I shudder retrospectively when I recall
that there was a moment, in 2005, and again in 2006 , when I was
on the point of burning my little red diary.
No, I shall never regret I’ve written it and kept it.(also keeping the privilege of reading it over and over again bringing back to life (at moments-- savouring) the most intriguing moments.
Some would find it weird to discover that it comes in form of a play.
Writing it was like the
composition of a beautiful puzzle-- its composition and its
solution at the same time, since one is a mirror view of the
other, depending on the way you look. Of course it completely
eclipsed my other works-- at least those I wrote in English:
, my short “E” stories, my notebook of recollections; There is a queer, tender charm about that mythical play.
Though many readers would disagree that
Her(play=she) charm is tender, few would deny that it is queer--

I thought as a diary it was absolutely first-rate.
I could stress certain things that were not stressed in real life—
Openly ridiculing human folly…which/to be honest/ leaves me supremely indifferent.
Whatever happened between 2004-2005 has affected me greatly/for better or worse/