I arrived in Amherst today and immediately went to Emily Dickinson's grave. It's easy to find the graveyard, but nowhere, apparently, are there directions for how to find the grave itself. So here's the trick: The Dickinson family is the only one surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Once you know that, locating the grave is simplicity itself.
Dickinson -- or, rather, our imagined image of her -- exists right at the nexus of text and biography. Half of the interest in her derives from her poems, which are intense, compact, and unlike anybody else's. The other half comes from her having lived an enigmatic life, into which can be read pretty much anything your predispositions dictate.
How you divide up your interest in her (if interest you have) depends entirely on what you value. Me, I judge writers by what they write. Which is why I'm here to pay my respects.
God bless ya, Emmy. Sleep in peace.