Pride

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 Little Women (1868)

  Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things. "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity. "I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes. "I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who sat on her father's knee. "Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him. "How do you know? Did Mother tell you?" asked Jo. "Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several discoveries today." "Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him. "Here is one." And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters, and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away." If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he gave her. "What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to me," said Beth in her father's ear. He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her face. "In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower.

• From The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1915)

  In fact, the soul, a symbolic representation of the personality, has the same characteristic. Although closely bound to the body, it is believed to be profoundly distinct from it and to enjoy, in relation to it, a large degree of independence. During life, it may leave it temporarily, and it definitely withdraws at death. Far from being dependent upon the body, it dominates it from the higher dignity which is in it. It may well take from the body the outward form in which it individualizes itself, but it owes nothing essential to it. Nor is the autonomy which all peoples have attributed to the soul a pure illusion; we know now what its objective foundation is. It is quite true that the elements which serve to form the idea of the soul and those which enter into the representation of the body come from two different sources that are independent of one another. One sort are made up of the images and impressions coming from all parts of the organism; the others consist in the ideas and sentiments which come from and express society. So the former are not derived from the latter. There really is a part of ourselves which is not placed in immediate dependence upon the organic factor: this is all that which represents society in us. The general ideas which religion or science fix in our minds, the mental operations which these ideas suppose, the beliefs and sentiments which are at the basis of our moral life, and all these superior forms of psychical activity which society awakens in us, these do not follow in the trail of our bodily states, as our sensations and our general bodily consciousness do. As we have already shown, this is because the world of representations in which social life passes is superimposed upon its material substratum, far from arising from it; the determinism which reigns there is much more supple than the one whose roots are in the constitution of our tissues and it leaves with the actor a justified impression of the greatest liberty. The medium in which we thus move is less opaque and less resistant: we feel ourselves to be, and we are, more at our ease there. In a word, the only way we have of freeing ourselves from physical forces is to oppose them with collective forces.

• From Little Women (1868)

  For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers. "What shall we do with that girl? She never will behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. "I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with anyone but her. "It's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo ," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension. "Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. "You'd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone. "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet. "The Rival Painters." "That sounds well. Read it," said Meg. With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused. "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical. "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face. The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister." "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work. "It's very good," said Amy critically. "I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" and Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.

• From Push (1996)

  Soon as he git born I'ma start doing the ABCs. This my baby. My muver took Little Mongo but she am' taking this one. I am comp'tant. I was comp'-tant enough for her husband to fuck. She ain' come in here and say, Carl Kenwood Jones—thas wrong! Git off Precious like that! Can't you see Precious is a beautiful chile like white chile in magazines or on toilet paper wrappers. Precious is a blue-eye skinny chile whose hair is long braids, long long braids. Git off Precious, fool! It time for Precious to go to the gym like Janet Jackson. It time for Precious hair to be braided. Get off my chile nigger! No, she never say that. Miz Rain say value. Values determine how we live much as money do. I say Miz Rain stupid there. All I can think she don't know to have NOTHIN'. Never breathe and wait for check, check; cry when check late. Check important. Most important. My mama not getting no check for me, I think she be done killed me a long time ago (well maybe not kill me, but thas how I feel). Miz Rain say feelin's is important. White woman on the news leave her daddy in desert in a wheelchair when checks run out. He had Alhammer disease. Bitch leave him under a cactus tree wif teddy bear. Don't tell me 'bout check not important. Mama say this new school ain' shit. Say you can't learn nuffin' writing in no book. Gotta git on that computer you want some money. When they gonna teach you how to do the computer. But Mama wrong. I is learning. I'm gonna start going to Family Literacy class on Tuesdays. Important to read to baby after it's born. Important to have colors hanging from the wall. Listen baby, I puts my hand on my stomach, breathe deep. Listen baby (I writes in my notebook): A is fr Afrc (for Africa) B is for u bae (you baby) C is cl w bk (colored we black) D is dog E is el lm (evil like mama) F is Fuck Gisjerm btjer j (jermaine but Jermaine J) ok G is gunn Hhm (home) 11 somb (somebody) JJer (jermaine) kkl (kill) llv (love) M frknka rl m (Farrakhan real man) Nnfkkk (North America America^KKlC) Oop (open) Pph (punks) Q qee litee (Queen Latifah) Rsrt (respect) S stp (stop) T2tn (two ton) Vvt (vote) Wwll (weʼll) X ma m ml (mam man Malcolm) Zzk (zonked, mean like high) Listen baby, Muver love you. Muver not dumb. Listen baby. ABCDEFGHUKLMNOPQRSTUVW XYZ. Thas the alphabet. Twenty-six letters in all. Them letters make up words. Them words everything. SAPPHIRE - PUSH (EN) (PDF).pdf III Boy. It's a boy. Borned at Harlem Hospital January 15, 1988. Abdul Jamal Louis Jones. That is my baby's name. Abdul mean servant of god; Jamal, I forgot; Louis for Farrakhan, of course. At school, new girl Joyce, bring me a book wif African names.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The women, too. They saw Ida first and might have been happy to admire her if she had been walking alone. But she was with Vivaldo, which gave her the status of a thief. The means that she had used to accomplish this abduction were beneath or perhaps beyond them, but their eyes briefly accused Vivaldo of betrayal, then narrowed against a dream or a nightmare, and turned away. Ida strode past, seeming not to see them. She conveyed with this stride and her bright, noncommittal face how far she felt them to be beneath her. She had the great advantage of being extraordinary—however she might bear this distinction, or however others might wish to deny it; whereas, her smile suggested, these people, the citizens of the world’s most bewildered city, were so common that they were all but invisible. Nothing was simpler for her than to ignore, or to seem to ignore, these people: nothing was farther beyond them than the possibility of ignoring her. And the disadvantage at which they thus were placed, for which, after all, they had only themselves to blame, said something which Vivaldo could scarcely believe concerning the poverty of their lives. So their passage raised small clouds of male and female hostility which blew into their faces like dust. And Ida accepted this spiteful tribute with a spiteful pride. “What are you humming?” he asked. She had been humming to herself for a block or so. She continued humming for another second, coming to the end of a phrase. Then she said, smiling. “You wouldn’t know it. It’s an old church song. I woke up with it this morning and it’s been with me all day.” “What is it?” he asked. “Won’t you sing it for me?” “You not about to get religion, are you?” She looked at him sideways, grinning. “I used to have religion, did you know that? A long time ago, when I was a little girl.” “No,” he said, “there’s a whole lot about you I don’t know. Sing your song.” She bent her head toward him, leaning more heavily on his arm, as though they were two children. The colors of the shawl flashed. She sang, in her low, slightly rough voice, whispering the words to him: I woke up this morning with my mind Stayed on Jesus. I woke up this morning with my mind Stayed on Jesus. “That’s a great way to wake up,” he said. And she continued: I stayed all day with my mind Stayed on Jesus. Hallelu, Hallelu Hallelujah! “That’s a great song,” he said. “That’s tremendous. You’ve got a wonderful voice, you know that?” “I just woke up with it—and it made me feel, I don’t know—different than I’ve felt for months. It was just as though a burden had been taken off me.” “You still do have religion,” he said.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  Knowing what the blue spheres in the second-hand shop were called did not really explain what they were. A “ball” is a specific thing in Second Life—one of the basic units of creativity in that world. Also called “poseballs,” they are generic objects that an enterprising programmer can transform into saleable products by assigning them certain properties. Value can be added only through creativity and programming expertise— there is no actual physical resource. Objects created in Second Life often come with qualities other than size, shape, colour and texture; they can also have animations attached to them. These animations are a major way in which players interact with virtual objects and with each other. It starts with one’s own avatar—the graphic depiction of “you” in the game. A new Second Life player sets out the basic parameters of his or her avatar—sex, skin, hair and eye colour, physique and clothing. He starts with a default set of animations—hitting the arrow keys on your keyboard causes your avatar to walk around—knees lift, arms swing and virtual feet move one in front of the other. Another keystroke causes the avatar to fly. Type a message to another player and the avatar makes typing motions with its hands. Stay with the basics, though, and millions of Second Life residents will never see you as anything other than a newbie. For a businessman like Randal Oulton, that simply will not do. “You’re making sure that you brand yourself by looking good, by your avatar looking good,” he said. “Because if people see you and you look like a newb, you’re going to look bad.” You can tell just by looking at him that Chaz Longstaff (Oulton’s Second Life avatar) is a worldly and stylish man about town. Chaz appears to be a good ten years younger than Oulton and to have lived a much more athletic existence than his creator—or any other regular human being. His deep-blue plaid shirt and fitted trousers show off a buff physique that borders on comic-book proportions. Not only did Oulton pay for those clothes, he paid for the body underneath—he bought a bottom, some abs, a more sophisticated skin tone (“Good skin costs money,” he says) and a hint of facial hair. He also bought a more natural and confident walking style for Chaz—this is one of the basic types of animation that entrepreneurs create and sell. The fact that Chaz walks differently from a basic avatar reflects both on himself and on Oulton. For Chaz, his particular gait is part of his character. For Oulton, this animation sends a message that the man behind the image knows what is what in this virtual world. Most SLers quickly learn how to correct other default anatomical deficiencies.

• From Little Women (1868)

  "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend. "I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding." "Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder. "I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month." "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober. "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop." "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls." And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important. "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know." "How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse. "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?" "Not much. You may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know." "Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one." Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.

• From Wild (2012)

  The next morning when I woke, I had the campsite to myself. I sat at the picnic table and drank tea from my cooking pot while burning the last pages of The Novel. The professor who’d scoffed about Michener had been right in some regards: he wasn’t William Faulkner or Flannery O’Connor, but I’d been utterly absorbed in his book nonetheless and not only for the writing. Its subject hit a chord in me. It was a story about many things, but it centered on the life of one novel, told from the perspectives of its author and editor, its critics and readers. Of all the things I’d done in my life, of all the versions of myself I’d lived out, there was one that had never changed: I was a writer. Someday, I intended to write a novel of my own. I felt ashamed that I hadn’t written one already. In the vision I’d had of myself ten years before, I felt sure I’d have published my first book by now. I’d written several short stories and made a serious stab at a novel, but I wasn’t anywhere close to having a book done. In the tumult of the past year it seemed as if writing had left me forever, but as I hiked, I could feel that novel coming back to me, inserting its voice among the song fragments and advertising jingles in my mind. That morning in Old Station, as I ripped Michener’s book into clumps of five and ten pages so they would burn, crouching next to the fire ring in my campsite to set them aflame, I decided to begin. I had nothing but a long hot day ahead of me anyway, so I sat at my picnic table and wrote until late afternoon. When I looked up, I saw that a chipmunk was chewing a hole in the mesh door of my tent in an attempt to get to my food bag inside. I chased it away, cursing it while it chattered at me from a tree. By then the campground had filled in around me: most of the picnic tables were now covered with coolers and Coleman stoves; pickup trucks and campers were parked in the little paved pull-ins. I took my food bag out of my tent and carried it the mile back to the café where I’d sat with Trina and Stacy the afternoon before. I ordered a burger, not caring that I’d be spending almost all of my money. My next resupply box was at the state park in Burney Falls, forty-two miles away, but I could get there in two days, now that I was finally able to hike farther and faster—I’d done two nineteen-milers back-to-back out of Belden. It was five on a summer day when the light stretched until nine or ten and I was the only customer, wolfing down my dinner.

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

  "We," wrote the Ephesian bishop to the Roman pope and his church, "We observe the genuine day; neither adding thereto nor taking therefrom. For in Asia great lights353 have fallen asleep, which shall rise again in the day of the Lord’s appearing, in which he will come with glory from heaven, and will raise up all the saints: Philip, one of the twelve apostles, who sleeps in Hierapolis, and his two aged virgin daughters; his other daughter, also, who having lived under the influence of the Holy Spirit, now likewise rests in Ephesus; moreover, John, who rested upon the bosom of our Lord,354 who was also a priest, and bore the sacerdotal plate,355 both a martyr and teacher; he is buried in Ephesus. Also Polycarp of Smyrna, both bishop and martyr, and Thraseas, both bishop and martyr of Eumenia, who sleeps in Smyrna. Why should I mention Sagaris, bishop and martyr, who sleeps in Laodicea; moreover, the blessed Papirius, and Melito, the eunuch [celibate], who lived altogether under the influence of the Holy Spirit, who now rests in Sardis, awaiting the episcopate from heaven, in which he shall rise from the dead. All these observed the fourteenth day of the passover according to the gospel, deviating in no respect, but following the rule of faith. "Moreover, I, Polycrates, who am the least of you, according to the tradition of my relatives, some of whom I have followed. For seven of my relatives were bishops, and I am the eighth; and my relatives always observed the day when the people of the Jews threw away the leaven. I, therefore, brethren, am now sixty-five years in the Lord, who having conferred with the brethren throughout the world, and having studied the whole of the Sacred Scriptures, am not at all alarmed at those things with which I am threatened, to intimidate me. For they who are greater than I have said, ’we ought to obey God rather than men.’ ... I could also mention the bishops that were present, whom you requested me to summon, and whom I did call; whose names would present a great number, but who seeing my slender body consented to my epistle, well knowing that I did not wear my gray hairs for nought, but that I did at all times regulate my life in the Lord Jesus."356 Victor turned a deaf ear to this remonstrance, branded the Asiatics as heretics, and threatened to excommunicate them.357 But many of the Eastern bishops, and even Irenaeus, in the name of the Gallic Christians, though he agreed with Victor on the disputed point, earnestly reproved him for such arrogance, and reminded him of the more Christian and brotherly conduct of his predecessors Anicetus, Pius, Hyginus, Telesphorus, and Xystus, who sent the eucharist to their dissenting brethren. He dwelt especially on the fraternal conduct of Anicetus to Polycarp. Irenaeus proved himself on this occasion, as Eusebius remarks, a true peacemaker, and his vigorous protest seems to have prevented the schism.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her 'a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  Kaplan’s pride was typical, but not universal. In the same way that porn sometimes seems to be both everywhere and nowhere, it also engenders embarrassment or a whiff of scandal, even among those who recognize its influence on developments in the means of communication. This leads to a seeming paradox in which we treat pornography simultaneously as a widely known established truth and as a skeleton in the technological cupboard—one that can be spoken about only in a conspiratorial tone. In June 2006, the online Electronics Design, Strategy News published a comprehensive analysis of the pornography industry’s influence on emerging technology markets, focusing particularly on the growing market for next-generation cellphones. These phones have the processing power, display quality and Internet speed sufficient for adult applications. What is not surprising is that many adult companies have already jumped into this new market, quietly working with mainstream partners to provide pornographic services for high-speed smartphones. What is surprising is the article’s headline: “Dirty Little Secret.” “The mobile Internet is the most recent example of the industry’s dirty little secret,” writes Bill Roberts in the article. “Pornography is an old friend of technology. Flush with content, pornographers can reap new profits from each new channel, and they risk being left behind if they don’t adopt them. As risk takers, pornographers offer the heavy-volume usage that startups need in order to prove and improve their concepts. As prompt paying customers, by most accounts, pornographers provide important early revenue to technology partners.” There is a real question here about who is privy to this secret, and from whom it is supposedly being kept. “Young males with cash to spend are repeating the boost they gave early multimedia computers, broadband and video-on-demand, by paying premium prices for advanced multimedia cell phones so they can surf for sex anyplace, anytime—to the benefit of ARM, Motorola, Nokia, Qualcomm, Samsung, SanDisk, Sony, Texas Instruments and a host of other companies,” he writes, as though readers should be surprised. Nobody he interviewed for the piece seems surprised. Ghatim Kabbara, managing director of the Barcelona-based software company Safira Solutions, says the first client for the company’s cellphone content delivery service was Cherry Media, a mobile pornography portal, and that half of Safira’s mobile business still comes from adult content. American forecasters were predicting revenues between half and one and a half billion dollars for cellphone porn in 2009 for the United States alone. Other predictions put the worldwide market at more than $2 billion, with more than 112 million users by 2010. As with every number connected to the pornography industry, every analyst agrees that these ones are questionable. Industry players tend to exaggerate the numbers; users tend to lie in the other direction. Plus, however much money will be actually spent on pornography, no statistic can take into account the piracy, theft and consensual sharing of adult content among those who invest in new technologies but never spend or make a dollar directly from pornography.

• From Little Women (1868)

  During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved. Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear". The word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.

• From Another Country (1962)

  The means that she had used to accomplish this abduction were beneath or perhaps beyond them, but their eyes briefly accused Vivaldo of betrayal, then narrowed against a dream or a nightmare, and turned away. Ida strode past, seeming not to see them. She conveyed with this stride and her bright, noncommittal face how far she felt them to be beneath her. She had the great advantage of being extraordinary—however she might bear this distinction, or however others might wish to deny it; whereas, her smile suggested, these people, the citizens of the world’s most bewildered city, were so common that they were all but invisible. Nothing was simpler for her than to ignore, or to seem to ignore, these people: nothing was farther beyond them than the possibility of ignoring her. And the disadvantage at which they thus were placed, for which, after all, they had only themselves to blame, said something which Vivaldo could scarcely believe concerning the poverty of their lives. So their passage raised small clouds of male and female hostility which blew into their faces like dust. And Ida accepted this spiteful tribute with a spiteful pride. “What are you humming?” he asked. She had been humming to herself for a block or so. She continued humming for another second, coming to the end of a phrase. Then she said, smiling. “You wouldn’t know it. It’s an old church song. I woke up with it this morning and it’s been with me all day.” “What is it?” he asked. “Won’t you sing it for me?” “You not about to get religion, are you?” She looked at him sideways, grinning. “I used to have religion, did you know that? A long time ago, when I was a little girl.” “No,” he said, “there’s a whole lot about you I don’t know. Sing your song.” She bent her head toward him, leaning more heavily on his arm, as though they were two children. The colors of the shawl flashed. She sang, in her low, slightly rough voice, whispering the words to him: I woke up this morning with my mind Stayed on Jesus. I woke up this morning with my mind Stayed on Jesus. “That’s a great way to wake up,” he said. And she continued: I stayed all day with my mind Stayed on Jesus. Hallelu, Hallelu Hallelujah! “That’s a great song,” he said. “That’s tremendous. You’ve got a wonderful voice, you know that?” “I just woke up with it—and it made me feel, I don’t know—different than I’ve felt for months. It was just as though a burden had been taken off me.” “You still do have religion,” he said. “You know, I think I do? It’s funny, I haven’t thought of church or any of that type stuff for years. But it’s still there, I guess.” She smiled and sighed. “Nothing ever goes away.” And then she smiled again, looking into his eyes.

• From The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1915)

  In the totemic group of the Kangaroo, which has its centre at Undiara, certain characteristics of the ceremony are more clearly marked. After the rites which we have described have been accomplished on the sacred rock, the young men go and hunt the kangaroo, bringing their game back to the camp. Here, the old men, with the Alatunja in their midst, eat a little of the flesh of the animal, and anoint the bodies of those who took part in the Intichiuma with its fat. The rest is divided up among the men assembled. Next, the men of the totem decorate themselves with totemic designs and the night is passed in songs commemorating the exploits accomplished by men and animal kangaroos in the times of the Alcheringa. The next day, the young men go hunting again in the forest and bring back a larger number of kangaroos than the first time, and the ceremonies of the day before recommence.[1130] With variations of detail, the same rite is found in other Arunta clans,[1131] among the Urabunna,[1132] the Kaitish,[1133] the Unmatjera,[1134] and in the Encounter Bay Tribe.[1135] Everywhere, it is made up of the same essential elements. A few specimens of the totemic animal or plant are presented to the chief of the clan, who solemnly eats them and who must eat them. If he did not fulfil this duty, he would lose the power of celebrating the Intichiuma efficaciously, that is to say, so as to recreate the species annually. Sometimes the ritual consumption is followed by an unction made with the fat of the animal or certain parts of the plant.[1136] This rite is generally repeated by the men of the totem, or at least by the old men, and after it has been accomplished, the exceptional interdictions are raised. In the tribes located farther north, among the Warramunga and neighbouring societies,[1137] this ceremony is no longer found. However, traces are found which seem to indicate that there was a time when it was known. It is true that the chief of the clan never eats the totem ritually and obligatorily. But in certain cases, men who are not of the totem whose Intichiuma has just been celebrated, must bring the animal or plant to camp and offer it to the chief, asking him if he wants to eat it. He refuses and adds, "I have made this for you; you may eat it freely."[1138] So the custom of the presentation remains and the question asked of the chief seems to date back to an epoch when the ritual consumption was practised.[1139] III The interest of the system of rites which has just been described lies in the fact that in them we find, in the most elementary form that is actually known, all the essential principles of a great religious institution which was destined to become one of the foundation stones of the positive cult in the superior religions: this is the institution of sacrifice.

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

  Those who lived and worked at Wolf’s Den worked without pay as well, and considered it an equally honourable venture. As did I. For someone from our group to be invited to live with Limori but allowed to maintain their own life outside the home was unheard of. I was deeply honoured to be elevated in the circle’s hierarchy. I was being welcomed behind the Wizard of Oz’s curtain and as such felt a deep sense of personal and spiritual achievement, as well as superiority toward my peers who were not offered this opportunity. I gave the decision very little thought and simply jumped at the opportunity to be closer to God. I was aglow during the weeks leading up to my move, with a life that felt like it had even deeper purpose and meaning. I felt like I really, really belonged now. God loved me and I had proved devoted enough that He was willing to let me live under the same roof as his right-hand woman. This was not just a move from one apartment to another; I felt vaulted up several rungs of the group hierarchy, over the heads of those I served with on Thursday nights, including Michael. In my journal I wrote, “It is a privilege and an honour to live with Limori” and “Only a few people in the world live like this.” What I believed when I made the latter comment was that, of all the billions of people in the world, only the handful of us who knew and followed Limori were “doing God’s work,” and so to live in her home was an opportunity of such exclusivity that I felt humbled by it. I believed that I was living with God’s one true voice on Earth. Michael and another member of the group, Gary, helped me move much of what I owned into storage and then a few possessions into Limori’s new house. I was nervous on the day I moved in, but quickly fell into a groove of living comfortably with the odd assortment of followers who were with her at the time. There was always a honeymoon period when someone moved in with Limori or left their job to work with her full time or moved to Wolf’s Den. This was true for me as well. The first couple of months were fun and exciting, living with “God’s messenger,” and I especially loved being privy to what went on behind the curtain. Spirit channelling sessions that lasted late into the night. Learning about the spiritual significance of everything that Limori did, the clothes and jewellery she bought or had made, the parties she hosted, the teacup puppy she insisted she had to have. At this time Limori was working as a psychic reader, giving one-on-one readings to people in the impressive all-white living room of the house.

• From Little Women (1868)

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE DAISY AND DEMI I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go 'wound and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, Marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up." Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her little

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

  I keep talking about the prostitute as a woman. This is both because the image of “prostitute” with which I was raised was always a woman, and because when I think of prostitution, I inevitably think of myself in that role, compare my responses to what I see and hear. But there are a lot of men working out there, and they’re not being hired by women. Samantha Miller told me that just as there is a great deal more prostitution going on than most people suspect, there is a great deal more prostitution between men going on. Most of these “call guys,” as it were, seem to be white, young, good-looking, healthy, fairly well-educated, and gay. “Seventy-five percent of the men that they see are married,” says Samantha. “There’s this huge thing going on all over the world; men are having sex with men all over the place and not talking about it. That’s where heterosexual transmission of AIDS is. I wish all married men would see male prostitutes, because I know they’re doing safe sex. But when men are doing it with each other, they’re not.” Prostitutes are sometimes beautiful women, sometimes not; they are young and old; thin and heavy; buxom and flat-chested. They are comfortable with their bodies. I asked Jackie Daniels, a nom de plume for a longtime prostitute who happens to be well known by another name in another field, about the high-maintenance chores of the profession. “When I first started, I had this idea that I had to be perfect,” she answered. Jackie is an attractively tousled, almost maternally curvaceous woman in her late thirties. “I thought I had to have my legs completely waxed and my pussy shaved just so, and if I had a broken fingernail, I wouldn’t make appointments. But there’s just some men who love women, and they just want to see all kinds of women. They just love women. It doesn’t matter what size, shape, smell, color, anything, they just love women. Then there are men who have a certain type they want—they want busty, or they want petite, or they want young. I have this one guy who I just adore, and he and I are just about the same age, and he wants someone older. He wants to fuck his mother.” Even now, when she’s semiretired and in a relationship with one wealthy man, Jackie finds it hard to give up the idea of prostitution. The possibilities—the easy money, the no-consequences open-natured exchange—are always there, inviting. She knows it could happen right now, tonight, easy as pie, and she knows she’s good at the job. She knows that the doorman and elevator operator and garageman at her penthouse apartment over the marina know what she does for a living, and seem to approve. “I want to show this apartment to people and go, ‘See? I am really good in bed! Look at this apartment! Look at what my pussy got me!”

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  Montenegro profits from Web 2.0 technology with textbook proficiency. She could teach any mainstream media company a great deal about how to draw revenue via the interactive web applications. She is in control, and making far more money than she would have in a traditional porn career. Without her website, she would have to shoot scenes for other producers, and leave distribution and marketing to other people. She would get paid a few hundred dollars for a day of having sex on camera, and would never see another dime of profit. “In porn, the money is a big cake and the [large] companies eat it all. The porn actress gets nothing,” she said. “I said no, I want this cake.” She maintains the copyright on everything on her site. “In thirty years, when I am old, I’ll get money, not just the companies.” Montenegro is one of a growing cohort of women using technology to run their own show. Like so many others, Montenegro cites Jenna Jameson’s autobiography, How to Make Love Like a Porn Star, as inspiration for her own career, something that pleases Jameson to no end. “This is fantastic to hear,” Jameson told me when I mentioned that she appears to have inspired many women like Montenegro to make the most of the technological developments they helped create. “One of my major concerns when I started doing what I did with Club Jenna was to teach girls how to be the captain of their own ship. I wanted them to think out of the box and be independent. This is how I ran my career and I wanted to share my experiences to inspire others to choose similar paths. There is nothing more empowering or linked to success in this business.” While some suggest that the Jameson archetype might just be another fantasy concocted for the modern male sensibility— “For the man who loves porn but hates to think of women being exploited, we give you the Technologically Empowered Porn Actress! She loves what she does and she’s getting rich doing it, so you don’t have to feel bad!”—Montenegro and others I spoke with rarely waver in their enthusiasm over how the technology has improved their careers, and their lives. They are proud to carry on a tradition of using pornography as a proving ground for the commercial viability of new media tools. [image file=image_rsrc1FT.jpg] NINETEEN [image file=image_rsrc1FU.jpg] A Touchy SubjectWhile many in the pornography industry still make money via current media, others are exploring what sexuality can do with more experimental technologies. One research area that shows promise is a field known as haptics—the technology of communicating tactile information. Temperature, texture, motion and pressure are all examples of haptic stimuli.

• From The Erotic Engine (2011)

  “It became a very thriving business, and basically now they have a name for it. You hear about the ‘long tail’ and it’s a fancy word. People write books about it,” he said. The term “long tail” was coined by Wired magazine editor Chris Anderson in 2004. It describes a business model that provides a huge variety of specialized, hard-to-find items that are sold in very small numbers at premium prices to an equally huge variety of specialized clientele. “We had the long tail in 1994. There was no name for it. I just instinctively knew it would work.” Bunimovitz knew he had a technological lead over his competitors, and he also knew how quickly he could lose that lead and just become one porn-database provider among many. He kept moving. “Every business model that I had, I worked under the assumption that it was about to go away,” he said. “The technology is very dynamic, customers are very dynamic, and you have to always look two, three years down the road. You have to try enough things that one of them will be the right thing for the future.” He did not do market studies or focus groups. He did not do SWOT analyses or develop mission and vision statements. He did not wait to see which way the technological winds were blowing before committing. He did what the porn industry does: he experimented, he left behind the old, and he employed new technologies based on nothing more than his own hopes and instincts. In 1997, his staff employed a scripting engine called ASP, or Active Server Pages, to make their website more dynamic. Months after they went live, a developer walked smugly into his office with a new book that explained to programmers how to do exactly what the team had already done. The technological development cycle had picked up the pace, though, and soon ASP was nothing special on the web. Bunimovitz still had the edge for a while, because nobody had a catalogue anywhere near as comprehensive as his. But once DVDs became standard, his vast repository of videotapes became much less valuable. Price became the only differentiating factor from one site to another. “Suddenly you’re selling for a dollar over cost,” he said. “It was no longer an interesting business. I had to reinvent.” He moved to DVD along with everyone else, but was already looking ahead for the next technology that could put him out in front again. “This was 1999, and I figured I had to find something new. We decided to go after video-on-demand for broadband. At the time people who saw videos online had 56k modems. You’d get those little videos, postage-stamp sized and shaky, two frames a second,” he said. “We went broadband-only from day one. Because I was like, ‘Hey, we’re going to differentiate ourselves.’”

• From Little Women (1868)

  gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit. "I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate." "She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer." "Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also —perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I've got a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much—plucky little souls—but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy- turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?" "I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful look. "And I've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just point to you, and say 'There's your model, my lads'." Poor Laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces turn