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.
Most people do not feel obliged to answer ultimate questions. They are not even inclined to think such questions might exist. Their lives are not diminished by the lack. So what does that tell you about your favored past time?
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