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.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Only Words
People keep wanting him to be different than his words suggest we all should be. They want him to say it is only words, and that once they are said we can all act as though we had done enough. The saying was sufficient disclaimer, prelude enough to do whatever else we might wish.
Labels:
action,
differences,
words
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