Epic Literature Induced Breakdown 22/04/2020

I finished John Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ today. 

Even for an epic 17th century piece of literature, it has induced more breakdowns than it ought to have done. That’s even taking into consideration that my copy of the text begins with an introduction in which the first line is ‘It is futile to pretend that ‘Paradise Lost’ as a whole is easy reading’. If the very prospect of the 384 page poem didn’t already fill any mortal being with an overwhelming sense of dread, then surely that sentence itself ought to do the trick. On one evening, around book 8 I think, I was so tired from having pored over lines depicting religious expulsion and descriptions of the fire and brimstone filled fate that awaited heaven’s sinners, I didn’t even realise that tears had started to leak from my fatigued eyes. 

I don’t pretend to be a great appreciator of classic literature; I willingly admit to preferring modern trashy teen romance novels to Spencer’s ‘Faerie Queen’, or literally any of Shakespeare’s plays. That being said, when it comes to Milton, I can’t help but undergo a devastating sense of disappointment. On paper, the man himself is an incredibly fascinating figure. As a child he was both conscientious and intelligent. After leaving Cambridge University which he deplored, the poet travelled to Italy at the time of the blossoming of the renaissance, where he wrote romantic sonnets in languages more romantic than English. In Florence he met the infamous astronomer Galileo, from whom it is speculated that he derived some of his scientific, almost mechanical conveyances of the heavens in his epic poem. The likes of which lead William Blake to conjecture that perhaps Milton was a Satanist from the way he effectively civilises Satan. 

On returning to England, as an opponent to King Charle’s rule, he aided Oliver Cromwell by producing and dispensing republican propaganda, which consequently lead to his imprisonment in the Tower of London for several months as a political prisoner. He married three times, being hopelessly in love with his second wife, even writing Sonnet 19 in her memory, and was father to four children. His writing of ‘Paradise Lost’ occurred more as a dictation as he’d lost his sight by the time he got round to putting his epic ideas down on the page. The bloke could even be seen as funny as, when criticised for writing a poem that did not rhyme, he argued for the dispensability of rhyme, mocking his poetic peers whom he saw as “carried away by Custom, but much to their own vexation, hindrance, and constraint to express many things otherwise, and for the most part worst than they would have exprest them.” 

‘Paradise Lost’ itself, can be summarised as an epic poem which tells the story of the fall not only of Satan, but also of God’s creations Adam and Eve. True enough, Milton’s startling encapsulation of the burning “beds of raging fire” and depiction of Satan, whom he somehow manages to present as a figure both “inflamed with rage”, and also humanised through his internal “torment” and guilt induced search for “repentance”, promises a certain uniqueness and audacity from the poem. However, I found these pockets of artful description to be nestled within much much longer passages which were quite frankly dull and over-complicated. I say this without wanting to detract from Milton's narration. Certainly he does carry the reader through the epic poem. It's just that there's just so much of it to be carried through. 

One may find understandable then, the dissolution I felt throughout Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’. Having had not one but two semesters filled with more or less dull and tedious texts thus far, perhaps it is my fault for placing too much expectation on the poem as a final resort. Surely, I thought, a man with such an erratic life and notorious reputation, ought to be capable of writing something compelling. Something I would find myself utterly engrossed in. But thats the thing, ‘Paradise Lost’ isn’t actually as well read or even known as I’d previously given lay to. 

Comprehensively,  I think many people find that it’s just too long and overly convoluted and, at risk of sounding like a delinquent, I’m inclined to agree. I don’t even think it’s Milton’s fault, not really. By the time all of the lines were actually collated into a coherent text, the poor guy lacked the ability to be able to read it. Is it any wonder then, that he was unaware of how tiresome it is to labour over? As it transpired, I endured ‘Paradise Lost’ only by method of giving up around book 10, and picking it up a month later, having resolved to force myself to finish the last two books, a task I completed out of sheer will power. A feat which may, to many other people may seem not all that triumphant, whereas I have felt the unfinished task hanging like a sentence over my head, reminding me in malicious whispers every so often that I remained in a state of Milton-oriented Limbo. 

Paradise Lost indeed.