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
No Evil People
No matter how rotten they seem, people are not evil. They can be afraid or threatened or unsure. They may be unable to love, trust, or feel. But they are not evil. It would be easier if they were. We could blame them for that. But no one can be blamed for what he lacks, condemned because of emptiness.
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