Read and view the work of artists from Previous Issues.
When Ephron began regularly writing essays for Esquire the 1970s, she must have felt a pull toward the world of quality journalism, or perhaps the editors wanted someone who could write about women’s issues for a male audience. Perhaps both. Something about these circumstances, writing for a primarily male audience about issues that interested her as a woman may have shaped the way she used tone to convey an attitude. The breezy, flippant tone of such articles as “A Few Words About Breasts,” employs humor to talk about what was beginning to be called “the male gaze.”
The triage nurse took one look at the woman in white fur held in the arms of a man in oil-stained coveralls and dropped his cinnamon twist to the desk. Another nurse wrapped her chocolate eclair in bakery tissue, shoved it in her pocket, and scrambled for a wheelchair.
Early on, fearing he’d be recognized, he went far from the building to beg for funds to replenish their stocks. He got caught in black rain once during a phage surge. At least the rain wasn’t yellow. He wouldn’t be here now, he’s sure, if it was yellow. That day, before he could make it home, the rain burned holes in his suit and damaged his mask. The shakes from phage exposure set in then.
You may be able to guess that this is from my wartime experience. She, Pinky, the woman with whom I had sex … was in some ways just a girl – things were different then and we were all so afraid – and no one, none of us anyway, none of the American soldiers, were allowed to think let alone – let alone anything – we were … we were just there to fight and kill – kill as many living things as possible – plants animals people of all ages and all anything else …
