The Diary (April, 1919)

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something... so

elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful

that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep

old desk... in which one flings a mass of odds and ends

without looking them through. I should like to come back, after

a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself

and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously

do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life.