Paradise Lost

(1667)

“To stand approved in sight of God, though worlds / Judge thee perverse …”

I can barely contain myself. I love Milton to the point of giddiness. I want to write in all-caps and with five exclamation points after every word or just fill the page with puffy balloon hearts written over and over until this chapter looks like the diary of a ten-year-old girl. But none of that would help you that much, would it? So maybe I’d better channel some of the emotion. First I’ve got to calm down.

For starters, let me say this: Paradise Lost—Milton’s epic tale of Satan’s rebellion, the creation of the world, the fall of man, and his deliverance by Christ—is the greatest single prodigy of a human pen. One work, one mind, the best. Nor is the competition close; Dante in his Commedia rivals it in scope but not in consistency; the Shakespearean oeuvre as a whole eclipses Paradise Lost, but the Bard conceived no single work on anywhere near the same scale; the Bible, Koran, and Upanishads are all the work of multiple hands; even Homer and Virgil, majestic though their great works are, grand though their themes may be, simply didn’t try to bite off as big of a chunk as Milton did.

But that’s really not helping either, is it? I need to prove it to you, to show you, to help you see the lines through my eyes a little bit because Lord knows this is probably the first time anyone ever told you that Paradise Lost is a literary orgasmatron, right?

Okay, the first thing you need to know is that John Milton, in the history of man, might well have been the biggest jerk. He was a complete asshole, went blind in his twenties and never stopped being pissed off, dictated poems to his daughters in languages they didn’t understand and caned them if they made mistakes, so hated both sides of the English Restoration religious controversy that he called himself “a church of one” (I love that), and had a permanent chip the size and temperature of Greenland on his shoulder. No Mahatma Gandhi, Mr. Milton.

Keeping in the back of your mind that he was the sternest, meanest, least yielding person imaginable pays dividends when it comes to hearing what Milton’s poetry is supposed to sound like, because it’s supposed to sound like a wrecking ball. Milton, against the fashion of the day (of course), chose to write Paradise Lost without rhyme, not simply because he thought rhyme was “the invention of a barbarous age to set off wretched matter and lame metre” (see what I mean about being a dick?), but because he purposely wanted to slow down his verse, to keep it from being smooth, to gum up the wheels so that you wouldn’t slide along or have any sense of lightness. To this he added new techniques of syllabilization that further tar-pitted the language, pulling it at times to near a dead halt for one purpose and one alone: he was setting up his thunder.

But his most important poetic device to bring down the heavy gavel was enjambment, which is just a fancy poetic term for breaking off a poetic line halfway so you don’t get its full meaning till the next line. And Milton didn’t just enjamb; he set up his lines like necks under a guillotine blade with the basket beneath to catch the heads. You read a line, then down your eye drops to the next line and Whoosh! Thud. Clarity.

That’s how his poetry works.

Let me give you an example. In Book III of Paradise Lost, Milton, speaking of his blindness, says:

With the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank
Of nature’s works to me expung’d and ras’d,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. [40–50]

At the beginning of the third line, wham! If you didn’t get it, read it out loud; you should hear a funeral drum dong at the word “Day” and then again at “Cut off.” Once you train yourself to see and hear this stuff while reading and feel the incredible power that Milton harnesses as a poet, you’re one step closer to loving Paradise Lost (and his shorter poems too, especially “Samson Agonistes,” where there are similar lines and Milton empathizes, not surprisingly, with the blinded Samson surrounded by Philistines).

A last and vital reading technique—and, yes, we still be enjambin’. What I’m about to tell you is a mode of reading Milton pioneered by the great Stanley Fish. I took his Paradise Lost class as a neophyte grad student, and Fish not only taught me how to appreciate Milton, but in some ways how to read, period. His insight is that Milton is perpetually trying to scold you (no surprise there either, right?) for not being pious enough, and the way he does it is by creating linguistic ambiguity, traps for misreading, so if you’re not entirely on your guard, you’ll conclude (or suspect) one thing, then the enjambment will come (whoosh!) and you’ll be corrected (pronounced like the phantom bartender in The Shining). So, for one example among thousands, the beginning of the poem:

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

Stop there. Anyone thinking that fruit—i.e., reward, product—is a good thing? Bzz. Busted. Here’s how it continues:

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,

Stop again. Here I want you to feel the apposition (meaning the restating for effect of something just said) of “Brought death into the world” and “all our woe.” That’s the “fruit” of man’s disobedience—ouch. And notice too how you can’t help but slow down when reading “and all our woe;” he’s put peanut butter on your palate, right? It’s on purpose; you’re supposed to think not only that now we die, having lost Eden, but every single bit of misery we have comes from Adam’s mistake. Milton wants you to crawl along, unable to avoid feeling the full implications of that catastrophic oops.

Now rewind, redo it, and watch where the rest of the line goes (I took out the obscure references to muses):

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse …
… I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th’ Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

Note the enjambment (happy this time) with “restore,” then the buildup of “no middle flight” as if to say, “Don’t even think for a minute we’re taking it down a notch.” And then he gives us the incredible “things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,” the most audacious claim in English poetry, ten syllables dragging their poetic feet through cement to tell you that John Milton is an utter stud and that Paradise Lost is going to be like nothing written before, since, or ever.

That’s just the first sentence, if you’re scoring at home. From there we have a little bit of action, say, Satan and a horde of rebel angels waging war against God in heaven.

Against the throne and monarchy of God
Raised impious war in heaven and battle proud
With vain attempt. [I, 42–44]

So much for “proud.” Thump—another pumpkin into the basket (and still on page two!). And in case you thought maybe “battle proud” was a good thing, think back on the seven deadly sins. Proud wasn’t the result—they literally got their asses handed to them—pride was the cause. Satan rebelled out of pride; that was his downfall. But that’s not what you were thinking, was it? The blunt severity of “with vain attempt” corrects you in your mistake. (Of course, Milton, like almost all religious poets, doesn’t make a point of addressing his own pride.)

The point here is that you can’t trust the first, literal meaning of Paradise Lost’s lines; Milton employs them again and again as conceptual snares to trip you up. In the next few pages, Satan will talk about “outshining” (sounds good but implies hierarchy), “merit” (thus evaluation), “mind” (identity), “will,” “glory,” “freedom”—all these things that might look positive at first blush but all point to difference and thus are radically antithetical to the unified celestial consort of heaven, the oneness of God and all his angels singing an eternal hallelujah. Satan fell because he wanted to be distinguished, to step out of the group, to be himself, to exist. Bad. Both here and later in Eden, Milton will make it clear that if you’re not down with being part of the harmonious total, if you need an identity, then you would have fallen like Satan or eaten the apple like Eve. It’s okay to be a church of one on earth, but you have to be a team player upstairs.

Once you’re aware of Milton’s trick, it’s easy to understand why all those generations of readers thought that Satan was the most appealing character—even the hero—of Paradise Lost: Milton made him that way as a warning (clearly unheeded), seducing you just as the asp seduced Eve. And who’s not going to fall? Of course Satan’s appealing; evil sounds great, piety is hard, and virtually nothing any of us stand for would have served us well in heaven or in Eden—or in our hopes of being saved (Milton’s point). But that’s what Paradise Lost is all about: letting you know that your fallen way of understanding things is flawed, and if you want a chance for a room on the top floor, you’d better start paying attention.

That probably doesn’t sound like the most fun reading experience, and in itself it wouldn’t be, but Paradise Lost becomes really amazing at the moment you enter into awe. You should feel struck, feel wonderous, be utterly blown away by what Milton’s pulling off. I don’t care if you don’t agree with a single tenet of his philosophy—I barely do—you still have to delight in the fervor, the mind, and the utter mastery of technique behind Paradise Lost. Not only does it have the most ambitious story of any narrative in English, it’s the most methodical line by line. It’s breathtaking.

So, yes, this is what Milton’s like: word-turner, verse-torturer, master inflictor of hurt. No poet constricts the reader like Milton does, not leaving it open to interpretation, not letting you choose your own adventure. Paradise Lost works the reader like a heavy bag, in sound, rhythm, and effect. But this is a good thing. There is simply no book that reads like Paradise Lost (Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit probably comes the closest). Once you get used to what he’s doing, you won’t be able to keep from saying, “Oh my God, what a prick. Oh my God, what an ass. Holy shit, that’s amazing. How’d he do that?” over and over and over. It is the single greatest poetic achievement in what we know of as history.

A few more notes in passing:

… faithful found
Among the faithless, faithful only he;
Among innumerable false, unmoved,
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
Nor number, nor example, with him wrought
To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind,
Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,
Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained
Superiour, nor of violence feared aught;
And, with retorted scorn, his back he turned
On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed. [V,
   896–903]

God, I love Milton.

The Buzz: As I mention above, almost everybody concludes that Satan is more appealing than Jesus and wonders if Milton endorsed the devil (a common theory), screwed up (also common), or was in his cups (least likely). Of course, none of these are true, as I hope I made clear.

What People Don’t Know (But Should): Satan is bad. You’re not supposed to side with him. See above.

Best Line: This is from Adam’s description of first seeing Eve, and demonstrates a different tack for Milton’s poetry: the purely elegant:

“… so lovely fair,
That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
And in her looks; which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight.” [VIII, 471–77]

What’s Sexy: Well, apart from Sin being born out of Satan’s head, having sex with him, and giving birth to Death who then rapes her (II, 758–96)—which, admittedly, isn’t so sexy—there are Eve’s “mysterious parts” (IV, 312) which didn’t need to be covered (pre-Fall), and her and Adam’s “youthful dalliance” (348). Milton says that Eve never “the rites / Mysterious of connubial love refused” (742–43) leading directly into this shockingly pro-(married)-sex Miltonian interjection:

Whatever hypocrites austerely talk
Of purity and place and innocence,
Defaming as impure what God declares
Pure, and commands to some, leaves free to all.
Our maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our destroyer, foe to God and man?
Hail wedded love. [744–50]

Tell ’em, brother. (Of course then he goes on to talk about all the vileness of “casual fruition” and “mixed dance,” 777–78. It was good while it lasted.) Later Eve will want to “solve high dispute / With conjugal caresses” (VIII, 56–57). And then … a sex scene! Adam says:

“To the nuptial bower
I led her blushing like the morn: All Heaven,
And happy constellations, on that hour
Shed their selectest influence; the Earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings
Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub,
Disporting, till the amorous bird of night
Sung spousal,” (VIII, 510–19)

“Disporting till the amorous bird of night / Sung spousal”—that’s actually kind of hot, no?

And later, another sex scene! This one happens just after eating the apple—which apparently works a little like green M&Ms.

“Now let us play,
As meet is, after such delicious fare;
For never did thy beauty, since the day
I saw thee first and wedded thee, adorned
With all perfections, so inflame my sense
With ardour to enjoy thee, fairer now
Than ever; bounty of this virtuous tree!”
So said he, and forbore not glance or toy Of amorous intent; well understood
Of Eve, whose eye darted contagious fire.
Her hand he seized; and to a shady bank,
Thick over-head with verdant roof imbowered,
He led her nothing loth; flowers were the couch,
Pansies, and violets, and asphodel,
And hyacinth; Earth’s freshest softest lap.
There they their fill of love and love’s disport
Took largely, of their mutual guilt the seal,
The solace of their sin; till dewy sleep
Oppressed them, wearied with their amorous play. (IX,
   124–45)

Perhaps even more surprising than there being two bona fide sex scenes in Paradise Lost is a little conversation Adam has with Raphael immediately following his kissing-and-telling routine (see “Quirky Fact” below). Finally, how can I not mention the seriously bad sexual punning at IX, 581–85, including “teats of ewe”?

Quirky Fact: Adam asks Raphael the following question about how they, um, knock boots in the higher spheres—and Raphael answers:

“Love not the heavenly Spirits, and how their
love Express they? by looks only? or do they mix
Irradiance, virtual or immediate touch?
To whom the Angel, with a smile that glowed
Celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue,
Answered. Let it suffice thee that thou knowest
Us happy, and without love no happiness.
Whatever pure thou in the body enjoyest,
(And pure thou wert created) we enjoy In eminence; and obstacle find none
Of membrane, joint, or limb, exclusive bars;
Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace,
Total they mix, union of pure with pure
Desiring, nor restrained conveyance need,
As flesh to mix with flesh, or soul with soul.”
   [VIII, 615–29]

That sounds awesome!

What to Skip: You can skip the background of the demons (I, 397–521) and what the devils did in Hell while Satan was gone (II, 514, 618). Then begin but skim through God and Jesus’ conversation after the famous “Sufficient to have stood, but free to fall” (III, 99) up to 344. Finally, one can stop for good at XI, 354, as the rest is just stories from the Bible prophesied to Adam. Those we know.