The Diary of Anne Frank: New Controversies

Anne Frank’s diary is arguably the best-known, most-widely-read diary in the world. I suspect that for many readers Frank’s diary is an introduction to the form, perhaps an inspiration for writing their own diaries. From Frank’s diary, they would learn about dailiness, about the letter-diary hybrid, and, of course, about the powerful combination of ordinariness and pathos.

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Frank’s Diary has been in the news recently because of two intertwined controversies: the question of whether or not her father, Otto Frank, can legitimately be considered co-author of the Diary; and the question of whether or not the copyright on the Diary has expired, allowing the text to enter the public domain.

That Otto Frank played a significant editorial role in the production of the published Diary has long been understood by both scholars and general readers. My copy of the Diary identifies him as editor on the cover (along with Mirjam Pressler). But Otto’s editorial role has come under further scrutiny around the question of whether “editor,” in this instance, equates with “co-author.”

While the debate may be new to Frank Studies, this is a question commonly confronted by literary critics, particularly around texts in which an editor/amanuensis possessed greater power or social status than the author/subject. In my Life Writing classes last semester, we studied the Memoirs of Elleanor Eldridge (1838), which precisely exhibits these conditions: authored by a white woman, Frances H. Whipple, the memoir recounts the life of a mixed race (indigenous, African American) woman, Eldridge, who appears to have been illiterate. The contemporary editor of this recovered text, Joycelyn Moody, makes the provocative claim that Whipple and Eldridge should be considered co-authors, thereby upsetting the expected characterization of the (white, powerful) editor stealing and suppressing the voice of the (non-white, disempowered) subject (which is how texts of this kind have often been interpreted by literary critics). My students and I struggled with this characterization — we had many productive but unresolved conversations about what it would mean to consider these two women co-authors, what the implications were for the definition of authorship, whether or not Eldridge could be considered to be “speaking” through the text, etc. These discussions have been on my mind as I’ve been reading about the Otto Frank issue: What does it mean to view Otto as Anne’s co-author? There are similar issues regarding power and authority: Otto is male, adult, and living; Anne is female, young, and deceased; obviously, she does not have the ability to control or craft her text. To move Otto from editor to co-author appears to reinforce this power dynamic, to further Anne’s marginalization within or through her own life writing. It also calls into question the accuracy and legitimacy of the text itself — a question that always hovers around published diaries, but one that is particularly exacerbated when an editor (or co-author?) has played a role in bringing the text to the public view.

The claim that Otto is co-author is made by the Swiss foundation, Anne Frank Fonds — a fact steeped in irony. You would think that the Fonds would have the strongest stake in affirming the authenticity of Frank’s Diary, which appears to be eroded by the “co-authorship” claim. Yet, the Fonds also has a strong financial interest in extending the copyright of Frank’s book. According to European law, copyright expires 70 years after the death of the author. As a result, Frank’s Diary should enter the pubic domain on January 1, 2016. But, if Otto is a co-author, the copyright would be extended until 2050. Hence the counter-claim, the lawsuits, and the controversy.

As I understand it, the co-authorship claim did not prevent several Dutch editions of Frank’s Diary from being posted on the internet on January 1, 2016. English (and other language) editions remain copyrighted according to the date of their translation and publication.

It’s the interpretive questions that this debate raise that interest me: If a diary is edited after the diarist’s death, under what circumstances can/should the editor be considered a co-author? And, if the diary is considered co-authored, is it still a diary? Does it still possess the status of truthful authenticity that diaries are expected to have? Extending these questions from Frank’s Diary to other published diaries is, I think, a necessary step for those of us interested in the past and future of the diary genre.

For further reading:

“Anne Frank Foundation fights plans to publish diary online” (The Guardian)

Cory Doctorow, “Anne Frank’s diary is in the public domain” (Boing-Boing)

Rich McCormic, “Anne Frank’s diary is now in free to download” (The Verge)

Quill & Quire posted competing op-eds, for and against the co-authorship claim: John Degan FOR and Michael Wolfe AGAINST

 

 

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Historical Diaries on Twitter

I wrapped up my Life Writing classes in the Fall by asking my students to consider the relationship between historical genres like diaries and letters, and contemporary social media. One group of students, working on Twitter, conveyed their understanding of the links between past and present forms of self-representation by creating a Twitter profile for one of the historical diarists we had studied this semester, Annie Ray (whose diary is reprinted in Jennifer Sinor’s The Extraordinary Work of Ordinary Writing). Ray is an exemplary “ordinary” diarist: recording her experiences in spare, fragmented language. Or, as my students noted: precisely the kind of writing required by Twitter’s 140 character limit:

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What my student’s didn’t know when they undertook this exercise is that there are several other Twitter accounts set up to reproduce historical diaries. I’ve written before about @TrapperBud, which was publishing Bud Murphy’s diary account of his gold rush experiences, and has now moved on to Matt Murphy’s diaries, dated from the 1920s.

Here are some others:

Samuel Pepys: @samuelpepys

Fanny Burney: @francesburney

John Quincy Adams: @jqadams_MHS

Genevieve Spencer: @Genny_Spencer

Andy Warhol: @warhollives

I am sure there are more, but these are the ones I’ve run across.

So, what are we to conclude from these Twitter accounts? Obviously, they do precisely what my students intended @annieraysdiary to do: they show that diaries and Twitter are closely aligned in form and content, essentially that Twitter can be considered a modern incarnation of the diary. Of course, they also show the differences, because more “literary” diaries with long reflective entries are not easily adaptable to Twitter. Rather, we see that one kind of diary (the “ordinary” kind, to use Sinor’s terminology) is being carried into the present through Twitter technology. Also, these Twitter accounts have a particularly playful quality because they invite the reader into the pretense that the historical diarist is tweeting her/his experiences directly. I think this makes the Twitter/historical diary mash-up unique. (There may be Facebook accounts written from the perspective of historical figures? I’m not on Facebook so I cannot verify this, and a little lite googling didn’t lead me anywhere.) As my students noted, there is something wonderful about imagining a historical figure like Annie Ray taking up her smart phone to record her life, just as so many of us do today.

For more:

Sean Munger, “How to be a historical figure on Twitter”

 

Michael Palin, Diary Ambassador

I have been terribly remiss in posting new stories to this blog. Ironically, my radio silence is due to the fact that I have been busy teaching — and this semester my teaching is strongly centered around diaries. My students have been reading diaries, diary fiction, and diary criticism — and they’ve been using the digitized diary index on this blog to do their own original research on manuscript diaries. So, I’ve been thinking a great deal about diaries and about the teaching of diaries … but that doesn’t leave me much time to write here. I hope to rectify that — I’ve got a list of diary-related stories that have come across my desk the past few weeks that I am eager to post — but, let’s face it, every semester has the habit of chewing me up and spitting me out, and this one is no different.

What brings me out of my temporary blog retirement is this article by the incomparable Michael Palin about his 46-year-long diary writing habit. Palin writes,

That’s the attraction of a diary. It remains in its own time. It reflects only what happened on that particular day. It doesn’t flatter and it isn’t influenced by what happened later. In that way it’s the most truthful record of real life, and that’s why I’m so glad I persevered with it – writing an entry most mornings right up to today.

The article describes one of his idiosyncratic diary-writing habits, which is to write the diary on one side of each page, and then turn the diary upside down and continue the diary on the back side of each page. I love details like that, that demonstrate the crazy inventiveness of diary writers.

I wasn’t aware that Palin was a diarist — or that he has published several volumes of his early diaries already. Now, he’s embarking on the The Thirty Years Tour, a one-man autobiographical performance in which Palin reflects on his famously accomplished career. As a result of the key role that the diaries play in this project, Palin had made himself into a kind of diary ambassador, testifying to the value that diary-writing has added to his life and advocating that everyone else should take up the habit too. Here he is on his blog, in a video about how to start writing a diary. What a sweetheart. If I were not already smitten with Mr. Palin for all the years of Monty Python humor, I would be really sunk now.

The Guardian (which published the article by Palin) invited readers inspired by the story, to upload pictures of their diaries: a crowd-sourced mini-history of the diary. Thank you,The Guardian, for your strange and reckless devotion to covering the diary beat.

Book Review: Julavits, The Folded Clock and Manguso, The End of a Diary

Heidi Julavits, The Folded Clock: A Diary (Doubleday, 2015)
Heidi Julavits, The Folded Clock: A Diary (Doubleday, 2015)

When I first heard about these two books, which were published almost concurrently earlier this year, I thought about those strange cultural moments when disconnected people become preoccupied with the same issue. I’ve seen “zeitgeist” moments like this before. As a very modest example, when I started writing my dissertation on literary representations of death and mourning, no one was writing about death and mourning but by the time I finished there was an entire school of “mourning studies” and a slate of shiny new books on the topic that I had to account for. I don’t credit myself for having tapped into an intellectual movement but rather consider myself to have been carried along by a wave that was passing through a cultural

Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness: The End of a Diary (Greywolf Press, 2015)
Sarah Manguso, Ongoingness: The End of a Diary (Greywolf Press, 2015)

studies-influenced academic field. Yet, as a result, it’s not an unfamiliar experience for me to witness an uptick in interest in the diary just as I turn to writing about the diary. In fact, when I read about Julavits’ and Manguso’s books, it felt like something of a confirmation: diaries are still relevant! I was very excited to read these books and thought perhaps I would end up assigning one or both in my classes on diaries in the upcoming semester. I read both books early this summer and I suppose it’s evidence of my thinking about them that I have not taken the time to review them until now. Because, I must confess, that my response to both books was disappointment. Granted, I read them as diaries and within the context of the historic diary-keeping tradition that I have been researching and writing about all summer — and perhaps that places an unfair burden on the books. But, as diaries, or as commentary on the diary as a genre, I felt they both fell flat.

Let me discuss each book in turn:

Julavits’ The Folded Clock: A Diary is composed of non-sequential diary entries, each one opening with the phrase “Today I.” Julavits’ writing voice is engaging but often possesses the snarky tone all-too-familiar on social media; in fact, at times, I felt like I was reading a blog post between the cover of a book — and I did not like it. I read books to get away from that quasi-self-deprecating, ironic, critical-observer stance which is so predominant now on social media. I read diaries because they typically employ a more earnest, unironic voice — which is not to say either a more authentic or a more artless voice, because I am well aware that neither term can be easily applied to the diary. But, the diary writing that I prefer, that speaks to me as a reader and a scholar, avoids that brittle separation of the author from the world observed.

That being said, Julavits’ Folded Clock does yield a few interesting points regarding the diary:

• Julavits’ use of the “Today I” phrase to initiate her entries is a practice I’ve seen many diarists use. Not that phrase in particular, but a certain formula that is repeated at the start of every entry. Philippe Lejeune argues that the dated heading is the definitive feature of a diary entry, writing that “setting the date off at the top of the page to indicate the time of writing is a crucial gesture” (80). But, other formulaic prompts play an equally important role, in my observation. Of course, the most common initiating formula I’ve seen across diaries is a summary of the weather, which doesn’t possess much literary interest but clearly does important textual work. I recently read a wonderful nineteenth-century diary in which the author employs a series of prompts, using the same phrase for a while before switching to a new one; hers include “Into …” and “In which ….” One of the most famous diary formulas does not initiate but rather closes a diary entry: Pepy’s “And so to bed.” At any rate, Julavits’ practice places her squarely within the diary tradition. I also found it somewhat infectious; while reading Julavits’ diary, I began writing “Today I” at the start of my own diary entries and I must admit, as far as writing prompts go, it’s a generative one.

• Julavits’ choice to sequence her diary entries in a non-chronological fashion was a smart one. She places an immediate block against the reader’s desire to locate a linear narrative within the diary. This is a problem that many readers of diaries encounter: we long to impose a plot structure on the diary, to identify the “important moments,” to find evidence of foreshadowing, etc. — precisely the kinds of literary techniques that are impossible within the diurnal literary form. Jennifer Sinor writes of the impulse to add order where there is none: “the pull of autobiography to be a whole and interesting story is strong” (54). But Julavits prevents such an organizing imperative by simply removing the linear calendar as a structuring device.

• Despite the fact that the diary does not move from point A to point B in a linear way, Julavits runs up against the problem that many print diaries have: the problem of the ending. To quote Lejeune again, he claims that “the diary is experienced as writing without end” (188). Diaries don’t have an end point — they cannot have a climax + denouement structure unless one is imposed retrospectively (at which point it is not a diary anymore). So, if you are Heidi Julavits and you are transforming your personal diary into an essayistic memoir without a chronological structure, where do you end? There is no end, there is only a choice to conclude the text. And, yes, as a result, the ending of The Folded Clock is flat and unsatisfying. It’s entirely authentic as a point of closure to a diary text but it doesn’t make for a particularly enjoyable read.

It will be clear that while I am not wild for Julavits’ book, it did generate some reflection on the diary. I cannot say the same for Manguso’s Ongoingness.

Manguso’s Ongoingness is built around the premise that Manguso has an obsessive need to record every moment of her life in her diary, a need that becomes burdensome and one she frees herself from by having a baby and being too exhausted to continue her daily diary practice. But, Ongoingness represents both the problem and the solution in ways I found very disappointing. We are told about Manguso’s excessive diary-keeping, which raises expectations (or raised mine) about length, verbiosity, detail, etc. — basically, that the text would be excessive. In the press coverage of the book, the fact that her diary is almost a million words long is repeatedly highlighted. By contrast, Ongoingness is very spare: the book is short, the entries are brief, there is copious white space on each page, she provides little by way of detail about her life or experiences. There is a fundamental gap between the declared character of Manguso’s diary and what readers gain a glimpse of within Ongoingness, and that makes it hard to take seriously the problem she struggles with.

The idea that Manguso is cured of her graphomania by having a baby may be true of her experience but it resonates in unfortunate ways with the critical dismissal of the diary as a genre and women’s diary-writing in particular. Too many view the diary as a trivial occupation and far too many scholars and critics have judged women’s diaries as exemplifying the triviality of the genre because they write about gendered activities and concerns. Manguso doesn’t do this and her (published) diary is replete with gendered activities and concerns but somehow the positioning of diary against baby runs close to suggesting that when she had a baby, she suddenly had something really important to do, as compared to the silly activity of writing her diary.

Here’s what Manguso writes:

Before the baby was born, the diary allowed me to continue existing. It literally constituted me. If I didn’t write it, I wasn’t anything, but then the baby became a little boy who needed me more than I needed to write the diary. He needed me more than I needed to write about him.

So the baby vs. diary battle is won by the baby, which makes perfect sense (of course she takes care of the baby instead of writing her diary!) but works to re-inscribe the diary as a meaningless, self-indulgent activity that distracts one (and particularly women) from truly valuable work. With “truly valuable work” taking only one form: child-rearing. For these reasons, I found Manguso’s text disappointing as a commentary on the diary and troubling as a commentary on women’s labor.

What does it mean that in 2015 two talented female authors produced memoirs that are principally interested in and initiated by the diary? What does it mean that the books received a substantial amount of coverage by critics in the most influential periodicals? One response is to say that these books prove that the diary remains a viable genre, even in the era of social media. Equally, their reception may indicate a nostalgia for the genre as a corrective to the kinds of discourse that thrive on social media. Or simply a lingering curiosity about other people’s diaries, even when we have access to a tsunami of self-disclosing writing on social media; almost every review of the books compares them to social media forms, employing the term “oversharing” in a pejorative way. I am not sure precisely what aspect of the cultural zeitgeist these books and my own current interest in the diary indicates. But, if you are interested in diaries, I think you are better served by reading any number of other diaries, including those listed on the digitized diary page of this blog. As far as published diaries go, two of my favorites are: Elizabeth Drinker’s diary and Rachel Van Dyke’s diary. I would send any reader to these historical texts over the more recent ones, about which I remain dubious.

Round-up of links to some of the (abundant) critical writing about Julavits and Manguoso:

Julavits:

Washington Post review: “In ‘The Folded Clock,’ Heidi Julavits takes you inside her real/fake diary”

New York Times Book Review: ‘The Folded Clock’ by Heidi Julavits

Huffington Post: “These are my confessions: What Diary-Keeping Means in an Age of Oversharing”

Manguso:

The Guardian: “My diary-keeping is a vice”

New York Times Book Review: “Sarah Manguso Offers Crumbs Relating to Her Diary”

The New Yorker: “Dear Diary, I Hate you: Reflections on Journals in the Age of the Overshare”

Slate: “Hall of Mirrors”

The Atlantic: “When Diary-Keeping Gets in the Way of Living”

Sources:

Philippe Lejeune, “On Today’s Date” and “How do diaries end?” in On Diary (U Hawaii P, 2009).

Jennifer Sinor, The Extraordinary Work of Ordinary Writing: Annie Ray’s Diary (UP Iowa, 2002)

The Diary Art Book

Are diaries art? Each of these books treats the material object of the diary as a form of visual art.

Beyond Words: 200 Years of Illustrated Diaries by Susan Snyder (Bancroft Library, 2011)

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Un Journal A Soi: Histoire d’une Pratique, Philippe Lejeune and Catherine Bogaert (Textuel, 2003) 

IMG_1742 IMG_1744 IMG_1746 IMG_1747 IMG_1748 IMG_1751 IMG_1752Sophie du Pont: A Young Lady in America, Sketches, Diaries & Letters, 1823-1833, Betty-Bright Low and Jacqueline Hinsley (Harry N. Abrams Pub, 1987)

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Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Interim”

The room is full of you! — As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick! —

Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room’s dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers, —
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death —
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe’er I look is hideous change.
Save here. Here ’twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, “I have been here before!”

You are not here. I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door. — So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key! —
The room is as you left it; your last touch —
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly — hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust’s grey fingers like a shielded light.

There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table, — I cannot believe
That you are gone! — Just then it seemed to me
You must be here. I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, “I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end”;
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.

Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro. . .

And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a “t”,
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric “e’s”. You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again. If you had known —
But then, it does not matter, — and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, “I picked the first sweet-pea to-day.”
To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow? — O my love,
The things that withered, — and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day — that day you picked the first sweet-pea, —
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.) And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet? — If only God
Had let us love, — and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th’ eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet, — I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
‘Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first. I did not know,
Then, that it was the last. If I had known —
But then, it does not matter. Strange how few,
After all’s said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
Few indeed! When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
“I had you and I have you now no more.”
There, there it dangles, — where’s the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down! I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!

“I had you and I have you now no more.”

O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified? — Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on! Would God — O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer? ‘Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!

We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart. I had not thought
That I could move, — and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak, — and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre. And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you. I have been torn
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me? And what am I
To life, — a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?

Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast, — save that contrast’s wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms. What now — what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world? You were my song!
Now, let discord scream! You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not
Plant things above your grave — (the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.

I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, “My face is turned to you”;
I know not where you are, I do not know
If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know: — not for one second’s space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.
Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!

— What do I say?
God! God! — God pity me! Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken? Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive. If all at once
Faith were to slacken, — that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing, — birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!

O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons! How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant — looking over — and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight —

* * * * *

Ah, I am worn out — I am wearied out —
It is too much — I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.

Itsy-Bitsy Adorable Diary-ette

It’s so cute you just want to pinch its cheeks, right?

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I spent the past few weeks doing archival research on (naturally) diaries. This is one of the many different varieties of nineteenth-century diaries I encountered: no bigger than a matchbox, but with an ornate latching mechanism. The author used it to record major life events: a single line on each tiny page commemorating the date of her marriage, birth of her children, etc. It’s the antithesis of the typical diary — though this research has driven home for me the fact that there is no such thing as a “typical” diary, despite the fact that so many of them follow recognizable formulas or are written in pre-formatted notebooks. I have a soft spot in my heart for this one, which is such a beautiful artifact and a testament to the durability of small, precious objects.