Issue 161 | The Sun Magazine

April 1989

Readers Write


The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, a warm smile, eight pieces of chocolate

By Our Readers


For religion, the idea of God is at the beginning; for science, the idea of God is at the end. Only those who think by halves become atheists; those who go deep with their thoughts and see the marvelous relationships among universal laws recognize a creative power.

Max Planck

The Sun Interview

On Being A Man

An Interview With Michael Meade

We’re at the end of a millennium, and that means that some things are ending and some things are beginning, so we get extremes. Entire, age-old systems are rejected, and there are attempts to create brand new systems — or systems that at least appear new.

By Sy Safransky
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Bearing Up In Winter

She begins to go through the store’s canceled checks, bank statements, and copies of federal employer’s quarterly tax returns, which I do not have enough of, according to the records in the file that Dolores has brought with her.

By Pat Ellis Taylor
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


Fifty-six million tusheronies burning a hole in my pocket. “What am I going to do with it all?” I ask myself. “If it’s for real,” I say to myself. “They wouldn’t make a mistake of that dimension,” I tell myself.

By Lorenzo W. Milam
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Like Stars

My body is the temple. My marriage is the temple. My work is the temple. So sweep the temple. Worship in the temple. Don’t worship the temple.

By Sy Safransky

getting to know HIM

When Lana left I still kept on talking to Him every day.

He was never IN when I did but I was able to get a lot of information about Him from the Fiery Finger that appeared and wrote on the wall of my cell.

By William Penrod

Willie Mays And Mr. Tic Tac Toe

Willie Mays was only thirteen years old, but already center field was his private domain. His mitt seemed to have radar installed in it, registering the trajectory and velocity of the ball. All Willie had to do was glide into place, flip out his glove, and the ball would land there, trapped in leather.

By Rob Sullivan