Bird

Rather rainy. Went into Baldock but failed to get any rose bushes. Bought a peony root which perhaps I can plant at the corner instead of a rose. Clarke’s say the shortage of grains, or the difficulty of sending them to & fro, is actually much greater than the papers make out. Saw a bird which I think must have been a golden plover, though so far as I know they are not found round here. Slightly larger than a snipe (it was certainly not a snipe), redshank type of flight, but its back was brownish. Too far away to see its beak. The only thing that makes me doubtful is that its belly was almost white.

George Orwell
Diary entry
November 18, 1939

Bum day. I have full strength, my wits about me, but I can't go to work because I don't want others to get the virus off me. My wife just discovered an old game in Facebook, Cafe World. I reactivated my account so we could play together. Still no leads on a new yaya. Maybe we've squeezed our network dry. The child, well what can be said of the child? She somehow learned yet another way to amuse herself at my expense. She'd offer me her bottle, say "Mik?" until I move to receive it from her. Then she'd withdraw it, say "ayawayaw" while flashing them mischievous teeth.

Barber One

Dussel is very put out, none of us knows why. It began by his keeping his mouth closed upstairs, he didn't utter a word to either Mr.or Mrs. Van Daan. Everyone was struck by it, and when it lasted a couple of days, Mummy took the opportunity of warning him about Mrs. Van Daan, who, if he went on like this, could make things very disagreeable for him.

Dussel said that Mr. Van Daan started the silence, so he was not going to be the one to break it.

Anne Frank
Diary entry
November 17, 1943

Gave the child her first hair cut because her grandmother thought the forelocks irritated her eyes. Handed the lock to my wife who wrapped it in plastic and placed it in Fr. Leo English's dictionary. She did not know it, but it's my favorite dictionary in the house. Its pages are loose and brittle. I would have these bound again, but I think the pages would not survive the process. It's the same reason why I don't want it photocopied. My father gave it to me when I became interested in writing poems in Filipino.

The cut was too close. My wife didn't like it. Child looks like Ben Franklin now.

Chairs

Gonzalo plans to hold a meeting in the houseboat. He and Pablo Neruda are inviting all the Latin Americans to come. Anais, go out and rent chairs for the plotters!

Anais Nin
Diary entry
November 1936

We enjoyed unadulterated Pacquiao yesterday because some mayors and a congressman of Laguna decided to pitch in and buy air time through the community cable company. I watched all the preliminary bouts just to savor the absence of advertisements. Cotto gave good fight, holding out as he did. I heard some of my countrymen died while watching the fight. We, the weak-hearted. Meanwhile, some research has taken my speech to a curious turn. My framework has been effectively challenged by the new data. It seems I have been trying to shield myself from some facts.

Cold Compress

The son then showed us his works of amateur sculpture and painting (Sivas, Parvatis, Venuses, and apsarases): remarkably good. And on the way home he talked with touching earnestness and feeling of his art. "When I work in clay," he said, "Mother tells me to be careful: I will catch cold from the wet clay. And when I work in stone, Father tells me to be careful, the dust will get in my lungs and I will catch cold."

Joseph Campbell
Diary entry
November 15, 1954

I have been waiting for the day when I would finally wake up to my child's normal face. The red's out of her right eye but it's still a bit smaller than her left eye. So I thought, maybe tomorrow. However, an hour and a half ago she bumped her head against the wall, and though it sounded like her usual contact, half of forehead's quite swollen. Predictably, she rejected the cold compress. My wife brought her to sleep with milk and song. While they both slept, I sneaked in some ice. She was defenseless, and I stopped when the size and color of the swell seemed to me tolerable.

November was not purely cut from misfortune and struggle. A couple of good strokes here and there, and among them the event of my two advisees' first magazine publication. On November 1, Christopher Alonte published his short stories, "A Chase and a Thousand Encounters" as well as "Home." Alonte's a fresh graduate. E- (his critic) and I gave him a proper grade for his thesis, a collection of short stories that included "Home." Alonte thought the grade was a joke.

Angelica Mendoza, Alonte's sparring partner, published her first short story "Lingua Franca (Carmen's Envy)" a week later. Her thesis is still in the works, but I think this story will make the final cut.

Sore House

We were going to Stuart's performance, but we decided to dye Marci's hair as a prelude, and things went, um, well, slightly wrong.

I'm not sure "wrong" is the right word; depending on your tastes, it could be described as anything from "way cool" to "horrifyingly awful." Marci wanted to dye her hair platinum white, so we hit a local drugstore, realized that dark hair took at least two strong agents to dye white, brought both of them and gave it a try.

Her hair turned bright orange.

I am now dating Ronald McDonald.

We did not go see Stuart perform.

Ken Wilber
Diary entry
November 14, 1997

The circle is closed. No sense dodging now, we've all been shot. The mother also contracted the baby's eyes. What a way to kick off the semester, with all eyes red and swollen. Meanwhile, we're still crippled without household help. I asked E-, the least bourgeois in the faculty, if that's normal or if under the circumstances we ought try to work it out between the three of us. He said an attempt to wing it without help would be ideal but impractical. We were both working and the infant won't quit asking for 24 hours. He's right, I know, we can't risk the child on account of courage or foolhardiness. He's prudent. I'll kiss him on the eyes next week.

Sore Eyes

Other things, too, made revelry difficult; for, at the gathering of this stupendous harvest, too many of the sowers were not there. Even when you win a war, you cannot forget that you have lost your generation.

Sir Alan 'Tommy' Lascelles
Diary entry
November 13, 1918

My eyes are down as well. I hope I can still squeeze some work out of them.

I'm quite pleased to produce a shorter list of grudges. My students remain safe, of course, as long as I have peers and superiors to take the heat. In that sense I'm glad they crossed me. I'm contagious, and all it takes is a handshake.

This one student. I hope this one student gains entry to the faculty. No obligations or loyalty checks. Just someone decent to have lunch with.

Feast Day

I lunched with Admiral Kelly who can has come from Ankara. There is a story that he and his brother once had a quarrel and shortly afterwards met in Bond Street. They passed each other silently with their noses in the air but one of them came back, tapped the other on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, but am I right in thinking that your Father married my Mother?'

Countess of Ranfurly
Diary entry
November 12, 1943

I am quickly learning the cruelty of the phrase "cutting corners." It's not happy here, standing before the business end of the scissors. Meanwhile, there's a fiesta in the old town. My parents have prepared seven dishes. Can't smell a whiff.