Topics | Writing | The Sun Magazine #48

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Writing

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Poetry: From The Factory

Poetry, like all the arts, has taken a turn toward the diffuse since World War 2. By diffuse, I mean the opposite of the exactness that went into the work of the masters, the pointedness of a strong sensibility.

By Richard Williams June 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

She Would Have Been A Taxi Dancer, But He Couldn’t Hail A Cab

Book Review

Manning demonstrates a rather considerable talent for manipulating vocabulary and for wringing every ounce of nuance possible from a word or phrase.

By Dee Dee Small June 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Seymour Dueless Says

Let’s see, travel. I abhor it as a general rule. No, that’s not true. I like to travel. If I were rich I would probably go to Europe. Nowadays, it’s pretty much the trip into town and whether or not the brake job I did myself is going to . . . well.

By Sy Safransky May 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Last Written Words From America

Couldn’t find anything else. The following being typed on a Scott Towel. You know — The one that’s twenty percent heavier? What the hell is her name anyway?

By Bruce K. Land January 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Untitled (Literary Magazines)

We asked Richard Williams, THE SUN’s poetry editor, to assess the literary magazines published in and near Chapel Hill.

By Richard Williams January 1976
The Sun Interview

Paperback Writer

An Interview With Ronald Kemp

Pornography is a dirty book. If you like a dirty book, it’s fine, nothing wrong with it.

By Dusty Miller January 1976
Fiction

Grandmother

The sky and trees, reflected once in the creek, are reflected again in my thoughts. These are not the black trees written on a light gray sky that small black words bring to mind. But, green and living, they stretch to grasp the sun, lobsterlike in living claws.

By Pat Leudy December 1975
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Women Writers: Out Of The Closet

It is possible that we are looking out there, over yonder, when we ourselves, or our sisters or mothers or daughters may be secretly squirreling away some of the most direct, honest, intense “news” around about what being a human being is — and not even know that it qualified as literature and might stand the test of time better than much that is presently coming out of the big N.Y. publishing companies.

By Judy Hogan November 1975