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.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Baggage
The aim is to have less baggage, but we instead keep accumulating. We gather thoughts, ideas, elaborations on them all and any number of speculation that we treat as fact. Instead of adding to our books (and this one as well) we should be tearing out their pages. Instead, we go on gathering and filing it away, saving all those impressions, musings, and their pretense to truth.
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