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.
His is the dedication of the dilettante, intense and short-lived. It is not entirely without value, but neither is it as significant as it might seem in its flash and gleam, busting onto one stage after another.
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