My father died at age 56.
In fact, he lived 56 years, 7 months, 4 days.
I passed that date last December.
In fact, December 19.
I passed that date and stopped writing.
Stopped writing, that is, at the frenetic pace--
the frenetic pace of one book per month.
Essays on all subjects; finding insight in obscure words, in forgotten 19th century practices, in arcane fishes haunting the Marianas Trench.
I paid my debt to dad; he rests in peace.
And I live in peace.
Now only two goals beckon--
Seeking wisdom, showing love.
The rest is commentary.
* I am currently working on a book on the biblical Book of Proverbs.