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.
Where did we learn it? Do we still want it to be true? Would it be O.K. if it changed? It would be if you left it alone. The sense you can rescue the child of then and alter the rule gets in your way.
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