When I get to my first swim practice freshman year, I’m asked to swim the length of the pool as fast as I can.

“What should I write?” my best friend, Raisa, asked me. We each held pens and pieces of scrap paper, illuminated by two flickering Virgin of Guadalupe votive candles. La Parroquia, the parish church of San Miguel de Allende, shone bright in the distance, a giant electric cross blinking from its topmost tower.

FM spoke with the author about his recent book and his efforts to reconcile contemporary liberalism and Zionism.

I’m giving my life story to the Crimson. No, I’m actually talking about my relationship with my wife, which is more or less my life story because I can’t remember anything before that.

When I curl up in my fluffy comforter each night, I fall asleep to the meandering chatter of the couple next door.

Eager to maintain continuity, the Office of Student Life tapped an act best known for its supporting role on Far East Movement’s “Like A G6,” to play in Yardfest 2012. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Amiright?

I bought my first diary from Wal-Mart when I was eight years old.

On a Sunday night in March, people line up outside the door to get into Club Passim, the unassuming basement space on Palmer Street.

Since 2008, The Harvard Art Museums have been undergoing renovations, and the Fogg—the most expansive of the museums—has been off-limits to visitors.

In paper soft with age and still crisp from the printer, in cursive loops and cartridge-ink, they tell their stories.