele, I learned much of what I know about family. Tyler and Richard in particular were generous with their time and their memories, reading multiple drafts, adding their own details, and in general helping me make the book as accurate as possible. Though our perspectives may have differed in some particulars, their willingness to verify the facts of this story enabled me to write it. Professor David Runciman encouraged me to write this memoir and was among the first to read the manuscript. Without his confidence in it, I might never have had confidence in it myself. I am grateful to those who make books their life’s work and who gave a portion of that life to this book: my agents, Karolina Sutton and Anna Stein; and my editors, Hilary Redmon and Andy Ward at Random House, and Jocasta Hamilton at Hutchinson; as well as the many other people who worked to edit, typeset and launch this story. Most notably, Boaty Boatwright was a tireless champion. Special thanks are owed to Ben Phelan, who was given the difficult task of fact-checking this book, and who did so rigorously but with great sensitivity and professionalism. I am especially grateful to those who believed in this book before it was a book, when it was just a jumble of home-printed papers. Among those early readers are Simone Haysom, Dr. Marion Kant, Dr. Paul Kerry, Annie Wilding, Livia Gainham, Sonya Teich, Dunni Alao, N Quentin Woolf and Suraya Sidhi Singh. My aunts Debbie and Angie came back into my life at a crucial moment, and their support means everything. For believing in me, always, thanks to Professor Jonathan Steinberg. For granting me haven, emotional as well as practical, in which to write this book, I am indebted to my dear friend, Drew Mecham.

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  Before I met Limori, I remember thinking, “Am I supposed to know what I want to do with my life? Am I supposed to know what really matters to me?” She was providing easy answers to these very difficult questions and I was more than grateful for it. I didn’t yet know what mattered to me. As many of us do, I had arrived at adulthood damaged and wounded from a childhood that was shall we say, slightly less than effective when it came to helping me develop things like confidence or a sense of self. I placed far more value on pleasing everyone around me than on figuring out what my own wants and needs were. I was like a Catholic nun crossed with Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm: serious, almost humourless, fearful, asexual and riddled with unnecessary guilt. But, boy, was I pleasant! I was the kid my friends’ parents wanted to have because I was so quiet and obedient. It was sometimes hard to tell when I was in a room; my need to please often caused me to disappear into the wallpaper. I had been raised in a military family, where order and obedience were valued more than independent thought. My mother and father divorced when I was eleven and, being the first-born child, I seemed to react to that event by developing the habit of taking on too much responsibility for everything around me. All this, coupled with total ignorance about how healthy and whole people operate in the world (“Whaddya mean I’m not supposed to feel anxious every waking moment?”), meant that I was a psychological disaster waiting to happen. I believe that if I hadn’t been pulled into Limori’s orbit I would have entered into an abusive marriage, or a string of them. (Many of the techniques that cult leaders use to entrap and abuse their followers are identical to the strategies used by abusive spouses.2 ) I desperately needed approval, assurance that I mattered and for someone, anyone, to tell me that they loved me. I was a perfect, although not unique, storm of insecurity and lack of self-awareness, with a deep and sincere desire to make the world a better place. On that sunny afternoon on her patio, Limori offered words not only of love and assurance that I was special, but of meaning and purpose of the highest order. For someone like me, who believed that at my core I was worthless and powerless, to hear that I was of vast importance in “God’s plan,” well, I was like a wriggly puppy having her tummy perpetually rubbed. I basked in the idea that my life, and therefore I, could have meaning. She made a quiet fuss over me that day, pointing out to the others around her that I was “clear” (i.e., psychic or extremely intuitive). She took my measure by looking not at my physical body but at my “aura” and instructed Alice to do so as well.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called 'Teddy's Wrongs'. "That's not right, Jo. You mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved." "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak. "Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave her. And how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be." "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like Grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke." "Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply. "How do you know I do, Miss?" "I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better." "Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph." "We haven't. Don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything!

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  If one questions the beliefs of the group or the leaders of the group, one is made to feel that there is something inherently wrong with them to even question – it is always “turned around” on them and the questioner/criticizer is questioned rather than the questions answered directly. The underlying assumption is that doctrine/ideology is ultimately more valid, true and real than any aspect of actual human character or human experience and one must subject one’s experience to that “truth.” The experience of contradiction can be immediately associated with guilt. One is made to feel that doubts are reflections of one’s own evil. When doubt arises, conflicts become intense. 8. Dispensing of ExistenceSince the group has an absolute or totalist vision or truth, those who are not in the group are bound up in evil, are not enlightened, are not saved, and do not have the right to exist. “Being verses nothingness.” Impediments to legitimate being must be pushed away or destroyed. One outside the group may always receive their right of existence by joining the group. Fear manipulation – if one leaves this group, one leaves God or loses their transformation, for something bad will happen to them. The group is the “elite,” outsiders are “of the world,” “evil,” “unenlightened,” etc. GratitudeA few years ago, a dear friend of mine was undergoing a house reconstruction after a fire had claimed her family’s home. When the framing of the house had been completed, and with the drywall not yet installed, she asked several of her close friends to come over to the house one Saturday afternoon. She presented us with buckets full of children’s paints, markers, glitter pens and crayons and asked us to draw on the walls. For the next hour or so we individually moved around to each room of the house, at random, writing and drawing on the plywood walls and floors of her home messages of hope, safety, peace and love. The intention of this exercise was that as a community we would leave marks of love and support that, once the home was finished would be unseen, but would always be felt there beneath the drywall, paint and hardwood. My friend and her precious family would be surrounded at every moment by affection and support while they built a new life and a new home within those walls. I would like to thank the following people who have figuratively written on the walls of my life with their own messages of love, support, caring and comfort. Without you my recovery would not have been possible. Enormous, eternal gratitude and love to Kelly Novak and Steven Freeland, the only two friends I had left when my life fell apart. You may not have known it at the time, but your friendship, each in unique ways, kept me going and gave me many reasons to believe in love, when I thought I shouldn’t any longer.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  “Well . . .” Jenifer trailed off. Her heart was just not in this at all. “Don’t let your egg get cold. By the way,” she added, as if in an afterthought, “I’ve been thinking that it might be nice if you could join us for Sunday lunch. It’s the only meal that we all eat together, and you are part of the household now. I really mean it,” she went on, less embarrassed now that she felt on firmer ground. “You’ve fitted in so well. It seems wrong that you should be upstairs on your own on Sundays. You should be with the rest of us.” “Thank you, Jenifer.” I felt immensely moved. This was not a casually issued invitation. The Harts fulfilled most of their social obligations by inviting people to their Cornwall house or taking them to guest nights in their respective colleges. They rarely had friends to dine in Manor Place. It didn’t matter that Jenifer was transparently trying to ensure that I ate at least one decent meal a week. It was kindly meant, and kindness was something that I had learned to value. “Thank you,” I said again. “I should like that very much indeed.” Sunday lunch, I was not surprised to learn, was neither a decorous nor an elegant occasion. “Mummy! I’m going to tip the water jug right over!” Jacob tilted the jug at a perilous angle, his eyes fixed on Jenifer. “No, Jacob, don’t do that,” she replied somewhat ineffectually, while she briskly carved slices of roast lamb and tried to continue a civilized conversation. “Where do you go to Mass, Karen?” she inquired politely. The Harts were mildly intrigued by my Catholicism. My years in the convent were so remote from anything in their experience that I might just as well have spent seven years living with a peculiarly exotic tribe in New Guinea. In fact, they would probably have found that a good deal easier to understand. Both Herbert and Jenifer were committed atheists. Herbert found the whole structure of religion utterly incomprehensible and to Jenifer any form of religion was “ludicrous.” Like many intellectuals of her generation, she had been a member of the Communist Party; there were occasional wild and inaccurate speculations in the media that she had been the “fifth man” in the Burgess-MacLean spy circle, a charge she vehemently denied. She had long been disillusioned with the party, but her disdain for religion remained intact. Both she and Herbert regarded Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular as “monstrous.” Yet today, for some reason, Jenifer seemed unusually interested in my churchgoing. I told her briefly about Blackfriars, thinking that she could not possibly be interested, but she persisted: “So it doesn’t matter if the children at this family Mass are noisy or make a scene?” “No. But actually because they feel relaxed, they tend to behave fairly well,” I replied. “They seem to enjoy it.”

• From Cult: A Love Story: Ten Years Inside a Canadian Cult and the Subsequent Long Road of Recovery (2013)

  To the counsellor I call Mary; words cannot express how grateful I am to have found you at what was the nadir of my life thus far. For years, your office was one of very few places on Earth that I felt safe. Your gentle, compassionate, loving way of working had a profoundly positive effect on me and you will stay in my heart forever. The gift you gave me when we completed our work together sits on my desk now as I write this, a daily reminder of your beauty, grace and loving support. Linda Hamilton, you have taught me to give myself permission to feel, and that is a gift I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I may never be able to find the words to express how much that means to me so I will keep it simple and say, “Gracias, Amiga!” Many thanks as well to your wonderful husband, Dean Hamilton, for his research assistance. And a big shout-out to Caitlyn and Kasandra, who, just by being themselves, bring so much joy and love into my life. My friend “Gayle” experienced things at Limori’s hands that are far, far worse than anything I have described in these pages. She had the unfortunate experience of living with Limori at Wolf’s Den for several years, and being trapped in the web of lies, deceit and abuse 24/7. Gayle, even I cannot fathom the courage it took for you to leave in your frozen little car and the subsequent tenacity you had to have to build a new life. I am humbled by your strength and by the grace that seems to guide your every movement. You are an amazing woman and I am so proud to call you my friend. To the man I call Luke in these pages; thank you for your generous willingness to share your recollections with me. I do not take lightly the gift of your vulnerability and sharing and I appreciate it so much. My gratitude to Captain Frank Noble for his genealogical expertise and his gracious research assistance, especially when I called him out of the blue. To Arthur Buchman for being willing to speak to a stranger about a difficult topic. Arthur, your courage and resilience inspires and humbles me. To Martha Beck: you don’t know me, but you have had an incalculably positive impact on me in these, my healing years. Thank you for sharing the unique gifts and talents you possess. May you long continue to thrive and bring your brand of love and light to the world. I am profoundly blessed to have found you and irrevocably changed for the better.