Quotes About Emily Dickinson

all words, scenes and claims of participants in the feud are documented in source notes. Though the feud began with adultery, Emily Dickinson became its focus after her death, each side battling for her unpublished papers. The issue was not so much money as the right to own the poet—the right to say who she was.

In her lifetime, Emily Dickinson had been called 'the myth'; when she died, Todd saw her disappear more deeply into her 'mystery'. Higginson introduced her to the public as a nunnish recluse who never thought of publication. He characterised her as 'whimsical', 'wayward', 'uneven' and 'exasperating'. Actually, the blueprint for this character goes back to the poet herself:

Bolts of Melody, with more than six hundred unknown poems by Emily Dickinson, took the public by surprise in 1945.

Poetry. I read Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, and Jane Hirschfield. I like to read Billy Collins out loud.

I have a little tiny Emily Dickinson so big that I carry in my pocket everywhere. And you just read three poems of Emily. She is so brave. She is so strong. She is such a sexy, passionate, little woman. I feel better.

The poet Emily Dickinson said that nature is a haunted house, while art is a house that tries to be haunted. She was born and died in the same room.

I love the idea of the vignette, which is associated with the decorative, illustrative, small, and thus with the feminine, and thus easily maligned. I mean, Emily Dickinson wrote vignettes, right?

I'm slightly obsessed with women's history, so I'd love to talk to Emily Dickinson or Louisa May Alcott.

And I, could I stand byAnd see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death's privilege?

When Emily Dickinson writes, "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul," she reminds us, as the birds do, of the liberation and pragmatism of belief.

Herman Melville is not comforting. Emily Dickinson isn't either. Maybe their work is too hungry for comfort, or just too vivid for comfort. But Henry James is – profoundly so. Because he is tender. The tenderness is there in the structure of the sentence. He knows the way the poor and the dead are forgotten by the living, and he cannot allow that to happen. So he keeps on writing for them, for the dead, as if they were children to be sheltered and loved, never abandoned.

Did you know that a lot of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to the theme from Gilligan's Island? Not kidding, this is totally legit.

Dickinson is my hero because she was a joker, because she would never explain, because as a poet she confronted pain, dread and death, and because she was capable of speaking of those matters with both levity and seriousness. She's my hero because she was a metaphysical adventurer.

I found abundance of candy in my stocking, which I do not think has had the anticipated effect upon my disposition, in case it was to sweeten it...

The Dictionary [Emily] Dickinson used defined tender as 'anxious for another's good' and a pioneer as 'one that goes before another to remove obstruction or to prepare the way for another.' This seems to me a good way to think of Jesus: sojourning before us, clearing the brush, bushwhacking, even---removing the impediments of sin, making a path that will lead us to our true selves, and to God.

Emily Dickinson's poetry is life — blood — spirit. Her passion fills all the poems, till they are like alabaster filled with flame.

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the Exponent of earth.

Emily Dickinson never developed. She remained loyal to her persona and to that same little metrical song that stood her in such good stead. She is a striking example of complexity within a simple package. Her rhymes are like bows on the package.

VIOLET: August . . . your month. Locusts are raging. "Summer psalm become summer wrath." 'Course it's only August out there. In here . . . who knows? All right . . . okay. "The Carriage held but just Ourselves," dum-de-dum . . . mm, best I got . . . Emily Dickinson's all I got . . . something something, "Horse's Heads Were Toward Eternity . . .

How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not the thing with feathers. The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.

How wrong Emily Dickinson was. Hope is not 'the thing with feathers.' The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.

She could become a spinster, like Emily Dickinson, writing poems full of dashes and brilliance, and never gaining weight.

To her surprise, Madeleine found herself contemplating this proposal. Why not tell her parents everything, curl up in the backseat of the car, and let them take her home? She could move into her old bedroom, with the sleigh bed and the Madeline wallpaper. She could become a spinster, like Emily Dickinson, writing poems full of dashes and brilliance, and never gaining weight.

Invite him to poetry club, Doff said with a smirk. See if he asks you to take a look at his Emily Dickinson. Beatrice snorted. How long did it take you to think that up? Most of lunch, and the rest of G block, Doff said, shrugging modestly. I started with 'read his Charles Dickens,' but Charles Dickens is a novelist. What about his Philip K. Dick? Who's that? asked Doff. He wrote the book that got turned into Blade Runner .