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, October 11, 2013
Losing Time
Time has stopped being so very important. The future reaches to tomorrow, or maybe a week. Nothing more than a week ago calls me, unless it is something so very far in the past that it was filled with us together. Future might in some ways be never. What is over is often as vital as anything today might offer.
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