Issue 183 | The Sun Magazine

February 1991

Readers Write


Tetris, freebase, house plants

By Our Readers


War: A Sunbeams Supplement

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

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.

By Sy Safransky
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Necessity To Speak

I see them every day, the wounded women in the supermarket or in the bookstore, the children beaten to a whimper until all life has grayed in them. I’ve learned to recognize Fear’s signature scrawled across their faces, the way one learns to recognize a man who walks with a “prison shuffle.”

By Sam Hamill
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Trying To Quit

Show me someone more ridiculous than a jogger smoking. I can do five miles on the track, but only with cigarettes. Show me someone more dexterous and adroit than a swimmer on her back, floating, sucking on a cigarette like a submarine. If I am conscious, I am smoking.

By Eleanor Glaze
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Born Too Young: Diary Of A Pilgrimage

(Part Three)

I don’t feel a thrill of nationalism here, like Dad does. He thinks, wow, a country full of Jews. I think, oh no, a country full of Israelis — another language I don’t understand.

By Sparrow

Tales Of Lord Shantih

A seeker approached Lord Shantih with a question. “My Lord,” he said, “what special task do wise men perform in honor of the gods?” Lord Shantih struck him with his staff. “A wise man,” he shouted, “performs all his tasks in honor of the gods!”

By Thomas Wiloch

The Color Of Light

Through rain and sun and fog, through snows that melted before he was done with them, in winds that screamed at him, the painter stamped and shouted and reached out with his brush to catch the light before it was gone.

By Eleanore Devine

Heart Too Big

“The Fat Fucker showed up,” he said, mopping his plate with a biscuit. Robert nodded, acknowledging that he knew who Edsel was talking about, but wasn’t ready to speak himself until he’d concluded a particularly sensual moment with Ellen’s cooking.

By John C. Richards