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.
They brought the adulterous woman expecting he would say what was so obviously so, that she had made a mistake, but it was just too obvious to say and no one would be better for hearing it again.
No comments:
Post a Comment