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.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  Here Lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and there were those who would e'en understand, Milan-fashion, that a good hog was better than a handsome wench;[211] but others were of a loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to tell at this present. Thereafter the king let kindle store of flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good night betake themselves to their chambers. [Footnote 211: The pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers to some current Milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used by Boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the Lombard dialect, is not very clear. The expression "Milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of Lombardy.] HERE ENDETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Fourth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOSTRATO IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS Dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a time both seen and read of myself, I had conceived that the boisterous and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or the highest summits of the trees; but I find myself mistaken in my conceit, for that, fleeing, as I have still studied to flee, from the cruel onslaught of that raging wind, I have striven to go, not only in the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which have been written by me, not only in vulgar Florentine and in prose and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as might be. Yet for all this have I not availed to escape being cruelly shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of the fangs of envy; wherefore I can very manifestly understand that to be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things present is without envy.[212] [Footnote 212: Sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery alone is without _enviers_.]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The lady fell a-smiling and answered, 'It rejoiceth me mightily to see a wise man led by the nose by a woman, even as one leadeth a ram by the horns to the shambles, albeit thou art no longer wise nor hast been since the hour when, unknowing why, thou sufferedst the malignant spirit of jealousy to enter thy breast; and the sillier and more besotted thou art, so much the less is my glory thereof. Deemest thou, husband mine, I am as blind of the eyes of the body as thou of those of the mind? Certes, no; I perceived at first sight who was the priest that confessed me and know that thou wast he; but I had it at heart to give thee that which thou wentest seeking, and in sooth I have done it. Wert thou as wise as thou thinkest to be, thou wouldst not have essayed by this means to learn the secrets of thy good wife, but wouldst, without taking vain suspicion, have recognized that which she confessed to thee to be the very truth, without her having sinned in aught. I told thee that I loved a priest, and wast not thou, whom I am much to blame to love as I do, become a priest? I told thee that no door of my house could abide locked, whenas he had a mind to lie with me; and what door in the house was ever kept against thee, whenas thou wouldst come whereas I might be? I told thee that the priest lay with me every night, and when was it that thou layest not with me? And whenassoever thou sentest thy clerk to me, which was thou knowest, as often as thou layest from me, I sent thee word that the priest had not been with me. What other than a crack-brain like thee, who has suffered thyself to be blinded by thy jealousy, had failed to understand these things? Thou hast abidden in the house, keeping watch anights, and thoughtest to have given me to believe that thou wast gone abroad to sup and sleep. Bethink thee henceforth and become a man again, as thou wast wont to be; and make not thyself a laughing stock to whoso knoweth thy fashions, as do I, and leave this unconscionable watching that thou keepest; for I swear to God that, an the fancy took me to make thee wear the horns, I would engage, haddest thou an hundred eyes, as thou hast but two, to do my pleasure on such wise that thou shouldst not be ware thereof.'

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Much was the debate between the ladies and the young men; but ultimately they all took the king's counsel for useful and seemly and determined to do as he proposed; whereupon, calling the seneschal, he bespoke him of the manner which he should hold on the ensuing morning and after, having dismissed the company until supper-time, he rose to his feet. The ladies and the young men, following his example, gave themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, no otherwise than of their wont; and supper-time come, they betook themselves to table with the utmost pleasure and after fell to singing and carolling and making music. Presently, Lauretta leading up a dance, the king bade Fiammetta sing a song, whereupon she very blithely proceeded to sing thus: If love came but withouten jealousy, I know no lady born So blithe as I were, whosoe'er she be. If gladsome youthfulness In a fair lover might content a maid, Virtue and worth discreet, Valiance or gentilesse, Wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayed In pleasantness complete, Certes, I'm she for whose behoof these meet In one; for, love-o'erborne, All these in him who is my hope I see. But for that I perceive That other women are as wise as I, I tremble for affright And tending to believe The worst, in others the desire espy Of him who steals my spright; Thus this that is my good and chief delight Enforceth me, forlorn, Sigh sore and live in dole and misery. If I knew fealty such In him my lord as I know merit there, I were not jealous, I; But here is seen so much Lovers to tempt, how true they be soe'er, I hold all false; whereby I'm all disconsolate and fain would die, Of each with doubting torn Who eyes him, lest she bear him off from me. Be, then, each lady prayed By God that she in this be not intent 'Gainst me to do amiss; For, sure, if any maid Should or with words or becks or blandishment My detriment in this Seek or procure and if I know't, ywis, Be all my charms forsworn But I will make her rue it bitterly.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that said it to her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of jealous folk, gave credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his story certain things that had already befallen; then, fired with sudden anger, she answered that she would certainly do as he counselled,--it was no such great matter,--and that assuredly, if Filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it should still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. Ricciardo, well pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair way of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to say that she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her troth. Next morning, Ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the bagnio he had named to Catella, and telling her what he purposed to do, prayed her to further him therein as most she might. The good woman, who was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and agreed with him what she should do and say. Now in the house where the bagnio was she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave thereon by which the light might enter. This chamber she made ready and spread a bed there, as best she might, wherein Ricciardo, as soon as he had dined, laid himself and proceeded to await Catella. The latter, having heard Ricciardo's words and giving more credence thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full of despite, to her house, whither Filippello also returned and being by chance full of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness. When she saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself, 'Forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh to take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to pass.' An in this thought she abode well nigh all that night, considering how she should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him [in the bagnio].

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  3 “You shall send away both male and female; you shall send them outside the camp so that they will not defile their camp where I dwell in their midst.” 4 The Israelites did so, and sent them outside the camp; just as the LORD had said to Moses, so the Israelites did. 5 And the LORD spoke to Moses, saying, 6 “Say to the Israelites, ‘When a man or woman commits any of the sins of mankind [against other people], thus breaking faith with the LORD , and that person is guilty, 7 then he shall confess the sin which he has committed, and he shall make restitution for his wrong in full, and add a fifth to it, and give it to [the person] whom he has wronged. 8 ‘But if the man [who was wronged] has no redeemer (relative) to whom the restitution may be made, it is to be given to the LORD for the priest, besides the ram of atonement with which atonement is made for the offender. 9 ‘Also every contribution pertaining to all the holy gifts of the Israelites which they offer to the priest, shall be his. 10 ‘And every man’s holy gifts shall be the priest’s; whatever any man gives the priest, it becomes his.’ ” The Adultery Test 11 Then the LORD spoke to Moses, saying, 12 “Speak to the Israelites and say to them, ‘If any man’s wife goes astray (deviates) and is unfaithful to him, 13 and a man is intimate with her, and it is hidden from the eyes of her husband and it is kept secret, although she has defiled herself, and there is no witness against her and she has not been caught in the act, 14 and if a spirit (sense, attitude) of jealousy comes over him and he is jealous and angry at his wife who has defiled herself—or if a spirit of jealousy comes over him and he is jealous of his wife when she has not defiled herself— 15 then the man shall bring his wife to the priest, and he shall bring as an offering for her, a tenth of an ephah of barley meal; he shall not pour oil on it nor put frankincense on it [the symbols of favor and joy], because it is a grain offering of jealousy, a memorial grain offering, a reminder of [the consequences of] wickedness. 16 ‘Then the priest shall have her approach and have her stand before the LORD , 17 and the priest shall take holy water [from the sacred basin] in an earthenware vessel; and he shall take some of the dust that is on the floor of the tabernacle and put it in the water.

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  “He excites me,” Annie declared. “I love his big blue eyes. They look like they’re going to pop out. And the cute way his teeth are gapped. He’s a real little dynamo. And that baby skin—I’ll bet he’s smooth all over. Well, I may be finding out tonight.” “Aren’t you going too fast? I think you’ve got sex on the brain,” I muttered. “And you don’t?” I pinched my mouth sourly and said, “Chinese is not exactly an easy major, Annie.” We fell into silence as we squeaked our way through the black sludge. The wind blew a shelf of snow off a low eave. “Are you jealous?” she asked. I glanced over and I could see from her reined-in smile and nearly crossed eyes that she wanted me to say yes. I ducked out by taking a higher philosophical line: “I’m not sure what jealousy is.” Then, bearing down on her as O’Reilly might: “Why are you so eager to wound me? Have I become a substitute father for you, someone who tortures you (in my case by not sleeping with you) and whom you must punish because you could never punish your real father?” And we were off. She and I ascribed the most appalling motives to each other out of some seemingly scientific zeal, but unlike a real scientific proposition, which can be verified or at least negated, ours submitted to no proof, since the very things being discussed were unconscious, hence unknowable. I say “things” because I hesitate to speak of them as feelings. An “unconscious feeling” strikes me as an impossibility; the one thing we know for sure is what we are feeling. At least now I believe that no one else can correct our feelings; they are pure, incorrigible. Always, at the onset of such a conversation, I had the half-thrilling, half-dreadful sensation of being cranked up to the first, highest hill of a roller coaster. We were scaring each other (“You want to castrate me,” or, “Have you looked at your incestuous feelings toward me?”), but the mutual attention was flattering, as when a lovely palm reader holds your hand, looks into your eyes, and predicts tragic eventualities. There was also a Talmudic fascination about the exercise. If the real horror of living is its failure to mean, to accumulate, then our constant decoding was a comfort, for it found design everywhere—still better, a design of one’s own making. It was easier for us to accept that we were sick than to acknowledge that we were powerless and life vapid. Of course, we would have been insulted if someone had accused us of cheating on an exam or confounding lie and lay, but we smiled charmingly when charged with wanting to murder our father—smiled and shrugged our shoulders. The attribution of Sophoclean passions to ditherers could only be heartening.

• From The Beautiful Room Is Empty (1988)

  “Couldn’t it have been just an accident?” “Come on, Bunny. You’ve been in therapy.” Just as I was beginning to speculate, Lou whispered into the phone, “Bunny, you’re the one. I don’t want to marry Ava. I see what a mistake I’ve made. Will you wait for me?” “What do you mean?” “You’re the real love of my life. Do you love that boy?” “Who?” “What’s-his-name.” “Sean? I think so.” “And you don’t love me anymore?” “Lou, you’re my best friend.” “Really?” “Yes.” “I never had a friend. I don’t like what’s-his-name.” “Why not?” “I’m jealous. You’re my lover. He’s taken you away from me.” “He hasn’t taken me away. I’m your friend. I love you.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “Baby, I can’t talk anymore. Ava’s calling me to supper. Goodbye.” “Take care. Goodbye.” “Goodbye. You’re wonderful.” [image file=image_rsrc1CD.jpg] Sean didn’t want to be gay, and waking up beside me was too much evidence for him that he was becoming homosexual. I suggested that we start therapy together and go straight together—slowly, I hoped. Through Ava I found a psychotherapist named Dale who specialized in a treatment based on the idea that everyone at all times was playing a game. Sean and I were placed in separate groups in which all the other members were heterosexual. A group met once a week with Dale in her office, and one other evening without her in the apartment of a member. Unhappy marriages, celibacy, impotence, adultery, alcoholism, divorce, career frustration, the coldness of men and the hysteria of women, bankruptcy, friendships riddled by spite and envy—we watched the painful surfacing of all these problems. Like a team of midwives, we encouraged the birth of each memory. What came harder was the shrink’s theory that we must re-create among ourselves the hostilities that had divided but perpetuated our families. Listening to each other’s stories was no problem; that called on the familiar American skills of shocking confession and compassionate audition. But it was trickier to point a finger at a fellow member, a housewife from Scarsdale, and shout, “You’re trying to guilt-trip us by playing Poor Me.” We usually sought the origins of our pain in the unresolved conflicts of childhood. Those of us who had bad memories had to keep rereading the same old tea leaves. I was let off lightly. Since I was a homosexual, everyone knew what caused my disease (absent father and overprotective mother), so no one poked about for further explanations.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  There was once, then, in Arezzo, a rich man called Tofano and he was given to wife a very fair lady, by name Madam Ghita, of whom, without knowing why, he quickly waxed jealous. The lady, becoming aware of this, was despited thereat and questioned him once and again of the reason of his jealousy; but he was able to assign her none, save such as were general and naught; wherefore it occurred to her mind to cause him die of the disease whereof he stood without reason in fear. Accordingly, perceiving that a young man, who was much to her taste, sighed for her, she proceeded discreetly to come to an understanding with him and things being so far advanced between them that there lacked but with deeds to give effect to words, she cast about for a means of bringing this also to pass; wherefore, having already remarked, amongst her husband's other ill usances, that he delighted in drinking, she began not only to commend this to him, but would often artfully incite him thereto. This became so much his wont that, well nigh whensoever it pleased her, she led him to drink even to intoxication, and putting him to bed whenas she saw him well drunken, she a first time foregathered with her lover, with whom many a time thereafter she continued to do so in all security. Indeed, she grew to put such trust in her husband's drunkenness that not only did she make bold to bring her gallant into the house, but went whiles to pass a great part of the night with him in his own house, which was not very far distant.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  First Moses says, “I WILL MAKE YOU JEALOUS OF THOSE WHO ARE NOT A NATION (Gentiles); WITH A NATION THAT LACKS UNDERSTANDING I WILL MAKE YOU ANGRY .” [Deut 32:21 ] 20 Then Isaiah is very bold and says, “I HAVE BEEN FOUND BY THOSE WHO DID NOT SEEK ME ; I HAVE SHOWN MYSELF TO THOSE WHO DID NOT [consciously] ASK FOR ME .” [Is 65:1 ] 21 But of Israel he says, “ALL DAY LONG I HAVE STRETCHED OUT MY HANDS [in compassion] TO A DISOBEDIENT AND OBSTINATE PEOPLE .” [Is 65:2 ] Romans 11 Israel Is Not Cast Away 1 I SAY then, has God rejected and disowned His people? Certainly not! For I too am an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, of the tribe of Benjamin. [1 Sam 12:22 ; Jer 31:37 ; 33:24–26 ; Phil 3:5 ] 2 God has not rejected His [chosen] people whom He foreknew. Or do you not know what the Scripture says of Elijah, how he pleads with God against Israel? [Ps 94:14 ; 1 Kin 19 ] 3 “Lord, THEY HAVE KILLED YOUR PROPHETS , THEY HAVE TORN DOWN YOUR ALTARS , AND I ALONE AM LEFT [of the prophets], AND THEY ARE SEEKING MY LIFE .” 4 But what is God’s response to him? “I HAVE KEPT for Myself SEVEN THOUSAND MEN WHO HAVE NOT BOWED THE KNEE TO BAAL .” [1 Kin 19:18 ] 5 So too then, at the present time there has come to be a remnant [a small believing minority] according to God’s gracious choice. 6 But if it is by grace [God’s unmerited favor], it is no longer on the basis of works, otherwise grace is no longer grace [it would not be a gift but a reward for works]. 7 What then? Israel failed to obtain what it was seeking [that is, God’s favor by obedience to the Law], but the elect [those chosen few] obtained it, while the rest of them became hardened and callously indifferent; 8 just as it is written [in Scripture], “GOD GAVE THEM A SPIRIT OF STUPOR , EYES THAT DO NOT SEE AND EARS THAT DO NOT HEAR , [a spiritual apathy that has continued] TO THIS VERY DAY .” [Deut 29:4 ; Is 29:10 ] 9 And David says, “LET THEIR TABLE (abundance) BECOME A SNARE AND A TRAP , A STUMBLING BLOCK AND A RETRIBUTION TO THEM . [Ps 69:22 ] 10 “LET THEIR EYES BE DARKENED SO THAT THEY DO NOT SEE , AND MAKE THEIR BACKS BEND [under their burden] FOREVER .” [Ps 69:23 ] 11 So I say, have they stumbled so as to fall [to spiritual ruin]? Certainly not! But by their transgression [their rejection of the Messiah] salvation has come to the Gentiles, to make Israel jealous [when they realize what they have forfeited].

• From Another Country (1962)

  He raised his arms high and yawned and stretched. “You’re giving quite a show this afternoon,” Vivaldo said, and threw him a pair of shorts. Rufus put on the shorts and an old pair of gray slacks and a faded green sport shirt. “You should have made it to that party,” he said, “after all. There was some pot on the scene that wouldn’t wait.” “Well. I had my troubles last night.” “You and Jane? As usual?” “Oh, she got drunk and pulled some shit. You know. She’s sick, she can’t help it.” “I know she’s sick. But what’s wrong with you?” “I guess I just like to get beaten over the head.” They walked to the table. “This your first time in the Village, Leona?” “No, I’ve walked around here some. But you don’t really know a place unless you know some of the people.” “You know us now,” said Vivaldo, “and between us we must know everybody else. We’ll show you around.” Something in the way Vivaldo said this irritated Rufus. His buoyancy evaporated; sour suspicions filled him. He stole a look at Vivaldo, who was sipping his beer and watching Leona with an impenetrable smile—impenetrable exactly because it seemed so open and good- natured. He looked at Leona, who, this afternoon anyway, drowning in his bathrobe, her hair piled on top of her head and her face innocent of make-up, couldn’t really be called a pretty girl. Perhaps Vivaldo was contemptuous of her because she was so plain—which meant that Vivaldo was contemptuous of him. Or perhaps he was flirting with her because she seemed so simple and available: the proof of her availability being her presence in Rufus’ house. Then Leona looked across the table and smiled at him. His heart and his bowels shook; he remembered their violence and their tenderness together; and he thought, To hell with Vivaldo. He had something Vivaldo would never be able to touch. He leaned across the table and kissed her. “Can I have some more beer?” asked Vivaldo, smiling. “You know where it is,” Rufus said. Leona took his glass and went to the kitchen. Rufus stuck out his tongue at Vivaldo, who was watching him with a faintly quizzical frown. Leona returned and set a fresh beer before Vivaldo and said, “You boys finish up now, I’m going to get dressed.” She gathered her clothes together and vanished into the bathroom. There was silence at the table for a moment. “She going to stay here with you?” Vivaldo asked. “I don’t know yet. Nothing’s been decided yet. But I think she wants to—” “Oh, that’s obvious. But isn’t this place a little small for two?” “Maybe we’ll find a bigger place. Anyway—you know—I’m not home a hell of a lot.” Vivaldo seemed to consider this.

• From Another Country (1962)

  “I guess I just like to get beaten over the head.” They walked to the table. “This your first time in the Village, Leona?” “No, I’ve walked around here some. But you don’t really know a place unless you know some of the people.” “You know us now,” said Vivaldo, “and between us we must know everybody else. We’ll show you around.” Something in the way Vivaldo said this irritated Rufus. His buoyancy evaporated; sour suspicions filled him. He stole a look at Vivaldo, who was sipping his beer and watching Leona with an impenetrable smile—impenetrable exactly because it seemed so open and good-natured. He looked at Leona, who, this afternoon anyway, drowning in his bathrobe, her hair piled on top of her head and her face innocent of make-up, couldn’t really be called a pretty girl. Perhaps Vivaldo was contemptuous of her because she was so plain—which meant that Vivaldo was contemptuous of him. Or perhaps he was flirting with her because she seemed so simple and available: the proof of her availability being her presence in Rufus’ house. Then Leona looked across the table and smiled at him. His heart and his bowels shook; he remembered their violence and their tenderness together; and he thought, To hell with Vivaldo. He had something Vivaldo would never be able to touch. He leaned across the table and kissed her. “Can I have some more beer?” asked Vivaldo, smiling. “You know where it is,” Rufus said. Leona took his glass and went to the kitchen. Rufus stuck out his tongue at Vivaldo, who was watching him with a faintly quizzical frown. Leona returned and set a fresh beer before Vivaldo and said, “You boys finish up now, I’m going to get dressed.” She gathered her clothes together and vanished into the bathroom. There was silence at the table for a moment. “She going to stay here with you?” Vivaldo asked. “I don’t know yet. Nothing’s been decided yet. But I think she wants to—” “Oh, that’s obvious. But isn’t this place a little small for two?” “Maybe we’ll find a bigger place. Anyway—you know—I’m not home a hell of a lot.” Vivaldo seemed to consider this. Then, “I hope you know what you’re doing, baby. I know it’s none of my business, but——” Rufus looked at him. “Don’t you like her?” “Sure, I like her. She’s a sweet girl.” He took a swallow of his beer. “The question is—how much do you like her?” “Can’t you tell?” And Rufus grinned. “Well, no, frankly—I can’t. I mean, sure you like her. But—oh, I don’t know.” There was silence again. Vivaldo dropped his eyes. “There’s nothing to worry about,” said Rufus. “I’m a big boy, you know.” Vivaldo raised his eyes and said, “It’s a pretty big world, too, baby. I hope you’ve thought of that.” “I’ve thought of that.” “Trouble is, I feel too paternal towards you, you son of a bitch.” “That’s the trouble with all you white bastards.”

• From Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty (1999)

  This may be one reason why women often dislike it when their mates indulge in watching pornography. It most certainly is one reason why beautiful women have a tougher time holding on to female friends. We try to control our social environment to make ourselves look good, or at least better than the other choices, and no one wants her own light dimmed by having a beacon next to her. In the guppy world, males are the brightly colored and ornamented sex. Male guppies prefer to hang around with other males who will not outshine them. Scientists rigged up a setting in which male guppies could either swim where they wanted (which was next to females) or were kept away from the females by an invisible barrier. Other males watched this and assumed that the males who were swimming far away had been rejected by the female. Later, the observing males were put into the water to roam freely. They spent more of their time around the “rejected” male, presumably hoping to profit by the comparison. They hoped to produce a contrast effect. What about the sexual mystique of beauty? It turns out that good-looking men and women are more sexually experienced and engage in a greater variety of sexual activities. Both good-looking men and women begin to have sex earlier, although for women this does not necessarily translate into more partners. Studies by scientists Randy Thornhill and Steven Gangestad suggest that good-looking men are more likely to bring their women to orgasm, and to simultaneous orgasm. Intriguing, yes. Sorry to drop it now but we will return to this in Chapter 6 where we discuss the many advantages of the symmetrical body. All of this suggests that the good-looking may indeed be having more fun, at least in bed. Good-looking people don’t have any monopoly on great sexual technique. But they do have more opportunities, and without much effort they’ve already engaged the fantasies of their partners. As we’ve seen from the behavior of women who, during ten-minute phone calls, suddenly act more alluring, better performance can easily be coaxed by a partner. It is not uncommon for people to fantasize about sex with a more beautiful stranger while making love to their partners, probably for this very reason. One of the interesting upshots of work on stereotypes of the attractive is that these stereotypes exist for both sexes. Beauty is an advantage for men as well as for women, although the magnitude is greater for women. We are told that women bear the burden of appearances when, in fact, so do men. But there are some differences that are not small in magnitude. One is that men make many more sexual inferences about women based on appearance than women do. Men are much more likely to believe that attractive women are sexually permissive, high in sex drive, and sexually confident. Women aren’t so sure based on appearances alone.

• From Real Life (2020)

  Maintenant tout le monde est là. Super. » Lukas et Nathan sont allongés côte à côte, main dans la main. Vincent et Cole, à côté du potager, parlent à mi-voix. Tout est calme, parfait. « Très bien, Miller, viens, viens. » Yngve agite sa main plusieurs fois pour faire signe d’approcher à Miller, qui finit par céder. Wallace le regarde s’éloigner. Klaus parle en allemand au téléphone à côté de l’arbre. Yngve oriente Miller dans la direction de Zoe, qui a enfilé un super cardigan sombre, oversize, avec un trou à l’épaule. « Wallace », commence Roman. Wallace lève les yeux sur lui, qui prend la place de Miller. Il hoche la tête. Roman sent le gin. Il pose les yeux sur Klaus, puis de nouveau sur Wallace. « Je suis dans la merde, là. » Il dit ça avec un sourire, un clin d’œil. « Ça arrive, faut croire. — Ça se propage, en plus », dit Roman en regardant Cole et Vincent avec insistance. « C’est la saison, commente Wallace. — Tu me surprends », fait Roman. Emma tourne la tête pour le regarder. « Je me surprends moi-même. — Chut, fait Emma. Yngve fait l’entremetteur. » Wallace essaie d’écouter. Zoe parle avec les mains. Des grands gestes fluides. Elle mime une technique d’escalade. Elle a les paumes en avant et fait mine d’agripper la roche pour escalader une quelconque surface hostile. Miller hoche la tête. Imite ses gestes. Zoe place ses mains sur les hanches de Miller, ajuste sa posture, corrige sa prise. Elle prend fermement son poignet. Yngve rit à gorge déployée et donne une tape dans le dos de Miller. « Je ne savais pas que tu étais sur l’appli, Wallace. Je pensais que tu étais au-dessus de ce genre de trucs. Je t’y ai jamais vu. — Je t’ai bloqué », réplique Wallace sans quitter Miller et Zoe des yeux. Ils ressemblent au genre de personnes qu’il croise parfois à la jetée ou dans les cafés, avec des poussettes. Le genre de couple que le monde attend bras ouverts. Une sensibilité commune, à ce qu’on dirait. Miller a croisé les bras sur sa poitrine et appuie le menton sur son poing. « Ça fait mal, fait Roman. — J’en doute. — Pourtant si. Ça ne fait pas très mal. Mais ça pique. On est amis, non ? — C’est pour ça que tu utilises l’appli, Roman ? Pour l’amitié ? — Parfois. Et toi, tu l’utilises pourquoi ?

• From Another Country (1962)

  And she looked down again, as though the burden of confession were too great. Yet they were united in the knowledge that what she had begun she must now finish. “And you think he doesn’t love you any more?” She did not answer. She covered her forehead with her ringed left hand and stared into the dish of salted peanuts as though the answer to all riddles were hidden there. The tiny arrows on her wrist watch said it was twenty-five minutes to seven. Ida would have left Ellis hours ago and would have visited her singing teacher. She would now be in the restaurant, her station set up, and her uniform on, preparing for the dinner rush. He could see her closed, haughty face as she approached a table, manipulating her pad and pencil as though it were a sword and shield. She would not have stayed long with Ellis—he was a busy man. But how long did it take for those guys to bang off a quick one, in the middle of the afternoon, in their inviolable offices? He tried to concentrate on Cass and her trouble. Perhaps he had taken her out for a drink; perhaps he had persuaded her not to go to work, and had invited her for dinner; perhaps they were together now. (Where?) Perhaps Ellis had persuaded her to meet him at midnight in a theatrical bar, the kind of place where it would do her good to be seen with him. But no, not that; it would certainly not do Ellis any good to be seen with her. Ellis was far too smart for that—just as he was far too smart to make any verbal comparisons between his power and Vivaldo’s. But he would lose no opportunity to force Ida to make these comparisons for herself. He was making himself sick with his fears and his fantasies. If Ida loved him, then Ellis and the whole great glittering world did not matter. If she did not love him, there was nothing he could do about it and the sooner everything came to an end between them, the better. But he knew that it was not as simple as that, that he was not being honest. She might very well love him and yet—he shuddered and threw down his drink—be groaning on some leather couch under the weight of Ellis. Her love for him would in no way blunt the force of her determination to become a singer—to pursue the career which now seemed so easily within her grasp. He could even see the truth of her loving and vehement assertion that it was he, his love, which had given her the courage to begin. This did not cheer him, the assertion containing to his ears the suggestion that his role now was finished and he was fouling up everything by failing to deliver his exit lines.

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

  The “us versus them” strategy was also used within the group, as part of its hierarchical structure. At the bottom of the hierarchy was everyone who attended the Wednesday night meditation meetings. Everyone who came to Wednesday night was “special” in God’s eyes and was treated as such, but they weren’t as special as they could be. The next rung up the ladder contained those who had been asked by Limori to join the invitation-only Thursday night circle. This group was smaller than the Wednesday night group, and included only those who were deemed by Spirit to be worthy of this honour. The Thursday night meeting was similar in structure to Wednesday night, with a mix of meditation, discussion and confession. Those in the Thursday group, however, were looked upon by those in the Wednesday group as having additional spiritual merit. I envied my friends Michael, Lisa and Karen, who had been invited to breathe the rarified air of Thursday night. Belonging to this group meant special access to Limori, it seemed to me, because the group was smaller and there seemed to be greater intimacy between her and its members. Needless to say, it became my life’s ambition to be invited to the Thursday night group; I wanted to “belong” at a higher level and I suppose I expected that joining this elite crowd would be the final solution to the self-esteem issues that continued to plague me despite my dedication to meditating. When I finally was invited, I did feel a greater sense of belonging and remember feeling superior to those in the Wednesday night group who had not received the call. The final rungs above the Thursday group in the hierarchy were those who lived at Wolf’s Den, and above them was just Limori herself. Within these broad categories there were also mini-hierarchical steps; those who travelled with Limori when she spent months in Hawaii or Arizona were slightly elevated from those who lived full time at Wolf’s Den. Those in the Thursday night group who were invited to private events at Limori’s home were slightly elevated from those who were not, etc. Kramer and Alstad, in The Guru Papers , describe the hierarchical structure of a cult as providing security, and that was certainly my experience. The further I moved up the ladder, the more secure I felt about my purpose for God and the better I felt about my value as a human being because I belonged to a group that I believed were God’s chosen people. “Since spiritual hierarchies contain ready-made steps for advancement they offer quick access to feeling better through improving. . . Moving up the rungs brings power and respect,” Kramer and Alstad say. “The organization’s hierarchical structure neatly fits the disciples’ psychological need to make progress, and to be able to evaluate themselves (measure their progress) with regard to others.

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

  I was flipping around the television channels late one night, and for the first time saw a condom being demonstrated on this most proletarian of media. I had happened across a Spanish-language program. A handsome, middle-aged woman sat comfortably in front of a large audience of attentive young women. She was talking in a rapid, maternal, lecturer’s voice of which I could catch only a few words here and there. All the while she spoke, glancing quickly up and down at the audience, making small jokes, she was very slowly rolling a lubricated, shiny condom down over a long, wide, green cucumber. She held the reservoir tip out, explaining its purpose, slid the condom down a little way, talking all the while, until it suddenly slipped into place. She made another little joke, cool, relaxed, and I felt intensely jealous. I couldn’t follow the speedy Spanish well enough to get the jokes, but my jealousy was deeper than that. I envied her matter-of-fact ease. I am bombarded by insinuation and entendre, by seductive skin and promises. I am bombarded by recrimination for my sexuality, reprimanded, as are we all, all our lives. We seduce and reprimand each other. We can’t make up our minds. To pretend one has no sex life (no sexual desires, or no difficulty in controlling them) is strange. Moreover, the pretense leads quite directly to neurosis, just as our universal cultural denial of death has led to neurotic and excessive efforts to conquer death. To deny that part of the human condition is sexual desire is like denying we were each born; the denial has about it the sense of something bizarre and incongruous, because it goes directly against almost everyone’s daily experience. Sexual denial is dysfunctional in the deepest, most psychological sense of the word. Who is crazy, me or you? Because there is no fit between my quotidian and lifelong erotic feelings and your repeated declarations that those feelings and ideas do not exist (or are wrong, wrong in nature, twisted). Only slightly less disturbing than your declaration that my feelings are wrong is your declaration that you have no similar experience, that what seems constant and obvious to me is strange to you. Even in 1994 there is almost no place and time where this is easy to discuss. The 1990s, in fact, may be one of the hardest times in history to talk lucidly about sex at all. I have, perhaps, three absolutes about sexual expression. The first, the most obvious and infinitely arguable one, is that we should avoid harming each other whenever possible. Second is my belief in the importance of self-determination—the right of every mature individual to make decisions for herself, for himself. Last is my unquenchable belief (in spite of sometimes quaking neuroses and plenty of evidence to the contrary) in the final goodness of humans—of human life, the human journey, and the human body.

• From Another Country (1962)

  They looked at each other and smiled. Then, “I hope you get along with Ida better than I did with Rufus,” Eric said. Vivaldo felt chilled. He looked away from Eric, toward the window; the dark, lonely streets seemed to come flooding in on them. “ How ,” he asked, “did you get along with Rufus?” “It was terrible, it drove me crazy.” “I figured that.” He watched Eric. “Is that all over now? I mean—is Cass kind of the wave of your future?” “I don’t know. I thought I could make myself fall in love with Cass, but—but, no. I love her very much, we get on beautifully together. But she’s not all tangled up in my guts the way—the way I guess Ida is all tangled up in yours.” “Maybe you’re just not in love with her . You haven’t got to be in love every time you go to bed. You haven’t got to be in love to have a good affair.” Eric was silent. Then, “No. But once you have been—I” And he stared into his drink. “Yes,” Vivaldo said at last, “yes, I know.” “I think,” said Eric, “that I’ve really got to accept—or decide—some very strange things. Right away.” He walked into the dark kitchen, returned with ice, and spiked his drink, and Vivaldo’s. He sat down again in his straight chair. “I’ve spent years now, it seems to me, thinking that one fine day I’d wake up and all my torment would be over, and all my indecision would end—and that no man, no boy, no male —would ever have power over me again.” Vivaldo blushed and lit a cigarette. “ I can’t be sure,” he said, “that one fine day, I won’t get all hung up on some boy—like that cat in Death In Venice . So you can’t be sure that there isn’t a woman waiting for you, just for you, somewhere up the road.” “Indeed,” said Eric, “I can’t be sure. And yet I must decide.” “ What must you decide?” Eric lit a cigarette, drew one foot up, and hugged one knee. “I mean, I think you’ve got to be truthful about the life you have . Otherwise, there’s no possibility of achieving the life you want .” He paused. “Or think you want.” “Or,” said Vivaldo, after a moment, “the life you think you should want.” “The life you think you should want,” said Eric, “is always the life that looks safest.” He looked toward the window.

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

  Lisa glowed in Limori’s presence and began dressing similarly to those women like Alice who lived with Limori full time; they wore dresses, never pants, and all sported an uber-short haircut that the group had begun referring to, jokingly, as the “cult cut.” In short, Lisa could do no wrong, and at the time I was jealous of her special relationship with Limori and felt threatened by it. Limori praised her often for being such a good spiritual student, and there developed a joking familiarity between them, similar to that of people who are falling in love. They shared jokes and private references in front of the group, giggling intimately. So, in the summer of 1994, Lisa packed up her life and her three children and moved up to Wolf’s Den. Coincidentally, in September of that same year I fell and broke some ribs and had to take some time off work to heal. I called Limori at Wolf’s Den to talk to her about what had happened and see if she could give me the spiritual answer as to why this had happened to me. She invited me up to Wolf’s Den for a few days to convalesce. I flew up to the lodge, moving agonizingly slowly and carefully, and Matthew picked me up at the tiny airport. It was immediately and painfully apparent to me that Lisa’s honeymoon phase with Limori was over. Lisa’s children had already been banished back to the city to be raised by their father and grandparents. Limori was not calling her by her new name, Numi, but was referring to her as “Scum” and, on my first day there, the others who lived at the lodge were instructed to do the same. And she was clearly, even to my mind-controlled eyes, being ostracized, while still moving among her peers. I had seen this happen a number of times before at workshops, but the ferocity with which Lisa was being treated was stunning even to me, even though I had become slightly immune to these type of techniques that Limori called spiritual. As we sat outside at two picnic benches for lunch on the first day, Limori was at one bench with Alice and Matthew and the rest of us were at another. Limori would call over from her bench and ridicule and berate Lisa, all without speaking to her in the first person. “Look at her eat! She eats like a pig. Here, piggy, piggy.” This was followed by oinking noises. “Would you like some more food, piggy?” Limori proceeded to pelt Lisa with whatever food items were handy at her table. Lisa ducked slightly to avoid receiving a pickle to the side of her head and Limori mocked her for that: “Don’t you want it, piggy, piggy?” There was a small pause as Limori turned away and continued to eat her lunch, but it didn’t last long. She hurled a cherry tomato at Lisa and then said, “Here!

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

  Limori knew who among us could be brought along at this fast-track pace, and Lisa was the most rapidly accelerated disciple I would ever witness. I recognized in Lisa the same devotion that I felt for Limori. I could see in her face the love she felt for Limori and the space in her soul that Limori was filling up. I could see it because I felt the same way, and yet at times I was jealous of Lisa because she seemed less conflicted than I felt. For a couple of years Limori groomed Lisa by making her the treasurer of our meditation circle, by spending one-on-one time with her and (again, I can only see this in hindsight) by testing her devotion. There was the typical period of seduction and flattery, which involved, among other things, Limori declaring that Lisa was the incarnation of the Angel Gabriel. She presented Lisa with a ring that signified her spiritual purity and significance, and I never again saw Lisa’s right hand without the ring present. While Lisa’s devotion to Limori grew, she was also building a family, and gave birth to two more children, the last being born in the late spring of 1993. Lisa left her husband shortly thereafter, which, as I have explained, was an essential move in order for Limori to have more control over this follower of hers who was proving to be the ideal disciple. A few months later, Limori arranged a short-lived relationship between Lisa and group member Victor. Lisa was obviously willing to do whatever Limori asked of her and this relationship was an ideal test of that loyalty; at the time, even in my mind-controlled state, I could see that Lisa had no feelings whatsoever for the man she had been matched with. He was at least twenty-five years her senior and it was so obvious that no romantic feelings existed on Lisa’s part and she was only doing this because God asked her to, that to see them together in the circle was cringingly uncomfortable. Yet Lisa gave herself to the situation fully, proving to Limori that she was ready for the next temperature increase. Consequently, that relationship was over almost as soon as it began. In the meditation circle one night in mid-1994, Limori announced that Lisa’s name was being changed to Numi and she was moving to Wolf’s Den to work for God full time. While Lisa prepared for her departure, Limori encouraged her to tune in at every opportunity, took her shopping and generally spent as much time with Lisa as Lisa could spare away from her children.

• From Another Country (1962)

  And Dupree said, Betty, I’ll get you most any old thing. “My God,” muttered Vivaldo, “she’s been working.” His tone unconsciously implied that he had not been, and held an unconscious resentment. And this threw Eric in on himself. Neither had he been working—for a long time; he had merely been keeping his hand in. It had been because of Yves; so he had told himself; but was this true? He looked at Vivaldo’s white, passionate face and wondered if Vivaldo were now thinking that he had not been working because of Ida: who had not, however, allowed him to distract her. There she was, up on the stand, and unless all the signs were false, and no matter how hard or long the road might be, she was on her way. She had started. Give Mama my clothes, Give Betty my diamond ring. Tomorrow’s Friday, The day I got to swing. She and the musicians were beginning to enjoy each other and to egg each other on as they bounced through this ballad of cupidity, treachery, and death; and Ida had created in the room a new atmosphere and a new excitement. Even the heat seemed less intolerable. The musicians played for her as though she were an old friend come home and their pride in her restored their pride in themselves. The number ended and Ida stepped off the stand, wet and triumphant, the applause crashing about her ears like foam. She came to the table, looking at Vivaldo with a smile and a small, questioning frown, and, standing, took a sip of her drink. They called her back. The drummer reached down and lifted her, bodily, onto the stand, and the applause continued. Eric became aware of a shift in Vivaldo’s attention. He looked at Vivaldo’s face, which was stormier than ever, and followed his eyes. Vivaldo was looking at a short square man with curly hair and a boyish face who was standing at the end of the bar, looking up at Ida. He grinned and waved and Ida nodded and Vivaldo looked up at the stand again: with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, with an air of grim speculation. “Your girl friend’s got something,” Eric said. Vivaldo glanced over at him. “It runs in the family,” he said. His tone was not friendly; it was as though he suspected Eric of taunting him; and so referred, obliquely, to Rufus, with the intention of humbling Eric. Yet, in a moment he relented. “She’s going to be terrific,” he said, “and, Lord, I’m going to have to buy me a baseball bat to keep all the hungry cats away.” He grinned and looked again at the short man at the bar. Ida stepped up to the microphone. “This song is for my brother,” she said. She hesitated and looked over at Vivaldo. “He died just a little before Thanksgiving, last year.” There was a murmur in the room.