I’m not sure how I feel about the overt ‘manliness’ of this website – but much of what they say about writing a diary is true, and good advice.
In studying the lives of great men, I’ve noticed a common trait: they were all consistent journal writers. Now, I’m not saying that their greatness is directly attributable to their journaling. I’m sure Captain Cook would still have been a bad ass even if he hadn’t kept a diary. But I figure, if great men like these thought it was important to keep a journal, maybe I should, too. Heck, if it weren’t for their journals, we probably wouldn’t know much about their great lives and deeds.
It’s interesting to me to read about how people keep diaries and journals – and especially how and why they get started. In fact, it’s a subject I find so interesting that I did my degree’s final year project on the subject, and along the way I asked a bunch of people detailed questions about those very concepts. Remind me to tell you some more about the resulting data and report some time…
Anyway. Along with a lot of the advice and justification behind starting – and keeping – a journal, I actually began to rather like the fact that this stuff was coming from a site which dubs itself The Art of Manliness. Journaling and diary-keeping is often thought of as something girls and women are more likely to do than boys and men. A lot of surveys actually bear out these trends. But there’s no particular reason why this should be the case.
The article is actually nearly four years old but, along with keeping a diary, most of the content is timeless.
Under ‘Why keep a journal’, the article states:
Your children and grandchildren will want to read it.
It can bring you to your senses.
Journaling grants you immortality.
I really like that last one. It rings true with a lot of references I came across in my research into diary-keeping – particularly Philippe Lejeune’s ‘How Do Diaries End?’, which I wrote about at some length in this blog post (and which, cunningly, also wound its way into my final year project).
Thinking of keeping a diary, but need advice on how to do it, or why? Have a look at How and why to start a journal. Especially if you’re a chap. Already keep a diary? It’s still pretty interesting to read some of the points raised in the article.
17,000 words. Seventeen thousand! That’s what I was sifting through earlier today, in analysing the questionnaire responses I received for my diary project, currently in progress.
I started the project late last year, and the vast majority of the surveys were returned before the end of the year. They lay dormant until just now, as I grappled with coursework and other pressing matters as the Spring term went on.
So it’s only now that I’ve really started to look at what I’ve got. 25 responses, each answering between 15 and 20 questions on why they keep a diary. And what does that add up to? Around 17,000 words.
My main milestone today was getting the answers into a more usable format; thus far, I had a PDF of each questionnaire, answered fully and lovingly by those kind enough to participate. But what I have now is one ‘master’ document, with each question followed by each respondent’s illuminating, candid answer.
It’s really quite a lovely document.
As I’d hoped, diarists make good subjects for questionnaires. And if there’s anything I’ve learnt about diaries and diarists so far, it’s this:
If you ask people who enjoy writing about themselves to write about themselves, you should expect a lot of words back.
And hurrah for that. It’s not just a lovely thing for me to read, it’s proving to be incredibly useful primary data for my final year research project. I’ve made some graphs and begun highlighting passages ripe for quoting in the report itself.
The project’s deadline is two weeks tomorrow, so if you’ll excuse me, I have a little work to do…
If you keep a diary, whether online or offline, I would love your input for a project I’m undertaking in my final year at university. Click here to fill out an anonymous survey about your diary-keeping habits. Thanks!
Diaries have always fascinated me – from reading about the minutiae of the life of someone with no claim to fame other than to have lived through a particular period of time, to the habits and thoughts of the talented and the famous. I’ve kept a diary myself since I was about 15 years old, and the practice is very interesting to me.
When a dear friend introduced me to Katherine Mansfield’s writing a few years ago, I was immediately taken by her allusions to and descriptions of her native New Zealand, so often written about from so far away – both spiritually and physically.
But it was when I got to her diaries and letters that KM really came alive to me. Her words spat and crackled with vitriol and passion, or else they soothed and calmed with a delicious conjuring up of images of the places she visited and people she met.
KM’s diaries and letters are a pleasant combination of a running commentary on her writing work, and of the perhaps more mundane things such as weather and daily activities. It’s a combination that wouldn’t work without her playful, often mischievous (occasionally childlike?) way of looking at things.
Where other literary diarists ramble on incessantly about the trials and tribulations of writing – instead of actually getting any done – KM touches on her stories as they come together, and the concerns she has as they are sent off to publishers. And she offsets the talk of ‘work’ with beautiful illustrations of her surroundings or vivid accounts of conversations with others.
Although she would at times demand that her diaries be destroyed, it is a wonderful thing that they have come to be published and loved so widely. It is thanks to this that she has become a renowned diarist.
I’m often interested when speaking to fellow KM enthusiasts, to find out whether it’s her fiction or her personal writing which they get more out of. I must admit that for me it’s the latter. I couldn’t take one without the other, but I’ve always leaned more to the diaries and letters of writers than to their fiction, for some reason.
All of this has indirectly led up to a project I am undertaking for my final year at university. I’m studying Information Management at Manchester Metropolitan University, and have decided to focus my attention on asking why we keep diaries, what we get out of them, and whether the medium in which they are kept (on paper or online) alters the way we write about ourselves.
I’m recruiting fellow diarists (whether online, on paper, or both) to help with my research for this project by filling out an anonymous survey about their diary habits. No personal or demographic information is recorded – I simply want to gather some thoughts on the nature of diary writing from as many people as possible.
If this sounds like something you’d like to be involved in, could I ask that you click here to fill out an anonymous online survey? I can provide more information, should you like it – just email me: email@example.com.
The other day, I and some folks from CILIP North West were treated to a tour of Chetham’s library, situated between Urbis and Manchester Cathedral. I must admit I didn’t know a great deal about Chetham’s beforehand, other than that it is the oldest public library in the English-speaking world, and some other little titbits that can be summarised as it being a very old, very beautiful library.
Being a fan of such things, I jumped at the chance, even leaving a riveting lecture on organisational culture early. My lecturer decided to spend five minutes telling an anecdote about a previous job and I just happened to have to leave part way through her story. Satisfying.
The stroll I took through the city to get to the library was very enjoyable in its own right; Manchester was cold and crisp, with the late afternoon sun casting long shadows and throwing a golden hue onto whichever surfaces were tall enough to catch it. The Christmas Markets had opened that day in and around Albert Square, and it was lovely to have a quick look as I went past.
It reminded me that Manchester is a wonderful city at this time of year. Sure, it gets as busy and suffocating as any shopping city in the run-up to Christmas, but everything else is just very enjoyable.
I got to the library just in time to say hello, and to confirm if I could take photographs inside.
The tour was very entertaining and enjoyable. Our guide struck a nice balance between being informative and amusing, and never veered into boring territory. He seemed proud of the collections, and had many quips and stories pertaining to old traditions, the library’s place alongside the School of Music, and Manchester in general – as well as his mild obsession with books dealing with death.
The place oozes history. You can’t walk down a hallway or glance at shelving or sit on a chair without feeling its many centuries of age. So many of the fixtures and fittings are either original or merely very old. Indeed, very little of the library is ‘modern’, and the whole place has a very satisfying consistency in terms of decor and style. We were told, in fact, that a lot of the furniture spans many hundreds of years in styles, but it still all looks appropriate.
We were told many interesting things about the ‘mechanics’ of the place: for example that the books are mostly sorted in size order for reasons of practicality. One librarian attempted to get the collections sorted in Dewey order, but for a library of this kind, such an effort is futile.
The library is very dark inside. Old lead-lighted and stained glass windows offer an eery, pleasing light – but at levels far below that necessary for reading and writing. Indeed, even with the aid of electric light, it wasn’t hard to imagine visiting the library a century or more ago – nor to understand how in the winter months all those years ago, the library would usually close around 2pm.
Of interest to many was the staggering list of names of its users through the past. Karl Marx was a particular highlight, with his favourite location being easily identifiable, and that ever-present connection with the past making it so believable and alive.
A personal highlight was talk of the Leech collection, a vast archive of diaries, scrapbooks and photographs spanning a couple of hundred years of one family. There is a staggering amount of material held on this family, and it’s a wonderful resource. With my personal university project on how and why we keep diaries, I was especially fascinated to hear more about it.
It was a lovely tour and I’m glad I’ve finally been able to visit the place. It turns out you can just pop in any time, but it was especially good to be given a guided tour by someone so knowledgable and enthusiastic.
This paper is an analysis of Philippe Lejeune’s paper, How Do Diaries End?, produced as a result of preparation for a 1997 exhibition entitled A Diary Of One’s Own at the Lyon Public Library.
Lejeune’s paper was published in Biography, vol. 24, issue 1, Winter 2001, and translated into English by Victoria Lodewick.
The paper was originally published in Geneses du Je: Manuscrits et autobiographie, sous la direction de Philippe Lejeune et Catherin Viollet. Paris: CNRS Edinions, 2000, pp209-238.
Philippe Lejeune defines the life of a diary as having different phases – or, more simply, like a story – as having a ‘beginning’, a ‘middle’ and an ‘end’. He identifies the paradox of diaries almost always having a well-defined beginning, having by their very nature a middle, but often lacking a well-rounded end. “It is rare to begin one without saying so,” writes Lejeune, before wondering whether “similar rituals existed for ending a diary.”
Often, he writes, the end of the diary is not written by the diary’s author, and that the author will often not know that this page “would be the last.” Since such de facto endings to diaries can be ruled out as unintended, Lejeune turns his search to other reasons for diaries coming to an end.
He identifies four distinct endings as:
A voluntary and explicit stop (to a journal that has not been destroyed)
The destruction of a diary
A rereading (perhaps with subsequent annotation or indexing)
Lejeune explains that, as far as French texts on the diary go, this problem of an ending is ignored. ‘How-to’ manuals on the writing of a diary stop short of instructing a diarist on how to end a diary – “it would be like writing a treatise on suicide,” says Lejeune. The subject of suicide – and more broadly, of death – is ever-present in his piece.
For simplicity, journals with predetermined endings are ignored here – travel journals, or those recording temporary periods such as a project or a pregnancy, are all defined by the limited length of the events themselves. They will come to an end when the event itself does; the author will live on.
Lejeune explains that the currency and continuity of writing a ‘life-long’ or ‘all-purpose’ diary is a sort of renewal of life expectancy – in writing today’s entry, tomorrow’s will surely follow. “All journal writing assumes the intention to write at least one more time,” he explains. “The diarist is protected from death by the idea that the diary will continue.”
Lejeune describes this paradox as entering into “a phantasmagoric space where writing runs into death,” which we can understand as a sort of Schrödinger’s Cat scenario whereby the diarist is neither alive nor dead – only the diary itself which is constant.
Any sort of closure, he explains, can come not just from the very definite ending, but also from the limitations of the medium itself. Finishing a page, or a whole notebook, can give the author cause to review what has filled the preceding space.
Although Lejeune concentrates on the paper journal (or, at least, makes no distinction between paper and online journals), he asserts that the addition of loose pages – or the infinite space of a computer file – can help ease this “obligation of filling in and the need to stop.”
Indeed, continuity is often preferred, and he cites the diary of a young girl who, upon completion of one notebook, specifically chooses to continue her journal in a new, identical notebook, “to give the impression of forever starting over.”
Lejeune makes the important distinction, too, between autobiography and diary. “Autobiography,” he argues, “is virtually finished as soon as it begins… All autobiography is finishable.” The diary, conversely, is “unfinishable”. Again, here Lejeune asserts that there is always a “time lived beyond the writing.”
Lejeune admits that his ideal subject, the ‘all-purpose’, ‘life-long’ journal is just one of the varieties of diaries – “and not the most common one.” “People who remain faithful unto death to one and the same diary are rare.”
He describes the more common, fragmented and short-lived, journals as “passing fancies”. He explains “there are periods with a diary and periods without.” This discontinuity is inherent in the diary form, he says, mirroring the ebb and flow of life’s crises.
Lejeune identifies two distinct types of diarist:
Those who write habitually, every day, and “who suffer when they skip a day”, catching up when they feel they are behind
Those who write “more or less regularly”, whenever they feel the need
In the latter, Lejeune asks whether a large gap in entries could be seen as an ‘ending’? He thinks not, as the act of adding a new entry will once again restore the continuity. The diary is not finished – it is merely ‘on hold.’
On the other hand, the longer a journal is left ignored, the more ‘finished’ it may become – to the point that the author may realize that if the need to keep a diary has finished, thus the diary itself must end.
Lejeune cites a diarist who realizes, a month after his wife’s death, that if he no longer feels the need to write in his diary at such a pivotal moment of his life, it “surely proves that this diary is finished, that it no longer responds to my needs.”
Lejeune concludes by defining four distinct functions of the diary – albeit conceding that “there are others, and a real diary fulfills several functions at once.”
The four functions he defines are as follows:
To express oneself – divided into two further functions: to release, and to communicate
To freeze time
To take pleasure in writing
Writing diaries as a form of release of life’s emotions is seen as a common method of “purifying and cleansing yourself.”
This purification can come in the form of the clarity gained from subsequent rereading, or from the more drastic function of systematic destruction of the diaries themselves – as a way of purging the feelings no longer deemed necessary. Lejeune identifies this as “a sort of spring-cleaning, after which you set out again, lighter.”
Communication is another common diary function, so often identified by the ‘dear diary’ opening to entries (Lejeune cites Anne Frank’s classic “Dear Kitty” here). Thoughts and events are ‘told’ to a diary as opposed to a person or persons. The end to this type of diary can come “simply because this problem has been resolved: you meet a person with whom you can talk or to whom you can write.”
Lejeune further explains how a transition period may be identified in this scenario, whereby a journal will be ‘told’ about the new person – or, conversely, where the new person is introduced to the diary that they will come, in time, to ‘replace’.
Reflection is a similar function to communication and release, allowing the author to ‘quarantine’ events of their life and reflect upon them in a controlled way. Lejeune describes this function as being more important in diaries that are kept a long time. While ‘psychoanalysis’ of one’s life can seem “interminable,” “it is also said you can do it in ‘pieces’.”
Freezing time, Lejeune explains, is building memories and archives of “lived experience” out of the paper entries – “to prevent forgetting,” even “giving life the consistency and continuity it lacks.” The author is seen as a collector, with the items as ‘pieces’ of the life as it is lived. Lejeune says, “ideally,” that the end of such a diary will coincide with the death of its author. He says that stopping the frequent updates of such a diary would be “failure,” and that destruction of it would be “a total failure.”
Lejeune’s final function – to take pleasure in writing – is simple: “one also writes because it is… pleasant.” For the writer, it can be satisfactory to practice writing, drawing inspiration from the events of one’s life. Lejeune argues, however, that the flow of energy can be diverted from the keeping of a diary to other forms of writing, although he concedes that where memory is not the primary function of the diary, this diversion of efforts away from diary-writing is less problematic.
Lejeune then illustrates a few examples of how diaries might end – from interest waning, to the ‘death’ of a “virtual addressee”, to the diary being discovered by an uninvited reader. He also identifies the peculiarity of wishing to ‘wrap up’ a diary as a body of work, almost with a punchline. This is more commonly found, he says, where “the diarist carefully polishes the last line of an entry.”
In closing, Lejeune discusses diaries that come to their end toward the end of the lives of their author. He sees two distinct patterns here – perseverance and resignation – and illustrates them with examples.
Perseverance is seen here as holding your chin up, continuing to prevail – or even writing of your struggle in private, to “spare others” as they support you. A connection is made between writing and living – “while I’m writing, I survive.” Lejeune goes as far as to suggest that, “perhaps a diary sometimes helps you to ‘die well,’ the way religion used to do.”
Resignation, on the other hand, is a more somber side. “You hang your head, you put down your pen.” Lejeune states that although the diary can – and will – end with the death of its author, there is a contradiction here, as the diary will live on, long after its author’s death. “Literary survival is no illusion,” he says. “You will still die, but your diary will not.”
Lejeune talks about diarists who document the bitter end in as much detail as they can – mostly from the perspective of suicide – including the poet Rabearivelo, “who kept a minute-by-minute account of his suicide in his journal, trying to write until the last second.”
Conversely, he also mentions diarists who make no mention of their oncoming death, no matter how clearly it was perceived (or planned), citing Virginia Woolf as one example.
Lejeune has done a magnificent job of detailing the many ways that a diary can end, dealing with some very sensitive issues that go to the very heart of life, happiness and, ultimately, death.
Indeed, as he concludes, “everything comes to an end, even this presentation,” before departing with a cheery, “I hope it has not darkened your morning.”