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.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
The Prospect of Doing Well
They seemed most upset by the prospect of doing well. They seemed intent upon stressing what might go wrong. For every favorable thing I might raise there was someone to say, "Yes, but...," as though I were dismissing what was essential, as though doing well had to be considered the aberration, a passing moment -- and the sooner it passed, the better.
Labels:
expectations,
perspective
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