Relief

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 The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (1915)

  From this we are able to understand how they change into one another. Since they reflect the abjective state in which the group happens to be, it is enough that this state change for their character to change. After the mourning is over, the domestic group is re-calmed by the mourning itself; it regains confidence; the painful pressure which they felt exercised over them is relieved; they feel more at their ease. So it seems to them as though the spirit of the deceased had laid aside its hostile sentiments and become a benevolent protector. The other transmutations, examples of which we have cited, are to be explained in the same way. As we have already shown, the sanctity of a thing is due to the collective sentiment of which it is the object. If, in violation of the interdicts which isolate it, it comes in contact with a profane person, then this same sentiment will spread contagiously to this latter and imprint a special character upon him. But in spreading, it comes into a very different state from the one it was in at first. Offended and irritated by the profanation implied in this abusive and unnatural extension, it becomes aggressive and inclined to destructive violences: it tends to avenge itself for the offence suffered. Therefore the infected subject seems to be filled with a mighty and harmful force which menaces all that approaches him; it is as though he were marked with a stain or blemish. Yet the cause of this blemish is the same psychic state which, in other circumstances, consecrates and sanctifies. But if the anger thus aroused is satisfied by an expiatory rite, it subsides, alleviated; the offended sentiment is appeased and returns to its original state. So it acts once more as it acted in the beginning; instead of contaminating, it sanctifies. As it continues to infect the object to which it is attached, this could never become profane and religiously indifferent again. But the direction of the religious force with which it seems to be filled is inverted: from being impure, it has become pure and an instrument of purification. In résumé, the two poles of the religious life correspond to the two opposed states through which all social life passes. Between the propitiously sacred and the unpropitiously sacred there is the same contrast as between the states of collective well-being and ill-being. But since both are equally collective, there is, between the mythological constructions symbolizing them, an intimate kinship of nature. The sentiments held in common vary from extreme dejection to extreme joy, from painful irritation to ecstatic enthusiasm; but, in any case, there is a communion of minds and a mutual comfort resulting from this communion. The fundamental process is always the same; only circumstances colour it differently. So, at bottom, it is the unity and the diversity of social life which make the simultaneous unity and diversity of sacred beings and things.

• From Little Women (1868)

  I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question." "I'm glad of that, Jo." "Why, please?" "Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love." "That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?" "You are sure of his feeling for you?" The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything." "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go." Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope." "Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?' "Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story. Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake Jo should go away for a time. "Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Beth got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell back into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her she was 'a fright'. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn't like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the time. Tea parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one could have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui. No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system. When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen. "Mercy on us! What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in dismay. Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed. "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself. But she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves." "That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly. In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke." There was plenty of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work. "I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.

• From Wild (2012)

  “Do you know what you walked into, honey?” the white man asked me when he’d recovered, and I shook my head. He and the black man looked to be in their sixties, the Latino barely out of his teens. “You see this here mountain?” he asked. He pointed straight ahead through the windshield from his position behind the wheel. “We’re getting ready to blow that mountain up.” He explained to me that a mining operation had bought rights to this patch of land and they were mining for decorative rock that people use in their yards. “My name’s Frank,” he said, tapping the brim of his cowboy hat. “And technically you’re trespassing, young lady, but we won’t hold that against you.” He looked at me and winked. “We’re just miners. We don’t own the land or else we’d have to shoot you.” He laughed again and then gestured to the Latino in the middle and told me his name was Carlos. “I’m Walter,” said the black man sitting by the passenger window. They were the first people I’d seen since the two guys in the minivan with the Colorado plates who’d dropped me by the side of the road more than a week before. When I spoke, my voice sounded funny to me, seemed to be higher and faster than I’d remembered, as if it were something I couldn’t quite catch and hold on to, as if every word were a small bird fluttering away. They told me to get in the back of the truck, and we drove the short distance around the bend to retrieve my pack. Frank stopped and they all got out. Walter picked up my pack and was shocked by the weight. “I was in Korea,” he said, hoisting it onto the truck’s metal bed with considerable effort. “And we ain’t never carried a pack that heavy. Or maybe once I carried one that heavy, but that was when I was being punished.” Quickly, without my being much involved, it was decided I’d go home with Frank, where his wife would feed me dinner and I could bathe and sleep in a bed. In the morning, he’d help me get someplace where I could have my stove repaired. “Now explain all this to me again?” Frank asked a few times, and each time all three of them listened with confused and rapt attention. They lived perhaps twenty miles from the Pacific Crest Trail and yet none of them had ever heard of it. None could fathom what business a woman had hiking it by herself, and Frank and Walter told me so, in jovial, gentlemanly terms. “I think it’s kind of cool,” said Carlos after a while. He was eighteen, he told me, about to join the military. “Maybe you should do this instead,” I suggested. “Nah,” he said.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook his head: ‘ No, thank you, dear one, I’m staying.’ So she wished them THE WELL OF LONELINESS 283 good-bye; but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring ta Valérie Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caught her own name. 6 “WELL, what did you think of Miss Seymour? ° inquired Puddle, when Stephen got back about twenty minutes later. Stephen hesitated: ‘I’m not perfectly certain. She was very friendly, but I couldn’t help feeling that she liked me because she thought me — oh, well, because she thought me what I am, Puddle. But I may have been wrong — she was awfully friendly. Brockett was at his very worst though, poor devil! His environ- ment seemed to go to his head.’ She sank down wearily on to a chair: ‘ Oh, Puddle, Puddle, it’s a hell of a business.’ Puddle nodded. Then Stephen said rather abruptly: ‘ All the same, we’re going to live here in Paris. We’re going to look at a house to- morrow, an old house with a garden in the Rue Jacob.’ For a moment Puddle hesitated, then she said: ‘ There’s only one thing against it. Do you think you'll ever be happy in a city? You're so fond of the life that belongs to the country.’ Stephen shook her head: ‘ That’s all past now, my dear; there’s no country for me away from Morton. But in Paris I might make some sort of a home, I could work here — and then of course there are people. . . .’ Something started to ER in Puddle’s brain: ‘ Like to like! Like to like! Like to like!’ it hammered. CHAPTER 32 I TEPHEN bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she walked through the dim, grey archway that led from the street to the cobbled courtyard, and saw the deserted house stand- ing before her, she knew at once that there she would live. This will happen sometimes, we instinctively feel in sympathy with certain dwellings. The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the right of this courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious, untidy garden, and woefully neglected though this garden had been, the trees that it still possessed were fine ones. A marble fountain long since choked with weeds, stood in the centre of what had been a lawn. In the farthest corner of the garden some hand had erected a semicircular temple, but that had been a long time ago, and now the temple was all but ruined.

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

  Moreover, it is owing to this state of dependency upon the thought of men, in which the gods find themselves, that the former are able to believe in the efficacy of their assistance. The only way of renewing the collective representations which relate to sacred beings is to retemper them in the very source of the religious life, that is to say, in the assembled groups. Now the emotions aroused by these periodical crises through which external things pass induce the men who witness them to assemble, to see what should be done about it. But by the very fact of uniting, they are mutually comforted; they find a remedy because they seek it together. The common faith becomes reanimated quite naturally in the heart of this reconstituted group; if is born again because it again finds those very conditions in which it was born in the first place. After it has been restored, it easily triumphs over all the private doubts which may have arisen in individual minds. The image of the sacred things regains power enough to resist the internal or external causes which tended to weaken it. In spite of their apparent failure, men can no longer believe that the gods will die, because they feel them living in their own hearts. The means employed to succour them, howsoever crude these may be, cannot appear vain, for everything goes on as if they were really effective. Men are more confident because they feel themselves stronger; and they really are stronger, because forces which were languishing are now reawakened in the consciousness.

• From Wild (2012)

  I reached for my compass, which hung from a cord on the side of my pack near the world’s loudest whistle. I hadn’t used it since the day I was hiking on that road after my first hard week on the trail. I studied it in conjunction with the map and made my best guess about where I might be and walked on, inching forward uncertainly on the snow, alternately skidding across the top or breaking through the surface, my shins and calves growing ever more chafed each time. An hour later I saw a metal diamond that said PACIFIC CREST TRAIL tacked to a snowbound tree, and my body flooded with relief. I still didn’t know precisely where I was, but at least I knew I was on the PCT. By late afternoon I came to a ridgeline from which I could see down into a deep snow-filled bowl. “Greg!” I called, to test if he was near. I hadn’t seen a sign of him all day long, but I kept expecting him to appear, hoping the snow would slow him enough that I’d catch him and we could navigate through it together. I heard faint shouts and saw a trio of skiers on an adjoining ridge on the other side of the snowy bowl, close enough to hear, but impossible to reach. They waved their arms in big motions to me and I waved back. They were far enough away and dressed in enough ski gear that I couldn’t make out whether they were male or female. “Where are we?” I yelled across the snowy expanse. “What?” I barely heard them yell back. I repeated the words over and over again—Where are we, Where are we—until my throat grew raw. I knew approximately where I believed myself to be, but I wanted to hear what they’d say, just to be sure. I asked and asked without getting through, so I tried one last time, putting everything I had into it, practically hurling myself off the side of the mountain with the effort, “WHERE ARE WE?” There was a pause, which told me they’d finally registered my question, and then in unison they yelled back, “CALIFORNIA!” By the way they fell against one another, I knew they were laughing. “Thanks,” I called out sarcastically, though my tone was lost in the wind. They called something back to me that I couldn’t quite make out. They repeated it again and again, but it got muddled each time until finally they shouted out the words one by one and I heard them. “ARE” “YOU” “LOST?” I thought about it for a moment. If I said yes, they’d rescue me and I’d be done with this godforsaken trail. “NO,” I roared. I wasn’t lost. I was screwed.

• From Wild (2012)

  “Welcome to my bed, boys,” I said in a mockingly lascivious tone to cover for the dislocation I felt at the prospect that this really was my bed—the futon I’d shared with Paul for years. The thought of him dimmed my ecstatic mood. I hadn’t yet opened the letter he’d sent me, in contrast to the customary envelope-ripping glee with which I usually greeted mail. The sight of his familiar handwriting had given me pause this time. I’d decided to read it once I was back on the trail, perhaps because I knew that this would prevent me from mailing off an immediate reply, from saying rash and passionate things that weren’t true any longer. “I’ll always be married to you in my heart,” I’d told him on the day we’d filed for divorce. It had been only five months ago, but already I doubted what I’d said. My love for him was indisputable, but my allegiance to him wasn’t. We were no longer married, and as I settled alongside the Three Young Bucks into the bed I used to share with Paul, I felt a kind of acceptance of that, a kind of clarity where there’d been so much uncertainty. The four of us lay wedged in across the futon’s expanse as the truck bumped over the dark roads—me, Rick, Josh, and Richie, in that order across the truck’s bed. There wasn’t an inch to spare, just as it had been on the deranged ranger’s couch the night before. The side of Rick’s body was pressed against mine, ever so slightly tilted in my direction and away from Josh. The sky had finally cleared and I could see the almost full moon. “Look,” I said just to Rick, gesturing toward the window of the camper at the sky. We spoke quietly of the moons we’d seen on the trail and where we’d been when we’d seen them and of the trail ahead. “You’ll have to give me Lisa’s number so we can hang out in Portland,” he said. “I’ll be living there too after I finish the trail.” “Absolutely, we’ll hang out,” I said.

• From Little Women (1868)

  Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out... "Tell about the party! Tell about the party!" With what Meg called 'a great want of manners' Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening.

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

  A sort of truce was patched up between the contending parties. "Our çi-devant Caesar (hesternus noster Caesar)," Calvin wrote to Farel, Dec. 28, 1547, "denied that he had any grudge against me, and I immediately met him half-way and pressed out the matter from the sore. In a grave and moderate speech, I used, indeed, some sharp reproofs (punctiones acutas), but not of a nature to wound; yet though he grasped my hand whilst promising to reform, I still fear that I have spoken to deaf ears."759 In the next year, Calvin was censured by the Council for saying, in a private letter to Viret which had been intercepted, that the Genevese "under pretence of Christ wanted to rule without Christ," and that he had to combat their, hypocrisy." He called to his aid Viret and Farel to make a sort of apology.760 Perrin behaved quietly, and gained an advantage from this incident. He was restored to his councillorship and the office of captain-general (which had been abolished). He was even elected First Syndic, in February, 1549. He held that position also during the trial of Servetus, and opposed the sentence of death in the Council (1553). Shortly after the execution of Servetus, the Libertines raised a demonstration against Farel, who had come to Geneva and preached a very severe sermon against them (Nov. 1, 1553).761 Philibert Berthelier and his brother François Daniel, who had charge of the mint, stirred up the laborers to throw Farel into the Rhone. But his friends formed a guard around him, and his defence before the Council convinced the audience of his innocence. It was resolved that all enmity should be forgotten and buried at a banquet. Perrin, the chief Syndic, in a sense of weakness, or under the impulse of his better feelings, begged Farel’s pardon, and declared that he would ever regard him as his spiritual father and pastor.762 After this time Calvin’s friends gained the ascendency in the Council. A large number of religious refugees were admitted to the rights of citizenship.

• From Little Women (1868)

  You could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear." He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'. Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?" "I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm.

• From Little Women (1868)

  He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..." What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep. "If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane. "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she—went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face." Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! She's come!" CHAPTER NINETEEN AMY'S WILL While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think it proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made. Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks.

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

  He stays because he hopes his master can make him “not me.” I fell in love with Limori and with all she promised because I felt she was the one who could make me not me. Among the other contributing factors for my involvement was a gross lack of self-acceptance, which drove me into Limori’s arms and kept me there as she continued to promise she could change me. Even when she hurt me, over and over again, I believed that she was trying to help me leave behind the me that I believed wasn’t acceptable and attain the me that was. But this was all a lie. Thankfully, just like Panda, I eventually learned that I was good enough just being me. So many of us have voids where self-acceptance should exist, voids that we are unconsciously or consciously trying to fill. We use alcohol, drugs, sex, work, plastic surgery, video games, self-importance and food, among other things, to try to drown the voice inside us that says, “I am not good enough. If only I were different, then I would be acceptable.” This becomes a cycle that has no end. No matter what we achieve, there are always more changes to make. The search for spiritual enlightenment can be just one more way we do this. Although I don’t have any scientific data to back up the following statement, my experience tells me that staying in any abusive situation, including a cult, has nothing to do with how intelligent the victim is and everything to do with what he or she believes and feels to be true about themselves. If we believe we are not good enough, we will stay and endure in order that we might one day fulfill the promise of being acceptable. Cults won’t exist any longer when we, the only species that has the ability to reflect on our own existence, learn to accept every part of ourselves as beautiful and miraculous. That is a pretty tall order, one that I don’t expect to see fulfilled in my lifetime. Until then, if you or someone you know has been in a cult, treat that person gently. Give them as much love as possible. And tell them, every day, “You are so much more than good enough. You are perfect, exactly as you are.” Update: November 2014I n late January 2013 Limori died. She had apparently been fighting a battle with cancer for some time until she finally succumbed. Relief was the emotion I felt most keenly on the day I was told. Relief that she couldn’t hurt anyone any longer. Relief that she would not be able to pull anyone new into her trap. And hope. Hope that perhaps those who still believed in her would, with time, be able to let the knots untangle in their brains and live their lives free of her destructive influence. The influence of a cult leader outlasts death, however.

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

  It took many visits for me to relax in this place, and I didn’t learn to relax simply by inuring myself to discomfort. Eventually I realized (and spending a little time at Good Vibrations helped) that this is just a store, with merchandise, some of which interests me, some of which does not. The clerks are just salesmen and the men only customers. I started to relax when I stopped caring about the nervousness of the other customers around me, stopped assuming and projecting—and stopped making more of things than was really there. On one of my first solo visits, I didn’t want the clerk to glance at the titles of the movies I had requested by number. I tried to distract him with a question. I asked if any women still worked there. He was young, effeminate, with a wispy mustache and loose shoulder-length hair, and he apologized when he said no. “Even though we’re all guys right now, we try to be real sensitive,” he said, pulling my requests off the shelf without a glance. “If anyone gives you a hard time, let us know. You let us know right away, and we’ll take care of it.” He handed me my choices in a white plastic bag. “Have a nice day.” Some of my women friends have never seen or read pornography. That I don’t find strange; traditional porn is a world of women that sometimes seems not to be about women at all. One thing that’s wrong with porn in its current limitations is that there’s no room for some people—no “fit.” Women who have seen little pornography often assume there is nothing in male-produced, male-oriented pornography to interest them; they further assume that the images in most films are primarily, obsessively, ones of rape. There is undoubtedly an iconography of porn. The main theme running through American pornography is an obsession with virility and lust, both male and female. To that end, traditional porn tends to show actors in quick, unhesitant arousal, free of doubts. It uses close-up film loops of intercourse over and over, to give the impression of male endurance. For the same effect, there are frequent scenes of male ejaculation—the come shot, the “money shot”—and lots of close-ups of ecstatic women’s faces. In fact, cunnilingus and the clitoral orgasm is a stock event in a lot of porn; part of the American obsession with lust is the goal of satisfaction.

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

  When we landed in Vancouver, I gratefully moved into task mode: wait for luggage, drag suitcase outside, hail a taxicab, give driver home address, sit through ride, pay driver, drag suitcase into apartment building lobby, proceed up three flights of stairs. It was the most activity I’d had in twenty-four hours. Just as I stepped into the stairwell of my apartment building, which didn’t have an elevator, a woman I didn’t recognize came up from the basement and saw me struggling to carry my large, heavy suitcase, purse and carry-on bag up the stairs. “Do you need any help?” she asked. “No, I’m fine,” I said, almost tipping over backwards with the weight of my bags. “Yes, you do,” she said. “Here, let me.” She took hold of my carry-on bag and started up the stairs ahead of me. I was almost undone. Her gentle and spontaneous kindness contrasted so sharply with the cruelty and ostracization I’d just experienced that I was struck dumb. When we reached my floor, which I think was her floor too, I mumbled thanks but was so perilously close to hysterical tears that I was afraid of opening my mouth too far lest I began to wail, so I’m not sure if she heard me. I’m not sure if I ever saw her again. The grief-induced haze I was in prevented me from taking stock of her features or where she went after she dropped me off at my door. To this day, whenever I’m carrying a suitcase up a flight of stairs I think of her and say a prayer of thanks. And so it began. I couldn’t know it at the time, but every road of my life up to this point had led into this time, and every resulting road would lead out of it. My life was now divided into two halves: before New Year’s Eve, 1999, and after. This was my moment, my opportunity to consciously and purposefully choose who I wanted to be and what I believed to be true about the world, about God and about myself. There is a god in the Hindu religion called Shiva, who represents both destruction and creativity. In my early twenties, in my emotionally immature way, I was never able to grasp this. “How,” I would wonder to myself, “can something represent both destruction and creativity? Those two things are, like, total opposites.” The early part of the twentieth century would bring home to me, in the most intimate way, the understanding that creativity sometimes sprouts from destruction. Like the new plant growth that can begin only when a forest has been destroyed by fire, sometimes our lives cannot grow in a new direction until we metaphorically burn down our existing life. Martha Beck, sociologist and life coach, describes this situation in her book Finding Your Own North Star as a “death you have to live through.”1 I was dying.

• From Boys & Sex (2020)

  I was consistently struck by how much more willing and able queer boys were than straight ones to negotiate sexual consent. Their process, it seemed to me, could be held up as a model. Dan Savage, author of the syndicated advice column “Savage Love” and founder of the It Gets Better Project, agreed. He referred to “the four magic words” gay men will use during a sexual encounter: What are you into? “When two men go to bed together, ‘yes’ is the beginning of the whole conversation,” he told me. “Who is going to do what with whom cannot be assumed. And when that question is asked at the moment of consent—‘Yes, we’re going to have sex. What are you into?’—you are empowered to rule anything in and rule anything out.” That’s a very different approach from that of straight boys, who usually aim for a simple “yes” or “no” to options they define, such as “Do you want to go down on me?” or “Should we have sex?” What are you into? is the kind of open-ended question that invites true collaboration and mutuality, not to mention, Savage pointed out, a broader definition of “sex.” “It shocks straight people when I say the answer to ‘What are you into?’ for gay men is often, ‘I’m not into anal.’ Straight people project their default setting of sex-as-penetration onto a gay encounter, when often what you get is oral sex, or mutual masturbation, or rolling around, or fantasy play. And we do not regard those other things as consolation prizes; that’s sex. Can you imagine if a straight guy asked a [straight] woman, ‘What are you into?’ And she said, ‘I’m not into vaginal intercourse?’ His head would explode.” Of course, gay men may still end up in situations where there is poor communication, where they feel pressured, are taken advantage of, or are harmed. But, as Savage put it, “What that means is that ‘gay’ is a conversation. And that’s what straight people should take away from gay people besides sit-ups and brunch—how to have that conversation about sex.” Zane never saw his first partner again. That was okay; the sex was fine, but they didn’t click intellectually or romantically. In the meantime, at least at first, using the dating apps felt liberating: not only could Zane indulge sexually, but he could effortlessly expand past the borders of his own campus, whose population held little appeal. “The apps have allowed me to meet kids who are likely to be interested in what I’m interested in, or even people who are completely different, because that’s interesting, too,” he said.

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

  Whatever one’s position, one can feel better than those who have not progressed so far.”10 And, as I describe in the prologue, there was a perverse game of real-life Snakes and Ladders perpetually being played within this hierarchical structure. As people moved in and out of favour with our guru, their position in the hierarchy would change. Someone could go from living at Wolf’s Den to being excommunicated, living with Limori’s son and daughter-in-law as their nanny and housekeeper. When that person returned to favour, they would return to Wolf’s Den and their job as nanny might be filled by someone new, who was “bringing in bad energy” and needed to clean up their act. Those of us living in Vancouver knew that we’d slipped a few notches in the group hierarchy if Limori stopped taking our phone calls or ignored us on Thursday night. But whatever one’s status in the group, exalted flavour of the month or miscreant, our belief was that life outside the group, among those who did not serve God, was profoundly worse than anything we could encounter inside it. It was a very black-and-white world I began to live in, and a black-and-white morality that I adopted. Inside group: good. Outside group: bad. What Limori says: Truth. What anyone else says: to be confirmed or denied by Limori. And honestly, it was a relief to fold myself into a doctrine and morality that had no uncertainty. I didn’t even think of it as morality; everything was simply The Truth or Not The Truth. For those of us living in Vancouver, the cult was non-residential. That is, we all lived in our own homes and had jobs that occupied our days. Debbie, Amber and I became good friends, going to movies and dinners on the weekend. Spiritual topics were never far from our conversation, and any challenge that any one of us encountered at work or with family was always examined, using our much-loved spiritual rhetoric. My friendship with Michael continued to grow as well. He was never far from my thoughts, and we spent many an afternoon in his shoebox-sized apartment getting to know one another. His girlfriend, Jessica, was naturally suspicious of our relationship, but she had nothing to fear from me. Despite the fact that I was falling in love with Michael, I was completely unaware of my own feelings for him and had no interest in examining them. My upbringing, combined with a naturally shy and introverted personality, meant that by the time I met Michael I was more than slightly emotionally stunted, so indeed, I was no threat to Jessica. I was simply grateful to have Michael’s friendship and mentorship. He was a darn good listener, too. As my friendships with Michael, Debbie, Amber and others in the group continued to strengthen, so did my attachment to Limori and her teachings.

• From The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)

  Quite simply, I wanted help, and I didn’t feel that I was getting it. That was probably what lay behind this unconsciously performed gesture. As I lay in bed that morning, amidst the confusion and the fear—what might I do next in this amnesiac state?—I was also aware of a definite sense of relief. I was sorry to have caused all this unnecessary bother, but on the other hand I was so weary and needy. I had spent years now fighting with demons, and the struggle had pushed me to an extreme. I felt exhausted, and it was good to have people looking after me, instead of telling me briskly that I was perfectly well and getting along just fine. I knew that this could only be a temporary respite, but it was not altogether unpleasant to give up the struggle for a while. And something in me had been calmed. Instead of the familiar turmoil within, there was a new stillness. I had tried my best, and to no avail. I had expressed my fear and despair, and I could do no more. I had come to the end, had given up hope, and there was a certain peace in that. Dr. Piet, who came to visit that afternoon, seemed to take it all rather personally. He had challenged me to surprise him, and I had taken him at his word. I was, he told me, clearly angry with him— and that, in his view, was a step forward. Even in my becalmed state, I felt faintly annoyed that he had placed himself so squarely in the center of my personal drama. He seemed to believe that I had done all this just to grab his attention—whereas, in reality, he was by no means as crucial to me as he seemed to imagine. He had decided that the things that truly distressed me were peripheral, and had thus become a rather marginal figure in my emotional life. If a doctor had failed to respond in this way to Rebecca, I would have been furious. But you get angry only with people who are important to you in a way that Dr. Piet was not. For months— indeed, for years now—I had felt increasingly insubstantial. As Tennyson put it, I saw myself as a ghost in a world of ghosts. I had existed for so long in this twilight state that nothing seemed quite real any longer, and therefore nothing seemed to matter very much. I could also see that Dr. Piet was no longer quite so dismissive of my amnesia, however. “It would have been much easier, Karen, if you had made an extra appointment and told me that you were feeling this depressed,” he said, with a certain exasperation. “I’m your doctor and I should know if you are feeling suicidal.”

• From Little Women (1868)

  I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?" "I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this. I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?" He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!" "As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed' as Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air. "You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one that I feel forty." "Poor Jo!

• From Little Women (1868)

  "Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth." Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well. "Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute. "We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!" Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before... "Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?" "I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are