The archetype is familiar: The solitary physicist, deep in thought, paces beside a chalkboard peppered with symbols and equations. The astronomer, perched alone at the edge of the night, peers into a telescope aimed at a distant galaxy, searching into the abyss of the cosmos.

Correction: The original version of this article’s illustration misspelled James Engel’s name.
This post was updated June 15 at 7:44 a.m.
A single mom from Idaho, a realtor from Palmdale, California, and a local Los Angeles alumnus all have one thing in common – they are avid followers of the UCLA Parents Facebook page.

The sound of rain bouncing off the metallic wings overtakes the sound of the jet engine. Instead of city lights and the Santa Monica Mountains, the Himalayas rise up around the plane, dwarfing my perception of altitude.

Above and beyond publishing journal articles, credentialing young people and producing spectacles on the court, the field and the gridiron, the job of a university is to keep the books. 
Less visible than some of the university’s more prominent architectural symbols, the Michael Sadleir Collection of Nineteenth-Century British Fiction is deeply tied to the history, and the purpose, of UCLA.

I am no longer allowed to buy jackets.
As a chronic shopper since I was 4 years old, my closet was stuffed with an endless supply of jackets, vests, belts and other pieces of clothing that still had tags on them.