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Everyone says New Yorkers are cruel (at least New Yorkers say that — it’s part of our Self-Love), but the fact we’re suffering Benevolence Burnout shows we must’ve had some.
By Ellen Carter, SparrowOctober 1989We lived in a walk-up apartment house. The three of us would anticipate his footsteps, listening for them up the tiled stairs and across the tiled floor. He had a variety of walks: a confident, sober stride; a penitential limp; a self-assured, rocking swagger.
By Edward WahlOctober 1989I was aware early on that we were on separate vacations, you in a sun-drenched country on the cusp of the rainy season, and I as lost as a piece of luggage, fallen into some dark, sludgy place, a certain waxy glaze over everything.
By S.L. WisenbergSeptember 1989It is terrifying to look in the mirror and realize that our identification with the form we see is the first and grandest error of our lives. Paradoxically, it is the error we cannot completely undo as long as we are here. Hating that error can be as painful and unproductive as never perceiving it.
By D. Patrick MillerSeptember 1989The old man had walked a long way, from afar, and he was not well. He wiped his forehead and raised his head. Around him were sand, thistles, and strangely — where did it come from? — a house.
By V. MyagkovAugust 1989When I came to understand that there are mythic patterns in all of our lives, I knew that all of us, often unbeknownst to ourselves, are engaged in a drama of soul which we were told was reserved for gods, heroes, and saints.
By Deena MetzgerJanuary 1988Eddie thought. “And does The Man With No Head ever go to the photographer?” “Yes.” “And when the photographer asks him to smile?” “He spreads his arms.”
By SparrowDecember 1987Just as it is difficult to picture an angel without wings, it is difficult to picture a human with wings. But more than I once considered, it seems that, under certain circumstances, the two are readily interchangeable, just as some solids will transform directly into gases.
By David KoteenDecember 1987I sense that my preacher friend isn’t playing with a full deck. I suspect he views certain people as angels and remembers them as colors.
By John CiminelloNovember 1987“You see?” he said. “This is Saint Peter. I am the Lord Jesus.” The halos lasted only a second. Then they were gone.
By Romulus LinneyNovember 1987Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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