How It All Ends Up
Longtime New York Times reporter and columnist Tom Wicker died yesterday. Mr. Wicker was 85.
Mr. Wicker was at one point one of the best known journalists in America. I recall reading his columns.
An obituary is a summation of your life. Mr. Wicker has been summed up.
In the picture above are collections I have at home of the poems of Langston Hughes and Robert Frost.
While I’m certain there are exceptions, does anybody who reads the poems of either of these men read much beyond these compilations?
After you die your life gets distilled to a kind of irreducible essence.
He or she was this type or that type of person. He or she enjoyed one thing or another. He or she thought whatever about the issue of the moment.
There is really nothing sad about this. It just points me to the view that existence is vast and we each have a part.
I suppose some people may be seen as having played a larger role than others. Though it is good to be dubious of the perceptions of both the few and the many. You can never be certain of the impact a person has had in life.
All you can do is try to be the person you want to be when you are here, and the person you hope to be recalled as when you are gone.
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