416exfreak
03-11-2009, 05:17 PM
I had to write a paper for my English 3 Honors class.
The two characters had to be Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. The paper is supposed to sound like Emily's un-named sister is narrating, and also have some dialogue.
Read it and tell me what you think if you dont mind. Its probably going to be boring to you 12,13,14 year olds...
And btw- if your criticism is not costructive, please keep it on your side of the keyboard.
Thanks:)
This tale is told to us through the writings of Emily Dickinson's sister, who without her sister's permission, invited Walt Whitman over for a Sunday lunch. She stayed close and wrote her take of the afternoon as she could by method of eavesdropping. It has been translated into modern vernacular by the students of ******* High School.
The day is clear, sunny, the air crisp. The temperature is quite mild, mid 60's at the most. The birds are chirping and playing amongst the leaves; Cardinals and Bluejays, fist sized and feisty. My sister was completely oblivious to Mr. Whitman's visit, which complicated matters when he was introduced into the foyer. She took one horrified look at a man who's books are forbidden in our house, and ran into her room in a panic. I eventually managed to coax her down from her room, and introduced the two to one another. They are polar opposites really, Emily being so shy and reclusive, while Walt almost seems to be as carefree as a homeless man.
They've chosen to eat their lunch under a large canopy oak in the back yard. Emily surprised me when she took charge for a brief moment and said they would sit and eat there. She tends to love nature. I don't know exactly what it is that she likes about nature, it's dirty and filled with creatures that never bathe. She seems to be handling the situation quite well, despite her feelings of resentment towards our father and other male authority figures. Father was always very strict with Emily, he never allowed her to spend time with her friends, never allowed her to go meet boys. He also forbade certain books in the house, and Mr. Whitman's books were some of them.
As they sit and talk, I daydream of them being married. It is quite silly, but they seem to be perfect for one another. Thier common intrests as writers and people, strike me as a little bit odd, especially on Mr. Whitman's part. They both seem to have an odd intrest in death and religion. Mr. Whitman does not strike me as the type of man who would dwell on such a dreary subject. He is all the time smiling, laughing, and enjoying life as it comes at him. It does not surprise me however, that my sister dwells on such things. She seems too alone and in her own world. She refuses to open up to anyone or anything, except her faithful and silent pieces of paper.
The following excerpt was taken from Mrs. Dickinson's memoirs, and is a small portion of the dialouge between Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson.
- "Pray tell Emily, have you ever seen the stars from the beaches of the sea?"
- "Why no, Walt, I have never been able to gaze upon the stars from the oceans edge"
- "Mr. Whitman, may I ask of you, a favor?"
- "Yes Emily, you may ask of me anything you desire"
- "Are there words to describe the starry skies of the beach?"
- "Yes, my dear, there certainly are.."
- "I would love to hear such words, pray tell Mr. Whitman."
-"On the beach at night, stands a child with her father, watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness, while ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky, amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east, ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter, and nigh at hand, only a very little above, swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father, those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all, watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,weep not, my darling, with these kisses let me remove your tears, the ravening clouds shall not long be victorious, they shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition, Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge, they are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again, the great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure, the vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is, (With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper, I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,) something there is more immortal even than the stars, (Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,) something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter loger than sun or any revolving satellite, o the radiant sisters,the Pleiades."
- "Mr. Whitman, it sounds to me as if you witnessed a burial on a beach."
- "My dear, everyone has witnessed a burial. It takes but a stretch of the imagination to incorporate such a setting."
- "Do you have any words on the rigors of life, Emily?"
- "Indeed I do Mr. Whitman".
- "Pray tell!, lets hear them shall we?!?"
- "Much madness is divinest sense to a discerning eye, much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority in this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane, demur and you ’re straightway dangerous, and handled with a chain."
- "It sounds to me as if you have had conflict with members of authority, possibly from defying the conventions of society, or trying to deviate from the everyday?"
- "You are correct Mr. Whitman. I do have my issues with authority."
- "As do most good people, Emily. Lets take a stroll down to the waterside, shall we?"
- "A most splendid idea Mr. Whitman."
- "I must insist, please call me Walt. This is not a formal occasion, nor will it be."
Mr. Whitman got to his feet, and offered his hand to my sister. They ventured off into the beginnings of a spectacular sunset. I could hear no further, nor did I care to follow them anymore. Mr. Whitman was of the gentlmen type. He believed strongly in chivalry, or so his gestations and demeanor seemed to promote.
The following was obtained through other memoirs of Mrs. Dickinson, wrote in later years after the death of her beloved sister Emily.
My sister and Mr. Whitman never saw one another or spoke again after that day. She wrote many poems to him, all of which were lost in a disasterous fire. I fear that all of my sister's writings were lost in the fire. It seems as though all my sister ever did from that day on, was shrink farther and farther back into the abyss' of depression and pain. She wrote more poems of death, more poems of nature and more poems of religion and its significance in the role of death. I tend to think that she poured her soul into her writings as a way of insuring that she would be immortal.
By the time of her death, Emily was nought but a hollow being. Her eyes no longer retained the gleam and life they had in her younger years, particularly the day of Mr. Whitman's visit. I think that my sister truly fell in love with Mr. Whitman, and lived a life of trying to repair her beating heart with threads of sadness and anguish, stitched into paper and hid away for none to see, just as she kept herself hidden, for none to see.
The two characters had to be Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. The paper is supposed to sound like Emily's un-named sister is narrating, and also have some dialogue.
Read it and tell me what you think if you dont mind. Its probably going to be boring to you 12,13,14 year olds...
And btw- if your criticism is not costructive, please keep it on your side of the keyboard.
Thanks:)
This tale is told to us through the writings of Emily Dickinson's sister, who without her sister's permission, invited Walt Whitman over for a Sunday lunch. She stayed close and wrote her take of the afternoon as she could by method of eavesdropping. It has been translated into modern vernacular by the students of ******* High School.
The day is clear, sunny, the air crisp. The temperature is quite mild, mid 60's at the most. The birds are chirping and playing amongst the leaves; Cardinals and Bluejays, fist sized and feisty. My sister was completely oblivious to Mr. Whitman's visit, which complicated matters when he was introduced into the foyer. She took one horrified look at a man who's books are forbidden in our house, and ran into her room in a panic. I eventually managed to coax her down from her room, and introduced the two to one another. They are polar opposites really, Emily being so shy and reclusive, while Walt almost seems to be as carefree as a homeless man.
They've chosen to eat their lunch under a large canopy oak in the back yard. Emily surprised me when she took charge for a brief moment and said they would sit and eat there. She tends to love nature. I don't know exactly what it is that she likes about nature, it's dirty and filled with creatures that never bathe. She seems to be handling the situation quite well, despite her feelings of resentment towards our father and other male authority figures. Father was always very strict with Emily, he never allowed her to spend time with her friends, never allowed her to go meet boys. He also forbade certain books in the house, and Mr. Whitman's books were some of them.
As they sit and talk, I daydream of them being married. It is quite silly, but they seem to be perfect for one another. Thier common intrests as writers and people, strike me as a little bit odd, especially on Mr. Whitman's part. They both seem to have an odd intrest in death and religion. Mr. Whitman does not strike me as the type of man who would dwell on such a dreary subject. He is all the time smiling, laughing, and enjoying life as it comes at him. It does not surprise me however, that my sister dwells on such things. She seems too alone and in her own world. She refuses to open up to anyone or anything, except her faithful and silent pieces of paper.
The following excerpt was taken from Mrs. Dickinson's memoirs, and is a small portion of the dialouge between Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson.
- "Pray tell Emily, have you ever seen the stars from the beaches of the sea?"
- "Why no, Walt, I have never been able to gaze upon the stars from the oceans edge"
- "Mr. Whitman, may I ask of you, a favor?"
- "Yes Emily, you may ask of me anything you desire"
- "Are there words to describe the starry skies of the beach?"
- "Yes, my dear, there certainly are.."
- "I would love to hear such words, pray tell Mr. Whitman."
-"On the beach at night, stands a child with her father, watching the east, the autumn sky. Up through the darkness, while ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading, lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky, amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east, ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter, and nigh at hand, only a very little above, swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.
From the beach the child holding the hand of her father, those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all, watching, silently weeps.
Weep not, child,weep not, my darling, with these kisses let me remove your tears, the ravening clouds shall not long be victorious, they shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition, Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge, they are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again, the great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure, the vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.
Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?
Something there is, (With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper, I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,) something there is more immortal even than the stars, (Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,) something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter loger than sun or any revolving satellite, o the radiant sisters,the Pleiades."
- "Mr. Whitman, it sounds to me as if you witnessed a burial on a beach."
- "My dear, everyone has witnessed a burial. It takes but a stretch of the imagination to incorporate such a setting."
- "Do you have any words on the rigors of life, Emily?"
- "Indeed I do Mr. Whitman".
- "Pray tell!, lets hear them shall we?!?"
- "Much madness is divinest sense to a discerning eye, much sense the starkest madness. ’T is the majority in this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane, demur and you ’re straightway dangerous, and handled with a chain."
- "It sounds to me as if you have had conflict with members of authority, possibly from defying the conventions of society, or trying to deviate from the everyday?"
- "You are correct Mr. Whitman. I do have my issues with authority."
- "As do most good people, Emily. Lets take a stroll down to the waterside, shall we?"
- "A most splendid idea Mr. Whitman."
- "I must insist, please call me Walt. This is not a formal occasion, nor will it be."
Mr. Whitman got to his feet, and offered his hand to my sister. They ventured off into the beginnings of a spectacular sunset. I could hear no further, nor did I care to follow them anymore. Mr. Whitman was of the gentlmen type. He believed strongly in chivalry, or so his gestations and demeanor seemed to promote.
The following was obtained through other memoirs of Mrs. Dickinson, wrote in later years after the death of her beloved sister Emily.
My sister and Mr. Whitman never saw one another or spoke again after that day. She wrote many poems to him, all of which were lost in a disasterous fire. I fear that all of my sister's writings were lost in the fire. It seems as though all my sister ever did from that day on, was shrink farther and farther back into the abyss' of depression and pain. She wrote more poems of death, more poems of nature and more poems of religion and its significance in the role of death. I tend to think that she poured her soul into her writings as a way of insuring that she would be immortal.
By the time of her death, Emily was nought but a hollow being. Her eyes no longer retained the gleam and life they had in her younger years, particularly the day of Mr. Whitman's visit. I think that my sister truly fell in love with Mr. Whitman, and lived a life of trying to repair her beating heart with threads of sadness and anguish, stitched into paper and hid away for none to see, just as she kept herself hidden, for none to see.