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, April 7, 2015
One World, At What Cost
They were saying it could be one world, but meant it would have to be one at the cost of diversity, and so we would become as they were with a single governmental and economic system, to be followed by a single system of values and beliefs, with only one language, and so while we could speak together it would have to be about what used to be, since the moment would have lost its savor.
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