The Loneliness One dare not sound—

The Loneliness One dare not sound—
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—

The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—
With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—

I fear me this—is Loneliness—
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—

 

    -Fr877, J777, fascicle 39, 1864

This poem confronts true terror. When I read the first line “The Loneliness One dare not sound” I was reminded of all of those tales of prisoners going crazy in solitary confinement.

 An exploration of solitary confinement

The word “Sound” here is a verb which means to measure the distance of. One dare not sound the absolute distance of true loneliness. Sound also is a pun on vocalizing, sounding it out, or, in other words, putting it in a poem. But that is exactly what, in a way, Dickinson is daring to do here, sound out the terror of loneliness.

That “dare not” in the first line makes you think. Dare not? Why not? Why would you dare not sound the depth of loneliness? In searching for the answer in your mind you remember the primal fear inside you and go, "Ohhhh!”

And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size—

The poet would just as soon try to surmise (to guess, or, to understand) the true depths of loneliness as she would try to plumb the depths of the grave (death) to see just how large and all encompassing it actually is. Loneliness is overwhelmingly enormous, unfathomably large and deep, like death itself.

This is a truth most of us would rather not have to face. But Dickinson bravely does so. We hold our breath and go with her.

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see—

The worst fear is to have to truly face our fear.

And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny—

We feel it might kill us to look at what true isolation looks like.

The Horror not to be surveyed—
But skirted in the Dark—

So we skirt around it in a thousand myriad ways, rather than looking at the horror straight in the face. 

With Consciousness suspended—
And Being under Lock—

We can’t stand to look, to imagine what it would mean to be alone with our own consciousness suspended. “Suspended” has the feeling of being raised up above, to be studied, but also has the sense here of being “kicked out,” like being suspended from school.

Why is consciousness “under Lock?” Lock makes you think a crime has been committed, the crime of self-consciousness maybe? But I think it’s more likely just meant by Dickinson to point to a feature of existence. We can only be inside our own conscious minds. We can’t truly be seen by, or see into, others' minds. We are both locked in and locked out.

I fear me this—is Loneliness—

The horror is emphasized again. “I fear me this.” Then a dash. I fear that THIS is loneliness, being locked inside our own minds.

This poem gives us pause. We can imagine how lonely Dickinson must have been at times. Her friends were mostly far away, and Sue, perhaps her truest friend, her soulmate, was only a hundred yards away, but she was busy as a mother, wife and socialite, and their relationship was, at times, fraught. 

But it’s also complicated because Dickinson also loved her solitude. She often framed loneliness as a chosen, empowered sanctuary rather than isolation. Her niece, Martha ("Mattie") Dickinson Bianchi, recalled Emily mimicking locking her bedroom door and saying, "It's just a turn—and freedom, Matty!"

There’s a push/ pull between autonomy and connection, and you can feel that tension in this poem.

The end of the poem gives us a possible out from this dilemma, a choice.

The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate—or seal—

The Maker of the soul. One might guess the Maker of the soul would be God, but the poem just previous to this one in fascicle 39 intimates that the Self is the maker of the self.

To be alive—and Will!
'Tis able as a God—
The Maker—of Ourselves—be what—

So we have “Will” in the making of our soul, and therefore we have a choice: caverns OR corridors. Caverns are hidden away, but corridors connect us to other rooms, to other people.

Illuminate—or seal— is also a choice. Do we illuminate the cavern and the corridor that is leading to it, or do we conceal it? The choice is ours, but it's is a difficult one, because it is not always easy to be in relation to others. “Just a turn --- and freedom, Mattie!” But to truly confront loneliness is akin to confronting death. Better, in the end, to leave a light on.

You might say that that is precisely what this poem is doing, confronting us with the terror of darkness only to “illuminate" the corridors leading into, and out of, our own dark caverns.

      

         -/)dam Wade l)eGraff