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 Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  These people are what make Carolina an astoundingly congenial and productive place to work. Go, Heels! The path toward getting these new ideas on love from my mind into yours began when Brian McCorkle invited me to serve as a Templeton Research Fellow for a series on religious and psychological well-being at the Danielsen Institute at Boston University. With funding from the Metanexus Institute and the John Templeton Foundation, the Danielsen Institute invited me to deliver a series of six lectures at BU in early 2010. With appreciation, then, I acknowledge Brian and my hosts at the Danielsen Institute for planting the seeds for this book and supporting me to write it. Richard Pine, of Inkwell Management, is my agent and so much more. He stepped in to serve as my initial editor, helping me to shave off the excesses of academic language and theory. Love 2.0 would not exist without him. Also of Inkwell, I thank Lyndsey Blessing and Charlie Olsen, for helping get my ideas translated for foreign language readers. Caroline Sutton, of Hudson Street Press and the Penguin Group, has been an extraordinary editor. She was quick to see my strengths and weaknesses as a writer and to work with them with respectful equanimity. Also of Hudson Street Press and the Penguin Group, I thank John Fagan, Liz Keenan, Courtney Nobile, Ashley Pattison, and Brittney Ross for shaping and promoting Love 2.0 in their various ways. It’s one thing to study love and another thing to live it in the moment, wholeheartedly. I humbly admit to being more novice than expert when it comes to putting these ideas into action. Yet I’ve been blessed with many teachers, formal and informal, who have guided and inspired me to live with more heart each day. Among my formal teachers, I call out Sharon Salzberg, Guy Armstrong, Mark Coleman, and Sally Armstrong for the teachings they offered during a weeklong silent retreat on loving-kindness meditation that I sat in January 2010 at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts. That experience was nothing short of soul-stirring. I also thank Rita Benn, Jeff Brantley, Mary Brantley, Jon Kabat-Zinn, Yun Lu, Sandra Finkel, Libby Outlaw, Jaime Powell, and Sharon Salzberg (again) for helping me to learn, both as a scholar and a human, about the practice of meditation. I’ve also learned so much about love, compassion, forgiveness—and color—through my lifelong friendship with my sister, Jeanne Gallaher. Plus I thank those who shared with me their heartfelt experiences of living with love through difficult passages—Donna, Erika, Laura, and Jeremy.

• From Wild (2012)

  [image file=image_rsrc2VM.jpg] Christine’s husband, Jeff, made me a sandwich while I showered. When I emerged from the bathroom, it was sitting on a plate, sliced diagonally and rimmed by blue corn tortilla chips and a pickle. “If you’d like to add more meat to it, feel free,” Jeff said, pushing a platter of cold cuts toward me from his seat across the table. He was handsome and chubby, his dark hair wavy and gray at the temples. An attorney, Christine had told me during the short walk from the restaurant to their cabin. They lived in San Francisco, but they spent the first week of July here each year. “Maybe just a few more slices, thanks,” I said, reaching for the turkey with fake nonchalance. “It’s organic, in case that matters to you,” said Christine. “And humanely raised. We’ve gone in that direction as much as we possibly can. You forgot the cheese,” she scolded Jeff, and went to the refrigerator to retrieve it. “Would you like some dill Havarti on your sandwich, Cheryl?” “I’m fine. Thanks,” I said to be polite, but she sliced some anyway and brought it to me, and I ate it so fast she went back to the counter and sliced more without saying anything about it. She reached into the chip bag and put another handful on my plate, then cracked open a can of root beer and set it before me. If she’d emptied the contents of the entire refrigerator, I’d have eaten every last thing. “Thank you,” I said every time she placed another item on the table. Beyond the kitchen, I could see Jeff and Christine’s two daughters through the sliding-glass door. They were sitting on the deck in twin Adirondack chairs, browsing copies of Seventeen and People with their headphones in their ears. “How old are they?” I asked, nodding in their direction. “Sixteen and almost eighteen,” said Christine. “They’re going into their sophomore and senior years.” They sensed us looking at them and glanced up. I waved, and they waved shyly back at me before returning to their magazines. “I’d love it if they did something like you’re doing. If they could be as brave and strong as you,” said Christine. “But maybe not that brave, actually. I think it would scare me to have one of them out there like you are. Aren’t you scared, all by yourself?”

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  Art thinks my father is trying to give me money as a way to tell me that he wants to make up for everything he did wrong, to find a way to be a father to me and a grandfather to our daughter, and that my rejection is a way to control him and not the other way around. “Honestly, I never thought about it that way. I never thought that by refusing to accept money from my father I control him and make sure he isn’t too close to me. It reminded me of something you said about how money and sex are areas that people are most dishonest and hypocritical about. I mean, my father supported my mother and me financially all those years. I never thanked him, even though I knew he wasn’t wealthy and therefore had to sacrifice. I didn’t thank him for the gifts he sent me, not for the summer camps or the college tuition he paid, not for the big trip I took after I graduated. I didn’t want to feel that I needed him or to give him that power over us. I felt that it was his responsibility to pay. The truth is that sometimes I felt that I was doing him a favor by letting him give me money, as if it was something I gave him and not the other way around. Now I want to do it differently, to be able to give him something by accepting his money and to feel appreciative for what he gives me. What do you think, Galit, does it make sense to accept his offer? ” I think about the betrayal of her mother, wondering if Alice is aware that it was her conflict of loyalty that prevented her from thanking her father for anything he gave her. If she let herself know that she missed her father, that she needed him, she might be breaking her mother’s heart again. She had to make herself forget about her father. Now she is asking for my permission to let him in and to forgive him. Alice’s emotional growth is as speedy as her speech. I witness her picture beginning to be filled in with nuances, as she adds more colors to what used to be a black-and-white split view of her parents. She can now let herself see both of them as humans who struggle to be happy. She acknowledges the different ways they each used her in their divorce, treating her as a valuable asset that they were not willing to share. I recognize the tender love Alice has for them and her pain at not being able to start over, to heal her parents, bring them together, and live her childhood again. It is time to mourn, to treat her own wounds, and to liberate her future. “I want to let myself be my father’s daughter,” Alice says.

• From Wild (2012)

  I wanted to sleep, but my legs and arms were streaked with dirt; my stench was magnificent. To get into the bed in such a state seemed almost criminal. I hadn’t properly bathed since I’d been at the motel in Ridgecrest nearly two weeks before. I walked down the hall to the bathroom. There wasn’t a shower, only a big porcelain tub with claw feet and a shelf piled high with folded towels. I picked up one of the towels and inhaled its detergent-scented splendor, then took off my clothes and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was a startling sight. 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. “I lost a toenail,” I said to Greg at dinner. “You’re losing toenails?” he asked. “Only one,” I said glumly, aware that in fact I’d likely lose more and that this was further evidence of my big fat idiocy. “It probably means your boots are too small,” he said as the waitress approached with two plates of spaghetti and a basket of garlic bread.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  In the beginning, I bought the tiny little travel tubes, good for one or two sessions, small, discreet, deniable. Once I knew, initially, the ecstasy of the act, I also knew it could only be a very rare occurrence, sort of like a birthday special. I reasoned that it would not be healthy for my little asshole to be so invaded too frequently. I reasoned that bliss was not free, not plannable, and definitely not something that might come my way very often. Such reasoning led me to buy those little travel tubes. But those tiny tubes kept running out and denial became an effort. Ass-fucking was part of the regular repertoire. The next time he opened the drawer, he pulled out a giant, phallic-sized white-and-blue tube, looked at it, and fell off the bed howling with laughter. It was a risky move for me. Presumptuous. Practical. After several months of using one large tube after another, I put two large tubes in the drawer at the same time. That is how he developed the ritual of dispersing the tubes while I sucked his cock. The beautiful man with a fierce erection tossing large white-and-blue plastic tubes around the room (wherever we land he can fuck my ass, right there, right then, no reaching): it is an image of promise as close to a guarantee as I’ve ever known with a man. The gold band on my left ring finger guaranteed far less. Soon there are as many as five tubes in the drawer at one time, each in a different stage of emptiness, the emptier the better. I still haven’t figured out how many ass-fucks per four-ounce tube. Probably about eleven. At $4.19 a tube, that is about 38 cents a fuck . . . add that to the price of a condom (thirty-six for $14.99) at 42 cents, and the best thing in the world costs less than a buck. Then I found the tubes discounted at Costco, two for $4.00, and bought six. That brings the whole affair down to 60 cents per cum shot. (Ass-fuckers: use dark glasses for K-Y shopping and don’t turn around in the checkout line: they’re all staring at your butt in disbelief.) I’m going to buy stock in K-Y. The Lexus of lubricants. Grateful for the smooth ride. I heard a television talk-show shrink quizzing a cross-dressing man to test if he was gay or straight. Playing quick word association, she says “football,” he says “beer”; she says . . . he says . . . she says “KY,” he says “Kentucky.” She announces triumphantly that he is heterosexual. And, I would add, clearly not a heterosexual sodomite. Of the liquid lubricants, Astroglide is king. But be forewarned: if you pour Astroglide onto K-Y during a single vigorous ass-fucking, then expect a large amount of froth. Froth everywhere. What do the K and Y stand for?

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I must therefore trust to the candour of your judgment, for your allowing for the disadvantage I am necessarily under in that respect; and to your imagination and sensibility, the pleasing taks of repairing it, by their supplements, where my descriptions flag or fail: the one will readily place the pictures I present before your eyes; the other give life to the colours where they are dull, or worn with too frequent handling. What you say besides, by way of encouragement concerning the extreme difficulty of continuing so long in one strain, in a mean tempered with taste, between the revoltingness of gross, rank and vulgar expressions, and the ridicule of mincing metaphors and affected circumlocutions, is so sensible, as well as good-natured, that you greatly justify me to myself for my compliance with a curiosity that is to be satisfied so extremely at my expense. Resuming now where I broke off in my last, I am in my way to remark to you, that it was late in the evening before I arrived at my lodgings, and Mrs. Cole, after helping me to range and secure my things, spent the whole evening with me in my apartment, where we supped together, in giving me the best advice and instruction with regard to the new stage of my profession I was now to enter upon; and passing thus from a private devotee to pleasure into a public one, to become a more general good, with all the advantages requisite to put my person out to use, either for interest or pleasure, or both. “But then,” she observed, “as I was a kind of new face upon the town, that is, was an established rule, and part of trade, for me to pass for a maid and dispose of myself as such on the first good occasion, without prejudice, however, to such diversions as I might have a mind to in the interim; for that nobody could be a greater enemy than she was to the losing of time. That she would, in the mean time, do her best to find out a proper person, and would undertake to manage this nice point for me, if I would accept of her aid and advice to such good purpose, that, in the loss of a fictitious maidenhead, I should reap all the advantages of a native one.” As too great a delicacy of sentiments did not extremely belong to my character at that time, I confess, against myself, that I perhaps too readily closed with a proposal which my candor and ingenuity gave me some repugnance to: but not enough to contradict the intention of one to whom I had now thoroughly abandoned the direction of all my steps. For Mrs. Cole had, I do not know how unless by one of those unaccountable invincible sympathies that, nevertheless, from the strongest links, especially of female friendship, won and got entire possession of me.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  H.... he was so much my superior in every sense, that I felt it too much to the disadvantage of the gratitude I owed him. Thus he gained my esteem, though he could not raise my taste; I was qualified for no sort of conversation with him, except one sort, and that is a satisfaction which leaves tiresome intervals, if not filled up by love, or other amusements. Mr. H...., so experienced, so learned in the ways of women, numbers of whom had passed through his hands, doubtless, soon perceived this uneasiness, and, without approving, or liking me the better for it, had the complaisance to indulge me. He made suppers at my lodging, where he brought several companions of his pleasures, with their mistresses; and by this means I got into a circle of acquaintance, that soon stripped me of all the remains of bashfulness and modesty which might be yet left of my country education, and were, to a just taste, perhaps, the greatest of my charms. We visited one another in form, and mimicked, as near as we could, all the miseries, the follies, and impertinencies of the women in quality, in the round of which they trifle away their time, without it ever entering their little heads, that on earth there cannot subsist any thing more silly, more flat, more insipid and worthless, than, generally considered, their system of life is: they ought to treat the men as their tyrants, indeed! were they to condemn them to it. But though, amongst the kept mistresses (and I was now acquainted with a good many, besides some useful matrons, who live by their connexions with them), I hardly knew one that did not perfectly detest their keepers, and, of course, made little or no scruple of any infidelity they could safely accomplish, I had still no notion of wronging mine: for, besides that no mark of jealousy on his side started me the hint, or gave me the provocation to play him a trick of that sort, and that his constant generosity, politeness, and tender attention to please me, forced a regard to him, that, without affecting my heart, insured him my fidelity, no object had yet presented that could overcome the habitual liking I had contracted for him and I was on the eve of obtaining, from the movements of his own voluntary generosity, a modest provision for life, when an accident happened which broke all the measures he had resolved upon in my favour. I had now lived near seven months with Mr.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  You’ll have to leave at eight, of course, when I do.’ I nodded quickly. I wouldn’t think about the morning, just yet.There was an awkward silence. She looked so tired and ordinary I had a foolish urge to kiss her cheek good-night, as Ralph had. Of course, I did not; I only took a step towards her as she nodded to me and prepared to make her way upstairs, and said, ‘I am more grateful to you, Mrs Banner, than I can say. You have been very kind to me - you, who hardly know me; and more especially your husband, who doesn’t know me at all.’As I spoke she turned to me, and blinked. Then she placed her hand on a chair-back, and smiled a curious smile. ‘Did you think he was my husband?’ she said. I hesitated, suddenly flustered.‘Well, I -’‘He ain’t my husband! He’s my brother.’ Her brother! She continued to smile at my confusion, and then to laugh: for a moment she was the pert girl I had spoken with in Green Street, all those months before...But then the baby, in the room above us, gave a cry, and we both raised our eyes to the sound, and I felt myself blush. And when she saw that, her smile faded. ‘Cyril ain’t mine,’ she said quickly, ‘though I call him mine. His mother used to lodge with us, and we took him on when she - left us. He is very dear to us, now...’The awkward way she said it showed there was some story there - perhaps the mother was in prison; perhaps the baby was really a cousin‘s, or a sister’s, or a sweetheart’s of Ralph’s. Such things happened often enough in Whitstable families: I didn’t think much of it. I only nodded; and then I yawned. And seeing me, she yawned too.‘Good-night, Miss Astley,’ she said from behind her hand. She did not look like the Green Street girl now. She looked only weary again, and plainer than ever.I waited a moment while she stepped upstairs - I heard her shuffling above me, and guessed of course that she must share her chamber with the baby - then I took up a lamp, and made my way out to the privy. The yard was very small, and overlooked on every side by walls and darkened windows; I lingered for a second on the chilly flags, gazing at the stars, sniffing at the unfamiliar, faintly riverish, faintly cabbagey, scents of East London.

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  With this rundown before you, consider now the opportunity costs for self-absorptions like surfing the Internet. That kind of behavior is normal and inevitable, and at times even rejuvenating. But think about what other kinds of experiences you are crowding out. What do you miss out on? More love? Jeremy’s Story In my home office, I have three framed letters—two from my own sons and a third from a couple of children whom I may never meet. The two from my boys are cherished Mother’s Day gifts. Each lists what it takes to be their mom, ranging from “make the best pancakes” and “cheer me on” to “enjoy talking to me” and “teach me about what she teaches.” The third is written in blue marker on green construction paper and decorated with glitter glue and cartoon drawings. It reads: “Dear Dr. Fredrickson, Thank you for teaching Mr. Wills to be + [positive], [heart] Tisha and Kelly.” Mr. Wills is Jeremy Wills, one of my former students. A few years back, he’d enrolled in an upper-level undergraduate seminar of mine, on positive psychology, before which he’d never given a second thought to positive emotions. A few months ago, as I was thick into crafting part I of this book, I ran into Jeremy as I was walking across campus at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He was back in town for a short stretch between jobs. He’d been a wonderful contributor in my class years back, so open and thoughtful, and I enjoy catching up with him when I can. It was during this sidewalk conversation, which stretched into what must have been half an hour, that Jeremy told me he had a letter to pass on to me from some of his own former students. Having heard just a little bit about those students, and his experiences as their teacher, I knew I needed to hear more. I asked if I might interview him for this book and he agreed. His and his students’ stories, as it happens, provide a clear and poignant illustration of why and how positivity resonance matters, and how you can tap into it, even in the most difficult of group circumstances.

• From Wild (2012)

  “I live there too. I’m on my way there now if you want a ride. I’d be happy to drop you off wherever you’d like.” “Thanks,” I said. “But I want to stay here for a while. Just to take it all in.” He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Give me a call once you settle in. I’d love to take you out to lunch and hear more about your trip.” “Okay,” I said, looking at the card. It was white with blue embossed letters, a relic from another world. “It was an honor to meet you at this momentous juncture,” he said. “Nice to meet you too,” I said, shaking his hand. After he drove away, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes against the sun as the tears I’d expected earlier at the bridge began to seep from my eyes. Thank you, I thought over and over again. Thank you. Not just for the long walk, but for everything I could feel finally gathered up inside of me; for everything the trail had taught me and everything I couldn’t yet know, though I felt it somehow already contained within me. How I’d never see the man in the BMW again, but how in four years I’d cross the Bridge of the Gods with another man and marry him in a spot almost visible from where I now sat. How in nine years that man and I would have a son named Carver, and a year and a half after that, a daughter named Bobbi. How in fifteen years I’d bring my family to this same white bench and the four of us would eat ice-cream cones while I told them the story of the time I’d been here once before, when I’d finished walking a long way on something called the Pacific Crest Trail. And how it would be only then that the meaning of my hike would unfold inside of me, the secret I’d always told myself finally revealed.O Which would bring me to this telling. I didn’t know how I’d reach back through the years and look for and find some of the people I’d met on the trail and that I’d look for and not find others. Or how in one case I’d find something I didn’t expect: an obituary. Doug’s. I didn’t know I’d read that he’d died nine years after we’d said goodbye on the PCT—killed in a kite-sailing accident in New Zealand. Or how, after I’d cried remembering what a golden boy he’d been, I’d go to the farthest corner of my basement, to the place where Monster hung on a pair of rusty nails, and I’d see that the raven feather Doug had given me was broken and frayed now, but still there—wedged into my pack’s frame, where I placed it years ago.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  It is with heartfelt gratitude that I thank those who gave their time, energy, and experience to making this book a reality: Lynn Alden, David Barlow, Courtney Beard, Susan Bögels, Cara Brookins, David Burns, David Clark, Sophia Dembling, Tiffany Dufu, John Gabrieli, Cynthia Garcia Coll, Philippe Goldin, Richard Heimberg, Stefan Hofmann, Andrea Hopmeyer, Lewis Howes, Jia Jiang, Rachel Lambright, David Langer, David Moscovitch, Kristin Neff, Harris O’Malley, Jennifer Parkhurst, Ron Rapee, Mike Rinck, Peter Shalek, Brandon Stanton, Ty Tashiro, Charlie Taylor, Emma Warnock-Parkes, and Jade Wu. I am forever grateful to the whole team at St. Martin’s Press. Executive Editor Jennifer Weis believed in this project from the beginning and strengthened my belief in it, too. Assistant Editor Sylvan Creekmore was a rock (and rock star) of reason and reassurance throughout. Laura Clark, Leah Johanson, and Kim Lew opened doors I didn’t even know existed. Brad Wood gave me an influx of hope when he talked up the book at launch. Barbara Wild turned the manuscript into a real book, no small task. Senior Editor Alyssa Martino is an extraordinary human. She deserves endless thanks for juggling a million moving parts and offering daily (sometimes more than daily) encouragement, reassurance, guidance, excitement, and—oh yes—editing. Alyssa, you’re a superstar. Thank you to everyone at QDT. Big thanks to Mary Beth Roche, Kathy Doyle, Joe Muscolino, Kelly Dickinson, Morgan Ratner, and Steve Riekeberg. Beata Santora got everything started when she got an unsolicited email pitch from a drifting academic with an itch to write some five years ago. Thank you, Beata, for taking a chance on me. The gifted and accomplished Diana Howard saved the day with her graphs and illustrations in chapters 7 and 9. These drawings are merely the tip of the iceberg of her talent—I hope you enjoy her art as much as I do at DianaHoward.com. Early readers Doron Gan, Robbert Langwerden, Denitza Raitcheva, Juan Sanabria, and Sarah Smith Parmeshwar delivered invaluable feedback and support. Emily Jones kept things afloat and put up with my flailing. Tim Grahl’s book marketing coaching was a godsend. Susan Cain, Nidhi Berry, and Colleen Quinn at Quiet Revolution were endlessly supportive. Lori Richmond, Matthew Guillory, and Claudia Scott created a gorgeous home for me on the web. Lisa Smith, David Barlow, and everyone at CARD supported the parallel universe of my writing life. Mignon Fogarty and all the QDT hosts, especially Monica Reinagel, were so generous in sharing their vast knowledge. As a true research nerd, I say thanks to the staff of the Cambridge Public Library system, the Boston University Libraries, and the Stanford University Libraries. To all the listeners of Savvy Psychologist: I can’t thank you enough. Thank you for listening every week, sending in stupendous show ideas, and posting uplifting comments to me and each other. Without you this book wouldn’t exist.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  But I had, as a piece of secret knowledge from our earlier, darker encounter, her own romantic christian name, at least. And besides, I knew I should be seeing her again within the week. Chapter 16 W hen next I knew myself I was lying flat upon a rug with my feet apparently raised on a little cushion; there was the warmth and the crackling of a fire at my side, and the low murmur of voices somewhere near. I opened my eyes: the room turned horribly and the rug seemed to dip, so I closed them again at once, and kept them tight shut until the floor, like a spinning coin, seemed slowly to cease its lurching and grow still. After that it was rather wonderful simply to lie in the glow of the fire, feeling the life creep back into my numbed and aching limbs; I forced myself, however, to consider my peculiar situation, and pay a little thoughtful heed to my surroundings. I was, I realised, in Florence’s parlour: she and her husband must have lifted me over their threshold and made me comfortable before their hearth. It was their murmurs that I could hear: they stood a little way behind me - they had evidently not caught the flash of my opening eyes - and discussed me, in rather wondering tones. ‘But who might she be ?’ I heard the man say. ‘I don’t know.’ This was Florence. There was a creak, followed by a silence, in which I felt her squinting at my features. ‘And yet,’ she went on, ‘there is something a little bit familiar about her face...’ ‘Look at her cheek,’ said the man in a lower voice. ‘Look at her poor dress and bonnet. Look at her hair! Do you think she might’ve been in prison? Could she be one of your gals, just come from a reformat’ry?’ There was another pause; perhaps Florence shrugged. ‘I do think she must’ve been in prison, though,’ the man went on, ‘judging by the state of her poor hair...’ I felt slightly indignant at that; and indignation made me twitch. ‘Look out!’ said the man then. ‘She is waking up.’ I opened my eyes again to see him stooping over me. He was a very gentle-featured man, with short-cut hair of a reddish-golden hue, and a full set of whiskers that made him look a little like the sailor on the Players’ packets. The thought made me long all at once for a cigarette, and I gave a dry little cough. The man squatted, and patted my shoulder. ‘Ho there, miss,’ he said. ‘Are you well, dear? Are you well at last?

• From Love 2.0: Finding Happiness and Health in Moments of Connection (2013)

  Cochrane Database Systematic Reviews 2: CD003766. 153 One rigorous examination of people’s day-to-day lives concludes that good events outnumber bad events by margins of about 3 to 1: Shigehiro Oishi, Ed Diener, Dong-Won Choi, Chu Kim- Prieto, and Incheol Choi (2007). “The dynamics of daily events and well-being across cultures: When less is more.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 93(4): 685–98. 153 it’s the frequency, not the magnitude of good events, that predicts your overall well-being: Ed Diener, Ed Sandvik, and William Pavot (2009). “Happiness is the frequency, not the intensity, of positive versus negative affect.” In Assessing Well-being: The Collected Works of Ed Diener, edited by Ed Diener, pp. 213–31. Springer. 153 My earlier research identifies 3 to 1 as a key tipping point in people’s emotional experiences: Barbara L. Fredrickson and Marcial F. Losada (2005). “Positive affect and the complex dynamics of human flourishing.” American Psychologist 60(7): 678–86. See also chapter 7 in Positivity (2009) for more details on the origins and evidence for the positivity ratio tipping point. 154 people who score higher on our measure of this tendency even receive more emotional uplift from a hug: Lahnna I. Catalino, Kimberly A. Coffey, and Barbara L. Fredrickson (2012). “Prioritizing Positivity.” Manuscript in preparation. 155 Several randomized controlled trials in positive psychology have confirmed that learning to cherish your own good fortune—for instance, by counting up at least three blessings each day— can boost your gratitude, which in turn strengthens your social bonds and creates abiding happiness, even physical health: Seligman et al. (2005). See also Robert Emmons’s 2007 book, Thanks!: How the New Science of Gratitude Can Make You Happier. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. 156 offering social support when things go right is a more efficient way to build relationships than offering it when things go wrong: Shelly L. Gable, Courtney L. Gosnell, Natalya Maisel, and Amy Strachman (in press). “Safely testing the alarm: Close others’ responses to personal positive events.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology. Chapter 8 161 To love one person with a private love is poor and miserable; to love all is glorious: Thomas Traherne (1908/2007). Centuries of Meditations. Whitefish, Montana: Kessinger Publishing. 161 positive emotions, in and of themselves, unlock your ability to really see other people: Kareem J. Johnson and Barbara L. Fredrickson (2005). “We all look the same to me: Positive emotions eliminate the own-race bias in face recognition.” Psychological Science 16(11): 875–81. See also Waugh and Fredrickson (2006). 166 I spent several years early in my career cataloging the psychological damage done to girls and women who face the message that they can be reduced to how they look: Fredrickson et al. (2011). 170 Thank you for teaching Mr.

• From Justine (Alexandria Quartet vol. 1) (1957)

  When Melissa was dying it was for Clea that she asked; and it was Clea who spent whole nights at her bedside telling her stories and tending her. As for Scobie — I do not dare to say that their inversion constituted a hidden bond — sunk like a submarine cable linking two continents — for that might do an injustice to both. Certainly the old man is unaware of any such matter; and she for her part is restrained by her perfect tact from showing him how hollow are his boasts of love-making. They are perfectly matched, and perfectly happy in their relationship, like a father and daughter. On the only occasion when I heard him rally her upon not being married Clea’s lovely face became round and smooth as that of a schoolgirl, and from the depths of an assumed seriousness which completely disguised the twinkle of the imp in her grey eyes, she replied that she was waiting for the right man to come along: at which Scobie nodded profoundly, and agreed that this was the right line of conduct. It was from a litter of dusty canvases in one corner of her studio that I unearthed a head of Justine one day — a half profile, touched in impressionistically and obviously not finished. Clea caught her breath and gazed at it with all the compassion a mother might show for a child which she recognized as ugly, but which was none the less beautiful for her. ‘It is ages old’ she said; and after much reflection gave it to me for my birthday. It stands now on the old arched mantelshelf to remind me of the breathless, incisive beauty of that dark and beloved head. She has just taken a cigarette from between her lips, and she is about to say something which her mind has already formulated but which has so far only reached the eyes. The lips are parted, ready to utter it in words. * * * * *

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  Thank you for sharing with me your gifted mind and soul and for loving me the way you do. To my family, whom I love endlessly: my parents, Shoshi and Yaakov Atlas, who taught me everything I know about love and dedication. To my sister, Keren Atlas-Dror, who was my first real witness and supporter. To Ashi Atlas, Anat Rose-Atlas, Tamir Koch, Mika and Itamar Dror. To my beloved stepchildren, Benjamin, Raphi, and Kirya Ades-Aron, for being with me through so much and for the family that we are for each other forever. Above all, I want to thank my children, Emma, Yali, and Mia Koch. You inspire me, surprise me, move me, and teach me something new every day. Thank you for being the people you are and the best family one could ever dream of. Discover Your Next Great Read Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors. Tap here to learn more . About the Author Galit Atlas, PhD, is a psychoanalyst and clinical supervisor in private practice in New York City. She is a faculty member of the New York University Postdoctoral Program in Psychotherapy and Psychoanalysis. She is a faculty member of the National Training Program and the Four Year Adult Training Program of the National Institute for the Psychotherapies in New York City. Dr. Atlas has published three books for clinicians and numerous articles and book chapters that focus primarily on gender and sexuality. Her New York Times publication “A Tale of Two Twins” was the winner of a 2016 Gradiva Award. A leader in the field of relational psychoanalysis, Dr. Atlas is a recipient of the André François Research Award and the NADTA Research Award. She teaches and lectures throughout the United States and internationally. ALSO BY GALIT ATLAS The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing, and Belonging in Psychoanalysis Dramatic Dialogue: Contemporary Clinical Practice When Minds Meet: The Work of Lewis Aron (edited) Praise for Emotional Inheritanc e “Beautiful, artistic, and elegant. Dr. Atlas skillfully uses stories from her practice to explore the archeology of transgenerational trauma. The descriptions of the therapeutic process pull you in; you come to know both patient and therapist. In doing so, you cannot help but reflect on your own journey. Emotional Inheritance is a gem for anyone, but it is an essential read for those seeking to understand trauma, therapy, and the healing process.” —Bruce D. Perry, MD, PhD, coauthor (with Oprah Winfrey) of What Happened to You? “Dr. Atlas writes with profound living compassion for those who have carried, in their bodies, minds, hearts, spirits, and souls, the most often unspoken and secret traumas of their own hurt elders. As a first-generation American child growing up in my tough family of war refugees, deportees—the ethnically cleansed, struggling immigrants, I humbly assert that I know about generational traumas in depth.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  Jess Walter: [Laughs] And I’m Jess Walter, I’m Sherman’s long-time friend and cohost of A Tiny Sense of Accomplishment, the hardest-to-find podcast in the world, as we like to think of it. It’s such an honor to be here talking about your unfortunately titled book that has done so poorly over this last decade. SA: Yeah, I mean…I wish I had written a book that sold more copies and got more attention. JW: And that sadly had just a little bit of influence on the culture. I don’t know how many times I came around the corner to see one of my kids reading it for school. SA: [Laughs] Oh man. My kid read it for school, which is the most bizarre thing. My poor son. It was the book of the first quint of his sixth-grade year, and he protested, though, in a way. He agreed to read it as long as no one asked him questions, like the teacher or the students, and no one got to interrogate him about the book or about me. But he got a C. I think it was a gentleman’s C. It was his protest C. JW: That’s a great protest, to get a C on your dad’s book. I think that’s the kind of rebellion we can all live with. SA: I was very proud of him. JW: It’s funny, you probably get this from people who ask about your books, “Which one’s your favorite?” And in the authors’ union, it says you have to say, “My books are all like children, they’re all exactly the same.” But on the tenth birthday of this one, you have to admit the reach of this book is probably unlike any that you’ve written before. SA: There’re only a few books that remain positive, that I remain positive about, and True Diary is at the top of that list. I very much…I didn’t know what I was writing. I’ve had a great career completely apart from True Diary. But this has gone…I won the Peter Pan Prize for Young Adult Literature in Scandinavia. I mean, the green tights looked great on me at the awards ceremonies. JW: If you’re going to win the Peter Pan Prize, I would think it would be for not growing up. SA: [Laughs] So, the international reach, the fact that it’s taught in thousands of high schools…I still get letters. Ten years later, I still get letters from high school students. I’m meeting people who are college graduates who read it in junior high. JW: Ten years, and reaching out to young readers that way—we know some great readers, but those young readers, the power the book holds on them, a book like this, it must be really profound to hear from them.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  SA: I mean, books saved me, so I think True Diary might be part of the emergency kit for a lot of students. One of the things I hear, too, now, is, “This book led me to become a writer. I’m in this MFA program because of Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian .” JW: Do you remember when Arnold Spirit first, when that voice first…Books come in voices, and the voice here is so strong, I had to think that the voice is what popped in your head. SA: Well, it’s autobiographical, of course, but he’s a much more confident person than I was at the same age. And he’s really also kinder. JW: It’s funny, as I read it—you know, you had become a father—I thought you were looking at fatherhood through your boys’ eyes, both the kindness and the savvy of your two sons. SA: My sons are urban Indians, they are very much urban kids so they have urban skills and they’re also members of this generation who are much more self-aware and aware of the world, and they are kinder. My sons at the same age are far kinder than I was, partly because their survival is assured right now, and mine wasn’t. So I think Arnold Spirit Jr. has less of the cannibalistic instincts I did. It’s less Donner Party for him than it was for me. JW: I think sometimes my kids doubt the Lord of the Flies nature of the stories I tell. I mean, the bus stop was as horrifying a place as could exist. I mean, it was Dante’s fourth circle. SA: [ Laughs ] The public school bus stop. Yeah. JW: It is hard to get across. But it seems like the voice, while autobiographical, also does seem of itself. You have no doubt of who Junior is in this book. He seems fully realized from the beginning. SA: In a lot of ways, I think I created the idealized version of me. A lot of wish fulfillment on who I wish I would have been back then, or maybe looking back, decisions I would have made or ways I would have acted. I could have been a better person, slightly better. And also in writing the other characters, I blended people, I took real aspects of certain people and blended them into a fictional stew and created these other characters. It’s realistic and people are racist and classist and sexist and mean and funny and kind. And I think because I wrote with specific people in mind, it was easier to create a real world or a fictional world that felt real. JW: Has the response in that real world been different than to your other books? SA: You know, I never really heard much from Reardan.

• From Sex with Kings: 500 Years of Adultery, Power, Rivalry, and Revenge (2004)

  A portion of the royal mistress’s pension went to purchase expensive gifts for courtiers, ambassadors, and servants, as well as for the king himself. She was expected to contribute to charities—the church poor box, indigent families, wounded soldiers, hospitals, orphanages, and the like. In time of war she might receive hints to donate money back into the royal treasury from whence it had come. We can understand the financial side of a mistress’s life by examining the meticulous records kept by Madame de Pompadour of her expenses from September 9, 1745, when she was officially installed as king’s mistress at Versailles, until her death in April 1764. During those nineteen years, she was given the astonishing amount of 36,827,268 livres, or what today might be valued at $200 million. But though free-spending, Madame de Pompadour usually spent wisely, buying and renovating estates, which she could rent and sell, and amassing collections of gems and porcelain, which increased in value and were eventually bequeathed to the king. She even invested in what amounted to pirate ships, fitted out to prey on English merchants, and shared in the pirates’ treasure. She was a leading force in the revival of French industry, founding the world-renowned Sèvres porcelain factory—still in existence today—and a successful glassworks that produced bottles, carafes, and enameled pieces. However acquisitive Madame de Pompadour was—she loved buying and beautifying—she always retained a generous heart, contributing dowries to poor brides, even selling diamonds to endow a hospital for the poor. During her disastrous running of the Seven Years’ War, she turned in to the treasury most of her jewelry to help pay the soldiers. Because of her generosity and her surprising promptness in paying her contractors’ bills—a quality almost unknown in eighteenth-century France—Madame de Pompadour never amassed great quantities of cash. The returns from her many investments went out just as quickly. When she died only a few gold coins were found in her desk. Her successor, Madame du Barry, was forever in debt despite her huge monthly income from the king—at one point three hundred thousand livres. In addition to exquisite gowns and jewels, she surrounded herself with luxurious furnishings—a chandelier of rock crystal, a mirror made of pure gold, perfume bottles of crystal with solid gold stoppers. She employed sixteen footmen and at least as many maids, whom she had to dress, feed, and house, and paid for the stabling and feeding of her numerous horses.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  I am eternally grateful to David Hirshey whose inexhaustible good humor and unwavering enthusiasm kept me laughing and gave me faith when mine faltered. And to Alice Truax, thank you for everything: guidance, intelligence, impeccable taste, and relentless pursuit. I am very grateful to my persistent and brave agents Glen Hartley and Lynn Chu, and to Catharine Sprinkel for the handling of so many things. And to Michael Wolf, a lawyer with real integrity, many thanks. At ReganBooks I want to thank—and applaud—Judith Regan, for her courage, Cassie Jones, who made it all happen on time, and Kurt Andrews, Paul Crichton, Michelle Ishay, Adrienne Makowski, and Kris Tobiassen. And my great gratitude to all my beloved and delightful advisers and friends who offered wonderful suggestions as well as numerous pictorial responses to my work: Elizabeth Alley, Christopher d’Amboise, Scott Asen, Jeff d’Avanzo, Erin Baiano, Beverly Berg, Jim Bessman, John B. Birchell Hughes, Laura Blum, Mary Bresovitch, Steve Brown, Leonard Cohen, Bonnie Dunn and Le Scandal, Alfredo Franco, Janet Goff, Bruce Grayson, Gregory Jarrett, Elizabeth Kramer, Marc Kristal, Maureen Lasher, Gillian Marloth, Michele Mattei, David Mellon, Carolyn Mishne, Adam Peck, Quentin Phillips, Ray Sawhill, Michael Schrage, Michael Sigman, Michael Solomon, David Stenn, Neal Tabachnick, Bill Tonelli, Vicky Wilson, Leslie Zemeckis, and Robin Ziemer. A very special thanks to Paul Kolnik and to my superb lawyer Martin Garbus for making impossibles possible. I extend much gratitude to my gracious publisher Daniel Halpern and the meticulous Libby Edelson for seeing the e-Book into elegant fruition. And, of course, to A-Man, always. About the Author Toni Bentley danced with George Balanchine’s New York City Ballet for ten years. She is the author “Winter Season: A Dancer’s Journal,” “Holding On to the Air: An Autobiography” (by Suzanne Farrell with Toni Bentley), “Costumes by Karinska” and “Sisters of Salome,” all New York Times Notable Books. She also writes for numerous publications including the New York Times Book Review, the New York Review of Books, The New Republic, Rolling Stone, and Playboy. “The Surrender” was named one of the 100 Best Books of the Year by the New York Times as well as Publishers Weekly and has been published in eighteen languages. The adaptation of “The Surrender” as a one-woman play premiered in Spain in 2012 and will tour South America in 2013. Her essay “The Bad Lion” was included in “Best American Essays 2010,” and she is the recipient of a 2008 Guggenheim Fellowship. For more information on Toni Bentley’s work, please visit www.tonibentley.com or follow her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/toni.bentley.12 and Twitter @TheToniBentley.

• From Take Back Your Life: Recovering from Cults and Abusive Relationships (2000)

  The beauty of nature existed in and of itself, and somehow I felt connected to that. What Helped In the First Stage• Having a close, trusting, and supportive relationship with my sister who listened and did not judge. • Being in contact with other ex-members, both new and old. Our ad hoc support group was critical to my recovery. • Going to the local support and education groups in Minneapolis for former members and their families, such as Free Minds and Answers, Inc. The folks there provided me with resources to begin learning about cults and cult dynamics. • Enjoying nature, music, art, and books, and having fun. • Giving myself permission to sleep and rest as much as I needed, and to do nothing for long periods of time. My husband had the children half time, so I was able to do this. • Taking a beginner's writing class, which gave me permission and encouragement to write after my ten-year hiatus. • Reacquainting with old friends. I made amends and tried to mend some of those broken connections. What Didn't Help• Seeing a therapist who dropped her mouth open when I began telling her my story. • Encountering therapists who didn't know what they were dealing with and weren't open to learning. They would focus on family of origin issues and not want to look at the cult issue. Later, I learned to tell them, "I've got more family issues than you can shake a stick at, but that's not what I'm here for." • Being confronted with my mother's judgmental, blaming, and angry response. • Assuming that when my husband got out, it would solve our problems and make everything better (even though an exit counselor had warned me about this). The Second Stage: Getting Back on My FeetI can divide this stage into nine major areas: Family Issues. After the immediate crisis, when I had sorted out housing, a custody settlement, and so on, my husband finally did come out of the cult. We tried to get back together, and much of the next year was spent trying to repair our marriage, which ultimately had sustained too much damage. Much of this period was taken up with our deciding, finally, to divorce, and then coping with that transition. However, that transition was a whole lot easier than it could have been because he was no longer in the cult. Children. Although I was totally committed and connected to my children, I still had to look at my relationship with them. I was told to have kids, and I adopted them while in the cult. I had to sortthrough and untangle the cult piece of this. I had to clearly establish my own noncult relationship to them. This was intellectual rather than emotional work because I didn't doubt our emotional connection. Nevertheless, I had to pick through and deconstruct the cult piece. Postcult relationships.