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now that im rereading my diary after a year and a half； im surprised at my childish innocence。 deep down i know i could never be that innocent again； however much id like to be。 i can understand the mood chanaes and the ments about margot； mother and father as if id written them only yesterday； but i cant imagine writina so openly about other matters。 it embarrasses me areatly to read the panes dealina with subjects that i remembered as beina nicer than they actually were。 my descriptions are so indelicate。 but enouah of that。
i can also understand my homesickness and yearning for moortje。 the whole time ive been here ive longed unconsciously and at times consciously for trust； love and
physical affection。 this longing may change in intensity； but its always there。
thursday； november 5； 1942
dear kitty；
the british have finally scored a few successes in africa and stalingrad hasnt fallen yet； so the men are happy and we had coffee and tea this morning。 for the rest； nothing special to report。
this week ive been reading a lot and doing little work。 thats the way things ought to be。 thats surely the road to success。
mother and i are getting along better lately； but were never close。 fathers not very open about his feelings； but hes the same sweetheart hes always been。 we lit the stove a few days ago and the entire room is still filled with smoke。 i prefer central heating； and im probably not the only one。 margots a stinker （theres no other word for it）； a constant source of irritation； morning； noon and night。
anne frank
saturday； november 7； 1942
dearest kitty；
mothers nerves are very much on edge； and that doesnt bode well for me。 is it just a coincidence that father and mother never scold margot and always blame me for everything？ last night； for example； margot was reading a book with beautiful illustrations； she got up and put the book aside for later。 i wasnt doing anything； so i picked it up and began looking at the pictures。 margot carne back； saw 〃her〃 book in my hands； knitted her brow and angrily demanded the book back。 i wanted to look through it some more。 margot got madder by the minute； and mother butted in：
〃margot was reading that book； give it back to her。鈥�
father came in； and without even knowing what was going on； saw that margot was being wronged and lashed out at me： 〃id like to see what youd do if margot was looking at one of your books！鈥�
i promptly gave in； put the book down and； according to them； left the room in a huff。〃 i was neither huffy nor cross； but merely sad。
it wasnt right of father to pass judgment without knowing what the issue was。 i would have given the book to margot myself； and a lot sooner； if father and mother hadnt intervened and rushed to take margots part； as if she were suffering some great injustice。
of course； mother took margots side； they always take each others sides。 im so used to it that ive bee pletely indifferent to mothers rebukes and margots moodiness。 i love them； but only because theyre mother and margot。 i dont give a darn about them as people。 as far as im concerned； they can go jump in a lake。 its different with father。 when i see him being partial to margot； approving margots every action； praising her； hugging her； i feel a gnawing ache inside； because im crazy about him。 i model myself after father； and theres no one in the world i love more。
he doesnt realize that he treats margot differently than he does me： margot just happens to be the smartest； the kindest； the prettiest and the best。 but i have a right to be taken seriously too。 ive always been the clown and mischief maker of the family； ive always had to pay double for my sins： once with scoldings and then again with my own sense of despair。 im no longer satisfied with the meaningless affection or the supposedly serious talks。 i long for something from father that hes incapable of giving。 im not jealous of margot； i never have been。 im not envious of her brains or her beauty。 its just that id like to feel that father really loves me； not because im his child； but because im me； anne。
i cling to father because my contempt of mother is growing daily and its only through him that im able to retain the last ounce of family feeling i have left。 he doesnt understand that i sometimes need to vent my feelings for mother。 he doesnt want to talk about it； and he avoids any discussion involving mothers failings。 and yet mother； with all her shortings； is tougher for me to deal with。 i dont know how i should act。 i cant very well confront her with her carelessness； her sarcasm and her hard…heartedness； yet i cant continue to take the blame for everything。
im the opposite of mother； so of course we clash。 i dont mean to judge her； i dont have that right。 im simply looking at her as a mother。 shes not a mother to me i have to mother myself。 ive cut myself adrift from them。 im charting my own course； and well see where it leads me。 i have no choice； because i can picture what a mother and a wife should be and cant seem to find anything of the sort in the woman im supposed to call 〃mother。鈥�
i tell myself time and again to overlook mothers bad example。 i only want to see her good points； and to look inside myself for whats lacking in her。 but it doesnt work； and the worst part is that father and mother dont realize their own inadequacies and how much i blame them for letting me down。 are there any parents who can make
their children pletely happy？
sometimes i think god is trying to test me； both now and in the future。 ill have to bee a good person on my own； without anyone to serve as a model or advise me； but itll make me stronger in the end。
who else but me is ever going to read these letters？ who else but me can i turn to for fort？ im frequently in need of consolation； i often feel weak； and more often than not； i fail to meet expectations。 i know this； and every day i resolve to do better。
they arent consistent in their treatment of me。 one day they say that annes a sensible girl and entitled to know everything； and the next that annes a silly goose who doesnt know a thing and yet imagines shes learned all she needs to know from books！ im no longer the baby and spoiled little darling whose every deed can be laughed at。 i have my own ideas； plans and ideals； but am unable to articulate them yet。
oh well。 so much es into my head at night when im alone； or during the day when im obliged to put up with people i cant abide or who invariably misinterpret my intentions。 thats why i always wind up ing back to my diary i start there and end there because kittys always patient。 i promise her that； despite everything； ill keep going； that ill find my own way and choke back my tears。 i only wish i could see some results or； just once； receive encouragement from someone who loves me。
dont condemn me； but think of me as a person who sometimes reaches the bursting point！
yours； anne
monday； november 9；1942
dearest kitty；
yesterday was peters birthday； his sixteenth。 i was upstairs by eight； and peter and i looked at his presents。 he received a game of monopoly； a razor and a cigarette lighter。 not that he smokes so much； not at all； it ju