Shame

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 Going Clear (2013)

  While the ships were docked in Valencia, a storm arose. Hubbard happened to be aboard the Avon River when he noticed that the Royal Scotman had torn free from one of its mooring lines. He screamed that someone should hoist the anchor and start the engines, but before the crew reacted, the big ship crashed against the dock, damaging its prop. Although the ship was not badly damaged, Hubbard assigned the crew and the Royal Scotman itself to a condition of Liability, which is below Non-Existence on his ethics scale. Hubbard stayed aboard the Avon River and steamed off to Marseilles until the Royal Scotman was returned to favor. Mary Sue was made the captain and ordered to retrain the crew and spruce up the ship to an acceptable state. No one could bathe or change clothes for months. The crew wore dirty gray rags on their left arms, which signaled their degraded status. Even Mary Sue’s snappish Corgi, Vixie, had a rag around its collar, and the ship itself wore a bracelet of gray tarpaulins around its funnel. An Ethics Officer walked the decks actually swinging a mace. Despite the squalid conditions, Mary Sue ran the ship with a minimum of hysteria, earning her the respect and loyalty of many aboard. Without Hubbard, the mood lightened. Mary Sue used to have parties in her cabin with Candy Swanson, the children’s tutor, and two men they were sweet on. They danced to Jimi Hendrix records. But when Hubbard returned, the party was over. A YOUNG MAN with a gift for languages named Belkacem Ferradj joined the Sea Org when the ship docked briefly in Algiers in 1968. Hubbard, surrounded by his Messengers, had made an immediate impression on Ferradj. He was dressed like an admiral, and he spoke with a broad American accent. A golden glow seemed to emanate from his large head. Mary Sue struck Ferradj as “gorgeous,” with long, curly hair and piercing eyes, but he thought she was “the most secretive person in the world.” When the ship sailed in July, Ferradj was aboard, having signed his billion-year contract with the Sea Org. Ferradj became close to Hubbard’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Diana. She had developed into a glamorous young woman, with flowing red hair and pale skin showered with freckles. She played the grand piano in the family dining room on the ship. Some saw her as imperious, a princess, but Ferradj, who was four years older than Diana, was smitten. When Hubbard found out about the relationship, he summoned Ferradj to the poop deck. Ferradj said Hubbard greeted him with a blow to the jaw. “I hit the bulkhead of the ship and slumped to the deck,” he recalled. “I don’t know if it was because I was an Arab or what. I left in disgrace.”

• From Between Us

  Spanish but not the Dutch students reported that they would feel as much shame as they would feel anger in response to imaginary insults; Spanish students reporting the most shame perceived a threat to their family honor. 105 ripple effect of shame: Uskul et al., “Honor Bound.” 105 specifically studied family honor: Patricia M. Rodriguez Mosquera, Leslie X. Tan, and Faisal Saleem, “Shared Burdens, Personal Costs on the Emotional and Social Consequences of Family Honor,” Journal of Cross Cultural Psychology 45, no. 3 (2013): 400–16. 105 the highest threat to the family honor: Rodriguez Mosquera, Tan, and Saleem, “Shared Burdens, Personal Costs on the Emotional and Social Consequences of Family Honor.” 106 Shame is everywhere in honor cultures: In one of our studies, we did in fact find that events that were seen to be shameful in Turkey were perceived to be frequent (Boiger et al., “Defending Honour, Keeping Face”; see also Batja Mesquita and Nico H. Frijda, “Cultural Variations in Emotions: A Review,” Psychological Bulletin 112, no. 2 [1992]: 179–204). 106 not even the most important one: Rodriguez Mosquera, “Cultural Concerns,” 2018; Patricia M. Rodriguez Mosquera, “On the Importance of Family, Morality, Masculine, and Feminine Honor for Theory and Research,” Social and Personality Psychology Compass 10, no. 8 (2016): 431–42. 106 you must act: E.g., Leung and Cohen, “Within- and between-Culture Variation” (variation on what they write on p. 3). 107 the (sexual) modesty of the female relatives: Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiments, 1986; Peristiany, “Honour and Shame in a Cypriot Highland”; Rodriguez Mosquera, “On the Importance of Family, Morality, Masculine, and Feminine Honor for Theory and Research.” 107 a dignified way for women . . . to achieve respect and honor: Abu-Lughod, Veiled Sentiments. 108 “wanting to dissolve into nothing”: Nico H. Frijda, The Emotions (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press / Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1986). 108 being judged by others . . . falling short of the standard: Michael Boiger et al., “Protecting Autonomy, Protecting Relatedness: Appraisal Patterns of Daily Anger and Shame in the United States and Japan,” Japanese Psychological Research 58, no. 1 (2016): 28–41. 108 “public evaluations” . . . “self-failure”: Rodriguez Mosquera, Manstead, and Fischer, “The Role of Honor-Related Values in the Elicitation, Experience, and Communication of Pride, Shame, and Anger.” Chapter 5 BEING CONNECTED AND FEELING GOOD 111 the enterprise has been WEIRD: E.g., Charles R. Snyder and Shane J. Lopez, Handbook of Positive Psychology (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). Shane J. Lopez and Charles R. Snyder, The Oxford Handbook of Positive Psychology, 2nd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). 111 “broadening and building”: E.g., Barbara L. Fredrickson, “The Role of Positive Emotions in Positive Psychology: The Broaden-and-Build Theory of Positive Emotions,” American Psychologist 56, no. 3 (2001): 218–26.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  It’s not going to come back.” I wrote about shock on people’s faces: shock when they find out their love has been cheating on them, shock when they discover faked amnesia—heck, I even wrote about a character who constantly wore a look of shock on his face, even when there was nothing to be shocked about. But I couldn’t say that I’d ever seen true shock before. And here it was, written all over Isaac Asterholder. He dove in immediately, his eyebrows drawing together. “Senna, you don’t—” I waved him off. “I have to. I can’t live every day in fear, knowing it might come back. This is the only way.” He searched my face, and I knew then that he was the type of man who always considered what someone else was feeling. After a while the tension left his shoulders. He lifted his hands from where they’d been resting on the table, and placed them over mine. I could see the crumbs sticking to his skin. I focused on them so I wouldn’t pull away. He nodded. “I can recommend—” I cut him off for the third time, jerking my hands out from beneath his. “I want you to do the surgery.” He leaned back, put both hands behind his head and stared at me. “You’re an oncologic surgeon. I Googled you.” “Why didn’t you just ask?” “Because I don’t do that. Asking questions is at the forefront of developing relationships.” He cocked his head. “What’s wrong with developing relationships?” “When you get raped, and when you get breast cancer, you have to tell people about it. And then they look at you with sad eyes. Except they’re not really seeing you, they’re seeing your rape or your breast cancer. And I’d rather not be looked at if all people are seeing are the things I do, or the things that happen to me instead of who I am.” He was quiet for a long time. “What about before those things happened to you?” I stared at him. Maybe a little too fiercely, but I didn’t care. If this man wanted to show up in my life, and put his hands over mine, and ask why I didn’t have a best friend—he was going to get it. The full version. “If there was a God,” I said, “I’d say with confidence that he hates me. Because my life is the sum of bad things. The more people you let in, the more bad you let in.” “Well, there you have it,” Isaac said. His eyes weren’t wide; there was no more shock. He was a cucumber. It was the most I’d ever said to him. It was probably the most I’d said to any person in a long time. I pulled my cup up to my mouth and closed my eyes. “All right,” he said, finally. “I’ll do the surgery on one condition.” “What’s that?” “You see a counselor.”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  Someone could take your body, use it, beat it, treat it like it’s a piece of trash, but what hurts far worse than the actual physical attack is the darkness it injects into you. Rape works its way into your DNA. You aren’t you anymore, you’re the girl who was raped. And you can’t get it out. You can’t stop feeling like it’s going to happen again, or that you’re worthless, or that anyone could ever want you because you’re tainted and used. Someone else thought you were nothing, so you assume that everyone else will as well. Rape was a sinister destroyer of trust and worth and hope. I could fight cancer. I could cut chunks out of my body and inject poison into my veins to fight cancer. But I had no idea how to fight what that man took from me. And what he gave me—fear. I didn’t look at my body when I undressed and stepped into the shower. It wouldn’t be me in that mirror. Over the last few months my eyes had emptied out, become hollow. When I happened upon my reflection somewhere, it hurt. I stood with my back to the water, like Isaac told me, and my eyes rolled back in my head. This was my first shower since the surgery. The nurses had given me a sponge bath, and one had even washed my hair in the little bathroom. She’d pushed a chair right up against the rim of the sink and had me bend my head back while she massaged little bottles of shampoo and conditioner into my hair. I let the water run over me for at least ten minutes before I had the nerve to reach up and soap the empty place below my collar bone. I felt…nothing. When I was finished, patted dry and dressed in pajama pants, I called Isaac upstairs. Some of my steri-strips had come loose. I stood quietly as he worked to fit new ones on, my wet hair dripping down my back, my eyes closed. He smelled like rosemary and oregano. I wondered what he was making downstairs. When he was done, I slipped on a shirt and turned my back to him while I buttoned up the front of it. When I turned back around Isaac was holding the hairbrush I’d tossed on the bed. I’d been unsure of how to lift my arms high enough to work out the tangles. Pouring shampoo on my head had been one thing, brushing felt like an impossible feat. He gestured to the stool in front of my vanity. “You’re so strange,” I said, once I was seated. I was working hard to keep my eyes on his reflection and not look at my face. He glanced down at me, his strokes gentle and even. His fingernails were square and broad; there was nothing messy or ugly about his hands. “Why do you say that?”

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

  My teammates mobbed me. They lifted me up on their shoulders and carried me around the gym. I looked for my mom, but she’d fainted again, so they’d taken her outside to get some fresh air. I looked for my dad. I thought he’d be cheering. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even looking at me. He was all quiet-faced as he looked at something else. So I looked at what he was looking at. It was the Wellpinit Redskins, lined up at their end of the court, as they watched us celebrate our victory. I whooped. We had defeated the enemy! We had defeated the champions! We were David who’d thrown a stone into the brain of Goliath! And then I realized something. I realized that my team, the Reardan Indians, was Goliath. I mean, jeez, all of the seniors on our team were going to college. All of the guys on our team had their own cars. All of the guys on our team had iPods and cell phones and PSPs and three pairs of blue jeans and ten shirts and mothers and fathers who went to church and had good jobs. Okay, so maybe my white teammates had problems, serious problems, but none of their problems was life threatening. But I looked over at the Wellpinit Redskins, at Rowdy. I knew that two or three of those Indians might not have eaten breakfast that morning. No food in the house. I knew that seven or eight of those Indians lived with drunken mothers and fathers. I knew that one of those Indians had a father who dealt crack and meth. I knew two of those Indians had fathers in prison. I knew that none of them was going to college. Not one of them. And I knew that Rowdy’s father was probably going to beat the crap out of him for losing this game. I suddenly wanted to apologize to Rowdy, to all of the other Spokanes. I was suddenly ashamed that I’d wanted so badly to take revenge on them. I was suddenly ashamed of my anger, my rage, and my pain. I jumped off my white teammates’ shoulders and dashed into the locker room. I ran into the bathroom, into a toilet stall, and threw up. And then I wept like a baby. Coach and my teammates thought I was crying tears of happiness. But I wasn’t. I was crying tears of shame. I was crying because I had broken my best friend’s heart. But God has a way of making things even out, I guess. Wellpinit never recovered from their loss to us. They only won a couple more games the rest of the season and didn’t qualify for the playoffs. However, we didn’t lose another game in the regular season and were ranked number one in the state as we headed into the playoffs.

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

  His eyes, his mouth, his moustache, and even his beard, all were new. Each time it was a beautiful and touching physiognomy, and these transformations were produced suddenly in the penumbra; and for five minutes it was the same face, that could not be compared to that of five minutes before. And then, I know not how, it changed again, and became unrecognizable. CHAPTER IV. “Well, I am going then to tell you my life, and my whole frightful history,—yes, frightful. And the story itself is more frightful than the outcome.” He became silent for a moment, passed his hands over his eyes, and began:— “To be understood clearly, the whole must be told from the beginning. It must be told how and why I married, and what I was before my marriage. First, I will tell you who I am. The son of a rich gentleman of the steppes, an old marshal of the nobility, I was a University pupil, a graduate of the law school. I married in my thirtieth year. But before talking to you of my marriage, I must tell you how I lived formerly, and what ideas I had of conjugal life. I led the life of so many other so-called respectable people,—that is, in debauchery. And like the majority, while leading the life of a débauché, I was convinced that I was a man of irreproachable morality. “The idea that I had of my morality arose from the fact that in my family there was no knowledge of those special debaucheries, so common in the surroundings of land-owners, and also from the fact that my father and my mother did not deceive each other. In consequence of this, I had built from childhood a dream of high and poetical conjugal life. My wife was to be perfection itself, our mutual love was to be incomparable, the purity of our conjugal life stainless. I thought thus, and all the time I marvelled at the nobility of my projects. “At the same time, I passed ten years of my adult life without hurrying toward marriage, and I led what I called the well-regulated and reasonable life of a bachelor. I was proud of it before my friends, and before all men of my age who abandoned themselves to all sorts of special refinements. I was not a seducer, I had no unnatural tastes, I did not make debauchery the principal object of my life; but I found pleasure within the limits of society’s rules, and innocently believed myself a profoundly moral being. The women with whom I had relations did not belong to me alone, and I asked of them nothing but the pleasure of the moment. “In all this I saw nothing abnormal. On the contrary, from the fact that I did not engage my heart, but paid in cash, I supposed that I was honest.

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

  "Monsieur," said she, "I ask neither alms of you nor a position as your scullion; it was all too recently I took leave of an estate loftier than that which might make those two favors desirable; I am not yet reduced to imploring them; I am soliciting advice whereof my youth and my misfortunes put me in need, and you would have me purchase it at an excessively inflated price." Ashamed thus to have been unmasked, the pastor promptly drove the little creature away, and the unhappy Justine, twice rejected on the first day of her condemnation to isolation, now enters a house above whose door she spies a shingle; she rents a small chamber on the fourth floor, pays in advance for it, and, once established, gives herself over to lamentations all the more bitter because she is sensitive and because her little pride has just been compromised cruelly. We will allow ourselves to leave her in this state for a short while in order to return to Juliette and to relate how, from the very ordinary condition in which she sets forth, no better furnished with resources than her sister, she nevertheless attains, over a period of fifteen years, the position of a titled woman, with an income of thirty thousand pounds, very handsome jewels, two or three houses in the city, as many in the country and, at the present moment, the heart, the fortune and the confidence of Monsieur de Corville, Councillor to the State, an important man much esteemed and about to have a minister's post. Her rise was not, there can be no question of it, unattended by difficulties: 'tis by way of the most shameful, most onerous apprenticeship that these ladies attain their objectives; and 'tis in all likelihood a veteran of unnumbered campaigns one may find today abed with a Prince: perhaps she yet carries the humiliating marks of the brutality of the libertines into whose hands her youth and inexperience flung her long ago. Upon leaving the convent, Juliette went to find a woman whose name she had once heard mentioned by a youthful friend; perverted was what she desired to be and this woman was to pervert her; she arrived at her house with a small parcel under her arm, clad in a blue dressing gown nicely disarrayed, her hair straggling carelessly about, and showing the prettiest face in the world, if it is true that for certain eyes indecency may have its charms; she told her story to this woman and begged her to afford her the sanctuary she had provided her former friend. "How old are you?" Madame Duvergier demanded. "I will be fifteen in a few days, Madame," Juliette replied. "And never hath mortal . . ." the matron continued. "No, Madame, I swear it," answered Juliette. "But, you know, in those convents," said the old dame, "sometimes a confessor, a nun, a companion... I must have conclusive evidence."

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

  The Reformers inherited the doctrine of persecution from their mother Church, and practised it as far as they had the power. They fought intolerance with intolerance. They differed favorably from their opponents in the degree and extent, but not in the principle, of intolerance. They broke down the tyranny of popery, and thus opened the way for the development of religious freedom; but they denied to others the liberty which they exercised themselves. The Protestant governments in Germany and Switzerland excluded, within the limits of their jurisdiction, the Roman Catholics from all religious and civil rights, and took exclusive possession of their churches, convents, and other property. They banished, imprisoned, drowned, beheaded, hanged, and burned Anabaptists, Antitrinitarians, Schwenkfeldians, and other dissenters. In Saxony, Sweden, Norway, and Denmark no religion and public worship was allowed but the Lutheran. The Synod of Dort deposed and expatriated all Arminian ministers and school-teachers. The penal code of Queen Elizabeth and the successive acts of Uniformity aimed at the complete extermination of all dissent, whether papal or protestant, and made it a crime for an Englishman to be anything else than an Episcopalian. The Puritans when in power ejected two thousand ministers from their benefices for non-conformity; and the Episcopalians paid them back in the same coin when they returned to power. "The Reformers," says Gibbon, with sarcastic severity, "were ambitious of succeeding the tyrants whom they had dethroned. They imposed with equal rigor their creeds and confessions; they asserted the right of the magistrate to punish heretics with death. The nature of the tiger was the same, but he was gradually deprived of his teeth and fangs."1008 Protestant persecution violates the fundamental principle of the Reformation. Protestantism has no right to exist except on the basis of freedom of conscience. How, then, can we account for this glaring inconsistency? There is a reason for everything. Protestant persecution was necessary in self-defence and in the struggle for existence. The times were not ripe for toleration. The infant Churches could not have stood it. These Churches had first to be consolidated and fortified against surrounding foes. Universal toleration at that time would have resulted in universal confusion and upset the order of society. From anarchy to absolute despotism is but one step. The division of Protestantism into two rival camps, the Lutheran and the Reformed, weakened it; further divisions within these camps would have ruined it and prepared an easy triumph for united Romanism, which would have become more despotic than ever before. This does not justify the principle, but it explains the practice, of intolerance.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I sat back, satisfied that I’d filled the session with enough information to keep Saphira the Dragon happy. She raised her eyebrows, which I figured was the prompt to keep talking. “That’s it,” I snapped “I’m fine. He’s fine. Life moved on.” I pulled out my grey and smoothed it back behind my ear. “Where is Nick now?” she asked. “Do you keep in contact?” I shook my head. “We tried that for a while. It was too painful.” “For you, or him?” I stared at her blankly. Weren’t breakups always painful for everyone involved? Maybe not… “He moved to San Francisco after he published his last book. Last I heard he was living with someone.” I looked at the finches while she wrote on her notepad. I had to turn my back to her to do it, but it felt good, like passive-aggressive defiance. “Did you read his book?” I waited a second to turn back around, just enough time to rearrange my face. I lifted a hand to my throat, wrapping my forefinger and thumb under my chin. Nick used to say it looked like I was trying to strangle myself. I suppose subconsciously I was. I quickly pulled my hand away. “He wrote it about me … about us.” I had thought that would be enough, that it would divert her attention and allow me to breathe. But she waited patiently for my answer. Did you read his book? Her chocolate eyes were unblinking. “No, I didn’t read it.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t,” I snapped. “I don’t want to read about how I failed him and broke his heart.” It felt okay to say. The problems I had two years ago with Nick felt welcome compared to what was lurking in the shallow tide pools of my memory. “He mailed me a copy. It’s been sitting on my nightstand for two years.” I glanced at the clock … hoping. And, yes! Our time was up. I jumped up and grabbed my purse. “I hate this,” I said. “But my stupid surgeon won’t operate unless I talk to you.” She nodded. “I’ll see you Thursday.” I was shrugging my coat on and opening the door when she called after me. “Senna.” I paused, one arm not all the way in my sleeve. “Read the book,” she said. I left without saying goodbye. Dr. Elgin was humming softly as the door quietly shut behind me. It was the first time I’d driven myself anywhere. I brought Isaac’s CD, and I played Landscape all the way home. It calmed me. Why? I’d love to know. Maybe Saphira could eventually tell me. It was the only song I owned that actually had words attached to it, and the beat wasn’t particularly soothing. Quite the opposite.

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

  But in this general survey, you may be sure, the most material spot of me was not excused the strictest visitation; nor was it but agreed, that I had not the least reason to be diffident of passing even for a maid, on occasion; so inconsiderable a flaw had my preceding adventures created there, and so soon had the blemish of an over-stretch been repaired and worn out at any age, and in my naturally small make in that part. Now, whether my partner had exhausted all the modes of regaling the touch or sight, or whether he was now ungovernably wound up to strike, I know not; but briskly throwing off his clothes, the prodigious heat bred by a close room, a great fire, numerous candles, and even the inflammatory warmth of these scenes, induced him to lay aside his shirt too, when his breeches, before loosened, now gave up their contents to view, and shew’d in front the enemy I had to engage with, stiffly bearing up the port of its head unhooded, and glowing red. Then I plainly saw what I had to trust to: it was one of those just true-sized instruments, of which the masters have a better command than the more unwieldy, inordinate sized one are generally under. Straining me then close to his bosom, as he stood up foreright against me, and applying to the obvious niche its peculiar idol, he aimed at inserting it, which, as I forwardly favoured, he effected at once, by canting up my thighs over his naked hips, and made me receive every inch, and close home; so-that stuck upon the pleasure-pivot, add clinging round his neck, in which and in his hair I hid my face, burn-ingly flushing with present feeling as much as with shame, my bosom glued to him; he carried me once round the couch, on which he then, without quitting the middle-fastness, or dischannelling, laid me down, and began with pleasure-grist.

• From Between Us

  Mother says, “School master has said that we should follow fixed work and rest routines, otherwise School master will reproach us.” [Both children] wonder if School master will reproach her. Mother answers: “That day, wasn’t School master reproaching . . . me?” Both children ask why. Mother replies, “She said I did not raise you two well, and that I did not have you sleep during nap time, right?” If her children misbehave, it will be the mother who is blamed for not teaching and raising them well. Implicit is the shame-sharing: the child’s shameful behavior reflects badly on their parents and family. Many parents articulate the shame-sharing, saying, “You made your mother lose face” or “such a disobedient child.” But perhaps more important is that, through invoking an authority figure—the schoolmaster in the case of Axin’s mom—the bond between the child and the parent remains intact. It is not the mom rejecting the child, but the child and the mom jointly having to meet external demands. There is a basic alliance between the child and their parents (or relatives). This alliance makes for the wider impact of norm violations, but also means that shame is not nearly as threatening as it is in Western cultures. Shame among the Minangkabau and in Taiwan calls for remedying what is wrong, but it does not challenge the bond between a child and their most important caregivers. Having shame is seen as a virtue: it reveals that you have a sense of social norms, and it will prevent you from violating these norms. Having shame keeps you attentive to how others see you, but in so doing, keeps you from the misconduct that would have led to social exclusion. Adult Minangkabau cite malu as source of normative behavior, saying, “Malu makes us behave carefully so that we don’t do something bad or wrong.” And similarly, the Taiwanese mothers want to teach their children propriety by helping them to feel shame. Across cultures, caregivers want what is best for their child: among the Minangkabau and among Taiwanese families, “knowing shame” best prepares children to be valued members of their society. Raising a Child Who Knows Fear A central goal of socialization among the Bara in the southern part of Madagascar is to be docile. Bara society is segmented and hierarchical: the basic segment of the Bara social organization consists of three or four generations of living descendants from a single ancestral spirit. The ideal behavior for Bara children is to be docile, submissive, and compliant with anything their elders want them to do: Bara children are made to follow the directives of their elders without protest. To that end, they should “know tahotsy, that is, they should readily fear their elder relatives.” Fear, according to anthropologist Birgitt Röttger-Rössler and developmental psychologist Manfred Holodynski, is the socializing emotion.

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

  "Why, 'tis very readily accounted for," replied Dubois with yet greater insolence, "and, I declare, I'll neither hide her from you nor take her side in the matter if 'tis certain she is guilty of the horrible crime you speak of. I too was staying at that hotel in Villefranche, I left in the midst of all the commotion and as I am getting into my coach, this girl runs up, begs my compassion, says she has just lost everything in the fire, and implores me to take her with me to Lyon where she hopes to be able to find a place. Far less attentive to my reason than to my heart's promptings, I acquiesced, consented to fetch her along; once in the carriage she offered herself as my servant; once again imprudence led me to agree to everything and I have been taking her to Dauphine where I have my properties and family: 'tis a lesson, assuredly, I presently recognize with utmost clarity all of pity's shortcomings; I shall not again be guilty of them. There she is, gentlemen, there she is; God forbid that I should be interested in such a monster, I abandon her to the law's severest penalties, and, I beseech you, take every step to prevent it from being known that I committed the unfortunate mistake of lending an instant's credence to a single word she uttered." I wished to defend myself, I wanted to denounce the true villain; my speeches were interpreted as calumniatory recriminations to which Dubois opposed nothing but a contemptuous smile. O fatal effects of misery and biased prepossession, of wealth and of insolence! Were it thinkable that a woman who had herself called Madame la Baronne de Fulconis, who proclaimed a high degree and displayed opulence, who asserted she owned extensive holdings and arrogated a family to herself; were it to be conceived that such a personage could be guilty of a crime wherefrom she did not appear to have the slightest thing to gain? And, on the other hand, did not everything condemn me?

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

  "On the morrow I met the young girl out with her mother. When she saw me, her laughing eyes had a merrier twinkle than ever. I durst not look at her, much less follow her about as I was wont to do. "There were several other girls at the pension, and she soon got to be on friendly terms with them, for she was in fact an universal favourite. I, on the contrary, kept aloof from everyone, feeling sure that my mishap was not only known but had become a general topic of conversation. "One afternoon, a few days afterwards, I was in the vast garden of the pension, hidden behind some ilex shrubs, brooding over my ill luck, when all at once I saw Rita—for her name was Marguerite—walking in a neighbouring alley, together with several other girls. "I had no sooner perceived her when she told her friends to go on, whilst she began to lag behind. "She stopped, turned her back upon her companions, lifted up her dress far above her knee, and displayed a very pretty though rather thin leg incased in a close-fitting, black silk stocking. The string which attached the stocking to her unmentionables had got undone, and she began to tie it. "By bending low I might quietly have peeped between her legs, and seen what the slit of her pantaloons afforded to the view; but it never came into my head to do so. The fact is, I had really never cared for her or for any other woman. I only thought now is my time to find her alone and to bow to her, without having all the other girls to giggle at me. So I quietly got out of my hiding-place, and advanced towards the next alley. "As I turned the corner, what a sight did I see! There was the object of my sentimental admiration, squatted on the ground, her legs widely opened apart, her skirts all carefully tucked up." "So at last you saw——" "A faint glimpse of pinkish flesh, and a stream of yellow liquid pouring down and flowing on the gravel, bubbling with much froth, accompanied by the rushing sound of many waters, whilst, as if to greet my appearance, a rumbling noise like that of an unctuous cannonade came from behind." "And what did you do?" "Don't you know we always do the things which ought not to be done, and leave undone the things which ought to be done, as I think the Prayer Book says? So, instead of slipping away unperceived, and hiding behind a bush to try and have a glimpse at the mouth from which the rill escaped, I foolishly remained stock still—speechless, dumbfoundered. It was only when she lifted up her eyes that I recovered the use of my tongue.

• From Between Us

  Yet, in another way, many emotional literacy programs treat “emotions” as the letters of the alphabet. The idea seems to be that, just as every child has to learn the same letters of the alphabet if they are to become literate, every child needs to learn the same emotions if they are to be socially equipped. But what about cultural diversity? What about the fact that children grow up in very different households, different neighborhoods, or, in the case of immigrant children, different ethnic or national cultures, and that their respective emotion concepts and understandings are tied to the experiences they had in these different cultural contexts? What about emotions serving different relational goals across sociocultural contexts? What happens to Reiko, a Japanese American child, who does not find amae in the list of important emotions? (“Why? Even puppies have it!”) Or what would it do to Ahmet to learn from his Belgian schoolteacher that shame is primarily a feeling inside us. I can only imagine that Ahmet would feel at a loss, invalidated, as he himself perceived his shame to be between people—to restore relationships and be respectable. Or what would young Ta-Nehisi Coates have taken away from the message that managing his anger was the “right” thing to do? What is the culture of reference when we say anger management is “right”? Obviously, this message would have invalidated Coates’s experience of “right” in that moment. In a world where you need to show you are tough, threats may be right. If “emotional literacy” is unwittingly defined as literacy in the dominant culture, it will hardly reaffirm students who are not part of that culture. Instead, it may serve as one more gatekeeper. One reason that emotional literacy programs may work could be that they provide a crash course in acculturation. Offering children a shared alphabet or vocabulary, and teaching them to use it in conversation, may create common ground within the school. Emotional literacy programs may be instrumental in socializing students to the school’s emotion culture, and this itself may be conducive to the child’s relationships with the school and the teachers, and may socialize them to meet the expectations of the school culture. For instance, when we teach students how to “manage their anger,” we may simply socialize them to be the kinds of people that we want in our schools. Creating common ground can be a worthwhile project for schools, but only if all students are included. Parents have an important role in the enterprise of emotional literacy. According to UNESCO, “when home and school collaborate closely to implement social-emotional learning programs, children gain more and program effects are more enduring and pervasive.” But is this realistic when there is diversity in doing emotions, and the school and home context may be different? What if the messaging to the child is inconsistent, and leaves the child in the uncomfortable position of bridging the gap with their home culture?

• From Going Clear (2013)

  He may have had delusions of grandeur, as so many critics say, but he did in fact make an undeniable mark on the world, publishing many best sellers and establishing a religion that endures decades after his death. Grandiosity might well be a feature of a personality that could accomplish such feats. A fascinating glimpse into Hubbard’s state of mind during this time is found in what I am calling his secret memoir. The church claims that the document is a forgery. It was produced by the former archivist for the Church of Scientology, Gerald Armstrong, in a 1984 suit that the church brought against him. Armstrong read some portions of them into the record over the strong objections of the church attorneys; others later found their way onto the Internet. The church now maintains that Hubbard did not write this document, although when it was entered into evidence, the church’s lawyers made no such representation, saying that the papers were intensely private, “constitute a kind of self-therapy,” and did not reflect Hubbard’s actual condition. This disputed document has been called the Affirmations, or the Admissions, but it is rather difficult to define. In part, the thirty pages constitute a highly intimate autobiography, dealing with the most painful episodes in Hubbard’s life. Many of the references to people and events made in these pages are supported by other documents. It appears that Hubbard is using techniques on himself that he would later develop into Dianetics. He explores memories that pose impediments in his mental and spiritual progress, and he prescribes affirmations or incantations to counter the psychological influence of these events. These statements would certainly be the most revealing and intimate disclosures Hubbard ever made about himself. There are three sections in this document, each of which seems to have a different purpose. The first section is called “Course I.” This is what I have termed the secret memoir, as it contains reflections on the most embarrassing or troubling features of Hubbard’s biography. “The purpose of this experiment is to re-establish the ambition, willpower, desire to survive, the talent and confidence of myself,” Hubbard declares straightforwardly at the start. “I was always anxious about people’s opinion of me and was afraid I would bore them. This injected anxiety and careless speed into my work. I must be convinced that I can write skillfully and well.” Those who criticize his work are fools, he writes. “I must be convinced I have succeeded in writing and with ease will regain my popularity, which actually was not small.” “My service record was none too glorious,” he admits. He also confesses his shame about his frequent affairs. But he is intent on succeeding in his relationship with Sara, whom he describes as “young, beautiful, desirable.” Unfortunately, he is handicapped by bouts of impotence. “I want her always. But I am 13 years older than she. She is heavily sexed. My libido is so low I hardly admire her naked.” Sex preoccupies him.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  He put on wordless music when we got in his car. That bothered me for some reason. Perhaps I expected him to have something new for me. I tapped my finger on the window as we drove. It was cold out. It would be like this for another few months before the weather would crack, and the sun would start to warm Washington. I liked the feel of the cold glass on my fingertips, like tiny shocks of winter. Isaac carried my bag inside. When I got to my room my eyes found my nightstand. There was a clear rectangle cut in the dust. I felt a pang of something. Grief? I was feeling a lot of grief; I had just lost my breasts. It had nothing to do with Nick, I told myself. “I’m making lunch,” Isaac said, standing just outside my room. “Do you want me to bring it up here?” “I want to shower. I’ll come down after.” He saw me staring at the bathroom door and cleared his throat. “Let me take a look before you do that.” I nodded and sat down on the edge of my bed, unbuttoning my shirt. When I was finished, I leaned back, my fingers gripping the comforter. You’d think I’d be used to this by now—the constant gawking and touching of my chest. Now that there was nothing there I should feel less ashamed. I was just a little boy as far as what was underneath my shirt. He unwound the bandages from my torso. I felt the air hit my skin and my eyes closed automatically. I opened them, defying my shame, to watch his face. Blank When he touched the skin around my sutures I wanted to pull back. “The swelling is down,” he said. “You can shower since the drain is out, but use the antibacterial soap I put in your bag. Don’t use a sponge on the stitches. They can snag.” I nodded. All things I knew, but when a man was looking at your mangled breasts he needed something to say. Doctor or not. I pulled my shirt closed and held it together in a fist. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” I couldn’t look at him. My breasts weren’t the only thing torn and ripped. Isaac was a stranger and he had seen more of my wounds than anyone else. Not because I chose him like I did Nick. He was just always there. That’s what scared me. It was one thing inviting someone into your life, choosing to put your head on the train tracks and wait for imminent death, but this—this I had no control over. What he knew, and what he’d seen about me brought so much shame I could barely look him in the eyes. I tiptoed to the bathroom, glancing once more at the nightstand before shutting the door.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  The truth was that he did speak to me. Or perhaps he just spoke. To God, to the air, to himself, or perhaps to some person who abandoned him. I can still hear his voice. I hear it when I sleep, whispering in my ear and I wake up screaming. From the moment he started to the moment he finished, he chanted one thing over and over. Pink Zippo Pink Zippo Pink Zippo Pink Zippo It was an omission. Maybe he got away because of it. Maybe another woman will be raped because I could have done more. But in that moment, when you’ve been violated, your soul darkened for no reason other than someone’s sadistic cruelty, you’re only thinking about your survival. I didn’t know how to live with my survival, and I didn’t know how to kill myself. Instead, I plotted what I’d do to him. While Isaac was feeding me, and pulling me out of dreams that made me thrash and scream, I was cutting up my rapist, throwing him into Lake Washington. Pouring gasoline over him and burning him alive. I was carving his skin like Lisbeth Salander did to Nils Bjurman. I took the revenge I would never get in my flesh and blood life. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. So I took revenge on myself for allowing it to happen. I felt worthless. I didn’t want anyone who had worth to be near me. Isaac had worth. So I got rid of him. But here we were; locked up and caged. Starved. The man who chanted Pink Zippo might have been a stalker, but he had nothing, nothing on the zookeeper. You can stalk a woman’s body, but this animal was stalking my mind. My cast hits something. Isaac flicks the switch that turns on the bulb above the door. It’s been so long since light and not darkness has been my companion that it takes a moment for my eyes to catch up. The zookeeper has indeed left me something; a box, rectangular in shape, it reaches my knees. The box is pure white, shiny and smooth like the inlay of an oyster shell. On its lid are red words, the letters look as if someone dipped a finger in blood words that look as if someone dipped a finger in blood before tracing them. For MV. My reaction is internal. The very essence of me writhes as if I am an open wound and someone has poured salt over me like one of those snails the kid next door used to torture. I hobble forward and lean over the box. Please God, please, don’t let it be blood. Not blood. Not blood.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  His car was nondescript. The unflashy hybrid. It looked a little self-righteous. He opened the door for me, waited until my feet were tucked in … closed it … walked around to his side. I stared out the window at the rain. I wanted to apologize for ruining his Christmas. For getting raped in the first place. For making him feel as if he had to drive me home. “Your address?” he asked. I pulled my eyes away from the rain. “1226 Atkinson Drive.” His hand hovered over the GPS before moving back to the steering wheel. “The stone house? On the hill—with the vines on the chimney?” I nod. My house was noticeable from all across the lake, but he must live near if he’d seen it close enough to know about the vines. “I live in the area,” he said a moment later. “It’s a beautiful house.” “ Yes,” I said absently. I suddenly felt cold. I lifted my hands to my arms to catch the goose bumps, and he turned up the heat without me asking. I saw a family crossing the parking lot, each with an armful of presents. All four of them were wearing Christmas hats, from the toddler to the beer-bellied father. They looked hopeful. “Why aren’t you with your family on Christmas?” I asked him. He pulled out of the lot and turned onto the street. It was one o’clock on Christmas Day so, for once, there was no traffic. “I moved here from Raleigh two months ago. My family is back East. I couldn’t get enough time off to go see them. Plus hospitals are short staffed on Christmas. I was scheduled to come in later today.” I looked out the window again. There was silence for a few miles, and then I said, “I didn’t scream … maybe if I’d screamed—” “You were in the woods, and it was Christmas morning. There was no one to hear you.” “But I could have tried. Why didn’t I try?” Dr. Asterholder looked at me. We were at a light, so he could. “Why didn’t I get there sooner? Just ten minutes and I could have saved you…” My shock drew me out. For a minute I was a different Senna. Appalled, I said, “It’s not your fault.” The light turned green, the truck ahead of us pulled forward. Before Dr. Isaac Asterholder put his foot on the gas, he said, “It’s not yours either.” The drive from the hospital to my house is roughly ten minutes. There are three traffic lights, a brief stint on the highway, and a steep, winding hill that makes even the toughest car have bad labor pains.

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

  He was exceedingly fair, and, smooth complexioned, and appeared to me no more than twenty at most, though he was three years older than what my conjectures gave him; but then he owed this favourable mistake to a habit of fatness, which spread through a short, squab stature; and a round, plump, fresh coloured face gave him greatly the look of a Bacchus, had not an air of austerity, not to say sternness, very unsuitable even to his shape of face, dashed that character of joy, necessary to complete the resemblance. His dress was extremely neat, but plain, and far inferior to the ample fortune he was in full possession of; this too was a taste in him, and not avarice. As soon as Mrs. Cole was gone, he seated me near him, when now his face changed upon me, into an expression of the most pleasing sweetness and good humour, the most remarkable for its sudden shift from the other extreme, which I found afterwards, when I knew more of his character, was owing to a habitual state of conflict with, and dislike of himself, for being enslaved to so peculiar a lust, by the fatality of a constitutional ascendant, that rendered him incapable of receiving any pleasure, till he submitted to these extraordinary means of procuring it at the hands of pain, whilst the constancy of this repining consciousness stamped at length that cast of sourness and severity on his features: which was, in fact, very foreign to the natural sweetness of his temper.

• From Between Us

  When the primary cultural goal is to meet the social expectations for your role, showing an awareness of your violations is appreciated. Shame tells others that you know your place, that you are prepared to do what it takes to be accepted by them. Shame also means that you take others’ perspective in the situation: How are you doing in their eyes? Are you meeting their expectations? Shame, in other words, indicates that you care about your bond with others. In a New York Times Op-Ed with the title “An Admirable Culture of Shame,” Nassrine Azimi, then senior advisor at the United Nations Institute for Training and Research (UNITAR), held a mirror to her American readers by describing exactly this kind of “right” shame for Akio Toyoda, the president of Toyota, a Japanese company: When in February of this year Akio Toyoda . . . testified before the U.S. Congress and took personal responsibility for the failures of his company, it was seen as a matter of course. But can one even imagine an American executive from Wall Street apologizing in the parliament of another country? Why would such an act of apology by an American be so unimaginable, whereas a Japanese doing this seems unsurprising? To understand why the president of Toyota apologized to the U.S. Congress as a matter of course, we need to know that people in Japan habitually see themselves as incomplete, and are encouraged to be self-critical. Shame fits this focus on self-criticism, and on working hard to make up for the deficits you (as anybody) unavoidably have. Shame is not only rated as less unpleasant in Japanese than U.S. American contexts, but it helps to achieve a core cultural goal, that of maintaining harmonious social relationships and doing enough for the group. The Japanese emotion haji (shame, embarrassment) fits the general Japanese ethos of perspective-taking and embodies a keen motivation not to burden others. Many of the emails I receive from my Japanese friends and colleagues start with, “I am sorry to trouble you.” Apologizing is at the center of shame practices: it is an acknowledgment of burdening the other, and the wish that this could have been prevented. When we conducted our interview studies, the same interviews that taught us that Japanese respondents were unsure what we meant by emotional intensity, we encountered another surprising fact: the Japanese interviewees felt most comfortable talking about situations of shame. In other cultures, we had saved shame episodes for the very last, and had started with a positive emotion, such as pride. But talking about moments of success, or standing out, risks jeopardizing the relationship with others in many Japanese contexts, and so it did not break the ice for our Japanese respondents.