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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Walking Instead
While the running start is impressive it leads usually to an exhausted finish and the intensity of the going left no opportunity to notice, much less savor, the scenery through which we passed. Better to walk and sometimes stop, altering direction now and again and sometimes having none at all.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment