Quotes About Dickinson

Self-help books are for the birds. Self-help groups are where it's at.

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—And Saints—to windows run—To see the little TipplerLeaning against the—Sun—

My heroes are, above all, the great 19th-century Americans: Emerson, Whitman, Dickinson and the others. I love the way they think.

Terror and rapture to Emily Dickinson are alternative words for transport.

I was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a volume of Dickinson's poetry. I came back to my hotel, read 2,000 of her poems and immediately began composing in my head. I wrote down the melodies even before I got to a piano.

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

Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.

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 was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a volume of Dickinson's poetry. I came back to my hotel, read 2 000 of her poems and immediately began composing in my head. I wrote down the melodies even before I got to a piano.

...his babbling, berry lips...

Nature is a Haunted House – but Art – a House that tries to be haunted.

I have been in love with Emily Dickinson's poetry since I was 13, and, like an anonymous post on findagrave.com says, 'Dear Emily - I hope I have understood.' Emily's poems are sometimes difficult, often abstract, on occasion flippant, but her mind is inside them.

Alas, those six unfortunate souls who have made their way through my books know that every one of them is about Emerson and Thoreau and their dark counters, Melville and Emily Dickinson. Try as I might, I can't get their inspirations, their challenges and sentences and wisdom and questions out of my head.

Moom' and 'tomb' actually rhyme, which is something Dickinson hardly ever did, preferring near-rhymes such as 'mat/gate', 'tune/sun,' and 'balm/hermaphrodite.

The fairest Home I ever knew Was founded in an Hour By Parties also that I knew A Spider and a Flower...

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.

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 .

As Dickinson's Misery suggests in a number of ways, when lyric becomes an adjective, it evokes a theory of personal expression and abstraction that was highly problematic for Dickinson, but that has come to be highly valued in retrospect by modernism.

Obscuring the drama of Emily Dickinson's legacy have been the dustheaps of slander and sentimental conjecture that fortified the battlers in the war between the houses.

how could the guardians of convention in the 1880s lend themselves to originality in a woman who was 'wayward'? Dickinson had not seen fit to follow the advice Higginson, with patient kindliness, had laid out for her over the course of twenty-five years.

reader's report by Arlo Bates, a poet favoured by the firm, noted Dickinson's 'crudity of workmanship'. He foresaw no possibility of making a stir but did concede that this was the real thing, a power near to genius. Had she published—had she learnt the conventions of punctuation and rhyme—'she would have stood at the head of American singers'.

Only when pressed did Mabel admit that they'd never met face to face. At most, she'd 'once' glimpsed her object 'flitting' away. 'Flitting' fits the legend of shyness, a shrinking creature, but the cutting edge of the Dickinson voice conveys the opposite: it's bared, at the ready.