She wrote, famously,
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!
Fifty-one years after her death a two-alarm biographical fire has Edna St. Vincent Millay once more ablaze, and intermittently illuminated. She was always good copy in life: one of The New Yorker's first profiles featured her, and objection to its tales and innuendoes ("Edna Millay likes almost anybody's parties") helped lead to the establishment of the magazine's fact-checking department. Like Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath, Millay lived the kind of life now more associated with E!'s True Hollywood Story than with The New Oxford Book of American Verse, from which she was omitted in 1976. As the television program might say, she "came from nothing," and then she "had it all," and then she "threw it all away."
Edmund Wilson, who lost his virginity to Millay, once wrote,
Her poetry is not the work of a being for whom life could ever have been easy or gone along at a comfortable level. It will always give the lie to any too respectful biography ... but it will also always be there to make the casualties of her life seem unimportant.
The notion of a "too respectful biography" is now decidedly quaint. Even when these new lives, by Nancy Milford and Daniel Mark Epstein, verge on the worshipful, they're serving up grainy Polaroids from inside the temple. And even with a new Modern Library edition of the verse itself, one can forget about poetry trumping the casualties of Millay's life. The first rule of modern literary biography is that the life renders the work incidental; Milford and Epstein rarely break that rule. Millay's hardscrabble turn-of-the-century beginnings were like a fairy tale. Three sisters—one blonde, one dark-haired, and one, the future poet, a redhead—were raised on the Maine coast by their careworn but dreaming mother, after she had banished their father, Henry. Cora Millay supported the girls by itinerant practical nursing and wigmaking, an activity one sees in Millay's tribute to her mother, "The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver."
Many bright threads,
From where I couldn't see,
Were running through the harp-strings
Cora managed to provide the girls with music and books. Prone to self-dramatization, she prepared her daughters for their own star turns. The life of their uncle Charlie had been saved at St. Vincent's Hospital in New York, so Cora's eldest girl wound up with the odd, beautifully dactylic name Ed'-na St.-Vin'-cent Mil-lay'. It would be no small contribution to her public success.
Cora had tried writing poetry herself. The youngest sister, Kathleen, would publish verse and fiction, and the middle one, Norma, would end up tending the flame (and papers) of "Vincent." Poorer than the real-life Mitfords, more difficult than the fictional Marches, the Millay women composed a remote, bracing female world in which Edna—before all the success and all the men and all the trouble—came to vivid life. Throughout her girlhood she published poems in the children's magazine St. Nicholas, and by the age of sixteen, Milford claims convincingly, Millay had a genuine "sense of vocation" as a poet. Four years after that, in 1912, just when her life might have smothered itself in drudgery, her mother noticed the announcement of a lucrative poetry contest whose best entries would be published in a volume to be called The Lyric Year. The long poem Millay entered,"Renascence," would become for a time almost as often recited in some American schoolrooms as "The Highwayman" and "Hiawatha."
Millay actually lost the prize, probably by conducting what Epstein calls an "epistolary striptease" with one of the contest's judges, Ferdinand Earle, who began by assuming the author of "Renascence" ("E. Vincent Millay") to be a young man and then nearly lost his wife over his correspondence with a pretty girl up in Maine. Millay was learning to work both her talent and her ticket. Losing the prize brought her more fame than winning it would have, because established poets complained that her poem was obviously superior to all the others in the volume. Proceeding from a fantasy of suffocation ("awful weight! Infinity"), "Renascence" turns into a lyric cry of rebirth
: Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
The poem had something—and it still does. Epstein sees the young Millay as holding a "vision of herself as both human and divine." She would remain a sort of ecstatic commuter between those two states in the best of the love poetry she went on to compose.
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