He had lived on his own terms

Every morn­ing, no mat­ter how late he had been up, my father rose at 5:30, went to his study, wrote for a cou­ple of hours, made us all break­fast, read the paper with my moth­er, and then went back to work for the rest of the morn­ing. Many years passed before I real­ized that he did this by choice, for a liv­ing, and that he was not unem­ployed or men­tal­ly ill. I want­ed him to have a reg­u­lar job where he put on a neck­tie and went off some­where with the oth­er fathers and sat in a lit­tle office and smoked. But the idea of spend­ing entire days in some­one else’s office doing some­one else’s work did not suit my father’s soul. I think it would have killed him. He did end up dying rather ear­ly, in his mid-fifties, but at least he had lived on his own terms.

[p.xii, Bird by bird — Some instruc­tions on writ­ing and liv­ing, Anne Lam­ott]


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    • Via via kreeg ik de titel van het boek­je door, dus toen maar meteen aangeschaft en afgelopen week­end begonnen met lezen. Ik had nog nooit van haar geho­ord. Tot dusverre bevalt het goed. Ik heb wel gezien dat ze op twit­ter (een beet­je) actief is. Wat FB betre­ft…

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