As I said, this was my sarcastic summer. It was only long after that I recognized sarcasm as the protest of people who are weak.

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

Teenagers today are more free to be themselves and to accept themselves.

Looking back now across fifteen years I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must have made my escape from it.

But something held me back. Perhaps I was stopped by that level of feeling, deeper than thought, which contains the truth.

Stranded in this mill town railroad yard while the whole world was converging elsewhere, we seemed to be nothing but children playing among heroic men.

Sarcasm is the protest of the weak.