And, finally, a diary is a valuable waste-paper-basket into which
to discard one's own affectations. In my own diary I invent words and coin phrases which I should not dare to employ in public, and which I am glad to feel will puzzle my great- grandchildren very much indeed. What, for instance, will they make of the word " hypoulic," or the epithet " palinuran "? They will make nothing at all. And will they believe that the head- pieces for each successive year were really written at the time, and not inserted afterwards? For 1939 I wrote, " A year of destiny." For 1940 I wrote " probably a year of doom." For 1941 I merely wrote " This year 1941." But 5942 bears a happier inscription—" The year of recovery." How I trust that when the next first of January comes I shall be able to fit my sheet into the typewriter and tap the confident words " This year of decision."
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