As a Jew and a journalist I have my privileges, and if one doesn't work I use the other one.

What journalism is really about-it's to monitor power and the centres of power.

Throwing stones is the birthright and duty of anyone subject to foreign rule. Throwing stones is an action as well as a metaphor of resistance.

In the end there is a choice. And my choice is to be against the occupation, and not only the occupation but the whole system of discrimination and dispossession.

The thing people forget when they are looking for solutions is there is nothing final in history.

According to what the IDF says to its soldiers. I don't know if this is what the IDF says to the media.

Things happen in a way that surprises. That's why I'm reluctant to predict. You cannot predict.

Hamas cannot stand free media.

I am a very conservative journalist and prefer to write about what happened, and not what will happen.

The ingredients for another Palestinian uprising are always there because as long as there is so much violence it is bound to explode. How, I cannot tell. But people will not accept it forever.

I think these questions about what will happen are questions for activists and about the agency of people in the course of events. This is not a question for a journalist, but for activists.

Loving someone who does not love you back is like, reaching for a star. You know you will never reach it but you just have to keep on trying. Because someday, who knows? It might fall.

We too had branched off from the people who had come before us, a family that made the family that made us, and we were shining in the darkness and casting our light all around us.

The vixen I met at twilight on Route 5 south of Willoughby: long dead. She was an omen to me, surviving, herding her cubs in the silvery bend of the road in nineteen sixty-five.

Parallel lines meet in eternity but Parallel lives meet for tea

Stan Ulam was lazy, ... He talked too much ... He was self-centered ... . He had an overpowering personality.

Everything is what you make of it, even yourself.

Maybe the Kindle was the Bowflex of bookishness: something expensive that, when you commit to it, forces you to do more of whatever it is you think you should be doing more of.

Feathered with hoarfrost, skeletal trees loom closer; fog shrouded arches.

Life wastes itself whilst we are preparing to live.

Everybody is in trouble, including the up-and-coming economic miracles of China, Brazil or India.