DNA and Dickinson
Exploring the Symbiotic Possibilities of Genetics and Poetry
By Anna Aileen Saum
Haverford College
English Department
Senior Thesis
April, 2018
Advisor: Professor Lindsay Reckson
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While Rogers's analysis of the poem does divulge fascinating and useful correlations surrounding genetic patterns and poetic scansion, I find her analysis ...
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DNA and Dickinson
Exploring the Symbiotic Possibilities of Genetics and Poetry
By Anna Aileen SaumHaverford College English DepartmentSenior Thesis April, 2018 Advisor: Professor Lindsay Reckson
Introduction
Why does poetry matter? To the layman it is a pretentious jumble of words too encrypted with abstractions to have any practical value. To the scholar, a keen awareness and understanding of the abstract can cloud the ability to see a poem’s simple beauty. Yet poetry, as an ancient means of preserving our history, conveying our emotions, and exploring our own minds, transcends all human difference, perpetually binding us together through the process of inheritance. Considered an invaluable unit of preservation, the poem has allowed humanity to encode its deepest questions about the universe by relating words that gain meaning beyond their singular definitions. Yet, modern western society now prioritizes genetics over poetics as the tool of inheritance. We stand rapt at the realization that our cells have been quietly paralleling our poetic encoding and archiving process long before we knew cells even existed. Poetics and genetics, as I will explore, have elegant similarities, yet the two disciplines have traditionally been kept apart, portrayed as opposites, enemies, or unrelated entities. CP Snow pioneered this distinction between science and literature in his 1959 short book The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution. He argues that the two cultures, literary and scientific, are populated with men whose minds are attuned specifically and only to their given field, and^1 “between the two [worlds is] a gulf of mutual incomprehension—sometimes (particularly among the young) hostility and dislike, but most of all lack of understanding” (Snow 4). Snow contrasts the two mindsets especially by articulating the misconceptions they have about each other. Scientists, to literary scholars, are “shallowly optimistic, unaware of man’s condition,” while, to scientists, “literary intellectuals are totally lacking foresight, peculiarly unconcerned with their
(^1) CP Snow clearly writes exclusively for and about the male academic audience.
In order to begin a conversation about poetry and genetics, I will start by describing the development of the field, especially highlighting critics who have paid particular attention to the relationship between the structure of language and the structure of DNA. I will also consider critics who focus their analyses on poetry that takes up scientific topics, though I find this vein of criticism to lack sufficient analytical creativity. To comprehensively illustrate my later argumentative points, I will dwell on the two major parts of genetic study, The Central Dogma/Genetic Determinism and Epigenetics. From these two fields, I will delve into Emily Dickinson’s work, analyzing two of her poems through the genetic language previously defined. Correlating poetic and genetic processes enlivens both disciplines and demonstrates that language from one field can enhance the other by increasing the interpretive possibilities, especially for poetry that works beyond and against the bounds of traditional, linear structure.
Poetics and Genetics
The specific relationship between genetics and literature has become an increasingly popular subject among literary and linguistic theorists. With the discovery of the genetic code in the 20th century came an instinct among scientists to treat the strand of repeating letters as a readable language. What followed was a desire to become fluent in this language such that we could read and manipulate the sequence as easily as we use a word processor. Evelyn Fox Keller considers this relationship between genetics and language in her article “Language in Action: Genes and the Metaphor of Reading” which begins by focusing specifically on the act of genetic translation and how scientists have considered language throughout their investigation of the genetic domain. She emphasizes the distinctions between
translation between languages and translation in genetics, concluding that the cell contains “a dizzying assembly of readers and writers, each of them constituted of complex associations of DNA, RNA, and proteins” (Keller 87). She views the elements of the genetic process as literary actors participating in a larger cellular discourse around linguistic principles. Lily Kay extends the conversation by analyzing genetics as a language itself and considering the implications of the genome as a ‘Book of Life,’ an issue which Peter Middleton similarly considers. Both Kay and Middleton argue that while the “fertile metaphor of the book may illuminate the idea that DNA can be understood as information, [it] carries with it other inescapable implications, not least the hint of genetic authorship” (Middleton 523). Kay goes beyond warning against overly implicative metaphors to assert that the book metaphor does not work because “DNA is not a language: it lacks phonemic features, punctuation marks, semantics, intersymbol restrictions, and unlike any language, DNA consists only of three-letter words” (Kay 505-506). If DNA cannot, as Kay would have us believe, be considered a language in itself, how are we to consider the growing relationship between the genetic and literary that all three authors discuss? Fred Carlisle attempts to answer this question through his characterization of the genetic-literary relationship in his article “Metaphor Reference in Science and Literature: The Examples of Watson and Crick and Roethke” Carlisle summarizes Keller and Kay’s arguments, explaining how genetics, from the very discovery of DNA, has used language as a model, but he extends Keller’s affinity for metaphor by detailing the ways that geneticists have used metaphor as a mask in which to cloak science for ease of access. He analyzes the results of genetic metaphor, settling on two possible outcomes which he calls ‘denotation’ and ‘exemplification.’ ‘Denotation’ permits the speaker to name a thing while still speaking about the thing itself, while
by the selection of a poem that was designed to be read through the lens of the genetic. By selecting a poem that was intended to be considered within a scientific framework, Rogers loses the ability to turn the argument outwards and speak to the larger relationship between genetics and poetry that does not explicitly address scientific content. One scholar who incorporates genetic vocabulary into literary analysis without relying on genetic themes is Julia Kristeva. Though her chapter on “Genotext and Phenotext” does not attempt to analyze any literature, her arguments about the relationship between genetic language and literary process begin to interrogate the relationship that I want to unfold. Despite no direct mention of the biological in her chapter, her terms “genotext” “phenotext” derive from the genetic terms “genotype” and “phenotype.” Kristeva assumes her readers’ understanding of the^3 biological undertones in her appropriation, such that when she uses the terms to describe elements of the symbolized and the symbolizer, the reader can envision their relationship to gene expression without further explanation. Kristeva’s naturalization of genetic language into the realm of the literary begins a process that I want to extend. While she uses biologically derived terms to discuss the idea of symbolism, she does not attempt to implement her theories through close reading. I want to move away from her tradition by not only suggesting theories for literary analysis, but applying them too. Also unlike Kristeva, I will not assume that my readers have an intimate understanding of genetic vocabulary and functionality.
(^3) The “genotype” describes the specific version of a gene that an organism has. The “phenotype” describes a genetic observable attribute. While the genotype and phenotype often overlap (ex. someone with the gene for blue eyes, hadblue eyes), they can differ (ex. Someone with genes that would make them tall are not actually tall). Their relationship is not 1:1, as many genotypes often must be present in unison to create a singular phenotype.
The Central Dogma and Genetic Determinism
In order to understand how poetry and genetics intersect, one must understand the way that genetic structures function. The primary purpose of DNA is as a code which provides instructions for the assembly and implementation of proteins. First coined by Francis Crick in 1958, The Central Dogma encapsulates the fundamental transition from DNA to RNA to protein. To understand The Central Dogma, we must begin in the cell, where all genetic processes occur. By “cell” I mean the cluster of organelles encased by a membrane which compose the bodies of living organisms.^4 Within the cell exists a plethora of organelles—smaller cell-like bundles of molecules that function as specialized parts of a larger whole. These organelles run the cell, primarily concerning themselves with protein production, usage, and destruction. A “protein” here means a string of amino acids, folded into a particular pattern, that when placed in its appropriate location can exact change on surrounding collections of atoms (including but not limited to, other proteins, organelles, other cells, viruses, and bacteria). The creation of protein, and the first step in The Central Dogma, begins in the nucleus, a^5 membrane-bound sac in the center of a cell. The nucleus contains the body’s genetic code. Every cell in a body contains the same code. Yet cells may, and must, serve a diverse range of^6 purposes. This diversification is partially accomplished by selective transcription of the DNA.
(^4) For the sake of this argument, I will be focussing on animal and bacteria cells, and will be ignoring sex-determined traits, since these vary in mechanism and type from organism to organism. Plant cells, similarly, must be excluded.While their genomes in many ways resemble our own, their cells possess different structures which shift the mechanisms which control genetic manipulation. (^5) See Figure 1 (^6) Some cells, like red blood cells, do not contain DNA at all, since their primary function is to transport as much oxygen as possible. Not having a nucleus provides more room for ‘cargo.’
The Central Dogma encapsulates the fundamental process of the cell into one fluid movement from genetic code to functional protein. While The Central Dogma is often discussed as simply a means to create protein, it is a constant process whose parts function seamlessly in perpetual creatio. Simplifying it into a product eliminates the nuances of each step in the process. This process emphasizes the importance of the linear genetic code. Genetic Determinism takes that emphasis to an extreme by asserting that all aspects of an organism can be attributed to a place on the genetic code. But, just as the sum power of a poem is not encapsulated in the words on the page, the genetic code is only one aspect of inheritance, which relies upon complex chemical structural shifts in the chromosome to transfer information about which genes should be expressed and when.
Epigenetics
Forms of biological inheritance that do not rely upon alterations to the genetic code fall under the umbrella term “Epigenetics.” Epigenetics can incorporate experiences like smoking, obesity, abuse, assault, and malnutrition into the genome. Even though these experiences may not change a person’s DNA sequence, the effects can still be inherited by their offspring. These alternative, often undetectable, forms of inheritance mimic common poetic techniques and can especially illuminate the choices Dickinson makes in her usage of medium and punctuation. Though there are many ways that Epigenetics can manifest, the most common mechanisms are DNA methylation and histone/chromatin modification. DNA Methylation “is the addition or removal of a methyl group (CH3), predominantly where cytosine bases occur consecutively.” 10 This simple chemical modification, like genetic punctuation, can result in a
(^10) Weinhold, Bob. “Epigenetics: The Science of Change.” (2006)
suppression of the DNA sequence to which it is added, meaning that that portion of DNA would not be turned into protein. This alteration functions similarly to DNA sequence mutations which can cause DNA to be transcribed improperly, resulting in a useless protein, or no protein at all. Histone/chromatin modification, on the other hand, is a structural change in the way that DNA is bundled. When DNA is being stored within the nucleus in a closed chromosomal structure (the X-shape that we have come to associate with genes) it is wound tightly around histones, which then coil repeatedly to create the chromosomal shape (see Figure 2). Similar to poetry, if the structure is altered the meaning and function are also changed, and sometimes rendered incomprehensible. Figure 2^11
Epigenetics has entirely altered the way that scientists consider inheritance. With the knowledge that environmental factors can be inherited, the way that we consider risk factors for
(^11) “Chromatin.” Genome: Unlocking Life’s Code.
way of being read— epigenetics permit the multiplicity, interpretation, and ambiguity that poetry depends upon. While we have words to describe literary techniques for creating these phenomenon, the language lacks a broader distinction between the words and the extra-textual, such as tone, intonation, font, medium, irony, metaphor, and so many more aspects of poetry that are often stripped away in highly edited texts. This sterilizing editing process is extremely common among Emily Dickinson editors, especially when Dickinson is placed within a canon or text book. Norton’s Anthology of Poetry, Shorter 5th Edition exemplifies this practice. While the editors include extensive footnotes detailing where readers can find alternate versions of the poem, the text provided is in a standard font, with prescribed line breaks and punctuation that normalizes its form. While considering one of Dickinson’s poems in this way may permit a reader to see its letters and its content, the lack of many original elements means that readers can miss the poem’s original variance, medium, or relationship to other poems. Dickinson poetry especially relies upon the consideration of extra-textual elements when choosing which version of her poetry to consider for analysis.
Why I Chose Dickinson
Emily Dickinson’s relationship to science is typically situated within her education at Mount Holyoke and her passion for gardening. These two veins of exploration, which scholars point at to demonstrate Dickinson’s knowledge of 19th century scientific practices, may illustrate Dickinson as a naturalist, but continue to consider the scientific content, rather than structure, of her poetry. Judith Farr’s book The Gardens of Emily Dickinson painstakingly catalogues and analyzes Dickinson’s relationship to flowers and how that relationship influenced her poetry.
Similarly, in his book Dickinson and the Hill of Science, Robin Peel explores the scientific information available to Dickinson in her lifetime, and conjectures about how this information seeped into her poetry. Peel and Farr both make the point that Dickinson was familiar with science and scientific vocabulary during a critical time in scientific exploration. She had a deep familiarity with the “natural world,” as both scholars often describe it. This proximity to nature can be argued for scores of poets, especially those whose poems, like Dickinson’s, frequently take up subjects found in the outdoors. Yet I want to shift the focus of this relationship between Dickinson and the scientific away from Dickinson herself. While she may have had a highly modern understanding of inheritance and plant breeding, she cannot have understood the genetic processes I have described above, and yet her poetry resembles them. I cannot account for those resemblances by claiming she had some supernatural intuition about molecular workings, but rather I want to mark her poetry as that which is best read through a vocabulary that had not yet been discovered when she wrote it. This discrepancy between the language written and the language best suited to describe the written work makes Dickinson a prime candidate for investigation through modern genetic language, despite the lack of possibility that she herself could have foreseen the correlation. Selecting a model poet to consider in relationship to the genetic, in this case, resembles the process by which scientists choose the model organism upon which they will conduct their experiments. So too, I want to choose carefully the poet who best exemplifies the applicability of genetic language. A model organism (or poet) should either be a good approximation of an inaccessible organism (like using mice instead of humans), or a stand in for living organisms in
Dickinson’s structure, rather than content, as a link to the scientific. Strickland writes primarily about the idea of a hypertext wherein elements of a text or piece of work can be infinitely and continuously connected to other elements from the same or other texts. This relational quality of hypertexts allows for richer consideration of passages by linking them to other texts which expand or contextualize the idea outside of the original text. Her argument largely considers modern technology and the increased usage of hyperlinks, but Strickland is careful to repeatedly clarify that hypertext does not require computers to exist, but can be seen in literary works stretching back centuries. For example, she describes Dickinson’s “radical innovation…[of] plac[ing] a superscript cross … to indicate words, or places where she wished the reader to consider a range of choices.” She clarifies that these “are not signs of preliminary indecision,” but rather “endorsements of multiple meaning” (Strickland [11], 108). 14 By analyzing these choices, we can begin to unfold the relationship between Dickinson’s structural multiplicity and the web of connections in genetic processes. In fact, the language of genetics will prove more accurate and compelling than traditional literary language in explaining the power of Dickinson’s multiplicity. While science may be consistently informed by the use of metaphor, as many critics have emphasized, poetic analysis can benefit from embracing genetics as a new language with which to address poetry, especially poetry which defies the bounds of traditional verse.
(^14) Strickland’s “Seven League Boots: Poetry, Science, and Hypertext” is a transcription of a talk that has been reproduced as both a web-based hypertext ( Word: of Poetry and Science. The website presents the short piece in individual, non-linear paragraphs that allow thehttp://altx.com/ebr/ebr7/7strick/) and as an article in The Measured reader to navigate through the piece by selecting keywords from one paragraph to move to another. For this reason, Icould not in good conscience only prescribe page numbers to these quotes, therefore my citation utilizes Strickland’s own bracketed numbering system for her sections in addition to the printed page number.
Analysis of “The Ditch is dear to the Drunken Man”
15 Emily Dickinson’s “The Ditch is dear to the Drunken Man” typifies her use of non-linearity and ambiguity in her poetry, making it a prime candidate for genetic parallels, particularly with the language of mutation. Written on the inside of an unfolded envelope, the poem mostly takes up the front face of the envelope, while three smaller lines are scribbled on the flaps. Dickinson presents the reader with three possible versions, or mutations, of the poem’s ending, each of which illustrates a different outcome for the subject. Considering these endings as possible mutations will allow us to incorporate all three into the poem, without requiring readers to preference one or try to suspend all of them in existence at once. In addition to including multiple endings, Dickinson obscures the intended order of lines as well as the beginnings and endings of sentences through her use of the envelope medium.
(^15) This images comes from The Emily Dickinson Archive http://www.edickinson.org/editions/2/image_sets/
The Ditchis dear to the Drunken man for is it nothis Bed – his Advocate – hisEdifice - How safe hisfallen Head In her disheveledSanctity - Above himis the sky – Oblivion bendingover him
The Ditch is dear to the Drunken man for is it not his Bed –his Advocate - his Edifice - How safe his fallen Head In her disheveled Sanctity –Above him is the sky - Oblivion bending over him
The line-breaks forced by the edge of the paper create a choppy reading that prevents the reader from properly situating any rhythm. Perhaps this structural discomfort aims to place the reader in the also uncomfortable location of the ditch, in which the Drunken Man no doubt is comfortable, but would be rather unpleasant for anyone else. While the alternative structure fails to create the same discomfort, it does emphasize a romanticism and joviality about the Drunken Man in the ditch that best matches how someone reading this poem might place their emphasis. The consonance of the first portion immediately draws the reader into a state of bouncing lyricism. “The D itch is d ear to the D runken man” Not only does this line display alternating consonance, the almost uninterrupted feminine iambic quatrain enforces a lilt that Dickinson manipulates in the following portion. She draws her reader in, painting a picture of the ruddy-cheeked chanty-singing Drunken Man with the regularity of her verse. She continues with a line of three perfect iambs “for is it not his Bed,” and then shifts quickly to shorter, repeating lines, still maintaining the iambic structure: “his Advocate – his Edifice –” Each line consists of two iambs, ending in a dash, almost begging the reader to fill the
intentional gap with their own foot-tapping ‘buh-dum’ in place of the now expected third iamb. The regularity by this point has lulled the reader into an almost intoxicated stupor, like the Drunken Man, who is happy to sit in a ditch, in a rut of stale drink and poetic structure. Dickinson concludes her comforting section with an almost biting “How safe his fallen Head.” To the now convinced reader, of course the Drunken Man’s head is safe, down in a ditch, but that seems like an impractical assumption. Things often fall or are thrown into ditches, making the man’s head in fact in immediate peril. Here is where Dickinson begins to jab at the ease with which she has convinced her readers of their complacency. “In her disheveled Sanctity– ” she begins to say, but leaves the thought incomplete as before. Yet this time there is no comfortable rhythm to her omission. Rather, she leaves readers wondering where this floating line connects. Is “her” the fore-mentioned “ditch” or the soon-to-be discussed “sky” above him? The way she situates the line, beginning with a capital letter, between the two possible signified nouns, ensures that there is no correct answer. She presses more firmly on this disorientation as the poem continues. After completing her final iambic triplet “Above him is the sky–“ she capitalizes on the uneasy momentum she has begun to build by beginning another iambic round, which quickly goes awry. “Oblivion” begins shakily in the iambic tradition, but is then followed unexpectedly by a trochee, “bending,” followed by another trochee, “over,” and ends spectacularly on an emphasized “him.” In this single line, Dickinson not only inverts her scansion, but turns a thus far melodic, bawdy nonsense poem into a dark description of a lost soul. While the first portion of the poem seems to reassure readers by insisting that the ditch is “his Advocate” and “his