Essays Archives - Page 2 of 95 - The Millions
August 25, 2016
by M.C. Mah
We have no idea what we’re talking about when we talk about structure.
August 24, 2016
by Miguel Rosa
Although it sounds improbable that in 2016 there are still great Modernist writers left to discover, Brandão has the same importance Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust, and James Joyce have in their respective languages.
August 23, 2016
by Alcy Leyva
If we can’t depend on the morals of the writer or the objectivity of the editors and publishers, how do we navigate the shoals of the authenticity debate?
August 19, 2016
For a few hours one night a year the film made her forget her worries about finances or her unhappy marriage to my father. I have since discovered how we often return to our favorite songs, movies and books, seeking contentment or an escape from our daily lives.
August 18, 2016
by Bill Morris
Publishing’s abiding obsession with fresh voices ignores a curious fact about our current literary scene: a startling number of the finest writers at work today are not twentysomethings; they’re eightysomethings.
August 17, 2016
by Davey Davis
Pornification is when desire, rather than its object, becomes the primary drive for consumption.
August 15, 2016
by Rosa Lyster
The meanest thing Kingsley Amis ever did to a woman was to put Margaret Peele in that green paisley dress and “quasi-velvet” shoes in Lucky Jim.
August 12, 2016
by Janet Manley
Bollocksing things up in front of your peers and suffering a metaphysical death from embarrassment is a fundamental part of the British human condition, if one that is downplayed in the fan worship abroad.
August 10, 2016
by Odie Lindsey
I learned about fiction from a box of Kurt Vonnegut books, Operation Desert Storm, 1991. The scene was sand, and tent, and swelter, and blast concussion, and a small, unopened box.
August 9, 2016
by Alix Hawley
We learned how to wave (one from the elbow, two from the wrist). How to eat soup (dip the spoon away from you, it looks less greedy). How to sit down (edge of the chair, legs angled to one side, ankles uncrossed). How to close a door (behind you, without turning around to look).