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.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
A Life Without Pain
He carried the signs and looked sad in the name of peace. He was beaten on behalf of brotherhood and cried over the world's suffering. What he did were good things, but I wonder would he be able to handle a life without pain, could he recognize and live with laughter and a love that asked more than dying.
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