personal essay – Page 2 – Michigan Quarterly Review

personal essay

Moola: On Tallies, Ledgers, and Keeping Score

Leave a Comment / Rachel Farrell

First, I should note that my subject is a topic civilized people rarely discuss. We are here to talk about money. The discussion will be crass. Incriminating details will be disclosed, actual figures cited.

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By Matthew Lansburgh

First, I should note that my subject is a topic civilized people rarely discuss. We are here to talk about money. The discussion will be crass. Incriminating details will be disclosed, actual figures cited.

“The Trouble with Poetry,” by Charles Simic

Leave a Comment / Rachel Farrell

The poet is that kid who, standing in the corner with his back turned to his schoolmates, thinks he is in paradise.

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By Charles Simic

The poet is that kid who, standing in the corner with his back turned to his schoolmates, thinks he is in paradise.

Delicate Things: Finding Francesca Woodman

Leave a Comment / Elizabeth Schmuhl

Francesca Woodman was a photographer who is well known for her surreal, black and white photography of which she is often the subject. The daughter of a family of artists, Francesca studied photography at RISD and in Italy, ultimately settling in New York City, where she had a studio. She died in 1982 at age twenty-two by suicide, jumping out of the Barbizon building.

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By Elizabeth Schmuhl

Francesca Woodman was a photographer who is well known for her surreal, black and white photography of which she is often the subject. The daughter of a family of artists, Francesca studied photography at RISD and in Italy, ultimately settling in New York City, where she had a studio. She died in 1982 at age twenty-two by suicide, jumping out of the Barbizon building.

Let It Begin with Me

Leave a Comment / Rachel Farrell

When I was seven years old, the INS raided the canyon behind my childhood home in San Diego. I remember how they pulled up onto our driveway and men emerged in uniforms with large guns.

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By Catherine Hull

When I was seven years old, the INS raided the canyon behind my childhood home in San Diego. I remember how they pulled up onto our driveway and men emerged in uniforms with large guns.

“At Springhill Farm,” by Keith Taylor

Leave a Comment / Keith Taylor, MQR Associate Editor

Although there are hints of trouble in my grandmother’s book, I had never seen them. I was glad to own it, but I was overwhelmed by the tedium of her attempt to accent the rosy endurance of this immigrant family she had married into. My grandmother’s truth was the one that forgot or erased pain and remembered only joy.

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By Keith Taylor

Although there are hints of trouble in my grandmother’s book, I had never seen them. I was glad to own it, but I was overwhelmed by the tedium of her attempt to accent the rosy endurance of this immigrant family she had married into. My grandmother’s truth was the one that forgot or erased pain and remembered only joy.

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