Issue 166 | The Sun Magazine

September 1989

Readers Write


The double-entry ledger system, pliés, a workable bicycle

By Our Readers


From infancy I was surrounded by music. . . . To hear my father play the piano was an ecstasy for me. When I was two or three, I would sit on the floor beside him as he played, and I would press my head against the piano in order to absorb the sound more completely. . . . When I was eleven years old, I heard the cello played for the first time. . . . When the first composition ended, I told my father, “Father, that is the most wonderful instrument I have ever heard. That is what I want to play.”

Pablo Casals, Joys and Sorrows

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


It is terrifying to look in the mirror and realize that our identification with the form we see is the first and grandest error of our lives. Paradoxically, it is the error we cannot completely undo as long as we are here. Hating that error can be as painful and unproductive as never perceiving it.

By D. Patrick Miller
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Separate Vacations (Voyeurs In A Strange Land)

I was aware early on that we were on separate vacations, you in a sun-drenched country on the cusp of the rainy season, and I as lost as a piece of luggage, fallen into some dark, sludgy place, a certain waxy glaze over everything.

By S.L. Wisenberg
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Scavenger’s Run

In Guangzhou, China, I once saw two men row through the muddy waters of the Pearl River to pick up floating leaves of cabbage. Now, a few years later, that’s what I do: make the scavenger’s run.

By David Grant
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

For Arlene

A good friend of mine died, of AIDS, a few months back. I went to her, in the hospital, the day before she passed. This was near Boston, in a suburb.

By Sparrow

Rock Sitting

She never talked to any of them — neither the rocks nor the creek, the roots nor the leaves, nor even the birds perching overhead. Words killed living things, fixed them forever as solid matter. Nothing was solid here, as long as she didn’t breathe a word.

By Leslie P. Shaver

Class Struggles In Sweet Cider

This is the part where Karen Wheeler jumped in and turned the world around, whether because Karen Wheeler is one fine bowler herself and enjoys as much as anybody kicking the butts of the folks over in Greensboro, or whether, as I’ve said, her heart has spots soft for Gus, I don’t know.

By T.L. Toma

The Drop That Became The Sea

Lyric Poems Of Yunus Emre

Yunus Emre Translated From The Turkish By Kabir Helminski & Refik Algan, M.D.