An empty day, though clear and bright, Is just as dark as any night.

I had an occasional flash of understanding, but then got selfishly wrapped up again in my own problems and pleasures.

Yes, there is no doubt that paper is patient and as I don't intend to show this cardboard-covered notebook, bearing the proud name of "diary," to anyone, unless I find a real friend, boy or girl, probably nobody cares. And now I come to the root of the matter, the reason for my starting a diary: it is that I have no such real friend.

At any rate, Daddy usually comes to my defence. Without him I wouldn't be able to stick out here.

Bolkenstein, a Minister, was speaking on the Dutch programme from London, and he said that they ought to make a collection of diaries and letters after the war. Of course, they all made a rush at my diary immediately. Just imagine how interesting it would be if I were to publish a romance of the "Secret Annexe." The title alone would be enough to make people think it was a detective story.

I... keep trying to find a way to become what I'd like to be and what I could be if... if only there were no other people in the world.

There's something happening everyday, but I'm too tired and lazy to write it all down.