Happy birthday, Bill!


When Jan and I first moved to New England she decided she wanted to go and put a rose on Henry James’ grave. I went along taking my own rose for William James. (As a special bonus, when we arrived at the James family gravesite in the Cambridge graveyard, we discovered only a few feet away the marker for the (perhaps last) great Unitarian Universalist theologian James Luther Adams)

They said of the James boys that one wrote like a novelist and the other like a psychologist.

The one who wrote like a novelist was born on this day in 1842.

We owe him much.

May his grave be strewn with roses…

Love: A Zen Meditation
Reinhold Niebuhr Steps onto the Stage
En the Ascetic is Banished
The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered: Or, the Perfect Curse for an Author

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