Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950) | "Might I your scribe and your confessor be" I felt like singing, but that is hopeless on a tractor; you can't hear yourself. So instead, as I sometimes do, I began remembering a poem. I am very fond of poetry, and this one, one of my favorites, was a sonnet. It began:
I had thought of that poem many times since the war, and of myself, by default, as "scribe and confessor." But now I was neither of those. I was the one, or one of the two, who might keep it from dying, for a while at least. When I thought of that, and how my idea of my own future had been changed in the past week, I could not stop smiling. Then, as I plowed, I thought I heard, over the noise of the tractor, a high squawking sound overhead. I stopped, turned the engine down to idle, and looked up. There were crows, sharp and black against the sky, wheeling in a circle over the field. I counted eleven of them, and I realized they had remembered the sound of plowing; they knew there would be seeds to follow. My father used to call them pests, but I was glad to see them. They were probably the only wild birds left anywhere. (Z for Zachariah, Ch 9, p.96-97) |
"Here lies... / Most various Man, cut down to spring no more...."
Millay's 18-sonnet sequence "Epitaph for the Race of Man" describes the tenacious will of humans to survive despite continual adversities, but it also warns that humans must look into their own character for the fatal flaw that will probably doom them as a species. The lines quoted by Ann begin the fourth sonnet in the sequence, in which the speaker asks Earth what it would tell her of humans if she could be the Earth's scribe and confessor: "O Earth, unhappy planet born to die, / Might I your scribe and your confessor be, / What wonders must you not relate to me / Of Man."
For over a year, Ann has believed she is the last surviving human, so she has often thought of herself as the "scribe and confessor" described in the poem--the one who records the story of the Earth after its end and is specifically interested in the fate of humans. Ann's viewing herself this way points to the fact that she is such a scribe, and her diary records the fate of the last two people. Ann is also a "confessor" because her diary shows that the end of the human race is caused by human selfishness (as Millay's poem predicts) for which Ann is largely responsible.
At the time Ann recites this poem while plowing a cornfield, she believes she no longer has to be humanity's last scribe, since Loomis' arrival gives her hope she will be one of the two people who keep Earth and their own species from dying. Readers of the story should have no doubt that Ann is here thinking happily about saving the human race by having children with Loomis and starting a colony in Burden Valley. When Loomis later states explicitly, "we've got to plan as if this valley is the whole world, and we are starting a colony," Ann even admits to herself, "It was the same thought, or nearly the same, as the one I had had when I was plowing" (Ch15, p.152).
When Ann is thinking of having children with Loomis and helping the human race to continue, it seems appropriate that she sees crows overhead because crows in the story are depicted as a species that is successful at surviving. Two of them make a nest in the church steeple, and Ann rescues one baby crow that fell from it. Ann also comments twice that crows seem to be the only surviving birds, saying once of them that they "seem to have had the sense to stay around," whereas "other birds...flew out into the deadness and died" (Ch 3, p.29). Thus, crows seem to be symbolic of the survival instinct, including the natural instinct to mate and bear children. When Ann sees the crows while plowing, she seems to be guided by her animal instincts much like they are.
In addition, the use of the word "burden" in the 10th sonnet to refer to humanity's struggle to survive suggests the symbolic significance of Ann's family name in the story. Ann bears the burden of having children to continue humanity's struggle to survive, just as the soil of Burden Valley bears the burden of producing and sustaining all living things in general.
Furthermore, although the speaker in the poem describes the ability of humans to survive all the adversities inflicted by nature, she believes that Man will ultimately cause his own destruction because of "Bearing the bad cell in him from the start"--that is, because of the burden of the human ego, selfishness, or "Obsequious Greed." This flaw in human nature is also suggested in the story by the name "Burden," particularly through the association of the name with the poisoned river Burden Creek. To ensure her own safety, Ann allows the last man and her dog Faro to swim in this creek; and she walks beside its beautiful but dead water when, pursuing selfish fantasies of being a school teacher, she leaves the valley in search of another habitable place she has seen in dreams. In the end, she heads west walking beside a similar dead stream, entirely abandoning her former hopes of having children with Loomis and helping to save humanity.
Epitaph for the Race of Man By Edna St. Vincent Millay |
Notes about the poem and its relevance to Z for Zachariah |
I
Before this cooling planet shall be cold, Long, long before the music of the Lyre, Like the faint roar of distant breakers rolled On reefs unseen, when wind and flood conspire To drive the ships inshore — long, long, I say, Before this ominous humming hits the ear, Earth will have come upon a stiller day, Man and his engines be no longer here. High on his naked rock the mountain sheep Will stand alone against the final sky, Drinking a wind of danger new and deep, Staring on Vega with a piercing eye, And gather up his slender hooves and leap From crag to crag down Chaos, and so go by. |
The planet is slowly dying, like all living things born with a limited lifespan. The opening lines refer to a future time when the planet shall be cold and dead. "Long...before the music of the lyre" seems to refer to a future time when the story of the Earth will be told like an epic recited by ancient Greeks to the accompaniment of a lyre. The story of the Earth will be similar to that of the fall of Troy, an early example of a doomed civilization. |
II
When Death was young and bleaching bones were few, A moving hill against the risen day, The dinosaur at morning made his way, And dropped his dung along the blazing dew; Trees with no name that now are agate grew Lushly beside him in the steamy clay; He woke and hungered, rose and stalked his prey, And slept contented, in a world he knew. In punctual season, with the race in mind, His consort held aside her heavy tail, And took the seed; and heard the seed confined Roar in her womb; and made a nest to hold A hatched-out conqueror...but to no avail: The veined and fertile eggs are long since cold.
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"Death" here actually means life, referring to Earth's existence as a long process of dying.
The speaker describes a male dinosaur impregnating his mate in vain, unaware that a natural disaster will prevent the fertile eggs from ever hatching. This sonnet evokes sympathy for the experience of creatures in the distant past long before humans even existed. Also, it suggests that we and other animals living today are similarly vulnerable, capable of becoming extinct in a short time. In describing dinosaurs mating "with the race in mind," the speaker implies that the sex drive in all animals is a natural instinct necessary for their species to survive. |
III
Cretaceous bird, your giant claw no lime From bark of holly bruised or mistletoe Could have arrested, could have held you so Through fifty million years of jostling time; Yet cradled with you in the catholic slime Of the young ocean's tepid lapse and flow Slumbered an agent, weak in embryo, Should grip you straitly, in its sinewy prime. What bright collision in the zodiac brews, What mischief dimples at the planet's core For shark, for python, for the dove that coos Under the leaves? — what frosty fate's in store For warm blood of man, — man, out of the ooze But lately crawled, and climbing up the shore? |
Earth's inevitable destruction could be brought about by its collision with another object in space such as an asteroid or comet, or by changes in the planet's core; and all living things will be helpless to save themselves. Some such fate is in store for humans, though we are just a new species that only recently evolved. |
IV
O EARTH, unhappy planet born to die, Might I your scribe and your confessor be, What wonders must you not relate to me Of Man, who when his destiny was high Strode like the sun into the middle sky And shone an hour, and who so bright a he, And like the sun went down into the sea, Leaving no spark to be remembered by. But no; you have not learned in all these years To tell the leopard and the newt apart; Man, with his singular laughter, his droll tears, His engines and his conscience and his art, Made but a simple sound upon your ears: The patient beating of the animal heart.
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The first two lines are recited by the narrator Ann Burden in Z for Zachariah.
"Might I...be" means "If I might be." The speaker is addressing Earth, asking what it would tell her about humans if she could be Earth's scribe and confessor--that is, the one who records events and either hears confessions of wrongdoing or gives such confessions. But Earth does not value any particular animal specially or distinguish humans from other animals. Humans are just another creature with a beating heart. See also Ecclesiastes 3:18-19: "the fate of human and the fate of animal is the same." |
V
When Man is gone and only gods remain To stride the world, their mighty bodies hung With golden shields, and golden curls outflung Above their childish foreheads; when the plain Round skull of Man is lifted and again Abandoned by the ebbing wave, among The sand and pebbles of the beach, — what tongue Will tell the marvel of the human brain? Heavy with music once this windy shell, Heavy with knowledge of the clustered stars; The one-time tenant of this draughty hall Himself, in learned pamphlet, did foretell, After some aeons of study jarred by wars, This toothy gourd, this head emptied of all.
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The "gods" mentioned here resemble those of the ancient Greeks, particularly Ares (the god of war). But the reference to gods remaining after humanity's extinction seems ironic, suggesting they are cultural myths which will lose all meaning and disappear along with humans. Thus, the speaker needs to ask who will "tell the marvel of the human brain" when only draughty, empty skulls remain of human intelligence. |
VI
See where Capella with her golden kids Grazes the slope between the east and north? Thus when the builders of the pyramids Flung down their tools at nightfall and poured forth Homoeward to supper and a poor man's bed, Shortening the road with friendly jest and slur, The risen She-Goat showing blue and red Climbed the clear dusk, and three stars followed her. Safe in their linen and their spices lie The kings of Egypt; even as long ago Under these constellations, with long eye And scented limbs they slept, and feared no foe. Their will was law; their will was not to die: And so they had their way; or nearly so.
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Despite their power and their belief that they could preserve their bodies to live forever, the pharaohs could not escape death; and even their great civilization is now merely crumbling ancient ruins.
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VII
He heard the coughing tiger in the night Push at his door; close by his quiet head About the wattled cabin the soft tread Of heavy feet he followed, and the slight Sigh of the long banana leaves; in sight At last and leaning westward overhead The Centaur and the Cross now heralded The sun, far off but marching, bringing light. What time the Centaur and the Cross were spent Night and the beast retired into the hill, Whereat serene and undevoured he lay, And dozed and stretched and listened and lay still, Breathing into his body with content The temperate dawn before the tropic day.
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VIII
Observe how Miyanoshita cracked in two And slid into the valley; he that stood Grinning with terror in the bamboo wood Saw the earth heave and thrust its bowels through The hill, and his own kitchen slide from view, Spilling the warm bowl of his humble food Into the lap of horror; mark how lewd This cluttered gulf, — 'twas here his paddy grew. Dread and dismay have not encompassed him; The calm sun sets; unhurried and aloof Into the riven village falls the rain; Days pass; the ashes cool; he builds again His paper house upon oblivion's brim, And plants the purple iris in its roof. |
This stanza refers to the Great Kanto Earthquake on September 1st, 1923, which devastated Tokyo, Yokohama, and surrounding prefectures, also setting off firestorms that caused about 142,000 casualties. At the time, news services reported it as "the greatest disaster in the history of Japan." Miyanoshita was a small onsen (hot springs) resort town in the Hakone Mountains, a popular tourist destination.
A survivor who builds a new home on the edge of ruin represents the tenacious will to live, or the survival instinct. |
IX
He woke in terror to a sky more bright Than middle day; he heard the sick earth groan, And ran to see the lazy-smoking cone Of the fire-mountain, friendly to his sight As his wife's hand, gone strange and full of fright; Over his fleeing shoulder it was shown Rolling its pitchy lake of scalding stone Upon his house that had no feet for flight. Where did he weep? Where did he sit him down And sorrow, with his head between his knees? Where said the Race of Man, "Here let me drown"? "Here let me die of hunger"? — "let me freeze"? By nightfall he has built another town: This boiling pot, this clearing in the trees.
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Mt. Tokachidake erupted in 1926, killing 144. Again, the speaker uses an example of a natural disaster to illustrate human resilience. In terms of this poem’s relevance to Z for Zachariah, it is important that the speaker is not just concerned with individual struggles for survival but views individual efforts as significant because they enable the entire race to survive. The man and wife who escape a volcanic eruption are described as building a new "town" that consists of just a cooking pot in a forest clearing, suggesting that even two survivors (like Ann and Loomis) represent society and the human race.
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X
The broken dike, the levee washed away, The good fields flooded and the cattle drowned, Estranged and treacherous all the faithful ground, And nothing left but floating disarray Of tree and home uprooted, — was this the day Man dropped upon his shadow without a sound And died, having laboured well and having found His burden heavier than a quilt of clay? No, no. I saw him when the sun had set In water, leaning on his single oar Above his garden faintly glimmering yet . . . There bulked the plough, here washed the updrifted weeds . . . . And scull across his roof and make for shore, With twisted face and pocket full of seeds.
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Here the speaker refers to the "burden" that humans might be tempted to lay down by accepting the death of their species. This is a poem about humanity’s survival (not just individual survival), and the use of “Man” indicates that the referenced “burden” is carried by all humanity. Clearly, the word “burden” means a powerful natural drive to procreate and continue the species. This fundamental motive force underlies the human survival instinct.
The name “Burden” is fitting for the protagonist in Z for Zachariah because the survival of the human race depends on her. More precisely, humanity’s survival depends on Ann Burden's will to procreate. |
XI
Sweeter was loss than silver coins to spend, Sweeter was famine than the belly filled; Better than blood in the vein was the blood spilled; Better than corn and healthy flocks to tend And a tight roof and acres without end Was the barn burned and the mild creatures killed, And the back aging fast, and all to build: For then it was, his neighbor was his friend. Then for a moment the averted eye Was turned upon him with benignant beam, Defiance faltered, and derision slept; He saw in a not unhappy dream Teh kindly heads against the horrid sky, And scowled, and cleared his throat and sat, and wept.
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Now the speaker asserts that adversity from natural disasters was, paradoxically, better than good fortune because it provoked unusual sympathy from other people, who are normally indifferent or competitive due to their egocentricity. This paradox seems illustrated in Z for Zachariah by the change in Ann’s feelings from fear of Loomis to sympathy for him when he becomes sick and she comes out of hiding to care for him. Also, in sonnet XI we begin to see how the desire to procreate that underlies the survival instinct is threatened by the desire for solely individual success, which also seems instinctive. This selfishness is the innate “bad cell” that the speaker later refers to in Sonnet XVI. |
XII
Now forth to meadows as the farmer goes With shining buckets to the milking-ground, He meets the black ant hurrying from his mound To milk the aphis pastured on the rose; But no good-morrow, as you might suppose, No nod of greeting, no perfunctory sound Passes between them; no occasion's found For gossip as to how the fodder grows. In chilly autumn on the hardening road They meet again, driving their flocks to stall, Two herdsmen, each with winter for a goad; They meet and pass, and never a word at all Gives one to t'other. On the quaint abode Of each, the evening and the faint snow fall.
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Sonnet XII deals mainly with the alienation of different living creatures from one another. A human farmer and an ant go about their respective labors concerned only for their own survival, paying no attention to one another and indifferent to their similarity. As with the description in Sonnet II of dinosaurs mating “with the race in mind,” the speaker suggests the kinship and similarity between humans and other animals (even ants), all driven by the same basic instincts.
In Z for Zachariah, this similarity between humans and animals is similarly suggested by descriptions of other creatures (particularly crows) going about the business of procreating and continuing their species. |
XIII
His heatless room the watcher of the stars Nightly inhabits when the night is clear; Propping his mattress on the turning sphere, Saturn his rings or Jupiter his bars He follows, or the fleeing moons of Mars, Till from his ticking lens they disappear . . . Whereat he sighs, and yawns, and on his ear The busy chirp of Earth remotely jars. Peace at the void's heart through the wordless night, A lamb cropping the awful grasses, grazed; Earthward the trouble lies, where strikes his light At dawn industrious Man, and unamazed Goes forth to plough, flinging a ribald stone At all endeavour alien to his own.
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Sonnet XIII describes a person viewing stars and planets through a telescope, with ordinary sounds of life on Earth in the background. During the night, which is “wordless” while most people sleep, Earth is peaceful at the center of the void of space (“at the void’s heart”). But this peace is only temporary because as soon as humans wake at dawn they begin fighting one another to promote their selfish interests.
Also, the phrase “Earthward the trouble lies” suggests the error of thinking that the stars, destiny, or any supernatural agents cause human misfortunes. As Edmund says in Shakespeare’s King Lear, “we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion” (1.2.123-125). |
XIV
Him not the golden fang of furious heaven, Nor whirling Aeolus on his awful wheel, Nor foggy specter ramming the swift keel, Nor flood, nor earthquake, nor the red tongue even Of fire, disaster's dog — him, him bereaven Of all save the heart's knocking, and to feel The air upon his face: not the great heel Of headless Force into the dust was driven. These sunken cities, tier on tier, bespeak How ever from the ashes with proud beak And shining feathers did the phoenix rise, And sail, and send the vulture from the skies . . . That in the end returned; for Man was weak Before the unkindness in his brother's eyes. |
The speaker reiterates that humanity’s will to survive always enables our species to survive, repeatedly rising phoenix-like from the ruins of civilizations. Yet the threat of humanity’s extinction (i.e., passing into the void) always returns because its survival instinct is undermined by people’s unkindness to one another. In Z for Zachariah, humanity’s survival depends on the last two survivors of a nuclear war being sympathetic towards one another. Ann’s desire for complete control over her life gives her an irrational fear that the last man will enslave her, leading her to hide in a cave as he approaches. She is then willing to let him die rather than put her freedom at risk by coming out of hiding to warn him of a radioactive stream. Such a beginning does not bode well for humanity’s survival.
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XV
Now sets his foot upon the eastern sill Aldeberan, swiftly rising, mounting high, And tracks the Pleiads down the crowded sky, And drives his wedge into the western hill; Now for the void sets forth, and further still, The questioning mind of man . . . that by and by From the void's rim returns with swooping eye, Having seen himself into the maelstrom spill. Blench not, O race of Adam, lest you find In the sun's bubbling bowl anonymous death, Or lost in whistling space without a mind To monstrous Nothing yield your little breath: You shall achieve destruction where you stand, In instimate conflict, at your brother's hand. |
The speaker describes human curiosity about space and warns against fear of venturing beyond Earth, since we will otherwise finally be swallowed by the sun or destroy ourselves on this planet. The astrophysicist Stephen Hawking has expressed the same views: “Our population and our use of the finite resources of planet Earth are growing exponentially, along with our technical ability to change the environment for good or ill. But our genetic code still carries the selfish and aggressive instincts that were of survival advantage in the past. It will be difficult enough to avoid disaster in the next hundred years, let alone the next thousand or million. Our only chance of long-term survival is not to remain lurking on planet Earth, but to spread out into space.” (Winnipeg Free Press 11/19/2011)
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XVI
Alas for Man, so stealthily betrayed, Bearing the bad cell in him from the start, Pumping and feeding from his healthy heart That wild disorder never to be stayed When once established, destined to invade With angry hordes the true and proper part, Till Reason joggles in the headman's cart, And Mania spits from every balustrade. Would he had searched his closet for his bane, Where lurked the trusted ancient of his soul, Obsequious Greed, and seen that visage plain; Would he had whittled treason from his side In his stout youth and bled his body whole, Then had he died a king, or never died.
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Sonnet XVI describes the problem of human selfishness most explicitly, identifying it as an innate trait (“the bad cell in him from the start”) and a passion (“wild disorder”) that destroys the capacity to reason, replacing it with “Mania.” Reason is viewed as “the true and proper part” of human nature, meaning perhaps that it is the main guide to truth and the aspect that most distinguishes humans from other animals. Further, humanity’s bane is defined as “Obsequious Greed,” in which greed is used as a synonym for selfishness. It is called “obsequious” because it always flatters the ego, slavishly serving solely personal opinions or desires.
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XVII
Only the diamond and the diamond's dust Can render up the diamond unto Man; One and invulnerable as it began Had it endured, but for the treacherous thrust That laid its hard heart open, as it must, And ground it down and fitted it to span A turbaned brow or fret an ivory fan, Lopped of its stature, pared of its proper crust. So Man, by all the wheels of heaven unscored, Man, the stout ego, the exuberant mind No edge could cleave, no acid could consume, Being split along the vein by his own kind, Gives over, rolls upon the palm abhorred, Is set in brass on the swart thumb of Doom.
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Here the speaker likens humans to diamonds. Just as only a diamond is hard enough to cut diamond, the greatest threat to the survival of humanity’s “stout ego” is its own kind.
In Z for Zachariah, Ann and Loomis destroy their own and humanity’s chances of survival because of their selfish preoccupation with their own ideas and desires. Though both act selfishly at times, Ann seems more at fault because her reasoning is repeatedly undermined or distorted by irrational fear. Moreover, although Loomis later uses force to get Ann’s cooperation, it is clear he wants her companionship and hopes they can save humanity from extinction. And, as Ann realizes too late, Loomis’s efforts to control her are a direct response to her denial of companionship. |
XVIII
Here lies, and none to mourn him but the sea, That falls incessant on the empty shore, Most various man, cut down to spring no more; Before his prime, even in his infancy Cut down, and all the clamor that was he, Silenced; and all the riveted pride he wore, A rusted iron column whose tall core The rains have tunneled like an aspen tree. Man, doughty Man, what power has brought you low, That heaven itself in arms could not persuade To lay aside the lever and the spade And be as dust among the dusts that blow? Whence, whence the broadside? Whose the heavy blow? Strive not to speak, poor scattered mouth; I know. |
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