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.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Memory Fades
Building monuments assumes they will have significance for people beyond those who raised them, that sometime in the future people will recognize the importance of the individuals or events that inspired the builder. How readily memory fades and how even the most mundane of present moments can take precedence over the greatness of what was is more surprising than might have been realized.
Labels:
future,
memory,
now,
realization
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