The only book I have read five (or so) times is Independence Day by Richard Ford. It is beautifully written that you just linger on pages and re-read paragrahs not to understand them, but to taste every wonderfully created sentence. It is truly a book to savour, which I am not alone to think as it got both the Pulitzer prize and the Pen/Faulkner award.
Independence Day is the second part of a trilogy (1st Sportswriter, 3rd Lay of the Land) but can be read independently.
Roger Federer is the reason I started playing tennis again and for that I am so grateful I owe him my full support. Just the stylish way he plays; the liquid whip of a forehand, the cat-like movement, summing up a gracefulness never seen in a tennis player before.
I always cheer for Fed and hate it when he loses.
I am sitting on the backporch of Erikzona with a Jim Beam and a shotgun, waiting for you. Ryan Adams is playing “The sun also sets” on my old battered steel string guitar in the living room, tones are flowing gently out the kitchen window and onto the tennis court in the back yard.
This is a big place for a big heart. Let it ride.
Age makes you smaller.
Makes you more afraid.
When it should make you thankful.
Age makes you slower.
Weaker in body and mind.
But never in your heart.
Age gives you perspective.
Clears thoughts, muddles some.
Makes you smarter and dumber.
Age is not a number.
And not a hurdle.
It means nothing and everything.