Andrei Vasilevitch, the man who was to have read my diary, was badly wounded, and died in a hospital in Warsaw. All peace to his soul! No one will read my diary now. It is as well, perhaps. I seem to be alone in hell, surrounded by dancing demons and beckoning sinners. What good am I or my diary to anyone? It seems absurd, but my wife has known for a long time that I keep a diary, and has never expressed the smallest desire or curiosity to see it. Writing a diary or cracking sunflower seeds is all the same to her! + 

Even a mouse gets more attention; one hurls a boot at it when it makes a noise. + 

But what right has a little worm like me to attention and sympathy when so many more worthy than I go under daily? It would be a fine thing, indeed, if every little “cell” doomed to perdition were to begin to howl and object like a full-grown organism! + 

I saw some refugees from Poland in the Morskaya today. Pretty figures they make! + 