My November Guest

I've talked about quite a bit of poetry by Emily Dickinson, so let's break it up with a poem by Robert Frost. This one, "My November Guest", was first published (with slightly different text) in the November 1912 issue of The Forum, and was then collected in his first volume, A Boy's Will, published in 1913. It's included in this collected edition of Frost's work that I'm using.

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
   Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
   She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
   She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
   Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
   The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
   And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
   The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
   And they are better for her praise.

The volume A Boy's Will is presented as though a single person ("the youth") is the speaker of every poem, and accompanying each poem in the table of contents is a gloss describing the poem. In that volume, "My November Guest" is labelled: "He is in love with being misunderstood."

So, what questions present themselves, upon reading this poem? Certainly, we should ask who (or what) the guest called "My Sorrow" represents. If the guest represents a person, then we might ask who, precisely. If, instead, the guest is something like a personification of sorrow, the emotion, then we might wonder how such a personification could misunderstand the speaker. Let's examine the poem for some details.

First, and probably most important, is the opening: "My Sorrow, when she's here with me,". The speaker personifies sorrow as a woman--and as a companion. How is she characterized? Positively, as seeing beauty in the November days. And the speaker does not wish to be rid of her: "She talks and I am fain to list". Physically, we know only that she wears 'simple worsted gray'. Given the material, I imagine something fairly formal--and perhaps an outfit appropriate for a funeral. Gray worsted wool is no fabric for a summer dress, at any rate.

During the first three stanzas, the speaker's companion is trying to convince him of the beauties of the "dark days of autumn rain", which she thinks he has "no eye for". But, he tells us, "Not yesterday I learned to know / The love of bare November days". He already appreciates these beauties, but he does not correct his companion, for "they are better for her praise". This may explain the gloss.

Let's take the position, for the moment, that 'my Sorrow' is a personification of the speaker's actual emotion, sorrow. Then her praise of the 'bare November days' could be understood as the speaker finding those days to suit his mood better, when he is sorrowful. She (and therefore he) is 'glad the birds are gone away', preferring solitude at this time. "She's glad her simple worsted gray / Is silver now with clinging mist." could mean that the speaker feels, at these times, that sorrow is an important and worthwhile emotion. That it is well-suited to the 'dark days of autumn rain' does not detract from it.

The one, really big problem with this interpretation is that it is difficult to imagine how the speaker's sorrow--his actual emotion--could misunderstand him. Easy for him to misunderstand his emotion, but that's not what is happening here. I can't resolve this problem, so let's put it aside, and take a different approach.

If we take the position that 'my Sorrow' represents some real person, either actually or mentally present with the speaker, things look a bit different. The poem could be literally about the things it says--it could be describing the actual actions of a person who praises November days and does not recognize that the speaker also finds them beautiful. The question, then, becomes: who does 'my Sorrow' represent?

If we assume that the speaker stands for Frost (a dangerous assumption, usually, but probably justified here), then we have some options, both figurative and literal. If you'll forgive a quick detour into biography: by the time this poem was published, Frost had experienced some tragedy in his life, including the deaths of two of his children and his mother, who, incidentally, died in November. Possibly the guest represents one of these, whose deaths caused Frost sorrow.

On the other hand, the guest could represent a living person--in particular, Frost's wife. In Lathem's 1981 condensation of Thompson's biography of Frost is quoted a letter to his daughter Lesley (written about 1939), regarding a letter written by his wife:

"My, my, what sorrow runs through all she wrote to you children. No wonder some thing of it overcasts my poetry if read aright. No matter how humorous I am\[,] I am sad. I am a jester about sorrow. She colored my thinking from the first just as at the last she troubled my politics. It was no loss but a gain of course. She was not as original as I in thought but she dominated my art with the power of her character and nature." (p. 397-398)

A strong contender! However, it doesn't seem likely that Frost would consider his wife "My November Guest", and "when she's here with me" also seems a little odd. Perhaps during this season her mood was different enough for frost to consider that mood as a "November Guest". We can see why biographical criticism can easily slip into biographical fallacy--there are plenty of options, if we want to interpret this poem as in some sense analogous to Frost's life. In the end, I don't think we can say definitively who Sorrow is, and I'm not aware that Frost himself offered any clarifying remarks.

I've said quite a bit about this poem, but it seems I'll be leaving this mystery unsolved. Even without resolving the question of who or what 'my Sorrow' represents, though, "My November Guest" is a wonderful and worthwhile poem. Its imagery is excellent (and matches well the scene outside my window), and it has an excellent rhythm, being written in iambic tetrameter. I'd encourage you to read it aloud, but I can do you one better: here is a recording of Frost himself reading the poem.

Had I not seen the Sun

I'm such an inconstant writer! I come to you today with a thematically appropriate poem, "Had I not seen the Sun" by Emily Dickinson.

Had I not seen the Sun
I could have borne the shade
But Light a newer Wilderness
My Wilderness has made —

What shall we make of it?

Dickinson uses nature imagery very often, and sometimes straightforwardly. If we take her at her word, here, then she is saying that the light of the sun has revealed a different wilderness than that which she could perceive in the shade--and a better wilderness, since she can no longer bear the shade.

But I think that we should take things a bit further. The sun stands for revelatory power, such as that which all knowledge has, and wilderness can be understood as anything which knowledge could 'shine light on'. Her life, the world around her, some particular issue--take your pick.

The implication, as I mentioned above in my literal reading, is that what is revealed is better than what was known before. We shouldn't forget, too, that what the sun reveals is only what was already there. But we may now appreciate it better.

In a way, this poem could well be the rallying cry and anthem of this blog, and of all who peer a little closer at the world, be they literary critics, scientists, or bloggers with dreams of legitimacy. It expresses a rather positive sentiment, particularly for Dickinson.

I feel like I'm shortchanging everyone with such a pat analysis. I did put 'sometimes wrong' right in the header of this blog, so let's try for the opposite interpretation, shall we?

The first two lines indicate that the speaker was able to handle the shade--had not she seen the sun. But, the last two lines reveal, the sun's light has changed the situation. Importantly, the speaker does not indicate that she is able to bear this "newer Wilderness".

Can we not all think of some situation where new knowledge has made things more difficult to bear? Perhaps the speaker has learned of a friend's betrayal, or of some other previously-hidden slight against her. The wilderness, we'd do well to recall, is bewildering. Just because Dickinson generally expresses a positive view of nature, that doesn't mean she must always appreciate the incomprehensible wilderness.

Which interpretation is more convincing, do you think? In the end, it doesn't matter too much--one power of poetry is that it can speak to us in different ways at different times of our lives.

Raver Raver Raver

Oh, it's been a while. I've been absorbed in other projects, but let's try our hands at analysis again, shall we? No doubt there are those who'll feel literary analysis and close readings are for boring people reading boring poems by old dead people, so let's mix it up with some hardcore lyrics. These are from "Raver Raver Raver" by EFM-7:

I knew a little raver
I fell in love with her
Gave her all I could but then she danced off in a blur
Raver raver raver
She found somebody new
I will always miss the times that I was holding you

You can hear a sample (which includes these lyrics) here. So, let's get analytical!

From the first line, we know that these lyrics are a retrospective: "I knew a little raver." Either the speaker or the raver is now absent, though we don't know yet which. Another thing worth noticing: "I knew a little raver." How shall we interpret little in this context? It could be simple a term of endearment, for the connotation of little is more than merely size. "I know a little place on 3rd that serves the best pepperoni pizza." When we use little this way, we speak possessively and affectionately.

It seems, with the second line, that the speaker probably does feel affectionate and possessive. "I fell in love with her" tells us also that it's likely that the little raver has gone, and the past tense lends an air of melancholy to the lyrics that is belied by the upbeat melody, if you're listening to the song. "I knew a little raver (but she is gone now) / I fell in love with her (and now I miss her)."

"Gave her all I could but then she danced off in a blur" is full of possibilities, as well. Did the speaker give her gifts? Or sincere feelings? When she danced off in a blur, why blur? Did she leave suddenly, in a blur? Or were the speaker's eyes blurred with tears?

"She found somebody new" may lead us to wonder whether the little raver ever took the relationship as seriously as the speaker. The speaker fell in love with the little raver, but did she ever fall in love with the speaker?

"I will always miss the times that I was holding you" is sung quickly, and the melody and beat hide the melancholy. We can see that the speaker has been affected by the loss of the raver. It may be too much to say that the speaker is still in love with the raver, but clearly these lyrics do not tell the story of a happy reminiscence on a past love.

This song sounds upbeat, but I don't think that it is, really. Very often the lyrics of a song tell quite a different story than you'd expect from the melody. After all, how many people think of "American Woman" or "Every Breath You Take" as nice, romantic sorts of songs? You may think I'm reading too much into this song, or paying it more attention than it deserves, and you might not be wrong, but I think it pays to give some thought even to the lyrics of dance music.

It struck me — every Day —

Dickinson often uses nature imagery in her poems, both directly and as metaphors for other things. Here's a great emotional poem, "It struck me — every Day —":

It struck me — every Day —
The Lightning was as new
As if the Cloud that instant slit
And let the Fire through —

It burned Me — in the Night —
It Blistered to My Dream —
It sickened fresh upon my sight —
With every Morn that came —

I though that Storm — was brief —
The Maddest — quickest by —
But Nature lost the Date of This —
And left it in the Sky —

The metaphor in this is fantastic. The speaker suffers some great grief, and its pain is never far away. Let's start at the top.

The double meaning of "struck" in the first line is absolutely excellent. We say, of course, that ideas 'strike' us--a particularly vivid memory may strike us. So too for the speaker, she is struck "every Day" by her grief. But lightning also strikes; Dickinson takes this double meaning and runs with it. The pain of grief struck her like lightning, and moreover it strikes every day as fresh as "As if the Cloud that instant slit / And let the Fire through —". Beautiful imagery.

Notice the dash at the end of the fourth line. Dickinson often uses dashes when other punctuation might have been used. Here, the dash is not final as a period would be, rather I read it as an interruption. When the second stanza begins with "It burned Me", it is as though, for the reader, the very lightning that was just let through the cloud has burned her--that sentence had never yet completed when we begin the fifth line.

The second stanza emphasizes that the pain is with the speaker in the night, in her dreams, and in the morning--always with her, and always fresh.

In the final stanza, the metaphor of lightning for grief really does its best work. The speaker says that she believed that very intense storms, and by association very intense grief, soon pass, "But Nature lost the Date of This — / And left it in the Sky —". The grief is not only still with her, it is "in the Sky", looming over her, ever-present.

The pain of grief being represented by lightning in a storm makes it seem less a personal trouble and more a fact about the world. The speaker cannot simply give up the grief--cannot 'get over' the pain--because it is still there. What she lost is still lost. It is the world that is grievous. The storm, her grief, was not created by the speaker, and no more can she put it away that she can put the storm out of the sky.

Before I got my eye put out

In a continuation of some of the past themes, I'd like to take a look at another Dickinson poem, "Before I got my eye put out":

Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –

But were it told to me, Today,
That I might have the Sky
For mine, I tell you that my Heart
Would split, for size of me –

The Meadows – mine –
The Mountains – mine –
All Forests – Stintless stars –
As much of noon, as I could take –
Between my finite eyes –

The Motions of the Dipping Birds –
The Morning’s Amber Road –
For mine – to look at when I liked,
The news would strike me dead –

So safer – guess – with just my soul
Opon the window pane
Where other creatures put their eyes –
Incautious – of the Sun –

Let's start right into the first stanza, then.

Before she got her eye put out, the speaker "liked as well to see / As other creatures, that have eyes – / And know no other way –". At first, the construction would indicate that the speaker used to enjoy seeing, but it's immediately clear that in fact she means that she used not to properly appreciate sight. That, having lost (part of) her sight, she now finds sight to be much more than she once did. Remember the similar theme in "Success is counted sweetest". Also, notice that it is nature that she wishes to see--recall the particularly excellent "I taste a liquor never brewed".

In the following stanzas, she writes of all the things that, having two good eyes, she might see, and therefore possess. The third stanza really emphasizes this: "The Meadows – mine – / The Mountains – mine – / All Forests – Stintless stars – / As much of noon, as I could take – / Between my finite eyes –". The first two lines drive it home--they're almost harsh in their directness.

Now, knowing what sight really is worth, having had her eye put out, the speaker cannot handle all this--it is too much. In the second stanza, she says that her heart "Would split, for size of me –". She, a merely finite being, cannot hold all of the sky. If she were told that she could have all of these things, she says, "The news would strike me dead –".

The final stanza particularly bears notice--so many things are happening there. First, we have the excellent image "with just my soul / Upon the window pane / Where other creatures put their eyes". When we say that the eyes are the windows of the soul, we often mean that by looking into someone's eyes, we can see the soul. I think this gives another twist to it, that the eyes are the windows by which the soul looks out, pressed against the window panes. The metaphor is maybe a little clumsy--it's hard to put it together in such a way that eyes, sight, soul, and windows each fit some precise purpose--but it's a beautiful thing. Certainly it means that the speaker sees with her soul, now.

The final line of the poem, "Incautious – of the Sun –", recalls the earlier idea that sight is really more than can be borne by a human, by "finite eyes". Directly, the sun's brightness is of course a thing to be cautious of, but indirectly, "the Sun" stands in for all of nature's beauty. The speaker, who now sees with her soul, recognizes that all of this beauty is too much--is dangerous for her soul.

What sort of harm comes from too much beauty? The speaker, now, says that it would strike her dead to have all of nature's beauty hers for the taking. But "other creatures, that have eyes" have this always. Does it some harm to them? I would posit that it does. Others, who have all of this beauty, do not appreciate it. They take it for granted. In a way, the speaker has gone from one kind of blindness to another. But is she more hobbled now than before?

I taste a liquor never brewed

Another nice and straightforward Dickinson poem, "I taste a liquor never brewed" expresses a sentiment that today we might phrase as "being high on life". Read it:

I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun!

Very Briefly

Dickinson writes that she is intoxicated by nature, and that it is the best of all liquors.

More Detail

This one's metaphor is simple: drunkenness stands in for exhilaration and joy at nature's beauty. Not an uncommon metaphor, either; how often is it said that beauty is intoxicating?

From the first line we know that Dickinson is speaking of no actual liquor. She says that her liquor was "never brewed", and goes on to imply it is superior to all others: "Not all the vats upon the Rhine / Yield such an alcohol!"

From the second stanza, we learn what her liquor is--air and dew, and, by extension, all of nature. Dickinson indicates that she is eternally enchanted by nature, "Reeling, through endless summer days, / From inns of molten blue."

The idea that her intoxication with nature is limitless is further reinforced in the third stanza. When bees leave behind foxgloves' blossoms and butterflies cease to drink nectar, Dickinson "shall but drink the more". For this, I support two interpretations. One, that Dickinson shall never cease in her fascination with nature, because of course, bees and butterflies will always seek out nectar. This fits well with the "endless summer days" from the previous stanza. The other, that when the bees and butterflies stop drinking nectar, which is to say, autumn or winter, Dickinson will still appreciate nature. This interpretation would have the third stanza serve as an acknowledgement of the other parts of the year besides summer.

However you read the third stanza, though, it implies that Dickinson enjoys all of nature, and intends to do so indefinitely. The final stanza leaves us with a lovely image: Dickinson, drunk on the beauty of nature, propping herself up against the sun. How striking!

Why "(Mis)understanding Literature"?

I want to clear up any confusion that may result from the title of this blog. Why "(Mis)understanding Literature"?

I'm of the school of thought that the "meaning" of a work of art (including literature) isn't something that is fixed by the creator's intentions, or by the execution of the work. Rather, a reasonable interpretation of the meaning of a work of art depends on several factors:

1. What the creator intended
2. What the creator actually did
3. What the facts of the world were when the work was created
4. What the facts of the world were when the work was read
5. How the reader understood the work
6. (Probably some other stuff, to a lesser extent)

That's a lot of stuff that's out of the control of the author! Let me give a little example to help clarify somewhat what I mean.

Imagine a book was written in 1850 about a charismatic man who is elected president of some unspecified European country. Let's imagine that this leader cements his popularity by blaming some already-disliked group of people for the recent economic trouble his country was having. Let's finally assume that this leader started a war, during the course of which he arranged the persecution and murder of many members of the scapegoat group.

Well, everyone already knows what I'm describing. But I asked you to imagine that the book was written in 1850. There's no way the author could have intended the book as an allegory for Hitler's rise to power, and no contemporary reader could possibly have read it that way. Any modern reader, though, would instantly spot the parallel--it would be practically impossible not to read the book as though the leader were an analogue for Hitler. My position is that this anachronistic reading is totally valid--it'd be more wrong to insist that people shouldn't give anachronistic interpretations of the work than to imagine that the thing is an allegory for Hitler.

To make that more clear, let's imagine one further thing: no one knows when, exactly the book was written--it might have been in 1850, or it might have been 1950; let's say the ink was smudged. Now a literary interpretation of the book that depends on a comparison to Hitler is pretty clearly valid if the book was written in 1950--but do the facts about the book as written change depending on when it was written? Clearly not.

Okay, that's enough defense of a all-interpretations-are-valid theory of literature. Of course, I don't necessarily mean exactly all interpretations... but you get it. So, why the title?

Any interpretation of a work is likely to be rejected by someone, and most interpretations will probably be rejected by most people. You're always going to find someone who'll tell you that you've misunderstood a book, and of course they know just what the correct interpretation is--their pet theory.

In view of this, let's just state it up front: we're always going to be misunderstanding literature. There are some books where I look back at what I thought of them years ago and even I agree that I was misunderstanding them. But that's no reason not to try. So let's just assume that we're going to make mistakes, and go on from there, without worrying about whether we'll look like fools five years from now. Because of course we will--we were all fools five years ago, and why should the future look any different?