Issue 182 | The Sun Magazine

January 1991

Readers Write


A huge beach umbrella, a Methodist church parking lot, a fire hydrant

By Our Readers


You cannot have both civilization and truth.

Iris Murdoch

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

High In The Himalayas

Twenty years ago I had my first and only mescaline trip in a remote part of the Himalayas that borders India and Nepal. I had already traveled and studied Tibetan Buddhism in India for three years.

By Marilyn Stablein
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Heaven On Earth

A Conversation Between A Political Radical And A Spiritual Seeker

Radical: You talk about yoga, and meditation, and prayer, and the search for ultimate truth. But what is your spirituality in practice? Spiritual Seeker: You’re so angry. What kind of change will you create if you’re dominated by these feelings? Will the world you build be so different from the one we have now?

By Roger S. Gottlieb
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Born Too Young: Diary Of A Pilgrimage

(Part Two)

So Jeanne is either with someone and not writing, or writing to Barcelona Poste Restante, as I directed her. I think she has slept with someone by now and probably still is in love with me — that’s my guess. (“I’m lucky with women,” I tell myself.)

By Sparrow
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

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.

By Sy Safransky


This was it — the cool, very weird thing I had been hoping for. I was about to go to a strip joint with a Pentecostal Christian mentally ill recovering alcoholic young lady. These are the moments I live for.

By David Alan Dobson


Then my father saw me. Liam got up — to keep him from me, I think. What chance did he think he had against such hate? My father threw him down again.

By Mary Ann McGuigan

Three Women

She was wearing ragged cutoffs and a faded short-sleeved blouse, and her legs and arms were deeply tanned. You could have broken them like pieces of kindling.

By Rob Eaton