Indledning
When I was a kid, my aspirations were simple. I wanted a dog. I wanted a house that had stairs in it – two floors for one family.
I wanted, for some reason, a four-door station wagon instead of the two-door Buick that was my father’s pride and joy. I used to tell people that when I grew up, I was going to be a pediatrician. Why?
Because I loved being around little kids and I quickly learned that it was a pleasing answer for adults to hear. Oh, a doctor! What a good choice!
In those days, I wore pigtails and bossed by older brother around and managed, always and no matter what, to get As at school. I was ambitious, though I didn’t know exactly what I was shooting for.
Optimer dit sprog - Læs vores guide og scor topkarakter
Uddrag
That summer, I started keeping a journal. I bought myself a clothbound black book with purple flowers on the cover and kept it next to my bed.
I took it with me when I went on business trips for Sidley & Austin. I was not a daily writer, or even a weekly writer: I picked up a pen only when I had the time and energy to sort through my jumbled feelings.
I’d write a few entries in a single week and then lay the journal down for a month or sometimes more. I was not, by nature, especially introspective.
The whole exercise of recording one’s thoughts was new to me – a habit I’d picked up in part, I suppose, from Barack, who viewed writing as therapeutic and clarifying and had kept journals on and off over the years.
In the presence of his certainty, his notion that he could make some sort of difference in the world, I couldn’t help but feel a bit lost by comparison. His sense of purpose seemed like an unwitting challenge to my own.
Skriv et svar