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The Sun Magazine

Sy Safransky's Notebook

December 1987

A dry autumn wind rustles the leaves; I brood over my life, as if it were something apart from me. Here, some pages from my journal, from a melancholy time, from the season that reminds me seasons come and go:

June 1992

The Map I Was Promised

Things I didn’t get to last week: answering the mail, giving up coffee, saving the planet.

November 1992

Bent to the task of reconstruction, this endless need to improve myself, no less intense at forty-seven than at seventeen. My serious plans, shining like new cars on the dusty lot.

June 1993

Another Coincidence

Not enough time for the poem. But the poem staggers to its feet, wipes its face on the dirty towel, remembers it lives here too, remembers it needs no invitation.

March 1995

The past rushes into the room, breathless, dressed in something outrageous she just threw together. Only the past would show up this way.

July 1995

Right-wing extremists used to despise Communists; now they despise the U.S. government. If the Devil didn’t exist, we’d have to invent him.

December 1995

I keep imagining that someday I’ll get caught up: write those letters, read those books. What a great imagination! My plans smile at me from tomorrow, always tomorrow. And here it is, always today.

October 1997

We live under the shadow of the Holocaust, of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, of the killing fields of Cambodia — but the world does not seem particularly restrained by the memory of these events. Let’s not forget, here on the cusp of the twenty-first century, that new calendars are still made from trees; that the same old ax delivers the blow.