Remember Emily Dickinson from your high school English classes? The one who heard a Fly buzz- when she died? The one who could not stop for Death, so he kindly stopped for her?
What if she hadn’t been so eccentric, as teachers have painted her in countless classrooms? What if, instead, she’d been a gifted young woman caught in the limiting context of her era? Dickinson lived in a time when women’s roles largely were domestic and when men seemed unable to comprehend her depths of thought. What if instead of dismissing her, they had acknowledged her brilliance by publishing her work?
Trying to find something lighter than the heavy spiritual books I’d been reading at this summer’s silent retreat, I stumbled across The Diary of Emily Dickinson by Jamie Fuller. Dickinson lived in the same period as my ancestor, Mary Jane Edwards, whose diary I annotated and crafted into a novel. Maybe reading Emily Dickinson’s diary would give more insight into Mary Jane’s life, I reasoned, so I checked it out of the Prairiewoods library. I read a few pages and then added it to my list of Amazon books scheduled to arrive by the time I got home. Today, I finished this compelling read.
As a high school English teacher, I faithfully taught this iconic poet’s works for more than twenty years. So for me, reading this diary— even knowing it existed— was a revelation. Discovered by a workman in 1916, well after Dickinson’s death and only made public in 1993, the diary made Ms. Dickinson’s life more relatable and her poems more understandable than I would’ve ever believed— and I already loved her work! Why hadn’t I found this book while I was still in the classroom? Excerpts from it would certainly have made Dickinson seem like a friend to my high school students as they were introduced to early modern writers. I eagerly began taking pages of notes about how teachers could use the book.
Dickinson’s diary entries refute some of the long-held examples of her eccentricities. They paint her as a talented introvert with incredible ties to her strongly opinionated family, despite their reserved emotional distance. Yes, she does enjoy the company of children, but there are no accounts of her lowering treats in a basket from her upstairs bedroom window. Instead, she is more personally engaged, perhaps even a child at heart. Readers encounter a touching entry about her inviting children playing pirates to come “into port” for ice cream as “sustenance” since the hens were laying well (104).
Readers even see an explanation of her preference for white clothing, when she reflects on her sister Vinnie’s excitement about a new dress. Emily writes that she’s beginning to prefer white because it reminds her of the promise of a blank page. Besides, by owning only white dresses, she doesn’t have to make decisions about what to wear (116).
Several themes in the book resonated with me. As I wrestle with the shift from doing to being, I especially loved her question: “…is a day to be measured by motion…?” (127).
Most of the numbered diary entries include expository sections that follow and put into context the more obscure allusions she references. They also explain the relationships between the family members and the people she encounters. With references to letters written by and to Dickinson and newspaper accounts, Fuller’s annotations are seemingly well-researched. An especially delicious thread hints at a romance between the poet and a judge friend of her father.
As I finished reading, I was sure that Emily and Mary Jane would’ve been kindred spirits with their attitudes about domesticity, their interests in words and children, and their search for meaning in their lives. I pictured them as beloved correspondents, even if they would never have met.
But Ms. Dickinson had one more surprise up her long white sleeve. From the moment I pulled it off the shelf, this book bewitched me with its premise and depth. With every turn of the page, I was practically living in Amherst with the poet for that year of her life. Only when I began writing this review and examined the front and back covers more closely, did I experience a shock. I’ll call it a Geritol Moment, and I won’t ruin its magic for you.
Warning: Don’t closely examine the cover until you’ve finished, if you’d like a delightful twist.
