Love

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 Mud Vein (2014)

  It’s a painful thing to look inside yourself and see the whys and the hows of your clockwork. You are a lot uglier than you think, plenty more selfish than you are ever likely to admit. So, you ignore what’s inside of you. Thinking if you don’t acknowledge it, it’s not really there. Until someone unlikely comes along and cracks you. They see every dark corner, and they get it. And they tell you it’s okay to have dark corners, instead of making you feel ashamed of them. Isaac wasn’t afraid of my ugly. He rolled through the highs and lows with me. There was no judgment in his love. And all of a sudden there were fewer lows and more highs. Nick loved me enough to leave me alone. Isaac knew me better than I knew me. I said I wanted to be left alone, he knew better. I said I wanted white, he knew better. He brightened me. He enlightened me. Because Isaac was my soulmate. Not Nick. Nick was just some great love. Isaac knew how to heal my soul. “We were good together,” I say to Nick. “But I’m not her anymore.” “I don’t understand,” he says. “You’re not who?” “Exactly.” “Brenna, you’re not making sense.” “Do I ever?” He pauses. I shake my head. “I don’t make sense to you. That’s why you left me.” “I’ll try harder.” “I have cancer. You can try as hard as you want, but I have cancer and I’m not going to be here in a year.” His face is a cocktail of woebegone and shock. “But … I thought … I thought you had the surgery.” I never told Nick about the surgery I had to remove my breasts, but my agent and publicist knew. Things get around in the writing world. I was staining Nick’s perfect, white idealism. Cancer happened, sure. But in Nick’s world you beat it. Then you lived happily ever after. “I have it again. It came back. Stage four.” He starts fumbling with sentences that he never finishes. I hear the words “treatment” and “chemotherapy” and “fight” and my heart grows tired. “Shut up,” I say. Nick’s glow is an ephemeral phenomenon. He’s already looking like the same dumb fuck who thought I was too dark for his white room. “It’s too late for that. The cancer metastasized. While I was there. It came back. It’s in my bones.” “There has to be something…” He looks so terribly forlorn. “You’re trying to save me. But I’m not staying alive to be your muse.” “Why are you being so cruel?” I laugh. A good belly laugh, too. “Charm is clothed in narcissism, you know that? Get out of my house.” “Brenna…” “Out!” I send my fists into his chest. “That’s not my name anymore!” “You’re acting crazy,” he insists. “You can’t do this alone. Let me help you.”

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

  In short, I had all the air of not being able to wait the arrival of my lord B——, though he was now expected in a very fews days: nor did I wait for him, for love itself took charge of the disposal of me, in spite of interest, or gross lust. It was now two days after the closet scene, that I got up about six in the morning, and leaving my bedfellow fast asleep, stole down, with no other thought than of taking a little fresh air in a small garden, which our back parlour opened into, and from which my confinement debarred me, at the times company came to my house; but now sleep and silence reigned all over it. I opened the parlour door, and well surprised was I at seeing, by the side of a fire half-out, a young gentleman in the old lady’s elbow chair, with his legs laid upon another, fast asleep, and left there by his thoughtless companions, who had drank him down, and then went off with every one but his mistress, whilst he stayed behind by the courtesy of the old matron, who would not disturb or turn him out in that condition at one in the morning; and beds, it is more than probable there were none to spare. On the table still remained the punch bowl and glasses, stewed about in their usual disorder after a drunken revel. But when I drew nearer, to view the sleeping estray, heavens! what a sight! No! term of years, no turn of fortune could ever eraze the lightninglike impression his form made on me. Yes! dearest object of my earliest passion, I command for ever the remembrance of thy first appearance to my ravished eyes, it calls thee up, present; and I see thee now. Figure to yourself, Madam, fair stripling between eighteen and nineteen, with his head reclined on one of the sides of the chair, his hair disordered curls, irregularly shading a face, on which all the roseate bloom of youth and all the manly graces conspired to fix my eye sand heart; even the languour and paleness of his face, in which the momentary triumph of the lily over the rose was owing to the excesses of the night, gave an inexpressible sweetness to the finest features imaginable: his eyes, closed in sleep, displayed the meeting edges of their lids beautifully bordered with long eye-lashes; over which no pencil could have described two more regular arches than those that graced his forehead, which was high, perfectly white and smooth; then a pair of vermilion lips, pouting and swelling to the touch, as if a bee had freshly stung them, seemed to challenge me to get the gloves off this lovely sleeper, had not the modesty and respect, which in both sexes are inseparable from a true passion, checked my impulses.

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

  But, as nothing but the beauties of his person had at first attracted my regard and fixed my passion, neither was I then a judge of the internal merit, which I had afterwards full occasion to discover, and which, perhaps, in that season of giddiness and levity, would have touched my heart very little, had it been lodged in a person less the delight of my eyes, and idol of my senses. But to return to our situation. After dinner, which we ate a-bed in most voluptuous disorder, Charles got up, and taking a passionate leave of me for a few hours, went to town, where concerting matters with a young sharp lawyer, they went together to my late venerable mistress’s, from whence I had, but the day before, made my elopement, and with whom he was determined to settle accounts, in a manner that should cut off all after reckonings from that quarter. Accordingly they went; but by the way, the Templar, his friend, on thinking over Charles’s information, saw reason to give their visit another turn, and, instead of offering satisfaction, to demand it. On being let in, the girls of the house flocked round Charles, whom they knew, and from the earlyness of my escape, and their perfect ignorance of his ever having so much as seen me, not having the least suspicion of his being accessory to my flight, they were, in their way, making up to him; and as to his companion, they took him probably for a fresh cully. But the Templar soon checked their forwardness, by enquiring for the old lady, with whom he said, with a grave-like countenance, that he had some business to settle. Madam was immediately sent for down, and the ladies being desired to clear the room, the lawyer asked her, severely, if she did know, or had not decoyed, under pretence of hiring as a servant, a young girl, just come out of the country, called Frances or Fanny Hill, describing me withal as particularly as he could from Charlie’s description. It is peculiar to vice to tremble at the enquiries of justice; and Mrs.

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

  And here, Decency, forgive me! if once more I violate thy laws and keeping the curtains undrawn, sacrifice thee for the last time to that confidence, without reserve, with which I engaged to recount to you the most striking circumstances of my youthful disorders. As soon, then, as we were in the room together, left to ourselves, the sight of the bed starving the remembrance of our first joys, and the thought of my being instantly to share it with the dear possessor of my virgin heart, moved me so strongly, that it was well I leaned upon him, or I must have fainted again under the overpowering sweet alarm. Charles saw into my confusion, and forgot his own, that was scarce less, to apply himself to the removal of mine. But now the true refining passion had regained throughout possession of me, with all its train of symptoms: a sweet sensibility, a tender timidity, love-sick yearnings tempered with diffidence and modesty, all held me in a subjection of soul, incomparably dearer to me than the liberty of heart which I had been long, too long! the mistress of, in the course of those grosser gallantries, the consciousness of which now made me sigh with a virtuous confusion and regret. No real virgin, in short, in view of the nuptial bed, could give more bashful blushes to unblemished innocence, than I did to a sense of guilt; and indeed I loved Charles too truly not to feel severely that I did not deserve him. As I kept hesitating and disconcerted under this soft distraction, Charles, with a fond impatience, took the pains to undress me; and all I can remember amidst the nutter and discomposure of my senses, was, some flattering exclamation of joy and admiration, more specially at the feel of my breasts, now set at liberty from my stays, and which panting and rising in tumultous throbs, swelled upon his dear touch, and gave it the welcome pleasure of finding them well formed, and un-failed in firmness. I was soon laid in bed, and scarce languished an instant for the darling partner of it, before he was undressed and got between the sheets, with his arms clasped round me, giving and taking, with gust inexpressible, a kiss of welcome, that my heart rising to my lips stamped with its warmest impression, concurring to my bliss, with that delicate and voluptuous emotion which Charles alone had the secret to excite, and which constitutes the very life, the essence of pleasure. Mean while, two candles lighted on a side-table near us, and a joyous wood fire, threw a light into the bed, that took from one sense, of great importance to our joys, all pretext for complaining of its being shut out of its share of them; and, indeed, the sight of my idolized youth was alone, from the ardour with which I had wished for it, without other circumstance, a pleasure to die of.

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

  "The more I looked upon him the more enamoured I was of him. But the sight was not enough. I had to heighten the visual delight by the sense of touch, I had to feel the tough and yet elastic muscles of the arm in the palm of my hand, to fondle his massive and sinewy breast, to paddle his back. From there my hands descended down to the round lobes of the rump, and I clasped him against me by the buttocks. Thereupon, tearing off my clothes, I pressed all his body on mine, and rubbed myself against him, wriggling like a worm. Lying over him as I was, my tongue was in his mouth, searching for his, that receded, and was darted out when mine retired, for they seemed to play a wanton, bickering game of hide-and-seek together—a game which made all the body quiver with delight. "Then our fingers twisted the crisp and curly hair that grew all around the middle parts, or handled the testicles, so softly and so gently that they were hardly sentient of the touch, and still they shivered in a way that almost made the fluid in them flow out before its time. "The most skilled of prostitutes could never give such thrilling sensations as those which I felt with my lover, for the tweake is, after all, only acquainted with the pleasures she herself has felt; whilst the keener emotions, not being those of her sex, are unknown to and cannot be imagined by her. "Likewise, no man is ever able to madden a woman with such overpowering lust as another tribade can, for she alone knows how to tickle her on the right spot just in the nick of time. The quintessence of bliss can, therefore, only be enjoyed by beings of the same sex. "Our two bodies were now in as close a contact as the glove is to the hand it sheathes, our feet were tickling each other wantonly, our knees were pressed together, the skin of our thighs seemed to cleave and to form one flesh. "Though I was loath to rise, still, feeling his stiff and swollen phallus throbbing against my body, I was just going to tear myself off from him, and to take his fluttering implement of pleasure in my mouth and drain it, when he—feeling that mine was now not only turgid, but moist and brimful to overflowing —clasped me with his arms and kept me down. "Opening his thighs, he thereupon took my legs between his own, and entwined them in such a way that his heels pressed against the sides of my calves. For a moment I was gripped as in a vice, and I could hardly move. "Then loosening his arms, he uplifted himself, placed a pillow under his buttocks, which were thus well apart—his legs being all the time widely open. "Having done this, he took hold of my rod and pressed it against his gaping anus.

• From Between Us

  In other words, loved ones are special to us, and we are special to them—so special, in fact, that we spend lots of time with them and share special moments. We feel love when the relationship is secure and trusting, and when we enjoy open communication. Love means giving attention to your loved one—sometimes at the expense of attention for other things—wanting to be close to them, expressing your positive feelings for them, to hug, hold, cuddle, touch, pet (if it is an animal), kiss, and, in case of a romantic relationship, have sex with them. Love, especially the reciprocal kind, gives you self- confidence and makes you positive about life; having love makes you more secure and relaxed. Love is the basis for, and core of, important relationships in Western culture. Love fits with a culture emphasizing the autonomy of individuals. As one U.S. American woman explained in an interview: “[Love] is a lot of sacrifice, a lot of work, a lot of giving, but it has to be something that is very free, freely given instead of you’re forced to it.” Love recognizes simultaneously that individuals are free to not connect, and yet have chosen to connect to this particular individual. Implicit in love is that the loved one’s unique qualities invite a connection. Love is “right” in WEIRD cultures, because it individuates and elevates the loved one. This is most obviously true for romantic love, but it can also be true for maternal love. I remember loving my firstborn so much that I pitied the other mothers in the pediatrician’s waiting room for not having been as lucky with their babies. In my eyes, my little Oliver was the brightest and the most beautiful baby. It was only years later that I considered the possibility that my perception was part of the great love I felt for him. Love singles out and elevates one particular individual. In a culture that so dearly values the individual, love achieves the ultimate goal for individuals: to be united in mutual admiration, attraction, or longing. In these ways, love as we know it fits the cultural ethos of individualism that prevails in many Western cultural contexts. Tenderness, empathy, and intimacy have always existed. But love as a private feeling for a unique person, love as a choice to be together, love as a source of self-esteem—that type of love may be a modern and Western invention. WHERE WEIRD CULTURES VALUE AND foreground the autonomy of the individual, prioritizing their goals over the goals of the collective, many other cultures prioritize relationship and group goals over those of the individual. Where marriages are arranged, if love exists between partners (it often does), it follows rather than precedes marriage. It is less a matter of choice, and more of growing appreciation. But, you may ask, how can you really love someone who is not the partner of your choosing?

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I was wrestling with my pride to tell her that I didn’t. I’d never in my life run out on dinner to finish a story. I’d never felt even a chord of passion strong enough to drive me to do that. I didn’t tell her because I was afraid of what she would think. Me—New York Times Bestseller of over a dozen sappy novels. “What did you write about?” I asked. “My mud vein.” I got a chill. “You wrote about your darkness? Why would you do that?” There was nothing pretentious about her. No show, no thriving to impress me. She didn’t even try to guard the ugly truth, which made every one of her words feel like a cold dousing of water to the face. “Because it was the truth,” she said, so matter of fact. And I fell in love with her. She didn’t have to try to be anything. And everything that she was was something that I was not. “I missed you,” I said. “Can I read it?” She shrugged. “If you want to.” I watched a trickle of sweat wind down her neck and disappear between her breasts. Her hair was damp, her face flushed, but I wanted to grab her and kiss her. “Come with me to my parents’. I want to have Christmas dinner with you.” I thought she was going to say no and I’d have to spend the next ten minutes convincing her. She didn’t. She nodded. I was too afraid to say anything as she walked with me to my car, in case she changed her mind. Without any objections, she climbed into the front seat and folded her hands in her lap. It was all very formal. As soon as we were on the road, I reached for the radio. I wanted to put on Christmas music. At least prepare her for the Christmas crack she was about to experience at the Nissley house. She grabbed my hand. “Can you leave it off?” “Sure,” I said. “Not a fan of music?” She blinked at me, then looked out the window. “Everyone is a fan of music, Nick,” she said. “But not you…?” “I didn’t say that.” “You implied it. I’m begging for a detail about you, Brenna. Just give me one.” “Okay,” she said. “My mother loved music. She played it in our house from morning ‘til night.” “And that made you dislike it?” We pulled into my parent’s driveway and she used the distraction to avoid answering my question. “Pretty,” she said as we slowed to a stop.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I looked for the old man. He wasn’t by his post. He wasn’t anywhere. “Senna…” Maybe he went to get more sardines. “Senna?” “I heard you.” I slid off my horse and stood facing Isaac. My hair was pulled up or I would have started messing with it. He wasn’t very far from me, maybe just the distance of a single step. We were wedged in between two gory, death-infatuated carousel horses. “How many times have you been in love, Doctor?” He pushed his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and looked out at the trees behind my shoulder. I kept my eyes on his face so they wouldn’t wander to the ink on his arms. His tattoos confused me. They made me feel like I didn’t know him at all. “Twice. The love of my life, and now my soulmate.” I start. I was the writer; the worder of words—and I rarely used the beaten up idea of a soulmate. Love was sinned against too often for me to believe in that tired old concept. If someone loved you as much as they loved themselves, why did they cheat and break promises and lie? Wasn’t it in our nature to preserve ourselves? Shouldn’t we preserve our soul match with as much fervor? “You’re saying there is a difference between those two?” I ask. “Yes,” he said. He said it with so much conviction I almost believed him. “Who was she?” Isaac looked at me. “She was a bass player. An addict. Beautiful and dangerous.” The other Isaac, the one I don’t know, loved a woman who was very different from me. And now Doctor Isaac is saying he’s in love with me. As a rule, I try not to ask questions. It gives people a sense of friendship when you ask them things, and there is no getting rid of them. Since I can’t seem to get rid of Isaac anyway, I deem it safe to ask the most pressing question. The one that only he could answer. “Who were you?” It starts to rain. Not predictable Washington drizzle, but fast, fat bullets of water that explode when they hit the ground. Isaac grabs the bottom of his sweater and pulls it over his head. I stand very still even though I’m startled. He’s shirtless in front of me. “I was this,” he said. Most people marked themselves with scattered ideas: a heart, a word, a skull, a pirate woman with huge breasts—little parts that represented something. Isaac had one tattoo and it was continuous. A rope. It wound around his waist and chest, looped around his neck like a noose. It wrapped twice around each bicep before coming to an end right above the words I’ve seen poking out from underneath his sleeves. It was painful to look at. Uncomfortable. I understood. I knew what it was like to be bound. “I’m this now,” he said. He used two fingers to point to the words on his forearm.

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

  Despite all my recollections of his cruelty, all my thoughts upon his disinclinations toward women, upon the depravity of his tastes, upon the gulf which separated us morally, nothing in the world was able to extinguish this nascent passion, and had the Count called upon me to lay down my life, I would have sacrificed it for him a thousand times over. He was far from suspecting my sentiments... he was far, the ungrateful one, from divining the cause of the tears I shed every day; nevertheless, it was out of the question for him to be in doubt of my eagerness to fly to do his every bidding, to please him in every possible way, it could not have been he did not glimpse, did not have some inkling of my attentions; doubtless, because they were instinctive, they were also mindless, and went to the point of serving his errors, of serving them as far as decency permitted, and always of hiding them from his aunt. This behavior had in some sort won me his confidence, and all that came from him was so precious to me, I was so blinded by the little his heart offered me, that I sometimes had the weakness to believe he was not indifferent to me. But how promptly his excessive disorders disabused me: they were such that even his health was affected. I several times took the liberty to represent to him the dangers of his conduct, he would hear me out patiently, then end by telling me that one does not break oneself of the vice he cherished. Chapter 12 "Ah, Therese!" he exclaimed one day, full of enthusiasm, "if only you knew this fantasy's charms, if only you could understand what one experiences from the sweet illusion of being no more than a woman! incredible inconsistency I one abhors that sex, yet one wishes to imitate it! Ah! how sweet it is to succeed, Therese, how delicious it is to be a slut to everyone who would have to do with you and carrying delirium and prostitution to their ultimate period, successively, in the very same day, to be the mistress of a porter, a marquis, a valet, a friar, to be the beloved of each one after the other, caressed, envied, menaced, beaten, sometimes victorious in their arms, sometimes a victim and at their feet, melting them with caresses, reanimating them with excesses.... Oh no, Therese, you do not understand what is this pleasure for a mind constructed like mine....

• From Between Us

  American-style love seeks connection with desirable others and elevates them. It is an emotion much needed in a culture emphasizing the autonomy of individuals and the voluntary nature of relationships, but this type of love is not focal (and not particularly right) in a culture with inalienable bonds that come with demanding obligations. Happiness of the kind that marks self-worth is energizing, motivating, and “right” in cultures where individuals are responsible for initiating the right action, choosing direction, and influencing the outcomes of their lives. It is less important, or even “wrong,” in cultures where individuals are expected to meet their role requirements or to flexibly adjust to the conditions. In these cultures, being calm, balanced, flexible, and ready for adjustment (or alternatively, feeling connected) are more important goals. But aren’t love and happiness universal feelings deep down? Is it possible that people around the world feel love and happiness American-style, but have to suppress these feelings, because of the norms of their culture? Does the eloping couple in a traditional culture of arranged marriage not show us that passionate love as we know it is natural? And does the child who is excitedly happy but gets reprimanded show that the natural way of happiness is ours, but that cultural norms prescribe emotion suppression? No. If you think of emotions as part of relationships—if you consider them as episodes that evolve in tandem with the emotions of others—then romantic love will be very different depending on whether it is “right,” “wrong,” or “irrelevant” in your culture. Similarly, the bubbly, bouncy kid who gets stimulated and encouraged will ultimately live a very different cultural episode than the excitedly happy child who gets frowned upon. We should move away from a model of culture as something outside ourselves that imposes norms on the natural emotions that we have. Instead, we should recognize how we constantly enact culture in our everyday interactions, and how these interactions scaffold our emotional lives. As for positive psychology: we simply cannot assume that we know which emotions constitute flourishing in other cultures. Flourishing in Ghana may be better served by limiting love and establishing boundaries. Flourishing in Japan may be better served by self-improvement than by happiness. Flourishing among the Ifaluk may be better served by fago than by love. The emotions that contribute to flourishing differ by culture (and by position), depending on the relationships goals. And even if some form of love and some form of happiness are part of flourishing in some or most cultures, the modal types of love and happiness run very different courses. It may be better to speak of loves and happinesses in plural rather than love and happiness in singular. Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . WHAT’S IN A WORD? WHEN BARA PARENTS ON MADAGASCAR TELL THEIR CHILDREN to show tahotsy, or label their children’s behavior as tahotsy, they introduce their children to the cultural goal of obedience in the hierarchy.

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

  Although he now gained enough to live comfortably, his concerts did not yet afford him the means to live in the princely way he did. I often lectured him on that score; he invariably promised me not to throw away his money, but, alas! there was in the web of his nature some of the yarn of which my namesake's mistress—Manon Lescaut—was made. "Knowing that he had debts, and that he was often worried with duns, I begged him several times to give me his accounts, that I might settle all his bills, and allow him to begin life afresh. He would not have me even speak of such a thing. "'I know myself,' he said, 'better than yo do; if I accept once, I'll do so again, and what will be the upshot? I'll end by being kept by you.' "'And where is the great harm?' was my reply. 'Do you think I'd love you less for it?' "'Oh! no; you perhaps might love me even more on account of the money I cost you—for we are often fond of a friend according to what we do for him— but I might be induced to love you less; gratitude is such an unbearable burden to human nature. I am your lover, it is true, but do not let me sink lower than that, Camille,' said he, with a wistful eagerness. "'See! since I knew you, have I not tried to make ends meet? Some day or other I might even manage to pay off old debts; so do not tempt me any more.' "Thereupon, taking me in his arms, he covered me with kisses. "How handsome he was just then! I think I can see him leaning on a dark-blue satin cushion, with his arms under his head, as you are leaning now, for you have many of his feline, graceful ways. "We had now become inseparable, for our love seemed to wax stronger every day, and with us 'fire never drove out fire,' but, on the contrary, it grew on what it fed; so I lived far more with him than at home. "My office did not take up much of my time, and I only remained there just long enough to attend to my business, and also to leave him some moments to practise. The remainder of the day we were together. "At the theatre we occupied the same box, alone, or with my mother. Neither of us accepted, as was soon known, any invitation to whatsoever entertainment where the other was not also a guest.

• From Between Us

  Where WEIRD cultures value and foreground the autonomy of the individual, prioritizing their goals over the goals of the collective, many other cultures prioritize relationship and group goals over those of the individual. Where marriages are arranged, if love exists between partners (it often does), it follows rather than precedes marriage. It is less a matter of choice, and more of growing appreciation. But, you may ask, how can you really love someone who is not the partner of your choosing? To give this some perspective, and to show how much love by choice is a cultural product, consider that love marriages—marriages by individual choice—are likewise ridiculed by people who have grown up with the idea of arranged marriage. In one news show an Indian woman giggled at the idea of young people choosing their own spouses, based on “love”: “Physical attraction? That is not a big thing” she said. In that same show, a young Indian man explained: “My parents know me better than anyone else in the world. So they know what is the best for me. I think the same for her.” In many communities of the world—such as rural communities in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, and China, but also some Jewish communities that strictly abide by the Torah—the idea is that marriage partners are best selected by your family or parents. Marriage is seen not only as a marriage between two people but as a joining of two extended families. Marriage partners are the sons and daughters of other, known families, or selected from families of similar ethnicity, religion, and socioeconomic status. When love occurs outside of marriage, it may be drenched in sadness. In the 1980s Chinese respondents who sorted emotion words on similarity understood love as “sad,” and categorized it as part of the negative rather than the positive emotion family. In the country of Filial Piety, love had the potential to break down the proper respect and deference that children owed their parents. This may be one of the reasons that romantic love was devalued; interestingly, Chinese respondents describe love using more negative features such as pain, sadness, sacrifice, and loneliness than American respondents.

• From Between Us

  Typically, fago is an unavoidable response to another person’s needs, whereas love is seeking closeness to another person of your choice, one who has special qualities and who is particularly appreciative of you. To be sure, loving partners will take care of each other in case of need, and fago-ing individuals may find joy in each other (as when the young man from the other island came to visit Tamalekar’s family). Yet the central acts of these two emotions differ, with love achieving mutual admiration, attraction, or longing, and fago achieving the nurturing of connected others in need. Each emotion is “right” because it achieves the most valued relationship goals in the culture. Remember that the Chinese word for love was categorized as a negative emotion, a form of sadness by Chinese participants? One reason may be that Chinese love simply runs a different course—one including the awareness of another person’s suffering, the sadness when life is hard on them, and the effort that goes into need satisfaction, rather than merely describing the bliss of connecting with a special individual. The bad always comes with the good. In cultures where individuals are part of given and durable interdependent relationships, love may be less central. One way of understanding this is that individuals in these cultures are close to others already, and love as an emotion that discriminates between those who are worthy of your caring and those who are not is not as useful. You have to take care of the people with whom you are interdependent. Emotions of closeness or caring in those cultures, such as amae and fago, focus on meeting the needs of others, rather than seeking out contact with those who are worthy. Amae and fago are less about having fun with someone who makes you feel good, and more about helping others, and making sure that they do not suffer too much. OTHER EMOTIONS IN CLOSE AND DEPENDENT RELATIONSHIPS Contrary to the intuition of many a student (and colleague), it is also not the case that individuals from so-called collectivist cultures seek more intimacy in relationships. To the contrary, individuals in tightly connected, interdependent relationship networks are more concerned about limiting the burdens of such interdependence than about seeking more intimacy and love. Take an example from Ghana, where cultural psychologist Glenn Adams was struck by the caution about friends found in slogans, poems, and stories. A Ghanaian poem sounded: Beware of friends. Some are snakes under grass; Some are lions in sheep’s clothing; Some are jealousies behind their façades of praises; Some are just no good; Beware of friends. Bumper stickers would carry such slogans as “Beware of bad friends.” And when random Ghanaian and U.S. American participants in public places (markets, parks) were asked by interviewers about their friendships, Ghanaian participants considered it normal to be cautious, or even suspicious about friends.

• From Between Us

  An additional reason is that, given these human conditions, the logical possibilities of acting are limited. You can move towards or away from another human being or a group. Western scholars have proposed taxonomies in which “love,” “esteem,” “happiness,” and “interest” represent moves towards others (or as it may be, towards objects in the world), and “fear,” “contempt,” and “disgust” as moves away. College students from all over the world associate “joy” and its translations with moving towards and “shame,” “guilt,” and “disgust” with moving away. Emotion concepts may signify who does the moving. “Love” has been understood to mean moving towards another person. The Japanese emotion word of amae is (wanting) another person to move to you (though it is not just that). “Anger” has been understood as moving someone else away from you, and “fear” as you moving away from the other. [image file=image_rsrc2M9.jpg] Figure 6.1 Example emotions in the space of logical possibilities. Caveat: Not all instances of a given emotion concept need to take the same direction. You can also be dominant (move up) or submissive (move down): anger (and its translations) signals you are up. Getting angry at my husband for being late is a power move; it shows I am “strong” (relative to what I could have been had I been sad, for instance). Pride also means you are up. Western adults (including some psychologists) turn this around, and infer pride from strong and dominant posturing in a situation of success. That inference is not universally justified. Fago comes with the acknowledgment that other people are weak, and need your protection. Shame, embarrassment, and perhaps sadness, mean you are down in the relationship. These concepts come with submission, or with the acknowledgment of being weak, at least relative to the other person in the relationship. Awe is another emotion where you are down in the relationship, this time by mere awareness of how small you are compared to a particular other, or to the environment at large. For awe, think of being in the audience of an extremely inspiring concert, or listening to a charismatic teacher or leader. You can move closer or further away, be up or down. Yet another option is that you stay where you are. Some emotions describe just that: acceptance and calmness are examples, but so is depression. There are many reasons for not moving: You can be at ease with the environment (calm), open to anything that has, or would, come your way (acceptance), or not know where to move, even if you wanted to (depressed, hopeless). You can also “keep calm and carry on,” as the British say. But the movement is staying where you were, and the result is no immediate change in the environment—at least, no change that is initiated by you.

• From Between Us

  What does love do? A person who loves someone else fully engages in a close relationship with a particular other, or tries to build one. For the most part love is felt for people who offer something we want, need, or like; who are psychologically or physically attractive; and who need, love, or appreciate us back. In other words, loved ones are special to us, and we are special to them—so special, in fact, that we spend lots of time with them and share special moments. We feel love when the relationship is secure and trusting, and when we enjoy open communication. Love means giving attention to your loved one—sometimes at the expense of attention for other things—wanting to be close to them, expressing your positive feelings for them, to hug, hold, cuddle, touch, pet (if it is an animal), kiss, and, in case of a romantic relationship, have sex with them. Love, especially the reciprocal kind, gives you self-confidence and makes you positive about life; having love makes you more secure and relaxed. Love is the basis for, and core of, important relationships in Western culture. Love fits with a culture emphasizing the autonomy of individuals. As one U.S. American woman explained in an interview: “[Love] is a lot of sacrifice, a lot of work, a lot of giving, but it has to be something that is very free, freely given instead of you’re forced to it.” Love recognizes simultaneously that individuals are free to not connect, and yet have chosen to connect to this particular individual. Implicit in love is that the loved one’s unique qualities invite a connection. Love is “right” in WEIRD cultures, because it individuates and elevates the loved one. This is most obviously true for romantic love, but it can also be true for maternal love. I remember loving my firstborn so much that I pitied the other mothers in the pediatrician’s waiting room for not having been as lucky with their babies. In my eyes, my little Oliver was the brightest and the most beautiful baby. It was only years later that I considered the possibility that my perception was part of the great love I felt for him. Love singles out and elevates one particular individual. In a culture that so dearly values the individual, love achieves the ultimate goal for individuals: to be united in mutual admiration, attraction, or longing. In these ways, love as we know it fits the cultural ethos of individualism that prevails in many Western cultural contexts. Tenderness, empathy, and intimacy have always existed. But love as a private feeling for a unique person, love as a choice to be together, love as a source of self-esteem—that type of love may be a modern and Western invention.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Unfortunately, church historians, with very few exceptions, are behind the great secular historians in point of style, and represent the past as a dead corpse rather than as a living and working power of abiding interest. Hence church histories are so little read outside of professional circles. 3. Both scientific research and artistic representation must be guided by a sound moral and religious, that is, a truly Christian spirit. The secular historian should be filled with universal human sympathy, the church historian with universal Christian sympathy. The motto of the former is: "Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto;" the motto of the latter: "Christianus sum, nihil Christiani a me alienum puto." The historian must first lay aside all prejudice and party zeal, and proceed in the pure love of truth. Not that he must become a tabula rasa. No man is able, or should attempt, to cast off the educational influences which have made him what he is. But the historian of the church of Christ must in every thing be as true as possible to the objective fact, "sine ira et studio;" do justice to every person and event; and stand in the centre of Christianity, whence he may see all points in the circumference, all individual persons and events, all confessions, denominations, and sects, in their true relations to each other and to the glorious whole. The famous threefold test of catholic truth—universality of time (semper), place (ubique), and number (ab omnibus)—in its literal sense, is indeed untrue and inapplicable. Nevertheless, there is a common Christianity in the Church, as well as a common humanity in the world, which no Christian can disregard with impunity. Christ is the divine harmony of all the discordant human creeds and sects. It is the duty and the privilege of the historian to trace the image of Christ in the various physiognomies of his disciples, and to act as a mediator between the different sections of his kingdom. Then he must be in thorough sympathy with his subject, and enthusiastically devoted thereto. As no one can interpret a poet without poetic feeling and taste, or a philosopher without speculative talent, so no one can rightly comprehend and exhibit the history of Christianity without a Christian spirit. An unbeliever could produce only a repulsive caricature, or at best a lifeless statue. The higher the historian stands on Christian ground, the larger is his horizon, and the more full and clear his view of single regions below, and of their mutual bearings. Even error can be fairly seen only from the position of truth. "Verum est index sui et falsi." Christianity is the absolute truth, which, like the sun, both reveals itself and enlightens all that is dark. Church history, like the Bible, is its own best interpreter. So far as the historian combines these three qualifications, he fulfils his office. In this life we can, of course, only distantly approach perfection in this or in any other branch of study.

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

  I looked so country, so innocent! well my spouse was a lucky man!...” all which, common landlord’s cant, not only pleased and soothed me, but helped to diver my confusion at being with my new sovereign, whom, the minute approached, I began to fear to be alone with: a timidity which true love had a greater share in than even maiden bashful-ness. I wished, I doated, I could have died for him; and yet, I know not how, or why I dreaded the point which had been the object of my fiercest wishes; my pulses beat fears, amidst a flush of the warmest desires. This struggle of the passions, however, this conflict betwixt modesty and lovesick longings, made me burst again into tears; which he took, as he had done before, only for the remains of concern and emotion at the suddenness of my change of condition, in committing myself to his care; and, in consequence of that idea, did and said all that he thought would most comfort and re-inspirit me. After breakfast, Charles (the dear familiar name I must take the liberty henceforward to distinguish my Adonis by), with a smile full of meaning, took me gently by the hand, and said: “Come, my dear, I will show you a room that commands a fine prospect over some gardens”; and without waiting for an answer, in which he relieved me extremely, he led me up into a chamber, airy and lightsome, where all seeing of prospects was out of the question, except that of a bed, which had all the air of recommending the room to him.

• From Between Us

  I may experience that they are bullying me, and I am not going to let them take advantage of me; my focus may not be on bodily changes at all (more on this in chapter 2). The example makes clear that this definition of emotions as meaning making, reorientation, preparation for action, or a realignment does not leave the body out, but implicates it. Yet, bodily changes may or may not be center stage to emotions as they play out in our everyday interactions. Importantly, emotions are always meaningful in our relationships with other people. When I feel (or do!) hasham as a Bedouin woman, I expect the response will be favorable. I anticipate regaining my honor and dignity, because hasham shows I adopt the normative way of interpreting and responding to my potential breach of honor among Bedouins. When I feel (or do) gezellig in my Dutch environment, I assume the feeling to be shared and reciprocated. Actually, if it is not, the situation may abruptly stop being gezellig. When I love someone, at least in a U.S. American context, I want to share time and experiences with them, say “I love you” and hug, hold, and cuddle this person. The experience becomes a very different one if it is not reciprocated. In all cases, the emotions mark socially (in addition to personally) meaningful and important events, and involve the mutual alignment of people to each other. Any community that provides a set of experiences, understandings of the world, relationship practices, moral sensitivities, and values and goals may shape the emotions we have as individuals. Different cohorts, different socioeconomic groups, different religions, different gender cultures, and even different family cultures may provide emotions with their meaning. I have highlighted the way my Dutch upbringing has shaped my emotions, and contrasted it to my experiences in several North American contexts. I could have chosen any other perspective which undoubtedly helped to shape my emotions as well—as a woman, from a middle-class background, a boomer, the daughter of (secular) Holocaust survivors, a mother, a wife, a friend, or a professor. Meaning and the context of action would have been shaped by any and all of them. Are Emotions the Same Deep Down? So, what about this idea, that once you take the time to get to know somebody from another culture, once you surpass the superficial differences, you will recognize the feelings of people from other cultures, and comprehend their emotions? Is it true that we are all the same when it comes to our feelings? No. And we do not necessarily find out how similar we are once we try to communicate, either. When people come to the conclusion that others have feelings just like them, that conclusion may stem from their own projections. Scientists have been as guilty of projection as laypeople.

• From Between Us

  Importantly, emotions are always meaningful in our relationships with other people. When I feel (or do!) hasham as a Bedouin woman, I expect the response will be favorable. I anticipate regaining my honor and dignity, because hasham shows I adopt the normative way of interpreting and responding to my potential breach of honor among Bedouins. When I feel (or do) gezellig in my Dutch environment, I assume the feeling to be shared and reciprocated. Actually, if it is not, the situation may abruptly stop being gezellig. When I love someone, at least in a U.S. American context, I want to share time and experiences with them, say “I love you” and hug, hold, and cuddle this person. The experience becomes a very different one if it is not reciprocated. In all cases, the emotions mark socially (in addition to personally) meaningful and important events, and involve the mutual alignment of people to each other. Any community that provides a set of experiences, understandings of the world, relationship practices, moral sensitivities, and values and goals may shape the emotions we have as individuals. Different cohorts, different socioeconomic groups, different religions, different gender cultures, and even different family cultures may provide emotions with their meaning. I have highlighted the way my Dutch upbringing has shaped my emotions, and contrasted it to my experiences in several North American contexts. I could have chosen any other perspective which undoubtedly helped to shape my emotions as well—as a woman, from a middle-class background, a boomer, the daughter of (secular) Holocaust survivors, a mother, a wife, a friend, or a professor. Meaning and the context of action would have been shaped by any and all of them. Are Emotions the Same Deep Down? So, what about this idea, that once you take the time to get to know somebody from another culture, once you surpass the superficial differences, you will recognize the feelings of people from other cultures, and comprehend their emotions? Is it true that we are all the same when it comes to our feelings? No. And we do not necessarily find out how similar we are once we try to communicate, either. When people come to the conclusion that others have feelings just like them, that conclusion may stem from their own projections. Scientists have been as guilty of projection as laypeople. Many psychological and anthropological explanations for cultural differences in emotions come down to saying that people in other cultures mislabel or misattribute their feelings, or alternatively hide them—the assumption being that their “real” feelings are more like ours. As will become clear in later chapters, the very concern for the real, deep, inner feelings of an individual may itself be exclusive to WEIRD cultures.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I don’t know if he’s asking how we are supposed to live, or how we are supposed to finish this conversation. I don’t ever know what to do. “We live then we leave,” I say. “Do the best we can.” He runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. It puffs out and settles back down. It reminds me of when you’re baking a cake and you open the oven too early. I toy with the jagged edges of my hair, glancing up at him every so often. “Are things good? With you and Daphne?” I have no right to ask him, none at all. Especially considering that everything Elgin did was because of me. “No,” he says. “How can they be?” He shakes his head. “She has been supportive. I can’t complain there, but it was like they gave me a month and then they wanted the old me back. They being my family,” he tells me. “But I don’t know how to be him. I’m different.” Isaac was always so honest with his emotions. I wish I could be like that. I feel as if I need to say something. “I don’t have anyone to disappoint,” I confess. “I don’t know if that makes it easier or harder.” He looks startled. His black scrubs wrinkle as he leans toward me. “You’re loved,” he says. Love is a possession; it’s something that you own from the layers of people in your life. But if my life were a cake it would be un-layered, unbaked, missing ingredients. I isolated myself too soundly to own anyone’s love. “I love you,” says Isaac. “From the moment you ran out of the woods, I’ve loved you.” I don’t believe him. He’s a nurturer by profession and by person. He saw something broken and needed to heal it. He loves the process. As if reading my thoughts he says, “You have to believe someone sometime, Senna. When they tell you that. Otherwise you’ll never know what it feels like to be loved. And that’s a sad thing.” “How do you know?” I ask, brimming with anger. “It’s a big deal to say those words. How do you know that you love me?” He pauses for a long time. Then he says, “I was offered a way out.” “A way out? A way out of what?” But I spit that out too soon. It’s like a stone that drops between us. I wait for the thud, but it never comes because my brain loses its footing and the room tips and turns. “What do you mean?” “On the morning after we opened the door, I found a note in the shed with sleeping pills and a syringe. It said that I could leave. All I had to do was put you to sleep, inject myself, and I would wake up at home. The stipulations were that I could never talk about you.