Shes So Heavy The Weight Of Death In Emily Dickinsons

Reference-and-Education The fact that Emily Dickinson is one of the most gifted, prolific, ahead-of-her-time American poets is sometimes overshadowed by the fact that she was a totally unconventional, unmarried woman who liked to deck herself out in all white. Oh yeah, and for a good chunk of her life there, she never left her house. Although Dickinson is sometimes lumped together with Transcendentalists like Emerson and Thoreau, her style is way too calculated (not to mention, diverse) to belong to that genre – to say nothing of the fact that it isn’t the most chipper stuff you can get your hands on. Ever read any Transcendentalist death poetry? Take this excerpt from Emerson’s The Dirge, a battle elegy about hearing the sound of death in the woods: Hearken to yon pine warbler / Singing aloft in the tree; / Hearest thou, O traveller! / What he singeth to me?" Let’s put it this way: if Edgar Allen Poe is sometimes called anti-Transcendentalist, we can pretty much guess where Transcendentalism goes on the whole mood spectrum. Now let’s look at Dickinson’s "-I heard a Fly buzz – when I died -" a creepy post-mortem retelling of its narrator"’s final moments. If the fact that the narrator is speaking from beyond the grave isn’t enough for you, just keep reading. Her death chamber, though filled with loved ones saying their farewells, is tense and unpleasant; the "Stillness in the Room" is like the quiet "Between the Heaves of Storm," which makes us think that dying has been a violent on-and-off struggle. The narrator then describes all the unromantic logistics of dying: writing up a will, watching everyone cry, and, most importantly, waiting. Which she makes us do for three more stanzas. Just as she takes her final breaths, an obnoxiously loud fly wanders into the room "With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz and ends up being the last thing she sees before passing. If you thought the mosquito on the ceiling drove you crazy as you tried to fall asleep, just imagine you’re hearing a buzzing, vomitous former maggot. On your deathbed. Foregoing the flower petals, angels, and gossamer threads .mon among her contemporaries, Dickinson gives us a very heavy portrayal of death. Though it may surprise some that a socially timid nineteenth-century New England woman would write such morbid poetry, the fact that mortality is a .mon thread in her work should .e as no surprise to anyone familiar with Emily Dickinson’s biography; her writing was very well informed by the loss of friends and family in her own life. Even the psychological impact of death is tangible in her work. Take, for instance, "-I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,- which .pares an imagined funeral to a drumbeat, or to the thumping and shuffling of inconsiderate upstairs neighbors. This funeral, it’s important to notice, isn’t felt in the mind, but rather in the brain, which makes it sound like a migraine more than a metaphor. At one point, the narrator hears them "lift a Box / And creak across my Soul, and as all the noises get louder, she begins to feel as though "all the Heavens were a Bell" and existence, "but an Ear." By the end of the ordeal, the narrator is so overwhelmed that "a Plank in Reason" breaks beneath her, dropping her "down, and down." Still think Dickinson sounds a thing like Emerson? About the Author: 相关的主题文章: