You think I jest, but seriously. In 1883, apparently, there were some deaths and, enough being enough, Dickinson may have single-handedly invented the form letter. There was an awful lot of death in those days and, after a point, wants the point? These poems were very late in her career. She had already written close to 1800—the majority touching on death—and maybe had had enough. The particular lines she repeats in each letter—are peculiar. They’re not exactly comforting. Gone are her twenty-something bromides. She essentially writes: Sorry about the death of [insert name here], but damned if I know where they’ve gone.
Adversity if it shall be
Or wild prosperity
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was born —
Not even a Prognostic's push
Could make a Dent thereon —
This, according to Volume 3 of Franklin’s complete poems, is the version ED sent to Maria Whitney, in the summer of 1883 (immediately after discussing her—ED’s—mother’s death). The earliest version of this, written in March of 1883, was to Elizabeth Holland, in which she writes:
This me that walks and works must die
Some fair or stormy Day
Adversity if it may be
Or wild prosperity
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my mind was born
That even a Prognostic's push
Can make no Crease thereon
Between lines 4 & 5, ED experimentally wrote, Beyond my power to sight or deem. She then made a fair copy in which she changed the last two lines:
Not even a Prognostic's push
CanCouldmake a Dent thereon—
Then, in October of 1883, Susan Dickinson’s son Gilbert died (an especially grievous death for the Dickinson clan) and Dickinson wrote:
Moving on in the Dark like Loaded Boats at Night, though there is no Course, there is Boundlessness—
Expanse cannot be lost—
Not Joy, but a Decree
Is Deity—
His Scene, Infinity—
Whose rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Beam was sown,
Not even a Prognostic's push
Could make a Dent thereon—
The World that thou has opened
Shuts for thee,
But not alone,
We all have followed thee—
Escape more slowly
To thy Tracts of Sheen—
The Tent is listening,
But the Troops are gone!
Immediately after this poem, numbered 1627, comes 1628 (in Franklin’s varorium edition)—another poem sent to Susan Dickinson as regards Gilbert’s death . ED wrote:
Immured in Heaven!
What a Cell!
Let every Bondage be,
Thou sweetest of the Universe,
Like that which ravished thee!
This is so different in tone and temperament from the other poem that one wonders: If it came afterward, did Dickinson feel some remorse? In which poem was she honestly expressing her thoughts? Was this shorter poem, offering conventional Christian sympathy, written solely to comfort both Austin and Susan? It almost belongs on a Hallmark Card with a soft-focus bouquet.
And then, during the same month, Dickinson was corresponding with Charles Clark after the death of Charles Wadsworth, and she returned to from, writing:
These thoughts disquiet me, and the great friend is gone, who could solace them—Do they disturb you?
The Spirit lasts—but in what mode—
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes—
Apart, it never talks—
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone—is not a Tune—
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That makes the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know—now—or does it cease—
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply,
Adversity if it may be, or wild Prosperity,
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognosticator's Push
Could make a Dent thereon—
So, let’s just take the core message:
Adversity if it may be, or wild Prosperity,
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognosticator's Push
Could make a Dent thereon—
By Adversity vs. Prosperity, is she describing her time of death or what comes after? I don’t think we can say with certainty, but there might be some clues. In her earliest use of these lines, they were preceded by “This me… must die/Some fair or stormy Day”. This suggests that Adversity and Prosperity are a restatement of a stormy Day/Adversity or a fair Day/Prosperity. On the other hand, she could be contrasting the conditions at the time of her death with what might come after. It could be a stormy or sunny day when she dies, and what follows death could be adversarial or prosperous. The lines that follow aren’t any help. Rumor’s Gate, after all, could refer to the day of her death (which would be the Gate) or to what his behind the Gate. Not even the scratched out, Beyond my power to sight or deem is a help in this regard. Again, she could be referring to her inability to foresee the day and conditions of her death, or her inability to foresee what comes after death. Unless some skeleton key turns up (and perhaps I don’t know about it) either interpretation is available. Having written that, I’ll put my hand on the scales and say that I think she’s not characterizing what might come after death, otherwise Adversity suggests Hell and Prosperity suggests Heaven. Why on earth would she include a poem, in her condolences, suggesting that Austin’s son, Gilbert, might go to Heaven or might go to Hell. Who knows? Not Emily. So, Adversity probably refers to her bodily state, physical and mental, on the day she dies. Either that or, having suggested that Gilbert might be in Hell, her little poem “Immured in Heaven” was a hasty afterthought.
In her next poem, she precedes these lines with:
Expanse cannot be lost—
Not Joy, but a Decree
Is Deity—
His Scene, Infinity—
Whose rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Beam was sown,
Not even a Prognostic's push
Could make a Dent thereon—
Here, perhaps, is a further hint that by adversity or prosperity, she’s not describing the expectation of heaven or hell. (It’s not clear that Dickinson ever seriously entertained the concept of Hell.) She dispenses with both those lines altogether, and replaces them with four lines that seem to more clearly state her beliefs. Based on the poem she writes next, I’m going to interpret “Expanse” as the “spirit”. She’s saying that the spirit cannot be lost. What does she mean by “Not Joy”? This may be a metonym for heaven. In other words. The Deity’s decree that we die is not the promise of “Joy/Heaven”, as understood by Christian doctrine, but Infinity. His scene is infinite, containing all—and not just the curtailed, authoritarian/totalitarian vision offered by Christian dogma. The Deity’s decree, in a sense, is that we must depart life, the way a child outgrows their home, to become a part of an unbounded creation. I could be entirely mistaken, but if this is where Dickinson’s spirituality arrived, then it’s a far more potent and positive vision. In my view.
The World that thou has opened
Shuts for thee,
But not alone,
We all have followed thee—
Escape more slowly
To thy Tracts of Sheen—
The Tent is listening,
But the Troops are gone!
The closing quatrain seems to assume a timeless posture, spoken from the perspective of the living and the dead. “We all have followed thee—” she writes, and from our perspective, all of them have. They “escaped” more slowly, but escaped nonetheless. “The Tent” is possibly a metonym for the world. In other words, Dickinson continues to speak both from the present and the future, the world listens for Gilbert but also for the Dickinson’s (the Troops) who have all gone ahead of us (the readers).
Dickinson’s, possibly, final stab at these lines, I think, is what makes clear the meaning of “Expanse cannot be lost—”. She writes, “The Spirit lasts”. And there, I think, we have it—here, close to the end of Dickinson’s life and poetry, we hear her clearly state her spiritual convictions. It’s why I would argue that Dickinson is not an atheist. She may be an Abrahamic Atheist (as I am), meaning that she doesn’t believe in the God of Abraham—the mythical God of Christians, Muslims or Jews. She refers to a “Deity”, perhaps understood as life’s greater organizing principle, but speculates no further. She asserts that the spirit lasts and that the spirit shares the infinite with the Deity. What form does that take? Will she still be Emily Dickinson? She doesn’t know. The Spirit lasts—but in what mode?
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes—
Apart, it never talks—
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone—is not a Tune—
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That makes the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
The body is not the spirit but is like the violin, something the spirit plays upon. The spirit is like the tide that stirs the sea, and yet, she asks (and has asked before), what is the spirit without the body? What would either be without the other? What point is there to awareness—to consciousness and identity—if it is not experienced in the body?
Does that know—now—or does it cease—
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply,
Adversity if it may be, or wild Prosperity,
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognosticator's Push
Could make a Dent thereon—
Is the answer in resurrection? Are the body and soul of every future one meant to be reunited at a mutual date? The Deity’s realm is infinite. Still, her instinctive desire to know, asks “the Adamant”—an impossible and unyielding refusal to answer. Yet the reply will come and it will be exacting. The day of her death may be fair or stormy —if it may be— but Rumor’s Gate, which remained shut tight to her (not even the prognosticator could crack that gate) opened on the day of Dickinson’s death—and she finally received the answer she’d spent a lifetime yearning for.
For Austin and Susan Dickinson’s sake, she wrote a little poem of comfort, knowing that there’s a place for Heaven in the grieving heart.
Immured in Heaven!
What a Cell!
Let every Bondage be,
Thou sweetest of the Universe,
Like that which ravished thee!
upinVermont | June 19th 2024
PoemShape 
I know that you are not going to listen, and you will argue with me, but you need to get all this Dickinson stuff you are writing in a book. Your analysis is intellectual and well-informed, but also accessible. It works on a lot of levels. It would make a great textbook if someone were lucky enough to be able to do a seminar on Dickinson.
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Well, when you start out like that (as you well know) then I’m forced not to argue with you, lest I prove you correct. On the 4th grade playground that is my blog, you have called my dog lazy and my cat a skunk. If I were to try to publish these, I would be pilloried for the way I’ve mouthed off to Helen Vendler. Now that she has joined Emily Dikinson for tea, my missives would be read as all the more conceited and presumptuous. I’m a nobody until I’m published, then axes will be ground. The Shakespeare scholar George T. Wright once read my criticism and said that I had reinvented the form. What he meant, I’m guessing(?), was that I bounced my ideas (in agreement or disagreement) explicitly off other scholars, and included their work in my own (I think I fall under fair use as far as that goes). But that seems to be a Rubicon where officially published criticism treads very lightly (probably so that fights aren’t picked—but I pick a lot of fights in my criticism and analyses). I would also have to, probably, obtain permission to use some of my material. For instance: Through clever Google searches, I was able to reconstruct Frost’s earlier version of Nothing Gold Can Stay. As far as I know, that’s not in the public domain, but since I’m a nobody blogger, the Frost estate hasn’t sued me or sent me a cease and desist letter. Publishing these wouldn’t simply be a matter of sending a PDF to LULU. There are illustrations and extracts in my posts that would probably need legal clearance. There are lawyerly “fair use” questions. Apart from the Frost (which might be fair use), I’ve made an effort to keep everything above board and to carefully cite and acknowledge all my sources. I wonder how willingly a publisher would want to take on a project like this for a blogger? For a niche audience? As far as name recognition goes, I’m no Helen Vendler.
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Honestly, I don’t know anything about your dog and cat. My dog is lazy, and all of my cats have gone to the great litterbox in the sky, and I seek no replacements (as you know I have rescued plenty dumped at the park). However, while I cannot argue with any of the things that you say about being pilloried, obtaining permission, and such, I believe that you could find a publisher willing to take a shot. I believe, absolutely, that you would be taken to task by the establishment. That is one of the things that makes what you do so cool. It is not like the other stuff that is out there. I will admit that much of the stuff on your blog goes wwaaayyy over the head of the average reader. Some posts are downright arcane. Sometimes, you remind me of Dr. Justin Sledge of Esoterica on Youtube. Check him out if you want to watch some interesting niche subject material. But there are a lot of average readers still interested in Emily Dickinson, and your blog posts on her poems have all been accessible on several levels. Once people “found” you I think they would stay interested in what you have to say. Just some personal advice, quit listening to the sophisticate and pedants (Actually, that is Ursula LeGuin’s advice, not mine.). They all have an agenda. This is good stuff. I have no agenda. I have taught now for 21 years, and this is the type of stuff that can keep my very disinterested (in literature at least) students awake. Or don’t…I am suddenly aware that I sound like a bossy britches. I am not one of those either :)
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Ha! That was almost literally my thought as I was reading. I’d like to see this in a book and, as you mentioned, use it as a textbook. I know *I’d* use it for teaching.
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You have done a wonderful deep dive into context here, something I’ve not yet ever attempted… but which clearly can be clarifying. Very interesting, the connection of these poems with the deaths of real people. As you say, her message is not really one of “condolence” at all, and the reiteration of it makes me wonder if she felt that people actively expected her to gift them with her unique insight– repeating these lines not because they offer any unique insight but precisely because they do not. That her point is: “Don’t ask me about what Death “means”, I have no unique knowledge.”
I read these lines as meaning that it is impossible to know whether death comes ultimately in the guise of a boon or curse to the dying person. Having watched my father die, I can argue that in the flesh, it appears to be both/neither. Unknowable.
The article you linked to last poem’s comment thread, —surmising that Dickinson wrote many of her poems to be read by a particular circle of people, who may have shared her spiritual views to some extent, even her distrust of the Christian dogma offered in the church down the road–leads me to the question of whether she was then considered by this “circle” as something of a repository of spiritual wisdom? I’m thinking now of Marilynne Robinson, whose books reveal her avid interest in scripture, who is constantly being asked about spiritual matters and is very quick in interviews to distance herself from a lot of conventional church teaching in favour of fascinating idiosyncratic interpretations of her own. Certainly Dickinson plays this role time and time again, rethinking conventional Christian ideas in new ways…And presumably, her circle, insofar as it existed, would have understood and looked up to her and expected her to play this role for them.
Yet in this case, I’m imagining that her reiterated denial of privileged knowledge might have been her drawing up and saying to them: “No, as far as the mystery of death goes, I can offer no “interpretation”….
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//The article you linked to last poem’s comment thread, —surmising that Dickinson wrote many of her poems to be read by a particular circle of people, who may have shared her spiritual views to some extent, even her distrust of the Christian dogma offered in the church down the road–leads me to the question of whether she was then considered by this “circle” as something of a repository of spiritual wisdom? //
I haven’t yet read anything suggesting that she was considered “a repository of spiritual wisdom” by anyone in her circle. I doubt it? Sending condolences was simply what one did (and still does). Being reclusive as she was, letters seemed to take the place of normal conversation. (I read that she was called “the myth” by the Amherst citizenry aware of her existence; and that might not have been a compliment). It just so happened that Dickinson included poetry in her letter writing.
It’s an odd thing, when you think about it. In a certain light, sending her poems in the mix of correspondence was her way of “publishing” her poems. She really did want her poems to be read. She really did want her poems to be part of the conversation. Yet one does, maybe, have to ask whether it was a little tasteless(?) for ED to be sending along her (indirectly related) poetry in a letter of condolence (in which she throws up her hands and says—Yeah, I have no idea). Then again, her poetry was such a part of her correspondence that no one, possibly, gave it a second thought. I don’t know. I do find it somewhat suggestive that she felt compelled(?) to write that little five line poem reassuring her brother and sister-in-law that their child was in Heaven—a sentiment running utterly counter to the other poems she sent.
If I had to guess, I would suspect that her family, even those closest, were less familiar with her poetry than you or me. ED was hardly the first woman to lead a reclusive life (her mother and grandmother were both recluses, so I’ve recently read) and so they probably thought of her as the reclusive and peculiar sister, Aunt, relative who writes peculiar verse. They had their own lives to lead—which they probably found more interesting than Emily.
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And yet, there is that aura around her!– the myth– the stories about Mabel Loomis Todd dying to meet her, corresponding, but being denied the privilege of ever coming face to face– was it Mabel that Emily came halfway down the stairs to hear sing from around the corner, or another potential admirer?
No matter: it is like a story from Emily Bronte. People are always going to be fascinated by a half-mad recluse, and if she is a poet, her “circle” such as it is, of inner people, people she admits into even such a relationship as correspondance offers, are going to feel the privilege of being an exception to her normal rule. My intuition is that it is very plausible and possible that she was considered something of a mystic by her correspondants.
And there were all those burned letters! How many? From whom? The surviving letters from her were not in her possession, one can only surmise how many letters she received… and wrote. I can’t imagine that a letter from her was a single thing– there must have been letters in a variety of tones and we may never have found more than a handful of the truly revealing ones. Did she write letters of condolence to people she had never laid eyes on? Or are all these deaths within the group of people she would accept coming face to face with? If she really knew the people she was writing to, they must have felt the “honour” of it in some way, don’t you think?
I find it plausible to imagine that she may have had a certain circle who felt privileged to have been chosen by such a choosy woman, even as they considered her an oddity. And is this not the very recipe for looking to someone for special insight?Whether a prophet is a prophet or a raving madman is often purely a matter of taste (Much Madness is Divinest Sense)….
,
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Oh my. You’ve developed quite the crush on Ms. Dickinson! :)
It’s true that Mabel Loomis Todd was dying to meet her, and Sewall asserts that she was one of only two individuals who arguably recognized Emily’s poetic genius in her lifetime. Todd was an amazing person (she traveled the world and, I think, spoke other languages) and you would think that she and Emily would have instantly struck up a relationship, especially because Todd also shared Dickinson’s attitude toward “the church” and the narrow hypocrisies emanating from there, but they didn’t. Dickinson never really responded to Todd’s entreaties. By that point, though, she had almost entirely retired from human site, let alone, touch.
“I must tell you about a character of Amherst. It is a lady whom the people call the Myth. She is a sister of Mr. Dickinson, & seems to be the climax of all the family oddity. She has not been outside of her own house in fift5een years, except once to see a new church, when she crept out at night, & viewed it my moonlight. No one who calls upon her mother & sister ever see her, but she allows little children once in a great while, & one at a time, to come in, when she gives them cake or candy, or some nicety, for she is very fond of little ones. But more often she lets down the sweatmeat by a string, out of a window, to them. She dresses wholly in white, * her mind is said to be perfectly wonderful. She writes finely, but no one ever sees her. Her sister, who was at Mrs. Dickinson’s party, invited me to come & sing to her mother some time and I promised to go & if the performance pleases her, a servant will enter with wine for me, or a flower, & perhaps her thanks; but just probably the token of approval will not come then, but a few days after, some dainty present will appear for at twilight. People tell that the myth will hear every note—she will be near, but unseen… Isn’t that like a book? So interesting.” [Sewall 198-199]
Reminds me a little of you. =)
She writes later, a further fascinating account:
“I was odd to think, as my voice ran out through the big silent house that Miss Emily in her weird white dress was outside in the shadow hearing every words, & the mother, bed-ridden for years was listening up stairs. When I stopped Emily sent me in a glass of rich sherry & a poem written as I sang. I know I shall yet see her. No one has seen her in all these years except her own family. She is very brilliant and strong, but became disgusted with society & declared she would leave it when she was quite young.”
The poem Emily wrote for Mabel:
Elysium is as far as to
The very nearest Room
If in that Room a Friend await
Felicity or Doom—
What fortitude the Soul contains,
That it can so endure
The accent of a coming Foot—
The opening of a Door—
How many people can say that Emily Dickinson wrote a poem just to them! I think it’s Sewall or another biographer who suggests that Dickinson didn’t think much of Todd’s forwardness (or efforts to make of herself a member of the Dickinsons) but I don’t know on what basis he concludes that. ED wrote her a poem and sent her a sherry! The other thing I find odd is the catty attitude of biographers toward Mabel Todd—Sewall very much included (who calls her letter gossipy) but in truth all she’s doing is no different than what biographers are doing!
//I can’t imagine that a letter from her was a single thing– there must have been letters in a variety of tones and we may never have found more than a handful of the truly revealing ones. //
I agree.
//Did she write letters of condolence to people she had never laid eyes on?//
I haven’t yet read anything to that effect. In fact, Sewall comments that Emily only made one visit to her bereaved brother and sister-in-law upon the death of their child.
//If she really knew the people she was writing to, they must have felt the “honour” of it in some way, don’t you think? I find it plausible to imagine that she may have had a certain circle who felt privileged to have been chosen by such a choosy woman, even as they considered her an oddity.//
Okay. Have a seat.
Now you’ve hit close to home. :) Have you ever seen the show Dickinson? It’s a somewhat tongue-cheek (but good) show about Emily Dickinson on Apple TV. All that Emily wants to do is write poetry and to be a great poet.
Well, that’s me. That show is literally about me. When I was in college I remember having a conversation with a fellow writer of poetry. We were talking about our ambitions. He said his goal was to be a respected university professor. ‘That’s all?’ I said, “I want to be a great poet—one of the greats of the English language.” I literally said that.
I remember thinking: What’s the point of writing poetry if you don’t want to write great poetry? Just the way I’m made, I guess.
I used to dream of being famous enough that people would want to stop by my house just to talk to me. In some ways that dream has come true. In a sense, my blog is my house, and here you are.
And you know what? I am a great poet and have written some poems what will be counted among the greatest written. I’m 58 now and I don’t have to care what people think when I write that. And here’s the thing, I write a poem, my letter to the world, and the crickets sing. So when I read Dickinson’s poetry, when I read about her life, I read about a kindred spirit. As far as I know, nobody feels like it’s an honor when I write to them in the comment sections. I’d be embarrassed if they said they did (contrary to my self-appraisal.) I don’t think anybody who has subscribed to my blog (almost a thousand now) feel like they’re part of a privileged circle. So, in answer to your question—No. No. I do not think anybody truly realized who they were corresponding with. We look back at figures like Bach, Mozart, Shakespeare, Austen, Dickinson, or Keats and we wonder how people in their own day didn’t recognize them for what they were, but they were just one among many writing, composing, creating art.
According to what I’ve read, Austin, ED’s brother, had some ambition to be a writer. He never was. He seemed to consider ED’s poetry eccentric at best and was surprised (if not taken aback) by her posthumous fame. Probably most, if not all, who knew her and lived to see the popularity and reappraisal of her works, were surprised. There is no record that anyone (apart from two unrelated women—one of whom was Todd) considered her to be anything other than a tolerable amateur. When Dickinson writes to Higginson “Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive?” one can nearly sense Emily’s desperate desire for something she wasn’t getting from anyone else.
Then as now, poetry is, for most people, just lineated prose that they like or don’t like.
Dickinson’s poetry was largely, if not wholly, beyond the capacity of her friends and family to appraise. She was just Emily—Emily who included eccentric verses in her letters, verses that didn’t properly rhyme and whose meter was uneven. Poor dear. It’s no wonder she hasn’t been published and probably never will be. Why must she isolate herself the way she does? I must tell her about the McFaddens up from Boston just today—how fashionably they were dressed! How sad that she never married.
If Dickinson were around today, posting on a blog in the sanctity of her room, would she be any more recognized?
In my experience?
No.
:)
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What a wonderful reply, and sorry it’s taken me some days to respond, I’ve been bedridden, knocked out by bronquitis.
Okay, yes, I’m going to agree that your last paragraphs have to be contended with. The way art works, the pattern is too clear. Bach is respected in his day… but only just. He’s also criticised for being out of touch with the times and not subservient enough to authority, too prone to lose his temper, etc. And we’re talking Bach, for goodness sake.
Then there is Christ. No matter what you think of Christianity, Christ must have been an impressive character. How many people recognised it? A handful of fishermen, and then, too dangerous, let’s get rid of the troublemaker.
Socrates, Van Gogh, Mahler, any number of brilliant women, including of course Emily… and the list goes on and on. We are, apparently, woefully underprepared for recognising brilliance in our midst, blinded as we are at any moment by the cultural imperitives that are holding power at any particular time.
So I suppose, despite my crush on Ms Dickinson, I have to begrudgingly admit you’re probably right about how much interest her writing elicited in general terms. Does it then follow that we must posit that there were countless more variations on Emily Dickinson who never found their Mabel Loomis Todd and Higginson to work in their own flawed ways for posthumous recognition?
This this the current belief re female composers, and there are any number of people scouring the archives for music that is brilliant with the only flaw of having been written by a woman. I’d love it to be true– and while there is plenty of OK music that has been rediscovered, and I could make a case for unequal allotment of fame to say a Gabriel Fauré, as opposed to some of his female contemporaries, if there was a female Bach, Mozart, Haydn, Handel, Vivaldi, Beethoven, Mahler etc out there, I think we’d know about it already.
Talent isn’t enough–one has to be in a position to develop it. Bach and Mozart are who they are also because of accidents of birth, time, place, family, education…Virginia Woolf nails it, for me, in A Room of her Own.
The tragedy you and others must contend with is that art, in our current age, is winner take all. Bach could still develop his talents, he earned his living as a professional musician all his life…and well, if he was half-ignored, half-taken for granted in his lifetime, he nevertheless could devote himself to developing his talent and created such a substantial body of work that even some of his contemporaries couldn’t fail to notice he was special. He didn’t HAVE to be famous to make ends meet, living the life he was destined for.
But then you have my brother, a very gifted visual artist who couldn’t stand the currents of the age, was crap at cosying up to galleries, etc, and chucked the whole business of trying to make his way in the art world as a lost cause early on, hoping his unique talent would be recognised– which it was, in the limited way you talk about. Much more limited actually than your 1000 blog followers, (who think you quite brilliant–nice I do get that it doesn’t pay the mortgage.) He had the idea he could “do it on the side”, but 20 years later he’s morphed into a market gardener, he works very hard, does wonderful things, keeps his kids provided for– but has NO extra energy for more than the odd wonderful birthday card. Shit happens. A Room of her Own. It’s what almost always happened to women until about 5 minutes ago.
So I get the frustration– and Emily would, no doubt have been sent out as a governess if her family had been worse off, and at best may have written the odd poem for a birthday card, and not developed her talent to the extent she was able, and that would have been tragic for the world.
But– and this is my but. She did have a Higginson and a Mabel Loomis Todd, and where there are a couple, there is potential for many. I know my brother’s worth, as does a select group of people who happened to get the know him –and yours– and would like to live in a society that didn’t select for those who were aces at selling rather than doing.
Fame, perhaps has always been a highly unreliable indicator of merit. But where there is any recognition that comes through the vehicle of random people, one has at least the consolation of knowing that this is as good as it gets. A million readers is just a thousand readers scaled up. The real challenge is in attracting the first 10…
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Your reply is wonderful as well. :)
The way immensely talented women (let alone women in general) were treated historically does make me angry; and yet there’s been some debate as to how accurate those portraits are(to the effect that some of the oppression has been exaggerated in the name of feminist dogma). Among composing women, the specific example would be Fanny Mendelssohn. She has historically been a flashpoint of feminist ire, and Felix Mendelssohn has been pilloried for having done (according to them) little to nothing that might have abetted her career. The latest scholarship, however, argues that Fanny absolutely had a room of her own and that Felix, while he didn’t actively promote her (being self-absorbed) loved her and didn’t discourage her either, and that Fanny’s less ambitious career was of her own choosing. Fanny’s husband, contrary to some stories, actively encouraged her to compose, delighted in her compositions, and bought her manuscript paper so that she could compose whenever she wanted, but Fanny’s ambition wasn’t to be recognized composer. And don’t forget that she was trained by her family and could write a piano trio as fine as Felix’s. Also, when Felix met Queen Victoria, the Queen delightedly shared which of Felix’s songs were her favorite. To Felix’s amusement, they were all by Fanny. Also, there quite a few outstanding women baroque composers who were, in my opinion, better composers than some of their male counterparts. If you have spotify, you can listen to a playlist I made, featuring baroque women composers.
But I’m glad you’re up and feeling better? You’ll have to tell me which of Dickinson’s poems you would like me read next.
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:)
652: A Prison gets to be a friend– Read this for the first time the other day and it hit me like a slap…
“The slow exchange of Hope–
For something passiver–Content”
I think I’ve been preaching this as one of the benefits of being over the hill. Passiver. The relief of getting rid of something. Being a grandmother has me cultivating Content, and getting Passiver about… well, whatever variety of ambition I’ve had and compromised on. As I think women are more prone to do, (ie Fanny Mendelssohn), because… Well, maybe there is no creative act quite as amazing as making and raising a child. Don’t tell the girl-boss feminists.
First time around, though, one suffers, a lot. Only as a grandmother can one truly enjoy it, because discontent has been beaten out of one. One is passiver. We women have all learnt to want to do two things at once–and no, I’m not harking back to the bad old days, U wouldn’t have it any other way. But it’s all renunciation: the lesson is that yes, you can do both, but your family won’t be 6 children and preserves in the cupboard, rather a mediocre two kid family… And your career will be–maximum! — that good university position your youthful self was horrified at as a life aim. There is no escape.
And I’m not sure how the poem is intended: is she looking at me, horrified in my prison, with my Content? Or does she share it. Will love to hear your take…
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Also… All her “snark”, as you put it– there is an audience implied there, don’t you think? Other people in the know, a select group who will get the joke…. Though I agree with you about her ultimately desiring anonymous readers, knowing that they were out there somewhere.
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I can think of three women who recognized Dickinson’s poetic value, even if they maybe didn’t fully understand her art: Mable Loomis Todd, Helen Hunt Jackson, and Susan Gilbert Dickinson. Did Sewell discount one? Poor Todd gets a lot of flack for the revisions in those early editions (my guess is the regularizing of the verse helped ED get a foothold of readership none-the-less) and for the (literal) erasure of SGD.
But the points in the above discussion are all valid regarding artists and careers. A maxim I keep returning to in my Parlando Project is “All Artists Fail” — corollary: most artists fail most of the time, very good artists some of the time, and even the greatest and most admired have limits in how much we understand them and their work entirely. That Dickinson’s work survived, was published, found an audience, and most amazingly found a later much more careful and examining audience such as we find here is a rare chance.
For some artists, this slim chance is a solace at times, since most loose, losing isn’t so hard to take, risks are what the hell.
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