Literary Criticism
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Edwin Arlington Robinson
"Richard Cory"
Lloyd Morris
The dramatist sets in operation a chain of circumstances in which his characters are
unconsciously brought to book by their own past. The method of the naturalistic
novelist is quite different; absolved of the necessity of a demonstration, he
tends to be less and less concerned with incident and to become
preoccupied with the effect of experience on character; the drama is purely
internal and is revealed by minute and acute psychological analysis. When this method
is applied to dramatic material the very absence of the terms in the demonstration
essential to the dramatist produces the effect of irony. Consider, for example, Richard
Cory:
Here we have a man's life-story distilled into sixteen lines. A dramatist would have been
under the necessity of justifying the suicide by some train of events in which Richard
Cory's character would have inevitably betrayed him. A novelist would have dissected
the psychological effects of these events upon Richard Cory. The poet, with a more
profound grasp of life than either, shows us only what life itself would show us; we know
Richard Cory only through the effect of his personality upon those who were familiar with
him, and we take both the character and the motive for granted as equally inevitable.
Therein lies the ironic touch, which is intensified by the simplicity of the poetic form in
which this tragedy is given expression.
from The Poetry of Edwin Arlington Robinson: An Essay in Appreciation. First published in 1923.
Reissued in 1969 by Kennikat Press (Port Washington, N.Y.)
Ellsworth Barnard
Form in poetry, however, as has been said, involves not only adherence to a central
story or theme, but some kind of progress or development toward a final effect to which
each particular part has made its particular contribution.
A simple and famous illustration is Richard Cory . . . .
We need not crush this little piece under a massive analysis; a few more or less obvious
comments will suffice to show how carefully the poem is put together. The first two
lines suggest Richard Cory's distinction, his separation from ordinary folk. The
second two tell what it is in his natural appearance that sets him off. The next
two mention the habitual demeanor that elevates him still more in men's regard: his
apparent lack of vanity, his rejection of the eminence that his fellows would accord him.
At the beginning of the third stanza, "rich" might seem to be an anticlimax—but not in the
eyes of ordinary Americans; though, as the second line indicates, they would not like to
have it thought that in their eyes wealth is everything. The last two lines of the stanza
record a total impression of a life that perfectly realizes the dream that most
men have of an ideal existence; while the first two lines of the last stanza bring us back
with bitter emphasis to the poem's beginning, and the impassable gulf, for most people—
but not, they think, for Richard Cory—between dream and fact. Thus the first
fourteen lines are a painstaking preparation for the last two, with their
stunning overturn of the popular belief.
To repeat this sort of analysis for each of Robinson's poems would be as profitless as
tedious to most readers, who will want to do it themselves if they want it done at all. We
may, however, dwell a little on some of the patterns that the poet likes to follow. And first
of all, it is to be observed that the structure of Richard Cory—the steady buildup to the surprise ending in the last line, is not characteristic. This fact fits in
with what was said in the preceding chapter about Robinson's handling of the sonnet,
and the quiet, unhurried close that he most often gives it; as well as with what
has been all along implied concerning his distaste for every sort of
sensationalism. But sometimes, as in Richard Cory, a different turn of mind reveals
itself, perhaps sprung from the perception that life does have surprises, that sometimes
only at the very last do we find the key piece that makes the hitherto puzzling picture all
at once intelligible.
from Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Critical Study. Copyright © 1952 by the MacMillan Company.
J.C. Levenson
"Richard Cory" conceals its powerful particularity by appearing almost tritely
conventional. But since the surprise ending of Cory’s suicide does not, after a
first reading, surprise anyone but the "we" of the poem, it is worth looking for
deeper causes of its hold on readers. One the one hand, there is Robinson’s tact in
presenting the title figure. By his scheme, moral blindness is overcome, not by factitious
insight into another mind, but by respectful recognition of another person. So he avoids
the nineteenth-century, common-sense method of realistic characterization
and gives us nothing of his subject’s motives or feelings. He sketches in
Cory’s gentlemanliness and his wealth, but not his despondency, and he lets the suicide
seal the identity of the man forever beyond our knowing or judging. On the other hand,
he can characterize the chorus just because they lack individuality, and he invites us to
judge their blindness on pain of missing the one sure meaning of the poem:
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
They do not serve who only work and wait. Those who count over what they lack
and fail to bless the good before their eyes are truly desperate. The blind see
only what they can covet or envy. With their mean complaining, they are right enough
about their being in darkness, and their dead-gray triviality illuminates by contrast Cory’s
absolute commitment to despair.
From Edwin Arlington Robinson: Centenary Essays. Ed. Ellsworth Barnard. Copyright © 1969 by
the University of Georgia Press.
Wallace L. Anderson
In April 1897 Robinson, reporting the local news to Harry Smith, wrote "Frank Avery blew
his bowels out with a shot-gun. That was bell." By the end of July he had completed, he
told Miss Brower, "a nice little thing . . . . There isn't any idealism in it, but there’s
lots of something else - humanity, may be. I opine that it will go." It has become
one of the most familiar of Robinson's poems. But poems, like people, sometimes suffer
from what familiarity so often breeds. This is especially true if the work appears to be
fairlv simple and uncomplicated. It may be what led Yvor Winters to remark that "In
'Richard Cory' . . . we have a superficially neat portrait of the elegant man of mystery; the
poem builds up deliberately to a very cheap surprise ending; but all surprise endings are
cheap in poetry, if not, indeed, elsewhere, for poetry is written to be read not once but
many times." This remark is itself surprising, for not all surprise endings are cheap, nor
does a surprise ending prevent a work from being read with pleasure more than once.
The use of surprise is a legitimate device that occurs in all literary forms.
The issue is not whether the reader has been surprised but whether the
author has so prepared his ground that the ending is a justifiable one,
consistent with the total context. Actually, "Richard Cory" has a rich complexity
that becomes increasingly rewarding with successive readings.
A wealthy man, admired and envied by those who consider themselves less fortunate
than he, unexpectedly commits suicide. Cory's portrait is drawn for us by a
representative man in the street, who depicts him as "imperially slim," "a gentleman from
sole to crown," "richer than a king." An individual set apart from ordinary mortals, Cory is,
in their opinion, a regal figure in contrast to his admiring subjects, "the people on the
pavement." This contrast between Cory and the people, seemingly weighted in favor of
Cory in the first three stanzas, is the key to the poem. Nowhere are we given direct
evidence of Cory's real character; we are given only the comments of the people about
him, except for his last act, which speaks for itself. Ironically, Cory's suicide brings about
a complete reversal of roles in the poem. As Cory is dethroned the people are
correspondingly elevated. The contrast between the townspeople and Cory is continued
in the last stanza. The people
worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
but they went on living. Cory, wealthy as he was, did not live; instead, be "put a bullet
through his head." This occurred "one calm summer night." Calm, that is, to the people,
not to Cory. Because the people "went without the meat, and cursed the bread," it might
seem that life was both difficult and meaningless to them. But difficulty is not to be
equated with meaninglessness; in fact, Robinson is suggesting just the opposite. "Meat"
and "bread" carry biblical overtones that remind us that man does not live by bread
alone. It is "the light" that gives meaning. In opposition to meat and bread, symbols of
physical nourishment and material values, light suggests a spiritual sustenance of
greater value. As such it clarifies the intent of the poem, for it reveals the inner strength
of the people and the inadequacy of Cory. Belief in the light is the one thing the people
had; it is the one thing Cory lacked. Life for him was meaningless because he lacked
spiritual values; he lived only on a material level. Once this is realized, the
characteristics attributed to Cory in the first three stanzas take on added significance
and become even more ironic: He was "a gentleman from sole to crown" (appearance
and manner); he was "clean favored" and "slim" (physical appearance); he was "quietly
arrayed" (dress); he was "human when he talked" (manner); he "glittered" (appearance);
he was "rich" (material possessions); he was "schooled in every grace" (manner).
"Glittered" not only emphasizes the aura of regality and wealth but also suggests the
speciousness of Cory. Even his manner is not a manifestation of something innate but
only a characteristic that has been acquired ("admirably schooled"). All these details are
concerned with external qualities only. The very things that served to give Cory status
also reveal the inner emptiness that led him to take his own life.
From Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Critical Introduction. Copyright © 1967 by Wallace L.
Anderson.