Issue 267 | The Sun Magazine

March 1998

Readers Write

The Laundromat

Stolen clothes, a miniature copy of The Night before Christmas, a red halter top

By Our Readers
Quotations

Sunbeams

She felt again that small shiver that occurred to her when events hinted at a destiny being played out, of unseen forces intervening.

Dorothy Gilman

The Sun Interview

From Little Acorns: A Radical New Psychology

An Interview With James Hillman

I think there is a paradigm shift going on in the culture. The old psychology just doesn’t work anymore. Too many people have been analyzing their pasts, their childhoods, their memories, their parents, and realizing that it doesn’t do anything — or that it doesn’t do enough.

By Scott London
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

On The Sorrow Of Receiving A Teaching Award

I approached the microphone to deliver my acceptance speech, but the dean held me back while the awards for “scholarship” and “service” were presented. As it turned out, I never was allowed to say anything. So this, without further ado, is my acceptance speech.

By Jake Gaskins
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Where Silence Starts

Imagining motherhood is like imagining old age: there are no reliable forecasts. I assumed I would know more. While pregnant, I supposed that mothers’ intuition was a hard, certain thing, a perpetually replenished reservoir of basic instinct.

By Beth Kephart
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Parental Fallacy

The acorn theory suggests a primitive solution. It says: Your daimon selected both the egg and the sperm, as it selected their carriers, called “parents.” Their union results from your necessity — and not the other way around.

By James Hillman
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Letters To My Friends

Every time I take a book out of the library and the librarian consults the computer to determine my past crimes, I expect her to discover the Gary Snyder book I lost two months ago. But it never appears on the screen.

By Sparrow
Fiction

Speech Lessons

The problem is I don’t talk at a seventh-grade level. I mumble and swallow words, sucking them in instead of spitting them out. Mrs. Handy wants me to work on my breathing. She says I gulp air like I’m afraid the world’s running out of oxygen.

By Paul Nastu
Fiction

The Road Out Of Acorn Lake

You can’t find Mr. Right. You won’t meet a guy with enough criminal swagger in him to make your skin dance, and enough farmer in him to let you sleep through the night. You have to pick one and learn to ignore your ache for the other.

By Jean Harfenist
Fiction

Trudy Deere Goes To Heaven

I’ve been in the hospital four days when they put another woman in the room with me — an old farm wife from Beardstown, by the name of Trudy Deere. Trudy Deere has been in a car accident. She’s recuperating.

By Alison Clement