To kick off my series on “Literature for the Modern Mind,”
I’ll start with the one who started it all—Dante Alighieri. Really, I should address
his whole Commedia here, but since
I’ve taught the Inferno for the past
three years in my senior class, and (I’m ashamed to admit!) I haven’t yet read
the Purgatorio and Paradiso (both this summer, I hope!)
I’ll stick to the first of the three-part journey.
For more on what kinds of literature I hope to write about
in this series, see my earlier post on the modern self. I want to examine some
works that I’ve read and taught that put forth a concept of our identity that runs
counter to the modern one. By a modern identity I mean one predicated on the
notion that the body and mind have little to say to each other, that the
physical and spiritual exist on separate planes and interact only through a
series of representations or extrapolations. Standing against this world view
is the kind of art we might call incarnational,
in the broad sense that it seeks to express the spirit through matter, through carne, the flesh. Incarnation is obviously an important word for Catholics (and all
Christians), as it expresses a doctrine central to the faith, namely, that Christ,
God-made-human, took on flesh in order to express love through its wounds. This
whole process wasn’t a symbol, or metaphor, but the real thing, love itself,
known as only we can know it—through the human form.
Flannery O’Connor once famously said at a dinner party that
if the Eucharist “[is] a symbol, to Hell with it!” One might also apply that
saying to the kind of literature I’m trying to define (and of which O’Connor
wrote her fair share). In it there are really no things such as symbols, for if
we think about characters primarily through gestures and talismans that
“symbolize” their real identities, we have already divided the world into the
two realms of body and spirit. Rather, incarnational
literature seeks to collapse this kind of divided vision by presenting, I would
argue, the eternal through the physical.
This all sounds rather vague, so let’s let Dante show us the
way (guided by Virgil, of course).
I often spend an entire class focusing on the first nine
lines of the Inferno. Dante’s famous
opening sets the stage for a journey into the wilderness of the self, one that
will end happily but only after he faces directly the darkness that lies within
him, and within us all. I use the Anthony Esolen Modern Library translation with my students, which is perfect for them—very readable, footnoted only when
absolutely necessary, and supported by Esolen’s excellent commentaries on Dante’s
medieval perspective, which Esolen, to a large extent, shares (and I mean that
as a compliment, by the way). His translation begins:
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself in a dark wilderness,
for I had wandered from the straight and true.
How hard a thing it is to tell about,
that wilderness so savage, dense, and harsh,
even to think of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter, death is hardly more—
but to reveal the good that came to me,
I shall relate the other things I saw.
Right away we realize that we are in a kind of in-between
reality. The wilderness is not simply a physical wilderness, a hard-to-travel,
heavily wooded area, but a spiritual one as well. Dante hasn’t just lost the footpath,
but the “straight and true.” Dante emerges from the wilderness early on in the
first canto, but is prevented from journeying towards the light (the sun, but
also God’s truth) by three beasts, which likewise occupy a space between the
world of the flesh and the world of the spirit. The she-wolf which crosses his
path is not merely a wolf but one “whose scrawniness seemed stuffed / with all
men’s cravings, stuffed with desires.” Spirit and flesh are indistinguishable
in this world. You cannot have the she-wolf without also having “all men’s
cravings,” nor the cravings without the she-wolf. They are one and the same. The
beasts turn Dante back into the same wilderness from which he just emerged, and
his guided journey into the wilderness of sin begins.
Students often ask me if the Commedia is “true.” In other words, did Dante “really” visit Hell,
Purgatory, and Heaven, and by “really” they mean “in the physical sense.” Such
a question must be asked, of course, if students hope to begin having their
worldview transformed by Dante’s art, but the best response is perhaps to say
that it is “true” if we understand “true” as Dante did. For Dante, the most
real world is not simply physical but one that has been made more clear by the
workings of the poetic imagination. The most accurate depiction of a landscape
is not given to us by a camera but by a poet or a painter. The imagination is
the access point to truth, and in Dante’s relating of his journey into the
wilderness of Hell, and later, the mountain of Purgatory and circles of
Paradise, he is in fact showing us the real truth of human action, in all its
dimensions.
To the modern mind the imagination is at best an
individual’s ripcord, a way to escape from reality, and at worst a vehicle for
delusion, a way to avoid reconciling one’s mind to the hard realities of fact. But
to the Catholic artist, like to the Greco-Roman poet or Native American storyteller,
the imagination is the one thing necessary to tell a “true” story. Imagination,
in this view, does not isolate us but unites us with the real world.
Dante’s goal, in the Commedia,
is to present the eternal dimension of human action—that is, to show us how our
habits shape our souls. In a way, this is quintessential Aristotle. Virtue (arête) is a habit: we are what we
repeatedly do. Someone who constantly
thinks about ways to get more money is in fact the definition of a greedy
person; someone who consistently visits shut-ins is a charitable person, etc. The
idea is not new. Dante’s great contribution here is that he presents that
eternal dimension as a good artist must—through vividly physical descriptions, the
world accessible to us through the five senses.
As we travel through the different circles of Hell, we see the
identities that individuals have created through their sins, identities invisible in the
world of time and space but made real in Dante’s poetic journey. A few of my favorites:
In the fourth circle the greedy roll huge boulders at each
other, jeering, unable to stop for fear of getting crushed by a stone rolled by
someone else. They are appropriately “dim[med] beyond all recognition now,” for
they sought to be distinguished in their earthly lives.
In the second level of the seventh circle the souls of
suicide victims are condemned to inhabit gnarled trees, whose fruit is plucked
by birds. At the Resurrection of the Dead, they will be the only souls in Hell
not reunited with their bodies, for in their self-inflicted deaths they have
slung them off. Instead, their bodies will be draped over their branches like
laundry on clotheslines. The sounds of their voices is horrific to describe:
As when you light one end of a green log,
the air inside that forces its way out
will squeak and sputter at the other end,
So from the splintered limb came forth at once
both blood and speech…
Dante has great pity for them, and promises to do what he
can to restore the good name of one of the suicide victims, Pier della Vigna, when
he returns to the world.
There are many more memorable descriptions of what sins have
done to individuals. Hypocrites, so concerned with presenting good appearances,
are weighed down by gilded cloaks of lead. Simonists, who have committed the
sin of selling Church offices for profit (think of Chaucer’s Pardoner), are stuck,
head-down and drowning, in baptismal fonts. Fortune-tellers have their heads
twisted around and walk forward while looking backwards, weeping tears that run
into their ass cracks. And so on. All these descriptions are governed by the
notion of contrapasso, Dante’s “divine
justice”—the idea that the punishment is appropriate to the crime committed,
often in an ironic sense.
I could go on, but I’ll wrap up by reiterating the idea that
there are no real “symbols” in Dante’s universe. That is, the boulder-rolling
that the greedy participate in does not symbolize
their desire for money—it is their
greed itself, in its eternal dimension. This is what they were really doing,
every minute of their lives, as their habits formed their identities. They have
come to desire this action—they can’t stop rolling boulders because they don’t
want to, and that’s the real horror of their sin.
I have to keep reminding my students that the “eternal” is
not the same as the “infinite.” Eternity lies outside of time, and thus this
Hell that Dante describes is not the afterlife in the sense that it occurs
chronologically after the souls have died. It occurs outside of time and space,
and therefore contains all of it. What Dante witnesses are the sinners’ lives
themselves, from the vantage point of eternity. In his art, Dante has to make
that invisible dimension visible, and so must funnel it through the world
accessible to us in our senses. Thus, it appears distorted, stretched, and bent,
but not beyond what we are able to recognize.
This making visible the invisible is what I mean by calling Dante’s
art, and all Catholic art, incarnational.
It is an attempt to give flesh to that reality which is the source of all flesh
but not contained within it. It straddles the border between the familiar and the
strange, and doing so directs us on a journey that, like the poet's himself, moves outward
and inward at the same time.
Speaking of "contrapasso": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtEFEdrrXc4
ReplyDeleteNice! Can't beat the Simpsons. Dante's reach is far...
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