So Milton was a Puritan. That rattles my preconceptions a bit. The more I read and considered, the more certain I was that his “justification” of God to man was meant to be ironic. Based on studies from my American literature course, however, the Puritans were not prone to irony (nor any abstractions, for that matter). Theirs was, in general, a very practical if superstitious faith. I would guess that Milton’s intelligence set him apart as unconventional in any crowd, but that same intelligence presumably would have given him the mental freedom to renounce any religion with which he did not agree. So he was Puritan - knowledgeably, brilliantly Puritan - and his justification no clever jesting. Really, that is curious on so many levels.
The Puritans believed in an angry God, certainly: angry and powerful. That much lines up with Milton’s portrayals in the text. They also believed in the absoluteness and inherent goodness of God’s will. Is it possible that Milton was so steeped in this mindset as to think that his God needed no justification, that his very Being spoke for itself even against the humanoid and sympathetic struggles of his Arch-Enemy? I do not discount that entirely, but Milton seems to be, well, smarter than that. If God is Good and Satan is Evil and things are that simple, why go to the trouble to create such an elaborate enemy figure?
It struck me during our class discussion this Thursday that Milton’s was not the first convincing devil I had encountered in my reading. C.S. Lewis creates a similarly seductive Adversary in one of my favorite books of all time, Perelandra. Perelandra follows the story of the temptation on another world. The tempter happens to be a man (possessed eventually, but that is beside the point) from our world. To be fair, he is clearly the antagonist; there is not a moment in which we trust him. He is also human, however, and relatable if only on that account. Still, what puts me most in mind of Milton’s Satan is not his literal humanity, but the forcefulness of his argument during the days-long temptation. It impresses me every time I read it. Many Christian authors fall into the trap of contriving “evil to the core” villains whose power lies in physical superiority and whose mental stance is barely strong enough to argue, but Lewis's Weston (later known as the Un-Man) puts forth an intelligent, meaningful debate, so that were the counter-argument not typed before me I would totter as Eve herself on the brink of its temptation.
Would anything else be fair? We humans are not so dull as all that, and even the most heinous evils ever committed have generally been thought a kind of good by their perpetrators. Besides, if we are to operate from a Christian standpoint (as Milton obviously did), evil is not an entity of itself, but a mutation of good. Good may be inherent, but evil must have something to work with, some truth into which it may plant its foul seed. It could not convince us otherwise.
There has to be a sort of glory in the fall. The sin with which Lucifer was charged was pride, and the connotations of that word vary greatly. If I proud to be an American, is that wrong? What if I am proud to be a follower of Christ? If Lucifer was an angel of light, the good and perfect offspring of a good and perfect God, was he entirely outside his rights to glory in himself? This is not a black and white issue. Perhaps Milton, as a Puritan with Christian ideals, explored the idea of a truly tempting adversary as a caution to his readers, even to himself. If the only evil we fear is a devil with red horns and a leer like a seedy used-car salesman, we set ourselves up to repeat Eve's deception. Light may blind as well as darkness, if we are less wary of it.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Because Simplicity is a Fantasy
At the word "epic," I tend to think of unlikely heroes, insurmountable evil, and soaring violin crescendoes. The modern epic (usually fantasy) follows a fairly predictable format. Of course the farm boy of questionable lineage will save the world. Of course the enemy armies will far outnumber our own, and of course that will not stop us winning in the end.
There is nothing "of course" about Milton's Paradise Lost. Our unlikely hero leads the forces of insurmountable evil, except that the evil has already been conquered by greater forces of even more insurmountable good. The text is rich, maddening, and tantalizing in the questions it raises. If I could read Paradise Lost as pure story, with no religious or cultural affiliations, I know that my sympathy would lie with Satan. As it is, all that I know and have been taught rises up in protest.
I must pause here to reflect upon the difficulty of discussing these things without interjecting personal belief. As a writer, I cannot imagine writing for the sake of academic criticism. (Writing in college for a class is different; I refer to self-imposed writing.) I hope to get people questioning, not my purpose, but their own ideas. I think we have established that both Marlowe and Milton intended to send tremors through their readers' worldviews, a task they performed most capably. So how can I, human that I am, disenchant myself from their spell? How can I consider these concepts as though they were mere words on a page, and not attempts to define an unvoiceable truth?
All that aside (but not really), Milton's portrayal of good and evil shows a surprising parallel to Marlowe's. Evil is visible; good is not. Milton's God is about as human as the sun, a billowing orb of glowing vapor, the life-giver who burns and blinds upon close contact. He is "Most High," "Almighty," "Omnipotent." Should not God be a creature of infinite dimension? Yet He seems to bypass mortal dimensions entirely, and so comes across as flat and unsympathetic. If indeed Milton has turned the typical epic on its head, perhaps it is not strange that his God irks me in the same way that the villains of so many fantasy epics irk me. Though I am rather in love with The Lord of the Rings trilogy, I have never been quite able to justify the main enemy, Sauron, who seems to be bad for no good reason. Likewise, Milton's God is not brave, honest, wise, or compassionate; He has overcome no vice to enter into His hallowed state. He is merely good.
Actually, "good" is rather an unfortunate word. So is "evil." Milton uses neither in the first eighty lines or so of text, which we subjected to a close reading in class. Such abstract concepts are defined by their visible manifestations. In the picture Milton creates for us, "evil" is fleshed out with phrases like "ambitious aim" and "vain attempt" and "huge affliction," while "good" is swept into the vagueness of "Eternal Justice." What is there to admire in a God who is never even named "good," much less "kind" or "patient" or any other distinctly positive adjective? He is powerful. That is all.
Of course we are not rooting for the good guy this time. There is no good guy. This is not a battle between good and evil at all, but between power and mortality. In the absence of a virtous character to whom we may attach ourselves, we seek out the next best thing: that which is relatably mortal. And immortal though the adversary may be, at least he is "confounded" as we are. At least he knows what it is to struggle. He is multidimensional: proud but baleful, fallen but bold.
Why, then, is it so much easier to bring evil than good to a mortal level? Could God not struggle in His own way? Could He not feel pain or loss? But then, of course, could He not erase and mend the problem, being God? Perhaps we are afraid to tackle such issues. Perhaps we fear that mortalizing good will rob us of the last chance to believe that something "out there" might still be solid and complete. Perhaps we feel unworthy. "Lost" is, I think, a fortunate word.
There is nothing "of course" about Milton's Paradise Lost. Our unlikely hero leads the forces of insurmountable evil, except that the evil has already been conquered by greater forces of even more insurmountable good. The text is rich, maddening, and tantalizing in the questions it raises. If I could read Paradise Lost as pure story, with no religious or cultural affiliations, I know that my sympathy would lie with Satan. As it is, all that I know and have been taught rises up in protest.
I must pause here to reflect upon the difficulty of discussing these things without interjecting personal belief. As a writer, I cannot imagine writing for the sake of academic criticism. (Writing in college for a class is different; I refer to self-imposed writing.) I hope to get people questioning, not my purpose, but their own ideas. I think we have established that both Marlowe and Milton intended to send tremors through their readers' worldviews, a task they performed most capably. So how can I, human that I am, disenchant myself from their spell? How can I consider these concepts as though they were mere words on a page, and not attempts to define an unvoiceable truth?
All that aside (but not really), Milton's portrayal of good and evil shows a surprising parallel to Marlowe's. Evil is visible; good is not. Milton's God is about as human as the sun, a billowing orb of glowing vapor, the life-giver who burns and blinds upon close contact. He is "Most High," "Almighty," "Omnipotent." Should not God be a creature of infinite dimension? Yet He seems to bypass mortal dimensions entirely, and so comes across as flat and unsympathetic. If indeed Milton has turned the typical epic on its head, perhaps it is not strange that his God irks me in the same way that the villains of so many fantasy epics irk me. Though I am rather in love with The Lord of the Rings trilogy, I have never been quite able to justify the main enemy, Sauron, who seems to be bad for no good reason. Likewise, Milton's God is not brave, honest, wise, or compassionate; He has overcome no vice to enter into His hallowed state. He is merely good.
Actually, "good" is rather an unfortunate word. So is "evil." Milton uses neither in the first eighty lines or so of text, which we subjected to a close reading in class. Such abstract concepts are defined by their visible manifestations. In the picture Milton creates for us, "evil" is fleshed out with phrases like "ambitious aim" and "vain attempt" and "huge affliction," while "good" is swept into the vagueness of "Eternal Justice." What is there to admire in a God who is never even named "good," much less "kind" or "patient" or any other distinctly positive adjective? He is powerful. That is all.
Of course we are not rooting for the good guy this time. There is no good guy. This is not a battle between good and evil at all, but between power and mortality. In the absence of a virtous character to whom we may attach ourselves, we seek out the next best thing: that which is relatably mortal. And immortal though the adversary may be, at least he is "confounded" as we are. At least he knows what it is to struggle. He is multidimensional: proud but baleful, fallen but bold.
Why, then, is it so much easier to bring evil than good to a mortal level? Could God not struggle in His own way? Could He not feel pain or loss? But then, of course, could He not erase and mend the problem, being God? Perhaps we are afraid to tackle such issues. Perhaps we fear that mortalizing good will rob us of the last chance to believe that something "out there" might still be solid and complete. Perhaps we feel unworthy. "Lost" is, I think, a fortunate word.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
An Unlikely Preacher
I have grown fond of the demon Mephastophilis. Throughout our reading, he has shown himself to be one of the most reasonable characters in Marlowe's story. One would not expect it of a servant of the "Father of Lies," but he proves to be infinitely more stable - and representative, therefore, of an absolute truth - than Faustus himself. The difference in the portrayal of Mephastophilis was one of the greatest discrepancies I noted between the A and B texts of Doctor Faustus.
In the A text, at the time of Faustus' "temptation," Mephastophilis pleads with him to turn back while there is hope.
"Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Thinkst thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul." (Scene 3, 76-82)
This does not sound like a temptation at all, but a warning. In fact, Mephastophilis seems to pity the foolish human whom he has been sent to lure into Lucifer's services. Of course, after Faustus has signed the treaty, the demon leaps to distract him at any mention of God or salvation, but this is merely obedience to the command of Lucifer, then master of he and Faustus both. His place is clear: a regretful slave of the evil he has chosen to serve. In the A text, Mephastophilis' final line is a promise to fulfill Faustus' final command, and, his duties finished, he does not linger to taunt Faustus as damnation draws nearer. Mephastophilis serves the darkness with joyless resignation, due punishment for his rashness, and no less attuned for that to the workings of the light.
In the B text, Mephistophilis seems to have lost some of his (for lack of a better word) humanity, transformed into a mindless creature of darkness.
"I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice;
'Twas I, that when thou wert i' the way to heaven,
Dammed up thy passage; when thou took'st the book,
To view the Scriptures, then I turned the leaves,
And led thine eye. -
What, weepst thou? 'Tis too late, despair, farewell!
Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell." (Scene 13, 233-239)
As the damning hour approaches, Mephistophilis jeers at Faustus, assuming full credit for his fatal mistake. There is something almost clownish in his arrogance, and he comes across as a cardboard villain, evil for evil's sake.
We have spoken some in class about the place of free will in Marlowe's text. I find that the two tellings' constrasting representations of Mephastophilis affect my opinions on the matter. It is easier for me to believe that the Faustus of the B text was conned, predestined for his tragic fate. He was deceived as Eve, blind to the demonic influence that misled his eyes. In the A text, however, Faustus' decision is far more intellectual in nature. Duly warned, he chooses to ignore the advice of the very side to whom he intends to turn. Yet even as I hold him responsible for his own foolish actions, I find him a more sympathetic character, in that his plight, his very idiocy, is so endearingly familiar. Who would look to a demon, after all, for the surest sign of God's presence? And is he a fool that he did not heed the warning of a hellfiend?
In the A text, at the time of Faustus' "temptation," Mephastophilis pleads with him to turn back while there is hope.
"Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.
Thinkst thou that I, who saw the face of God,
And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,
Am not tormented with ten thousand hells
In being deprived of everlasting bliss?
O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike a terror to my fainting soul." (Scene 3, 76-82)
This does not sound like a temptation at all, but a warning. In fact, Mephastophilis seems to pity the foolish human whom he has been sent to lure into Lucifer's services. Of course, after Faustus has signed the treaty, the demon leaps to distract him at any mention of God or salvation, but this is merely obedience to the command of Lucifer, then master of he and Faustus both. His place is clear: a regretful slave of the evil he has chosen to serve. In the A text, Mephastophilis' final line is a promise to fulfill Faustus' final command, and, his duties finished, he does not linger to taunt Faustus as damnation draws nearer. Mephastophilis serves the darkness with joyless resignation, due punishment for his rashness, and no less attuned for that to the workings of the light.
In the B text, Mephistophilis seems to have lost some of his (for lack of a better word) humanity, transformed into a mindless creature of darkness.
"I do confess it, Faustus, and rejoice;
'Twas I, that when thou wert i' the way to heaven,
Dammed up thy passage; when thou took'st the book,
To view the Scriptures, then I turned the leaves,
And led thine eye. -
What, weepst thou? 'Tis too late, despair, farewell!
Fools that will laugh on earth must weep in hell." (Scene 13, 233-239)
As the damning hour approaches, Mephistophilis jeers at Faustus, assuming full credit for his fatal mistake. There is something almost clownish in his arrogance, and he comes across as a cardboard villain, evil for evil's sake.
We have spoken some in class about the place of free will in Marlowe's text. I find that the two tellings' constrasting representations of Mephastophilis affect my opinions on the matter. It is easier for me to believe that the Faustus of the B text was conned, predestined for his tragic fate. He was deceived as Eve, blind to the demonic influence that misled his eyes. In the A text, however, Faustus' decision is far more intellectual in nature. Duly warned, he chooses to ignore the advice of the very side to whom he intends to turn. Yet even as I hold him responsible for his own foolish actions, I find him a more sympathetic character, in that his plight, his very idiocy, is so endearingly familiar. Who would look to a demon, after all, for the surest sign of God's presence? And is he a fool that he did not heed the warning of a hellfiend?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
A Title Would Be Self-Defeating
Words fascinate me. They always have, and more since I came to realize they exist. I mean that literally. The difference between description and being is both vast and bizarre. It is possible that language is the greatest hindrance to belief that exists to humanity.
Faustus faces a dilemma in that he realizes the futility of words yet cannot bring himself to believe in anything that cannot be verbalized. He is, after all, an educated man, and scholarly education tends to direct our focus to language and semantics. I do not say that this is wrong, but it is possible to examine a thing so closely that it loses its shape. Repeat the same word enough times, and it withers to mere sound. Circle the same topic for long enough, and the very act of questioning becomes irrelevant. Words can carry us so far and no further.
Perhaps it is because and not in spite of his knowledge that Faustus' thinking remains stagnant. He wishes to expand his knowledge yet cannot comprehend a new way to go about it. He can neither recognize that which defies language nor find solace in language alone; his quest is doomed from the start. His first demand of Mephastophilis is a description of "the place men call hell," but to Faustus, hell is nothing but a word, as is the soul he signs away. Then he asks for books, books on spells, plants, and heavenly bodies. With such supposed power at his fingertips, he can ask only for more descriptions.
We as a species depend upon verbal communication. Words divide the natural and the supernatural. The natural fits into a given vocabulary, while the supernatural relies upon metaphor and "almost as if"s." Why should we doubt the existence of the supernatural, except that several thousand years of linguistic developments has not awarded us a supernatural vocabulary? If a thing is real, should we not be able to voice it?
Of course, our vocabulary has expanded tremendously with our understanding of scientific concepts. Perhaps increased understanding, or at least definition, of the supernatural will be the next step. I am of the opinion that there is no real division between the natural and supernatural (the scientific and spiritual, if you prefer), but that our perception is merely limited due to physical constraints. Just as we see only a tiny fraction of the spectrum of light, so we experience only a tiny fraction of the spectrum of reality. But this is pure speculation.
I think it is not strange, given his verbal mindset, that Faustus should turn to Satan rather than God to increase his understanding. Lucifer can be named; God cannot. A God who in essence defines existence is not likely absent from Faustus' story, but when I read it, His surest signs are matters of being, concepts that overwhelm the story without necessarily being forced into words, how things are rather than what things sound like. But He is less vocal than His adversaries, and Faustus is one who listens but does not comprehend.
Faustus faces a dilemma in that he realizes the futility of words yet cannot bring himself to believe in anything that cannot be verbalized. He is, after all, an educated man, and scholarly education tends to direct our focus to language and semantics. I do not say that this is wrong, but it is possible to examine a thing so closely that it loses its shape. Repeat the same word enough times, and it withers to mere sound. Circle the same topic for long enough, and the very act of questioning becomes irrelevant. Words can carry us so far and no further.
Perhaps it is because and not in spite of his knowledge that Faustus' thinking remains stagnant. He wishes to expand his knowledge yet cannot comprehend a new way to go about it. He can neither recognize that which defies language nor find solace in language alone; his quest is doomed from the start. His first demand of Mephastophilis is a description of "the place men call hell," but to Faustus, hell is nothing but a word, as is the soul he signs away. Then he asks for books, books on spells, plants, and heavenly bodies. With such supposed power at his fingertips, he can ask only for more descriptions.
We as a species depend upon verbal communication. Words divide the natural and the supernatural. The natural fits into a given vocabulary, while the supernatural relies upon metaphor and "almost as if"s." Why should we doubt the existence of the supernatural, except that several thousand years of linguistic developments has not awarded us a supernatural vocabulary? If a thing is real, should we not be able to voice it?
Of course, our vocabulary has expanded tremendously with our understanding of scientific concepts. Perhaps increased understanding, or at least definition, of the supernatural will be the next step. I am of the opinion that there is no real division between the natural and supernatural (the scientific and spiritual, if you prefer), but that our perception is merely limited due to physical constraints. Just as we see only a tiny fraction of the spectrum of light, so we experience only a tiny fraction of the spectrum of reality. But this is pure speculation.
I think it is not strange, given his verbal mindset, that Faustus should turn to Satan rather than God to increase his understanding. Lucifer can be named; God cannot. A God who in essence defines existence is not likely absent from Faustus' story, but when I read it, His surest signs are matters of being, concepts that overwhelm the story without necessarily being forced into words, how things are rather than what things sound like. But He is less vocal than His adversaries, and Faustus is one who listens but does not comprehend.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
God Out of Touch
Critics disagree on whether Christopher Marlowe was an atheist or a Christian of unconvential beliefs for his period, and since Doctor Faustus is sated with religious implications, we may turn to it to back either argument. However, I think it is fair to accept that Marlowe was a questioner, regardless of his personal convictions. He stirred up doubt, but he did not necessarily offer solutions to the problems he posed. I wonder if Doctor Faustus is less a sermon than a conundrum, if it may represent Marlowe's own uncertainty, for Faustus is the quintessential Renaissance man but pathetic in his ignorance, knowing too much to believe in anything.
This becomes clear within moments of his signing of the contract with Mephastophilis. "Come," says Faustus, "I think hell's a fable." Even when Mephastophilis assures him of the reality of damnation, he passes it off as an old wives' tale. After all, the demon's curse is separation from God, and Faustus' God is cold and judgmental, of no interest to him.
The God of Faustus, however, is not likely the God of Marlowe. Surely Marlowe did not expect his audiences not to recognize the skewed nature of those scriptures Faustus quotes, and would that be more likely to lower their opinion of the scriptures or of the character of Faustus? Besides, the text brings to mind other verses that remain unspoken. James 2:19, for instance: "You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe - and tremble!" (NKJV). Indeed, the demons of Marlowe's writing seem to present the truest assurance of the existence of God. In another example, shortly after his agreement, Faustus requests a book to show him all the heavens, then laments, "When I behold the heavens, then I repent..." This brings to mind a second scripture from Psalm 19:1, "The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament shows His handiwork" (NKJV). Subtle references such as these may show a greater reverence for the Bible in Marlowe's writing than in Faustus' speech.
On the other hand, the omnipotent God offers decidely little actual interaction with his creation. When Faustus calls upon devils, devils appear. When Faustus calls upon Christ, devils appear. Of course, it is to devils that he has sold himself, so perhaps this is not a comment on the power of God but on the will of man, yet it also reaffirms a judgmental image of God.
If Marlowe shows more fear of God than his main character, still he does not portray a deity of joy and lush rewards. There is a sense of man's entrapment in his writing. Lucifer cares nothing for Faustus, yet he will grant him a few years of imagined worth. God, supposedly loving and willing to forgive, is distant and unreachable. Man is left to flounder between the two, his quest for knowledge a hopeless game. Was this Marlowe's quandary? I do not know, and that may be the point.
This becomes clear within moments of his signing of the contract with Mephastophilis. "Come," says Faustus, "I think hell's a fable." Even when Mephastophilis assures him of the reality of damnation, he passes it off as an old wives' tale. After all, the demon's curse is separation from God, and Faustus' God is cold and judgmental, of no interest to him.
The God of Faustus, however, is not likely the God of Marlowe. Surely Marlowe did not expect his audiences not to recognize the skewed nature of those scriptures Faustus quotes, and would that be more likely to lower their opinion of the scriptures or of the character of Faustus? Besides, the text brings to mind other verses that remain unspoken. James 2:19, for instance: "You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe - and tremble!" (NKJV). Indeed, the demons of Marlowe's writing seem to present the truest assurance of the existence of God. In another example, shortly after his agreement, Faustus requests a book to show him all the heavens, then laments, "When I behold the heavens, then I repent..." This brings to mind a second scripture from Psalm 19:1, "The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament shows His handiwork" (NKJV). Subtle references such as these may show a greater reverence for the Bible in Marlowe's writing than in Faustus' speech.
On the other hand, the omnipotent God offers decidely little actual interaction with his creation. When Faustus calls upon devils, devils appear. When Faustus calls upon Christ, devils appear. Of course, it is to devils that he has sold himself, so perhaps this is not a comment on the power of God but on the will of man, yet it also reaffirms a judgmental image of God.
If Marlowe shows more fear of God than his main character, still he does not portray a deity of joy and lush rewards. There is a sense of man's entrapment in his writing. Lucifer cares nothing for Faustus, yet he will grant him a few years of imagined worth. God, supposedly loving and willing to forgive, is distant and unreachable. Man is left to flounder between the two, his quest for knowledge a hopeless game. Was this Marlowe's quandary? I do not know, and that may be the point.
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