Well, John Milton’s Paradise Lost. His blindness gives him such attunement to the invisible tactile world. The powerful contrast between a description of planets faithfully following their course and the inner sensations of our own organs touching each other. The planets, they know mathematics. Our inner planets, that is, the tactile sense we have of the various organs which compose us, they know warmth and wetness. Sometimes we want to be reminded of our eternal connection to the organs which sustain our bodies. If we can be reminded of our original place in the wombs of our mothers we can put up little resistance to these thoughts. But if we are not convinced, the proximity of our bodies becomes disgusting to us. We wish we could escape and be something other than mortal. Life reminds us of the great schism between the original state and the current one. The soothing poetry of Milton becomes uncomfortable to us. If we are in a group or are subject to the influence of modern rationality, this discomfort can become a social dogma, so we can’t even relate to Milton’s sentiment. We can’t bring ourselves to ignore Milton’s scientific naivete. We must only resort to enjoying his lyrical rhythms, if our discomfort doesn’t alienate us completely from his work. In his time, the scientific revolution was just around the corner. Is our modern reason which rejects this book the metaphorical equivalent of the pride which preceded Paradise Lost?