Browse Topics
Crime
The Hero Is Reason
Book Review
Stout’s was a remarkable life, in many ways a model one, yet it would hardly have been noted, much less remembered, if not for the series of detective novels that he began writing in his forty-seventh year.
February 1978Crime Pays — A True Adventure
When I unlock and open the door to my apartment, I see a man standing there, with his back to me. He hasn’t seen or heard me, and continues about his business of piling up my little TV, radio, stereo. I softly — very softly — close the door, tiptoe down the stairs, and call the 911 police emergency number.
February 1978Cartoon By David Terrenoire
The cartoon in this selection is available as a PDF only. Click here to download.
January 1978Drawings By Carl Harp 126-516
Being is my every breath, the truth I bathe in; Reality is my all even when it tears at me behind these walls. I will not look away, I have seen all the games, and though I am not perfect (who is?) I am not needing those things for they are not lasting.
May 1977Free Kill
“Free Kill.” Just imagine. Part of every citizen’s inalienable birthright the freedom to off one other soul.
April 1977Care Packages To Fat City
An Objective Opinion
I write of a ridiculous-acting class of people, but one that is not without craft and guile. Public office seems to attract people who are just smart enough to realize that elected positions of “public confidence” are the easiest and safest of possibilities for not especially bright individuals to get rich.
March 1977From The People Who Brought You Law An’ Order
In his unceasing quest to keep this country great by returning himself to office in November, Gerald Ford has been making some very troubling noises about national security lately. Initially, many of us were willing to regard speeches of this sort as little more than political necessity; a Republican candidate paying homage to the more rigid, “spare the rod, spoil the Dow Jones” spirits in the conservative camp.
May 1976Sy’s New York Diary: Amazing Flesh
I read, in the newspaper, about a man who is dragged from his car, knifed repeatedly for the few dollars in his wallet, and left bleeding in the gutter. My mother says her friends don’t go out at night. It’s an old story, old as the city’s tired and dour expression, old as the dry and wrinkled hands of a man trying to remember better days and remembering nothing but bone.
June 1974
