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, December 8, 2014
Disbelieving Life's Essence
Those aspects of life that only infrequently occur, those moments when there is satisfaction and peace, when we do not need to question or stand in the way of life, are the more essential and so the more real; but we are not used to thinking that what consumes so little energy and uses so little time is what life is composed of in its essence. The depth and value of life have less to do with time's length or with the energy it might consume.
Labels:
contentment,
essence,
life,
thinking
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