0 Items

The Sun Magazine

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories


I cannot write how it was. The world shifted me too fast with each event passing before me, inflicting my nerves with flash-bulb rapidity. I was quietly startled at the fresh novelty. Numb still to the fact I was leaving, disbelieving, an embryo in limbo, sins forgiven, the timelessness suddenly and violently meaning something concrete. A thickness at the gates, divided by the gates, a heavy pushing through the thickness as though it were fate, staring at me with its warrior’s eyes, a victorious man it had to release. And once through the thickness of its invisible armor, leaving my print on its shield like a savage blow of an ax, I came upon a new beginning, a reliving of an old dead thing, with my name, me.

Man, Videtan Flora, And The Berendora Of Equatorial Videt

The planet that men of Earth call Videt is the fourth satellite of the sun Crona. The planet abounds with animals and plants, since it is warm and humid, and resembles over most of its sphere the sub-tropical zones of Earth. Indeed, Videt is like the Earth in many ways, so that colonial biologists found it, quite easy to begin making orderly description and classification of its living forms, which are based on carbon compounds, and have evolved to fill environmental niches nearly like those of Earth.

Short, Fat, And Dumb With Numbers

Book Review

C.P. Snow is not interested in literary definitions, and, despite his title, he makes no claim to be exhausting his subject. He has left Flaubert, whom many would consider the preeminent realist, out of his book, and in Dickens has included a novelist who even Snow admits is not actually a realist at all. Large, sometimes multi-volume biographies have been written on all these men, and they have been the subject of numerous critical studies.

Small Press Review

The Fiction Of Curt Johnson

Nobody’s Perfect, Johnson’s second novel to be published, though the third to be written, takes up the whole issue of who gets published and why. It takes as its main subject the uproarious literary politics of the late 60’s, when the government first set up the National Endowment for the Arts, and fools and crooks and serious editors asked for money to keep small-scale literary operations afloat in a sea of conglomerate-owned houses and declining public taste. One of the best parts is the description of the first COSMEP (Committee of Small Magazine Editors and Publishers) meeting.

Doing What I Do


I make patchwork quilts for a living. I like setting my own hours and taking an afternoon nap if I want to. The work itself is satisfying.I like the requirements of precision, order, and efficiency. I like working with color — seeing how different color combinations affect my mood and make my stomach feel. I like working with fabric, the softness and the strength. It is satisfying to have simple tools in good order-sharp sewing shears, a well-oiled sewing machine. I like working with very large pieces of fabric, needing to use the strength of my back and arms. I like making something beautiful, and being able to let it go out into the world, knowing that I could make that beautiful thing again, or some other beautiful thing. It also feels good that my handiwork is useful, that it will be keeping people warm, greeting them in the morning sunlight, welcoming them to bed at night, and giving them something to look at when they’re sick in bed, too sick to do anything but stare feebly at the quilt!

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

Readers Write


Garbage on TV? I admit it, but if a viewer is selective, he can enjoy outstanding concerts, drama from the days of Euripedes and Aeschylus to Shakespeare to the present day, amusing series that are cleverly written and acted, good children’s educational shows and high lights of the news.


(Part Two)

I could not hit with Pop in the stands. I would crouch at home plate, waiting for the inevitable surge of nerve juice to tighten my thighs, and stare at the pitcher. Pop would squat behind first base at the base of the wire fence, where he could best stand watch over my stance. I never looked at him. I knew he was watching, alternately silent, and then: “Watch it leave his hand! Watch for the spin!”

Sy Safransky's Notebook

February 1979


She wrote until her eyes fell out. Then her head rolled back and her chair broke into a hundred years and she dropped like a heavy bird through the centuries, recording everything, her thick human wings invisible, but creating a stir at the edge of vision. The chair she never found. The eyes she discovered by a lake in thirteenth century France. They had rolled down the hillside, gathering momentum until they saw their own reflection. 

Musings From Our Founder ▸


The best form is to worship God in every form.

Neemkaroli Baba

More Quotations ▸
Help Sustain The Sun

We've lifted our paywall. In this time of isolation, we want to share stories about what connects us, the challenges we face, and the moments when we rise to meet them.

Due to fulfillment challenges related to the novel coronavirus, print copies are temporarily unavailable for individual sale. We are offering free PDFs until we are able to resume print sales.

Enter your e-mail address below to download this issue.