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.
Friday, July 20, 2012
The Toll of Knowing
The shuttle exploded. It is a personal loss because we knew the name of one of those aboard. We had known Gus Grissom's name, and so had a part in that tragedy of nineteen years ago. Unlike Kent State or My Lai, or all of the tragic things that are on the evening news, this is not the death of unknowns. It is not anonymous tragedy and so like the killing of the president it takes a different toll on the soul of the nation.
Labels:
Challenger,
dying,
news,
tragedy
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