Longing

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 Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I turned away from him, to gaze back up at Mrs Milne’s house - at the window of my old room, and at the balcony where I had liked, in summer-time, to sit. When I looked at the man again, he had his little girl in his arms, and the wind had caught her golden hair and made it flap about his cheeks: and I remembered them both, then, as the father and daughter that I had seen clapping their hands to the sound of a mandolin, on that balmy June evening, in the week I met Diana. They had lost their home and been given a new one. They had been visited by that charity-visitor with the romantic-sounding name. Florence! I did not know that I had remembered her. I had not thought of her at all, for a year and more. If only I might meet her, now! She found houses for the poor; she might find a house for me. She had been kind to me once - wouldn’t she be kind, if I appealed to her, a second time? I thought of her comely face, and her curling hair. I had lost Diana, I had lost Zena; and now I had lost Mrs Milne and Grace. In all of London she was the closest thing I had, at that moment, to a friend - and it was a friend just then that, above all else, I longed for. On the balcony above me, the man had turned away. Now I called him back: ‘Hey, mister!’ I walked closer to the wall of the tenement, and gazed up at him: he and his daughter leaned from the balcony rail - she looked like an angel on the ceiling of a church. I said, ‘You won’t know me; but I lived here once, with Mrs Milne. I am looking for a girl, who called on you when you moved in. She worked for the people that found you your flat.’ He frowned. ‘A girl, you say?’ ‘A girl with curly hair. A plain-faced girl called Florence. Don’t you know who I mean? Don’t you have the name of the charity she worked for? It was run by a lady - a very clever-looking lady. The lady played the mandolin.’ He had continued to frown, and to scratch at his head; but at this last detail he brightened. ‘That one,’ he said; ‘yes, I remember her. And that gal what helped her, that was your chum, was it?’ I said it was. Then: ‘And the charity? Do you remember them, and where their rooms are?’ ‘Where their rooms are, let me see ... I did go there wunst; but I don’t know as I can quite recall the partic’lar number. I do know as it was a place rather close to the Angel, Islington.’ ‘Near Sam Collins’s?’

• From Wild (2012)

  “Okay, I made mine. Now it’s your turn,” he said. I stared at a star, but my mind only went from one thing to the next. “How early are you taking off tomorrow?” I asked. “At first light.” “Me too,” I said. I didn’t want to say goodbye to him the next morning. Trina, Stacy, and I had decided to hike and camp together the next couple of days, but Brent hiked faster than us, which meant he’d go on alone. “So did you make your wish?” he asked. “I’m still thinking.” “It’s a good time to make one,” he said. “It’s our last night in the Sierra Nevada.” “Goodbye, Range of Light,” I said to the sky. “You could wish for a horse,” Brent said. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about your feet.” I looked at him in the dark. It was true—the PCT was open to both hikers and pack animals, though I hadn’t yet encountered any horseback riders on the trail. “I used to have a horse,” I said, turning my gaze back to the sky. “I had two, actually.” “Well then, you’re lucky,” he said. “Not everyone gets a horse.” We were silent together for several moments. I made my wish. PART FOUR WILDWhen I had no roof I made Audacity my roof. ROBERT PINSKY, “Samurai Song” Never never never give up. WINSTON CHURCHILL 11 THE LOU OUT OF LOUI was standing by the side of the highway just outside the town of Chester, trying to hitch a ride, when a man driving a silver Chrysler LeBaron pulled over and got out. Over the past fifty-some hours, I’d hiked fifty miles with Stacy and Trina and the dog, from Belden Town to a place called Stover Camp, but we’d split up ten minutes before when a couple in a Honda Civic had stopped, announcing that they only had room for two of us. “You go,” we’d each said to the other; “no, you go”—until I insisted and Stacy and Trina got in, Odin lumbering behind them to sit wherever he could, while I assured them I’d be fine. And I would be fine, I thought, as the man who drove the Chrysler LeBaron made his way toward me on the gravel shoulder of the road, though I felt a sick flutter in my gut as I attempted to discern, in the flash of a second, what his intentions were. He looked like a nice enough guy, a few years older than me. He was a nice guy, I decided, when I glanced at the bumper of his car. On it, there was a green sticker that said IMAGINE WHIRLED PEAS. Has there ever been a serial killer who imagined whirled peas?

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

  I became romantically involved with one of the people who left the 0 with me. After ten years of repressing feelings and intimacy, as we did in our cult, it was intoxicating to allow myself to be emotionally close to someone, particularly someone who understood what I had gone through. I knew it was not a relationship that could last, but we did give each other a great deal of support in the process of recovery. Redefinition and reintegration of self. I began to redefine myself at this point. I had to take stock and try to figure out my direction in many different areas of my life. I continued to learn about cults. This learning meshed with my precult interests, which were heading toward social psychology, so I think this was a natural direction for me. Writing. I began to write soon after I got out, and eventually completed a manuscript about my experience. I got three things from this: (1) Writing about my involvement required a close review and analysis of exactly how I had been manipulated, so I relived the whole experience, which, while difficult, helped me understand and integrate it; (2) By the end of writing the book, I felt I could say I was a writer, which was most important in rebuilding a sense of identity that I could call my own; (3) It helped a great deal with the shame I was feeling. I decided early on to come out about my cult experience because I felt that the shame was part of the reason cultic abuse has remained a significantly hidden issue. I was able to more or less turn this around and, in a sense, be proud and regard my experience as socially useful. I refused to be ashamed of it. In that regard, becoming a cult-awareness activist was particularly important to me. Interests. Because I'd been in the cult for so long, it was difficult to know what I truly wanted to do. Our ex-member group came up with the idea of "toe. dipping." We simply had to try things, but we could just dip our toes in. We didn't have to launch ourselves into a full-time commitment, which obviously was quite frightening to us. So we dipped our toes into this orthat interest. We'd visit a group or try a class. We discovered that as we kept dipping our toes in some particular area, it became clear that each of us kept coming back to certain interests. It took a long time, but eventually we found that our interests emerged in a kind of organic way. For me, those interests were a combination of writing and the study of social psychology. Identity. The whole issue of identity was, of course, most important. Who am I? What am I going to do with my life? This dislocation comes with all the years lost to the cult. How will I deal with having been through this trauma?

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

  But I missed Rowdy. I kept looking at the door. For the last ten years, he’d always come over to the house to have a pumpkin-pie eating contest with me. I missed him. So I drew a cartoon of Rowdy and me like we used to be: [image "An illustration of two superheroes, with R and A respectively on their chests, fist bumping." file=image_rsrc4SH.jpg] Then I put on my coat and shoes, walked over to Rowdy’s house, and knocked on the door. Rowdy’s dad, drunk as usual, opened the door. “Junior,” he said. “What do you want?” “Is Rowdy home?” “Nope.” “Oh, well, I drew this for him. Can you give it to him?” Rowdy’s dad took the cartoon and stared at it for a while. Then he smirked. “You’re kind of gay, aren’t you?” he asked. Yeah, that was the guy who was raising Rowdy. Jesus, no wonder my best friend was always so angry. “Can you just give it to him?” I asked. “Yeah, I’ll give it to him. Even if it’s a little gay.” I wanted to cuss at him. I wanted to tell him that I thought I was being courageous, and that I was trying to fix my broken friendship with Rowdy, and that I missed him, and if that was gay, then okay, I was the gayest dude in the world. But I didn’t say any of that. “Okay, thank you,” I said instead. “And Happy Thanksgiving.” Rowdy’s dad closed the door on me. I walked away. But I stopped at the end of the driveway and looked back. I could see Rowdy in the window of his upstairs bedroom. He was holding my cartoon. He was watching me walk away. And I could see the sadness in his face. I just knew he missed me, too. I waved at him. He gave me the finger. “Hey, Rowdy!” I shouted. “Thanks a lot!” He stepped away from the window. And I felt sad for a moment. But then I realized that Rowdy may have flipped me off, but he hadn’t torn up my cartoon. As much as he hated me, he probably should have ripped it to pieces. That would have hurt my feelings more than just about anything I can think of. But Rowdy still respected my cartoons. And so maybe he still respected me a little bit. Hunger Pains [image file=image_rsrc4RJ.jpg] Our history teacher, Mr. Sheridan, was trying to teach us something about the Civil War. But he was so boring and monotonous that he was only teaching us how to sleep with our eyes open. I had to get out of there, so I raised my hand. “What is it, Arnold?” the teacher asked. “I have to go the bathroom.” “Hold it.” “I can’t.” I put on my best If-I-Don’t-Go-Now-I’m-Going-To-Explode face. “Do you really have to?” the teacher asked. I didn’t have to go at first, but then I realized that yes, I did have to go.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  I’m not sure where the soldiers came from, but hundreds suddenly started walking toward us. All of them were wearing their olive uniforms, as were we, but theirs looked dusty, and each soldier was holding a short Galil gun. As more and more of them came, we felt the intensity of sex and aggression, the yearning of so many young men at once. We felt powerful but we knew it was a false power. As women, we were objects of desire, but it wasn’t us they desired; we were only a channel through which they expressed their longings. They were yearning for something else: for tenderness, for sanity, for touch, for a taste of the excitement of adolescence. Our goal was to create the illusion that for a moment we could give them all of that. We brought with us a glimpse of home and awakened everything they longed for. While we were used to the impact we had on those young men, their uniforms couldn’t hide the boys we recognized inside them. For us, they were men, soldiers, but also our high school friends. We knew that they had many moments when they wanted to cry but had to hide it, sometimes even from themselves. They needed to play the roles they were assigned, to be the men they were raised to be. I stood on that stage, the lights in my eyes. I couldn’t see their faces, only a field of olive. There was a moment of silence before I smiled and said, “Golani, we are really happy to be here tonight.” And I started to sing “Naarat Rock” (“A Rock and Roll Girl”), by Yitzhak Laor and Matti Caspi. When I got to the lines about how the girl had sex with the drummer, I looked back and smiled at the drummer. He wasn’t playing the song faster than usual but when it ended I couldn’t breathe. The dynamic between the masculine and the feminine is that the feminine often becomes the container for men’s vulnerabilities. They work as a system, and while that dynamic helps one side “get rid” of his neediness and place it in the other, it often leaves him with no real access to his feelings, and with denial of his fear, helplessness, guilt, and shame. We can see that dynamic in men’s relationship to tears, which is often complex. In our culture the split between femininity and masculinity is represented in the split between hardness and fluidity. Heterosexual culture often overvalues solidness, which is associated with erection, masculinity, independence, and activity, while it devalues fluidness, which is associated with femininity, vulnerability, passivity, and even contamination. Being strong is associated with being hard, not being a leaky, needy baby.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She laughed, and looked away; and I guessed that she was only partly joking, for in all the months that we had spent together, we had not been separated for so much as a night. I felt that old queer tightness in my breast, and quickly kissed her. She raised her hands to hold my face; but again she turned her gaze away. ‘You must go,’ she said, ‘if it makes you sad like this. I shall manage.’ ‘I shall hate it too,’ I said. My tears had dried; it was I, now, who was doing the consoling. ‘And anyway, I shan’t be able to go until we close at Hoxton - and that is weeks away.’ She nodded, and looked thoughtful. It was weeks away, for Cinderella was not due to finish until Easter; in the middle of February, however, I found myself suddenly and unexpectedly at liberty. There was a fire at the Britannia. There were always fires in theatres in those days - halls were regularly being burned to the ground, then built up again, better than before, and no one thought anything of it; and the fire at the Brit had been small enough, and no one got injured. But the theatre had had to be evacuated, and there had been problems with the exits; afterwards an inspector came, looked at the building, and said a new escape door must be added. He closed the theatre while the work was done: tickets were returned, apologies pasted up; and for a whole half-week we found ourselves on holiday. Urged on by Kitty - for she had grown suddenly gallant about letting me go - I took my chance. I wrote to Mother and told her that, if I was still welcome, I should be home the following day - that was Sunday - and would stay till Wednesday night. Then I went shopping, to buy presents for the family: there was something thrilling after all, I found, about the idea of returning to Whitstable after so long, with a parcel of gifts from London ... Even so, it was hard to part from Kitty. ‘You will be all right?’ I said to her. ‘You won’t be lonely here?’ ‘I shall be horribly lonely. I expect you will come back and find me dead from loneliness!’ ‘Why don’t you come with me? We might catch a later train -’ ‘No, Nan; you should see your family without me.’ ‘I shall think about you every minute.’ ‘And I shall think of you ...’ ‘Oh, Kitty ...’ She had been tapping at her tooth with the pearl of her necklace; when I put my mouth upon hers I felt it, cold and smooth and hard, between our lips. She let me kiss her, then moved her head so that our cheeks touched; then she put her arms about my waist and held me to her rather fiercely - quite as if she loved me more than anything.

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

  When you were growing up, for instance, far beyond providing you shelter, meals, and clothing, your parents likely stoked your opportunities to share positivity-laced moments with them and others. At first it was simply through tickles and grins, and later it was through setting up playdates and creating family rituals around mealtime, bedtime, weekends, and holidays. Many schools, colleges, and universities strive to provide similar structural support. Through icebreakers and other experiential activities, both within and outside classrooms, through sporting and artistic events, these places create entire webs of people, institutional practices, and rituals that may have provided additional external support for the positivity resonance that nourished you through your youth. Jeremy, whose story I told in chapter 8 , likened all this structural support to an external navigation system . As he put it, “Your path up through college is kind of decided for you and then it is like the navigation system turns off and you have to pilot yourself and that’s when it gets scary.” Being released into the so-called real world, absent the scaffolding to support ready connection, can leave recent graduates wondering why their life suddenly seems less sparkly, their days more life-draining than life-giving. Adapting to this stark change can be like learning to cook for yourself. After decades of having your every meal prepared by parents, and then by dining hall staff, you needed to learn to put the right balance of micronutrients on your plate each day. While the effects getting the balance wrong may not have shown up for months, or even years, you’ve felt those effects nonetheless, in terms of unhealthy changes in weight or health. Think of love as another key micronutrient. How long will it take before you learn to put the right amount of it in your daily diet? It can take years, even decades, for people to learn this vital life lesson: That in the “real world” you are responsible for feeding yourself your own recommended daily value of love. It easily took me two decades to internalize this message, and I still struggle at times to truly live by it. My natural tendencies toward introversion, combined with my socialized tendencies toward workaholism, set me on a life trajectory that was hardly sustainable. By my early forties, my relationships and health began to suffer. I’ve since learned to plan my day and week around love and other opportunities to feel good. I also stay open to those impromptu chances to forge meaningful connections with the people at work and in my community, and even with complete strangers when I’m away from home. Two decades is a long time. I even had the benefit of seeing the facts about positivity stack up on my desk.

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

  Love 2.0: The View from Here The facts are that all people face both good and bad fortune every year, if not every day. When you look out at others, even without speaking with them or knowing anything specific about them, you can be virtually certain that they are simultaneously blessed by good fortune, however small or large, and also burdened by bad fortune, again, however small or large. Each person we encounter, then, simultaneously merits both our compassionate love and our celebratory love. Love, upgraded as positivity resonance, comes in many flavors. It bends toward compassion when suffering is salient, and toward celebration when good fortune is salient. Above all, love is connection. In connection, you are far more likely to recognize what other people are going through, and meet them where they are, sincerely wishing them the very best. In the next chapter, I’ll ask you to stretch the scope of your love even wider. Beyond the special people in your life, and even beyond those with whom you interact regularly, I hope to convince you that love’s reach is virtually unbounded. Experimenting with unbridled loving is perhaps the most challenging and rewarding of all. CHAPTER 8 Loving Without Borders TO LOVE ONE PERSON WITH A PRIVATE LOVE IS POOR AND MISERABLE; TO LOVE ALL IS GLORIOUS. —Thomas Traherne In a world replete with threats, uncertainties, and ceaseless distractions, the urge can be strong to simply look out for oneself. If you’re like most who grew up in Western culture, you’ve absorbed countless versions of this message. I know I did. The messages, both direct and indirect were clear: Be self- sufficient, independent, pay yourself first. You can’t necessarily count on anyone else to look after your needs, so you need to learn to take care of yourself. Indeed, entire economic systems are built upon this premise of self-interest. Many economists have assumed, first and foremost, that people direct all their available rationality toward maximizing their own self-interests. To be sure, a healthy dose of independence and concern for self is no doubt required for success in any culture. Even so, one unfortunate side effect of rugged individualism can be a thick cocoon of self-absorption that all but blinds you to the concerns, gifts, and welfare of others. Becoming more aware of the inherent value of positivity resonance can help you break free from this life-limiting cocoon. Indeed, study after study suggests that positive emotions, in and of themselves, unlock your ability to really see other people. When feeling good, then, you’re far more likely to approach each new person as an opportunity for connection and growth. Love, viewed in this way, knows no borders. When love is as modest as a shared interest, a shared inspiration, or a shared hope, you have no reason to withhold it from anyone.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I gazed again at the figure in the shaft of limelight and thought quite bitterly, You would be marvellous, if I were here or not. You would be marvellous, without my admiration. I might as well be at home, putting crab-meat in a paper cone, for all you know of me!But even as I thought it, something rather curious happened. She had reached the end of her song - there was the business with the flower and the pretty girl; and when this was done she wheeled into the wing. And as she did it I saw her head go up - and she looked - looked, I swear it - towards the empty chair in which I usually sat, then lowered her head and moved on. If I had only been in my box tonight, I would have had her eyes upon me! If I had only been in my box, instead of here -!I glanced at Davy and Father: they were both on their feet calling for more; but letting their calls die, and beginning to stretch. Beside me Freddy was still smiling at the stage. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his lip was dark where he was letting whiskers grow; his cheek was red and had a pimple on it. ‘Ain’t she a peach?’ he said to me. Then he rubbed his eyes, and shouted to Davy for a beer. Behind me I heard Mother ask, How did the lady in the evening dress read all those numbers with a blindfold on?The cheers were fading, Tricky’s candle was out; the gasoliers flared, making us blink. Kitty Butler had looked for me - had raised her head and looked for me; and I was lost and sitting with strangers. I spent the next day, Sunday, at the cockle-stall; and when Freddy called that night to ask me out walking, I said I was too tired. That day was cooler, and by Monday the weather seemed really to have broken. Father came back to the Parlour full-time, and I spent the day in the kitchen, gutting and filleting. We worked till almost seven: I had just enough time between the closing of the shop and the leaving of the Canterbury train to change my dress, to pull on a pair of elastic-sided boots and to sit down with Father and Mother, Alice, Davy and Rhoda for a hasty supper.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The fact is -’ The fact was, I hadn’t thought what I would tell him. I hesitated; but it was impossible to lie to him: ‘Bill, I’m living as a boy just now.’‘As a boy?’ He said it loudly; then put a hand before his mouth. Even so, one or two of the grumbling gents in the queue turned their heads. I edged a little further away from them. I said again: ‘I’m living as a boy, with a lady who takes care of me ...’ And at that, at last, he looked a little more knowing, and nodded.Behind him, the Italian dropped a gentleman’s hat, and the gentleman tutted. Bill said, ‘Can you wait?’ and stepped to help his friend by taking another couple of cloaks. Then he moved towards me again. The Italian looked sour.I glanced over to Diana and Maria. The lobby had emptied a bit; they stood waiting for me. Maria had placed Satin on the floor and he was scratching at her skirt. Diana turned to catch my eye. I looked at Bill.‘How are you, then?’ I asked him.He looked rueful, and lifted his hand: there was a wedding-ring on it. He said, ‘Well, I am married now, for a start!’‘Married! Oh, Bill, I am happy for you! Who’s the girl? It’s not Flora? Not Flora, our old dresser?’ He nodded, and said it was.‘It is on account of Flora,’ he added, ‘that I am working here. She has a job on round the corner, a month at the Old Mo. She is still, you know’ - he looked suddenly rather awkward — ’s he is still, you know, dressing Kitty ...’I stared at him. There came more mutters from the queue of gents, and more sour looks from the Italian, and he stepped back again to help with the cloaks and hats and tickets. I lifted a hand to my head, and put my fingers through my hair, and tried to understand what he had told me. He was married to Flora, and Flora was still with Kitty; and Kitty had a spot at the Middlesex Music Hall. And that was about three streets away from where I stood now.And Kitty, of course, was married to Walter.Are they happy? I wanted to call to Bill then. Does she talk of me, ever? Does she think of me? Does she miss me? But when he returned - looking even more flustered and damp about the brow - I said only, ‘How’s - how’s the act, Bill?’‘The act?’ He sniffed. ‘Not so good, I don’t think. Not so good as the old days ...’We gazed at one another. I looked harder at his face, and saw that he had gained a bit of weight beneath his chin, and that the flesh about his eyes was rather darker than I knew it. Then the Italian called, ‘Bill, will you come?’

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The water spotted her dress, and dampened the fringe of her hair into dark little points. She had a purse swinging at her waist, and now she dipped her fingers into it and drew out a cigarette and a box of matches. She said, ‘I am sure your mother would disapprove, but I’m just about busting for a smoke.’ She lit the cigarette, and drew upon it heavily. We gazed at one another not speaking. Then, because we were weary and there was no where else for us to sit, we sat upon the bed, side by side, and quite close. It was terribly strange to be with her in the very room - on the very spot! - where I had spent so many hours dreaming of her, so immodestly. I said, ‘It ain’t half strange -’ But as I said it she also spoke; and we laughed. ‘You first,’ she said, and drew again upon her fag. ‘I was just going to say, how funny it is to have you here, like this.’ ‘And I,’ she said, ‘was going to say how funny it is to be here! And this is really your room, yours and Alice’s? And your bed?’ She looked about her, as if in wonder - as if I might have taken her to a stranger’s chamber, and be trying to pass it off as my own - and I nodded. She was silent again, then, and so was I; and yet I sensed that she had more to say, and was only working up to saying it. I thought, with a little thrill, that I knew what it was; but when she spoke again it wasn’t about the contract, but about my family - about how kind they were, and how much they loved me, and how lucky I was to have them. I remembered that she was an orphan, of sorts, and bit back my protests, and let her talk; but my silence seemed only to dampen her spirits the further. At last, when her cigarette was finished and thrown into the grate, she took a breath and said what I had been waiting for. ‘Nan, I have something to tell you - a piece of good news, and you must promise to be happy for me.’ I couldn’t help myself. I had been longing to smile about it all afternoon, and now I laughed and said, ‘Oh Kitty, I know your news already!’ She seemed to frown then, so I went on quickly, ‘You mustn’t be cross with Tony, but he told me - just today.’ ‘Told you what?’ ‘That Tricky wants you to stay on, at the Palace; that you will be here till Christmas at least!’ She looked at me rather strangely, then lowered her gaze and gave an awkward little laugh. ‘That’s not my news,’ she said. ‘And nobody knows it but me. Tricky does want me to stay on - but I’ve turned him down.’ ‘Turned him down?’

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

  The best thing about being a child is that each day begins anew, and somehow, even though you might be living in an unreal environment, it seems normal because it's all you know. Most of the time, my parents were busy, quite busy. They were dynamic leaders, heading the British Unification Church (UC, sometimes called "Moonies," but not to the church's liking, of course). When I was quite small, we lived in the same center, and other church members took care of me most of the time. Many different people looked after me, but there were one or two whom I saw a great deal more or who were better with children. Later I went to a church-run boarding school and spent most of my life between Cleeve House School in Wiltshire, the Farm, and Lancaster Gate (the UC headquarters in London). Along for the ride with me were other youngsters whose missionary parents had leftthem for years. There are endless, complex issues I could go into about what it's like to be a leader's child, about knowing that members treat you according to their relationship with your parents, or about having to learn a theology at a young age. Suffice it to say, it was unusual. The snapshots I would like to give are the times I wished I could just stick to one single being who would not leave me for another mission. That perhaps I could live with my parents, just them and me, like the families on television. But by the time they could do that, in my late teens, I didn't want, nor did I know how, to live in a nuclear family. When I was seven or eight, there were even younger children who were also without their. parents, and those young ones cried every night and climbed into my bed for a cuddle. One time, at about that same age, I watched Moon speak for seven hours without leaving the room. I saw him berate and attack people, and I sat on his knee as he gave out hundreddollar bills. While visiting my paternal grandparents when I was five, I tried to convince Granny that Moon was the Messiah while she gave me a Cindy doll to play with. I wanted her to know the truth before she died, and it upset me that she didn't. My poor old English Grandma. She had lived through two World Wars, and now she had to watch her little blonde granddaughter called Young Oon, who looked so much like her son, prattle on about Satan, God, Moon, and Eternity. I wish I could talk to her now, but she died a few years later. Although my childhood in England was not without its flaws, it was home and it was what I knew. When I was eleven, I went to Korea without my parents under Moon's strict instruction to learn the "language of heaven," and thus my life changed.

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

  Although the fit wasn't perfect, this 12step program did help me in my healing process. Therapy helped me unravel the experience, the mental controls, and the thought patterns, but Al-Anon helped my heart. It also gave me a connection to a higher power again, with nobody telling me what that meant, which was so important to me. I had such a desire for a spiritual life before getting involved with the Emissaries. I still do, but I have not been successful in reestablishing any affiliation (I grew up Protestant). Sometimes this is frustrating to me because I truly liked the spiritual connection I felt in the cult. But I find that I now have a deeper and more personal spiritual experience than I ever did before because I have struggled to find my own answers and my own understanding of a higher power. I now know that no one else can give me answers and no one else knows what needs to happen in my life. I may gather information from many places, but I make my final choices. I made a particularly empowering choice three years after I'd left the group. I was going to my first cult-awareness conference, which in some measure ter- rifled me. I thought, "Who are these people anyway?" The week before, a long article came out in the Sunday Denver Post about Colorado's "Oldest Commune." It was a glowing report about Sunrise Ranch, the group's international headquarters. The writer had swallowed their propaganda, hook, line, and sinker. In response, I wrote a letter to the editor stating that the surface was nice and glossy, but what went on in the name of spirit was deception and manipulation. On returning from the conference, which had been exciting, informative, validating, and supportive, I saw my letter in the Sunday paper. It was like standing in front of the leader and saying, "F- You!" I had my power back; it was a great feeling. Keeping a journal was also most helpful. It gave me time to myself and it gave my thoughts importance. To write my words and ideas down and look at them helped to distinguish me from my cult identity. I still use my journal for personal reflection, and private time has become quite precious. In fact, I am fiercely protective of it, and much more of an introvert than I was before. I've been out of the group nine years now, and I still feel this way. I find it healthy to have time alone and to be comfortable with solitude. One of the words I had the most difficult time with after leaving the group was want. I had completely eliminated it from my vocabulary. In the cult, it was not okay to want anything, and it took me a long time to learn to want again. Getting my first solo apartment at age thirty-four helped.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  The thought of Kitty weeping brought the tears to my own eyes; and seeing me so affected, she’d give a smile, and a wink, and a stretch, and say in her best swell accent: ‘But those days are all behind me now, don’t you know, and I am on the path to fame and fortune. Since I changed my name and became a masher the whole world loves me; and Tricky Reeves loves me most of all, and pays me like a prince, to prove it!’ And then we would smile together, because we both knew that if she really were a masher Tricky’s wages would barely keep her in champagne; but my smile would be a little troubled for I knew, too, that her contract was due to expire at the end of August, and then she would have to move to another theatre - to Margate, perhaps, she said, or Broadstairs, if they would have her. I couldn’t bear to think what I would do when she was gone. What my family made of my trips backstage, my marvellous new status as Miss Butler’s pal and unofficial dresser, I am not sure. They were, as I have said, impressed; but they were also troubled. It was reassuring for them that it was a real friendship, and not just a schoolgirl mash, that had me travelling so often to the Palace, and spending all my savings on the train fare; and yet, I thought I heard them ask themselves, what manner of friendship could there be between a handsome, clever music-hall artiste, and the girl in the crowd that admired her? When I said that Kitty had no young man (for I had found this out, early on, amongst the pieces of her history) Davy said that I should bring her home, and introduce her to my handsome brother - though he only said it when Rhoda was near, to tease her. When I spoke of brewing her pans of tea and tidying her table, Mother narrowed her eyes: ‘She’s doing all right out of you by the sound of it. It’s a little more help with the tea and the tables we could do with, from you, home here ...’It was true, I suppose, that I rather neglected my duties in the house for the sake of my trips to the Palace. They fell to my sister, though she rarely complained about it. I believe my parents thought her generous, allowing me my freedom at her own expense.

• From Emotional Inheritance (2022)

  “With Josh, nothing is in my control,” she says, looking to see if I understand what she means. She explains that in her submission to him she feels held. She feels that he knows everything about her and about her body, and that she can lose control under his domination. “He brings me back to life, do you know what I mean?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. Life and death, from the start, are strong forces in Eve’s narrative. We begin exploring the links between sex, death and reparation, and the uncanny ways these are related to Eve’s family history. Her mother, I learn, had lost her own mother to cancer when she was fourteen years old. For two years Eve’s mother took care of her dying mother but a part of her died with her. Eve and I will slowly realize how through sexual submission she gets in touch with her longing to be taken care of, to stay alive and to repair a traumatic past. Eve looks at her watch and starts putting on her shoes, preparing for the end of the session. Then she leans back and says quietly: “When we are done and Josh drives me home, I become emotional. I love having sex with him and I love when he drives me.” There is another moment of silence, and she says, almost whispering, “I look at him holding the steering wheel, a serious look on his face, and I think that he is the most handsome man I have ever met. And I want to kiss him but I know it’s not a good idea; after all, we are not in his office anymore, and we make believe that he is my car-service driver. “He drops me off a few blocks from my building, and when I say good night my heart breaks a little. I really don’t want to go upstairs, back into the highway of my life. Josh knows exactly how I feel, and without me needing to say anything, he tells me, ‘Don’t forget how much I love you. I’ll see you on Wednesday. It’s very soon; it’s sooner than you think.’ “I make a face and he knows that I think Wednesday is years from now and that I will have so many feelings and thoughts that he won’t be a part of until Wednesday, and he says, ‘I’m on our app. I’m here, even if I’m not physically with you.’” She puts on her sunglasses. “This is usually when I stop feeling anything and leave the car.” I see that she becomes disconnected in order to leave him, and that she does it again right before my eyes as she tells me about it. I lose her to a long silence before she leaves.

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

  In 1691 fifty-one-year-old Madame de Montespan was instructed by the king to leave court, but she did not go meekly into a quiet retirement. Shrieking, raging, storming, she had one last audience with Louis. Madame de Noyer wrote, “She let herself go in a fury, reproaching him for his ingratitude in the face of the sacrifices she had made for him. The King endured this tantrum because she was a woman, and because it was the last he would have to put up with from her.”36 Madame de Montespan was an extremely wealthy woman, boasting castles, manors, and a fashionable house in Paris. But the beating heart of French society was with the king, usually at his favorite palace of Versailles. Gone for her were the colorful festivities, the need for jewels and satin gowns, the power and honor, the obeisance of the whole world. Though she was refused permission to attend her children’s Versailles weddings, she was allowed to visit them periodically at court. Madame de Caylus wrote that she “wandered like a lost soul, doomed to return again and again to the scene of a former life in expiation of former sins.”37 During these few visits to Versailles, her haughty arrogance and imperious temper were deflated. Unsure of herself, hoping to be accepted, invited, the formerly imperious royal mistress became a ghost of the marble halls, wandering about ignored where for decades she had reigned. During her brief court visits, she caught glimpses of the king, though always in the company of many others. Madame de Montespan purchased a château in the forest of Fontainebleau, where the king periodically went hunting. When she heard the royal trumpets blow, she went outside and strained for a glimpse of him galloping in the distance. The restless exile bought another château, Oiron, in her native land of Poitou, turning it into a shrine to the king, portraits and statues of him adorning every room. Portraits of Louis on a white horse, tapestries representing his conquests, a silver bust of Louis with solid gold hair. Her bedchamber alone boasted four images of her former lover. Madame de Montespan even fitted up a special room designated the King’s Chamber, as if expecting the monarch to visit. It had an impressive canopied bed capped with a crown, hung with black velvet embroidered with gold and silver, set behind the traditional low gilded railing used by royalty. There was indeed some speculation at court that, particularly after Madame de Montespan’s husband died in 1701, Louis would recall her, possibly even marry her. Some hoped that Madame de Maintenon would obligingly clear the way by dying, and then, with Madame de Montespan back at court, they could all have fun again. But Louis never visited his King’s Chamber at Oiron. And Madame de Maintenon would outlive the king by three years.

• From Less (2017)

  “And I keep riding through this dark wood and come out onto a large white plain with a mountain in the distance. And a farmer is there, and he waves at me, and he says sort of the same thing. ‘More important things ahead for you!’ And I ride up the mountain. I can tell you’re not listening. It gets really good. I ride up the mountain, and at the top is a cave and a priest—you know, like in a cartoon. And I say I’m ready. And he says for what? And I say to think about more important things. And he asks, ‘More important than what?’ ‘More important than love.’ And he looks at me like I’m crazy and says, ‘What could be more important than love?’” We stood quietly as a cloud went over the sun and sent a chill across the roof. Less looked over the railing at the street below. “Well, that’s my dream.” Less opens his eyes to an image from a war movie—an army-green airplane propeller chopping briskly at the air—no, not a propeller. Ceiling fan. The whispering in the corner is, however, indeed Malayalam. Shadows are moving on the ceiling in a puppet play of life. And now they are speaking English. Bits of his dream are still glistening on the edges of everything, dew lit, evaporating. Hospital room.

• From Less (2017)

  Robert sits up slightly, his mood shifting back to merrymaking. “Are you too old? Listen to you. I was watching a television show about science the other day. That’s the kind of nice-old-man thing I do now. I’m very harmless these days. It was about time travel. And they had a scientist on saying that if it were possible, you’d have to build one time machine now. And build another one years later. Then you could go back and forth. A sort of time tunnel. But here’s the thing, Arthur. You could never go any further back than the invention of that first machine. Which I think is really a blow to the imagination. I took it pretty hard.” Arthur says, “We can never kill Hitler.” “But you know it’s like that already. When you meet people. You meet them, say, when they’re thirty, and you can never really imagine them any younger than that. You’ve seen pictures of me, Arthur, you’ve seen me at twenty.” “You were a handsome guy.” “But really, really, you can’t imagine me any younger than my forties, can you?” “Sure, I can.” “You can picture it. But you can’t quite imagine it. You can’t go back any further. It’s against the laws of physics.” “You’re getting too excited.” “Arthur, I look at you, and I still see that boy on the beach with the red toenails. Not at first, but my eyes adjust. I see that twenty-one-year-old boy in Mexico. I see that young man in a hotel room in Rome. I see the young writer holding his first book. I look at you, and you’re young. You’ll always be that way for me. But not for anyone else. Arthur, people who meet you now will never be able to imagine you young. They can never go any further back than fifty. It isn’t all bad. It means now people will think you were always a grown-up. They’ll take you seriously. They don’t know that you once spent an entire dinner party babbling about Nepal when you meant Tibet.” “I can’t believe you brought that up again.” “That you once referred to Toronto as the capital of Canada.” “I’m going to get Marian to pull the plug.” “To the prime minister of Canada. I love you, Arthur. My point is”—and after this harangue he has apparently worn himself out, and takes a few deep breaths—“my point is, welcome to fucking life. Fifty is nothing. I look back at fifty and think, what the fuck was I so worried about? Look at me now. I’m in the afterlife. Go enjoy yourself.” Says Tiresias. Marian reappears on the screen: “Okay, boys, time’s up. We’ve got to let him rest.” Robert leans over to his ex-wife. “Marian, he didn’t marry him.” “He didn’t?” “Apparently I heard wrong. The fellow married someone else.”

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She said, ‘There’s a piece of bacon still warm in the kitchen, which you may as well have for your breakfast. Then - oh! then you really must go.’‘I promise I will!’She nodded, and pulled at the door. There came a blast of icy air from the street outside that made me shiver. Florence shivered, too. The wind blew the brim of her hat away from her brow, and she narrowed her hazel eyes against it, and tightened her jaw.I said, ‘Miss Banner! I - might I come back, sometime, on a visit? I should like - I should like to see your brother, and thank him...’ I should like to see her, was what I meant. I had come to make a friend of her. But I didn’t know how to say it.She put a hand to her collar, and blinked into the wind. ‘You must do as you like,’ she said. Then she pulled the door shut, leaving the parlour chill behind her, and I saw her shadow on the lace at the window as she walked away.After she had gone my leaden limbs seemed all at once, and quite miraculously, to lighten. I rose, and braved again the chilly privy; then I found the slice of bacon that had been put aside for me, and took a piece of bread and a bunch of cress, and ate my breakfast standing at the kitchen window, gazing sightlessly at the unfamiliar view beyond it.After that I rubbed my hands, and glanced about me, and began to wonder what to do.The kitchen, at least, was warm, for someone - Ralph, presumably - had lit a small fire in the range, early on, and the coals were only half consumed. It did seem a shame to waste their lovely heat - and it could not hurt, I told myself, to boil up some water for a bit of a wash. I opened a cupboard door, looking for a pan to set upon the hob, and came across a flat-iron; and seeing this I thought: They wouldn’t mind, surely, if I warmed that, too, and gave my battered frock a little press...While I waited for these things to heat I wandered back into the parlour, to separate the armchairs that had made my bed, and set the blankets in a tidy pile. This done, I did what I had been at first too bewildered, and then too sleepy, to do the night before: I stood and had a proper look around.The room, as I have said, was a very small one - far smaller, certainly, than my old bedroom at Felicity Place - and there were no gas-jets in it, only oil-lamps and candlesticks. The furniture and decorations were, I thought, a rather curious mixture.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I said. ‘What does all that matter now? It matters nothing!’ ‘Doesn’t it?’ she said. I felt my heart begin to hammer. When I did not answer, only continued to stare at her, she took a step towards me and began to talk, very fast and low. ‘Oh Nan, so many times I thought about finding you, and planned what I would say when I did. I cannot leave you now without saying it!’ ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I said in sudden terror; I believe I even put my hands to my ears, to try to block out the sound of her murmurs. But she caught at my arm and talked on, into my face. ‘You must hear it! You must know. You mustn’t think that I did what I did easily, or thoughtlessly. You mustn’t think it did not - break my heart.’ ‘Why did you do it, then?’ ‘Because I was a fool! Because I thought my life upon the stage was dearer to me than anything. Because I thought that I would be a star. Because, of course, I did not ever think that I would really, really lose you ...’ She hesitated. Outside the tent the bustle of the day went on: children ran shrieking; stall-holders called and argued; flags and pamphlets fluttered in the May breezes. She took a breath. She said: ‘Nan, come back to me.’ Come back to me ... One part of me reached out to her at once, leapt to her like a pin to a magnet; I believe the very same part of me would leap to her again - would go on leaping to her, if she went on asking me, for ever. Then another part of me remembered, and remembers still. ‘Come back to you?’ I said. ‘With you, still Walter’s wife?’ ‘All that means nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘There’s nothing - like that - between him and me now. If we were only a little careful ...’ ‘Careful!’ I said: the word had made me flinch. ‘Careful! Careful! That’s all I ever had from you. We were so careful, we might as well have been dead!’ I shook myself free of her. ‘I have a new girl now, who’s not ashamed to be my sweetheart.’ But Kitty came close, and seized my arm again. ‘That girl with the baby?’ she said, nodding back into the tent. ‘You don’t love her, I can see it in your face. Not as you loved me. Don’t you remember how it was? You were mine, before anyone’s; you belong with me. You don’t belong with her and her sort, talking all this foolish political stuff. Look at your clothes, how plain and cheap they are!