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.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Before Enlightenment
He started with answers to questions he had neither the sense nor the experience even to ask. His answers sounded more profound than reasonable and required none of the sensitivity with which life might have tempered them had he waited. It is all right sometimes to be pompous and so absolute, as long as the matter can be re-opened once reality has dawned.
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