![Transcription Center logo](/themes/custom/tc_theme/assets/image/logo.png)
This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.
112 Saturday, April 21, 1928 113 [[strikethrough]] Sunday, April 22, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] Sunday, April 6th 1930 To-day I came home from Mt. Sinai — appendix-less. I had a wonderful time at the hospital. I have been working frightfully hard at school and going out a great deal and as a result I was truly tired. I had anticipated the time as a period in which I would think, and although there was time, I seemed to spend it uselessly. I did however, have time to rest and enjoy myself and realise how shallow I am. One evening I felt truly depressed and that night I began to see how useless I am. I tried to see what I mean, what my friends mean, what living itself means. And I didn't succeed. If I only knew what I considered an ideal I would try desperately hard to build myself to it. It is fruitless to try to be something, when the "something" is an unknown quality. During my stay I met a person, David Hemby, who has been sick for a year and a half and who was in Mt. Sinai for six months. He was a queer sort of person. He has become effiminate — mascara, side-burns, powder, perfumed hair-tonic, but that seems only polish. Underneath he was warped and alone. Frightfully alone; except for a too strong love for his mother and a too sincere hate for his brother. Pain and solitude and a struggle and too much money have made him old and sad. Being too emotional I began to feel sorry for him, and as a result, like him in a rather maternal, friendly manner. It was not reciprocated. A bird in