Showing posts with label john milton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label john milton. Show all posts

23 May 2024

William Wordsworth and the Power of a Peculiar Eye

William Wordsworth and 
his green-tinted spectacles [1]
 
'With an inflamed eye, and joy in our hearts, we see into the life of things ...'
 
 
I. 
 
I didn't know, until Chloe told me, that Wordsworth had trouble with his eyes and that his poetic vision was to some extent shaped by the peculiarities of his physical vision:  

"Whether the visible world projected itself more sharply, richly, insistently, upon the eye of Wordsworth than upon that of Dante, Milton, Keats, or Shelley, we cannot know; but from what he tells us we do know that his visual impressions were of a very special intensity, and such as come to few beholders on this earth." [2]
 
In other words, it seems that due to the corruption of an organic function by disease - which not only made him unusually sensitive to light, but left him at times almost unable to see - Wordsworth was able to produce an imaginative body of work of unusual beauty.
 
Of course, having trouble with one's eyes and living in fear of blindness, is not fun; nor does it always have a positive effect on one's work. And I speak here from personal experience; there are times when I am unable to either read or write due to acute eyestrain and impaired vision. 
 
 
II.    
 
Wordsworth first began to have trouble with his eyes in January 1805, when trachoma caused an inflammation of his eyelids [3]. Five years later, first in the summer and then in the winter of 1810, he suffered two further outbreaks of the infection. 
 
Luckily, things cleared up - though it's worth keeping in mind there were no modern drugs or antibiotics available at this time (people relied on various folk remedies - such as holding a blue gemstone to the eyes). 
 
In 1820, however, the problem returned and Wordsworth genuinely worried he would go blind like his hero, Milton [4]. However, this did at least focus his attention and encouraged him to get a move on with the publication of his poetry. 
 
As attacks became more frequent and severe, he started to wear green tinted eye-glasses [5] to protect his eyes from bright light and any dust that might blow in his face. 
 
This seemed to do the trick, as things again improved and it wasn't until 1833 that one of his eyes - not just the lid - became infected; a far more serious concern, that rightly left him feeling extremely anxious about the darkness to come. News of this even made the papers of the time - obliging Wordsworth to issue a press release denying the false claim he had gone blind. 

His family were, arguably, not quite as understanding as they might have been: 
 
"A letter dated December 29th 1834 from William's nephew, Chris, to his father (William's brother) reads: 'My Uncle's eyes are … much better, indeed they would be quite well, if he did not write verses: but this he will do; and therefore it is extremely difficult to prevent him from ruining his eyesight'." [6]
 
Six years later, even his wife Mary was writing that "'tho' he labours in constant fear of his eyes and complains of discomfort from them - yet in reality he has had very little suffering'" [7]

I have to say, I find this apparent lack of sympathy from his nearest and dearest all a bit troubling; even if the inflammation of his eyelids wasn't quite as serious as he thought, his fear of blindness and physical discomfort was surely genuine. 

Even more shocking - to me at least - is the fact that the commentator who quotes these letters concludes his (otherwise informative) piece on Wordsworth and his ocular issues with this dismissive (almost sneering) remark.
 
"Mary's comment in 1840 acts, I think, as a caution as we assess the severity of Wordsworth's eye trouble. While Wordsworth suffered from a very real affliction, his wife's remark tells us that maybe it was not always as severe as the poet made out. This could be expected from a man of artistic temperament who was also very anxious about his illness." [8]    
 
 
Notes
 
[1] The glasses are on display at Wordsworth's home in the Lake District, Dove Cottage (Grasmere). For details, visit the Wordsworth Trust website: click here.  
 
[2] Marian Mead, 'Wordsworth's Eye', PMLA, Vol. 34, No. 2 (1919), pp. 202-224. Click here for open access on JSTOR.
 
[3] Trachoma is an infectious disease caused by a bacterium. It damages the inner surface of the eyelids and can lead to pain and even permanent blindness if left untreated and one is unfortunate enough to experience repeated infections. Although it is often categorised as a neglected tropical disease, it is known to infect tens of millions of people in developing regions and is a recognised public health issue in over forty countries.    
 
[4] John Milton had become totally blind in both eyes by 1652 (i.e., fifteen years before the first publication of Paradise Lost). The cause of his blindness is debated, but bilateral retinal detachment or glaucoma seem to be the most likely explanations. His sightlessness forced him to dictate his verse and prose to secretarial assistants (amanuenses) who transcribed the work for him.  
 
[5] Again, without wanting to make this all about me, I sympathise here; following surgery on my right eye to restore vision following damage to my cornea (probably as the result of an ealier infection), I had to wear similarly shaded glasses for several months. Luckily, this was during the punk period in the late 1970s, so they didn't attract too much attention; people thought I was just another teenage poser.
 
[6] This letter is quoted by Philip Harper, in 'William Wordsworth's glasses and the lifelong struggle with his eyesight', on the always interesting website Museum Crush: click here
 
[7] Ibid.

[8] Ibid.
 
 
This post is for that phantom of delight, Chloe Rose Campbell.


1 Apr 2024

Thy Teeth Shall Not Do Him Violence, Nor Thy Bowels Contain His Glorious Body!

 
Juan de Juanes:  
Christ the Saviour with the Eucharist (1545-1550)
 
And after he had given thanks, Jesus broke the bread, and said: 
'Take, eat! This is my body, which is broken for you ...' [1]


I. 
 
Just for the record, I am not now and nor have I ever been a member of the Christian Church and so Holy Communion (or Mass) is not something I have personal experience or knowledge of. Thus, the question surrounding what happens to the sacremental bread (or host) once it has been consecrated and consumed as the body of Christ, is not really a great concern to me. 
 
However, for those who take these matters very seriously indeed and believe the miraculous teaching of transubstantiation - which is central to the Eucharist - to be literally true and not merely a symbolic act, the suggestion that Christ's holy flesh might have an excremental fate is problematic to say the least and has been the topic of fierce theological and philosophical debate going back many centuries.
 
 
II. 
 
Following the widespread religious, cultural, and social upeaval triggered by the Reformation, this really rather odd debate became heated once more and 17th-century English poet John Milton was particulary horrified by the thought that Christ could be eaten and subject to the natural processes of digestion:
 
"The Mass brings down Christ's holy body from its supreme exaltation at the right hand of God. It drags it back to the earth, though it has suffered every pain and hardship already, to a state of humiliation even more wretched and degrading than before: to be broken once more and crushed to the ground, even by the fangs of brutes. Then, when it has been driven through all the stomach's filthy channels, it shoots it out - one shudders even to mention it - into the latrine." [2]  

This passage not only exposes Milton's coprophobia, but makes his opposition to what is known as stercoranism equally clear.
 
For outraged Puritans like Milton, the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation simply could not be true as this would not only mean that Mass is a form of cannibalism and utterly alien to reason - which is bad enough - but that it results in something so repulsive as to be blasphemous: Christ's flesh turned to shit.  
 
 
III. 
 
Whilst early Church theologians were prepared to accept that the sacramental elements of Christ's body were digested and excreted, later Catholic thinkers did what they could to repudiate this idea; declaring, for example, that whilst Christ is indeed present in the consecrated bread and wine, that is only before they are consumed and lose their appearance.   
 
In other words, when  the sacramental forms of bread and wine are changed, the substantial presence of Christ ceases to be. 

Despite this attempt to reassure, however, still the fear of stercoranism persisted, although, for me, it's a positively healthy thing to recognise that the holy spirit returns at last to that from which it arises; i.e., base matter. 
 
For whilst the marrying of shit and divinity may cause horror in the minds of some, there are compelling philosophical reasons eschatology should always include a scatological component and that's why what might otherwise seem to be an arcane (and insane) discussion over the status of the bread and wine used in the mass is still vital.    
 
Ultimately, we all unite in shit even if we do not all cleave together in the body of Christ. And that's what Holy Communion teaches us: paradise is regained in death; a festive return to the actual, as Nietzsche describes it [3].   
 
 
Notes
 
[1] First Epistle to the Corinthians 11: 24.
 
[2] John Milton, Complete Poetry and Essential Prose, ed. William Kerrigan, John Peter Rumrich, and Stephen M. Fallon (Modern Library, 2007), p. 1290. 
      Despite what Milton warns here and elsewhere in his prose writings about worshipping a wafer and cannibalising the body of Christ, communion is given prominence in Paradise Lost (1667) and an astonishing vision of transubstantiation on a cosmic scale is imagined. Push comes to shove, I prefer the playful poet over the angry puritan reformer.
      Readers interested in this topic might like to see the excellent essay by Regina M. Schwartz, 'Real Hunger: Milton's Vision of the Eucharist', in Religion & Literature, Vol. 31, No. 3 (Autumn, 1999), pp. 1-17. The essay is conveniently availble on JSTOR: click here
 
[3] See Nietzsche, Kritische Studienausgabe, Volume 9, 11 [70], where, in a note written in 1881, he says that we shouldn't think of our return to the realm of inanimate matter (the 'dead world') as a regression, but, rather, as a joyous form of reconciliation with what is actual. 
 

10 Apr 2020

Sympathy for the Devil: Notes on D. H. Lawrence's Luciferianism (Easter with the Anti-Christ 2020)

William Blake: Satan in his Original Glory (c. 1805)
Ink and watercolour on paper (429 x 339 mm)


"Remember I think Christ was profoundly, disastrously wrong." [1]

"Jesus becomes more unsympatisch to me, the longer I live: crosses and nails and tears and all that stuff! I think he showed us into a nice cul de sac." [2]

"Yes, I am all for Lucifer, who is really the Morning Star. The real principle of Evil is not anti-Christ or anti-Jehovah, but anti-life. I agree with you, in a sense, that I am with the antichrist. Only I am not anti-life." [3]


These three brief extracts from Lawrence's letters, written between January 1925 and June 1929, reveal much about his relationship to Christianity; a relationship which became increasingly marked by hostility to the Nazarene on the one hand and sympathy for the Devil on the other. 

I'm not sure Lawrence would ever have gone as far as Nietzsche in characterising Christianity as the "extremest thinkable form of corruption" and the one "immortal blemish of mankind" [4], but he certainly positions himself like the latter as versus the Crucified and takes up Nietzsche's project of revaluation in poems such as 'When Satan Fell'; a lovely postromantic text, reminiscent of Milton and Blake, which makes perfect reading for an Easter beyond good and evil [5] ... 


When Satan fell, he only fell
because the Lord Almighty rose a bit too high,
a bit beyond himself.

So Satan only fell to keep a balance.

"Are you so lofty, O my God?
Are you so pure and lofty, up aloft?
Then I will fall, and plant the paths to hell
with vines and poppies and fig-trees
so that lost souls may eat grapes
and the moist fig
and put scarlet buds in their hair on the way to hell,
on the way to dark perdition."

And hell and heaven are the scales of the balance of life
which swing against each other. [6]


Notes

[1] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. V, ed James T. Boulton and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 1989), letter number 3343, [26 January 1925], p. 205. 

[2] Ibid., letter number 3516, [26 October 1925], p. 322.

[3] D. H. Lawrence, The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VII, ed. Keith Sagar and James T. Boulton, letter number 5140, (12 June, 1929), pp. 331-32. 

[4] Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ, trans. R. J. Hollingdale, (Penguin Books, 1990), section 62, pp. 196-97.

[5] It's important to note that when Lawrence writes of Lucifer (or Satan), he does so without subscribing to the Christian belief that, post fall, he became the enemy of mankind and the source of all evil in the world. As the last lines of the above verse make clear, for Lawrence, heaven and hell are both vital states of human experience necessary for 'the balance of life' and should not be given a simplistic moral interpretation.  

[6] D. H. Lawrence, 'When Satan Fell', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 624.

Readers might be interested in a sister post to this one, on D. H. Lawrence and the poetry of evil: click here.

For the 2013 version of Easter with the Anti-Christ, click here.

For the 2019 version of Easter with the Anti-Christ, click here