I've come out of hiding to wish Milton a happy 401st birthday.

I'd been meaning to update on my Milton-related activities, but I've been somewhat despondent about the Milton world. I'll try to perk up and start posting again.

'Cause teacher, there are things / That I don't want to learn

In an ideal universe, Gregory Bredbeck would have titled his essay about Milton's Ganymede & homoeroticism in Paradise Regained "Don't Let the Son Go Down on Me."

On the bandwagon

Hey Milton, I'mma let you finish, but Du Bartas...

Never mind.

Milton on Health Care

Back in January, Miltonista rambled about the passage in Book XI in which Adam sees all manner of horrible illness. Since then, I've thought occasionally about the exchange that ensues. Adam grants it just that we should all suffer for debasing God's image, but ventures to ask if there might not be a better way to die. 

There is, said Michael, if thou well observe
The rule of not too much, by temperance taught
In what thou eat'st and drink'st, seeking from thence
Due nourishment, not gluttonous delight,
Till many years over thy head return:
So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop 
Into thy mother's lap, or be with ease

Gathered, not harshly plucked, for death mature . . . .

This strikes me as a little too similar to John Mackey's libertarian/personal-responsibility bullshit. These lines really baffle me. They'd be inexplicable enough if they had been written by any poet with enough world experience to know this isn't how things work, but they come from a supremely temperate man who nonetheless turned blind and gouty. Are these lines bitterly ironic (another case of angels just not quite getting what it's like to be human)? A manifestation of the sheer force of ideology? Both?

Hubbub strange

I hear through the grapevine about an upcoming talk that asks if Jesus is a terrorist in Paradise Regained. I'm guessing the paper will actually start by acknowledging the silliness of the title (standing up on top of a building is not the same as...) and go on to say reasonable things. But I'm really hoping that the titles of Milton papers and talks start to sound less and less like things shouted at town hall meetings.

Or else! I swear to God the Almighty Terrorist that I'll win this game of one-upmanship. You can expect papers like "Was Milton of Hitler's Party Without Knowing It? Early Modern Republicanism and the Rise of National Socialism"; "Milton and the Hartlib Circle Jerk: Scattering the Seed of Republican Virtue"; "Pro-Choice Milton: Plunging Into that Abortive Gulf." And so on.

Why I read Milton the way I do (maybe)

It struck me, randomly, that I've never actually shared this info with anybody, and I thought this would be the fitting venue.

When I was in high school, I became a devout evangelical and biblical literalist. I had identified myself as Christian since attending a small parochial school from kindergarten to grade five, but my latter conversion was somewhat peculiar--a combination of Christian radio and self-motivated reading of the Bible. (I would go on to read it cover-to-cover six times. I have to confess, though, that without much scholarly or editorial apparatus, this doesn't lead to very comprehensive knowledge. A big part of the problem is the ordering of books in the Christian/Protestant Bible.)

But this much people know about. What I haven't shared is that, early on in these studies, I rejected Trinitarian doctrine. And for a simple reason: the New Testament doesn't really say a whole lot to support it. 

Once I wanted to join a religious community, though, it became clear that my views were heretical. And so I caved by coaxing and convincing myself that, yes, Father, Son, Holy Ghost were three distinct persons but one God. But doubts persisted for a long while.

NB: Miltonista now considers himself something like an anti-theist; he believes that even if there were a God, ample empirical evidence exists that that God would likely be incompetent and/or a jerk, not someone worth getting to know.

Milton Metal

Recently watching Anvil!, a documentary about a Canadian metal band who never made it big, confirmed something I've thought for years. The biggest omission in the volume on Milton in Popular Culture--and maybe in all of the tedious brouhaha over whether/why Milton is still culturally relevant--is metal. Check out the lyrics from Anvil's "666":

I'd rather be a king below than a servant above
I'd rather be free and hate than a prisoner of love
You heard my warning but you didn't, didn't, didn't learn.

The thread of cultural influence would be interesting to follow (Milton-->Blake-->[???]--->death metal-->Trapper Keeper designers, etc.).

N.B.: I cut-and-pasted the lyrics from a youtube comment; I make no claims of accuracy.

Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air

Forthwith up to the clouds

With him I flew, and underneath beheld
The earth outstretched immense, a prospect wide
And various: wond'ring at my flight and change
To this high exaltation.

- PL 5.86-90

I'm posting this entry in the middle of a transcontinental flight, thanks to a free trial run of on-board WiFi. Looking out the window gives me access to a sight that Milton could only have imagined, that Eve could only experience as a sinful dream of prophetic wish-fulfillment.

This--the idea that technology enables what previous generations could only imagine--is banal stuff, but it reminds me of an idea that's been implanted in my head for a while. Implanted in my head since I heard two talks: the first about science fiction and globalization, the second about mapping in the early modern world. For me, what united these two talks was a question of tropes and metaphors in their relation to technology. Science fiction, according to the first talk, does something new with poetic language by providing a new way to literalize tropes. I asked this speaker what, precisely, the difference is between an Elizabethan poet describing his lover's cheek as roses and a science fiction writer describing a beautiful cyborg constructed with actual rose petals in its face. I realized later that the answer has something to do with belief and time: the Elizabethan poet never expects the reader to believe roses can actually be in cheeks; the reader of science fiction can believe that in the future it might be possible to construct a rosy-cheeked cyborg. As I listened to the second talk, weeks later, I realized that this kind of shift helps us to account for the Renaissance trope of mapping--a trope that oscillates rapidly between fiction, present fact, and future possibility.

I wonder if technology is the missing component of, say, de Man's famous discussion of allegory versus symbol.

Know to know no more

In recent weeks, Miltonista has submitted a rather zany abstract for a conference, and has drafted his talk for the 2009 Conference on John Milton in Murfreesboro, TN (hereafter called MuRFBRo2k9). When I first started this blog, I thought it'd be a fun place to share random ideas; I'd especially like to get feedback on the abstract since I haven't actually written the paper yet (and am not sure what I'm going to say). But the pressure to preserve my anonymity compels silence. In the future, I'll have to figure out more ways to say substantive things without blowing my cover.

Such are the courts of God

Upon watching the Lakers trounce the Nuggets in game six of the NBA Western Conference Finals, I recalled Stanley Fish blogging about his love of basketball a while back. This got me thinking: the Miltonists should organize a basketball tournament in Murfreesboro. 

And if there's one thing that basketball needs more of, it's intergenerational, quasi-Oedipal strife. I propose a game of the under-forties taking on the over-forties. Chippy youth and speed v. experienced wiliness and gravitas! Potential matchups:

Point guard

Su Fang Ng v. John Rogers

Rogers probably flows on the court as smoothly as William Harvey's circulatory system (sorry, I tried), but I bet Ng taught Blake Griffin at OU.

Advantage: Ng

Shooting guard

Anthony Welch v. Annabel Patterson

Welch is guaranteed to be a scrappy contender, but Patterson could make anybody miss a basket with the mere force of stern disapproval. And if that doesn't work, an elbow to the ribs.

Advantage: Patterson

Small forward

Tom Fulton v. Stephen Fallon

I'm guessing Fulton has a silky-smooth mid-range jump shot. But on the court, Fallon is free to reveal the bilious spleen that lies under those piercing eyes and heart of gold.

Advantage: Fallon

Power forward

Daniel Shore v. Tom Corns

Shore already has a Hanford award under his belt. Corns could crash the boards, but do they even play basketball in Bangor?

Advantage: Shore

Center

Feisal Mohamed v. Paul Stevens

The paint will be dominated by the Canadian towers. Stevens brings his military training to the court, but I'll put my money on Mohamed's baby hook. He's also the Miltonist most likely to be able to dunk. (If we play with a nine-foot rim.)

Advantage: Mohamed

Coach

Jeffrey Shoulson v. Jason Rosenblatt

Oh no, I didn't! But c'mon--compared to amassing an encyclopedic knowledge of the Talmud and Midrash, drawing up some basketball play's gotta be a breeze. But Rosenblatt gains the edge with his administrative experience as department chair.

Advantage: Rosenblatt

Final prediction: the kids win by 6.

In me is no delay (Sike! [sic])

I can't believe it's been over a month since I last posted. (It's less difficult to believe that what I last posted was stupid.) There's a reason, or at least an excuse, for my silence: I've been in a kind of limbo state between one accomplishment (quasi-finished revision of a chapter that turned into two chapters) and another (need to rewrite the last main chapter of my dissertation-turned manuscript). A generous observer would say that I've been letting ideas percolate; another might describe me as having been a waste of time/space.

Baby steps: I submitted a proposal to an MLA panel based on an idea about Paradise Lost and Oroonoko I've harbored for quite a while. My proposal was rejected, but I remain convinced that the basic premise is sound and original. I hope to churn out an essay sooner rather than later. I'm currently working on another conference abstract. This one I'll post here once I complete a rough draft--it's so weird and idiosyncratic that I don't think anyone could make enough sense of it to steal it.

For now, though, I transcribe what is one of the meatiest, wittiest (yes, meaty and witty!) sentences I've read in a long time. From James Nohrnberg, "Paradise Regained by One Greater Man": "The reflection of bodily well-being and whole-being in the cognate flesh of the mother calls the ego to the periphery of a diffuse romance pleasance; the outlines of the object call into being the coddled or self-boiled entity of the ego as body and subject."

It's the "coddled or self-boiled" part that kills me.

Is there an "Ass" brand of cellular phones?

Miltonista recognizes the deadly capabilities of this product.

Long choosing, and beginning late

Miltonista has recently entered a low-level panic about his book project (which is not necessarily a bad thing, since low-level panics tend to be pretty productive). I just discovered that a rather senior Miltonist is working on (most likely putting the finishing touches on) a book that'll cover a lot of the same ground as my project. And I'm guessing he has a contract already.

I have one more chapter to write/re-write; it's time for some less-than-casual intellectual fruition.

I upon my frontiers here / Keep residence

The grand narrative of irrepressible chaos is illustrated by very mundane examples. Miltonista lives by himself in a one-bedroom apartment. How is it that unless I perform various forms of cleaning (dishes, vacuuming, marking off boundaries with golden compasses, &tc.) every day, disgusting upheavals quickly ensue?

Two (Miltonic?) dilemmas

For the last couple of years, Miltonista has felt like he's been going through some sort of transition from young to full-blown adulthood--a second, less physiologically dramatic puberty. This transition has been marked by two rather banal but nonetheless acute problems. As a narcissistic reader, I can't help but think these are somehow Miltonic problems*.

1. I'm intensely social (I grew up as a latchkey only child, so I think I've spent enough time alone for a lifetime already), but I increasingly find the great majority of people intolerable, their conversation maddeningly inane or worse. Five, six, seven years ago, I was far more tolerant, willing to hang out with people whose company I didn't necessarily enjoy all that much just for the sake of socializing. I still succumb to this impulse now and then, but I've discovered that I tend more or less to shut down when I'm surrounded by people I'd rather not be around.

This is clearly related to my second dilemma.

2. I admire generous thinkers--people who really have a knack for seeing how others think. Despite his eccentric and deeply ingrained mode of thought, my advisor is just such a generous thinker. I've come to believe that he can, more or less, anticipate how I'll react to a certain text or idea; even though he doesn't really agree with me on fundamental points, he's come to see how I think and even to value some of the outcomes. Unfortunately, I find generosity of mind a struggle to maintain. I'm not necessarily a dogmatist--methodologically, for example, I'm mostly an ad hoc poacher--but I find it increasingly difficult to accommodate positions and perspectives that are opposed to my own (unless they happen to be articulated so brilliantly that they blow mine out of the water).

Maybe all of this merely means that I'm growing into the sad, tired role of cranky elitist. Let's just hope I don't go blind.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

* - In the case of #2 above, for example, Milton is the capacious thinker who believed in the benefit of disagreement (Truth as Osiris, etc.) and could cherish the intellectual camaraderie of Roman Catholics on the Continent. He's also a petulant, dismissive polemicist. The trick, I suppose, is figuring out what the relationship between these two habits really are: youth vs. age, two sides of the same dialectical coin, occasional strategies, etc.

RIP

I just learned today of Al Labriola's passing earlier this week. As a relative newcomer to the Milton world, I didn't know Al well, but I benefited from his meticulous dedication. I was a grad student when I submitted a chapter of my dissertation to Milton Studies, and I was thrilled when I received a revise & resubmit request. Since I'd done a lot of cutting and had a bigger chapter to draw from, I revised quickly and sent off a new draft. This began a protracted back-and-forth over the next few weeks: Al personally read each draft I prepared and suggested new revisions. I think this happened about six times, and he always got my drafts back to me in a matter of days. I'm sure he was exasperated by me--in fact, at one point, he suggested I slow down and take some more time with my revisions. On my end, I was baffled that an editor would take so much time, but it also dawned on me how much care he was putting into the journal and into my work; a less patient editor wouldn't have invested so much time into making sure a grad student's work would make it into print.

I got to meet Al in person at the first Milton Society Dinner I attended. Anyone who's ever been will know how much care he put into such events, and how much calm pleasure he took in them. Al was a gatekeeper into the Milton community. Fortunately for anxious up-and-comers like me, he played the role with generosity and genuine thoughtfulness.

Call me Goosequill

Miltonista recently picked up a used copy of Peter Ackroyd's Milton in America and starting reading it on the airplane. Shameful that it took me so long, I know, and even more so because it's quite interesting (to use a completely banal word so I can reserve actual judgment).

Interesting enough, in fact, that I started thinking about the kind of engagement that Ackroyd must have with Milton's writings--with Milton himself--and wondering how it might be similar to and different from my own. To be more frank: I started thinking about the deficiencies in my kind of practice as a professional (chortle) reader. Perhaps my thoughts have been influenced in part by Derrida's Archive Fever, which I've also been reading lately (very slowly, even though it's a thin book). That book, more than any other, has shown why and to what end the language of specters and haunting (which I've tended to find trite and unnecessary) persist. I think I've hit a point in my dissertation-turning-into-manuscript where I feel like I want to have a monologue with Milton, like Yerushalmi's with Freud. 

I suspect that I should, just as a heuristic exercise, try something like what Ackroyd has done. But I'm not sure, at this juncture in literary studies, at this juncture in my own intellectual development, how to conduct that particular seance. 

Ingrate!

Miltonista has been trying to bone up on Spenser scholarship*. (Fret not, reader--I'll never become a Spenserista, no matter how hard I try. I just don't think that way.) I've been learning a good bit, but this is by far my favorite snippet of information, from the Acknowledgements page of Andrew Hadfield's Spenser's Irish Experience:

This book was originally conceived as a D. Phil thesis at the University of Ulster, Coleraine, supervised by Professor Robert Welch, 'a loose, baggy, monster' . . . . 

Now that's just rude.**

- - - 

* - I have assiduously avoided quoting that thing Milton says about Spenser vis-a-vis Aquinas and Scotus.

** - Yes, yes, if you keep reading the sentence you learn that Hadfield is talking about his thesis, not Welch. And I'm sure this has been pointed out to him since.

Buy your own damn fries

Click on this link. If you haven't witnessed this before, you'll thank me.

I suppose I could make some feeble attempt to make this post Milton-related. But I'm a bit groggy this afternoon, so I'd much rather have any of you that happen to be reading give it a shot. (Yes, this is a shameless attempt to ring up my comment count as well as a pathetic attempt to preserve the Miltonic purity of this blog.)

All Feavorous Kinds

Aside from that one time infant Miltonista's intenstines decided to digest themselves (or something like that--I've never quite gathered what happened with any clarity, but the scar remains), and from that one time college sophomore Miltonista was hospitalized for four days after contracting pneumonia as a camp counselor, I've never had anything like a near-death experience. But it doesn't take much to trigger my moribund instinct. Several years ago, I was bitten by a squirrel (probably the lesser of the two squirrel stories in my life). I was relieved when the doctors told me I didn't need a rabies shot, but for the next week or so, I thought about what it'd be like if I were the second person in the U.S. to contract rabies from a squirrel bite. (It didn't help that I vividly remembered having watched a 20/20 segment about rabies as a child. Once you start exhibiting symptoms, you're doomed.)

Recently, I've been holed up inside, suffering from nothing more exotic or exciting than the common cold. But now that I'm starting to perk up, I can muster up some resentment at having wasted my time and at having been more than a little bit uncomfortable for the last several days. My thoughts wandered to Adam's first vision of illness in Book 11:

Immediately a place
Before his eyes appeard, sad, noysom, dark,
A Lazar-house it seemd, wherein were laid
Numbers of all diseas'd, all maladies
Of gastly Spasm, or racking torture, qualmes
Of heart-sick Agonie, all feavorous kinds,
Convulsions, Epilepsies, fierce Catarrhs,
Intestin Stone and Ulcer, Colic pangs,
Dæmoniac Phrenzie, moaping Melancholie
And Moon-struck madness, pining Atrophie
Marasmus and wide-wasting Pestilence,
Dropsies, and Asthma's, and Joint-racking Rheums.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans, despair
Tended the sick busiest from Couch to Couch;
And over them triumphant Death his Dart
Shook, but delaid to strike, though oft invokt
With vows, as thir chief good, and final hope.

When I was teaching my Milton course last semester, I was startled by these lines--I had never noticed before how the gross bodily nature of the descriptions churn with a vitality that might even exceed some of the descriptions of Hell but, by the same token, come close to being too laughably grotesque. I suppose I noticed these lines because I had had a bit of an accident over the summer--nothing, ultimately, that was too catastrophic, but was scary at the time and had put me in one of my moribund funks. I've learned that incidents like that expand my capacity for empathy, occasionally to absurd levels. And these lines become, for Adam, an occasion for empathy:

Sight so deform what heart of Rock could long
Drie-ey'd behold? Adam could not, but wept,
Though not of Woman born; compassion quell'd
His best of Man, and gave him up to tears.

These strike me as curious lines; they tow a kind of very familiar weeping-as-effeminate-weakness topos while, at least to my ear, creating the undeniable impression that this weeping is gracious and wholesome. I'd like to think that this ambivalence is at least a partial reversion of the pat formula that precedes this scene: "What miserie th' inabstinence of Eve / Shall bring on men." A little later, Michael tows the party line again when he declares that gross illness befalls those who "serve ungovern'd appetite . . . a brutish vice, / Inductive mainly to the sin of Eve."

I actually think I'd like the world better if diseases were handed out in contrapasso fashion, that my cold was produced by some mildly unruly bacchanalia. Too bad shit don't work that way.