"Bartleby the Scrivener"

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Summary
The narrator of "Bartleby the Scrivener" is the Lawyer, who runs a law practice on
Wall Street in New York. The Lawyer begins by noting that he is an "elderly man,"
and that his profession has brought him "into more than ordinary contact with
what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men the lawcopyists, or scriveners." While the Lawyer knows many interesting stories of such
scriveners, he bypasses them all in favor of telling the story of Bartleby, whom he
finds to be the most interesting of all the scriveners. Bartleby is, according to the
Lawyer, "one of those beings of whom nothing is ascertainable, except from the
original sources, and, in his case, those were very small."
Before introducing Bartleby, the Lawyer describes the other scriveners working in
his office at this time. The first is Turkey, a man who is about the same age as the
Lawyer (around sixty). Turkey has been causing problems lately. He is an
excellent scrivener in the morning, but as the day wears onparticularly in the
afternoonhe becomes more prone to making mistakes, dropping ink plots on
the copies he writes. He also becomes more flushed, with an ill temper, in the
afternoon. The Lawyer tries to help both himself and Turkey by asking Turkey
only to work in the mornings, but Turkey argues with him, so the Lawyer simply
gives him less important documents in the afternoon.
The second worker is Nippers, who is much younger and more ambitious than
Turkey. At twenty-five years old, he is a comical opposite to Turkey, because he
has trouble working in the morning. Until lunchtime, he suffers from stomach
trouble, and constantly adjusts the height of the legs on his desk, trying to get
them perfectly balanced. In the afternoons, he is calmer and works steadily.

The last employeenot a scrivener, but an errand-boyis Ginger Nut. His

nickname comes from the fact that Turkey and Nippers often send him to pick up
ginger nut cakes for them.
The Lawyer spends some time describing the habits of these men and then
introduces Bartleby. Bartleby comes to the office to answer an ad placed by the
Lawyer, who at that time needed more help. The Lawyer hires Bartleby and gives
him a space in the office. At first, Bartleby seems to be an excellent worker. He
writes day and night, often by no more than candlelight. His output is enormous,
and he greatly pleases the Lawyer.
One day, the Lawyer has a small document he needs examined. He calls
Bartleby in to do the job, but Bartleby responds: "I would prefer not to." This
answer amazes the Lawyer, who has a "natural expectancy of instant
compliance." He is so amazed by this response, and the calm way Bartleby says
it, that he cannot even bring himself to scold Bartleby. Instead, he calls in Nippers
to examine the document instead.
Analysis
"Bartleby the Scrivener" is one of Melville's most famous stories. It is also one of
the most difficult to interpret. For decades, critics have argued over numerous
interpretations of the story.
The plot is deceptively simple. The Lawyer, a well-established man of sixty
working on Wall Street, hires a copyistseemingly no different from any other
copyist, though the Lawyer is well-accustomed to quirky copyists. But
Bartleby is different. Bartleby's initial response of "I would prefer not to," seems
innocent at first, but soon it becomes a mantra, a slogan that is an essential part
of Bartleby's character. It is, as the Lawyer points out, a form of "passive
resistance."

Bartleby's quiet, polite, but firm refusal to do even the most routine tasks asked of
him has always been the main source of puzzlement. Bartleby has been
compared to philosophers ranging from Cicero, whose bust rests a few inches
above the Lawyer's head in his office, to Mahatma Gandhi. His refusal of the
Lawyer's requests has been read as a critique of the growing materialism of
American culture at this time. It is significant that the Lawyer's office is on Wall
Street; in fact, the subtitle of "Bartleby" is "A Story of Wall Street." Wall Street was
at this time becoming the hub of financial activity in the United States, and
Melville (as well as other authors, including Edgar Allan Poe) were quick to note
the emerging importance of money and its management in American life. Under
this reading, Bartleby's stubborn refusal to do what is asked of him amounts to a
kind of heroic opposition to economic control.
But if this interpretation is correctif Melville intended such a readingit seems
to be an extremely subtle theme, since the Lawyer never really contemplates
Bartleby's refusal to be a working member of society. He is simply amazed by
Bartleby's refusal to do anything, even eat, it seems, or find a place to live.
Throughout the story, Bartleby simply exists; he does do some writing, but
eventually he even gives that up in favor of staring at the wall. There are many
more interpretations of Bartleby and the story, which will be discussed in the next
section. It is important to note the other characters in the story, as well as
Melville's style.
Aside from the Lawyer and Bartleby, the only other characters in the story are
Turkey, Nippers and Ginger Nut. Turkey and Nippers are the most important.
Neither of their nicknames appears to really fit their character. Turkey does not
seem to resemble a turkey in any way, unless his wrinkled skin, perhaps turned
red when he has one of his characteristic fits, makes him look like he has a
turkey's neck. Nippers might be so named because he is ill-tempered and "nippy"
in the morning, but this too seems like a rather glib interpretation. Melville seems
to have named the characters in a way that makes them memorable, but in a

way that also alienates them somewhat; by refusing to give them real names,
Melville emphasizes the fact that they can easily be defined by their function,
behavior or appearanceeach is just another nameless worker.
Turkey and Nippers are also reminiscent of nursery rhyme or fairy tale
characters, partially due to their strange names, but also in the way their
behavior complements one another. Turkey is a good worker in the morning,
while Nippers grumbles over a sour stomach and plays with his desk. In the
afternoon, Turkey is red-faced and angry, making blots on his copies, while
Nippers works quietly and diligently. As the Lawyer points out, they relieve each
other like guards. They are the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of the Wall Street
world.
Some critics have proposed that the Lawyer is a "collector" of sorts; that is, he
collects "characters" in the from of strange scriveners: "I have known very many
of them and, if I pleased, could relate [diverse] histories, at which good-natured
gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep." Bartleby, then, is the
"prize" of the Lawyer's collection, the finest tale: the Lawyer says, "I waive the
biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who
was a scrivener, the strangest I ever saw, or heard of." Under this reading, the
Lawyer seems a little cold in his recollectionas if Bartleby were no more than
an interesting specimen of an insect. The role of the Lawyer is just one of the
many hotly debated aspects of the story. Of particular interest is the question of
whether the Lawyer is ultimately a friend or foe to Bartleby. His treatment of
Bartleby can be read both as sympathetic, pitying, or cold, depending on one's
interpretation. Some readers simply resign themselves to the fact that nothing in
Melville is set in such black-and-white terms.
A successful lawyer on Wall Street hires Bartleby, a scrivener, to relieve the load of work
experienced by his law firm. For two days, Bartleby executes his job with skill and gains
the owner's confidence for his diligence. Then the copyist begins demonstrating signs of
mental imbalance by refusing to proofread his work, finally refusing to copy altogether.
Instead, he stares out the window at a blank wall. The lawyer, who discovers that
Bartleby lives at the law office, gives him time to recover from eye strain, then tries to fire
the recalcitrant employee. Bartleby refuses to leave. A second stratagem, moving to

another office and leaving Bartleby behind, results in outrage from the new tenants, who
charge the lawyer with responsibility for Bartleby's eccentricities.

After fleeing the scene for several days, the lawyer returns and learns that Bartleby has
been arrested for vagrancy and taken to the Tombs. Still driven by a compassionate
urge, the lawyer visits Bartleby and finds him free to roam the grassy yard, but confining
himself to the study of a wall. On a subsequent visit, the lawyer observes Bartleby's
huddled form lying dead at the base of a wall. Still haunted by the singular peculiarities
of his deceased employee, the lawyer ponders rumors that the man was forced out of a
job at the Dead Letter Office. In retrospect, the lawyer feels pity for Bartleby and all
humankind.
Like many artists, Melville felt constrained to choose between art and money. The
turning point of his career came in 1851. With the publication of Moby-Dick, he grew
disenchanted with his attempt to please the general reader. Instead, he cultivated a
more spiritual language to express the darker, enigmatic side of the soul. Like his letters,
Melville's style became tortuous and demanding; his themes questioned the nature of
good and evil and what he perceived as upheaval in universal order. Pierre, his first
published work after Moby-Dick, with its emphasis on incest and moral corruption,
exemplifies his decision to change direction. His readers, accustomed to the satisfying
rough and tumble of his sea yarns, were unable to make the leap from straightforward
adventure tale to probing fiction. The gems hidden among lengthy, digressive passages
required more concentrative effort than readers were capable of or willing to put forth.

Challenged to delve into the perplexities of morality, Melville avoided the more obvious
superficialities and plunged determinedly into greater mysteries. For the sake of
economy and speed, his output dwindled from the full-length novel to the short story, a
stylistic constriction with which he never developed ease. One of the most obtuse of
these short works, "Bartleby, the Scrivener," subtitled "A Story of Wall-Street," was
published for $85 in Putnam's magazine in November and December 1853; its focus is
on the dehumanization of a copyist, the nineteenth-century equivalent of a photocopy
machine. Suggesting the author's own obstinacy, the main character replies to all
comers, "I would prefer not to," thereby declaring his independence from outside
intervention.

Characterized as a symbolic fable of self-isolation and passive resistance to routine,

"Bartleby, the Scrivener" reveals the decremental extinction of a human spirit.
Throughout Bartleby's emotional illness, it is sheer will that supplants the necessary
parts of his personality that atrophy during his tenure at the Wall Street office. The
humanistic theme, which ties one of life's winners inextricably to the pathetic demise of
a loser, relegates the two central characters to a single fraternity, their shared belonging
in the family of humankind. The subtle insights which give the unnamed narrator no
peace also grip the reader in a perplexing examination of the nature and purpose of
charity.
Bartleby Ousted from a clerkship at the Dead Letter Office in Washington, Bartleby
becomes a conscientious, almost robotic law copyist who works for four cents per folio
or every hundred words copied. His work suffers from the onset of a mental aberration
which causes him to decline direct instructions from his employer, then lapse into
periods of nonconformity and self-isolation. His lean face and calm gray eyes reveal no
agitation only the intransigence that leads to the story's conflict. At the time of his
death, forlorn and solitary, he rejects food and normal human interaction.

The Lawyer A complacent, self-satisfied professional "conveyancer and title hunter," the
narrator of the story, who is nearly sixty years old, refers to himself as "rather elderly."
Imbued with the philosophy that the "easiest way of life is the best," he enjoys the
rewards of the office of Master in Chancery along with property and some distinction
among his Wall Street peers. Overly fastidious in matters of controversy, his usual
methods of dealing with adversity are reason, monetary bribes, and withdrawal.
Ginger Nut The twelve-year-old office factotum, Ginger Nut, ambitious son of a van
driver, runs errands, sweeps, and, for a dollar per week, performs other tasks common
to office boys, including purchasing cakes and apples for the copyists.
The Grub-man An unctuous opportunist who provides quality food to people who can
afford to pay for something better than ordinary prison fare.
Nippers A sallow-skinned, bewhiskered, dyspeptic malcontent of twenty-five, Nippers is
neat, well dressed, and swift at his copying. He grinds his teeth and hisses over his
work, frequently halting to readjust the height of his work table. His agitation subsides

after the noon meal. A small-time ward politician, he does business at the justices'
courts and the steps of the Tombs.
Turkey A sixtyish, corpulent Englishman, Turkey is gray-haired, short of stature, and red
of face following his noon meal. A valuable copyist, he approaches a rebellious state
every afternoon until around six o'clock by becoming reckless, combative, and messy in
his columns. His clothing, like his work, reflects oily spills and the smell of restaurants.
Ernest Hemingway Cat in the Rain There were only two Americans stopping at
the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their
way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It
also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and
green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist
with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the
hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up
at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was
raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel
paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to
come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from
the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the caf a
waiter stood looking out at the empty square. The American wife stood at the
window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one
of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she
would not be dripped on. Im going down and get that kitty, the American wife
said. Ill do it, her husband offered from the bed. No, Ill get it. The poor kitty out
trying to keep dry under a table. The husband went on reading, lying propped up
with the two pillows at the foot of the bed. Dont get wet, he said. The wife went
downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office.
His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall. Il piove,1
the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper. Si, Si, Signora, brutto tempo2 . It is very
bad weather. He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife
liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked
his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt
about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands. Liking him
she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape
was crossing the empty square to the caf. The cat would be around to the right.
Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an
umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room. You must
not get wet, she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.
With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until
she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain,
but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.
Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?3 There was a cat, said the American girl. A

cat? Si, il gatto. A cat? the maid laughed. A cat in the rain? Yes, she said,
under the table. Then, Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty. When she talked
English the maids face tightened. Come, Signora, she said. We must get back
inside. You will be wet. I suppose so, said the American girl. 1 Its raining. 2 Yes,
yes Madam. Awful weather. 3 Have you lost something, Madam? They went back
along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the
umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk.
Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very
small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being
of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the
room. George was on the bed, reading. Did you get the cat? he asked, putting the
book down. It was gone. Wonder where it went to, he said, resting his eyes from
reading. She sat down on the bed. I wanted it so much, she said. I dont know why
I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isnt any fun to be a poor kitty out in
the rain. George was reading again. She went over and sat in front of the mirror of
the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile,
first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her
neck. Dont you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out? she asked,
looking at her profile again. George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped
close like a boys. I like it the way it is. I get so tired of it, she said. I get so tired
of looking like a boy. George shifted his position in the bed. He hadnt looked away
from her since she started to speak. You look pretty darn nice, he said. She laid the
mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was
getting dark. I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at
the back that I can feel, she said. I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr
when I stroke her. Yeah? George said from the bed. And I want to eat at a table
with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush
my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes. Oh,
shut up and get something to read, George said. He was reading again. His wife
was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm
trees. Anyway, I want a cat, she said, I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I cant have
long hair or any fun, I can have a cat. George was not listening. He was reading his
book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.
Someone knocked at the door. Avanti, George said. He looked up from his book. In
the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoiseshell cat pressed tight against
her and swung down against her body. Excuse me, she said, the padrone asked
me to bring this for the Signora.

The story takes place in a hotel on the Italian coast on a rainy day. We are introduced to
an American couple waiting out the rain in their room above the town square. He is
reading. She is looking out the window. The wife spots a cat outside, huddling under a
table in the rain, and decides to go out to rescue it. Her husband, with no great concern,
tells her not to get wet and goes back to his reading.

Downstairs, the owner or "padrone" of the hotel bows to the wife and Hemingway
lingers for a moment on all the reasons why the wife likes him so much. She goes
outside, followed by the maid with an umbrella, but doesn't find the cat and returns to
her room. The husband, George, is still reading as the wife sits down before her mirror
and starts listing the array of things she wants and wants to change. Frustrated, George
quickly tells her to "shut up" and returns to his book. The wife complains that if she can't
have any of the other things on her list, she at least wants a cat.
Just then, there's a knock at the door. It's the hotel maid, holding a large cata gift for
the "Signora," she tells them, from the padrone.

The scene is set: a hotel where two Americans are staying. The opening
paragraph describes how the view from the window of the couple's room looks
out over the public gardens, a war monument and the sea.

It's raining cats and dogs (well, at least cats, as we come to find) and the scene
of the dripping palms, empty square, and regular waves on the beach make
everything feel sort of monotonous and abandoned.

From the window, the American wife notices a cat crouching underneath a table
in the square, "trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped
on" (2).

The wife tells her husband, who is reading on the bed, that she's going to go
down and bring it in.

He offers to get it for her, but she declines and he goes back to reading, telling
her not to get wet.

The wife goes downstairs and finds herself in the presence of the hotel keeper or
"padrone," a large, older man who stands up from his desk and bows to the wife
as she approaches. She has likes this guy for some reason. We know this
because of how she "likes" his hands, his dignity, his face, his seriousness and
"the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper" (11).

When she opens the door, the hotel maid appears behind her with an umbrella
and follows her into the rain. When the wife doesn't find the cat under the table,
the maid notices her disappointment and asks what's wrongall in a nice mix of
Italian and English phrases.

The maid is a little skeptical at the thought of a "gatto" hanging out in the rainy
square, but the wife only affirms that she saw it and that she "wanted it so much"
(20).

The two women go back into the hotel and as the wife passes the padrone's
office, he bows to her again.

Hemingway describes the strange but wonderful feeling that the gives the girl:
"very small and tight very small and at the same time really important" (24).

When the wife comes back the hotel room, her husband, George, is still reading
on the bed and asks if she found the cat.

She sits in front of a mirror, looks at her profile, and asks if she would look better
with long hair. Her husband replies no, and she begins to talk about the things
she feels she wantsa cat, long hair that she can feel and twist, her own
candles and silver, and for it to be spring outside.

The husband tells her to shut up and she pulls back to a simple desire for a cat.

As the room grows darker, there's a knock at the door. It's the maid, and she's
holding a cata gift for the "Signora" from the padrone.

Cat in the Rain Themes

Gender
Hemingway barely describes the American wife in "Cat in the Rain." Is she
pretty? Is she tall? Is she a blonde or brunette? We have no idea. The only
physical description we get is of her short hai...

Foreignness and The Other

The opening sentence of "Cat in the Rain" introduces this theme perfectly: There
were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. (1)Even though we proceed
through the story from the perspective of t...

Dissatisfaction
Have you ever seen or used a pressure cooker? If the marriage in "Cat in the
Rain" were a piece of kitchen equipment, that's probably what it would be. The
wife's restlessness is a mounting force i...

Isolation
The cringing kitty under the table in the rain is the ultimate image of isolation in
"Cat in the Rain." Not only is it alone; it's also trapped. Like the cat, the American
wife and her husband are...

Hemingway barely describes the American wife in "Cat in the Rain." Is she pretty? Is
she tall? Is she a blonde or brunette? We have no idea. The only physical description
we get is of her short haircut that she complains about to her mirror. She laments that
she gets "tired" of "looking like a boy." Short hair on women is something we're pretty
used to seeing now, but in the 1920s, this was not the case. The wife's
hairstyle would have read as being much more overtly "boyish" than it would today
especially in a more traditional European setting like this Italian town.
In America, the style for women in this era leant towards androgyny: short haircuts and
drop-waisted dresses that de-emphasized hips, waist, and bust. On the surface, this
meant greater freedom for women, but it doesn't seem to be having this effect on the
American wife. The fact that she is "tired" of such a relatively new and revolutionary
trend is particularly notable.
Like all the other "liberated" aspects of the young couple's life-styletheir
intellectualism, their globetrotting, their non-materialismHemingway seems to be
critiquing this progressive style as not entirely satisfying. He portrays a young woman
who is longing to look like a woman and do traditionally feminine things. We might
protest that Hemingway is being a little closed-minded about women and their roles
here, but there could also be a larger critique of the celebration of "newness" and
liberation at the time.
Questions About Gender
1. Why does George tell his wife that he likes her hair the way it is?
2. Does the wife actually want her husband's opinion about her appearance?
3. What is the difference between being called "the wife," "the girl," and "the signora"?
4. Are there moments in the story where George seems attracted to his wife as a woman?
Chew on This
Try on an opinion or two, start a debate, or play the devils advocate.

While the "liberated" style of women during the 1920s would seem to have been
enjoyable to women, the frustration of the American wife shows a more realistic
ambivalence towards this neutralizing of gender roles. She may be "liberated" from the
restraints of old-world traditions, but the wife also feels that she has lost some of her
power.

There's a sudden shift in perspective in the story when George sees the wife's hair
"clipped close like a boy's." Hemingway immediately follows with George's remark "'I
like it the way it is'" (34), which suggests that the marriage, free and equal as the wife's
modern haircut makes it appear, is founded on the husband's refusal to let his wife be
different from himself.

Cat in the Rain

Summary
Only two Americans are in the hotel. Their room faces the sea, a public garden,
and a war monument. Many Italians come from far away to see the monument.
That day, it is raining, and the American wife is looking out the window. She sees
a cat under a table that is trying to keep dry. She tells her husband that she is
going to get it. He tells her not to get wet. Downstairs, she is greeted by the hotel
operator, whose seriousness and willingness to please she adores. When she
goes outside, he sends a maid after her with an umbrella. She does not find the
cat. She goes back upstairs feeling sad. She asks her husband if she should
grow her hair out. He says that he likes it the way that it is. She decides that she
wants a bun at the back of her neck, and a cat to stroke, and a table with her own
silver, and some new clothing. He tells her to shut up and to find a book to read.
She says that she still wants a cat. Just then, someone knocks at the door. It is
the maid. She has brought up a cat, at the request of the hotel operator.
Commentary
The American wife expresses a desire for many things in this story. She tells her
husband that if she cannot have any fun, then she might as well have things that
she wants. In other words, this desire for material goods comes from an inability
to acquire intangible goods such as fun and affection. This lack of intimacy is not
entirely her husband's fault, of course. She also ignores his compliments.

This American way, desiring material objects and becoming bored, is contrasted
with an Italian way of vacationing. The Italians arrive in the same location to see
the war memorial and honor the war dead. They are more involved in the ideas
of the place than in owning things from it. In addition, it is a more communal way
of living, to honor the sacrifices of others, rather than to stay inside and read.
A Clean, Well-Lighted Place (1933) / Ernest Hemingway It was very late and
everyone had left the caf except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of
the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at
night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf
and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the
caf knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they
knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept
watch on him. "Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said. "Why?" "He
was in despair." "What about?" "Nothing." "How do you know it was nothing?" "He
has plenty of money." They sat together at a table that was close against the wall
near the door of the caf and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty
except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved
slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone
on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried
beside him. "The guard will pick him up," one waiter said. "What does it matter if he
gets what he's after?" "He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him.
They went by five minutes ago." The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his
saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him. "What do you want?"
The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said. "You'll be drunk," the waiter
said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away. "He'll stay all night," he said
to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He
should have killed himself last week." The waiter took the brandy bottle and another
saucer from the counter inside the caf and marched out to the old man's table. He
put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy. "You should have killed
yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger.
"A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy
slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile. "Thank you,"
the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the caf. He sat down at
the table with his colleague again. "He's drunk now," he said. "He's drunk every
night." "What did he want to kill himself for?" "How should I know." "How did he do
it?" "He hung himself with a rope." "Who cut him down?" "His niece." "Why did they
do it?" "Fear for his soul." 2 "How much money has he got?" "He's got plenty." "He
must be eighty years old." "Anyway I should say he was eighty." "I wish he would go
home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to
bed?" "He stays up because he likes it." "He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife
waiting in bed for me." "He had a wife once too." "A wife would be no good to him

now." "You can't tell. He might be better with a wife." "His niece looks after him. You
said she cut him down." "I know." "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a
nasty thing." "Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even
now, drunk. Look at him." "I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He
has no regard for those who must work." The old man looked from his glass across
the square, then over at the waiters. "Another brandy," he said, pointing to his
glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over. "Finished," he said, speaking with
that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or
foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now." "Another," said the old man. "No.
Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.
The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from
his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him
go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity. "Why didn't
you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the
shutters. "It is not half-past two." "I want to go home to bed." "What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him." "An hour is the same." "You talk like an old man yourself.
He can buy a bottle and drink at home." "It's not the same." "No, it is not," agreed
the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry. "And
you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?" "Are you trying to
insult me?" "No, hombre, only to make a joke." "No," the waiter who was in a hurry
said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all
confidence." "You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You
have everything." "And what do you lack?" "Everything but work." "You have
everything I have." 3 "No. I have never had confidence and I am not young." "Come
on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up." "I am of those who like to stay late at the
caf," the older waiter said. "With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all
those who need a light for the night." "I want to go home and into bed." "We are of
two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is
not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very
beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one
who needs the caf." "Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long." "You do not
understand. This is a clean and pleasant caf. It is well lighted. The light is very
good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves." "Good night," said the
younger waiter. "Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he
continued the conversation with himself. It was the light of course but it is
necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly
you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is
all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It
was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing
too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order.
Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y
pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will
be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our
nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada;

pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood
before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine. "What's yours?" asked
the barman. "Nada." "Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away. "A little
cup," said the waiter. The barman poured it for him. "The light is very bright and
pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said. The barman looked at him but
did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation. "You want another copita?"
the barman asked. "No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars
and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted caf was a very different thing. Now, without
thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally,
with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only
insomnia. Many must have it.

A CLEAN, WELL-LIGHTED PLACE

Ernest Hemingway

Analysis of Major Characters

The Older Waiter

Like the old man, the older waiter likes to stay late at cafs, and he understands
on a deep level why they are both reluctant to go home at night. He tries to
explain it to the younger waiter by saying, He stays up because he likes it, but
the younger waiter dismisses this and says that the old man is lonely. Indeed,
both the old man and the older waiter are lonely. The old man lives alone with
only a niece to look after him, and we never learn what happened to his wife. He
drinks alone late into the night, getting drunk in cafs. The older waiter, too, is
lonely. He lives alone and makes a habit of staying out late rather than going
home to bed. But there is more to the older waiters insomnia, as he calls it,
than just loneliness. An unnamed, unspecified malaise seems to grip him. This
malaise is not a fear or dread, as the older waiter clarifies to himself, but an
overwhelming feeling of nothingnessan existential angst about his place in the
universe and an uncertainty about the meaning of life. Whereas other people find
meaning and comfort in religion, the older waiter dismisses religion as nada

nothing. The older waiter finds solace only in clean, well-lit cafs. There, life
seems to make sense.
The older waiter recognizes himself in the old man and sees his own future. He
stands up for the old man against the younger waiters criticisms, pointing out
that the old man might benefit from a wife and is clean and neat when he drinks.
The older waiter has no real reason to take the old mans side. In fact, the old
man sometimes leaves the caf without paying. But the possible reason for his
support becomes clear when the younger waiter tells the older waiter that he
talks like an old man too. The older waiter is aware that he is not young or
confident, and he knows that he may one day be just like the old man
unwanted, alone, and in despair. Ultimately, the older waiter is reluctant to close
the caf as much for the old mans sake as for his own because someday hell
need someone to keep a caf open late for him.
The Younger Waiter
Brash and insensitive, the younger waiter cant see beyond himself. He readily
admits that he isnt lonely and is eager to return home where his wife is waiting
for him. He doesnt seem to care that others cant say the same and doesnt
recognize that the caf is a refuge for those who are lonely. The younger waiter is
immature and says rude things to the old man because he wants to close the
caf early. He seems unaware that he wont be young forever or that he may
need a place to find solace later in life too. Unlike the older waiter, who thinks
deeplyperhaps too deeplyabout life and those who struggle to face it, the
younger waiter demonstrates a dismissive attitude toward human life in general.
For example, he says the old man should have just gone ahead and killed
himself and says that he wouldnt want to be that old. He himself has reason to
live, and his whole life is ahead of him. You have everything, the older waiter
tells him. The younger waiter, immersed in happiness, doesnt really understand
that he is lucky, and he therefore has little compassion or understanding for those
who are lonely and still searching for meaning in their lives.

A man turns off from the main trail in the Yukon (in Alaska)
on an extremely cold, gray morning. He surveys the icy,
snowy tundra. The cold does not faze the man, a newcomer
to the Yukon, since he rarely translates hard facts, such as
the extreme cold, into more significant ideas, such as man's
frailty and mortality. He spits, and his saliva freezes in midair, an indication that is colder than fifty degrees below zero.
He shrugs it off; he is going to meet "the boys" by six o'clock
at the old claim near Henderson Fork. He has taken an
alternate route to examine the possibility of getting out logs
in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He feels his
lunch of biscuits inside his jacket, warming against his skin.
The man walks through the thick snow, his unprotected
cheekbones and nose feeling numb. A husky wolf-dog
follows him, instinctively depressed by and apprehensive of
the cold. Every warm breath the man exhales increases the
ice deposit on his beard. He passes over more terrain to the
frozen bed of a stream, ten miles from his destination,
where he plans to eat lunch. The faintness of the last sledtrail in the snow indicates no one has been by in a month,
but the man pays it no mind; still, he occasionally thinks that
it is very cold, and automatically and unsuccessfully rubs his
cheekbones and nose to warm them. He realizes his cheeks
will "frost," and wishes he had prepared for this, but decides
that frosted cheeks are only painful and not very serious.
Though the man does not spend much time thinking, he is
observant of the curves and the possibility of dangerous
springs in the creek as he wends along it. If he crashed
through one, he could potentially get wet up to his waist,
and even wet feet on such a cold day would be extremely
dangerous. As he continues, he avoids several springs. At

one point, suspecting a spring, he pushes the reluctant dog

forward to investigate. The dog's feet get wet, and it
instinctively licks and bites at the ice that forms between its
toes. The man helps the dog, briefly removing his mitten in
the numbing cold.
A little after noon, the man takes out his lunch. His frozen
beard prevents his biting into it, and his fingers and toes are
numb, so he decides to build a fire. He thinks about the man
from Sulphur Creek who gave him advice about the cold; he
scoffed at it at the time. He takes out matches, gathers
twigs, and starts a fire. He thaws his face and eats his
biscuits. The dog warms itself near the fire. After, the man
continues up a fork of the creek. The dog wants to remain
with the fire or at least burrow in the snow, but since there is
no "keen intimacy" between the two, the dog does not try to
warn the man for his own sake; it is concerned only with its
own well-being. Still, it follows the man.
Analysis:
"To Build a Fire" is the quintessential naturalist short story.
Naturalism was a movement in literature developed largely
by Emile Zola, Theodore Dreiser, Edith Wharton, Stephen
Crane, and Jack London in the late 19th-century. Its major
themes (which will all be explained and explored in greater
depth here) are determinism over free will; the indifference
of the environment; survival; absence of moral judgment;
instinct over intellectualism; a fascination with processes;
the emphasis of narrative over character; depiction of
characters in the lower classes; and more realistic language
befitting such characters and settings.

"To Build a Fire" reveals much about itself and its naturalist
origins in its title. "To Build a Fire" sounds almost like an
instruction manual, and the story does, indeed, teach the
reader how to perform various acts, such as building fires,
avoiding dangerous springs, and navigating a creek. As in
Herman Melville's Moby Dick (not considered a naturalist
novel, but it shares many of the same concerns), where the
reader learns all about whale hunting, the reader leaves the
story with a sense of the processes at work in its world. We
see other processes in effect, too, such as the layers of
snow and ice that have built up in the Yukon, or the ice that
accumulates on the man's beard.
The title also implies the need for survival. London might
have (unwisely) given his story the unpleasant title "To
Survive, You Need To Build a Fire." Naturalism is interested
in the deep conflicts that bring out the brute instincts of man.
London's story provides one of the oldest conflicts in
literature and life: man versus nature. The man is at
constant risk of freezing in the brutal cold, and soon mere
survival, rather than the prospect of finding gold, will
become his preoccupation.
The man is clearly not an experienced Yukon adventurer.
He ignores all the facts that indicate danger--he
underestimates the cold, he ignores the absence of
travelers in the last month, he de-emphasizes his soon-tobe-frostbitten cheekbones. Again, processes are important:
he does not make any mental processes, taking facts and
assigning them increasing significance. While this may
seem at first like an intellectual deficit, what the man truly
lacks is instinct--the unconscious understanding of what the
various facts mean.

The dog, on the other hand, is pure instinct. While it cannot

intellectualize the cold as the man can, assigning numerical
values to the temperature, it has "inheritedknowledge"
about the cold. Without thinking, the dog knows the cold is
dangerous, knows the spring is risky, knows to bite at the
ice that forms between its toes, and even knows not to get
too close to the fire for fear of singeing itself.
While the main conflict is man versus nature, it would be
inaccurate to say that nature actively assaults the man.
Nature does not go out of its way to hurt the man; it would
be just as cold without the man's presence, as well. Rather,
the environment is indifferent to the man, as it frequently is
in naturalist literature. The bitter environment does not aid
him in any way, and it will not notice if he perishes. In the
same way, the dog does not care about the man, only about
itself.
Even London does not seem to care about the man too
much--or, more precisely, he does not make any overt moral
judgments about the man. He merely conveys the objective
facts, pessimistic though they may be about the man. For
instance, in describing the man's inability to make mental
leaps, London only states "That there should be anything
more to it than that was a thought that never entered his
head." London never denounces outright the man's
foolhardiness; his most aggressive comment, "The trouble
with him was that he was without imagination," is only a
suggestion that the man will encounter trouble because of
this deficit.
Likewise, London maintains an air of neutrality with his
prose, objective and reportorial. He focuses mostly on the

narrative and little on the man's interior world and history-indeed, we never even know the man's (or the dog's) name.
He is less an individual and more a representative of all
humanity, especially humanity up against nature. Also in
keeping with the naturalist tradition, the man is obviously not
a member of the upper class. Like "the boys," he hopes to
strike it rich by prospecting for gold, as did many during the
Yukon Gold Rush in the late 19th-century, or even by selling
logs.
One major point of naturalism not discussed yet is
determinism. It will become more important in the next part
of the story.

To Build a Fire Summary and Analysis of Part II

Second Part Summary:
In a seemingly safe, solid spot, the man falls through the snow and wets
himself up to his shins. He curses his luck; starting a fire and drying his footgear will delay him at least an hour. He gathers brush and builds a fire, aware
that his numb feet must not remain wet. His exposed fingers (necessary to
make the fire) are also numb, and having stopped walking, his heart no
longer pumps warming blood as much throughout his body. But the fire
builds up, and the man feels safe. He remembers the old-timer from Sulphur
Creek who had warned him that no man should travel in the Klondike alone
when the temperature was fifty degrees below zero. He thinks the old-timers
are "womanish," and that even with his "accident," he had saved himself in
solitude. Nevertheless, it is extremely cold, and his fingers are almost
completely numb.

The man unties his icy moccasins, but before he can cut the frozen
strings on them, clumps of snow from the spruce tree above fall down and
snuff out the fire. Though building a fire in the open would have been wiser,
it had been easier for the man to take twigs from the spruce tree and drop
them directly below on to the fire. Each time he pulled a twig, he had slightly
agitated the tree until, at this point, a bough high up had capsized its load of
snow. It capsized lower boughs in turn until a small avalanche had blotted
out the fire.
Analysis:

Naturalism maintains that individuals do not have free will, but that their
environment shapes their behavior. The naturalistic world is based on a
series of links, each of which causes the next (these causal links can be
viewed as processes). Humans are never the first causal link; our actions are
caused and determined by social, environmental, and biological factors. This
philosophy, called determinism, is crucial in explaining why the naturalistic
world is amoral. (Note: amorality is not the same as immorality. Immorality
signifies a "bad" morality, while amorality means an absence of morality.) We
see this amorality at play when the man falls through the snow: he curses his
"luck." "Luck" suggests an action out of an individual's control; it is "luck"
whether one wins the lottery or not. There is no moral judgment on his
action; falling through the snow seems simply like bad luck, since the
"unbroken snow seemed to advertise its solidity beneath." The man himself
uses the word "accident" to describe the event. An accident also suggests
something out of one's control, an unforeseen or unanticipated event.
For both problems that develop with the snow, London simply states "it
happened." This phrasing implies passivity, even paralysis, on the part of the
man, to whom "it" has "happened." He has not created the unlucky
events--"it"--and therefore cannot take responsibility. Nature has indifferently
and deterministically created these new conditions for the man. Indifferent,
again, because it does not care if the man is there or not. Deterministic,
because it seems fated and the man could not have avoided it.
Or could he have? Of the second accident, London ambiguously writes that it
was the man's "own fault or, rather, his mistake." Why does London revise
his definition? A "fault" implies free will and a role in the consequences that
develop. The word "mistake," however, is much like "accident"; it is a less
moral term that implies an isolated incident out of one's control. (A person
usually makes a single "mistake" in an entire process, whereas if the person
is at "fault," the responsibility of the entire process seems to rest on him.)
Still, "mistake" suggests some individual responsibility or lack thereof, at
least more than "luck" does. How, then, does individual responsibility exist in
naturalism, which denies the existence of individual will? Put simply, if
humans are not even in control of our own actions, why should we take
responsibility for them?
Naturalism maintains that one should take responsibility insofar as one can
anticipate potential consequences. Since the naturalistic world is based on
causal links, it should be possible, to an extent, to predict the consequences
of our actions. The man could not have anticipated his falling through the
snow, and therefore it is merely bad luck. However, he should have
anticipated that his other action--building a fire under a spruce tree--could
carry potentially significant consequences--the snuffing out of the fire. Only
in this anticipatory sense is he somewhat responsible.

Why should the man have anticipated danger? Other than ignoring the oldtimer's advice and foolishly and lazily building the fire under the spruce tree,
the man has proven himself incapable of making the associative mental
projections that reveal causal links. London told us this much in the first half
of the story; the man refused to meditate upon the cold and expand his
thinking to more universal ideas about mortality. Moreover, the man
frequently works with processes (again, processes are the causal links in the
naturalistic world), such as building fires. But he pays attention to these
processes only when they somehow benefit him, as with the fire. When the
process is potentially harmful, he ignores it; London even refers to the causal
agitation of the boughs of the spruce tree as a "process."
The man's unwillingness to think more deeply about processes saddles him
with some of the responsibility for the fire's going out. However, we can also
argue that the man seems not only unwilling, but also incapable, of thinking
about these processes. Therefore, he never could have anticipated the fire's
going out, and he cannot be held responsible. That London calls the second
event the man's "fault," then his "mistake," suggests a blend of the two
arguments: the man should have anticipated many of the dangers in the
Yukon, but nature ultimately determines his behavior.

hird Part Summary:

The man is scared, and thinks the old-timer was right: a
trail-mate would be useful now in building a new fire. He
sets himself to building it, aware that he is already going to
lose a few toes from frostbite. With increasingly numb
fingers, he grabs undesirable small twigs as the dog
watches him.
The man reaches for a piece of birch-bark in his pocket, but
his numb fingers cannot feel it. He fights off the thought that
his feet are freezing, and beats his hands against his body
to restore circulation. The dog watches him, and the man is
envious of the dog's natural warmth. The man gets some
sensation in his fingers, removes his mitten, and takes out a
bunch of matches. But his fingers grow numb again and he
drops the matches in the snow. His fingers are lifeless and
cannot pick up the matches. Without the sense of touch, he

uses vision alone to guide his fingers, and he "will[s]" them

to close in on the matches.
He eventually bites a match and lights it on his leg. But the
smoke goes into his nostrils and lungs, he coughs, and he
drops it into the snow. He grabs the whole bunch of
matches--seventy in total--and lights them on his leg, all at
once. He holds them to the bark but soon becomes aware
that his flesh is burning. Unable to bear it, he lets go, and
the matches fall and go out into the snow. The bark is on
fire, though, and he adds grass and twigs to it. In guarding
the fire against pieces of moss from the grass, he scatters
the twigs, and the fire goes out.
The man looks at the dog, and remembers hearing about a
man who, caught in a blizzard, killed a steer and crawled
inside its warm carcass. The man decides to kill the dog and
puts his hands inside its warm body. He calls out to the dog,
but something fearful and strange in his voice frightens the
dog. The man crawls toward the dog, which moves aside.
The man regains his composure and calls normally to the
dog. When it comes forward, the man flails out at it, but his
frozen, numb fingers cannot move. Still, he grabs the
snarling dog in his arms. The man realizes he cannot kill the
dog, since he is unable to pull out his knife or even throttle
the animal. He lets it go, and it moves away from him. The
man tries to restore circulation in his hands, but they are
lifeless.
The man realizes that frostbite is now a less worrisome
prospect than death. He panics and runs fearfully along the
creek trail, the dog at his heels. Perhaps the running will
restore his circulation. Even if he loses some fingers and
toes, he might at least near his destination, where the boys

could tend to him. He keeps blocking out the thought that he

will soon die. He feels like his frozen feet are skimming
across the surface. But his endurance gives out, and finally
he falls and cannot rise. He decides to rest, then later walk.
He feels warm within, although he has no sensation. He
fights against the thought of his body freezing, but it is too
powerful a vision, and he runs again.
He falls again, and the dog sits nearby and watches him,
which angers the man. The man makes one last panicked
run and falls once more. He decides he has been acting
foolishly, and it would be better to meet death in a more
dignified manner. He imagines himself with the boys
tomorrow and coming across his own body. He imagines
telling the old-timer that he was right.
The man falls off into a comfortable sleep. The dog does not
understand why the man is sitting in the snow like that
without making a fire. At night, it comes closer and detects
death in the man's scent. It backs away, and later runs away
in the direction of the camp, "where were the other foodproviders and fire-providers."
Analysis:
Survival becomes the primary motivation for the man as he
defends himself against nature. His increasingly desperate
attempts to restore warmth to his freezing body contrast with
the indifference of the Yukon. The environment merely
remains the same--brutally cold--and does not care at all
about the man's survival.
What is also significant within the environment is the
importance of numbers. We already know that the

temperature plays a crucial role, and that fifty degrees below

zero demarcates the danger zone. The reader learns a new
number here: seventy, the number of matches the man has.
London could have simply kept stating that the man has a
"bunch" of matches, but he tells us the exact number when
they light. Time also plays a key role for the man, as does
distance to the camp. Naturalism maintains that the world is
knowable only through objective science. Hard facts, like
degrees of Fahrenheit or the number of matches, make this
particular world knowable.
The man finally takes these facts and makes conjectures
about the future, unlike before where he refuses to think
about processes. While he initially fights off ideas of his
dying, he later engages in causal thinking, entertaining
visions of his body freezing and even of finding his own
body the next day, a truly abstract, futuristic mode of
thought. But by now it is too late--projections of causal links
will do little for him at this point.
His projections are pointless because whatever free will
naturalism had afforded the man before (none, technically,
but he could at least make decisions) has completely
vanished by this section of the story. Hands are man's
naturally selected advantage, and allow us to use tools,
themselves the products of man's intellect. But here the
man's hands betray him. He cannot operate the matches
properly, nor can he use his knife, so both tools go to waste.
In nature, his intellect turns out to be useless.
Instead, the dog's instinct prevails. It not only instinctively
recognizes that the man is trying to deceive it some way, but
its own naturally selected advantages--its fur coat,

especially--keep it safe and warm. While the dog may not

have the intellectual capacity to create fire and food for
itself, it instinctively knows where the providers of these
necessities are. In an indifferent, brutal environment,
London maintains, this is a far more valuable resource than
intellectuality.
In Because I could not stop for Death, one of the most celebrated of any
poems Emily Dickinson wrote, the deceased narrator reminisces about the
day Death came calling on her. In the first stanza, the speaker remarks that
she had been too busy to stop for Death, so in his civility, he stopped for her.
In his carriage, she was accompanied by Immortality as well as Death. Many
readers have wanted to know why Immortality also rides in the carriage, but
when thinking of the courting patterns in Dickinsons day, one recalls the
necessity of a chaperon. In any event, Dickinson considers Death and
Immortality fellow travelers. This interaction with Death shows the complete
trust that the speaker had placed in her wooer. It is not until the end of the
poem, from the perspective of Eternity, that one is able to see behind the
semblance of Death. Far from being the gentlemanly caller that he appears to
be, Death is in reality a ghoulish seducer. Perhaps Dickinson, in her familiarity
with the Bible, draws upon Satans visitation of God in similar pose as a
country gentleman. In this way, Dickinsons poem resembles the Gothic novel,
a popular Romantic genre given to the sinister and supernatural.
In the second stanza, the reader learns that the journey was leisurely and that
the speaker did not mind the interruption from her tasks because Death was
courteous. Along the way, they passed the childrens school at recess time
and fields of ripened grain. They even passed the setting sunor rather, it
passed them, so slow was their pace. With the coming of evening, a coolness
had fallen for which the speaker found herself unprepared with regard to
clothing. They drew near a cemetery, the place where the speaker has been
dwelling for centuries. In the realm of Death, time has elapsed into centuries
for the speaker, though it seems shorter than her last day of life when she first
surmised that her journey was toward Eternity.
Death, in the form of a gentleman suitor, stops to pick up the speaker and take her on a ride in
his horse-drawn carriage.

They move along at a pretty relaxed pace and the speaker seems completely at ease with the
gentleman. As they pass through the town, she sees children at play, fields of grain, and the
setting sun. Pretty peaceful, right?

As dusk sets in our speaker gets a little chilly, as she is completely under-dressed only
wearing a thin silk shawl for a coat. She was unprepared for her impromptu date with Death
when she got dressed that morning.

They stop at what will be her burial ground, marked with a small headstone.

In the final stanza, we find out the speaker's ride with Death took place centuries ago (so she's
been dead for a long time). But it seems like just yesterday when she first got the feeling that
horse heads (like those of the horses that drew the "death carriage") pointed toward "Eternity";
or, in other words, signaled the passage from life to death to an afterlife.

Line 1
Because I could not stop for Death

Dickinson wastes no time warming up in this poem. She immediately lets the
reader know that the poem is going to be about death.

"Because" is a clever way to begin. It immediately assumes the speaker is giving

some sort of an explanation to an argument or to a question. This makes the
poem seem active and alive, unlike many other poems, which sometimes take
more of an observant position.

Stating that she could not stop for death means that the speaker didn't have a
choice about when she was to die. We've all probably heard something like this
before. Even if not, Dickinson reminds us that it's not really up to us when we die.

Dickinson capitalizes death, which is something she does often to nouns

(sometimes without any reason). In this particular case she means to personify
Death as a gentleman suitor who drives a horse-drawn carriage (personification
means to give human characteristics or behavior to something that is
nonhuman).

The line ends with a dash that is both characteristic of Dickinson's work and that
really launches us into the next line. Think of it as an arrow or string, pulling you
along to the next thing.

Line 2
He kindly stopped for me

And there it is Death is a kind of a gentleman. Who knew?

This line establishes the tone that most of the poem follows: one of calm
acceptance about death. She's even going to enjoy the ride!

This is also kind of a spoiler. We have pretty good reason to believe now, by just
the second line, that the speaker is going to escape this one alive.

Lines 3-4
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality.

Pay attention to the line break here. Line 3 says it's just her and Death in the
carriage, but line 4 complicates that by adding immortality. The break after
"Ourselves" creates an "oh, wait!" moment and holds us in suspense until we
drop down to line 4.

Be careful interpreting the capitalized nouns. We established that Dickinson

personifies Death to make him a real character, but in these two lines the
capitalized words probably aren't supposed to be characters as well. Of course,
it is a poem, so anything can happen. But, since Dickinson often capitalizes
nouns, it's probably safe to consider that she capitalized "Carriage," "Ourselves,"
and "Immortality" more for emphasis than anything else.

Let's take a look at these three important words.

By making "carriage" a proper noun (a capitalized noun), she makes it more

specific and more important. In other words, it's not just any old carriage, it's her
Death Chariot!

By "Ourselves" we can assume she means her and Death. The emphasis she
places on the word also strengthens the relationship between the speaker and
Death. It's almost like a foreshadowing, so we know something serious is going
to happen between them.

"Immortality" is the most complicated and interesting word of these three and
certainly gets us thinking. Our first instinct might be to ask, "Wait, you're riding in
a carriage with Death don't you mean mortality?" So this is the first hint we get
that the speaker doesn't think of death as The End, but as a step on the way to
eternal life an afterlife of some sort.

Line 5
We slowly drove He knew no haste

They're really taking their time getting to wherever it is they're going.

"He knew no haste" is an old-fashioned way of saying Death didn't speed or

hurry.

The shift from "We" to "He" in the same line is an important one. The "We" might
allow the reader to think the speaker has some control over the pace, but
Dickinson quickly reminds us that "He" is the one determining the relaxed
progress and that the speaker's just along for the ride.

While we've already determined that the speaker is not afraid of Death, this slow
pace still creates a feeling of drawn-out suspense in the poem and keeps us
wondering what might happen.

Lines 6-8
And I put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his Civility

Lines 6-7 mean that she has given up work and free time (we might assume
she's given up thinking about or worrying about them too).

Line 8 works a couple of ways. First, we can read "For" as "because of." So, she
gave up thinking about work and play because Death is just so polite and
charming that he distracted her from anything else.

Or, we can read the "for" as "in place of." So, similar to the first interpretation, she
has given up the worries (work) and joys (leisure) of life in exchange for his
graciousness. We might even guess that she is starting to feel more civil and
social too.

Either way, the speaker seems pretty content with, if not a little gaga for Death.

If this were a first date, Death would be doing a pretty good job. She seems both
happy and even a little impressed by his manners.

Line 9-10
We passed the School, where Children Strove
At Recess in the Ring

Dickinson is painting a little scene of what they are riding by. If you've ever taken
a hayride in a carriage in the fall, maybe you saw something like this too.

They see children playing in the schoolyard during recess.

This scene seems almost eerily normal. At first, we're in this strange scene with
death that doesn't seem at all normal, then we're looking at something totally
familiar. Why do you think Dickinson does this? Maybe you think the mixing of
the unreal and real makes the poem seem even stranger. Or maybe you think it
makes death and dying seem like just another ordinary part of life.

Line 11-12
We passed the Field of Gazing Grain
We passed the Setting Sun

More scene setting. They pass "the fields of [] grain" and "the setting sun."
When she describes the grain as "gazing" maybe she thinks the thicker tops of
the grain resemble heads, or perhaps that the grain seems to stand still and just
look at the carriage as it passes.

The sun and field are much more general descriptions of the scene than the
previous lines, yet might even have symbolic significance. The setting sun, for
example, signifies the end of the day, but might also stand for the end of life.
Ever heard of old people being in their twilight years?

We should also notice the repeated phrase, "We passed" (in poetry-speak, a
repeated word or phrase throughout a poem is called anaphora). Here it works to
mimic the slow progression of the carriage. You can almost hear the echo of
clomping horse hooves in the repeated phrase. So instead of feeling like this
poem is at a standstill, we're aware that it's moving forward. It almost allows us to
be a part of their journey, not just outside observers.

Get out the microscope, because were going through this

poem line-by-line.

Line 13
Or rather He passed Us

Quite literally, the sun passes her because it falls below the horizon. But, reading
a little deeper into it, Dickinson suggests that maybe that's what death is like
the sun, light, and warmth leaving you to the cold darkness that is death.

Dickinson uses personification again as she refers to the sun. Why do you think
that is? It seems the farther along in the journey they get, the farther from the
living world they get. There are no other people or animals and it's getting dark.
It's a little spooky at this point.

The fact that the adjustment, "or rather," is made after the stanza break only
enhances the spookiness. The long pause between stanzas allows us to notice
that the poem is about to make a shift away from the sunny ordinary day into
something more grave (pun intended).

Lines 14-16
The Dews drew quivering and Chill
For only Gossamer, my Gown
My Tippet only Tulle

"Gossamer" is used here to describe her gown as one of very thin and delicate
material.

"Tippet" is an old-fashioned shawl or shoulder cape, and this one's made of

"tulle," which is silky and thin like gossamer.

The dew of night is setting in because the sun has gone down. She's now getting
chilly because she isn't wearing warm enough clothing. That thin tulle!

The fact that she is under-dressed for this journey also reflects that she is underprepared. This stanza echoes what we discovered in the beginning line this is
not her choice and she was not planning this trip with Death.

Cold is something often associated with death in literature and in movies. Ever
watch The Sixth Sense or read about the Dementors in Harry Potter books? So
it's no coincidence that Dickinson is lowering the temperature on us here.

Line 17-18
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground

If we were unsure before, these lines settle everything. The speaker is going to
die. Death just led her to her burial spot!

Your first instinct when you read this might be to scream something like, "Run for
your life, lady. He's going to kill you!" But let's not forget how at ease the speaker
feels with Death and how calmly she's faced the whole experience so far.

The "we paused" marks the second stop in the poem. The first instance was the
beginning of the journey when Death stops to pick up the speaker. So we might
guess that this second stop could end their journey.

Using the word "House" to indicate the place of burial is a clever move by
Dickinson. Instead of "grave" or "tombstone," which might stir up images of
finality and death, she uses a word that we consider synonymous with "dwelling"
or even "home." Ever heard someone call a gravesite the "final resting place"?
This is a subtler way to say that.

"A Swelling of the Ground" eliminates any possibility that we might think this
is not a grave. Think of a freshly-dug place where a dog hides his bone; even
after he covers it up there is a little rise in the ground.

Line 19-20
The Roof was scarcely visible
The Cornice in the Ground

These lines continue to explain this burial house, but it gets a little tricky.

A cornice is the pointed part of the roof, and here it's in the ground. So if the
highest part of house is in the ground, the rest of it must be too. Further grave
evidence.

What part of this burial house can the speaker actually see? It's unclear, but she
seems to know what it is and she's OK with it. There's no turning and running for
it, as you might typically expect.

Line 21-22
Since then 'tis Centuries and yet
Feels shorter than the Day

Wait a minute this happened centuries ago?! This really throws a wrench in the
whole system.

The poem seems to be telling a recent memory, but this all actually happened a
really long time ago. Meaning...yep, the speaker has been dead the whole time.
Interesting.

"Feels shorter than the Day" is just an old-fashioned way of saying something
like, "feels like just yesterday." So this memory remains vivid for the speaker.

Line 23-24
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity

These final lines recall the very first time the speaker encountered the horsedrawn carriage and had a feeling that they were more than just regular horses
that they signified her journey to the afterlife.

Ending on the image of the horse heads is really smart of Dickinson, because
they jut forward and it almost looks like they're pointing toward something. In this
case, "Eternity."

It's also very bold of Dickinson to end on this image because this is the first we've
heard of the horses, and suddenly she's asking them to hold up the most
important moment of the poem.

The final stanza is full of surprising moments for the reader. We find out the
speaker has been dead for years and we're introduced to (and left with) this
striking image of the horses' heads pushing forward.

Symbols, Imagery, Wordplay

Welcome to the land of symbols, imagery, and wordplay. Before you travel any further,
please know that there may be some thorny academic terminology ahead. Never fear,
Shmoop is here. Check out our...

Form and Meter

If you're familiar with hymns, you'll know they're usually written in rhyming quatrains and
have a regular metrical pattern. Dickinson's quatrains (four-line stanzas) aren't perfectly
rhymed, but t...

 Speaker
The speaker is dead. But the even cooler thing is that we don't know this for sure until
the last stanza. So the speaker is a ghost or spirit thinking back to the day of her death.
She's actually p...

Setting
Well, the setting moves around a little because the speaker and Death are going for a
ride in a carriage. It starts when Death picks up the speaker and they drive for a while
through her town, past...

Sound Check
Hats off to Dickinson for the way this poem sounds. All those technical things we talked
about in "Form and Meter" (meter, rhyme, anaphora, the dashes) really make for subtlywoven sound patterns....

What's Up With the Title?

"Because I could not stop for Death" is actually not the title of this poem. Dickinson
didn't title any of her poems, because she never meant to publish them. In collections,
sometimes this poem is...

Calling Card
Dickinson is no stranger to the topic of death. In fact, it's pretty safe to say she's got a
corner on the market. An unsettling amount of her poems are either about dying, death,
or what happens a...

Tough-O-Meter

 You can probably leave the ice pick at home. The action in this poem is pretty
straightforward. The real meat is the comparison of death to a date in a carriage ride,
and the calm attitude of the s...

Brain Snacks

Sex Rating
There's nothing too steamy going on here, though some flirtation with Death is present.
All the same, it's pretty tame.

ICKINSONS POETRY

Emily Dickinson

The Soul selects her own Society

Summary
The speaker says that the Soul selects her own Society and then
shuts the Door, refusing to admit anyone elseeven if an Emperor be
kneeling / Upon her mat. Indeed, the soul often chooses no more than a
single person from an ample nation and then closes the Valves of her
attention to the rest of the world.
Form

 The meter of The Soul selects her own Society is much more irregular
and halting than the typical Dickinson poem, although it still roughly fits her
usual structure: iambic trimeter with the occasional line in tetrameter. It is
also uncharacteristic in that its rhyme schemeif we count half-rhymes
such as Gate and Matis ABAB, rather than ABCB; the first and third
lines rhyme, as well as the second and fourth. However, by using long
dashes rhythmically to interrupt the flow of the meter and effect brief
pauses, the poems form remains recognizably Dickinsonian, despite its
atypical aspects.
Commentary
Whereas Im Nobody! Who are you? takes a playful tone to the idea of
reclusiveness and privacy, the tone of The Soul selects her own Society
is quieter, grander, and more ominous. The idea that The Soul selects
her own Society (that people choose a few companions who matter to
them and exclude everyone else from their inner consciousness) conjures
up images of a solemn ceremony with the ritual closing of the door, the
chariots, the emperor, and the ponderous Valves of the Souls attention.
Essentially, the middle stanza functions to emphasize the Souls stonily
uncompromising attitude toward anyone trying to enter into her Society
once the metaphorical door is shuteven chariots, even an emperor,
cannot persuade her. The third stanza then illustrates the severity of the
Souls exclusivenesseven from an ample nation of people, she easily
settles on one single person to include, summarily and unhesitatingly
locking out everyone else. The concluding stanza, with its emphasis on the
One who is chosen, gives The Soul selects her own Society the feel
of a tragic love poem, although we need not reduce our understanding of
the poem to see its theme as merely romantic. The poem is an excellent
example of Dickinsons tightly focused skills with metaphor and imagery;
cycling through her regal list of door, divine Majority, chariots, emperor,

mat, ample nation, and stony valves of attention, Dickinson continually

surprises the reader with her vivid and unexpected series of images, each
of which furthers the somber mood of the poem.

Critics note that poem 303 was written in 1862, the year Dickinson
made her decision to withdraw from the larger world. The poem, read in
this simple way, simply states the need to live by ones own choice. This
reading, perfectly acceptable in itself, overlooks several important
phrases which have larger implications.
The first of these curious choices of language is divine Majority, in line
3. The Soul of line 1, not merely a soul or a person, shuts her door
not only to people at large but also to the majority, even those who bear
the stamp of divine sanction. Read this way, the poem also indicates the
poets decision not to join the society of the Elect, this even though an
emperor be kneeling on her doormat. The conduit of grace, an analogy
favored in the sermons of Jonathan Edwards, becomes the Valves of
the souls discrimination.
Though she remains unmoved, the soul is neither nihilistic nor
solipsistic. Even as the capitalized letter implies zero, the soul chooses
One then becomes deaf to all entreaties Like Stone. To insist that this
necessarily indicates preference for a Unitarian rather than a Trinitarian
view carries the interpretation to a theological level that the poems
language will not sustain. Nevertheless, selectivity in all matters,
including religion, is something the poet clearly favors.
On a complementary level, one notices the carefully crafted description
of the woman not at home to any callers, except one or at most a few.
Read this way, which merely supplements the other possible
alternatives, the poem states the preference to live in a way unlike that
of most nineteenth century women, spurning the conventions of social
obligation and what society expects, even though an emperor might
attempt to persuade her to join the larger group

Im Nobody! Who are you?

Summary

The speaker exclaims that she is Nobody, and asks, Who are you? / Are you
Nobodytoo? If so, she says, then they are a pair of nobodies, and she
admonishes her addressee not to tell, for theyd banish usyou know! She
says that it would be dreary to be Somebodyit would be public and require
that, like a Frog, one tell ones name the livelong June / To an admiring Bog!
Form
The two stanzas of Im Nobody! are highly typical for Dickinson, constituted of
loose iambic trimeter occasionally including a fourth stress (To tell your name
the livelong June). They follow an ABCB rhyme scheme (though in the first
stanza, you and too rhyme, and know is only a half-rhyme, so the scheme
could appear to be AABC), and she frequently uses rhythmic dashes to interrupt
the flow.
Commentary
Ironically, one of the most famous details of Dickinson lore today is that she was
utterly un-famous during her lifetimeshe lived a relatively reclusive life in
Amherst, Massachusetts, and though she wrote nearly 1 , 8 0 0 poems, she
published fewer than ten of them. This poem is her most famous and most
playful defense of the kind of spiritual privacy she favored, implying that to be a
Nobody is a luxury incomprehensible to the dreary Somebodiesfor they are too
busy keeping their names in circulation, croaking like frogs in a swamp in the
summertime. This poem is an outstanding early example of Dickinsons often
jaunty approach to meter (she uses her trademark dashes quite forcefully to
interrupt lines and interfere with the flow of her poem, as in How dreary to be
Somebody!). Further, the poem vividly illustrates her surprising way with
language. The juxtaposition in the line How publiclike a Frog shocks the
first-time reader, combining elements not typically considered together, and, thus,
more powerfully conveying its meaning (frogs are public like public figuresor

Somebodiesbecause they are constantly telling their name croakingto

the swamp, reminding all the other frogs of their identities).

Emily Dickinsons short poem beginning Im Nobody! Who are you? is typical
of her work in many ways. It is brief; it is untitled; it is whimsical and thoughtprovoking; and it also displays her characteristic disregard for conventional
punctuation and sentence structure (or syntax). The poem not only
addresses individuality and nonconformity but also exemplifies them in its
content and style.
The poem begins, as so many of Dickinsons poems do, with a paradox in the
first line: Im Nobody! To claim that one is a nobody reveals that one is a
somebody, that one exists and has an independent identity, even if
that personal identity is defined by an absence of social identity. The claim
that one is nobody may suggest that one is disregarded by others, but it may
also be a way of asserting ones humility and freedom from narcissism or selfcenteredness. Ironically, if the speaker feels that she is Nobody because
others ignore her, then her poem is a way of defying that kind of treatmenta
way of making sure that she is indeed noticed. In the very act of saying I am
Nobody, she calls herself to our attention.
The second half of line 1 asks, Who are you? Although the speaker is
ignored or humble, or both, she is not unfriendly. She immediately reaches out
to the unnamed you, a reference perhaps to the reader. It is as if the speaker
were trying to establish a dialogue with another person who can never
respond. Thus, paradoxically, her attempt to communicate has the effect of
emphasizing her isolation. The whole first stanza can be read as an attempt
by the speaker to break free of the isolation, the sense of non-importance, the
sense of being a Nobody that has been imposed upon her.
In the second and third lines, the speaker suggests that if you are also
considered (or consider yourself) a Nobody, then a mutual lack of
conventional identity is the basis for a possible friendship. Again, since there
is no way for you to respond to the speakers question, the speaker is, in a...

Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems Summary and

Analysis of "I'm Nobody! Who are you?"
This poem opens with a literally impossible declarationthat the speaker is
Nobody. This nobody-ness, however, quickly comes to mean that she is
outside of the public sphere; perhaps, here Dickinson is touching on her own

failure to become a published poet, and thus the fact that to most of society,
she is Nobody.
The speaker does not seem bitter about thisinstead she asks the reader,
playfully, Who are you?, and offers us a chance to be in cahoots with her
(Are you Nobody Too?). In the next line, she assumes that the answer to
this question is yes, and so unites herself with the reader (Then theres a
pair of us!), and her use of exclamation points shows that she is very happy
to be a part of this failed couple.
Dickinson then shows how oppressive the crowd of somebodies can be,
encouraging the reader to keep this a secret (Dont tell!) because
otherwise theyd advertise, and the speaker and her reader would lose
their ability to stand apart from the crowd.
It then becomes abundantly clear that it is not only preferable to be a
Nobody, it is dreary to be a Somebody. These somebodies, these public
figures who are so unlike Dickinson, are next compared to frogs, rather
pitifully, we can imagine, croaking away to the admiring Bog. These public
figures do not even attempt to say anything of importanceall they do is
tell ones name, that is, their own name, over and over, in an attempt to
make themselves seem important.
This admiring Bog represents those people who allow the public figures to
think they are important, the general masses who lift them up. These masses
are not even granted the respect of having a sentient being to represent
them. Instead, they are something into which one sinks, which takes all
individuality away, and has no opinion to speak of, and certainly not one to
be respected.

Analysis
Im Nobody! Who are you? is an example of one of Dickinsons more
comical poems, yet the comedy is not simply for pleasure. Rather, it contains
a biting satire of the public sphere, both of the public figures who benefit
from it, and of the masses who allow them to. Dickinsons light tone, childish
voice, and invitation to the reader to be on her side, however, keep the sharp
edge of the satire from cutting too stingingly.
This poem mocks the pretensions of the public world, as it imagines public
figures---or perhaps, published writersas loud bullfrogs. These frogs have
nothing of import to say; instead, they advertise their own names, over and
over, selling themselves for the purpose of maintaining their fame, but not
having any substance behind it. This especially makes it seem like this poem
is speaking towards Dickinsons lack of publication, as even when she did
publish, she did so anonymously, avoiding the prospect of telling her name.

The frogs are not the only ones at fault, however. Their audienceclosely
tied to them through rhymeis an admiring Bog, with all of its members
having joined into the whole, losing all individuality or identity. And indeed,
this whole is a swamp, something that sucks one in, or sucks in all they are
told, but puts forward no opinion or judgment of its own. This audience thus
is spared the dreariness of being somebody, for they have no identity, but
they become worthless, for they are without opinion, and only serve to listen
to and support the public figures.
This public sphere is not only unpleasant in itself, but it is also tries to
impose itself on those nobodies, like the speaker and ostensibly the reader,
who do their best to avoid it. The speaker fears that even telling anyone that
there is now a pair of us, that is, nobodies, outsiders, will lead to their very
identities being advertised, and thus taken from them, for they will no longer
be able to be the anonymous, free-thinking nobodies that they have chosen
to be.
In the world of this poem, then, the public sphere is about advertised or selfadvertised identities: people marketing their names and their existence. This
marketing becomes the only way for anyone to enter the public sphere.
Talent itself is inconsequential, and thus for someone like Dickinson, or,
ostensibly, the reader, who desires to think and to perform with meaning,
rather than just maintaining their own fame, participation or recognition in
this public world is impossible.
This poem had no title in the first (1855) edition of Leaves of Grass. In 1856 it was
called "A Poem of Walt Whitman, an American" and in 1860 it was simply termed "Walt
Whitman." Whitman changed the title to "Song of Myself" in 1881. The changes in the
title are significant in indicating the growth of the meaning of the poem.
There are three important themes: the idea of the self, the identification of the self with
other selves, and the poet's relationship with the elements of nature and the universe.
Houses and rooms represent civilization; perfumes signify individual selves; and the
atmosphere symbolizes the universal self. The self is conceived of as a spiritual entity
which remains relatively permanent in and through the changing flux of ideas and
experiences which constitute its conscious life. The self comprises ideas, experiences,
psychological states, and spiritual insights. The concept of self is the most significant
aspect of Whitman's mind and art.
To Whitman, the self is both individual and universal. Man has an individual self,
whereas the world, or cosmos, has a universal or cosmic self. The poet wishes to

maintain the identity of his individual self, and yet he desires to merge it with the
universal self, which involves the identification of the poet's self with mankind and the
mystical union of the poet with God, the Absolute Self. Sexual union is a figurative
anticipation of spiritual union. Thus the poet's ecstasy is both physical and spiritual, and
he develops a sense of loving brotherhood with God and with all mankind. Even the
most commonplace objects, such as Leaves, ants, and stones, contain the infinite
universe.
"Song of Myself' is a good example of the stylistic features of Leaves of Grass.
Whitman's style reflects his individualism. He once wrote to Horace Traubel, his
biographer: "I sometimes think the Leaves is only a language experiment." Words, for
Whitman, have both a "natural" and a "spiritual" significance. Colloquial words unite the
natural with the spiritual, and therefore he uses many colloquial expressions. He is also
fond of using foreign words. The catalog is another special characteristic of Whitman's
poetic technique. He uses numerous images, usually drawn from nature, to suggest and
heighten the impression of a poetic idea. These images appear to have no clear
organization; yet, in effect, they have a basic underlying unity, usually involving a
spiritual concept, which gives meaning and coherence to the apparently disconnected
images or scenes.
This poem celebrates the poet's self, but, while the "I" is the poet himself, it is, at the
same time, universalized. The poet will "sing myself," but "what I assume you shall
assume,/For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." The poet loafs on
the grass and invites his soul to appear. He relates that he was "form'd from this soil,"
for he was born here, as were his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. He is
thirtyseven years old and "in perfect health." He hopes to continue his celebration of self
until his death. He will let nature speak without check with original energy."
In section 2, the self, asserting its identity, declares its separateness from civilization
and its closeness to nature. "Houses and rooms are full of perfume," Whitman says.
"Perfumes" are symbols of other individual selves; but outdoors, the earth's atmosphere
denotes the universal self. The poet is tempted to let himself be submerged by other
individual selves, but he is determined to maintain his individuality.

The poet expresses the joy he feels through his senses. He is enthralled by the ecstasy
of his physical sensations. He can enjoy each of the five senses tasting, hearing,
smelling, touching, and seeing-and even more the process of breathing, the beating
of his heart, and "the feeling of health." He invites the reader to "stop this day and night"
with him in order to discover "the origin of all poems."
In the third and fourth sections, Whitman chides the "talkers," "trippers," and "askers" for
wasting their time discussing "the beginning and the end," and "the latest dates,
discoveries, inventions, societies . . . More important is the eternal procreant urge of the
world." He prepares himself for the union of his body with his soul: "I witness and wait."
As his soul is "clear and sweet," so are all the other parts of his body -and everyone's
bodies. "Not an inch . . . is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest."
Section 5 is the poet's ecstatic revelation of union with his soul. He has a feeling of
fraternity and oneness with God and his fellowmen ("And I know that the hand of God is
the promise of my own/And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own") and a
vision of love ("And . . . a kelson [an important structural part of a ship] of the creation is
love"). This union brings him peace and joy.
Section 6 presents the first significant transition in the poem and introduces the central
symbol in "Song of Myself." A child appears with both hands full of Leaves from the
fields and asks the poet, "What is the grass?" The poet at first feels incapable of
answering this question but continues thinking about it. He muses that perhaps "the
grass is itself a child" or maybe it is "the handkerchief of the Lord." Here the grass is a
symbol of the divinity latent in the ordinary, common life of man and it is also a symbol
of the continuity inherent in the life-death cycle. No one really dies. Even "the smallest
sprout shows there is really no death," that "all goes onward and outward . . . /And to die
is different from what any one supposed."
In Section 7 the poet signifies his universal nature, which finds it "just as lucky to die" as
to be born. The universal self finds both "the earth good and the stars good." The poet is
part of everyone around him. He sees all and condemns nothing.

Sections 8-16 consist of a catalog of all that the poet sees people of both sexes, all
ages, and all conditions, in many different walks of life, in the city and in the country, by
the mountain and by the sea. Even animals are included. And the poet not only loves
them all, he is part of them all:
And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them,
And such as it is to be of these more or less I am,
And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
Section 17 again refers to the universality of the poet his thoughts are "the thoughts
of all men in all ages and lands." Sections 18 and 19 salute all members of humanity.
Grass, a central symbol of this epic poem, suggests the divinity of common things. The
nature and significance of grass unfold the themes of death and immortality, for grass is
symbolic of the ongoing cycle of life present in nature, which assures each man of his
immortality. Nature is an emblem of God, for God's eternal presence in it is evident
everywhere. Grass is the key to the secrets of man's relationship with the Divine. It
indicates that, God is everything and everything is God.
These sections deal with the themes of God, life, death, and nature. Their primary aim
is to reveal the nature of the poet's journey through life and the spiritual knowledge
which he strives for along the way. They reveal an essential element in a mystical
experience the awakening of the poet's self. "Song of Myself" is a poetical expression
of that mystical experience. It arises out of a belief that it is possible to achieve
communion with God through contemplation and love, without the medium of human
reason. It is a way of attaining knowledge of spiritual truths through intuition. Sections I
to 5 concern the poet's entry into a mystical state, while sections 6-16 describe the
awakening of the poet's self to his own universality.
The poet declares that all he says of himself the reader is to say of his own self, "else it
were time lost listening to me." He declares himself to be "solid and sound," "deathless,"
and "august," and, while no one is better than he, no one is worse, either. In section 21,
Whitman proclaims himself "the poet of the Body" and also "the poet of the Soul." He is
a poet of pleasures and pain, and of men and women. Calling to the earth, he thanks it

for giving him love, which he answers with love: "Prodigal, you have given me love
therefore I to you give love!/O unspeakable passionate love." In section 22 the poet
reveals that he also loves the sea. He feels at one with it ("I am integral with you") for it
has as many aspects and moods as he has. He is the poet of both good and evil: "I am
not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also"; the
two qualities complement each other. In section 23 the poet affirms his acceptance of
"Reality." He salutes scientists but, he admits, "your facts . . . are not my dwelling."
Section 24 presents some of Whitman's basic tenets. He calls himself a "kosmos." The
word "kosmos," meaning a universe, is significant and amounts to a renewed definition
of the poet's self as one who loves all people. Through him, "many long dumb voices" of
prisoners, slaves, thieves, and dwarfs all of those whom "the others are down upon"
are articulated and transfigured. He also speaks of lust and the flesh, for each part of
the body is a miracle: "The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer." In section
25 Whitman dwells on the comprehensive range of the poet's power. He declares that
"with the twirl of my tongue I encompass world and volumes of world. Speech is the twin
of my vision." He must speak, for he cannot contain all that he has to say; and yet
"writing and talk do not prove me." What he is can be seen in his face.
The poet's self-appraisal is the keynote of sections 20-25. He describes himself as
gross and mystical. He feels he is part of all that he has met and seen. He is essentially
a poet of balance, since he accepts both good and evil in his cosmos. His awareness of
the universe, or cosmic consciousness, is expressed when he calls himself "a kosmos,"
invoking a picture of the harmony of the universe. He accepts all life, naked and bare,
noble and ignoble, refined and crude, beautiful and ugly, pleasant and painful. The
physical and the spiritual both are aspects of his vision, which has an organic unity like
the unity of the body and the soul. Whitman realizes that the physical as well as the
spiritual are aspects of the Divine. The culmination of the poet's experience of self is the
ecstacy of love. Contemplating the meaning of grass in terms of mystical experience, he
understands that all physical phenomena are as deathless as the grass.
These chants express various stages of the poet's mystical experience of his self. The
first stage may be termed the "Awakening of Self"; the second, the "Purification of Self."

Purification involves an acceptance of the body and all its functions. This acceptance
reflects the poet's goal to achieve mystical experience through physical reality. This is in
opposition to the puritanical view of purification through mortification of the flesh. In
Whitman's philosophy, the self is purified not through purgation but through acceptance
of the physical. Man should free himself from his traditional sense of sin. The mystical
experience paves the way for the merging of physical reality with a universal reality.
Whitman is representative of all humanity because, he says, the voices of diverse
people speak through him voices of men, animals, and even insects. To him, all life is
a miracle of beauty. Sections 20-25 close on a note of exaltation of the poet's power of
expression, although they indicate that his deeper self is beyond expression.
The poet resolves to listen and be receptive to all sounds. The sounds are familiar: the
"bravuras of birds," the "bustle of growing wheat," and "the sound of the human voice."
Soon they reach a high pitch and the poet is ecstatic at this "music." Sections 27-30
reveal that the sense of touch also brings the poet joy. Indeed, the poet's sense of touch
is extremely acute. At times he is overwhelmed by it, and he asks, "Is this then a touch?
quivering me to a new identity." The emphasis is on his search for an individuality, an
aspect of his evolving self. He will end his quest for being in an affirmation of his body's
sensory awareness. With all his senses, the poet responds to existence and living, "the
puzzle of puzzles . . . that we call Being."
The poet's senses convince him that there is significance in everything, no matter how
small. Sections 31-33 contain a catalog of the infinite wonders in small things. He
believes, for example, that "a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars"
and "the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery," for all things are part
of the eternal wonder of life and therefore even "the soggy clods shall become lovers
and lamps." He, himself, incorporates an unending range of things, people, and
animals. Now he understands the power of his vision which ranges everywhere: "I skirt
sierras, my palms cover continents,/I am afoot with my vision." Especially in sections 3436, he identifies himself with every person, dead or living, and relates his involvement
with the various phases of American history. Realizing his relationship to all this makes

him feel, as he states in section 38, "replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average
unending procession."
In the earlier chants, the accent was on observation; in this sequence it is on what "I"
am or what "I" am becoming. Whitman develops a kind of microscopic vision in the way
he glorifies the details of the commonplace. The poet's experience is ecstatic; his joy
comes to him through his senses, and the physical enjoyment suggests a sexual union
as the culmination of this experience of ecstasy. The catalog of people and places is an
attempt to give a feeling of universal scope. Ordinary life becomes permeated with
mystical significance. The poet identifies himself with every being and every object, and
this identification forms an integral part of his concept of what "I" am. The process of
identification arises out of the belief that the poet's soul is a part of the universal soul
and therefore should seek union with it.
Whitman also discusses the relative properties of the body and the soul. He finds that
the body has value, for it leads man to a unified self, a purified combination of the body
and the soul. The poet praises the primitive life of animals (section 32) because they
have achieved this union they are born pure. In sections 33-37, Whitman experiences
a spiritual illumination, passing through suffering, despair, and the dark night of the soul
to finally achieve purification. His self, purified, comprehends the Divine Reality, the
"transcendental self" Transcendentalism is a word with varied meanings, but in
Whitman's poetry it implies beliefs based on intuitional philosophy which transcend, or
go beyond, ordinary experience. Human reason can deal reliably with phenomena, but
there is a world beyond phenomena, and this world is approached through faith and
intuition. Transcendentalists tried to receive their inspiration at first hand from the Divine
Power. Their God was sometimes called the OverSoul. Whitman's God revealed Himself
in nature. The poet's self, inspired by his insights, venerates God, the Divine Reality,
who embodies the transcendental self.
These three sections express the idea of the poet as a sort of superman, flowing
through life and the world doing good. He transforms the common into the Divine. In this
process, the "common modes" assume "new forms." He answers the call of the needy
and the despairing and even becomes a healer to the dying: "To any one dying, thither I

speed/ . . . Let the physician and the priest go home." He would seize "the descending
man and raise him with resistless will . . . /By God, you shall not go down! hang your
whole weight upon me."
In section 41 the poet assumes the role of the prophet of a new religion, incorporating
all religions:
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix engraved.
He declares that all men are divine and possess powers of revelation equal to any
god's. The poet denies significance to old gods because God is to be found in all men.
He says, "The supernatural is of no account," meaning that the Divine is here on earth
for all men, who must only become ready to accept this divinity.
"The friendly and flowing savage" mentioned in section 39 is a key image which sums
up the progression of ideas and feelings in this section. This image combines the idea of
the primitive ancestor of man with the figure of Christ. He is a healer, a comforter, and a
lover of humanity. He raises men from their deathbeds and imbues them with strength
and vision. This Christ-like savage merges with the other identities contained in the total
idea of the poet's self. The primitivity of savage man is divine; modern civilized man has
lost this divinity but is eager to regain it.
Whitman's chants recall the experience of Indian sages and mystics (the Samadhi) who,
on realizing the state of spiritual absorption, are endowed with divine and superhuman
power. The poet is conscious of his newly acquired, holy and superhuman power
resulting from the union of his self with the Divine.
"A call in the midst of the crowd,/My own voice, orotund [strong and clear] sweeping and
final," says the poet, who assumed the position of prophet while acknowledging his
kinship with mankind. He says, "I know perfectly well my own egotism," but he would
extend it to include all humanity and bring "you whoever you are flush with myself" He

sees the injustice that prevails in society but recognizes that the reality beneath the
corruption is deathless: "The weakest and shallowest is deathless with me."
In section 43, Whitman states that he does not despise religion but asserts that his own
faith embraces all "worship ancient and modern." He practices all religions and even
looks beyond them to "what is yet untried." This unknown factor will not fail the suffering
and the dead. In the next section, the poet expresses his desire to "launch all men and
women . . . into the Unknown" by stripping them of what they already know. In this way
he will show them their relationship with eternity. "We have thus far exhausted trillions of
winters and summers,/There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them." The poet is
conscious of the confrontation of his self with limitless time and limitless space and
realizes that he and his listeners are products of ages past and future.
Section 45 again deals with eternity and the ages of man. Everything leads to the
mystical union with God, the "great Camerado." In section 46, the poet launches himself
on the "perpetual journey," urging all to join him and uttering the warning, "Not 1, not any
one else can travel that road for you,/You must travel it for yourself." The poet (section
47) says that he is a teacher, but he hopes that those he teaches will learn to assert
their own individuality: "He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the
teacher." Section 48 repeats the idea that "the soul is not more than the body," just as
"the body is not more than the soul." Not even God is more important than one's self.
The poet asks man not to be "curious about God" because God is everywhere and in
everything: "In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the
glass."
The poet is not afraid of death. In section 49, he addresses it: "And as to you Death, you
bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me." For there is no real death. Men die
and are reborn in different forms. He himself has died "ten thousand times before." The
poet feels (section 50) there is something that outweighs death, although it is hard for
him to put a name to it: "It is form, union, plan it is eternal life it is Happiness."
The last two sections are expressions of farewell. "The past and present wilt I have
fill'd them, emptied them,/And proceed to fill my next fold of the future." He knows that
his writings have been obscure but sees the paradoxes in his works as natural

components in the mysteries of the cosmos: "Do I contradict myself?/Very well then I
contradict myself,/(I am large, I contain multitudes.)" The poet can wait for those who
will understand him. He tells them, "If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles," for he will have become part of the eternal life cycle. Although it may be difficult
to find or interpret him, he will be waiting. "Missing me one place search another,/I stop
somewhere waiting for you."
The poet's journey and quest for selfhood have now come full circle. He began by
desiring to loaf on the grass and ends by bequeathing himself "to the dirt to grow from
the grass I love."
These chants contain many of the important ideas and doctrines of Whitman. The poet
brings a new message of faith for the strong and the weak, a belief in the harmony and
orderliness of the universe. The poet, noting what has been said about the universe,
shows how his own theories, which have a more universal scope, transcend them.
Assuming the identity of the Savage-Christ, he delivers a sermon which imagines
transcendence of the finite through a union of the individual soul with the Divine Soul.
The poet offers to lead men and women "into the unknown that is, into transcendent
reality. Whitman talks about the self as part of the eternal life process. There is no
death, for man is reincarnated time and time again. The poet speaks about man's
relation with the moment and with eternity. Eternity is time endless, as is the self.
The poet does not prescribe any fixed pathway to a knowledge of the self; it is for each
person to find his own way to make the journey. The poet is not afraid of death because
death, too, is a creation of God and through it one may reach God. The culmination of
the poet's mystical experience is revealed in his vision of eternal life. Life is neither
chaotic nor finite; it is harmonious, reflecting the union of the poet's individual soul with
the Divine Soul.
Grass is the central symbol of "Song of Myself," and it represents the divinity contained
in all living things. Although no traditional form is apparent, the logical manner in which
the poet returns to his image of grass shows that "Song of Myself" was planned to have
an order and unity of idea and image.