Martha Ackmann’s These Fevered Days: Ten Pivotal Moments in the Making of Emily Dickinson is an important addition to the short list of essential Emily Dickinson (1830–86) biographies. This is due to solid, painstaking scholarship and Ackmann’s ability to vitalize the facts of Dickinson’s life in a manner that casts new light on even the most well-known events. As Ackmann states in her “Author’s Note,” “[T]his is a work of narrative nonfiction that seeks to animate Dickinson and bring her story to life” (xxi). Ackmann achieves this goal in large part due to her skill as a storyteller who aims “to convey the shape and texture of [Dickinson’s] world” (xxi). Having spent much of her life in the vicinity of Amherst and having taught for many years at Mount Holyoke College, Ackmann is uniquely qualified to communicate the texture of Dickinson’s world, and she does so with grace and gusto. Readers familiar with previous Dickinson biographies will be delighted by Ackmann’s stimulating and fresh recreations of Dickinson’s early friendships and home life, her experience at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, and her relationships with her sister-in-law, Susan Gilbert Dickinson (1830–1913); her trusted reader and advisor, Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823–1911); and her most determined fan, Helen Hunt Jackson (1830–85). Those new to Dickinson will also be enchanted with these, and with the additional strands of Dickinson’s life that Ackmann includes among her ten pivotal moments, as Ackmann knows not only how to find the story in the facts but also how to present it in accessible, even captivating language.The field of Dickinson biography is blessed by major works that complement rather than displace one another. Richard B. Sewall’s 1974 The Life of Emily Dickinson remains a standard biography, as does Alfred Habegger’s 2001 The Life of Emily Dickinson: My Wars Are Laid Away in Books. Scholars tend to draw equally from both these sources, often in conjunction with Jay Leyda’s 1960 The Years and Hours of Emily Dickinson. There are several reasons These Fevered Days should be considered equally indispensable. Foremost is Ackmann’s presentation of a very human Dickinson with whom readers can easily identify. Ackmann’s is for this reason the best biography for beginners. Sewall’s biography touches on all the major events and addresses scholarly concerns, but his presentation jumps around in time and can be disorienting. Habegger provides a straightforward chronological narrative that proceeds from an analytical perspective, but his dedication to providing a comprehensive account of the life means including the less interesting moments as well as the riveting. Leyda’s work, in contrast, is strictly chronological and richly detailed, but it does not provide an overall narrative structure. Ackmann’s decision to focus on ten pivotal moments enables her to offer a consistent chronological narrative that does not attempt to be comprehensive; rather, it concentrates on select moments that Ackmann deems crucial to Dickinson’s development. Ackmann describes her narrative structure this way: “While each chapter circles around a specific day, it also spools back through time to past thoughts and events informing that moment” (xix). The result is a book composed of ten high points that span the poet’s life, beginning with her initial recognition of her calling to be a poet at age fourteen and ending with her death.A representative example of Ackmann’s narrative approach is her description of Dickinson’s February 6, 1848, meeting with Mary Lyon (1797–1849), the founder and president of Mount Holyoke Female Seminary. Lyon wanted to meet privately with the seventeen-year-old student to discuss her spiritual well-being, in particular, her willingness to accept Christ and join the ranks of recently converted. As with all her chapters, Ackmann sets the stage with a chapter title that incorporates language from the chapter climax; in this case, “It Is Hard for Me to Give Up the World” (26). Ackmann then follows the chapter title with a specific date and the meteorological entry made for that day by Ebenezer Snell (1801–76), a professor of mathematics and natural philosophy at Amherst College. This, too, is a practice Ackmann follows with each chapter. Such meteorological specificity is possible because after Snell’s death in 1876, his daughter Sabra (1845–1932) continued to make daily entries so that the Snell record is continuous for all of Dickinson’s life. This minor-seeming detail contributes significantly to Ackmann’s success at communicating the “texture” of Dickinson’s world. As it turns out, February 6, 1848, was a still, twenty-six degrees. Ackmann tells us that when Dickinson entered Lyon’s private rooms on this chill winter day, “her keen eye took in everything: a worn copy of Gorham’s Chemistry, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, Miss Lyon’s Bible—the pages smooth and bare without a single mark from her hand” (46). The details are important: “The shuffled surface of her desk was like a map of her mind: a searching intellect, insatiable, and alive with ideas” (46). We learn that “Mary Lyon and Emily were alike in so many ways, and in so many ways they were not” (46). More precisely, “While Miss Lyon wanted to wrestle down the unknown and tame it with lists and order and systems, Emily wanted to stare it down and walk straight into the abyss” (46). Lyon’s crucial religious question and Dickinson’s response climax the chapter: “Are you willing to give up the world for everlasting life? Emily knew her answer. No, she thought. Amherst, her family, and the deep mud of March were more sacred to her than any religious doctrine. . . . It is hard for me to give up the world, she thought” (47). Ackmann does exercise authorial liberty in giving us Dickinson’s innermost thoughts, but she does so as a scholar in command of her subject. Here, as elsewhere, Ackmann amply notes her sources, the majority of which are Dickinson’s letters.Ackmann generously credits Suzanne Juhasz for having opened her eyes to how she might blend scholarship and imagination to create Dickinson’s inner life (Juhasz, “The Landscape of the Spirit,” Emily Dickinson: A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Judith Farr, Prentice Hall, 1996, pp. 130–40). Acknowledging that “Dickinson’s life was not filled with action, at least not in the conventional sense of the word” (xviii), Ackmann draws on Juhasz’s argument that “Dickinson did indeed have an active life, a life that was lived in her mind” (xix). Most significant for Ackmann is Juhasz’s conviction that “the poet did not retreat and run away from the world” (xix). Instead, she “‘capitaliz[ed] upon a technique that women have always known and used, for survival, using the imagination as a space in which to create some life other than their external situation’” (Juhasz, qtd. in Ackmann xix). Turning specifically to the letters, Ackmann applies Juhasz’s insight: “[I]f we read the letters for what the poet thought, her interior world opens” (xix). “Reading Dickinson’s letters in this alternative way,” Ackmann discloses, “was a revolutionary shift for me” (xix). This shift enabled her to write These Fevered Days, a book that in her words “attempts to crack open that interior world, re-creating the landscape of Dickinson’s consciousness” (xix).A prime example of Ackmann’s skill at utilizing this technique is her description of Dickinson’s thoughts immediately following Thomas Went-worth Higginson’s momentous 1870 meeting with the poet. Ackmann uses Dickinson’s reflections to explain why in a letter immediately preceding Higginson’s visit Dickinson had told him, “‘You were not aware that you saved my Life’” (Dickinson, Letters of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson and Theodora Ward, Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1958, qtd. in Ackmann 165). Ackmann concentrates on Dickinson’s sense of gratitude: “[A]s exhilarated as she felt, it was gratitude that lingered” (178). Descending further into Dickinson’s thoughts, Ackmann continues: “It was not only that he had read her poems—although she was thankful for that. It was that he had been constant” (178). Searching for the right metaphor to express her gratitude, Dickinson “reached not for metaphors from nature or images of planets and dreams that she had been working with. She went deeper. She chose anatomy. ‘The Vein cannot thank the Artery,’ she told him, ‘but her solemn indebtedness to him, even the stolidest admit’” (Dickinson qtd. in Ackmann 178). This most intimate metaphor proves crucial to Ackmann’s staging of Dickinson’s indebtedness to Higginson: “That’s what Emily meant by saying Higginson had saved her life: her connection to him was vital and sustaining. Emily gave poetry to herself,” Ackmann concludes, “but Higginson had affirmed her choice, and that to her was salvation” (178–79).Readers will of course differ in their responses to Ackmann’s accounts of Dickinson’s inner life, but they must agree that Ackmann makes a significant contribution to current and ongoing scholarship related to primary events in the poet’s life and the questions they provoke. Explaining why Dickinson said that Higginson saved her life is just one of these. Other questions include: Why did Dickinson place such a premium on privacy? Why did she not seek publication? To what extent did she understand her greatness? How was she affected by the Civil War? Ackmann provides responses to these questions and more. She also weaves significant themes through multiple chapters that gather weight and momentum as they surface in varied contexts and at different stages of Dickinson’s life. One of these is Dickinson’s attitude toward fame. Another is her at times vexed relationship with Helen Hunt Jackson. Ackmann effectively addresses the questions and themes that have come to characterize Dickinson’s life through prose that is at all times engaging and grounded in the storyteller’s art. A singular joy this book affords readers is the sense of intimacy Ackmann conveys though her attention to detail that begins with daily meteorological observations and extends to personal reflections on art and the brevity of human life. Scholars and general readers alike will delight in Ackmann’s richly textured excursions into ten pivotal days that give us the exterior world Dickinson shared with others and her interior experience of that world. Many will discover that they have read this book so quickly that they will immediately read it again.
Vivian R. Pollak, Our Emily Dickinsons: American Women Poets and the Intimacies of Difference (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2017, $55.00/£47.00). Pp. 368. isbn978 0 8122 4844 9. - Volume 53 Issue 2
Book Review| April 01 2017 Dickinson in Her Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of Her life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, Friends, and Associates Dickinson in Her Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of Her life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, Friends, and Associates. Ed. Jane Donahue Eberwein, Stephanie Farrar, and Cristanne Miller. Iowa City: Univ. of Iowa Press, 2015. 202 pp. Paper, $55.00. Paul Crumbley Paul Crumbley Utah State University Search for other works by this author on: This Site Google American Literary Realism (2017) 49 (3): 287–288. https://doi.org/10.5406/amerlitereal.49.3.0287 Cite Icon Cite Share Icon Share Facebook Twitter LinkedIn MailTo Permissions Search Site Citation Paul Crumbley; Dickinson in Her Own Time: A Biographical Chronicle of Her life, Drawn from Recollections, Interviews, and Memoirs by Family, Friends, and Associates. American Literary Realism 1 January 2017; 49 (3): 287–288. doi: https://doi.org/10.5406/amerlitereal.49.3.0287 Download citation file: Zotero Reference Manager EasyBib Bookends Mendeley Papers EndNote RefWorks BibTex toolbar search Search Dropdown Menu toolbar search search input Search input auto suggest filter your search All Scholarly Publishing CollectiveUniversity of Illinois PressAmerican Literary Realism Search Advanced Search The text of this article is only available as a PDF. Copyright 2017 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois2017 Article PDF first page preview Close Modal Issue Section: Reviews You do not currently have access to this content.
Introduction to a Special Issue of the Emily Dickinson Journal:Dickinson and Celebrity Paul Crumbley (bio) Why did Emily Dickinson dedicate her life to poetic creation and yet refuse to publish her poems? This is one of the primary quandaries that have fascinated Dickinson's readers and provoked scholars from the moment Dickinson formally emerged in print in 1890, and it is a question that hovers behind current efforts to explain how she came to terms with the closely affiliated attractions of fame and celebrity. The four contributors to this special issue of the Emily Dickinson Journal do not address Dickinson's refusal to publish directly, but they do orient our attention to how she understood the price of fame, most particularly through her own writing and her interest in the lives of writers who assumed the mantle of literary renown, and as a consequence, reaped the benefits and bore the burdens of celebrity. What rapidly becomes clear is that Dickinson was drawn to literary fame and wanted very much to secure it for herself but saw how celebrity could pose a threat to the sort of fame she considered worthy of aspiration. As a literary fan herself, Dickinson was acutely aware of the manner in which the rapid growth of celebrity culture in the United States and England during the nineteenth century shaped the public's perception of the writers whose work she treasured, bringing with it the potential to distort what she viewed as their most admirable achievements: their contributions to literary culture. Dickinson recognized the extraordinary power the instruments of mass culture brought to bear not only on the public's memorializing of its greatest authors but also on the living writer's ability to remain steadfast in the pursuit ofartistic growth. How Dickinson negotiated the push and pull of celebrity and how we interpret her efforts is the subject of this special issue. [End Page 1] In the first essay, "'I went to thank Her—': Dickinson's Tributes to Literary Celebrities," Elizabeth Petrino situates Dickinson in the context of transatlantic celebrity culture. She opens with Dickinson's 1862 letter to Samuel Bowles in which Dickinson requests that Bowles pay her respects to the recently deceased Elizabeth Barrett Browning during his upcoming trip to England. Like many of her contemporaries, Dickinson was a fan who valued accounts of authors' lives widely published in periodicals and newspapers such as the Atlantic Monthly and the Springfield Republican, which frequently carried images of the author's home and grave site, in addition to portraits, all of which fed the public's appetite for intimate details. It is precisely this pursuit of intimacy, however, that Petrino presents as a matter of particular concern for Dickinson. Acknowledging the fact that Dickinson "cherished photographs and illustrations accompanying biographical articles of her favorite authors," Petrino argues that her "comments in letters suggest that she found them inadequate as a tribute in the face of the poet's work" (10). Dickinson was wary of the way public fascination with the details of authors' lives could overshadow appreciation for their artistic achievements. Petrino suggests that it was as a consequence of this sensitivity that Dickinson famously denied Thomas Wentworth Higginson's request for a photograph and instead sent him a verbal portrait. One of the most fascinating features of Petrino's analysis is her presentation of Dickinson's writing about celebrity as a means for the poet to imagine how she might fare were she to attain celebrity status. "Dickinson's letters about Barrett Browning and George Eliot," she writes, "emphasize her own status as a literary celebrity in the making" (12). Petrino makes a special point of exploring Dickinson's elegies as efforts to prevent even the shadow of death from obscuring the ongoing life of an author's writing. She closes her essay with an observation that might well apply to all the essays in this special issue: "For readers today, contemplating Dickinson's response to the cult of transatlantic literary celebrity gives us an opportunity to contemplate how she might have envisioned her own posthumous literary fame" (22). Like Petrino, Páraic Finnerty begins the second essay in this volume, "'If fame belonged...
Abstract:In the months preceding her death on May 15, 1886, Emily Dickinson requested that Emily Brontë's poem "No coward soul is mine" be read at her funeral, thereby enlisting Brontë's defiant declaration of immortality in what can be interpreted as Dickinson's own equally defiant final statement on the relation of fame to enduring art. Dickinson expressed the logic behind this request four years earlier in an 1882 letter to Roberts Brothers editor Thomas Niles in which she refused his request for a "volume of poems" (L749b) and instead sent him "How happy is the little Stone" (Fr1570E), a poem in which she alludes to "the rock of immortality" (l. 16) and the "atom" (l. 26) that appear in Brontë's poem. These allusions inform Dickinson's figurative declaration to Niles that the fame she seeks is based on fusion with the elemental fabric of the universe, not immediate approval from the contemporary reading public. Dickinson's refusal to send Niles the volume he requested is consistent with the approach to fame she develops through poems such as "To earn it by disdaining it" (Fr1445) and her 1862 letter to Higginson in which she declares, "If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her" (L408). The path to fame Dickinson lays out through her funeral and other works like these paradoxically requires that the aspirant author risk obscurity by rejecting fame in the immediate present with the hope of attaining a more enduring form in the future. Dickinson's association of lasting fame with rock takes on literal as well as metaphoric meaning when read in the context of Edward Hitchcock's 1851 volume, The Religion of Geology and Its Connected Sciences, and contemporary linguistic theories espoused by Elizabeth Palmer Peabody and Richard Chenevix Trench.
Book Review| March 01 2016 Review: A Kiss from Thermopylae: Emily Dickinson and Law by James R. Guthrie James R. Guthrie, A Kiss from Thermopylae: Emily Dickinson and Law. Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2015. Pp. xii + 256. $80 cloth; $24.95 paper. Paul Crumbley Paul Crumbley Utah State University Paul Crumbley, Professor of English at Utah State University, is the author of Inflections of the Pen: Dash and Voice in Emily Dickinson (1997) and Winds of Will: Emily Dickinson and the Sovereignty of Democratic Thought (2010). He is coeditor, with Eleanor Elson Heginbotham, of Dickinson’s Fascicles: A Spectrum of Possibilities (2014). He is currently writing a book on the poetry of May Swenson. Search for other works by this author on: This Site PubMed Google Scholar Nineteenth-Century Literature (2016) 70 (4): 534–538. https://doi.org/10.1525/ncl.2016.70.4.534 Views Icon Views Article contents Figures & tables Video Audio Supplementary Data Peer Review Share Icon Share Facebook Twitter LinkedIn MailTo Tools Icon Tools Get Permissions Cite Icon Cite Search Site Citation Paul Crumbley; Review: A Kiss from Thermopylae: Emily Dickinson and Law by James R. Guthrie. Nineteenth-Century Literature 1 March 2016; 70 (4): 534–538. doi: https://doi.org/10.1525/ncl.2016.70.4.534 Download citation file: Ris (Zotero) Reference Manager EasyBib Bookends Mendeley Papers EndNote RefWorks BibTex toolbar search Search Dropdown Menu toolbar search search input Search input auto suggest filter your search All ContentNineteenth-Century Literature Search This content is only available via PDF. © 2016 by The Regents of the University of California2016 Article PDF first page preview Close Modal You do not currently have access to this content.
The speaker in Dickinson’s poem “Had I not This, or This, I said” (Fr828) may be interpreted as a poet who confronts a rebellious poem that speaks back to her by declaring, “Thou hast not Me.” This revolution in roles, whereby the author of the poem becomes the reader of a poem that has proclaimed its independence from her, reflects Dickinson’s awareness of the importance of revolution as an essential requirement for the writer’s growth. Writing at a time when Americans were particularly aware of the national myth of revolutionary origins and contemplating the application of that narrative to the revolutionary potential of the Civil War, Dickinson enacted in personal and artistic terms what it meant to bring about productive revolutions. For both poet and nation, revolution had to yield progressive historical change and not result in alterations that were merely circular and repetitive. This is a point Dickinson makes in “Revolution is the Pod” (Fr1004), where her speaker challenges readers to activate the national will and produce evidence that revolution still blooms in America. For the poet, revolution connects with fame when she sees that her work has entered the writing and thinking of others, providing evidence that her art has achieved independence by entering and altering the forward flow of language. This is the position Dickinson expresses with particular clarity in “To earn it by disdaining it” (Fr1445).
sense of the sacred or transcendent. But to live along the Loire or the Thames or the Leith was also to be aware that the great river ports of Northern Europe connect the industrialized West to, as Conrad put it, “the uttermost ends of the earth” (187). A coastal zone, Williams writes, is “where overseas empire meets homeland” (25). The imagination of each writer was at once intensely local and expansively global. Shaped by the cultural and physical landscapes of his youth, each lamented the destruction of those landscapes by the same commercial and political forces that were overrunning earth and its many peoples. Repeatedly in their lives and in their fictions, they went off in search of a place outside the circuits of modern globalization, only to discover that nowhere—not 20,000 leagues under the sea, not the South Pacific where Stevenson spent the last years of his life, not even the “Nowhere” of Morris’s most famous fiction—was beyond the reach of human empire.
In this study, Paul Crumbley asserts that, contrary to popular opinion, Emily Dickinson consistently communicated political views through her poetry. Dickinson's life of self-isolation - today her most notable personal characteristic - by no means extended into the political sphere, he argues. While she rarely addressed political issues directly and was curiously disengaged from the liberal causes and female reform movements of her time, Dickinson's poems are deeply rooted both in matters of personal sovereignty and reader choice. The significant choices Dickinson extends to the reader underscore the democratic dimensions of reading her work, and of reading itself as a political act. Crumbley employs close readings of Dickinson's poems and letters, highlighting the many changing - and often contradictory - voices in her work, both throughout her oeuvre and in individual poems themselves. In Dickinson's letters Crumbley finds just as many unique and conflicting voices; thus, both her personal correspondence and the poems make political demands by placing the burden of interpretation on the reader. Rather than reflecting explicit political values, Dickinson's work chronicles an ongoing decision-making process that magnifies the role of individual choice, not the advocacy of specific outcomes. In the end, Dickinson's readers must either accept an isolated lyric subjectivity or invest that subjectivity with the substance necessary for engagement with the larger world.