Open Me Carefully: Emily Dickinson's Intimate Letters to Susan Huntington Dickinson

by Emily Dickinson

We frighten each other to death nearly every night — with that exception, we have very independent times.”

In the letters that follow, Emily and Susan are in their early twenties. Though Emily’s feelings of love, desire, and longing for Susan have often been dismissed as a “school-girl crush,” the letters resonate with intelligence, humor, and intimacy that cannot be reduced to adolescent flurry.

I have been hard at work this morning, and I ought to be working now – but I cannot deny myself the luxury of a minute or two with you.

Oh my darling one, how long you wander from me, how weary I grow of waiting and looking, and calling for you; sometimes I shut my eyes, and shut my heart towards you, and try hard to forget you because you grieve me so, but you’ll never go away, Oh you never will

“Her devotion to those she loved was that of a knight for his lady.”

dearer you cannot be, for I love you so already, that it almost breaks my heart – perhaps I can love you anew, every day of my life, every morning and evening – Oh if you will let me, how happy I shall be!

just write me every week one line, and let it be, “Emily, I love you,” and I will be satisfied! Your own Emily

dont you go Susie, not to their meeting, but come with me this morning to the church within our hearts, where the bells are always ringing, and the preacher whose name is Love – shall intercede there for us!

Who loves you most, and loves you best, and thinks of you when others rest? T’is Emilie –

Will you be kind to me, Susie? I am naughty and cross, this morning, and nobody loves me here; nor would you love me, if you should see me frown, and hear how loud the door bangs whenever I go through; and yet it is’nt anger – I dont believe it is, for when nobody sees, I brush away big tears with the corner of my apron, and then go working on – bitter tears, Susie – so hot that they burn my cheeks, and almost schorch my eyeballs, but you have wept such, and you know they are less of anger than sorrow.

So sweet and still, and Thee, Oh Susie, what need I more, to make my heaven whole? Sweet Hour, blessed Hour, to carry me to you, and to bring you back to me, long enough to snatch one kiss, and whisper Good bye, again.

The sun does’nt shine at all, but I can feel a sunshine stealing into my soul and making it all summer, and every thorn, a rose. And I pray that such summer’s sun shine on my Absent One, and cause her bird to sing!

All I desire in this life – all I pray for, or hope for in that long life to come!

Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me as you used to?

I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you – that the expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast – I go to sleep at night, and the first thing I know, I am sitting there wide awake, and clasping my hands tightly, and thinking of next Saturday, and “never a bit” of you.

Write! Comrade – write! On this wondrous sea Sailing silently, Ho! Pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar – Where the storm is oer? In the peaceful west Many the sails at rest – The anchors fast – Thither I pilot thee – Land Ho! Eternity! Ashore at last! Emilie –

I love you as dearly, Susie, as when love first began,

I miss you, mourn for you, and walk the Streets alone – often at night, beside, I fall asleep in tears, for your dear face, yet not one word comes back to me from that silent West. If it is finished, tell me, and I will raise the lid to my box of Phantoms, and lay one more love in; but if it lives and beats still, still lives and beats for me, then say me so, and I will strike the strings to one more strain of happiness before I die.

There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man – It hurls it’s barbed syllables And is mute again – But where it fell The Saved will tell On patriotic day, Some Epauletted Brother Gave his breath away!

Nature – sometimes sears a Sapling – Sometimes – scalps a Tree – Her Green People recollect it – When they do not die – Fainter Leaves – to further Seasons Dumbly testify – We – who have the Souls Die oftener – not so vitally –

The difference between Despair And Fear, is like the One Between the instant of a Wreck And when the Wreck has been. The Mind is smooth – No Motion – Contented as the Eye Upon the Forehead of a Bust – That knows it cannot see.

Dear Sue – Unable are the Loved – to die – For Love is immortality – Nay – it is Deity – Emily.

The things of which we want the proof are those we knew before

Best Witchcraft is Geometry To a Magician’s eye

Trust is better than Contract, for One is still, but the other moves.

Dear Sue ’ It is sweet you are better. I am greedy to see you. Your note was like the Wind. The Bible chooses that you know to define the Spirit. A Wind that rose though not a Leaf In any Forest stirred, But with itself did cold engage Beyond the realm of Bird. A Wind that woke a lone Delight Like Separation’s Swell –

The Rat is the concisest Tenant. He pays no Rent. Repudiates the Obligation – On Schemes intent Balking our Wit To Sound or Circumvent Hate cannot harm A Foe so reticent – Neither Decree prohibit him Lawful as Equilibrium.

To own a Susan of my own Is of itself a Bliss – Whatever Realm I forfeit, Lord, Continue me in this! Emily.

I must wait a few Days before seeing you – You are too momentous. But remember it is idolatry, not indifference.

The sweetest acts both exact and defy, gratitude, so silence is all the honor there is – but to those who [c]an estimate silence, it is sweetly enough – In a Life that stopped guessing, you and I should not feel at home

To the faithful Absence is condensed presence. To others, but there are no others

So gay a Flower Bereaves the Mind As if it were a Woe – Is Beauty an Affliction – then? Tradition ought to know –

I would have come out of Eden to open the Door for you if I had known you were there. You must knock with a Trumpet as Gabriel does, whose Hands are small as yours – I knew he knocked and went away – I did’nt dream that you did –

To thank one for Sweetness, is possible, but for Spaciousness, out of sight – The Competition of Phantoms is

That any Flower should be so base as to stab my Susan, I believe un- willingly – “Tasting the Honey and the Sting”, should have ceased with Eden – Choose Flowers that have no Fang, Dear – Pang is the Past of Peace –

Tell the Susan who never forgets to be subtle, every Spark is numbered – The farthest Thunder that I heard Was nearer than the Sky, And rumbles still, Though torrid Noons Have lain their Missiles by – Emily – 1880s This letter-poem reflects the nineteenth century belief in electricity and its frictions as a life force.

The World hath not known her, but I have known her, was the sweet Boast of Jesus – The small Heart cannot break – The Ecstasy of it’s penalty solaces the large – Emerging from an Abyss, and re-entering it ’ that is Life, is it not, Dear? The tie between us is very fine, but a Hair never dissolves. Lovingly ’

How lovely every Solace! This long, short, penance “Even I regain my freedom with a Sigh”

To her life was rich, and all aglow with God and immortality. With no creed, no formalized faith, hardly knowing the names of dogmas, she walked this life with the gentleness and reverence of old saints, with the firm step of martyrs who sing while they suffer.

Morns like these, we parted; Noons like these, she rose; Fluttering first, then firmer, To her fair repose.