Last week I commented on Terry Eagleton’s “intriguing ramble” on Peter Conrad’s Creation . A reader, Tracy Altman, writes in to clarify, noting that when Eagleton speaks of creation as a “dismal truth,” he may be obliquely critiquing the Romantic notion of human transcendence, not siding with it. The Romantics and successive secular humanists extolled man’s potential to fashion the world and himself, but Eagleton is ambiguous about his own position. He mentions St. Augustine’s admonition against men who presume to create, and he tells us that Conrad vehemently disagrees. But (speaking for himself or just Augustine?), Eagleton goes on, “The myth that human beings are self-originating and self-fashioning lies at the root of a great deal of human disaster.” Ms. Altman wrestles with all this:
Eagleton seems unable to put his bits into any kind of coherent picture. The common thread that runs through nearly all of the points I’ve managed to dredge from his article is that of what we would call sin (and its consequences)—failure, isolation, error, uncertainty, self-alienation, depravity. But is there any more to the world than that? Is there a broader horizon, a bigger picture? Is there any salvation?Eagleton appears to think not. Perhaps he is just being zealous, overcompensating for Conrad’s more (falsely) optimistic secular humanism. What I fear, though, is that he is not only unable, but unwilling, to seek a fuller, more coherent understanding of the creation. This is a position far worse than that of a Miltonic Satan. So long as one desires to rule anywhere (short of Hell, I’ll say—cautiously circumscribing myself), one needs a structure, an organization, a superficially coherent system of thought by which to rule. It may be wrong; it may be radically incoherent; but it is some continued participation in the good creation through which God reveals His glory. The Spirit can work through these things. But the man who believes only in sin, only in limitation, can hardly desire even to rule. Life is a small conglomeration of negative beliefs; the question, “What is the chief end of man?” is disregarded as meaningless. There is no end, no telos. One can only . . . well, ramble.
It’s like reading Augustine’s City of God with God. And while I’m not qualified to adjudicate on what precisely Eagleton believes, there’s something striking about his haziness in this piece. There’s something striking, for that matter, about a great deal of cultural and literary criticism. Remember the description in Paradise Lost , book 1, when Satan and his troops have been cast out of heaven (or, rather, when they have chosen to do without God). “Awake, arise, or be for ever fall’n,” says their leader, and then Milton comments, ” Nor did they not perceive the evil plight / In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel.” The rhetoric is confusing and twisted, especially with the use of double negatives, for there is no real vision, no clarity of sight divorced from God. Instead, truth is perceived in the shadows—or, as Augustine might say, perceived as the negation of a lack.
Later the troops come marching by, and we get this splendid passage: On their faces appeared
Obscure some glimpse of joy, to have found their chief
Not in despair, to have found themselves not lost
In loss itself; which on his count’nance cast
Like doubtful hue: but he his wonted pride
Soon recollecting, with high words, that bore
Semblance of worth, not substance, gently raised
Their fainting courage, and dispelled their fears.
I am not sure how to decipher “not lost / In loss itself”— found in loss? —but the ambiguity is perfect here. Semblance not substance, high words but doubtful hue: I don’t accuse Eagleton, but this is a temptation indeed!
