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To clear the mind — and torture my poor legs — I went up to Snowbird on Tuesday. The first runs of the season. Less than two months ago, I was sweating through shirts in Hong Kong. Crazy. Anyway, Murakami can have his running shoes, his marathons. I prefer a pair of sticks attached to my feet and a couple feet of powder.


After the filth of John Irving (I’m only joking … I enjoy the filth), it’s time to read something mellower. Perhaps Murakami’s book about running will inspire and compel me to get out there and run. Probably not. I’ve tried it, and I hate running.

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After my declaration of sobriety:

are you really going to stop? Do you think we will be able to maintain a friendship?