After Dark : The Qi Gong Ok Oh Review
Danny's father slipped on some dry leaves and fractured his scapula on a rock not too long ago. A longer time ago I slipped on some dry leaves and fell thirty feet between some rocks then slid another twenty through some snow to within three of the bank of an icy river. Danny detailed the circumstance of his father's recent fall while we circled a rather large pond in Teatown, New York. I opted not to talk about my own fall. After all, I didn't break any bones, just some back contusions. A minor miracle perhaps, but no sense rubbing it in. I was young, perhaps fifty years younger than Danny's father is now. All Danny does these days is eat, meditate, read, walk and watch rented movies. It is doing him very good. Danny shook his head a little when I mentioned the book I was reading. He likes Murakami well enough, but finds him boring, to be honest. After a while everything reads sort of the same, he says. I guess so, I say, but his writing is so straight forward, like a Japanese Hemingway, I say. Or maybe a Japanese Raymond Chandler, I could have said. But I didn't. And now that I've finished the book tonight that I hadn't yet finished earlier today, skipping through whole paragraphs of dry exposition to a relatively unengaging wrap-up, I am starting to side with Danny. I wonder if I'd feel different were I still on vacation.
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