From the Diary of Anne Frank

Putting thoughts into a diary was, Anne admitted, a peculiar experience for someone like her — not simply because she had never written anything of the kind before, but also because she was certain that neither she nor anyone else would ever find the scattered reflections of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl the least bit interesting. Still, she felt a pressing need to write — to get a great many things off her chest. Metaphor

She had thought of the saying "Paper has more patience than people" on one of those grey afternoons when she sat at home, chin in hands, feeling bored and drained — wondering whether to go out or stay in. She eventually stayed, brooding. Paper, she decided, really did have more patience. And since she was not planning to let anyone else read this stiff-backed notebook grandly called a 'diary' — unless she found a real friend someday — it probably wouldn't matter what she wrote. Personification

This brought her back to the question that had prompted her to keep a diary in the first place: she didn't have a true friend. Not in the real sense. No one would believe that a thirteen-year-old could be completely alone in the world — and in one sense, she wasn't. She had loving parents, a sixteen-year-old sister, and about thirty people she could loosely call friends. She had a family, affectionate aunts, and a comfortable home. On the surface, she appeared to have everything. Yet she lacked the one thing that mattered most: a single real friend. Irony

When she was with her friends, all she wanted was to enjoy herself. She couldn't bring herself to discuss anything deeper than everyday concerns. They never seemed to grow any closer — and perhaps, she admitted, the fault lay partly with her. Either way, that was simply how things were, and they seemed unlikely to change. That was why she had begun the diary. To give form to this long-awaited companion she had imagined, she didn't want to record bare facts the way most people might — she wanted the diary to be a true friend, and she would call this friend 'Kitty'. Symbolism

Since nobody would make sense of what she wrote to Kitty without some context, she felt compelled — however reluctantly — to provide a brief sketch of her life. Her father, the most wonderful father she had ever seen, had not married her mother until he was thirty-six; her mother had been twenty-five. Her sister Margot was born in Frankfurt in 1926; Anne herself on 12 June 1929. She had lived in Frankfurt until she was four. When her father emigrated to Holland in 1933, her mother followed in September, while the two girls were sent to stay with their grandmother in Aachen. Margot went to Holland in December; Anne followed in February — she liked to say she had been plunked down on the table as a birthday present for Margot. Imagery

She began at the Montessori nursery school and stayed until she was six, after which she entered the first form of primary school. In the sixth form her teacher was Mrs Kuperus, the headmistress, and by the time they said farewell at the end of that year, both Anne and her teacher were in tears. In the summer of 1941, Grandma fell ill and required an operation, so Anne's birthday passed with little celebration. Grandma died in January 1942. No one would ever know how often Anne thought of her, or how much she still loved her. The 1942 birthday celebration had been intended to make up for the quiet one the previous year; Grandma's candle was lit alongside the others. The four of them were still together, and that brought her to the present — 20 June 1942, and the solemn beginning of her diary.

The whole class was quaking in its boots. The cause, naturally, was the upcoming teachers' meeting to decide who would be promoted to the next year and who would not. Half the class was making bets. Anne and G.N. were laughing at the two boys behind them — C.N. and Jacques — who had staked their entire holiday savings on the outcome. Imagery From morning to night it was nothing but "You'll pass!" "No, I won't!" "Yes, you will!" — back and forth. Even G.'s pleading looks and Anne's sharp outbursts couldn't quiet them. In her opinion, at least a quarter of the class deserved to be kept back — but teachers, she declared, were the most unpredictable creatures on earth. Irony

Anne herself wasn't particularly worried about her friends or herself. They'd all manage, she was sure — except perhaps for maths. Anyway, there was nothing to do but wait, and they kept encouraging each other not to despair. She got along reasonably well with all nine of her teachers. Mr Keesing, the elderly maths teacher everyone called an 'old fogey', had long been irritated by Anne's tendency to talk in class. After repeated warnings, he assigned her extra homework: an essay on the subject 'A Chatterbox'. She noted the title in her notebook, tucked it away, and tried — for a while — to keep quiet. Irony

That evening, after finishing the rest of her work, she began to think about the essay while chewing her pen. Anyone could ramble on and leave wide spaces between words — the trick was to produce a convincing argument for the necessity of talking. And then an idea struck her. She wrote the three required pages and felt thoroughly pleased with the result. She had argued that talking was a schoolgirl's natural trait; that she would do her best to keep it in check; but that she could never cure herself of the habit, since her mother talked just as much — if not more — and that inherited traits were simply beyond one's control. Irony

Mr Keesing had a good laugh at her arguments — but when she proceeded to talk her way through the very next lesson, he assigned her a second essay: 'An Incorrigible Chatterbox'. She handed that in too, and two whole lessons passed without complaint. In the third lesson, however, he finally lost patience. "Anne Frank, as punishment for talking in class, write an essay entitled — 'Quack, Quack, Quack, Said Mistress Chatterbox'!" The class roared. Anne had to laugh too, though she had nearly exhausted her ingenuity on the chatterbox theme. She needed something fresh. Her friend Sanne, who was good at poetry, offered to help her write the whole essay in verse — and Anne leapt at the idea. Mr Keesing was clearly trying to embarrass her; she would make sure the joke landed on him instead. Irony

The poem she produced was, she thought, rather beautiful. It told the story of a mother duck and a father swan with three baby ducklings who were bitten to death by the father because they quacked too much. Fortunately, Mr Keesing took the joke in exactly the right spirit. He read the poem aloud — first to Anne's class, then to several others — adding his own commentary as he went. Since then, Anne had been permitted to talk, and no further extra homework had been assigned. On the contrary, Mr Keesing was always making jokes these days. Yours, Anne. Irony