For the whole of his life, William Morris lived within reach of the River Thames or one of its tributaries. In the last twenty-five years, he was within a stone’s throw of it at Kelmscott Manor on the Upper Thames, at Kelmscott House beside it in urban Hammersmith, and at his Merton Abbey factory on the River Wandle. The landscape of ‘the infant Thames’ being his ‘Heaven on earth’, he sought to ‘forget’ – a key word in The Earthly Paradise – the mighty lower river with its filth and degradation, though he betrays a feeling for the whole river as national artery. In his utopian romance, News from Nowhere, his protagonist laments the fact that the Thames is not celebrated in literature. The romance in question seeks to rectify that by imagining a boat trip between Morris’s houses – something he himself twice undertook – and this becomes, as it shapes the narrative, a journey back into the heart of England and forward through a country transformed into something like paradise. The sense of happiness is partly achieved through the exclusion from the story of anything dark or painful and, in this, it may remind us of Morris the pattern designer, whose fabrics – a group of them named after Thames tributaries – evoke an inviolate nature and, through it, contentment and rest.

Many stories about river miracles and wonders were repeatedly told, retold, and transformed as part of the process of establishing and understanding discussions about moral values, sanctity, and socioeconomic behaviors. This chapter looks at some of these, following the stories over time and space. The section “Reversing the Rivers,” framed around a specific set of narratives involving the bodies of saints, tackles medieval ideas about what is “natural” and the ways that saints were understood as capable of both sustaining and reversing the natural. The chapter ends with an exploration of a series of stories that stretches into the 1100s and 1200s, encouraging readers to imagine themselves transported both backwards to the Edenic past and forward to a future salvation.

Chapter 2 focuses on Augustine’s early consideration of the resurrection as the restoration of humanity to the pristine stability of paradise. In starting to describe the resurrection, Augustine begins to articulate the spiritual death and resurrection of the soul and the physical death and resurrection of the body. In this process, he begins to modify his previous notions of the soul’s immortality and the body’s dispensability. Emphasizing more a return to the original creation and less an advance to an eschatological transformation, Augustine reinforces his description of this repristination by articulating not only humanity’s spiritual change at the beginning of time, but also a version of millennialism at the end of time. At the center of these considerations, Augustine begins to explore the fleshly resurrection of Christ, who functions as the sacrament and example of our salvation. Augustine’s later clarifications of his early concept of Edenic repristination evince its limitations.

Chapter 4 discusses the circle that formed around the intelligencer Samuel Hartlib (1600–1662). Its overarching argument is that utilitarian science offered guidance in finding the simplicity of the unum necessarium (Luke 10:42), a common theme exalted by contemporary Millenarianism of the Protestant cause. In practical terms, knowledge about necessities became the means to achieving that goal of faith. The scepticism of the period and its obvious corrupting effects on morality and devotion led to inventiveness in pursuit of substitutes for the classical moral principle of the light of reason. The Reformers worked towards a political and theological project of a utilitarian science as a means by which to reach God and reproduce Paradise on earth. Scientific knowledge about trade became central and was expressed, significantly, in the momentous Navigation Acts of 1651.

This chapter explores georgic writing that appeared during the second half of the seventeenth century, with special attention to engagements with civil war and its aftermaths. The discussion also attends closely to Virgilian strains in English georgic writing and to the significances of literary imitation and translation. Authors covered include Andrew Marvell, John Evelyn, Abraham Cowley, John Milton, Joseph Addison and John Dryden, as well as the ancient writers Hesiod and Virgil.

Here Dante, not yet dead, is in Paradise. His participation premortem in the knowledge and love of Heaven, and so in its community, is experienced as the “mystical,” which, earthbound, points to the reality that transcends the earth. And if Paradiso is by way of its narrative the articulation of Dante’s mystical theology it is so in a style that seems to owe much to that of St. Bonaventure, a distinctive feature of which is that he brings together all the steps on the way to a mystical union from the lowest “purgative” disciplines of the senses and through the reform of intellect, memory, and will, into the final vision of God. This theological epistemology allows Dante to conceive of Paradise as holding together the two dimensions of Heaven as at once an eternal journey of learning, an ultimate paideia, and a vision finally achieved.

Bodily images – smiles (especially those of Beatrice), music, and silences – are key elements of the language of this celestial pedagogy that are also those of Heaven’s essential nature. Smiles: It was in Purgatory that Beatrice reprimanded Dante for his grim seriousness (see Chapter 5). In Paradiso 33 Dante learns why: It is that smiles originate in the Trinity itself: They are what make God to be a trinity. And silence: Now Satan’s silence is seen as the opposite of Heaven’s and the two “apophaticisms,” of Heaven and Hell, embrace the whole of language, and all poetry, that finds its place between those two silences. And for Peter Damien Heaven’s silence is that of music, reflecting Boethius’s belief that each of the cosmic spheres emit a note, the conjunction of which is a celestial silence. And the last of word of all, Dante says, the word that moves his will, is the Word made flesh. For what moves his will is what that moves the sun and the other stars, the Word made human.

Illustrates how weedless landscapes were imagined in the eighth and ninth centuries, examining their representation in manuscript illuminations of Genesis and in several Roman basilicas.

The essay surveys a broad selection of literary responses to tourism, which plays a significant role in the Caribbean. While the tourism economy is not inconsequential, the authors in focus tend to portray the commercialization and commodification of the archipelago, often marketed through the fantasy of paradise islands, in a negative light. Targeting the ‘leisure imperialism’ of tourism ideology, they trace an unsettling legacy in which the violent past of sugar and slavery survives in the smiling servitude of industrialized tourism. The superficial discourse of love and peace, the hedonism imposed on the sunny tropics, the supposedly willing sycophancy of the locals eager to please wealthy tourists are all dismantled through humour and dark satire to reveal a bleak underside of drugs, sex, exploitation, antipathy and social rot. However, calls for responsible, ‘slow’ tourism more beneficial to the locals hope that the industry may be ethically operated.

In this chapter, the author considers Lapsarian Theodicy, according to which the originating cause of natural evil, including the suffering of animals in nature, was a cosmic Fall set in motion when the first human disobeyed God. He argues that, besides being antiquated by Darwinian science, this traditional explanation of animal suffering fails on four analytical-theologicalgrounds. For it entails (1) an implausible original fragility of the created world, (2) extreme moral impropriety on God’s part, (3) an implausible account of motivation to do evil in paradisiacal circumstances,and (4) an overvaluing of human freedom. Furthermore, the author argues that Lapsarian Theodicy is not supported unambiguously by the story of Adam and Eve in Eden, as commonly assumed. He concludes that theists are best advised to search for non-lapsarian alternatives, as the majority of participants in the controversy are doing.

This chapter analyses the innovative moral structure of Dante’s afterlife as a whole. Where some scholars, such as Cogan and Moevs, have tried to set out an overarching moral rationale for the Commedia, Dante incorporates diverse ethical criteria for Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise.

This chapter takes a foundational Muslim tradition known from early Arab sources and widespread in Muslim Southeast Asia, namely Adam’s banishment from paradise and his landing in Sarandib (the Arabic name for Sri Lanka), as a starting point to ask whether Adam’s fall to earth in this particular site mattered to, or shaped in some way, Malay perceptions of exile to colonial Ceylon, and if so, how? Based on references to Adam and his plight found in Malay sources from Sri Lanka, Arabic sources, among them Ibn Battuta’s Travels, and the Javanese Serat Menak Serandhil (a volume of Menak tales narrating the life of the Prophet’s uncle Menak Amir Hamza, which unfolds in Sarandib), the chapter argues that the ancient story of Adam’s banishment from paradise to earth, a paradigm for all future banishments, was deployed to frame and partially give meaning to exile to Ceylon. Recalling Adam’s fall shifted the temporal frame of political exile under colonial domination and located contemporary, worldly events within a divinely determined chronology.