Straddling days. From The Assasin’s Cloak: An Anthology of the World’s Greatest Diarists
January 26th, 1930
When we made up our six months accounts, we found I had made about £3,029 last year—the salary of a civil servant; a surprise to me, who was content to live with £200 for so many years. But I shall drop very heavily I think. The Waves won’t sell more than 2,000 copies.
January 26, 1938
For no reason at all I hated this day as if it was a person—it’s wind, it’s insecurity, it’s flabbiness, it’s hints of an insane universe.
January 28, 1933
Death to you is not death, not obituary notices and quiet and mourning, sermons and elegies and prayers, coffins and graves and worldly platitudes. It is not the most common experience in life—the only certainty. It is not the oldest thing we know. It is not what happened to Caesar and Dante and Milton and Mary Queen of Scots, to the soldiers in all the wars, to the sick in the plagues, to public men yesterday. It never happened before—what happened today to you. It has only happened to your little boy.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Google books has all of February up online.