Issue 472 | The Sun Magazine

April 2015

Readers Write

Appetites

A forbidden treat, a secret stash, a sexual obsession

By Our Readers
The Dog-Eared Page

Shakespeare’s Sister

excerpted from
A Room Of One’s Own

Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh. This opportunity, as I think, it is now coming within your power to give her.

By Virginia Woolf
Sy Safransky's Notebook

April 2015

I’m looking at today’s impossibly long to-do list. To accomplish everything on it will take more than twenty-four hours. To not accomplish everything will leave me ill-prepared to leave town tomorrow.

By Sy Safransky
Quotations

Sunbeams

The worst thing that can happen to a writer is to become a Writer.

Mary McCarthy

The Sun Interview

The Molotov Cocktail Of The Imagination

David Mason On The Power Of Poetry

But getting back to your question about poetry and prose: Poetry, by moving from line to line, can create shades of meaning that prose can’t. So, whatever else it’s worth, poetry is valuable because it gives us a different experience of language. It gives us an experience that we cannot have by other means. And without that, we live a more impoverished life. I’ve been as moved by novels as I have been by poems, but I’ve been moved by poems in a different way. I’ve been brought to laughter and tears by a different route.

By Leath Tonino
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Small Time

From outside, Jumbo’s was nothing more than a black-painted steel door in a brick wall, above which was a sign with a grinning yellow clown. When a customer came or went, the door would open for a moment, and I could glimpse the rich blackness of its interior and smell stale beer and cigarette smoke. Especially in the evenings, the illuminated yellow clown sign called out to me.

By Alex R. Jones
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Endless Soliloquy Of The Interior Paramour

Having been a writer myself, I should admire her refusal to give up. Instead it makes me impatient with her. I believe M. lives in this myth of greatness in which her every habit or quirk is worthy of the autobiography being written in her head. It is the endless soliloquy of the interior paramour. Why do I believe this? Because I used to be that way myself.

By Sybil Smith
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Vote For Jesus

The short story is my brother got arrested. Again. In Pampa, Texas, this time: possession of marijuana and driving under the influence. “A total violation of my rights” is how he put it. They took his passenger into protective custody — “they” being animal control, since his passenger was a snake.

By Thomas Boyd
Fiction

A Kiss For Mrs. Sissle

We did come upon a low cave, ten or so feet to the back, but there was nothing inside except empty beer bottles and a white paper bag shaped like a cat. So we sat like castaways at its entrance, knees touching, and watched the hourglass glitter of the moon on the black surface of the ocean. That was all. It was my first experience of nervous teenage heaven, and I doubted I would ever know anything so fragile and sublime again.

By Poe Ballantine
Photography

The First Encounter

“It is only at the first encounter that a face makes its full impression on us.”

— Arthur Schopenhauer

Poetry

Fathers And Sons

Some things, they say, / one should not write about. I tried / to help my father comprehend / the toilet

By David Mason