Paradise Lost, Presumptuousness Feared

John Milton's epic religious poem, Paradise Lost, is, like the Odyssey and Hamlet, one of those great works that seem to insist upon remaining central to the (Western but perhaps even global) culture, although I grant that "the culture" now consists chiefly of video screens--like this one--of one kind or another; corporate franchising; and the fusion of military, industry, media, and capital; and great chasms between poverty and wealth. I am cautiously pessimistic about the centrality of literature, but to the extent canons of literature exist, Paradise Lost remains among them, even as the canons do and should shift over time. Some works are carried downstream or evaporate, sometimes for good reason, but Paradise Lost seems as close to permanent bedrock as you can get.



To continue, ill-advisedly, the geologic comparison, Paradise Lost is a Mt. Rainier or Mt. Everest kind of work. Even if you don't love it, you still have to stand in awe of it. Samuel Johnson said, famously, of this epic poem, "No one wished it longer." (I usually think the same thing about movies by Oliver Stone.) But Johnson still granted its greatness. The complete and consistent mastery of blank verse for over 300 pages; the superb imagery and phrasing; the fusion of Classical and Biblical learning; the fabulous scenes and plotting; the rhetoric (look at the speeches by Satan's cohorts as each one develops a different argument for attacking God); the wonderful combination of structure and decoration: all this comes together to forge a monument of words.



Therefore, when I mention the following quibble with the work, it is as if I'm throwing a pebble at Mt. Rainier: the poem is as astonishingly presumptuous as it is accomplished. That's my quibble. Milton presumes not just to know what God thinks but what exactly God says, and by this I mean not that Milton quotes the Bible but that he makes up speeches by God--and by Christ, and by Satan, and so on. That is, of all the awe-inspiring characteristics of the poem, the greatest one may be the characteristic of, well, pride. Rereading Paradise Lost recently, I admired it as much as if not more than I always admired it, but I also found myself, upon reading a great passage, thinking a) that's a great passage and b) that's a great passage that compeletely fabricates "God's" mind. Of course, Milton might say, "And your point is . . .?"



The pebble I'm throwing is theological, although that term is a bit fancy for the situation. Temperamentally, intutitively, I am simply much more likely than Milton to begin by assuming I know almost nothing about God. No doubt Milton would agree with this assumption--I mean with regard to how little I know. The issue of my learning vs. Milton's learning aside, I'm aligned with St. Denis, to whom is attributed the work, The Cloud of Unknowing, one premise of which is this: If you think you know something about God, you are wrong, no matter who you are, what you've studied, and how much you think you know.



Having read and digested, so to speak, St. Denis's work, I wrote the following poem, which is rather on the opposite end of several spectrae (I hope I have the Latin plural correct) from Paradise Lost, to say the least:



Mortal Devotion


(The Cloud of Unknowing)


Life suggests I
should prepare to die,

implies it would be
glad to help me

get set. Death might occur
before the end of this or

that sentence. St. Denis,
about prayer, says this:

Start by praying you may
live long enough to pray.

I try to get ready,
am no quick study,

think that it is all
done, that I hear a call.

I don’t know, so
help me, God, to go

on.


Copyright 2006, from The Coast Starlight: Collected Poems 1976-2006.