Mute Inglorious Miltons
Philosophers and literary critics alike have used the idea of a mute inglorious Milton as a vehicle to explore literary fame as a defining measure of literary worth. Thomas Gray coined the phrase in his poem—”Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” Milton, of course, famously penned “Paradise Lost,” a classic of English literature. Gray’s poem introduces the idea of a mute inglorious Milton in his elegy upon observing a church cemetery and wondering who might be buried there. Might there have been a person buried in the churchyard with talent equal to Milton’s who simply never produced such a noteworthy poem, he seems to ask? Or might a person interred there have produced an epic poem of equal worth to Milton’s epic, but for some obstacle or failure of process, was never published or recognized in the same way as Milton was? In that instance, can we call that unpublished person a “mute inglorious Milton”?
First, let’s acknowledge that a mute inglorious Milton is a semantic conundrum. The famous Milton was a published poet who earned his literary reputation for writing by selling sufficient copies of “Paradise Lost.” A mute inglorious Milton is distinct from the writer of Paradise Lost precisely because he did not write, and publish, and earn fame for accomplishing those same feats. Thus, he is not that Milton. He may be some other Milton with equal talent and potential, but he cannot be a mute inglorious Milton because the real Milton was un-mute, was famous, and was published, which is precisely what makes him that Milton in the first place.
Semantics aside, poignant observations raised by the idea of a mute inglorious Milton remain for us modern writers—writers who may see in themselves a modern variant of an inaudible Milton. Writers, for example, whose novels have been repeatedly rejected by agents or publishers. Or writers who, but for their inability to find some well-connected influencer in Paris to act as their agent like a Gertrude Stein of old, are likewise unpublished and unsung. Other examples might include self-published writers like T.S. Eliot, Zane Grey, Virginia Wolf, D.H. Lawrence, and Henry David Thoreau. By self-publishing, these writers managed to garner enough traction from their self-publications to move on to greater success with traditional publishing. After all, isn’t the end game—aside from the pure joy of writing itself—to become an un-muted and unabashedly glorious Milton?
Going further with this little philosophical stroll through the churchyard, what is it about fame—particularly, fame as a writer of literature that attracts us? What is it that makes us protective of our work to the point that we resist the changes that others, say editors, might suggest to make the work better—meaning more publishable? After all, isn’t part of the process to have a work that is worthy of publication, which leads to fame, which leads to glory? Yes, you say, but at the same time, isn’t it also true that you want your fame to be about you, your soul, your creation, your expression, your imaginings untainted by the influence of others? How dare they, you grumble, suggest that you change the smile of your literary Mona Lisa just to get it through the doors and hung in the Louvre? Writers are a bundle of contradictions.
So, how does Richard Leslie Brock fit into this rambling tract about mute inglorious Miltons? As you can see from this website, he has three novels printed in the self-published category with a mere trickle of reviews—stellar and appreciated as they may be—traction still awaits. He has a third that he is shopping to agents, but he has not yet found his Gertrude. Despite that, he endeavors to carry on with his search by polishing his query, writing this blog, managing his website, and working on his fourth novel. Those of you who have some time on your hands (and if you are reading this screed, it’s quite possible that’s the case), consider reading The Sins of the Fathers, Laguna Diary and The House of Ilya. Oh, and please leave a review: (traction remember). And if you know Gertrude, put in a good word.
Thanks for reading.
Richard