On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or His own gifts, who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.

(John Milton,1608-1674, c. 1652)

Milton was a fire-eater, surely lacking any trace of 21st Century post-modern sensitivity. He campaigned tirelessly for the execution of assorted papist heretics, including clergy of all stripes and even the King himself. Milton probably attended the public execution of Charles—perhaps not your emblem of empathy.

But man’s fire cannot be satisfied by ink alone. Johny married 17 year old Mary when he was 34; but she left—fled—within a few weeks, and he turned his poison pen toward relaxing divorce laws. Her family, loyal to that lousy idol-worshiping Catholic king, sent her back to Milton. I wonder how much say young Mary got? She bore him two children, a boy and a girl, then died a few days after the daughter was born. The little boy died the following month, and within the year, John Milton was completely blind.

Four years later, he married Katherine, and I don’t know how old she was, but she died a year after their marriage, in childbirth (another daughter for John). In 1656, 54 years old, still blind, this brilliant, passionate man married for the last time, to 24 year old Elizabeth, who outlived him by 50 years (shades of Anna, the prophet in the temple where Jesus was dedicated?).

John Milton must have had a great deal of personal magnetism, a spark of fun to go with the intellect, a glimmer, perhaps, of spiritual depth belied by the rigid outer persona. I don’t care much for him, really, or for his black-and-white world view. And yet, he is venerated, practically sanctified, along with Chaucer and Shakespeare, by word nerds through the ages.

His magnum opus, Paradise Lost, required reading for English majors everywhere, is a staple in the Dead White Guy canon of Western literature. And I suspect many have used the last line of this sonnet to whip reluctant kids to action, as my dad used to do, barbed tongue firm in his cheek, whenever we were not being as industrious as he thought we needed to be.

I'd bet ol' Johny was a curmudgeon, though. I don't envy his women--or his children.

[If you are interested in more of me and less of Milton, stay tuned. I know a thing or two about living with a blind man...]