A little light learning for you.
It is 1665. John Milton, totally blind, very old, on the run, a revolutionary, republican, rebel, radical, regicide, spy, poet, bard and genius flees the London plague to a tiny cottage in the village of Chalfont St Giles.
All very exciting, but are you reading the wrong column?
Bear with me.
In this cottage he dictates the last two books of Paradise Lost, the greatest poem in the language. Even Blake thought so. Look! He comes slowly down the winding stairs, sightless at dawn, and thunders great blocks of perfect blank verse at his long suffering amanuensis daughter.
Well, that’s what my English teacher the late, great “Min” told us. He liked to big the bard up and we liked to listen.
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