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.
Time as measurement is unreliable. What was so new now seems so old. What is over can look as if it was just beginning. Some things are so quickly over, even when we wished they would be forever. Others have no end when they should never have been.
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