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.