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“I want to raise up the magic world all round me and live strongly and quietly there.”
― Virginia Woolf

“First: breakdown, impossible to sleep, impossible to stay awake, impossible to endure life, or, more exactly, the course of life. The clocks are not in unison; the inner one runs crazily on at a devilish or demoniac or in any case inhuman pace, the outer one limps along at its usual speed. What else can happen but that the two worlds split apart, and they do split apart, or at least clash in a fearful manner. There are doubtless several reasons for the wild tempo of the inner process; the most obvious one is introspection, which will suffer no idea to sink tranquilly to rest but must pursue each one into consciousness, only itself to become an idea, in turn to be pursued by renewed introspection.

Secondly: this pursuit, originating in the midst of men, carries one in a direction away from them. The solitude that for the most part has been forced on me, in part voluntarily sought by me –but what was this if not compulsion too? –is now losing all its ambiguity and approaches its dénouement. Where is it leading? The strongest likelihood is, that it may lead to madness; there is nothing more to say, the pursuit goes right through me and rends me asunder. Or I can –can I? –manage to keep my feet somewhat and be carried along in the wild pursuit. Where, then, shall I be brought? ‘Pursuit,�� indeed, is only a metaphor. I can also say, ‘assault on the last earthly frontier��, an assault, moreover, launched from below, from mankind, and since this too is a metaphor, I can replace it by the metaphor of an assault from above, aimed at me from above.”
― Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923

“I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger."
"What are you talking about?" said Harry.
"The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes- how her brothers tease her, how she had come to school with secondhand robes and books, how"- Riddle's eyes glinted- "how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..."
All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There was an almost hungry look in them.
"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in.... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket...."
Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck.
"If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted.... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..."
"What d'you mean?" said Harry, whose mouth had gone dry.
"Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat."
"No," Harry whispered.
"Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, watching Harry's horrified face, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me.... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad.... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

“That’s the difficulty in these times: ideals, dreams, and cherished hopes rise within us, only to meet the horrible truth and be shattered.
It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet, I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come out right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”
― Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank: The Revised Critical Edition

“Very slowly, with hands, tongues, mouths, we unwrapped and untied ourselves, laying open gifts. Gave birth to each other again, as separate bodies who enjoy collision.”
― Anaïs Nin, Fire: From "A Journal of Love": The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937

“Risky business, damn it. Being human.”
― Suzy Valtsioti, The Red Book of Secrets: The Diary of a Mobster's Wife

“I am grateful that you, journal, can look at me without closing your covers. Sometimes, that’s all I do: open and close you, open and close, all afternoon on my bed, expecting you to shut on me, but you never do.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, The Goodbye Song

“Ein Mensch kann einsam sein, obwohl er von vielen geliebt wird, wenn er nicht für einen Menschen 'der Liebste' ist.”
― Anne Frank, Anne Frank Gesamtausgabe: Das Tagebuch | Die Kurzgeschichten

“Never admit to anything to anybody. Honesty is not the best policy.”
― Mary Astor

“Ich sage kein einziges Wort. Mein Gesicht ist aus Glas und ich wünsche mir, dass sich jemand daran schneidet.”
― Isabel Abedi, Whisper

“You are like me, wishing for such perfect moments, and frightened for fear of spoiling them.”
― Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin: Volume I - V with Photographic Supplement

“The life of society moves in a circle. Only those burdened with a common affliction understand each other. Thanks to their affliction they constitute a circle and provide each other mutual support. They glide along the inner borders of their circle, make way for or jostle one another gently in the crowd. Each encourages the other in the hope that it will react upon himself, or –and then it is done passionately –in the immediate enjoyment of this reaction. Each has only that experience which his affliction grants him; nevertheless one hears such comrades exchanging immensely varying experiences. ‘This is how you are,�� one says to the other; ‘instead of complaining, thank God that this is how you are, for if this were not how you are, you would have this or that misfortune, this or that shame.�� How does this man know that? After all, he belongs –his statement betrays it –to the same circle as does the one to whom he spoke; he stands in the same need of comfort.”
― Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923

“Productivity is now sold as a lifestyle. People hustle away and grind for the sake of grinding. New calendars. New dry erase markers. New journals. But when they write in advanced journals, they write of goals and next steps�� never of thoughts and secrets. When they write of goals, their goals are to have more goals. So you abandon the empty castle that is productivity and enter the little cottage of your funny heart.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, The Goodbye Song

“One sequence of these diary notes had lasted longer than most, and by their content he saw that they came from the time right after his father had died. One line stuck him like a thorn:
Alone in the house. Must get used to it.
He stared at her crabbed handwriting. He saw how it must have been, and sat down in the nearest chair. A spasm of sorrow passed through him, followed after a while by a wash of relief, as he realized that his mom was now finally freed of the intense burden of staying happy after his father was gone. Twenty years of driven, relentless effort.”
― Kim Stanley Robinson, Red Moon

“Go to hell, World! I cannot die in peace and safety. I cannot face the slightest breath of real life or death or ugliness. But I hurt for being such a coward. I was always a coward �� socially, physically, mentally, sexually, emotionally. If I go insane, am I brave? I will, because then, and only then, I am brave, not a coward. [An excerpt from the diary of Jean Bouricius' son]”
― Richard P. Bentall, Madness Explained: Psychosis and Human Nature

“Col. James N. Rowe, a United States Army officer who spent five years as a prisoner in Vietnam before escaping in 1968, was shot to death yesterday (April 21, 1989) by gunmen near Manila, where he was a military adviser to the Philippine armed forces. He was 51 years old. Colonel Rowe was being driven to work at the Joint United States Military Advisory Group headquarters in Quezon City, a suburb of Manila, shortly after 7 A.M. when at least two hooded gunmen in a stolen car fired more than 20 bullets into his vehicle.
His driver, Joaquin Vinua, was wounded but was reported out of danger. Colonel Rowe was pronounced dead at a nearby military hospital. Communist Rebels Suspected
No group immediately claimed responsibility for the attack, but Philippine officials said they believed the killers were Communist rebels. The rebels have threatened to attack American targets unless the United States closes its military bases in the Philippines and ends its support of the Philippine military's fight against the insurgency.”
― Captain Hank Bracker, The History of Liberia & West Africa

“It is common sense to avoid gluten, fructose and diary in a society that farms its food with industrial chemicals.”
― Steven Magee

“When secrets are unspoken and unwritten they are lodged safely in the mind, but writing them down seems to let them loose and give them the power to spread like pollen on the air and enter into other minds.”
― P.D. James, Death in Holy Orders

“Update: Reading an old diary where I've written: "...almost forgotten every moment that was spent with you." Anyways, its already been 5 years now so I just made a little change on that "...almost forgotten every moment that was spent with you, but that's still not enough for that old me who's still somewhere inside my head".”
― Mohammed Israil

“To set the scene: Madzy Brender à Brandis was a young mother with two small children, trying to survive through years of hardship and danger �� and some unexpected pleasures. In May 1942, after her husband was suddenly taken prisoner and sent to a German camp, she began writing a diary to record the details of her life �� for her husband to read when he returned, if he returned. She called it “this faithful book.�� Here are some passages:


28 October 1944 [when the electricity was cut off because of lack of fuel for the generating plants]: “We have to use the daylight to its utmost, and we figure this out already in the morning. [At the end of the afternoon] We flew faster and faster to use the last bits of daylight, lay the table, lay everything ready so that at 5:30 we could eat in the dusk until we couldn’t find our mouths any more. Blackout and one candle, finished eating and washed the dishes. Read to children in pyjamas and then they to bed. Then unraveled a knitted baby blanket [so that the yarn could be used to knit other things] and at 9:00 blew out the candle and continued by moonlight. But now I’m going to bed, tired but satisfied with my efforts, though very sad about all the misery.��


1 November 1944 [after a threat of having the house demolished]: “Well, our house is still standing. I filled a laundry bag with many things, and everything is standing ready [in case there was a need to evacuate]. Because there is much flying again. At one moment an Allied fighter plane flew over very low; just then three German soldiers were walking past our house and one, “as a joke,�� shot his gun at the plane. Tje! What a scare we had!��


24 December 1944 [addressing her husband, still in the camp]: “The whole house is in wonderful peace and I’m sitting by the fire, which gives me just enough light to write this. [The upper door of the small heater, when opened, gave a bit of light.] My Dicks, I don’t have to tell you how very much I miss you on this evening. It is a gnawing sense of longing. But beyond that there is a sorrow in me, a despair about everything, that pervades my whole being. Besides that, however, I’ve already for days seen the light of Christ coming closer and in these days that gives me hope. So does the waxing moon, the hard frost, the bright sun �� in a word, all the light in nature after that endless series of misty, rainy, dark days. And so I sit close to my unsteady little light, that constantly abandons me, and think of you. It’s as though you are very close to me. I’m so grateful for everything that I have: your love, the two children, and everything around me.��


12 February 1945 [during the “Hunger Winter�� of 1944-45, after one of her trips to forage for food]: “Today I went to Rika in Renswoude: 1¼ hours cycling there, 2½ hours walking back pushing a broken-down bicycle and with 25 pounds of rye [the whole grain, not flour] through streaming rain, while there was constant booming of artillery and bombing in the distance.”
― Marianne Brandis, This Faithful Book: A Diary from World War Two in the Netherlands

“I will remember you fondly not like you never existed but as a chapter in a torn out script of my life story.”
― Emmanuel Anaiye ifebunmi

“How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.”
― George Orwell, 1984

“Ahhh! Privacy! Did the self-inscriber intend to write for future readership? Some diarists I include in my book appear to �� one even writing an entry to the future.

In "The Power of Diaries: Interview with Jane Perry, Author of White Snake Diary" from Paula Whitacre Blog, February 20, 2020: a palindrome!”
― Jane P. Perry

“My anxiety keeps spiraling and I feel like I'm losing it.”
― Dana Muwwakkil, The Anxiety Diaries: Volume 1

“Život i smrt. Snaga i mir. Ako danas stanem, vredeće. Čak i užasne greške, koje sam činila i koje bih da poništim, da mogu. Bolovi koji su me pekli i plašili moju dušu, vredeli su, zbog toga što sam bila, tamo gde sam bila, a to su, pakao na zemlji, i raj na zemlji, i opet nazad, u, ispod, između, kroz i iznad.”
― Gia Carangi

“Tuose puslapiuose tvinksi toks gyvas laikmečio pul­sas, kad mūsų širdyse kyla tikrumo alkis, gyvenimo ir tegu netobulo jo realizavimo geismas. Tačiau gyvenimas lieka ta­rytum už stiklo �� nutolęs �� viskas lyg jau ne mūsų, lyg žvelg­tum pro traukinio langą.”
― Witold Gombrowicz

“From writing in a diary and trying hard to hide it, to writing on public domains, we grew up so fast!”
― Sakshi Mishra

“You and your circumstances are unique. A general solution may not work on your unique personal problems. Your solution will come out from inside you when you express yourself: Write or record a diary or talk to someone who is a compassionate listener.”
― Shunya

“I'll always have,
A part of you..!
That will never let me
Forget you..!”
― Nayan Kasturi

“The difficulties of bringing to an end even a short essay lie not in the fact that we feel the end of the piece demands a fire which the actual content up to that point has not been able to produce out of itself, they arise rather from the fact that even the shortest essay demands of the author a degree of self-satisfaction and of being lost in himself out of which it is difficult to step into the everyday air without great determination and an external incentive, so that, before the essay is rounded to a close and one might quietly slip away, one bolts, driven by unrest, and then the end must be completed from the outside with hands which must not only do the work but hold on as well.”
― Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923