The Super-Infinite Donne

 

...in these new heavens and new earth, for ever and ever and ever, and infinite and super-infinite forevers.
- John Donne (from a funeral sermon)

The thing about historical figures is that they (over time and to our culture as it shifts focus) tend to be known for one or two things, which becomes so engrained in the social views and splashes of information, eventually leading to a sort of stereotype without understanding. Any figure who is shrouded in some cloudy historical data is prone to this kind of treatment where gaps and holes are everywhere.

An example of this would be William Shakespeare. I bet you know a lot about Shakespeare, but do you? Could you tell me much about his life at all? His process? His daily life and associations? Maybe you know that he wrote plays and then had them performed at The Globe Theatre on the river Thames in London? Another figure I have admired for many years without knowing much about in this sense is John Donne.

I have always been a bit mystified by the life of the poet John Donne, only knowing a few snippets of his story. Thanks to this new biography, I know a good bit more. He lived in London during the time of Shakespeare (1572- 1631), yet history is rather fuzzy during this era about many things regarding his family life, his siblings, and simple regular historical records. This is partly due to the great fire of 1666, which tore through the City of London and destroyed libraries, buildings, records and his home. His mother was the great-niece of the martyr Sir Thomas More (who wrote Utopia). Many members of his Catholic family were killed for their faith, including his brother who was hiding a priest in his lodgings during a time of persecution.

Such ponderings might arise, for example - did Donne and Shakespeare ever meet, and if so did they talk about poetry and the imagination? They lived at the same time and attended some of the same events. Shakespeare's plays were going on across the river Thames from where Donne lived (did Donne go to any plays? Surely he did). They lived through times of several deadly plagues and immense suffering, as well as the ongoing religious strife between Catholics and Protestants. Donne ends up converting from his Catholic background becoming a clergyman and then the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He became one of the beloved and well respected figures of London as the Dean, giving many sermons that drew huge crowds.

The ends crown our works, but thou crown'st our ends,
For, at our end begins our endless rest,
This first last end, now zealously possessed,

I think I could ponder on these lines, alone, for days, and his use of the word "end" five times in three lines in relation to a crown and the infinite round circle that a crown exemplifies.

He wrote some of the most multilayered, beguiling poetry in the English language, 200 poems in fact. He was first known for his love poetry, with double meanings and sensual themes. He played with language, creating many words that have their first source of usage in the Oxford English Dictionary from Donne (the word 'commonplacer' for example). Over time as he moved into the role of a clergyman his poems retained all those multi-facets and double-meanings but directed toward the spiritual life in layers and layers of meanings hidden in the poems. I love how the author says Donne was a man so in control of his poems he could layer them with a dozen references. He could write a twelve line sonnet that will take you a week to read. I wrote in the margin next to those sentences "so true". That's definitely how I feel about his sonnets.

Thanks to this new book by Rundell, I now better connect the poems to his life with a fresh understanding and appreciation. Here is a favourite divine poem of mine, that C.S. Lewis borrows the first line for one of his essays:

What if this present were the world's last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell,
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes' fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour, so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.