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Robert DeNiro is getting into character. He’s been talking to his agent about doing some kind of working-class movie, something set in the steel mills of Gary, Indiana, or the factories of New Jersey.
By Juliet WittmanMay 1988There was a scarecrow named Sam. He lived in a field of corn, with no shelter from the sun and snow. He wore an old felt hat — gray — and a faded black suit jacket.
By SparrowApril 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 1987A not so dirty book, the alchemy of experience, Spanish lessons
By Our ReadersDecember 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 1987I knew old Wiggins years before he scandalized the area newspapers, because he was part of my childhood, like the pine tree with the tire swing and the forbidden, ancient barn I explored in secret.
By Susan M. WatkinsOctober 1987The bar is everything a bar should be. The lighting is dim and soothing, only the wooden bar and colored bottles gleam, and the bartender is a soft-spoken, soft-moving man with a golden beard.
By Pamela Altfeld MaloneApril 1987Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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