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After years of study and several other visits to the island, I identified what was missing as lo informal the informal. The literature on Cuba presented a political system and a social system detached from each other and far more formal than what I encountered during my trips. Far from being a characteristic exclusive to one or another set of scholars, formalism was pervasive in a field of study otherwise marked by pronounced cleavages. With time I have come to recognize that the bias toward formality runs deep in the intellectual history of modernity; it is not confined to the study of Cuba.

The Politics of Passion

Like the bulk of political science scholarship, the literature on Cuban politics has focused primarily on national and international structures and formal institutions. Even when scholars have emphasized or overemphasized the role of leadership, lo informal has not been considered. Informal social practices, the interactions among individuals in everyday life, and their political import have been neglected or rendered invisible. The resulting portrait of what constitutes the social and, by implication, the political has been rigid, inhuman, and much more "rational institutional" than what is true in the day-to-day experience of Cubans.

In the standard academic perspective the Cuban people have appeared as either agents or objects of politics, confined to the categories "masses" or "classes," but not as feeling beings with affective social networks that thrive in the non-state-regulated sphere. The emotional impact of politics and the relevance of emotions for politics have been absent as analytical categories.

Even personal testimonies, so much a part of the revolutionary literary experience--for instance, Oscar Lewis's famous Four Lives: Living the Revolution --do not tell the story fully, as the emotional is not made explicitly political. Given the emotional outpouring the revolution of elicited, and continues to elicit inside and outside the island, even among academics, the absence of the politics of informality and the politics of emotions is nothing short of remarkable.

My concern with social informality and its impact on state-society relations led me to pose a number of questions regarding the feelings and norms expressed in that arena of daily life. What are the codes of the informal? What are the sources of its political culture? What constitutes its hardware, its networks? What impact do informality and the emotional have on formal politics? How do formality and informality intersect? What light do the informal and the politics of emotions shed on human action?

These queries forced me to consider the sociopolitical role of emotions in the Cuban case.

Queen Anne: The Politics of Passion by Anne Somerset

She has worked as a research assistant for several historians, among them Antonia Fraser. Somerset, the daughter of the 11th Duke of Beaufort, lives in London. He was sixteen years old and considered a promising student, when in February he caught the dreaded smallpox. His distraught and fearful mother immediately rushed to Cambridge to be at his bedside. The Queen was naturally appalled to hear that this talented young man had contracted the deadly disease that had killed her daughters fifteen years earlier, and was desperate to do all she could to help. Having been summoned to Cam- bridge by Sarah, the Duke arrived there just in time to see his son die on 20 February.

When Sarah shut herself away at her house near St. The Queen saw the bereft parents when Marlborough and his wife came to wait on her on 28 February, four days before the Duke left for the Continent to resume military operations against France.

After her husband had sailed, Sarah went back to the country, still enveloped in misery. Now, intolerance and inflexibility became her dominant traits. By her own account, she had never derived much emotional satisfaction from her friendship with Anne, but henceforth it was validated in her eyes principally by the belief that she must mould Anne to her will and thus aid not only her husband and Godolphin but also the political party she favoured.

Finding in politics an outlet that distracted her from her grief, Sarah devoted herself to it with febrile energy, seeing things in absolute terms that left no room for nuance. In the case of the Queen, she could not even accept that Anne was capable of forming her own convictions; instead, whenever they differed, she at once assumed that these ideas had been placed in her mind by others. Have pity on me and hide nothing. At the time the Queen fervently denied this, but with hindsight Sarah was confident that her instincts had been correct.

The Duchess later came to believe that Anne had already become unhealthily fond of Abigail Hill, the poor cousin whom Sarah had installed as a Woman of the Bedchamber prior to the accession. Anne longed to preserve her intimacy with her best friend, accounting herself fortunate for having forged such a bond, but perhaps inevitably her devotion had become less obsessive upon her accession.

Only the most hardened cynic could contend that the letter that Anne wrote to Sarah, probably on 22 May , was insincere. Sarah had recently warned the Queen that her husband was feeling seriously demoralised. Apart from being saddened by the death of his son, he was upset because the Dutch were refusing to follow the military strategy he had advocated, and he also knew that some of his ministerial colleagues were criticising his conduct of the war. When he wrote telling Sarah that he would have to retire if things did not improve, she had passed this on to the Queen, who responded with a letter almost lyrical in its intensity.

As for your poor unfortunate faithful Morley, she could not bear it; for if ever you should forsake me, I would have nothing more to do with the world, but make another abdication; for what is a crown when the support of it is gone? I never will forsake your dear self, Mr. Freeman nor Mr.

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The Politics of Passion

Montgomery but always be your constant and faithful friend, and we four must never part till death mows us down with his impartial hand. Fraught Minds Bittersweet Homecoming Family Home Sweet Home Breach Of The Peace Recollections and Revelations Facing Fears Down Time Decisions Goodbyes Parallel Struggle Silver Linings New Dawn. The reason for the protection was always keeping a watchful eye too and you understood that your position meant you were a desirable target. It was suffocating, even if you did have a lovely man by your side to slightly alleviate the boredom.

But it was becoming clear that wasn't enough, your inner personality begging to be let out. All the while, sometimes unknowingly, assisted by someone with an intriguing dark mind. Being the daughter of a prominent diplomat meant that you were constantly under scrutiny; from the flow of stuffy, important people that you had to meet to the ever present security detail that followed in your wake.

Your days were filled with receiving guests, attending dinners and remaining prim and proper at all times. Craving excitement, you began to push yourself into situations that were considered unacceptable for someone like you, unlady-like and reckless by your family's standards. Originally posted under my other deleted account, I'm moving everything over here now, taking my works with me. I have not stolen this. I'd forgotten how fucking long these chapters were so will be slow going moving this by my standards Yet again you were sat in front of the large mirror, the woman who you considered a strong friend as well as a member of staff fussing around you, sorting your hair and touching up your make up.

There would be another of your father's grand dinners this evening and you had to look your best, be put on display once more. The dress you wore was intricate and uncomfortable, a sensible length with sleeves to your elbows, neck high so as not to show anything below your collar bones. Sequins and lace combined in a maze of patterns, the dark fabric shimmering with every breath.

A necklace was placed around you from behind and with a tut it was removed, another coming into view quickly. He won't be able to keep his hands off you tonight.

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About time you did the deed. You'd been dating for nearly three months and he was nothing but a gentleman, courting you the proper way and not even attempting to suggest anything lewd. It was sweet if a little tiresome; you were a grown woman who lost her virginity long ago, not some fragile little flower who couldn't handle a man's touch. But, he was being correct and didn't want to risk your father's wrath, being that the man was responsible for your relationship.


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Making your way down from the second floor, half of which was entirely yours, you carefully tackled the immense marble staircase with sensible steps, aware of the set of shoes behind you. Being that there would be nearly a hundred guests tonight, security was tight and your detail for the evening was following a few paces behind, electronic earpiece telling him everything he needed to know. You didn't recognise this one, not your usual, but it wasn't surprising.

Extra help had been called in due to the amount of high profile attendees. The house you lived in was vast, a show of money and superiority that came with your family's history, a veritable who's who of the political world and elite aristocracy, along with prolific members of the military.

It was situated in a foreign country, your original homeland miles and miles away, but you barely remembered it. The job your father held meant lots of travel and it was quite a treat to have been stationed here for the past three years, giving you some kind of stability. All the staff were from your place of birth, giving a sort of semblance of being back home. Your upbringing had been strict and intense, educated to a high level, fluent in five languages and you possessed the finest etiquette skills.

It was becoming harder to maintain the exterior, though and in recent years you'd let the facade slip on a few occasions. In order to escape the drudgery of this kind of existence, you found yourself seeking thrills more often. Anything you did wouldn't be considered extraordinary by a layperson, just normal life.


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Things like drinking in a bar, attending concerts in small, sweaty venues and meeting new people in the nearby town. Which is where you should be tonight. A band was playing and you desperately wanted to go, but this banquet clashed brutally with your plans. You'd found a flier announcing the event in amongst your mail the other day and planned on sneaking out as usual, but you hadn't realised the day it fell on. It made you feel like a teen, not a woman who wasn't that far off Cursing your bad luck, you walked perfectly across the hall to meet your father, a kind looking man who was loving but also married to his job.

It wasn't surprising, he had a demanding role, keeping the peace and maintaining a cordial relationship with everyone around. Whilst tonight was called a dinner party, it was far more than that. The amount of politicians and heads of state that were invited meant it was a golden opportunity to network, bring people together and discuss how to solve the problems of the world, all over nibbles, wine and rich food.

He smiled and held his arm out for you, nodding at the man behind you in the dark suit. Taking the offered limb delicately, you breathed deeply, ready to face the evening. As the doors were opened by waiters, all eyes turned to watch the two of you enter, casting their gazes over tonight's hosts. The conversation didn't abate, but it changed slightly and you heard snippets - women discussing your dress, men commending your father's choice of menu.

But you were oblivious.

The Politics of Passion Women's Sexual Culture in the Afro Surinamese Diaspora Between Men Between W

Your stomach jumped as you saw the man in front of you, his smile warm and light brown eyes flashing at you from beneath his similarly coloured hair. Pride swelled in your chest as you glanced at his uniform, medals hanging in lines of gleaming metal.