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.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Among the Blurs
When I take off my glasses, people become blurs. If they ask at that moment that I define who they are, then that is what they become. Better they question my vision than their reality. Better they define themselves according to what they are seeing. Each person is the expert on himself, and so only he or she knows of what the definition is made.
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naming
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