R. Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn of Lubavitch

I heard the voice of my three-year-old daughter Chanah calling to me, "Father, father, where are you? Father, father, answer me..."

When I was 11 years old, my father gave me the manuscript as a gift. "This is a chassidic kiss," he said, "in time I will explain"

At the conclusion of the voyage, the doctor asked the Rebbe to forgive him for having been the cause of his illness. "You, the cause of my illness?" asked the Rebbe in amazement

Absentmindedly, I tore a leaf off a passing tree. Holding it a while in my hands, I continued my thoughtful pacing, occasionally tearing small pieces of leaf and casting them to the winds

The guard was stupefied: few were the cabinet-level ministers granted such a privilege, and here stood a young chassid with a beard, sidelocks, chassidic garb and a Yiddish accent, at a time when to even reside in Petersburg was forbidden to Jews . . .

Though Reb Zalman was short and elderly he strode sturdily, whereas I stumbled in the snow at almost every step until we finally reached the ohel. Even before I opened the door my little heart leaped up within me and released rivers of tears

At the age of ten, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak was thrown into jail for helping a fellow Jew. This story is indicative of the pattern the rest of his life would follow.

Father is standing with his face to the wall, praying. But I do not understand: Why is he entreating more than all other worshippers? Why does he need G‑d’s mercy more than other people?