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Paradise. Paradise of Meriwether County, Georgia. Warm Springs. Two support personnel for each patient. Campus of the gods. Food of humans — prepared to be eaten at civilized times.
By Lorenzo W. MilamJune 1983Above all: If you feel the need to create you must put it before all the rest. Not abandon the rest, this would be a serious mistake. But make all the rest serve the essential.
By Natalia d’Arbeloff, Michel Seuphor, A.B. ChristopherMarch 1983He was the only friend I had who would dive on the hood of a car. What does that mean? Look around you and you will see it meant a lot.
By John RosenthalOctober 1982Peering into each room of THE SUN, I look for what I want to carry with me, travel clothes for the psyche to wear to the next chapter, where I don’t know a soul, have had no previews.
By Elizabeth Rose CampbellAugust 1982In 1975 I came to love Faye Henry. She was thirty-five years older than I and necessary for my mother, who had no friends at Harvard until she and Faye Henry fell asleep together in the back of “Practicum in Ethnographic Futures Research,” knew they were destined to be friends, and have been ever since.
By Brad ConardJuly 1982We couldn’t have been more delighted, Buck and I, he in the warm arms of Mr. Boston, me in the warm arms of life in the sunny south, at a time when the shadows were hazy, the sunshine was bright, and the smell of the newly cropped bermuda grass touched my nostrils, and the days awaited me breathlessly, endlessly.
By Lorenzo W. MilamMay 1982Here’s a box of our best: some of the most interesting words we’ve printed about love and relationship over the past eight years — some of it’s nutty, some of it’s bittersweet, maybe you’ll find the cherry.
By The SunFebruary 1982Then leo is saying listen, why don’t you come home with us for a cup of coffee, so I say really, like I have heard wifey-hostesses say all my life, and there is a flash of some kind of remembering across judas’s face that when people are being social this is the kind of thing they say and do.
By Pat Ellis TaylorNovember 1981Oh you modest-living professional little bastards, giving in to all that mortgaged decency, all those inner rules of silence, as if the spirit of youth was an aberration to be got over and not the event itself, the event of your life, the adventure you ended up betraying for a house in Twit Acres and 2.3 kids you won’t ever understand.
By John RosenthalJanuary 1981Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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