The summer of 1943 at Exeter was as happy a time as I ever had in my life.

I knew that part of friendship consisted in accepting a friend’s shortcomings, which sometimes included his parents.

the scornful force of his tone turned the word into a curse

I began to know that each morning reasserted the problems of night before, that sleep suspended all but changed nothing, that you couldn’t make yourself over between dawn and dusk.

I felt that I was not, never had been and never would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid and deeply meaningful world around me.

The best teaching I ever experienced was at Exeter. Yale was a distinct letdown afterward.

Always say some prayers at night because it might turn out that there is a God.