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.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Unknowable
They thought he knew the secret. He said he did. He said he had the answer, but when they asked what it might be he said it could not be told. It could not be explained because they would never understand. So they went away. "Truly he must have it," they said, "If it is such that words are beneath it, it must be true. It has to be the answer." It must also remain a secret, and so it did. He had not explained because he could not. He had not named it because it had no name, and so it was beyond him as well. It was beyond or above them all, but he knew that it was and they had thought it might be. This was a secret unlike any other. It could not be touched; much less could it be spoken. Even he who was closest dared not understand, since to understand would mean it was not real. To explain would be to lie. To say it was or could ever be grasped would be but pretense.
Labels:
answers,
faith,
knowing,
understanding
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