Book Dunce is a series in which one of our writers finally succumbs to the lure of a book that has long been a big part of our culture that they have never read. Seen through fresh eyes, we evaluate, enjoy and sometimes get bored by these titans of mental real estate.
Looking back, it seems remarkable that I managed to get away with four years’ worth of liberal arts education – all the while making countless references to Dante’s Divine Comedy – and yet never once read beyond the poem’s immortal opening lines. I say it seems remarkable; on the flipside, I seriously doubt I was alone in pulling this off.
To be fair, I was a good and diligent student (as I’m sure many Dante-eschewers are). The problem, quite simply, is that The Divine Comedy – and even just the first and most referenced book, The Inferno – is a daunting motherfucker, akin to Ulysses, Paradise Lost and The Bible in both its cultural ubiquity and aura of unreadable density. Without the aid of brilliant teaching or burning desire, most students probably expect to flounder in the sea of words and metaphor that defines these canonical staples; and I, it must be said, was no exception. Stupidly, then, seeing as I was without the aid of either academic leadership or adequate zeal, I decided that our bi-weekly Book Dunce feature would be a good opportunity to remedy this situation – to get Dante under my belt (so to speak) once and for all. As the wise amongst you will undoubtedly and immediately realize, and as I somehow failed to grasp until about a week before my deadline, this was an absolutely terrible idea.
It’s amazing, but after more than three years of life beyond the academic hamster wheel, my professional-grade procrastination skills came back with all the ease and efficacy of riding a bike. I put off my self-imposed assigned reading with heroic resilience, and then – when it was getting down to the wire – went to absurd lengths to avoid actually reading The Inferno (including a multi-city CliffsNotes search that seemed to mock me in its difficulty). So you can imagine my pleasant, if somewhat sheepish surprise, when I finally sat down to begin Canto I and discovered that, at least in translation, Dante’s is fairly easy-reading verse. Unlike English poetic pentameter (with which, after years of deciphering the triple-layered subtext in requisite Shakespeare seminars, I am woefully familiar), Italian terza rima boils down to basic English prose. Of course, a great deal of Dante’s style, rhyme and rhythm is inevitably lost in translation, but until I’m seized with the urge to perfect my rusty Italian, the notes provided in my copy of the text (written by the personable-seeming Mark Musa, who I like to imagine resembles a beloved Italian professor I knew in college) will suffice to educate me on the poem’s finer points and cryptic passages.
Reading thus – easily, and with Musa’s notes on hand to speed up the process – I found my mind free to consider the moral and spiritual implications of Dante the Pilgrim’s journey through the circles of hell, a dubious and unsettling freedom, and one that I hadn’t anticipated in the slightest. I mean, Dante’s hell is no picnic, and to consider his vision as a potential reality begs the question: would I escape its torments? Forced to question the virtuousness of my own habits (does eating half a jar of peanut butter with a spoon and washing it down with a bottle of cabernet count as sinful gluttony?), I began to conceive of the significance that Dante’s poem – in essence, an everyman’s guide to spiritual redemption, written in the Italian vernacular and intended for popular consumption – might have had upon his contemporary readers. If the power of his tale reached me despite the obstacles presented by translation, procrastination and distraction (I was in the midst of a hectic move throughout my reading of the poem), how much more affecting must it have been to his intended audience?
After reading just the first few cantos, I sat back: I was a bit shaken, but also frankly and thoroughly impressed.
Now, of course, I’d be grateful for the chance to complete my reading of The Inferno in a seminar class, my understanding of the poet’s historical references and personal entanglements brought to detailed and, with any luck, innuendo-laden life by some crazy-haired and passionate professor. It doesn’t take much to make me miss college these days, struggling as I am to float multiple freelance jobs and a taste for expensive cheeses on a shoestring budget. But thanks to Dante the poet and his alter-ego, Dante the Pilgrim, I’ve recalled and come to appreciate the luxury inherent in closely reading a great and daunting text. Plus, I’m suddenly a bit more concerned with the fate of my mortal soul. And while this is certainly an unsettling preoccupation, it signals a definite win for Dante: after all, truly great writing is rarely comfortable – and by making us squirm just a little bit, truly great writers find the power to change our minds, our hearts, and so the world.
In short: score one for the Florentine.
by Lauren Westerfield
