Tenderness

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 Prayers of the Social Awakening (1910)

  pion of the outcast and the weak, we remember before thee the people of other nations who are com- ing to our land, seek- ing bread, a home, and a future. May we look with thy com- passion upon those who have been drained and stimted by the poverty and oppression of centuries, and whose minds have been warped by superstition or seared by the dumb agony of revolt. We bless thee for all that America has meant to the alien folk that have crossed the sea in the past, and for all the patient strength and God- fearing courage with which they have en- riched our nation. We rejoice in the millions whose life has expanded in the wealth and liberty of our coimtry, and whose children have grown to fairer stature and larger thoughts; for we, too, are the children of immigrants, who came with anxious hearts and halting feet on the westward path of hope. [59] m We beseech thee that our republic may no longer fail their trust. We mourn for the dark sins of past and present, wherein men who are held in honor among us made spoil of the ignorance and helplessness of the strangers and sent them to an early death. In a nation dedicated to liberty may they not find the old oppression and a fiercer greed. May they never find that the arm of the law is but the arm of the strong. Help our whole people henceforth to keep in leash the cunning that would devour the simple. May they feel here the pure air of freedom and face the morning radiance of a joyous hope. For all the oppressed afar off who sigh for liberty; for all lovers of the people who strive to break their shackles; for all who dare to believe in democracy and the King- dom of God, make thou om* great common- wealth once more a sure beacon-light of hope and a guide on the path which leads to the perfect imion of law and liberty. [60] FOR EMPLOYERS

• From The Great Transformation (2006)

  And if you save your greetings for your brothers, are you doing anything exceptional? You must be perfect as your heavenly father is perfect. 66 The paradox “Love your enemies” was probably designed to shock his audience into new insight; it required kenosis, because you had to offer benevolence where there was no hope of any return. The final flowering of the Axial Age occurred in seventh-century Arabia, when the prophet Muhammad brought the Qur’an, a divinely inspired scripture, to the people of the Hijaz. Muhammad, of course, had never heard of the Axial Age, but he would probably have understood the concept. The Qur’an did not claim to be a new revelation, but simply to restate the message that had been given to Adam, the father of humanity, who was also the first prophet. It insisted that Muhammad had not come to replace the prophets of the past but to return to the primordial faith of Abraham, who lived before the Torah and the gospel—before, that is, the religions of God had split into warring sects. 67 God had sent messengers to every people on the face of the earth, and today Muslim scholars have argued that had the Arabs known about the Buddha or Confucius, the Qur’an would have endorsed their teachings too. The basic message of the Qur’an was not a doctrine—indeed, it was skeptical of theological speculation, which it called zannah, “self-indulgent guesswork”—but a command to practical compassion. It was wrong to build a private fortune selfishly, at the expense of others, and good to share your wealth fairly and create a just and decent society where poor and vulnerable people were treated with respect. Like all the great Axial sages, Muhammad lived in a violent society, when old values were breaking down. Arabia was caught up in a vicious cycle of tribal warfare, in which one vendetta led inexorably to another. It was also a time of economic and material progress. The harsh terrain and climate of the Arabian Peninsula had isolated the Arabs, but in the late sixth century CE the city of Mecca had established a thriving market economy and its merchants took their caravans into the more developed regions of Persia, Syria, and Byzantium. Muhammad was himself a successful merchant, and delivered his message to the Meccans in an atmosphere of cutthroat capitalism and high finance. The Meccans were now rich beyond their wildest dreams, but in the stampede for wealth, old tribal values, which demanded that the community take care of the weaker members of the clan, had been forgotten.

• From The Great Transformation (2006)

  It is frequently assumed, for example, that faith is a matter of believing certain creedal propositions. Indeed, it is common to call religious people “believers,” as though assenting to the articles of faith were their chief activity. But most of the Axial philosophers had no interest whatever in doctrine or metaphysics. A person’s theological beliefs were a matter of total indifference to somebody like the Buddha. Some sages steadfastly refused even to discuss theology, claiming that it was distracting and damaging. Others argued that it was immature, unrealistic, and perverse to look for the kind of absolute certainty that many people expect religion to provide. All the traditions that were developed during the Axial Age pushed forward the frontiers of human consciousness and discovered a transcendent dimension in the core of their being, but they did not necessarily regard this as supernatural, and most of them refused to discuss it. Precisely because the experience was ineffable, the only correct attitude was reverent silence. The sages certainly did not seek to impose their own view of this ultimate reality on other people. Quite the contrary: nobody, they believed, should ever take any religious teaching on faith or at second hand. It was essential to question everything and to test any teaching empirically, against your personal experience. In fact, as we shall see, if a prophet or philosopher did start to insist on obligatory doctrines, it was usually a sign that the Axial Age had lost its momentum. If the Buddha or Confucius had been asked whether he believed in God, he would probably have winced slightly and explained—with great courtesy—that this was not an appropriate question. If anybody had asked Amos or Ezekiel if he was a “monotheist,” who believed in only one God, he would have been equally perplexed. Monotheism was not the issue. We find very few unequivocal assertions of monotheism in the Bible, but—interestingly—the stridency of some of these doctrinal statements actually departs from the essential spirit of the Axial Age. What mattered was not what you believed but how you behaved. Religion was about doing things that changed you at a profound level. Before the Axial Age, ritual and animal sacrifice had been central to the religious quest. You experienced the divine in sacred dramas that, like a great theatrical experience today, introduced you to another level of existence. The Axial sages changed this; they still valued ritual, but gave it a new ethical significance and put morality at the heart of the spiritual life. The only way you could encounter what they called “God,” “Nirvana,” “Brahman,” or the “Way” was to live a compassionate life. Indeed, religion was compassion. Today we often assume that before undertaking a religious lifestyle, we must prove to our own satisfaction that “God” or the “Absolute” exists.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  I liked slipping into the rare snatches of conversation and the more ordinary gestures and positions which, in the Bois, both tempered and highlighted the more extraordinary encounters. One evening when the porte Dauphine was virtually deserted, our car headlights picked out two very tall black men standing on the edge of the pavement. They looked as if they were lost or waiting, in this desolate backwater, for an improbable bus. They lead us to a place nearby, to a little attic room. The room and the bed were both narrow. They took me one after the other. While one was on top of me, the other sat on the corner of the bed and made no attempt to join in. He just watched. They made big slow movements and had long cocks like I’d never seen before, not too thick and able to penetrate very far without my having to spread my legs too wide. They were like twins. Two gentle unhurried couplings in a row. They touched me with a sort of precision and in return I revelled in the vast skin surface that they presented to me. I really think that, that particular time, I took the time to feel each stroke of their patient penetration. While I was getting dressed they chatted to Éric about the Bois de Boulogne and about their work as cooks. As we left they thanked me with all the sincerity of polite hosts, and my memory of them is full of affection. At Chez Aimé, relations between people were not so civil. ‘Aimé’ was a very popular swingers club to which people came from very far away, even from abroad. Years after it had closed, I still marvelled like an awestruck schoolgirl when Éric listed the famous people – the film stars, singers, sports personalities and businessmen – I might have met there without actually opening my eyes enough to recognise them. During the time that we went there, a film which parodied some aspects of sexual liberation came out. One scene took place in a club which looked like Chez Aimé; it showed a group of men thronging round a table. There was a woman lying on the table, but all you could see were her legs, in high boots, jiggling comically over their heads. Because those sort of boots were in fashion at the time, and I wore them, and even tended to keep them on when I didn’t have a stitch of clothing on because they were difficult to remove, and because I must have brandished them in the air like that more than once as I lay on a table, I had the vanity to think that it might well be my minimal attire and my waving in the air that had fired the director’s imagination.

• From Prayers of the Social Awakening (1910)

  all that the great school of life is not encom- passed by walls and that its teachers are all who influence their younger brethren by companionship and example, whether for good or evil, and that in that school all we are teachers and as we teach are judged. For all false teaching, for all hindering of thy children, pardon us, O Lord, and suffer the little children to come imto thee, for Jesus' sake. MORNAY WILLIAMS. m [54] FOR WOMEN WHO TOIL GOD, we pray thee for our sisters who are leav- ing the ancient shelter of the home to earn their wage in the fac- tory and the store amid the press of modem life. Save them from the strain of tmremitting toil that would unfit them for the holy duties of home and mother- hood which the future may lay upon them. Give them grace to cherish under the new sur- roundings the old sweetness and gentleness of womanhood, and in the rough mingling of life to keep their hearts pure and their lives untarnished. Save them from the terrors of utter want. Teach them to stand loyally by their sisters, that by imited action they may better their common lot. If it must be so that our women toil like men, help us still to reverence in them the mothers of the future. But make us deter- mined to shield them from unequal burdens, that the women of our nation be not drained of strength and hope for the enrichment of a few, lest our homes grow poor in the wifely [55] sweetness and motherly love which have be^ the saving strength and glory of our country. To such as yearn for the love and sovereign freedom of their own home, grant in due time the fulfilment of their sweet desires. By Mary, the beloved, who bore the world's redemption in her bosom; by the memory of our own dear mothers who kissed our souls awake ; by the little daughters who must soon go out into that world which we are now fash- ioning for others, we beseech thee that we may deal aright by all women. FOR WORKINGMEN

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  But then she didn’t care what was his way to explain it to himself was just glad that she had given him this, given him something — God knows she gave him nothing at the job — and soon he seemed to reappear, to float up to the surface again and exist, and she moved to lie against him, and he buried his face in her sweaty neck, maybe ashamed of how much he had shown of himself, uneasy about how The Dead End fob 163 much she knew him now, though she liked knowing him — he knew her, so why not? — secretly wanted to know him more, to know everything, even though she suspected that it would be impossible, would probably never happen, that this was as close as they would ever get, this instant, this afternoon. Isabel didn’t see Owen often after this. Only once did they meet in his house, when his wife was away. While Isabel was there, the door to the bedroom stayed closed, and she could imagine how its dark (was it oak?) wood might have to him a vexing and mysterious power — intergalactic or timeless or whatever it had been in the film — if always in that position. They used a den but mostly stayed in the bathroom, where he washed her slowly in the shower, aroused as he always was by fulfilling a function, being employed, even if the need was one he had created in her, for she did need him now, or wanted him, had had trouble waiting for him, anyway, from the time they entered his home. Otherwise, they met in his office whenever they could, for he had obligations, and — without saying so, without saying much of anything — they both regarded their time together as a gift, could not be greedy for more,just had to be grateful. Isabel barely spoke fo Martin now. Her duties seemed less stultifying, filled as they were with subtext, the numbers on her screen changed into symbols of longing found on another planet or formed in the future and fascinating; but Martin seemed even more frustrated. Isabel could hear him sighing from where he sat, and she believed it was both for her benefit and a genuine expression of dismay. She was sorry for him but not guilty, no matter how much she thought she ought to be. One dusk, both were alone in the elevator going down, though she usually avoided exiting the building with him. They rode in silence until, a few floors from the lobby, Martin spoke a rare completed sentence. “T know that you go with him,” he said. Isabel started, and the little bell rang as they hit the ground floor, seeming to underline his remark. She didn’t respond, only walked quickly ahead and away from him; but she knew that things were different, had entered a new phase, she could feel it, and he had made it happen.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  She showed up at the restaurant in a long black raincoat and a little black dress. Her light skin glowed under her black stockings. She wore hoop earrings and her hair was bunned up and elegantly coiffed, with tendrils spilling round her ears like wisps of red silk. She fixed my white shirt collar and ran an’admiring finger down the lapel of my navy blue jacket. “Poet complied with a male dress code too, I see.” She teased me by slipping her right hand into my deep trouser pocket and as she probed her right hand around in there she flashed me her other hand, showing off her diamond engagement ring. The stone in its setting gleamed like a strange crystal star. “So I finally meet the rock,” I said. I slung her bag over my shoulder and led her inside, to a round booth, a table draped in ivory cloth and lit by orange scented candles. We barely poked at our appetizers, our arms snaked round each other, our bodies sparking so much heat that I was sure the tablecloth would catch. As she stared at me and sipped her wine, I caressed her legs from her ankles and up her calves, my fingers dancing in quick skips across her thighs. I read the lace tops of her stockings as if they were written in Braille. She held her wineglass and with her free hand compulsively zipped and unzipped and zipped my trousers as if the zipper were her own personal toy. The constant movement over my crotch made my cock stiffen. At one point she poked a finger into my open fly and teased my swelling shaft. “So, I have been reprehensible, huh?” she asked. “By your own admission, you’ve been a disgracefully capricious fiancée,” I whispered. I reached my arm around her back and 46 Thom Gautier squeezed her tightly, warmly to me. The sudden tenderness of our shoulders pressed together made us both feel the moment and our erotic play gave way as we choked up. We coughed. We caught our breath. I realized she was leaving. I toasted the past weeks. “To our pink swims, to midnight coves, to botched poems, to waterfall sketches, to what we have shared.” My eyes watered up a little as I held my glass near her but seeing she was so composed pulled me together. She tapped her glass against mine. She said, “It was what it was, right?” I assured her that was the only reasonable way to sum it up. After dessert she rested her head on her hands. “Now, regarding my getting away with murder. My capriciousness. What is poet- boy going to do about that?” she asked, hiding her smile behind the menu as she raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Oh. You’re going to have to get a talking-to.” I squeezed her leg and she squealed. The hostess at her podium heard Shannon squeal and smiled over at us.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  The cabs of articulated trucks suit much better, mainly because they are equipped with a couchette. I can never catch sight of the girls waiting by the side of the road, their bodies covered in a patchwork of skimpy accessories, a balcony bra glinting above the low-cut top which doesn’t quite meet the miniskirt from under which a suspender belt protrudes … I can never see them without thinking of the little jump they have to make on one foot to reach for the step to get up to the customer who has stopped his vehicle. I am familiar with that impulsion the body needs and the brief subsequent ascension which carries that body up to two solid blokes who greet it delicately, accustomed as they are to limit their movements in the restricted cab. My good fortune was not having to name a price or to wait out in the cold. I didn’t spend much on my outfit either. I would wear just a coat or a raincoat which would fall open like a dressing-gown on the way up. Once when I was snuggled into one of these couchettes – by chance in an International Art Transport truck, one of the main transporters of art, parked near the porte D’Auteuil – I received the most elaborate caresses. On that occasion only one of the two truckers took care of me, at great length, to the extent that – to my surprise – he kissed me on the mouth and went on fondling me after he had come. The other one watched, first by adjusting the rear-view mirror and then he turned sideways but did not touch me. It got late, we chatted; it was a very convivial situation.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  They are more beautiful than the painted angels that you have taken me to see so often. O alas! if you have any concern for my welfare, do make it possible for us to take one of these goslings back with us, and I will pop things into its bill.’ ‘Certainly not,’ said his father. ‘Their bills are not where you think, and require a special sort of diet.’ But no sooner had he spoken than he realized that his wits were no match for Nature, and regretted having brought the boy to Florence in the first place. But I have no desire to carry this tale any further, and I shall now direct my attention to the people for whose ears it was intended. As you will recall, young ladies, some of my critics claim that it is wrong of me to take so much trouble to please you, and that I am altogether too fond of you. To these charges I openly plead guilty: it is quite true that I am fond of you and that I strive to please you. But what, may I ask, do they find so surprising about it, when you consider that a young man who had been nurtured and reared within the confines of a tiny cave on a bleak and lonely mountainside, with no other companion except his father, no sooner caught sight of you than all his desires, all his curiosity, all the leanings of his affection were centred upon you, and you alone? Nor, delectable ladies, was he yet aware of the amorous kisses, the sweet caresses, and the blissful embraces that you so often bestow upon us, for a man has merely to fix his eyes upon you to be captivated by your graceful elegance, your endearing charm, and your enchanting beauty, to say nothing of your womanly decorum. Am I to be abused by these people, then, am I to be mauled and mangled for liking you and striving to please you, when Heaven has given me a body with which to love you and when my soul has been pledged to you since childhood because of the light that gleams in your eyes, the honeyed sounds that issue from your lips, and the flames that are kindled by your sighs of tender compassion? When you consider that even an apprentice hermit, a witless youth who was more of a wild animal than a human being, liked you better than anything he had ever seen, it is perfectly clear that those who criticize me on these grounds are people who, being ignorant of the strength and pleasure of natural affection, neither love you nor desire your love, and they are not worth bothering about. As for those who keep harping on about my age, they are clearly unaware of the fact that although the leek’s head 9 is white, it has a green tail.

• From Between Us

  This is not to say that it is impossible to imagine having a feeling for which another culture, but not yours, has a word. My American friends seem to relate pretty well to the Dutch word gezellig. They like it, even. Similarly, native speakers of English resonate with amae, fago, and hasham. In one study, despite not having a word for amae, American college students recognized amae situations, and interpreted them in similar ways as Japanese students. American respondents considered amae situations such as “a good friend calling late at night to ask for help with computer problems” as inconsiderate, yet acceptable—in line with the Japanese definition of amae. And similar to their Japanese counterparts, American college students also thought the inconsiderate request would make them feel closer to their friend. Yet, learning about gezellig or amae as a native speaker of English may be a bit like a toddler’s first encounter with an emotion concept: You do not know about all the different ways which the emotion can feel or look; you only have a skeleton. You have an outline of an emotion, and most likely only one facet. In the amae study American college students were only asked about the role of the caretaker, amayakasu, and there were differences in the way they perceived this role from how the Japanese perceived it. American college students said they would feel control in this role, whereas Japanese respondents did not. Arguably, American respondents were more focused on themselves and their individual agency than the Japanese respondents who were merely focused on the relationship. But even disregarding the difference in perspective, it can be argued that amae was not the same for the American students as it was for the Japanese. American students did recognize these situations in which they were called on to nurture their friends, but most likely they did not have the associations that any Japanese person would have based on their lifelong experiences with all the different facets of an amae relationship. Did I say that gezellig also refers to Dutch winters where it is dark outside and cold, but you are all together warming yourselves at the fire, with no need to go outside anymore? I am sure you could not have guessed that from the description of gezellig as “being snug in a warm and homely place surrounded by friends” that gezellig is for winters.

• From The Sexual Life of Catherine M. (2001)

  The pleasure is only fleeting because the body so pummelled, prodded and manhandled is evanescent. The body which has reached orgasm has been as completely absorbed into deep, mysterious recesses as the body of a pianist is concentrated in the tips of his fingers. And do the pianist’s fingers put any weight on the keys? At times, it doesn’t seem so. Watching a video in which I masturbate with a floating hand, the man next to me says I look like a guitar player. My fingers are relaxed and they swing backwards and forwards in the dark cloud like clockwork, but their movements are very precise. When I am not alone and I know that they will soon be replaced by a much bigger instrument, I never press too hard, I make the most of this sweetness. I never masturbate by inserting my fingers into my cunt, I make do with barely dipping in my middle finger in order to moisten the front. If the movements become a bit more pronounced, the fine skin on the inside of the thighs is rippled by a wave. I see that I am gently touching my partner’s organ in the same way. As I get down to a blow job, I protect the bottom of his penis and his testicles in the crook of my hands in exactly the same way that I would gather a lizard or a bird. One close-up shows me with my mouth full and my eyes wide open looking at the screen; there is a degree of technical control in this gaze. In another, my eyes and mouth are closed, with the latter offered to the glans which explores it; I look as if I am sound asleep when I am actually concentrating hard to stay in focus. Later, wanting to take in the glans, I carefully open and push aside the labia, well aware of how fragile this object that I am about to wrap myself round is.

• From Cultish (2021)

  With this in mind, it’s important not to overdramatize; and as a whole, woo-woo workout mantras are very different from the deceptive, reality-warping dogma of leaders like Marshall Applewhite or Rich DeVos. I can safely say that most “cult fitness” rhetoric I came across wasn’t camouflaging evil motives, and importantly, there tended to be boundaries separating it from the rest of members’ lives. By and large, it obeyed the rules of ritual time. At the end of a “cult workout” class, you’re allowed to clock out and start talking like yourself again. And most people do, because when participants engage with the language of “cult fitness,” it’s usually with open eyes. Unlike in Amway or Heaven’s Gate, most followers know they’re participating in a fantasy—that they’re not really “entrepreneurs” or “in craft” (or “champions” and “warriors,” as it were). Whether instructors are using the language of ancient monks, motivational speakers, Olympic coaches, the army, or some mishmash, it’s all a means of creating an illusion. The words and intonation put exercisers in a transcendent headspace, but just for the length of a class. If it gets to be too much, followers are free to tap out at any time without life-ruining exit costs. To go back to the kink analogy, fitness studios have their followers’ consent. At least they’re supposed to. However, as we’ve learned, wherever there are magnetic leaders charging money for meaning, there’s the chance for things to go awry. There’s a reason cult fitness language feels so otherworldly—it’s to make these classes feel essential not only to followers’ health but to their lives as a whole. Just as much as it’s there to provide the follower a stimulating experience, it’s to psychologically attach them to the instructor, as if this fitness class, this guru, holds the ultimate answers to their happiness. When language blurs the lines separating fitness teacher, celebrity, therapist, spiritual leader, sex symbol, and friend, it starts to mess with ritual time. When that happens, the power instructors wield can tread into exploitative territory. And of course, no fitness company thinks, “You know what, maybe our brand is becoming too influential. Maybe we should cool it on the chanting.” After all, they’re actively trying to gain a “cult following.” It’s the whole point. Brands know that language is the key to accomplishing this—and they don’t hold back. Like the studio’s own version of the Ten Commandments, SoulCycle’s studio walls are emblazoned with mantras that envelop riders into a unified “we.” “We aspire to inspire,” reads the two-foot-tall print. “We inhale intention and exhale expectation. . . . The rhythm pushes us harder than we ever thought possible. Our own strength surprises us every time.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I pulled her out of bed and led her into my bathroom. It was one of my favorite rooms in my otherwise charmless prewar apartment: a cosy bathroom with those old fashioned white pentagon tiles. Like some low-rent prince, I knelt down and slipped her feet back into her navy blue heels and turned her around so she could see herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, her full white breasts flashing in the darkness, even more white and even more full as they gleamed luminously in the glass. I ran a forefinger down her breasts and tickled her nipples. I squeezed each one between my thumb and forefinger. “Buds of some unnamed flower,” I said and she jabbed me with her elbow as reward for my waxing poetically. ee I planted warm kisses on her nipples. Then I lifted my head and waved at her m the mirror. Her light blue eyes gleamed even in the dark. We both stared into the glass. She blew me a kiss. I rested my head playfully on her shoulder. She stared at my eyes in the mirror and reached back, soft-stroking my cock back to life. Her lovely fingers hardened me and she leaned forward over the sink,.and I entered her, slowly, softly, possessively, squeezing her ass cheeks as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on my porcelain sink, her head raised so she could see her own face in the mirror as I moved in her. The skin below my belly tickled against her smooth cleft. As we fucked, she matched my motions, slow yet fast, fast and yet slow, working out some delicious dizzying tempo all our own. I ran my hands along her back, across her hips. I teased the insides of her upper thighs, letting my fingers dance there even as we moved fast and faster, so fast, in fact, that before I could feel the surge burning in my balls she had let out another yelp of “OhJesusfuck,” loudly, in that sharp brogue of hers, and she came, flowing over me just as I erupted, erupting in thick spasms, my balls contracting with a force I’d never felt before, as if my body were willing itself to empty all of me into her. 44 Thom Gautier We collapsed clumsily to the cold bathroom floor, our legs akimbo, her high heels scraping against my leg. I propped a towel for a pillow and we dozed off in my bathroom, drifting into deep sleep, waking hours later to the sharp sunlight and the nagging buzz of her cell phone ringing somewhere in my empty bedroom. “That’s the bloody Magic Kingdom calling,” she said waving her hand around her head as if trying to swat a fly.

• From Cultish (2021)

  Tuning in to the rhetoric these communities use, and how its influence works for both good and not so good, can help us participate, however we choose, with clearer eyes. Growing up on my dad’s Synanon stories—his daily escapes to the forbidden high school in San Francisco, his experiments in the microbiology lab—taught me that as much as good moods and optimism can make a person more susceptible to suspicious influence, they can also lift someone out of a truly dark situation. With the right amount of judicious questioning, taking care never to abandon your logical thoughts or emotional instincts (which are there for a reason), one can ensure they stay connected to themselves through anything from an isolated commune to an oppressive start-up job to a scammy Instagram guru. Above all else, it’s important to maintain a vigilant twinkle in your eye—that tingle in your brain that tells you there’s some degree of metaphor and make- believe here, and that your identity comes not from one swami or single-minded ideology but from the vast amalgam of influences, experiences, and language that make up who you are. As long as you hang on to that, I think it’s possible to engage with certain cultish groups, knowing that at the end of the day, when you come home or close the app, strip off the group’s linguistic uniform, and start speaking like yourself again, you’re not all in. When I began writing this book, I was a touch concerned that by the end, all this cult research would just turn me into an antisocial, misanthropic version of myself. And even though I do feel more hyperaware than ever of the varying dialects of Cultish that imbue our daily lives, I’ve also gained a stronger sense of compassion. While I’m hardly likelier to move to a Shambhala-esque co-op or put my loyalty into some Instagram conspiritualist myself, I have acquired a newfound ability to suspend harsh judgment of those who might. This comes from knowing that one’s out-of-the-box beliefs, experiences, and allegiances are less a mark of individual foolishness and more a reflection of the fact that human beings are (to their advantage and their detriment) physiologically built to be more mystical and communal than I knew. It’s in our DNA to want to believe in something, to feel something, alongside other people seeking the same. I’m confident there’s a healthy way to do that. Part of me thinks it’s actually by becoming a part of several “cults” at once— like our Jonestown survivor Laura Johnston Kohl exchanging her one-commune lifestyle for involvement in a medley of separate groups. That way, we’re free to chant, to hashtag, to talk of manifesting and blessings, to use glossolalia even . . . to speak some form of Cultish . . . all the while staying tethered to reality. So let’s try again: Come along. Join me. Life is much too peculiar to go at it all alone.

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

  It reminds the Sons of Thunder when they were about to call fire from heaven upon a Samaritan village that He came not to destroy but to save. It tells us that "he who is not against Christ is for Christ," no matter what sectarian or unsectarian name he may bear. 5. It is the Gospel for woman. It weaves the purest types of womanhood into the gospel story: Elizabeth, who saluted the Saviour before his birth; the Virgin, whom all generations call blessed; the aged prophetess Anna, who departed not from the temple; Martha, the busy, hospitable housekeeper, with her quiet, contemplative sister Mary of Bethany; and that noble band of female disciples who ministered of their substance to the temporal wants of the Son of God and his apostles. It reveals the tender compassion of Christ for all the suffering daughters of Eve: the widow at Nain mourning at the bier of her only son; for the fallen sinner who bathed his feet with her tears; for the poor sick woman, who had wasted all her living upon physicians, and whom he addressed as "Daughter;" and for the "daughters of Jerusalem" who followed him weeping to Calvary. If anywhere we may behold the divine humanity of Christ and the perfect union of purity and love, dignity and tender compassion, it is in the conduct of Jesus towards women and children. "The scribes and Pharisees gathered up their robes in the streets and synagogues lest they should touch a woman, and held it a crime to look on an unveiled woman in public; our Lord suffered a woman to minister to him out of whom he had cast seven devils." 6. It is the Gospel for children, and all who are of a childlike spirit. It sheds a sacred halo and celestial charm over infancy, as perpetuating the paradise of innocence in a sinful world. It alone relates the birth and growth of John, the particulars of the birth of Christ, his circumcision and presentation in the temple, his obedience to parents, his growth from infancy to boyhood, from boyhood to manhood. Luke 1 – 2 will always be the favorite chapters for children and all who delight to gather around the manger of Bethlehem and to rejoice with shepherds on the field and angels in heaven. 7. It is the Gospel of poetry.1009 We mean the poetry of religion, the poetry of worship, the poetry of prayer and thanksgiving, a poetry resting not on fiction, but on facts and eternal truth. In such poetry there is more truth than in every-day prose. The whole book is full of dramatic vivacity and interest. It begins and ends with thanksgiving and praise. Luke 1–2 are overflowing with festive joy and gladness; they are a paradise of fragrant flowers, and the air is resonant with the sweet melodies of Hebrew psalmody and Christian hymnody.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  Sympathy is an emotion as to whose instinctiveness psychologists have held hot debate, some of them contending that it is no primitive endowment, but, originally at least, the result of a rapid calculation of the good consequences to ourselves of the sympathetic act. Such a calculation, at first conscious, would grow more unconscious as it became more habitual, and at last, tradition and association aiding, might prompt to actions which could not be distinguished from immediate impulses. It is hardly needful to argue against the falsity of this view. Some forms of sympathy, that of mother with child, for example, are surely primitive, and not intelligent forecasts of board and lodging and other support to be reaped in old age. Danger to the child blindly and instantaneously stimulates the mother to actions of alarm or defence. Menace or harm to the adult beloved or friend excites us in a corresponding way, often against all the dictates of prudence. It is true that sympathy does not necessarily follow from the mere fact of gregariousness. Cattle do not help a wounded comrade; on the contrary, they are more likely to dispatch him. But a dog will lick another sick dog, and even bring him food; and the sympathy of monkeys is proved by many observations to be strong. In man, then, we may lay it down that the sight of suffering or danger to others is a direct exciter of interest, and an immediate stimulus, if no complication hinders, to acts of relief. There is nothing unaccountable or pathological about this—nothing to justify Professor Bain's assimilation of it to the 'fixed ideas' of insanity, as 'clashing with the regular outgoings of the will.' It may be as primitive as any other 'outgoing,' and may be due to a random variation selected, quite as probably as gregariousness and maternal love are, even in Spencer's opinion, due to such variations. It is true that sympathy is peculiarly liable to inhibition from other instincts which its stimulus may call forth. The traveller whom the good Samaritan rescued may well have prompted such instinctive fear or disgust in the priest and Levite who passed him by, that their sympathy could not come to the front. Then, of course, habits, reasoned reflections, and calculations may either check or reinforce one's sympathy; as may also the instincts of love or hate, if these exist, for the suffering individual. The hunting and pugnacious instincts, when aroused, also inhibit our sympathy absolutely. This accounts for the cruelty of collections of men hounding each other on to bait or torture a victim. The blood mounts to the eyes, and sympathy's chance is gone.[390]

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

  In his childish imagination, Anselm conceived God Almighty as seated on a throne at the top of the Alps, and in a dream, he climbed up the mountain to meet Him. Seeing, on his way, the king’s maidens engaged in the harvest field, for it was Autumn, neglecting their work he determined to report their negligence to the king. The lad was most graciously received and asked whence he came and what he desired. The king’s kindness made him forget all about the charges he was intending to make. Then, refreshed with the whitest of bread, he descended again to the valley. The following day he firmly believed he had actually been in heaven and eaten at the Lord’s table. This was the story he told after he had ascended the chair of Canterbury. A quarrel with his father led to Anselm’s leaving his home. He set his face toward the West and finally settled in the Norman abbey of Le Bec, then under the care of his illustrious countryman Lanfranc. Here he studied, took orders, and, on Lanfranc’s transfer to the convent of St. Stephen at Caen, 1063, became prior, and, in 1078, abbot. At Bec he wrote most of his works. His warm devotion to the monastic life appears in his repeated references to it in his letters and in his longing to get back to the convent after he had been made archbishop. In 1093, he succeeded Lanfranc as archbishop of Canterbury. His struggle with William Rufus and Henry I. over investiture has already been described (pp. 88–93). During his exile on the Continent he attended a synod at Bari, where he defended the Latin doctrine of the procession of the Holy Spirit against the Greek bishops who were present.1328 The archbishop’s last years in England were years of quiet, and he had a peaceful end. They lifted him from the bed and placed him on ashes on the floor. There, "as morning was breaking, on the Wednesday before Easter," April 21, 1109, the sixteenth year of his pontificate and the seventy-sixth of his life, he slept in peace, as his biographer Eadmer says, "having given up his spirit into the hands of his Creator." He lies buried in Canterbury Cathedral at the side of Lanfranc. Anselm was a man of spotless integrity, single devotion to truth and righteousness, patient in suffering, and revered as a saint before his official canonization in 1494.1329 Dante associates him in Paradise with Nathan, the seer, and Chrysostom, both famous for rebuking vice in high places, and with the Calabrian prophet, Joachim.1330

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

  The Canticles was regarded as an inspired anthology of Mary’s excellences of body and soul. Damiani represents God as inflamed with love for her and singing its lines in her praise. She was the golden bed on which God, weary in His labor for men and angels, lay down for repose. The later interpretation was that the book is a bridal song for the nuptials between the Holy Spirit and the Virgin. Bernard’s homilies on this portion of Scripture are the most famous collection of the Middle Ages. Alanus ab Insulis, who calls Mary the "tabernacle of God, the palace of the celestial King," says that it refers to the Church, but in an especial and most spiritual way to the glorious virgin.2013 Writer after writer, preacher after preacher, took up this favorite portion of the Old Testament. An abbess represented the Virgin as singing to the Spirit:2014 "My beloved is mine and I am his. He will tarry between my breasts." The Holy Spirit responded, "Thy breasts are sweeter than honey."

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  She seemed to be striving to obliterate, not only herself, but the whole hostile world through some strange and agonized merging with Mary. It was terrible indeed, very like unto death, and it left them both completely exhausted. The world had achieved its first real victory. CHAPTER 47 1 T heir Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it were by a common impulse, they turned to such people as Barbara and Jamie, people who would neither despise nor insult them. It was Mary who suggested that Barbara and Jamie should be asked to share their Christmas dinner, while Stephen who must suddenly pity Wanda for a misjudged and very unfortunate genius, invited her also—after all why not? Wanda was more sinned against than sinning. She drank, oh, yes, Wanda drowned her sorrows; everybody knew that, and like Valérie Seymour, Stephen hated drink like the plague—but all the same she invited Wanda. An ill wind it is that blows no one any good. Barbara and Jamie accepted with rapture; but for Mary’s most timely invitation, their funds being low at the end of the year, they two must have gone without Christmas dinner. Wanda also seemed glad enough to come, to leave her enormous, turbulent canvas for the orderly peace of the well-warmed house with its comfortable rooms and its friendly servants. All three of them arrived a good hour before dinner, which on this occasion would be in the evening . Wanda had been up to Midnight Mass at the Sacré Cœur, she informed them gravely; and Stephen, reminded of Mademoiselle Duphot, regretted that she had not offered her the motor. No doubt she too had gone up to Montmartre for Midnight Mass—how queer, she and Wanda. Wanda was quiet, depressed and quite sober; she was wearing a straight-cut, simple black dress that somehow suggested a species of cassock. And as often happened when Wanda was sober, she repeated herself more than when she was drunk. ‘I have been to the Sacré Cœur,’ she repeated, ‘for the Messe de Minuit; it was very lovely.’ But she did not reveal the tragic fact that her fear had suddenly laid hold upon her at the moment of approaching the altar rails, so that she had scuttled back to her seat, terrified of receiving the Christmas Communion.

• From A Way of Being (1980)

  MY CONCERN WITH COMMUNICATION Still peering back—though my neck is getting stiff from that posture—I can see what is perhaps one overriding theme in my professional life. It is my caring about communication. From my very earliest years it has, for some reason, been a passionate concern of mine. I have been pained when I have seen others communicating past one another. I have wanted to communicate myself so that I could not be misunderstood. I have wanted to understand, as profoundly as possible, the communication of the other, be he a client or friend or family member. I have wanted to be understood. I have tried to facilitate clarity of communication between individuals of the most diverse points of view. I have worked for better communication between groups whose perceptions and experiences are poles apart: strangers, members of different cultures, representatives of different strata of society. To give adequate examples would compass the length of my career. I will cite only one. The filmed experience of a group involved in the drug scene included “straight” individuals, such as a narcotics agent, and “stoned” individuals, including a convicted drug pusher. There were blacks and whites, the young and middle-aged, people from the ghetto and members of the middle class. The group process by which communication and closeness became a living part of this diverse group is an experience I shall never forget. It is unfortunate that the film’s title, Because That’s My Way, chosen for us, catches so little of the vivid interchange that occurred (Station WQED, 1971). This obsession with communication has had its own unexpected rewards. I held a half-hour interview with a young woman named Gloria (some of you may have seen the film [Shostrom, 1965]) and a deeply communicative contact was established. To my complete surprise, she has kept in occasional touch with me for eight years, primarily in appreciation for the closeness we achieved. With Randy, the convicted drug pusher in the drug film, I was in constant correspondence for more than a year. Mr. Vac, one of my clients in our complex research on psychotherapy with schizophrenics, tracked me down after eight years with a “Hi, Doc,” to let me know that he was still doing well and had never returned to the state hospital, even for a day. I think such rewards are savored more as the years go by. IN SUM So I can sum up my informal look at my professional past by saying: