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.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Nothing Left But Commentary
He thinks it's all been said, that Thought stopped hundreds of years ago. That all else has just been commentary. He really believes we are simply saying the same thing, though in different words. Sometimes I think he is not listening. Other times I doubt that he can hear.
Labels:
communication
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