We were assigned this book in the tenth grade. It was either this or Helen Keller’s autobiography or something, and frankly, I would pick Anne Frank over Helen Keller any day.
I tried reading the book in seventh grade, but found it… uninteresting at the beginning, which is primarily why I forgot all about it for the next two years.
Anyway, I was happy. We had Gulliver’s Travels in ninth, and I was happy because this seemed more interesting. Now, some people prefer getting summaries of the novel chapter wise, but not me. I like reading the whole thing.
So, the novel. I remember being excited, because it was essentially a diary. A diary is an intimate part of any person, and isn’t that why people like stealing others’ diaries and reading them? Now, I know a huge part of the world has already read the book – nothing intimate about more than a few hundred thousands reading the same diary – but looking at it that way kept it fun.
So, the book was divided into two parts for the two school terms. The first part was okay. It wasn’t very very interesting, but it was okay. I really liked the second part. It was interesting to read, and I just really really liked it.
What really got to me, was the end of the book.
No hint of the fact that she was going to her death after that post. None at all. The very… incompleteness of the whole thing is unsettling.
Says a lot, though.
It might end a lot more suddenly than one might think, and you might not have time to put your affairs in order. I’m just not sure if that’s the tragedy or the beauty of the end.
However, I’m quite sad that she didn’t make it. The fact that she died weeks away from liberation is heart wrenchingly sad.
I really really really want to visit the Anne Frank House.
Lots of love,
P.S.: I’m rereading TFIOS, hence Anne Frank. Though I should’ve done this post sooner.