The Art of Dying
Published in

The Art of Dying


The Taste of Death

In July of 1958, while visiting my friend Åke and his family in Stockholm, I broke my right arm.

A covey of pre-teen boys, me included, were macho-ing (swinging) across a narrow and shallow crevice on a rope tied to a branch high above and spanning the crevice — hanging down from it for us to grab as we leaped. It was a thick rope, sturdy and dry and hard — if not impossible — to miss, unless…



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Ulf Wolf

Raised by trolls in northern Sweden, now settled on the California coast a stone’s throw south of the Oregon border. Here I meditate and write.