When the time comes, they won't ask what kind of a Jew you are.

The horror of the Twentieth Century was the size of each new event, and the paucity of its reverberation.

When the time comes, they won't ask what kind of a Jew you are.

People move forward into the future out of the way they comprehend the past. When we don't understand something in our past, we are therefore crippled.

No heart is so hard as the timid heart.

A political convention is after all not a meeting of a corporation's board of directors; it is a fiesta, a carnival, a pig-rooting, horse-snorting, band-playing, voice-screaming medieval get-together of greed, practical lust, compromised idealism, career-advancement, meeting, feud, vendetta, conciliation, of rabble-rousers, fist fights (as it used to be), embraces, drunks (again as it used to be) and collective rivers of animal sweat.

The private terror of the liberal spirit is invariably suicide, not murder.