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, September 27, 2013
The Paradoxes of Belief
We are reluctant to pursue the paradoxes of which belief is made. We would rather it make a sense we can accept rather than offer the contradictions of dying and rising, giving up to possess, and the notion that sharing essential things is the only way to take hold of them. It would be simpler were things themselves rather than their opposites, if we could live only by living and have only by having, if we could be ourselves as we burrowed deeper rather than when reaching farther. But if we could do it that way, it would not be belief.
Labels:
being,
belief,
contradiction,
dying,
gifts,
giving,
ourselves,
resurrection,
simplicity
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