Emily Dickinson was part of the elite, and although none of her works are outspoken in politics, a current of elitism, colonialism, and the wealthy language of divine right threads through all her poems. Using various language and style choices, Dickinson’s poetry is adept in the ‘clubbishness’ that was American high society’s identity.
Perhaps, the last best hope in this sorry and sordid saga is that this may be a wake-up call to workers in the videogame industry. It’s a strong argument for unionisation, an example of how passion alone cannot create a safe work environment, and motivation to hold abusive bosses to the fire.
With closures to strip clubs, brothels, massage parlours and independent work deemed illegal, the world’s oldest profession was forced to reanimate its identity in the online sphere. But what does this rapid shift to OnlyFans mean for workers who fell through the cracks, those who need to stay faceless, or those who don’t possess self marketing and admin skills or have access to resources, let alone excessive lingerie collections and high quality cameras?
What’s even harder to do when you’re unemployed is remembering that the problem is bigger than you; keeping in mind that many, if not most, rejections are not personal—they’re not serving as a rejection of your entire being, or a dismissal of your value as a person. Unfortunately, when you’re barely coping, focusing on systemic issues feels impossible—directing your negative emotions inwards and nurturing that feeling of self-loathing is far easier, even if you know it’s unhealthy.
This is an elegiac book, curiously devoid of anger, notably short on politics, suffused with discontented restlessness but paradoxically passive. It is difficult to see where it will take its likely readership except into a place of disconsolate bias confirmation.