A "Visit" from Emily

This entry is about a number of books I’ve read on Emily Dickinson.   

I did my first biography on the poet Emily Dickinson in the 4th grade, and because it was easy, I chose to do my English biography assignments for my jr. high on the woman as well as in high school.  Call it boring and unchallenging, and redundant, but I soon learned much about Ms. Dickinson—may be a tad TOO MUCH! 

Emily, for the most part, lived her life as a recluse.  She rarely left her home, and lived quite out of sight of the public eye.  She loved a man who was unattainable, and wrote poetry that somehow rivaled her very private and lonely life.  She would often look out the window of her room and lower picnic baskets for the neighbor children who would often play below her window.  When company came to call, Emily ran upstairs to her room and hid away.  I found her strangeness interesting, and her writings very profound.  Unfortunately, her writings were not truly recognized until after the time of her death.  Perhaps that is how she would have wanted it; out of sight and kept away.   

I was writing yet another essay on this woman’s life late one evening.  In high school, when an essay was due, I was usually up all night the nightbefore, typing away on my brother’s manual typewriter until the early hours of the morning.  At my side, were a few books I had as reference for my paper.  One book in particular had the very few known pictures of Emily.  Ms. Dickinson did not like taking pictures, and there are even fewer of them where she is actually smiling.  There was one in particular that did nothing for her.  She looked tired, homely looking and seemed really annoyed with the fact that she was being photographed.  I thought to myself, “Gee, Emily, at least smile!” I went through the book to find a particular reference, when I found myself turning back to that one particular picture, over and over AGAIN.  It was strange and unexplainable to me why I was constantly turning to that particular page.  I looked at the picture again, and an odd feeling came over me.  I felt a heavy and strange presence in the room.  It was as if Emily was there staring at me from the pages of the book.  I moved away from the book quickly and looked around.  I was alone; wasn’t I?  The house was quiet and everyone was asleep.  It was very quiet; perhaps a little too quiet.  Why was I awake in this room with a picture of this dead poet staring up at me?!  Without turning off the light, I ran upstairs and crawled into bed.   

I never did another biography on Emily again.