“How was the play?” my son-in-law, the family sports, poker and comics buff, asked.
“Good,” I said, “but two hours of Emily Dickinson wouldn’t be your style.”
“Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell,” he said. Poem 96 of her 1800 published posthumously. He knew it by heart. You could have knocked me over with a fountain pen, but I shouldn’t have been surprised. Dickinson’s...