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.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Hoarding His Personal God
The more he talks of his personal God and of his personal relationship with that God, the more estranged he becomes, and God as well. He thought the personalizing was other than the hoarding and perhaps it was, though exclusive things and solitary involvements have so little environment in which to grow, no place in which they can naturally occur.
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