I could never condense my love for Emily Dickinson into a short post and struggle to even completely understand myself what I find in her lines, both mysterious, awesome and beckoning. I did, however, recently encounter Emily Dickinson: The Gorgeous Nothings, a collection of facsimiles of her late poems written on repurposed envelopes and other scraps of paper, and it has made me return to Dickinson in a way that I haven't in years. Her handwriting. Her Handwriting. Her Hand––Writing.
I've also taken a lot out of the feeling that Dickinson made her poetry fit into her life. She wasn't concerned with other reading too much of it. She answered to Art. It's centred me.
The essays in this book are really wonderful and thoughtful, too.