EMILY DICKINSON (1830-1886) in conversation with Stan Rogal
Tell all the truth but tell it
slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm
Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children
eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle
gradually
Or every man be blind —
I heard through the grapevine that Emily Dickinson was holed up in a seedy apartment near Queen and Strachan in Toronto. Had been for several days. Typical haunt for a member of the Dead Poets’ Society recently materialized back into the world of the living. Rumour had it she didn’t want to be disturbed. Same old Emily. I chuckled at the dual meaning of the word “disturbed” considering who we were talking about: a woman famously known as being a recluse and once diagnosed as having “nervous prostration,” that is, subject to exhaustion and an inability to work. Odd, really, as she had been recognized in her time as an avid gardener and prolific writer, both of letters and poems. Fortunately, I was aware that her being a recluse only mattered in one direction — she refused to make visits but was open to receiving visitors, so long as the conversation took place through a closed door. Fine. I acquired her number, gave her a call, and she invited me over for a short interview.
A hand-written note on the door read: it’s unlocked — please come in. I entered and was met by a display of empty gin bottles and full ashtrays, a requisite condition applied to any poet on leave from the underworld, even if they had never acquired such habits in their lifetimes. I walked across the floor to where a chair was placed outside the shut bedroom door. I sat and gave a courteous knock. A thin raspy voice replied, yes? I pictured her on the other side, "small, like the wren, and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur, and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves” (as she once described herself to Thomas Wentworth Higginson, literary critic for the The Atlantic Monthly), dressed in a white cotton smock, a highball in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, her dog Carlo curled at her feet.
“It’s my understanding,” she raised her voice and spoke clearly enough to be heard through the door, “that you wish to conduct an interview with me, though I fail to see either the interest, the attraction, or the need.”
I had my elevator pitch ready, explaining that she and her poetry have witnessed a renaissance, of sorts, and have served to influence many scholars and poets over the preceding millennium plus. In fact, she herself has since been regarded as one of the most important figures in American poetry.
She said she found the news surprising, especially as she’d only published about ten poems in all her years of writing and submitting, though she also admitted feeling honoured and thrilled that notoriety had somehow arrived at her doorstep at all, however lately, and in what unfamiliar form. The “unfamiliar form,” apparently, was me. I began my short list of questions.
SR: A few years before you passed…
ED: You may use the word “died,” as I’ve never been a stranger to the concept, in its many forms and attributes.
SR: Of course. Thank you. It was the early 1880’s, you had your younger sister Lavinia promise that she would burn all your papers following your death. Why was that?
ED: I was un-well. Friends and relatives were dying around me, falling as so much wheat to the scythe. I knew my time was near. The papers contained material that I felt was either too childishly trivial or else too incriminating to be made public.
SR: When you asked her to destroy all your papers, did you mean your poems, as well?
ED: I meant all. The poems were worthless. No one wanted to publish them. No one wanted them. (I could hear Carlo snoring on the floor, as well as Emily taking a long drag on her cigarette and rattle the ice in her glass, then give a snorty laugh). I remember that I would often send friends bunches of flowers with verses attached, but they always valued the posies more than the poesy.
SR: Yes. I understand that in your lifetime, you were probably more widely and popularly known as a gardener than a poet.
ED: Carpets of lily-of-the-valley and pansies, platoons of sweet peas, hyacinths, enough in May to give all the bees of summer dyspepsia. There were ribbons of peony hedges and drifts of daffodils in season, marigolds to distraction—a butterfly utopia. All gone, along with the poems, sadly. Or, not so sadly, as the cycle of life is single-minded and merciless in its determination.
SR: Yes, well, here’s the thing… Lavinia did destroy much of the correspondence that you wrote, but stopped short of the poetry, when she discovered 40 carefully pieced-together bound manuscripts containing nearly 1800 poems gathered in a locked chest.
ED: Interesting, seeing as how Lavinia wouldn’t recognize a poem if it shit in her shoe, if you’ll pardon my French. I expect she was more impressed by the sheer volume rather than the quality of the writing.
SR: Be that as it may, she became obsessed with getting the volumes published.
ED: So, I can blame my sister for my late fame: “Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed.” The opening lines to my poem, then titled, Success, the last poem published while I was alive. It appeared anonymously and was altered — with no permission granted — to agree with contemporary taste. Readers thought it was written by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
SR: Such was the case for many of your poems when they first appeared in print, I’m afraid, mainly in order to rid them of their unconventional use of capitalization and punctuation; their idiosyncratic vocabulary and imagery. There was also some censorship involved.
ED: Censorship? Of what?
SR: At least eleven of your poems were dedicated to your sister-in-law Susan, and all the dedications were obliterated prior to publishing, the decision made by Lavinia and her friend and close collaborator Mabel Todd. Many scholars have interpreted this censorship as evidence of a homoerotic relationship between you and Susan.
ED: I see. Fascinating.
SR: Also discovered were over three hundred letters from you to Susan, more than to any other correspondent.
ED: “Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me…” Ah, yes, to be able to return once more to those treasured hours of carefree youthful innocence, when “love” was a mystifying four letter word, and a kiss was a simple gesture of fondness and friendship. How quickly these juvenile musings get trampled over and dragged through the mud.
SR: So, you deny any romantic relationship with Susan?
ED: I neither deny nor confirm. And tell me, what does any of this have to do with my poetry?
SR: Some scholars theorize that the numerous letters and poems addressed to Susan indicate a lesbian romance, and speculate how this may have influenced your poetry.
ED: You mean the few letters — out of those “numerous” — that contained words of girlish affection, and the seven poems out of more than 1800? I’m sorry, but that would prove her to be a very minor influence indeed. Odd, I addressed many more early poems to our saviour Jesus Christ, yet no one ever accused me of having carnal relations with Him. What do you make of that? Well?
SR: I didn’t mean to upset you.
ED: I’m not upset. I’m baffled.
SR: Though you did use the word “incriminating” to me earlier. What did you mean by that?
ED: I was already regarded as an eccentric by the locals when I was alive. I shuddered to think what they’d make of me through my writing once I was dead.
SR: I see. In that regard, as you left no formal statement as to your aesthetic intentions, it’s been up to the scholars to seek clarification. You’ve been situated, alongside Emerson, as a Transcendentalist, tinged by the mysticism of Blake. Also, a dark Romanticist. As well, someone who has bridged the gap to Realism. Even a Modernist. A Feminist. R.P. Blackmur said that you had a gift for words and the cultural predicament of your time; that you wrote one kind of poetry: the poetry of sophisticated, eccentric vision. Since the early 1920’s you’ve developed almost a cult following. How do you respond to this?
ED: More labels meant to pigeon hole. To quote Hamlet: “Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.” The poems are my response. There is nothing beyond them. Make of them what you will, as it’s obvious, past writing them, I no longer have any control over them.
SR: Point taken. (I could hear the chair creak and assumed that Emily might be getting a bit agitated with my line of questioning. There was the sound of ice cubes being dropped into a glass along with the pouring of a liquid, as well as the click of a lighter. I decided to shift gears and get to the crux of the interview). You are here, with us, now, I gather, due to the fact that a line from a poem of yours is being used in a popular Hip-Hop song performed by Lily B. Wright.
ED: Yes. I’m given to understand that the song is eligible for some sort of music award.
SR: A Grammy, that’s right. The song goes something like: “You got an easy rhyme, that’s fine / Everybody listen / They dance, make romance / You’re a star / But if you wanna make a difference, make a change / Need to up your game girl / ‘Cause the man don’t hear your rant / Don’t know your name / You wanna tell the truth, gotta tell it slant / No dog eat dog, gotta tell it slant…” It goes on in a similar vein.
ED: Hm. Nice. I like it. The impulse. The urge. The beat. I look forward to hearing it.
SR: Yeah, that’s great, super, because that line is now being used by a large number of the Afro-American community in casual conversation almost as an anthem. “Tell it slant, brother… or sister” meaning: put a spin on the truth, approach it from an angle of sorts rather than head on. How do you feel about that?
ED: What can I say? Over the moon. Who would’ve thought that after so many years? And with such fervor. It’s unbelievable. I’m humbled.
SR: Can I ask if you plan to be there for the event, in person?
ED: I’ve been provided a ticket and transportation, but, alas, no. I will be there in spirit, of course. As well, I’ll be watching on this fascinating device in my room, the television set. A most miraculous invention. I can be a witness to everything in the world without ever stepping out of my room or being involved, personally. And if I see anything not to my liking, or that makes me uncomfortable in any way, I can simply change the channel. Or else shut it off completely. It’s quite comforting.
SR: Uh-huh. One final question. (I hear the rattle of ice in her glass as she smacks her lips. Carlo lets out a loud yawn and drops his head with a thump to the floor).
ED: Yes. I can picture your hand on the outside doorknob, as if to leave.
SR: Are you continuing to write now that you’ve returned, albeit, temporarily?
ED: Alas, no. I’m content with the final words I wrote in a letter, dated May 15, 1886: “Little Cousins, Called Back. Emily.” I believe that’s enough for me. Enough for anyone.
SR: Yes, I understand. Good-bye.
ED: Good-bye.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher: anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
