In my undergraduate Milton class, I used three copies of Milton’s poetry. One was the 2020 Norton edition with extensive footnotes; the second, a heavy collector's volume with beautiful, creamy pages and a gold-detailed leather cover; the last, a gift from a friend: a used copy from 1950 with loose binding, thin paper, and pressed flowers between the pages, in which I recorded all my notes and reactions.
These books are also a representation of the ways I relate to Milton. The first book taught me to study him, dissecting his language and analysing his cultural context. There’s plenty of worthwhile work there. The second book let me feel the weight of his topic, the grandeur of his language, and the magnificence of his epic story. Awe is not a bad reaction. But, finally, the last book allowed me to respond to him personally. I laughed, underlined my favourite lines, and left little hearts in the margins when an image was particularly good. I see these three books not as mutually-exclusive options, but as co-existing ways to experience Milton. I have space for all three on my shelf.