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
Loneliness
I was talking, or rather listening, to a lonely man. He had plenty of things, but he is without people. Maybe he is unable to get along with others even though he may want to, even though he wishes there were someone to do whatever a friend does. It is a sad thing, and I think maybe aloneness is a worse sickness than anything else.
Labels:
friends,
illness,
loneliness,
sadness
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