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Negative Emotions - Lydia Davis
A well-meaning teacher, inspired by a text he had been reading, once sent all the other teachers in his school a message about negative emotions. The message consisted entirely of advice quoted from a Vietnamese Buddhist monk:
Emotion, said the monk, is like a storm: it stays for a while and then it goes. Upon perceiving the emotion (like a coming storm), one should put oneself in a stable position. One should sit or lie down. One should focus on one’s abdomen. One should focus, specifically, on the area just below one’s navel, and practice mindful breathing. If one can identify the emotion as an emotion, it may then be easier to handle.
The other teachers were puzzled. They did not understand why their colleague had sent a message to them about negative emotions. They resented the message, and they resented their colleague. They thought he was accusing them of having negative emotions and needing advice about how to handle them. Some of them were, in fact, angry.
The teachers did not choose to regard their anger as a coming storm. They did not focus on their abdomens. They did not focus on the area just below their navels. Instead, they wrote back immediately, declaring that because they did not understand why he had sent it, his message had filled them with negative emotions. They told him that it would take a lot of practice for them to get over the negative emotions caused by his message. But, they went on, they did not intend to do this practice. Far from being troubled by their negative emotions, they said, they in fact liked having negative emotions, particularly about him and his message.
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“the fruits brag about their beauty, popularity, and medicinal qualities; they call each other out as poseurs, windbags, and has-beens“
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september 29, 1945. My dear cat Perkins died today—very quietly, daintily, a lady wanting to give as little trouble, as possible. She took sick Monday, with chills and bladder trouble, and threw up her fish. She knew and I knew that this was it. I cashed a bad check to take her to Speyer’s where the vet gave me pills and medicine to give her which she hated. . . . Finally she lay on the balcony, exhausted, in the sun. I heard her choke, and she was in a convulsion, but I picked her up and put her in a chair where she managed to fix her sweet eyes on me while I held her paw. . . . It was unbearable.
Joe [Powell’s husband] was in the country. I read Mrs. Trollope furiously all night, loving Mrs. T. for coming to my rescue. I hated even to give up the little soft dead body lying in the chair but fortunately the S.P.C.A. came in at Ann Honeycutt’s call and took her. Otherwise I would have done away with myself. Perkins seemed the only lovely thing in life that cost nothing, asked nothing, and gave only pleasure.
Her major service to me was curious—she cured me of the disease of night fear. I stayed for weeks alone with her, hearing her rattling around the house. She waited like a modest bride till I was in bed with the lights out, then washed herself and leapt softly onto the bed, tucked herself in my neck and nuzzled off to sleep. It was wonderful to be unafraid.
I forgot my debt to her for this until the night after she died, when I was alone in the house and suddenly every sound once more became sinister—the escaped lunatic slowly turning the doorknob, the big brute creeping up the stairs. My cat analyst was dead and my phobias came plunging out of the pits and closets where they had been locked. I cannot have another pet—it would be unfaithful to my little dear who liked no one but me, knew no other cats, no mice, no love but mine. She thought she was my mother—was ashamed and outraged if I was noisy or loud-talking, slapped me if I was blah, avoided me scornfully if I was drunk, approved if I typed. She was the first pet in my life.
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Was told yesterday I had not won the National Book Award. I felt some relief as I have no equipment for prize-winning—no small talk, no time for idle graciousness and required public show, no clothes either or desire for front. I realize I have no yen for any experience (even a triumph) that blocks observation, when I am the observed instead of the observer. Time is too short to miss so many sights.
By Dawn Powell, June 19, 1995
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1995/06/26/a-diamond-to-cut-new-york?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=tny&utm_mailing=TNY_SundayArchive_082221&utm_campaign=aud-dev&utm_medium=email&bxid=5bd6723a3f92a41245dd4d0f&cndid=28374656&hasha=02473824ee6b30a937333dbcbe86a0fd&hashb=3fc6eded8ba8bcb4fdad36ffbe2f4122bd53ed39&hashc=758a5ee996e95c6d6e2a70573b638cf5f36e2cbfe1b6e0baf8b0693fdbe4c517&esrc=frm_act_Daily_subs&mbid=mbid%3DCRMNYR012019&utm_term=TNY_SundayArchive
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