I must say that I greatly admire Ms. Emily, that I highly esteem her, that I like her.Upon thumbing through a Dickinson book of poems, one might think that all she ever wrote about was death, nature, and Wild Nights!, whatever that means.
For anyone who cares an iota for literature, it is worth taking some time and looking into Dickinson's history. (I've made it easy with the "Literature Network" link over to the left)
Here was a woman who never married, grieved much over the death of some of those closest to her, and lived out the majority of her years confined to a solitary bedroom -the window of which was her only visual portal to the world, her letters, her main link to humanity.
Her window over-looked the garden, and from it she could see the nearby cemetary.
Dickinson's choice of subject matter is much easier to understand viewed in this light. She wrote about her world. And when her poems are considered carefully, the genius of the reclusive Emily shines forth. She truly mastered the medium of poetry. There is so much to be found in even the shortest of her verses. She was amazingly concise -her poems so short, and yet so dense and rich. Now that I've officially out-geeked my sister in this post, I'll end here.
-Steven
6 comments:
Where did you get that picture? It's amazing (Admit it, man. She's an angel!).
Here is another author that HATED in High School. I think I hated her because everyone else liked her so much, and I decided that I needed to be different or die. My introduction to Emily was awful also. Being the English nerd that I am, I found myself trying to manually erase all of the dash marks. I felt bombarded -almost violated. I saw her as the haughtiest more disagreeable little hermit that ever didn't set foot outside.
And then I grew up. A little. One of my Dickinson favorites:
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
I also breathed a very embarassing and audible sigh of relief when told that Emily did not use the dash marks. Someone else did that. Is it a lie? Perhaps. Am I going to find out if it is lie or not? No. Because I'm closed- minded and snotty. Only you can still love me and know how I am about petty little things like dash marks (a blessing upon Danny's head).
And excuse me? What is this about me being a geek? I know. I'm pathetic. What kind of person who judges revolutionary poets based on dash marks has any friends at all? *sigh* Well, at least we're on the same pathetic little secluded island known only to the geek-oids of Literature Lovers. Maybe Julianne will join us. There's power in numbers. Just ask Hitler.
About the dashes: They were Emily's. She is known for her use of dashes and unconventional use of capitalization. I've seen pictures of her own manuscripts. The edit job done to her work "corrected" both of these. I believe that the dashes were used mainly as a device of rhythm. She created a tool suited to her style of poetry which serves very well when you notice its placement. The capitalization, also breaking formal rules of writing, calls attention to words of greater signifigance in the verses. I now cite from an essay I wrote:
"In the poem, “The Bustle in a House,” Dickinson explores the relationship between love and death. There is irony in using the word “Bustle” as death and mourning are seemingly somber and sad times of reflection. Dickinson’s peculiar capitalization appears strewn throughout the body of the poem. The following words bear unusual capitalization: ‘bustle,’ ‘house,’ ‘morning,’ ‘death,’ ‘earth,’ ‘sweeping,’ ‘heart,’ ‘love,’ and ‘eternity.’ This way of capitalizing aligns the words into comparison between the two stanzas: bustle to sweeping, house to heart, morning (a pun for mourning)/ death to love, and earth to eternity. The entire first stanza is concerned with mortality and death, while the second stanza deals with preparation for and a hope found in a post-mortal life."
I really should just email you the essay, because I feel like citing it all here.
You can wake up now. Or should I say, Now?
What I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE about this breaking of fundamental rules, is that since Dickinson is a laudable literary figure, she has given me a bit of justification for breaking rules here and there. Not that I'd go out and use the possesive form "your" where "you're" would go, but you get the idea, I'm sure.
This is getting really good. I'm glad we have this outlet for sharing!
Everyone else liked Dickinson in High School? Really? I always got the opposite impression most everywhere I've gone. Even Mrs. David didn't like her at first, but then someone she respected suggested that she give Ms. Emily another chance -and a favorite was born.
Hawthorne anyone?
Fine. I was just about to go online and print a few of Hawthorne's short stories out. I've had to haul myself off the couch to make it to the computer. This morning sickness is the cat's behind. Will Hawthorne soothe? Or will he inflict? Also, please excuse all of the typos in my comments. I'm still in a HUGE pregnancy fog.
And also, you devilish fiend, what were you thinking giving me that GREAT link to the Literature Network? I'm getting nothing done. You've compounded my inefficiancy. Morning sickness is the cause -that link? The dawn of new realms of festering. F. Scott right at my fingertips. My self-control is taking a hit. And you pulled the switch, by jingo.
I love it.
Alright, I have been reading a lot of Hawthorne's short stories of late, and I can't say I recommend them to an expectant mother. I stand by my recommendation of The Scarlet Letter.
The only thing I don't like about the "Literature Network" site is the fact that they don't stay true to original form in the poetry. It's as though they said, "Well, if we get the words down right, that's all well and good." My Dickinson is without her dashes and larger letters intermixed. I loathe the thought.
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