An attack on Hitler's life, but unfortunately the bastard wasn't killed.
Joan Wyndham
July 20, 1944
Diary entry
It never fails: I see the man on my way to the grocer's. Whenever I look at him, I hope to God he never catches me staring. Because when I catch myself stare, I begin to hate myself for being ignorant and wide-eyed. Then I hate myself some more - the self's an all too convenient sissy to hate when there's nobody else of worth around - because I know my ignorance is the only strand that's keeping me tied to this world. So I begin to love my own stupidity. But I don't love the man. He's a common crazy, dirty in all the ways that a crazy is dirty, and always scratching away at some part or other of himself. This man though, he has the twin quiddities of wearing perfectly polished boots and sporting an anachronistic little moustache. Those boots are nothing like I've ever seen. And I've seen military quality, you know. I like looking at him and hate seeing myself look at him. In this manner and without the superfluity of either fingers or fraternity, I too scratch away at myself.
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