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.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Playing "What If"
There is no end to the game of "what if." There is no end and very little satisfaction. About most of it there is nothing to be done. Even when we think how differently we might have acted, what we instead might have said, the others in this fantasy have, or would have, their own "what ifs" -- ones that might have been no more compatible than they were that first time. I suppose as long as we can see it as fantasy, as a game, there is no great cost in playing, except a bit of sadness once in awhile.
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