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Heightened awareness of the problem of sexual abuse has led to deep anxiety over adults touching children—in nearly any context. Though our society has moved toward increasingly strict enforcement of this taboo, studies have shown that young children need regular human contact, and the benefits of breastfeeding have been widely extolled. Exploring the history of love, desire, gender, sexuality, parenthood, and inequality, this book probes the disquieting issue of how we can draw a clear line between natural affection toward children and perverse exploitation of them. The author demonstrates that we cannot determine what is wrong about sexual abuse without first understanding what is good about appropriate sensual affection. Looking at topics such as the importance of touch in nurturing children, the psychology of abuse and victimhood, and recent ideologies of motherhood, she argues that we must expand our philosophical and theological language of physical love and make a distinction between sexual love and erotic love. Taking on theological and ethical arguments over the question of sexuality between unequals, the author arrives at the conclusion that it can be destructive to completely bar eroticism from these relationships.

A psychiatrist writes a letter to a journal explaining his decision to marry a former patient. Another psychiatrist confides that most of his friends are ex-patients. Both practitioners felt they had to defend their behavior, but the author of this book, a psychoanalyst, could not pinpoint the reason why. What was wrong about the analysts' actions? The author explores and explains that problem of “correct behavior.” He demonstrates that the inflated and official expectations that are part of an analyst's training—that therapists be universally curious, hopeful, kind, and purposeful, for example—are often of less help than simple empathy amid the ambiguous morality of actual patient interactions. Being a good therapist and being a good person, he argues, are not necessarily the same. Drawing on case studies from his own practice and from the experiences of others, as well as on philosophers such as John Dewey, the author breaks new ground and leads the way for therapists to understand the relationship between private morality and clinical practice.

The experience of being Han in Xinjiang is part of the broader experience of migration and frontier settlement in PRC-era China. Drawing on analysis of history, biography, and social structure, Oil and Water dispels the notion that Han settlers in Xinjiang are homogenous, or that their interests necessarily align with those of the state. The book argues that it is more by default than by their own design that Han in Xinjiang are colonists, although colonists they are. Each of the core chapters has a strong biographical element, and is concerned with how formal and informal structures, agency, and chance interact to shape lives. Each chapter also focuses on one or more of the classic topics of sociological studies of China, including urbanization, the socialist-style work unit (danwei), state discourses and collective memory, social connections (guanxi), marriage and the family, and mass protest. From this socially-grounded and ethnographic perspective, the book illuminates key aspects of the relationship between China’s core area and Xinjiang-as-periphery. The “uncivilized periphery” remains essential to China’s national identity, and an integral part of Han settlers’ psychology. The frontier has been seen throughout history as simultaneously a place of exile and a place where liberation is possible, and that continues to be the case. Indeed, the search for freedom–of many different kinds–is what drives migration in contemporary times. Colonialism may be a metropolitan project, and somewhat abstract to elites in the metropole, but it is the superstructure of life for those on the periphery.

In recent years the news media have been awash with stories about increasingly close ties between college campuses and multimillion-dollar corporations. America's universities, the story goes, reap enormous windfalls patenting products of scientific research that have been primarily funded by taxpayers. Meanwhile, hoping for new streams of revenue from their innovations, the same universities are allowing their research—and their very principles—to become compromised by quests for profit. But is that really the case? Is money really hopelessly corrupting science? This book reveals that campus capitalism is more complicated—and less profitable—than media reports would suggest. While universities seek out corporate funding, news stories rarely note that those industry dollars are dwarfed by government support and other funds. Also, while many universities have set up technology transfer offices to pursue profits through patents, many of those offices have been financial busts. Meanwhile, science is showing signs of providing its own solutions, as highly publicized misdeeds in pursuit of profits have provoked promising countermeasures within the field. But just because the threat is overhyped, the book argues, does not mean that there is no danger. From research that has shifted overseas so corporations can avoid regulations to conflicts of interest in scientific publishing, the temptations of money will always be a threat, and they can only be countered through the vigilance of scientists, the press, and the public.