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, January 19, 2015
Being Remembered
If they really want the immortality that being remembered may imply, they are not alone. Even if only a few people remember them, for only a little while, it promises a significance they were unaware of. It is saying they really did live and their lives meant more than they had sometimes seemed.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment