I'm afraid my common sense, which was in short supply to begin with, wil be used up too quickly and I won't have any left by the time the war is over.
I could spend hours telling you about the suffering the war has brought, but I'd only make myself more miserable. All we can do is wait, as calmly as possible, for it to end...the whole world is waiting, and many are waiting for death.
I've drawn myself apart from them all; I am my own skipper and later on I shall see where I come to land.
Harsh words and shouts are constantly being flung at my head, though I'm absolutely not used to it.
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.
Because paper has more patience than people.