On Emily’s Moor
ed. “Whatever that centering is, it is purely individual, and as beyond gender as it is beyond creed or ‘high morality.’” (“Introduction,” The Brontës, ed. Bloom, Chelsea House Publishers, 1987, p. 11)
Firmly rooted in this world that is the world of each of us, she “will seek not the shadowy region,” whose “unsustaining vastness waxes drear.” It is to this world, rendered uncanny, eerie, sublime, that her nature would be leading, this finite existence bounded by death, where waked to feeling we find or make what glory and what grief we may know.
Do I read too much of myself into the poem? Perhaps, tightroping a fine line, for we always bring ourselves to encounters with writers, reading ourselves and our stories into them and theirs, no matter how we try to be open to what may be there independent of our reading. I do not know if these brief remarks shed any illumination on why I respond to this poem as I do. Perhaps it can only be said that I simply love it, as we sometimes love those things that we come to call art. Emily wakes my heart to feeling and carries me away.
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