The new tome by the UK's Peter Collett, who has worked extensively with Naked Ape writer Desmond Morris, is called The Book of Tells,
and is about the little mannerisms that we exhibit, usually
unconsciously, with our bodies, our faces, our hands and our eyes,
which reveal non-verbally
more than our words. It's a substantial work, but astonishingly
contains very few pictures (and curiously, the pictures are almost all
of Canadians) and contains no summarized 'catalogue' of tells as an
Appendix. So you have to wade through long written descriptions about
broad categories of tells to get the goods.
The most famous tell from earlier work on the subject is the arms
crossed high across the chest while you're talking to someone, which
supposedly means you're rejecting the other person's company or message
or advances. I've noticed this one a lot, most recently exhibited by an
accomplished author who did it to everyone he spoke to. But in my
experience it can also be sending a subtler message: I've seen shy men
do it almost automatically with people they don't know well, evidencing
a much more defensive posture ("don't hurt me" rather than "go away").
It's the lower-chest/abdomen arm cross that's supposed to signal anxiety. Maybe it depends on the length and flexibility of your arms?
As pop psychology goes, I think it's interesting and perhaps even
useful, and I'm going to blog about it when I'm done. Your homework
before then is to ask people to point out, or 'fess up yourself to,
your own tells. Then when you
read about their meaning in the book, or on this blog, you won't be
able to weasel out of them. Mine are (and I haven't read far enough to
get Collett's explanation of them):
in social settings, standing on one leg with the other
curved behind it, and with one hand on my hip or 'braced' against a
wall or furniture
when sitting and conversing, slouching back with one arm
across my stomach and the other on top of it at 90 degrees with the
forefinger tapping on my lips (and I also confess I rarely make eye
contact during conversation with anyone)
Source of all we hope or dread,
Sheepdog, jackal, rattler, swan,
We hunt your face and long to trust
That your hid mouth will say again
Let there be light, a clear new day.
But when we thirst in this dry night,
We drink from hot wells
Poisoned with the blood of children.
And when we strain to hear a steady homing beam,
Our ears are balked by stifled moans
And howls of desolation
From the throats of sisters, brothers, wild men,
Clawing at the gates for bread.
Even our own feeble hands
Aim to seize the crown you wear
And work our private havoc
Through the known and unknown lands of space.
Absolute in flame beyond us,
Seed and source of Dark and Day,
Maker whom we beg to be
Our mother, father, comrade, mate.
Till our few atoms blow to dust
Or form again in wiser lives
Or find your face and hear our name
In your calm voice, the end of night.
If dark may end,
Wellspring gold of Dark and Day,
Be Here,
Be Now.
MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
The new tome by the UK's Peter Collett, who has worked extensively with 
Source of all we hope or dread, 
