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billiards at Ching's house

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

Toronto, 2002.11.20

Tonight, Ken Charlie and I went up to Ching's place somewhere in the northern reaches of the city. His folks live at his place, and his mum made us some delicious Chinese dishes. It was a good time; the man has his own pool table (which he describes as a coat-hanger for all the use it gets). But his home might as well have been in Barrie for all I'll be able to find it again.

rand()m quote

Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.

—Anton Chekhov