My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.

I have really sinned. I am going to pause now, and sit here on the mound repenting in deepest shame.

Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return -- that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

Only the margin left to write on now. I love you, I love you, I love you.

...I have noticed that when things happen in one's imaginings, they never happen in one's life, so I am curbing myself.

It is rather exciting to write by moonlight.