By this time I’d read Susan Howe’s My Emily Dickinson, and had made a partial concordance in one of my notebooks in New York of place names in Emily Dickinson’s poems. I was fascinated by the way a woman who stayed in her room in Massachusetts had gone everywhere, and was her own sovereign. And I had also noted the fact that Wallace Stevens, the Frenchman of American poetry, had never actually been to France. It was an American tradition to go everywhere while staying close to home.