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.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Who Can Live The Words
We could all say the words and make the gestures, maybe even meaning them, but very few could live them. They were the ones who got hurt. They were the ones so few understood. It was their reality that threatened our complacency, and they were the ones who made it all worthwhile.
Labels:
action,
meaning,
understanding,
words
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