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.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Unremembered
At some point in life it seems important to be remembered, if not by the world at large, at least by someone and so we give things to others hoping that looking at them they may remember who it came from. But there are a number of people with nothing to give and no one with whom they might share. While all of us cease to be and no one's memory is so very eternal, they will end so much sooner.
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