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The Sun Magazine

Editor's Note


A dry autumn wind rustles the leaves; I brood over my life, as if it were something apart from me. Here, some pages from my journal, from a melancholy time, from the season that reminds me seasons come and go:

Editor’s Note

Last Words

I didn’t need another typewriter when Jeffrey gave me the Underwood about ten years ago. I still had my old portable, which had served me dutifully since college, a sleek and Sturdy Olympia on which I’d typed my way through graduate school, my first newspaper job, Europe, and two marriages. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have another typewriter around the office, though I suspected I’d be the only one who would ever use it. My preference for old-fashioned manuals was looked on, even back then, as embarrassingly romantic and impractical, and as further evidence, if any was needed, that I wasn’t happy unless I was struggling, typing and retyping the same sentences; pounding the words into place; needing no help from electricity, thank you — the persistent hum of an electric unnerving me, as if the typewriter itself were waiting impatiently for the next word.