Topics | Oppression | The Sun Magazine #22

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Oppression

Readers Write

Compromise

The old Survival Trap, a first husband, a paradox

By Our Readers November 1986
Fiction

Gold And Black

Then he turns to me, and direct as an arrow says, “You gonna be there?” (This, I thought, is what they refer to in books as “the moment of truth.”) My heart was creeping up my esophagus like an inchworm; but my tongue would not unwind.

By David Koteen October 1986
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

No Bars To Freedom

Bo Lozoff’s Letters To And From Prisoners

Dear Billy,
Nice to hear from you. You know, you said that you were a coward and a real piece of shit, but if that’s so, then who was the sensitive, intelligent human being who was moved to tears by the story of Gandhi’s courage? That takes a lot of courage and openness, too, you know.

By Bo Lozoff December 1985
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Breeds

We live in perilous times. All human beings have always lived in perilous times, but the perils of our times are our own and we know them well. For several years now, a sizable group of Americans have seen Indians — or the Indian way — as an approach to the diffusion of some peril.

By Roxy Gordon July 1984
The Sun Interview

Worth Fighting For

An Interview With Holly Near

I just got back from Nicaragua. I hadn’t known much at all about this country that the United States has been involved with for many years. The Marines were in Nicaragua as long ago as the Thirties. How can you live in a country and not know about a place where your Marines have been for that long?

By Howard Jay Rubin July 1984
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Witch, The Swan, And The Middle Class

I’m not praising the middle class, but we are returning to the problem of why so many of our poems carry no values except private ones. I think the universities have had a part in this. One could say that the M.F.A. programs de-class a young poet.

By Robert Bly July 1982
Fiction

Man Of Silver, Man Of Gold

That crumbling house with its rusty iron fence, like a disillusioned spider’s web, became important. Even its blotch of drained soil, discolored and long sterile, was a symbol of warfare. This spelled out a larger drama of the world I was just beginning to realize I was living in.

By Leslie Woolf Hedley May 1982