Paradise Lost, again
JOHN MILTON’S Paradise Lost, the only enduring epic poem in English, was first published in April 1667. It came out in 10 Books, though it’s mostly read (when it is read) in the 12book revision of 1674. So little is it read, however, that the superacute John Carey has just brought out a shortened version, only onethird of its original length. Is this dumbing down? Something we can do for ourselves? Will Carey and his publisher, Faber, turn a profit? Would Milton turn in his grave?
Is and Ought
Philosophers from David Hume dwell on the possible gap between an Is and an Ought.
Anyone who loves poetry, or epic, or Milton at his best, ought to read the poem, the whole poem, and nothing but the poem. What Milton thought necessary, so should we, if we are to understand his mighty purpose.
Plotsummaries
Oddly enough, though, when the poem was published readers did not swallow it whole, but asked why the poem did not rhyme. Rhyme was all the rage in 1667. And the publisher risked more of Milton’s ire by requesting a plotsummary. The two facts mean readers wanted to know how best to read the thing, and the publisher assisted them. Milton then disdainfully explained why blank verse was better than ‘‘the jingling sound of like endings’’, and wrote a plot summary (‘‘The Argument’’). It remains far the best, even occasionally divulging things not said in the poem itself. So Carey might have printed the Argument instead, and saved a lot of trouble. And as for trouble, anyone can read the poem online for nothing, or buy a copy of it for less than Carey’s ‘‘Essential’’ PL. So, for $A33, one is essentially buying Carey’s interpretation and the reasoning behind his abridgement.
Value for money
Nonetheless
It might prove worth it! He’s a very intelligent, sharp, knowledgeable reader, whose views always deserve attention. He has written books on Dickens, Donne, Thackeray, William Golding, and shorter pieces on just about everything.
While I want to read what he thinks about Milton, I have read it in those shorter pieces, and in press releases to puff the abridgement. And that, be it never so acute or well annotated, provokes me. Maybe he meant it to provoke . . . But the unity, and indeed the density, of Milton’s greatest work make me loath to cut it short for myself, or for students, or anybody. Whenever I have orchestrated an allday ‘‘Milton marathon’’ reading of the poem, its point has been that we share the whole thing; ‘‘from morn to dewy eve’’, about 10 hours, or 12 if you count breaks for refreshments and a breath of less intense air.
Varying the experience
There is of course an argument for experiencing a great work — say, Romeo and
Juliet — in as many ways as possible, from puppets to film to cartoon to music to dance. And again, some cutting was standard practice in Shakespeare’s theatre. But up to what point can we seriously believe that because (as they say) a little of something is better than nothing, we should applaud abridgement, be it never so intelligently done? Would we do this to Beethoven? There is a very real sense in which authors know their own work uniquely, and that includes its length. It’s not only dumbing the works down: it’s patronising giants. wordwaysdunedin@hotmail.com