I Have Come To The Belief That

A Letter Is Not A Dialogue Or Even An Omniscient Exposition. It Is A Fabric Of Surfaces, A Mask, A Form As Well Suited To Affectations As To The Affections. The Letter Is, By Its Natural Shape, Self-justifying; It Is One's Own Evidence, Deposition, A Self-serving Testimony. In A Letter The Writer Holds All The Cards, Controls Everything About Himself And About Those Assertions He Wishes To Make Concerning Events Or The Worth Of Others. For Completely Self-centered Characters, The Letter Form Is A Complex And Rewarding Activity.

Harvard (across The River In Cambridge) And Boston Are Two Ends Of One Mustache. ... Without The Faculty, The Visitors, The Events That Harvard Brings To The Life Here, Boston Would Be Intolerable To Anyone Except Genealogists, Antique Dealers, And Those Who Find Repletion In A Closed Local Society.

The Great Is Seldom A Deterrent To The Mediocre

History ... With Its Long, Leisurely, Gentlemanly Labors, The Books Arriving By Post, The Cards To Be Kept And Filed, The Sections To Be Copied, The Documents To Be Checked, Is The Ideal Pursuit For The New England Mind.

The Fifties - They Seem To Have Taken Place On A Sunny Afternoon That Asked Nothing Of You Except A Drifting Belief In The Moment And Its Power To Satisfy.