Harvard isn’t an easy place. It seems to run on anxiety, which first struck me when I moved into a too-small dorm room on a muggy August day more than three years ago.
It is frightening how easy it was to be convinced of the necessity, the magic, of this place.
It's not hard to spot Billy Orman on his double-height "frankenbike."
CORDELIA F. MENDEZ ’16 , Chair I’m not going to say Cordelia F. Mendez ’16 could run the world, but I’m confident that she could at least run the country. That’s because Cordelia is easily one of the most competent people you will ever meet. And if you haven’t met her yet, then you should, because she is as smiley and friendly as she is capable.
While discussions about mental health often occur at Harvard today, many students say issues around body image and eating disorders remain in the shadows. Those affected suffer, for the most part, quietly and unsure of whom to turn to for help.
Anne T. and Robert M. Bass Professor of English Louis Menand will not travel far for his sabbatical next year. His office will move exactly 0.1 miles—a two-minute walk, according to Google Maps—from the Barker Center to Widener Library.
My eyes are tearing up as I make my way up to the balcony seats in Sanders Theater. Not because I’m overly excited by the prospect of Harvard Thinks Big VI, but because it is cold as hell, and my eyes haven’t stopped watering since I stepped outside.
Why do people fall out of love? I write that in my notebook at Tokyo Haneda International Airport. It’s a lofty question to be asking myself at 6:00 a.m., when, beyond the concrete slabs of runway, a city is just beginning to wake up.
I used to think that the best kinds of memories are the ones we invent for ourselves.
The ‘jock’ stereotype couldn’t be further from the truth for many athletes on campus. Some varsity athletes stay in on their Friday nights to do homework; others spend their free time watching movies or playing ping pong. Beyond athletic prowess, there is no common thread among Harvard athletes, who come in all shapes and sizes. The perception, more so than it is inaccurate, is damaging.
Prescott St. between Harvard St. and Broadway is quiet, unassuming. Nestled between the large Barker and Carpenter centers and smaller buildings, the street is half-shaded in the early afternoon.
I don’t trust that the sky will wax dark or that day will become night, but I’m not fearful either way. Here, I can believe in perpetuity.