The power of words is amazing: I am in the process of reading Susan Howe’s beautiful tribute to (and identification with!) Emily Dickinson, a poet with whom I identified already at age 15 when I stumbled upon “I’m nobody; who are you?” Howe’s work is literally too profound for words. I have tried several times to read it. Only now, at 84 (how many years later?!) is it bearable.
The truth is that real insight hurts. It comes too close for comfort. We are all more comfortable being nobody than real creatures.
My intention in starting this post was anything but to get into such deep water: I wanted to keep it simple. But, as Molly used to say: ” ‘Taint simple, McGee!”