Finished March 2nd
Paradise Lost by John Milton
Even more than with most literary works, it's impossible to come to Paradise Lost without preconceived opinions. The epic has influenced our culture for hundreds of years and was once one of the most universally read texts in the English-speaking world. It's popularity has declined, but perhaps its intimidating stature has increased as its readership has lessened. More importantly, the story of PL is one derived from the best selling book of all time. The Bible has influenced the world in countless ways, both good and ill. Whatever your beliefs, you have heard something of the Genesis account and have been influenced in some way by interpretations of it.
I came to PL with great expectations. Growing up Seventh-day Adventist, the stories of the creation and fall of man were portrayed as undeniable verities. Especially central and unique to Adventism is background information on the fall of Lucifer and the plan of redemption framed "from the foundations of the world".
Certainly the Bible contains a sketchy account of who Lucifer was, how he fell and the war in heaven. But two authors have given greater details, not obvious in the Biblical account. These authors are Ellen White and John Milton and their accounts bear striking resemblances. Indeed, Adventist author Ellen G. White has been accused of copying ideas from the epic. It is not my purpose here to decide among the various options, whether Mrs. White purloined Milton, was merely influenced by the prevalence of his ideas in Protestant consciousness or whether both were Divinely inspired in their accounts.
All this serves to explain why I read Milton with more credulity than is typical to do today. I would agree that Milton's Satan is charismatic, but I failed to see Milton's God as so arbitrary as He is typically viewed. My emotions and my reason were preset to agree with the passages presenting God as just, merciful, omnipotent, wise and victorious.
Precisely because I came to Milton with sympathy and could almost view him as he viewed himself, in a prophetic role, our points of divergence jarred me. It was harder to view them strictly as literary ideas to be examined in a detached manner. It is true that Milton is a powerful and intimidating writer to almost all readers, but to me he was a threatening one because I agreed with him so frequently. (In his pious tendencies, that is. I know that revolution foments beneath his godly exterior, and, yes, I know Blake's theories on Milton's sympathy with the devil.)
One of the first things I questioned was Milton's view on the Holy Spirit. There are great shadows of heresy lurking there. First I thought it was in viewing the Holy Spirit as a mere impersonal force or essence proceeding from God; but I was greatly disturbed, later into the poem, to discover that his muse, who is described in language evoking the Holy Spirit, has female attributes. (John Rogers' exploration of the maternal and hermaphroditic language used in the beginning passages deepened my unease almost into horror. The language I had first thought an incomparably beautiful prayer to the third-person of the godhead is intensely, shockingly unorthodox.)
Secondly, Milton, while exalting Christ as Warrior, Savior and King, seems to have taints of heresy in his christology as well. I think Milton's Christ was a created being, raised to rulership (and perhaps godhood) by the Father (who in this act appears inexplicable and arbitrary). Loving the Christ revealed in the New Testament seems to me the key to rooting for the inaccessible God when reading the epic. Whether or not Milton intended us to identify the Son with Jesus from the NT is unclear. As ever, the reader's interpretation reveals more of himself than of the text.
Yet these theological matters, although disturbing theologically, are fascinating . But Milton's authoritarian voice thrusts something worse onto my perspective with undismissible rancor. It's something I knew before was in his work and I could easily dismiss or laugh at in Samson Agonistes. But I fear a feminist can't ignore Milton's misogyny in PL. Ah, perhaps Virginia Woolf herself has raised its stature through her own attempt to see past “Milton's bogey” in A Room of One's Own. But the misogyny is there. Perhaps it's even there in the Bible and Milton articulates it more horribly. Perhaps I should proceed to ignore it and view PL as a great and fascinating work of literature and stop looking at it so religiously. And perhaps, merely because this is the great, incomparable Milton saying such things it's impossible to ignore. Ugh, that's depressing. I think I need Milton's Satan to rescue me from the arbitrary, patriarchal, blind revolutionary who made him so famous while ostensibly condemning him to obloquy.
My problem in reading Paradise Lost is well stated by John Rogers in the end of his 12th Yale lecture on Milton. "If Milton is right that he was inspired by God to write this poem, then the body of this epic really is very much like the angelic body - it is infused in every part (and we have to believe that it is infused) with the spirit of God and it is nothing less than all heart, all intellect and all sense."
Finished on January 31
The Sound And The Fury by William Faulkner
(This post consists of several paragraphs, written at different times, some on the Literature Network Forums, as I formed my thoughts on this incredible novel. This accounts for any repetitiveness in the thoughts presented.)
I first became interested in reading Faulkner when I read his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. Of course that speech talks about the endurance of man's spirit, but the connection is not at first apparent when reading TSATF. TSATF is about degeneration, stagnation and characters flawed to the point of tragedy. But perhaps in acknowledging these problems, Faulkner makes the strongest case for what is great and good. By displaying the dysfunctional family, he argues for love. He must sympathize with even his most degenerate characters, and show that they have reasons for what they are, that man is not naturally evil and the process by which he degenerates. Of course, Faulkner also vindicates the “underdogs” - Benjy, Caddy and Dilsey.
The fact that the book displays cruelty and degeneration does not necessarily mean it can not have uplifting principles and purpose. Unless, perhaps, we are teaching very young children, it is dishonest to display good as always (apparently) triumphing, or otherwise to display life with a rosy hue. There is tremendous selfishness and pain in this world, and one can not make an argument for the immortality of good while ignoring this. One must somehow show that virtue will triumph, even when apparently trodden down.
Perhaps, too, in learning to “grieve on universal bones” the first step towards being uplifted is taken. We have to know what these universals truths and verities are, and we have to deeply grieve for them, and in so doing deny stoicism or nihilism about their loss. Once we have grieved for them, then they can become dear to us and we can seek their triumph. An apparent defeat is often the rebirth of a cause.
In TSATF, Dilsey, although she never receives her due respect from the Compsons, is the one who “endured”, probably because she is one of the most unselfish characters. Maybe I'm wanting it to be so, but the final chapter feels like a vindication of religion and mercy. Perhaps it's a plea for decency of the heart, not merely outward pride, in our relations with each other and with ourselves. I've also read that Benjy's wild cries, in the final chapter, when the wrong way is taken could be significant to the theme...
Jack of Hearts on the Literature Network Forums responded to my confused ramblings thus:
The way a person interprets literature is revealing of the values and perspectives that person holds. Our understanding is a reflection of ourselves and (normative statement warning) infinitely valuable to reflect upon.
Perhaps one of the greater elements of Faulkner's work is it feeds no morality in any objective effort. It's up to a reader to fill that gap, and (blatant personal 'tell' warning) could there be anything more reflective of life itself?
And I replied thus:
I think that you're probably largely right here. My problem in seeing the book as a mirror is that it renders it amoral. As a mirror to the thoughts and intents of the heart, it can be used by a wise person to probe themselves, which might lead to change, but the book is not inherently uplifting. It doesn't have any power, apart from a faithful account of humanity, which only a few will be wise enough to rightly understand and apply to themselves and which even fewer will be changed by. It's still amoral, and I don't know if that fits into Faulkner's description or not. Perhaps I too much underestimate the power of a mirror. And, perhaps too, I'm placing too much bearing upon the sentiments expressed in the speech and should simply take the novel for its glory of narrative and art.
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