The Cheese
English 520
Dr. Esdale
December 13, 2006
Dickinson and Artistic Intent: The Question of Variant Poems
Emily Dickinson has, for many years, been a favorite of literary scholars and critics. When looking at the breadth of her work there seems a never ending variety of thematic topics to discuss or analyze. Coupled with the somewhat unusual facts surrounding her everyday life, Dickinson becomes an even more intriguing and enigmatic figure. One of the more unique aspects of her writing, though, is the fact that she often wrote multiple versions of her poems that included variations on certain words or phrases. Literary criticism being the endeavor it is, any critic armed with enough florid turns of phrase and logical acumen can extract near limitless readings from any manuscript of depth (be it poem, novel or short story). Add to that the fact that Dickinson was a writer who published almost no work during her life (and those few pieces that she did publish barely register as a spot on the totality of her collected work), and you have a writer who never created what the public might consider a codified “edition” of any single piece of her writing (let alone her entire canon). The floodgates, it would seem, are then left wide open as to how one might interpret any of the poems that include even a single variant, let alone those with multiple variant parts (and those with several options for each variant). It is not the focus of this paper to simply analyze some poems with variants, though that is, in many ways, an instructive exercise related to the matter at hand. The real question that is being approached here, rather, is just what was Dickinson doing by including these variants?
It is not an easily answered question. Or, one could easily answer it by asserting that Dickinson was merely using variants as a means by which to self-edit or improve those poems that included said variants. There is a tenet in scientific circles known as Occam’s Razor that states, essentially, all things being equal, the simplest solution is probably the best. In terms of Dickinson and her use of variants, this “self-edit” hypothesis would certainly fit the criteria of Occam’s Razor, for it does not require one to look extensively at the numerous variants, or postulate any hypothesis beyond what seems apparent in the manuscripts themselves. The problem with this hypothesis, though, is that we are not dealing with a scientific inquiry. This is not a question whose solution can be found in a lab. This is a problem that, at its core, revolves around a semi-reclusive woman who has been dead for 120 years and who, while alive, did not communicate even to close friends in a necessarily clear or straightforward manner. And so it seems disingenuous, both to the woman and her work, to simply write off the variants as mere acts of self-editing or drafting.
Let us begin by turning our attention to poem 1263, commonly known as “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.” The first two lines seem to relate a fairly straightforward (for Dickinson, at any rate) idea, “Tell all the truth but tell it slant - / Success in Circuit lies.” Essentially, then, it seems Dickinson is espousing a philosophy of tactful truthfulness. That is, that truth is important but it is best expressed in some manner other than complete candidness. The next two lines then appear to expand on this idea, “Too bright for our infirm Delight / The Truth's superb surprise.” Line three, however, contains the first of two variants within the poem. Instead of “infirm” Dickinson alternately allows “bold” to sit in its place. At first glance, it seems a trifling matter. The central point of the line would seem to be “our...Delight.” One might argue that changing the adjective describing the noun “Delight” is essentially making no real change, and this would not be an argument totally without merit. But the two adjectives that Dickinson uses here are so absolutely contradictory that to see them side by side strikes one as intriguing. The use of infirm implies that “our...Delight” is something weak, almost non-existent, that Truth will reveal to be hollow. Using the word bold instead, however, connotes that “our...Delight” is something strong, perhaps even fortified, that is destroyed (possibly violently) by Truth. Again, there are similarities in these two versions, as Truth seems to be serving in an instructive or clarifying manner in relation to Delight. But the way in which it acts in each, one illuminating and one annihilative, is very different.
The third set of two lines contains no variants, “As Lightning to the Children eased / With explanation kind,” and seems essentially straightforward. Then, however, in the final set of two lines the reader encounters the second and most important variant, “The Truth must dazzle gradually / Or every man be blind -” with “gradually” alternately replaced with the word “moderately.” Again it seems at first glance that these are similar ideas, simply separated by some order of degree. But close scrutiny reveals that these two word choices are, in fact, delivering two vastly different ideas.
In the first rendition we have “Truth must dazzle gradually.” While this, in some way, echoes the sentiment of the opening lines it also seems to imply that there is no stopping point. If Truth does dazzle “gradually,” regardless of how slow a pace it is revealed, Truth should, at some point, be completely disclosed. The use of “moderately,” however, seems to set a limit on the amount, rather than the speed, of Truth that people can handle. Moderately, we would most likely take as meaning “within a reasonable limit.” In this reading, then, it is not how quickly (or really, how slowly) man can handle Truth, but how much actual Truth man can cope with period. So where lies the “true” meaning of the poem? Must a person approach Truth slowly, that he might appreciate its fullness properly, or must he take in what truth he can and be happy with that? The two would seem mutually exclusive, for if one is to know only a fraction of Truth, then one cannot know it fully.
There is, of course, the possibility that the variants exist, rather than to replace specific words, to demonstrate deeper meaning within the work. In other words, that the variants need not be seen as a choice of one or the other, but rather all of the word choice options set down by
Dickinson exist as parts of the poem to enhance the totality of meaning within the work. In a more theoretical way, that is, in a strictly philosophical sense, the duality of meaning suggested by the variants can be seen as, perhaps, two sides of the same coin, each one illuminating facets of the other. This, in fact, might not be an entirely far fetched idea as Monte reminds us, “...the reader need to be alert for alternative meanings in Dickinson’s poetry while expecting its driving impulse to be toward interrelated concerns...” (29).
As Franklin notes in the Variorum Edition, this poem was not included in any of the fascicles Dickinson constructed, nor was it (as far as we know) sent to anyone in a letter, but survives for us on a “fragment of stationary” (1089). Certainly, then, one might argue (at least in relation to this poem) that Dickinson was in fact practicing a form of self-edit by including the variants. Perhaps her desire here was to tease out exactly what she wanted this poem to do, or how she wanted it to read. Certainly this would seem a fairly likely explanation in this instance. But then what are we to make of poem 292, “I got so I could hear his name -” (see attached). Here is a 27 line poem (a bit on the longer side for Dickinson, true) that contains no less than seven variants (and the variants for lines one and 23 each have two options). The first variant, in fact, causes a shift in how one perceives the entire poem. The first line reads “I got so I could hear his name -” with two possibilities for “hear,” both “think” and “take.” The first option, “think” does little to change the perception of the line, as both connote a simple passive (“think” is, obviously, not exactly passive but there is no direct contact with the man even when employing this variant) experience with the man’s name. The second optional variant “take,” however, is a verb, and not just a suggestive one. Reading this variant with the second line, in fact, turns the entire poem from passivity to action; “I got so I could take - his name - / Without - Tremendous gain -.” Instead of the mere idea, or thought, of the man, the speaker has now fully taken on this man creating a specific connectivity between both speaker and man. It could be argued that this is a metaphorical, or imaginative, taking. Dickinson, famously, did not marry and the wording “I got so” can be taken to infer thinking about “taking” on the man’s name. But the use of “take” develops a connectivity, between speaker and man, that seen in light of the second variant, seems correct.
The entire second stanza reads, “I got so I could walk across / That Angle in the floor, / Where he turned so, and I turned - how - / And all our sinew tore -.” This version seems to flow well with either of the first two variants of line one. In this sequence we see the speaker walking past the man and both parties turn (or turn away). In the case of the speaker, the “how” seems to be a question of “how could she turn from him?” And yet she does turn from him, and in that action their collective “sinew” (both speaker and man) tears. The variant here, is in line seven and reads “Where he turned so, and I let go -.” This variant, though, would seem to fall more in line with the second variant of line one. Instead of the connectedness of the two being a thought within the speakers head, the second line one variant expresses a specific connection. That connection, rather than simply requiring the speaker to turn away, would require a much more dynamic action at this point in the poem than a simple “turning away,” and “letting go” is certainly one. And this variant, because of the substantially stronger connection (coupled with the second variant to line one), expresses an even more powerful and awful “tearing” of “sinew” in line eight.
The fourth stanza, “Could dimly recollect a Grace - / I think, they called it “God” - / Renowned to ease Extremity - / When Formula, had failed -” contains three variants, two of which are incredibly important. The first occurs in line 13, with “Grace” being replaced by “Force.” Grace, especially in light of the capitalization, can easily be a stand in term for God. And, not coincidently, “God” is used in the following line. But by using the term “Grace,” as opposed to any of the number of other terms at her disposal, Dickinson is relating a specific idea of God. This is not the vengeful God of the Old Testament. Grace, in fact, implies a personnalness about God and how he acts in relation to mankind. The variant “Force,” however, does the exact opposite. One finds it hard to imagine a “Force” with any sort of personal attributes that a human can relate to, let alone a “Force” imparting anything even remotely resembling grace. And following on the dichotomy of these variants line 15, “Renowned to ease Extremity -” a natural expression following the use of “Grace,” can also be read “Renowned to stir - Extremity -.” This seems at complete odds with the “Grace” variant, but completely in line with the use of the “Force” variant. The last line of the stanza, “When Formula, had failed -” also alternately reads “When Filament - had failed -.” There is, of course, a meaningful difference in “Formula” and “Filament,” particularly in relation to the line one variants, where “Filament” reinforces the idea of connectedness. This variant, though, is of less import up against the two preceding variants in this fourth stanza.
The difference in the two variant versions of the poems may not be as pronounced as in poem 1263. The difference here is more subtle, though no less intriguing. And while seeing the variants in 1263 as part of the whole may be a more taxing intellectual effort for the reader, in the case of 292 we see, when taking in the totality of meaning and significance of the variants, that indeed there is a coherent overarching thematic structure that easily acknowledges, and is strengthened by, the inclusion of the variants. Unlike poem 1263, however, 292 was included by Dickinson in one of her fascicles. This then brings up another issue we must consider in this discussion, how do you evaluate the fascicles? At some level, it may come down to personal preference since, as Franklin notes, the fascicles were
“...of simple construction...To bind, Dickinson stacked the assembled sheets, with the overflow leaves (if any) in place, and punched two holes through the group, threading it with string, tied in front. She did not put her name on the fascicles, give them titles or title pages, or label, number, or otherwise distinguish them. They bear no pagination or signature markings to establish an internal order...there are no contents lists or indexes to aid in locating a particular one. It is apparent that she did not keep them in a particular order...(7-8).
From this description (and Franklin would certainly be one of the most reliable sources in this regard) there might be the inclination to discredit the importance Dickinson placed on the fascicles since she made no effort to catalog their contents. Even with such a simple construction, however, the very act of creating the fascicles (and creating so many over so long a period) suggests that Dickinson had some desire to record in a more permanent fashion many of her poems. Clearly she was not going about compiling her “Complete Works” but she was making an effort to standardize some of her poems. Indeed, Franklin confirms that once a poem was copied from a working draft into “...a later form, such as a fascicle, the drafts were destroyed” (11). Of course, this did not preclude her from, later in her life, simply copying working copies verbatim into the fascicles themselves (Franklin 18). Even with this seemingly inherent contradiction, though, it would be a disservice to ignore the importance of the fascicle process in Dickinson’s art. The very act of producing these small booklets did allow Dickinson to act in a quasi-editorial capacity over her poems. And yet, as in the case of of 292, at the end of that editorial event the poem still included multiple variants.
At this point it is pertinent to consider that freedom of (or questions of) artistic intent is something that happens on a regular basis. In recent years the American public has been witness to the auteuristic tendencies of George Lucas. In 1977 the first Star Wars film was released in theaters, with subsequent sequels in (The Empire Strikes Back) 1980 and (Return of the Jedi) in 1983. In 1997 George Lucas re-released a “Special Edition” of all three films to theaters world-wide. Each of the 1997 versions had been altered in some way from the original theatrical release. The subsequent VHS and DVD versions of the “Special Edition” trilogy also included even more changes on top of those from the 1997 theatrical versions (as an interesting aside, just this year Lucas has released a DVD box set of all three “Classic” versions of the films, that is, the films as they were seen when originally released in theaters in 1977, 1980 and 1983 respectively). Lucas’ explanation of why he felt the need to create these new versions is that:
Episode IV was not really finished because I didn't have the money, the time or the technology to finish it. At the time I was kind of upset about it...And I was saying, ‘I feel it's only 50 or 60% of what I wanted. I'm really disappointed, I'm really sad, it bothers me to watch it.’ And to a minor degree, that was true on the next two films, partly because I was financing them myself and they were more complicated. I did those films in a Special Edition to finish them off the way I meant them to be (Anwar).
Unable to accomplish, technologically, his original vision of the films when they were initially produced, Lucas was forced to wait until advances in the science of film making made it possible for him to finish the films the way he originally envisioned them. In this instance, though, Lucas' inability to exactly create his vision was a limit of the medium at the time (the 1970's), and the subsequent corrections done by the film maker were only possible once technology had adequately evolved. In relation to Dickinson, this is instructive in how we (as the literary critical world) view her work. It is assumed that one of the reasons she did not publish (much) during her lifetime was her dislike of what alterations might be required, in the form of structural and format changes, of her poetry. This problem, of course, did not exist in her chosen forms of “publication,” the fascicles and letters. It seems obvious, then, that the variant forms that exist of her poems were not, in fact, simply her attempts to “get it right.” Dickinson had nothing to hinder her, either as an outside influence (as in the case of an editor) or technologically (as was the case with Lucas), from producing exactly the art she wanted to.
There is, though, another type of influence to consider in the example Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Originally produced as a radio drama, the story was subsequently retold by Adams as a novel, TV series, graphic novel, video game and feature film. Each of these renditions was written or created by Adams himself. The one exception, the film, was produced after Adams' death, though he wrote the penultimate draft of the screenplay and is responsible for about 90% of the film’s final story (Lacey R20). Being that each variation of the story is told in a different medium each version does vary, in terms of story structure and plot, slightly (or in a couple of cases, greatly) from every other. To Adams this seemed a necessity to accommodate the underlying differences in each specific medium. In fact, in 1985 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: The Original Radio Scripts was published. Adams later wrote that “...it is the only example of one Hitchhiker publication accurately and consistently reflecting another. I feel a little uncomfortable with this...”(xi). The motivation behind Adam’s unease at the publication of the radio scripts stems from the fact that, as each medium is necessarily different, and therefore has different factors by which success (in terms of a “good” story) is judged, the actual Hitchhiker story that is told in each medium is different. This was a situation that Adams embraced wholeheartedly as it seems fairly obvious that what may work in a novel may not adequately transfer to a film, or radio drama, or TV series. The examples of George Lucas and Douglas Adams may appear completely unrelated to the life or artistic proclivities of Emily Dickinson.
In many ways, though, Dickinson is such an enigma to current scholars that, at times, it is useful to approach her work from more familiar territory. If we can use the examples of others to illuminate what Dickinson certainly was not doing, then by a process of elimination we can come to a better understanding of what she, in fact, was attempting. If, however, we only ever try to gain an understanding of Dickinson solely from her letters and poems, thanks to the distance we have from her (in time) and the reclusive nature of her life while she did live, we may never be able to make any real meaningful or lasting insights into her work (the current debate going on in critical circles about how we should even approach her work, i.e. original manuscripts vs. typed reproductions is one such debate that can have no resolution if we are unable to make connections about Dickinson to the larger literary world).
Emily Dickinson, as we know, worked exclusively in poetry and letters. She was under no technological inability to produce her vision, such as Lucas, nor was she slave to the strictures of a specific medium, like Adams. Poetry, one might well argue, is one of the most open and unrestricted of all art forms. And while Dickinson herself predates the Modernists and all they did to tear away much of the stagnant formality that poetry had been subject to for many years, her poetry is so vastly different in technique and voice from nearly everything that had come before, it seems apparent she was not afraid to write exactly how, and what, she wanted. We come back, then, to the fact that we can easily say Dickinson’s work with the fascicles was, in fact, her own exercise at self-editing. But as Franklin also points out, sometimes poems from the fascicles were sent to recipients first, as in the case of poem 18 “Morns like these we parted” before being transcribed into a fascicle (17). This would seem to indicate that, more than just a place to set out an intermediate “working” version, the fascicles also represented some form of benchmark at least on equal footing with submitting a poem to someone in a letter.
Furthermore, the relationship between the fascicle and letter versions of a poem is also something to consider. There has, at times, been a predilection in critical circles to favor fascicle forms of poems over letter forms. But as Messmer points out, the critical focus on the “...‘unauthorized’ fascicles all too easily tend to obscure the fact that her correspondence was indeed ‘authorized’ by the poet herself, if only for an alternative (‘private’) form of publication, that is, for circulation among friends and family”(184). And this argument would seem logical except for the fact that, often, Dickinson would send the same poem to multiple recipients, and each recipient would receive a variant form, such as with poem 579 “The soul unto itself.” Three separate versions of this poem exist, in fact, all written in 1863. Variants A and B were enclosed in letters to T.W. Higginson and Susan Dickinson (though the name “Sue” had been erased on the letter), and variant C was included in fascicle 25. To best make a comparison of variants A and B it is instructive to see them side by side:
A
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend
Or the most agonizing Spy
An Enemy could send
Secure against it’s own
No treason it can fear
Itself it’s Sovreign of itself
The Soul should be in Awe
B
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend -
Or the most agonizing Spy
An Enemy - could send -
Secure against it’s own -
No treason it can fear -
Itself - it’s Sovreign - Of itself
The Soul should stand it awe -
The two most immediate differences between both versions are the stanza break in the Higginson variant and the dashes included in the variant sent to Susan Dickinson. It is well known that Dickinson sent some poems to Higginson after he published the article “Letter to a Young Contributor,” in the April 1862 edition of Atlantic Monthly, and that while Higginson was generally complimentary toward Dickinson’s work he was critical of her form and structure (Ward 179-80). At the time that he received poem 579 Higginson was in command of a black regiment in South Carolina during the Civil War. It is, therefore, entirely possible that in the act of sending her friend a poem, one seemingly meant to uplift his spirit in a time of need, she consciously did away with any structural and format issues he would have disdained. Indeed, even with its method of capitalization and consciou spelling choice of the word “Sovreign,” variant A still appears more like a classical two stanza poem. Variant B embodies much more what we have come to expect from a Dickinson poem. (There are, of course, the dashes. Since, however, there has been countless pages in journals and books devoted to finding the exact reason for, and meaning of, the dashes. And they are of only tangential importance to this discussion it simply needs to be stated that they exist in one version and are absent in the other.) But if one looks deeper at the two variants, some marked and important differences become apparent.
The stanza break in variant A is of utmost importance in how one must necessarily approaches the poem. For good or ill many readers see a stanza break and unconsciously read the poem with a pause. Whether or not Higginson did such a thing is of less importance than the fact that he would look not only at the words, but also the structure of the poem, and realize that each stanza comprises a different, though complimentary, and free standing idea. Each stanza can exist on its own without the other. While the meaning of the first stanza, and its discussion of the dual nature of the human soul, is deepened by its relation to the second, one need not read the second stanza to make sense of the first. Accordingly, the second stanza, and its proclamation that the soul should be in awe of its own ‘sovreign’ty, is only heightened by the existence of the soul’s possible treason of the first stanza, but is not reliant on it. The break, in fact, makes these two ideas complimentary in such a way that is not accomplished in variant B, for in that version all the ideas are connected as one single strain of thought.
The other small but immensely significant difference is the variant word in the last line, “be” and “stand.” In version A, the line “The Soul should be in Awe” speaks of the soul as in a state of being; that it should exist in awe of itself or what it can accomplish. Whereas version B, “The Soul should stand in awe -” refers to the soul in a state of action; standing. Granted, it is a state of passive action, but to stand is a specific act one must take. Of course, in each instance the phrase is qualified by “should,” and so this is less a prescription than a supposition. But the difference in the two phrases is remarkably important for one cannot exist in any state without that state encompassing the individual entirely, while one can take a specific action without being in a specific state of existence. And not coincidently, the two recipients were in vastly different situations when receiving their respective versions of the poem. Higginson was in the middle of the bloodiest war known to American history leading an all black regiment (a fact that cannot be overstated). Susan Dickinson was a housewife. Higginson was existing is a specific state of being, and it seems that Dickinson was keenly aware of the import of what he was doing, and she had a definite idea about how he should see himself. For Susan, though, the poem takes on a reflective tone instructing the reader to “stand in awe” of those men, like Higginson, that were experiencing great loss and horror for the betterment of their country.
The third version of this poem, the one Dickinson enshrined in a fascicle seems, to be a compromise, or more precisely, a synthesis of both versions A and B.
A
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend
Or the most agonizing Spy
An Enemy could send
Secure against it’s own
No treason it can fear
Itself it’s Sovreign of itself
The Soul should be in Awe
B
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend -
Or the most agonizing Spy
An Enemy - could send -
Secure against it’s own -
No treason it can fear -
Itself - it’s Sovreign - Of itself
The Soul should stand it awe -
C
The Soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend -
Or the most agonizing Spy -
An Enemy - could send -
Secure against it’s own -
No treason it can fear -
Itself - it’s Sovreign - Of itself
The soul should stand in Awe -
Perhaps it is a false assumption, but as we know that versions A and B were meant for Higginson and Susan Dickinson respectively, it does not seem a huge leap to think of version C, the version that Dickinson copied into one of the fascicles, as the variant that Dickinson wanted for herself. Not surprisingly, version C uses the two stanza structure, with its emphasis on deepening meaning between the two parts, and also utilizes the dashes that Dickinson was so fond of. Most importantly, though, version C uses the B variant, the reflective variant, of the last line. This too would fall in line with the hypothesis that this version was Dickinson’s own preferred version, for she, like Susan, would stand in awe of the soul’s “sovreign” nature.
In some ways, though, the letters present a more complicated problem when trying to determine Dickinson’s motives for the variants. As Mitchell points out:
The letters to Bowles, for instance, are more reserved than those to her sister-in-law and close friend Susan Dickinson...It has been argued that the scraps bespeak a ‘comfort level’ with Susan that Dickinson could never feel with Higginson or Bowles. The very materiality of these different texts, then, has a meaning. But precisely how this meaning can be formulated is difficult to say. For some critics confidentiality enables Dickinson to be experimental. But perhaps it means the opposite (“Revising the Script: Emily Dickinson’s Manuscripts” 712).
And it seems rather obvious that a letter written to a close friend (i.e., Susan) would, of necessity, read and behave differently than a letter written to a mere acquaintance (even one whom she obviously admired, such as Higginson). And the letters sent to Susan, in particular, are interesting because “Emily’s writings to Susan expand from conventional letters to what Susan refers to as ‘letter-poems’ as she later compiles her book of Emily’s writings. These ‘letter-poems’ are letters that look and sound like poems; they are also poems addressed to Susan that read like letters or messages” (Hart 65). Even with these ‘letter-poems’ it seems that there is a deliberateness at work. If producing these ‘letter-poems’ were nothing more than an exercise or pastime, then why not produce them for more than a single recipient? On some level, though, that is the entire problem with Dickinson scholarship. Everything she did, not matter how great or small, can be challenged with a single word, why?
Perhaps, in answer to that larger underlying question, but specifically in regards to the question of variants, there are multiple ways to view everything Dickinson did. Mitchell suggests such a possibility (specifically in relation to poem 1671 “Take all away from me,” but it can be easily extrapolated to include variants):
One can read her indecision in different ways—as a sign of a dynamic and innovative intelligence attuned to the nuances of meaning afforded by varieties...and deliberately experimenting with them; as an indication that Dickinson was never fully satisfied with the balance of the poem, which she reworked restlessly but fruitlessly to get right; or as a token of a more casual or impressionistic relationship to the lines...(Measures of Possibility 183).
It seems almost folly to assume Dickinson has only a “casual” relationship to any of the lines she produced. Certainly it is a possibility that cannot be completely disregarded, but to make such a statement would seem to drastically undervalue all she did in creating variants in the first place. Why produce variants at all then, and specifically variants intended for particular recipients such as poem 579, if one is not invested deeply with the poem. Accordingly, one must assume that there were poems Dickinson produced that she never “got right.” But the simple fact that she shared many of these poems with highly educated and respected people (Higginson and Bowles most prominently) would imply she had confidence in at least some of what she produced. So that leaves us with the conclusion that yes, in fact, the variant versions were purposeful and part of Dickinson’s method as an author. As Bushell affirms “...Dickinson allows space within the creative process for unintended meaning and that such a space, and such a meaning, is an integral part of creative composition” (26).
Of course, Dickinson openly resisted publishing, and as such left us, if we are completely honest, with only manuscript versions of all her work because she was never forced, in a rigid editorial environment, to make specific (and by publishing, what we would construe as binding) authorial choices. As an artist, Emily Dickinson was without parallel. Much of her power, though, may come from her specific desire (by not attempting to publish) to have no set version of her work. It seems that the ideas and themes related in the variant versions of “Tell all the truth but tell it slant -” and “I got so I could hear his name -” are oddly contradictory while simultaneously complimentary. And the connected relationship between the variant versions of “The Soul unto itself” simply cannot be ignored. Unfortunately for us, her specific intent will never be known for certain. And this, as any critic who has attempted to tackle Dickinson will attest, is the most frustrating, and engaging, aspect of her work.
Works Cited
Adams, Douglas. “A Guide to the Guide: Some unhelpful remarks from the author.” Introduction. The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide. By Douglas Adams. New York: Portland House, 1997.
Brett, Anwar. “George Lucas: Star Wars Episode III Interview.” 18 May 2005. BBC. 5 Dec. 2006 <_http://www.bbc.co.uk/films/2005/05/18/george_lucas_star_wars_episode_iii interview.shtml>.
Bushell, Sally. “Meaning in Dickinson’s Manuscripts: Intending the Unintentional.” The Emily Dickinson Journal 14.1 (2005): 24-61.
Franklin, R. W., Ed. The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition. 3 Vols. Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1998.
Hart, Ellen Louise & Martha Nell Smith, Eds. Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson’s Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson. Ashfield, Massachusetts: Paris Press, 1998.
Lacey, Liam. “Hitching their wagon to a phenom.” The Globe and Mail [Canada] 29 April 2005: R20.
Messmer, Marietta. A Vice for Voices: Reading Emily Dickinson’s Correspondence. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2001.
Mitchell, Domhnall. Measures of Possibility: Emily Dickinson’s Manuscripts. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2005.
—. “Revising the Script: Emily Dickinson’s Manuscripts.” American Literature 70 (1998): 705-737.
Monte, Steven. “Dickinson’s Searching Philology.” The Emily Dickinson Journal 12.2 (2003): 21-51.
Ward, Theodora. The Capsule of the Mind: Chapters in the Life of Emily Dickinson. Cambridge: Belknap Press, 1961.
I got so I could hear his name -
Without - Tremendous gain -
That Stop-sensation - on my Soul -
And Thunder - in the Room -
I got so I could walk across 5
That Angle in the floor,
Where he turned so, and I turned - how -
And all our Sinew tore -
I got so I could stir the Box -
In which his letters grew 10
Without that forcing, in my breath -
As Staples - driven through -
Could dimly recollect a Grace -
I think, they called it “God” -
Renowned to ease Extremity - 15
When Formula, had failed -
And shape my Hands -
Petition’s way,
Tho’ ignorant of a word
That Ordination - utters - 20
My Business - with the Cloud,
If any Power behind it, be,
Not subject to Despair -
It care - in some remoter way,
For so minute affair 25
As Misery -
Itself, too great, for interrupting - more -
1 hear] think - * take -
7 turned - how -] let go -
13 Grace] Force
15 to ease Extremity -] to stir - Extremity -
16 Formula, had failed -] Filament - had failed -
23 Not subject to] Supremer than - * Superior to -
27 great] vast
Excerpted from The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Variorum Edition, Edited by R.W. Franklin.
