I intensely dislike the job of butchering a farm animal. The pig we butchered today squealed unmercifully when it was shot. It thought we were going to feed it but instead it received a bullet to its brain. Eating animals is so uncivilized, I am beginning to understand why GB Shaw, Tolstoy and Albert Einstein are vegetarians...

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The book cannot be called, as some say, “a written evidence of the mind and character of Hitler and his henchmen,” for at the time of writing Hitler was seeking power, and once having gained this power it becomes the old story of the oppressed gaining power, becoming the oppressor, a fact that runs through history with a persistency of man’s claims to “natural rights.”

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After such a close brush with mortality I feel that I have an obligation to destiny and want to do something with my life that will benefit mankind. I am not a writer but think the best thing I can do is try to report on and understand what is happening in the world.

One of our mules died today. ...[W]e rigged up a block and tackle with a sling around her middle and tried to hoist her up to a standing position but her legs were too weak to hold her up. Then Father said we may as well give up because he noticed that part of her insides was protruding from her rear end. He said that when this happens there is no hope... So we lowered her back to the ground and let her die in peace, which she did in a few hours.