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, August 11, 2013
Stuck In Facts
Here you are stuck again in your facts, unable to go beyond them, unwilling to speak a new language, one more poetic, and more imaginative. So afraid are you of losing the ground on which you are so used to standing. But fact is not the firm ground it seems. It is more a swamp than it looks. That firmness, it is grasping you.
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