Sy Safransky

Mistaken Identity

I want to love myself the way a stubborn question loves certainty, loves it in spite of itself.

A Good Life

We were in the kitchen, listening to the radio — Norma preparing dinner, Mara studying for exams — when the bulletin came over the air. The United States had just gone to war with Iraq. Mara, not quite fifteen, looked up in astonishment. Norma put down her knife and wept.

Native Tongue

The trail had become steeper, winding past low trees and tall, dry grasses. Here and there were patches of snow. I tried to gauge how far there was to go, but rock outcroppings blocked the view: I couldn’t tell whether we were nearing the peak or merely coming to a change of grade.

From The Editor

May 1990

From My Notebook

The day with its big arms around me, whispering in my ear.

Friend Of The Sun

January 1990

Letter By Letter

Words become sentences in spite of themselves, as moments become a life.

The Man In The Mirror

On the best of days, it’s a little like falling in love; like opening a stuck window inside yourself; like taking a drug — one that’s perfectly legal, dispensed by your own apothecary, your strange and marvelous brain.

A Reminder

Many Alarm Clocks

Once an hour, the beeper on my watch goes off. I use it to remind me to pause and remember, if only for a moment; to draw back the veil, and look at the One who looks back, unblinking.