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.
I think sometimes there is a more ultimate meaning, but it must be so because it cannot be perceived. Perhaps the more significant the ultimate meaning, the more obscure it will be. And so maybe it really is better to focus in the moment.
No comments:
Post a Comment