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We forget, until a novel like One Hundred Years of Solitude reminds us, that a metaphor can be a glimpse into the interconnectedness of things, and as such, a large new breath of possibility to our pallid imaginings of self.
By John RosenthalMay 1980I’m especially grateful to the Wrenn family for their warmth to me during this undertaking. They were completely honest in front of the camera. I was a stranger to them but to my amazement, they were willing to express the love they have for each other as a family without inhibition before my curious eyes.
By Alma BlountMarch 1980Russia invades Afghanistan, and the United States, playing the outraged suitor, wags its hips at China. The problem of relationship is global and personal. What are the boundaries? Who do we kiss and who do we kill?
By Sy SafranskyFebruary 1980As soon as we were seated at the Su-En, the couple left for the restroom. While they were away, an Oriental woman walked in, sitting next to me. Yoko Ono! Seconds later, in came John Lennon!
By Nyle FrankFebruary 1980My fear of my father, my piano, my unsuppressible nomadic tendencies
By Our ReadersAugust 1979Waiting for the angels, chopping the head off a chicken, building a house — twice
By Our ReadersJune 1979Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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