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.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Humanity
People seem relieved to know we are all so much alike, that while it may be expressed in differing ways each has fears, doubt, weakness as well as virtue and strength. We each need someone to share, a friend to confide in, a hope that if today has not gone well tomorrow may be better. We each have an aspect of what all of us sometimes hide. It is humanity.
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