“New York was a new and strange world. Vast, impersonal, merciless.”

No one yet knows what a man’s province is, and how far that province, as conceived of today, is artificial.

I have no objection to a man being a man, however masculine that may be.

The subjects treated were technical Marxist theories.

I believe only in money, not in love or tenderness. Love and tenderness meant only pain and suffering and defeat.

Always before I had felt like a person, an individual, hopeful that I could mold my life according to some desire of my own.

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.