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

  as thinking, or else the feeling of the body's actual existence at the moment,—or finally to both. We cannot realize our present self without simultaneously feeling one or other of these two things. Any other fact which brings these two things with it into consciousness will be thought with a warmth and an intimacy like those which cling to the present self. Any distant self which fulfills this condition will be thought with such warmth and intimacy. But which distant selves do fulfil the condition, when represented? Obviously those, and only those, which fulfilled it when they were alive. Them we shall imagine with the animal warmth upon them, to them may possibly cling the aroma, the echo of the thinking taken in the act. And by a natural consequence, we shall assimilate them to each other and to the warm and intimate self we now feel within us as we think, and separate them as a collection from whatever selves have not this mark, much as out of a herd of cattle let loose for the winter on some wide western prairie the owner picks out and sorts together when the time for the round-up comes in the spring, all the beasts on which he finds his own particular brand. The various members of the collection thus set apart are felt to belong with each other whenever they are thought at all. The animal warmth, etc., is their herd-mark, the brand from which they can never more escape. It runs through them all like a thread through a chaplet and makes them into a whole, which we treat as a unit, no matter how much in other ways the parts may differ inter se . Add to this character the farther one that the distant selves appear to our thought as having for hours of time been continuous with each other, and the most recent ones of them continuous with the Self of the present moment, melting into it by slow degrees; and we get a still stronger bond of union. As we think we see an identical bodily thing when, in spite of changes of structure, it exists continuously before our eyes, or when, however interrupted its presence, its quality returns unchanged; so here we think we experience an identical Self when it appears to us in an analogous way. Continuity makes us unite what dissimilarity might otherwise separate; similarity makes us unite what discontinuity might hold apart. And thus it is, finally, that Peter, awakening in the same bed with Paul, and recalling what both had in mind before they went to sleep, reidentifies and appropriates the 'warm' ideas as his, and is never tempted to confuse them with those cold and pale-appearing ones which he ascribes to Paul. As well might he confound Paul's body, which he only sees, with his own body, which he sees but also feels. Each of us when he awakens says, Here's the same old self again, just as he says,

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

  is involved in thought's mere existence. Even a really disconnected world could only be known to be such by having its parts temporarily united in the Object of some pulse of consciousness.[272] The sense of personal identity is not, then, this mere synthetic form essential to all thought. It is the sense of a sameness perceived by thought and predicated of things thought-about . These things are a present self and a self of yesterday. The thought not only thinks them both, but thinks that they are identical. The psychologist, looking on and playing the critic, might prove the thought wrong, and show there was no real identity,—there might have been no yesterday, or, at any rate, no self of yesterday; or, if there were, the sameness predicated might not obtain, or might be predicated on insufficient grounds. In either case the personal identity would not exist as a fact ; but it would exist as a feeling all the same; the consciousness of it by the thought would be there, and the psychologist would still have to analyze that, and show where its illusoriness lay. Let us now be the psychologist and see whether it be right or wrong when it says, I am the same self that I was yesterday . We may immediately call it right and intelligible so far as it posits a past time with past thoughts or selves contained therein—these were data which we assumed at the outset of the book. Right also and intelligible so far as it thinks of a present self—that present self we have just studied in its various forms. The only question for us is as to what the consciousness may mean when it calls the present self the same with one of the past selves which it has in mind. We spoke a moment since of warmth and intimacy. This leads us to the answer sought. For, whatever the thought we are criticising may think about its present self, that self comes to its acquaintance, or is actually felt, with warmth and intimacy. Of course this is the case with the bodily part of it; we feel the whole cubic mass of our body all the while, it gives us an unceasing sense of personal existence. Equally do we feel the inner 'nucleus of the spiritual self,' either in the shape of yon faint physiological adjustments, or (adopting the universal psychological belief), in that of the pure activity of our thought taking place as such. Our remoter spiritual, material, and social selves, so far as they are realized, come also with a glow and a warmth; for the thought of them infallibly brings some degree of organic emotion in the shape of quickened heart-beats, oppressed breathing, or some other alteration, even though it be a slight one, in the general bodily tone. The character of 'warmth,' then, in the present self, reduces itself to either of two things,—something in the feeling which we have of the thought itself,

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

  espouse, one has to hold his position against heavy odds. If, with the Spiritualists, one contend for a substantial soul, or transcendental principle of unity, one can give no positive account of what that may be. And if, with the Humians, one deny such a principle and say that the stream of passing thoughts is all, one runs against the entire common-sense of mankind, of which the belief in a distinct principle of selfhood seems an integral part. Whatever solution be adopted in the pages to come, we may as well make up our minds in advance that it will fail to satisfy the majority of those to whom it is addressed. The best way of approaching the matter will be to take up first— The Sense of Personal Identity. In the last chapter it was stated in as radical a way as possible that the thoughts which we actually know to exist do not fly about loose, but seem each to belong to some one thinker and not to another. Each thought, out of a multitude of other thoughts of which it may think, is able to distinguish those which belong to its own Ego from those which do not. The former have a warmth and intimacy about them of which the latter are completely devoid, being merely conceived, in a cold and foreign fashion, and not appearing as blood-relatives, bringing their greetings to us from out of the past. Now this consciousness of personal sameness may be treated either as a subjective phenomenon or as an objective deliverance, as a feeling, or as a truth. We may explain how one bit of thought can come to judge other bits to belong to the same Ego with itself; or we may criticise its judgment and decide how far it may tally with the nature of things. As a mere subjective phenomenon the judgment presents no difficulty or mystery peculiar to itself. It belongs to the great class of judgments of sameness; and there is nothing more remarkable in making a judgment of sameness in the first person than in the second or the third. The intellectual operations seem essentially alike, whether I say 'I am the same,' or whether I say 'the pen is the same, as yesterday.' It is as easy to think this as to think the opposite and say 'neither I nor the pen is the same.' This sort of bringing of things together into the object of a single judgment is of course essential to all thinking. The things are conjoined in the thought, whatever may be the relation in which they appear to the thought. The thinking them is thinking them together, even if only with the result of judging that they do not belong together. This sort of subjective synthesis , essential to knowledge as such (whenever it has a complex object), must not be confounded with objective synthesis or union instead of difference or disconnection, known among the things.[271] The subjective synthesis

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

  but must I die groaning too? I will speak what appears to be right, and if the despot says, then I will put you to death, I will reply, 'When did I ever tell you that I was immortal? You will do your part and I mine; it is yours to kill and mine to die intrepid; yours to banish, mine to depart untroubled.' How do we act in a voyage? We choose the pilot, the sailors, the hour. Afterwards comes a storm. What have I to care for? My part is performed. This matter belongs to the pilot. But the ship is sinking; what then have I to do? That which alone I can do—submit to being drowned without fear, without clamor or accusing of God, but as one who knows that what is born must likewise die."[264] This Stoic fashion, though efficacious and heroic enough in its place and time, is, it must be confessed, only possible as an habitual mood of the soul to narrow and unsympathetic characters. It proceeds altogether by exclusion. If I am a Stoic, the goods I cannot appropriate cease to be my goods, and the temptation lies very near to deny that they are goods at all. We find this mode of protecting the Self by exclusion and denial very common among people who are in other respects not Stoics. All narrow people intrench their Me, they retract it,—from the region of what they cannot securely possess. People who don't resemble them, or who treat them with indifference, people over whom they gain no influence, are people on whose existence, however meritorious it may intrinsically be, they look with chill negation, if not with positive hate. Who will not be mine I will exclude from existence altogether; that is, as far as I can make it so, such people shall be as if they were not.[265] Thus may a certain absoluteness and definiteness in the outline of my Me console me for the smallness of its content. Sympathetic people, on the contrary, proceed by the entirely opposite way of expansion and inclusion. The outline of their self often gets uncertain enough, but for this the spread of its content more than atones. Nil humani a me alienum . Let them despise this little person of mine, and treat me like a dog, I shall not negate them so long as I have a soul in my body. They are realities as much as I am. What positive good is in them shall be mine too, etc., etc. The magnanimity of these expansive natures is often touching indeed. Such persons can feel a sort of delicate rapture in thinking that, however sick, ill-favored, mean-conditioned, and generally forsaken they may be, they yet are integral parts of the whole of this brave world, have a fellow's share in the strength of the dray-horses, the happiness of the young people, the wisdom of the wise ones, and are not altogether without part or lot in

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

  Prof. Bain's explanation of sociability and parental love by the pleasures of touch: "Touch is the fundamental and generic sense. . . . Even after the remaining senses are differentiated , the primary sense continues to be a leading susceptibility of the mind. The soft warm touch, if not a first-class influence, is at least an approach to that. The combined power of soft contact and warmth amounts to a considerable pitch of massive pleasure; while there may be subtle influences not reducible to these two heads, such as we term, from not knowing anything about them, magnetic or electric. The sort of thrill from taking a baby in arms is something beyond mere warm touch; and it may rise to the ecstatic height, in which case, however, there may be concurrent sensations and ideas. . . . In mere tender emotion not sexual, there is nothing but the sense of touch to gratify, unless we assume the occult magnetic influences. . . . In a word, our love pleasures begin and end in sensual contact. Touch is both the alpha and omega of affection. As the terminal and satisfying sensation, the ne plus ultra, it must be a pleasure of the highest degree. . . . Why should a more lively feeling grow up towards a fellow-being than towards a perennial fountain? [This 'should' is simply delicious from the more modern evolutionary point of view.] It must be that there is a source of pleasure in the companionship of other sentient creatures, over and above the help afforded by them in obtaining the necessaries of life. To account for this, I can suggest nothing but the primary and independent pleasure of the animal embrace." [Mind, this is said not of the sexual interest, but of 'Sociability at Large.'] "For this pleasure every creature is disposed to pay something, even when it is only fraternal. A certain amount of material benefit imparted is a condition of the full heartiness of a responding embrace, the complete fruition of this primitive joy. In the absence of those conditions the pleasure of giving . . . can scarcely be accounted for; we know full well that, without these helps, it would be a very meager sentiment in beings like ourselves. . . . It seems to me that there must be at the [parental instinct's] foundation that intense pleasure in the embrace of the young which we find to characterize the parental feeling throughout. Such a pleasure once created would associate itself with the prevailing features and aspects of the young, and give to all of these their very great interest. For the sake of the pleasure, the parent discovers the necessity of nourishing the subject of it, and comes to regard the ministering function as a part or condition of the delight" (Emotions and Will, pp. 126, 127, 132, 133, 140). Prof Bain does not explain why a satin cushion kept at about 98 F. would not on the whole give us

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

  Hume's cases are rather trivial; and the things which associated sensible objects make us believe in are supposed by him to be unreal. But all the more manifest for that is the fact of their psychological influence. Who does not 'realize' more the fact of a dead or distant friend's existence, at the moment when a portrait, letter, garment or other material reminder of him is found? The whole notion of him then grows pungent and speaks to us and shakes us, in a manner unknown at other times. In children's minds, fancies and realities live side by side. But however lively their fancies may be, they still gain help from association with reality. The imaginative child identifies its dramatis personæ with some doll or other material object, and this evidently solidifies belief, little as it may resemble what it is held to stand for. A thing not too interesting by its own real qualities generally does the best service here. The most useful doll I ever saw was a large cucumber in the hands of a little Amazonian-Indian girl; she nursed it and washed it and rocked it to sleep in a, hammock, and talked to it all day long—there was no part in life which the cucumber did not play. Says Mr. Tylor:

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

  Nothing is commoner than the remark that Man differs from lower creatures by the almost total absence of instincts, and the assumption of their work in him by 'reason.' A fruitless discussion might be waged on this point by two theorizers who were careful not to define their terms. 'Reason' might be used, as it often has been, since Kant, not as the mere power of 'inferring,' but also as a name for the tendency to obey impulses of a certain lofty sort, such as duty, or universal ends. And 'instinct ' might have its significance so broadened as to cover all impulses whatever, even the impulse to act from the idea of a distant fact, as well as the impulse to act from a present sensation. Were the word instinct used in this broad way, it would of course be impossible to restrict it, as we began by doing, to actions done with no prevision of an end. We must of course avoid a quarrel about words, and the facts of the case are really tolerably plain. Man has a far greater variety of impulses than any lower animal; and any one of these impulses, taken in itself, is as 'blind' as the lowest instinct can be; but, owing to man's memory, power of reflection, and power of inference, they come each one to be felt by him, after he has once yielded to them and experienced their results, in connection with a foresight of those results. In this condition an impulse acted out may be said to be acted out, in pert at least, for the sake of its results. It is obvious that every instinctive act, in an animal with memory, must cease to be 'blind' after being once repeated , and must be accompanied with foresight of its 'end' just so far as that end may have fallen under the animal's cognizance. An insect that lays her eggs in a place where she never sees them hatched must always do so 'blindly;' but a hen who has already hatched a brood can hardly be assumed to sit with perfect 'blindness' on her second nest. Some expectation of consequences must in every case like this be aroused; and this expectation, according as it is that of something desired or of something disliked, must necessarily either reinforce or inhibit the mere impulse. The hen's idea of the chickens would probably encourage her to sit; a rat's memory, on, the other hand, of a former escape from a trap would neutralize his impulse to take bait from anything that reminded him of that trap. If a boy sees a fat hopping-toad, he probably has incontinently an impulse (especially if with other boys) to smash the creature with a stone, which impulse we may suppose him blindly to obey. But something in the expression of the dying toad's clasped hands suggests the meanness of the act, or reminds him of sayings he has heard about the sufferings of animals being like his own; so that, when next he is tempted by a toad, an idea arises which, far from spurring him again to the torment, prompts kindly actions, and may even make him the toad's champion against less reflecting boys.

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

  sensibly continuous and one. What now is the common whole? The natural name for it is myself, I , or me . When Paul and Peter wake up in the same bed, and recognize that they have been asleep, each one of them mentally reaches back and makes connection with but one of the two streams of thought which were broken by the sleeping hours. As the current of an electrode buried in the ground unerringly finds its way to its own similarly buried mate, across no matter how much intervening earth; so Peter's present instantly finds out Peter's past, and never by mistake knits itself on to that of Paul. Paul's thought in turn is as little liable to go astray. The past thought of Peter is appropriated by the present Peter alone. He may have a knowledge , and a correct one too, of what Paul's last drowsy states of mind were as he sank into sleep, but it is an entirely different sort of knowledge from that which he has of his own last states. He remembers his own states, whilst he only conceives Paul's. Remembrance is like direct feeling; its object is suffused with a warmth and intimacy to which no object of mere conception ever attains. This quality of warmth and intimacy and immediacy is what Peter's present thought also possesses for itself. So sure as this present is me, is mine, it says, so sure is anything else that comes with the same warmth and intimacy and immediacy, me and mine. What the qualities called warmth and intimacy may in themselves be will have to be matter for future consideration. But whatever past feeling appear with those qualities must be admitted to receive the greeting of the present mental state, to be owned by it, and accepted as belonging together with it in a common self. This community of self is what the time-gap cannot break in twain, and is why a present thought, although not ignorant of the time-gap, can still regard itself as continuous with certain chosen portions of the past. Consciousness, then, does not appear to itself chopped up in bits. Such words as 'chain' or 'train' do not describe it fitly as it presents itself in the first instance. It is nothing jointed; if flows. A 'river' or a 'stream' are the metaphors by which it is most naturally described. In talking of it hereafter, let us call it the stream of thought, of consciousness, or of subjective life. But now there appears, even within the limits of the same self, and between thoughts all of which alike have this same sense of belonging together, a kind of jointing and separateness among the parts, of which this statement seems to take no account. I refer to the breaks that are produced by sudden contrasts in the quality of the successive segments of the stream of thought. If the words 'chain' and 'train' had no natural fitness in them, how came

• From Anxiety at Work: 8 Strategies to Help Teams Build Resilience, Handle Uncertainty, and Get Stuff Done

  Evelyn Walter, executive director and HR leader for Cummins engine and power generation business in North American distribution, sought to listen following the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests. A Fortune 500 company with sixty thousand employees around the world, Cummins has six core values, one of which is diversity and inclusion. Thus, when the marches began, Walter told us she felt supported by her organization to send a handwritten card to every Black person on her staff. “I got approval to use home addresses, and I wrote lengthy notes about how I wanted to support them,” she said. “I asked what I could do for them and their families. I was in the car Friday with my husband and daughters and got an email from a woman named Mercedes. She is incredibly positive; she makes lemonade out of lemons every day. The main message was she appreciated the specific care for her and her family. She said, ‘I’ve seen your leadership, I know this is sincere.’ That was kind, and yet it was concerning because she obviously knows other people who may not be genuine.” Added Walter, the act of writing out dozens of notes on a Saturday morning spurred her to create further connections. “I wanted to find more people to check in with. What about my Latinx employees? What about my team members who are gay? That’s what it created in me.” HubSpot’s Burke added to this idea. She has served as the LGBTQ+ executive sponsor at her firm, but didn’t feel she knew much about the experience of folks who identify as transgender and how she could best support them. She spent time researching the issue, and hours listening to colleagues she admired who identify as transgender. In doing so she learned more about preferred pronoun usage, the transition process, and how she could be a more supportive colleague, friend, and leader. Admitting you don’t know all the answers and being vulnerable enough to address your blind spots proactively is a vital part of the role of anyone who wishes to be an ally. Yes, most of us will make a mistake or two in this process—we are all human—but through listening and education we will start to understand how to better help all those whose lives we touch. Method 2: Sponsor Karen Catlin, author of Better Allies and former vice president of engineering at Adobe, told of working early in her career for a software company that was acquired by a larger firm. “In the first few months following the acquisition, I noticed something. My new manager, Digby Horner—who had been at the larger company for many years—said things in meetings along the lines of: ‘What I learned from Karen is . . .’

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  In this context, it is easy to understand why women chose to please men and why men chose to please women who expressed strong sexual needs. No one was so self-important that satisfying a fellow tribesman was less gratifying than personal gain [emphasis in original]. 28 Recognized as a way to build and maintain a network of mutually beneficial relationships, nonreproductive sex no longer requires special explanations. Homosexuality, for example, becomes far less confusing, in that it is, as E. O. Wilson has written, “above all a form of bonding … consistent with the greater part of heterosexual behavior as a device that cements relationships.” 29 Paternity certainty, far from being the universal and overriding obsession of all men everywhere and always, as the standard narrative insists, was likely a nonissue to men who lived before agriculture and resulting concerns with passing property through lines of paternal descent. * In a personal communication, Don Pollock makes an interesting point about the notion of multiple fatherhood, writing, “I have always found the Kulina notion that more than one man may be a ‘biological’ father to a child to be, ironically, similar to the genetic reality: in a small, genetically homogeneous population (or close to it, after many generations of in-marrying), every child has close genetic similarities to all of the men with whom his or her mother had sexual relations—even to those the mother was not involved with.” Sex at Dawn: The Prehistoric Origins of Modern Sexuality CHAPTER SEVEN Mommies Dearest Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself. K AHLIL G IBRAN The diffused sense of parental responsibility resulting from these intersecting webs of sexual interaction extends to mothers as well as fathers. Anthropologist Donald Pollock tells us that while the Kulina believe the fetus to have originally been formed of accumulated semen (men’s milk, in Kulina), they attribute the baby’s growth after birth to women’s milk. “Any number of women might nurse the child,” he writes. “It is particularly common for a group of sisters … to share nursing functions; it is not unknown for the mother’s mother to allow an infant to nurse, even if the grandmother is no longer lactating, to quiet a crying child whose mother is occupied.” When he asked whether these other women were also mothers of the child, Pollock was told this was “obviously so.”

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  Namu (2004), p 276. For an excellent look at Mosuo culture, check out PBS Frontline World, “The Women’s Kingdom,” available at www.pbs.org/frontlineworld/rough/2005/07/introduction_to.html. 7. Namu (2004), p. 69. 8. Namu (2004), p. 8. 9. This sacred regard for each individual’s autonomy is characteristic of foragers, too. For example, when Michael Finkel visited the Hadza recently in Tanzania, he reported, “the Hadza recognize no official leaders. Camps are traditionally named after a senior male … but this honor does not confer any particular power. Individual autonomy is the hallmark of the Hadza. No Hadza adult has authority over any other.” (National Geographic, December 2009.) 10. Hua (2001), pp. 202–203. 11. Namu (2004), pp. 94–95. 12. China’s Kingdom of Women, Cynthia Barnes. Slate.com (November 17, 2006): http://www.slate.com/id/2153586/entry/2153614. 13. Goldberg (1993), p. 15. 14. (Photo: Christopher Ryan.) When I saw this old woman, I knew her face contained the feminine strength and humor I was hoping to convey in a photo. I gestured to ask if it would be all right to take her picture. She agreed, but asked me to wait, and immediately started calling. These two little girls (granddaughters? Great-granddaughters?) came running. Once she had them in her arms, she gave me the go-ahead to take the shot. 15. The book was published in 2002, while Goldberg’s came out almost a decade earlier, but all of Sanday’s work on the Minangkabau, including the paper Goldberg cites, argues against his position—a point certainly deserving of mention. 16. Source: http://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/2002-05/uop-imm050902.php. 17. Source: www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/2002-05/uop-imm050902.php. 18. Most of these quotes are from an article by David Smith that appeared in The Guardian, September 18, 2005, available online at http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2005/sep/18/usa.filmnews, or Stephen Holden’s review in The New York Times, June 24, 2005, available online at http://movies.nytimes.com/2005/06/24/movies/24peng.html?_r=2. 19. The San Diego Union-Tribune: “Studies Suggest Monogamy Isn’t for the Birds—or Most Creatures,” by Scott LaFee, September 4, 2002. 20. “Monogamy and the Prairie Vole,” Scientific American online issue, February 2005, pp. 22–27. 21. Things have become a bit more muddled since Insel said that. More recently, Insel and others have been working on trying to discover the hormonal correlations underlying the fidelity or lack thereof among prairie, montane, and meadow voles. As reported in the October 7, 1993 issue of Nature, Insel and his team found that vasopressin, a hormone released during mating, seemed to trigger protective, nestguarding behavior in some species of male voles, but not others, leading to speculation about “monogamy genes.” See http://findarticles com/p/articles/mi_m1200/is_n22_v144/ai_14642472 for a review. In 2008, Hasse Walum of the Karolinska Institute in Sweden found that a variation in the gene called RS3 334 seemed to be associated with how easily men bonded emotionally with their partners. Most interestingly, the gene appears to have some association with autism as well. The reference for Walum’s paper is Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, DOI: 10.1073pnas.0803081105. A news article summarizing the findings is online at http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn14641-monogamy-gene-found-in-people.html. Chapter 10: Jealousy: A Beginner’s Guide to Coveting Thy Neighbor’s Spouse 1. Darwin (1871/2007), p.

• From Sex at Dawn (2010)

  Although status is not completely absent, primatologist Takayoshi Kano, who has collected the most detailed information on bonobo behavior in the wild, prefers to use the term “influential” rather than “high-ranking” when describing female bonobos. He believes that females are respected out of affection, rather than because of rank. Indeed, Frans de Waal wonders whether it’s appropriate to discuss hierarchy at all among bonobos, noting, “If there is a female rank order, it is largely based on seniority rather than physical intimidation: older females are generally of higher status than younger ones.” 18 Those looking for evidence of matriarchy in human societies might ponder the fact that among bonobos, female “dominance” doesn’t result in the sort of male submission one might expect if it were simply an inversion of the male power structures found among chimps and baboons. The female bonobos use their power differently than male primates. Despite their submissive social role, male bonobos appear to be much better off than male chimps or baboons. As we’ll see in later discussions of female-dominated societies, human males also tend to fare pretty well when the women are in charge. While Sapolsky chose to study baboons because of the chronically high stress levels males suffer as a result of their unending struggles for power, de Waal notes that bonobos confront a different sort of existence, saying, “in view of their frequent sexual activity and low aggression, I find it hard to imagine that males of the species have a particularly stressful time.” 19 Crucially, humans and bonobos, but not chimps, appear to share a specific anatomical predilection for peaceful coexistence. Both species have what’s called a repetitive microsatellite (at gene AVPR1A) important to the release of oxytocin. Sometimes called “nature’s ecstasy,” oxytocin is important in pro-social feelings like compassion, trust, generosity, love, and yes, eroticism. As anthropologist and author Eric Michael Johnson explains, “It is far more parsimonious that chimpanzees lost this repetitive microsatellite than for both humans and bonobos to independently develop the same mutation.” 20 But there is intense resistance to the notion that relatively low levels of stress and a surfeit of sexual freedom could have characterized the human past. Helen Fisher acknowledges these aspects of bonobo life as well as their many correlates in human behavior, and even makes a sly reference to Morgan’s primal horde: These creatures travel in mixed groups of males, females, and young…. Individuals come and go between groups, depending on the food supply, connecting a cohesive community of several dozen animals. Here is a primal horde…. Sex is almost a daily pastime…. Females copulate during most of their menstrual cycles—a pattern of coitus more similar to women’s than any other creature’s…. Bonobos engage in sex to ease tension, to stimulate sharing during meals, to reduce stress while traveling, and to reaffirm friendships during anxious reunions. “Make love, not war” is clearly a bonobo scheme. 21 Fisher then asks the obvious question, “Did our ancestors do the same?”

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'Beg pardon, excuse me, please,' he said as to a stranger, but recognising Levin, he smiled timidly. It seemed to Levin that he would have liked to say something, but could not speak for emotion. His face and his whole figure in his uniform with the crosses, and white trousers striped with braid, as he moved hurriedly along, reminded Levin of some hunted beast who sees that he is in evil case. This expression in the marshal's face was particularly touching to Levin, because, only the day before, he had been at his house about his trustee business and had seen him in all his grandeur, a kind-hearted, fatherly man. The big house with the old family furniture; the rather dirty, far from stylish, but respectful footmen, unmistakably old house serfs who had stuck to their master; the stout, good-natured wife in a cap with lace and a Turkish shawl, petting her pretty grandchild, her daughter's daughter; the young son, a sixth form high school boy, coming home from school, and greeting his father, kissing his big hand; the genuine, cordial words and gestures of the old man—all this had the day before roused an instinctive feeling of respect and sympathy in Levin. This old man was a touching and pathetic figure to Levin now, and he longed to say something pleasant to him. 'So you're sure to be our marshal again,' he said. 'It's not likely,' said the marshal, looking round with a scared expression. 'I'm worn out, I'm old. If there are men younger and more deserving than I, let them serve.' And the marshal disappeared through a side-door. The most solemn 'moment was at hand. They were to proceed immediately to the election. The leaders of both parties were reckoning white and black on their fingers. The discussion upon Flerov had given the new party not only Flerov's vote, but had also gained time for them, so that they could send to fetch three noblemen who had been rendered unable to take part in the elections by the wiles of the other party. Two noble gentlemen, who had a weakness for strong drink, had been made drunk by the partisans of Snetkov, and a third had been robbed of his uniform. On learning this, the new party had made haste, during the dispute about Flerov, to send some of their men in a sledge to clothe the stripped gentleman, and to bring along one of the intoxicated to the meeting. 'I've brought one, drenched him with water,' said the landowner, who had gone on this errand to Sviazhsky. 'He's all right; he'll do.' 'Not too drunk, he won't fall down?' said Sviazhsky, shaking his head. 'No, he's first-rate. If only they don't give him any more here . . . I've told the waiter not to give him anything on any account.' XXIX T HE narrow room, in which they were smoking and taking refreshments, was full of noblemen.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  He had caught the words 'always at nine o'clock,' and he knew that this was said of his father, and that his father and mother could not meet. That he understood, but one thing he could not understand— why there should be a look of dread and shame in her face? . . . She was not in fault, but she was afraid of him and ashamed of something. He would have liked to put a question that would have set at rest this doubt, but he did not dare; he saw that she was miserable, and he felt for her. Silently he pressed close to her and whispered, 'Don't go yet. He won't come just yet.' The mother held him away from her to see what he was thinking, what to say to him, and in his frightened face she read not only that he was speaking of his father, but, as it were, asking her what he ought to think about his father. 'Seryozha, my darling,' she said, 'love him; he's better and kinder than I am, and I have done him wrong. When you grow up you will judge.' 'There's no one better than you! . . .' he cried in despair through his tears, and, clutching her by the shoulders, he began squeezing her with all his force to him, his arms trembling with the strain. 'My sweet, my little one!' said Anna, and she cried as weakly and childishly as he. At that moment the door opened. Vassily Lukitch came in. At the other door there was the sound of steps, and the nurse in a scared whisper said, 'He's coming,' and gave Anna her hat. Seryozha sank on to the bed and sobbed, hiding his face in his hands. Anna removed his hands, once more kissed his wet face, and with rapid steps went to the door. Alexey Alexandrovitch walked in, meeting her. Seeing her, he stopped short and bowed his head. Although she had just said he was better and kinder than she, in the rapid glance she flung at him, taking in his whole figure in all its details, feelings of repulsion and hatred for him and jealousy over her son took possession of her. With a swift gesture she put down her veil, and, quickening her pace, almost ran out of the room.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  'I sent to find out where he is living, and sent him his I O U to Trubin, which I paid. This is the answer he sent me.' And Sergey Ivanovitch took a note from under a paperweight and handed it to his brother. Levin read in the queer, familiar handwriting: 'I humbly beg you to leave me in peace. That's the only favour I ask of my gracious brothers.—N IKOLAY L EVIN .' Levin read it, and without raising his head stood with the note in his hands opposite Sergey Ivanovitch. There was a struggle in his heart between the desire to forget his unhappy brother for the time, and the consciousness that it would be base to do so. 'He obviously wants to offend me,' pursued Sergey Ivanovitch; 'but he cannot offend me, and I should have wished with all my heart to assist him, but I know it's impossible to do that.' 'Yes, yes,' repeated Levin. 'I understand and appreciate your attitude to him; but I shall go and see him.' 'If you want to, do; but I shouldn't advise it,' said Sergey Ivanovitch. 'As regards myself, I have no fear of your doing so; he will not make you quarrel with me; but for your own sake, I should say you would do better not to go. You can't do him any good; still, do as you please.' 'Very likely I can't do any good, but I feel—especially at such a moment—but that's another thing—I feel I could not be at peace.' 'Well, that I don't understand,' said Sergey Ivanovitch. 'One thing I do understand,' he added, 'it's a lesson in humility. I have come to look very differently and more charitably on what is called infamous since brother Nikolay has become what he is . . . you know what he did . . . ' 'Oh, it's awful, awful!' repeated Levin. After obtaining his brother's address from Sergey Ivanovitch's footman, Levin was on the point of setting off at once to see him, but on second thoughts he decided to put off his visit till the evening. The first thing to do to set his heart at rest was to accomplish what he had come to Moscow for. From his brother's Levin went to Oblonsky's office, and on getting news of the Shtcherbatskys from him, he drove to the place where he had been told he might find Kitty. IX A T four o'clock, conscious of his throbbing heart, Levin stepped out of a hired sledge at the Zoological Gardens, and turned along the path to the frozen mounds and the skating-ground, knowing that he would certainly find her there, as he had seen the Shtcherbatskys' carriage at the entrance. It was a bright, frosty day. Rows of carriages, sledges, drivers, and policemen were standing in the approach.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  At last the little girl kissed his face, which was flushed from his stooping posture and beaming with tenderness, loosed her hands, and was about to run away again; but her father held her back. 'How is mamma?' he asked, passing his hand over his daughter's smooth, soft little neck. 'Good morning,' he said, smiling to the boy, who had come up to greet him. He was conscious that he loved the boy less, and always tried to be fair; but the boy felt it, and did not respond with a smile to his father's chilly smile. 'Mamma? She is up,' answered the girl. Stepan Arkadyevitch sighed. 'That means that she's not slept again all night,' he thought. 'Well, is she cheerful?' The little girl knew that there was a quarrel between her father and mother, and that her mother could not be cheerful, and that her, father must be aware of this, and that he was pretending when he asked about it so lightly. And she blushed for her father. He at once perceived it, and blushed too. 'I don't know,' she said. 'She did not say we must do our lessons, but she said we were to go a walk with Miss Hoole to grandmamma's.' 'Well, go, Tanya, my darling. Oh, wait a minute, though,' he said, still holding her and stroking her soft little hand. He took off the mantelpiece, where he had put it yesterday, a little box of sweets, and gave her two, picking out her favourites, a chocolate and a fondant. 'For Grisha?' said the little girl, pointing to the chocolate. 'Yes, yes.' And still stroking her little shoulder, he kissed her on the roots of her hair and neck, and let her go. 'The carriage is ready,' said Matvey; 'but there's some one to see you with a petition.' 'Been here long?' asked Stepan Arkadyevitch. 'Half an hour.' 'How many times have I told you to tell me at once?' 'One must let you drink your coffee in peace, at least,' said Matvey, in the affectionately gruff tone with which it was impossible to be angry. 'Well, show the person up at once,' said Oblonsky, frowning with vexation. The petitioner, the widow of a staff captain Kalinin, came with a request impossible and unreasonable; but Stepan Arkadyevitch, as he generally did, made her sit down, heard her to the end attentively without interrupting her, and gave her detailed advice as to how and to whom to apply, and even wrote her, in his large, sprawling, good and legible hand, a confident and fluent little note to a personage who might be of use to her. Having got rid of the staff captain's widow, Stepan Arkadyevitch took his hat and stopped to recollect whether he had forgotten anything.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  It was only then, for the first time, that he clearly understood what he had not understood when he led her out of the church after the wedding. He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began. He felt this from the agonising sensation of division that he experienced at that instant. He was offended for the first instant, but the very same second he felt that he could not be offended by her, that she was himself. He felt for the first moment as a man feels when, having suddenly received a violent blow from behind, turns round, angry and eager to avenge himself, to look for his antagonist, and finds that it is he himself who has accidentally struck himself, that there is no one to be angry with, and that he must put up with and try to soothe the pain. Never afterwards did he feel it with such intensity, but this first time he could not for a long while get over it. His natural feeling urged him to defend himself, to prove to her she was wrong; but to prove her wrong would mean irritating her still more and making the rupture greater that was the cause of all his suffering. One habitual feeling impelled him to get rid of the blame and to pass it on to her. Another feeling, even stronger, impelled him as quickly as possible to smooth over the rupture without letting it grow greater. To remain under such undeserved reproach was wretched, but to make her suffer by justifying himself was worse still. Like a man half-awake in an agony of pain, he wanted to tear out, to fling away the aching place, and coming to his senses, he felt that the aching place was himself. He could do nothing but try to help the aching place to bear it, and this he tried to do. They made peace. She, recognising that she was wrong, though she did not say so, became tenderer to him, and they experienced new, redoubled happiness in their love. But that did not prevent such quarrels from happening again, and exceedingly often too, on the most unexpected and trivial grounds. These quarrels frequently arose from the fact that they did not yet know what was of importance to each other, and that all this early period they were both often in a bad temper.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  Carefully set to rights, with hair well-brushed, in a smart little cap with some blue in it, her arms out on the quilt, she was lying on her back. Meeting his eyes, her eyes drew him to her. Her face, bright before, brightened still more as he drew near her. There was the same change in it from earthly to unearthly that is seen in the face of the dead. But then it means farewell, here it meant welcome. Again a rush of emotion, such as he had felt at the moment of the child's birth, flooded his heart. She took his hand and asked him if he had slept. He could not answer, and turned away, struggling with his weakness. 'I have had a nap, Kostya!' she said to him; 'and I am so comfortable now.' She looked at him, but suddenly her expression changed. 'Give him to me,' she said, hearing the baby's cry. 'Give him to me, Lizaveta Petrovna, and he shall look at him.' 'To be sure, his papa shall look at him,' said Lizaveta Petrovna, getting up and bringing something red, and queer, and wriggling. 'Wait a minute, we'll make him tidy first,' and Lizaveta Petrovna laid the red wobbling thing on the bed, began untrussing and trussing up the baby, lifting it up and turning it over with one finger and powdering it with something. Levin, looking at the tiny, pitiful creature, made strenuous efforts to discover in his heart some traces of fatherly feeling for it. He felt nothing towards it but disgust. But when it was undressed and he caught a glimpse of wee, wee, little hands, little feet, saffron-coloured, with little toes, too; and positively with a little big toe different from the rest, and when he saw Lizaveta Petrovna closing the wide-open little hands, as though they were soft springs, and putting them into linen garments, such pity for the little creature came upon him, and such terror that she would hurt it, that he held her hand back. Lizaveta Petrovna laughed. 'Don't be frightened, don't be frightened!' When the baby had been put to rights and transformed into a firm doll, Lizaveta Petrovna dandled it as though proud of her handiwork, and stood a little away so that Levin might see his son in all his glory. Kitty looked sideways in the same direction, never taking her eyes off the baby. 'Give him to me! give him to me!' she said, and even made as though she would sit up. 'What are you thinking of, Katerina Alexandrovna, you mustn't move like that! Wait a minute. I'll give him to you. Here we're showing papa what a fine fellow we are!' And Lizaveta Petrovna, with one hand supporting the wobbling head, lifted up on the other arm the strange, limp, red creature, whose head was lost in its swaddling-clothes. But it had a nose, too, and slanting eyes and smacking lips.

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  I'm glad to see you, anyway. After all's said and done, we're not strangers. Come, have a drink. Tell me what you're doing,' he went on, greedily munching a piece of bread, and pouring out another glassful. 'How are you living?' 'I live alone in the country, as I used to. I'm busy looking after the land,' answered Konstantin, watching with horror the greediness with which his brother ate and drank, and trying to conceal that he noticed it. 'Why don't you get married?' 'It hasn't happened so,' Konstantin answered, reddening a little. 'Why not? For me now . . . everything's at an end! I've made a mess of my life. But this I've said, and I say still, that if my share had been given me when I needed it, my whole life would have been different.' Konstantin made haste to change the conversation. 'Do you know your little Vanya's with me, a clerk in the counting-house at Pokrovsky.' Nikolay jerked his neck, and sank into thought. 'Yes, tell me what's going on at Pokrovsky. Is the house standing still, and the birch-trees, and our schoolroom? And Philip the gardener, is he living? How I remember the arbour and the seat! Now mind and don't alter anything in the house, but make haste and get married, and make everything as it used to be again. Then I'll come and see you, if your wife is nice.' 'But come to me now,' said Levin. 'How nicely we could arrange it!' 'I'd come and see you if I were sure I should not find Sergey Ivanovitch.' 'You wouldn't find him there. I live quite independently of him.' 'Yes, but say what you like, you will have to choose between me and him,' he said, looking timidly into his brother's face. This timidity touched Konstantin. 'If you want to hear my confession of faith on the subject, I tell you that in your quarrel with Sergey Ivanovitch I take neither side. You're both wrong. You're more wrong externally, and he inwardly.' 'Ah, ah! You see that, you see that!' Nikolay shouted joyfully. 'But I, personally, value friendly relations with you more because . . . ' 'Why, why?' Konstantin could not say that he valued it more because Nikolay was unhappy, and needed affection. But Nikolay knew that this was just what he meant to say, and scowling he took up the vodka again. 'Enough, Nikolay Dmitritch!' said Marya Nikolaevna, stretching out her plump, bare arm towards the decanter. 'Let it be! Don't insist! I'll beat you!' he shouted. Marya Nikolaevna smiled a sweet and good-humoured smile, which was at once reflected on Nickolay's face, and she took the bottle. 'And do you suppose she understands nothing?' said Nikolay. 'She understands it all better than any of us. Isn't it true there's something good and sweet in her?' 'Were you never before in Moscow?'

• From Anna Karenina (1877)

  They could neither of them eat, however, and for a long while they could not sleep, and did not even go to bed. 'I am very glad I persuaded him to receive extreme unction tomorrow,' she said, sitting in her dressing-jacket before her folding looking-glass, combing her soft, fragrant hair with a fine comb. 'I have never seen it, but I know, mamma has told me, there are prayers said for recovery.' 'Do you suppose he can possibly recover?' said Levin, watching a slender tress at the back of her round little head that was continually hidden when she passed the comb through the front. 'I asked the doctor; he said he couldn't live more than three days. But can they be sure? I'm very glad, anyway, that I persuaded him,' she said, looking askance at her husband through her hair. 'Anything is possible,' she added with that peculiar, rather sly expression that was always in her face when she spoke of religion. Since their conversation about religion when they were engaged neither of them had ever started a discussion of the subject, but she performed all the ceremonies of going to church, saying her prayers, and so on, always with the unvarying conviction that this ought to be so. In spite of his assertion to the contrary, she was firmly persuaded that he was as much a Christian as she, and indeed a far better one; and all that he said about it was simply one of his absurd masculine freaks, just as he would say about her broderie anglaise, that good people patch holes but that she cut them on purpose, and so on. 'Yes, you see this woman, Marya Nikolaevna, did not know how to manage all this,' said Levin. 'And . . . I must own I'm very, very glad you came. You are such purity that. . .' He took her hand and did not kiss it (to kiss her hand in such closeness to death seemed to him improper); he merely squeezed it with a penitent air, looking at her brightening eyes. 'It would have been miserable for you to be alone,' she said, and, lifting her hands, which hid her cheeks flushing with pleasure, twisted her coil of hair on the nape of her neck and pinned it there. 'No,' she went on, 'she did not know how . . . . Luckily I learned a lot at Soden.' Anna Karenina 'Surely there are not people there so ill?' 'Worse.' 'What's so awful to me is that I can't see him as he was when he was young. You would not believe how charming he was as a youth, but I did not understand him then.' 'I can quite, quite believe it. How I feel that we might have been friends!' she said; and, distressed at what she had said, she looked round at her husband, and tears came into her eyes.