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Sinister Aesthetics
The Appeal of Evil in Early Modern English
Literature
Joel Elliot Slotkin
English Department
Towson University
Baltimore, Maryland, USA
vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ix
x CONTENTS
Bibliography 267
Index 281
CHAPTER 1
notoriously engaging villain. Many Milton critics over the centuries have
framed this paradox as an opposition between the poem’s poetic and
theological aspects, between aesthetic pleasure and religious doctrine.
This study argues instead that in Paradise Lost explicit theological argu-
ments are necessary for but prove inherently insufficient to the task of
theodicy, and that the poem’s justification of God ultimately relies on
aesthetic manipulation to supplement its theological arguments.
Specifically, the poem employs a complex aesthetic in which evil and
good, infernal and celestial, “dreadful shade” and “holy light” are seen
as integral to the beauty of God’s creation (6.828, 3.1).6 This reading of
Paradise Lost offers a more productive context for understanding Satan’s
attractiveness, a major crux (or deadlock) in Milton criticism. It also
elucidates the poetic strategy behind the theodicy of Paradise Lost: to
develop an aesthetic sensibility in readers that will make them capable of
loving a God whose creation includes the darkness of evil and the cruelty
of punishment.
Although aspects of Milton’s solution are strikingly original, Paradise Lost
is important because it brings together several major strands of Renaissance
discourse that explored the appeal of evil for both artistic and religious
purposes. This study traces the historical development, and the poetic and
religious effects, of sinister aesthetics through a range of early modern
English texts (in the context of such non-English writers as Saint
Augustine and Torquato Tasso): Sidney’s The Defence of Poesy (written
1580s, published 1595), Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (1590, 1596),
Shakespeare’s Richard III (c. 1592), and the popular print literature of
ballads, pamphlets, and sermons. I examine how these authors have used
the sinister to attract audiences to representations of evil, and in many cases
to produce affective theodicies that aim to make divine punishment viscerally
appealing, rather than simply morally justifiable. Paradise Lost represents the
culmination of these strategies in the period, and it serves as one of the
foremost inspirations for subsequent theorists to develop an aesthetic para-
digm—the sublime—that can encompass the pleasures of the sinister.
closely follows Joseph Margolis’s Art and Philosophy (1980), which argues
that “works of art exist only in cultural contexts” and posits a mutually
constitutive relationship between the work’s “rule-governed order” and
culturally specific “appreciative traditions” (49). Crucially for my purposes,
Margolis’s theory allows for “divergent appreciative systems” within a
single culture (227).
Instead of treating aesthetics or the aesthetic as a universal philoso-
phical category, this book focuses on the idea of an aesthetic; that is, a
specific set of aesthetic standards operative in a given cultural, histor-
ical, and artistic context. This context could be broad or specific; for
example, we could speak of a Renaissance aesthetic, or a Miltonic
aesthetic, or even an aesthetic that operates only in a particular poem.
More precisely, an aesthetic is a culturally specific system comprising a
set of artistic ideals governing what should be depicted, and conventions
governing how things should be depicted, the successful use of which
produces a pleasurable affective response in the observer. A Petrarchan
aesthetic, for instance, would express a particular ideal of feminine
beauty through the culturally determined conventions of golden hair,
ruby lips, ivory neck, and so on. Presumably, this evocation of feminine
beauty would be expected to produce certain emotions in the poem’s
target audience. When referring to more than one of these aesthetic
systems, I use the plural form, aesthetics (not to be confused with the
singular noun).
Morality and aesthetics have a complex and interdependent relationship.
Aesthetic ideals are inherently prescriptive and reflect the values of a given
culture; as such, they can include or imply a moral component. For exam-
ple, Petrarchan depictions of feminine beauty are also invested in certain
notions of feminine virtue, as when Sir Philip Sidney, in Astrophil and Stella
(written c. 1582, published 1591), calls Stella’s face “Queen Virtue’s
court” and provides a blazon of her physical features that emphasizes her
purity and chastity (sonnet 9, line 1). Aesthetic conventions, on the other
hand, are more or less arbitrary signifiers possessing moral valences only
through their traditional association with ideals—there is nothing inher-
ently moral or immoral about golden hair, for instance. Nonetheless, early
modern writers routinely use such iconography to suggest the moral nature
of whatever object they are representing. The Platonic idea that beauty and
goodness were ultimately one was highly influential in the Renaissance. In
Renaissance literary practice, moral and aesthetic elements frequently bleed
into one another, and this study will trace some of these slippages.
6 1 INTRODUCTION: REPRESENTING EVIL IN EARLY MODERN ENGLAND
SINISTER AESTHETICS
Representations of evil, and the imagery associated with evil, can indeed
be described as ugly, to the extent that they violate normative aesthetic
principles. But artistic representations of evil are also aesthetic construc-
tions, crafted according to principles and traditions analogous to those
governing beautiful things. Thus, if these supposedly ugly representa-
tions are in some way pleasing, we could also say that they possess a
kind of beauty.10 Ultimately, though, the terms beautiful and ugly are
equally misleading ways to describe this category of aesthetic objects.
Neither is adequate by itself, and together they are oxymoronic.
Indeed, part of the difficulty in discussing attractive representations of
evil is that the language we use to describe them makes their very
existence seem paradoxical and implausible, when in fact they are
quite common.
SINISTER AESTHETICS 9
the work’s ruling law of form; it is integrated by that formal law and
thereby confirms it” (60).
This paradigm has been productive, but it can also lead to oversimpli-
fication, reducing the subversive to the mere negation of whatever is
hegemonic, of order itself. Julia Kristeva’s concept of the abject has been
very influential on these kinds of models, particularly for early modernists
analyzing monstrosity.14 Kristeva’s Powers of Horror (1982) describes the
abject as “what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect
borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite”
(4). The abject is useful because it offers a more inclusive notion of what
motivations can be psychologically realistic by theorizing a fascination
with what is horrifying, disgusting, or otherwise rejected by normative
standards. However, when defined purely in these terms, the abject ulti-
mately serves to re-inscribe the order that it violates.15
Another problem with overuse of this binary is that, as Eve Sedgwick
and Adam Frank’s “Shame in the Cybernetic Fold” (1995) tartly notes, it
becomes all too easy to label everything as “kinda subversive, kinda hege-
monic” (500). Shuger’s analysis of early modern English Protestantism in
Habits of Thought in the English Renaissance (1990) reveals that the
supposedly “orthodox and subversive” elements are quite mingled in
actual religious discourse, to the point where “it is not always clear what
precisely is subversive with respect to the dominant ideology, nor does
orthodox ideology seem quite as monolithic and hegemonic” (1, 2–3).16
In their discussion of sexuality, Sedgwick and Frank advocate “an affect
system described as encompassing several more, and more qualitatively
different, possibilities than on/off” (504). The same could be said for
aesthetic responses to art and literature. Critics need to keep seeking more
precise and flexible alternative models for talking about the things we
associate with categories such as the other and the subversive. The sinister
and the normative do exist partly in symbiotic, mutually defining opposi-
tion to each other, but the sinister is above all a category of competing
aesthetic orders that exploit the appeal of objects rejected by normative
aesthetics.
Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of
the Sublime and Beautiful (1756) offers a productive model for a binary
system that nonetheless maintains these qualitative distinctions between
its opposing aesthetics. Burke wrote almost a century after Milton, but he
and most other early theorists of the sublime were inspired in no small part
by a desire to explain the poetic power of Paradise Lost, which they saw as
SINISTER AESTHETICS 11
moral responsibilities. Authors in the early modern period thus felt power-
ful pressures to contain and assimilate the sinister within a larger whole
that was morally and aesthetically normative. As a philosophical grounding
for this practice, early modern writers could draw on Augustine’s depic-
tion of the universe as a chiaroscuro painting that derives its beauty from
the combination of good and evil elements (see The City of God book 11,
Chapter 23). Similarly, the neoclassical aesthetic principle of concordia
discors, or discordant harmony, allowed authors to employ sinister ele-
ments provided that they were balanced with normative ones.
While they strove to circumscribe the dangerous power of the sinister,
early modern authors—often the very same authors—also pursued a con-
trary impulse: to push the limits of readers’ tolerance for the horrible with
elaborate depictions of physical and psychological cruelty, baby-eating
hags, the torments of hell, wasting diseases, and blind toads in puddles
of vomit. The level of intensity and sensuous detail in such descriptions
often accumulates to a point of excess that becomes a sinister technique in
its own right, insofar as it violates normative principles of literary decorum,
harmony, order, and restraint for its own aesthetic purposes.
Central to the nature and significance of the sinister are the complex
cognitive and affective responses that it evokes in audiences. Whereas pure
ugliness is simply unpleasant and produces aversion or repulsion, the
sinister offers a pleasure that is analogous to but qualitatively distinct from
the response to beauty. Moreover, because an object that conforms to a
sinister aesthetic must also, by definition, violate a normative aesthetic,
appreciating it involves an attraction to something that one simultaneously
also recognizes as evil, horrifying, or disgusting. The sinister thus requires
audiences to balance opposing sensibilities, emotions, and systems of value.
Works that employ the sinister almost inevitably rely on the normative as
well, and this combination of elements within a single work can demand a
kind of code-switching from audiences. Ultimately, they must negotiate
their relation to the dark and morally questionable subject matter and
reconcile their interest in it with their ostensible moral and aesthetic values.
Enjoying a representation of evil is not the same as committing an evil act
oneself, but the sinister can create a powerful imaginative engagement that
raises questions about the audience’s complicity. Renaissance authors who
wished to capitalize on the sinister had to help readers manage this process:
to decide which aesthetic sensibilities should govern their responses in a
given instance, and to assimilate their appreciation of the sinister into the
context of their own moral standards. The result was a poetry that played
THE PROBLEM OF EVIL 13
As a poetic theodicy, Paradise Lost must convince its readers not just to
accept but to actively approve the universe and all of the many evils within
it. By presenting divine punishment, particularly its infernal manifesta-
tions, as a source of aesthetic pleasure, the poem in effect grants God
some aspects of the appeal of a Renaissance stage villain. Of course, Milton
also powerfully presents some of God’s more conventionally positive
aspects. Overall, in fact, the God of Paradise Lost is characterized by a
chiaroscuro aesthetic, the fusion of light and dark elements, and the poem
thereby presents an Augustinian vision of the universe as a troubling but
ultimately beautiful combination of good and evil.
This study thus offers an answer to Sharpe’s question about whether
“changing religious sensibilities” produced new aesthetic sensibilities or
vice versa: the two are causally interdependent. Christianity inflects sinister
aesthetics by emphasizing the importance of evil as a moral category and by
providing a wealth of demonic cosmology and iconography for early
modern authors and playwrights to exploit. Christian writers, from lowly
ballad-makers to preachers to Milton himself, re-appropriate sinister aes-
thetics in order to attract audiences and to offer affective theodicies.
Finally, sinister aesthetics inflect Christianity by shaping the religious sen-
sibilities of believers who experience an affective response to them—and by
becoming part of how early modern Christians represent the divine.
CHAPTER OVERVIEW
This book examines the development of sinister aesthetics in England
from the late sixteenth century to the late seventeenth century, through
the interaction and competition between several different forms of early
modern cultural discourse: elite literature (as embodied particularly in
poetic theory and the epic tradition), cheap print, religious writing, and
drama. That development culminates in Milton’s Paradise Lost, which
combines and transforms the various strands of sinister poetics into a
new kind of poetry and a new conception of God.
The second chapter ranges over a generically diverse set of ancient and
early modern texts in order to provide some of the intellectual–historical
context for the more historically focused chapters that follow. It highlights
the tensions between early modern literary theory and practice regarding
the attractiveness of artistic representations of evil by looking briefly at
selected elements of the literary philosophy and epic poetry of Sidney,
Tasso, and Spenser. As theorists, these writers were unable to fully
CHAPTER OVERVIEW 17
aesthetics they developed affected their religious piety and theodicy. It then
briefly considers the life of the sinister after Milton. The rise of the sublime
as a major aesthetic paradigm in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
offered a theoretical validation for taking pleasure in artistic representations
of evil, one that ultimately allowed sinister aesthetics to become more
independent from religious concerns. Finally, the epilogue suggests some
of the uses of—and anxieties about—the sinister in the modern era.
NOTES
1. See Susan J. Wolfson’s “Reading for Form” (2000) and the other essays in
the Modern Language Quarterly special issue of the same title, Mark David
Rasmussen’s collection Renaissance Literature and Its Formal Engagements
(2002), Stephen Cohen’s collection Shakespeare and Historical Formalism
(2007), Marjorie Levinson’s “What Is New Formalism?” (2007), Verena
Theile and Linda Tredennick’s collection New Formalisms and Literary
Theory (2013), and Frederic V. Bogel’s New Formalist Criticism: Theory
and Practice (2013).
2. See Gail Kern Paster’s Humoring the Body: Emotions and the Shakespearean
Stage (2004) and several collections, including Reading the Early Modern
Passions (2003) edited by Paster, Katharine Rowe, and Mary Floyd-Wilson;
Politics and the Passions, 1500–1850 (2006) edited by Victoria Kahn, Neil
Saccamano, and Daniela Coli; and Passions and Subjectivity in Early Modern
Culture (2013) edited by Brian Cummings and Freya Sierhuis.
3. Ken Jackson and Arthur Marotti, in “The Turn to Religion in Early Modern
English Studies” (2004), contrast Marxist scholars who “decode religious
language and ideas as mystifications of economic, political, and social con-
ditions and relationships, usually assuming that religion itself is a form of
‘false consciousness’” with scholars who “take seriously religious beliefs,
ideas, and history” (168).
4. See, for example, Shuger’s Habits of Thought in the English Renaissance
(1990).
5. C. S. Lewis’s A Preface to Paradise Lost (1942) and Stanley Fish’s Surprised
by Sin (1967) have helped promulgate this perspective among Miltonists.
6. Paradise Lost passages are cited by book and line number.
7. See, for example, Rumrich’s 1996 study, Milton Unbound: Controversy and
Reinterpretation (1).
8. Stephen Gosson’s Playes Confuted in Five Actions (1582), for example,
castigates playgoing as sitting in “the chaire of pestilence” (B7, Kinney
154) and eating the “pollution of idoles” (B8v, Kinney 155). On retro-
spective moralizing, see my Chapter 2, especially regarding Tasso’s
20 1 INTRODUCTION: REPRESENTING EVIL IN EARLY MODERN ENGLAND
19. Like the sublime, the grotesque partly overlaps with the sinister, partly
diverges from it, and has undergone significant shifts of meaning since the
early modern period. By the 1650s, “grotesque” could imply an aesthetics of
monstrosity and “distortion or unnatural combinations” (OED B.2.a).
According to the OED, Ben Jonson’s Timber says the “vulgar” associate it
“unaptly” with “Chimaera’s,” but at least through 1823 it could also be
characterized as a “light, gay, and beautiful style of ornament” (OED A.1.a).
Milton uses “grotesque” to describe the unruly foliage of Eden in Paradise
Lost (4.136); see Janice Koelb’s The Poetics of Description: Imagined Places
in European Literature (2006; 90–91). Following Mikhail Bakhtin’s
Rabelais and His World (1965), early modernists often link the grotesque
with the carnivalesque; see, for example, Neil Rhodes’s Elizabethan
Grotesque (1980). Alison Milbank’s “Divine Beauty and the Grotesque in
Dante’s Paradiso” (2009), however, connects the grotesque with divine
punishment. Like the sinister, the carnivalesque inverts social and cultural
expectations, and employs the grotesque and the Vice archetype; but the
carnivalesque differs in its festive, comic, and redemptive connotations. See
Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression
(1986) and Peter Lake and Michael Questier, The Antichrist’s Lewd Hat
(2002).
20. Modern theologians remain interested in the relationship between aesthetics
and the problem of evil. John Hick’s influential Evil and the God of Love
(1966) opposes Augustine’s “aesthetic theodicy” (93), while Philip Tallon’s
The Poetics of Evil: Toward an Aesthetic Theodicy (2012) argues “that
aesthetic considerations play a valuable role in the task of theodicy” (xviii).
Marilyn McCord Adams’s book Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God
(1999) opens by acknowledging that “writing or reading about evil affords
opportunity to taste that delicious dread of picking and tasting fruits pri-
mordially disallowed” (1).
CHAPTER 2
that test the limits of poetry’s ability to aestheticize evil and thereby help
establish some of the repertoire—and the boundaries—of the sinister in
Renaissance poetic practice.
who seeth not the filthiness of evil, wanteth a great foil to perceive the
beauty of virtue. . . . And little reason hath any man to say, that men
learn the evil by seeing it so set out, since as I said before . . . nothing
can more open his eyes, than to see his own actions contemptibly set
forth. (230)
MONSTERS AND MEDICINE: PLEASURE AND MORALITY IN THE DEFENCE . . . 29
Augustine’s writings were well known to authors in both the Italian and
English Renaissances and had been available for centuries beforehand.
Italian literary critics acknowledged his authority as a theologian with a
32 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
A mutilated body lying in the street is not only horrible but it is also a
product of violence and therefore linked to some recent evil: homicide,
cruelty, or at the very least suffering. Once again, Augustine’s use of
rhetorical questions suggests the difficulty of imagining such a corpse
producing aesthetic pleasure. Yet it inspires curiosity, primarily as a visually
hideous spectacle, but presumably also by its potential involvement in the
evil of murder.
“THE CONTRARIES OF THESE DELIGHTS”: CURIOSITAS AND CHIAROSCURO . . . 35
pleasure in doing forbidden acts: “My desire was to enjoy not what I
sought by stealing but merely the excitement of thieving and the doing of
what was wrong. . . . I had no motive for my wickedness except wickedness
itself” (2.4.9).
This transgression for transgression’s sake, which seems at first like a
purely moral perversity, becomes fundamentally aesthetic in Augustine’s
account of it. He specifically denies that the pears were useful to him, or
that they appealed on a normative aesthetic level: “I stole something which
I had in plenty and of much better quality”—in fact, the pears were
“attractive in neither color nor taste” (2.4.9).17 However, he describes his
pleasure in the crime as analogous to the aesthetic pleasure that a less
depraved person would have derived from the fruit: “My feasting was solely
on the wickedness which I took pleasure in enjoying” (2.6.12).
Augustine describes this pleasure metaphorically in two conflicting
ways, but both suggest a sensual appeal that differs from the normative
aesthetic motives for crime that he outlines earlier. On the one hand,
he compares his love of wickedness to an attraction to filth: “It was
foul [foeda], and I loved it” (2.4.9). The word foeda has concrete sensual
connotations as well as abstract moral ones. On the other hand,
Augustine describes his criminality as a condimentum, a spice or season-
ing that adds a spark of flavor to the otherwise bland pears (2.6.12). This
comparison suggests a particularly pleasing flavor that is uniquely
associated with evil, which is one reasonable definition of a sinister
aesthetic. Just before this episode, Augustine combines these two figura-
tive strategies of filth and spiciness to describe his wicked behavior in the
city: “I rolled in its dung [caeno] as if rolling in spices [cinnamis] and
precious ointments” (2.3.8).18
Representing evil as filth highlights the foolish perversity of taking
pleasure in it, but at the cost of imaginatively presenting filth itself as
pleasurable, a metaphorical connection that could encourage readers to
stretch their aesthetic sensibilities beyond normative standards.
Conversely, treating evil as a condiment or spice makes its appeal seem
less perverse and explains why sin is so prevalent, since everybody likes
condiments. However, this view implies that goodness (and the normative
beauty that is persistently conflated with it) is bland and in need of flavor
enhancement, since after insisting on the lackluster appearance and taste of
the pears, Augustine makes them an emblem of the goodness and beauty
of God’s creation: “The fruit which we stole was beautiful because it was
your creation, most beautiful of all Beings” (2.6.12).
“THE CONTRARIES OF THESE DELIGHTS”: CURIOSITAS AND CHIAROSCURO . . . 37
I considered the totality. . . . I held that all things taken together are
better than superior things by themselves” (7.13.19).
Even that which Augustine himself considers moral evil can function as
part of this aesthetic whole: “Let the restless and the wicked [iniqui]
depart and flee from you (Ps. 138: 7). You see them and pierce their
shadowy existence: even with them everything is beautiful, though they
are vile [pulchra sunt cum eis omnia et ipsi turpes sunt]” (Confessions
5.2.2). Augustine makes this point at greater length in The City of God
book 11, chapter 23: “For just as a picture is enhanced by the proper
placing within it of dark colours, so, to those able to discern it, the beauty
of the universe is enhanced even by sinners, though, considered in them-
selves, theirs is a sorry deformity” (page 479).20 Here, the evil of sin
becomes part of a beautiful whole, not merely to a degenerate viewer,
but to the trained eye of the connoisseur. Although sin is unpleasant in
itself (and even this caveat is undermined elsewhere, by the concept of
curiositas and the idea of evil as condimentum), it can be used to produce
an artistic effect. Just as the skillful juxtaposition of dark and light pig-
ments can increase the beauty of a painting through the aesthetics of
chiaroscuro, so God’s artful manipulation of various kinds of evil in the
universe contributes to a beautiful and pleasing result.21
Augustine thereby translates the theologically important concept of God
bringing good out of evil into aesthetic terms. Evil produces beauty, as the
picture simile describes, and beauty helps constitute goodness. Augustine’s
Enchiridion on Faith, Hope, and Love asserts that created things “are good,
even taken separately. Taken as a whole, however, they are very good,
because their ensemble constitutes the universe in all its wonderful order
and beauty” (3.10). This perspective breaks down the opposition between
aesthetics and morality that Augustine’s condemnation of voluptas oculorum
in the Confessions appeared to establish, and it dissolves many of the conven-
tional distinctions between good and evil, for example, by classifying dragons
as good. In his discussion of curiositas, Geoffrey Galt Harpham presents this
aesthetic contemplation as a danger to the central ascetic impulse of the
Confessions: “this temptation is irresistible, for a perfect resistance would
demand a perfect unresponsiveness to the world, a great dishonor to God
and his creation” (116). This claim identifies a real conflict in Augustine, but
it is also a backhanded acknowledgment that aesthetic contemplation of
God’s universe is a way to honor God and one of the central features of
Augustine’s process of confession. In the picture analogy, the connoisseur
who can appreciate the presence of evil elements among the good ones is a
CHIMERAS AND CONCORDIA DISCORS: TASSO’S AUGUSTINIAN AESTHETICS 39
figure for the enlightened Christian. Thus, the linked, and supposedly
repudiated, concepts of aesthetics and evil turn out to be crucial for the
Augustinian religious experience.
The chiaroscuro painting emblematizes a perverse epistemology that
Augustine’s writings develop, in which our perception of good allows us
to perceive evil, and evil increases our appreciation of good. Augustine says
that to seek a cause for evil is: “like wishing to see darkness or hear
silence.” In other words, we cannot understand evil directly, only indir-
ectly: “For when the bodily eye runs its gaze over corporeal objects, it sees
darkness only where it begins not to see” (City of God 12.7, page 508). We
know evil through good, as the absence of good. Conversely, Augustine
argues that we know good in part (Milton, more radically, will say only)
through evil: “And in the universe, even that which is called evil, when it is
regulated and put in its own place, only enhances our admiration of the
good; for we enjoy and value the good more when we compare it with the
evil” (Enchiridion 3.11).
Augustine thus advocates the joyful contemplation of God’s universe as
a complex aesthetic object which contains light and dark elements. In
emphasizing the importance of the aesthetic, he develops several sinister
aesthetics, some of which he tries to repudiate and some of which he
actively endorses. Nonetheless, he exploits all these forms of the sinister in
his writing to help flesh out his account of evil on both the human and
cosmic scales. The resulting picture goes far beyond his abstract, ontolo-
gical definition of evil as a deficiency: evil for Augustine is a vivid presence,
both repulsive and enticing, and ultimately part of the divine beauty of
creation. He disapproves of the pure appeal of transgression that he feels
when stealing the pears, but he praises purely sinister things, like dragons,
in themselves when they manifest God’s power. Deriving aesthetic plea-
sure from evil seems to be an inevitable activity in Augustine, whether as
part of the sin that fallen beings are prone to, or as part of a redemptive
contemplation of God’s design.
Guided by an unerring light, she [Nature] always attends to the good and
the perfect; and since the good and the perfect are always the same, her way
of working must always be the same. Beauty is a work of nature that consists
in a certain proportion of parts, as well as appropriate size and lovely grace of
coloring. These conditions, which were at one time beautiful in themselves,
will always be beautiful; and custom cannot make them seem otherwise. So,
by contrast, custom cannot make pointed heads and goitres beautiful among
those nations where such qualities appear in the majority of men. (Rhu 127)
This model suggests that truth and beauty are both naturally ordained
absolutes and designed according to related principles. Its account of
beauty as a manifestation of perfection in “a certain proportion of parts”
represents Tasso’s normative aesthetic. The passage also implies that truth
should be pleasant for the same reasons that beauty is. Indeed, this
account of their nature and the appropriate response to them makes it
difficult to disentangle truth from beauty.
On the other hand, Gerusalemme liberata begins with a more conflicted
account of the relationship between truth and beauty: “You know that the
world flocks there where feigning Parnassus most pours out her sweet-
nesses, and that the truth in fluent verses hidden has by its charm per-
suaded the most froward. So we present to the feverish child the rim of the
glass sprinkled over with sweet liquids: he drinks deceived the bitter
medicine and from his deception receives life” (1.3).25 This metaphor
for the role of poetic beauty in moral instruction, derived from Lucretius
and analogous to Sidney’s “medicine of cherries,” denies the capacity of
naked truth to give pleasure. Instead, it combines “bitter” truths with
poetry that is pleasurable but deceptive.26
The early Discorsi’s unapologetic focus on aesthetic pleasure, unusual
for a work of Renaissance poetic theory (and a position that Tasso tem-
pered in his later Discorsi), allows it to expand the range of aesthetic
options available to poets. Despite the Platonic absolutism of Tasso’s
claim that beauty is “always the same,” the early Discorsi actually permit
a certain aesthetic flexibility: “There are some things that are neither good
nor evil by nature, but that depend on custom; and they are good or evil as
custom determines them. . . . Thus it happens that many words . . . once
42 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
avoided as barbaric and frightful are now accepted as lovely and civilized”
(Rhu 125). Some forms of beauty are not natural and eternal, but may
appear as ugliness to certain audiences; likewise, the ugly may become the
beautiful as tastes change. This aesthetic relativism is grounded in the
Renaissance notion of decorum, according to which different literary styles
are appropriate to different contexts.27
Although early modern theorists typically subordinated aesthetic plea-
sure to moral and religious instruction, Tasso asserts a deeply interdepen-
dent relationship between poetry and Christianity that recognizes the
aesthetic elements of religion. Tasso assumes but does not explicitly stress
the superiority of Christian moral lessons to pagan ones. Instead, he argues
from a poetic perspective in which Christianity is superior because it allows
the poet to more effectively combine the verisimilar [verisimile] and the
marvelous or wondrous [meraviglioso]. Verisimilitude is an essential obli-
gation of the epic poem, but a poet who does not “season his poem” with
marvels, “as with spices,” will fail to please his audience (Rhu 102).28
Christianity is verisimilar because it is true, but it also provides more
powerful examples of the marvelous than classical mythology can offer.
By describing the marvelous as a flavor which produces pleasure, Tasso
reveals it to be an aesthetic category.
Tasso cites the demonic as a crucial element in the aesthetic superiority
of Christianity as a poetic subject: “works that greatly exceed the power of
men the poet attributes to God, to His angels, to demons, or to those
granted such power by God or by demons, like saints and wizards and
fairies” (Rhu 103). Tasso’s lists of marvels consistently place representa-
tions of angels and demons on a parallel and equal footing: “our religion
brings with it—in heavenly and infernal councils, as well as in prophecies
and rituals—such grandeur, such dignity, and such majesty as Gentile
religion does not offer” (Rhu 104). From the standpoint of poetic con-
struction at least, hellish scenes have the same aesthetic stature as heavenly
ones: both are essential flavors, or “spices,” that produce pleasure.29
By valorizing the poet’s ability to encompass the monstrous and evil as
well as the conventionally beautiful and good, Tasso links the sinister to an
aesthetics of variety. Variety was an important aesthetic principle for
Renaissance writers, but it was also theoretically problematic because of
its potential to include evil.30 Tasso’s Discorsi accordingly treat poetic
variety on the one hand as a monstrosity that violates classical aesthetics
of unity and simplicity, and on the other as a necessary component of a
more complex ideal of poetic unity.
CHIMERAS AND CONCORDIA DISCORS: TASSO’S AUGUSTINIAN AESTHETICS 43
If a painter chose to join a human head to the neck of a horse, and to spread
feathers of many a hue over limbs picked up now here now there, so that
what at the top is a lovely woman ends below in a black and ugly fish, could
you, my friends, if favoured with a private view, refrain from laughing?33
Here might you see a thousand filthy Harpies and a thousand Centaurs and
Sphinxes and pale Gorgons; a myriad ravenous Scyllas howling and Hydras
hooting and Pythons hissing and Chimaeras belching forth black flames; and
horrible Polyphemuses and Geryons; and in strange monstrosities, no [sic]
elsewhere known or seen, diverse appearances confused and blended into
one. (4.5)
Although Tasso declares the sight to be terrifying and horrible, the lush-
ness of the catalog demonstrates poetic craft. Moreover, the passage posits
a reader potentially interested in engaging with chimeras by its insistence
on sight, which sets the monsters up as a spectacle, and on their novelty:
“novi mostri, e non più intesi o visti.” By framing the “strange monstros-
ities” as a sight never before seen, Tasso offers them to readers as the kind
of marvelous, monstrous display that enjoyed widespread popularity in
early modern Europe. Of course, despite their supposed novelty, all of the
monsters Tasso specifically mentions are staples of classical mythology, so
much so that Tasso deems it unnecessary to explain the anatomical differ-
ences between “Gorgons” and “Scyllas.” In counterpoint to the emphasis
on novelty, this familiarity reinforces the chimeras’ membership in a poetic
tradition; they are not simply violations of poetic decorum. Tasso’s depic-
tion of Pluto and Tartarus combines this sinister aesthetic of the chimera
with the Discorsi’s aesthetic of infernal majesty: when Pluto addresses the
“Godheads of Tartarus” (4.9), he has the “fearsome majesty” (4.7) that
the Discorsi praise as a poetic benefit of representing infernal councils.
CHIMERAS AND CONCORDIA DISCORS: TASSO’S AUGUSTINIAN AESTHETICS 45
Here, unlike the example of the Alps, the oppositions are clearly moral as
well as aesthetic. While the sense of paradox remains, this passage offers a
fuller explanation of how and why these opposites might cohere. When
48 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
placed in the proper context, hellish scenes and cruel acts generate aes-
thetic pleasure and become necessary, irreplaceable parts of the whole.
This model moves beyond mere claims about poetic aesthetics; it also
has religious implications that echo Augustine. Tasso claims that the
poet’s inclusion of evil is an imitation of the artistic process by which
God (“the supreme Artificer”) created the universe.38 He prefaces this
description with an Augustinian praise of “this marvelous domain of God
that we call the world” that highlights the importance of appreciating
God’s creation aesthetically (Rhu 130), and then emphasizes the presence
of evil and the infernal (that is to say, the aesthetics of hell) in that
creation. Tasso’s account of the cosmos as a “discordant concord” thus
corresponds to Augustine’s description of it as a chiaroscuro painting.
Both models suggest the importance of dark and evil elements to the
aesthetic sensibilities of God the artist, creator and designer of the
universe.
Tasso’s Discorsi and Augustine’s Confessions and other works assert that
the monstrous is not attractive in itself, but only when placed within a
larger whole to provide contrast and variety. Yet Tasso and Augustine also
suggest that evil, monstrosity, and even filth possess an intrinsic appeal,
thus acknowledging, if not fully theorizing, the sinister aesthetics they
employ in their own writing. Their work includes not only majestic, or
what would later be called sublime, manifestations of evil, but also those
which by normative standards should produce disgust or contempt. While
Tasso employs an aesthetics of demonic grandeur that Milton would bring
to its full fruition, he also makes poetic use of evil and chimerical monsters,
and his Pluto is not only majestic but also monstrous, filthy, and stinking.
Augustine repeatedly describes the pleasure of wallowing in the filth of sin
(e.g., Confessions 3.11.20). English Renaissance writers explored the para-
meters of this latter appeal and tested its limits, raising questions about
how and when poetic representations of the supposedly disgusting might
inspire aversion or pleasure.
Tasso argues in his Discorsi and demonstrates in his own epic poetry, evil in
The Faerie Queene becomes a crucial part of the "variety of matter" that
generates poetic pleasure.
While Tasso’s theoretical and poetic work emphasizes an aesthetic of
demonic majesty, The Faerie Queene expands the palette of sinister effects
available to poets in a different direction. Like Tasso, Spenser employs
chimeras, but Spenser also displays an ambivalent fascination with the
representation of what he criticizes as “filth and fowle incontinence”
(2.12.87)—indeed, Spenser’s “variety of matter” includes quite an
unwholesome array of bodily fluids.40 Although Spenser’s monsters are
disgusting by normative standards, these representations almost always
employ sinister aesthetics that allow, or even encourage, readers to imagi-
natively engage with them, and Spenser provides characters both villainous
and virtuous who model this interest in filth for the reader.
My reading of The Faerie Queene suggests that promoting such an
aesthetic engagement with evil is a problematic but vital feature of poetry,
even poetry that aims at moral instruction. In this section and the sub-
sequent one, I examine two episodes from book 1 (Redcrosse’s encounter
with Errour and the unmasking of Duessa) and the conclusion of book 2
(the Bower of Bliss). The goal is not a comprehensive account of evil in
these two books, much less the whole epic. Rather, I use these episodes as
test cases for how early modern authors might deploy the beautiful, the
ugly, and the sinister to represent evil, how we as critics might distinguish
between them, and the challenges that limit our ability to firmly draw such
distinctions. Demonstrating that a given poetic object violates normative
standards of beauty—that is, the aesthetic ideals explicitly praised and
promoted by the relevant interpretive community—is relatively straight-
forward. Deciding whether to view such an object as sinister (potentially
appealing through an alternative set of aesthetic standards) or ugly (a
purely repulsive violation of aesthetic standards) presents greater interpre-
tive difficulties because it involves drawing conclusions about the subjec-
tive reactions of a text’s ideal or actual readers.
An aesthetic, as I have defined it, is a set of representational conventions
designed to evoke certain kinds of affective responses. We can use textual
evidence to identify particular conventions and to show how a poetic
object participates in one or more of them. Moreover, we can often
ascertain some of the emotional responses conventionally associated with
that aesthetic. To return to a normative example from the introduction,
Sidney’s representation of Petrarchan aesthetics in Astrophil and Stella
“THAT DETESTABLE SIGHT HIM MUCH AMAZDE”: AESTHETICS OF FILTH . . . 51
about what the text is trying to say and do, whether or not they paint an
unambiguous picture of an ideal reader, and whether or not an actual
reader completely obeys them. This disagreement or ambiguity can itself
be productive and revealing. As Stanley Fish observes in “Interpreting the
Variorum” (1976), seemingly intractable disagreements among readers of
a poem can be “regarded as evidence, not of an ambiguity that must be
removed, but of an ambiguity that readers have always experienced” and
that is part of “what the lines mean” (166).
In the case of The Faerie Queene, Spenser’s representations of filth and
monstrosity partake of and develop a poetics of grotesque excess: in both
the quality and quantity of their visceral descriptions, they offer readers
too much of something they are not supposed to want, and more than
seems necessary to make the poem’s allegorical significance legible.42 This
apparent surplus demands an explanation. In theory, the accumulation of
vivid, repugnant detail could serve Sidney’s aversion therapy model. But
Sidney also argues that monsters can and must be made delightful, because
readers need to enjoy poetry in order to attend properly to its moral
message. A reader who feels real aversion to Spenser’s putrescent mon-
sters, in direct proportion to their poetic vividness and unmixed with any
sort of attraction or curiosity, would find large sections of the epic intol-
erable to read. While this reaction is understandable and perhaps not
terribly uncommon, it would tend to impede rather than enhance one’s
ability to appreciate Spenser’s epic and its allegorical significance.
Fish’s “Interpreting the Variorum” notes that “To construct the profile
of the informed or at-home reader is at the same time to characterize the
author’s intention and vice versa” (174). While authorial intentionality as
such is not directly accessible to critics, the ideal reader posited by a text
does have a direct relationship to the purposes of that text, insofar as we
can discern them. Constructing a vivid representation of, for example, a
vomit-spewing monster requires poetic craft. Its author must decide when
it is complete and suitable for publication, which requires judging it
against some sort of aesthetic standard and appreciating its fulfillment of
that standard. If such appreciation is in fact a condition of authorship, it
would also presumably be a quality of the text’s ideal reader.
Both Aristotle and Sidney maintain that vivid descriptions of anything,
no matter how “vile,” can be pleasurable. But the nature of the subject
does affect the kind of pleasure being offered. Spenser’s excess allows him
to explore the extremes of the poetic representation of ugliness while also
seeking to evoke a kind of delight in disgust. This play of contradictions
“THAT DETESTABLE SIGHT HIM MUCH AMAZDE”: AESTHETICS OF FILTH . . . 53
was” (5.11.32). As with other early modern writers like Tasso, and even
classical authors like Horace, Spenser couches his use of sinister aesthetics
within a rhetorical framework that (perhaps sincerely, perhaps disingenu-
ously) denies the possibility of their appeal. The fact that Spenser does not
use this comment as an excuse to terminate the description calls attention
to this disjunction between poetic theory and practice.
Although Spenser’s insistence on the repulsiveness of his monsters
often rings false, the possibility of genuine disgust remains an important
factor in these representations. Of all the vile passages in The Faerie
Queene, the unmasking of Duessa in 1.8.46–48 is one of the strongest
candidates for a representation of evil that makes aversion more readily
available than imaginative engagement. Duessa is an evil sorceress who
deceives the Redcrosse Knight by disguising herself as a beautiful and
innocent damsel. After being regarded as such for a considerable portion
of book 1, she is captured and stripped naked, revealing her true nature as
a “loathly, wrinckled hag” (1.8.46).44 In the figure of the disrobed
Duessa, Spenser explores the limits of his technique of aestheticizing filthy
monsters, and the result suggests that in some cases, poetry can function
aversively for some readers. Overall, the poetry describing Duessa makes
her harder to appreciate than Errour. But Duessa can still be seen as either
sinister or ugly, and it remains unclear which aspect Spenser might have
intended to make dominant.
The diverse and conflicted responses of modern critics to Duessa illustrate
the ambivalent affect that characterizes the sinister, the subjective compo-
nent of readers’ responses to it, and the difficulty of theorizing it. Scholars
have claimed that the passage evokes emotions ranging from disgust to
delight in the grotesque to quasi-sexual interest. Sheila T. Cavanagh’s
Wanton Eyes and Chaste Desires (1994) emphasizes the ambivalence of
demonic females, who embody “the most terrifying and desirable male
fantasies” (73). In “‘Her Filthy Feature Open Showne’ in Ariosto,
Spenser, and Much Ado about Nothing” (1999), Melinda J. Gough argues
that “the narrative of Duessa’s exposure continually oscillates between
moments of intense voyeurism and moments that attempt to look away
from the empty center of the horrifying image it describes” (52). Lauren
Silberman’s discussion of the episode in Transforming Desire: Erotic
Knowledge in Books III and IV of The Faerie Queene (1995) is especially
clear about the necessarily subjective nature of her response: “The question
remains, however, what are we to make of this? My own sense is that an
enthusiasm for the carnivalesque body and a kind of Grand Guignol delight
58 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
in grossness animate the descriptions of both the naked Duessa and the
hirsute Lust as much as does disgust” (57–58). Silberman’s reaction is
important enough to merit a prominent place in her analysis of Duessa,
and for Hamilton’s footnotes to cite as one of the primary glosses on the
passage. Yet Silberman explicitly frames her characterization as a personal
feeling that she cannot establish empirically. Moreover, she immediately
dismisses her own response in order to reassert the primacy of didactic
allegory over the poetry’s “grotesque physical description” (58).45
Although Silberman’s theoretical and rhetorical frame prevents her
from fully analyzing the sinister, her response demonstrates exactly the
kind of affect that it generates. Where Cavanagh and Gough describe the
passage as an alternation between lines of conventional sexual temptation
and those that offer a repulsive display of monstrosity, Silberman presents
a more unified characterization of the distinctive poetic features of
Duessa’s description. Her contrast between simple "disgust" and a
“delight in grossness” is another way of articulating the crucial difference
between the ugly and the sinister, between merely violating a normative
aesthetic and expressing a non-normative one.
While such subjective responses, from a modern reader trained in the
study of early modern literature and culture, can suggest lines of inquiry, a
textually grounded approach to these issues needs to focus on how the
poem places Duessa in relation to the competing aesthetic frameworks
available to Spenser. The exposed Duessa shares many important charac-
teristics with monsters such as Errour and Geryoneo’s monster. Physically,
all are female chimeras that spew bodily fluids, and thematically they all
suggest “the recurrent conflation of the female and maternal with the
monstrous” (Cavanagh 69). As in the Geryoneo’s monster passage, the
narrator’s stated reluctance to describe Duessa can appear disingenuous
because of the lavish description that follows. Spenser says that Duessa’s
“secret filth good manners biddeth not be told” (1.8.46) and then spends
the next two stanzas doing just that. He claims that his “chaster Muse for
shame doth blush to write” of Duessa’s “neather parts,” but he readily
pivots to her “rompe” with its excrement-smeared fox’s tail (1.8.48). If
the coyly blushing Muse is an artifice that calls attention to its own
insincerity, that could frame the description of Duessa as a guilty pleasure.
Most significantly, Arthur and Redcrosse experience amazement and won-
der at seeing Duessa, and they disrobe her so that she may serve as a
spectacle, with “all her filthy feature open showne” (1.8.49). These
knightly responses mirror Redcrosse’s “amazde” reaction to Errour and
“THAT DETESTABLE SIGHT HIM MUCH AMAZDE”: AESTHETICS OF FILTH . . . 59
his attentive viewing of her monstrous form (1.1.26). All other things
being equal, if these textual characteristics raised the possibility of a
pleasurable engagement with Errour, they should indicate a similar poten-
tial for Duessa.
But all other things are not entirely equal. There are subtle but sig-
nificant differences between Duessa and a monster like Errour, and they
make Duessa harder to enjoy as a species of the sinister. Duessa might
evoke sinister pleasure as a chimera, as an anti-blazon, or, following
Silberman, as an example of the grotesque or carnivalesque.46 However,
in her unmasking, the sinister aesthetics of filth and of the chimera are
threatened, and potentially overpowered, by the ugliness of a violated
aesthetic of feminine beauty. A few factors contribute to this effect.
First, the contexts of the Errour and Duessa passages set up differ-
ent aesthetic expectations. The poem introduces Errour as “A monster
vile” who lives in a “den” (1.1.13), priming readers to apply mon-
strous aesthetics to her from the start. By those standards, Errour is an
impressive specimen and part of a vibrant poetic tradition stretching
back to Echidna, a classical snake-woman hybrid and mother of mon-
sters (including the original Chimera). Duessa, in contrast, appears
initially as “A goodly Lady” (1.2.13), a stereotypical romance damsel
in distress. Although we learn of her hidden ugliness at 1.2.40–41, she
still functions as an erotic object for much of book 1, and she appears
beautiful until the moment that she is stripped. This context sets up
her disrobing as a bait-and-switch, a striptease with a horrifyingly
undesirable climax.
Another factor that facilitates engagement with the sinister is a sense
of distance from the actual suffering that accompanies evil. This distance
is relative and subjective: as Augustine’s account of curiositas demon-
strates, real-life horrors can still function as sinister spectacles, and as
Sidney’s Defence asserts, audiences can sometimes feel the pain of fic-
tional characters more keenly than real human suffering.47 But compar-
ing the depictions of Errour and Duessa suggests that the Errour passage
creates more aesthetic distance. Errour is a poetic construct that calls
attention to her own fictionality and membership in the chivalric
romance and epic traditions. Her filth is ridiculously exaggerated: she
gushes vile fluids like the overflowing Nile, which her children ultimately
drink until they explode, spewing more excrement over the scene
(1.1.21, 25–26). Moreover, Errour’s filth is part of her arsenal, and
filth seems to be her preferred element.
60 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
seductive games Acrasia plays with her victims. The fact that Spenser
engineers the Bower’s aesthetic of cruelty as much as Acrasia does high-
lights the potential conflict between the poem’s moral and aesthetic
functions.
Partly because of this troubled relationship between aesthetic and moral
elements, Guyon’s destruction of the Bower has produced notoriously
ambivalent reactions among modern critics.56 While the attractiveness of
the Bower is disturbing, its destruction is equally so. One of the more
unsettling features of the destroyed Bower is that it is purely and unin-
terestingly ugly, to a much greater extent than Spenser’s depiction of the
naked Duessa, which conveys a similar message about stripping away the
illusory beauty of evil. The destroyed Bower lacks even potentially sinister
qualities because it is simply the negation of its original beauty, as the
antithetical language of 2.12.83 makes clear: “their blisse he turn’d to
balefulnesse . . . And of the fayrest late, now made the fowlest place.” The
description lacks the vividness or what Eco calls the “autonomy” that
would allow a competing aesthetic to emerge; instead, the stanza presents
a mere list of what Guyon has ruined: “Their groues he feld, their gardins
did deface, /Their arbers spoyle, their Cabinets suppresse, /Their banket
houses burne, their buildings race” (2.12.83). The Bower thus transforms
from a sinister amalgam of beauty and evil to an ugly (and boring)
antithesis of its former state.
Both the destruction of the Bower and the transformation of Duessa
ought to represent a rectification of their allegorical function. As properly
didactic allegories, their evil natures should be represented by repellent
exteriors. By stripping Duessa and by ravaging the Bower, the knights act
like morally responsible poets, manipulating appearances to present a
clearer allegorical message.
However, in both cases, Spenser represents this allegorization as a kind
of violation. In the case of Duessa, the violation has disturbingly sexual
undertones, since it involves forcefully stripping a woman. But Redcrosse
and Arthur merely reveal Duessa’s pre-existing ugliness, while Guyon
deliberately creates it. Guyon’s destructive allegorization seems like a
crude way to convey a symbolic message when contrasted with the
Bower’s subtle blending of the admirable and the despicable.57 He deals
with the complex problem of the Bower’s beautiful and sinister art by
reducing it to the ugly.
The Faerie Queene ultimately cultivates and explores the attractiveness
of evil much more than its unattractiveness, even in cases where the evil
CONCLUSION 65
CONCLUSION
The Faerie Queene’s emphasis on morally didactic allegory, coupled with
its grotesque menagerie of villains, highlights the pervasive disjunction
between early modern poetic theory and practice regarding representations
of evil. The possibility that the hideousness of Errour or the sadism of the
Bower might appeal to readers troubled Renaissance theorists, because they
66 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
monstrosity, or the demonic, they did have access to some useful con-
ceptual frameworks for approaching this problem. Aristotle’s assertion
that paintings of corpses could cause pleasure was widely accepted,
although it contradicted other equally prevalent tenets of literary theory.
Aristotle’s endorsement of the macabre pleasures of tragedy, which por-
trays acts of the deepest evil to evoke supposedly unpleasant emotions like
fear, provides one of the clearest classical models for an aesthetic that
violates normative standards without being condemned as immoral or
perverse. Augustine’s concept of the sin of curiositas expands this fascina-
tion with the macabre beyond merely fictional examples. His insistence
that people like to see real corpses is crucial, because it demonstrates that
the pleasure in such things depends more on their distinctive content than
on their status as artistic representations. In the early modern period,
concepts like the marvelous (which could be normative or sinister) and
the prodigious (a variant of the marvelous with more specifically sinister
connotations) reflected a similar understanding. They were applied to
poetic fictions, as Tasso does in the Discorsi, as well as to explain the
early modern interest in real-life monstrous spectacles, including the dis-
play of deformed people and animals. As we will see, the prodigious is
especially important to Richard III and to early modern texts dealing with
monsters.
The most comprehensive early modern theory that made a place for the
sinister was the aesthetic of concordia discors described by Tasso. The self-
contradictory nature of this concept links it to early modern authors’
habitual use of paradox and oxymoron to assert, without explaining, the
counterintuitive pleasures of the sinister. Concordia discors suggests that
the sinister is not appealing by itself but only in juxtaposition with the
beautiful, or subsumed into a larger whole that is beautiful. It therefore
does not account for the full range of early modern poetic practice.
Nonetheless, the theory of concordia discors played a vital role in integrat-
ing the sinister into early modern religion and theodicy. It derives in part
from Augustine’s chiaroscuro aesthetic, which sees the universe as a beautiful
combination of good and evil elements. For Tasso, as for Augustine, this
aesthetic reflected not merely the rules of artistic construction—of a painting
in Augustine’s case and an epic poem in Tasso’s—but the actual principles by
which God constructed the universe. The parallel between the poet and God
as sinister artists, creators of beautiful evil, reaches an apex in Milton’s
Paradise Lost. Milton, like Spenser, produces an epic with a strong moral
and religious agenda, and Paradise Lost shares with The Faerie Queene a
NOTES 69
tension between the ethical and aesthetic goals of the Christian epic. But
Milton’s epic also creates a systematic narrative progression that incorporates
the sinister into his religious ideology.
One of the underlying principles of Renaissance literary theory, which is
reflected in the work of Sidney, Tasso, and Spenser, is that literature
should provide moral instruction. The poet’s handling of evil is implicitly
a statement about its role in a Christian universe, and poetry is supposed to
evoke responses from readers that can serve as models for a proper moral
response to evil. The Christian epics of Tasso, Spenser, and Milton could
not achieve their goals without assimilating the sinister into a larger,
morally acceptable whole.
Other early modern writers were less constrained, however. In particu-
lar, Elizabethan and Jacobean dramatists often allowed compelling villains
to dominate the stage while relegating the counterbalancing models of
virtue to secondary roles. Their exploration of the pleasures of evil demon-
strates that the dark components of Augustine’s chiaroscuro have a power-
ful appeal of their own, not merely when subsumed in a providential
concordia discors. One of the earliest, most powerful, and most self-aware
instances of sinister aesthetics given free rein is Shakespeare’s deformed,
malevolent, and charismatic Richard III.
NOTES
1. Italian Renaissance literary theorists other than Tasso lie outside the chap-
ter’s primary focus; therefore, my discussion of them relies on excerpts
and paraphrases from Bernard Weinberg’s magisterial two-volume work,
A History of Literary Criticism in the Italian Renaissance (1961).
2. Horace uses a few terms for this dichotomy: “Poets aim either to benefit
[prodesse], or to amuse [delectare], or to utter words at once both pleasing
and helpful [iucunda et idonea] to life. . . . He has won every vote who has
blended profit and pleasure [miscuit utile dulci], at once delighting and
instructing the reader” (pages 478–479, lines 333–334, 343–344).
3. Translating Gioseppe Malatesta, Della nuova poesia (1589), page 189.
4. Translating Scipione Ammirato, Il Dedalione overo del poeta dialogo (1560),
published in Opuscoli (1642) volume 3, page 377. This Christian didactic
imperative found classical support in Plato’s Republic, which emphasizes the
moral power—and dangers—of poetry (see esp. book 3, Stephanus number
398a-b, as well as 2.377b-c and 3.392a-b).
5. Lodovico Ricchieri (1516), for example, sees the beauty of poetry as a
poison and taking pleasure in it as a “sacrifice to the demons.” The only
70 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
beawtie commeth of God, and is like a circle, the goodnesse wherof is the
Centre. And therefore, as there can be no circle without a centre, no
more can beawty be without goodnesse. Wherupon doeth verie sildome
an ill soule dwell in a beawtifull bodye. And therefore is the outwarde
beawtie a true signe of the inwarde goodnes, and in bodies thys come-
lynesse is imprynted more and lesse (as it were) for a marke of the soule,
whereby she is outwardlye knowen. (book 4, signature Tt.4v, Early
English Books Online image 180)
by the artifice of the painter than by the beauty or the novelty of the painting”
(Weinberg 287–288, translating Grasso 31). Grasso makes the Platonic claim
that representations of evil are naturally repulsive, but he immediately revises it
(almost as if caught in the act of voyeurism) with the Aristotelian acknowl-
edgment that we can appreciate them aesthetically. The habitual slippage
between moral judgments (“lascivious acts”) and aesthetic ones (“ugly actions”)
is also quite clear.
13. Similarly, several Italian critics reproduce Aristotle’s claim without fully
explicating or assimilating it. Lodovico Ricchieri endorses an Aristotelian
pleasure in ugliness (see Weinberg 368, translating Lectionum antiquarum
libri XXX [1516], 160), despite his overall suspicion of even conventional
pleasures (Weinberg 259). Francesco Robortello’s In librum Aristotelis de
arte poetica explicationes (1548) argues for the pleasure of terrible things
while also arguing that vice is naturally repellent (Weinberg 388–390).
14. English quotations from the Confessions are from Henry Chadwick’s transla-
tion (Oxford, 1991). Latin quotations are from James J. O’Donnell’s edition
(Oxford, 1992). Both are cited by book, chapter, and paragraph numbers.
15. See also The City of God book 12, chapter 8.
16. For Renaissance concerns about the potential masochism of the tragic audi-
ence, see Weinberg 164 (translating Tractatus de Tragoedia [c. 1561],
Perugia, Bibl. com., MS 985 [M.8], fol. 96v) and Stephen Gosson’s con-
demnation of tragedy, quoted above (Playes Confuted C5v-C6, Kinney 161).
17. A bit later, Augustine revises this evaluation, but not his own motivations: “The
fruit was beautiful, but it was not that which my miserable soul coveted”
(2.6.12).
18. This fascination with filth recurs in Spenser, and the metaphor of spices
recurs in Tasso. Here, Augustine specifically compares sin to the spicy flavor
of cinnamon.
19. The word Chadwick translates as “season” is “condit,” from condio, the verb
form of condimentum. This echo of book 2’s language suggests the impor-
tance of the evil-as-spice metaphor to Augustine.
20. The City of God is cited by book, chapter, and page number. English
translations (and, unless noted otherwise, page numbers) are from R. W.
Dyson’s edition, The City of God against the Pagans (Cambridge
University Press, 1998). For the Latin text, see De Civitate Dei, edited
by B. Dombart (B. G. Teubner, 1877), in which this passage occurs on
page 493. I want to credit Henry Chadwick’s note to Confessions 5.2.2 for
highlighting this image and describing it as a “chiaroscuro,” a term that is
central to the argument of this book. Chiaroscuro and related techniques
for highlighting the light and dark elements in a picture were important
features of Italian Renaissance painting, but the first English usage cited in
the OED is post-Miltonic: William Aglionby’s Painting illustrated in three
72 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
Diallogues (1686), where it refers either to paintings that only use black
and white (OED 1a) or, more relevantly, to “the disposing of the Lights
and Shadows Skilfully” (OED 2a). I use the term to refer to an aesthetic
that relies on the contrast between light and dark, and by implication good
and evil.
21. See also Augustine’s On Order [De Ordine], which asserts that the “per-
ennial disorder” of a misspent life is “inserted into the order of things by
divine providence” (book 2, chapter 4, paragraph 11). This beautiful order
can encompass “a savage and terrible public executioner,” prostitutes, gory
cockfights, and “the shape of some animal organs” (2.4.12; see also
1.8.25). The treatise repeatedly links evil to literary aesthetics: “This
clashing of contraries, which we love so much in rhetoric, gives body to
the overall beauty of the universe” (1.7.18). Like “grammatical errors and
foreign words” (“Soloecismos et barbarismos”), sin and ugliness taste
bitter, fetid, and rancid (“acre, putidum, rancidum”), but employed in
the proper context they are as desirable as the sweetest spices (“suavissima
condimenta,” 2.4.13). Tasso also discusses the possibility of “barbaric”
words becoming appealing; see below.
22. Judith Kates’s Tasso and Milton: The Problem of Christian Epic (1983) calls
Tasso “both a creator of original poetry in the epic form and a theorist equal
to anyone else writing in the century” (31). She notes that Milton’s The
Reason of Church-Government unequivocally “ranks Tasso with Virgil and
Homer” as a model for epic (125).
23. Tasso revised both his epic (as Gerusalemme conquistata, 1593) and his
Discorsi (as Discorsi del poema eroico, 1594). Critics such as Kates have
generally seen these revisions as more aesthetically and morally orthodox
(21). I focus on the earlier versions for a few reasons. As Ralph Nash
observes in his introduction to Jerusalem Delivered, the Liberata proved
more successful and influential than the Conquistata (ix), and Lawrence
F. Rhu defends the earlier Discorsi as more relevant to an analysis of
Gerusalemme liberata, based on their probable dates of composition (8).
Lastly, I am concerned with the range of ideas and practices available to
Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, and their contemporaries; therefore, Tasso’s
demonstration of the potential of the sinister is more important than his
later attempts to limit or condemn this potential.
24. Tasso mentions moral instruction as an afterthought and does not make it a
responsibility of the poet qua poet (see Rhu 104–105), although his prio-
rities change significantly in the revised Discorsi (see Kates 21). For the
Italian text of the Discorsi, see Angelo Solerti’s 1901 edition.
25. English quotations of Gerusalemme liberata are from Nash’s 1987 prose
translation, Jerusalem Delivered. Italian quotations are from Bortolo
Tommaso Sozzi’s 1964 edition. Both are cited by canto and stanza.
NOTES 73
26. Elsewhere, the Liberata expresses concern about the deceitfulness of “orna-
mented fabling” (5.7) and the dangers of “shadowing the truth with evil
art” (5.24).
27. For example, Tasso’s Discorsi, following Aristotle’s Poetics, emphasize the
distinction between the effects produced by epic and tragedy, arguing that
terror and pity are fundamental to tragedy but “decorative” in epic (Rhu
107–108).
28. The word Rhu translates as “spices” is sapori, which Solerti’s Italian edition
of the Discorsi glosses as “salse; condimenti” (9). Elsewhere, the Discorsi
explicitly include representations of evil in the category of the marvelous.
This conception of marvels (including demonic ones) as a seasoning recalls
Augustine’s view of sin as a condimentum.
29. Although distinctly Christian, the infernal aesthetic has its roots in classical
literature, as does the anxiety about its poetic uses. For example, Plato’s
Republic warns against poems that encourage “belief in the underworld and
its horrors” (3.386b). He quotes several Homeric passages that exemplify
the horrors of Hades, culminating in a spooky simile from the Odyssey, book
24, lines 6–9: “As in dark corners of mysterious caves/The squeaking bats
take flight . . . So, shrilly crying, did these souls depart” (Republic 3.387a).
Socrates explicitly admits that these passages are engaging: “Not that they
lack poetic merit, or that they don’t give pleasure to most people. They do”
(3.387b). In fact, they are so engaging that they may have dangerous effects
on those being trained to defend the republic: “So we must discard all the
weird and terrifying language used about the underworld. No more wailing
Cocytus, or hateful Styx, or food for worms, or mouldering corpses, or any
other language of the kind which makes all who hear it shudder. It may be
fine in some other context, but when it comes to our guardians, we are
worried that this shuddering may make them too soft and impressionable for
our needs” (3.387b-c). This unusually extensive and vivid list of examples in
effect promulgates the very sinister representations that it rejects.
30. Renaissance critics often cited Plato’s Republic, which famously banishes
poets; it links variety to sickness, evil, and distance from the divine unity, but
also to the most exalted, praiseworthy, and pleasurable kind of poetry
(3.397a-398b, 3.404d-e). Weinberg lists numerous praises of variety by
Italian critics (see his index entry for “Variety,” 1183), but also some
concerns, particularly about its capacity to encompass evil (see Weinberg
644 and also 222, 718). Desiderius Erasmus’s De Copia (“On Copia of
Words and Ideas,” 1512) is one of the more influential Renaissance texts
promoting variety. George Puttenham’s The Art of English Poesy (1589)
makes variety central to poetic excellence (222, 333).
31. Tasso’s arguments are part of a larger debate about “structural unity” versus
“variety, multiplicity, diversity, discontinuity” in the structure of epic plots
74 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
(Weinberg 447). While Tasso’s own epic was the preeminent Renaissance
example of a neoclassical, unified plot, Ariosto’s Orlando furioso was the
model of a romance epic with multiple plots (Weinberg 651–652). By this
standard, Spenser’s Faerie Queene is structured more like Ariosto’s epic, and
Milton’s Paradise Lost more closely resembles Tasso’s.
32. The original Chimera of Greek mythology was a fire-breathing, three-
headed combination of lion, goat, and serpent, killed by the hero
Bellerophon riding the winged horse Pegasus. This study uses “chimera”
to mean any creature, but especially “A grotesque monster,” that is “formed
of the parts of various animals”—an extension of OED sense 2. The vast
majority of chimeras are sinister; Pegasus is one notable exception.
33. For the Latin and English (translated by H. Rushton Fairclough), see
Horace’s Satires, Epistles, and Ars Poetica (Loeb Classical Library, 1978).
34. The original Italian verse emphasizes the passage’s musicality: “la pioggia a i
gridi, a i venti, a i tuon s’accorda/d’orribile armonia che ’l mondo assorda.”
The phrase “orribile armonia” is not unique to Tasso. Albert Ascoli discusses
Ariosto’s use of it and the related concept of concordia discors in his 1987
study, Ariosto’s Bitter Harmony (e.g., 6). Ascoli also connects the chimera to
concordia discors, seeing Pegasus and the Chimera as good and evil versions
of the poetic imagination, discordant opposites that are “yoked together” in
Ariosto’s hippogryph (251).
35. See Horace, Epistles book 1, epistle 12, line 19, which associates “concordia
discors” with the Greek philosopher Empedocles. Modern scholars also use
discordia concors, following the formulation in Samuel Johnson’s life of
Cowley (Lives of the English Poets [1783] volume 1, page 20). For
Johnson and others, discordia concors is not necessarily harmonious. See
also Melissa Wanamaker’s Discordia Concors: The Wit of Metaphysical Poetry
(1975) and James Biester’s Lyric Wonder: Rhetoric and Wit in Renaissance
English Poetry (1997).
36. Kates also notes Tasso’s “distinction between ‘simple’ and ‘composite’
unity” (33). Tasso himself takes pains to distinguish between “a great variety
of incidents in many separate actions,” which he condemns, from “similar
variety in one single action,” which represents the apex of the poet’s art
(Rhu 131).
37. Tasso also refers to variety uneasily as a spice, recalling his earlier treatment
of the marvelous and Augustine’s metaphor for sin: “Perhaps this variety was
not so necessary in Virgil’s and Homer’s time, since the tastes of men of that
epoch were not so jaded. . . . In our times, it is especially necessary; and
Trissino, therefore, needed to season his poem with the spice of this variety
so that delicate tastes would not shun it” (Rhu 130).
38. Maren-Sofie Røstvig’s Configurations: A Topomorphical Approach to
Renaissance Poetry (1994) also links Augustine, Tasso, Spenser, and
NOTES 75
Milton and argues that “To the Renaissance, cosmic and poetic unity were
of the same kind” (4). For Tasso’s Augustinian views on the aesthetic of
unity and the analogy between poetic and divine creation, see Røstvig 204.
39. Faced with this contradiction, modern Spenser criticism has given more
weight to Sidney’s aversion therapy than his delightful monsters. A. C.
Hamilton’s general introduction to The Faerie Queene (Longman, 2001)
endorses Ben Jonson’s observation that Spenser’s method was to render vice
hateful (5). In Milton’s Spenser: The Politics of Reading (1983), Maureen
Quilligan makes a similar point about Errour, but her language exploits the
very attraction to the monstrous that her discursive argument rejects,
describing with compelling vividness the “moiling, sucking creatures” that
Errour vomits and devours (82). This rhetorical practice undermines her
claim that “It is easy (because more comfortable) to forget the peculiarly
slimy details of Errour’s portrait” (80).
40. Passages from The Faerie Queene proper are cited by book, canto, and stanza
number.
41. For example, Sharon Achinstein’s Milton and the Revolutionary Reader
(1994) examines how “writers like Milton composed their audiences” (4).
42. This poetics of excess is one point where the sinister overlaps with Bakhtin’s
grotesque (see Bakhtin 303). Spenser personifies a kind of “Excesse” as a
wicked but beautiful woman with a cup of wine (2.12.55–57).
43. Spenser explicitly links amazement and wonder as responses to the witch
Duessa’s true, monstrous form (1.8.49), and he alludes to the delight that
typically accompanies wonder in Guyon’s attempts to resist it (2.12.53).
Biester’s Lyric Wonder provides an in-depth study of the significance of
wonder, astonishment, amazement, and the marvelous. Andrew Wadoski’s
2014 article, “Spenser, Tasso, and the Ethics of Allegory,” applies Biester’s
views on wonder to the Bower of Bliss (379).
44. This description of Duessa imitates Orlando furioso canto 7, stanzas 72–73,
where the seemingly beautiful witch Alcina is revealed to be an ugly old
woman. Spenser’s version places more vivid emphasis on the unclean exha-
lations and bodily fluids that Duessa exudes and makes her a chimera,
adorned with various animal parts.
45. See also Susan Carter’s “Duessa, Spenser’s Loathly Lady” (2005), which
argues that “Spenser’s Faerie Queene is instantly pleasurable because of its
extremes of imagery” and praises the “colourful, titillating” potential of
diseased hags but then describes Duessa as “surprisingly repulsive” (9, 10).
46. The anti-blazon occupies an interesting liminal space between poetic
engagement and disgust. An anti-blazon can be sinister insofar as it embo-
dies poetic conventions for representing something we are not supposed
to like. On the other hand, the anti-blazon’s tight oppositional relationship
to the normative blazon could potentially disrupt this alternative aesthetic.
76 2 THE POETICS OF EVIL IN SIDNEY, TASSO, AND SPENSER
To the extent that a given anti-blazon insists on its inversion and violation of
erotic imagery rather than fostering a connoisseurship of feminine ugliness,
it would tend to be repugnant and/or comical. However, Shakespeare’s
Sonnet 130 (“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”), arguably the
most famous anti-blazon, is not primarily disgusting, comical, or sinister. An
example that may perhaps generate true aversion is John Donne’s Elegy 8,
“The Comparison,” because it systematically alternates between the beauty
of the speaker’s mistress and the hideousness of the addressee’s beloved.
Readers wishing to enjoy both descriptions would have to rapidly and
repeatedly switch between mutually incompatible aesthetic frameworks.
47. Sidney’s Defence describes “the abominable tyrant Alexander
Pheraeus . . . who without all pity had murdered infinite numbers” but who
wept an “abundance of tears” while watching a tragedy (230).
48. As Carter observes, “To some extent, all womankind is implicated in this
portrait,” which she describes as “a moment of misogynist indulgence”
(10). Duessa and the vast menagerie of monstrous females in Spenser
certainly reflect a variety of misogynist preoccupations that have important
implications for Spenserian and early modern views of gender. However, the
Duessa episode also potentially allows an uncomfortable empathy with these
signs of human mortality and vulnerability.
49. This perverse use of “dight” has its own entry in the OED (verb, III.10.d),
although its earliest exemplar is from 1632. Definition 10 is “To clothe,
dress, array, deck, adorn” and sub-definition d is “ironically. To dirty,
befoul.” This usage once again suggests the aestheticization of filth.
50. Much of The Faerie Queene 2.12, which details Guyon’s voyage to the
Bower and his defeat of Acrasia, is inspired by Gerusalemme liberata cantos
15–16, where the seductive witch is named Armida.
51. In Renaissance Self-Fashioning, Stephen Greenblatt rightly debunks the
notion of the Bower’s deceptiveness: “I believe that one easily perceives
that danger from the beginning and that much of the power of the episode
derives precisely from the fact that his perception has little or no effect on
the Bower’s continued sensual power.” Although Greenblatt conceives of
this sensual power largely in terms of normative beauty, he does note the
way Spenser insinuates words such as “sin” and “crime” into descriptions of
the Bower’s beauties without reducing their attractiveness (172).
52. Harry Berger makes a similar claim in The Allegorical Temper (1957): “the
narrator, absorbed in esthetics, forgets about ethics” (223).
53. Evil also enables (and thereby potentially flavors) the episode’s more con-
ventional erotic appeals. Ogling a chaste female is not only a sinful indul-
gence in the viewer, it is also potentially damaging to the woman’s honor
(see 3.1.65). In contrast, the women of the Bower encourage voyeurism
and, having no virtue to lose, cannot be injured by it.
NOTES 77
54. Paul Alpers’s discussion of the Bower of Bliss in The Spenser Encyclopedia
(1990) addresses the critical history of the “felt disparity or conflict between
moral purpose in The Faerie Queene and whatever most fills and pleases the
imagination.” While opposing “the readiness of nineteenth-century writers
to detach Spenser’s visions and representations from the moral realm,”
Alpers insists that “Early imitations and citations show that for Spenser’s
contemporaries, too, details of the Bower could provide aesthetic pleasure
unqualified by moral reservation” (105).
55. See Paul Zajac’s “Reading through the Fog: Perception, the Passions, and
Poetry in Spenser’s Bower of Bliss” (2013), which argues that “While the
epic poet strives to differentiate his own art from Acrasia’s, . . . the two
artistic methods lie uncomfortably close to each other” (237).
56. In “Boy Toys and Liquid Joys: Pleasure and Power in the Bower of Bliss”
(2009), Joseph Campana argues that the violence of Guyon’s action repre-
sents a critique of temperance (467). Zajac 231–232 summarizes much of
the critical debate as of 2013, including the perceived contrast between
poetry and morality in the episode. Wadoski sees the unpleasantness of the
Bower’s destruction as a rebuke to Tasso’s conception of moral allegory
(366).
57. There is some evidence that Guyon’s reaction is actually intemperate, and
therefore subject to criticism even in the strictest moral terms that book 2
lays out. Phrases like “rigour pittilesse” and “the tempest of his wrathful-
nesse” (2.12.83) imply an excessively cold unwillingness to compromise or
an excessively hot outburst of emotion. But even if Guyon acted in a
temperate manner, the results of his action would still be troubling.
58. Spenser aestheticizes the cruelty of erotic desire not only in the Bower of
Bliss but also in the Masque of Cupid (3.12.1–26), where the violence
inherent in Petrarchan love rhetoric is brutally literalized and presented as
a theatrical spectacle.
59. A. J. A. Waldock’s Paradise Lost and Its Critics (1947) is one of the seminal
works to claim that the corrective voice of Milton’s narrator does not do
justice to the demonic speeches on which it comments (77–81). For more,
see Chapter 5.
CHAPTER 3
Margaret takes Richard’s deformed back and limbs as signs of his evil
nature: “Thou elvish-marked, abortive rooting-hog, /Thou that wast
sealed in thy nativity /The slave of nature and the son of hell”
(1.3.225–227). Hell, having selected Richard at birth for evil, marked
him with the stamp of deformity as an outward expression of his twisted
soul.12 On the other hand, Richard himself suggests the opposite direc-
tion of causality, announcing at the beginning of the play that because
others perceive him as ugly, he cannot be a lover and is therefore
“determinèd to prove a villain” (1.1.30). The idea that Richard’s ugli-
ness is a prior condition that gives rise to his malevolence recalls Titus
Andronicus’s “Aaron will have his soul black like his face” (3.1.205).13
Ultimately, both claims about the causal relationship between ugliness
and evil assert the union of outer appearance and inner, moral nature. But
the play also calls this assumption into question, paradoxically labeling
Richard as the character whose appearance least reflects his true identity.
Just as Margaret makes him a virtual symbol of Platonic correspondences
in act 1, Richard’s mother the Duchess of York sees him as an emblem of
the lack of such correspondences: “O that deceit should steal such gentle
shapes, /And with a virtuous visor hide [deepe vice]!” (2.2.26–27).14 The
figurative visor, like a literal mask, is an artistic construct crafted to
produce a pleasing fiction. The metaphor of the visor presents Richard’s
behavior as the semblance of virtue. He speaks and acts according to
conventions that signify virtue, thereby generating an appearance at odds
with his evil nature. Its aesthetic nature appears most clearly in Richard’s
carefully staged public appearance “between two bishops” (3.7.89.2),
which is basically a pretty picture purporting to represent an act of piety.
Richard, of course, glories in his ability to cloak vice with the appearance
of virtue: “And thus I clothe my naked villainy /With old odd ends
stol’n out of holy writ, /And seem a saint when most I play the devil”
(1.3.336–338). Again, the semblance of virtue is treated as clothing, as a
deceptive adornment.15
In short, Richard III presents an intense double perspective on the nature
of seeming, exploring the close ties between evil and the aesthetic by juxta-
posing the deformed appearance that reveals the demonic with the benevo-
lent mask that conceals it. The other characters repeatedly draw attention to
whether or not Richard’s appearance matches his nature. Richard himself
spends a lot of time claiming that he is what he seems (e.g., at 1.3.47–53),
and boasting that he is not, and accusing other characters of such deceits (as in
3.1.9–14). Whether Richard actually is or is not what he seems depends on
86 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
PALPABLE DEVICES
Aesthetic evaluation differs meaningfully from other forms of epistemolo-
gical inquiry, not because of the nature of the objects to which it is
traditionally applied, but because it involves an affective response. In the
discourse of Richard and the other characters, theatricality and deformity
are the subject for epistemological debates; in the development of the
dramatic action, theatricality and deformity become sources of erotic
attraction. Alternately displaying his virtuous visor and his deep vice,
Richard uses these contradictory modes of seeming to generate two
different kinds of appeal.
Many characters in the play, especially Richard’s brothers and the
foolish Lord Hastings, find Richard appealing to the extent that they are
taken in by his “gentle shapes.” For them, his appeal derives from the view
of aesthetics as deceptive covering, and it can usually be explained as a
normative, though shortsighted, response to that covering. When such
characters discover Richard’s vice or pay attention to his physical appear-
ance, they are usually repulsed.
Although the success of Richard’s deceit is thematically important,
critics tend to focus too narrowly on it. Rossiter, for instance, asserts
that Richard achieves “the complete dissimulation of everything that
might betray him”; in effect, he says that Richard has a false saintly outside
that completely covers his true demonic inside (16). Tellingly, Rossiter
takes his two first and strongest pieces of support from Richard’s boasting
soliloquy in 3 Henry VI:
Rossiter is not alone in viewing Richard III through the lens of this speech.
Two of the most influential adaptations of Richard III also blend material
from this passage into Richard’s first soliloquy: Colley Cibber’s 1700
rewriting and Laurence Olivier’s 1955 film. Subsequent critics have also
looked to these lines. Mark Thornton Burnett’s Constructing ‘Monsters’ in
Shakespearean Drama and Early Modern Culture (2002), for example,
applies Richard’s identification with Proteus in 3 Henry VI to an analysis
of monstrosity in Richard III (84–85).16
This conflation blurs an important shift in emphasis between the
plays, from a Richard who deceives his victims perfectly to a Richard
who makes his evil apparent in the most dramatically significant of his
so-called deceptions, a Richard who attracts his victims through his evil
and thereby implicates them in it.17 Although the characters who see
Richard’s evil and yield to him anyway are not necessarily more numer-
ous, they are presented in far greater detail, because their responses are
far more central to the point of the drama. The play explicitly asserts the
transparency of Richard’s deceptions in a passage that R. Chris Hassel,
in Songs of Death (1987), rightly seeks to rescue from obscurity (80).
The Scrivener, having just copied the indictment of Lord Hastings on a
ludicrously trumped-up charge laments: “Why, who’s so gross /That
cannot see this palpable device? /Yet who’s so bold but says he sees it
not?” (3.6.10–12). The “palpable device,” the deception that adver-
tises its deceptiveness but works anyway, is a primary feature of
Richard’s romantic and political seductiveness in the play, beginning
with his wooing of Anne.18
As part of its emphasis on this baffling acquiescence to a known evil,
Richard III diverges from its prequels to show Richard embracing
villainy for its own sake, not as a means to fulfill a more normative
desire for political power. It is the Richard of 3 Henry VI who says “I’ll
make my heaven to dream upon the crown” (3.2.168). The Richard
of Richard III says instead that “I am determinèd to prove a villain”
(1.1.30) and spends surprisingly little time discussing his royal ambitions.19
He no longer seeks an idealized heaven, not even the figurative
88 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
Given Anne’s reluctance, Richard may even assist with her blocking,
putting the sword in her hand and positioning it against his chest.24
Richard shapes the scene to produce an ironic effect that only he and the
audience can appreciate: the spectacle of a villain who has mesmerized his
victim so completely that he can safely beg her to destroy him.
Like Barabas, Iago, Volpone, Vindice, and other villains (or hero-villains)
of Renaissance drama, Richard is an artist who designs his malevolent crea-
tions to please the audience as well as to manipulate the other characters.
Thus, Phyllis Rackin’s “History into Tragedy: The Case of Richard III”
(1996) rightly notes that while Richard seduces Anne, he simultaneously
“performs a similar seduction upon the audience” (41). By focusing on the
process of Richard constructing his lies, the play invites the audience to
evaluate the quality of his constructions based on an understanding of the
goals and conventions—the aesthetic—under which he operates. But
Richard’s acting is not merely a case of good or morally neutral art used
for evil purposes; rather, the actor’s art is fundamentally linked to evil in the
world of the play. The play obsessively defines goodness as men being what
they seem and evil as the creation of false appearances. The emphasis on
devils and the Vice as roles that are played rather than as actual beings also
suggests that theatricality and evil help to constitute each other in the world
of the play.
Richard’s wooing of Anne demonstrates the inextricability of his artful-
ness and his evil, or as Rackin puts it, “The association between the
transgressive, the demonic, and the theatrical [that] is consistently used
to characterize Richard” (40). But the analyses of Rackin and other critics
tend to become limiting when they address the nature and consequences
of this link. For example, Rackin argues that “For the audience as for
Anne, the seduction requires the suspension of moral judgment and the
erasure of historical memory” (41–42). In fact, Richard reminds Anne and
the audience of his past crimes at every opportunity.25
Richard’s seduction of Anne is not a beautiful example of courtly love
poetry that just happens to be insincere. Rather, his rhetorical strategy
depends on forcing Anne, and the audience, to confront and embrace his
murderous nature. Richard refers to his crimes so frequently that his
wooing speeches could not be reassigned to a virtuous character. His
seemingly inept declarations of innocence—“Say that I slew them not”
and “I did not kill your husband”—which he makes no attempt to
defend, can only serve to flaunt his guilt and his compulsive dishonesty
(1.2.87, 89). His darker impulses continually break the flow of Petrarchan
92 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
phrases: “Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep /To undertake the
death of all the world /So I might rest one hour in your sweet bosom”
(1.2.120–122). These lines rely for their effect on the contrast between
Anne’s “sweet bosom” and Richard’s demonic pursuit of universal
destruction. The only passage longer than three or four lines that might
work in purely Petrarchan terms is Richard’s speech at 1.2.149–164,
which begins with his “salt tears” and culminates in his offering Anne
the sword. But even here, one would need to omit the actual climax of
the speech, where he reminds her that he killed Henry and Edward
(1.2.165–168).26 Furthermore, at least from the audience’s perspective,
the reference to Anne’s “revengeful heart” would become a mere cliché, a
rhetorical hyperbole elevating some trivial wrong between lovers to a
grandiose level of importance, rather than what it is: a grotesque species
of understatement, where Richard attempts to fit his truly monstrous
crimes into a rhetoric that is not serious enough to hold them.27
Remembering Richard’s evil, then, is not only unavoidable but it also
allows the audience to experience a much darker and richer poetic effect
than forgetting would.
For Anne, the dissonance between Richard’s brutality and his artificial
veneer of lovesick vulnerability provides the ultimate temptation. Her
resistance begins to weaken exactly when Richard juxtaposes the two in
the most direct fashion possible: “’twas I that killed King Henry;/
But’twas thy heavenly face that set me on” (1.2.167–168). These are the
so-called “honey words” (4.1.75) that prompt Anne to drop the sword he
has given her and refuse the chance to avenge her loss. Lest we miss the
point, a few lines later, Richard makes a similar juxtaposition: “That hand
which for thy love did kill thy love /Shall for thy love kill a far truer love.
/To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary,” eliciting Anne’s “I would I
knew thy heart” (1.2.175–178), which is her real moment of surrender,
the moment when she becomes more interested in a living Richard than a
dead one.
Anne is indeed seduced by Richard’s deceptive language, but not
because she takes his speeches at face value or forgets the crimes of
which Richard takes such pains to remind her. She correctly identifies
him as a “dissembler” (1.2.170), an estimate that she never explicitly
revises. The witty turn where Anne becomes an accessory to murder
should be a significant move in the seduction narrative that Richard’s
persona as lover is constructing. If, as Donna Oestreich-Hart suggests in
“Therefore, Since I Cannot Prove a Lover” (2000), Anne has “bought
DESCANTING ON DEFORMITY 93
DESCANTING ON DEFORMITY
Richard III, then, presents a sinister version of theatricality as artful, deceit-
ful malice. Inasmuch as Richard’s personality can be said to have a true
inside, it is characterized by this theatricality. However, the play also treats
Richard’s outside, his deformity, as a source of pleasure. The primary
exponent of this idea is, of course, Richard himself. His movement toward
a narcissistic erotics of deformity begins with moral perversity, which then
becomes aestheticized. Furthermore, Richard is not the only one who
enjoys contemplating deformity. Richard’s power to seduce Anne,
Elizabeth, and even the audience suggests that the play develops a more
pervasive erotics of deformity that is enhanced by its association with evil.
Richard III begins to explore an aesthetics of deformity in its opening
soliloquy:
Manningham’s anecdote may not be literally true, but it suggests the kind
of responses to Richard that were available in the Renaissance: “Upon a
tyme when Burbidge played Rich. 3. there was a citizen greue soe farr in
liking with him, that before shee went from the play shee appointed him to
come that night unto hir by the name of Ri: the 3” (Hammond 67). The
account is interesting because Manningham gives no hint that he finds the
nameless citizen’s sexual attraction to Richard III particularly strange in
itself. On the contrary, it is merely the setup for a joke whose punch line is
that Shakespeare preempts Burbage under the name of William the
Conqueror. The sex appeal of an actor playing Richard seems therefore
to be a plausible, perhaps even commonplace, element of the Elizabethan
theatrical experience.
Richard’s movement from a consciousness capable of condemning
Anne as perverse to an artfully assumed set of alternate aesthetic standards
provides a model for the audience’s experience of sinister aesthetics. The
play does not require its audience to permanently or totally abandon
normative conceptions of beauty and an awareness of what people are
supposed to like. Instead, it allows the audience to entertain these other
aesthetic values without having to explicitly acknowledge them, much as
Montaigne derives erotic pleasure from the aesthetics of deformity in
practice while debunking it in his subsequent analysis. To descant on
deformity as Richard does runs the risk of sounding grotesque unless we
are clearly being sarcastic; that is, unless it is a palpable device. Our
appreciation for Richard is just like Richard’s narcissism (and akin to
Montaigne’s account of his amorous experiment): self-conscious, playful,
and ostensibly insincere, belying what is in fact a significant and powerful
impulse.
Richard is not the only hideous object that is offered to the audience’s
view as a fascinating spectacle. The wooing scene also features a corpse
deformed by Richard’s blade that miraculously bleeds in Richard’s
presence:
corpse, like Richard’s deformed body, and like the play as a whole, these
objects demand to be viewed as sinister spectacles.
differences between the wooing scenes suggest that the appeal of Richard
is more than simply the erotic pull of political power. The temptation he
offers Elizabeth is more purely political, his political power is much
greater, and he asserts it much more explicitly: “the King, which may
command, entreats” (4.4.266). Nonetheless, his erotic hold on Elizabeth
is much weaker than it is on Anne. He cannot generate a sufficient erotic
charge through political power alone.
In fact, Richard succeeds in the second wooing scene only when he
abandons the attempt to theorize his own method and returns to its
practice, recapitulating his triumph over Anne with an even more virtuosic
display of sinister poetics. As with Anne, the most blatant juxtaposition of
Richard’s past crimes and his supposed future goodwill is precisely the
rhetorical move that finally convinces the target of his wooing. When
Elizabeth reminds Richard (and herself, for she is wavering) that “thou
didst kill my children,” Richard responds with some of the most wonder-
fully disturbing lines in all of Shakespeare: “But in your daughter’s womb I
bury them, /Where in that nest of spicery they shall breed /Selves of
themselves, to your recomforture” (4.4.342–345). This conceit is followed
immediately by Elizabeth’s capitulatory line: “Shall I go win my daughter to
thy will?” (4.4.346). Richard describes the womb of the young and inno-
cent Elizabeth in vividly sensual terms, with the visually evocative “nest”
and the osmically evocative “spicery.”34 Even audiences who might applaud
the frank eroticism of this phrase in another context (for instance, a John
Donne love poem) would find it jarring here. The sexual implications are
particularly disturbing because they suggest Richard’s predatory and quasi-
incestuous desire for Elizabeth—and, of course, because he is expressing
this desire to her mother. This would be adequate to demonstrate
Shakespeare’s point about the hideousness of Richard’s attitude and his
proposition. But excess is one of the fundamental tools of Richard’s sinister
poetics. Therefore, Richard also describes the young Elizabeth’s womb as
the grave of her brothers, whom he has murdered. Then, he equates their
corpses with his own seed, mingling images of death with the already
unsavory thought of Richard having sex with his young niece. Finally, he
suggests that this impossible and revolting process is designed to comfort
the mother of the girl who must endure it—at which point, ironically, she
agrees to the plan, and the audience must assume that it will be carried out.
The dizzying shifts of logical and metaphorical significance in this sequence
call attention to Richard’s conceit as a conceit, and its fascinating poetic
intricacy is inextricable from its vileness.
104 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
Richard’s inability to theorize his own skills, and his increasing difficulty
with characters such as Elizabeth and Buckingham (who balks at Richard’s
command to murder the young princes), suggest the limitations of his
perspective. These problems could provide the play with an opportunity to
reassert a normative moral and aesthetic framework, by presenting a
virtuous character who unifies theoretical and actual dramatic effects.
But the play consistently avoids this opportunity, instead ceding the
stage to the sinister and leaving the exercise of goodness mostly in the
realm of abstraction. Apart from Richmond, the limited opposition that
does appear on stage mainly consists of curses that are themselves sinister
and Buckingham’s hypocritical, Machiavellian attempts to cut his ties with
Richard. This strategy appears most clearly in the play’s failure to depict
Elizabeth’s eventual decision to give her daughter to Richmond instead of
Richard. Her change of heart should be essential to any redemptive
narrative that the play might establish, because it structurally counter-
balances Anne’s failure to resist Richard and politically enables
Richmond’s successful reign. Yet the play minimizes the impact of this
reversal by revealing it only through another character’s brief, almost off-
hand report (4.5.17–18). Because the play displays the poetic power of
Richard’s seduction, but avoids the poetic potential of Elizabeth’s
redemption, the audience misses an opportunity to experience a moral
and aesthetic resistance to Richard.35
she begs her despised enemy to let her continue the curse he has inter-
rupted: “O let me make the period to my curse” (1.3.238).39
In Richard III, the appeal of curses derives in part from their invocation
of prodigies, including both Richard himself and the calamities that the
characters wish to see him suffer.40 The term “prodigy” could refer to a
variety of omens, monsters, and marvels (OED), and as such the prodi-
gious could inspire a range of emotions from fear and disgust to wonder
and fascination. Things which are prodigious are generally horrible, mal-
icious, ugly, or demonic marvels—in short, they are sinister marvels. Anne
specifically invokes the concept of the prodigy in her very first attempt to
curse Richard:
spiders, toads, /Or any creeping venomed thing that lives” (1.2.16–19).
Besides allowing Anne to compare Richard to vile animals, and besides
creating the images of such animals in the audience’s mind, these lines also
indicate Anne’s desire to see something terrible happen that she cannot
herself imagine or predict—something terrible and novel. This impulse is
closely related to Augustine’s concept of curiositas.
The desire for marvels can also be seen in the often spectacular nature of
the punishments requested: “Either heav’n with lightning strike the murd’rer
dead, /Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick” (1.2.62–63). The
symmetry of the antithesis in this curse recalls Tasso’s insistence that both
Heaven and Hell are equally marvelous, despite their opposing moral
valences. In addition to images of direct celestial or infernal intervention,
curses also often feature chimerical monsters, as in the Duchess of York’s
curse: “O my accursèd womb, the bed of death, /A cockatrice hast thou
hatched to the world” (4.1.49–50). This cockatrice image is an extension of
the interest in monstrous births evident throughout the play. Creative forms
of torture are also popular, as when Anne asks her crown to be transformed
into “red-hot steel, to sear me to the brain” (4.1.56). The mythological
resonance, supernatural agency, and baroque nature of these tortures places
them within the realm of the prodigious. For a play audience, these speeches
would provide a safe way to imaginatively experience such sinister marvels.
Richard III’s curses do more than poetically enrich the play; they also
have important dramatic and thematic consequences. Because curses must
clearly specify the person to be cursed, the often elaborate descriptions of
Richard in the curses (and in the other insults and invective that accom-
pany them) become central to the play’s representation of his identity.
Critics have noted the importance of curses to the play’s presentation and
development of Richard’s character, but they tend to treat the curses solely
as a force opposing Richard; for example, Hugh Richmond argues that
“The curses of these women neutralize the charm of Richard’s wit by
driving home its costliness in terms of human suffering” (6). In this
common view, Richard’s wit appeals to us only while we can isolate it
from his evil, and the curses diminish his power by providing a moral
framework that reveals his wit as deceptive and superficial.41
I have already argued that Richard’s wit and charisma, his poetic and
rhetorical power, are inextricable from his evil. By presenting Richard as an
unstoppable demonic force, the curses actually feed this power even as they
wish for his destruction.42 Although Richard describes his own villainy in
ominous terms at 1.1.30–40, much of his self-presentation before being cursed
108 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
the metaphors and rhetoric of curses. Like a sinister Muse, Richard inspires
the other characters to speak marvelous poetry. Perhaps Anne falls in love
with this Richard, one she herself helps to construct.
Characters’ use of the sinister in curses has moral and even religious
implications that complicate their opposition to Richard. Those who
speak curses implicitly take satisfaction from the prospect of torture,
death, and other evils. Although Margaret is hostile to Richard and pre-
sents herself in some ways as a redemptive force in the play, her bottomless
appetite for imagining the suffering of her enemies makes her at times hard
to distinguish from her Vice-like enemy. As Richard Wheeler observes in
“History, Character and Conscience in Richard III” (1971–1972),
“Margaret finds the same cruel delight in her bloodthirsty success that
Richard does” (306).
From the audience’s perspective, the curses in Richard III help to give
a satisfying dramatic form to the action of the play. As would-be prophe-
cies, curses offer a standard by which to judge the subsequent action:
events will either conform to or diverge from the narrative path laid out in
the curse. Tanner cites widespread critical support for this idea (at least as
of 1973): “Structurally, therefore, Richard III is quite universally seen as a
play tracing out in consistent detail the effects of curses” (469).45
But critics do not always acknowledge that the structuring effect of curses,
like their imagery, relies on the aesthetic use of malevolence.46 By offering
expressions of hatred as a standard to judge the plot, the play encourages the
audience’s expectations of what should happen to follow the sadistic logic of
the curse, rather than the benevolent narrative of redemption that many
critics see operating in the play. Through the expectations set up by the
curses, the play can produce a sense of dramatic fulfillment by having bad
things happen to (more or less) good people. Anne’s curse on Richard’s
future wife makes an artfully constructed irony out of her grief, her hatred,
and her future misery and death.47 Similarly, the deaths of the young princes
in the Tower complete a poetic structure begun in 1.3.196–198 by
Margaret’s curse, as she reminds us at 4.459–461.
The most fundamental generator of dramatic action in the play remains
Richard himself. Richard’s evil plots drive the plot of the play; without
them, the drama could not exist. In the speeches where he announces his
PROVIDENTIAL NARRATIVES AND THE PERSISTENCE OF THE SINISTER 111
Although Margaret is particularly savage, her views of God are not unique
but shared to varying degrees by many other characters. When Richard
describes his father’s curses fallen on Margaret and concludes that “God,
not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed,” Queen Elizabeth concurs: “So
just is God to right the innocent” (1.3.178–179). In 4.4, both Elizabeth
and the Duchess of York announce their conversion to Margaret’s point of
view and ask her aid in cursing their enemies.
Indeed, this vision of suffering and death as manifestations of God’s
justice reflects views widely held in the early modern period. Prodigies
such as those described in the play’s curses—monstrous births, earth-
quakes, and so forth—were also generally attributed to divine providence,
either as warnings or punishments. Even the prodigious Richard himself
could be regarded as a “scourge of God,” evil in himself but serving as a
form of divine punishment for England’s collective sins.48
112 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
CONCLUSION
Richard III owes its enduring popularity to its creation of a world in
which foul is fair, and fair is largely absent. Richard’s appeal goes beyond
mere wit: the play invests him with a demonic power and fascination, and
presents his deformities as objects of aesthetic contemplation, poetic
descanting, and sexual desire. The play represents a formative moment
in the development of the Vice-like protagonist, who seduces other
114 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
characters into evil and tries to seduce audience members into enjoying
the spectacle of the characters’ corruption.
The theoretical concerns and dramatic techniques developed in
Richard III proved highly influential on Shakespeare’s subsequent plays
and the work of other dramatists. Shakespeare never again wrote a play
with such a thoroughly and uncompromisingly evil protagonist. However,
he staged spectacles of cruelty in King Lear, such as the sadistically
detailed and prolonged removal of Gloucester’s eyes, and the Vice-like
Edmund owes much to Richard. Macbeth indulges throughout in dark and
demonic aesthetics, through the spells and visions of the witches, the
speeches of the Macbeths, and various prodigious omens. Despite achiev-
ing an apex of villainy, Macbeth himself is more Everyman than Vice, torn
between light and dark. Othello presents one of early modern drama’s most
fascinating and terrifying villains: Iago. Like Richard, Iago belongs firmly
to the Vice tradition, but unlike Richard he presents other characters with
a perfectly seamless mask of benevolence that conceals a hatred even
stronger and more mysterious than Richard’s. These plays helped to
inspire some of the darker elements of Jacobean tragedies, including the
elaborate psychological cruelty of Ferdinand in John Webster’s The
Duchess of Malfi and the pervasive corruption and obsession with death
of The Revenger’s Tragedy. Moreover, the sinister often animates crucial
moments of plays that are not dominated by the macabre and characters
that are not primarily villainous. In The Tempest, Prospero stages an
elaborate simulation of divine punishment, directing Ariel to play the
part of a foul and terrifying harpy (3.3), and the play is liberally seasoned
with curses, both Caliban’s impotent ones and Prospero’s potent ones.
Ben Jonson’s work leans more toward grotesque satire than the sinister per
se, but he explores perverse aesthetics in Volpone through Mosca’s poetic
praise of social parasites (3.1), and through Volpone’s outrageous
attempted seduction of Celia, enforced by Corvino’s baroque threats of
torture (3.7).
Unlike its most notable predecessor, Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta,
Richard III stages both the theory and practice of the appeal of evil. By
having the characters treat Richard as an aesthetic object and argue about
what kind of representation he is, Richard III calls attention to the contra-
dictions in Renaissance theories about the relationship between aesthetic
appearance and moral value, seeming and identity. The play demonstrates
the extreme difficulty of choosing the good when outer appearances some-
times symbolize inner truths and sometimes deceptively conceal them.
CONCLUSION 115
The play also dramatizes the knowing choice of evil. Indeed, it presents
this apparently perverse choice as a virtually universal element of human
nature. In Richard III, characters repeatedly make decisions that defy both
morality and logic, responding instead to the aesthetic power of the sinister.
While the characters in the play articulate theories that assert Richard’s
ineffectiveness, his successes continually undermine those theories. The
wooing of Anne, far from being the play’s weak point, is essential for
establishing this theme, because it makes sense only as a sinister seduction,
not as a normative deception. As the play progresses, the entire political
realm follows the example of Anne’s erotic perversity, succumbing to the
appeal of deceptions whose theatrical artistry is visible even to their targets.
By depicting characters who serve as appreciative audiences to Richard’s
evil art, the play encourages a similar appreciation in the theater audience.
Indeed, its focus on these spectacles leaves audiences with few alternative
sources of poetic pleasure. Even when the play destroys Richard, it makes
no serious attempt to repress or refute the sinister poetics that make him
such a powerful figure in the first place. Rather, the curses of Richard’s
enemies and Richmond’s gory depictions of Richard’s rule allow the
sinister to persist beyond his death. Thus, although its primary embodi-
ment is defeated in the stage action, the sinister itself proves the dominant
aesthetic in the world of the play, suggesting that the seemingly moral
conclusion of the play might itself be a kind of “palpable device.”53 On a
larger scale, the play explores the potential cruelty in both dramatic irony
and divine providence itself. Although one concept is literary and the
other theological, both create expectations about what is supposed to
happen in a narrative. In Richard III, the audience’s knowledge of
Richard’s plans and of the curses’ destructive prophecies encourages an
anticipatory desire for disastrous, prodigious, and cruel events to take
place—an appetite the play satisfies. The narrative structure of the play
suggests that this seemingly perverse audience response is in fact a natural
human reaction.
Richard III aestheticizes various forms of cruelty and monstrosity for the
potential enjoyment of its audience. Richard’s sinister aesthetic of theatri-
cality relies on the artful manipulation of semi-knowing victims with “palp-
able devices” that coyly juxtapose malevolence with a patently false veneer of
benevolence. The curses and invective surrounding Richard evoke grotesque
spectacles or “prodigies,” including both contemptible deformity and terri-
fying monsters or disasters. The characters’ repeated invocations of prodigies
highlight the Renaissance fascination with manifestations of divine wrath.
116 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
NOTES
1. See Jonas Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (1981), esp. chapter 4.
2. Although early modern anti-theatrical writers viewed drama as diametrically
opposed to religion, “scholars such as Huston Diehl, Donna Hamilton,
Jeffrey Knapp, Lawrence Clopper, and Michael O’Connell have argued for
an ongoing, intimate relationship between the drama and the religious
culture(s) of the age” (Jackson and Marotti 172).
3. The seminal study of the Vice tradition is Bernard Spivack’s Shakespeare and
the Allegory of Evil (1958). Spivack discusses the development of “hybrid”
characters in Renaissance drama, such as Iago, who combine the Vice arche-
type with “the rapidly evolving naturalism of the English drama after 1550”
(33). In his Vice aspect, Iago is “an artist” of evil, “eager to demonstrate his
skill by achieving a masterpiece of his craft” (30). Spivack’s other
Shakespearean examples include “Aaron the Moor of Titus Andronicus,
Richard III in the play of the same name, and the bastard Don John of Much
Ado” (35). For Spivack’s discussion of Richard III, see 386–407.
4. For Shakespeare plays other than Richard III, see The Complete Works,
edited by Stephen Orgel and A. R. Braunmuller (Penguin, 2002). For
Tamburlaine, see David Fuller’s edition (Oxford, 1998). For other non-
Shakespearean plays, see David Bevington, English Renaissance Drama
(Norton, 2002).
NOTES 117
13. Many scholars have observed a parallel between Richard and Francis Bacon’s
essay “Of Deformity” (first published in 1612): “Therefore it is good to
consider of deformity, not as a sign, which is more deceivable; but as a cause,
which seldom faileth of the effect. Whosoever hath anything fixed in his
person that doth induce contempt, hath also a perpetual spur in himself to
rescue and deliver himself from scorn” (426). While Bacon essentially
endorses Richard’s theory over Margaret’s, the play itself does not provide
clear enough information about Richard’s supernatural status to definitively
refute (or validate) Margaret’s accusations. The disdain Richard has received
from his mother since birth could support the Baconian model, but
Richard’s successful seduction of Anne in 1.2 seriously undermines his
initially plausible assertion that he becomes evil because he “cannot prove
a lover” (1.1.28).
14. I borrow the Folio reading, which I prefer to Q1’s “foul guile.” Unlike “foul,”
“deepe” emphasizes the contrast of outer surface and inner nature which the
passage thematizes. In addition to its alliteration and assonance with “virtuous
visor,” “vice” alludes more clearly to the morality play tradition. Most impor-
tantly, it makes more sense for deceit to hide vice than guile.
15. The play depicts a pervasive anxiety about this kind of deception. The
characters (including, ironically, Richard) continually warn each other
about the danger of enemies masquerading as friends—and conversely,
they tend to curse each other with the inability to judge inward character
by outward signs (see 1.3.220–221 and 2.1.34–39).
16. The impulse to conflate Richard III with the Henry VI plays is not universal,
however. Rackin argues that Richard III, unlike its prequels, is more tragedy
than history play, and as such produces a distinctly different audience
response from the other plays in the tetralogy (32–33). Jowett suggests
that “The play is far more likely to have grown towards greater indepen-
dence of the events in the Henry VI plays,” and he sees the Quarto of
Richard III as “breaking free from the Henry VI trilogy” (Shakespeare,
Richard III, pages 121, 132).
17. The Shakespearean villain who most perfectly conceals his true nature from
other characters is not Richard, but Iago. Contrast Othello’s insistence on
Iago’s honesty in his temptation scene (Othello 3.3) with Anne’s insistence
on Richard’s mendacity in her wooing scene (Richard III 1.2).
18. Stephen Greenblatt’s Renaissance Self-Fashioning makes a similar claim
about Thomas More’s History of Richard III, a source for Shakespeare’s
play: “Richard III cast his ruthless seizure of the throne in the guise of an
elaborate process of offer, refusal, renewed offer, and reluctant acceptance.
The point is not that anyone is deceived by the charade, but that everyone is
forced either to participate in it or to watch it silently.” Greenblatt calls this
transparently false performance of political authority a “sinister farce” (13).
NOTES 119
habitual lack of remorse and his involvement in the violence of the civil war.
If Jowett is correct that the Q1 manuscript is a later version of the Folio
manuscript, cut for performance (Shakespeare, Richard III, pages 120–121,
125, 130), then the revisions do not seem to prioritize establishing
Richard’s normative plausibility as a wooer.
27. Waller argues that Richard’s “unselfconscious use of a Petrarchan conceit”
to seduce Anne “labels him as at once a show-off and a dupe,” who makes a
false “unironic assumption of mastery over his own (and Petrarch’s) dis-
course” (173). In my reading, however, Richard’s insistent juxtaposition of
Petrarchan conceits with reminders of his own ruthlessness is the height of
self-consciousness and produces a deliberately (and deliciously) complex
rhetorical effect.
28. Erasmus, Collected Works, volume 34, Adages book 2, century 9, adage 49.
For the Latin, see Heinimann and Kienzle’s edition, Opera Omnia Desiderii
Erasmi Roterodami (North-Holland 1987).
29. English translations are by John Florio (1553–1625), who titles this essay
“Of the Lame or Crippel.” Page numbers are from the E. P. Dutton edition
(1910). For the French originals of the quoted passages, see André
Tournon’s edition (Imprimerie nationale, 1998), pages 380–381.
30. 1 Timothy 2:14 makes this claim about Adam (in contrast to Eve), which
Milton picks up in Paradise Lost 9.998.
31. Burnett argues that “Anne encodes the deceased Henry VI as a spectacle of
‘monstrous’ potential” (78). Anne’s treatment of the corpse of Henry,
whom she seeks to “invocate” at 1.2.8 and calls a “saint” at 4.1.65, also
recalls the tradition of treating Christ’s crucified corpse as an object of
beauty. See Chapter 4 on the popularity of monsters as spectacles and the
relationship between Christian piety and the aesthetics of tortured bodies.
32. These bleeding hearts bear a significant resemblance to Amoret’s heart in
book 3 of The Faerie Queene. In both instances, a standard trope of
Renaissance love poetry is unpleasantly literalized to reveal the cruelty
underlying the Petrarchan relationship.
33. Tanner claims that Elizabeth’s final remarks to Richard are derisive sarcasm, like
her earlier barbs at 4.4.247–259 and M.50–55 (Tanner 471–472). But this
argument ignores the distinct shift in tone between her elaborate and witty vision
of bleeding hearts as love-tokens and the simplicity of lines like “Shall I be
tempted of the devil thus?” (4.4.338). Tanner also ignores Elizabeth’s rhetori-
cally feeble “But thou didst kill my children” (4.4.342), which would be incon-
gruously lame as part of a series of devastatingly sarcastic rhetorical questions, but
poignant as the final, weak protest of a wavering conscience. As Jones observes,
“if we were to enjoy the full ironic effect of Richard as the smug duper duped in
his exchange with Elizabeth, we would need some more open pointers than the
dialogue gives us” (55). Indeed, if Elizabeth is feigning, she does so much more
NOTES 121
convincingly than Richard, a man whose own mother calls him deceit personi-
fied. In general, Richard’s own devices more closely resemble the clarity of
Cibber than the proposed inscrutability of Elizabeth: they are always palpable
to the audience, and often to his intended dupes as well. This theory, therefore,
would require the play to employ a mode of representing deceit that it uses
nowhere else.
34. In theory, Richard is making a not unflattering comparison between
Elizabeth’s offspring and the phoenix, a mythical bird that dies and is reborn
from a nest of spices. But in practice, the horrifying sexual implications
eclipse the primary metaphor.
35. Contrast the elaborately dramatized repentance of Gratiana in The
Revenger’s Tragedy 4.4, which serves as a significant turning point in, or
counterbalance to, that play’s representation of pervasive moral decay. Like
Elizabeth, Gratiana is seduced into knowingly offering her daughter to a
powerful and vicious nobleman but then changes her mind.
36. The play does not clearly specify whether the characters’ curses actually have
supernatural force. Margaret believes that curses aid divine justice because God
hears and is moved to action by them (1.3.287–288). Other characters claim
that curses have no power to harm (e.g., Buckingham at 1.3.285–286), or that
they can harm the one who utters them (1.3.240). Most of the curses come
true, but not all: Elizabeth does not die; Anne and Richard do not have a
deformed child. The tendency for curses to recoil on those who speak them is
an important source of dramatic irony, but the irony would function with or
without supernatural agency.
37. Anne’s curse over the body of Henry VI demonstrates the verbal repetition
and antithesis characteristic of curses: “Cursed be the hand that made these
fatal holes,/Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it” (1.2.14–15).
This technique reaches its climax in the final act, where Richard is cursed by
no less than eleven ghosts in sequence, each employing the alliterative
refrain, “despair and die,” and alternating their curses with blessings of
Richmond (5.4.97–155).
38. Kate Brown and Howard Kushner, in “Eruptive Voices: Coprolalia,
Malediction, and the Poetics of Cursing” (2001), have made the similar argu-
ment that “cursing lends force to the aspects of language that exceed message,
including, for example, volume, timing, tone, rhythm, emphasis, and patterns of
sound repetition. For this reason, cursing can enter the realm of play and the
nonreferential, which is also the realm of poetry, nonsense, and comedy” (550).
In Richard III, curses are poetic but not comical or nonsensical.
39. Elizabeth’s claim that curses “ease the heart” implies they are cathartic. Like
an audience at a tragedy, the speaker of a curse can purge negative emotions
by imagining dire things happening to somebody else. However, Margaret’s
cursing does not appear to reduce her store of venom, suggesting that the
122 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
pleasure of curses may result as much from the indulgence of malice as from
any kind of purgation.
40. Burnett also links prodigies to the curses in Richard III and sees Margaret as
a “prodigious embodiment of vengeance” (77).
41. Hugh Richmond laments that “from the time of Colley Cibber, this inhibit-
ing framework was dismantled, the female roles diminished or suppressed,
so that the megalomaniac delights of Richard’s sadism flourished uncon-
strainedly, to the self-indulgent satisfaction of actors and audiences, creating
the prototype for modern horror movies” (7). Jowett claims that “The anti-
Richard play has its origin here in 1.3 with Margaret’s curses” (Shakespeare,
Richard III, page 47). See also Tanner, who cites E. M. W. Tillyard and Lily
Campbell (468–469). For Burnett, Anne’s “‘prodigious’ curses” represent
“an unsettling threat to Richard’s construction of a strategic self” (77).
Linda Charnes argues that Richard’s power within the play, and his “fasci-
nation” for audiences, derives from his “attempts to resist and escape the
deformed and deforming signification the play insists upon—his attempts to
counteract the Richard of Tudor legend,” which imposes itself on him
largely through the women’s “language of dehumanization” (32).
42. Jones recognizes that Anne’s curse serves to “amplify our sense of his
dynamic force,” but he argues that it operates merely “by setting up the
absolute odds” against his success with Anne (33). Brown and Kushner
intriguingly suggest that “Richard’s fiendish power to seduce and corrupt
might itself be seen as a consequence of Anne’s curse, which defines him
as a curse, the very materialization and agent of the maledictory effect”
(548).
43. Olivier’s film makes Richard’s initial self-presentation more terrifying by
adding material from 3 Henry VI (3.2.153–162 and 165–195) to
Richard’s opening soliloquy. It is the borrowed lines (in which he sets the
murderous Machiavel to school, changes shape like Proteus, and hews his
way with a bloody axe) that establish Olivier’s Richard as merciless, relent-
less, elemental, and possessed of quasi-supernatural power to do evil.
Strikingly, these are the only lines in which Olivier raises his voice, except
for a slight increase in intensity at around 1.1.19.
44. According to Rackin, Richard “appropriates the demonic power of a
woman’s voice” when he turns Margaret’s own curse against her (39), but
in my reading, Richard’s “demonic power” owes at least as much to the
curses that successfully strike him.
45. Jowett agrees: “The play, in particular the action that Richard orchestrates,
is an almost comprehensive enactment of Margaret’s prophecy, as was made
particularly clear in Sam Mendes’s production of 1992, in which Cherry
Morris as Margaret was allowed to reappear hauntingly as each of Richard’s
victims went off to his death” (Shakespeare, Richard III, page 48).
NOTES 123
46. One exception is Adelman, who argues that Margaret’s “hunger for revenge
becomes the play’s aesthetic principle as her curses determine its action” (9).
47. Jones refers to the structure defined by Anne’s curses as an “ironic arch”
which Anne “rounds off” by her retrospection in act 4. The curses as a whole
announce a system of “neatly shaped and firmly emphasized retributions”
(33). This language emphasizes the sense of aesthetic form that the curses
create.
48. Marlowe’s Tamburlaine famously describes himself as the scourge of God, e.
g., in 1 Tamburlaine 3.3.44. In Shakespeare’s “Histories” (1947), Lily
Campbell observes that “God may and often does make use of an evil instru-
ment in the execution of his divine vengeance, and Richard, like Tamburlaine,
functions as the scourge of God” (313). Rossiter likewise identifies Richard as
a “scourge of God,” saying that “in the pattern of the justice of divine
retribution on the wicked, he functions as an avenging angel” (20). See also
Wheeler 304 and Robert G. Hunter’s 1976 book Shakespeare and the Mystery
of God’s Judgments 80. For a survey of early modern providential readings of
Richard III and Henry VII, including Shakespeare’s Richard III, see Henry
Ansgar Kelly’s Divine Providence in the England of Shakespeare’s Histories
(1970).
49. Hunter argues that, in Richard III, Richmond invokes a “purely
beneficent . . . God in whom it would be pleasant to believe.” However,
Elizabeth and Margaret emphasize God’s potential responsibility for “the
evil which results in human suffering,” and “their visions have an intensity
and a conceptual validity for the plays that Richmond’s lacks” (73–74).
Margaret, in particular, presents “Richard as the human agent of divinely
willed suffering” (80). Hunter also notes that “If the Tudor myth is to claim
for Richmond the role of God’s providential instrument, then it must
confront the complementary possibility that Richard has previously served
the same function” (80).
50. As Burnett suggests, “an ability to authorize ‘monstrous’ events is cele-
brated” in the play and belongs as much to Anne and Margaret as it does to
Richard (77). A 1982 BBC production of Richard III demonstrated this
point in a possibly heavy-handed way, with what Hassel describes as a
“closing tableau of a cackling Margaret embracing a deposed Richard,
both placed in the pose of a ghastly pietà upon a hideous pyramid of
corpses” (4).
51. Adelman suggests that after 5.1 “aesthetic control of the play passes into the
hands of the benevolent God who works through Richmond” (9). Hassel
also takes a pro-Richmond stance, but in summarizing the critical consensus
as of 1987, he notes that “only a few twentieth-century critics” find
Richmond’s personality and speeches compelling, and he cites at least six
critics (including Rossiter) who are “unimpressed” with Richmond’s oratory
124 3 HONEYED TOADS: SINISTER AESTHETICS IN RICHARD III
Conversely, God’s presumed role in such disasters was the aspect of his
providence most in need of justification. These calamities could include
events on a national scale such as plagues and civil war, or misfortunes
befalling individuals, families, and smaller communities, such as crop fail-
ure. In particular, any event considered a prodigy, including astronomical
anomalies such as comets and biological anomalies such as so-called
monstrous births, would likely be attributed to divine agency.
The religious and political controversies leading up to the English Civil
War exacerbated the tendency to focus on earthly manifestations of divine
wrath. Many, if not most, believers would have felt that large segments of
the country had strayed from the true Christian faith. In the providential
world view, the rising disorder, disagreement, and conflict in England were
almost certainly signs of God’s displeasure, and the accurate interpretation
of these signs was essential for restoring the country to its proper path. The
lack or breakdown of religious consensus before, during, and after the war
made providential readings of current events in England more imperative
and more contested. As Christopher Hill observes in Milton and the English
Revolution (1977), “God was becoming a problem for many mid-seven-
teenth-century Englishmen. . . . The difficulty of reconciling God’s justice
with his mercy, legalism with love, was age-old. But the unique freedom of
the forties and fifties allowed such problems to be discussed, verbally and in
print” (351). Increasingly, then, a concern with divine punishment became
central to the early modern English religious experience. But different
groups naturally had very different ideas about which beliefs were heretical
and which events represented progress or disaster. Consequently, they also
differed on which events constituted a divine punishment and what beha-
vior was being punished.2
Anxiety that England was descending into sin and courting ever more
destructive expressions of divine wrath increased interest in the age-old
theological problem of evil: why would an omnipotent and benevolent
God not only permit evil to exist but inflict terrible punishments on his
creations, both on earth and eternally in the afterlife? In Destabilizing
Milton (2005), Peter Herman, building on Hill’s work, documents a
“renewed interest in the problem of God in the mid-seventeenth century,”
(111) manifested in part through a number of texts that wrestle with the
“critique of God’s justice” found in the Book of Job (113). Herman
associates these concerns with “the conflict between Calvinism and
Arminianism” (111), which centered in part on whether the doctrine of
predestination makes God responsible for evil.
INTRODUCTION: PROVIDENTIAL PUNISHMENTS 127
that many early modern moralists and modern scholars alike have asserted
a “stark opposition” between sensational, secular texts and pious ones.
In practice, however, as Walsham’s study demonstrates, “preaching and
cheap print were . . . symbiotically linked, caught in a complex and
mutually enriching equilibrium” (327).7 Monster ballads and sermons
shared important rhetorical challenges and strategies for meeting those
challenges. Both existed as printed texts derived from live performances.
The bodies of living and dead monsters were exhibited at fairgrounds and
elsewhere, while their descriptions were made into ballads and sold.8
Similarly, sermons delivered from the pulpit were also disseminated in
printed form. Ballads and sermons both competed for the attention (and
money) of audiences in the public sphere; both sought to imaginatively
engage audiences through vivid imagery and compelling rhetoric; and
both undertook to sell a potentially unappetizing product. Monster
ballads needed to turn an account of a horrifying prodigy into a desirable
commodity, and sermons needed to promulgate a theological doctrine
that called for much of their audience to suffer eternal torture. Each, in its
own way, needed to obey the Horatian dictum to blend edification with
entertainment. The likeness between sermons and pamphlets is even
stronger. Particularly in the longer monster pamphlets, any distinction
between the “worldly” monster texts and the “godly” sermons becomes
increasingly nominal and arbitrary (Watt 46).9 Indeed, the preacher
William Leigh (1550–1639) was involved in the production of a monster
pamphlet while also publishing sermons, including a sermon about a
monster.10
Popular print thus provides a crucial point of intersection between
entertainment and religious expression in the public sphere.11 This entan-
glement of religious and secular concerns and motives makes popular print
texts a particularly fruitful region in which to examine the aesthetic appeal
and religious implications of the sinister. I will focus my investigation on
ballads and pamphlets that deal with monstrous births and, in the case of
the sermons, divine punishment more broadly. A comprehensive, chron-
ological survey of such a vast and heterogeneous corpus is beyond the
scope of this chapter. Rather, I wish to outline some of the persistent
religious concerns and poetic resources in early modern print culture
relating to the monstrous and the infernal. The treatment of these subjects
in early modern popular print reflects larger cultural conversations that
dramatic and literary works such as Richard III and Paradise Lost also
participated in. This chapter will examine monster ballads and pamphlets
BALLADS, PAMPHLETS, AND SERMONS 131
The printing press translates God’s monstrous message into a form that
can be disseminated more widely, presenting these divinely created texts
through the medium of a human-created text. In short, just as sermons
were partly a form of entertainment, ballads were frequently a form of
preaching.
Collectively, ballads and pamphlets about monsters and sermons on
divine punishment reveal the Renaissance fascination with divine wrath as
an imaginative construct and a doctrinal concept. They also raise several
related and significant questions. Can or should manifestations or repre-
sentations of divine punishment be sources of pleasure? If so, how would
this appreciation of divine punishment affect our understanding of early
modern English theology and piety?
Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a
holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster
make a man: any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a
doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.
(2.2.27–32)
There are many causes of monsters. The first is the glory of God. The
second, his wrath. The third, too great a quantity of semen. The forth,
too small a quantity. The fifth, imagination. The sixth, the narrowness or
smallness of the womb. . . . The thirteenth, by demons or devils.20
Certaine Gentlemen, and many of the common people, that were then at
Cockepit, when the newes came of this prodigious birth, left their sports and
went to behold it with wonder and amazement. . . . The most impious of all
could not but confesse, that it was a notable example of Gods fearefull
wrath, which God for his mercy sake turne from us. (B1)
On the one hand, the spectacle of the monster is a pleasurable wonder that
entices crowds to see it, even when they are already taking part in a highly
engaging form of entertainment. It is also, on some level, an activity that is
interchangeable with the morally dubious sport of cockfighting.23 On the
other hand, the monster serves as a form of religious instruction that
provokes even the most “impious” and worldly to a morally productive
fear of God and a desire to avoid his wrath.
The mixture of attraction and aversion is similarly evident in the
pamphlet Two Most remarkable and true Histories (1620). It describes
how people crowd to see a deformed calf: “to which wonderfull and
fearefull spectacle the whole Citie, both young and old, rich and poore,
came to behold” (10). Nonetheless, the author concludes that the sight is
abhorrent and should produce an aversion to earthly things: “these terri-
ble spectacles . . . may be sufficient to drive us away from the love of this
138 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
earthly and transitory pilgrimage: and hee give us grace to abhorre mon-
strous sinnes, which procure these monstrous spectacles, and will bring
upon us more fearefull judgments, unlesse we repent betimes” (11). The
worldly curiosity—or, to give it its Augustinian name, curiositas—that
draws crowds to the spectacle of the monster seems opposed to the
contemptus mundi that the author wishes the monster to inspire.
Yet curiosity and pleasure remain a component of the experience of
viewing the monster even when it is presented as a product of divine
wrath. Crawford aptly characterizes these texts, which early modern audi-
ences found so “fascinating,” as “Protestant fables of marvelous punish-
ment” (9). Looking at the corpus of monster ballads and pamphlets
produced during the lifetimes of Shakespeare and Milton, we see that
the vast majority of them explain the monster primarily or entirely as a
prodigious sign of divine wrath, and the lusus naturae theory is typically
subordinate or absent. Nonetheless, the popularity of these texts, the
reported behavior of spectators within the texts, and in many cases the
authors’ own rhetorical framing of the monstrous spectacle all suggest
that these monsters are expected to provoke curiosity and pleasure.
Furthermore, there is no demonstrable positive correlation between the
relative predominance of the lusus naturae model in a given text and its
potential appeal. Appreciating the monster does not require believing that
it is the playful product of a benevolent God or an innocent scientific or
natural wonder. The prodigy complex and the manifest wrath of an angry
God are themselves powerful sources of pleasurable imaginative engage-
ment. This is the same kind of appeal that Shakespeare’s Richard III
exploits through Richard’s fascinating, monstrous deformity and the
destructive divine power invoked by Margaret’s curses.
sermons are not exempt from the Horatian requirement to mingle delight
with their instruction: “excepte menne finde delight, thei will not long
abide. . . . And that is the reason, that menne commonly tary the ende of a
merie plaie, and cannot abide the halfe hearyng of a sower checkyng
Sermon” (A2v).24
Wilson pointedly implies that preachers should emulate actors and
dramatists, and apparently many succeeded in doing so. Walsham
describes the audience for early modern sermons as large, diverse, and
enthusiastic, including not only members of the “religious elite” but also
“restive and wayward youth” (62) and “pleasure-loving and scandalmon-
gering crowds” (63). Peter McCullough (2005) notes the common early
modern practice of “attending sermons as a form of entertainment” (xxii),
and he documents some of the ways in which sermon audiences could
behave like theater fans: “The court Lent sermons attracted thousands and
were followed by Londoners as well as courtiers with the keen interest
reserved at other times of the year for theatergoing and blood sports
(pastimes outlawed during Lent)” (xxi). He also quotes a letter by John
Chamberlain on the response to Lancelot Andrewes’s 1609 Christmas
sermon, which was “preached on Christmas day last with great applause:
the King with much importunitie had the copie delivered him on Tewsday
last . . . and sayes he will lay yt still under his pillow” (xxv).
Successful sermons had not only to convey theological arguments; they
also had to engage and educate the affective and aesthetic sensibilities of
their audiences.25 Indeed, because of their didactic obligations, preachers
arguably had to be more aware of audience response than ballad-makers. A
ballad could be considered successful if it sold well, regardless of what
buyers did with it, but sermons aspired to persuade and move their
audiences in very particular ways. Preachers needed to generate an affec-
tive response in order to condition their audiences to properly understand
the sermon’s religious message. The nature of their affective appeal varies,
but many sermons sought “to fascinate, entertain and frighten their
audiences” (Richter 55), evoking the same combination of pleasure and
terror as the monster ballads. More precisely, many early modern sermons
employ sinister aesthetics to make the artistic representation of divine
punishment pleasurably terrifying.
Although sermon writers deliberately generate and exploit sinister aes-
thetics, they find them troubling to theorize. Sermons, even more than
other forms of early modern literature, had to encourage virtue and
discourage vice. The primary theoretical model for accomplishing this
140 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
blasing starres, firebrands, flashings of light, flying Dragons, long starres like
swordes and dartes . . . earthquakes . . . straunge inundations and overflow-
ings of waters, monstrous births of children, the uncouth voice of beasts,
springs of waters running with bloude, the straunge fruites of trees and
plantes. . . . The meaning of all which, is, that . . . whither soever wee turne
our eyes, there shall appeare the horrible signes of Gods wrath and his
judgements. (chapter 2, homily 13, page 99)
All of the calamities Gwalther describes, not only the monstrous births, were
popular ballad subjects, and this list gives a sense of the range of fantastical
elements that both ballad and sermon writers could draw upon in order to
attract audiences and keep them engaged. Each individual wonder is described
briefly but vividly, and the rapid concatenation of prodigies produces a passage
that is rich with sinister imagery. Like the ballad writers, Gwalther highlights
their simultaneously wondrous and “horrible” nature. He also emphasizes that
they are “signes of Gods wrath” and not, as “Astrologers” might claim, “things
proceeding of natural causes.”
A few published English sermons take a specific, local instance of a
monstrous birth as one of their primary subjects, much as a monster ballad
would. William Leigh, who wrote or at least contributed to the 1613
pamphlet on a monstrous birth in his parish, also published in the same
year a pair of sermons called The drumme of devotion striking out an
allarum to prayer, by signes in heaven, and prodigies on earth, which
describe and comment on the same monster:
To wit, a dead childe, base borne, of lewd parents, having foure leggs, and
foure armes, all out of the bulke of one bodie, with fingers and toes
proportionable: which bodie had two bellies and two navels forward, with
one plaine backe, without seame or division, it had but one head, and that of
a reasonable proportion, with two faces, the one looking forward, and the
other backward. (42)
142 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
The many legges and armes may tax our untollerable pride, and averise,
reaching heere, and treading there yea in robbing well nere all Gods crea-
tures, to fil the belly & cloath the backe, with costly and garish sutes,
madding the minde, and making bodies monstrous. . . . Two mouthes tak-
ing in, & two bellies casting out, taxe our insatiable desire of belly cheere &
drunkenness. . . . Lastly, two faces may taxe the world of palpable hypocrisie,
divellish deceit, & damned equivocation. (43–44)
Consider wee this birth, thus double-membred, to have seene them lying
upon the table, to see them deciphered upon the paper might happily be
thought a sight not much unpleasant: But let your imagination give them
life, and tell mee how uncomfortable, yea burthensome must they be to
others, yea and to themselves. (C2, my italics)
for early modern writers to exploit the appetite for monsters and hideous
wonders while condemning it as unnatural.
Even if they do not specifically discuss monstrous births, a large portion
of the sermons from the late 1500s and early 1600s similarly exploit the
power of the sinister to create vivid, engaging descriptions of other forms
of divine punishment. Their authors explored the poetics of the infernal
using techniques partly inspired by the literary and theatrical traditions.
The same Thomas Adams who railed against the appeal of evil demon-
strated his attention to Jacobean revenge tragedy by delivering a sermon
called “The White Devil” on March 7, 1612 at the popular venue of Paul’s
Cross—at most two months after the debut of John Webster’s play of the
same name.30 Moreover, Moira P. Baker (1995) notes thematic and
stylistic connections between Adams’s sermons and the morbid and gro-
tesque imagery of plays such as The Revengers Tragedy and Webster’s The
Duchess of Malfi (6).31 Adams’s The Devills Banket describes hell as
a vast Charnell-house, hung round with lamps burning blew and dimme, set
in hollow corners; whose glimmering serves to discover the hideous tor-
ments: all the ground in stead of greene rushes, strewed with funerall
rosemary and dead mens bones: some corpses standing upright in their
knotted winding-sheetes; others rotted in their Coffins, which yawne wide
to vent their stench: there the bare ribs of a Father that begat him, heere the
hollow skull of a Mother that bare him. How direfull and amazing are these
things to sense! (193–194)32
But when once God rowzeth him, then have at their throats: then they shal
feel what it is to have lived so long in the anger of a God: When the Almighty
146 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
shall put himself into the fearfull formes of vengeance, and the everlasting
gulph of fire shal open to receive them into intolerable burnings; the
mercilesse divels seising on their guilty souls, and afflicting them with
incessant torments. (13–14)
Even the drawn-out syntax, indicating the depth of the fall and the end-
lessness of the ensuing torments, is similar in both passages. More impor-
tantly, in both cases God is associated with sinister elements such as fire,
demons, terrors, and torture. These manifestations of divine wrath are
wondrous in the same way that monsters and the other portents described
in ballads are, and the speakers of both passages seem to express a trium-
phant satisfaction with God’s ability to inflict such spectacular punish-
ments on the wicked.
Another crucial element of the representation of divine punishment in
these sermons is hyperbolic excess, similar to Spenser’s treatment of the
monster Errour. Accounts of the torments of hell repeatedly enjoin audi-
ences to imagine the worst thing they can, and then to imagine something
infinitely worse than that. Accordingly, the language itself becomes over-
loaded with descriptive detail and long syntactic units. John Bunyan’s
Sighs from Hell (1666) provides exemplary demonstrations of this aes-
thetic of excess. First, his list of the Biblical names for hell creates an
overwhelming repetition of the word “fire”: “It is called a never dying
worm, Mark 9. It is called an oven, fire hot, Malach. 4.1. It is called a
furnace, a fiery furnace, Mat. 13. It is called the bottomless pit, the
unquenchable fire, fire and brimstone, hell fire, the lake of fire, devouring
fire, everlasting fire, eternal fire, a stream of fire. Rev. 21” (37).
More importantly, Bunyan’s representation of hell and its sufferings is
fundamentally governed by excess. Bunyan insists on the centrality of the
MONSTERS AND DIVINE WRATH IN EARLY MODERN SERMONS 147
Set case you should take a man, and tye him to a stake, and with red hot
pincers, pinch off his flesh by little pieces for two or three years together, and
at last, when the poor man cryes out for ease and help, the tormentors
answer, Nay, but besides all this, you must be handled worse.
We will serve you thus these 20. years together, and after that we will fill
your mangled body full of scalding lead, or run you through with a red hot
spit, would not this be lamentable? . . . But he that goes to Hell shall suffer
ten thousand times worse torments then these, and yet shall never be quite
dead under them. (78)
Hell, in his account, is as much about the idea of “besides all this” as it is
about scalding lead, red hot pincers, and so forth. It is about the limitless
multiplication of any torment mortals are capable of imagining, the fact
that new eons and forms of pain always lie beyond those already endured.
One of the most important ways that sermon writers generate rhetorical
and affective force is by juxtaposing moral and/or aesthetic opposites such
as good and evil, or celestial and infernal. This practice recalls the principle
of concordia discors articulated by Tasso (and many others), as well as
Augustine’s vision of good and evil as light and dark colors contributing
to the beauty of a chiaroscuro painting. Appreciating this contrast requires
both normative and sinister sensibilities, but the sinister frequently eclipses
or upstages the normative. Thomas Adams’s paired sermons, “God’s
Anger” and “Man’s Comfort,” are typical of this strategy on a large scale,
but it also occurs much more directly within individual passages, often at
climactic points in the sermon. This technique is incredibly common, but
one notable practitioner of it is the royalist preacher Jeremy Taylor (1613–
1667).34 In the first of three sermons collectively titled “Apples of Sodom,”
published in XXV Sermons Preached at Golden-Grove (1653), Taylor con-
trasts the pleasures offered by sin with its actual, hideous consequences:
so it is in sinne, its face is fair and beauteous, . . . Softer then sleep, or the
dreams of wine, tenderer then the curds of milk, . . . but when you come to
handle it, it is filthy, rough as the Porcupine, black as the shadowes of the
night, and having promised a fish it gives a scorpion, and a stone instead of
bread. (sermon 19, page 256)
148 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
As there are treasures of good things; and God hath Crowns and Scepters in
store for his Saints and servants, and Coronets for Martyrs, and Rosaries for
Virgins, and Phials full of Prayers, and bottles full of tears, and a register of
sighs and penitentiall groans: so God hath a treasure of wrath and fury, of
scourges and scorpions, . . . and by this time the monsters and diseases will be
numerous, and intolerable, when Gods heavie hand shall press the sanies and
the intolerablenesse, the obliquity and the unreasonablenesse, the amaze-
ment and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the guilt and the punish-
ment out from all our sins, and pour them into one chalice, and mingle them
with an infinite wrath, and make the wicked drink off all the vengeance, and
force it down their unwilling throats with the violence of Devils and
accursed Spirits. (sermon 2, pages 19–20)
Since sanies is “A thin fetid pus mixed with serum or blood, secreted by a
wound or ulcer” (OED 1, which cites this passage), this would indeed be
an unpleasant beverage, even before adding “the intolerablenesse.” The
redundancy is part of the point, of course. While few would wish to drink
from Taylor’s chalice, the passage itself is lush and extravagant in its
representation of hideous excess, and this kind of language presumably
attracted audiences to his sermons, just as similar language ensured the
popularity of Jacobean revenge tragedies. Indeed, while Tasso’s or
Augustine’s aesthetic theories suggest that evil can be beautiful only
when subsumed within a larger whole that is good, the sinister in this
passage is not subordinate to normative beauty, nor even parallel as
in the previous example. Rather, it overwhelms the normative. The
MONSTERS AND DIVINE WRATH IN EARLY MODERN SERMONS 149
But this may seeme a strange Paradox to some; that that God . . . who is not
onely Bonus, sed ipsa bonitas, good, but goodnesse it selfe, should be Author
mali, the Author of evill. . . . To unloose this knot, the Schoole affords an
olde distinction of malum culpae & malum poenae. . . . Concerning the
former, evill as it is sinne, God is by no meanes the Author of it. . . . But
concerning the latter, evill which is the punishment of sinne, God is the
Author of that: All afflictions & calamities which are the rewards of sinne, are
sent upon man by the mighty hand of God. (5)37
The punishments in hell have little to do with moral theology and almost
nothing with the physiology of pain. It is not clear, for example, why even a
fictive body would be any better off being roasted alive than being frozen in
a lake of ice, although the former represents a far less severe punishment in
terms of the scale of culpability than the latter. I would like to suggest rather
that the punishments are a clear example of what was later to be called
“poetical justice,” with all of the irony that the phrase implies. The punish-
ments fit the crimes, provided we understand “fittingness” as an esthetic
category. (105)
Freccero rightly identifies the guiding principles behind this kind of divine
punishment as aesthetic ones, and he suggests the ambivalent response
they might provoke in audiences, calling them “revolting” but also wittily
ironic.
As ballad, pamphlet and sermon writers represent the matter, God
constructs his messages to humanity using materials such as monsters,
disease, flame, poison, and darkness. Taylor’s “Apples of Sodom” observes
156 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
that “Sinne brings in its retinue, fearfull plagues and evill angels, messen-
gers of the displeasure of God,” and a vast repertoire of punishments,
which are virtually ubiquitous and include tortures: “We have done that,
for which God thought flaying alive not to be too big a punishment”
(sermon 21, pages 280–281). Taylor also links the devastating anger of
God to poison and the infernal: “he is angry at us with a destructive fury,
he hath dipt his arrowes in the venome of the serpent, and whets his sword
in the forges of hell; then it is time that a man withdraw his foot, and that
he start back from the preparations of an intolerable ruine” (sermon 21,
page 280). Hell here is not a realm opposed to God, but a resource that
God can draw upon in creating punishments for humanity.
It is precisely God’s aesthetic preference for the macabre and infernal in
his chastisements that is troubling and that no amount of moral reasoning
by theologians can erase, because it is not solely a moral concern.
Consenting to the necessity and rightness of divine punishment is not
the same as accepting God’s apparent desire to make those punishments as
hideous as possible. The ballad Natures Wonder? concludes with a terrify-
ing admonition, albeit rendered somewhat grotesque by the doggerel
verse in which it is expressed:
If God hath (as it were) spit in the face, and laid the black-finger of
Deformity upon the body, ought it not to bee entertained with sorrow of
Heart, and Humiliation? Hath God written in great Letters the guilt of Sin,
and in a deformed body drawn a resemblance of the Soules deformity; drawn
it (I say) so; that others may see and know, that wee also are defiled in his
sight? (True and Certaine Relation C3)
THE TERATOGENIC GOD 157
In this image, God warps the baby in the womb by touching it and spitting
in its face, in order to transform it into a didactic text about original sin (as
the passage’s context makes clear, the baby is guilty only of the sin shared
equally by all humanity). Even if early modern spectators concurred with
God’s moral message about “the guilt of Sin,” as most of them ostensibly
would, the aesthetic and affective component of the problem of evil
remains. What does it mean that God prefers to torture people in creative
ways, that he chooses this particular aesthetic vehicle, rather than some
other, to convey his message?
Spitting in the face of an unborn child may seem gratuitous, and this
sense of gratuitousness is one of the more problematic aspects of many
early modern representations of divine punishment, precisely because it
implies that some of the evil humans experience might be for God’s
pleasure rather than for strict moral necessity. The 1634 English transla-
tion of Paré’s Des Monstres suggests that the primary cause of monsters is
not punishment per se, but rather “the glory of God”:
There are reckoned up many causes of monsters; the first whereof is the
glory of God, that his immense power may be manifested to those which are
ignorant of it, by the sending of those things which happen contrary to
nature: for thus our Saviour Christ answered the Disciples (asking whether
he or his parents had offended, who, being born blind, received his sight
from him) that neither he nor his parents had committed any fault so great,
but this to have happened onely that the glory and majesty of God should be
divulged by that miracle, and such great workes. (book 25, chapter 1, page
962)
lamenesse, that the Lord questionlesse might manifest his power and
goodnesse in her, and continued a criple 25. yeares, so that she could
neyther goe, sit, nor stand, but was carryed hither and thither by the helpe
of others” (4). Again, God is described as crippling a baby and allowing
them to grow to adulthood with a disability, in order to demonstrate his
goodness by subsequently curing them.
In these examples, the monsters are no longer moral punishments; they
have become purely didactic texts. With a literally infinite number of ways
to communicate the same message, unconstrained by any obligation to
visit justice on these particular individuals, God nonetheless chooses
methods that create arbitrary human suffering. As Bedford notes in his
own commentary on John 9, “But why God should take the forfeiture in
this, rather than in his Neighbor, this was meerely Ex Dei bene-placito, the
good pleasure of God, who had in this a purpose to prepare and make way
for the glory of Christ in curing the man” (True and Certaine Relation
C3v-C4). Bedford does note the collective sin of humanity, without which
such punishments would lack moral authority. Nonetheless, Bedford here
presents God’s choice of targets within this equally sinful population as
essentially arbitrary. At issue is not simply the guilt or innocence of God’s
victims, but the nature of God’s “good pleasure.”
unnatural shapes, and they suggest that wonder and admiration are part of
the appropriate religious response to this representational strategy.
Reconciling audiences aesthetically and emotionally to a teratogenic
God is the most difficult element of a successful theodicy. In order to
make their vision of God palatable, religious writers must encourage
audiences to cultivate and apply their sinister sensibilities, to take pleasure
in God’s punishments rather than being appalled and repulsed by them as
a normative framework would demand.
From a normative perspective, a taste for the sinister appears aestheti-
cally perverse and therefore morally suspect. Although Christian discourse
routinely demonizes perversity, certain kinds of perversity have always
been central to Christian piety: the rejection of conventional worldly
values, priorities, and pleasures in favor of spiritual ones; the exaltation
of the poor and despised over the rich and powerful; and the glorification
of those who suffer torture, crucifixion, and martyrdom.43 Early modern
preachers adopted conflicting strategies for framing these paradoxical
values. Preachers like Thomas Adams try to normalize the Christian
renunciation of worldly pleasures, condemning the taste for sin as a
perverse, “strangely-affected” love of bitterness and figuring Christian
virtue as the normative, “sweet” position. By doing so, they downplay
the potential for paradoxical strangeness inherent in Christian piety. While
this rhetorical strategy makes it easier to formulate a coherent theoretical
justification of God, it sidesteps the more troublesome affective and
aesthetic challenges of theodicy by suggesting that the proper Christian
sensibility is so obviously normal and correct that everyone ought to have
adopted it already.
In contrast, John Donne’s sermons explicitly embrace an inverted
aesthetic sensibility as the epitome of Christian devotion, using the
same metaphoric language of sweetness and bitterness.44 One of
Donne’s sermons on the Penitential Psalms says of God that “Thy
corrosives are better then others fomentations; Thy bitternesses sweeter
then others honey” (5.15.370–371).45 Donne here figures worldly
values and pleasures as normative, and he presents Christian piety as
an acquired taste that violates normative aesthetics. Donne’s fourth
Prebend sermon (1626) identifies “some actions of a kinde of halfe-
horror and amazement” as central to “the frame and constitution of al
Religions” (7.12.526–529).46 This affect of horror is thus foundational
to the Christian experience as well: “In that very discipline which was
delivered from God, by Moses, the service was full of mysterie, and
160 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
audiences could find delight in their own abasement. This is the state of
mind that Donne seeks to inculcate when he exhorts his audience to love the
torments that God inflicts on them:
when Rottennesse enters into their Bones, yet they shall rest even in that day of
trouble, of dissolution, of putrefaction. God shall call upon them . . . Thou
whom I have beaten and bruised with my flayls, when I have threshed, and
winnowed, and sifted thee by these afflictions, and by this heavy hand, still
thou shalt fix thy faithfull eyes in heaven, and see a roome reserved there for
thee. (9.12.707–723)49
The wombe is by the hand of God, sometimes closed up, that it receiveth
not, . . . sometimes opened or rather loosened, that it retayneth not, as in the
case of Abortive and untimely births. . . . And all these doe teach us the
presence of Gods Providence. Well may wee say, The hand of God hath
beene there. It is hee that thus hath hindered the worke of the wombe, and
withheld the blessing of a good Conception. (B2v)
There are several troubling elements in this account. First of all, the
insertion of the hand of God into the womb of the mother is presented
so concretely that it potentially evokes the idea of sexual violation.
Secondly, Bedford describes God exerting dispassionate, meticulous care
in producing an outcome that, as Bedford elsewhere acknowledges, will
ruin the life of a child and the happiness of a family. Yet Bedford also insists
that this is a praiseworthy activity. God shapes, or rather deforms, monsters
CULTIVATING SINISTER PIETY 163
What are all the Armies and Forces of Tyrants, to oppose the omnipotent
God? He will make a feast of them, for the fowles of the Aire, whom he
invites to the flesh of Captains, and to the flesh of Kings. [ . . . ] Our God is a
consuming fire; and he will consume them not only in anger, but in laugh-
ter. The Catastrophe of all rebellion is but the Sarcasmos or bitter scorn of
God. (7–8)
Adams depicts God not as a dutiful father regretfully punishing his errant
children, but as a being who annihilates his foes amid peals of derisive
laughter. The "Sarcasmos" of God literally adds insult to injury and again
demonstrates a gratuitous enjoyment of the forms of punishment that
164 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
goes beyond the strict demands of justice. The passage even implies that
God shares the carrion birds’ taste for human flesh: he prepares the corpses
as a feast for the birds and also consumes them himself as a fire. Adams
deliberately positions the audience with God and not his victims, by saying
“Our” God and by directing God’s anger at “Tyrants.” Taking ownership
of God’s wrath in this manner is empowering. Moreover, it provides a
religious justification for exulting in imaginative experiences that would
normally be considered transgressive, savage, and evil: the pleasures of
destruction by fire, eating human flesh, and mocking an utterly defeated
enemy. Cultivating this sinister sensibility allows the audience to feast
vicariously on the corpses of their enemies. At the same time, encouraging
the audience to empathize with the divine wrath fosters a closer relation-
ship between the audience and God, and an understanding of the opera-
tions of providence that goes beyond the theoretical to the visceral.
CONCLUSION
The pleasures offered by preachers like Adams are precisely the kinds of
pleasure that villains offer in early modern literature and drama. The bitter
scorn of Adams’s God destroying his enemies through the inexorable
operations of providence is poetically indistinguishable from the gleeful
laughter of the Vice, of Richard III as he savors the elaborately planned
destruction of his own enemies. But here it is morally justifiable—indeed,
pious—for the audience to take pleasure in it, because in doing so they are
simply reflecting on the divine sarcasm. Adams is not unusual in this
respect; on the contrary, his depictions of the wrath of God are quite
typical of what we see in a range of early modern religious texts, from
ballads to pamphlets to sermons.
From a normative perspective, living in a universe run by this kind of
God would be horrifying, but as the popularity of figures like Richard
suggests, early modern audiences also had well-developed sinister sensi-
bilities to which authors could appeal. In their depictions of divine punish-
ment, early modern ballads, pamphlets, and sermons attempt to apply that
pleasure to God, in order to make God’s own involvement with evil not
merely morally excusable, but emotionally satisfying.
The sermons of John Donne call attention to this process more explicitly
than most other contemporary sermons. Donne emphasizes the importance
of “mysterie, and horror” to the proper religious sensibility. He discusses
the necessity of learning to appreciate what appears to be evil as an aspect of
NOTES 165
NOTES
1. A full analysis of the causes of the English Civil War is beyond the scope of this
chapter. J. P. Sommerville’s Royalists & Patriots: Politics and Ideology in
England 1603–1640 (1999) identifies certain “royal policies” as particular
bones of contention: “taxation without consent, imprisonment without
cause shown, and the government of the church without Parliamentary advice”
(4). See also Christopher Hill’s The Century of Revolution: 1603–1714 (1980),
Glenn Burgess’s British Political Thought, 1500–1660 (2009), and Michael
Braddick’s God’s Fury, England’s Fire: A New History of the English Civil
Wars (2009). Braddick highlights the connections between the political
upheavals of the civil war and a perceived “chaos of religious opinion” in
England (xxii).
2. Historian Alexandra Walsham’s Providence in Early Modern England (1999)
argues that “Providentialism became a dangerously politicized discourse in
166 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
the decades preceding the outbreak of the Civil War, not in the sense that it
became the exclusive property of one party or faction, but because it operated
as a catalyst for criticism and as a weapon and tool wielded with increasing
aggression and crudity” (5–6). Moreover, Walsham essentially equates the
operations of providence (as it was understood in the period) with horrific
prodigies and disasters.
3. Julie Crawford (2005) identifies “thirty broadsheets and pamphlets”
describing monstrous births (187n4), and presumably many more have
not survived to the present day. On the popularity of monsters, see also
Mark Thornton Burnett’s Constructing ‘Monsters’ in Shakespearean Drama
and Early Modern Culture (2002), whose introduction and first chapter
provide a useful overview of where and how monsters were displayed and
written about in early modern England. On the persistence of the idea of the
monster as a portent, see Stephen Pender’s “‘No Monsters at the
Resurrection’: Inside Some Conjoined Twins,” published in Jeffrey J.
Cohen’s Monster Theory (1996; e.g., page 145).
4. For explanations of early modern births in modern medical terms, see A. W.
Bates’s Emblematic Monsters: Unnatural Conceptions and Deformed Births
in Early Modern Europe (2005), which provides a list of “Human
Monstrous Births, 1500–1700” (215).
5. See Rosamund Oates’s review article, “Sermons and Sermon-going in Early
Modern England” (2012) for a concise overview.
6. For a helpful description of the sermon form, see Peter McCullough’s
introduction to his 2005 edition of Andrewes (McCullough xxxi–xxxiii).
7. Walsham’s book, like this chapter, is “Based on an integrated analysis of
sermons and tracts by Protestant ministers and ballads and pamphlets
reporting ‘strange and wonderful newes’” (6), but she is engaged in a
much broader survey of English providentialism. One additional major
category of texts that Walsham identifies is the “English judgment book.”
She describes these books as “encyclopedias of providential punishments”
and collections of “grisly stories of supernatural justice,” and she cites
Thomas Beard’s The theatre of Gods judgements, published in 1597, as a
seminal example (65).
8. See Burnett on the connection between the fairground exhibition of mon-
sters and the theatrical stage (10). Burnett also suggests that Shakespeare’s
Richard III has some of the appeal of a fairground monster (66).
9. Watt classifies texts as either “worldly” or “godly” (46) in an effort to
“separate the religious element” from “the public interest in macabre stor-
ies” (108), although she rightly acknowledges that “it is almost impossible
to find a straight ‘news’ ballad in the sixteenth century which does not refer
to the greater ‘religious’ significance of the individual ‘secular’ event”
(46–47).
NOTES 167
10. The Dictionary of National Biography, edited by Leslie Stephen and Sidney Lee
(hereafter DNB, cited by volume and page number) notes that “After the
accession of James I he [Leigh] preached at the court, and the king appointed
him tutor to his eldest son, Prince Henry, over whom Leigh had great influence”
(11.879). Despite this evidence of James’s approval, Crawford characterizes
Leigh as having a “Puritan agenda” (98; see also 110).
11. For more on the relationship between pamphlets, plays, and sermons,
including their competition for audiences, their reciprocal appropriation of
each others’ tropes, and their strategies for combining sensationalism and
providentialism, see Peter Lake and Michael Questier, The Antichrist’s Lewd
Hat (2002).
12. As Walsham argues, “Notwithstanding the tirades of the clergy, sermons
and ephemeral literature . . . both were saturated with references to divine
providence; both shared a preoccupation with the blessings and punish-
ments God showered down upon mankind to reward virtue and correct
vice; both cried in unison for repentance and amendment” (32–33).
13. A similar formulation occurs in a ballad by John Barker, The true description
of a monsterous chylde, borne in the Ile of Wight (1564).
14. Crawford also observes how these accounts combine entertainment and
religious instruction, arguing that monsters functioned as “adverti-
sing . . . attracting readers to the texts’ godly content through the appeal of
marvelous images.” Compared to this chapter, however, her study takes a
more “micropolitical” approach (9).
15. For a variety of reasons, it is not always practical to offer line numbers or
other numerical locators for quotations from broadside ballads.
16. For Shakespeare plays other than Richard III, see The Complete Works,
edited by Stephen Orgel and A. R. Braunmuller (Penguin, 2002).
17. Art historian Sandra Cheng’s “The Cult of the Monstrous: Caricature,
Physiognomy, and Monsters in Early Modern Italy” (2012) notes that
“monsters made frequent appearances in Renaissance art in which pleasure
was their primary function” (202). She also discusses the popularity of
monster texts (see esp. 200–203, 220–222).
18. Multipage early modern texts from Early English Books Online are cited by
signature number when no page numbers are available.
19. On the lusus naturae, Daston and Park cite Fortunio Liceti’s 1616 treatise
De monstrorum natura, caussis et differentiis libri duo and other “medical
writers” (200). Sandra Cheng cites Liceti but notes that “the source of
Liceti’s opinion is Pliny’s Natural History” (211, 228). See also Paula
Findlen’s “Jokes of Nature and Jokes of Knowledge: The Playfulness of
Scientific Discourse in Early Modern Europe” (1990).
20. The translation is mine, from Jean Céard’s French edition (Librarie Droz,
1971, page 4).
168 4 MONSTERS AND THE PLEASURES OF DIVINE JUSTICE
21. Johnson was a botanist and apothecary who fought on the royalist side in
the English Civil War and died in 1644 (DNB 10.935).
22. A.W. Bates (2005) similarly argues that early modern society’s significant
investment in monsters—they were “routinely exhibited,” and “people were
prepared to travel and pay to see monsters, and then to buy and keep images
of them”—had to be motivated by something more than the “Horror and
repugnance” they supposedly inspired. He suggests a value placed on trans-
gressive hybridity: “human-animal intermediates, hermaphrodites and phy-
sical deformities have all been revered as well as tabooed” (21).
23. Crawford discusses the Puritan disapproval of cockfighting in her analysis of
this passage (97).
24. Parts of this passage are quoted in Knapp (118) and Walsham (315).
Thomas Wilson (c. 1525–1581) was a scholar whose political career culmi-
nated in his appointment as secretary of state in 1577 (DNB 21.603–607).
25. Debora Shuger suggests that the sermon teaches an affective position more
than a set of theological principles: “As the preacher shares in the divine
power, so the sermon recapitulates the strategies of sacred absolutism. It
does not teach a doctrine but operates rhetorically, affectively—a sort of
psychagogic warfare” (Habits 208). In contrast, Kevin Sharpe (2000) cate-
gorizes the “polemical sermon” as a genre that excludes the “visual, sensual
and emotional experience” of religion (390). Within the early modern period,
Spenser’s “Letter to Raleigh” also seems to contrast ideas that are "sermoned"
from those expressed poetically and allegorically (see Chapter 2).
26. Moira P. Baker (1995) notes that Thomas Adams was “Vilified by John
Vicars in a 1647 Puritan tract” as a lover of ceremonious religion and an
enemy of Parliament, but “acclaimed in the nineteenth century as . . . an
eminent Puritan divine” (4). According to Baker, Adams “maintained a
moderate position within the Church of England” but “could appease
neither High Church Laudians nor Puritans,” because he combined
“strongly Calvinist doctrines” with “His loyalty to the king, his tolerance
of ceremony, and his support of an Episcopalian form of church govern-
ment” (7).
27. Gwalther was a protégé of Heinrich Bullinger, a son-in-law of Huldrych
Zwingli, and he followed them as the third bishop of the Reformed Church of
Zurich. According to J. Wayne Baker, Gwalther “was very influential” in
England, “particularly as an advocate of the Zurich model of the state
church. . . . and Gwalther regularly corresponded with English bishops and
others” (Oxford Encyclopedia of the Reformation [1996] volume 2, page 203).
28. A surprisingly large percentage of the moralized monsters in ballads and
other texts were examples of what Crawford calls “fashion monsters” (33),
that is to say, “monsters whose deformities resembled human fashion
excesses” (28).
NOTES 169
aspect” (171), but she examines this fascination to elucidate issues such as
the politics of absolute monarchy and the psychology of guilt.
36. See Tertullian book 2, chapter 14, which contrasts “malis delicti et malis
supplicii, malis culpae et malis poenae” (page 126), that is to say “evils of sin
and evils of punishment . . . evils of guilt and evils of penalty” (page 127).
Tertullian also attempts to address some of the subsidiary moral questions
that result from this paradigm, such as whether God’s punishments are
always just, and why he allows the evil of crime in the first place. For
Aquinas’s use of malum culpae and malum poenae, see Brian Davies’s The
Thought of Thomas Aquinas (1993; 92) and Thomas Aquinas’s De Malo,
question 1 article 4.
37. The title of Hampton’s sermon suggests a certain radicalism, and the sermon
itself expresses concern that the king might not sufficiently repress English
Catholics (22). But Hampton’s “Epistle Dedicatory” makes a point of
wishing for the king’s "safetie" (A3), and after the Restoration, Hampton
published Lacrymae Ecclesiae (1661), a pair of sermons praising Charles I as
a martyr.
38. Andrewes, XCVI. Sermons (1629), “Certaine Sermons Preached At sundry
times, upon severall occasions,” “One of the Sermons upon the III.
Commandement Preached in the Parish Church of St. Giles Cripplegate,
Jun. XI. An. Dom. MDXCII,” page 44, Early English Books Online image
539.
39. Shuger quotes this passage and contrasts it with “the mythic dualism of
Andrewes’s Christus Victor theology, in which responsibility for ‘ill action’
devolves onto Satan and the powers of darkness, thus eliminating the para-
dox of a good God who directly causes evil” (Habits 170). Whatever
theological differences Donne and Andrewes may have, however, they
share the distinction between malum culpae, of which God is innocent,
and malum poenae, for which God is responsible.
40. Or, as The forme and shape of a monstrous child (1568) puts it: “In Gods
power/all flesh stands,/As the clay in the/Potters hands./To fashion even/
as he wyll,/In good shape/or in yll.”
41. Andrewes, XCVI. Sermons (1629), “A Sermon Preached Before the King’s
Majestie at White-Hall, on the V. of November, Anno Domini, MDCXVI,”
page 976, Early English Books Online image 497.
42. Crawford notes that early modern legal punishments were often “meant not
only to punish a crime but to illustrate it,” for example, by mutilating or
branding criminals in a manner that reflected their crimes (22).
43. In discussing Spenser, Joseph Campana (2009) describes a similar virtuous
perversity that he sees as a consequence of Platonic and Aristotelian con-
ceptions of goodness and pleasure: “True virtue, acquired through educa-
tion and maintained through action, requires that pain and pleasure be
NOTES 171
the moralist” (38–39). Attempts to resolve this conflict in favor of one side
or the other have constituted one of the central debates of Milton studies.
Stanley Fish is perhaps the most influential of those critics who argue
that theological doctrine should take precedence over poetic experience
when the two appear to conflict, a position labelled “orthodox” by its oppo-
nents.2 In Surprised by Sin (1967), Fish suggests that Paradise Lost creates
For Milton, though, the poetic and the religious are interdependent.
Not only does the Bible convey its ideas more effectively through poetry
but also Christian piety demands a poetic sensibility from its adherents.9
De Doctrina Christiana consistently advocates a literary and aesthetic
relationship between humans and God. According to the treatise’s
account of divine accommodation in book 1, chapter 2 (that is, the ways
in which God translates his ineffable nature into terms comprehensible by
humans),
In other words, God should and must be seen through similes: concrete
images that are not literally true but that offer revealing analogues or
symbols of the truth.10 The Bible’s images of God are, in a sense, alle-
gories for religious truth. But these allegorical images cannot be discarded
like shells to reveal an underlying core meaning, because the imaginative
conceptions of God that they create are an inextricable part of the religious
piety the Bible seeks to inculcate.
De Doctrina also emphasizes the affective component of religious piety.
Holding the appropriate images of God in the imagination should pro-
duce certain emotions, and these emotions are part of what God asks from
believers. Book 2, chapter 3 discusses “Internal worship” (cultus internus),
which includes not only “acknowledgment of the one true God” but also
“devout affection for him” (CPW 6.656). The chapter outlines the atti-
tudes and emotions that humans should hold with respect to God, such as
love, hope, gratitude, and—in regards to God’s darker aspects—fear. In
short, De Doctrina systematically lays out a worship of God that includes
all of the elements of an aesthetic: criteria for the evaluation of artistic and
literary images, and a set of appropriate affective responses to those
images.
Milton’s piety requires an aesthetic view of God’s creation that includes
its evil elements. Perry Miller’s seminal study of the English roots of
American Puritanism, The New England Mind (1954), identifies this
form of piety as Augustinian and argues that Augustine “exerted the
INTRODUCTION: “MILTON THE POET” AND “MILTON THE MORALIST” 177
greatest single influence on Puritan thought next to that of the Bible itself,
and in reality a greater one than did John Calvin” (4).11 According to
Miller, “Augustine depends on the moment of aesthetic vision; he, and the
Puritans after him, seek for those perspectives of vision in which evil
becomes resolved into the design of the whole, like shadows in a picture”
(18).12 The presence of evil is one of the chief barriers to achieving the
proper appreciation for God’s creation, yet it is precisely in the context of
evil that Augustine emphasizes his aesthetic response to the universe. The
Augustinian universe is like a chiaroscuro painting, containing the light of
good and the shadow of evil, and evil is beautiful when considered as part
of this artistic whole. Similarly, Milton sees God’s universe as an allegorical
text designed to delight and instruct, a text that comprises an Augustinian
chiaroscuro of normative and sinister elements.13
In Paradise Lost, therefore, Milton seeks to bring readers to the proper
internal worship of a God whose creation includes the darkness of evil: the
evil will to transgression that exists in angelic and human creatures, and the
evils of suffering and destruction that God’s punishments produce. Milton’s
poetic theodicy works not only by logical argument but also by trying to
develop in readers a sensibility that will allow them to see these two evils as
aesthetically appealing. The poem encourages this development by immer-
sing the reader in the perspective and consciousness of characters whose own
sensibilities demonstrate an increasing attraction to the morally and aesthe-
tically transgressive: primarily Satan, Adam, and Eve. As in Richard III, the
way these fictive audiences respond to evil provides real readers or audiences
with models for appreciating the sinister.
On the largest scale, Paradise Lost presents a chiastic pattern in which
the gradual degeneration of the fallen perspective is complemented by the
education to a proper aesthetic and affective response to divine providence
and particularly to God’s punishments. The beginning of the poem pre-
sents Satan as a figure who is admirable in both normative and sinister
terms: he displays the courage and resolve of an epic hero, coupled with
the dark majesty of an infernal potentate. Moreover, as a fallen angel, his
physical appearance produces a powerful and fascinating chiaroscuro effect
that mixes light and dark, normative beauty and the sinister. However,
Milton takes pains to gradually dissociate the character of Satan from the
sinister. Satan’s own sensibility is normative at first, and as he diverges
from that perspective, the poem makes it clear that Satan is heading
toward an aesthetic perversity that rejects beauty and embraces ugliness,
rather than the sinister sensibilities cultivated by Renaissance authors and
178 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
dramatists. Satan himself becomes ugly, losing his angelic good looks as
well as his infernal majesty. Satan’s degeneration thus culminates in a
divorce from normative forms of beauty on the one hand and the fascinat-
ing power of the sinister on the other.
Milton separates Satan from the sinister not to reject it, but rather to
justify and redeem sinister aesthetics as a poetic technique—and an element
of the divine nature. As the poem moves the fallen angels (and Sin and
Death) away from the sinister, and their sensibilities degenerate to a per-
verse and limiting embrace of the ugly in place of the beautiful, it also tries
to develop readers’ appreciation of the aesthetic power of the infernal into
more redemptive forms. From the very beginning of the poem, and increas-
ingly as it progresses, Paradise Lost depicts manifestations of the infernal,
monstrous, and destructive not primarily as Satanic productions, but rather
as things done to Satan and the other rebels by God. In an extension of
practices we have seen in the previous chapter, Milton borrows the sinister
poetic techniques used in literature and drama to describe villains, and
applies them to God in order to make divine punishment appealing.
As Satan loses the aesthetic of chiaroscuro, God proves to be its
epitome: he is all-encompassing, incorporating normative and sinister,
light and dark, celestial and infernal elements. The demonic perspective
thus prepares readers to comprehend and appreciate God’s complex rela-
tionship to evil. An aesthetic sensibility that can embrace normative and
sinister is essential to the proper understanding and worship of God as
both a creator and a punisher. Ultimately, the normative and the sinister,
God’s light and dark sides, cannot be disentangled. The beauty of God’s
unfallen creation is constructed from the sinister elements of chaos, just as
Milton’s poem begins with hell and chaos. And, as Milton declares in De
Doctrina and Areopagitica (1644), humans in a fallen universe can only
come to know good through a deep affective engagement with evil.
death into the world, and all our woe” (1.1–3). The combination of
“disobedience” and “woe” reflects the poem’s pervasive division of evil
into two distinct categories: evil as a transgression committed (what
Milton and his contemporaries called malum culpae) and evil as harm
suffered (malum poenae). The problem of evil’s presence in a Christian
universe thus becomes two interdependent problems: why does a good
God harm his creations and why do his creations desire to transgress his
commands?
Milton’s Satan is essential to understanding these questions because he
epitomizes both kinds of evil: he originates sin by rebelling against God
and tempting humans to do the same, and he also suffers God’s utmost
punishments. Milton foregrounds these issues, particularly the experience
of divine punishment, by beginning the epic in medias res, with the fall of
Satan and the rebel angels and their arrival in hell. However, Satan also
proves to be the most problematic critical crux of the epic. Countless
readers of Paradise Lost over the centuries have found Satan admirable
and likeable, in some cases to the point of considering him the hero of the
poem.14 Compared with Satan, the poem’s portrayal of God has proved
unattractive to many readers, a reaction that threatens the effectiveness of
the poem’s theodicy.15
Traditionally, critics have attributed Satan’s attractiveness to his pos-
session of heroic virtues suitable to an epic protagonist.16 The most
impressive and most clearly genuine of these virtues is what Satan calls
his “courage never to submit or yield” (1.108), the strength of will that
enables him to challenge God and to rouse his defeated troops from the
fiery lake of hell, no matter what hideous tortures he might face.17
Satan also shows an affinity for some other virtues, even if he does
not fully embody or act on them. He presents himself as an advocate
for “liberty,” which he certainly wants for himself if not for his followers
(5.793). Despite his egocentrism, Satan displays some touches of com-
passion for his defeated troops on the fiery lake (1.605–621) and, albeit
fleetingly, for Adam and Eve when he contemplates their destruction
(4.374–392). In his soliloquy on Niphates (4.32–113), he remembers
with sincere though fruitless longing his greatest virtue, now aban-
doned: loyalty to God. Although this remorse does not lead to repen-
tance, it does make him significantly more sympathetic. Even the epic
narrator insists on Satan’s capacity for genuine (if limited) goodness:
“for neither do the spirits damned /Lose all their virtue; lest bad men
should boast” (2.482–483).
180 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
He loves them specifically because they look like God, and this response
makes Satan himself much more likeable because it reflects a normative
aesthetic sensibility.
Conversely, Satan is repelled by ugliness, even though he often forces
himself to pretend otherwise. He is appalled by his first view of hell, which
he calls “The seat of desolation” (1.181), although he puts on a brave face
for his troops. Similarly, he expresses sincere revulsion with the hideous
Sin and Death before he realizes the need to make them allies. He calls
182 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
Death an “execrable shape” (2.681) and tells Sin that he never “saw till
now /Sight more detestable than him and thee” (2.744–745). His sub-
sequent flattery of Sin and their “fair son” (2.818) is comically insincere.
Milton presents Satan in this way to make him more accessible and
sympathetic to a wider range of readers, and to provide a baseline against
which to measure the various other sensibilities displayed by Satan and
other characters in the epic. Ultimately, Satan’s distaste for the infernal
and monstrous also highlights the fact that it is Milton’s God, not Satan,
who is master of the sinister.
Satan’s normative aesthetic sensibility and his heroism, while admirable
and sympathetic in themselves, are potentially dangerous in that they
could lead readers to appreciate less wholesome aspects of Satan’s char-
acter by association. Of the two qualities, however, Satan’s perception of
beauty is a much more subtle and thus effective avenue to the sympathies
of the discerning reader than his heroism. Indeed, Satan’s morality by itself
could not account for his notorious attractiveness to readers. Almost from
the beginning, Milton counterbalances Satan’s displays of virtue with
evidence of his evil. Early in the poem, Satan dedicates himself to the
destruction of humanity, a project unlikely to appeal to Milton’s readers.
Many of Satan’s potentially admirable moments are undercut by condem-
natory asides from the epic narrator, a distinctive feature of Paradise Lost
that pro- and anti-Satan critics alike have used to argue that the epic’s
religious and poetic impulses are at odds.21 As the poem progresses,
Satan’s heroism is circumscribed by mounting evidence of behavior that
directly contradicts heroic ideals, such as his cowardly “dread” of the
angels guarding Paradise (9.158).
In contrast, Satan’s sense of beauty proves more sincere and somewhat
more durable than his virtues. Satan’s aesthetic responses pervade his
speeches and actions in ways that preclude the kind of disingenuousness
or deception we expect from his moral arguments. The lines in which
Satan expresses his appreciation for beauty, such as his poetic praise of
the earth at 9.101–118, prove by their own beauty that he understands
normative aesthetics in a way that he does not understand virtue. He may
be confused by Abdiel’s selfless loyalty to God or the Son’s sacrifice, but
he understands and approves of God’s decision to make Eden look the
way it does. Even during the execution of his malice on humanity, he is
overwhelmed and made “Stupidly good” (9.465) by the pleasure he
takes in observing Eve’s beauty. His stupefaction is morally valueless
“STRENGTH FROM TRUTH DIVIDED”: SATAN AND THE NORMATIVE 183
are subjected to the same temptation, and that the one succumbs and
consents to it whereas the other remains the same as he was. What else
appears here than that the one is willing, and the other unwilling, to lapse
from chastity? And what causes this but their own wills, given that the
temperament of the body and soul of each person is the same? . . . No matter
how thoroughly we examine the matter, therefore, we can discover nothing
which caused the particular will of one of them to be evil. (12.6, page 507)
. . . he of the first,
If not the first archangel, great in power,
In favour and pre-eminence, yet fraught
With envy against the Son of God, that day
Honoured by his great Father, and proclaimed
Messiah king anointed, could not bear
Through pride that sight, and thought himself impaired. (5.659–665)
Satan was powerful “yet” envious implies that, from an unfallen angelic
perspective, Satan’s stature should have inhibited envy, not fostered it.
Satan himself seems mystified at times by his own choice. In his soliloquy
on Mount Niphates, he contemplates his actions and asks “Ah wherefore!”
(4.42). He then proceeds to explain how, by all normative standards, he
should have been happy to remain loyal to God, but somehow he rebelled
anyway: “Yet all his good proved ill in me” (4.48). This formulation is, of
course, partly an attempt to deny his own responsibility for his actions, and
in the subsequent lines he actually sketches a more substantive psychological
explanation: a desire not only to be the “highest” but also to “quit /The
debt immense of endless gratitude” (4.51–52). Nonetheless, Satan’s persis-
tent confusion in the speech about the sources of his own pride and
resentment reflects the difficulty of constructing a theory to explain the
origins of sin in a universe created by a supremely good God.25
During the war in heaven, Satan’s rationalizations for his rebellion
develop the Augustinian idea that his evil is really the decision to place a
lesser good above a greater:
At this stage, Satan is perverse in the sense of having turned away from
God, but he has not turned away from virtue per se. Instead, he has
adopted a system of moral values and priorities in conflict with those
promulgated by God. Satan thus does not believe himself to be evil, but
rather what one might call differently good. In asserting the virtuousness
of his own actions while acknowledging that others would label them evil,
Satan posits a kind of moral relativism. Nonetheless, at this point Satan’s
moral system and God’s still have a lot in common. Like God, for example,
Satan simultaneously values liberty and an ordered hierarchy that places
him at the top (5.791–793).
As Milton develops the narrative of Satan’s fall, however, the
exigencies of rendering fallen experience in poetic form demand
that he go beyond the theological paradigm of evil as choosing the
lesser good. Satan’s arrival in hell (which is narrated before the war in
heaven but occurs chronologically afterwards) signals the beginning
of his shift to a much more serious form of moral perversity: the
“EVIL BE THOU MY GOOD”: MORAL PERVERSITY 189
This speech represents moral perversity in its clearest form. Satan here
deliberately chooses to seek pleasure in evil itself, which he now (in
contrast to 6.289–292, quoted above) agrees is defined by opposition to
the will of God. It is important to note that Milton presents this kind of
evil as a consequence of Satan’s fall, not a cause. It also constitutes a
debasement of his original goals: Satan begins the war in heaven because
he wants to seize the “empire” (1.114) from God, to perform his own will
without feeling “impaired” (5.665). Here, he confines himself to doing
the opposite of God’s will, reducing his own autonomy.
Milton’s sources and contemporaries acknowledged the prevalence of
moral perversity, even when their theoretical models failed to account
for it. In the Confessions, Augustine describes his theft of pears as a form
of moral perversity, but he introduces this concept while narrating his
personal experience rather than presenting his systematic theology of
evil. His pleasure in the theft does not result from attaining a lesser
good at the expense of a greater one, as his theory would suggest, but
from a pleasure in transgression, a sensualized joy in evil as such. The
seventeenth-century preacher Thomas Adams (1583–1653) also
describes, without fully theorizing, a pleasure inherent in violating
moral rules in terms of aesthetic taste. In the third sermon of The
Devills Banket (1614), Adams notes that “the Commaund makes things
burdensome, and Prohibition desirable” (99). He employs the example
of an orchard, which echoes Augustine’s pear-snatching episode, and
alludes to the garden of Eden:
For Adams, this behavior is typical and natural: “It is the perversenesse of
our natures, till sanctification hath put a new nature into us” (99). But
Adams does not quite explain the reason for this perversity. His phrasing
suggests that it results from original sin, but this explanation cannot apply
to his example, Eve, because her disobedience is what creates original sin
in the first place.
Even if original sin adequately explains mankind’s postlapsarian pre-
ference for stolen fruit, Paradise Lost must explain the sins of previously
unfallen beings, both human and angelic. Milton cannot attribute the
fall of Adam and Eve—much less Satan and his rebel angels—to the
perversity ingrained in human beings by original sin. Instead, their
movement toward moral perversity resembles the process of rationali-
zation associated with cognitive dissonance. In modern psychological
theory, cognitive dissonance occurs when individuals feel an uncomfor-
table contradiction between two beliefs, or between their beliefs about
themselves and their actual behavior. While it might seem logical to
resolve this dissonance by altering behavior, the difficulty of such
changes frequently leads people to alter their beliefs instead. In the
Miltonic context, the initial evil action that caused Satan, Adam, or Eve
to fall cannot be undone, nor can it be understood in terms of their
unfallen values. This dilemma leads them to try to develop new systems
of value that can explain and justify their prior actions. Once Satan
recognizes his rebellion as evil, he must either renounce it and repent
(which he seems unable or unwilling to do) or decide that being evil
was part of the point all along.
Accordingly, Satan makes it clear that his initial embrace of moral
perversity is a self-conscious performance, a reaction to his circumstances
and not an essential part of his identity. He strives to become morally
perverse, even though it partly violates his natural instincts, because he
feels his past actions have left him no choice. In his soliloquy on Mount
Niphates, he laments “Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; /Evil be
thou my good; by thee at least /Divided empire with heaven’s king I
hold” (4.109–111). Unlike Richard III, who delivers the strikingly similar
assertion that he is “determinèd to prove a villain” (1.1.30) with complete
conviction, Satan insists here that evil is a second-best substitute and that,
for now at least, his moral perversity is an unnatural pose that requires
effort to maintain. He performs this violence on himself because perversity
ameliorates the horrors of eternal damnation by redefining them as
desirable.
“EVIL BE THOU MY GOOD”: MORAL PERVERSITY 191
suggestion that their spirits might transcend or even ennoble the grosser
nature of hell quickly becomes an inversion of that process. Being “chan-
ged at length, and to the place conformed” (2.217), the devils’ sensibil-
ities will evolve until hell seems beautiful and pleasant: “This horror will
grow mild, this darkness light” (2.220). At stake is not merely a physical
adaptation to the infernal environment. Belial suggests that hell will
pervert their aesthetic perceptions so that they take pleasure in the things
that now pain them. Like Satan, Belial hopes to achieve perversity as a
psychological defense mechanism against the horror of damnation.
While Mammon primarily argues for emulating the beauties of heaven,
he too insinuates the possibility of a new demonic aesthetic. His contempt
for imposed servitude in heaven begins to extend, by association, to the
sensual beauties of heaven:
devils, beings that would have been hateful to them when they were in
heaven.
Beelzebub’s successful conclusion to the debate rejects these sugges-
tions of aesthetic degeneration in favor of the pure moral perversity
espoused by Satan, who conceived Beelzebub’s proposal in the first
place. Beelzebub’s argument hinges on the impossibility, as well as the
undesirability, of ever taking pleasure in an infernal aesthetic. He opposes
the notion of “changing style” (2.312), of taking infernal rather than
heavenly titles, and he argues that hell will always be “our dungeon, not
our safe retreat” (2.317). He emphasizes the horrors of hell and the
sensual delights associated with heaven, in his hope that the devils
may “in some mild zone /Dwell not unvisited of heaven’s fair light”
(2.397–398), where “the soft delicious air, /To heal the scar of these
corrosive fires /Shall breathe her balm” (2.400–402).
Counterintuitively, Beelzebub places moral and aesthetic perversity in
an antagonistic relationship, advocating a firm commitment both to
opposing God and to maintaining celestial aesthetics. The plan that dis-
sociates the rebels from hell and asserts their angelic identity most strongly
is also the one that will hurt God the most. Framing the debate in these
terms makes Mammon and Belial seem contemptible because they are
open to aesthetic perversity but, to paraphrase Lady Macbeth, they lack
the malice that should attend it. Satan, on the other hand, seems more
impressive and even admirable because he resists aesthetic perversity, even
though his plan is by any reasonable standard the most evil. Even the
narrator who so regularly undermines Satan’s magnificence seems to
marvel at his conception of “So deep a malice” (2.382). Here and
throughout the poem, the characters’ appeal correlates more strongly
with their aesthetic sensibilities than it does with their moral positions.
But although moral perversity wins in the council and aesthetic perver-
sity remains merely an undercurrent, the poem presents aesthetic perversity
as a later development of demonic—and human—nature. It takes time, as
Belial and Mammon note. But there are clear hints that the devils will
eventually develop aesthetic sensibilities that value the infernal and despise
the heavenly.
The first indications occur before the debate, in the foreshadowing of
the idols that the rebel angels will become. The poem describes the forms
of worship that the devils promulgate as “gay religions full of pomp and
gold” (1.372). As this line emphasizes, in what is presumably a barb
directed at Catholicism, devilish religion is founded on aesthetic spectacle
196 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
creed suggests that she sees no poetic (or other) infelicity in the
incestuous, alliterative self-description “Thy daughter and thy darling”
(2.870).
The latter part of the poem treats Sin and Death more as a unit, with
Sin conforming more closely to Death’s appetites. God calls them “My
hell-hounds, to lick up the draff and filth” (10.630), suggesting they share
a perverted sense of taste. Death speaks of his own preference for the
“scent of living carcasses” (10.277):
Similarly, though perhaps with a more subtle and delicate palate, Sin
describes infection as a delicious seasoning:
“Torment within me, as from the hateful siege /Of contraries; all good to
me becomes /Bane” (9.120–123).
This change makes Satan seem significantly more contemptible. When
he greets Sin and Death after the Fall, the epic narrator describes them as
Satan’s “offspring dear” and says that
Here, good and bad resist mixing and when forced produce “prodigious
births.” But Milton’s own poetic practice, whether imprudently or not,
tends to follow his own assertion from Areopagitica that good and evil are
204 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
the text, since neither Satan nor the reader can ignore what lies below her
beautiful torso. Like her fellow seducer Richard III, her obvious decep-
tiveness is a palpable device and also the core of her appeal.
As a subject, the Sin of Paradise Lost book 2 mixes the appearance of
innocence with a sly consciousness of her nature to produce an intri-
guing and grotesque duplicity. At the beginning of her encounter with
Satan, she playfully feigns ignorance of her monstrous condition: “Hast
thou forgot me then, and do I seem /Now in thine eye so foul, once
deemed so fair” (2.747–748). Here, Sin assumes the tone of a jilted
lover gently rebuking Satan for an inexplicable change of tastes. Satan,
for his part, reacts like an embarrassed ex-boyfriend when discussing the
“joys /Then sweet, now sad to mention, through dire change /Befallen
us unforeseen”: he insists that the relationship had been wonderful,
that its end was nobody’s fault, and that it would be best to forget it
ever happened (2.819–821). Sin’s references to her own past attrac-
tiveness seem shyly flirtatious, but they coexist uneasily with her insis-
tence on calling Satan her father, as well as with her current appearance
and situation. Her description of her rape by Death makes her sound
like a damsel in distress, horrified by the thought of incest: “Me over-
took his mother all dismayed” (2.792). But in the conclusion of her
speech, she glories in her incestuous relationship to Satan, calling
herself “Thy daughter and thy darling” (2.870). The character revealed
by her speech powerfully combines ingenuousness, sexuality, and
monstrosity.
Satan initially appears to be the epitome of the chiaroscuro aesthetic in
his appearance and character. One of the poem’s most magnificent
descriptions of Satan, as he assembles his new-fallen troops in hell, is
dominated by the interplay of light and shadow:
Lost cite book 6 as one of the poem’s most impressive sections and Satan as
one of its most impressive elements. This emphasis is most striking in the
verse responses: three of the five seventeenth-century examples in Timothy
Miller’s collection, The Critical Response to John Milton’s Paradise Lost
(1997), follow this pattern.30 Samuel Barrow’s commendatory Latin verses,
published with the 1674 Paradise Lost, spend most of their time describing
the war in heaven, and heaping praise impartially on Satan and Michael:
“How great Lucifer showed himself in ethereal war! And he walks scarcely
less tall than Michael himself. With how great and how fatal a rage they
meet, while the one fierce champion defends the stars, and the other pulls
them down! . . . Olympus waits, doubtful to which side it must yield”
(Paradise Lost 52). Similarly, the Earl of Roscommon’s “Essay on blanc
Verse” (1685) focuses on book 6 as the center of the epic’s interest, and
describes Satan—and even his cannon, which some modern critics have
treated with disdain—in magnificent terms:
CONCLUSION
In Paradise Lost, Milton deliberately rearranges the chronological sequence
of events to begin the narrative with Satan’s fall and his first impressions of
hell, so that not only Milton’s vision of heaven but also his whole theodicy
develops from the “materials dark and crude” of Satan and his demonic
compatriots and progeny. This strategy reflects Milton’s belief that in a
fallen universe, evil is the medium through which we must understand
good. As he explains in Areopagitica, “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” (CPW 2.514). The same argument appears in De Doctrina 1.10: “It
was called the tree of knowledge of good and evil because of what happened
afterwards: for since it was tasted, not only do we know evil, but also we do
210 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
not even know good except through evil” (CPW 6.352). The narrator of
Paradise Lost echoes the theory when he laments that the knowledge
granted by the apple is a “Knowledge of good bought dear by knowing
ill” (4.222). Once Adam has eaten the fruit, he can no longer directly view
“the face . . . of God or angel” because “Those heavenly shapes /Will dazzle
now this earthly” (9.1080–1083). Evil is a medium by which good expresses
itself, and in a postlapsarian universe it is often the only available medium.
Thus, Milton uses Satan and the other demonic characters as evil
versions of the sinister aesthetics—and, more profoundly, of the chiaros-
curo fusion of normative and sinister—with which the poem justifies the
ways of God to man. Paradise Lost makes Satan initially appealing on both
moral and aesthetic grounds, as a heroic figure with sinister elements but a
largely normative approach to beauty. The poem thereby encourages
readers to assume the demonic perspective temporarily as preparation for
a proper appreciation of God’s own dark side. The epic’s turn away from
Satan is not a turn away from the sinister, but from the demons’ limited
understanding and misuse of it. From his own insight about the power of
the sinister and its interdependence with the normative, Satan produces
gunpowder. From the same insight, Milton produces Paradise Lost, in
which the sinister is a danger, but also an essential tool for inspiring
readers to love a God who produces not only the beauties of heaven and
Paradise but also the horrors and monstrosities of hell.
NOTES
1. De Doctrina Christiana is a two-volume Latin work of systematic theology,
discovered in manuscript in 1823. Despite some authorship disputes, most
current scholarship accepts that Milton is significantly responsible for its
content, whether or not “he wrote every word” (Stanley Fish, How Milton
Works [2001] 17). See the introduction to De Doctrina in the Complete
Prose Works of John Milton, edited by Don M. Wolfe et al. (Yale University
Press, 1953–1982) volume 6, page 109, as well as Milton and the
Manuscript of De Doctrina Christiana (2007) by Gordon Campbell et al.
Nonetheless, Michael Lieb (2006) rightly cautions that we should “allow
the God of the theological treatise and the God of the poetry . . . to enjoy
distinct identities without being hemmed in or manacled by a determination
to view them as one and the same” (128).
2. Other seminal works in this tradition include C.S. Lewis’s A Preface to
Paradise Lost (1942), Dennis Burden’s The Logical Epic: A Study of the
Argument of Paradise Lost (1967), and Dennis Richard Danielson’s Milton’s
NOTES 211
Good God (1982). Russell Hillier’s Milton’s Messiah (2011) is a more recent
example.
3. Although Fish uses Perry Miller’s The New England Mind (1954) to support
this anti-aesthetic argument (Surprised 6-7n1), Miller actually asserts the
centrality of aesthetics to seventeenth-century Puritan piety (see below).
4. Many Romantic poets were of this mind; in particular, Percy Shelley con-
sidered “Milton’s devil as a moral being . . . far superior to his God”
(A Defense of Poetry [1821], T. Miller 149). Scholarly precursors of
Empson include Elmer Edgar Stoll’s “Give the Devil His Due” (1944)
and A. J. A. Waldock’s Paradise Lost and Its Critics (1947). Since the
1990s, a wave of scholarship has questioned the coherence of Milton’s
theodicy. John Rumrich’s Milton Unbound (1996) sees Milton criticism as
laboring under an oppressive “orthodoxy” (1) inaugurated by Fish, in which
“no one could seriously think that Milton would really question the ways of
God to men” (xii). See also Neil Forsyth’s The Satanic Epic (2003), Peter
Herman’s Destabilizing Milton (2005), Joseph Wittreich’s Why Milton
Matters (2006), Michael Bryson’s The Tyranny of Heaven (2004) and The
Atheist Milton (2012), as well as The New Milton Criticism (2012), edited
by Herman and Elizabeth Sauer.
5. Even now, critics wishing to avoid the debate must still take account of it;
see, for example, Satan’s Poetry (2012) by Danielle A. St. Hilaire (esp. 2)
and Samuel Fallon’s “Milton’s Strange God: Theology and Narrative Form
in Paradise Lost” (2012; esp. 47, 51–52).
6. Paradise Lost is cited by book and line number, from Alastair Fowler’s
edition (Longman, 1998).
7. Feisal G. Mohamed’s chapter on Samson Agonistes in Milton and the Post-
Secular Present: Ethics, Politics, Terrorism (2011) also suggests the impor-
tance of “Providential slaughter” to Milton (103).
8. Citations of Milton’s prose refer to the Complete Prose Works of John Milton,
edited by Don M. Wolfe et al. (Yale, 1953–1982), hereafter CPW, cited by
volume and page number. References to De Doctrina Christiana also
include book and chapter numbers, and the original Latin text is cited by
volume and page number from The Works of John Milton, edited by James
Holly Hanford and Waldo Hilary Dunn (Columbia, 1931–1938), hereafter
WJM.
9. According to The Grounds of Criticism in Poetry (1704), by Milton’s near
contemporary John Dennis (1658–1734), “the Design of the Christian
Religion is the very same with that of Poetry . . . to delight and reform
Mankind, by exciting the Passions in such a manner, as to reconcile them
to Reason” (1.365). Michael Lieb’s Theological Milton (2006) asserts the
link between poetry and theology in Paradise Lost and claims that the
language of De Doctrina Christiana can productively be considered poetic
212 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
(1–4). Barbara Lewalski’s 2011 article “How Poetry Moves Readers” argues
that “Milton’s theodicy persuades less by theological argument than by
poetic vision” (767). Fallon (2012) observes that “Narrative, for Milton,
offers itself as a uniquely powerful way to tackle some of the most difficult
metaphysical challenges posed by God, as a viable and perhaps preferable
alternative to the methodical systematic theology of De Doctrina” (35).
10. In Paradise Lost itself, Raphael repeatedly supports this view (see 5.571–576
and 7.112–117). In contrast to Raphael’s relatively sanguine account,
Bryson’s analysis of De Doctrina’s theory of accommodation in The Atheist
Milton (2012) highlights the difficulties involved in using limited human
representations to understand God (89–91). See also Shoulson’s (2001)
chapter on “The Poetics of Accommodation” (93–134), which argues that
Paradise Lost “interrogates divine passibility in a way that would have been
out of place in the poet’s theological treatise” (102).
11. Perry Miller (1954) uses the term “piety” to refer to “the inner core of
Puritan sensibility apart from the dialectic and the doctrine” but notes that
“In Puritan life the two were never so separated; they were indeed insepar-
able, for systematic theology, now become wearisome to the majority of
men, provided Puritans with completely satisfying symbols; it dramatized
the needs of the soul exactly as does some great poem or work of art” (6). In
applying this formulation to Milton’s piety, I do not seek to pigeonhole
Milton as a Puritan; for the problems with such a claim, see Catherine
Gimelli Martin’s Milton Among the Puritans (2010).
12. Perry Miller’s comparison of evil to “shadows in a picture” paraphrases the
passage in Augustine’s City of God (11.23) that I discuss in Chapter 2. Even
Fish, who ordinarily downplays the importance of the aesthetic, acknowl-
edges Milton’s connection with this Augustinian view in How Milton Works
(2001; 11–12).
13. Milton’s work engages deeply with Augustinian thought. The title of his De
Doctrina Christiana echoes Augustine’s, and as John Savoie’s “Justifying the
Ways of God and Man: Theodicy in Augustine and Milton” (2006) notes,
“In his prose Milton refers to Augustine dozens of times by name, quota-
tion, and allusion, along with innumerable echoes” (140). See also C.S.
Lewis’s A Preface to Paradise Lost (1942), Peter Fiore’s Milton and
Augustine: Patterns of Augustinian Thought in Paradise Lost (1981), and
Thomas Ramey Watson’s Perversions, Originals, and Redemptions in
Paradise Lost (2007). Nonetheless, Danielson and Bryson, otherwise
opposed on Milton’s theology, both caution against forcing it into an overly
Augustinian framework (see Danielson 177 and Bryson, Atheist 3). My
argument is restricted to particular Augustinian ideas that have not always
been central to these scholarly debates: the importance of appreciating the
NOTES 213
beauty of the universe, the way evil functions as part of that beauty, and the
treatment of evil as a species of perversity.
14. Dryden (1697; 276) and John Dennis (1704; 1.334) called Satan the hero
of the poem but without moral approval. Satan elicited more fervent admira-
tion in the Romantic period: apart from Blake and Shelley, the critic William
Hazlitt (1818) praises Satan for showing a “decided superiority of charac-
ter” (T. Miller 141). E. E. Stoll (1944) considers Satan in book 2 “a figure
still more intrepid and sublime than the Son” in book 3 (116). Waldock
(1947) and Empson (1961) treat Satan very sympathetically even while
acknowledging his eventual “degradation” (Empson 71, Waldock 64).
G. Rostrevor Hamilton’s Hero or Fool? A Study of Milton’s Satan (1969)
admires Satan’s “greatness” and “real inward splendour of person” and
suggests that “the association of evil with elements of heroic virtue” makes
him “a tragic and a formidable figure” (13, 17). Forsyth (2003) echoes the
“Romantic admiration” for Satan, citing his “overwhelming power” and
“attractiveness”; he also compares Satan to a “tragic hero” and considers
him productively “subversive” (4, 6). Bryson (2004) feels that “Milton’s
Satan, until the temporary transformation into a serpent in book 10, retains
grandeur of form and purpose that even defeat in Heaven and the fall into
Hell does not entirely remove from him” (Tyranny 182-3n1).
15. For Shelley’s and Empson’s critiques of Milton’s God, see Chapter 6.
William Kerrigan’s The Sacred Complex (1983) argues that the poetry of
Paradise Lost suggests God’s capacity for evil: “If we give our instantaneous
response to the dark God time to achieve a conclusion, we will inevitably
find ourselves thinking with Blake and other heresiarchs that . . . this God,
Milton’s God, is the source of evil as well as good. What the discursive
argument of the poem denies, the symbol tacitly concedes” (99). Michael
Bryson’s The Tyranny of Heaven (2004) goes further, suggesting that the
character of God in Paradise Lost is essentially the opposite of Milton’s
actual conception of God (11–12).
16. See above for the relevant critics. In Milton and the Literary Satan (1974),
Frank Kastor productively traces a “trimorphic” tradition of literary repre-
sentations of Satan as glorious rebel angel in Heaven (Lucifer), terrifying
monarch in Hell (Satan), and contemptible quasi-comic tempter on Earth
(The Devil) (see 15, 71). In these terms, one might say that most critics
attribute Satan’s appeal to his Lucifer aspect.
17. Fish (1967) calls this phrase “Satan’s finest moment,” but he also identifies
it as a paraphrase from a description of bees in Virgil’s Georgics, and he
therefore argues that the phrase “mocks” Satan (Surprised 8).
18. Miltonists have understood Satan’s evolution in a variety of ways. Waldock
(1947) argues that “The changes do not generate themselves from within:
214 5 SATANIC SENSIBILITIES IN PARADISE LOST
they are imposed from without. Satan, in short, does not degenerate: he is
degraded” by an overly moralistic narrator (83). Fish (1967) counters that
“between Books I and VI Satan does not change at all. His degradation is a
critical myth.” Instead, “It is the reader who moves, or advances, until his
cleansed eye can see what has always been there” (Surprised 345).
19. See also John Steadman’s “The Idea of Satan as the Hero of Paradise Lost”
(1976; 255) and Judith Kates, Tasso and Milton: The Problem of Christian
Epic (1983; 71, 126–127). Milton’s invocation to Paradise Lost book 9 does
contrast the “tedious havoc” of “battles feigned” with “the better forti-
tude/Of patience and heroic martyrdom” (9.30–32). However, the invoca-
tion also specifically identifies its “argument . . . more heroic” (9.13–14) as
an account of divine punishment that emphasizes God’s role in unleashing
Sin and Death (9.10–12).
20. Satan’s speech here—like his overall depiction in the poem—clearly has
political implications, but critics have disagreed about exactly how to read
the poem politically, seeing Satan as an allegory for such diverse figures as
Oliver Cromwell, Charles I, and Milton himself. See Sharon Achinstein’s
Milton and the Revolutionary Reader (1994; 180–181).
21. On the corrective voice of the epic narrator, see Waldock 77–81 and Fish’s
response (Surprised 5–9). See also Forsyth, who surveys some of the extant
scholarship as of 2003 (90–91).
22. See also the first appearance of Adam and Eve, where the narrator describes
their beauty and nobility in terms of what Satan “Saw” (4.286).
23. The last two books specifically emphasize the weakness of Adam’s sight:
Michael has to give him special eye drops in order to see the visions of book
11 (11.412–418), and even with this aid, Adam’s vision becomes exhausted
at 12.8–10, prompting Michael to narrate the remainder of human history.
24. Satan succumbs to sensuality over principle only later, when he sleeps with
his daughter Sin. Similarly, Satan’s followers first correctly identify Sin as an
ill omen, a “sign/Portentous,” even though their better judgment is even-
tually swayed by her “attractive graces” (2.760–762).
25. William Poole’s (2005) analysis of this Augustinian problem in Paradise Lost
concludes that “evil is so astonishing that its origin is equally bewildering,
and is rendered so” (155; see also 149–150).
26. The one exception to Death’s amorality actually makes him seem less evil,
not more. In his first speech, he condemns Satan as the one “Who first broke
peace in heaven and faith” (2.690). However, Death abandons any pretense
of loyalty to God the moment Satan offers to feed him.
27. For more on Burke’s sublime as a variety of the sinister, see the introduction
and epilogue.
28. For this distinction, see Louis Schwartz’s (1995) careful reading of the
interplay between engagement and disgust with Sin (esp. 64–65).
NOTES 215
29. For a political reading of the eclipse imagery, see Achinstein (1994)
210–212.
30. The exceptions are Marvell’s “On Paradise Lost” (1674) and Dryden’s six-
line “Epigram” (1688), but neither treats any section of the poem in detail
(T. Miller 28–29, 31).
31. Eric Song’s analysis of the “materials dark and crude” speech in Dominion
Undeserved: Milton and the Perils of Creation (2013) concurs that “Satan’s
impure motives still lead to genuine insights, for the poem as a whole
confirms the indispensable nature of the unbridled and dangerous potential
of chaos” (35).
CHAPTER 6
upon his enemy, not from any mistaken notion of inducing him to
repent . . . but with the alleged design of exasperating him to deserve new
torments. (T. Miller 148)2
There are two major problems with Shelley’s analysis. First, he says all of
these things about God as if they are inherently unattractive. The pre-
valence of such villains in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama, and of similar
portrayals of God himself in sermons, suggests rather that this kind of
sadistic deviousness was a selling point for early modern audiences. They
make Milton’s portrayal of God awesome, in both the early modern and
modern slang senses of the word. Second, Shelley’s characterization is
incomplete, because Milton’s God is also just, merciful, loving, and a
creator of supernally beautiful things. This duality, this concordia discors,
is in fact what defines the God of Paradise Lost.
As my analysis of the sermon literature has shown, any attempt to
apply the appeal of the sinister to God has serious theological conse-
quences. Foremost among these is a theodicy that paradoxically denies
and acknowledges God’s relationship to evil: although God may not be
morally responsible for human crimes, he is aesthetically responsible for
the forms of those crimes and their corresponding punishments.
Sermon writers such as Lancelot Andrewes and John Donne seek to
morally exonerate God while insisting that his providence shapes the
expressions and manifestations of sin. The aesthetics of poetic justice
governing these crimes and punishments are sinister, and Donne in
particular suggests that if the sinister belongs to God, then appreciating
it is not a sign of Satanic corruption but an obligatory part of Christian
piety. Similarly, in Paradise Lost, God makes the sinister an integral part
of the operations of his divine providence. Milton’s God shapes the evil
of his creations (malum culpae) into manifestations of divine punish-
ment (malum poenae). These displays of divine action are a form of
sinister allegory, meant to instruct and delight those who observe them.
The human attraction to evil, which was part of the problem Milton
needed to address, thereby becomes part of his poetic answer to the
more serious problem of divine evil.3
This vision is fraught with potential difficulties for both the theologian
and the pious believer. Because the poem shows aesthetics and morality
to be inextricably intertwined, it risks representing God as having a
greater responsibility for evil than early modern theology would counte-
nance. Moreover, depicting the visceral horror of divine punishment,
220 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
God does not drive the human heart to sinfulness and deceit when it is
innocent and pure and shrinks from sin. But when it has conceived sin, when
it is heavy with it, and already giving birth to it, then God as the supreme
arbiter of all things turns and points it [flectit atque dirigit] in this or that
direction or towards this or that object. (CPW 6.332, WJM 15.72)
In other words, God does not produce the evil impulse of the will that is
the core of malum culpae. But he bends it (flectit) and directs or arranges
it (dirigit) according to his purposes. He designs the shape that the evil
action takes, causing it “to show in this particular way rather than any
other,” and he chooses the target that it will strike. God does not cause
“the wickedness and pride” of the sinner, but he is “the instigator of the
deed itself” (CPW 6.333).9
God is wholly responsible for the second major form of evil, which
is malum poenae. De Doctrina unambiguously states that God “causes
evil by administering chastisement, and this is called the evil of punish-
ment” (CPW 6.330–331). As with malum culpae, though, the most
troubling aspect of God’s responsibility for this form of evil is aes-
thetic. We can presume that those whom God punishes are guilty, of
original sin if nothing else, and therefore the evil of punishment could
be thought of as an ultimately good manifestation of justice.10 The
problem—which is, as I have argued, as much an aesthetic or affective
problem as it is a strictly moral one—is that God also chooses the
224 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
forms of the torments that sinners endure in this life and the next, and
these torments are frequently hideous in nature.
Paradise Lost presents God’s responsibility somewhat inconsistently, in
a way that suggests uneasiness with this problem. As John Rogers
demonstrates in The Matter of Revolution (1996), Milton’s epic is
ambivalent about whether the consequences of sin result from natural
processes or explicit divine fiat (see 147–161). The opening of Paradise
Lost seems to remove responsibility from God by blaming humanity’s
suffering on the “mortal taste” (1.2) of the fruit. This ambiguous phrase
suggests either a natural efficacy in the fruit itself or man’s action of tasting
it. Overall, though, the poem acknowledges God’s responsibility for both
the moral framework that necessitates the punishment and the execution
of that punishment.
In both Paradise Lost and De Doctrina, Milton insists that the
malum culpae of eating the fruit deserved the malum poenae of the
Fall. This argument is necessary, but not sufficient, to ensure the
success of Milton’s poetic theodicy. The justification of God’s ways in
Paradise Lost requires an account of divine punishment, or malum
poenae, that is not merely logical but that also aims to be aesthetically
satisfying, and this latter task is the biggest challenge to the poem’s
theodicial goals.
To make these punishments palatable, Milton applies sinister aesthetics
to them and to God, in effect giving God some of the same dark
fascination ordinarily reserved for theatrical villains like the prodigious
Richard III. As counterintuitive as this idea may appear, it is attested to
by both early modern and modern readers. Empson describes this appeal
in the first chapter of Milton’s God (1961), calling the depiction of God in
Paradise Lost “horrible and wonderful” and comparing it to “Aztec or
Benin sculpture, or to come nearer home the novels of Kafka” (13). He
even describes God’s self-justification in book 3 as “the stage-villain’s hiss
of ‘Die he or Justice must’” (120). Empson’s characterization might seem
like an artifact of his avowed anti-Christian sentiments (9–10), but in fact
his disgust with Christianity is what prevents him from consistently
enjoying Milton’s deliberate juxtaposition of wonder and horror.
Empson’s mistake is not that he compares God to a stage villain, it is
that—like Shelley—he assumes stage villains are unappealing. As a result,
he ends up arguing that Milton’s portrayal of God tries not to indulge the
potential for a “Horror-Comic or drug-like thrill” or an “interest in
torture” (272, 273).11
MALUM POENAE AND “ENTHUSIASTICK TERROR” 225
hell reflect Satan’s evils, it would be misleading to think of hell or the poetics
of the hellish as Satanic in the strict sense. In Milton’s poem, the infernal
aesthetic governing hell’s construction is not in itself morally corrupt or
sinful, nor does it spring directly from Satan’s imagination. In fact, as the epic
narrator makes clear, hell is a manifestation of the divine will and a product of
God’s creative design. More precisely, hell is a reified allegory that God
constructs to represent Satan’s tormented psyche, as Satan eventually realizes
at 4.75, when he says “myself am hell.” Although Satan does not create this
infernal aesthetic, it shapes his presentation significantly, making him sym-
pathetic as a victim of “Infinite wrath” (4.74) and impressive as the focus of
magnificently destructive energies, much as the curses do for Shakespeare’s
Richard III.
While the first books of Paradise Lost focus on Satan, they also carefully
establish God’s intimate connection to the infernal aesthetic, which trans-
cends the cosmological region of hell. God uses it as a tool of punishment,
a medium of creation, and even a representation of his own divine nature.
As Mammon observes during the demonic council, God frequently opts to
shroud his celestial throne in hellish darkness:
These dark materials of the nethermost abyss, pregnant with earth, water,
air, and fire, are remarkably similar to the “materials dark and cru-
de . . . pregnant with infernal flame” that Satan describes lying beneath
the surface of heaven and serving as the origin of heavenly beauty
(6.478, 483). This consistency suggests that the idea is not a Satanic
error, that Milton truly sees the dark and infernal as an essential ingredient
of the creative process.
The similarities between chaos and hell have encouraged a long-running
debate among Milton critics about whether the poem represents chaos as
evil, a possibility that many scholars have seen as a serious theological
problem. In “Milton’s Hostile Chaos” (1985), for example, Regina
Schwartz argues that although Milton’s theology demands “a good
chaos” (339), the poem conflates chaos and hell (352). Rogers (1996)
concurs that “the apparent evil of chaos” is utterly incompatible with
Milton’s “rigorously monistic” beliefs, and he sees this theological inco-
herence as a “relic” of Milton’s “political anxieties” (137). Other
Miltonists, however, have asserted a close relationship between God’s
creative power and chaos. John Rumrich’s Milton Unbound (1996) argues
that “God is the confused and dark matter of chaos even as he is the creative
virtue of light” (141–142). Catherine Gimelli Martin, in “‘Pregnant
“A UNIVERSE OF DEATH”: GOD’S INFERNAL AESTHETIC 229
Causes Mixt’” (1997), describes the organic connection between the light
and dark elements of creation in Paradise Lost: “As a primordial ‘Womb’
and source of matter, Chaos thus provides the source of the seamless path
winding from the divine skirts, ‘dark with excessive bright’ (3.380), to their
earthly expression: the ‘bright consummate flowr’ (5.581) whose ‘root’
(479) lies in the ‘dark materials’ of matter waiting ‘to create more Worlds’
(2.916)” (162).
There are potential moral or metaphysical problems with chaos. Most
notably, its “anarch” appears to resent God’s creation and to approve of
Satan’s assault upon it, a stance that could be considered morally evil
(2.989). Yet, as Rumrich points out, Chaos similarly resents the bridge
that Death constructs across his realm, even though the bridge is part of an
attempt to oppose God and to ruin his creation (10.415–418, Rumrich
126). Moreover, the incompatibility of an actual god of chaos with
Christian cosmogony suggests that he is at least partly allegorical, like
Sin, Death, or “The Paradise of Fools” (3.496) and should perhaps not
be evaluated as a moral agent in the same way as characters like Satan,
Adam, and Eve.
Indeed, as Rogers’s reference to “the apparent evil of chaos” suggests,
much of the evidence for the evil of chaos actually has more to do with its
aesthetic qualities than its moral character. Danielson (1982), who sees
“both evil and good possibilities” in chaos, associates its evil potential with
“the menacing appearance of its ‘inhabitants’” (51, 49). Regina Schwartz
calls chaos “infernal” in part because it looks and feels like hell (353).
Although the imagery of a dark abyss filled with fire and sulfur is con-
ventionally associated with evil, there is nothing inherently immoral about
such an environment. Chaos is not necessarily evil, but it is definitely
sinister, and the distinction between the two is essential for understanding
Milton’s representation of God.
By ascribing sinister qualities to chaos, Milton suggests that the sinister is
older and more primal than malum culpae. In Paradise Lost, the allegorical
figure of Sin is born from Satan’s head as he plots rebellion against God
(2.749–758), and Satan’s rebellion finds its ultimate origin in his resentment
of the Son’s exaltation (5.661–671). Chaos and his realm predate all created
things, not only Satan but heaven itself. Although the “anarch” of chaos
seems to oppose God (2.988), God’s own use of the “majesty of darkness”
to represent himself reinforces the idea that the sinister is a divine attribute
that is distinct from evil and predates it. Furthermore, the nature of chaos
reinforces Satan’s suggestion that creation requires the sinister. To the extent
230 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
that chaos is “vital” (Rogers 141), that is, imbued with its own energy, that
energy appears to come in large part from its infernal qualities. Rogers and
Eric Song (2013), who is responding directly to Rogers, emphasize that in
Milton’s account of creation, God “downward purged /The black tartar-
eous cold infernal dregs /Adverse to life” (7.237–239; see Rogers 134 and
Song 17). These infernal dregs appear to lack creative potential, and for
Rogers they represent an intractable contradiction of Milton’s theology.
However, Rogers makes it clear that they represent only “a portion” of the
matter of chaos (134), and Song carefully distinguishes between these
“inert” dregs and the “productive” dark materials that Satan mines for
gunpowder (35). For purposes of this study, it is enough to say that some
of the infernal materials of chaos are linked to creative power. But it is
possible that even the dregs of chaos may form part of the material of
God’s creation, depending on whether they are “purged” out of the universe
entirely, or merely sorted out and distributed to their proper places in
creation when God “conglobed /Like things to like, the rest to several
place /Disparted” (7.239–241).
Although some of the scholarly concerns about God’s links to evil
in the poem are the result of confusing genuine evil with the sinister
aesthetics of the infernal, God does also use morally evil actions them-
selves, malum culpae, as raw materials for working out his providential
design. Paradise Lost first introduces this principle in Satan’s attempt to
combat it: “If then his providence /Out of our evil seek to bring forth
good, /Our labour must be to pervert that end” (1.162–164). Satan’s
plan presumes that God’s providence routinely uses sinful actions to
produce good, and he articulates this idea in a way that suggests it is
well-known and requires little explanation. This impression is backed up
by more reliable voices, especially in book 7, where the angels offer God
“Glory and praise, whose wisdom had ordained /Good out of evil to
create” (7.186–187) and warn that
. . . Who seeks
To lessen thee, against his purpose serves
To manifest the more thy might: his evil
Thou usest, and from thence creat’st more good. (7.613–616)
God truly possesses the power Mammon aspires to have, the ability to
compose evils, to use evil as a medium of creation. Milton’s prose similarly
“A UNIVERSE OF DEATH”: GOD’S INFERNAL AESTHETIC 231
asserts that bringing forth good from evil is one of God’s primary creative
strategies. De Doctrina 1.8 repeatedly insists that “The sinner, then, is
nearly always evil or unjust in his aims, but God always produces some-
thing good and just out of these and creates, as it were, light out of
darkness” (CPW 6.333; see also 331, 332, 335, 338–339).
Areopagitica’s argument that pure readers can exercise and develop their
virtue by reading “bad books,” which I discussed in Chapter 5, suggests
that human beings can emulate this strategy of God’s, at least in the
literary arena: “the knowledge and survay of vice is in this world so
necessary to the constituting of human vertue” (CPW 2.516).
Since Milton’s Augustinian conception of internal worship requires the
ability to see the universe as a work of divine art, Milton’s insistence on
God’s majesty of darkness and reliance on dark materials reflects Milton’s
ideas about poesis of both the cosmological and literary varieties.
Understanding the aesthetic qualities of God’s majesty of darkness, and
the materials dark and crude that appear necessary to produce beauty and
goodness, is an important part of Milton’s program for perceiving and
appreciating the universe as a created thing. It also explains the structure
and approach of Milton’s own poem, which begins in hell and offers the
infernal realms and their inhabitants as the sources of the poem’s action.
In addition to shedding light on the nature of God’s creative aspect, God’s
use of the sinister also elucidates his destructive and punitive aspect. By
starting his epic narrative in hell, Milton focuses his theodicy on the central
problem of malum poenae. Indeed, the first two books of Paradise Lost
represent God mainly through his punishment of Satan. This part of the
poem features examples of malum poenae that uncomfortably combine sad-
ism and infernal sublimity in a way reminiscent of Richard’s cruelty and dark
grandeur. But these putatively Satanic qualities turn out to originate in God.
In fact, much of the magnificently sinister poetic atmosphere that sur-
rounds Satan actually comes from descriptions of the punishments that God
inflicts on him, as in the opening of the poem’s narrative:
theology. It is the problem that any poetic theodicy must solve and
that only a poetic theodicy can solve.
Milton thus highlights the most problematic elements of God’s
providence while adorning them with sinister poetry in order to make
them fascinating rather than simply repugnant. He employs the aesthetics
of excess that we have seen in early modern sermons like Bunyan’s Sighs
from Hell (1666). Like Tasso, he invokes the monstrous and the chime-
rical, and he refers specifically to the prodigious births that were such a
popular subject for early modern ballads and that informed Shakespeare’s
depiction of Richard III.
The “universe of death” passage also emphasizes the poetic aspect of
hell through its account of hell’s creation. Milton has God create hell
verbally, paralleling God’s creation of the earth at 7.174–175 as well as the
means by which poets create imaginary worlds. But here, the creating logos
is a “curse” (2.622), recalling the artfully shaped yet malevolent poetic
language that appears so powerfully in Richard III. The second half of the
passage highlights the collaboration between Milton and God as creators
of prodigies and evil universes. God’s curse is represented not in its
original words but in its effects, which the poetic narrator must then find
his own words to describe. Since God produces hell but the narrator
decides how to depict it, they share responsibility for the artistry of these
representations of the infernal realms. The passage seems to assert that the
reality of God’s creation surpasses all “fables.” But the “yet” potentially
exempts Milton’s own fable from the charge of being too limited, and
reveals Milton’s ambition to rival Dante and other poets of hell. He
thereby acknowledges his involvement in an artistic project to represent
this horrific landscape and its inhabitants through descriptions that are
supposedly “inutterable” by anyone but God (2.626–627). Milton’s claim
that the perversity of nature and the conception of chimeras are part of the
machinery of divine providence helps to rationalize their depiction in a
poem with significantly greater theological obligations than Shakespeare’s
play. If Milton can justify God’s inclusion of hell in his creation, then
Milton can also justify his own poem’s use of infernal aesthetics.
As a sinister artist, Milton’s God possesses some of the fascinating,
aesthetically transgressive characteristics of a villain like Richard III, but
expanded to a cosmic scale. Whereas the deformed Richard can only aspire
to have “the world . . . to bustle in” (Richard III 1.1.151), the God of
Paradise Lost actually creates and then deforms the world. He orchestrates
Satan’s “hideous ruin and combustion” and produces the fabulous landscape
236 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
with the evil of punishment seem less sadistic by selecting Satan as the first
object of divine wrath. Most of Milton’s readership would have agreed
that Satan deserved considerable punishment, even though they were
capable of sympathizing with him as a literary character. Furthermore,
the punishments do not destroy Satan, but rather give him a chance to
demonstrate his fortitude, at least in the early books of the poem.
After presenting God’s infernal materials and creations in some detail, the
poem counterbalances this hellish aesthetic with the “holy light” of book
3. In the poetic structure of Paradise Lost, the vision of heaven in book 3
provides a welcome contrast to Milton’s descriptions of hell and chaos.
This contrast is welcome not because the first two books are unpleasant,
but because heaven and hell together provide the balance of light and dark
that is the core of the aesthetic ideal offered by Paradise Lost. As we have
seen, Milton uses the related paradigms of chiaroscuro and concordia
discors to structure his poetic and religious vision of the universe as an
interplay between diametric opposites.20 The extreme disjunction
between the first two books and the third contributes to the temptation
to associate God with heavenly light and Satan with infernal darkness. But
the war in heaven forcefully demonstrates that both qualities are essential
attributes of God. The episode also provides more trustworthy audiences
than the devils, in order to model more appropriate—that is, approving—
responses to God’s sinister punishments.
Before book 6, chiaroscuro seems to be a defining characteristic of the
demonic. The striking image of Satan as an eclipsed sun (1.591–605)
visually manifests the inner conflict that tortures him, a conflict he
expresses verbally in his soliloquy on Niphates (4.32–113). This “hateful
siege /Of contraries” (9.121–122) also appears in the more generalized
torments that God institutes in hell:
. . . There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night. (6.4–8)
Despite Fish’s claim that Milton’s “style admits variety only in order to
either banish or condemn it” (How 478), Raphael’s description makes it
clear that God alternates light and dark in heaven in order to fulfill an
aesthetic of variety.21 The change from day to night is “grateful,” meaning
that the inhabitants of heaven are grateful for it, because it gives pleasure,
not because it serves a practical purpose. Raphael alludes to versions of this
“grateful vicissitude” repeatedly in his descriptions of heaven, often in
parentheses: “(For we have also our evening and our morn, /We ours for
change delectable, not need)” (5.628–629). Here the lack of practical
value in the change from light to dark is even more explicit. The aesthetic
of variety also extends to opposites other than light and dark: “(For earth
hath this variety from heav’n /Of pleasure situate in hill and dale)”
(6.640–641). All of these examples are entirely normative; in that sense,
they are as far as possible from the entirely sinister “bitter change” of hell.
But they are mirror images of that terrible alternation between ice and fire,
and they are part of the same divine design.
In the center of this design lies the victorious Messiah, who is at once
normative and sinister, savior and punisher, and one of the clearest repre-
sentations of Milton’s chiaroscuro vision of God.22 The Son himself
explains God’s dual aspect and his own relationship to it: “whom thou
hat’st, I hate, and can put on /Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on,
/Image of thee in all things” (6.734–736). The Son’s war chariot is
“GRATEFUL VICISSITUDE”: DIVINE CHIAROSCURO AND THE WAR IN HEAVEN 239
Any winged angel is, of course, a chimerical fusion of bird and human, but
one arguably naturalized by Christian tradition so that it no longer evokes
monstrosity the way that it might in classical mythology. Milton’s descrip-
tion of Messiah’s chariot, however, draws on some of the most strikingly
exotic and complex chimeras in the Bible, from the first chapter of Ezekiel.
The prophet describes four creatures with four heads each (man, lion, ox,
and eagle), four wings, and men’s bodies and arms, and each accompanied
by a living wheel covered with eyes. Milton does not specify whether his
cherubim have animal faces, but they do still receive four apiece, and
he spices up the Biblical version slightly by covering the cherubim with
eyes as well as the wheels.24 He also preserves Ezekiel’s ambiguous sug-
gestion that the wheels and the cherubim are parts of the same creature
and animated by the same spirit. The principle behind the design of the
cherubim and the wheels is the principle of the chimera: they represent
a fusion of the pieces of many different creatures and objects. They
embody the paradoxical duality of divine power, and they reveal the
close links between the divine and the monstrous aesthetics of Milton’s
Sin, Gorgons, and Furies.
240 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
God takes what is within and translates it to an exterior metaphor for the
sin committed.26 As Michael glosses this similitude, the tyrants represent
the psychological tyranny of bestial desires over reason, which is figured as
the legitimate ruler. In this respect God’s punishments turn their victims
into allegories of their own crimes. Of course, the poetic qualities of these
punishments cannot be appreciated without a sinister sensibility, and as we
will see, in extreme cases even that may not be sufficient.
As the poem assimilates the chiaroscuro aesthetic into its presenta-
tion of God, it also begins to present reactions to God’s dark side from
creatures that are more reliable than Satan and his followers. In chaos
and hell, there are no audiences other than the reader who can learn
the proper lessons from God’s sinister creations, but the epic’s repre-
sentation of heaven offers real and implied audiences of loyal angels.
Just as the poem has been suggesting the artfulness of malum poenae
by stressing the constructed and specifically poetic nature of hell, so
these new audiences demonstrate that the goals of God’s sinister repre-
sentations, including his punishments, are also the goals of art: to
instruct and to delight.
As a central element of divine providence, and a manifestation of divine
power and justice, God’s punishments are intended to be appreciated by
those who view them. Deriving the proper lesson from the symbolic message
242 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
of malum poenae entails some level of appreciation for the decorum between
the crime and the punishment. Furthermore, as Empson notes—with horror
—the Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) provides a
venerable theological precedent for the idea that the saints in heaven will
enjoy the suffering of the damned as a manifestation of divine justice
(Empson 248).27 Empson’s response is that “The whole case illustrates
how you may reach a point of ecstasy by teaching yourself to enjoy what
your unspoiled taste thought loathsome” (249). As we have seen in
Chapter 4, early modern Christian belief required not only accepting certain
theological principles but also shaping the aesthetic sensibilities of the
believer, a process not unlike what Empson castigates here. Although
Empson resists applying this kind of religious sensibility to Milton, it is really
an extension of the “horrible and wonderful” nature of Paradise Lost that
Empson praises at the outset. After God explains the war’s role in revealing
the Son’s true nature, the Son responds by showing how it will please and
instruct angelic audiences in moral behavior. Once the devils are
Put simply, when the rebels are eliminated, the worshippers remaining in
heaven will all be genuinely loyal. But the Son expects more than mere
“obedience” from the loyal angels; he also expects the obedience to
produce “happiness.” The “unfeigned alleluias” are an improvement on
the antebellum angelic choirs because they are not adulterated by traitors.
But the rhetorical structure of the passage also implies that the spectacle of
divine punishment might prompt the joyful singing of the loyalists.
of the epic has proved particularly difficult for many readers to assim-
ilate because it presents with increasing starkness the potentially sadis-
tic aspects of malum poenae. Books 1 and 2 do offer the hellish
torments instituted by God as pleasurable to an outside observer, but
these punishments also possess an infernal grandeur that as often as
not ennobles their victims, just as Richard becomes more magnificently
demonic through the curses that depict him as a “dreadful minister of
hell” (1.2.44). The middle part of the poem balances the terrifying
dark side of God against his light side, and presents the interplay
between the two as an aesthetic ideal in its own right, a grateful
vicissitude. In the end of the poem, though, Milton addresses the
more ignominious manifestations of malum poenae, along with their
human consequences, and attempts to fit them into his poetic theo-
dicy. As the poem moves from the aesthetic representation of the
magnificent to the contemptible and disgusting, it emphasizes God’s
responsibility for the forms of punishment ever more strongly. Milton
pursues the tough consequences of his premises—that God shapes evil
and that God is worthy of adoration—with deadly seriousness, pre-
senting the forms of malum poenae that are most difficult to assimilate
even into the sinister half of the chiaroscuro aesthetic.
This final stage of Milton’s poetic theodicy begins by depicting Satan
being punished in ways that do not permit him to borrow the majesty of
darkness, and then emphasizing that the heavenly response to Satan’s
degradation remains approving. Satan appears to degrade in part because
God chooses less impressive, more demeaning punishments for him, as
when God turns the devils into snakes:
Satan remains greater than his fellows, but the contrast does him little
credit here. Despite Satan’s initial association with magnificent sinister
poetry, he ultimately has no control over it. Satan does not even have
the power to pervert his own sensibilities to tolerate God’s punishments
and “make a heaven of hell” (1.255), although he and his confederates
have been trying to do so since their landing on the lake of fire. He cannot
teach himself to enjoy the taste of “bitter ashes” in the illusory apples he is
compelled to eat (10.566).
God, however, can enjoy watching Satan eat them. God produces this
public humiliation as a theatrical spectacle, as the comparison of the devils
to a hissing audience ironically emphasizes. Although the devils are not
appreciative, treating them as an audience implies a corresponding hea-
venly audience that does approve of the “complicated monsters”: the same
audience that appears explicitly in other instances of divine punishment,
such as 6.738–744 (quoted above) and 10.640–643 (quoted below). The
temporary nature of the transformation also suggests that its purpose is to
be observed, since it lasts just long enough for its poetic justice to be
legible, not long enough to function like a prison sentence.
As always, God designs his punishments to be poetically appropriate
and suggestive of the crimes committed. However, there does appear to be
a shift in the aesthetic sensibilities governing those punishments, from the
infernal magnificence of the early books to a more contemptuous, parodic,
and discordant mode. In book 2, Milton depicts chimerical monsters as
products of hell designed to appall the rebel angels, and he presents Sin as
a simultaneously fascinating and repulsive chimerical figure. Here in book
10, Satan and his followers themselves take on chimerical qualities and
associations. The epic simile compares them to the serpents produced
from the blood of a Gorgon, and later they resemble the “snaky locks”
of the Fury “Megaera” (10.559–560). Collectively they are a mass of
“complicated monsters,” a tangled conglomeration of many different
kinds of beasts. Some of the particular serpents mentioned are also chi-
merical in their own right, notably the two-headed amphisbaena.
However, these monsters are mainly figures of scorn. The transformation
of the devils into serpents is a grotesquely comic, distorted echo of the
drama of the fall. The sensibility behind this manifestation of poetic justice
is less sublime and closer to what Northrop Frye in The Return of Eden
(1965) calls “demonic parody” (52): the sensibility that animates Sin’s
parody of the Nicene creed at 2.869–870, or the ironic contrast between
Satan’s supposedly self-sacrificing decision to visit earth to seek humanity’s
“ODIOUS TRUTH”: THE DEGRADATION OF SATAN AND THE EDUCATION . . . 245
Even more clearly than in book 6, angelic joy is the product of observing
punishment from a safe distance. Similarly, in Michael’s account of the
tower of Babel, God acts as a kind of atonal composer, producing a
“jangling noise” and “hideous gabble” (12.55, 56) as part of a heavenly
spectacle: “great laughter was in heaven /And looking down, to see the
hubbub strange” (12.59–60). The ugly and discordant sounds resemble
the liturgical music of Moloch’s devotees at 1.394, but they nonetheless
provoke a positive response from the heavenly audience. As with the devils
246 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
transformed into serpents, the aesthetic pleasure here owes more to low
comedy than to the fascination of the demonic.
The laughter in heaven may include God himself, and his flashes of
humor often resemble what Thomas Adams (1652) calls “the Sarcasmos or
bitter scorn of God” (“God’s Anger” 8). As the war in heaven begins, God
sarcastically pretends to be concerned about the approach of Satan’s rebel
army (5.719–732), and the Son approves of his “derision” (5.736). When
God unleashes Sin and Death, he calls them his “hell-hounds” (10.630), a
mocking allusion to the literal hell-hounds who continually torment Sin,
the product of her traumatic rape by Death. His omniscience makes it
impossible for him to be unaware of the cruel irony of this pet name.
The poem’s last two books recommend the sensibilities of this heavenly
audience to Adam and Eve, and through them to the poem’s reader.
Michael teaches Adam how to be a good audience by showing him
spectacles (in book 11) or narrating stories (in book 12) and correcting
or approving his reactions to them, bringing him closer to the perspective
that God or the loyal angels have held throughout the poem. One impor-
tant component of this perspective is described by Edward Reynolds in A
Treatise of the Passions (1640): we should feel a “Love of any Evill which
we desire may befall the person or thing which wee hate” (111). Lieb
(2006) quotes this passage (at 172) in the service of his argument that
Milton’s God is “a being who hates, and through whose example we are
encouraged to hate as well” (8).
In the last two books of the epic, Adam learns to see the hideous aspects
of fallen existence as a sinister allegory expressing the moral and aesthetic
standards of God. Nonetheless, Adam has difficulty rejoicing in God’s
sinister artistry as Michael encourages him to do; at first, he merely under-
stands and submits. But Michael’s lesson is also offered to the reader, who
is better equipped to receive it than Adam, through the experience of
living in a postlapsarian world and through the experience of reading
Paradise Lost. The more accessible appeal of hell and the Satanic perspec-
tive in the early books, and the presentation of the angelic perspective in
the middle and later books, seek to promote a gradual shift in the reader’s
sensibilities. The ending of the poem carefully places the reader’s level of
understanding above Adam, who is naïve with respect to humanity’s
future history (and vices), but below Michael, who has more direct access
to heavenly knowledge than any mortal. Adam, who still feels the con-
sequences of his own crime, suffers in sympathy with his children. The
reader, however, is in the jarring position of being the audience of an
“ODIOUS TRUTH”: THE DEGRADATION OF SATAN AND THE EDUCATION . . . 247
Adam’s exclamation dovetails well with everything the poem has been
saying about creation and providence, and it reflects not only understand-
ing but also pleasure and wonder.
This pleasure represents an evolution from the perverse pleasure in trans-
gression Adam displays in book 9 to what we might call good perversity,
“ODIOUS TRUTH”: THE DEGRADATION OF SATAN AND THE EDUCATION . . . 249
rejoicing that his sin enables God to manifest his power. After eating the fruit,
Adam remarks that “if such pleasure be /In things to us forbidden, it might
be wished, /For this one tree had been forbidden ten” (9.1024–1026).
Adam’s speech in book 12 continues with a parallel, but conceptually quite
different, speculation about the happy consequences of eating the fruit:
Adam’s pairing of love and fear reflects the appropriate affective response
to a God who encompasses light and dark, life and death, mercy and
250 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
punishment. The final line of this passage echoes Adam’s passionate claim
to Eve that “if death /Consort with thee, death is to me as life” (9.953–
954), but this time he chooses the proper focus, God. The reversed
sensibility Adam expresses in the second half of the passage turns the
otherwise intolerable horror of the evil in the universe into cause for
rejoicing. Of course, technically, perversity in the service of God should
not really be perversity. God’s judgment is an “odious truth” (11.704)
only from the perspective of “a world perverse” (11.701). But the sensi-
bility that Michael seeks to inculcate functions like perversity in its reversal
of the values that most humans take for granted—that is, their normative
values: “by things deemed weak /Subverting worldly strong.” As we have
seen in Chapter 4, these kinds of inversions are central to early modern
Christian thought. They are a product of what Lieb (2006) calls “God’s
paradoxical disclosure of himself to humans sub contrariis” (71). This
Christian perversity is sinister in its appreciation of God’s malum poenae,
although it also includes less sinister elements like the valorization of
poverty and humility. Here, though, building on the work of John
Donne and other early modern religious writers, Milton uses the trope
of God’s inverted value system to morally justify and make aesthetically
palatable God’s torture of powerless mortals.
CONCLUSION
Paradise Lost highlights the potentially disturbing aspects of God’s rela-
tionship to evil because they constitute the central challenge to a successful
theodicy. Building on theological arguments prevalent among Milton’s
contemporaries, the poem gives humans (and fallen angels) moral respon-
sibility for their own sins, but it suggests God’s aesthetic responsibility for
the ways in which sins and their punishments manifest. Where Satan is
represented as the father and lover of Sin, God’s relationship to evil more
closely resembles the relationship between an artist and his materials. He
shapes the sinful wills of his creations to bring forth particular forms of evil
action, and he also constructs punishments that are poetically appropriate,
according to sinister principles. These punishments serve as allegories,
rendering abstract moral lessons in a concrete, sensual, and symbolic
form. In keeping with Renaissance artistic theory, these allegories are
intended to be not only instructive but also satisfying. Milton’s God
chooses the alternation or fusion of normative and sinister imagery as
one of his primary means of representing himself symbolically in a fashion
NOTES 251
NOTES
1. Neil Forsyth (2003) compares Satan to “those great Shakespearean villains,
Richard III or Iago” (12). Michael Bryson (2004) suggests “Iago, Edgar,
Macbeth, and even Hamlet” (Tyranny 183n1).
2. William Empson (1961), probably alluding to this passage, praises “the
manly and appreciative attitude of Blake and Shelley, who said that the
reason why the poem is so good is that it makes God so bad” (13).
252 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
3. Bryson (2004) discusses "divine evil" in the Old Testament and in Milton
(Tyranny 118, 119). Michael Lieb’s Theological Milton (2006) provides a
particularly thoughtful and theologically grounded exploration of God’s
“dark side” (129). See also William Kerrigan’s interest in the “dark God”
(99) in The Sacred Complex (1983).
4. Gross observes an “abysmal separation” between scholarly discourse about
religion and the experience of believers (319).
5. Stanley Fish’s Surprised by Sin in particular emphasizes the “coherence” of
Milton’s religious views (1997 preface, xxii). See also Burden’s The Logical
Epic (1967), which seeks to demonstrate the poem’s “self-consistent”
theology and “the reasonableness of God’s anger” (12–13). In contrast,
critics such as Peter Herman (2005) object to what they see as “the refusal of
almost all Miltonists to countenance even the slightest possibility that
Milton might put God’s omniscience, omnipotence, and mercy into ques-
tion” (111). See Chapter 5 for more on this critical controversy.
6. Herman (2005) asserts that “suspicions about God, which perforce require
a willingness to question the supposedly unquestionable, were very much
part of Milton’s era” (111). He cites Richard Baxter (1615–1691) and
Lodowick Muggleton (1609–1698) as examples of seventeenth-century
writers more willing to question God’s justice than some twentieth- and
twenty-first century Miltonists have been. Milton’s own Samson Agonistes
suggests that doubts about God’s goodness were not uncommon (line 300).
On Hill and Herman, see also Chapter 4.
7. Citations of Milton’s prose refer to the Complete Prose Works of John Milton,
edited by Don M. Wolfe et al. (Yale, 1953–1982), abbreviated CPW and
cited by volume and page number. References to De Doctrina Christiana
also include book and chapter numbers, and the original Latin text is cited
by volume and page number from The Works of John Milton, edited by James
Holly Hanford and Waldo Hilary Dunn (Columbia, 1931–1938), abbre-
viated WJM.
8. For another example, see the account of predestination in De Doctrina 1.3
(CPW 6.164–165).
9. In wrestling with this thorny issue, De Doctrina is not absolutely consistent,
even within 1.8. At times, the treatise insists that God is the “cause” and
“instigator” of sin in the wicked (6.333), or that God would “direct their
minds” to “commit one crime rather than another” (6.335). At other times,
De Doctrina cautions that “strictly speaking God does not either incite or
hand over someone” and that “really he only omits to prevent” them from
sinning (6.334).
10. Hence, De Doctrina 1.12 suggests divine punishment is only evil to the
punished, “and not always” even to them (CPW 6.396). However, chapter
3 of The Reason of Church-Government (1641) classifies divine punishment
NOTES 253
as “an evil,” in contrast with human justice, which can be “a saving med’cin
ordaine’d of God” (CPW 1.835). CPW’s note at 6.396 misleadingly sug-
gests that Milton considered damnation a saving medicine.
11. John Rogers (1996) shares Empson’s discomfort with Milton’s “punitive
God,” particularly the “divine pleasure” he derives from punishing sinners
(163, 165). Bryson (2004) links Paradise Lost’s “morally ambiguous” God
to the Biblical “Yahweh,” but nonetheless finds the character too “pro-
foundly disturbing” to reflect Milton’s actual beliefs (Tyranny 119, 115).
12. See for example Inga Clendinnen’s Aztecs (1993, illustration following page
240). Coatlicue’s statue is famous enough that there is a good chance
Empson knew of it, if he knew any specific works of Aztec sculpture at all.
13. Citations of John Dennis are by volume and page number in The Critical
Works of John Dennis, edited by Edward Niles Hooker (Johns Hopkins,
1939).
14. Dennis’s full list of recommended poetic subjects is: “Gods, Dæmons, Hell,
Spirits and Souls of Men, Miracles, Prodigies, Enchantments, Witchcrafts,
Thunder, Tempests, raging Seas, Inundations, Torrents, Earthquakes,
Volcanos, Monsters, Serpents, Lions, Tygers, Fire, War, Pestilence,
Famine, &c.” (1.361)—a rather sinister catalog.
15. Lieb connects this pleasurable and pious fear of God to Rudolf Otto’s
concept of the numinous (from The Idea of the Holy [1917]) and Søren
Kierkegaard’s (1813–1855) paradoxical treatment of dread. According to
Lieb, “If the numinous appears to the mind as an object of horror and
dread, it is nonetheless that which allures its victim with a potent charm.”
Similarly, Lieb says of Kierkegaard’s dread that “The individual is simulta-
neously drawn to it and repelled by it, that is, attracted to that which repels
him and repelled by that which attracts him” (197–198). On the importance
of fear to the internal worship of God in De Doctrina, see Lieb 193–195.
16. William Flesch’s “The Majesty of Darkness” (1986) suggests the sublime
image of “the abyss” as the most appropriate symbol for Milton’s God,
because it represents his fundamental unknowability (309). Moreover,
Flesch links “the apprehension of the abyss” to “poetic power” (310). See
also Lieb 71.
17. Many of Watson’s examples, such as “artificial lighting” and “hollow arab-
esques” do in fact refer to the devil-built Pandaemonium (64). But the
argument appears to conflate these constructions with the rest of hell.
18. Eric Song’s (2013) analysis, in contrast, characterizes the “Tartarean sulphur,
and strange fire” as an “alliance between satanic and chaotic forces” opposed
to God (33).
19. Forsyth (2003), in contrast, considers this passage “very muddy”; he sug-
gests that God creates something “unequivocally evil” but is not “directly
responsible for evil” (205–206).
254 6 MILTON’S SINISTER GOD
20. For a different approach to this concept, see Melissa Wanamaker’s Discordia
Concors (1975), esp. 120.
21. See Joseph H. Summers’s chapter on “grateful vicissitude” in The Muse’s
Method (1962).
22. Leslie Moore’s Beautiful Sublime (1990) similarly suggests that the Son
“blends an invisible, incomprehensible sublimity, terrible in its origin, with a
perfect image of the beautiful.” Moore also argues that “Satan represents
sublimity without beauty,” a characterization that I would apply to hell
more than to Satan (144).
23. Fowler’s note to 6.749–761 quotes a 1982 study by Claes Schaar that asserts
the paradoxical nature of the chariot but seeks to downplay its dark side (see
Schaar 333).
24. For a similar description see 11.127–133.
25. See Chapter 4 for a discussion of Dante’s contrapasso as a form of poetic
justice. See also Ethan Smilie, “Satan’s Unconquerable Will and Milton’s
Use of Dantean Contrapasso in Paradise Lost” (2013).
26. See also 1.434–436, which describes the Israelites “bowing lowly down/To
bestial gods; for which their heads as low/Bowed down in battle.” Here, the
parallelism that makes the justice poetic is apparent only through the narra-
tor’s conceit that idolatry and military defeat both involve the bowing of
heads. The passage thus represents another example of the poet collaborat-
ing with God to produce sinister art.
27. See Aquinas’s Summa Theologica, Supplement, question 94: “Wherefore in
order that the happiness of the saints may be more delightful to them and
that they may render more copious thanks to God for it, they are allowed to
see perfectly the sufferings of the damned” (volume 3, page 2972).
28. On the Fortunate Fall, see Arthur Lovejoy, “Milton and the Paradox of the
Fortunate Fall” (1937) and Danielson (1982) 202–227, 230–233.
CHAPTER 7
This book began with two interrelated questions, one literary and one
religious. First, how could early modern English authors make such
extensive use of attractive villains and other representations of evil when
the prevalent aesthetic theories suggested that enjoying such representa-
tions was either impossible or immoral? Second, what kind of role did the
aesthetic play in early modern English theodicy—that is to say, the
attempts of early modern writers, theologians, and preachers to reconcile
the existence of evil with a belief in divine providence? The answer to both
questions lies in understanding the role of sinister aesthetic systems, which
enable readers, audiences, and believers to take pleasure in representations
of evil when they are presented in certain ways.
Early modern poetic practice far outstripped the constraints of theory,
allowing attractive representations of evil to permeate literature, drama,
religious writing, and popular print despite a theoretical environment that
was largely hostile to them. As we have seen, early modern authors devel-
oped a variety of methods for negotiating this conflict, many of which
involved appearing to reject the sinister or subordinate it to the normative.
Edmund Spenser, William Shakespeare, and John Milton all create appeal-
ing villains and then seemingly reduce them to an unattractive form more
compatible with normative standards. These strategies were partly sincere
attempts to assimilate and contextualize the sinister, and partly disingen-
uous sleights of hand, designed to make a fundamental but demonized
aspect of poetic practice socially acceptable.
poem’s portrayal of divine evil was not terribly controversial, even among
people who despised Milton’s political views. Seventeenth-century England
was suffused with destructive representations of God that were promulgated
as entertainment, religious instruction, or some combination of the two, and
Milton’s readers would have recognized the aspects of God that he was
portraying. Moreover, the extant seventeenth-century responses suggest
that Milton’s audience did not generally expect Paradise Lost to function
primarily as a devotional text, much less one with quasi-Biblical authority.
They were therefore less concerned than future generations have been about
potential discrepancies between the God they worshipped and the God in
the poem. In the second edition of Paradise Lost, Milton (or his publisher)
felt it necessary to defend the poem’s lack of rhyming, not its metaphysics.1
As English religious sensibilities changed, the idea of a God with a
sinister aspect became more controversial. In 1704, John Dennis could
still praise the destructive power of the “Wrath and Vengeance of an angry
God” on poetic and religious grounds (1.361). But this punishing God
was less compatible with the latitudinarian tendencies of the Anglican
Communion and the growth of Wesleyan Methodism during the eight-
eenth century. Nor was it consistent with the Deism and rational philoso-
phy of the Enlightenment. When the Romantic poets rebelled against
Enlightenment rationalism and embraced the sublime, they did not restore
this image of God to favor. Indeed, Blake and Shelley were among the most
outspoken critics of what they saw as the sadistic and punitive aspects of the
God of Paradise Lost, even though the poetics and spirituality of Blake’s
own prophetic books are inspired to a great extent by Milton’s use of the
sinister.
Of course, belief in a God who wields infernal torments to punish
sinners in this life and the next continued through these periods.
Calvinism proved more persistent in America than England, and a reli-
gious sensibility that depended on the poetics of divine wrath flourished
through preachers like Jonathan Edwards, whose “Sinners in the Hands of
an Angry God” (1741) is easily the most famous hellfire and brimstone
sermon ever written. Related forms of providentialism remain important
for many twenty-first-century Christians, but they no longer enjoy the
widespread acceptance they had in the early modern period, and they now
compete with a variety of other religious and scientific explanatory para-
digms. On the whole, readers of Paradise Lost in subsequent centuries
have increasingly found the character of Milton’s God to be in conflict
with their own religious sensibilities.2
EPILOGUE: THE SINISTER AFTER MILTON 259
NOTES
1. The seventeenth-century responses surveyed by Timothy Miller (1997) offer
few complaints about the poem’s theology. Richard Leigh (1673) ridicules
Milton’s reference to light as “Coeternal” with God, but he is even more
upset about Milton’s prosody (26). William Winstanley (1687) admires the
poem despite considering Milton “a notorious Traytor” (31). Charles Leslie
(1698) and John Toland (1699) express concerns about heresy and impiety
that are limited in scope and unrelated to the problem of evil (48–49).
2. Some modern theologians have engaged with God’s relationship to the
horrors of evil; see the introduction’s note on John Hick (1966), Philip
Tallon (2012), and Marilyn Adams (1999). But none of these authors are
prepared to endorse anything like a seventeenth-century conception of
divine punishment; Hick entirely rejects “the grim fantasy of unending
torment inflicted by God” in hell (385).
3. The classical source for theories of the sublime was On the Sublime, attrib-
uted to Longinus. The first section of the treatise describes the sublime as “a
consummate excellence and distinction of language” that serves to “trans-
port” audiences “out of themselves.” The sublime relies on “what inspires
wonder, with its power of amazing us,” rather than “what is merely con-
vincing and pleasing,” and it thereby gains “an irresistible power and
mastery” over audiences. The treatise asserts that “a well-timed flash of
sublimity shatters everything like a bolt of lightning and reveals the full
power of the speaker at a single stroke” (pages 163–165).
4. Dennis presents his account of the sublime as a revision of Longinus and
defines the sublime as “a great Thought, or great Thoughts moving the Soul
from its ordinary Situation by the Enthusiasm which naturally attends
them.” As Dennis elaborates, the sublime’s connection to violence and
terror becomes clearer: it “commits a pleasing Rape upon the very Soul of
NOTES 265
the Reader . . . like the Artillery of Jove, it thunders, blazes, and strikes at
once” (1.359).
5. In Patrick Frierson and Paul Guyer’s edition of Kant’s Observations, “Bold
type is used for cases in which words appear in spaced type (Sperrdruck) in
the original German. Italics is used for cases in which words in the German
appear in roman type” (xlii).
6. On the sublimity of Wordsworth’s leech-gatherer, see Stephen Hancock’s
The Romantic Sublime and Middle-Class Subjectivity in the Victorian Novel
(2005; 44), which demonstrates how far this definition of the sublime is
from the sinister.
7. Frankenstein explicitly alludes to Paradise Lost. Its epigraph is from Paradise
Lost 10.743–745, and its preface, apparently written by Percy Shelley
(252n3), highlights the novel’s debt to Milton (3). In the novel, the
monster reads Paradise Lost and debates whether he has more in common
with Adam or Satan. Much like Dennis, the monster identifies the “feeling
of wonder and awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his
creatures was capable of exciting” as central to the experience of reading
Milton’s poem (104).
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Corpses, 29, 34–35, 98–99, 120n31, See also Evil: malum culpae and
145, 163–164 malum poenae; Infernal, the;
Crawford, Julie, 132, 138, Poetic justice; Prodigious, the
154, 166n3, 167n14, Donne, John, 76n46, 150–153, 155,
168n23, 168n28, 159–165, 169n35, 171n44,
169n29, 170n42 171n47, 171n49
Curiositas, 34–35, 38, 59, 65, 68, Drama, 14, 17, 27, 29, 34–35, 79,
107, 136–138, 144, 169n29 114, 116n1, 116n2,
145, 166n8, 219
D See also Plays and playwrights
Danielson, Dennis Richard, 210n2, Dryden, John, 213n14, 215n30, 259
212n13, 221–223, 229, 254n28 Duchess of Malfi, The, 114,
Dante Alighieri, 24, 30, 43, 155, 145, 169n31
21n19, 254n25
Daston, Lorraine and Katharine E
Park, 134–135 Eco, Umberto, 11, 20n18, 64
De Doctrina Christiana, See Milton, Edwards, Jonathan, 258
John Empson, William, 6–7, 174,
Deformity, 68, 166n4, 168n22 211n4, 213n14, 217, 224–225,
in ballads and pamphlets, 137, 236, 242, 251n2, 253n11,
155–158, 161–163, 168n28 253n12
in Faerie Queene, The, 54, 60 English Civil War, 80, 125, 155,
in Milton, 235, 247–248 165n1, 165n2, 168n21
in Richard III, 82–83, 85, 93–100, Epic, 14, 40, 42–43, 59, 69, 72n22,
109, 113, 115, 117n8, 117n9, 73n27, 73n31, 80–81,
118n13, 122n41 173, 177, 179
See also Monsters; Prodigious, the Erasmus, Desiderius, 73n30, 94
Delight and instruct, See Horatian Evil
binary malum culpae and malum poenae,
Dennis, John, 211n9, 225, 253n14, 150–153, 170n36, 170n39,
258–260, 264n4 179, 219, 222–224, 229–237,
Discordia concors, See Concordia discors 241–250
Discorsi dell’arte poetica, See Tasso, (See also Divine punishment)
Torquato ontology of, 32, 39, 186
Divine punishment, 114,
126, 257, 260
in Augustine, 37 F
in ballads, pamphlets, and Faerie Queene, The, 1, 6, 25–26,
sermons, 17, 125–165 48–69, 82, 120n32, 170n43,
in Milton, 217–251 247, 255–256
in Richard III, 108, 111–112, Bower of Bliss episode, 61–67,
115–116 83, 184
284 INDEX
Rossiter, A. P., 83, 86–87, 119n21, Shuger, Debora, 2, 10, 15, 153, 160,
123n48, 123n51 163, 168n25, 169n35, 170n39,
Rumrich, John, 6, 28, 171n45, 171n46, 171n48,
211n4, 228–229 171n49, 172n51
Sidney, Philip, 25
Astrophil and Stella, 5, 50–51
S Defence of Poesy, 6, 26–31, 40–41,
Samson Agonistes, See Milton, John 45, 49, 52–53, 59–60, 65,
Sarcasmos, 163, 246 83–84, 149, 186, 200, 217
Schwartz, Regina, 228–229 Silberman, Lauren, 57–60
Scourge of God, 111–112, Sinister aesthetic
123n48 definition, 9
Sermons, 2, 14–15, 17, 49, 127–132, See also Abject, the; Anti-blazon;
138–165, 175, 189–190, Carnivalesque, the; Chimera;
218–220, 222, 226, 235, Corpses; Curiositas; Deformity;
257–258 Filth; Grotesque, the; Infernal,
definition, 129 the; Macabre, the; Monsters;
as entertainment/ Palpable device; Prodigious, the;
performance, 129–130, Sarcasmos; Spice; Sublime, the;
138–139, 145, 149, 161–165 Vice, the
Sermon writers. See Adams, Thomas; Sinister allegory, See Poetic justice
Allestree, Richard; Andrewes, Song, Eric B., 20n14,
Lancelot; Bedford, Thomas; 215n31, 230, 253n18
Bunyan, John; Donne, John; Spanish Tragedy, The, 1, 81, 124n54
Gwalther, Rudolf; Hampton, Spenser, Edmund, See Faerie
William; Leigh, William; Taylor, Queene, The
Jeremy Spice, 36, 42, 71n18, 71n19, 72n21,
Shakespeare, William 73n28, 74n37, 103
Henry VI plays, 86–87, 95, 118n16, Subjectivity, 2, 4, 9, 19n2, 41–42,
119n19, 122n43 257–258
King Lear, 114 in Milton, 174, 188, 194, 196–199,
Macbeth, 7, 114, 171n50, 251n1 201–202, 206–207, 232, 251
Othello, 1, 91, 114, 116n3, in Richard III, 83–84, 115
118n17, 251n1 in sermons, 139–140,
Tempest, The, 114, 132–133, 163 159–161, 163
Titus Andronicus, 81, 85, in The Faerie Queene, 50–53,
116n3, 117n9 57–61, 66–67
Winter’s Tale, The, 132 Sublime, the, 4, 10–11, 19, 47–48,
See also Richard III 199, 207, 213n14, 239, 253n16,
Sharpe, Kevin, 2, 16, 168n25 254n22, 258–261
Shelley, Percy, 211n4, 218–219, Sweetness
265n7, 185, 251n2, 258 in Augustine, 37, 72n21
INDEX 289