Poetry Corner: O for that warning voice
With excuses to my Jesuit confessor, Fr. de Casuist, I would like to impose on my vow of restricting my posts to Friday in order to hear a quote from the devil.
Here is the Mount Niphates monologue in Milton’s PARADISE LOST. This is that speech which those in the camp of William Blake, who say that Milton unbeknownst was of the Devil’s party, have trouble to explain. (For those of you who are fans of THE INCREDIBLES, this is the first example of ‘monologing’, a practice many a lesser super-villain in after times was fain to copy.)
O for that warning voice, which he who saw
The Apocalypse heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
Woe to the inhabitants on Earth! that now,
While time was, our first parents had been warned
The coming of their secret Foe, and scaped,
Haply so scaped, his mortal snare! For now
Satan, now first inflamed with rage, came down,
The tempter, ere the accuser, of mankind,
To wreak on innocent frail Man his loss
Of that first battle, and his flight to Hell.
Yet not rejoicing in his speed, though bold
Far off and fearless, nor with cause to boast,
Begins his dire attempt; which, nigh the birth
Now rowling, boils in his tumultuous breast,
And like a devilish engine back recoils
Upon himself. Horror and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The hell within him; for within him Hell
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell
One step, no more than from Himself, can fly
By change of place. Now conscience wakes despair
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue!
Sometimes towards Eden, which now in his view
Lay pleasant, his grieved look he fixes sad;
Sometimes towards Heaven and the full-blazing Sun,
Which now sat high in his meridian tower:
Then, much revolving, thus in sighs began:—
"O thou that, with surpassing glory crowned,
Look’st from thy sole dominion like the god
Of this new World—at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminished heads—to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere,
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down,
Warring in Heaven against Heaven’s matchless King!
Ah, wherefore? He deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,
How due? Yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice. Lifted up so high,
I ’sdained subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude,
So burthensome, still paying, still to owe;
Forgetful what from him I still received;
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged—what burden then?
Oh, had his powerful destiny ordained
Me some inferior Angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition. Yet why not? Some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part. But other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without to all temptations armed!
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst. Whom has thou then, or what, to accuse,
But Heaven’s free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate,
To me alike it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven.
O, then, at last relent! Is there no place
Left for repentence, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the Spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Aye me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan.
While they adore me on the throne of Hell,
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: such joy ambition finds!
But say I could repent, and could obtain,
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would highth recal high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feigned submission swore! Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void
(For never can true reconcilement grow
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep)
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear
Short intermission, bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace.
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us, outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind, created, and for him this World!
So farewell hope, and, with hope, farewell fear,
Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my Good…”
My comment: I have been reflecting on this passage several times in recent weeks, seeing examples (in myself and, unfortunately, in others) of the progression the poet here depicts of how sin (in the famous words of Mark Shea) makes you stupid.
Human psychology is bent toward self-aggrandizement, so when the whispers of conscience sound, it is in the nature of the Sons of Adam to smother that whisper by any makeshift that comes to hand, and one makeshift always ready at hand is to distort the reason, that is, to make up a justification: love itself, divinest love, can be accursed if it deals woe. And besides, to sue for pardon is impossible, as vows made in the duress of pain are void.
This justification become part and parcel of one’s pride, and ergo cannot be questioned by yourself or by others, without it seeming to you a personal attack, unjust and outrageous and belittling. From there it is easy enough to say the accusations merit not merely a personal attack in return, but any violation of manners, justice, or logic–or in the case of the devil given above, of fealty. Borrowing an image from Socrates, once ego supplants logic, emotion throws reason from the chariot of the soul and takes the reins, whipping the steeds of passion and appetite into a lather. Since it offends the pride, submission is a word disdain forbids, and fear of shame.
But reason always wins in the end, if only by retaliation when it is defied: one excuse necessitates others, and justifications need justifications in turn, until every part of the soul is bent away from good. In order to be consistent, the reason, once you have accepted the wicked axiom, drives you step by step to the wicked conclusion. Except the nature of sin is pain, and wordy excuses offer no balm: myself am hell, which way I fly is hell.
The final step in a process of disordered reason is when evil itself becomes (in your eyes) a virtue, and goodness becomes vice, and all your conclusions have been corrupted into the opposite of where reason would place them. Hence the last line in the quote: Evil, be thou my good.
The passage opens with the wish that a warning voice would tell us when the enemy of God and Man makes ready to descend: a nice metaphor for the conscience, which, if properly ordered, would warn us of our pride about to strike like a cormorant, and rend us.
About John C Wright
John C. Wright is a practicing philosopher, a retired attorney, newspaperman, and newspaper editor, and a published author of science fiction. Once a Houyhnhnm, he was expelled from the august ranks of purely rational beings when he fell in love; but retains an honorary title.
