January 11, 1942

What is a diary? Webster’s dictionary says it is a “a register of daily events or transactions; a journal.” With me, it is something different. It is an outlet, a porthole in a stuffy cabin.

Why do I write this? Because I want it read someday? Not at all. Because I want to remember the things I have gone through? More plausible, perhaps, but not exactly. I write because, after doing so, I feel relieved.

Am I too old for that sort of sentimental stuff? Age has made me realize that time makes a man sentimental. The older you are, the more the memories. The grey hairs and the wrinkles make detection of your feelings more difficult. You can hide your thoughts better. But it’s there just the same. In man, everything ages except the heart.

This talk on age makes me feel old. I think I’ll play tennis with Vic tomorrow.

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