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, October 19, 2012
Defined By Consumerism
It is unfortunate, but however much he has it can never be enough. The more is just more, and new has to be better. He is a consumer devouring the good and useless in a single gulp, attracted to the offerings of almost any store. He is always scanning the horizon for what might be next, and so cannot focus on - much less appreciate - what is already his. Once it has left the store, before it is even out of the box, it is old. No matter the cost its value is diminished, except to say it is owned. You could call it greed. You might better name it sadness.
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