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.
He said put no new wine in the old skins. He did not say throw away the wine that was in them. Old and new can remain. Each is complete in itself. If not now they do not mix well perhaps when the new has aged and the old has mellowed.
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