Everyone should have, I think, at least one saddest-happiest day, because maybe the first part of growing up is accounting for the coexistence of opposite truths.

When Elizabeth R. Holly ’12 first saw Jeff R. Reynolds ’12, he was staring at the ceiling of Annenberg Hall.

Brooke E. McDowell ’12 was stuck on Mount Washington in New Hampshire and she was desperately trying to text Peter H. Lifland ’10.

I was looking for a beginning. I know I was born in New York Hospital on Dec. 22, 1989, but obviously I don’t remember this or any of the things that happened before it.

Each man considers that they might be the same person, but quickly dismisses this possibility. I do not think that it spoils the book to say that they should have trusted their intuitions.

The novel lacks the formal sophistication of Eugenides’s debut, “The Virgin Suicides,” nor is the subject matter as thought-provoking as that of his second novel “Middlesex,” which explored the life of a hermaphrodite. Instead he focuses on the difficulties of being a young intellectual in love.

It’s second period on Tuesday September 11, 2001. (Is there any way to say it without sounding melodramatic? That’s just what it was.)

Something to consider: If you are important, when you die, or maybe even before, most of your papers will be gathered and separated and catalogued.

I think I expected Morocco to be rawer, more sunburned in its tones. My only previous experience of desert, never ...