安妮日记英文版_安妮·弗兰克- 第17节

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