December 4, 1929, 8:30 p.m:
My mother gave me you, Mizil. She called you a "beautiful wonder that shares your feelings and lets them all out" while in other words is just a plain, old diary. The only feelings I would write about is depression. How can I live with a teensy, weensy potato for every meal? And how can I live with a Christmas that's as dull as the farmer's fields? My father is almost close to losing his beloved engineering job and my mother is sweating, working, soaking her clothes. And me? It's the same basic old life: Wake up, eat a bit of breakfast, work with mother, go to school, come back, eat lunch, work with mother, eat dinner, and go to sleep. Nothing more exciting. School is just another reason for torture, and work is just another reason to sweat. It's just a life wasted if you ask me. I just wish we could've went to Greenland on time, my homeland, and not be stuck at stinky, pollution-filled New York. I was dreaming of spending a year at my grandmother's house, snuggling close to the fire. But now it turns out I have to sweat and call my mother once a month with 50 cents on the telephone poll. So I suppose that's why my mother gave you Minzil, to me, to write down all of my feeling in your 300 pages. Well, don't expect me to write about rainbows and smiley faces because I know that this year is going to be very, very tough.
