Issue 268 | The Sun Magazine

April 1998

Readers Write

Bouncing Back

Miscarriage, divorce, electroshock therapy

By Our Readers


Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.

Samuel Butler

The Sun Interview

In Light Of Death

An Interview With Rick Fields On Living With Cancer

My attitude is “I’m going to live until I die,” which is all anyone can do. I don’t see the value of having someone say, “You have four months to live.”And I don’t want to give that much weight to any one person’s opinion, whether they’re a seemingly enlightened, spiritual person or a super Ph.D. or an M.D. — fortunetelling has never interested me.

By Helen Tworkov
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


It took a long time, but, by the following summer, I could get in and out of my car without hyperventilating. I could walk calmly down main streets in the daytime, although I still avoided parking lots and alleys, and rarely went out alone at night.

By Gillian Kendall
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

In Search of Zen Judaism

“With all due respect, Rabbi,” I said, “you are wrong. If I understand the term correctly, a megalomaniac thinks he is God. I, on the other hand, know I am God.”

By Rami M. Shapiro
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Date

A man I like is coming for dinner tonight. This means I don’t sleep very much, and I wake disoriented in the half light of dawn, wondering where I am. I look at my naked body stretched diagonally across the bed; I look at the untouched breasts, the white belly, and I wonder. I don’t know if this man will ever touch me, but I wonder.

By Brenda Miller

Fast Turtles

We have to get out of here fast. It’s now or never, especially since we could run into Dag getting off work. It’s dangerous, but on the way out of town I stop by his cabin to drop off a goodbye letter.

By Valerie Allison

Two Rides

Wind from passing trucks rocked the car hard. He opened the door and got in without speaking, wedged the bag and blankets under his feet. The smell rolled across to me, far worse than I’d imagined: creosote, vomit, rot.

By Michael Matkin