“Measure for Measure” by Jonathan Gottschall, Boston Globe 11 May 2008

http://weinhold.blogspot.com/2008/05/measure-for-measure-by-jonathan.html

 

Review: Inspiration and Incarnation by Peter Enns

http://weinhold.blogspot.com/2008/04/review-inspiration-and-incarnation-by.html

 

The Daughter

“Fathers, be good to your daughters.  Daughters will love like you do.  Girls become lovers who turn into mothers, so mothers, be good to your daughters too.” (John Mayer)

Alas, these are not superb lyrics, but they nevertheless provide that pop-culture launching point which seems necessary in today’s academic conversations.  To state the inference more directly: the daughter is a ubiquitous cultural icon, one that even John Mayer riffs upon.  But what gives the daughter its archetypal resonance is not Mayer’s guitar virtuosity but a far deeper cultural and literary tradition.  To begin our discussion of this topic, the following is an excerpt from a paper I recently delivered at The Dallas Institute for Humanities and Culture.   Perhaps it will spark some conversation regarding the daughter as an archetypal image, a part of the human soul that we all share.

T.S. Eliot’s famous analogy in “Tradition and the Individual Talent,” in which a shred of platinum functions as the catalyst for a chemical reaction producing sulfuric acid, provides an apt model for understanding the role of Perdita in The Winter’s Tale (WT).  Eliot writes that the reaction “takes place only if the platinum is present; nevertheless the newly formed acid contains no trace of platinum, and the platinum itself is apparently unaffected; has remained inert, neutral, and unchanged.”  In this chemical process, two substances (oxygen and sulfur dioxide) react with one another to form a new compound.  Perdita is a catalyst, like Eliot’s shred of platinum, whose quiet virtue, simple grace, and stunning beauty are the necessary though not sufficient conditions forWT’s resolution, the transformation^[i] in 5.3 of Hermione.  Because of her comparative vigor, it is tempting to focus upon Paulina^[ii] as the architect of the play’s climactic metamorphosis, while leaving little critical space for Perdita, whose comparative silence seemingly offers less ground for analysis.  Like Eliot’s platinum, she appears to do nothing at all.  But however sufficient Paulina’s actions are in guiding Leontes to a genuine repentance, the Delphic Oracle prophesies a single condition for the miracle of Hermione’s return: that which is lost, Perdita, must be found (3.2.136).  

To employ another analogy, imagine the play as two enormous weights, one tragic and the other comic.  The play’s first three acts are the tragic weight, in which Leontes’ rage causes the deaths of Mamillius, Hermione, and Antigonus along with the flight of Perdita, Camillo, and Polixenes.  The last two acts are the comic weight, marked by an extended pastoral feast, the comic relief of Autolycus, the young lovers Perdita and Florizel, Leontes’ repentance, and Hermione’s return.  The fulcrum upon which these great weights pivot is Perdita.  Though she lacks the dynamism of Paulina, her character nonetheless offers the necessary leverage for ensuring that WT’s comedic end should counterbalance its tragic beginning.   

Further, Perdita’s position as Leontes’ daughter, and the unique juxtaposition of tragedy and comedy in the Shakespearean romance, encourages speculation about the role of the daughter figure in these genres.  On the one hand, literary sons seem particularly bound by the fate of their fathers: The murder of Hamlet’s father launches his son’s bloody quest for vengeance; Achilles’ paternal lineage from Peleus generates his angst; and the impetus of Agamemnon’s bloody dynasty weighs upon Orestes.  Male offspring inherit the sins of their fathers, as Mamillius does in WT.  But daughters retain a unique capacity to escape, endure, or redeem their family’s past: Antigone and Ismene accompany Oedipus at Colonus; Sonya Marmeladova prostitutes herself to feed her family; Cordelia’s forgiveness restores Lear; and Pearl’s survival translates Hester’s “A” to Able.  Understood in the context of this patriarchal metanarrative, Perdita, who bears the perdition of her father, offers readers and audiences a Shakespearean insight into the daughter figure: The mere fact of the daughter’s presence holds the potential for redemption.  Hence, the daughter operates as the fulcrum between tragedy and comedy, whose crucial office enables a miraculous reaction, like Eliot’s platinum, transforming the abyss into the romance.

***

- What other literary examples of the daughter figure exist?
- Do you think this archetypal way of approaching literature is valid?
- Does the daughter figure intersect other disciplines in significant ways?

^[iii]

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^[i] Whether audiences are meant to perceive Hermione as miraculously transformed or discreetly hidden by Paulina remains a matter for interpretation.  See Jonathan Bate, Shakespeare and Ovid.  (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993).  and Scott F. Crider,  “Weeping in the Upper World: The Orphic Frame in 5.3 of The Winter’s Tale and the Archive of Poetry,” Studies in the Literary Imagination 32:2 (Spring 1999): 153-172.^[ii] I hope that my emphasis on Perdita’s catalytic function in WT should augment, not exclude the already existent and very fine criticism of Paulina’s redemptive role in WT.^[iii] Perhaps the daughter who occupies a space between genres is necessarily lyric.  Hudson notes in The Variorum Shakespeare: “We can hardly call [Perdita] a poetical being; she is rather poetry itself, and everything lends and borrows beauty at her touch.  A playmate of the flowers, when we see her with them, we are at a loss whether they take more inspiration from her, or she from them; and while she is the sweetest of poets in making nosegays, the nosegays become in her hands the richest of crowns” (369).           

 

“Through a glass dimly . . .”

One of my greatest challenges at USC (the original one, in South Carolina) arises from the lack of commonality with my peers. Thus, I am always looking for opportunities to explore issues of “faith” interest in ways that will be not only palatable, but tasty, within this community. The post below is a portion of a paper (written for a literary criticism class) where I attempted to unite my literary studies (a fascination with myth) to a hefty dose of philsophy (Burke), as well as a regular focus of my study of Scripture (the inscrutability of God). The myth under discussion is that of Psyche (as told by Apuleius, but made dear to me by C.S. Lewis). Forbidden to look on the face of her husband, the god Apollo who only visits her in the darkness of night, Psyche eventually violates his command and brings a candle to the bedroom. Here is where the essay picks up.

 

 

In Apuleius’ reckoning, Psyche encounters the sublime never more clearly than when she dispels the darkness by her light. When her eyes behold the god, Psyche “was all dismayed, her soul was distraught, a sickly pallor came over her, fainting and trembling she sank to her knees” (26). In keeping with Burke’s expectations, Psyche is completely awed by her vision of the god. The philosopher writes, the “passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is Astonishment; and astonishment is the state of the soul, in which all motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. . . . [when] the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other” (101). Apuleius’ text makes it clear that in this moment Psyche is unable to consider anything other than the god she beholds. “[S]he gazed again and again upon the beauty of that divine face and her soul drew joy and strength” (26). Captivated by the wonder of the sight, Psyche is unable to take her eyes from the god. At the moment when the light falls across the sleeping form of the god of Love, fear is replaced with astonishment. The sublime darkness is replaced by the sublime light of the god himself.

It is at this moment, however, that Burke takes his modern departure from the ancient myth. For in the moment that Psyche is most enthralled with the sublime, Burke denies the presence of that sublime. It is not that the light shining from Psyche’s lamp negates any possibility of the Burkean sublime. Although upholding the idea that “darkness is more productive of sublime ideas than light” (121), Burke acknowledges that light can affect the passions as profoundly as the darkness. “Extreme light, by overcoming the organs of sight, obliterates all objects, so as in its effect exactly to resemble darkness” (121). Apuleius’ tale certainly bears this out. Once Psyche reveals the sleeping god, there is a repetition of the idea of lightning and the predominant colors are golden and white (26). The god himself is so illumined that compared with his “exceeding splendor even the light of the lamp grew weak and faint” (26). Although it was the light of the lamp that initially dispelled the darkness, it is now dimmed by the brightness of the god himself. Nor does Burke reject Psyche’s passionate delight in seeing the god. In fact, Burke insists that true delight comes only after the fear of the sublime has been removed. Rather than mere pleasure, Burke uses the term delight “to express the sensation which accompanies the removal of pain or danger” (84). Since true pain and danger result only from an encounter with the sublime, Burke would not deny that Psyche’s vision of the god is true delight.

Rather, Burke’s modern disagreement with the ancient tale lies in the idea of the sublime itself, in the idea of the god himself. Apuleius insists that the sublime is latent within the nature of the divine. It is the god from whence the sublime emerges. Thus, Psyche’s vision of the god is not simply an uncovering of the sublime, but an enhanced knowing of the sublime. This is borne out in the ending of the tale, where Psyche is made immortal and lives as the wife of Eros with the gods on Mount Olympus. Here, she has reached the mountaintop—the embodiment of the sublime itself. Becoming like a god, Psyche knows fully. In Burke’s estimation, once Psyche exposes the god to the light of her understanding, he can no longer be the source of the sublime, for he is known. For Burke, the god is not sublime; the unknown is sublime. For Apuleius, the sublime moment is heightened when Psyche is overwhelmed by the divine presence. For Burke, when the light is cast on the sleeping god, the sublime moment is already lost.[1]

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[1] In a lengthy discussion on power, and specifically divine power, Burke argues that of all the attributes of the Godhead, “to our imagination, his power is by far the most striking” and when “we rejoice, we rejoice with trembling” (111). Although an idea better pursued in another critical investigation, it is worth simply noting that in Apuleius’ tale, the divine presence is first seen in a posture of complete vulnerability and repose. Herein lies another significant Burkean departure from the ancient tale.

 

Perception: A Neglected Intellectual Virtue

I have to admit at the outset that I am not well-versed in virtue ethics. In addition, I am approaching the issue of perception from a practical angle, a result of accumulated observations regarding the perilous lack of perception among Christians (including myself). By “virtue” I mean an acquired excellence, a character trait, habit, or disposition that promotes human flourishing. In addition, one can speak of different kinds of virtues, including moral virtues, spiritual virtues, and intellectual virtues, of which perception is prominent.

Perception is an intellectual virtue that aids in developing practical wisdom. For the sake of space and clarity, I will focus on two objects for which it is pivotal for Christians to perceive carefully, cogently, and clearly: canon and contemporary culture/ context. Christians read the canon of Scripture in order to discern the will of God, but to know how to act out the will of God wisely in everyday situations, Christians are required to “read” and understand the cultural context in which we live. In short, perception is a virtue that allows us to be “finely aware and richly responsible” of both canonical and contemporary contexts.[1]

Two characteristics of the frenetic society in which we live make perception a difficult virtue to obtain. First, instant gratification is an ingrained expectation, so we rarely have the patience and persistence to do the hard work of perception, whether in reading the Bible or understanding our everyday lives. Second, practicing perception requires us to abandon the postmodern obsession with the self, giving full attention to the text, situation, trend, or person being perceived.[2] Disciplined perception of the biblical text, for example, shows that we respect the text and desire to discover its true meaning. But even when we attempt to understand other texts and contexts that are not the inspired words of God, perception gives deserved respect and attention to the object being perceived. Perception requires a certain kind of reading—“ruminative and leisurely, a dalliance with words” and realities[3]—that forces us to slow down, to pay attention to details, to engage in exegesis of both canon and culture.

But how is this related to practical wisdom? As we develop the virtue of perception in relation to both canon and contemporary context, we arm ourselves with both canon sense and context sense.[4] We have all probably encountered people who possess one kind of sense without the other. On the one hand, there are those who know Scripture backwards and forwards, but have not taken the time to perceive the contemporary context to the detriment of wise, biblical living. Canon sense without context sense is blind. On the other hand, there are those who are experts on the contemporary context, who know ideas and trends that are shaping our world, but who have not paid enough attention to Scripture in order to make biblically fitting judgments that display the mind of Christ. Context sense without canon sense is empty. Skilled perception of both Scripture and our situations is required in order to display relevant, biblical wisdom.

——

What are your thoughts? Have you noticed the paucity of perception in your own life or in the church? How can the virtue of perception be cultivated? I have heard that a number of Martha Nussbaum’s essays in Love’s Knowledge exploring the significance of Henry James’s novels deal with the virtue of perception. Have any of you read these? If so, what light do they shed on this discussion?

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[1] I am borrowing this phrase from Kevin Vanhoozer, The Drama of Doctrine (Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 332.

[2] Kevin Vanhoozer, Is There Meaning in This Text? (Zondervan, 1998), 377. In this earlier work, Vanhoozer identifies “attention” as a pivotal virtue for responsible interpreters. In the Drama of Doctrine, this virtue morphs into the virtue of perception.

[3] Eugene Peterson, Eat This Book (Eerdmans, 2006), 3.

[4] Vanhoozer, Drama of Doctrine, 324.

 

Problems in Milton’s Hierarchy

(The following is an excerpt from an essay I am currently writing.  In addition to challenging my reading of Milton, I welcome ancillary thoughts regarding the concept of hierarchy and the need for relational mutuality.)  

Criticism of Paradise Lost received a healthy jolt from its modus operandi with the advent of Arthur Lovejoy’s “Milton and the Paradox of the Fortunate Fall” in 1937.  Carefully contextualizing Adam’s jubilant exclamation in 12.469-478 (“O goodness infinite, goodness immense!”), Lovejoy explicated a rich tradition of felix culpa theology from St. Benedict to John Wycliffe, and authors more contemporary to Milton such as Guillaume de Salluste Du Bartas and St. Francis de Sales. Though the essay categorically proves that felix culpa “was no invention, or discovery, of Milton’s,” the question of Milton’s purpose in depicting the fortunate fall remains a quandary for Milton scholars that perpetuates revisions of Lovejoy’s work (163). Such is the outlook of this essay, which qualifies Lovejoy’s conclusion that “the passage ceases to be surprising, or indicative of any originality or of any great boldness in Milton’s thought” (178).  Instead, I wish to argue that Milton’s refashioning of felix culpa represents an elegant component of his epic vision, which, as Glenn Arbery writes, “Carries meaning over from the old way of cultural revelation to the new one by means of the poem itself in the depicted action of its hero” (31).  The loss of the garden in Paradise Lost is thus more than a depiction of the biblical fall.  It is an epic metaphor of “self-reclamation,” as Arbery writes, which “calls men and women to make some excellent communal thing out of the stuff of suffering, to scoop ambergris from the rotten intestines of the whale, to see the darkest fall and the greatest forgetfulness as a felix culpa” (29).  Milton’s garden thus functions as the lyric womb from which the essence of a problematic hierarchical cosmos emerges transformed.  The occasion of sin corrupting the garden becomes an opportunity for the Son to establish a new perichoretic order in which external structures become internalized, so that divinely ordained hierarchy becomes incarnational mutuality and male dominion becomes shared redemption.  Understood metaphorically then, the loss of the garden propels humanity toward the distant goal of the heavenly city, the New Jerusalem, in which humanity dwells with the divine.

Hierarchy: A Problematic Ordering of the Cosmos 

The pervasive problem in Paradise Lost is hierarchy.  We should not be surprised that Milton should make this his subject, for as commentator Samuel Johnson quipped, “He hated monarchs in the state and prelates in the church; for he hated all whom he was required to obey” (93).  Perhaps with catharsis as his motivation, therefore, Milton set about explicating the story of humanity’s great disobedience.  But a more important factor was the epic tradition in which Milton self-consciously wrote, which clearly includes hierarchy in its purview.  A hierarchical structure preserves Agamemnon’s reign in Homer’s Iliad despite the singularity of Achilles; it prevents Telemachos from battling his mother’s suitors until Odysseus arrives in Ithaca; it punishes sinners, and disciplines and rewards saints in the three realms of Dante’s Divine Comedy; and it organizes the mariners on board the Pequod to perform the will of their maniacal captain.

 

  No less in Paradise Lost, the hierarchy of the cosmos exists in Milton’s imagination as an intricate arrangement of obligations and fealties reminiscent of a medieval serfdom.  A hierarchical design “is the indwelling life of the whole work,” as C.S. Lewis wrote, “it foams or burgeons out of it at every moment” (79).  Milton’s hierarchy is beautifully symmetrical in its organization of the universe, but like its epic parallels — the chain of command aboard the Pequod, for instance –  its shortcomings are problematic.  They are: 1) The mediated relationship between God and humanity by beings neither God nor human; 2) The inability to restore fallen creatures; and 3) The derivative nature of human personhood.  

 

When the Father appoints the Son as ruler of the angelic host, he addresses all of heaven: 

 

This day I have begot whom I declare

My only Son and on this holy hill

Him have anointed whom ye now behold

At My right hand.  Your head I him appoint

And by Myself have sworn to Him shall bow

All knees in Heav’n and shall confess Him Lord.

Under His great vicegerent reign abide

United as one individual soul

Fore ever happy.  (5.603-611)

 

The Father clearly appoints His Son over all the angels, including Satan, and this is the source of Satan’s “sense of injured merit” that leads to rebellion (1.98).  The passage indicates that the hierarchical principle extends even into the Godhead.  The Son is the Father’s “vicegerent,” meaning that He holds delegated power via His office, not His person.  Such a conception of the Godhead is admittedly problematic for the Christian faith, but nonetheless characterizes the Godhead in Paradise Lost.

 

Lewis comments upon hierarchy in Paradise Lost saying, “The goodness, happiness, and dignity of every being consists in obeying its natural superior and ruling its natural inferiors.  When it fails in either part of this twofold task we have disease or monstrosity in the scheme of things until the peccant being is either destroyed or corrected” (73-4, my emphasis).  Lewis’ analysis habitually strikes at the heart of whatever his subject happens to be, and the case is no different here.  Yet despite his penetrating vision into the structure of Milton’s epic, Lewis passes by the chief inadequacy in Milton’s hierarchy: its inability to restore a transgressor.  If God annihilates one of His creatures, He thwarts His own will, for surely otherwise God would “revoke the high decree” (126).  Thus, destroying a creature exacerbates the infirmity of hierarchy rather than restoring it.  The second option is equally problematic.  As St. Anselm argues in Cur Deus Homo, “recompense ought to be proportional to the magnitude of the sin” (303).  Since the hierarchical structure places humanity below God, Adam and Eve cannot offer anything to God which they do not already owe Him.

 

  Within this framework, no restoration is possible unless, as God asks the host of heaven, “for him / Some other able and as willing pay / The rigid satisfaction, death for death” (3.210-12).  Lewis is right; hierarchy allows God two responses to transgression, destruction or correction.  Both are inadequate because one annihilates the creature to preserve hierarchical justice, while the other preserves the creature and shatters the order of the cosmos.  

 

 Continuing the trajectory of previous epic parallels, readers of this essay may already perceive the connection to moral economies of scarcity in other epics.  For what gift can Agamemnon give that will make recompense for Achilles’ lost divinity?  Or how can the white whale restore Ahab’s leg?  When Odysseus appears before those dastardly suitors, what could give pause to his spear?  The very hierarchical principle that governs these epics and Paradise Lost prevents the transgressor’s restoration.  Likewise, the hierarchy that permeates Paradise Lost is also hamstrung by the angelic host, who mediate between God and humanity, but who are neither God nor human.  The two examples that follow are Uriel in Book III and Raphael in Books V-VIII.  Milton’s angels thus echo an epic pattern of awkwardly mediated relations within the hierarchical structure: an envoy to Achilles cannot mediate between he and Agamemnon; Penelope and Telemachos must bide their time and arbitrate the suitor’s demands and the hope of Odysseus’ return; and Starbuck desperately umpires the pecking order of the Pequod, balancing the quest for profit and the quest for revenge.  

 

Uriel’s inability to perceive Satan’s guise at the gates of heaven allows him access to Eden, and reveals an additional problem latent within hierarchy, an unsuccessful mediation between God and humanity.  God employs Uriel as “His eyes / That run through all the heav’ns or down to th’ earth” (3.650-1).  Yet those eyes are deficient, and Satan easily takes advantage of their deficiency.  Milton acknowledges as much in his narration:

 

So spake the false dissembler unperceived,

For neither man nor angel can discern

Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks

Invisible except to God alone

By His permissive will through Heav’n and Earth. (3.681-685)

 

Because Uriel is only one of God’s creatures, he lacks the ability to penetrate Satan’s veil of hypocrisy.  But his appointed role requires that he mediate between God and the lower orders by acting as God’s eyes.  The angels also exhibit their clumsy lack of awareness later, in book IV when Ithuriel finds Satan “squat like a toad” and whispering into Eve’s sleeping ear (4.800).  After Ithuriel touches Satan with his spear, the angels are “half amazed” at Satan’s unmasked appearance (4.820).  Their subsequent conversation with him is revealing.  Gabriel asks why Satan “broke the bounds prescribed . . . ” (4.878) and “Wherefore with thee / Came not all Hell broke loose? (4.917-18).  The angelic interrogation of Satan thus reveals their essential ignorance concerning Satan’s plan to corrupt Eden.  God informs Raphael of the threat in Book V, but had Ithuriel and Gabriel been aware of Satan’s real intent earlier in Book IV, Satan might have been thwarted.  Even so, Milton seems also to indicate an angelic impotence that prevents any real elimination of Satan’s threat as such.  Although Gabriel tells Satan that God has given him strength “to trample thee as mire,” Satan still escapes (5.1010).  And in the heavenly battle in Book VI, one senses that because of their ethereal natures, the battle would last forever if the Son had not ended it.

 

In addition to the problems of restoring a transgressor and mediating between God and humanity, the hierarchical problem of derivative personhood emerges in Adam and Eve’s relationship.  One discovers ancillary evidence of this problem in feminist criticism of Paradise Lost, which takes offense at Milton’s depiction of gender roles.  The irritation at Milton’s apparent misogyny indicates that Adam’s rule over Eve indeed exists as a central aspect of Milton’s vision;  Adam and Eve’s relationship thus mirrors that of the Father and the Son in its hierarchical order.  Eve’s nature, like the Son’s, is derivative; she is begotten out of Adam’s side (4.484).  Hence, Milton has her physiognomy indicate “subjection” and “submission,” while Adam’s declares his “absolute rule” (4.300-311).  Eve later confirms Adam’s dominion when she tells him, “God is thy law, thou mine” (4.637).  Milton’s depiction of Eve’s vanity, which she displays in his adaptation of Ovid, also indicates her derivative nature.  When Eve becomes captivated by her own reflection, she fails to recognize it as her reflected self.  The Voice tells her that Adam is “He / Whose image thou art . . .“ (4.471-2), thus providing a metaphor of her own derivation.  As Julia Walker states so clearly, “At what point does Eve cease to be a part of Adam, becoming not his rib but her self?  Never.  At what point does Eve cease to seek for self-knowledge from her reflection?  Never” (517).  Eve’s “vanity” thus reveals the ontological impossibility of mutuality within the hierarchical system, because her derivative personhood prevents her from any awareness of self apart from Adam.  

 

Bibliography

Anselm of Canterbury.  The Major Works. Ed. Brian Davies and G.R. Evans. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.

Arbery, Glenn C. “Soul and Image: The Single Honor of Achilles,” in The Epic Cosmos, Ed. Larry Allums.  Dallas: Dallas Institute Publications, 2000.

Bell, Millicent. “The Fallacy of the Fall in Paradise Lost,” PMLA, Vol. 68, No. 4, (September 1953): 863-883.

Blessington, Francis C. Paradise Lost and the Classical Epic. Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979.

Cowan, Louise. “Introduction: Epic as Cosmopoesis,” in The Epic Cosmos, Ed. Larry Allums.  Dallas: Dallas Institute Publications, 2000.

Johnson, Samuel. Lives of the English Poets, volume 1. New York: E.P. Dutton Co., Inc., 1950.

Knott, John R. “Milton’s Wild Garden,” Studies in Philology, 102 No. 1, (Winter 2005): 66-82.

Lovejoy, Arthur O. “Milton and the Paradox of the Fortunate Fall,” ELH, Vol.4, No. 3 (Sept. 1937): 161-179.

MacCallum, Hugh.  Milton and the Sons of God: The Divine Image in Milton’s Epic Poetry. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986.

 

Milton, John. Paradise Lost.  Ed. Gordon Teskey.  New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2005.

Ryken, Leland.  “Paradise Lost by John Milton,” in The Devoted Life: An Introduction to the Puritan Classics, Ed. Kelly Kapic and Randall Gleason.  Downer’s Grove, Illinois: InterVarsity Press, 2004 

Steadman, John M. The Wall of Paradise: Essays on Milton’s Poetics. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1985. 

Stewart, Marilyn.  “Human Dreams and Angelic Visions: World-Making in Paradise Lost,” in The Epic Cosmos, Ed. Larry Allums.  Dallas: Dallas Institute Publications, 2000.

Lewis, C.S. A Preface to Paradise Lost. New York: Oxford University Press, 1961.

 

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