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, April 12, 2013
Delivering the Junk Mail
What is it like to be that postal worker going miles to deliver that junk mail, knowing it may be in the garbage even before he is off the street? Its value is not only in its being read. His role is not to insure the information has been received. He is the deliverer, the person making possible the choice. He may not agree with the choice presented and when the same mail comes to his own house he may rush it to the incinerator, but for those he would serve the offer is the issue.
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