Our Town by Thornton Wilder

Source of book: I own this. 

Last year, our library sale had a huge collection of Library of America hardbacks for sale at crazy-low prices ($3-5 a book). While I couldn’t get all of them, I did pick up a couple dozen to add to my collection. Two of those add up together to be the major works of Thornton Wilder. 

Because of the Covid-19 shutdown, I have been unable to see live theater for a couple months. (Kudos to local thespians for all the fun stuff they are doing online - you guys and gals are one of the best things about this town!) Instead, I have been reading more drama. 

I like this cover because it captures the sparse set, the use of the stars as a theme, 

and the way it asks the audience to fill in the scene from imagination.

I decided to read Our Town for two reasons. First, it is one of Wilder’s best known works - and it won a Pulitzer. But also, the movie version features the music of Aaron Copland, which I got to play a bit of for a movie concert back in the day. 

A small-town orchestra to go with a small town.

In addition to the play itself, I read the additional materials in this volume: three short pieces by Wilder on the play, plus part of the correspondence between Wilder and producer Sol Lesser as they worked together to revise the screenplay for the movie. 

First performed in 1938, Our Town seems fairly tame by today’s standards. But at the time, it was unusual and experimental. There is no scenery, a few chairs and tables for props, and the “Stage Manager” breaks the fourth wall and addresses the audience throughout. Questions from carefully planted members of the “audience” also ask questions in the first act. These innovations seem normal now, over 80 years later, but were hardly usual at the time. The play also seems traditional in its values, but was perhaps a bit shocking to a 1930s audience. I’ll get to why on that later. 

The play is set in the fictional town of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, at the turn of the 20th Century. It is one of those “typical” New England towns with white clapboard houses, just changing over from horses to cars, and so on. To go with this idea and the sparse staging, Wilder directed that “It is important to maintain a continual dryness of tone, -- the New England understatement of sentiment, of surprise, of tragedy. A shyness about emotion.” 

In addition, as the state manager notes that the town is putting in a new bank with a time capsule (so popular in those days), and that this play can serve as a corrective to all the “official” stuff: a record of everyday life. 

And so the play is, in a way. But it isn’t just a snapshot of small-town New England and its ordinary folk denizens. It actually carries a modern (and timeless) message about the importance of valuing everyday life, and living in the moment. 

The play is in three acts. The first is that snapshot of two families in Grover’s Corners, those of prominent but not wealthy citizens: the doctor, and the newspaper publisher. Their children are tweens and teens, and it is clear that the doctor’s son may have a crush on the publisher’s daughter. One of the questions from the “audience” and the response are rather amusing.

LADY IN A BOX: Oh, Mr. Webb [the publisher]? Mr. Webb, is there any culture or love of beauty in Grover’s Corners?

MR WEBB: Well, ma’am, ther ain’t much--not in the sense you mean. Come to think of it, there’s some girls that play the piano at High School Commencement; but they ain’t happy about it. No, ma’am, there isn’t much culture; but maybe this is the place to tell you that we’ve got a lot of pleasures of a kind here: we like the sun comin’ up over the mountain in the morning, and we all notice a good deal about the birds. We pay a lot of attention to them. And we watch the change of the seasons; yes, everybody knows about them. But those other things--you’re right, ma’am,--there ain’t much.--Robinson Crusoe and the Bible; and Handel’s “Largo,” we all know that; and Whistler’s “Mother”--those are just about as far as we go.

This is a fun link to The Moonstone and the use of Robinson Crusoe as a sacred text. 

In the second act is the wedding between George and Emily, with a flashback in the middle to how they realized they loved each other. This act is pretty emotionally complex, with both George and Emily appearing afraid of marriage and commitment at the last moment, revealing their feelings to the audience through monologues with the scene frozen. 

Personally, this felt weird to me, because my own experience with marriage was so different. Neither of us had anything resembling cold feet or fear about marriage. (Irritation at the wedding planning process yes - we have agreed to elope if we ever renew our vows…) We weren’t naive, either. We both knew each other well, and had both good judgment and great chemistry on our side. Likewise, there was no fear of the honeymoon. And we had a blast in every possible way. Obviously marriage isn’t one long ecstasy - we have had our tough moments too - but we both have had more fun than we expected too. 

Perhaps one telling exchange here is in the incident where George and Emily realize they love each other. George has been so focused on baseball that he has gotten a reputation as stuck up. Emily calls him out, and he feels the weight of it. 

EMILY: I always expect a man to be perfect and I think he should be.

GEORGE: Oh . . . I don’t think it’s possible to be perfect, Emily.

EMILY: Well, my father is, and as far as I can see your father is. There’s no reason on earth why you shouldn’t be too.

GEORGE: Well, I feel it is the other way round. That men aren’t naturally good; but girls are. 

EMILY: Well, you might as well know right now that I’m not perfect. It’s not as easy for a girl to be perfect as a man, because we girls are more--more--nervous.--Now I’m sorry I said all that about you. I don’t know what made me say it.

This is a well-written exchange. Both are expressing flawed views - based on gender essentialism of course - that interfere with their ability to really see the other. But they are still a good match, and legitimately good kids. Wilder handles dialogue like this in such an understated way, but with a lot more nuance when you think carefully about it. A good pair of actors could take these lines in different directions, for sure. 

In the third act, we learn that thirteen years later, Emily has died in childbirth (sorry about the spoiler, but the play is 80 years old…) Several of the other characters are dead now as well, and resting in the graveyard. They are conscious, but waiting. Not waiting for judgment, but for the future. A future when they will see clearly and become most themselves. This is in contrast to the living, who live “in closed boxes” - caskets of their own, where they cannot see the big picture. Emily goes back to her twelfth birthday (against the advice of the other dead), and receives not pleasure, but horror at seeing how everyone fails to live in the moment, but are so distracted as to not really see or hear each other. 

This is the bit that I mentioned above that probably seemed controversial at the time. Wilder explains in the other materials, however, that it wasn’t his idea exactly - it’s from Purgatory. (Wilder does not appear to have been religious in the usual sense, but the play itself assumes some sort of transcendence and religious truth.) The positive vision of the future as the time when we all see clearly face to face rather than darkly through a glass is why I cannot say the play is in the least pessimistic. It is rather positive overall. 

The ending differs in the movie: Emily turns out to have dreamt of her death instead, and she is given a chance to live with the insight. The correspondence between Wilder and Lesser discusses this change - which Wilder approved of completely. In his view, the screen and the stage were different, and expectations were different, and killing a beloved character didn’t fit with the message of the play when done on screen. In the stage version, Wilder felt that it was clearly metaphorical, and the death of Emily was easily seen as a “death comes for us all” moment. 

By the way, the correspondence is fascinating. The portion reprinted was selected to represent the discussion of bigger ideas, rather than fine details, but there is a lot left of the viewpoints of the two men regarding the differences between stage and screen, particularly the different ways to convey the sense of the whole town from scenes which see only small places. Both men clearly care about the final product - and see it as fine art, not mere flashy entertainment. They both are congenial and admire each other. It was a good working partnership. 

It would be interesting to see Our Town on stage some time. Perhaps one of our local theater groups will take on the challenge someday.

One final note: Wilder is one of a very few who have won three or more Pulitzer prizes, and the only one to have won for both drama and a novel. Our Town was the second of the three. His 1927 novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey was the first, and the third was the play The Skin of Our Teeth. Both are on my eventual reading list.

 

Poems Second Series by Emily Dickinson

Source of book: I own this.

Although I have been a used book shopper since childhood (it runs in the family), I didn’t spend my hard-earned money on a new book until my teens.

The very first new book I purchased myself was this one - a Courage Classics hardback edition of Emily Dickinson’s Collected Poems. Dickinson was my first poetic love (followed immediately thereafter by Christina Rossetti.) I can even remember the first poem that spoke to me in that way - my first time, so to speak. It was Dickinson’s “The Bee,” contained in the poetry volume of The Junior Classics - a collection I still own. (Okay, I basically stole it from my parents…) That opening line, “Like trains of cars on tracks of plush” is still amazing. I believe I wrote something for a school assignment about it at one point. But anyway, I knew the moment I read it that I loved Dickinson and always would.

While I have read from this book many times before, I didn’t really start to sit down and systematically read through my poetry collection until 2010, when I started writing about my reading. I decided that the occasional browsing was nice enough, but too sporadic and unfocused to really plumb the depths of the poetic tradition. Since that time, my book pile on the nightstand has contained a volume of poetry, and most nights when I read, I start off with a few pages of poetry. Best of all are the evenings when the kids are in bed, and Amanda is either working, reading in the library, or knitting while streaming something. Because then I can read aloud and hear the cadence of the language roll off of me.

My particular collection of Dickinson is perhaps not the best. It follows the pattern of the early publications, and contains “the first four” of her collections as they were released. (First Series, Second Series, Third Series, and The Single Hound, plus her essays.) Unfortunately, it also follows the original editions in “fixing” her punctuation to match 19th Century standards. Thus, the dashes are replaced by boring commas and periods. I am not certain if the book contains all her poems or not, or how many are missing. But, it is a hardback, and must contain at least 500 or so poems - I haven’t yet found a poem that isn’t in there, so it may be complete. Also, it was affordable to a teen, and was in stock at the local independent bookstore. So I definitely do not regret getting it.

Each of the first three books are subdivided into sections: Life, Love, Nature, and Time and Eternity. Not all poems fit cleanly into these categories, of course, and I found a few that I thought would have fit better in other places. But blame Dickinson’s sister and later editors for the groupings. You can read my thoughts on the First Series of poems here.

Here are the poems which stood out to me most this time. It was difficult to narrow it down to this few, because so many are profound and meaningful to me. Throughout, I have used the numbering in my collection. Dickinson did not give her poems titles - those were supplied later. I have attempted to find versions online with the correct dashes wherever possible.

Life I.

I’m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there’s a pair of us!

Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –  

To tell one’s name – the livelong June –  

To an admiring Bog!

I have to wonder if Dr. Seuss had this in mind with Yertle the Turtle. While I am not quite as introverted as Dickinson, I share her dislike of celebrity.

This one is a bit of a gem. Every time I read it, I am struck with a renewed wonder at its depth of perception.

Life VI.

We play at paste,

Till qualified for pearl,

Then drop the paste,

And deem ourself a fool.

The shapes, though, were similar,       

And our new hands

Learned gem-tactics

Practising sands.

Or how about this one:

Life IX.

I can wade grief,

Whole pools of it,—

I ’m used to that.

But the least push of joy

Breaks up my feet,        

And I tip—drunken.

Let no pebble smile,

’T was the new liquor,—

That was all!    

Power is only pain,        

Stranded, through discipline,

Till weights will hang.

Give balm to giants,

And they ’ll wilt, like men.

Give Himmaleh,—        

They ’ll carry him!

This one bears a bit of pondering. I’m not sure whether I agree or not - for me. Dickinson’s own experience is another thing altogether. But the idea that we can move impossible mountains - but not handle joy - has a certain deeper truth in it.

Life XXXV.

EACH life converges to some centre

Expressed or still;

Exists in every human nature

A goal,    

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,        

Too fair

For credibility’s temerity

To dare.    

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,

To reach        

Were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment

To touch,    

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;

How high

Unto the saints’ slow diligence        

The sky!    

Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture,

But then,

Eternity enables the endeavoring

Again.

There are so many good things going on in this poem. The message, of course, is amazing. The language is evocative. But notice too the form. The odd lines all end with a feminine rhyme. The even lines (except for the second) consist of a single iamb. These lines are therefore emphasized, drawing out the key meaning from each couplet. The poet also chooses either four or five feet for the longer lines, and as far as I can tell, there is no specific pattern intended. The length, though, does dictate exactly how contrasting the short lines are, and thus how much emphasis they get when read aloud.

Moving on to the poems in the “Love” section, here is one which imagines marriage as a shockingly mutual transaction. Dickinson uses the language of commerce to describe what is so obviously not transactional. This is metaphor that rises to the level of a paradox.

Love IV.

I gave myself to him,

And took himself for pay.

The solemn contract of a life

Was ratified this way.    

The wealth might disappoint,        

Myself a poorer prove

Than this great purchaser suspect,

The daily own of Love    

Depreciate the vision;

But, till the merchant buy,     

Still fable, in the isles of spice,

The subtle cargoes lie.    

At least, ’t is mutual risk,—

Some found it mutual gain;

Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,        

Insolvent, every noon.

Not too bad for a woman who appears to have never had a romantic relationship - and indeed seemed ill at ease around other humans.

Dickinson’s nature poems have always thrilled me. She spent hours in her garden, and clearly had a keen eye for detail. Many of these struck me as quotable, but I had to pick just my favorites of this reading.

Nature XIII.

ONE of the ones that Midas touched,

Who failed to touch us all,

Was that confiding prodigal,

The blissful oriole.    

So drunk, he disavows it        

With badinage divine;

So dazzling, we mistake him

For an alighting mine.    

A pleader, a dissembler,

An epicure, a thief,—     

Betimes an oratorio,

An ecstasy in chief;    

The Jesuit of orchards,

He cheats as he enchants

Of an entire attar       

For his decamping wants.    

The splendor of a Burmah,

The meteor of birds,

Departing like a pageant

Of ballads and of bards.        

I never thought that Jason sought

For any golden fleece;

But then I am a rural man,

With thoughts that make for peace.    

But if there were a Jason,     

Tradition suffer me

Behold his lost emolument

Upon the apple-tree.

I don’t know exactly which species of oriole inspired this poem, but it fits both of the common species in my part of the world. Such as this Hooded Oriole I captured at Cesar Chavez National Monument.

“A Narrow Fellow In The Grass” is definitely one of Dickinson’s best known poems. For good reason, as it captures a moment so memorably.

Nature XXIV.

A narrow Fellow in the Grass

Occasionally rides -

You may have met him? Did you not

His notice instant is -

The Grass divides as with a Comb,

A spotted Shaft is seen,

And then it closes at your Feet

And opens further on -

He likes a Boggy Acre -  

A Floor too cool for Corn -

But when a Boy and Barefoot

I more than once at Noon

Have passed I thought a Whip Lash

Unbraiding in the Sun

When stooping to secure it

It wrinkled And was gone -

Several of Nature’s People

I know, and they know me

I feel for them a transport

Of Cordiality

But never met this Fellow

Attended or alone

Without a tighter Breathing

And Zero at the Bone.

One of the most memorable moments of my own life is the solar eclipse of 2017 - which the kids and I traveled to eastern Oregon to view. There is absolutely nothing like it, and I highly recommend seeing one if you possibly can. Dickinson wrote a total of four poems that mention eclipses. I was unable to determine if she ever saw one in person, but I did turn up an interesting connection. Mabel Loomis Todd is best known for editing and publishing Dickinson’s poems. But she was also a skilled science writer. Married to a philandering astronomer, she was well versed (and experienced) in eclipses - she wrote an entire book on them. (She also had a long affair with Dickinson’s brother, so that was how they came to know each other…) So, it is possible that Dickinson based her eclipse poems not on her own experience, but that of her friend. Whatever the case, I think that she captured something of the feel of an eclipse in this poem.

Nature XXXIV.

It sounded as if the Streets were running

And then - the Streets stood still -

Eclipse - was all we could see at the Window

And Awe - was all we could feel.

By and by - the boldest stole out of his Covert

To see if Time was there -

Nature was in an Opal Apron,

Mixing fresher Air.

The next poem describes a storm - I quote it here mostly for the fantastic description of lightning as a beak and a claw.

Nature XXXVII.

The wind begun to rock the grass

With threatening tunes and low,--

He flung a menace at the earth,

A menace at the sky.

The leaves unhooked themselves from trees

And started all abroad;

The dust did scoop itself like hands

And throw away the road.

The wagons quickened on the streets,

The thunder hurried slow;

The lightning showed a yellow beak,

And then a livid claw.

The birds put up the bars to nests,

The cattle fled to barns;

There came one drop of giant rain,

And then, as if the hands

That held the dams had parted hold,

The waters wrecked the sky

But overlooked my father's house,

Just quartering a tree.

I want to end with a couple of the “Time and Eternity” poems. These too are usually excellent. Dickinson thought about death a lot, and had a rather agnostic view of eternity. I have heard the term used “The Big Perhaps,” which might be a less poetic version of “The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn / No traveller returns” but is a pretty good description nonetheless. Even for those of us who believe in an afterlife, those of us who think carefully and deeply have to admit that we have less certainty about this than we often pretend. Dickinson likewise left things pretty ambiguous in her poems. Which is one reason they feel so timeless. While she often alludes to eternity, more of her poems on death focus on those left behind, as in this gem.

Time and Eternity XIII.

DEATH sets a thing significant

The eye had hurried by,

Except a perished creature

Entreat us tenderly    

To ponder little workmanships        

In crayon or in wool,

With “This was last her fingers did,”

Industrious until    

The thimble weighed too heavy,

The stitches stopped themselves,      

And then ’t was put among the dust

Upon the closet shelves.    

A book I have, a friend gave,

Whose pencil, here and there,

Had notched the place that pleased him,—        

At rest his fingers are.    

Now, when I read, I read not,

For interrupting tears

Obliterate the etchings

Too costly for repairs.

This last one is just fantastic. It is sure a vast distance from the pleasant and accessible nature poems. Between the unorthodox meter and the gothic language and the insight into our darkest selves, this is one reason that I keep returning to Dickinson. I almost don’t even want to comment further on it, so I will just leave it here. Enjoy.

Time and Eternity XXIX.

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—

One need not be a House—

The Brain has Corridors—surpassing

Material Place—

       

Far safer, of a Midnight Meeting

External Ghost

Than its interior Confronting—

That Cooler Host.

       

Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,

The Stones a'chase—

Than Unarmed, one's a'self encounter—

In lonesome Place—

       

Ourself behind ourself, concealed—

Should startle most—

Assassin hid in our Apartment

Be Horror's least.

   

The Body—borrows a Revolver—

He bolts the Door—

O'erlooking a superior spectre—

Or More—