Emily slows me down

Emily Dickinson is the perfect antidote to a racing mind before bedtime. I love to read, ruminate, and theorize--and no, I'm not bragging. My problem is that I rarely read for leisure (right now I'm reading Whittaker Chambers' Witness--a tough one--and a couple other political books that energize my mind more than slow it down). I just have no interest in reading pop fiction--I am, after all, (ahem) an highly intelligent being and far above such low-fray materiél.

So when I stumbled upon my old, trusty, worn and weathered book of poetry by Ms. Dickinson--actually, it's barely left the bookshelf since I bought it just two years ago--I grabbed it, put it by my bed, and have read it for the past three nights just before hitting the lights.

This may sound stuffy, but I really do like her stuff. It's very simple and beautiful--sort of like listening to light Debussy before bed. Just two suggestions if you've never read her before: don't think too hard; and read it as if a child had written it. There's an element of innocence throughout her stuff. Some of it is really sublime.