Emily Dickinson, "This Quiet Dust"

Thanks to Hannah Stephenson for calling attention last March 30 to this eight-liner, Poem 813 by Emily Dickinson. I had never read it.

         This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies

         And lads and girls—

         Was laughter and ability and sighing,

         And frocks and curls;

         This passive place a summer's nimble mansion,

         Where bloom and bees

         Fulfilled their oriental circuit,

         Then ceased like these—

Whatever else we might say about it, it's an example of how one can write about the grimmest subjects and be lovely at it—not by writing prettily, in lacy calligraphy, but by capturing the subject in a way that enhances the subject. Dickinson's subject here is mortality and the brevity of human experience. One way to capture that is to be brief, imitating your subject, being as icy with your subject as death is.

What specifics do we remember about someone we knew, now deceased, or humanity in general? I'm bowled over by Dickinson's unpredictable and stunning combination in Line 3:  "laughter and ability and sighing."

It's "ability" that throws a fantastic monkey wrench into what we'd expect. We can imagine ourselves going on and on sentimentally about laughter and sighs; most of us probably think consciously or otherwise that most of what's good is about laughter and sighs, moonlight and roses, splendor in the grass, tip-toeing through the daisies, God's hand patting us on the head or stretching out to show us where the good places are.

So who the hell threw "ability" into that sweet, familiar picture? Well, Emily Dickinson for one.

When we try to attribute  meaning and purpose to our lives, don't we place our abilities and achievements right up there with romantic and family love? "What makes me proud, or at least OK, about being me?" "What did I do or make that was good?" Babies?  Wooden cabinets (when I think of making, I always think first of carpenters, I'm not sure why)?  Space ships, poems, computer programs, a new arrangement of office space on the 43rd floor, an indestructible condom in six colors and sizes—it’s called the 36er  (6 x 6, get it?). 

I made that. Or, my spouse or child or friend made that. If we could know our heart of hearts, or others' heart of hearts, and be honest about it, I bet we admire abilities as much as relationships or more. Anybody can fall in love (or lust). Most people can breed. Most are mediocre at raising children.

By comparison to moonlight, lace, or splendiferous grasses, ability sounds cold and functional. But do you know anyone who can honestly say, "I don't have any ability at anything, and that's fine with me"?

Somewhere in these pages, I’ve told the story of the eminent William Faulkner and his daughter. He was starting a drinking binge, which she'd seen before, and she said something like, “Pappy, pappy, don’t start.” He replied, “Nobody remembers Shakespeare’s children.” 

That cruelty and self-importance are almost unimaginable. However, there's no denying Faulkner's talent, and that complicates the whole situation.  So much for lads and girls and frocks and curls. In demanding attention for “ability,” E.D. has in a way stuck a mean old Faulkner-stick in the middle of hickory dickory dock mush. 

I could go on beating this drum about single words—a mansion that’s “nimble,” or the “circuit” of bees and blooms that’s “oriental”—but maybe I’ve made the point. Emily Dickinson may have felt her poem tugging her toward just another trite, smarmy, whiny protest about death’s unkindness and how sad it is that the laughing, flirting, pretty rich people in the drawing room have to become dust. By inserting curious, attention-demanding words like the few I’ve singled out, E.D. can have her cake more complicated and eat it too.

For those who want to mourn death as the consumption of wealthy elegance, here’s Poem 813. For those who wonder a little more vigorously just what it is we miss when a human dies, here’s Poem 813. E.D. tosses in some nuts and bolts that skew and enlarge the whole discussion. 

This quiet dust was gentlemen and ladies
And lads and girls--
Was laughter and ability and sighing,
And frocks and curls;

This passive place a summer's nimble mansion,
Where bloom and bees
Fulfilled their oriental circuit,
Then ceased like these--