But I won't bore you any longer on the subject of old men. It won't make things any better and all my plans of revenge (such as disconnecting the lamp, shutting the door, hiding his clothes) must be abandoned in order to keep the peace. Oh, I'm becoming so sensible!
Paper is more patient than man.
Don't condemn me, remember rather that sometimes I, too, can reach the bursting point.
Ordinary people don't know how much books can mean to someone who's cooped up.
The Annex is an ideal place to hide in. It may be damp and lopsided, but there's probably not a more comfortable hiding place in all of Amsterdam. No, in all of Holland.
Thinking about the suffering of those you hold dear can reduce you to tears; in fact, you could spend the whole day crying.
Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave or do behave.
I must work, so as not to be a fool, to get on, to become a journalist, because that's what I want!... I can't imagine that I would have to lead the same sort of life as Mummyand all the women who do their work and are then forgotten. I must have something besides a husband and children, something that I can devote myself to!
Sometimes I believe that God wants to try me, both now and later on; I must become good through my own efforts, without examples and without good advice.
This week I've been reading a lot and doing little work. That's the way things ought to be. That's surely the road to success.
Even when I was older, I couldn't stop asking questions.
I can't help telling you that I've begin to feel deserted.
At any rate, Daddy usually comes to my defence. Without him I wouldn't be able to stick out here.
I also have a brand-new prescription for gunfire jitters: When the shooting gets loud, proceed to the nearest wooden staircase. Run up and down a few times, making sure to stumble at least once. What with the scratches and the noise of running and falling, you won't even be able to hear the shooting, much less worry about it. Yours truly has put this magic formula to use, with great success!
No one ever was the poorer for giving
I want to go on living after my death!
Boys will be boys. And even that wouldn't matter if only we could prevent girls from being girls.
I had an occasional flash of understanding, but then got selfishly wrapped up again in my own problems and pleasures.
Crying can bring relief, as long as you don't cry alone.
I haven't written for a few days, because I wanted first of all to think about my diary. It's an odd idea for someone like me to keep a diary; not only because I have never done so before, but because it seems to me that neither I-nor for that matter anyone else-will be interested in the unbosomings of a thirteen -year -old schoolgirl. Still, what does that matter? I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.
This is a photograph of me as I wish I looked all the time. Then I might have a chance of getting in Hollywood.
Another fact that doesn't exactly brighten up our days is that Mr. Van Maaren, the man who works in the warehouse, is getting suspicious about the Annex.
Who knows, perhaps he doesn't care about me at all and look at the others in just the same way.
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.
It is becoming a bad dream-- in the daytime as well as at night. I see him nearly all the time and can't get at him, I mustn't show anything, must remain gay while I'm really in despair.
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