Transcending the boundaries of time (as all good poets must, lest they be doomed to mere historical footnote status), are you prepared to catapult yourself headfirst into the ever-turbulent, lace-collared, soul-wracked existence of John Donne? Yes, that John Donne: the one who turned flea bites into flirtation and existential crises into world-class verse. Katherine Rundell’s Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne is not just a biography; it is an excavation, an alchemy, a séance in book form. It reaches across the chasm of centuries to shake the man by his very ruffled cuffs, insisting he explain himself. It is, in short, a work worthy of its subject: paradoxical, impassioned, and quite possibly in love with its own metaphors.
Story
Rundell, who first made a name for herself with Girl Savage (a title that sounds vaguely like something Donne himself might have written had he been more committed to YA fiction), has written a book that breathes life into a man who, despite his reputation, spent a great deal of time contemplating death.
We begin with a portrait. A young Donne, 23 years old, sits for a painting. Rundell tells us: “the painting was of a man who knew about fashion; he wore a hat big enough to sail a cat in, a big lace collar, an exquisite moustache.” And suddenly, we are there. We see him. He is no longer a name in a Norton Anthology but a tangible, rakish, alarmingly well-accessorised human being.
John Donne was born in 1572 in London, England, to a Roman Catholic family in a land that was very much Not Having That. He lived his life like a man who knew that faith could be both a calling and a punishment. His eventual conversion to Anglicanism was not merely theological, but deeply personal. This metamorphosis played a significant role in his personal and professional trajectory.
Professionally, Donne’s life took a turn in 1615 when he took holy orders in the Church of England, eventually becoming the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in 1621. His life was, in short, the Renaissance version of a prestige drama: full of scandal, introspection, and unexpectedly profound one-liners. His sermons became celebrated contributions to English religious literature. Donne’s later life was characterised by contemplation and introspection, reflected in the devotional and meditative character of his later poems and religious writings. John Donne died in 1631, leaving a legacy as one of the greatest metaphysical poets in the English language.
He was a man who walked so often in darkness that it became for him a daily commute
Katherine Rundell considered Donne a man so familiar with the abyss that it started saving him a seat.
In the opening chapters, Rundell whisks us from the bawdy, chaotic taverns of Donne’s youth (where he perfected his particular brand of poetic seduction) to the austere halls of political power, where he found employment as secretary to Sir Thomas Egerton, to the quiet reflection of his later years as the Dean of St. Paul’s. And then, inevitably, to his greatest literary inspiration: love, or rather, the catastrophic fallout of love.
The author’s treatment of Donne’s love life is similarly revelatory. For it is Anne More, Donne’s wife, who catalyses his transformation. Their secret marriage resulted in disgrace, dismissal, and Donne’s immortal line, “John Donne, Anne Donne, Undone”, which is the 17th-century equivalent of subtweeting your own life choices. Yet from this personal ruin emerged poetry that still speaks to us today, proving that suffering, if nothing else, makes for excellent verse.
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
John Donne’s original poetic pickup line: seduction, with extra entomology.
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Yes, Donne wrote an entire poem about a flea bite as a metaphor for physical intimacy. And yes, it remains one of the greatest pieces of love poetry ever penned. Rundell, to her credit, recognises this as a moment of pure poetic audacity and treats it accordingly.
Donne’s later works, such as A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning, lean into the metaphysical, his verse stretching language searching for meaning as though syntax itself could unlock the divine. Using the metaphor of a compass, he describes two lovers’ souls. Despite physical separation, their spiritual connection remains unbroken.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
John Donne stretched love thinner than a gold leaf, yet never breaking.
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
Rundell’s description distinguishes itself by demonstrating an understanding of Donne’s poetry as a reflection of his shifting life experiences, rather than mere intellectual exercises. The contextual placement of his verses within the narrative of Donne’s life is commendable. Rundell’s rigorous examination of the sonnets as a conversation with contemporary social, political, and religious issues unveils the essence of Donne’s perspective. This makes the book a dynamic reading for those interested in Donne’s poetry, the evolution of English literature, or the intersection of art and history.
Rundell’s keen understanding of Donne’s oscillation between the earthly and divine, his struggle with existential questions and his continuous battle to reconcile his desires and beliefs find its way onto every page. The exploration of Donne’s religious tumult and how it manifested in his writings is masterful. Here, Donne’s conversion from Catholicism to Anglicanism is not just a switch in denominations, but a crucial point of personal and creative transformation.
No man is an island,
John Donne has an answer for your existential crisis, now available in a convenient, geographically themed metaphor.
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
Review
Does Super-Infinite have flaws? Of course. It would hardly be Donne-adjacent if it didn’t contain an element of excess. Rundell’s enthusiasm sometimes threatens to spill over into the kind of heady, academic rhapsodising that might leave some readers momentarily adrift. The level of cultural and societal detail can feel like being handed an Elizabethan map and told to navigate blindfolded. And yet, this is a book that rewards patience. Rundell’s prose is lush, intricate, and entirely befitting her subject.
If Donne’s genius lay in his ability to fuse the sacred with the secular, the erotic with the existential, then Rundell mirrors this in her own way, merging rigorous scholarship with unbridled passion. She is, in a sense, performing Donne’s own trick: crafting something that is at once deeply intellectual and deeply personal.
In the grand pantheon of literary biographies, Super-Infinite: The Transformations of John Donne stands as a testament to what such books can be: not just an account of a life but an immersion into it. It is history and literature, criticism and celebration, all at once.
Reading Super-Infinite is not unlike reading Donne himself. It demands engagement. It rewards those willing to sit with its complexities. It is not a book to be skimmed, but to be savoured.
Verdict
Rundell’s Super-Infinite is not just a biography; it is an experience. It resurrects Donne in all his vivid, contradictory, exquisite humanity. It is as ambitious and audacious as its subject. Whether you are a long-time devotee of Donne or someone whose sole exposure to him is that one “no man is an island” quote you half-remember from For Whom the Bell Tolls, this book is worth your time.
If nothing else, it might inspire you to pick up Donne’s poetry and marvel anew at the fact that someone, four hundred years ago, had the sheer nerve to turn a flea into a seduction technique. And if that’s not worth reading about, I don’t know what is.