Yearning

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.

Page 13 of 48 · 20 per page

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Westerner there—at last a taste of something real and exotic. Pei Pu, it overwhelming and turned out, had been a well-known actor in Chinese operas and came from separated from the life of a family with connections to the former ruling dynasty. Now he wrote the ground. operas about the workers, but he said this with a look of irony They began —BERNARD BOURISCOUT, IN to meet regularly, Pei Pu showing Bouriscout the sights of Beijing. Bouris- JOYCE WADLER, LIAISON cout loved his stories—Pei Pu talked slowly, and every historical detail seemed to come alive as he spoke, his hands moving to embellish his words. This, he might say, is where the last Ming emperor hung himself, pointing Romance had again come her way personified by a to the spot and telling the story at the same time. Or, the cook in the handsome young German restaurant we just ate in once served in the palace of the last emperor, and officer, Lieutenant Konrad then another magnificent tale would follow. Pei Pu also talked of life in the Friedrich, who called upon her at Neuilly to ask her Beijing Opera, where men often played women's parts, and sometimes be- help. He wanted Pauline came famous for it. [ Bonaparte] to use her 291 298 • The Art of Seduction influence with Napoleon in The two men became friends. Chinese contact with foreigners was re-connection with providing stricted, but they managed to find ways to meet. One evening Bouriscout for the needs of the French tagged along when Pei Pu visited the home of a French official to tutor the troops in the Papal States. He made an instantaneous children. He listened as Pei Pu told them "The Story of the Butterfly," a impression on the princess, tale from the Chinese opera: a young girl yearns to attend an imperial who escorted him around school, but girls are not accepted there. She disguises herself as a boy, passes her garden until they arrived at the rockery. the exams, and enters the school. A fellow student falls in love with her, There she stopped and, and she is attracted to him, so she tells him that she is actually a girl. Like looking into the young most of these tales, the story ends tragically. Pei Pu told it with unusual man's eyes mysteriously, emotion; in fact he had played the role of the girl in the opera. commanded him to return to this same spot at the A few nights later, as they were walking before the gates of the Forbid-same hour next day when den City, Pei Pu returned to "The Story of the Butterfly" "Look at my she might have some good hands," he said, "Look at my face. That story of the butterfly, it is my story news for him. The young officer bowed and took his too." In his slow, dramatic delivery he explained that his mother's first two leave. . . . In his memoirs

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  discontent to manipulate him. Inventing a story of the deceptions he had had to go through, he slowly drew Bouriscout into an affair that would last many years. (Bouriscout had had previous homosexual encounters, but considered himself heterosexual.) Eventually the diplomat was led into spying for the Chinese. All the while, he believed Shi Pei Pu was a woman—his yearning for adventure had made him that vulnerable. Repressed types are perfect victims for a deep seduction. People who repress the appetite for pleasure make ripe victims, particularly later in their lives. The eighth-century Chinese Emperor Ming Huang spent much of his reign trying to rid his court of its costly addiction to luxuries, and was himself a model of austerity and virtue. But the moment he saw the concubine Yang Kuei-fei bathing in a palace lake, everything changed. The most charming woman in the realm, she was the mistress of his son. Exerting his power, the emperor won her away—only to become her abject slave. The choice of the right victim is equally important in politics. Mass seducers such as Napoleon or John F. Kennedy offer their public just what it lacks. When Napoleon came to power, the French people's sense of pride was beaten down by the bloody aftermath of the French Revolution. He offered them glory and conquest. Kennedy recognized that Americans were bored with the stultifying comfort of the Eisenhower years; he gave them adventure and risk. More important, he tailored his appeal to the group most vulnerable to it: the younger generation. Successful politicians know that not everyone will be susceptible to their charm, but if they can find a group of believers with a need to be filled, they have supporters who will stand by them no matter what. Symbol: Big Game. Lions are dangerous— to hunt them is to know the thrill of risk. Leopards are clever and swift, offering the excitement of a difficult chase. Never rush into the hunt. Know your prey and choose it carefully. Do not waste time with small game— the rabbits that back into snares, the mink that walk into a scented trap. Challenge is pleasure. Choose the Right Victim • 175 Reversal There is no possible reversal. There is nothing to be gained from trying to seduce the person who is closed to you, or who cannot provide the pleasure and chase that you need. Create a False Sense of Security- Approach Indirectly If you are too direct early on, you risk stir- ring up a resistance that will never be lowered. At first there must be nothing of the seducer in your manner. The seduction should begin

• From Middlesex (2002)

  basement for socializing. During coffee hour, Michael Antoniou told Tessie what it was like out at Holy Cross and educated her about the lesser-known aspects of Greek Orthodoxy. He told her about the monks of Mount Athos, who in their zeal for purity banned not only women from their island monastery but the females of every other species, too. There were no female birds on Mount Athos, no female snakes, no female dogs or cats. "A little too strict for me," Michael Antoniou said, smiling meaningfully at Tessie. "I just want to be a parish priest. Married with kids." My mother wasn't surprised that he showed interest in her. Being short herself, she was used to short guys asking her to dance. She didn't like being chosen by virtue of her height, but Michael Antoniou was persistent. And he might not have been pursuing her because she was the only girl shorter than he was. He might have been responding to the need in Tessie's eyes, her desperate yearning to believe that there was something instead of nothing. 178 Desdemona seized her opportunity. "Mikey is good Greek boy, nice boy," she said to Tessie. "And going to be a priest!" And to Michael Antoniou: "Tessie is small but she is strong. How many plates you think she can carry, Father Mike?" "I'm not a father yet, Mrs. Stephanides." "Please, how many?" "Six?" "That all you think? Six?" And now holding up two hands: "Ten! Ten plates Tessie can carry. Never break a thing." She began inviting Michael Antoniou over for Sunday dinner. The presence of the seminarian inhibited Tessie, who no longer wan- dered upstairs for private swing sessions. Milton, growing surly at this new development, threw barbs across the dinner table. "I guess it must be a lot harder to be a priest over here in America, huh?" "How do you mean?" Michael Antoniou asked. "I just mean that over in the old country people aren't too well educated," Milton said. "They'll believe whatever stories the priests tell them. Here it's different. You can go to college and learn to think for yourself." "The Church doesn't want people not to think," Michael replied without taking offense. "The Church believes that thinking will take a person only so far. Where thinking ends, revelation begins." "Chrysostornos!" Desdemona exclaimed. "Father Mike, you have a mouth of gold." But Milton persisted, "I'd say where thinking ends, stupidity be- gins." "That's how people live, Milt"— Michael Antoniou again, still kindly, gentiy—"by telling stories. What's the first thing a kid says when he learns how to talk? Tell me a story.' That's how we under- stand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything. And what story does the Church have to tell? That's easy. It's the greatest story ever told."

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  This outrage, so fresh and yet unsurprising, punctures Reese anew. And yet, she can’t quite enrage herself, because for once, other people beyond trans women—a pair of older black women who likely have concerns of their own—have cared enough to protect a dead queer trans girl’s dignity. “You could tell something was wrong with her a month or two ago,” Thalia goes on, and Reese understands that she means Tammi. “When we went to wait at the Callen-Lorde purgatory together, she had completely stopped shaving. She wouldn’t have been caught dead with a shadow like that a year ago—oh fuck, I’m sorry, very horrible expression for this moment. Thank Jesus Miss Twitter wasn’t here for that too.” Reese’s phone rings, and instinctively, she fumbles it in an attempt to silence the tones. A New York number. She gives Thalia another hug and finds an alcove down the block to call back the number because she’s been fielding a lot of calls from vague acquaintances looking for logistics about the funeral. A woman picks up. “Reese! Thank you for calling me back! Is there any chance you're free tonight?” A pause. “It’s Katrina, by the way.” “Katrina!” The name, the pregnancy, her whole connection with Katrina, the yearning for a baby, seems like it should exist in a dimension that doesn’t overlap with this funeral. Like running into one’s teacher at the grocery store, it takes Reese a moment to close the dimensional gap and reorient herself. “I’m, uh, at a funeral right 29 now. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I'll call back.” “No, wait. What’s happening?” “Well, I was hoping I could talk to you. I might have...How do I say this? I might have betrayed Ames.” At this, the parabolic dish of Reese’s focus swivels to aim squarely at Katrina. “Wow. That sounds very dramatic. Very romantic.” “No, not that kind of betrayal.” “That’s a shame.” Katrina makes a noise of protest, then understands she’s been teased and laughs graciously. “Look,” Reese says, “I’m actually really happy you called. The timing is a bit weird because of where I am. But we’ve got so much to talk about. I do want to get together.” Reese holds her breath, waiting to see if she will get away with that “we,” the “we” that couples use when they both own and take responsibility for a pregnancy. We’re having a baby, say both men and women, often together, as if their roles were interchangeable and required equal commitment. Reese recognizes her own “we” is a little creepy, but fuck if it doesn’t feel good to say. “Oh, that is so nice to hear,” Katrina says, sounding genuinely moved. “I can’t interrupt a funeral, though.”

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Iwastryingtogetanothercappuccino. Thewaitersintheir Aus- trianuniformsignoredme,astheydoeveryone, andoutside, theyel- low lindensweredrippingandweeping. "Orwhatabout Jackie O.?" said Julie, stilladvocating. "Her eyes weresowide-settheywerebasicallyon thesidesofherhead. She lookedlikeahammerhead." I'mworking up withtheforegoing to a physicaldescription of myself. Baby pictures oftheinfantCalliopeshow a variety offeatures onthefreakishside.Myparents,lookingfondly downintomycrib, got stuckoneveryone.(Isometimesthinkthatitwasthearresting, slightlydisturbingqualityofmyfacethatdistractedeveryone's atten- tionfromthecomplicationsbelow.)Imagine mycribasadioramain amuseum.Pressonebuttonandmyearslight up liketwogolden trumpets.Pressanotherand mystarkchinbeginstoglow.Another, andthehigh,etherealcheekbonesappearoutofthedarkness.Sofar theeffectisn'tpromising.Ontheevidenceof ears,chin, andcheek- bonesImightbea baby Kafka.Butthenextbuttonilluminatesmy mouthandthingsbegin to improve.Themouth is small but well shaped,kissable,musical.Then,inthemiddleofthemap,comesthe nose. Itis nothing like thenoses youseein classicalGreeksculpture. HereisanosethatcametoAsiaMinor,likesilk itself,from the East. Inthis case, theMiddle East.Thenose ofthedioramababyalready forms,ifyoulookclosely,anarabesque.Ears,nose, mouth,chin- now eyes.Notonlyaretheywidelyset (like Jackie O.'s),they'rebig. Too bigforababy'sface.Eyeslikemy grandmother's.Eyesasbig and sad astheeyesina Keanepainting.Eyesrimmed withlong,dark eyelashes mymothercouldn'tbelieve hadformed insideher.How had her bodyworkedinsuchdetail?The complexionaroundthese eyes:apale olive.The hair: jet black.Nowpress allthebuttonsat once.Can youseeme?Allofme? Probablynot. Nooneeverreally has. As ababy, evenasa littlegirl,Ipossessed an awkward,extrava- gantbeauty. Nosinglefeaturewas rightin itselfandyet, whenthey were takenalltogether, something captivating emerged. Aninadver- tent harmony.Achangeableness,too, as if beneath myvisibleface therewas another, having second thoughts. Desdemonawasn'tinterestedinmylooks. She wasconcerned with thestateof my soul."Thebabysheistwo monthsold," shesaid to myfatherin March. "Whyyou stillno baptizeher?" "Idon't 218 want herbaptized," answeredMilton. "It'sabunchof hocus-pocus." "Hokey pokey isit?"Desdemonanowthreatenedhimwithanindex finger. "Youthink HolyTradition thattheChurch keep fortwothou- sandyears ishokeypokey?"Andthen shecalledonthePanaghia,us- ingevery oneof hernames. "All-Holy,immaculate, most blessedand glorifiedLady, MotherofGod andEver-Virgin,doyouhearwhat myson Miltonis saying?" When myfatherstillrefused,Desdemona unleashedher secret weapon.Shestarted fanningherself. Toanyone whoneverpersonally experiencedit,it'sdifficult tode- scribethe ominous,storm-gathering qualityofmygrandmother's fanning.Refusingtoargueanymorewith myfather,shewalkedon swollenanklesintothesunroom.Shesatdownin a canechair bythe window.The winterlight, comingfromtheside,reddenedthefar, translucentwing ofhernose. Shepickeduphercardboardfan.The frontofthefanwasemblazonedwith thewords"TurkishAtrocities." Below,insmallerprint,werethespecifics:the 1955pogrominIs- tanbulinwhich15Greekswerekilled,200Greekwomen raped, 4,348 storeslooted,59Orthodoxchurchesdestroyed,andeventhe graves ofthePatriarchsdesecrated.Desdemonahadsixatrocityfans. Theywere acollector'sset. Eachyear she sent a contribution tothe PatriarchateinConstantinople,andafewweekslater a newfanar- rived, makingclaimsofgenocideand,inonecase,bearingaphoto- graph of Patriarch Athenagoras intheruinsof a lootedcathedral. Not appearing onDesdemona's particularfanthat day,but denounced nonetheless, wasthemost recentcrime,committednotbytheTurks but by her own Greekson, who refusedtogivehisdaughter a proper Orthodox baptism.Desdemona's fanning wasn't amatterofmoving the wrist backandforth;the agitation came fromdeepwithinher. It originated fromthespot betweenherstomachandliverwhereshe once told metheHoly Spiritresided. Itissued froma place deeper than herown buried crime. Miltontriedtotakeshelterbehindhis newspaper, butthe fan-disturbedair rustiedthenewsprint.Theforce of Desdemona's fanning couldbefeltalloverthehouse;itswirled dustballs onthestairs;it stirred thewindowshades;and,ofcourse, since it waswinter,it madeeveryone shiver.After a whiletheentire house seemed tobe hyperventilating.The fanningevenpursued Mil- toninto his Oldsmobile, whichbegantomakea softhissingfrom the radiator. In addition to the fanning,my grandmotherappealedtofamily 219 feeling. FatherMike,her son-in-lawandmy veryownuncle, wasby thistimeback from hisyearsinGreece and serving— inanassistant capacity—atAssumptionGreekOrthodox Church. "Please,Miltie,"Desdemona said."ThinkofFather Mike.They nevergivehimtop jobat the church.Youthink ifhisownniece she no gets baptizedit willlookgood?Think ofyoursister,Miltie.Poor Zoe! Theynohavemuchmoney." Finally,in asignthathewasweakening, myfatheraskedmy mother,"Whatdotheychargefor abaptismthese days?" "They'refree." Milton'seyebrowslifted.Butafter amoment'sconsiderationhe nodded,confirmedinhis suspicions."Figures.Theylet you infor free.Thenyougottapayfortherestofyourlife." By 1960, the Greek OrthodoxcongregationofDetroit's EastSide hadyetanothernewbuildingtoworshipin. Assumption hadmoved fromVernorHighway toanewsiteonCharlevoix.Theerectionof theCharlevoixchurchhadbeenaneventof great excitement. From thehumblebeginnings ofthestorefrontonHartStreet,tothere- spectable butby no means splashydomicile off Beniteau,Assump- tionwasfinallygoingtogetagrandchurchbuilding.Many constructionfirmsbidforthe job,but intheenditwasdecidedto give itto"someonefromthecommunity,"andthatsomeonewas BartSkiotis. Themotivesbehindbuildingthe new church weretwofold: to resurrecttheancientsplendor of Byzantiumandtoshowtheworld thefinancial wherewithalofthe prospering Greek Americancommu- nity.Noexpense was spared. An iconpainterfromCretewas im- ported to render theiconography.Hestayed foroverayear, sleeping intheunfinished structureon a thinmat.A traditionalist,here- frainedfrommeat,alcohol,and sweets, inorderto purifyhissoul andreceivedivine inspiration.Evenhis paintbrushwasbythe book, madefrom the tip of a squirrel'stail.Slowly, overtwo years,ourEast SideHagiaSophiawent up, notfarfromthe Ford Freeway.There wasonlyoneproblem.Unliketheiconpainter, BartSkiotishadnot worked with a pureheart.Itturned out thathe hadusedinferiorma- terials, siphoningtheremainingcashintohis personal bankaccount. He laid the foundationincorrecdy, sothat it wasn'tlongbefore cracks begantobranchoverthewalls, scarringthe iconography.The ceiling leaked, too. 220

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese didn’t want to think about Stanley right then. “I wish I was threatened or jealous. It’s so much easier to be jealous of another trans girl than attracted to her. Don’t you think?” asked Reese. “At least jealousy is the kind of personality flaw you can work on.” “Girl!” said Iris. But beneath that performance for Iris, the kind of talk that Reese could run on autopilot, Reese’s thoughts were strange and stupidly hopeful. She’d gotten what she needed from Stanley. She’d proven to herself, to the world, that she could be a good little girlfriend. She needed to move on. I’m going to fall in love with that girl, Reese decided abruptly, and it felt oddly true. Sebastian had been a tall Norwegian foreign exchange student with a head of wild blond hair and a long body and swimmer’s shoulders, which he had gotten, naturally, from swimming. Specifically, Sebastian had been on the University of Oslo’s champion relay team, but had been issued a year’s suspension from Norwegian competitive swimming after he’d tested positive for drug use after a Christina Aguilera concert. The gender norms in all cultures are different: In Scandinavian culture it is apparently okay for a hetero young man to be quite into Christina Aguilera. A girl he knew who worked for the promoters told him which bar Xtina and her entourage were heading to after the show, and there he met one of her dancers—a tall American named Tiff who spoke with a Texan accent that Sebastian found both intoxicating and difficult to understand. Tiff seemed weary with tour life and wanted to see the city. To impress her, Sebastian and a friend offered to build her a bonfire in a nearby snow-filled industrial park along the docks, so that she could both stay warm and see the sea. To impress her further, they got another friend to bring cocaine. When the police arrived, unsurprisingly drawn to a two-meter bonfire in the empty lots along the water, they'd all been detained—but the officers seemed not to want the hassle of it all and so they were let go. The next day, and not coincidentally, everyone on Sebastian’s swim team was subjected to a drug test. His came up positive for both marijuana and cocaine. Were he to leave school officially, he’d be required to complete the mandatory nine-month army service—most likely guarding the far northern Russian border, which his older brother had told him consisted of bored boys shooting the occasional tank round at stray reindeer every twenty-three-hour Arctic night after twenty-three- hour Arctic night. Rather than Sebastian spend a winter making Jackson Pollocks out of ruminants, his swim coach found him a semester abroad program at the University of Wisconsin, where he could train with one of the better teams in the States and come back a faster swimmer than when he left.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  Everyone talked about heaven as a place where time stood still, but other than saying it had streets of gold, no one said much else about it. I imagined an embalmed sort of place. No color. No feeling. No gravity. People and angels flying off at random. I passed a neighbor’s house, tiny and cramped with a warren of rooms, each added on as time and money permitted. On the other side of the highway, a field of turned earth rolled on forever, or at least as far as I could see. Somewhere on the other side of all this, the world waited. The world with its music and books and cities and violence and terrible beauty. I paused and poked through the ice that skimmed the surface of the ditchwater. My next thought came to me with a certainty so clear and strong it frightened me: I did not want to go to heaven. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I wasn’t sorry. Surely God knew that. I turned into the drive of the roadside cemetery. The tombstones on either side looked as though they had been stuck in the ground on a whim: one here, another there, two more on the diagonal. Why not in straight orderly rows? I walked to the end of the drive and turned around, then wandered among the graves. So many young children, babies really, with lambs and roses and cherubs etched into the stones. I sat down and leaned against the back of one of the stones. I had a soul, and God and the devil had everything else. I closed my eyes. No pictures crossed the screen of my mind and no thoughts either. I could feel my heart beat all over my body. I took a deep breath.“Look, Devil, I’ll trade you my soul for the world. I’m not talking about a little bit of the world, I mean the whole wide world.”I looked up from the weedy graves of the people who had lived and died right next to the heart of Texas. The sky was still there, the ground too. I dusted off the back of my jeans and walked home. I rarely thought about my deal with the devil after that day. Nothing changed much. I invoked the blood of Jesus to protect me from demons when I went to the bathroom at night. I prayed when I remembered, but there was less guilt, less remorse. I had made my choice. I would live in the world. In truth, it wasn’t that easy, but it was a beginning. Chapter NineteenSAYONARA, HELLHOLE, WE WERE MOVING. BROTHER TERRELL HAD bought property about thirty miles away, outside a town with the improbable name of Groesbeck. An enigmatic smile perched on my mother’s lips each time I asked her about our new house. “Just wait till you see it,” she said.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese asks if Ames wants some water. She’s wearing a camisole and a pair of cotton sleep shorts. Without waiting for a response she walks past him, trailing a hand on his lightly, then pulls two glasses from a shabby doorless cabinet and fills them in the sink. “You’re in trouble with Ir-is,” she sing-whispers, drawing out Iris’s name. “Same as always.” “T think you interrupted her mid-fuck.” Some sort of slow, bass- heavy darkwave cranks up from behind Iris’s door, sex music for goths. “Well, next time answer your phone. Katrina’s flipping out. I wanted to hear from you what’s really going on.” Reese hands him a glass of water. “I didn’t answer my phone because I finally fell asleep.” Reese takes him back into her tiny room, where there isn’t any place for Ames to sit except on the bed beside her. He notes the floral bedspread. It’s very girly, and it depresses him. This little room, the hopeful nod to girlishness from a woman he’s known for so long. On a makeup table, he sees the same jewelry chest in the shape of a book, the same chest that she had when they shared an apartment, and the little makeup mirror from Costco. He’d had an identical mirror—they had bought them together. Reese hands him a pillow, puffs one up for herself and puts it against the wall to lean on. The pillow has little centipede footprints of mascara from her eyelashes. Like always. “So?” Reese says. “She’s really upset. Can you at least tell me your side of the story?” “Are you upset too?” “Yeah. I stormed out, I was furious. With both of you.” But he doesn’t feel furious. He feels nauseated, needy. He wants to put his face in Reese’s lap. For a woman to run her fingers through his hair and say that he has tried so, so hard, that she sees how hard he’s tried. Ames can’t find a place to set down the water she gave him, so he drinks it all, then leans over and puts the glass on the floor. Just then, from through the wall, comes a series of cracks, and then the burst of Iris’s laughter. “Oh wow,” Ames says. “Is she being flogged?” Reese shrugs. “I can’t see Iris bothering to buy a flogger when guys have perfectly serviceable hands to wear out first.” “Can we take a walk or something?” Ames asks. “This is the exact wrong soundtrack” “Where to?” Reese answers her own question, “But oh, we could go down to the river? There was a work-stoppage order where they’re building the skyscraper, and they have been leaving the fence around it wide open. You can wander right up to the water to get a view of the Midtown skyline.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The Sex and the City Problem wasn’t just Reese’s problem, it was a problem for all women. But unlike millions of cis women before Reese, no generation of trans women had ever solved it. The problem could be described thusly: When a woman begins to notice herself aging, the prospect of making some meaning out of her life grows more and more urgent. A need to save herself, or be saved, as the joys of beauty and youth repeat themselves to lesser and lesser effect. But in finding meaning, Reese would argue—despite the changes wrought by feminism—women still found themselves with only four major options to save themselves, options represented by the story arcs of the four female characters of Sex and the City. Find a partner, and be a Charlotte. Have a career, and be a Samantha. Have a baby, and be a Miranda. Or finally, express oneself in art or writing, and be a Carrie. Every generation of women reinvented this formula over and over, Reese believed, blending it and twisting it, but never quite escaping it. Yet, for every generation of trans women prior to Reese’s, the Sex and the City Problem was an aspirational problem. Only the rarest, most stealth, most successful of trans women ever had the chance to even confront it. The rest were barred from all four options at the outset. No jobs, no lovers, no babies, and while a trans woman might have been a muse, no one wanted art in which she spoke for herself. And so, trans women defaulted into a kind of No Futurism, and while certain other queers might celebrate the irony, joy, and graves into which queers often rush, that rush into No Future looked a lot more glamorous when the beautiful corpse left behind was a wild and willful choice rather than a statistical probability. When Reese lived with Amy, she aspired to the Sex and the City Problem herself. It felt radical for her, as a trans woman, to luxuriate in the contemplation of how bourgeois to become. It felt like a success not to have that choice made for her. Then Amy detransitioned and it all fell apart. Now futurelessness had crept back into view. Now Reese made other women’s prizes her own bliss, and made babies out of viruses. “All right,” she says, after they'd been driving for about ten minutes. “All right, what?” “All right. Let’s see if you can get me pregnant.” “Really?” “Yeah.” Her cowboy starts to say something, but she cuts him off. “Only, if we’re going to do this, you’ve got to start treating me better. You ve got to treat me like the mother of your child.” He reaches over to pinch her side. “Mother of my child? C’mon. You don’t want that. If I put a tadpole in the well, then you’re gonna want to be the knocked-up sixteen-year-old from the bad side of town. You want everyone knowing it’s cause youre an easy slut.”

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I registered my dissatisfaction in my standard way.“Why can’t we go now?”Mama replied in her flat, end-of-the-night voice, “We’ll leave when we’re ready. Close your eyes and go to sleep. Now.”“I can’t sleep till we’re going.”“Then close your mouth and stop talking.”Finally, Brother Terrell opened the driver’s-side door and slid behind the wheel and we bumped over the field and onto the road. His long white sleeves glowed in the light of the tube radio. Hank Williams whined “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Kitty Wells answered with “It Wasn’t God who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” We beamed through the night, our headlights reflecting off the molasses-colored two-lane road. On and on we rolled, anywhere and everywhere, across the dotted lines of the map Betty Ann unfolded and folded, across the imaginary boundaries that separated and divided the land into puzzle pieces of here and there.Betty Ann’s head rose like a dark moon above the back of the seat. Dreams merged with reality. A woman moved across the swamps that lined the road, her head rag white, so very white against the night. A long cotton sack hung from her shoulder, but there were no cotton fields here, just water thick as stew and trees that stub and splinter against the night. A hand made its way from the front seat to the back and rested, light and tentative as a mayfly, on my mother’s knee. Someone flicked on the overhead light.Betty Ann’s voice rumbled, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.”Brother Terrell glanced toward her. “What? I didn’t do nothing.”No answer. Just the lick of the tires on the road. I looked out the window for the white head rag. Nothing. We traveled deeper and deeper into the darkness until finally the light overtook us and another day began.The sun hit us like salt on slugs. Every muscle, every dream hardened and cracked under the glare. It hurt to move, breathe, blink. I burrowed into the corner, my hand over my face. The car slowed. I peeked between my fingers as we came to a stop in front of a white wooden restaurant with two big windows. We eased our stiff bodies out of the car and stumbled toward the building.Brother Terrell called out: “We don’t have all day now.”Betty Ann pointed out the restroom to Pam as we walked through the door.Pam pulled on her mother’s arm. “Aren’t you coming?”“I’m staying here with Daddy . . . and Carolyn.”A look I could not decipher passed between the adults. Pam and I took Gary by the hand and headed for the bathroom. When we returned, Mama and Betty Ann were ordering breakfast: two eggs with bacon, grits, and toast for each of them, and the same thing for Pam and me to share. Gary would eat off our mother’s plate. The women handed the plastic-coated menus back to the waitress, and it was Brother Terrell’s turn. He cleared his throat as if to say something, then didn’t.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  loved, and a week later he fant. And as he went deeper into his character, something strange hapis living in hope. The pened: the character and the real-life man began to merge. Although he following week he has been had had a troubled childhood, he was obsessed with it. (For his film Easy snubbed into despair, and Street he built a set in Hollywood that duplicated the London streets he had the week afterwards he has gone mad. known as a boy.) He mistrusted the adult world, preferring the company of — S T E N D H A L , LOVE, the young, or the young at heart: three of his four wives were teenagers TRANSLATED BY GILBERT AND when he married them. SUZANNE SALE More than any other comedian, Chaplin aroused a mix of laughter and sentiment. He made you empathize with him as the victim, feel sorry for The Natural • 59 him the way you would for a lost dog. You both laughed and cried. And "Geographical" escapism audiences sensed that the role Chaplin played came from somewhere deep has been rendered ineffective by the spread of inside—that he was sincere, that he was actually playing himself. Within air routes. What remains is a few years after Making a Living, Chaplin was the most famous actor "evolutionary" escapism— in the world. There were Chaplin dolls, comic books, toys; popular songs a downward course in one's development, back to the and short stories were written about him; he became a universal icon. In ideas and emotions of 1921, when he returned to London for the first time since he had left it, he "golden childhood," which was greeted by enormous crowds, as if at the triumphant return of a great may well be defined as general. "regress towards infantilism," escape to a personal world of childish The greatest seducers, those who seduce mass audiences, nations, the ideas. • In a strictly-world, have a way of playing on people's unconscious, making them react regulated society, where life follows strictly-defined in a way they can neither understand nor control. Chaplin inadvertently hit canons, the urge to escape on this power when he discovered the effect he could have on audiences by from the chain of things playing up his weakness, by suggesting that he had a child's mind in an adult "established once and for all" must be felt body. In the early twentieth century, the world was radically and rapidly particularly strongly. . . . • changing. People were working longer and longer hours at increasingly And the most perfect of mechanical jobs; life was becoming steadily more inhuman and heartless, as them [ comedians] does this the ravages of World War I made clear. Caught in the midst of revolution- with utmost perfection, for he [ Chaplin] serves this ary change, people yearned for a lost childhood that they imagined as a principle . . . through the golden paradise. subtlety of his method

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Chateaubriand spent much of his time with his sister Lucile, and his attachment to her was strong enough that rumors of incest made the rounds. But when he was around fifteen, a new woman named Sylphide entered his life—a woman he created in his imagination, a composite of all the heroines, goddesses, and courtesans he had read about in books. He was constantly seeing her features in his mind, and hearing her voice. Soon she was taking walks with him, carrying on conversations. He imagined her innocent and exalted, yet they would sometimes do things that were not so innocent. He carried on this relationship for two whole years, until finally he left for Paris, and replaced Sylphide with women of flesh and blood. The French public, weary after the terrors of the 1790s, greeted Chateaubriand's first books enthusiastically, sensing a new spirit in them. His novels were full of windswept castles, brooding heroes, and passionate heroines. Romanticism was in the air. Chateaubriand himself resembled the characters in his novels, and despite his rather unattractive appearance, women went wild over him—with him, they could escape their boring marriages and live out the kind of turbulent romance he wrote about. Chateaubriand's nickname was the Enchanter, and although he was married, and an ardent Catholic, the number of his affairs increased with the years. But he had a restless nature—he traveled to the Middle East, to the United States, all over Europe. He could not find what he was looking for anywhere, and not the right woman either: after the novelty of an affair wore off, he would leave. By 1807 he had had so many affairs, and still felt so unsatisfied, that he decided to retire to his country estate, called Vallée aux Loups. He filled the place with trees from all over the world, transforming the grounds into something out of one of his novels. There he began to write the memoirs that he envisioned would be his masterpiece. By 1817, however, Chateaubriand's life had fallen apart. Money problems had forced him to sell Vallée aux Loups. Almost fifty, he suddenly felt old, his inspiration dried up. That year he visited the writer Madame de Staël, who had been ill and was now close to death. He spent several days at her bedside, along with her closest friend, Juliette Récamier. Madame Ré- camier's affairs were infamous. She was married to a much older man, but they had not lived together for some time; she had broken the hearts of the most illustrious men in Europe, including Prince Metternich, the Duke of 344 • The Art of Seduction Wellington, and the writer Benjamin Constant. It had also been rumored that despite all her flirtations she was still a virgin. She was now almost forty, but she was the type of woman who seems youthful at any age.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The Renaissance courtesan Tullia d'Aragona, developing friendships with the 'Dearest of all my great thinkers and poets of her time, talked of literature and philosophy— companions," he said, anything but the boudoir (and anything but the money that was also her "where have you been goal). Johannes, the narrator of Søren Kierkegaard's The Seducer's Diary, fol-hunting? On what mountain ridges?" She lows his target, Cordelia, from a distance; when their paths cross, he is po-raised herself from the lite and apparently shy. As Cordelia gets to know him, he doesn't frighten grass: "Greeting, divine her. In fact he is so innocuous she begins to wish he were less so. mistress," she cried, "greater in my sight than Duke Ellington, the great jazz artist and a consummate seducer, would Create a False Sense of Security— Approach Indirectly • 183 initially dazzle the ladies with his good looks, stylish clothing, and cha- Jove himself— I care not risma. But once he was alone with a woman, he would take a slight step if he hears me!" Jove laughed to hear her words. back, becoming excessively polite, making only small talk. Banal conversa- Delighted to be preferred to tion can be a brilliant tactic; it hypnotizes the target. The dullness of your himself, he kissed her— not front gives the subtlest suggestive word, the slightest look, an amplified with the restraint becoming power. Never mention love and you make its absence speak volumes—your to a maiden's kisses: and as she began to tell of her victims will wonder why you never discuss your emotions, and as they have hunting exploits in the such thoughts, they will go further, imagining what else is going on in your forest, he prevented her by mind. They will be the ones to bring up the topic of love or affection. De- his embrace, and betrayed his real self by a shameful liberate dullness has many applications. In psychotherapy, the doctor makes action. So far from monosyllabic responses to draw patients in, making them relax and open complying, she resisted up. In international negotiations, Henry Kissinger would lull diplomats him as far as a woman could . . . but how could a with boring details, then strike with bold demands. Early in a seduction, girl overcome a man, and less-colorful words are often more effective than vivid ones—the target who could defeat Jupiter? tunes them out, looks at your face, begins to imagine, fantasize, fall under He had his way, and returned to the upper air. your spell. Getting to your targets through other people is extremely effective; in- — O V I D , METAMORPHOSES, TRANSLATED BY MARY M. INNES

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  The seducer leads the victim to a point where he or she reveals in- voluntary signs of physical excitation that can be read in various symptoms. Once those signs are detected, the seducer must work quickly, applying pressure on the target to get lost in the moment—the past, the future, all moral scruples vanishing in air. Once your victims lose themselves in the moment, it is all over—their mind, their conscience, no longer holds them back. The body gives in to pleasure. Madame de Lursay lures Meilcour into the moment by creating a generalized disorder of the senses, rendering him incapable of thinking straight. In leading your victims into the moment, remember a few things. First, with the sailors' song that drifts to me \ Are mingled odors of the tamarind, \ —And all my soul is scent and melody. —CHARLES BAUDELAIRE, "EXOTIC PERFUME," THE FLOWERS OF EVIL, TRANSLATED BY ALAN CONDER Use Physical Lures • 403 a disordered look (Madame de Lursay's tousled hair, her ruffled dress) has more effect on the senses than a neat appearance. It suggests the bedroom. Second, be alert to the signs of physical excitation. Blushing, trembling of the voice, tears, unusually forceful laughter, relaxing movements of the body (any kind of involuntary mirroring, their gestures imitating yours), a revealing slip of the tongue—these are signs that the victim is slipping into the moment and pressure is to be applied. In 1934, a Chinese football player named Li met a young actress named Lan Ping in Shanghai. He began to see her often at his matches, cheering him on. They would meet at public affairs, and he would notice her glanc- ing at him with her "strange, yearning eyes," then looking away. One eve- ning he found her seated next to him at a reception. Her leg brushed up against his. They chatted, and she asked him to see a movie with her at a nearby cinema. Once they were there, her head found its way onto his shoulder; she whispered into his ear, something about the film. Later they strolled the streets, and she put her arm around his waist. She brought him to a restaurant where they drank some wine. Li took her to his hotel room, and there he found himself overwhelmed by caresses and sweet words. She gave him no room to retreat, no time to cool down. Three years later Lan Ping—soon to be renamed Jiang Qing—played a similar game on Mao Ze- dong. She was to become Mao's wife—the infamous Madame Mao, leader of the Gang of Four. Seduction, like warfare, is often a game of distance and closeness. At first you track your enemy from a distance. Your main weapons are your eyes, and a mysterious manner. Byron had his famous underlook, Madame Mao her yearning eyes. The key is to make the look short and to the point, then look away, like a rapier glancing the flesh.

• From The Lover (1984)

  The girl in the felt hat is in the muddy light of the river, alone on the deck of the ferry, leaning on the rails. The hat makes the whole scene pink. It’s the only color. In the misty sun of the river, the sun of the hot season, the banks have faded away, the river seems to reach to the horizon. It flows quietly, without a sound, like the blood in the body. No wind but that in the water. The engine of the ferry is the only sound, a rickety old engine with burned-out rods. From time to time, in faint bursts, the sound of voices. And the barking of dogs, coming from all directions, from beyond the mist, from all the villages. The girl has known the ferryman since she was a child. He smiles at her and asks after her mother the headmistress, Madame la Directrice. He says he often sees her cross over at night, says she often goes to the property in Cambodia. Her mother is well, says the girl. All around the ferry is the river, it’s brimfull, its moving waters sweep through, never mixing with, the stagnant waters of the rice fields. The river has picked up all it’s met with since Tonle Sap and the Cambodian forest. It carries everything along, straw huts, forests, burned-out fires, dead birds, dead dogs, drowned tigers and buffalos, drowned men, bait, islands of water hyacinths all stuck together. Everything flows toward the Pacific, no time for anything to sink, all is swept along by the deep and headlong storm of the inner current, suspended on the surface of the river’s strength. I answered that what I wanted more than anything else in the world was to write, nothing else but that, nothing. Jealous. She’s jealous. No answer, just a quick glance immediately averted, a slight shrug, unforgettable. I’ll be the first to leave. There are still a few years to wait before she loses me, loses this one of her children. For the sons there’s nothing to fear. But this one, she knows, one day she’ll go, she’ll manage to escape. Head of the class in French. The headmaster of the high school tells her, your daughter’s head of the class in French, madame. My mother says nothing, nothing, she’s cross because it’s not her sons who are head of the class in French. The beast, my mother, my love, asks, What about math? Answer: Not yet, but it will come. My mother asks, When? Answer: When she makes up her mind to it, madame. • • •

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  charms. The right victims are those for whom you can fill a void, who see in you something exotic. They are often isolated or at least somewhat unhappy (perhaps because of recent adverse circumstances), or can easily be made so— for the completely contented person is almost impossible to seduce. The perfect victim has some natural quality that attracts you. The strong emotions this quality inspires will help make your seductive maneuvers seem more natural and dynamic. The perfect victim allows for the perfect chase. Preparing for the Hunt The young Vicomte de Valmont was a notorious libertine in the Paris of the 1770s, the ruin of many a young girl and the ingenious seducer of the wives of illustrious aristocrats. But after a while the repetitiveness of it all began to bore him; his successes came too easily So one year, during the sweltering, slow month of August, he decided to take a break from Paris and visit his aunt at her château in the provinces. Life there was not what The ninth • Have I he was used to—there were country walks, chats with the local vicar, card become blind? Has the games. His city friends, particularly his fellow libertine and confidante the inner eye of the soul lost its power? I have seen her, but Marquise de Merteuil, expected him to hurry back. it is as if I had seen a There were other guests at the château, however, including the Prési- heavenly revelation—s o dente de Tourvel, a twenty-two-year-old woman whose husband was tem- completely has her image vanished again for me. In porarily absent, having work to do elsewhere. The Présidente had been vain do I summon all the languishing at the château, waiting for him to join her. Valmont had met powers of my soul in order her before; she was certainly beautiful, but had a reputation as a prude who to conjure up this image. If I ever see her again, I shall was extremely devoted to her husband. She was not a court lady; her taste be able to recognize her in clothing was atrocious (she always covered her neck with ghastly frills) instantly, even though she and her conversation lacked wit. For some reason, however, far from Paris, stands among a hundred others. Now she has fled, Valmont began to see these traits in a new light. He followed her to the and the eye of my soul tries chapel where she went every morning to pray. He caught glimpses of her at in vain to overtake her dinner, or playing cards. Unlike the ladies of Paris, she seemed unaware of with its longing. I was her charms; this excited him. Because of the heat, she wore a simple linen walking along Langelinie, seemingly nonchalantly

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Are you okay?” he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, probing gently, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and his breath hitches. He’s staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment, or maybe it’s forever…but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on mine. Chapter FourKiss me, damn it! I implore him, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I’m staring at Christian Grey’s mouth, mesmerized, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening. He’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve. “Anastasia, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the man for you,” he whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown, and my head swims with rejection. “Breathe, Anastasia, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” he says quietly, and gently pushes me away. Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Christian, leaving me wired and weak. NO! my psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, carefully watching my reactions. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn’t do it. He doesn’t want me. He really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning. “I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you.” I’m awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from him. “For what?” He frowns. He hasn’t taken his hands off me. “For saving me.” “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come sit down in the hotel for a moment?” He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I’m standing in front of him feeling like a fool.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Her school had a tradition, Student Switch Day, where once a year, each student drew another student’s name from a hat, then dressed like that student for a day and attended that other student’s classes on their schedule. Amy got Mary Anne’s name. Mary Anne was full-figured and gorgeous and probably would have been popular had she not loved horses so much. Mary Anne had been in child pageants. A popular rumor about Mary Anne, one that may or may not have had factual basis but nonetheless had staying power: When Mary Anne hit puberty very young, nine or ten, her mother made her eat toilet paper to starve the fat going to her hips and chest. The fiber in the toilet paper would curb Mary Anne’s appetite, her mother said. Nevertheless, by fourteen Mary Anne had the biggest breasts at school. Other girls told Amy to ask Mary Anne to lend her a dress and do her makeup. And Amy longed to ask Mary Anne for that, longed for it so badly it was terrifying. The night she drew Mary Anne’s name, Amy stared at herself in a mirror, trying to picture what Mary Anne’s eye shadow and mascara could do for her face. But she never asked Mary Anne for anything. Instead she found a triple-F bra at Goodwill, stuffed it, and did nothing else to impersonate Mary Anne. Amy arrived to school on Switch Day with the bra stuffed under Amy’s otherwise everyday clothes. Mary Anne’s face fell the second she saw Amy; it was a look of pure hurt, crestfallen with disappointment in what Amy found to imitate in her existence and body. “Why are you so mean?” she asked Amy. And suddenly Amy saw what she had done: a pair of tits. She was saying that’s all Mary Anne was. And at that moment, when she might have apologized, might have found the courage to ask Mary Anne for help, to tell her she wanted to understand her better, that she wanted to be like her if only for a day, Jon McNelly came by, pointed at Amy’s stuffed bra and said, “Nailed it!” Mary Anne managed a smile with her mouth, but her eyes went wet, and she nodded and said, “I hope you have a good day being me.” Amy considered taking off the bra, abating her cruelty for Mary Anne’s sake. But she didn’t. She wore it all day. She liked wearing a bra. She liked people commenting on her boobs. That night, she wore the bra again when she jerked off to the fantasy of Mary Anne forcing her to dress up in her clothes, then tossed it in a dumpster on her way to school the next morning. If that afternoon at Delia’s had been Amy’s first time having sex with a woman, Patrick had been her first time having sex with a guy. Although whether Patrick was, in fact, a man, Amy later came to doubt.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Those who grab their kisses, but not what follows, \ Deserve to lose all they've gained. How short were you \ Of the ultimate goal after all your kissing? That was \ Gaucheness, not modesty, I'm afraid . . . —OVID, THE ART OF LOVE, TRANSLATED BY PETER GREEN I have tested all manner of pleasures, and known every variety of joy; and I have found that neither intimacy with princes, nor wealth acquired, nor finding after lacking, nor returning after long absence, nor security after fear and repose in a safe refuge—none of these things so powerfully affects the soul as union with the beloved, especially if it come after long denial and continual banishment. For then the flame of passion waxes exceeding hot, and the furnace of yearning blazes up, and the fire of eager hope rages ever more fiercely. —IBN HAZM, THE RING OF THE DOVE: A TREATISE ON THE ART AND PRACTICE OF ARAB LOVE, TRANSLATED BY A. J. ARBERRY I knew once two great lords, brothers, both of them highly bred and highly accomplished gentlemen which did love two ladies, but the one of these was of much higher quality and more account than the other in all respects. Now being entered both into the chamber of 410 • The Art of Seduction tures a democratizing, leveling impulse, in which everything has to seem at least something like equal. An overt imbalance of power, an overt desire for power, will stir envy and resentment; we learn to be kind and polite, at least on the surface. Even those who have power generally try to act humble and modest—they do not want to offend. In seduction, on the other hand, you can throw all of that out, revel in your dark side, inflict a little pain—in some ways be more yourself. Your naturalness in this respect will prove se- ductive in itself. The problem is that after years of living in the real world, we lose the ability to be ourselves. We become timid, humble, overpolite. Your task is to regain some of your childhood qualities, to root out all this false humility. And the most important quality to recapture is boldness. No one is born timid; timidity is a protection we develop. If we never stick our necks out, if we never try, we will never have to suffer the conse- quences of failure or success. If we are kind and unobtrusive, no one will be offended—in fact we will seem saintly and likable. In truth, timid peo- ple are often self-absorbed, obsessed with the way people see them, and not at all saintly. And humility may have its social uses, but it is deadly in seduc- tion.

• From The Art of Seduction (2001)

  Because the responsibilities of adult life are a burden so oppressive at times that we secretly yearn for the dependency of childhood, for that per- son who looked after our every need, assumed our cares and worries. This daydream of ours has a strong erotic component, for the child's feeling of being dependent on the parent is charged with sexual undertones. Give people a sensation similar to that protected, dependent feeling of childhood and they will project all kinds of fantasies onto you, including feelings of love or sexual attraction that they will attribute to something else. We won't admit it, but we long to regress, to shed our adult exterior and vent the childish emotions that linger beneath the surface. Early in his career, Sigmund Freud confronted a strange problem: many of his female patients were falling in love with him. He thought he knew what was happening: encouraged by Freud, the patient would delve into her childhood, which of course was the source of her illness or neurosis. She would talk about her relationship with her father, her earliest experi- ences of tenderness and love, and also of neglect and abandonment. The process would stir up powerful emotions and memories. In a way, she would be transported back into her childhood. Intensifying this effect was the fact that Freud himself said little and made himself a little cold and dis- tant, although he seemed to be caring—in other words, quite like the tradi- tional father figure. Meanwhile the patient was lying on a couch, in a helpless or passive position, so that the situation duplicated the roles of par- ent and child. Eventually she would begin to direct some of the confused emotions she was dealing with toward Freud himself. Unaware of what was happening, she would relate to him as to her father. She would regress and fall in love. Freud called this phenomenon "transference," and it would be- come an active part of his therapy. By getting patients to transfer some of their repressed feelings onto the therapist, he would bring their problems into the open, where they could be dealt with on a conscious level. The transference effect was so potent, though, that Freud was often un- able to move his patients past their infatuation. In fact transference is a powerful way of creating an emotional attachment—the goal of any seduc- [In Japan,] much in the traditional way of child- rearing seems to foster passive dependence. The child is rarely left alone, day or night, for it usually sleeps with the mother. When it goes out the child is not pushed ahead in a pram, to face the world alone, but is tightly bound to the mother's back in a snug cocoon.