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I should have been too glad, I see,
Too lifted for the scant degree
Of life's penurious round;
My little circuit would have shamed
This new circumference, have blamed
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved, I see,
Too rescued; fear too dim to me
That I could spell the prayer
I knew so perfect yesterday, —
That scalding one, "Sabachthani,"
Recited fluent here.
Earth would have been too much, I see,
And heaven not enough for me;
I should have had the joy
Without the fear to justify, —
The palm without the Calvary;
So, Saviour, crucify.
Defeat whets victory, they say;
The reefs in old Gethsemane
Endear the shore beyond.
'T is beggars banquets best define;
'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, —
Faith faints to understand.
Emily Dickinson’s poetry is renowned for its enigmatic brevity, theological depth, and emotional intensity. Among her vast body of work, “Too Much” stands as a striking meditation on the paradoxes of human desire, spiritual longing, and the necessity of suffering. The poem grapples with the tension between earthly joy and divine fulfillment, suggesting that an existence devoid of struggle would render both life and salvation meaningless. Through her characteristically compressed language and rich biblical allusions, Dickinson explores themes of insufficiency, suffering as sanctification, and the paradoxical nature of faith. This analysis will examine the poem’s structure, its theological and philosophical underpinnings, and its emotional resonance, situating it within Dickinson’s broader oeuvre and 19th-century American religious thought.
The poem’s opening lines immediately establish a tone of retrospection and self-correction:
I should have been too glad, I see,
Too lifted for the scant degree
Of life's penurious round;
The speaker reflects on a hypothetical state of excessive joy—one so overwhelming that it would have rendered ordinary life (“life’s penurious round”) inadequate by comparison. The word “penurious” suggests both scarcity and meanness, reinforcing the idea that earthly existence is inherently limited. The phrase “too glad” implies an unsustainable ecstasy, a joy so extreme that it would destabilize the balance of human experience.
This notion is further developed in the following stanza:
My little circuit would have shamed
This new circumference, have blamed
The homelier time behind.
Here, Dickinson employs spatial metaphors—“little circuit” and “new circumference”—to contrast the confined reality of human life with an imagined, expansive bliss. The implication is that such unmitigated joy would make past suffering seem trivial (“the homelier time behind”), thereby disrupting the necessary relationship between pain and transcendence.
The second stanza deepens the theological dimension of the poem, invoking Christ’s cry of dereliction on the cross:
I should have been too saved, I see,
Too rescued; fear too dim to me
That I could spell the prayer
I knew so perfect yesterday, —
That scalding one, "Sabachthani,"
Recited fluent here.
The reference to “Sabachthani” (from Christ’s words, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?”—"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" in Matthew 27:46) is crucial. Dickinson suggests that had she been “too saved,” she would have lost the visceral, anguished faith epitomized by Christ’s prayer. The adjective “scalding” underscores the pain inherent in true spiritual longing—a pain that paradoxically makes faith authentic.
This idea resonates with the broader Christian tradition, particularly the via negativa (the notion that God is best understood through absence and suffering). Mystics like St. John of the Cross and Meister Eckhart similarly argued that spiritual fulfillment is often preceded by desolation. Dickinson, though not orthodox in her beliefs, frequently engaged with such theological concepts, reframing them through her own existential lens.
The third stanza presents a striking paradox:
Earth would have been too much, I see,
And heaven not enough for me;
I should have had the joy
Without the fear to justify, —
The palm without the Calvary;
So, Saviour, crucify.
Here, Dickinson suggests that both earthly and heavenly fulfillment, if experienced in isolation, would be inadequate. Earthly joy alone would be “too much”—overwhelming and unsustainable—while heaven alone would be “not enough,” lacking the crucible of suffering that gives meaning to redemption. The lines “The palm without the Calvary” allude to Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem (symbolized by palm branches) and his subsequent crucifixion at Calvary. The speaker acknowledges that true spiritual victory is inseparable from suffering—hence the startling concluding plea: “So, Saviour, crucify.”
This line is one of Dickinson’s most audacious, reversing traditional supplications for mercy into a demand for sanctification through pain. It echoes St. Paul’s declaration, “I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings” (Philippians 3:10). For Dickinson, crucifixion is not merely a historical event but an ongoing spiritual necessity.
The final stanza reinforces the poem’s central paradox:
Defeat whets victory, they say;
The reefs in old Gethsemane
Endear the shore beyond.
'T is beggars banquets best define;
'T is thirsting vitalizes wine, —
Faith faints to understand.
Here, Dickinson employs a series of striking metaphors:
“Defeat whets victory”—suffering sharpens the appreciation of triumph.
“The reefs in old Gethsemane / Endear the shore beyond”—the agony of Gethsemane (where Christ prayed before his arrest) makes redemption more precious.
“Beggars banquets best define”—those who lack abundance appreciate feasts most.
“Thirsting vitalizes wine”—desire gives meaning to fulfillment.
The final line, “Faith faints to understand,” acknowledges that this paradox is ultimately ineffable. Faith itself struggles to comprehend why suffering is necessary, yet it must accept this truth.
Dickinson’s poem aligns with broader Romantic and Transcendentalist preoccupations with the relationship between suffering and enlightenment. Like Keats, who saw the world as a “vale of soul-making,” Dickinson views struggle as integral to spiritual growth. Similarly, her contemporary, Herman Melville, in Moby-Dick, explores how anguish leads to deeper existential awareness.
Philosophically, the poem echoes Hegel’s dialectic—thesis (joy), antithesis (suffering), synthesis (redemption)—and Schopenhauer’s belief that desire and lack are fundamental to human experience. Yet Dickinson’s treatment is distinctly personal, blending metaphysical inquiry with raw emotional honesty.
“Too Much” is a masterful exploration of the human condition’s inherent contradictions. Dickinson argues that unalloyed joy would render life meaningless, just as effortless salvation would cheapen faith. Through dense metaphor and biblical allusion, she constructs a theology of absence, where longing itself becomes sacred.
The poem’s enduring power lies in its refusal of easy consolation. Unlike more sentimental religious verse of her era, Dickinson’s work embraces doubt, pain, and paradox as essential to spiritual authenticity. In doing so, she speaks not only to 19th-century New England piety but to universal human experience—where fulfillment is always shadowed by loss, and where the deepest truths are those that “Faith faints to understand.”
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