The last entry in the Diary of Anne Frank

August 1, 1944

Dearest Kitty,

“A bundle of contradictions” was the end of my previous letter and is the beginning of this one.  Can you please tell me exactly what “a bundle of contradictions” is?  What does “contradiction” mean? Like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways: a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within.  The former means not accepting other people’s opinions, always knowing best, having the last word;  in short, all those unpleasant traits for which I’m known.  The latter, for which I’m not known, is my own secret.

Anne Frank at 11 years of age, two years before going into hiding. Amsterdam, the Netherlands, 1940.
Anne Frank at 11 years of age, two years before going into hiding. Amsterdam, the Netherlands, 1940.

As I’ve told you many times, I’m split in two. One side contains my exuberant cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy in life and, above all, my ability to appreciate the lighter side of things.  By that I mean not finding anything wrong with flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, a saucy joke.  This side of me is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper, and finer.

No one knows Anne’s better side, and that’s why most people can’t stand me.  Oh, I can be an amusing clown for an afternoon, but after that everyone’s had enough of me to last a month.  Actually, I’m what a romantic film is to a profound thinker – a mere diversion, a comic interlude, something that is soon forgotten:  not bad, but not particulary good either.

I hate having to tell you this, but why shouldn’t I admit it when I know it’s true?  My lighter, more superficial side will always steal a march on the deeper side and therefore always win.  You can’t imagine how often I’ve tried to push away this Anne, which is only half of what is known as Anne – to beat her down, hide her.  But it doesn’t work, and I know why.

I’m afraid that people who know me as I usually am will discover I have another side, a better and finer side.  I’m afraid they’ll mock me, think I’m ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously.

I’m used to not being taken seriously, but only the “lighthearted” Anne is used to it and can put up with it;  the “deeper” Anne is too weak.  If I force the good Anne into the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment she’s called upon to speak, and lets Anne number one do the talking.  Before I realize it, she’s disappeared.

So the nice Anne is never seen in company.  She’s never made a single appearance, though she almost always takes the stage whem I’m alone.   I know exactly how I’d like to be, how I am . . . on the inside.  But unfortunately I’m only like that with myself.  And perhaps that’s why – no, I’m sure that’s the reason why – I think of myself as happy on the inside and other people think I’m happy on the outside.  I’m guided by the pure Anne within, but on the outside I’m nothing but a frolicsome little goat tugging at its tether.

As I’ve told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a reputation for being a boy-chaser, a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances.  The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she couldn’t care less. The quiet Anne reacts in just the opposite way.

If I’m being completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it does matter to me, that I’m trying very hard to change myself, but that I’m always up against a more powerful enemy.  A voice within me is sobbing, “You see, that’s what’s become of you.  You’re surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people who dislike you, and all because you don’t listen to the advice of your own better half.”

Believe me, I’d like to listen, but it doesn’t work, because if I’m quiet and serious, everyone thinks I’m putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I’m not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be ill, stuff me with asprins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can’t keep it up any more, beause when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I’d like to be and what I could be if . . . if only there were no other people in the world.

Yours, Anne M. Frank

(Three days later, Anne Frank was found and imprisoned.  Later, she was transported to Auschwitz, then later died in Bergen-Belsen.)

Photo: Google

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