I looked on my stomach and saw Frieda Rebecca, white as flour with the cream that covers new babies, funny little dark squiggles of hair plastered over her head, with big, dark-blue eyes.
I’m on this road for the rest of my life.
Throughout the human experience people have read history because they felt that it was a pleasure and that it was in some way instructive. The profession of professor of history has taken it in a very different direction.
I see in Cambridge, particularly among the women dons, a series of such grotesques! It is almost like a caricature series from Dickens to see our head table at Newnham.
The left has lost the common touch.
Apparently, the most difficult feat for a Cambridge male is to accept a woman not merely as feeling, not merely as thinking, but as managing a complex, vital interweaving of both.
The existence of an area of free land, its continuous recession, and the advance of American settlement, explain American development.
I’ve begun to think like a Jew, to feel like a Jew.
The intellectual debility of contemporary conservatism is indicated by its silence on all important matters.
Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.