Essays Archives - Page 19 of 101 - The Millions
October 7, 2015
Although our methods and locations might be different, teachers and professors hopefully share the same coda: we wish to leave students a little better off than we first met them.
October 6, 2015
by H.S. Cross
Write what I know? I would rather eat glass. It’s hard enough living my life; I write to get away from it.
October 1, 2015
Big-hearted and ambitious above all else, Keats’s mistake was to be too hard on himself, conforming to an artistic type when he could have been more sensitive to the nature of his gifts.
September 23, 2015
by Mike Broida
The paucity of Portuguese writing is a global deficit, for Portuguese is an undeniably beautiful language to the ear and wonderfully varied, from the lovely sing-songy rhythms of Rio de Janeiro to the muffled notes of Lisbon.
September 21, 2015
by J.P. Smith
Privately, without any basis in reality, without having read a single word by him, I turned my wrath upon Patrick Modiano
September 10, 2015
by Paul Morton
The initial phase of the comics renaissance is over, and the publication of this anthology offers an opportunity for understanding what defined D&Q, what we readers were looking for in comics throughout the past 25 years, and what we are looking for now.
September 4, 2015
Buying Thoreau’s Cape Cod on Cape Cod resonates with a predictable sentimentality that I’m all too aware of. It too closely resembles what I think of as Thoreauvian pilgrimage practices: the hajj to Walden Pond, the leaving of pencils on his grave in Sleepy Hollow.
September 2, 2015
Lately I’ve been struck by the notion that there might be no books more lost than those buried in the overwhelming bibliographies of authors who have simply published too damn much.
September 1, 2015
by Jared Pollen
If Remainder represented the abandonment of the pure and sacred self against the apparatus of a long held tradition of realism, then Satin Island seeks to reveal how such distinctions are ultimately meaningless
August 26, 2015
The agent said my birth mother had left me under a nearby bridge. I was found with a note that said, “Give him to someone rich.” A policeman gave me a name and took me to an orphanage, but the orphanage had recently burned down, so it, like my birth mother, was unrecoverable.