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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