Essays Archives - Page 19 of 97 - The Millions
May 14, 2015
Sofia could live her entire life in a library and never be tired of books, of the smell of ink on paper, the weight of a book in her hand, or the things you learn in their pages.
May 14, 2015
Literature and breakfast are both slow arts. Early morning arts that unfold while the world is still groggy and optimistic.
May 8, 2015
by Lois Leveen
Killing one’s self is a hell of an occupational hazard. But I’ve come to believe that writing can also be a way to resist suicide.
May 5, 2015
A preface is an ars poetica for a book, for a literary life. A preface often feels like the writer sitting across the table from the reader, and saying, listen, now I am going to tell you the truth.
May 4, 2015
by Jamie Fisher
Chinese readers can’t forget her; most Western readers have never met her. This year, on the 20th anniversary of her death, the NYRB edition of Chang’s Naked Earth provides an opportunity for new readers to fall in love.
April 27, 2015
The question shouldn’t be whether or not getting an M.F.A. is a worthwhile for those privileged enough to agonize over the cost. Instead we should ask: how can we better support people who want to write?
April 21, 2015
The message that what women are writing isn’t important or serious enough is not a new one. It is as old as literature itself. And its persistence has everything to do with how women’s literature is treated in college and university classrooms and, in turn, how it is treated in the literary world.
April 20, 2015
How should a female person be? The question occupied hundreds of printed pages a century ago and still does today.
April 16, 2015
by Gina Fattore
What happened in those eight missing years to make a well-reviewed, commercially successful author fall so far so fast? Heartbreak? Rehab? Addiction to designer shoes? Easy: She took the wrong day job.
April 13, 2015
by Sara Henary
Trollope gives us the cad who is not quite entirely caddish, the woman who works hard to maintain a prudent marriage without forgetting the imprudent one she had wanted. Nothing could be less like Dickens’s stark portraits of saints and fiends moving through a black-and-white world in which the roads to perdition and redemption, though possible to miss, are nonetheless clearly marked.