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.
Officiousness confuses itself with competence. The dullest people seem determined to be experts as though the ponderous nature of their discussion were the key. Furrowed brows and labored discussion do not give added value to foolishness.
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