“It was a technical Marxist subject and I did not understand it nor did I know what questions to ask.”

But settled things were enemies to me and soon lost their newness and color. The unknown called.

Like all my family and class, I considered it a sign of weakness to show affection; to have been caught kissing my mother would have been a disgrace, and to have shown affection for my father would have been a disaster.

So I had to be the doctor to these wounded men until we could remove them to the hospital.

My mother listened to all the news from the camp during the strike.

Much that we read of Russia is imagination and desire only.

Friendship is far more human.

Now, being a girl, I was ashamed of my body and my lack of strength. So I tried to be a man.

To die would have been beautiful. But I belong to those who do not die for the sake of beauty.

I would not let it ruin me as it ruined others! I would speak only with money, hard money.

She said little, especially when my father or the men who worked for him were about I remember her instinctive and unhesitating sympathy for the miners.

I have loved and bitterness left me for that hour. But there are times when love itself is bitter.

In the little hall leading to it was a rack holding various Socialist or radical newspapers, tracts, and pamphlets in very small print and on very bad paper.

Subjection of any kind and in any place is beneath the dignity of man.

It is not a national question concerning India any longer; it is purely international.

The highest joy is to fight by the side of those who for any reason of their own making or ours, are unable to develop to full human stature.

Yet it is awful to love a person who is a torture to you. And a fascinating person who loves you and won’t hear of anything but your loving him and living right by his side through all eternity!