Emily Dickinson and Thomas Wentworth Higginson corresponded for almost 25 years, yet met in person only twice. Beginning with a letter from the reclusive poet in 1862 to a literary figure she knew only through his essays and social activism, and lasting till her death in 1886, it is arguably one of the most important relationships in American literary history. In that initial letter, which included four of her poems, Dickinson famously asked, "Are you too deeply occupied to say if my Verse is alive?" Their connection, as described by Brenda Wineapple in her luminous new book, White Heat: The Friendship of Emily Dickinson and Thomas Wentworth Higginson, was "based on an absence, geographic distance, and the written word." After their first meeting at her home, in 1870, Higginson wrote that Dickinson "drained my nerve power so much. Without touching her, she drew from me. I am glad not to live near her." But he recognized her unique talent and wished to help her if he could. Though he admitted after Dickinson’s death that he could not teach her anything, Wineapple shows how Higginson’s encouragement and support were meaningful for both of them.

Wineapple, the acclaimed biographer of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Gertrude and Leo Stein, and Janet Flanner, makes a very persuasive case that Higginson, whose place in the poet’s life and work has often been downplayed, did indeed perform a singularly significant role. In their letters, she writes, "they invented themselves and each other, performing for each other in the words that filled, maintained, and created the space between them." They shared a passion for the natural world and literature; Wineapple demonstrates how through the years Dickinson dipped into Higginson’s work and rewrote it for her own poetic purposes.

She trusted and liked him and, as far as is known, there was no one else except her sister-in-law to whom she gave more of her poems. Only a few of Dickinson’s poems were published during her lifetime. Higginson played a central role in the posthumous publication of her work, collaborating with Mabel Loomis Todd in selecting and editing the first two volumes of poems. He found a publisher and wrote an introduction for the first volume. Higginson has often been criticized for changing the poems – eliminating Dickinson’s dashes at certain points and substituting more "appropriate" words – but this charge is probably not fair. Mrs. Todd, who copied many of the poems, admitted that it was she who made most of the changes.

White Heat succeeds magnificently in shining a light into the work of two unlikely friends. Dickinson did not live as isolated a life as we might imagine, while Higginson was indeed a radical activist, a supporter of John Brown, a strong advocate for women’s rights, and the leader of the first federally authorized regiment of freed slaves during the Civil War. But his compassion and literary sensibility were also at the heart of what he was about.

This book is not, Wineapple writes, conventional literary criticism or biography. She lets Dickinson’s poetry speak largely for itself, as Higginson first read it. The result gives us a powerful insight into two extraordinary figures who were there, in a rather unusual way, for each other.

Roger Bishop is a retired Nashville bookseller and a regular contributor to BookPage.

This review refers to the hardcover edition.

Everything about Africa seems outsized—the landscape, the beauty, the dangers, the passions. Wildflower, the story of some of the greatest African nature films and, more especially of those who made them, is outsized as well. The “wildflower,” Joan Root, herself beautiful as a Hollywood heroine, helped produce ground-breaking documentaries like The Year of the Wildebeest and Mysterious Castles of Clay (a 1978 Oscar nominee) in the 1970s. She was extraordinarily sensitive to the destructive times she lived in and uniquely gifted in her quiet ability to do everything possible to reverse, or at least, restrict the damage.

Born in 1936 to a white Kenyan settler, Joan grew up “in the arms of the wild.” (As a baby, she was kidnapped by a big red monkey who surrendered her for a banana.) After finishing school in Switzerland, she returned to Kenya to help her parents run a photo-safari business, where she met and married Alan Root, a free spirit whose daredevil dominance complemented Joan’s overly controlled inner depths.

Mark Seal’s empathetic account, expanded from an article in Vanity Fair, sees her as one of the world’s two “greatest wildlife filmmakers” of their time. The other was her husband, whom she enabled in all ways, good and bad. With Alan’s spark and physical hubris shepherded by Joan’s astounding ability to plan and participate in the filming without turning a hair, they produced film after film.

For 28 years they appeared to have the perfect marriage, except for the occasional dalliance on Alan’s part. Joan’s ability to live with this seems outsized too, but she put herself heart and soul into protecting the precious ecosystem in Kenya against the depredations of an international flower business.

Joan put her safety into the hands of a young local, which turned out to be a mistake. Shot to death by assailants who invaded her property, she died at the age of 69. This absorbing biography will assure her place in the list of individuals who deserve appreciation for their willingness to put themselves on the line (and in the line of fire) for the natural world and its treasures.

Maude McDaniel writes from Maryland.

In this era of Twitter and texting, it’s hard to imagine the marital experience of John and Abigail Adams. Separated frequently by John’s political activity–for as long as five years, when he was advancing American interests in Europe during the Revolution–they communicated only by letter. The post was erratic, to the point that they often had no idea of each other’s circumstances for months at a time. Luckily, their bond was strong–probably both cause and effect of their copious correspondence. In Abigail & John: Portrait of a Marriage historian Edith B. Gelles becomes the latest to plumb this by now well-known epistolary archive.

Abigail & John begins with Abigail Smith’s decision to marry John Adams, tracks back to the colonial origins of their families and ends with John’s death in 1826, eight years after Abigail’s demise drew 54 years of marriage to a close. In between, Gelles covers familiar moments such as Abigail’s exhortation to "Remember the Ladies!" and John’s longstanding feud and eventual reconciliation with Thomas Jefferson, but the marital bond’s strength and fruitfulness is her primary interest.

Gelles offers the marriage as a model of shared endeavor and mutual support, and her depiction is largely persuasive. Their letters reveal how each was intimately involved in the activities and decisions of the other, even across miles and oceans, and how domestic events influenced political decisions, as well as vice versa.

Despite the book’s double focus, Gelles, who has written two academic books about Abigail, betrays an evident preference for the wife. Abigail comes off as a paragon, and John sometimes suffers in comparison, though Gelles takes pains to explain away his shortcomings, albeit not always convincingly. Although the book itself suffers from occasionally plodding prose, it presents an engaging portrait of an exemplary marriage.

<B>Getting under Sammy’s skin</B> Toward the end of his life, Sammy Davis Jr. became a kitschy cultural caricature. We saw him with cigarette in hand, shoulders pulled slightly forward, mugging with Frank and Dino, talking fast and funny. But, as author Wil Haygood details in <B>In Black and White</B>, a dazzling, hard-to-put-down examination of the performer’s life and times, Davis was no cardboard cut-out. Haygood gets under his skin, exposing a complicated man and a virtuoso talent whose influence on the American entertainment industry and the civil rights movement was profound.

Based on more than 250 interviews, exhaustively researched and written with the assured and snappy style of one of Sammy’s own shows, In <B>Black and White</B> explores the forces that formed the performer as well as the real man. A child of vaudeville who was all but abandoned by his showgirl mother, Davis was just 4 when his father took him on the road with Will Mastin’s revue. At 8 he delivered impromptu dances on stage, reveling in the applause. Mastin shrewdly incorporated little Sammy into the act. Mastin, Davis and Davis Jr. would eventually comprise the Will Mastin Trio, which led to Sammy’s stardom. A man who lived for the limelight, Davis had unlimited energy, seldom slept (he caught his z’s traveling to and from gigs) and triumphed over the accident that took his left eye. And he was rapturously talented as a hoofer, singer, mimic, actor. He knocked ’em dead in nightclubs, lit up the Broadway stage, let loose on film and television and made waves in Vegas, baby, Vegas. He was also a major figure in the civil rights movement a role that was mired in controversy because Sammy was a member of the Rat Pack. He dug Sinatra, posed with Nixon, and he loved in every sense of the word white women, especially blondes. As the joke went, Sammy was the whitest black guy who ever lived. Ah, but there was so much more to Sammy; far too much to detail here. In Black and White brings his act to a bookstore near you.

<I>Pat H. Broeske is the co-author of biographies of Howard Hughes and Elvis Presley.</I>

<B>Everybody’s favorite redhead</B> Three years ago, Stefan Kanfer authored a critically acclaimed Groucho Marx biography. He now dissects popular culture’s pre-eminent comedienne in <B>Ball of Fire: The Tumultuous Life and Comic Art of Lucille Ball</B> a fascinating book that traces her rise and sad decline via her unforgettable artistic journey. Yes, there have already been notable Ball biographies, plus a memoir, but Kanfer astutely utilizes (and credits) them, melding their material with his own for a compelling overview of America’s favorite funny lady. Ball was the classic survivor whose tenacity matched the talent she honed and perfected. Raised in upstate New York, where she appeared in her stepfather’s Shriner shows, she was all of 13 when she took the bus to Manhattan to audition for the chorus of a Broadway musical. Her mother had given her approval, but the show sent the minor back home. She returned to the Big City at 17, working as a showroom model. Tall, lithe and leggy, she was undeniably glamorous. She was also shrewd. When she did a bit part in a Hollywood film, she played goofy. Comic Eddie Cantor exclaimed, "That Ball dame she’s a riot." Contracted by MGM, she lapped up the advice of Lela Rogers, mother of Ginger, and allowed hairstylist Sydney Guilaroff to change her hair color. As he so memorably put it, "The hair is brown but the soul is on fire." But it took more than being a redhead to assure her stardom. Ball’s teaming with Desi Arnaz was the key. As a husband he was possessive and dictatorial an alcoholic gambler and a perpetual tomcat. Behind the scenes, though, he was a genius. It was Arnaz who brought together the disparate talents of <I>I Love Lucy</I>. (Upon learning she’d be paired with William Frawley, Vivian Vance said, "How can anyone believe I’m married to that old coot?") As Kanfer tells it, Ball was a hot-tempered star, and she wasn’t much of a mom. But, as a TV producer who helped establish an important studio, she forged new territory for women in Hollywood. The rise of television was integral to her fame, and a chapter on how the new medium reshaped popular culture in general would have been welcome here (that topic, though, would probably warrant a book in itself). And we wish certain sources, like daughter Lucie Arnaz, had been more revealing. (Son Desi Jr. didn’t participate at all, which is telling.) But the story of Lucy’s tempestuous personal life makes for great reading. Kanfer doesn’t sugarcoat, especially when he delves into Lucy’s deference to Desi and her refusal to grow old gracefully. Fittingly, the woman who lived for the limelight now rests in eternal syndication. <I>Biographer Pat H. Broeske loves spending time with the Ricardos and the Mertzes. </I>

Brooke Astor was only in her mid – 50s when her wealthy husband, Vincent Astor, died, leaving her the sudden heir to a trust fund worth more than $60 million. She started the Astor Foundation and began a four – decade – and – then – some adventure, gracefully balancing the self – indulgences she could well afford with an enormous philanthropic spirit. Following the lead of Gilded Age predecessors like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller and Carnegie, Brooke shrewdly turned the Astor name into an icon of munificence, endowing museums, schools, hospitals, libraries and charities, turning herself into a “sought – after social arbiter” in the process.

As Meryl Gordon writes in Mrs. Astor Regrets, “the ability to dispense millions made her popular and powerful, and Mrs. Astor reveled in her long – running starring role, savoring the accolades.” She loved high fashion, parties and fascinating people – her inner circle included David Rockefeller, Nancy Reagan, Henry Kissinger. Her gravestone heralds this charmed existence, with a simple, self – chosen epitaph: “I had a wonderful life.” And a long one, too: she lived to be 105. But toward the end of it, things went sour.

In 2006, her grandson, Philip Marshall, filed a lawsuit against his own father (and Astor’s only child), Anthony Marshall, for alleged mistreatment, seeking to remove his father from guardianship. The public lawsuit propelled their private squabble into tabloid sensation. Changes to Astor’s will cast suspicion of criminal wrongdoing on her son, eventually leading to a charge of first – degree grand larceny. Through her carefully crafted and well – documented expos