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The Sun Magazine

The Sun Interview

Cosmic Blues

A Reluctant Interview With Emmanuel

We’re driving north, through Virginia, Jon at the wheel. I feel groggy and restless. What am I doing here, anyway, I ask myself — all day on the road to interview a ghost? This SUN interviewer role is definitely wearing thin. I switch on the tape deck and turn it up loud. Springsteen sings a gravelly song of working-man struggle, and joining in I start to relax.

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Art Of Gratitude

A rainbow always comes as a surprise. Not that it cannot be predicted. Surprising sometimes means unpredictable, but it often means more. Surprising in the full sense means somehow gratuitous. Even the predictable turns into surprise the moment we stop taking it for granted. If we knew enough, everything would be predictable, and yet everything would remain gratuitous. If we knew how the whole universe worked, we would still be surprised that there was a universe at all. Predictable it may be, yet all the more surprising.


Religion At The Home

Of a tall gray substance she was fashioned, but certainly not of flesh and blood. Not Miss Parrington. Hipless, bustless, she moved up and down the corridors that smelled of new varnish and old age, reading her Bible, moving without joints or muscles or any of the things of this world, her center of locomotion her gray lips as they told the sacred verses half-aloud with the clear-cut swish and chitter of bats in the early evening: “I am not of this world,” would say Miss Parrington between verses should some old lady in this Home For Refined Ladies urge her to a game of pinochle, or invite her to listen to her radio, or share her evening paper. From some mystical steeple Miss Parrington would say, “Like His, my world will be the next.” Then she would pass on, her lips moving with the sharp flutter of wings.

Selected Stories

There was a turtle named Arnold who went to college. He studied carrying heavy loads and going without water. He graduated with honors as a camel.

*NOTE: Original copies of this issue are no longer available. Unbound, laser-printed copies will be provided for print orders.

Readers Write

When We Die

When we die we go to sleep. We awake in Paradise. In Paradise, no one wears clothes and everyone is very polite. Tiny condiments are served on trays. A small but precise string orchestra plays. One sees many old friends. All of them look well: youngish, but stately. The couples seem at peace, and the single people are radiant.

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


There are never enough “I-love-yous.”

Lenny Bruce

More Quotations ▸
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