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, January 6, 2015
What Gets Shared
We share well the burden others might offer, but our own sadness and pain is only our own. There never seemed much point in talking of it and less in sharing it. It has stayed a solitary thing, which is all right, despite the wish of those who care for us and who would gladly divide the weight of it.
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