Jealousy

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.

Page 38 of 47 · 20 per page

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

  Not only does she tolerate him, but she seems pleased. I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his account. And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of her words, each gesture, disgusts me. She notices it, she knows not what to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation? Ah! I suffer! That makes her gay, she is content. And my hatred increases tenfold, but I do not dare to give it free force, because at the bottom of my soul I know that there are no real reasons for it, and I remain in my seat, feigning indifference, and exaggerating my attention and courtesy to him. “Then I get angry with myself. I desire to leave the room, to leave them alone, and I do, in fact, go out; but scarcely am I outside when I am invaded by a fear of what is taking place within my absence. I go in again, inventing some pretext. Or sometimes I do not go in; I remain near the door, and listen. How can she humiliate herself and humiliate me by placing me in this cowardly situation of suspicion and espionage? Oh, abomination! Oh, the wicked animal! And he too, what does he think of you? But he is like all men. He is what I was before my marriage. It gives him pleasure. He even smiles when he looks at me, as much as to say: ‘What have you to do with this? It is my turn now.’ “This feeling is horrible. Its burn is unendurable. To entertain this feeling toward any one, to once suspect a man of lusting after my wife, was enough to spoil this man forever in my eyes, as if he had been sprinkled with vitriol. Let me once become jealous of a being, and nevermore could I re-establish with him simple human relations, and my eyes flashed when I looked at him. “As for my wife, so many times had I enveloped her with this moral vitriol, with this jealous hatred, that she was degraded thereby. In the periods of this causeless hatred I gradually uncrowned her. I covered her with shame in my imagination. “I invented impossible knaveries. I suspected, I am ashamed to say, that she, this queen of ‘The Thousand and One Nights,’ deceived me with my serf, under my very eyes, and laughing at me. “Thus, with each new access of jealousy (I speak always of causeless jealousy), I entered into the furrow dug formerly by my filthy suspicions, and I continually deepened it. She did the same thing. If I have reasons to be jealous, she who knew my past had a thousand times more. And she was more ill-natured in her jealousy than I. And the sufferings that I felt from her jealousy were different, and likewise very painful. “The situation may be described thus. We are living more or less tranquilly. I am even gay and contented.

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

  There cannot fail to be jealousy between husbands and wives who live immorally. If they cannot sacrifice their pleasures for the welfare of their child, they conclude therefrom, and truly, that they will not sacrifice their pleasures for, I will not say happiness and tranquillity (since one may sin in secret), but even for the sake of conscience. Each one knows very well that neither admits any high moral reasons for not betraying the other, since in their mutual relations they fail in the requirements of morality, and from that time distrust and watch each other. “Oh, what a frightful feeling of jealousy! I do not speak of that real jealousy which has foundations (it is tormenting, but it promises an issue), but of that unconscious jealousy which inevitably accompanies every immoral marriage, and which, having no cause, has no end. This jealousy is frightful. Frightful, that is the word. “And this is it. A young man speaks to my wife. He looks at her with a smile, and, as it seems to me, he surveys her body. How does he dare to think of her, to think of the possibility of a romance with her? And how can she, seeing this, tolerate him? Not only does she tolerate him, but she seems pleased. I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his account. And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of her words, each gesture, disgusts me. She notices it, she knows not what to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation? Ah! I suffer! That makes her gay, she is content. And my hatred increases tenfold, but I do not dare to give it free force, because at the bottom of my soul I know that there are no real reasons for it, and I remain in my seat, feigning indifference, and exaggerating my attention and courtesy to him . “Then I get angry with myself. I desire to leave the room, to leave them alone, and I do, in fact, go out; but scarcely am I outside when I am invaded by a fear of what is taking place within my absence. I go in again, inventing some pretext. Or sometimes I do not go in; I remain near the door, and listen. How can she humiliate herself and humiliate me by placing me in this cowardly situation of suspicion and espionage? Oh, abomination! Oh, the wicked animal! And he too, what does he think of you? But he is like all men. He is what I was before my marriage. It gives him pleasure.

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

  He promised me, and went away. In the evening he arrived with his violin, and they played together. But for a long time things did not go well; we had not the necessary music, and that which we had my wife could not play at sight. I amused myself with their difficulties. I aided them, I made proposals, and they finally executed a few pieces,—songs without words, and a little sonata by Mozart. He played in a marvellous manner. He had what is called the energetic and tender tone. As for difficulties, there were none for him. Scarcely had he begun to play, when his face changed. He became serious, and much more sympathetic. He was, it is needless to say, much stronger than my wife. He helped her, he advised her simply and naturally, and at the same time played his game with courtesy. My wife seemed interested only in the music. She was very simple and agreeable. Throughout the evening I feigned, not only for the others, but for myself, an interest solely in the music. Really, I was continually tortured by jealousy. From the first minute that the musician’s eyes met those of my wife, I saw that he did not regard her as a disagreeable woman, with whom on occasion it would be unpleasant to enter into intimate relations. “If I had been pure, I should not have dreamed of what he might think of her. But I looked at women, and that is why I understood him and was in torture. I was in torture, especially because I was sure that toward me she had no other feeling than of perpetual irritation, sometimes interrupted by the customary sensuality, and that this man,—thanks to his external elegance and his novelty, and, above all, thanks to his unquestionably remarkable talent, thanks to the attraction exercised under the influence of music, thanks to the impression that music produces upon nervous natures,—this man would not only please, but would inevitably, and without difficulty, subjugate and conquer her, and do with her as he liked. “I could not help seeing this. I could not help suffering, or keep from being jealous. And I was jealous, and I suffered, and in spite of that, and perhaps even because of that, an unknown force, in spite of my will, impelled me to be not only polite, but more than polite, amiable. I cannot say whether I did it for my wife, or to show him that I did not fear him , or to deceive myself; but from my first relations with him I could not be at my ease. I was obliged, that I might not give way to a desire to kill him immediately, to ‘caress’ him. I filled his glass at the table, I grew enthusiastic over his playing, I talked to him with an extremely amiable smile, and I invited him to dinner the following Sunday, and to play again.

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

  I was particularly jealous, in the first place, because my wife felt that restlessness peculiar to animal matter when the regular course of life is interrupted without occasion. But especially was I jealous because, having seen with what facility she had thrown off her moral duties as a mother, I concluded rightly, though unconsciously, that she would throw off as easily her conjugal duties, feeling all the surer of this because she was in perfect health, as was shown by the fact that, in spite of the prohibition of the dear doctors, she nursed her following children, and even very well.” “I see that you have no love for the doctors,” said I, having noticed Posdnicheff’s extraordinarily spiteful expression of face and tone of voice whenever he spoke of them. “It is not a question of loving them or of not loving them. They have ruined my life, as they have ruined the lives of thousands of beings before me, and I cannot help connecting the consequence with the cause. I conceive that they desire, like the lawyers and the rest, to make money. I would willingly have given them half of my income—and any one would have done it in my place, understanding what they do—if they had consented not to meddle in my conjugal life, and to keep themselves at a distance. I have compiled no statistics, but I know scores of cases—in reality, they are innumerable—where they have killed, now a child in its mother’s womb, asserting positively that the mother could not give birth to it (when the mother could give birth to it very well), now mothers, under the pretext of a so-called operation. No one has counted these murders, just as no one counted the murders of the Inquisition, because it was supposed that they were committed for the benefit of humanity. Innumerable are the crimes of the doctors! But all these crimes are nothing compared with the materialistic demoralization which they introduce into the world through women. I say nothing of the fact that, if it were to follow their advice,—thanks to the microbe which they see everywhere,—humanity, instead of tending to union, would proceed straight to complete disunion. Everybody, according to their doctrine, should isolate himself, and never remove from his mouth a syringe filled with phenic acid (moreover, they have found out now that it does no good). But I would pass over all these things. The supreme poison is the perversion of people, especially of women. One can no longer say now: ‘You live badly, live better.’ One can no longer say it either to himself or to others, for, if you live badly (say the doctors), the cause is in the nervous system or in something similar, and it is necessary to go to consult them, and they will prescribe for you thirty-five copecks’ worth of remedies to be bought at the drug-store, and you must swallow them. Your condition grows worse?

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

  "Teleny covered her bare neck and arms with kisses, pressed his cheeks against the thick, black hair of her arm-pits, and tickled her as he did so. This little titillation was felt all over her body, and the slit between her legs opened again in such a way that the delicate little clitoris, like a red hawthorn berry, peeped out as if to see what was going on. He held her for a moment crushed against his chest, and his ' merle '—as the Italians call it—flying out of his cage, he thrust it into the opening ready to receive it. "She pushed lustily against him, but he had to keep her up, for her legs were almost giving way, so great was the pleasure she felt. He therefore stretched her down on the panther rug at his feet, without unclasping her. "All sense of shyness was now overcome. He pulled off his clothes, and pressed down with all his strength. She—to receive his instrument far deep in her sheath—clasped him with her legs in such a way that he could hardly move. He was, therefore, only able to rub himself against her; but that was more than enough, for after a few violent shakes of their buttocks, legs pressed, and breasts crushed, the burning liquid which he injected within her body gave her a spasmodic pleasure, and she fell senseless on the panther skin whilst he rolled, motionless, by her side. "Till then I felt that my image had always been present before his eyes, although he was enjoying this handsome woman—so beautiful, for she had hardly yet reached the bloom of ripe womanhood; but now the pleasure she had given him had made him quite forget me. I therefore hated him. For a moment I felt that I should like to be a wild beast—to drive my nails into his flesh, to torture him like a cat does a mouse, and to tear him into pieces. "What right had he to love anybody but myself? Did I love a single being in this world as I loved him? Could I feel pleasure with anyone else? "No, my love was not a maudlin sentimentality, it was the maddening passion that overpowers the body and shatters the brain! "If he could love women, why did he then make love to me, obliging me to love him, making me a contemptible being in my own eyes? "In the paroxysm of my excitement I writhed, I bit my lips till they bled. I dug my nails into my flesh; I cried out with jealousy and shame. It wanted but little to have made me jump out of the cab, and go and ring at the door of his house.

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

  Pressing his hat against his swaying hip, he stood erect, looking now at her and now at me, as if waiting to see what she would do. I remember that minute, precisely because it was in my power not to invite him. I need not have invited him, and then nothing would have happened. But I cast a glance first at him, then at her. ‘Don’t flatter yourself that I can be jealous of you,’ I thought, addressing myself to her mentally, and I invited the other to bring his violin that very evening, and to play with my wife. She raised her eyes toward me with astonishment, and her face turned purple, as if she were seized with a sudden fear. She began to excuse herself, saying that she did not play well enough. This refusal only excited me the more. I remember the strange feeling with which I looked at his neck, his white neck, in contrast with his black hair, separated by a parting, when, with his skipping gait, like that of a bird, he left my house. I could not help confessing to myself that this man’s presence caused me suffering. ‘It is in my power,’ thought I, ‘to so arrange things that I shall never see him again. But can it be that I, I, fear him? No, I do not fear him. It would be too humiliating!’ “And there in the hall, knowing that my wife heard me, I insisted that he should come that very evening with his violin. He promised me, and went away. In the evening he arrived with his violin, and they played together. But for a long time things did not go well; we had not the necessary music, and that which we had my wife could not play at sight. I amused myself with their difficulties. I aided them, I made proposals, and they finally executed a few pieces,—songs without words, and a little sonata by Mozart. He played in a marvellous manner. He had what is called the energetic and tender tone. As for difficulties, there were none for him. Scarcely had he begun to play, when his face changed. He became serious, and much more sympathetic. He was, it is needless to say, much stronger than my wife. He helped her, he advised her simply and naturally, and at the same time played his game with courtesy. My wife seemed interested only in the music. She was very simple and agreeable. Throughout the evening I feigned, not only for the others, but for myself, an interest solely in the music. Really, I was continually tortured by jealousy.

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

  And she, she had been and had remained a mystery. I did not know her. I knew her only as an animal, and an animal nothing can or should restrain. And now I remember their faces on Sunday evening, when, after the ‘Kreutzer Sonata,’ they played a passionate piece, written I know not by whom, but a piece passionate to the point of obscenity. “‘How could I have gone away?’ said I to myself, as I recalled their faces. ‘Was it not clear that between them everything was done that evening? Was it not clear that between them not only there were no more obstacles, but that both—especially she—felt a certain shame after what had happened at the piano? How weakly, pitiably, happily she smiled, as she wiped the perspiration from her reddened face! They already avoided each other’s eyes, and only at the supper, when she poured some water for him, did they look at each other and smile imperceptibly.’ “Now I remember with fright that look and that scarcely perceptible smile. ‘Yes, everything has happened,’ a voice said to me, and directly another said the opposite. ‘Are you mad? It is impossible!’ said the second voice. “It was too painful to me to remain thus stretched in the darkness. I struck a match, and the little yellow-papered room frightened me. I lighted a cigarette, and, as always happens, when one turns in a circle of inextricable contradiction, I began to smoke. I smoked cigarette after cigarette to dull my senses, that I might not see my contradictions. All night I did not sleep, and at five o’clock, when it was not yet light, I decided that I could stand this strain no longer, and that I would leave directly. There was a train at eight o’clock. I awakened the keeper who was acting as my servant, and sent him to look for horses. To the assembly of Zemstvo I sent a message that I was called back to Moscow by pressing business, and that I begged them to substitute for me a member of the Committee. At eight o’clock I got into a tarantass and started off.” CHAPTER XXVIII. “Strange thing! Again, when I had left my study, and was passing through the familiar rooms, again the hope came to me that nothing had happened. But the odor of the drugs, iodoform and phenic acid, brought me back to a sense of reality. “‘No, everything has happened.’ “In passing through the hall, beside the children’s chamber, I saw little Lise. She was looking at me, with eyes that were full of fear.

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

  Then, again, in spite of myself, the awful apprehension of having been supplanted in Teleny's affection by someone else forced itself upon me. "'No, it was too ridiculous. Who could this rival be?' "Like a thief I introduced the key in the lock; the hinges were well oiled, the door yielded noiselessly, and opened. I shut it carefully, without its emitting the slightest sound. I stole in on tiptoe. "There were thick carpets everywhere that muffled my steps. I went to the room where, a few hours before, I had known such rapturous bliss. "It was lighted. "I heard stifled sounds within. "I knew but too well what those sounds meant. For the first time I felt the shattering pangs of jealousy. It seemed as if a poisoned dagger had all at once been thrust into my heart; as if an enormous hydra had caught my body between its jaws, and had driven its huge fangs through the flesh of my chest. "Why had I come here? What was I to do now? Where was I to go? "I felt as if I were collapsing. "My hand was already on the door, but before opening it I did what I suppose most people would have done. Trembling from head to foot, sick at heart, I bent down and looked through the key-hole. "Was I dreaming—was this a dreadful nightmare? "I stuck my nails deep into my flesh to convince myself of my self-consciousness. "And yet I could not feel sure that I was alive and awake. "Life at times loses its sense of reality; it appears to us like a weird, optical illusion—a phantasmagoric bubble that will disappear at the slightest breath. "I held my breath, and looked. "This was, then, no illusion—no vision of my over-heated fancy. "There, on that chair—warm yet with our embraces—two beings were seated. "But who were they? "Perhaps Teleny had ceded his apartment to some friend for that night. Perhaps he had forgotten to mention the fact to me, or else he had not thought it necessary to do so. "Yes, surely, it must be so. Teleny could not deceive me. "I looked again. The light within the room being much brighter than that of the hall, I was able to perceive everything clearly. "A man whose form I could not see was seated on that chair contrived by Teleny's ingenious mind to enhance sensual bliss. A woman with dark, dishevelled hair, robed in a white satin gown, was sitting astride upon him. Her back was thus turned to the door.

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

  "'And will the people understand your meaning?' "'Anybody who has any sense will. Besides, to render my idea clearer, I'll paint a pendant to it: "Socrates—the Greek Christ, with Alcibiades, his favourite disciple." The woman will be Xantippe.' Then turning to me, he added, 'But you must promise to come and sit for Alcibiades.' "'Yes,' said Teleny, 'but on one condition.' "'Name it.' "'Why did you write Camille that note?' "'What note?' "'Come—no gammon!' "'How did you know I wrote it?' "'Like Zadig, I saw the traces of the dog's ears.' "'Well, as you know it's me, I'll tell you frankly, it was because I was jealous.' "'Of whom?' "'Of you both. Yes, you may smile, but it's true.' "Then turning towards me,—'I've known you since we both were but little more than toddling babies, and I've never had that from you,'—and he cracked his thumb-nail on his upper teeth—'whilst he,' pointing to Teleny, 'comes, sees, and conquers. Anyhow, it'll be for some future time. Meanwhile, I bear you no grudge; nor do you for that stupid threat of mine, I'm sure.' "'You don't know what miserable days and sleepless nights you made me pass.' "'Did I? I'm sorry; forgive me. You know I'm mad—everyone says so,' he exclaimed, grasping both our hands; 'and now that we are friends you must come to my next symposium.' "'When is it to be?' asked Teleny. "'On Tuesday week.' "Then turning to me,—'I'll introduce you to a lot of pleasant fellows who'll be delighted to make your acquaintance, and many of whom have long been astonished that you are not one of us.' "The week passed quickly. Joy soon made me forget the dreadful anxiety caused by Briancourt's card. "A few days before the night fixed for the feast,—'How shall we dress for the symposium?' asked Teleny? "'How? Is it to be a masquerade?' "'We all have our little hobbies. Some men like soldiers, others sailors; some are fond of tightrope dancers, others of dandies. There are men who, though in love with their own sex, only care for them in women's clothes. L'habit ne fait pas le moine is not always a truthful proverb, for you see that even in birds the males display their gayest plumage to captivate their mates.' "'And what clothes should you like me to wear, for you are the only being I care to please?' said I. "'None.' "'Oh! but —— ' "'You'll feel shy, to be seen naked?' "'Of course.' "'Well, then, a tight-fitting cycling suit; it shews off the figure best.' "'Very well; and you?' "'I'll always dress exactly as you do.' "On the evening in question we drove to the painter's studio, the outside of which was, if not quite dark, at least very dimly lighted. Teleny tapped three times, and after a little while Briancourt himself came to open.

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

  The carriage flies along like mad. Apparently it is her intention to attract attention to-day, to make conquests, and she succeeds completely. She is the lioness of the Cascine. People nod to her from carriages; on the footpath people gather in groups to discuss her. She pays no attention to anyone, except now and then acknowledging the greetings of elderly gentlemen with a slight nod. Suddenly a young man on a lithe black horse dashes up at full speed. As soon as he sees Wanda, he stops his horse and makes it walk. When he is quite close, he stops entirely and lets her pass. And she too sees him—the lioness, the lion. Their eyes meet. She madly drives past him, but she cannot tear herself free from the magic power of his look, and she turns her head after him. My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with which she devours him, but he is worthy of it. For he is, indeed, a magnificent specimen of man, No, rather, he is a man whose like I have never yet seen among the living. He is in the Belvedere, graven in marble, with the same slender, yet steely musculature, with the same face and the same waving curls. What makes him particularly beautiful is that he is beardless. If his hips were less narrow, one might take him for a woman in disguise. The curious expression about the mouth, the lion’s lip which slightly discloses the teeth beneath, lends a flashing tinge of cruelty to the beautiful face— Apollo flaying Marsyas. He wears high black boots, closely fitting breeches of white leather, short fur coat of black cloth, of the kind worn by Italian cavalry officers, trimmed with astrakhan and many rich loops; on his black locks is a red fez. I now understand the masculine Eros, and I marvel at Socrates for having remained virtuous in view of an Alcibiades like this. * * * * * I have never seen my lioness so excited. Her cheeks flamed when she left from the carriage at her villa. She hurried upstairs, and with an imperious gesture ordered me to follow. Walking up and down her room with long strides, she began to talk so rapidly, that I was frightened. “You are to find out who the man in the Cascine was, immediately— “Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you think of him?

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

  Evidently the tip of the man's tool was being sucked by the mouth of the vagina, a contraction of all the nerves had ensued; the sheath in which the whole column was enclosed had tightened, and both their bodies were writhing convulsively. "Surely after such overpowering spasms, prolapsus and inflammation of the womb must ensue, but then what rapture she must give. "Then I heard mingled sighs and panting, low cooings, gurgling sounds of lust, dying in stifled kisses given by lips that still cleaved languidly to each other; then, as they quivered with the last pangs of pleasure, I quivered in agony, for I was almost sure that that man must be my lover. "'But who can that hateful woman be?' I asked myself. "Still the sight of those two naked bodies clasped in such a thrilling embrace, those two massy lobes of flesh, as white as newly-fallen snow; the smothered sound of their ecstatic bliss, overcame for a moment my excruciating jealousy, and I got to be excited to such an ungovernable pitch that I could hardly forbear from rushing into that room. My fluttering bird—my nightingale, as they call it in Italy—like Sterne's starling—was trying to escape from its cage; and not only that, but it also lifted up its head in such a way that it seemed to wish to reach the key-hole. "My fingers were already on the handle of the door. Why should I not burst it and have my share in the feast, though in a humbler way, and like a beggar go in by the back entrance? "Why not, indeed! "Just then, the lady whose arms were still tightly clasped round the man's neck, said,— "'Bon Dieu! how good it is! I have not felt such intensity of rapture for a long time.' "For an instant I was stunned. My fingers relinquished the handle of the door, my arm fell, even my bird drooped down lifeless. "What a voice! "'But I know that voice,' I said to myself. 'Its sound is most familar to me. Only the blood which is reaching up to my head and tingling in my ears prevents me from understanding whose voice it is.' "Whilst in my amazement I had lifted up my head, she had got up and turned round. Standing as she was now, and nearer the door, my eyes could not reach her face, still I could see her naked body—from the shoulders downwards.

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

  He bent down his head upon my phallus, and began to kiss it. "I, however, did not wish to taste this delightful pleasure by halves, or to enjoy this thrilling rapture alone. We therefore shifted our position, and in a twinkling I had in my mouth the thing at which he was tweaking so delightfully. "Soon that acrid milk, like the sap of the fig tree or the euphorbia, which seems to flow from the brain and the marrow, spouted out, and in its stead a jet of caustic fire was coursing through every vein and artery, and all my nerves were vibrating as if set in motion by some strong electric current. "Finally, when the very last drop of spermatic fluid had been sucked out, then the paroxysm of pleasure which is the delirium of sensuality began to abate, and I was left crushed and annihilated; then a pleasant state of torpor followed, and my eyes closed for a few seconds in happy oblivion. "Having recovered my senses, my eyes again fell on the repulsive, anonymous note; and I shuddered and nestled myself against Teleny as if for protection, so loathsome was truth, even then, to me. "'But you have not told me yet who wrote those horrible words.' "'Who? Why, the general's son, of course.' "'What! Briancourt?' "'Who else can it be. No one except him can have an inkling of our love; Briancourt, I am sure, has been watching us. Besides, look here,' added he, picking up the bit of paper, 'not wanting to write on paper with his crest or initials, and probably not having any other, he has written on a card deftly cut out of a piece of drawing paper. Who else but a painter could have done such a thing? By taking too many precautions, we sometimes compromise ourselves. Moreover, smell it. He is so saturated with attar of roses that everything he touches is impregnated with it.' "'Yes, you are right,' said I, musingly. "'Over and above all this, it is just a thing for him to do, not that he is bad at heart——' "'You love him!' said I, with a pang of jealousy, grasping his arm. "'No, I do not; but I am simply just towards him; besides you have known him from his childhood, and you must admit that he is not so bad, is he?' "'No, he is simply mad.' "'Mad? Well, perhaps a little more so than other men,' said my friend, smiling. "'What! you think all men crazy?' "'I only know one sane man—my shoemaker. He is only mad once a week—on Monday, when he gets jolly drunk.' "'Well, don't let us talk of madness any more. My father died mad, and I suppose that, sooner or later——' "'You must know,' said Teleny, interrupting me, 'that Briancourt has been in love with you for a long time.' "'With me?' "'Yes, but he thinks you dislike him.' "'I never was remarkably fond of him.'

• From Between Us

  In cultures where individuals are part of given and durable interdependent relationships, love may be less central. One way of understanding this is that individuals in these cultures are close to others already, and love as an emotion that discriminates between those who are worthy of your caring and those who are not is not as useful. You have to take care of the people with whom you are interdependent. Emotions of closeness or caring in those cultures, such as amae and fago, focus on meeting the needs of others, rather than seeking out contact with those who are worthy. Amae and fago are less about having fun with someone who makes you feel good, and more about helping others, and making sure that they do not suffer too much. Other Emotions in Close and Dependent Relationships Contrary to the intuition of many a student (and colleague), it is also not the case that individuals from so-called collectivist cultures seek more intimacy in relationships. To the contrary, individuals in tightly connected, interdependent relationship networks are more concerned about limiting the burdens of such interdependence than about seeking more intimacy and love. Take an example from Ghana, where cultural psychologist Glenn Adams was struck by the caution about friends found in slogans, poems, and stories. A Ghanaian poem sounded: Beware of friends. Some are snakes under grass; Some are lions in sheep’s clothing; Some are jealousies behind their façades of praises; Some are just no good; Beware of friends. Bumper stickers would carry such slogans as “Beware of bad friends.” And when random Ghanaian and U.S. American participants in public places (markets, parks) were asked by interviewers about their friendships, Ghanaian participants considered it normal to be cautious, or even suspicious about friends. In sharp contrast with American respondents, Ghanaians also declared the person having many friends to be foolish or naïve. Why would Ghanaians not seek as many good friends as they could? The majority of Ghanaians (versus a small minority of Americans) understand friendships to mean that you offer material and practical support. This expectation from friends may be a liability against the background of resource poverty. Moreover, in a Ghanaian context, you need not seek friends to keep you company—company is always assured. And finally, there is always the possibility that friends take advantage of you or are not to be trusted.

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

  I was, indeed, ready to forgive him for all I had suffered, for after all, had I any right to be angry with him? "As I entered the room he was the first—nay, the only person I saw. A feeling of indesscribable delight filled my whole being, and my heart seemed to bound forth towards him. All at once, however, all my rapture passed away, my blood froze in my veins, and love gave way to anger and hatred. He was arm-in-arm with Briancourt, who, openly congratulating him on his success, was evidently clinging to him like the ivy to the oak. Briancourt's eyes and mine met; in his there was a look of exultation; in mine, of withering scorn. "As soon as Teleny saw me, he at once broke loose from Briancourt's clutches, and came up to me. Jealousy maddened me, I gave him the stiffest and most distant of bows and passed on, utterly disregarding his out-stretched hands. "I heard a slight murmur amongst the bystanders, and as I walked away I saw with the corner of my eye his hurt look, his blushes that came and went, and his expression of wounded pride Though hot-tempered, he bowed resignedly, as if to say: 'Be it as you will,' and he went back to Briancourt, whose face was beaming with satisfaction. "Briancourt said,—'He has always been a cad, a tradesman, a proud parvenu! ' just loud enough for the words to reach my ear. 'Do not mind him.' "'No,' added Teleny, musingly, 'it is I who am to blame, not he.' "Little did he understand with what a bleeding heart I walked out of the room, yearning at every step to turn back, and to throw my arms around his neck before everybody, and beg his forgiveness. "I wavered for a moment, whether to go and offer him my hand or not. Alas! do we often yield to the warm impulse of the heart? Are we not, instead, always guided by the advice of the calculating, conscience-muddled, clay-cold brain? "It was early, yet I waited for some time in the street, watching for Teleny to come out. I had made up my mind that if he was alone, I would go and beg his pardon for my rudeness. "After a short time, I saw him appear at the door with Briancourt. "My jealousy was at once rekindled, I turned on my heels and walked off. I did not want to see him again. On the morrow I would take the first train and go—anywhere, out of the world if I could. "This state of feeling did not last long; and my rage being somewhat subdued, love and curiosity prompted me again to stop. I did so. I looked round; they were nowhere to be seen; still I had wended my steps towards Teleny's house. "I walked back. I glanced down the neighbouring streets; they had quite disappeared.

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

  The painter lowered his look in confusion before the cold ray of her eye. “It is the expression—” he stammered, “but I can’t paint now—” “What?” said Wanda, scornfully, “perhaps I can help you?” “Yes—” cried the German, as if taken with madness, “whip me too.” “Oh! With pleasure,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders, “but if I am to whip you I want to do it in sober earnest.” “Whip me to death,” cried the painter. “Will you let me tie you?” she asked, smiling. “Yes—” he moaned— Wanda left the room for a moment, and returned with ropes. “Well—are you still brave enough to put yourself into the power of Venus in Furs, the beautiful despot, for better or worse?” she began ironically. “Yes, tie me,” the painter replied dully. Wanda tied his hands on his back and drew a rope through his arms and a second one around his body, and fettered him to the cross-bars of the window. Then she rolled back the fur, seized the whip, and stepped in front of him. The scene had a grim attraction for me, which I cannot describe. I felt my heart beat, when, with a smile, she drew back her arm for the first blow, and the whip hissed through the air. He winced slightly under the blow. Then she let blow after blow rain upon him, with her mouth half-opened and her teeth flashing between her red lips, until he finally seemed to ask for mercy with his piteous, blue eyes. It was indescribable. * * * * * She is sitting for him now, alone. He is working on her head. She has posted me in the adjoining room behind a heavy curtain, where I can’t be seen, but can see everything. What does she intend now? Is she afraid of him? She has driven him insane enough to be sure, or is she hatching a new torment for me? My knees tremble. They are talking. He has lowered his voice so that I cannot understand a word, and she replies in the same way. What is the meaning of this? Is there an understanding between them? I suffer frightful torments; my heart seems about to burst. He kneels down before her, embraces her, and presses his head against her breast, and she—in her heartlessness—laughs—and now I hear her saying aloud: “Ah! You need another application of the whip.” “Woman! Goddess! Are you without a heart—can’t you love,” exclaimed the German, “don’t you even know, what it means to love, to be consumed with desire and passion, can’t you even imagine what I suffer?

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

  "And your father—?" "I'll tell you his story another time. "After I had gulped down a glass or two of champagne, I felt revived by the exhilarating wine: our conversation then turned on the concert, and although I longed to ask my mother if she knew anything about Teleny, still I durst not utter the name which was foremost on my lips, nay I had even to restrain myself not to repeat it aloud every now and then. "At last my mother spoke of him herself, commending first his playing and then his beauty. "'What, do you find him good-looking?' I asked abruptly. "'I should think so,' replied she, arching her eyebrows in an astonished way, 'is there anybody who does not? Every woman finds him an Adonis; but then you men differ so much from us in your admiration for your own sex, that you sometimes find insipid those whom we are taken up with. Anyhow, he is sure to succeed as an artist, as all the ladies will be falling in love with him.' "I tried not to wince upon hearing these last words, but do what I could, it was impossible to keep my features quite motionless. "My mother seeing me frown, added, smilingly: "'What, Camille, are you going to become as vain as some acknowledged belle, who cannot hear anybody made much of without feeling that any praise given to another woman is so much subtracted from what is due to her?' "'All women are free to fall in love with him if they choose,' I answered snappishly, 'you know quite well that I never piqued myself either on my good looks or upon my conquests.' "'No, it is true, still to-day you are like the dog in the manger, for what is it to you whether the women are taken up with him or not, especially if it is such a help to him in his career?' "'But cannot an artist rise to eminence by his talent alone?' "'Sometimes,' added she with an incredulous smile, 'though seldom, and only with that superhuman perseverance which gifted persons often lack, and Teleny—' "My mother did not finish her phrase in words, but the expression of her face, and above all of the corners of her mouth, revealed her thoughts. "'And you think that this young man is such a degraded being as to allow himself to be kept by a woman, like a—' "'Well, it is not exactly being kept—at least, he would not consider it in that light.

• From Tropic of Cancer (1934)

  And she probably thought it was original with him… I suppose she thinks he’s a poet or something. But listen, all this is nothing… I make allowance for his imagination. It’s what happened after that that drives me crazy. All night long I’ve been tossing about, playing with these images he left in my mind. I can’t get it out of my head. It sounds so real to me that if it didn’t happen I could strangle the bastard. A guy has no right to invent things like that. Or else he’s diseased. … “What I’m getting at is that moment when, he says, he got down on his knees and with those two skinny fingers of his he spread her cunt open. You remember that? He says she was sitting there with her legs dangling over the arms of the chair and suddenly, he says, he got an inspiration. This was after he had given her a couple of lays already… after he had made that little spiel about Matisse. He gets down on his knees—get this! —and with his two fingers… just the tips of them, mind you… he opens the little petals… squish-squish … just like that. A sticky little sound… almost inaudible. Squish-squish! Jesus, I’ve been hearing it all night long! And then he says—as if that weren’t enough for me—then he tells me he buried his head in her muff. And when he did that, so help me Christ, if she didn’t swing her legs around his neck and lock him there. That finished me! Imagine it! Imagine a fine, sensitive woman like that swinging her legs around his neck! There’s something poisonous about it. It’s so fantastic that it sounds convincing. If he had only told me about the champagne and the ride in the Bois and even that scene on the balcony I could have dismissed it. But this thing is so incredible that it doesn’t sound like a lie any more. I can’t believe that he ever read anything like that anywhere, and I can’t see what could have put the idea into his head unless there was some truth in it. With a little prick like that, you know, anything can happen. He may not have fucked her at all, but she may have let him diddle her… you never know with these rich cunts what they might expect you to do. …” When he finally pulls himself out of bed and starts to shave the afternoon is already well advanced. I’ve finally succeeded in switching his mind to other things, to the moving principally. The maid comes in to see if he’s ready—he’s supposed to have vacated the room by noon. He’s just in the act of slipping into his trousers. I’m a little surprised that he doesn’t excuse himself, or turn away. Seeing him standing there nonchalantly buttoning his fly as he gives her orders I begin to titter.

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

  From the first minute that the musician’s eyes met those of my wife, I saw that he did not regard her as a disagreeable woman, with whom on occasion it would be unpleasant to enter into intimate relations. “If I had been pure, I should not have dreamed of what he might think of her. But I looked at women, and that is why I understood him and was in torture. I was in torture, especially because I was sure that toward me she had no other feeling than of perpetual irritation, sometimes interrupted by the customary sensuality, and that this man,—thanks to his external elegance and his novelty, and, above all, thanks to his unquestionably remarkable talent, thanks to the attraction exercised under the influence of music, thanks to the impression that music produces upon nervous natures,—this man would not only please, but would inevitably, and without difficulty, subjugate and conquer her, and do with her as he liked. “I could not help seeing this. I could not help suffering, or keep from being jealous. And I was jealous, and I suffered, and in spite of that, and perhaps even because of that, an unknown force, in spite of my will, impelled me to be not only polite, but more than polite, amiable. I cannot say whether I did it for my wife, or to show him that I did not fear him, or to deceive myself; but from my first relations with him I could not be at my ease. I was obliged, that I might not give way to a desire to kill him immediately, to ‘caress’ him. I filled his glass at the table, I grew enthusiastic over his playing, I talked to him with an extremely amiable smile, and I invited him to dinner the following Sunday, and to play again. I told him that I would invite some of my acquaintances, lovers of his art, to hear him. “Two or three days later I was entering my house, in conversation with a friend, when in the hall I suddenly felt something as heavy as a stone weighing on my heart, and I could not account for it. And it was this, it was this: in passing through the hall, I had noticed something which reminded me of him. Not until I reached my study did I realize what it was, and I returned to the hall to verify my conjecture. Yes, I was not mistaken. It was his overcoat (everything that belonged to him, I, without realizing it, had observed with extraordinary attention). I questioned the servant. That was it. He had come. “I passed near the parlor, through my children’s study-room. Lise, my daughter, was sitting before a book, and the old nurse, with my youngest child, was beside the table, turning the cover of something or other. In the parlor I heard a slow arpeggio, and his voice, deadened, and a denial from her. She said: ‘No, no! There is something else!’

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

  I saw their meeting—their long exchange of looks. I saw her float through the hall in his arms, drunken, lying with half-closed lids against his breast. I saw him in the holy of holies of love, lying on the ottoman, not as slave, but as master, and she at his feet. On my knees I served them, the tea-tray faltering in my hands, and I saw him reach for the whip. But now the servants are talking about him. He is a man who is like a woman; he knows that he is beautiful, and he acts accordingly. He changes his clothes four or five times a day, like a vain courtesan. In Paris he appeared first in woman’s dress, and the men assailed him with love-letters. An Italian singer, famous equally for his art and his passionate intensity, even invaded his home, and lying on his knees before him threatened to commit suicide if he wouldn’t be his. “I am sorry,” he replied, smiling, “I should like to do you the favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I am a man.” * * * * * The drawing-room has already thinned out to a marked degree, but she apparently has no thought of leaving. Morning is already peering through the blinds. At last I hear the rustling of her heavy gown which flows along behind her like green waves. She advances step by step, engaged in conversation with him. I hardly exist for her any longer; she doesn’t even trouble to give me an order. “The cloak for madame,” he commands. He, of course, doesn’t think of looking after her himself. While I put her furs about her, he stands to one side with his arms crossed. While I am on my knees putting on her fur over-shoes, she lightly supports herself with her hand on his shoulder. She asks: “And what about the lioness?” “When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is attacked by another,” the Greek went on with his narrative, “the lioness quietly lies down and watches the battle. Even if her mate is worsted she does not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as he bleeds to death under his opponent’s claws, and follows the victor, the stronger—that is the female’s nature.” At this moment my lioness looked quickly and curiously at me.

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

  I saw her in her box dressed in blue moire, with a huge ermine cloak about her bare shoulders; he sat opposite. I saw them devour each other with their eyes. For both of them the stage, Goldoni’s Pamela, Salvini, Marini, the public, even the entire world, were non-existant to-night. And I—what was I at that moment?— * * * * * To-day she is attending the ball at the Greek ambassador’s. Does she know, that she will meet him there? At any rate she dressed, as if she did. A heavy sea-green silk dress plastically encloses her divine form, leaving the bust and arms bare. In her hair, which is done into a single flaming knot, a white water-lily blossoms; from it the leaves of reeds interwoven with a few loose strands fall down toward her neck. There no longer is any trace of agitation or trembling feverishness in her being. She is calm, so calm, that I feel my blood congealing and my heart growing cold under her glance. Slowly, with a weary, indolent majesty, she ascends the marble staircase, lets her precious wrap slide off, and listlessly enters the hall, where the smoke of a hundred candles has formed a silvery mist. For a few moments my eyes follow her in a daze, then I pick up her furs, which without my being aware, had slipped from my hands. They are still warm from her shoulders. I kiss the spot, and my eyes fill with tears. * * * * * He has arrived. In his black velvet coat extravagantly trimmed with sable, he is a beautiful, haughty despot who plays with the lives and souls of men. He stands in the ante-room, looking around proudly, and his eyes rest on me for an uncomfortably long time. Under his icy glance I am again seized by a mortal fear. I have a presentiment that this man can enchain her, captivate her, subjugate her, and I feel inferior in contrast with his savage masculinity; I am filled with envy, with jealousy. I feel that I am a queer weakly creature of brains, merely! And what is most humiliating, I want to hate him, but I can’t. Why is that among all the host of servants he has chosen me. With an inimitably aristocratic nod of the head he calls me over to him, and I—I obey his call—against my own will. “Take my furs,” he quickly commands. My entire body trembles with resentment, but I obey, abjectly like a slave. * * * * * All night long I waited in the ante-room, raving as in a fever. Strange images hovered past my inner eye.