Issue 180 | The Sun Magazine

November 1990

Readers Write

Reunions

A repressed memory, a custody battle, a summer on the prairies

By Our Readers
Quotations

Sunbeams

We think that we must become acquisitive — though we call it by a better-sounding word. We call it evolution, growth, development, progress, and we say it is essential.

J. Krishnamurti

The Sun Interview

Mastering The Enemy Within

An Interview With Richard Strozzi-Heckler

My idea of a new warrior is one who takes on the challenge of facing his or her own aggression — mentally, physically, emotionally. The point is not to say that aggression is bad, but to recognize that it is within us, and to learn how to look at it and train it.

By D. Patrick Miller
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

Songs Of Aging Children

My mother is seated in the shade of the balcony of her apartment in San Diego, the sun relentless in this desert-become-a-city. She stares into that cloudless blue sky. Cancer has begun its final assault upon her body.

By Kenneth Klonsky
Fiction

Punctilio

The white-haired man sat alone at a table in the crowded airport cafeteria, eating a doughnut and taking an occasional drink from a small carton of milk.

By T.W. Dalrymple
Fiction

The Dancing Master Of Kung Fu

Everything was suddenly vibrant with rich hues of singing color. The faces of the monks were radiantly beautiful. It was as if his eyes had been washed clean for the first time.

By Pierre Delattre
Fiction

Occupied Territories

My anticipation was high. Life picks up when she’s around. I remember what I went to college for. With her, my brain gets buzzing again. I had been saving up all the garbage of my life for her to hear so I could get it sorted out.

By Judith H. Windt
Fiction

The Rehearsal

Her lips, loose and larger without dentures, move up and down in a pace that suggests more words are coming, but then, they stop. She has, I think, forgotten what she wanted to say. I don’t know what to do in these silent spaces between now and never again.

By Diana Greene Hall
Fiction

Driving Home

Leaving one son; going toward the other. Ted and I take turns driving, three hours each. My break comes at lunchtime. Then I can sit in the car and count the hawks in the sky.

By Pamela Altfeld Malone
Fiction

He Wears Black

I am a German man. That is clear. But I am born in the year 1955. Ten years after the war is over and so, I am having nothing to do with that war. I am part of the new people in Germany.

By Carl-Michal Krawczyk