Just finished reading two yet amazing books by Haruki Murakami. After Dark and South of the Border, West of the Sun. I was reminded again that I could never be a really good writer. After Murakami’s penetrating insights into the human soul, David Sedaris’ observations that seemed witty at first, sound like third rate cheesy mambo jambo (I read Me Talk Pretty One Day last week). It’s like having a McDonald’s burger followed by a fine steak.
Grobetrotter 