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.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Beyond Pain
She thought there was a point in pain where the worst had happened and nothing new could make it worse. There was a liberation in this, a freedom from fear. It seems true that after some losses there is no more to be lost, and new pain, though real, is at most a revisiting of old pain. There can be no surpassing it.
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