Censorship of State . . .

Nineteenth-Century French Engraving Protests Censorship

The Censor with his Scissors is on the Left

Library of Congress

New York TImes

Alberto Manguel has written a fascinating article reviewing Robert Darnton's Censors at Work (NYT, November 7, 2014), for Darnton shows that censors often acted as copy editors - or even as literary critics!

[W]hat exactly is censorship? This is the question with which Robert Darnton, the foremost historian of the book and the art of reading, begins his enthralling new volume . . . . Most historians of censorship, like Fernando Báez in his excellent "A Universal History of the Destruction of Books," assume that the censor's task has always been to forbid and destroy. Darnton shows that this is not the case . . . . He begins by looking at a book printed in Paris in 1722 that carries the "approbation and privilege of the king." These approbations, as Darnton notes, qualify as censorship because they were "delivered by royal censors" . . . . [R]ather than what modern readers would expect from a censoring hand, they are something closer to our present-day blurbs. One of these censors, a professor at the Sorbonne, notes: "I had pleasure in reading it; it is full of fascinating things." Another, a theologian, remarks with obvious delight that a book inspired "that sweet but avid curiosity that makes us want to continue further." As Darnton makes clear, censorship under the Bourbon monarchy was not a system of limitations; it was a way of channeling the power of print through the figure of the king and his representatives, asserting royal authority over everything, even the word. Royal censors were not mainly on the outlook for subversive voices: instead, they worked like copy editors, concerned with matters of style, grammar, readability and originality of thought, even going so far as correcting spelling and redoing math. A book approved by the king should not be badly written . . . . [C]ensorship in 18th-­century France manifested itself primarily as a sort of literary criticism.

Now, I've got it, the reason for my novella's modest sales - I lack a censor! Down with the corrupt novella titled The Bottomless Bottle of Beer! Bring on the censors!

Please . . .

"a good Booke"

The Anatomy of Bibliomania

Holbrook Jackson

(Image from eBay)

Perhaps some of my readers will remember a previous post on a quote from Milton's Areopagitica:

[A] good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalm'd and treasur'd up on purpose to a life beyond life.

In that post, I wondered how embalming the life-blood would keep it for "a life beyond life," but earlier in the same passage, Milton writes:

For Books are not absolutely dead things, but doe contain a potencie of life in them to be as active as that soule was whose progeny they are.

However the embalming metaphor might work, Milton clearly believes in the power of books, and those who want to read the entire passage and discover its greater power can go to paragraph 3 of Areopagitica, available in Thomas H. Luxon's Milton Reading Room.

Or one can turn to other books for possible allusions to Milton's passage. I've recently come upon two in Holbrook Jackson's Anatomy of Bibliomania. In a section on the "Diversity of Cures" provided by books, Jackson refers to Richard De Bury's observation that even obsolete books can "heal the pectoral arteries with the gift of eloquence," to which Jackson adds:

Nor need we wonder at him, for a book is no dead thing.

Obviously an allusion to Milton's remark . . . though Jackson cites Browning's Ring and the Book (i, 89-90):

. . . The thing's restorative
I' the touch and sight.

These various points occur on pages 300-301 of Jackson's own book of books, but an earlier page also contains a possible allusion to Milton. On page 291, in a section titled "Preservatives and Prophylactics," Jackson cites Thomas Frognall Dibdin's Bibliophobia (page 78) for his quote from a translation of Payne Fisher's mixed passage:

Men timely die, and Princes day by day
Moulder to dust: but Books will live for aye,
And re-embalm us in the coldest day!

I take it the "us" whom books "re-embalm" are the authors, and that the meaning here is similar to Milton's . . . which may suggest that the translator was being influenced by Milton in rendering into English that mixed Latin passage from Fisher's Elogia Sepulchralia:

Miramur perisse Homines? Monumenta fatiscunt (Anson), and Nescia Musarum sed monumenta mori (Ovid)

The English translation appears rather free, so I doubt that Milton was being directly influenced by the original Latin in Ovid.

I don't know if these blog entries of mine are at work embalming my own life-blood for "a life beyond life," but for the nonce readers can at least see from the image above that Jackson's own two-volume 1930 work has done its job of preserving his life-blood and is still available in relatively good condition:

Faint shelfwear with little or no chipping to jacket edges, spine of jacket toned, unclipped. Previous owner's bookplate on free endpaper. Water stain to bottom edge of the jacket of Volume 2, has bled red from jacket.

Though it appears that some of that red life-blood has bled a bit . . .

John Milton: "A good Booke"

John Milton, Areopagitica

New York Public Library

(Image provided by Martin Hyatt)

One of the scholars on the Milton List was searching the New York Public Library for the quote above from Areopagitica, which was then supplied in the photograph by Martin Hyatt, who I initially thought might be the novelist and author of A Scarecrow's Bible but who has informed me that he is not the novelist. Be that as it may, for those who can't make out the tiny wording -- the quote says:

A good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a mafter fpirit, imbalm'd and treafur'd up on purpofe to a life beyond life.

Or in more modern lettering and orthography:

A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.

This can be found in the third paragraph of Areopagitica:

I deny not, but that it is of greatest concernment in the Church and Commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how Bookes demeane themselves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors: For Books are not absolutely dead things, but doe contain a potencie of life in them to be as active as that soule was whose progeny they are; nay they do preserve as in a violl the purest efficacie and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous Dragons teeth; and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand, unlesse warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image; but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the Earth; but a good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalm'd and treasur'd up on purpose to a life beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can restore a life, whereof perhaps there is no great losse; and revolutions of ages do not oft recover the losse of a rejected truth, for the want of which whole Nations fare the worse. We should be wary therefore what persecution we raise against the living labours of publick men, how we spill that season'd life of man preserv'd and stor'd up in Books; since we see a kinde of homicide may be thus committed, sometimes a martyrdome, and if it extend to the whole impression, a kinde of massacre, whereof the execution ends not in the slaying of an elementall life, but strikes at that ethereall and fift essence, the breath of reason it selfe, slaies an immortality rather then a life. But lest I should be condemn'd of introducing licence, while I oppose Licencing, I refuse not the paines to be so much Historicall, as will serve to shew what hath been done by ancient and famous Commonwealths, against this disorder, till the very time that this project of licencing crept out of the Inquisition, was catcht up by our Prelates, and hath caught some of our Presbyters. [Areopagitica, paragraph 3, Thomas H. Luxon, ed. The Milton Reading Room, February, 2009]

I'm no expert on Areopagitica, which is usually cited by defenders of free speech, but I find intriguing that Milton does not deny the right to control 'speech':

I deny not, but that it is of greatest concernment in the Church and Commonwealth, to have a vigilant eye how Bookes demeane themselves as well as men; and thereafter to confine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors....

And he gives as reason: "For Books are not absolutely dead things."

The fact that books are 'living' is what makes them precious but also dangerous, for like living individuals, they can work good or ill. How distinguish the two? Milton seems to be suggesting that all books be allowed publication, after which comes the judgement: "thereafter to confine, imprison, and do sharpest justice on them as malefactors."

But experts can correct me on this point, for I make no authoritative claim. Rather, I want merely to note that Milton takes his image of the book as 'living' and stretches that image so far that the analogy becomes a mixed metaphor in the quote given:

A good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a master fpirit, imbalm'd and treafur'd up on purpose to a life beyond life.

Undoubtedly, Milton was thinking of such Old Testament passages as Genesis 9:4:

But flesh with the life thereof, [which is] the blood thereof, shall ye not eat.

But in what sense can blood be "imbalm'd"? Doesn't the embalming process require the removal of blood? Does Milton have something specific in mind in referring to "life-blood" as "imbalm'd"? But even if blood could be embalmed -- in the sense of preserved chemically -- that blood is certainly no longer living in a "life beyond life".

The quote is really rather odd in treating something embalmed as alive. Still, it sounds kind of neat and looks nice carved into wood, painted with gold lettering, and placed above that door in the New York Public Library, which has set that quote in the larger context of a window shimmering with light, another reading room, perhaps?


If anyone can tell us what lies beyond that door, I'd appreciate it.

Gnostic Strains in Milton?

John Martin, The Bridge over Chaos (mezzotint)

Paradise Lost 10.312 (1827)

(Image from Darkness Visible)

I'm rather occupied this week with a program organized at Ewha Womans University by BK 21 for teaching graduate students how to write. The abbreviation "BK 21" stands for "Brain Korea 21" -- the "21" referring to the "Twenty-First Century" (and "Brain Korea" being shorthand for "raising Korea's brainpower," I guess). My working time, however, has not been abbreviated; rather, it has expanded to cover the hours from 9 to 6. I thus have only a little time for posting, so my post today will merely just touch on a possible theme in John Milton's Paradise Lost.

On the Milton List yesterday morning during a discussion of the myth of Isis and Osiris -- which Milton refers to in Areopagitica to illustrate how "Truth" has been torn apart and scattered and thus needs to be gathered and reassembled -- I raised the question of Gnostic strains in Paradise Lost:

Interesting discussion on the scattering and collecting myth of Isis and Osiris.

As for the passage in Milton's Areopagitica, while it is obviously part of the interpretive tradition concerning this myth, I recall, however, wondering if the Gnostic myth lay in the background to Milton's thinking -- the scattering and regathering of the portion of Sophia lost in the world.

This raises the larger issue of possible Gnostic influence upon Milton. I can never think of that great realm of Chaos in Paradise Lost without wondering if Milton was influenced by Manichaean views on the eternity of darkness in conflict with the light.

Has anyone written on this sort of thing in Milton?

I'm not arguing that Milton was a Gnostic. He certainly wasn't that! But he might have picked up on some Gnostic imagery. Michael Bryson responded to my query:

I think the question of a Gnostic element to (and/or influence on) Milton's thinking is a very interesting one. I am currently working on a project which will take up that question, as part of a larger work on Milton and negative theology, neoplatonic thought, and the basic idea of the God behind (or beyond) "God."

Most of what I am encountering in Milton criticism simply dismisses the idea, however, regarding Gnosticism as somehow antithetical to Milton's thought (I've done the same -- I made a comment, which I now regret, along similar lines near the beginning of The Tyranny of Heaven). I think one of the key questions is, if there is an influence, or even a compatibility of concerns at work between Gnostic thought and Milton's work, what particular branch of "Gnosticism" might be the most likely candidate, and through what sources (the great refuters like Ireneaeus, Tertullian, Hyppolitus, etc., or elsewhere?) might Milton be encountering these ideas? And if the ideas are present and at work in his writing, to what use is he putting them?

I also think the scenes with the old "anarch" Chaos might be fruitfully explained either through, or alongside of, explorations of Gnostic ideas. Zoarastrian ideas (and their possible influence on post-exilic Hebraic thought) come to mind as well.

Questions only at this point...

And also for me, merely questions. John Rumrich responded to our questions by posting his review of A. D. Nuttall's The Alternative Trinity: Gnostic Heresy in Marlowe, Milton, and Blake (Oxford, 1998), which I might comment upon tomorrow.

John Milton's disestablishmentarianism for today...

Theo Hobson

Counterantidisestablishmentarianist?

(Image from theohobson.co.uk)

I don't really know much about this guy, but we lack a lot in common . . . our hair, for instance.

We also have an abundance of something positive in common, an appreciation for John Milton as poet and thinker, but Hobson rates rather higher in terms of cultural impact than do I -- a mere voice in the wilderness -- for he publishes for Times Online, where just a day or two ago, an article of his on Milton appeared: "Credo: Milton’s vision for Church and State is our answer: The religious thought of a 17th century thinker shows how faith and liberalism may be reconciled" (October 31, 2008).

Hobson -- perhaps appropriately for a fellow named "Theo" -- writes as a theologian in the Anglican tradition but argues for disestablishing the Church of England, a radical move that he supports by pointing to Milton the religious thinker:

Provoked into religious writing by the High-Church revolution of Charles I and his archbishop William Laud, Milton complained that the bishops were gaining political power that was unaccountable, and attacked the feudal ethos of the established Church. When Parliament won the Civil War, Milton praised the MPs' resolve: against the odds they had heroically served "religion and their native liberty. Which two things God hath inseparably knit together, and hath disclosed to us, that they who seek to corrupt our religion, are the same that would enthrall our civil liberty."

Hobson is quoting from Milton's tract An Apology for Smectymnuus, but he likes Milton's Areopagitica just as much, for he supports his argument for disestablishing the Church of England by quoting from it Milton's resounding line:

"Woe to us, while, thinking thus to defend the gospel, we are found the persecutors."

Not that the Anglican Church is persecuting anybody these days, despite being a religion of peace, but Hobson sounds better when quoting Milton than when articulating his views in his own words:

Hello! I'm a theologian who believes that Christianity must move in a post-ecclesial direction -- that means I don't like any form of institutional church. Down with organised religion! Down with orthodoxy! There ought to be lots of free-style Jesus Christ-communication, in which 'worship' merges with 'art'.

Yeah, okay, I guess that's fine for some folks . . . but having grown up in a profoundly low-church tradition myself, I find much of Evangelicalism too weak on ecclesiology. Advocate a weak ecclesiology, and you'll probably not get many stunningly beautiful church buildings "in which 'worship' merges with 'art'" (and why are 'worship' and 'art' in scare quotes?), though you probably will get churches in which individuals take a greater part in the service, as we see in American evangelicalism's "free-style Jesus Christ-communication."

Hobson therefore tells us that he stands for an "explicitly secular state that treat[s] all religions equally, . . . mean[ing] the disestablishment of the Church of England -- a move [that he finds] necessary to renew Christianity and free it from its aura of official privilege."

From looking at the American example, we see that Hobson may have a point, for Christianity has a rather powerful voice in American society . . . though I suspect that Hobson wouldn't quite approve of that, either.

At any rate, go to his homepage to find more about him and his recent book, Milton's Vision: The Rebirth of Christian Liberty.

Expat Living: "The fruit of all evil"

Michael Pacher, Saint Wolfgang and the Devil (1483)

"Okay, okay, you're right . . . it doesn't say apple."

(Image from Wikipedia)

My most recent language column has appeared in today's issue of the Korea Herald (note: pop-up at newspaper), so I'll now post it here:

The fruit of all evil

In "Areopagitica," that famous 17th-century defense of free expression, John Milton wrote, "It was from out the rinde of one apple tasted, that the knowledge of good and evill as two twins cleaving together leapt forth into the World. And perhaps this is that doom which Adam fell into of knowing good and evill, that is to say of knowing good by evill."

Milton's opinion presupposes a sin-fallen world where we necessarily experience evil with good and thereby learn to distinguish these mortal opposites that cleave together -- a clever pun, incidentally, upon the ambiguous meaning of "cleave" as both "cling" and "cut."

Doomed as we are to know good by experiencing evil, Milton infers that any attempt to promote goodness by overly restricting bad speech would be . . . well, fruitless. But why does Milton call the fruit that Eve plucked and offered to Adam an apple? The biblical passage specifies no apple, but leaves the fruit unnamed.

That never stopped the pious from naming it, of course. Biblical reticence invites speculation. The extracanonical "Book of Enoch" calls the fruit grape-like, as do several rabbinical passages. Other rabbis name the fruit a fig, perhaps on the scriptural evidence that Adam and Eve, their fallen eyes first perceiving their nakedness, covered their pudenda with fig leaves. Other speculations about the unnamed fruit abound -- even the wild suggestion "wheat"!

Milton, however, says apple. Why?

He was hardly alone, for the Western Christian tradition in literature and art had largely settled on the apple as the fruit from the tree of knowledge, probably based on a pun in Latin between evil (malum) and apple (malus). The scriptural text in Latin reads "lignumque scientiae boni et mali" -- or, in plain English, "and the tree of knowledge of good and of evil," but the genitive singular form mali can be translated either "of evil" or "of apple." The "tree of knowledge of good and of apple" might sound slightly ludicrous, but we are talking wordplay, hence all in good pun.

Milton, however, might have had other thoughts in calling that fatal fruit an apple, for the word has an interesting history. The most ambitious English lexicon of all, the intimidating Oxford English Dictionary, notes that from early on, the word "apple" included "any fruit." Intriguingly, the English cleric Edward Topsell reveals that the English language held to this broader range of meaning as late as 1607, for in his book "The History of Four-footed Beasts," he refers to the "Apples of Palm-trees," and the book was republished some fifty years later. Moreover, nearly a hundred years after Milton, as late as 1765, the country gentleman Abraham Tucker observed in his multi-volume book "The Light of Nature Pursued" that the "fly injects her juices into the oak-leaf, to raise an apple for hatching her young," thereby demonstrating a still-extant, rather broad range of meaning.

Consequently, when Milton referred in "Areopagitica" to "the rinde of one apple tasted," when he had his narrator in "Paradise Regained" mention "that crude Apple that diverted Eve," and when he showed Satan in "Paradise Lost" tempting Eve with "tasting those fair Apples" and later boasting before the other demons of having seduced mankind "with an Apple," he might not have meant specifically what we today mean by "apple" but more indefinitely what we now mean by "fruit."

Therefore -- no two ways about it -- fear all fruit. You could study hard in school. You could even get a good job. But then, you might unwittingly eat some foreboding fruit . . . and just die!

Originally, the column above was intended for early July, but one of the other columnists who writes on language misunderstood and missed the deadline, resulting in a long delay before the printing of that language-column page, so my article has only appeared in print now, about an entire month later. During that lost month, I had actually sent in a revision of the penultimate paragraph, but the time delay resulted in those changes being lost. Here's what I had intended for the final form of that next-to-last paragraph:

Consequently, when Milton referred in "Areopagitica" to "the rinde of one apple tasted," when he had his narrator in "Paradise Regained" mention "that crude Apple that diverted Eve," and when he showed Satan in "Paradise Lost" tempt Eve with "tasting those fair Apples" and later boast before the other demons of having seduced mankind "with an Apple," Milton might not have meant specifically what we today mean by "apple" but more indefinitely what we now mean by "fruit."

Just for the sake of clarity.