July 28, 1911
I am afraid of my diary. Diary is consciousness, an accounting of the soul. It is like an attacking light, and I have hidden in a corner, not wanting to recognize myself in the darkness. Diary is knowing, and I am afraid of knowing.
In the face of every soul I fall apart, terrified. I feel that I am lying, playing with trick cards. They terrify me, those good eyes with their naive faiths which peer in at me, waiting. I am disgusted by needless, empty, stupid speech which comes from nowhere and pours down without sense. If one ought speak the truth--I cannot.
In the face of every irrevocable action--decision yes or no--I feel like a swindler. Laboring to extricate myself. It’s none of my business.
All that which is bathed in light, in me and without, demands and remembers: I do not want the light. I want to stay in the darkness, to cry and to cradle and to forget. All of it, all of it to forget: the radiant eyes of children and the blind eyes of the dead.
We are not permitted to forget. Only he who remembers everything always, has the right to live. Eyes look, plead and punish, mute eyes, paralyzed, afraid. And your head sinks lower yet. Raise up your head! With your blood-stained eyes! Eyes should meet with eyes. Maybe a miracle will come?
-- Moyshe Varshe
Translated by Corbin Allardice