My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Guilt Is A Zucchini
Guilt is a zucchini. Everyone has a crop of it and all are anxious to give it away, as though it were a gift rather than a burden. No one wants it, but most smile and tuck it away. Despite the imaginative recipes, when you have prepared it or disguised it, it remains a zucchini. Better not to bury it, since you risk multiplying it. Better still not to accept it when offered.
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