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.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Housing Court
The judge at housing court was a good person. He was very nice and spoke with civility. He wanted to be reasonable and tried very hard. I am sure he has done many kind things and had reason to think himself fair. But he was trying to listen to something he knew nothing about. He was deciding on what he had never seen, a quality of life he had never had to live. The facts were all there but had no flesh. The decision was not his to make.
Labels:
fairness,
limitations
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