Who do we ever see but ourselves?: August 2009

Friday, 7 August 2009

The heart asks pleasure first...and then...

I didn't know this was a poem. A very sad poem.

The heart asks pleasure first,

And then, excuse from pain;

And then, those little anodynes

That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep;

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor,

The liberty to die.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) P.1890

In her room she hung the old glass with a cord and a nail, and kept from looking at it. She had the horrible feeling that she would see Dorothy, and she didn’t want to see her again. The child reminded her of someone. It was that unquestioning directness, that gaze unblinkered by shame. She was as natural as a raccoon – or a fern – or a comet. The Witch thought: Is it Nor? Is it that Dorothy reminds me of how Nor was at this age?

…

No – and now her glance did fall on the tired old looking glass, despite her intentions. She thought: the Witch with her mirror. Who do we ever see but ourselves, and that’s the curse – Dorothy reminds me of myself, at that age, whatever it is.

Who do we ever see but ourselves?

Friday, 7 August 2009

The heart asks pleasure first...and then...

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) P.1890

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