Reading it brought joy (and sadness), and then the diary abruptly ends. I am left speechless and sobbing, looking at the furnishings in Anne's house, observing the records filled in by later generations about the story's context, and seeing the profound thoughts revealed between the lines of this young author. Full of ideals, awareness, and courage, possessing a strong sense of self, I felt a delayed companionship and happiness, yet also pain. I cannot imagine having such a book or even such a friend in my childhood, nor can I imagine being 13 and reading as much as she did, clearly knowing what I loved. For myself, for Anne, for the world, I too must emerge from a terribly grim mood, hoping first to freely cry for 10 minutes. I will find and read other versions. The Chinese translation I read was truly unsatisfactory.