This is a diary, not a novel, and written by an adolescent at that (Anne is 13-15 when she writes this). As such it can't be said to be perfect storytelling, or even perfect writing. It can be repetitive, occasionally tedious, and Anne, while undeniably precocious, can be painfully self-absorbed. Her contempt for her mother was something I found particularly grating.

All that being said, this is still a horribly, terribly compelling document. Especially as we know the end... and yet we keep reading regardless, in a sort of vicarious misery, rubber-necking at other people's suffering, feeling bad about these very human, individual victims because the alternative is trying to feel for a faceless mass so enormous that it almost defies comprehension. One develops a sort of mental flinch at the idea of millions being marched to the gas chambers, for instance, because the very idea of that level of anguish is too much to encompass. One bored, depressed, traumatised teenager is much easier to mourn.