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.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Second Guessing
There is no shortage of knowledge about what should have been, how we should have acted, what we should have said, and to whom; or about what we were meant to do in any of the responses we envision for them. We know how we meant to react, though at the time it was equally clear that doing (or saying) nothing made more sense.
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