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.
Maybe it would be nice if love didn't hurt, and if there were no pain in wanting. But if we took the pain out of love, would it still be love? And if we took the pain from wanting, what would it be?
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