by Benjamin Harrison
The end is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn. - T.S. Eliot
I. The Myth vs. The Woman
Emily Dickinson exhibited a reverence for words, which was completely unorthodox for the mid-nineteenth century American woman. Her meticulous craftsmanship and the sheer pathos her words evoked doomed her to obscurity in her own lifetime, but left an indelible impression on future generations of thinkers and writers. Her unorthodoxy downplays her innovation, and it is likely that the sense of isolation she discovered in this obscurity provided her with a tremendous amount of creative inertia. While it is certainly true that her isolation was primarily self-imposed, her existential musings are not that of a lonely spinster whose eyes shone only for the feminine form, or whose closest companion was the consumption that held her hand as she calmly shuffled off this mortal coil. Her exile was rather that of an artistic seraphim, locked up in an ivory tower, with not only the world, but herself and her intentions, underneath her microscopic mind.
Dickinson was an artist who wore the mask of the poet. Throughout the years, many have found the skeletons, which she dug up to be quite unsettling. They even go so far as to boldly assert that her morbid fascination with death only served to strengthen a nihilistic outlook on life. However, on close examination her work is superficially pessimistic, but her meaning (the fruit of the labors that her words convey) is optimistic. A glance at Albert Schweitzer reveals a weathered brow teaming with manic depression. It tells nothing of the altruism located deep underneath the surface. Likewise, Dickinson’s focus on death reveals nothing of her passion for life, nor for the intrinsic beauty she discovered as her words cut human nature at its seams. To understand her complex work, we must first understand the complexity inherent in the artist herself.
II. What is an Artist?
What is an artist? An artist is a deeply moved person who conceals the most profound anguish in their heart, but whose mouth is formed in such a way that even as they cry out to the world, it sounds like a beautiful voice; whose hands are formed so that as they construct their wall of defenses, it sounds like beautiful music; whose words are formed, so that the river of suffering flowing out of their soul carries with it an antagonist, protagonist, and theme that makes ideal company for one curled up in front of the fireplace after a long day at work; whose brush is formed so that as they use it to beat off everything obscene, galaxies are created and captured on canvas.
An artist may seem like the most melancholy of all people, however, this seeming melancholia isn’t without benefit: only the most tortured of all souls can find the true beauty in the world; they’re the only ones that have the drive, fueled by desire, to capture beauty for all others to enjoy.
Dickinson’s desire was her curiosity about the antithesis (and climax) of life: death.
III. Death, the most Unknowable Unknown
Dickinson realized that she could not transcend death, view it from the top of her ivory tower while taking notes, and then provide the remainder of us with a detailed account of the other side. What she did was ask questions. These questions attempted to unravel human suffering, justice, morality and divinity. She did this not to wallow in anguish and uncertainty, but to try and understand precisely why things are as they are; why we are the way that we are.
She writes, “Death sets a Thing significant.” This opening line to one of her poems reveals much about why she focused intently on death, or did she? The focus is not directly on death, but on the contrast that death provides to life (a theme which she carries through many of her poems). Life is insignificant without death; the threat of death is in and of itself justification for living. She continues,
“The Eye had hurried by Except a perished Creature Entreat us tenderly”
What can a perished creature teach us? It teaches us about life through its own death. It projects the lamp of reason inward, illuminating our own mortality and ‘grounding’ us in reality. That’s what Dickinson sought when she created the perished creature. As was her work, the creature is very dualistic in nature. For example, a tombstone not only serves as a reminder of a departed loved one, it reminds us of just how alive we actually are. That does have a hint of optimism in it, doesn’t it?
Death is only gloomy and foreboding if one believes that it is the end of the self. Dickinson did not view death in this manner. At first glance, it would appear that she viewed death as a form of release from the suffering of life. However, she doesn’t lay claim to the notion that death is better than life, or to the notion of an eternity in perpetual bliss (i.e., the idea of Heaven). In poem 370, she writes:
“Heaven is so far of the Mind That were the Mind dissolved-The Site-of it-by ArchitectCould not again be proved-‘Tis vast-as our Capacity-As fair-as our idea-To Him of adequate desireNo further ‘tis, than Here”
She asserts that Heaven can be had right here on Earth, if one desires it enough. From this, it seems purely logical to conclude that the suffering inherent in life can, and shall, be counterbalanced with a mind desirous enough to ensnare Heaven, and thus, only the suffering part of life dies, but life itself does not end.
It would seem, that her view of death, actually (and consistently), is one that portrays it as an integral part of the cyclical order of nature; it is neither good nor bad, it is merely eventual.
“This World is not Conclusion.A Species stands beyond-Invisible, as Music-But positive, as Sound”
and
“Death is a Dialogue between The Spirit and the Dust.“Dissolve” says Death - The Spirit “SirI have another Trust”--Death doubts it -Argues from the Ground-The Spirit turns awayJust laying off for evidenceAn Overcoat of Clay.”
Her focus on death breathes life into it’s eventual nature, subtly reminding her audience that no single moment is trivial, and that this thing we call Life is a collection of moments. This further helps to explain her fascination with the moments between life and death. Why is this important to her? Quite possibly because it is the last moment that you will ever have to realize that you’ve actually lived, which may be the actual defining moment, and thus purpose, of your entire existence.
Why would Dickinson care about the realization of life if she didn’t care for life? Why bother to even elevate life to such an extent as to make it a worthy, ironic contrast to death? Why go through the mentally arduous effort of enigmatically scribbling the inner machinations of her mind, if it did nothing but extend her suffering, when death was an immediate friend, waiting in the lurches, to release her from life? The answer to these questions is deceptively simple: she embraced life through her intensive exploratory questioning of death; she searched the depths of her imagination and the human imagination, wading in the darkness until she found a spark, a single solitary spark, which when discovered set the intellect ablaze. This spark still burns, and will continue to do so, assisting us in piecing together, one by one, unanswered questions with unquestioned answers.