What Can I Say? It’s Good!

After reading Paradise Lost (this was my third time), what can I say? 

I can say that I don't think Milton was right to say that the evil spirits felt cause to stick together. My criticism is not that I think he makes the demons too good or noble. It is a common observation that Milton makes Satan and the fallen angels too sympathetic. I disagree; the demons are despicable. I think that their acknowledgement that their new situation isn’t as pleasant as Heaven and their struggle to convince themselves that they should have no regrets is interesting and powerful and shows that each demon is dedicated to himself and his own comfort better than any presentation of them as mad monsters would. No, my criticism is based on the philosophy that the evil spirits have no purpose to hold to in unity. Evil is not a thing, so there is no principal to bind them. 

I can say that the footnotes in the Oxford edition drove me nuts. It's so hard not to look, but I don't need the editor to tell me that “discovered” can mean “revealed.” I tried for a while to tell myself to quell my discomfort by remembering that maybe some people really need these notes. But then I thought how much better it was for me, in my several decades of reading English from the 14th through the 19th centuries, just to learn these old words and old meanings by context. I sometimes look up words in glossaries and dictionaries, of course. But I usually choose editions that allow me to decide when to do that instead of one that has constant reminders of explanatory footnotes conveniently placed at the bottom of the page. If I read the note and then try to remember the equation “this old word means that thing,” I usually don’t remember because that information is disconnected and, in my mind, arbitrary. Much better just to learn to read these usages in context. I’ve read so many times that Adam or Lancelot or Mr. Pickwick was loath to do something that I have no trouble remembering what the archaic word means. I wouldn’t probably remember if I just tried to memorize a definition from a glossary.

I could say that I wish, when I was teaching literature to home-school students a few years ago, I had had them read book V instead of book IV. I thought I would entice them to read more of the poem if I left them with the cliffhanger of Satan seeing Adam for the first time and then formulating his plan of attack. But I think these kids at the Christian co-op probably would have liked the idyllic scenes of Eden before the Fall better.

Well, I can say those things. But what good does it do for me to say that Paradise Lost is good? If you’ve read it, you know it’s good. If you haven’t read it, you probably already have a notion that it must be good in some way or else it wouldn’t be a famous classic. So I’ll just let Milton show you how good his epic is. Here’s Adam’s morning prayer (book V, lines 153 ff.):

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almightie, thine this universal Frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens
To us invisible or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works, yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine:
Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light,
Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, Day without Night,
Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav’n,
On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare
While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime.
Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule,
Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st,
And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst.
Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli’st
With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies,
And yee five other wandring Fires that move
In mystic Dance not without Song, resound
His praise, who out of Darkness call’d up Light.
Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth
Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceasless change
Varie to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise
From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey,
Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold,
In honour to the Worlds great Author rise,
Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie,
Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.
His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow,
Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave.
Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise;
Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk
The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven,
To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade
Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise.
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us onely good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil or conceald,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.