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, September 21, 2012
Preserving Expectations
We are at times reluctant to hear someone speak of himself, afraid what he might say and of who he might reveal, of who he truly is. We fear he may be different, that he will not conform to that self we painted upon him. Lest we have to know, we sometimes keep relations at the periphery. Maybe we can tolerate only our own realities, being on guard against those of someone else.
Labels:
differences,
perception,
reality
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