This is the first of the Thomas Merton journals that I haven't deeply enjoyed. In fact, this was actually hard to finish. Being a journal I do not fault Merton for not appealing to my expectations or hopes (no illusions that he wrote to appease me, a reader, nearly half a century later.) Still, this marked a decline in what I was able to take from him, as an autobiographer.
My first gripe with this book, I feel Merton's latent egocentric and arrogant nature went full throttle on this book. It was always subtle before, but here it expands to a heavy degree. Take one scenario where Merton feels he has not garnered the respect he feels he deserves from a peer and therein considers himself to be akin to a "Negro" in the late sixties (really?!) He speaks ill of nearly all the monks at Gethsemani, spurns the rules he acquiesced to, yet plays up the victim status for not having everything his way.
His relationship with M. also started to grate my nerves after... I don't know... the entire year that he speaks of nothing of his boundless love for her. I'm not anti-love, but for a monk living in celibacy for 25 years to suddenly fall into one of the great romances of yore so quickly and intensely... it comes off disingenuous. Infatuation, more like it. Also,
Again, Merton wrote this honestly and probably without total knowledge that it'd be published some day, so I'm not going to slam him for it. But this episode is worthless. There is nothing to take away from this book. Nothing good can come from this book, just a priest who starts boozing and falling for girls half his age. Pretty worthgless even via edification.