The unrecorded past is none other than our old friend, the tree in the primeval forest which fell without being heard.
For me, the card catalog has been a companion all my working life. To leave it is like leaving the house one was brought up in.
If I had taken a doctoral degree, it would have stifled any writing capacity.
After the war, when my husband came home, we had two more children, and domesticity for a while prevailed combined with beginning the work I had always wanted to do, which was writing a book.
The fleet sailed to its war base in the North Sea, headed not so much for some rendezvous with glory as for rendezvous with discretion.
Books are the carriers of civilization. Without books, history is silent, literature dumb, science crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill.
