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.

Page 74 of 299 · 20 per page

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Frank FRIDAY, MARCH 3,1944 My dearest Kitty, When I looked into the candle tonight, I felt calm and happy again. It seems Grandma is in that candle, and it’s Grandma who watches over and protects me and makes me feel happy again. But. . . there’s someone else who governs all my moods and that’s. . . Peter. I went to get the potatoes today, and while I was standing on the stairway with my pan full, he asked, “What did you do during the lunch break?” I sat down on the stairs, and we began to talk. The potatoes didn’t make it to the kitchen until five-fifteen (an hour after I’d gone to get them). Peter didn’t say anything more about his parents; we just talked about books and about the past. Oh, he gazes at me with such warmth in his eyes; I don’t think it will take much for me to fall in love with him. He brought the subject up this evening. I went to his room after peeling potatoes and remarked on how hot it was. “You can tell the temperature by looking at Margot and me, because we turn white when it’s cold and red when it’s hot.” I said. “In love?” he asked. “Why should I be in love?” It was a pretty silly answer (or, rather, question). “Why not?” he said, and then it was time for dinner. What did he mean? Today I finally managed to ask him whether my chatter bothered him. All he said was, “Oh, it’s fine with me!” I can’t tell how much of his reply was due to shyness. Kitty, I sound like someone who’s in love and can talk about nothing but her dearest darling. And Peter is a darling. Will I ever be able to tell him that? Only if he thinks the same of me, but I’m the kind of person you have to treat with kid gloves, I know that all too well.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  Another birthday has gone by, so I’m now fifteen. I received quite a few gifts: Springer’s five-volume art history book, a set of underwear, two belts, a handkerchief, two jars of yogurt, a jar of jam, two honey cookies (small), a botany book from Father and Mother, a gold bracelet from Margot, a sticker album from the van Daans, Biomalt and sweet peas from Dussel, candy from Miep, candy and notebooks from Bep, and the high point: the book Maria Theresa and three slices of full-cream cheese from Mr. Kugler. Peter gave me a lovely bouquet of peonies; the poor boy had put a lot of effort into finding a present, but nothing quite worked out. The invasion is still going splendidly, in spite of the miserable weather -- pouring rains, gale winds and high seas. Yesterday Churchill, Smuts, Eisenhower and Arnold visited the French villages that the British have captured and liberated. Churchill was on a torpedo boat that shelled the coast. Uke many men, he doesn’t seem to know what fear is -- an enviable trait! From our position here in Fort Annex, it’s difficult to gauge the mood of the Dutch. No doubt many people are glad the idle (!) British have finally rolled up their sleeves and gotten down to work. Those who keep claim- ing they don’t want to be occupied by the British don’t realize how unfair they’re being. Their line of reasoning boils down to this: England must fight, struggle and sacri- fice its sons to liberate Holland and the other occupied countries. After that the British shouldn’t remain in Hol- land: they should offer their most abject apologies to all the occupied countries, restore the Dutch East Indies to its rightful owner and then return, weakened and impoverished, to England. What a bunch of idiots. And yet, as I’ve already said, many Dutch people can be counted among their ranks. What would have become of Holland and its neighbors if England had signed a peace treaty with Germany, as it’s had ample opportunity to do? Holland would have become German, and that would have been the end of that! All those Dutch people who still look down on the British, scoff at England and its government of old fogies, call the English cowards, yet hate the Germans, should be given a good shaking, the way you’d plump up a pillow. Maybe that would straighten out their jumbled brains!

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  and I think he was too. At nine-thirty we stood up. Peter put on his tennis shoes so he wouldn’t make much noise on his nightly round of the building, and I was standing next to him. How I suddenly made the right movement, I don’t know, but before we went downstairs, he gave me a. kiss, through my hair, half on my left cheek and half on my ear. I tore downstairs without looking back, and I long so much for today. Sunday morning, just before eleven. Yours, Anne M. Frank MONDAY, APRIL 17, 1944 Dearest Kitty, Do you think Father and Mother would approve of a girl my age sitting on a divan and kissing a seventeen-anda-half-year-old boy? I doubt they would, but I have to trust my own judgment in this matter. It’s so peaceful and safe, lying in his arms and dreaming, it’s so thrilling to feel his cheek against mine, it’s so wonderful to know there’s someone waiting for me. But, and there is a but, will Peter want to leave it at that? I haven’t forgotten his promise, but. . . he is a boy! I know I’m starting at a very young age. Not even fifteen and already so independent -- that’s a little hard for other people to understand. I’m pretty sure Margot would never kiss a boy unless there was some talk of an engagement or marriage. Neither Peter nor I has any such plans. I’m also sure that Mother never touched a man before she met Father. What would my girlfriends or Jacque say if they knew I’d lain in Peter’s arms with my heart against his chest, my head on his shoulder and his head and face against mine! Oh, Anne, how terribly shocking! But seriously, I don’t think it’s at all shocking; we’re cooped up here, cut off from the world, anxious and fearful, especially lately. Why should we stay apart when we love each other? Why shouldn’t we kiss each other in times like these? Why should we wait until we’ve reached a suitable age? Why should we ask anybody’s permission? I’ve decided to look out for my own interests. He’d never want to hurt me or make me unhappy. Why shouldn’t I do what my heart tells me and makes both of us happy?

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  The Russians are in possession of more than half the Crimea. The British aren’t advancing beyond Cassino. We’ll have to count on the Western Wall. There have been a lot of unbelievably heavy air raids. The Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages in The Hague was bombed. All Dutch people will be issued new ration registration cards. Enough for today. Yours, Anne M. Frank SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 1944 My dearest Kitty, Remember yesterday’s date, since it was a red-letter day for me. Isn’t it an important day for every girl when she gets her first kiss? Well then, it’s no less important to me. The time Bram kissed me on my right cheek or Mr. Woudstra on my right hand doesn’t count. How did I suddenly come by this kiss? I’ll tell you. Last night at eight I was sitting with Peter on his divan and it wasn’t long before he put an arm around me. (Since it was Saturday, he wasn’t wearing his overalls.)”Why don t we move over a little,” I said, “so won t keep bumping my head against the cupboard.” He moved so far over he was practically in the corner. I slipped my arm under his and across his back, and he put his arm around my shoulder, so that I was nearly engulfed by him. We’ve sat like this on other occasions, but never so close as we were last night. He held me firmly against him, my left side against his chest; my heart had already begun to beat faster, but there was more to come. He wasn’t satisfied until my head lay on his shoulder, with his on top of mine. I sat up again after about five minutes, but before long he took my head in his hands and put it back next to his. Oh, it was so wonderful. I could hardly talk, my pleasure was too intense; he caressed my cheek and arm, a bit clumsily, and played with my hair. Most of the time our heads were touching. I can’t tell you, Kitty, the feeling that ran through me. I was too happy for words,

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m determined to write! Yours, Anne M. Frank THURSDAY, APRIL 6, 1944 Dearest Kitty, You asked me what my hobbies and interests are and I’d like to answer, but I’d better warn you, I have lots of them, so don’t be surprised. First of all: writing, but I don’t really think of that as a hobby. Number two: genealogical charts. I’m looking in every newspaper, book and document I can find for the family trees of the French, German, Spanish, English, Austrian, Russian, Norwegian and Dutch royal famthes. I’ve made great progress with many of them, because for ! a long time I’ve been taking notes while reading biogra- I, phies or history books. I even copy out many of the passages on history. So my third hobby is history, and Father’s already bought me numerous books. I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be able to go to the public library and ferret out Iii the information I need. Number four is Greek and Roman mythology. I have various books on this subject too. I can name the nine Muses and the seven loves of Zeus. I have the wives of Hercules, etc., etc., down pat. My other hobbies are movie stars and family photographs. I’m crazy about reading and books. I adore the history of the arts, especially when it concerns writers, poets and painters; musicians may come later. I loathe algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I enjoy all my other school subjects, but history’s my favorite! Yours, Anne M. Frank TUESDAY, APRIL 11, 1944 My dearest Kitty,

• From The Decameron (1353)

  In the course of the following day, the princess dismissed her ladies-in-waiting on the pretext of wanting to sleep, and having locked herself in her chamber, she opened the door and descended into the cavern, where she found Guiscardo waiting. After giving each other a rapturous greeting, they made their way into her chamber, where they spent a goodly portion of the day in transports of bliss. Before parting, they agreed on the wisest way of pursuing their lovemaking in future so that it should remain a secret, and then Guiscardo returned to the cavern, whilst the princess, having bolted the door behind him, came forth to rejoin her ladies-in-waiting. During the night, Guiscardo climbed back up the rope, made his way out through the aperture by which he had entered, and returned home. And now that he was conversant with the route, he began to make regular use of it. But their pleasure, being so immense and so continuous, attracted the envy of Fortune, who brought about a calamity, turning the joy of the two lovers into tears and sorrow. From time to time, Prince Tancredi was in the habit of going alone to visit his daughter, with whom he would stay and converse for a while in her chamber and then go away. And one day, after breakfast, he came down to see her, entering her room without anyone hearing or noticing, only to discover that the princess (whose name was Ghismonda) had gone into her garden with all her ladies-in-waiting. Not wishing to disturb her whilst she was enjoying her walk in the garden, he sat down to wait for her on a low stool at a corner of her bed. The windows of the room were closed, and the bed-curtains had been drawn aside, and Tancredi rested his head against the side of the bed, drew the curtain round his body as though to conceal himself there on purpose, and fell asleep. Whilst he was asleep, Ghismonda, who unfortunately had made an appointment with Guiscardo for that very day, left her attendants in the garden and stole quietly into the room, locking herself in without perceiving that anyone was there. Having opened the door for Guiscardo, who was waiting for her, they then went to bed in the usual way; but whilst they were playing and cavorting together, Tancredi chanced to wake up, and heard and saw what Guiscardo and his daughter were doing. The sight filled him with dismay, and at first he wanted to cry out to them, but then he decided to hold his peace and, if possible, remain hidden, so that he could carry out, with greater prudence and less detriment to his honour, the plan of action that had already taken shape in his mind.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  That evening Mr. van Daan and Peter really told Dussel off. But it couldn’t have been all that bad, since Peter had another dental appointment today. Actually, they never wanted to speak to each other again. WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1944 Peter and I hadn’t talked to each other all day, except for a few meaningless words. It was too cold to go up to the attic, and anyway, it was Margot’s birthday. At twelve-thirty he came to look at the presents and hung around chatting longer than was strictly necessary, something he’d never have done otherwise. But I got my chance in the afternoon. Since I felt like spoiling Margot on her birthday, I went to get the coffee, and after that the potatoes. When I came to Peter’s room, he immediately took his papers off the stairs, and I asked if I should close the trapdoor to the attic. “Sure,” he said, “go ahead. When you’re ready to come back down, just knock and I’ll open it for you.” I thanked him, went upstairs and spent at least ten minutes searching around in the barrel for the smallest potatoes. My back started aching, and the attic was cold. Naturally, I didn’t bother to knock but opened the trap-door myself. But he obligingly got up and took the pan out of my hands. “I did my best, but I couldn’t find any smaller ones.” “Did you look in the big barrel?” “Yes, I’ve been through them all.” By this time I was at the bottom of the stairs, and he examined the pan of potatoes he was still holding. “Oh, but these are fine,” he said, and added, as I took the pan from him, “My compliments!” As he said this, he gave me such a warm, tender look that I started glowing inside. I could tell he wanted to please me, but since he couldn’t make a long complimentary speech, he said everything with his eyes. I understood him so well and was very grateful. It still makes me happy to think back to those words and that look!

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  On a walk I hate coming back the same way that I set out. I study maps in minute detail to find a new way of getting to some piece of countryside, an edifice or a curiosity I haven’t yet seen. When I went to Australia, the furthest I could get from home on this earth, I realised that my perception of this distance could be compared to the concept of having no sexual barriers. While I was thinking about this, I wondered whether the joy of parenthood belonged to the same family of emotions. Éric’s ideas were in the same vein as these thoughts; he so cleverly adapted and changed the form our evenings took in the same way that (and these are his words) a ‘tour operator’ would. What mattered, he would point out, was to ‘widen the available space’. 2. SpaceSurely someone ought to write a study of the reasons why, during the course of their careers, eminent art historians (such as André Chastel and Giulio Carlo Argan) have focused increasingly on architecture? How did their analysis of the space represented in a painting mutate into an analysis of the way real space is organized? In my role as an art critic I might have felt more inclined to follow their example if I had not come across modern and contemporary pictorial works which could be said to inhabit the cusp between an imaginary space and the space in which we live, be they Barnett Newman’s vast coloured expanses (Newman himself said: ‘I declare space’), the radiant blues in the work of Yves Klein (who called himself the ‘painter of space’), or even Alain Jacquet’s topological surfaces and objects which juxtapose paradoxical abysses. What characterises these works is not the fact that they open space up, but that they both open and seal it – Newman with his closing zips, Klein by crushing his anthropometric forms, Jacquet by binding the ends of a Mobius ring. If you allow yourself to be lead, it’s like the boundless inner surface of a lung.

• From The Diary of a Young Girl (The Definitive Edition) (2020)

  was sitting on my favorite spot on the floor. The two of us looked out at the blue sky, the bare chestnut tree glistening with dew, the seagulls and other birds glinting with silver as they swooped through the air, and we were so moved and entranced that we couldn’t speak. He stood with his head against a thick beam, while I sat. We breathed in the air, looked outside and both felt that the spell shouldn’t be broken with words. We remained like this for a long while, and by the time he had to go to the loft to chop wood, I knew he was a good, decent boy. He climbed the ladder to the loft, and I followed; during the fifteen minutes he was chopping wood, we didn’t say a word either. I watched him from where I was standing, and could see he was obviously doing his best to chop the right way and show off his strength. But I also looked out the open window, letting my eyes roam over a large part of Amsterdam, over the rooftops and on to the horizon, a strip of blue so pale it was almost invisible. “As long as this exists,” I thought, “this sunshine and this cloudless sky, and as long as I can enjoy it, how can I be sad?” The best remedy for those who are frightened, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere they can be alone, alone with the sky, nature and God. For then and only then can you feel that everything is as it should be and that God wants people to be happy amid nature’s beauty and simplicity. As long as this exists, and that should be forever, I know that there will be solace for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances. I firmly believe that nature can bring comfort to all who suffer. Oh, who knows, perhaps it won’t be long before I can share this overwhelming feeling of happiness with someone who feels the same as I do. Yours, Anne P.S. Thoughts: To Peter. We’ve been missing out on so much here, so very much, and for such a long time. I miss it just as much as you do. I’m not talking about external things, since we’re well provided for in that sense; I mean the internal things. Like you, I long for freedom and fresh air, but I think we’ve been amply compensated for their loss. On the inside, I mean. This morning, when I was sitting in front of the window and taking a long, deep

• From The Great Transformation (2006)

  We have no idea how long it took Gotama to recover his health and attain the supreme enlightenment after he had devised this regimen. The Pali texts give the impression that it was a speedy process, but Gotama himself explained that it could take as long as seven years to achieve this incremental transformation. Gradually, the aspirant would learn to live without the selfish cravings that poison our lives and relationships, and would become less affected by these unruly yearnings. As he became aware of the ephemeral nature of these invasive thoughts, it became difficult to identify with them, and he became increasingly adept at monitoring the distractions that deprive us of peace.85 The texts depict Gotama attaining enlightenment in a single night, because they wanted to show the general contours of the process and were not interested in the historical details of the journey. But Gotama’s enlightenment was, almost certainly, no instant “born again” experience. He later warned his disciples that “in this method, training, discipline and practice take effect by slow degrees, with no sudden perception of the ultimate truth.”86 The traditional story has Gotama sitting down under a bodhi tree in a pleasant grove near the city of Uruvela, beside the Neranjara River. The Pali scriptures tell us that in the course of a single meditation, he gained an insight that changed him forever and was convinced that he had liberated himself from the cycle of rebirth.87 But there seems little that is new in this insight, usually formulated as the Four Noble Truths. Most renouncers would have agreed with the first three: that existence was dukkha, that desire was the cause of our suffering, and that there was a way out of this predicament. The fourth truth may have constituted the breakthrough: Gotama claimed that he had discovered the path that leads from suffering and pain to its cessation in nibbana. This path, traditionally called the Noble Eightfold Path, was a plan of action, consisting of morality (the cultivation of the “skillful” states), meditation, and the wisdom (panna) that enabled the aspirant to understand Gotama’s teaching “directly” through the practice of yoga and integrate it with his daily life. Gotama never claimed that the Noble Truths were unique, but that he was the first person in this historical era to have “realized” them and made them a reality in his own life. He found that he had extinguished the craving, hatred, and ignorance that hold humanity in thrall. He had reached nibbana, and even though he was still subject to physical ailments and other vicissitudes, nothing could touch this inner peace or cause him serious mental pain. His method had worked. “The holy life has been lived out to its conclusion!” he cried triumphantly at the end of his meditation under the bodhi tree. “What had to be done has been accomplished; there is nothing else to do!”88

• From The Great Transformation (2006)

  The Buddha liked to use metaphors such as a blazing fire or a rushing stream to describe the human personality. It had some kind of identity, but was never the same from one moment to the next. Unlike the postmodernist idea, however, anatta was not an abstract, metaphysical doctrine but, like all his teachings, a program for action. Anatta required Buddhists to behave day by day, hour by hour, as though the self did not exist. Not only did the concept of “self” lead to unskillful thoughts about “me” and “mine,” but prioritizing the self led to envy, hatred of rivals, conceit, pride, cruelty, and—when the self felt threatened—violence. The Buddha tried to make his disciples realize that they did not have a “self” that needed to be defended, inflated, cajoled, or enhanced at the expense of others. As a monk became expert in the practice of mindfulness, he would no longer interject his ego into passing mental states, but would regard his fears and desires as transient, remote phenomena that had little to do with him. Once a monk had achieved this level of dispassion, the Buddha explained to his monks, he was ripe for enlightenment. “His greed fades away, and once his cravings disappear, he experiences the release of the mind.”98 The texts tell us that when the Buddha’s first disciples heard his explanation of anatta, their hearts were filled with joy and they immediately experienced nibbana. Why should they have been so happy to hear that the self that we all cherish did not exist? The Buddha knew that anatta could sound frightening. An outsider might panic, thinking, “I am going to be annihilated and destroyed; I will no longer exist!”99 But the Pali texts show people accepting anatta with relief and delight. Once they lived as though the self did not exist, they found that they were happier and experienced the same kind of enlargement of being as they did when practicing the immeasurables. To live beyond the reach of hatred, greed, and anxieties about our status and survival proved to be liberating.

• From Between Us

  As adults, Americans continue to seek this energized happiness. One of Tsai’s studies found that, on their vacations, white Americans wanted to “explore and do exciting things” rather than go to a place where they could totally relax. They also preferred coffee over chamomile tea. And finally, those using illicit drugs preferred stimulants (such as cocaine and amphetamines) over narcotics (heroin). All of these preferences can be interpreted as ways to promote an excited (i.e., outgoing, active, energetic, approach-oriented) kind of happiness that helps you take control. Happiness is also important because it informs choice, a third cultural pillar of American culture. Happiness has not always served choice. Psychologist Shige Oishi and his colleagues tracked the changing meanings of “happiness” in State of the Union addresses and books from around 1800 onwards, and found that the use of happiness to describe an individual, rather than the nation, is recent. Happiness came to describe the satisfaction of desire and self-expression just around the time consumer culture was on the rise—in the 1920s. It was then advertisements started to show smiling people, promising a product would give you pleasure. Happiness became a compass for choice: what you choose is who you are. [image file=image_rsrc2M7.jpg] Figure 5.1 Happiness as the standard of good choice; an ad from 1949. (Image courtesy of Candy Hoover Group, SRL) In one study, white American students were more likely to choose to play basketball over throwing darts when they remembered that playing basketball two weeks earlier had gone well, and had made them happy. “Do what will make you happy.” This advice reflects the options open to a segment of contemporary society, but would have been ill-suited (and irrelevant) in a time where children took over the family business, or had no choice but to work in the nearest factory, or serve the nearest rich family. Happiness is so interwoven with the pillars of the American Dream—success, control, and choice—that it is a “right” emotion. It shows an individual’s perception of self-worth, and reflects a desirable status quo. Happiness marks individual initiative and provides direction. As ingrained as this version of happiness likely is for most readers, modern happiness has not always existed, and, incredibly, does not exist everywhere. In many places, it is not a desirable emotion; in some places, it is “wrong.” Who Would Not Want to Be Happy? Robin Wang, a Chinese philosopher and Daoist, taught her two American-born daughters to stick to “mama Wang’s rules,” which were simple enough: Eat well, exercise daily, get plenty of sleep, and do well in school. One of her daughters inquired: “What about being happy?” “No,” she answered her daughter, “being happy is not important.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  His cock felt impossibly large as she thrust down on him. She could tell he was close to finishing by the way he went still against her. She rotated her hips on him and he all but roared as he started to come, jerking against her so hard she bumped her head on the roof of the car. She had been so caught up in making him come that she hadn’t realized just how close she was to her own orgasm. She kept up those little thrusting motions, dragging her aroused clit over the patch of hair above his cock until she was pushed over the edge into her own Perfect Timing 171 climax. She rode him like that until her sensitive clit couldn’t take any more. Collapsing on top of him, her arms hanging down the back of the seat, she gasped and giggled as her pussy clenched around his slowly shrinking erection. “Holy hell,” she whimpered. “Who would have thought doing it in the car would be so hot?” Her breasts muffled his reply. “No kidding.” Suddenly conscious that they were in the faculty parking lot and the car windows were completely fogged, she reluctantly slid back into her seat. There was so much wetness between her thighs and on his lower stomach, she didn’t know who had made a bigger mess. She suspected it was her. “Hand me my panties,” she said. “They’re in the glove box.” He chuckled as he handed her the black lace thong. “You’re just going to make a mess of them.” “Better them than the back of my skirt,” she said ruefully as she shimmied into her panties and smoothed her wrinkled skirt into place. She looked over at Henry sprawled in the car seat with a satisfied smile on his face and his flaccid cock glistening against his pale stomach. He was an even bigger mess than she was and she frowned. “You can’t go inside like that.” He looked down. “No mistaking what I’ve been up to, is there?” “There should be tissues in there, too,” she said. He fumbled through the glove box until he found the packet of travel tissues and cleaned himself up as best he could. Moments later, shirt tucked in and pants fastened, he still looked like the cat that ate the cream. The noticeable wet spot on the front of his pants didn’t help matters at all. “Don’t worry,” he said, following the direction of her gaze. “I have a pair of pants in the office.” “Keep extra clothes at work, do you?” He grinned. “You never know when a beautiful young woman is going to offer herself up in exchange for an A.” “Always prepared.” She smiled at him. “You’re quite the boy scout.” He stroked a hand through her mussed hair. “You’re not bad yourself, love. ’m wiped out.” —

• From Cultish (2021)

  Finalists enter a rigorous ten-week instructor training program, where they learn to talk the talk. They pick up all the exclusive terminology—“party hills” (warm-up exercises), “tapbacks” (a signature move involving zesty backward butt thrusting), “Roosters” (5 a.m. classes and the “Type A” riders who take them), “noon on Monday” (a slogan referencing when class bookings open up each week), and how to make everything sound “soulful” with a capital S. Peloton’s exclusive recruitment process is arguably even more intense, since their online model allows them to maintain a tight roster of only twenty or so top-tier instructors. To earn initiation into the elite Peloton fam, aspirants are put through hours of interviews and callbacks with everyone from marketing experts to producers, and then months of training to guarantee they’ve got the magnetism to attract thousands to every show. Sparkie, a born-and-bred LA vegan with lilac hair and sleeves of rainbow tattoos, gained her passionate SoulCycle following with a repertoire of kitschy, old-school mottos inspired by her grandfather (“Anything worth doing is worth doing well!” “It’s not how you start, it’s how you fucking finish!”). She spent several years heading SoulCycle’s training program, helping newbies “find their voice” as instructors. “The key to creating the following is to sound authentic. When you sound like popcorn, people can hear it,” Sparkie told me. She recalled one nineteen-year-old trainee who was worried about what words of wisdom she could possibly offer riders: “And I was like, you’re not going to stand in front of the woman surviving cancer or the dad supporting a whole family and give them life wisdom. If you’re like, ‘I know times are hard! You’re going to get through this!’ they’re going to look at you and be like, ‘What do you know, child?’ Instead, be the joyous, young, fun being that you are. If you’re like, ‘Do you guys want to party and have a good time?’ they’re gonna be like, ‘Yeah! My life sucks right now, and I just want to fucking party.’” This combination of optics—from followers’ melodramatic message T-shirts (“Weightlifting is my religion,” “All I care about is my Peloton, and like 2 people”) to the liturgical rituals to the super-intimate instructor-student relationships—seems like overkill. Most of the fitness buffs I spoke to copped to this. But they also professed that the benefits vastly outweigh the negatives. Once you get hooked on a workout community, not only are you going to continue, you’re also going to evangelize it to all your friends to prove this thing is actually incredible and that you’re not really in a “cult.” Or at least not a cult any worse than the culture that created you . . . iv.In the US, we are taught to fetishize self-improvement. Fitness is a particularly compelling form of self-improvement because it demonstrates classic American values like productivity, individualism, and a commitment to meeting normative beauty standards.

• From Between Us

  If you’re reading this book in the United States, you probably value happiness. Happy people are healthier, more successful, and better liked. Linguist Anna Wierzbicka, describing middle-class white American social life, points to “important norms of interaction, with great emphasis being placed on being liked and approved of, on being perceived as friendly and cheerful. . . .” Happiness American-style is omnipresent and “right.” The reason may be that it helps to uphold three pillars of contemporary American life: success, being in control, and choice. In one study, my colleagues Yukiko Uchida and Shinobu Kitayama asked white American and Japanese college students to list “features” of happiness. Nearly all features generated by the American college students were positive. Importantly, American college students associated the good features of feeling happiness (e.g., joy, smiling) with personal achievement (e.g., feeling good about myself, getting what I want). This is what Kitayama, Mayumi Karasawa, and I found too: American college students—predominantly white—rated themselves as happy, when they were “proud,” felt “on top of the world” and “superior,” and had “self-esteem.” In yet another study by psychologist Phil Shaver and his colleagues, American college students who described experiences of happiness from the past—either their own or someone else’s—also noted feeling both good and successful. In the U.S., then, an essential aspect of happiness is feeling good about yourself and your own achievements. White American college students describing instances of happiness characterize the emotion as outgoing, energetic, and approach-oriented. They describe happy people as being courteous and friendly, hugging other people, doing nice things for other people, and seeking to communicate and share their good feelings. Moreover, happiness is portrayed as energetic, active, and bouncy—to the point of being “hyper” and jumping up and down. Happy people laugh, smile, talk enthusiastically. The most commonly used psychological measures capture “happiness” as an active and approach-oriented emotion. Happiness is paraphrased as “enthusiastic,” “interested,” “determined,” “excited,” and “inspired.” Energetic, active, and bouncy happiness serves you particularly well when you want to make things go your way. In one experimental study, psychologist Jeanne Tsai found that individuals who were told they would be “influencers” in an interactive task chose to be excited. This was true for “influencers” from very different cultures. Tsai argues that the white American preference for a happiness with energetic overtones stems from a culture in which individuals encounter many opportunities to influence and exert control over their environment. This kind of happiness is ingrained in Americans from an early age. American mothers stimulate their babies by repositioning, playing, and chatting with them, thus planting the seeds for bouncy happiness. American parents are strongly encouraged to ensure a level of entertainment for their children, in this way eliciting activated happiness as well. Children should have fun (high arousal), rather than being bored (low arousal). They are kept busy and excited with innumerable toys, a variety of extracurricular activities, trips to amusement parks, and other forms of entertainment.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  There are few places that have as many forbidden areas as a museum: the works themselves are roped off, and there are plenty of places from which the public are banned. The visitor makes his progress with a vague sense that there is another parallel world, which he cannot see but from which he is being watched. Henri, myself and a friend called Fred therefore took advantage of a door that had exceptionally been left ajar at the end of a vast, momentarily deserted gallery in the Museum of Modern Art in Paris. We slipped in behind a flimsy partition wall which hid the pandemonium of what I imagine was a temporary store-room. We didn’t go far into the room. It was very cluttered; but more particularly we made our minds up quickly, without thinking it over. Still, I could see the shaft of light on the floor, because we had left the door as it was, while I formed a bridge between the two men. After a few minutes they changed places. They both came, one in my cunt, the other in my mouth. I don’t know which one of them intermittently suspended the action of his prick to run his hand under my stomach and pleasure me. It encouraged me to do it myself and to set off my own orgasm while the shrinking prick still lingered in my cunt and the other, whose cum I had swallowed, had moved away to free me from one of my moorings the better to enjoy my pleasure. This led to a little conversation about the way I masturbated. I explained, believing that I was revealing something astonishing, that in less precarious circumstances I could have had two or three consecutive orgasms. They made fun of me. That was very common for a woman, they claimed, as we slowly tucked our shirts back into our trousers. When we went back out into the light, the museum was just as empty. We carried on looking round the exhibition. I went from one painting to another, and from Henri to Fred for their comments, and this visit was all the more enjoyable because it was bolstered by the complicity which from then on would link me to those two men and to that place.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  The next morning she let me shampoo her hair and I enjoyed lathering the bubbles through her thick wet tresses. We played the Sketches of Spain CD loudly and made friendly jokes about our bathroom escapade in the restaurant the night before. Shannon said the night before had definitely not been a case of getting off easily. “T paid the piper in that smelly awful place,” she said, shoving me playfully. “And I do feel better now.” We ate breakfast at a local diner and wandered around the city as the sun staggered toward noon. She educated me about business start-ups. Feasibility studies. Florida’s liquor laws. Liability matters that came up when you owned nightclubs. Mr ATM had gone down to Florida weeks ahead to see that the movers didn’t destroy their stuff and to get the club renovations finished. I asked her what airline she was taking. She shrugged indifferently. We reminisced about some of the characters in the poetry workshop. She said it felt as though the course had been ten years ago. We agreed that time plays vicious jokes on people. “Personal arcs get tangled up, people meet at the wrong time,” she said. “D’ya know what I mean?” I answered that of course I knew what she meant. I didn’t say it but I knew she meant that she needed to marry this man. And I knew, or so I told myself, that I still needed to be on my own, that I needed more time and space to get on my feet after my divorce. We hugged underneath the FDR Drive and let go without getting weepy. The breeze off the river cooled us some. I hailed a cab for her. Honeymoon with Shannon 51 I watched her sling her duffel bag confidently into the taxi and her confidence reassured me that she would be just fine. A double major, a good head on her shoulders, an older, stable businessman for a husband, a new life in sunny climes. We hugged one more time, quickly, and she climbed into the car. As the cab receded she turned once to wave and then I watched how sun and shadows through the rear windshield cast bright light on and off on her long red hair, and I watched until the car disappeared from view up the highway ramp. At my apartment the next morning I put a vase of lilacs on my bathroom sink and remembered the first time she’d come over. Clicking my laptop to life, I Googled the mailing address for Disney World’s Wedding reception hall. The hit came up as the Magic Kingdom Wedding Castle. As I scrolled down the list I saw the announcement of a Monday wedding “Gary Suggs and Shannon O’Rourke”’.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  pictures the frightening resistance to any way of being that threatens conventional ways and, especially, conventional power structures. To me, this chapter is a refreshing bouquet of blossoms of different hues and fragrances. It has been plucked from all the different areas in which we have journeyed in this book—the qualities in a relationship, the inner experience of change, the impact of an intensive group experience, the community as a therapist, the rays of light that issue from a workshop, illuminating in unexpected ways. In picking it, I have wandered all over the garden. I offer it to you, now, as a bouquet gathered over the years, which has given me much pleasure. ... 1. “I BEGAN TO LOSE ME” Dear Dr. Rogers,

• From The Decameron (1353)

  FIFTH DAY Here begins the Fifth Day, wherein, under the rule of Fiam-metta, are discussed the adventures of lovers who survived calamities or misfortunes and attained a state of happiness . The whole of the East was already suffused with white, and the heavens of our western world were shot through by the rays of the rising sun, when Fiammetta was roused from sleep by the melodious songs of the birds in the trees, chanting their joyous greetings to the dawn. She arose and sent for all the other ladies and the three young men, then sauntered down with her companions to the fields, where, walking over the dew of the broad and grassy plain, she conversed agreeably with the others upon this and that, till the sun had climbed well into the sky. But as the heat of the sun’s rays grew more intense, she retraced her steps, and on reaching the house she saw that her companions were refreshed from the gentle exertions of their walk with excellent wines and sweetmeats, after which they whiled away their time till breakfast in the delectable garden. No detail had been overlooked by their resourceful steward in the preparation of the meal, to which in due course, at the bidding of the queen, after singing some canzonets and one or two ballades , they gaily addressed themselves. One by one, they disposed of the various dishes with relish, and when the meal was over, mindful of the practice already established, they danced and sang to the music of instruments. The queen then dismissed them till after the siesta hour, whereat some of them went away to sleep, whilst the others remained in the garden to savour its pleasures. But shortly after nones, 1 at the queen’s command, they all forgathered as usual beside the fountain. And having seated herself in a position of honour, the queen fixed her gaze upon Panfilo, smiled, and bade him tell the first of the day’s stories, all of which were to end happily. Panfilo readily agreed, and began as follows:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  His task completed, Joseph came back to Melissus and said to him: ‘Tomorrow we shall see how Solomon’s advice to go to Goose-bridge has stood up to the test.’ Then, having rested for a while, he washed his hands and supped with Melissus; and in due course they both retired to bed. Meanwhile his unfortunate wife picked herself up with great difficulty from the floor and collapsed on to her bed, where she slept as best she could till the following morning. And having risen very early, she sent to ask Joseph what he would like for breakfast. Joseph had a good laugh with Melissus over this, and issued the necessary instructions. And when, in due course, they came down to breakfast, they found an excellent meal awaiting them, precisely as Joseph had ordered. Hence they were both full of praise for the advice which at first they had ill understood. A few days later, Melissus took his leave of Joseph and returned home, where he told a wise man about what he had heard from Solomon; and the man said: ‘He could not have given you a truer or a better piece of advice. You know perfectly well that you love no one, and that you dispense your hospitality and your favours, not because you love other people, but merely for pomp and pride. Love, therefore, as Solomon told you, and you will be loved.’ 5 So that was how the shrew was punished, and how the young man came to be loved through loving others.