The Soul unto itself

Emily DickinsonFiction | Poem | Adult | Published in 1891

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Poem Analysis

Themes

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Themes

The Importance of the Soul

This is a poem about the soul. Despite her extensive familiarity with centuries of theological writings, Emily Dickinson is not going to solve in an eight-line poem the problem that has perplexed Christian theologians and secular philosophers since Antiquity: what exactly is the soul? It is, however, her interest. After all, the poem would scan the same had she used the word “heart” instead of soul or even “brain,” familiar and accessible entities that would have in turn removed the weight of ambiguity.

Much like her fellow New Englander Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose Transcendental publications Dickinson read with interest, Dickinson here must be content not to define the soul, which exceeds the grasp of even the most intrigued poet, but rather to argue its importance. I am not sure what the soul is, the poem argues, but it is important, central to how a person engages life and crucial to how the person handles the dynamics of relationships, the integrity of yearning, and ultimately the reality of isolation. The soul then is offered here as the central element of a person’s life. Without limiting the soul to the strictures and dogma of any religion, the poem offers rather how this thing we agree to call a soul at once expresses emotions and ideas, feelings and thoughts. It is not part of who we are—it is who we are. Because no one back to Plato ever defined the soul in any definitive way, the poem is an invitation to the reader to consider what is gained—or lost—by this thing (?), this entity (?), this psyche (?), this energy (?). Inscrutable, the soul remains both important and elusive.

The Complexity of the Soul

For theologians and philosophers, the soul has long been perceived as mysterious, certainly, but possessing an integrity. A person has a soul, singular not plural. It is, after all, a person’s identity, the sum of a person’s emotional, intellectual, and spiritual make-up. And although its specific definition has always remained a matter of conjecture and its function will never be entirely understood (it’s not like defining a microwave or a pituitary gland), the assumption privileged by generations of poets and philosophers is that the soul is a single grand entity. If its function and purpose remain necessarily wrapped in mystery, at least the soul has a reassuring integrity.

The poem begs to differ. For Dickinson, the imperial soul, the sovereign summa of a person’s fullest identity, is multilayered, more complex than a singular energy. The soul can be betrayed by its own self, its function relying on the cooperation of emotions and decisions that conflict with each other. It is not that the soul can be tempted to stray from its natural inclinations and predispositions. That is the Christian drama of temptation, damnation, and the offer of redemption. Rather, the soul tempts itself. There are no external influences—the soul, then, is in constant war with itself. There are no good souls and bad souls—that is the logic of post-Freudian psychology. There is only the good/bad soul, a single complex, in constant tension, forever aware that it can betray itself, it can deceive itself. It is at once the king and the traitor. That conception of the complexity of the soul, of course, invalidates or at least upends Christian theology with its benign assumption that the soul is a gift from a loving God, and the responsibility of each of us is to keep that soul in mint condition in anticipation of some final judgment at the authority of this bookkeeper God.

The Irony of the Soul

Drawing on her familiarity with centuries of philosophical speculations about the soul, Dickinson here presumes the infinite power of the soul. It is stronger than the heart with its fallible and often urgently misplaced yearnings. It is supreme to the intellect, too cool, too distant, too chillingly calculating to admit the liberating energy of emotions. Imagine, the poem argues, the soul in its fullest expression, the soul at its most dazzling integrity: “The Soul should stand in Awe” (Line 8), Dickinson affirms. Dickinson, a dedicated student of language, uses “awe”—the word derives from the Greek, meaning a blend of wonder and terror. Imagine the soul at its fullest, the line suggests, and the sight would strike as much astonishment as fear.

Theoretically, then, the soul should command awe. That it does not creates the poem’s dark irony. The irony pivots on the word “should” (Line 8) in the closing line. There at the very end, Dickinson reminds us that yes, we have this soul, but seldom do we abide by its presence, seldom do we feel its power. Thus, we grasp the power of the soul only ironically—like appreciating the idea of fresh air while stuck in an elevator. The irony measures the distance between what ought to be and what is, the shattering implications of “should” (Line 8). Gifted with this soul, we live as if it did not exist, as if its guidance were irrelevant. Although we do not control this reality, our soul, fractured by civil war, remains an idea without reward, a philosophical position at once tantalizing and ironic. Imagine the soul if it actually were in charge of us…The ellipsis dots and the subjunctive mood are irresistible as the poem suggests at best the propositional nature of the soul, whose authority is at once mighty and puny.