Emily Dickinson, The Wicked Queen of Snark

I was thinking about how often I read Dickinson’s poems as hot-blooded and sarcastic. The respectable term ‘Irony’ is applied to her poetry, but that strikes me as a high brow euphemism. Hers is not a coiffed literary irony. Hers is the raw snark of a modern troll—a sarcasm meant to bait and mock. I’m not a feminist scholar or critic, but it would seem to me that this would be fertile ground. What better way for a woman, isolated and hemmed in by societal expectations, to speak truth to power? I won’t be that critic, because I don’t have the background, but there’s a graduate thesis, if not a book, waiting to be written. I can’t think of any other female poet who compares to Dickinson until, possibly, Dorothy Parker (who generally treats sarcasm as a display of wit) rather than the often furious, despondent, and scathing sarcasm of Dickinson.

An example of one of our most renowned close-readers who seems to entirely miss Dickinson’s sarcasm, again and again, would be Helen Vendler. I have to stress my gratitude for Vendler’s writings on Dickinson, but I do think she treats Dickinson too much like just another very serious poet. When John Milton, as a young man, professed his poetic ambitions, he was thinking of Paradise Lost—a very serious epic without a shred of sarcasm. Keats would go on and on about poets’ laurels and would write the Odes and Hyperion—and there is not a shred of snark in those. Emily Brontë, who Dickinson read and favored, never once let her poet’s mask fall, but adopts the elevated, lofty and literary distancing of her peers. Christina Rossetti was sometimes so elevated as to be insufferable. In a fit of righteous pique, she figuratively sent her brother and his “merry lovers” straight to the bottom of the sea. Walt Whitman? Sarcasm? You jest. The only contemporary poet, to my knowledge, who compares to Dickinson in his unembarrassed sarcasm would be George Gordon Lord Byron. Consider Byron’s skewering of Wordsworth:

  What! can I prove "a lion" then no more?
    A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling?
  To bear the compliments of many a bore,
    And sigh, "I can't get out," like Yorick's starling;
  Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore
    (Because the world won't read him, always snarling),
  That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery,
  Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.

Or, earlier on:

  Don Jòse and the Donna Inez led
    For some time an unhappy sort of life,
  Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead...

Which leads to Byron's beautifully snarky comments on the noble and admirable equanimity with which Donna Inez (and Spartan wives) suffer and suffered the agonies and deaths of their husbands:

  And then this best and weakest woman bore
    With such serenity her husband's woes,
  Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore,
    Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose
  Never to say a word about them more—
    Calmly she heard such calumny that rose,
  And saw his agonies with such sublimity,
  That all the world exclaim'd, "What magnanimity!"

Of lordly and aristocratic accomplishments:

  Then for accomplishments in chivalry,
    In case our lord the king should go to war again,
  He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
  And how to scale a fortress — or nunnery.

Or

  Sermons he read, and lectures he endured,
    And homilies, and lives of all the saints;
  To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured,
    He did not take such studies for restraints;
  But how faith is acquired, and then ensured,
    So well not one of the aforesaid paints
  As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions,
  Which makes the reader envy his transgressions. 

Dickinson’s snark isn’t as urbane. Byron was an aristocrat, a Lord, and while he left England in disgust, subjected to the proto gossip columnists of the 19th century, he could nevertheless afford to leave. Not Dickinson. Hers is the snark of the caged starling. Unlike Byron, who filters his mockery and sarcasm through the conventional literary mask of Don Juan’s narrator, Dickinson speaks with the necessity of directness, less urbane humor than a biting cry to be heard. It’s what makes Dickinson feel so much more modern than her peers—to me.

My first example of this would be a poem I’ve already discussed here, I never saw a Moor.

  I never saw a moor;
    I never saw the sea —
  Yet know I how the Heather looks
    And what a Billow be.

   I never spoke with God,
    Nor visited in Heaven.
  Yet certain am I of the spot
    As if the Checks were given —

As I wrote in my prior post, I read this little hymn as dripping with snark. It’s possible to read this as a piously conventional Victorian poem affirming Christian faith, but as I wrote previously, one must (in my view) ignore the obviously mocking colloquialism (even in her day) of “Yet certain am I of the spot…” Yes, Emily knows just where to go if you want to speak with God and visit Heaven. Yesireebob. There’s a “spot” alright, otherwise known as a plot—as in a plot in a graveyard (if we’re spelling this out). Dickinson will suffer none of that happy talk about some insubstantial and eternal paradise. It’s a spot. Checks are always available! Enjoy your trip.

The earnestly pious, Victorian Christian poet does not describe God in Heaven as, wait for it, a spot.

Another poem dripping with snark would be the recently discussed ‘Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —.

  'Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —
  So over Horror, it half Captivates —
  The Soul stares after it, secure —
  A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —

  To scan a Ghost, is faint —
  But grappling, conquers it —
  How easy, Torment, now —
  Suspense kept sawing so —

  The Truth, is Bald, and Cold —
  But that will hold —
  If any are not sure —
  We show them — prayer —
  But we, who know,
  Stop hoping, now —

  Looking at Death, is Dying —
  Just let go the Breath —
  And not the pillow at your Cheek
  So Slumbereth —  

  Others, Can wrestle —
  Yours, is done —
  And so of Woe, bleak dreaded — come,
  It sets the Fright at liberty —
  And Terror's free —
  Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

The entirety of the poem concerns the joy and liberation of death! Once you’re dead, no need to fear the cold! As Emily says, the “Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —”. Yay? Once you’ve turned into a ghost. Voila! No need to fear ghosts anymore! “To scan a Ghost, is [makes one] faint —” she writes, “But grappling [becoming a ghost], conquers it [that fear]—” Aside: I should think. Let others “wrestle [with their fear of death]/Yours, is done”. Death liberates you from Fright! Death frees you from Terror! And then, all but writing “/s”, she concludes, “Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!” 🥳 Whoopee! 🎉 I haven’t read all of world literature before she wrote that line but, arguably, in the entirety of the English canon, there’s nothing quite so transparently snarky. Do please correct me if I’m wrong.

For a third example, I thought I’d turn to some pages at random, lest I be accused of cherry-picking.

  Take your Heaven further on—
  This—to Heaven divine Has gone—
  Had You earlier blundered in
  Possibly, e'en You had seen
  An Eternity—put on—
  Now—to ring a Door beyond
  Is the utmost of Your Hand—
  To the Skies—apologize—
  Nearer to Your Courtesies
  Than this Sufferer polite—
  Dressed to meet You—
  See—in White!

And I landed on this. It’s—pure, undiluted snark. That doesn’t stop the website All Poetry from treating the poem as an earnest meditation on the afterlife. They write, “This poem explores themes of loss, grief, and the nature of heaven.” The analysis goes on to write, “The use of religious imagery and language suggests the speaker’s struggle to come to terms with the idea of an afterlife. The poem’s concise and direct language emphasizes the speaker’s sense of loss and pain.” Really? The analysis, like so many, casts Dickinson as the victim of life and circumstances—a woman of endless loss and pain. As with so many interpretations, we walk away thinking to ourselves — Poor Emily.

I read this poem — very differently.

The poem expresses Dickinson’s sly power and refusal to be a victim. The final line, like the final line in ‘Tis so appalling — it exhilarates — all but drips with snark. As I read it, her poem is like a missive to a suitor who missed his chance.

  Take your Heaven further on— 
[Take your propositioning, promises of love, elsewhere] 
  This—to Heaven divine Has gone—
["Heaven divine" could be poetry or the gratitude of her own company]
  Had You earlier blundered in
[If you'd had the wits to strike when the iron was hot]
  Possibly, e'en You [even a fool like you] had seen
  An Eternity [my erstwhile affections for you]—put on—
  Now—to ring a Door beyond
  Is the utmost of Your Hand—
[Now, you'll have better luck at the next house]
  To the Skies—apologize—
[Apologize to God in Heaven for all I care]
  Nearer to Your Courtesies
  Than this Sufferer polite—
 [You'll have better luck there than with me]
  Dressed to meet You—
  See—in White!

  [FR672/J388]

And then that killer pun in the final line: White is the color of the virgin and of the bride. Look what you could have had, she says, with all the hot-blooded venom of a scorpion. (Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.) I was dressed for your company—in the white of a virgin and bride but, I have news for you, White(!) is also the color of death, my dear, of the burial shroud. In other words, your chances with me are dead, dead, dead. I’m dressed to meet you, not like a virgin, but like a corpse! Exclamation point.

This is not the poetry of a victim.

Sewall is the first biographer credited with freeing Dickinson from the perception that she was a hapless and delicate violet trapped in her room like a forlorn Rapunzel. When I read so many interpretations of Dickinson’s poetry that nevertheless portray her as an earnest, perturbed and death-obsessed damsel, I have to wonder whether critical readers have caught up?

Of course, I could be completely wrong with my interpretations. You decide.

Higginson called his meeting with Dickinson—intense. I think these poems give some clue as to why he would write that.

up in Vermont | March 3 2024

Dickinson’s Atheism | Vendler & Me on Poems FR341/J372 & FR800/J855

I read a poem a night from Vendler’s Dickinson: Selected Poems and Commentaries. Though I pick some bones with her interpretations, they are few and it’s worth reiterating that I love her book. I would recommend it to all readers of Dickinson. In poem 341 one finds, perhaps, the most explicit declaration, by Dickinson, of atheism (presumably her own). It’s hard to read it any other way. With that in mind, and thinking of objections to that: One might firstly assert that Dickinson is assuming a persona in her poems (a persona not representative of her own beliefs) but as a subjective matter, I personally don’t get that sense from her poetry (and I’m not even sure it occurred to her). Briefly researching the question reinforces the notion that Dickinson’s poetry is her conversation with the world as Dickinson.

The second objection is to ask how anyone, who’s poetry so often references Christian symbolism, theology and dogma, could be an atheist. The simple answer is that this was, in effect, the cultural, religious and linguistic milieu/lexicon in which she was raised. Up until the 20th century, poets spoke to their readers in the language, metaphors and archetypes their readers were familiar with. In other words, that Dickinson’s poetry is steeped in the Christian lexis isn’t necessarily a sign of faith or belief, but of a poet using a common language of symbol and metaphor to express ideas that might, in fact, undermine the very dogma that lexicon is drawn from.

The third objection is that Dickinson, like all the rest of us, was changeable and that her beliefs vary from poem to poem, and yet that’s what brings me to poem 800. 800 could easily be construed as evidence of this changeable Dickinson, and yet does it? First, here’s poem 341:

'Tis so appalling — it exhilarates —
So over Horror, it half Captivates —
The Soul stares after it, secure —
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more —

To scan a Ghost, is faint —
But grappling, conquers it —
How easy, Torment, now —
Suspense kept sawing so —

The Truth, is Bald, and Cold —
But that will hold —
If any are not sure —
We show them — prayer —
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now —

Looking at Death, is Dying —
Just let go the Breath —
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth —

Others, Can wrestle —
Yours, is done —
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded — come,
It sets the Fright at liberty —
And Terror's free —
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!

In brief, Dickinson begins by describing, in essence, the compulsion to look at what horrifies us (and her). She could be describing her own poetic career in these first lines. [Death] is so appalling that it exhilarates, so horrible that it captivates [her]. “The soul stares after it,” she writes, and by knowing the worst that will happen—it’s own death—all other “dreads” are made trivial. In the second quatrain she tells us that idly acknowledging it—”to scan a Ghost”—is idle fair, but to actually grapple with death, to write hundreds of poems poking at death’s hide, is torment but a cure for suspense. It’s the next six lines wherein Dickinson seems to declare her atheism. “The Truth, is Bald, and Cold,” she writes, capitalizing for emphasis (one assumes), but for those who “are not sure”—who can’t handle the truth—there’s the placebo prayer (which she doesn’t capitalize). But we know better, she writes, “we… stop hoping, now”.

Vendler misses or doesn’t comment on Dickinson’s wry [snarky?] humor when she writes, “Just let go the Breath—/And not the pillow at your cheek/So slumbereth—” In other words, just let go and not even the pillow will sleep as deathly a sleep. The pillow will have more life in it, than you. You are dead, deaḑ, dead. Full stop.

But wait, there’s more.

The last lines are giddy with black humor. Let others wrestle with thoughts of death, yours is done, along with “Wo”, sorrow, fear, or dread! “Come”, she writes, as though inviting you to a party in a parlor full of corpses. See? You’ve got nothing to be afraid of now! You’re dead! You’re another corpse! Set Terror free. “Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!” There’s almost a feeling of desperate madness in Dickinson’s black and bleak humor. Maybe you’re not dead after all! Or dead but conscious.

Here’s the thing, and this is true of all the poems I’ve read so far. Consciousness always survives death. Maybe not happily, maybe in abject terror, but Dickinson’s consciousness always seems aware of its own death. The thing about atheism is that it doesn’t preclude a belief in an “afterlife” (and, so far, Vendler hasn’t made that observation). Based on Dickinson’s dismissive attitude toward the simpletons who sit in church “praying”, it’s not unreasonable to conclude that she’s not a believer in the Abrahamic, male, authoritarian, God of Christianity, Judaism, Islam, etc., but that doesn’t mean she’s ceased believing in “a soul”. The “Soul”, capitalized, appears in the first lines of the poem.

Dickinson’s spirituality strikes me as being that of someone who has dispensed with notions of God, and of all the dogma, angels and pins, but who hasn’t dispensed with the notion of a soul, a consciousness that will survive death. What troubles Dickinson, in my view, is not death, but that she hasn’t found a satisfactory answer to what she will experience upon her death—and she seems horrified that she will experience something. And what will it be now that she’s dispensed with notions of a God and heaven? Often, it seems that the best she can come up with is a consciousness trapped, eternally, within the cold and black coffin’s case. It’s that that horrifies Dickinson, a variation on the fear that horrified many in her generation (and that led to bells being installed above coffins so that, should those within not really be dead, they could ring the bell and hope for rescue). They were called “saftey coffins“.

For an intellect like Dickinson’s, so sensitive, quick and perceptive, intensely curious and also cautious, to be trapped in an eternal, cold and claustrophobic darkness, sealing her off from all life’s wonder and pleasures, surely made her prefer a senseless oblivion (and one sometimes finds that slightly less horrific desire expressed—if indirectly). The horror of Dickinson’s poetry is not, in a sense, “death“, but the “Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!” that comes after death—when death no longer need be feared. What then? What’s an eternity of consciousness like?—locked in the coffin?

And that brings me to poem 800:

I never saw a moor;
I never saw the sea,
Yet know I how the heather looks
And what a billow be.

I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven.
Yet certain am I of the spot
As if the checks were given.

With poem 341 in mind, and despite Vendler normally being alert to Dickinson’s little blasphemies, I would argue that Vendler utterly and completely misses the tone of this poem. Vendler interprets the poem in a relatively anodyne way, as Dickinson trying to humanize “going to heaven” as something akin to buying “the checks”—the train tickets—necessary to ride the train. Vendler writes:

If [Dickinson] can imagine a Heaven that is only a few train-stops away, and think of God as a a next door neighbor, she can make these nouns at least familiar, if not visible. The Heaven of scriptural Revelation, with its jeweled décor, is not the Heaven she wants to visit here. In perceiving, and showing, how human beings tend to project Heaven as a version of their everyday lives of visiting, conversation, and travel, Dickinson raises an eyebrow at the palatial imaginings of the Book of Revelation [p. 344]

The problem with this interpretation is that it turns Dickinson’s poem into just another pious Victorian poem (despite Vendler’s weak assertion that this would have “raised eyebrows”). Dickinson meant more than to just raise eyebrows. If one accepts Vendler’s interpretation, then it follows that the “the spot” would be where you will find the good and moral Christian woman and “the Checks” would be her church attendance (among other items of good Christian behavior). Collect enough of those checks (make sure you tithe, ladies) and going to Heaven will be as easy as a ride on the train.

Does this begin to sound, perhaps, acerbic?Tart? Acidic?

That’s more like the Dickinson I would expect. When you think that Dickinson is extolling Christian faith, reconsider. The way I read the poem is utterly opposite to Vendler. Dickinson, with an acid wit, is ridiculing the notion of God and Heaven.

It works like this: She says she’s never seen the Moor, the Sea, Heather or the Billow, but she knows they exist. The difference here is that we all know this to be true because some among us have actually seen these things. The next quatrain drips with sarcasm. I can’t stress that enough. Oh! she says, there must be no difference between the Moore and God! It’s simply a matter of ignorance! Why, any fool knows where to find God. I know just the spot! See? It’s right here on the travel brochure. It’s simply a matter of buying some train tickets, and the next thing you know we’ll be in the presence of God and standing on the heaths of heaven.

La!

I think, in this case, Vendler misses the sarcastic absurdity of Dickinson’s poem. And I’m really of the mind that Dickinson was responding to an actual comment, conversation, or sermon. One could just imagine some fool of a vicar scoffing at the notion that just because you haven’t seen God doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Have you seen a Moor? Have you seen the Sea? Does it mean they don’t exist if you haven’t seen them? Would you say that heaven doesn’t exist because you’ve never walked on heather? (I think I may have actually heard a sermon like this once.)

Dickinson has an answer for that. Why, if that’s all there is to it, let’s go buy some tickets. To where? Dickinson knows the spot. It’s a spot. Not an infinite Heaven, not a paradise, but a spot; or, as others might call it—a plot, like a plot in the graveyard let’s say.

Up in Vermont | October 6 2023