Paradise Lost as Popular Culture

 

 

     One hardly thinks of Milton as a popular choice for recreational reading.  Yet his majestic Christian epic Paradise Lost has characteristics akin to those that bring mass audiences to today’s action films.  While even English majors may find the poem’s theology irrelevant and its learned and Latinate language artificial in the present day, to a receptive sensibility, the poem has sensational drama and an extraordinary pictorial, even cinematic, imagination.  The special effects of contemporary popular films, cars lurching through the air, people tossed through windows, buildings collapsing, while superheroes and the most vicious of villains work out the world’s destiny are paralleled on every page of Milton’s poem.

     The taste for Milton’s high-flying rhetoric, the greatest obstacle to modern enjoyment of the poem, is as old as language and only very recently decayed.  One may imagine Shakespeare’s audience brought to a pitch of excitement, cheering and applauding, when a purple passage was declaimed on stage.  Until a few generations ago both the educated and the illiterate regularly relished the oratory of politicians and the pulpit, and schoolchildren studied great speeches of the past and practiced debate and declamation.  At home people enjoyed the sonority of reading verse out loud in parlor poetry sessions.  Now and then a writer points out that Edward Everett spoke for over two hours at Gettysburg and Lincoln for less than two minutes.  Usually the point is that the president’s succinctness was an indicator of his greatness.  Rarely does anyone consider the fact that fifteen thousand people stood listening to such a lengthy previous oration and doubtless considered it a great pleasure to hear a celebrated speaker, an artist in words.  

     Indeed, the very artificiality of Milton’s rhetoric that puts off contemporary was just the sort of thing earlier readers had relished.  His distance from the ordinary spoken vernacular that today is the base of most poetry, created a general feel for the poem, a special grandeur, just as the art director creates a consistent overall tone for a film.  Similarly, Homeric Greek was composed of a dialect never spoken, making the reader immediately aware of inhabiting a world of the imagination, more portentous and beautiful than that of everyday transactions.  In the stately suspension of his iambic pentameters, gently rocking but endlessly varied, each line elongated slightly beyond the colloquial duration, the phrases follow one after another with no end stop in sight, the syntax branching and rebranching like a living thing.  This is a consistent pleasure, like a particularly mighty organ under the control of E. Power Biggs, quite independent of the qualities of the music being performed. 

     The opening sentence of Book IX which runs to forty-one lines (appended) is an admittedly extreme example enabled by numerous colons and semicolons.  The first five lines detail what Milton does not mean to describe: casual and cordial intercourse with heavenly beings.   The poet’s topic, he says, surpasses the themes of ancient epic, though he is pleased to pause for about a dozen lines for Homeric references (studding six lines with nine proper names from antiquity).  Then the final fourteen lines of the passage continue the exposition of what is not to be included, this time ordinary war stories, but detailed with such enthusiasm that it seems less an apology for what is left out than a miniature side-show exhibit, a model of generic war in a few tumultuous words.

     A generous use of what the rhetoricians call amplificatio, in Greek αὔξησις and in plain English redundancy, enriches the texture of the passage.  The Fall is said to be due to “foul distrust,” “breach Disloyal.” “revolt,” “And disobedience,” though a single term would have satisfied the sense.  Like the overelaboration of baroque decoration characteristic of a Mexican cathedral, more ornaments are considered superior to fewer.  This tendency affects the use of Classical references as well as they tumble over each other: nine proper names in only six lines (Achilles, Hector, Troy, Turnus, Lavinia Neptune, Juno, Eros, and a Muse in IX, 15-21).  

     Thus the very characteristics – lengthy periods, Latinate lexical choices and syntactic structures, numerous Classical allusions --  that many moderns might find irksome are those that would have given earlier readers delight.  The shift from ordinary experience accompanying the heightened language of art might be likened to that experienced by a movie-goer who enters a darkened hall and turns to face the enormous scintillating screen animated by larger-than-life characters.  One is transported to a different world.

     This parallel in mood or tone between the great Puritan epic and a superhero action movie suggested by style is true for the narrative as well.  For Jehovah like Superman is the good protagonist against the evil enemy.  In Milton each cosmic army has their legions, allowing epic scenes that resemble nothing so much as crowded Cinemascope war scenes.  (Uccello’s Battle of San Romano delivers similar thrills in two dimensions.)     

 

. . . whereat Michael bid sound

Th' Arch-Angel trumpet; through the vast of Heaven

It sounded, and the faithful Armies rung

Hosanna to the Highest: nor stood at gaze                        

The adverse Legions, nor less hideous joyn'd

The horrid shock: now storming furie rose,

And clamour such as heard in Heav'n till now

Was never, Arms on Armour clashing bray'd

Horrible discord, and the madding Wheeles                    

Of brazen Chariots rag'd; dire was the noise

Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss

Of fiery Darts in flaming volies flew,

And flying vaulted either Host with fire.

So under fierie Cope together rush'd                                

Both Battels maine, with ruinous assault

And inextinguishable rage; all Heav'n

Resounded, and had Earth bin then, all Earth

Had to her Center shook. What wonder? when

Millions of fierce encountring Angels fought                  

                                                                           (VI, 202-220)

 

As in a Western movie or a novel by Sir Walter Scott, all leading men are valorous, though some are outstanding.  Even on the side of the rebel angels, according to Raphael, there was never committed an “unbecoming deed” (VI, 237).

     The catalogue of fallen angels alone is a dazzling sequence, studded with exotic proper names that generates a portentous mood of wonder more significant than any particular meaning.

 

The pleasant Vally of Hinnom, Tophet thence

And black Gehenna call'd, the Type of Hell.

Next Chemos, th' obscene dread of Moabs Sons,

From Aroar to Nebo, and the wild

Of Southmost Abarim; in Hesebon

And Horonaim, Seons Realm, beyond

The flowry Dale of Sibma clad with Vines,

And Eleale to th' Asphaltick Pool.

                                                                           (I, 404-411)

 

The list proceeds like a horror movie montage: Moloch, Baal, Ashtaroth, Thammuz, Adom, Dagon, one succeeds another as though the successive monsters of nineteen-fifties Japanese popular movies all met in a sinister alliance. 

     The war scenes are filled with grand theatrical action as in this episode featuring giant flame-throwers. 

 

A triple mounted row of Pillars laid

On Wheels (for like to Pillars most they seem'd

Or hollow'd bodies made of Oak or Firr

With branches lopt, in Wood or Mountain fell'd)

Brass, Iron, Stonie mould, had not thir mouthes

With hideous orifice gap't on us wide,

Portending hollow truce; at each behind

A Seraph stood, and in his hand a Reed

Stood waving tipt with fire; while we suspense,

Collected stood within our thoughts amus'd,

Not long, for sudden all at once thir Reeds

Put forth, and to a narrow vent appli'd

With nicest touch. Immediate in a flame,

But soon obscur'd with smoak, all Heav'n appeerd,

From those deep throated Engins belcht, whose roar

Emboweld with outragious noise the Air,

And all her entrails tore, disgorging foule

Thir devilish glut, chaind Thunderbolts and Hail

Of Iron Globes, which on the Victor Host

Level'd, with such impetuous furie smote,

That whom they hit, none on thir feet might stand,

Though standing else as Rocks, but down they fell

By thousands, Angel on Arch-Angel rowl'd;

(VI, 572-594)

 

When combatants from either side traverse the celestial realms, the descriptions allow readers to imagine space travel. 

 

som times

He scours the right hand coast, som times the left,

Now shaves with level wing the Deep, then soares

Up to the fiery Concave touring high.

As when farr off at Sea a Fleet descri'd

Hangs in the Clouds, by Æquinoctial Winds

Close sailing from Bengala, or the Iles

Of Ternate and Tidore, whence Merchants bring

Thir spicie Drugs: they on the Trading Flood

Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape

Ply stemming nightly toward the Pole

                                                            (II, 632-642)

 

Instead of pursuing direct description, Milton conveys its overwhelming power by introducing a Homeric simile as a sign that non-figurative language would be inadequate.  Like the earlier clots of mythological references, the geographical names come thick and fast: Bengala, Ternate, Tidore, Ethiopia, Cape of Good Hope, and the South Pole in five lines.  Just as the poem’s first readers did not need to recognize the place names, today’s reader can skip the footnotes.  The specific places mentioned mean little, the passage derives its impact from the recitation of a storm of mysterious words of power, rather like the invented technical jargon of a science fiction spaceship or a magic charm in a story of wizards and dragons.

      The affinities of Milton’s poem with Homeric epic are intentional, explicit, and well-studied.  Less obvious, but present nonetheless, are characteristics associated with science fiction and monster movies, and with superhero action films.  Though these genres did not exist in the seventeenth century, similar popular taste had long been served by romances, saints’ lives, and tales of unknown regions of the earth.  The Christian story of the Fall proved for Milton a rich source of action on a cosmically magnificent scale, including weird unearthly monsters, and a literally perfect hero, ultimately more undefeatable than Superman.  His readers were able to enjoy a rich feast of cheap thrills, all the while acquiring merit for studying Christ’s story.  Not even the films of The Ten Commandments or Ben-Hur could equal the appeal of Puritan poet’s version of scripture which combined the attractions of Dracula, Batman, The Day the Earth Stood Still, and Samson and Delilah.  After the thrills of space travel, the horrors of confrontation with demonic fiends, and a hero with the mission not merely to save the world, but to save the reader as well along the way, righteousness is finally rewarded.  The bedazzled spectator knew it would happen all along but became nonetheless enfolded in the poem’s action.  Since every soul is in play until judgement, the reader is on the stage among the cast of larger-than-life characters and may well feel a bit of satisfaction in the thought that virtuous engagement with the poem has done no harm to one’s own likelihood of a happy ending.  Surely, though, the primary motive had to be the fun of the ride.

Every Reader’s Poets: Milton

This is the sixth of a series of essays meant to introduce (or re-introduce) non-scholarly readers to the work of important poets. In this series I limit my focus to the discussion of only three or four of each writer’s best-known works while providing a bit of context and biography, eschewing most byways and all footnotes.

     Even considering the long term continental drift of literary focus away from poetry and from pre-twentieth century authors, Milton is a classic little honored by actual readers. Of course, there was a time when Paradise Lost shared a shelf in many British homes with the Bible and perhaps another title or two, but that was when many people not only accepted the poet’s theology but also were capable of swinging with the cadence of his iambic pentameter.
     The fact is that Milton would be remembered had he never written a line of verse. His prose essays, notably those in defense of press freedom and divorce and in opposition to the monarchy, are eloquent as well as striking the modern reader as right-minded. He was sufficiently active in the tumultuous politics of his age that he was named Secretary for Foreign Tongues (primarily requiring him to draft diplomatic documents in Latin) under the Protectorate, and he found himself in trouble after the Restoration.
     Though his greatest work is in long poems such as Comus, Lycidas, Samson Agonistes, and his masterpieces Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, he may more easily be approached through the rapid tetrameters of his youthful lyric “L’Allegro,” portraying “the happy man” as opposed to “the thoughtful one” characterized in “Il Penseroso.” The contrast of the two poems implies a dominantly formal interest; as the author seeks to display his technical skills in a show-piece.
     The bipolar opposition is invoked in the poem’s first thirty-four lines which dramatically evoke melancholy with all the special effects of a fantasy or horror film. The Stygian cave is by itself insufficiently thrilling and is succeeded by an “uncouth cell” in the obscurity of Cimmeria. This dark vision suddenly vanishes, however, to be replaced by the cheering appearance of Euphrosyne.


Hence loathed Melancholy
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy,
Find out som uncouth cell,
Wher brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,


     Euphrosyne or “high spirits,” one of the three Graces, is born either the offspring of Bacchus and Venus or, in an equally original but more imaginative version, she is conceived as miraculously as Christ when Zephyr blows across fields of flowers, impregnating Aurora. Her birth produces a variegated rush of phenomena associated with high spirits, concluding with the delightful phrase which became enough of a cliché to appear in American popular song “trip the light fantastic.” For a moment it seems nearly as though life itself could be a blithe and glorious dance, though the poem’s companion piece “Il Penseroso” opens by banishing “vain deluding joys” in favor of “divinest Melancholy.” Taken together, the poems balance the dualities they engage and highlight the profound ambivalence of human experience with such accomplished music that his own skill becomes the principle theme and the beauty of the work guarantees the ambivalent rightness of things.
     The masterful display of Classical references and the virtuoso versifying, though literary and artificial, articulate deep emotion. Milton also employed Classical pastoral conventions in “Lycidas” his elegy for his deceased college classmate Edward King. One passage describing the appropriate funereal bouquets constitutes a veritable garden on the page in tribute to his drowned friend.


Return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honied showers
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.


     Nature here is animated and can respond to the pastoral muse in individual ways: the “wanton” wind, the stars that “sparely” gaze, the “forsaken” primrose. The Christian god appears diffused into all creation, the recipient of virtually pagan devotion. The poet’s grief is projected onto nature where it is not merely ameliorated but fundamentally challenged by the glory of the blossoms represented in the beautiful lines of verse. The loss of life inherent in all of nature, then, is redeemed through aesthetics. The glory of god is evident in the charms of the creation and of the poet’s art alike.
     Paradise Lost was composed after the restoration of the monarchy which prompted Milton to go underground when a warrant was issued for his arrest. He escaped the worst of consequences through the efforts of influential friends and a general pardon, but the poem was dictated by a blind and penurious poet. This grand epic is the basis of Milton’s reputation, though critics like Samuel Johnson (who had little sympathy with Milton’s politics) found it tiresome. Its Christian apologetics are complicated by its compelling drama. Blake notoriously said that Milton was “of the devil’s party without knowing it,” and Satan never appears a grander figure than in his self-reflective insight at the opening of Book IV. He addresses the sun.


O thou that with surpassing Glory crownd,
Look'st from thy sole Dominion like the God
Of this new World; at whose sight all the Starrs
Hide thir diminisht heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy Spheare;
Till Pride and worse Ambition threw me down
Warring in Heav'n against Heav'ns matchless King:
Ah wherefore! he deservd no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less then to afford him praise,
The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good prov'd ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I sdeind subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burthensome, still paying, still to ow;
Forgetful what from him I still receivd,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and dischargd; what burden then?
O had his powerful Destiny ordaind
Me some inferiour Angel, I had stood
Then happie; no unbounded hope had rais'd
Ambition. Yet why not? som other Power
As great might have aspir'd, and me though mean
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshak'n, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free Will and Power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse,
But Heav'ns free Love dealt equally to all?
Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I flie
Infinite wrauth, and infinite despaire?
Which way I flie is Hell; my self am Hell;
Book IV, ll. 32-75


      Milton here formulates the dialectic between ego-loss and illumination. Lucifer cannot understand what the “grateful mind” appreciates, that “by owing [one] owes not, but still pays, at once.” The paradoxes of the gospel are all implicit there: in death is life, humility is exaltation, giving is getting, the most real is the utterly imaginary. Satan willfully remains in darkness; his pride is his captor, and thus hell, and, presumably, for others heaven, is a condition in his own psyche. [ 55 ] He has chosen to refuse the grace-filled rain of “Heav’n’s free love” (68) and, like many a suffering mortal, condemns himself to despair. To Milton, of course, Satan’s options are those of every soul.
     Devout and thoughtful Christian though the author was, Milton’s spirituality is meaningful to all. Though the knowledge cannot readily ward off suffering, people regularly alienate themselves from Ultimate Reality, Atman, or enlightenment by their own choices. Egoism is only the most yawning pitfall. Truly open eyes will find the cosmos a marvel with or without an anthropomorphic overseer.
     The reader of “L’Allegro” can admire Milton’s technical abilities. “Lycidas” displays the same skill as well while adding the profoundly felt emotional content of an elegy for a beloved friend. Milton’s crowning achievement, the poem in which he encoded a comprehensive philosophy (including, according to many critics, veiled references to his unapologetic resistance to the king) rewards those susceptible to beauty and imaginative enough to transpose seventeenth century theology into more modern and universal terms.