The man looks infinitely old, almost to death. Only his hands seem alive in flesh, his hands that once held pen and book before he was blind.
I did not intend to see Henry Fuseli’s “Milton Dictating to His Daughter.” I only intended to see Antonio Mancini’s “Resting.” Katherine wrote about it, alluded to it in her essay “Captive: A Love Story.” I always wished to see it. The painting looked as if Mancini himself was sick as he drew the sick woman in his picture. It was blurred, groggy. Her hair did not seem to be intact; it was as if it were matted by some thick wig.
Anyway. I did not know Milton was blind. Became blind, at least. And in the painting he is carefully dictating “Paradise Lost” to his daughter, with lips slightly parted. I wish I could read his lips.
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