My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
HOW is that NOT about MANIA?
It is like she is saying….
“My soul is aflame and it is amazing and intoxicating
I know this shit don’t last
but holy fuck it is awesome!”
This isn’t a report about Edna
I know it is hypothesized that she was Bipolar.
But it doesn’t matter to me whether she was FOR REAL or not.
Just like with Jackson Pollock, she was definitely SOMETHING and Bipolar is as good an idea as any.
At a certain point the myriad brain differences bleed together. The boundary lines and labels mere artificial constructs anyway. in the way.
And when I read her poem Renascence….
I feel the Bipolar in her….that inadequate word Bipolar…
I guess I mean I feel that reality in her that she knows what I know…has seen what I have seen….felt what I have felt…
and what the hell let’s call that Bipolar for right now.
I don’t get down with literary analysis and I don’t care what others have interpreted. I only care what comes to me…..
If you’re game and you want to suspend thought and go for a ride then please click here and go to a site with the full text.
If you are like “are you freaking kidding me I’m not going to go read some long boring POem right now”…
I will gift you a few parts that I find particularly “Bipolar” and will give you the general idea……….
“And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and — lo! — Infinity
Came down and settled over me
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
Ah, awful weight! Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see,
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and thrust
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, —
I know not how such things can be! —
I breathed my soul back into me. ”