Joy

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 Tropic of Capricorn (1934)

  Santos Dumont was a magical word which suggested a beautiful flowing mustache, a sombrero, spurs, something airy, delicate, humorous, quixotic. Sometimes it brought up the aroma of coffee beans and of straw mats, or, because it was so thoroughly outlandish and quixotic, it would entail a digression concerning the life of the Hottentots. For there were among us, older boys who were beginning to read and who would entertain us by the hour with fantastic tales which they had gleaned from books such as Ayesha or Ouida’s Under Two Flags . The real flavor of knowledge is most definitely associated in my mind with the vacant lot at the corner of the new neighborhood where I was transplanted at about the age of ten. Here, when the fall days came on and we stood about the bonfire roasting chippies and raw potatoes in the little cans which we carried, there ensued a new type of discussion which differed from the old discussions I had known in that the origins were always bookish. Some one had just read a book of adventure, or a book of science, and forthwith the whole street became animated by the introduction of a hitherto unknown subject. It might be that one of these boys had just discovered that there was such a thing as the Japanese current and he would try to explain to us how the Japanese current came into existence and what the purpose of it was. This was the only way we learned things—against the fence, as it were, while roasting chippies and raw potatoes. These bits of knowledge sunk deep—so deep, in fact, that later, confronted with a more accurate knowledge it was often difficult to dislodge the older knowledge. In this way it was explained to us one day by an older boy that the Egyptians had known about the circulation of the blood, something which seemed so natural to us that it was hard later to swallow the story of the discovery of the circulation of the blood by an Englishman named Harvey. Nor does it seem strange to me now that in those days most of our conversation was about remote places, such as China, Peru, Egypt, Africa, Iceland, Greenland.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Anastasia, I’m delighted that you’ve met my parents. Why are you so filled with self-doubt? It never ceases to amaze me. You’re such a strong, self-contained young woman, but you have such negative thoughts about yourself. If I hadn’t wanted you to meet them, you wouldn’t be here. Is that how you were feeling the whole time you were there?” Oh! He wanted me there—and it’s a revelation. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable answering me as he would if he were hiding the truth. He seems genuinely pleased that I’m here. A warm glow spreads slowly through my veins. He shakes his head and reaches for my hand. I glance nervously at Taylor. “Don’t worry about Taylor. Talk to me.” I shrug. “Yes. I thought that. And another thing: I only mentioned Georgia because Kate was talking about Barbados. I haven’t made up my mind.” “Do you want to go see your mother?” “Yes.” He looks oddly at me, like he’s having some internal struggle. “Can I come with you?” he asks eventually. What! “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” “Why not?” “I was hoping for a break from all this…intensity to try to think things through.” His eyes meet mine. “I’m too intense?” I burst out laughing. “That’s putting it mildly!” In the gleam of the passing streetlights, I see his lips quirk up. “Are you laughing at me, Miss Steele?” “I wouldn’t dare, Mr. Grey,” I reply with mock seriousness. “I think you dare, and I think you do laugh at me, frequently.” “You are quite funny.” “Funny?” “Oh yes.” “Funny peculiar or funny ha-ha?” “Oh, a lot of one and some of the other.” “Which way more?” “I’ll leave you to figure that out.” “I’m not sure if I can figure anything out around you, Anastasia,” he scoffs and then continues quietly, “What do you need to think about in Georgia?” “Us,” I whisper. He stares at me, impassive. “You said you’d try.” “I know.” “Are you having second thoughts?” “Possibly.” He shifts as if uncomfortable. “Why?” Holy crap. How did this suddenly become such an intense and meaningful conversation? It’s been sprung on me, like an exam I’m not prepared for. What do I say? Because I think I love you, and you just see me as a toy. Because I can’t touch you, because I’m too frightened to show you any affection in case you flinch or tell me off or worse—spank me? What can I say? I glance out of the window as the car drives across the bridge. We’re both shrouded in darkness, our thoughts and feelings masked by the night. “Why, Anastasia?” Christian presses me for an answer.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  He’s taken aback, bemused. “Hey, Annie, I’m pleased to see you, too,” he mutters as he hugs me. Setting me back down, his hands on my shoulders, he looks me up and down, his brow furrowed. “You okay, kid?” “Of course, Dad. Can’t a girl be pleased to see her old man?” He smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and follows me into the living room. “You look good,” he says. “This is Kate’s dress.” I glance down at the gray chiffon halter-neck dress. He frowns. “Where is Kate?” “She’s gone to campus. She’s giving a speech, so she has to be early.” “Should we head on over?” “Dad, we have half an hour. Would you like some tea? And you can tell me how everyone in Montesano is getting along. How was the drive down?” Ray pulls his car into the campus parking lot, and we follow the stream of humanity dotted with ubiquitous black and red gowns heading toward the gym. “Good luck, Annie. You seem awfully nervous. Do you have to do anything?” Holy crap…why has Ray picked today to be observant? “No, Dad. It’s a big day.” And I’m going to see him. “Yeah, my baby girl has gotten a degree. I’m proud of you, Annie.” “Aw…thanks, Dad.” Oh, I love this man. The gym is crowded. Ray has gone to sit with the other parents and well-wishers in the tiered seating, while I make my way to my seat. I’m wearing my black gown and my cap, and I feel protected by them, anonymous. There is no one on the stage yet, but I can’t seem to steady my nerves. My heart is pounding, and my breathing is shallow. He’s here, somewhere. I wonder if Kate is talking to him, interrogating him maybe. I make my way to my seat amongst fellow students whose surnames also begin with S. I am in the second row, affording me yet more anonymity. I glance behind me and spot Ray high up in the bleachers. I give him a wave. He self-consciously gives me a half-wave, half-salute back. I sit and wait. The auditorium fills quickly, and the buzz of excited voices gets louder and louder. The row of seats in front fills. On either side of me, I am joined by two girls I don’t know from a different department. They’re obviously close friends and talk across me excitedly. At eleven precisely, the chancellor appears from behind the stage, followed by the three vice chancellors and then the senior professors, all decked out in their black and red regalia. We stand and applaud our teaching staff. Some professors nod and wave; others look bored. Professor Collins, my tutor and my favorite teacher, looks like he’s just fallen out of bed, as usual.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “It’s not late, it’s early. Come on—up you go. We’re going out. I’ll take a rain check on the sex.” “I was having such a nice dream,” I whine. “Dream about what?” he asks patiently. “You.” I blush. “What was I doing this time?” “Trying to feed me strawberries.” His lips twitch with a trace of a smile. “Dr. Flynn could have a field day with that. Up—get dressed. Don’t bother to shower; we can do that later.” We! I sit up, and the sheet pools at my waist, revealing my body. He stands to give me room, his eyes dark. “What time is it?” “Five thirty in the morning.” “Feels like three a.m.” “We don’t have much time. I let you sleep as long as possible. Come.” “Can’t I have a shower?” He sighs. “If you have a shower, I’ll want one with you, and you and I know what will happen then—the day will just go. Come.” He’s excited. Like a small boy, he’s iridescent with anticipation and excitement. It makes me smile. “What are we doing?” “It’s a surprise. I told you.” I can’t help but grin up at him. “Okay.” I clamber off the bed and search for my clothes. Of course they are neatly folded on the chair beside my bed. He’s laid out a pair of his jersey boxer briefs, too—Ralph Lauren, no less. I slip them on, and he grins at me. Hmm, another piece of Christian Grey’s underwear, a trophy to add to my collection—along with the car, the BlackBerry, the Mac, his black jacket, and a set of valuable old first editions. I shake my head at his largesse, and I frown as a scene from Tess crosses my mind: the strawberry scene. It evokes my dream. To hell with Dr. Flynn—Freud would have a field day, and then he’d probably die trying to deal with Fifty Shades. “I’ll give you some room now that you’re up.” Christian exits toward the living area, and I wander into the bathroom. I have needs to attend to, and I want a quick wash. Seven minutes later, I am in the living area, scrubbed, brushed, and dressed in jeans, my camisole, and Christian Grey’s underwear. Christian glances up from the small dining table where he’s eating breakfast. Breakfast! At this time! “Eat,” he says. Holy crap…my dream. I gape at him, thinking about his tongue touching his palate. Hmm, his expert tongue. “Anastasia,” he says sternly, pulling me out of my reverie. It really is too early for me. How to handle this? “I’ll have some tea. Can I take a croissant for later?” He eyes me suspiciously, and I smile very sweetly. “Don’t rain on my parade, Anastasia,” he warns softly. “I will eat later when my stomach’s woken up. About seven thirty a.m…okay?” “Okay.” Honestly. I have to concentrate hard on not making a face at him. “I want to roll my eyes at you.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Fine, thank you,” I’m still breathless. “Thanks once again for first class. It really is a much nicer way to travel.” I smile shyly at him. “I have some news,” I add nervously. “Oh?” He looks down at me as he undoes the last button, slips my blouse down my arms, and throws it on top of his discarded clothes. “I have a job.” He stills, then smiles at me, his eyes warm and soft. “Congratulations, Miss Steele. Now will you tell me where?” “You don’t know?” He shakes his head, frowning. “Why would I know?” “With your stalking capabilities, I thought you might have—” I stop as his face falls. “Anastasia, I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your career. Unless you ask me to, of course.” He looks wounded. “So you have no idea which company?” “No. I know there are four publishing companies in Seattle—so I am assuming it’s one of them.” “SIP.” “Oh, the small one, good. Well done.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Clever girl. When do you start?” “Monday.” “That soon, eh? I’d better take advantage of you while I still can. Turn around.” I am thrown by his casual command but do as I’m bid, and he undoes my bra and unzips my skirt. He pushes my skirt down, cupping my behind as he does and kissing my shoulder. He leans against me and his nose nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply. He squeezes my buttocks. “You intoxicate me, Miss Steele, and you calm me. Such a heady combination.” He kisses my hair. Grabbing my hand, he tugs me into the shower. “Ow,” I squeal. The water is practically scalding. Christian grins down at me as the water cascades over him. “It’s only a little hot water.” And actually he’s right. It feels heavenly, washing off the sticky Georgia morning and the stickiness from our lovemaking. “Turn around,” he orders, and I comply, turning to face the wall. “I want to wash you,” he murmurs and reaches for the body wash. He squirts a little into his hand. “I have something else to tell you,” I murmur as his hands start on my shoulders. “Oh yes?” he asks mildly. I steel myself with a deep breath. “My friend José’s photography show is opening Thursday in Portland.” He stills, his hands hovering over my breasts. I have emphasized the word friend. “Yes, what about it?” “I said I would go. Do you want to come with me?” After what feels like a monumental amount of time, he slowly starts washing me again. “What time?” “The opening is at seven thirty p.m.” He kisses my ear. “Okay.” Inside my subconscious relaxes and then collapses, slumped into an old battered armchair. “Were you nervous about asking me?” “Yes. How can you tell?” “Anastasia, your whole body’s just relaxed,” he says dryly. “Well, you just seem to be, um…on the jealous side.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and notice that he’s exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up and our eyes lock. And in that moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at an impossibly handsome man whose scorching gaze burns into me with some unfathomable emotion…and for a nanosecond we’re lost in each other. Holy cow… This beautiful man wants me back, and deep inside my joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn. “Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—” Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile. “How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall, lanky photographer. José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning. Christian joins me, and hands me my glass of white wine. “Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal. He looks quizzically at me. “The wine.” “No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake photo. “Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” I state, unable to hide my pride in José. Christian’s eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me. “Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches him. “Can I have a picture, sir?” “Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise. “Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss…?” he asks. “Ana Steele,” I reply. “Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off. “I looked for pictures of you with dates on the internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.” Christian’s mouth twitches into a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His voice is quiet with sincerity. “So you never took your”—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?” “Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine. Oh, I don’t know what to think about that. “Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers. I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  All too soon, I’m woken by the flight attendant offering me more orange juice as we begin our approach to Savannah International. I sip slowly, beyond fatigued, and I allow myself to feel a modicum of excitement. I’m going to see my mother for the first time in six months. Sneaking another covert look at my BlackBerry, I remember vaguely that I sent a long, rambling email to Christian—but there’s nothing in response. It’s five in the morning in Seattle; hopefully he’s still asleep and not up playing mournful laments on his piano. The beauty of carry-on rucksacks is that one can breeze out of the airport and not wait endlessly for baggage at the carousels. The beauty of traveling first class is that they let you off the plane first. My mom is waiting with Bob, and it is so good to see them. I don’t know if it’s because of exhaustion, the long journey, or the whole Christian situation, but as soon as I’m in my mother’s arms, I burst into tears. “Oh, Ana, honey. You must be so tired.” She glances anxiously at Bob. “No, Mom, it’s just—I’m so pleased to see you.” I hug her tightly. She feels so good and welcoming, like home. Reluctantly, I relinquish her, and Bob gives me an awkward one-armed hug. He seems unsteady on his feet, and I remember that he’s hurt his leg. “Welcome back, Ana. Why you cryin’?” he asks. “Aw, Bob, I’m just pleased to see you, too.” I stare up into his handsome square-jawed face and his twinkling blue eyes that gaze at me fondly. I like this husband, Mom. You can keep him. He takes my backpack. “Jeez, Ana, what have you got in here?” That would be the Mac, and they both put their arms around me as we head for the parking lot. I always forget how unbearably hot it is in Savannah. Leaving the cool air-conditioned confines of the arrival terminal, we step into the Georgia heat like we’re wearing it. Whoa! It saps everything. I have to struggle out of Mom and Bob’s embrace so I can remove my hoodie. I am so glad I packed shorts. I miss the dry heat of Las Vegas sometimes, where I lived with Mom and Bob when I was seventeen, but this wet heat, even at 8:30 in the morning, takes some getting used to. By the time I’m in the back of Bob’s wonderfully air-conditioned Tahoe SUV, I’m limp, and my hair has started a frizzy protest at the heat. In the back of the SUV, I quickly text Ray, Kate, and Christian: Arrived safely in Savannah. A :)

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  The beef is delicious and served with roasted sweet potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and green beans. It is even more palatable since Christian manages to retain his good humor for the rest of the meal. I suspect that it’s because I’m eating so heartily. The conversation flows freely among the Greys, warm and caring, gently teasing one another. Over our dessert of lemon syllabub, Mia regales us with her exploits in Paris, lapsing at one point into fluent French. We all stare at her, and she stares back puzzled, until Christian tells her in equally fluent French what she’s done, whereupon she bursts into a fit of giggles. She has an infectious laugh, and soon we’re all in stitches. Elliot holds forth about his latest building project, a new eco-friendly community to the north of Seattle. I glance up at Kate, and she’s hanging on every word Elliot says, her eyes glowing with lust or love. I haven’t quite worked out which yet. He grins down at her, and it’s as if an unspoken promise passes between them. Laters, baby, he’s saying, and it’s hot, freaking hot. I flush just watching them. I sigh and peek up at Fifty Shades. I could stare at him forever. He has light stubble over his chin, and my fingers itch to scratch it and feel it against my face, against my breasts…between my thighs. I blush at the direction of my thoughts. He peers down at me and raises his hand to pull at my chin. “Don’t bite your lip.” His voice is husky. “I want to do that.” Grace and Mia clear our dessert glasses and head to the kitchen, while Mr. Grey, Kate, and Elliot discuss the merits of solar panels in Washington State. Christian, feigning interest in their conversation, puts his hand once more on my knee, and his fingers travel up my thigh. My breathing hitches and I press my thighs together in a bid to halt his progress. He smirks. “Shall I give you a tour of the grounds?” he asks me quite openly. I know I’m meant to say yes, but I don’t trust him. Before I can answer, however, he’s on his feet and holding his hand out to me. I place my hand in his, and all the muscles clench deep in my belly, responding to his dark, hungry gaze. “Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Grey and follow Christian out of the dining room. He leads me through the hallway and into the kitchen, where Mia and Grace are stacking the dishwasher. European Pigtails is nowhere to be seen. “I’m going to show Anastasia the backyard,” Christian says innocently to his mother. She waves us out with a smile as Mia heads back to the dining room.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Almost instantaneously there is a response. From: Christian Grey Subject: Your New Computer (on loan) Date: May 23 2011 08:22 To: Anastasia Steele The computer is on loan. Indefinitely, Miss Steele. I note from your tone that you have read the documentation I gave you. Do you have any questions so far? Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. I can’t help but grin. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Inquiring Minds Date: May 23 2011 08:25 To: Christian Grey I have many questions, but not suitable for email, and some of us have to work for a living. I do not want or need a computer indefinitely. Until later, good day. Sir. Ana His reply again is instant, and it makes me smile. From: Christian Grey Subject: Your New Computer (again on loan) Date: May 23 2011 08:26 To: Anastasia Steele Laters, baby. P.S. I work for a living, too. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. I shut the computer down, grinning like an idiot. How can I resist playful Christian? I’m going to be late for work. Well, it’s my last week—Mr. and Mrs. Clayton will probably cut me some slack. I race into the shower, unable to shake my face-splitting grin. He emailed me. I’m like a small, giddy child. And all the contract angst fades. As I wash my hair, I try to think of what I could possibly ask him via email. Surely it’s better to talk these things through. Suppose someone hacked into his account? I flush at the thought. I dress quickly, shout a hasty goodbye to Kate, and I’m off to work at Clayton’s. José phones at eleven. “Hey, are we doing coffee?” He sounds like the old José. José my friend, not a—What did Christian call him? Suitor. Ugh. “Sure. I’m at work. Can you make it here for, say, twelve?” “See you then.” He hangs up, and I go back to restocking the paintbrushes and thinking about Christian Grey and his contract. José is punctual. He comes bounding into the shop like a gamboling dark-eyed puppy. “Ana.” He smiles his dazzling toothy all-Hispanic-American smile, and I can’t be angry with him anymore. “Hi, José.” I hug him. “I’m starving. I’ll just let Mrs. Clayton know I’m going for lunch.” As we stroll to the local coffee shop, I slip my arm through José’s. I’m so grateful for his…normality. Someone I know and understand. “Hey, Ana,” he murmurs. “You’ve really forgiven me?” “José, you know I can never stay mad at you for long.” He grins. I can’t wait to get home, the lure of emailing Christian and maybe I can begin my research project. Kate is out somewhere, so I fire up the new laptop and open my email. Sure enough, there’s a message from Christian sitting in the inbox. I’m practically bouncing out of my seat with glee. From: Christian Grey Subject: Working for a Living Date: May 23 2011 17:24 To: Anastasia Steele Dear Miss Steele,

• From Story of the Eye (1928)

  Marcelle flinched when I tried to kiss her. She merely watched me very attentively as I started filing away at a bar. Since she only had a bathrobe on, I softly told her to get dressed so she could come with us. She simply turned her back to pull flesh-coloured stockings over her legs, securing them on a belt of bright red ribbons that brought out a rump with a perfect shape and an exceptionally fine skin. I continued filing, bathed in sweat because of both my effort and what I saw. Her back still towards me, Marcelle pulled a blouse over long, flat hips, whose straight lines were admirably terminated by the buttocks when she had one foot on a chair. She did not slip on any panties, only a pleated grey woollen skirt and a sweater with very tiny black, white, and red checks. After stepping into flat-heeled shoes, she came over to the window and sat down close enough to me so that my one hand could caress her head, her lovely short hair, so sleek and so blond that it actually looked pale. She gazed at me affectionately and seemed touched by my wordless joy at seeing her. “Now we can get married, can’t we?” she finally said, gradually won over. “It’s very bad here, we suffer….” At that point, I would never have dreamt for even an instant that I could do anything but devote the rest of my life to such an unreal apparition. She let me give her a long kiss on her forehead and her eyes, and when one of her hands happened to touch my leg, she looked at me wide-eyed, but before withdrawing her hand, she ran it over my clothes absent-mindedly. After long work, I succeeded in cutting through the horrid bar. I pulled it aside with all my strength, which left enough space for her to squeeze through. She did so, and I helped her descend, climbing down underneath, which forced me to see the top of her thigh and even to touch it when I supported her. Reaching the ground, she snuggled in my arms and kissed my mouth with all her strength, while Simone, sitting at our feet, her eyes wet with tears, flung her hands around Marcelle’s legs, hugging her knees and thighs. At first, she only rubbed her cheek against the thigh, but then, unable to restrain a huge surge of joy, she finally yanked the body apart, pressing her lips to the cunt, which she greedily devoured.

• From The Lover (1984)

  She’s on the banks of the rice fields on either side of the track, shouting and laughing at the top of her voice. She has a golden laugh, fit to wake the dead, to wake anyone who listens to children’s laughter. She stays outside the bungalow for days and days, there are white people in the bungalow, she remembers they give food to beggars. And then one day, lo and behold, she wakes at daybreak and starts to walk, one day she goes, who can tell why, she turns off toward the mountains, goes up through the forest, follows the paths running along the tops of the mountains of Siam. Having seen, perhaps, seen a yellow and green sky on the other side of the plain, she crosses over. At last begins to descend to the sea. With her great gaunt step she descends the slopes of the forest. On, on. They are forests full of pestilence. Regions of great heat. There’s no healthy wind from the sea. There’s the stagnant din of mosquitoes, dead children, rain every day. And then here are the deltas. The biggest deltas in the world. Made of black slime. Stretching toward Chittagong. She’s left the tracks, the forests, the tea roads, the red suns behind, and she goes forward over the estuary of the deltas. She goes in the same direction as the world, toward the engulfing, always distant east. One day she comes face to face with the sea. She lets out a cry, laughs her miraculous birdlike coo. Because of her laugh she finds a junk in Chittagong, the fishermen are willing to take her, she crosses with them the Bay of Bengal. Then, then she starts to be seen near the rubbish dumps on the outskirts of Calcutta. And then she’s lost sight of. And then later found again behind the French embassy in the same city. She sleeps in a garden, replete with endless food. She’s there during the night. Then in the Ganges at sunrise. Always laughing, mocking. She doesn’t go on this time. Here she can eat, sleep, it’s quiet at night, she stays there in the garden with the oleanders. One day I come, pass by. I’m seventeen. It’s the English quarter, the embassy gardens, the monsoon season, the tennis courts are deserted. Along the Ganges the lepers laugh. We’re stopping over in Calcutta. The boat broke down. We’re visiting the town to pass the time. We leave the following evening.

• From The Lover (1984)

  It takes my mother all of a sudden toward the end of the afternoon, especially in the dry season, and then she’ll have the house scrubbed from top to bottom, to clean it through, scour it out, freshen it up, she says. The house is built on a raised strip of land, clear of the garden, the snakes, the scorpions, the red ants, the floodwaters of the Mekong, those that follow the great tornados of the monsoon. Because the house is raised like this it can be cleaned by having buckets of water thrown over it, sluiced right through like a garden. All the chairs are piled up on the tables, the whole house is streaming, water is lapping around the piano in the small sitting room. The water pours down the steps, spreads through the yard toward the kitchen quarters. The little houseboys are delighted, we join in with them, splash one another, then wash the floor with yellow soap. Everyone’s barefoot, including our mother. She laughs. She’s got no objection to anything. The whole house smells nice, with the delicious smell of wet earth after a storm, enough to make you wild with delight, especially when it’s mixed with the other, the smell of yellow soap, of purity, of respectability, of clean linen, of whiteness, of our mother, of the immense candor and innocence of our mother. The house-boys’ families come along, and the houseboys’ visitors, and the white children from neighboring houses. My mother’s very happy with this disorder, she can be very very happy sometimes, long enough to forget, the time it takes to clean out the house may be enough to make her happy. She goes into the sitting room, sits down at the piano, plays the only tunes she knows by heart, the ones she learned at the normal school. She sings. Sometimes she laughs while she plays. Gets up, dances, and sings. And everyone thinks, and so does she, that you can be happy here in this house suddenly transmogrified into a pond, a water meadow, a ford, a beach. The two smaller children, the girl and the younger brother, are the first to remember. They suddenly stop laughing and go into the darkening garden. I remember, just as I’m writing this, that our elder brother wasn’t in Vinh Long when we sluiced the house out. He was living with our guardian, a village priest, in the department of Lot-et-Garonne. He too used to laugh sometimes, but never as much as we did. I forget everything, and I forgot to say this, that we were children who laughed, my younger brother and I, laughed fit to burst, fit to die.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  He dumped her after a month because she was too rich for his poverty-soaked blood, but whatever. We pulled our first prank that year—we filled Classroom 4 with a thin layer of marbles. We’ve progressed some since then, of course.” She laughed. So Chip became the Colonel—the military-style planner of their pranks, and Alaska was ever Alaska, the larger-than-life creative force behind them. “You’re smart like him,” she said. “Quieter, though. And cuter, but I didn’t even just say that, because I love my boyfriend.” “Yeah, you’re not bad either,” I said, overwhelmed by her compliment. “But I didn’t just say that, because I love my girlfriend. Oh, wait. Right. I don’t have one.” She laughed. “Yeah, don’t worry, Pudge. If there’s one thing I can get you, it’s a girlfriend. Let’s make a deal: You figure out what the labyrinth is and how to get out of it, and I’ll get you laid.” “Deal.” We shook on it. — Later, I walked toward the dorm circle beside Alaska. The cicadas hummed their one-note song, just as they had at home in Florida. She turned to me as we made our way through the darkness and said, “When you’re walking at night, do you ever get creeped out and even though it’s silly and embarrassing you just want to run home?” It seemed too secret and personal to admit to a virtual stranger, but I told her, “Yeah, totally.” For a moment, she was quiet. Then she grabbed my hand, whispered, “Run run run run run,” and took off, pulling me behind her. one hundred twenty-seven days before EARLY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I blinked sweat from my eyes as I taped a van Gogh poster to the back of the door. The Colonel sat on the couch judging whether the poster was level and fielding my endless questions about Alaska. What’s her story? “She’s from Vine Station. You could drive past it without noticing—and from what I understand, you ought to. Her boyfriend’s at Vanderbilt on scholarship. Plays bass in some band. Don’t know much about her family.” So she really likes him? “I guess. She hasn’t cheated on him, which is a first.” And so on. All morning, I’d been unable to care about anything else, not the van Gogh poster and not video games and not even my class schedule, which the Eagle had brought by that morning. He introduced himself, too: “Welcome to Culver Creek, Mr. Halter. You’re given a large measure of freedom here. If you abuse it, you’ll regret it. You seem like a nice young man. I’d hate to have to bid you farewell.” And then he stared at me in a manner that was either serious or seriously malicious. “Alaska calls that the Look of Doom,” the Colonel told me after the Eagle left. “The next time you see that, you’re busted.” “Okay, Pudge,” the Colonel said as I stepped away from the poster. Not entirely level, but close enough.

• From Thinking, Fast and Slow (2011)

  feel for the basic principles of statistics? Amos reported that the answer was a qualified yes. We had a lively debate in the seminar and ultimately concluded that a qualified no was a better answer. Amos and I enjoyed the exchange and concluded that intuitive statistics was an interesting topic and that it would be fun to explore it together. That Friday we met for lunch at Café Rimon, the favorite hangout of bohemians and professors in Jerusalem, and planned a study of the statistical intuitions of sophisticated researchers. We had concluded in the seminar that our own intuitions were deficient. In spite of years of teaching and using statistics, we had not developed an intuitive sense of the reliability of statistical results observed in small samples. Our subjective judgments were biased: we were far too willing to believe research findings based on inadequate evidence and prone to collect too few observations in our own research. The goal of our study was to examine whether other researchers suffered from the same affliction. We prepared a survey that included realistic scenarios of statistical issues that arise in research. Amos collected the responses of a group of expert participants in a meeting of the Society of Mathematical Psychology, including the authors of two statistical textbooks. As expected, we found that our expert colleagues, like us, greatly exaggerated the likelihood that the original result of an experiment would be successfully replicated even with a small sample. They also gave very poor advice to a fictitious graduate student about the number of observations she needed to collect. Even statisticians were not good intuitive statisticians. While writing the article that reported these findings, Amos and I discovered that we enjoyed working together. Amos was always very funny, and in his presence I became funny as well, so we spent hours of solid work in continuous amusement. The pleasure we found in working together made us exceptionally patient; it is much easier to strive for perfection when you are never bored. Perhaps most important, we checked our critical weapons at the door. Both Amos and I were critical and argumentative, he even more than I, but during the years of our collaboration neither of us ever rejected out of hand anything the other said. Indeed, one of the great joys I found in the collaboration was that Amos frequently saw the point of my vague ideas much more clearly than I did. Amos was the more logical thinker, with an orientation to theory and an unfailing sense of direction. I was more intuitive and rooted in the psychology of perception, from which we borrowed many ideas. We were sufficiently similar to understand each other easily, and sufficiently different to surprise each other. We developed a routine in which we spent much of our working days together, often on long walks. For the next fourteen years our collaboration was the focus

• From The Lover (1984)

  My mother said to the head of the boarding school, It doesn’t matter, all that’s of no importance. Haven’t you noticed how they suit her, those little old frocks, that pink hat, and the gold shoes? My mother’s drunk with delight when she speaks of her children, and that makes her more charming than ever. The young teachers at the boarding school listen to her with passionate attention. All of them, says my mother, they all hang around her, all the men in the place, married or single, they hang around, hanker after the girl, after something not really definite yet, look, she’s still a child. Do people talk of disgrace? I say, how can innocence be disgraced? My mother rattles on. She speaks of blatant prostitution and laughs, at the scandal, the buffoonery, the funny hat, the sublime elegance of the child who crossed the river. And she laughs at what is irresistible here in the French colonies: I mean, she says, this little white tart, this child hidden till then in outposts upcountry and suddenly emerging into the daylight and shacking up in front of everyone with this millionaire Chinese scum, with a diamond on her finger just as if she were a banker’s wife. And she weeps. When she saw the diamond she said in a small voice, It reminds me of the little solitaire I had when I got engaged to my first husband. I say: Mr. Dark. We laugh. That was his name, she says, it really was. We looked at each other for some time, then she gave a sweet, slightly mocking smile, full of so deep a knowledge of her children and what awaited them later on that I almost told her about Cholon. But I didn’t. I never did. She waited a long while before she spoke again, then she said, very lovingly, You do know it’s all over, don’t you? That you’ll never be able, now, to get married here in the colony? I shrug my shoulders, smile. I say, I can get married anywhere, when I want to. My mother shakes her head. No. She says, Here everything gets known, here you can’t, now. She looks at me and says some unforgettable things: They find you attractive? I answer, Yes; they find me attractive in spite of everything. It’s then she says, And also because of what you are yourself. She goes on: Is it only for the money you see him? I hesitate, then say it is only for the money. Again she looks at me for a long while, she doesn’t believe me. She says, I wasn’t like you, I found school much harder and I was very serious, I stayed like that too long, too late, I lost the taste for my own pleasure.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Not bad at all. I thought: I am clearly the greatest kisser in the history of the universe. Suddenly she laughed and pulled away from me. She wiggled a hand out of her sleeping bag and wiped her face. “You slobbered on my nose,” she said, and laughed. I laughed, too, trying to give her the impression that my nose-slobbering kissing style was intended to be funny. “I’m sorry.” To borrow the base system from Alaska, I hadn’t hit more than five singles in my entire life, so I tried to chalk it up to inexperience. “I’m a bit new at this,” I said. “Eet was a nice slobbering,” she said, laughed, and kissed me again. Soon we were entirely out of our sleeping bags, making out quietly. She lay on top of me, and I held her small waist in my hands. I could feel her breasts against my chest, and she moved slowly on top of me, her legs straddling me. “You feel nice,” she said. “You’re beautiful,” I said, and smiled at her. In the dark, I could make out the outline of her face and her large, round eyes blinking down at me, her eyelashes almost fluttering against my forehead. “Could the two people who are making out please be quiet?” the Colonel asked loudly from his sleeping bag. “Those of us who are not making out are drunk and tired.” “Mostly. Drunk,” Alaska said slowly, as if enunciation required great effort. We had almost never talked, Lara and I, and we didn’t get a chance to talk anymore because of the Colonel. So we kissed quietly and laughed softly with our mouths and our eyes. After so much kissing that it almost started to get boring, I whispered, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?” And she said, “Yes please,” and smiled. We slept together in her sleeping bag, which felt a little crowded, to be honest, but was still nice. I had never felt another person against me as I slept. It was a fine end to the best day of my life. one day before THE NEXT MORNING, a term I use loosely since it was not yet dawn, the Colonel shook me awake. Lara was wrapped in my arms, folded into my body. “We gotta go, Pudge. Time to roll up.” “Dude. Sleeping.” “You can sleep after we check in. IT’S TIME TO GO!” he shouted. “All right. All right. No screaming. Head hurts.” And it did. I could feel last night’s wine in my throat and my head throbbed like it had the morning after my concussion. My mouth tasted like a skunk had crawled into my throat and died.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Yes, you were aroused, which in turn was very arousing, there’s nothing wrong with that. Happy does not even begin to cover how I felt. Ecstatic joy comes close. Punishment spanking hurts far more than sensual spanking—so that’s about as hard as it gets, unless, of course, you commit some major transgression, in which case I’ll use some implement to punish you with. My hand was very sore. But I like that. I felt sated, too—more so than you could ever know. Don’t waste your energy on guilt, feelings of wrongdoing, etc. We are consenting adults and what we do behind closed doors is between ourselves. You need to free your mind and listen to your body. The world of M&A is not nearly as stimulating as you are, Miss Steele. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Holy crap…mine in every way. My breath hitches. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Consenting Adults! Date: May 27 2011 08:26 To: Christian Grey Aren’t you in a meeting? I’m very glad your hand was sore. And if I listened to my body, I’d be in Alaska by now. Ana P.S. I will think about embracing these feelings. From: Christian Grey Subject: You Didn’t Call the Cops Date: May 27 2011 08:35 To: Anastasia Steele Miss Steele, I am in a meeting discussing the futures market, if you’re really interested. For the record, you stood beside me knowing what I was going to do. You didn’t at any time ask me to stop—you didn’t use either safe word. You are an adult—you have choices. Quite frankly, I’m looking forward to the next time my palm is ringing with pain. You’re obviously not listening to the right part of your body. Alaska is very cold and no place to run. I would find you. I can track your cell phone—remember? Go to work. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. I scowl at the screen. He’s right, of course. It’s my choice. Hmm. Is he serious about coming to find me? Should I decide to escape for a while? My mind flits briefly to my mother’s offer. I hit reply. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Stalker Date: May 27 2011 08:36 To: Christian Grey Have you sought therapy for your stalker tendencies? Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Stalker? Me? Date: May 27 2011 08:38 To: Anastasia Steele I pay the eminent Dr. Flynn a small fortune with regard to my stalker and other tendencies. Go to work. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Expensive Charlatans Date: May 27 2011 08:40 To: Christian Grey May I humbly suggest you seek a second opinion? I am not sure that Dr. Flynn is very effective. Miss Steele From: Christian Grey Subject: Second Opinions Date: May 27 2011 08:43 To: Anastasia Steele Not that it’s any of your business, humble or otherwise, but Dr. Flynn is the second opinion.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  pool. Most wore swimsuits, but some were still clothed, in shorts and sleeveless shirts mostly. They turned to look as we joined the line, all of us dressed in what appeared to be our Sunday best. “Why don’t they mind their own beeswax,” Pam muttered. I shrugged and focused my attention on the ant that crawled into a crack between the light-green cinder-block walls. The girl in front of me leaned one tanned arm against the wall. She threw the other one around her friend. Someone yelled. Someone else laughed. Another ant moved into the crack. Pam pushed me forward until we stood on wet cement looking out at the long pool. Grass and boulders lined the sides. Little boys cannonballed into the water. Teenage girls in twopiece suits rode atop the shoulders of boys and wrestled other girls on other shoulders. Kids walked through the water with their eyes closed and their arms extended in front calling out, “Marco! Polo!” Everyone smiling. Water flying. Bodies glistening. “Marco! Polo!” John nudged Pam and me toward a small room. “Go get ready in there. Then come on out.” The dressing room was a revelation. I didn’t know where to put my eyes. Naked women sat on benches pulling on or peeling off swimsuits, talking to one another or to their kids. “And then I told him if he wanted someone to do that, he’d better find a new wife.” “Wait, Jimmy. Over there. Shelly, come here.” One of the women smiled at me. I looked down. Pam pulled me into a small stall with a curtain. We unbuttoned each other’s dresses, took off our slips, and put our dresses back on. I took my shoes and socks off. My toes spread in all directions on the damp concrete. With crinolines and shoes in hand we tiptoed out of the dressing room toward the pool. Randall, John, Gary, and the tent boys stood there in their black pants and long-sleeved white shirts holding their shoes, socks, and belts. Randall’s grin took up his entire face. He bounced up and down on his naked feet. “Come on. Let’s go. Let’s go.” We placed our shoes and other things on a dry patch of ground and walked over to the white concrete steps. John put Gary on his shoulders and he and Randall ran down the steps into the water, leading with their bellies. They began splashing each other as soon as they hit the pool. Pam told the tent boys to go ahead, and they descended into the water with slow, measured steps, hands white-knuckling the rail. Randall splashed at them. “Come on, y’all. This ain’t no baptism.” The tent

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Christian says nothing. “How about you?” I ask to fill the sudden deafening chasm of silence. I will not let him make me feel guilty about José. Eventually, he sighs. “I went to a fundraising dinner. It was deathly dull. I left as soon as I could.” He sounds so sad and resigned. My heart clenches. I picture him all those nights ago sitting at the piano in his huge living room and the unbearable bittersweet melancholy of the music he was playing. “I wish you were here,” I whisper, because I have an urge to hold him. Soothe him. Even though he won’t let me. I want his proximity. “Do you?” he murmurs blandly. Holy shit. This doesn’t sound like him, and my scalp prickles with dawning apprehension. “Yes!” And I’m surprised how much I miss him. After an eternity, he sighs. “I’ll see you Sunday?” “Yes, Sunday,” I murmur, and a thrill courses through my body. “Good night.” “Good night, Sir.” My address catches him unawares. I can tell by his sharp intake of breath. “Good luck with your move tomorrow, Anastasia.” His voice is soft. And we’re both hanging on the phone like teenagers, neither wanting to hang up. “You hang up,” I whisper. Finally, I sense his smile. “No, you hang up.” And I know he’s grinning. “I don’t want to.” “Neither do I.” “Were you very angry with me?” “Yes.” “Are you still?” “No.” “So you’re not going to punish me?” “No. I’m an in-the-moment kind of guy.” “I’ve noticed.” “You can hang up now, Miss Steele.” “Do you really want me to, Sir?” “Go to bed, Anastasia.” “Yes, Sir.” We both stay on the line. “Do you ever think you’ll be able to do what you’re told?” He’s amused and exasperated at once. “Maybe. We’ll see after Sunday.” And I press end. Elliot stands and admires his handiwork. He has replugged our TV into the satellite system in our Pike Place Market apartment. Kate and I flop onto the couch giggling, impressed by his prowess with a power drill. The flat screen looks odd against the brickwork of the converted warehouse, but no doubt I will get used to it. “See, baby, easy.” He grins a wide, white-toothed smile at Kate, and she almost literally dissolves into the couch. I roll my eyes at the pair of them. “I’d love to stay, baby, but my sister is back from Paris. It’s a compulsory family dinner tonight.” “Can you come by after?” Kate asks tentatively, all soft and un-Kate-like. I stand and make my way over to the kitchen area on the pretense of unpacking one of the crates. They are going to get icky. “I’ll see if I can escape,” he promises. “I’ll come down with you.” Kate smiles. “Laters, Ana.” Elliot grins. “Bye, Elliot. Say hi to Christian from me.” “Just hi?” His eyebrows shoot up suggestively. I flush. “Yes.” He winks at me and follows Kate out of the apartment.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Okay.” I grimace, knowing full well that my mother’s cooking is pretty hit or miss. Perhaps she’s improved since she moved to Savannah with Bob. There was a time I wouldn’t subject anyone to her cooking, even… Who do I hate? Oh yes—Mrs. Robinson. Elena. Well, maybe her. Will I ever meet this damned woman? I decide to send a quick thank-you to Christian. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Soaring as Opposed to Sore-ing Date: June 2 2011 10:20 ET To: Christian Grey Sometimes, you really know how to show a girl a good time. Thank you Ana x From: Christian Grey Subject: Soaring vs Sore-ing Date: June 2 2011 10:24 ET To: Anastasia Steele I’ll take either of those over your snoring. I had a good time, too. But I always do when I’m with you. Christian Grey CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: SNORING Date: June 2 2011 10:26 ET To: Christian Grey I DO NOT SNORE. And if I do, it’s very ungallant of you to point it out. You are no gentleman, Mr. Grey! And you are in the Deep South, too! Ana From: Christian Grey Subject: Somniloquy Date: June 2 2011 10:28 ET To: Anastasia Steele I have never claimed to be a gentleman, Anastasia, and I think I have demonstrated that point to you on numerous occasions. I am not intimidated by your SHOUTY capitals. But I will confess to a small white lie: no—you don’t snore, but you do talk. And it’s fascinating. What happened to my kiss? Christian Grey Cad & CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Holy shit. I know I talk in my sleep. Kate has told me enough times. What the hell have I said? Oh no. From: Anastasia Steele Subject: Spill the Beans Date: June 2 2011 10:32 ET To: Christian Grey You are a cad and a scoundrel—definitely no gentleman. So, what did I say? No kisses for you until you talk! From: Christian Grey Subject: Sleeping Talking Beauty Date: June 2 2011 10:35 ET To: Anastasia Steele It would be most ungallant of me to say, and I have already been chastised for that. But if you behave yourself, I may tell you this evening. I do have to go into a meeting now. Laters, baby. Christian Grey CEO, Cad & Scoundrel, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc. Right! I shall maintain radio silence until this evening. I fume. Suppose I’ve said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in my sleep. Oh, I hope not. I am not ready to tell him that, and I’m sure he’s not ready to hear it, if he ever wants to hear it. I scowl at my computer and decide that whatever Mom cooks, I will make bread to vent my frustrations while kneading the dough.