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The Sun Magazine

Editor's Note

Editor’s Note: June 1979

Tall, lanky, rubbery-faced K. is sitting across from me in Dunkin’ Donuts, smoking a cigarette he just bummed from the man beside him. “Chesterfield, goddamned Chesterfield. Ain’t had one of those in six years.” He’s talking steadily to no one, to the air, to the counter, now to someone who just sat down and is ignoring him, reading his newspaper. K’s mouth is bruised — from a fight? a sickness? His words rise and fall like a small boat, its rudder smashed. They rebound off the big glass windows, the way our soliloquies do in our minds. More in control than K., we just talk to ourselves.

Editor’s Note: October 1978

I want to tell you why this issue has half as many pages as the last, and I want to tell you something about those of us who keep putting this magazine out — that we’re like you, we eat and sleep, we have our laundry and our lists, our masks, our human worries, and our work: it feels necessary, all of it.

Editor’s Note

I feel like a child this morning, not a care in the world, except for these little anxieties, like tiny flies hovering around my sweetness: is it safe to he happy? is it responsible?

Editor’s Note

I’ve been getting up early to write. It’s the only time of the day I can count on for solitude and clear-mindedness. Most of these words were put down in the hours before dawn, and some of them are about those strange hours, and the rest are about this strange life.

Editor’s note: Riches

Shall I say a line from a song changed my life? It’s sentimental but true. Important things rarely touch me; the news, like an old wind, rushes by. Small things, signs, gestures point the way for me — in 1971, it was a song, reminding me that making a living and making a life aren’t separate, though we pretend otherwise.

Editor’s Note: A Death in the Family

The day had started badly. After a week with my daughters, I was back at work but my heart wasn’t in it. Already I was missing them, and I was also wondering why a friend, a good friend, whom I loved almost like a father, was angry with me. Apparently, I’d disappointed him, but he wasn’t telling me why, wasn’t speaking to me at all.


This month, some pages from my journal: the moods, worries, questions, and devotions I turn to, and…

Baby Fat

My oldest daughter, Mara, makes a big pan of it for me every Christmas. She knows I like anything she makes — like most parents, I’m shamelessly sentimental — but my delight over the fudge is especially keen. It doesn’t matter that this year it’s no “surprise.” In years past, we’d conspire to create some mystery until it was time to open gifts, but this Christmas, when I pick up Mara and Sara at their mother’s house for our holiday visit, the secret’s out. She’s made two pans this year, and they’re too big to hide. Besides, she’s nearly eleven and too old, alas, to be excited by her Dad’s feigned surprise. Standing by the car, she hands me the aluminum foil-wrapped pans to put beside her suitcase. She shrugs and says, “This is the fudge.” Then she glances at me uncertainly and sighs. “Is it OK I told you?” “Sure,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound like a lie.


0ddly joyous, deeply melancholy, it’s as haunting a song as I’ve heard in years. &ldquo…