This introduction sets out Major’s view of his age, "the experimental century," in relation to curiosity and curation. Although curiosity had been recuperated from a vice to a virtue in early modern Europe, Major continued to relate curiosity to original sin as a faulty, bodily lust for knowledge. This insatiable desire drove all people since Adam, but it did so more than ever in his age when the bounds and divisions set upon knowledge in the traditional encyclopedia were torn down. Curators applied cura or care (from the same root as curiosity) to knowledge. By acknowledging their own flaws, curators could guide the passion for knowledge closer and closer to truth, which, however, always remained out of human reach.

Histories of both emotion and sexuality explore the ways that bodies and embodied practices are shaped by time, culture, and location. This chapter uses the theoretical and methodological insights from the History of Emotions to consider the emotions associated with sexuality and how these have taken cultural form at different moments. It first considers the emotions related to sexual function and desire, noting how different biological models informed what emotions were expected and experienced. It then turns to love as the predominant emotion connected with sexual practices, considering the boundaries of who and what should be incorporated within such feeling. The chapter then turns to an exploration of the emotions, particularly intimacy, of reproductive labour, acknowledging sexual practices, including those are contractual and exploitative, that sometimes sit uneasily within a framework of love. Finally, the chapter highlights some of the emotions produced by the management and policing of sexuality, such as shame and loneliness, recognising that sexuality has been a contested moral domain for many groups. Using diverse examples across time and space, this chapter seeks to denaturalise the emotions of sexuality and to provide a framework upon which further research can build.

Given the fact that in humans the communication of information about emotional states is ubiquitous, people might be forgiven for assuming that pragmatic accounts of linguistic communication would include quite well-developed views of not only the role of emotion in inference, but also how information about emotional states is communicated. However, for a range of reasons, those working in pragmatics have tended to persist with the view that the mental processes behind reason and passions exist in somehow separate domains. As a result, the emotional dimension to linguistic communication has tended to play very much a subordinate role to the rational or cognitive one. Indeed, in many accounts it plays no role at all. This chapter provides an overview of the issues discussed in the book. These all point towards our principal motivation: our belief that emotional or expressive meaning, along with other affect-related, ineffable dimensions of communication, play such a huge role in human interaction that any pragmatic theory worth its salt must account for them.

Kierkegaard’s aesthete, named only as A, continually laments the lack of meaning in his life. He suffers through passions that flare up and quickly die away, leaving him in a melancholic state. His mode of being is on display in the Diapsalmata, the fragmentary writings at the start of Either/Or. In this chapter, we examine why he avoids becoming consistently engaged in the world and remains trapped within his alienated melancholia. We offer a general account of melancholy, arguing that melancholia is an existential condition that must be understood in terms of the metaphysics of possibility. We also provide a sympathetic interpretation of A’s melancholy, rather than placing blame upon him, because melancholia attunes us to certain aspects of the world and of human existence. The aesthetic life has epistemic, moral, and aesthetic worth on its own terms, so a person may legitimately decide to remain melancholic. This avoids compromising our possibilities, makes us receptive to the suffering of others, and may inspire creative activity such as writing poetical fragments.

This chapter analyses the ways in which Byron’s sense of himself as a writer was gradually, often painfully, informed by the evolving discourse of addiction as it was being medicalised throughout the early nineteenth century and subsequently used to describe a troubling new category of behaviour. For Byron, the act of writing and the emerging sense of his own identity as a poet is formulated not simply through metaphors of addiction, which he himself helped to write into culture, but also through its physical expression. This was much more than a figure of speech – his need to write emerged in painful, bodily manifestations; Byron did not simply write about his writing habit – his habit, in part, wrote him.

Informed by the everlasting concern with what a good life is and how it can be achieved by the individual in a society, the field of Humanities have a rich tradition in discussing different domains of meaningfulness, including meaningful life and work. This chapter discusses a variety of humanist contributions to meaningful waged work. An integral feature of Humanist accounts is the understanding that what constitutes humanity is people’s drive to endow their relations, interests, abilities and desires with meaning. As this chapter will showcase, contributions in this field differ in terms of what drives people’s search for meaning, what the experience of meaningfulness consists of, if essential requirements exist before meaningfulness can be experienced or if one domain of meaningfulness trumps others. Discussing further whether the experience of meaningfulness as self-realisation and transcendence is possible in relations and activities that are in part determined by others, the chapter investigates the relationship between freedom, structure and agency.

In descriptions of the interior drama of the wager, or of the game, or of the convoluted sequence of emotions suddenly untethered and allowed free expression, we see not only the ways that gambling generated emotional intensity in players, but also how it invited closely detailed descriptions of the ways emotions were experienced. Play and the creation of Blanc-style casinos created a social space and a set of images of gambling that provided Europeans from differing backgrounds a common language of emotion that was developed through a discussion of the ways that emotion was contained and expressed in the environment of the casino, an entity typically described as being passionless.

Human beings become scarcer than before in the simile world of the Aeneid, contributing to a tale about the loneliness and sorrow of human beings who struggle to connect with each other or to affect the world around them. Both Aeneas and the characters in the simile world are marked by solitude and isolation. The human characters in the simile world of the Aeneid share few strong ties with other creatures, and they often fail to affect the world around them in ways that their fellows in Greek epic would take for granted. In the story world, similes highlight moments of furor, the overpowering rage that underlies both love and war and threatens not simply Aeneas’ mission to found Rome but also the existence of a rational world order. Similes draw out isolation and overwhelming passion as two poles of emotion in the poem with little in between. They use new storytelling techniques that appear rarely or not at all in the similes of earlier epics, and they often lack an exit expression joining a simile to the story. These features weaken the conventional distinctions between similes and other components of epic narrative.

What makes us want to create? I provide an overview of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation and their relationship with creativity before switching to needs, work orientation, and purpose. Creativity can help inspire us and drive us forward. It can be a source of passion or a vehicle to express it. We can enter the magical feeling of flow when we create. And across longer periods of time we can experience growth and have a sense of meaningful progress through creative work.

This chapter begins by discussing the challenges of distinguishing between two very distinct concepts, namely passion and addiction, and goes on to consider some of the reasons why people may exercise. The common features that are shared by neurobiology of exercise and of addiction are then examined. The phenomenon of exercise addiction (EA), which may be regarded as belonging to the cluster of behavioural addictions, is discussed, and a number of different conceptualized models of the development of EA are described. Finally, several possible treatments that are more commonly used for other behavioural addictions are suggested as potentially being suitable for use in the management of EA. The need to focus on prevention strategies is highlighted, as is the importance of promoting a balanced way of life, by focusing on the importance of understanding and shaping the environment in which we live.

Is “patience a virtue” in Shakespeare? Yes, this chapter argues—though Shakespeare also fully acknowledges how the word and the virtue itself can be abused. For an example of the more troubling ways in which patience is invoked by Shakespeare, consider Petruchio’s promise to see Katherine become “a second Grissel,” an icon of patient wifely submission. Or take the jarring way Prince Ferdinand, in The Tempest, reaps romantic rewards for “patient” labors of the same sort that the enslaved Caliban has long unwillingly and unprofitably endured. Such scandalous appeals to patience invite us to read into Shakespeare a modern critique of this virtue: a critique that has been prominent ever since Nietzsche called patience one of Western culture’s key “fabricated ideals,”a constraint on human potential. To show why the abuse of patience discourse is not the whole story in Shakespeare, this chapter recalls how classical and Christian traditions envision patience as not a loser’s but a winner’s virtue. In classical ethics it is a practice of acting deliberately rather than reactively. And in Christianity, patience not only builds confidence in a better world to come, but—as Marina’s perseverance in Pericles shows—can also further meaningful change in this one.

This chapter examines Aquinas’s views on the ontological status of the actualization of an agent’s active power, namely its action, and the patient’s passive power, namely its passion. Aquinas claims that one and the same motion constitutes both an agent’s action and its patient’s passion. This chapter considers Aquinas’s motivations for defending the “action-passion sameness” thesis and his responses to common objections. The chapter also includes a solution to a longstanding interpretive difficulty regarding Aquinas’s views on the ontological status of action. Aquinas claims in some texts that actions are accidents in the agent as subject. This seems to conflict with his standard view that an agent’s action is the motion which it causes in its patient. While advancing a solution to this textual difficulty, the chapter proposes a novel interpretation of Aquinas’s understanding of the relationship between forms and accidents and the metaphysics of inherence.

In his Hamburg passions and cantatas, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach borrowed music by a variety of contemporary composers, including Telemann, his godfather and immediate predecessor as music director in Hamburg. Most of these borrowings have been identified, but the chorales represent a special case, for even those of known origin may pose questions about how Bach adapted and performed them. This chapter focuses on Bach’s chorales with connections to Telemann, showing that some previously considered to be adaptations from the latter’s Fast allgemeines Musicalisches Lieder-Buch (1730) may in fact have different models. Other chorales, drawn from Telemann’s published cantata cycle Musicalisches Lob Gottes (1744), necessitated the adaptation of the original three-voice settings for four voices. Surviving sources indicate that Bach either composed a new voice or added a tenor line that doubles the soprano line an octave lower. In cases where Bach’s scores call for the insertion of a Telemann chorale but no performance parts survive to reveal the adaptation process, I turn to the models of Bach himself and of Telemann’s grandson, Georg Michael, whose own adaptations of chorales suggest possible solutions.

Instead of taking the impossibility of certain knowledge in experience as an intellectual problem, Cavell understands it as an existential condition. Philosophers have traditionally disavowed that condition by turning skepticism into an intellectual problem. The pathology behind that disavowal becomes the center of what Krebs calls Cavell’s “clinical turn.” The philosophical criticism resulting from that turn involves a radical change in attitude, where thinking is – as Cavell puts it – a mode of praise. This essay argues that thinking as praise makes receptiveness paramount, and requires a reconnection with feeling and passion that brings the body back into philosophy.

Responding to an early review that suggested Jane Eyre (1847) “bears no impress of being written at all,” this chapter shows that the novel’s rhetorical techniques are deployed to significant effect, not least in balancing effects of hurry and control, far more than the contemporary judgment allowed. The chapter delineates how Charlotte Brontë’s prose style differs from Jane Austen’s, a writer with whom she is often contrasted, in registering its heroine’s passion and peculiarity.