The Problems with Purgatory ~ Part Two

Dante Gazes at Mount Purgatory
Agnolo Bronzino, c. 1530

Designed as a mountain, Dante’s Purgatory does everything that it should as we take the next step on the soul’s journey. It tells us that redemption is possible, although it takes some work; it shows us that our salvation is reliant upon our willingness to accept personal responsibility; and, it stresses that mistakes—even serious mistakes—are part of the human experience. More, it tells us that we are not exempt from trying to resolve conflict, ameliorate our moral faults, or ignore our duty to find just answers to sticky problems. In Dante’s Purgatory, we are not allowed to kick unpopular or complicated issues down the street; we have to face them. And, indeed, the mountaineers of Purgatory do just that, making the story a rewarding and dramatic experience for those of us who are observing their transformation. However, Purgatory—by definition—means that accountability is at the core of the story, and it is for this reason that I believe it is sometimes difficult for readers and artists to engage with the text.

Now, this isn’t to contend that Dante’s readership cannot accept responsibility, or that the creative visions of countless talented minds cannot comprehend the importance of owning our flaws before entering Heaven. What I mean is that Purgatory is a very different story than the one told in The Inferno, where hope is banished on its threshold, and all the souls swirl through horrifying penalties and ultimate oblivion. In other words, Hell is a place where change is not expected, and where conversion will not take place; whereas Purgatory tells the tale of ongoing, mature self-reflection coupled with a series of cleansing actions that promise to purify the spirit. Here, perfected change is the story, and rather than spinning down and into inglorious obscurity, Purgatory reels us upward, pulling us through similar discussions of sin, but toward a contrasting and happier end. Therefore, we cannot insist that Dante simply give us an alpine-like adaptation of The Inferno, especially when the stakes are different and the sinners are contrite.

It is for this reason that I find Purgatory a more interesting and satisfying adventure than The Inferno. Upon the terraces, moral culpability and consequence are openly discussed, and we discover that we are charged with handling our burdens with grace, dignity, and duty. This is meatier conversation, full of nuanced philosophical arguments, and sincerely given advice. There is no doubt that Purgatory’s ascent is difficult and sometimes unpleasant, but it does not tax us more than necessary. Further, it is a place where the soul makes a difference by making an effort, underlining the healing powers of forgiveness and justice, as opposed to the emptiness of treachery and revenge.  More importantly, we find that “…as the load of sin is gradually lightened by penitence, the going becomes easier and easier, until on the last stair it is as though the pilgrim’s feet had wings” (70). Indeed! The physicality that Dante’s mountain demands ingeniously mirrors many of our own experiences with accepting responsibility for our actions: do we not initially feel the weight of our responsibility? Isn’t the burden heavy? And, yet, isn’t responsibility just as often liberating, as it allows us to have some say in our destiny through the acknowledgment of our limitations and weaknesses? Quite so, I say! Hence, I urge anyone who is interested to look up the slope of Mount Purgatory, and refuse to let its steep angles and rocky terrain dampen your spirit. I assure you, the view is magnificent!

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Alighieri, Dante. Purgatory. Trans. Dorothy L. Sayers. London: Penguin Books, 1955. Print.

The Problems with Purgatory ~ Part One

Dorothy L. Sayers

Twice now, I’ve read Dorothy L. Sayers’ translation of The Divine Comedy, finding important insight and encouragement in her notes and historical analysis. In fact, I’ve often recommended her version of Dante’s masterpiece, stating that her background in detective fiction well serves her ability to pick out the most salient “clues” of the poem’s journey and scope. To be sure, she lays out the plan so meticulously that it’s hard to get lost on Dante’s path, or among the sparkling visual spectacle that he creates. More, Sayers confronts the baffling reality regarding Dante’s Purgatory, in her brilliant introduction to the book, stating:

            …the Purgatorio is, for English readers, the least known, the least quoted—and the most beloved. It forms, as it were, a test case. Persons who pontificate about Dante without making mention of Purgatory may reasonably be suspected of knowing him only at second hand, or of having at most skimmed through the circles of Hell in the hope of finding something to be shocked at. Let no one, therefore, get away with a condemnation—or for that matter a eulogy—of Dante on the mere strength of broiled Popes, disemboweled Schismatics, grotesque Demons, Count Ugolino, Francesca da Rimini and the Voyage of Ulysses, even if backed up by an erotic mysticism borrowed from the Pre-Raphaelites, and the line ‘His will is our peace,” recollected from somebody’s sermon…For The Inferno may fill one with only an appalled fascination, and the Paradiso may daunt one at first by its intellectual severity; but if one is drawn to the Purgatorio at all, it is by the cords of love, which will not cease drawing till they have drawn the whole poem into the same embrace. (9)

Lord Peter Wimsey Collection

Given this, it is hardly a surprise that Sayers, who does not skirt the intricacies of morality or personal responsibility in her deftly written Lord Peter Wimsey mystery series, brings as many finely tuned arguments as to why Purgatory is the “lesser read” volume of the trilogy, outlining them with her usual knack for scrutinizing the evident misperceptions:

1)      There are perfectly understandable reasons for the common reader’s neglect of this tenderest, subtlest, and most human section of the Comedy. One must, of course, allow, in Protestant countries, for widespread ignorance of—and half-unconscious resistance to, the whole doctrine of Purgatory. But this obstacle is, I think, only a minor one. (9)

I agree. As a concept, Purgatory may not be taught or highlighted among Protestant communities, but in fairness, as a Roman Catholic, I haven’t heard the word Purgatory in a priest’s homily since I was a kid. That said, the idea of Purgatory is probably well known among many faiths, even if it isn’t part of the doctrinal tradition.

2)      The head and front of the trouble is the persistent influence of that popular superstition which—originating in the eighteenth century along with the vogue Gothick gloom and Tales of Horror—has fastened upon Dante the title ‘Poet of Hell.’ This, reinforced as it is for us by a similar superstition about Milton, encourages the credulous to suppose that a Dante out of Hell is a Dante poetically out of his element, and that the Purgatorio and Paradiso are not only less characteristic of their author than The Inferno, but also inferior in workmanship. (9-10)

Italian, Mid-15th Century Depiction of Dante’s, Purgatory

I agree—again. In spite of the artistic evidence to the contrary, I believe there is simply a slanted opinion that Purgatory isn’t as good as The Inferno. And, Sayers, makes a fine point when she states that Purgatory, which is depicted as a mountain that a soul must scale to reach redemption, is too often viewed as merely, “…Hell in reverse” (14). In other words, there may be a bias that you aren’t missing much, since Dante’s categories of sin are still present, but only headed in the opposite direction.

Still, Sayers hits on an additional aspect of the poem that might put people off from touring the Purgatorial terraces, and she explains it this way:

 3)      There is another reason why we may not approve what Dante is doing in the Purgatory—a reason succinctly phrased by one critic in the poignant cry: ‘Then the sermons begin.’ (11)

A-ha! Is Purgatory too preachy? I didn’t find it so, but Sayers rightly clarifies that the poem includes “…long passages which can only be classed as didactic poetry—versified statements of plain theological and scientific fact” (11). Naturally, this directs us to Dante’s vision of Purgatory as a place where intellectual comprehension and moral discernment are greatly valued, and a place in which  souls are ready to bear the responsibility for their own salvation.

Hence, I add a fourth reason: Don’t we associate the act of climbing as harder than the act of falling? And, this becomes the topic for the next discussion of Purgatory, and its remarkable purpose in Dante’s poem.

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Alighieri, Dante. Purgatory. Trans. Dorothy L. Sayers. London: Penguin Books, 1955. Print.

Travels with Dante: The Early Years ~ Part Two

When I asked my parish priest if evil was real, it was a genuine and personal question. I had reached a point where I seriously wondered if evil operated as its own force, as opposed to being the product of actions done by those with broken minds and hearts. Surely, valid psychological, emotional and social reasons exist for those individuals who lash out and harm others, but in an age where we have no better answers for punishing fury than in the past, and where cruelty continues to find a home, evil’s place in our day-to-day lives started to reshape my thinking. Hence, I began to look at evil from a more intimate perspective: how was I connected to it?

While I have never been a particularly destructive person, I still wondered to what extent that I participated in evil. Was I really doing all that I could to bring out the best in myself and others? Did I give anything without expectation? Did I hone my compassion with the same interest and commitment that I gave to my ambitions? Was I really informed about the issues and leaders that I supported? Were kindnesses really reciprocated? And, while some of these failings may be selfish and lazy, are they inherently evil? After completing The Inferno the first time, I had to conclude that they indeed they were—although I agreed with Dante’s analysis that some evil is indeed greater than others. More importantly, however, I began to see a clearer picture of how evil stands as its own object among us. Now, do I believe that vicious demons spin around us, trying to ruin our souls and damn us forever? No, but for an artist, these are great, archetypal images, and it’s no wonder why they have persisted—because doesn’t it often feel exactly like that? Doesn’t it feel, on occasion, that a strange, outer power surrounds us, swirling maliciously against our better intentions? Haven’t we, at sometime, felt pulled into making a callous or offensive choice, when a kinder, nobler alternative was just as obvious? Or plainer, haven’t we all sat among co-workers, family, and friends and joined in a bitch session that left us feeling like we could only reenter the world in a HazMat suit? And, doesn’t it feel like we have to rinse it, or peel it or sand it away to get back to our old selves?

 Nevertheless, Dante is pretty clear about evil’s power, showing us that it takes our choice to give it strength. In other words, we aren’t let off the hook with insouciant justifications that the “devil made us do it.” Evil, according to Dante, is only has potent as our willingness to employ it. We are responsible for the degree that evil makes in our lives. In fact, I believe this is the entire point of Dante’s enterprise in The Divine Comedy, particularly since he insists that we must first visit Hell: we have to accept our failings and their potential consequences, before we can lay claim to our better selves. And, after reading The Inferno, I venture that it’s a bit harder for us to defend our personal envies, or sow discord for the sake of it, or respond with unanswerable anger or violence. Moreover, we are compelled to reevaluate our relationship with personal gain and self-interest. And, better, we are left with a greater understanding that evil is a stubborn reality for each of us, leaving us with the choice to engage with it, or leave it alone.

 

Travels with Dante: The Early Years ~ Part One

Several years ago, I sat in an office of my Roman Catholic parish, and asked a resident priest if evil was real. He wisely answered, “If you’re asking those questions, then you must read The Divine Comedy.” This is the advice that started it all: the reading, the research, the nagging—even haunting—truth that I would never be able to put the work away. Having completed the poem, I knew that it would give contour to everything that I undertook, artistic and otherwise—but definitely artistic. I also knew that others had already traveled with Dante: poets, painters, filmmakers, musicians, philosophers, theologians, historians and so many others have used him to inform their work, and widen their own creative thinking. Dante’s poem has inspired legions of smart, talented and insightful followers, and they too cross centuries and fields of study and professions. Indeed, they include some of the greatest minds that the human family has produced. While I make no claim to this special club, I knew that, from this time forward, Dante would seep into my own artistic efforts, as well. I was, like others, asking him to be my guide.

Allow me to be clear: I do not create work like The Comedy; I do not burden myself with that type of pressure. Instead, I try to emulate Dante’s obvious work ethic, which is as much a marvel as the poem. He worked for fifteen years on a single poem, determined to fulfill his greatest artistic challenge. He eschewed the standards of the academic and artistic elite of his age, preferring to display the beauty of natural language over the language of privilege. And, he invented his own poetic form to meet the needs of his expression, which is a tantalizing example for any artist. Still, there are other, and more specific, guidelines that Dante provokes as I labor over my own efforts: is the work satisfying my expectations?; have I designed a story that gives my audience easy access to my observations and impressions?; have I honored the cultural heritage of artistic history by digging deeper and learning more?; and have I used my native language to its fullest potential and within my greatest ability? This is how Dante has become my artistic mentor, and how he compels me to put forth the best that I can artistically produce. As for helping me to understand evil, I save that discussion for future installments.

Gustave Dore, Wood Engraving

Hellfire

Today, here in Chicago, the heat index has reached 103 degrees, and I should be boiling over with witty comments that cast sharply drawn insights between Dante’s Inferno, and the furnace-like atmosphere of our summer weather. I should be, but I am not, and largely because 1) my air conditioner is making asthmatic appeals for mercy, and 2) Dante—as many scholars have pointed out—uses “heat” and “fire” sparingly in his “Funnel of the Damned.” It’s there of course; the fiery rain, the burning sand, the tombs and rivers ablaze, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It’s simply not there in excess, and interestingly, it is not used as a metaphor for the center of Hell, which instead is coated in fixed and ruthless ice. So, what of it? What of Dante’s restraint in using fire as an image of ever-lasting punishment and suffering?

Artistically, of course, his restraint allows us a broader view of the dangers to the soul. Dante warns us that there are other agonies to fear when we engage in avarice, lust, treachery, and wrath, and that these agonies are far more specific to our human choice. Thus, he spares us no limit of his creative imagination in devising worrisome and terrible vehicles for his range of contrapasso (or contrapassi?). Regardless, it occurs to me that fire as an image of Hell may be a more modern concept, that we may have this image based on poets like Milton, as opposed to Dante himself. Could this be so? Is fire, as an image, as changeable a symbol as anything else? Is it “newer” to the image of Hell? And more importantly, what’s the big deal if it is?

Well, I suppose that it’s not the biggest deal out there when we discuss Dante’s creation of The Inferno, but it does bring to mind that, as artists, we should care how symbols are used, where they come from, and how they help us build our stories and shape our work. The historical, cultural, and traditional use of symbols can make or break our creative output. If we’re too familiar in our use of metaphor and symbol we run the risk of being clichéd, but if we are too murky then we can become obscure, or even pretentious. This is not a problem for a master like Dante, who always controls his use of image to explain his journey. He doesn’t overdo, but neither does he candy-coat the consequences of the fallen soul. He spells it out in familiar, but inventive ways, which helps us to recognize the value of caution and prudence. In other words, Dante’s remarkable use of symbols—particularly in Hell and Purgatory—are like literary flares that the poet is sending up to help us sharpen our thoughts on choice and responsibility.

I conclude that this is all worth thinking about, and no doubt I will as tomorrow’s weather threatens to be worse than today’s. If my air conditioner does not break down from weariness and grief, I will gladly discuss this and other issues related to Dante with anyone who wishes to share their insights. Your input is always welcome! Stay cool.

 

Welcome to Ageless Dante

After twenty+ plus years in arts administration, and as a professional performance poet, I have had both a bird’s eye view of and hands-on experience with artists using other artists to inform and inspire new work. Still, Dante seems different to me. He continues to creatively nourish artists in such way that one can only marvel. Indeed, there is not a single artistic discipline in Western culture that does not have some sort of reference or reinterpretation of The Divine Comedy; music, dance, visual art, drama, literature, and film/video have all retraced Dante’s extraordinary footsteps toward enlightenment. Why? Why is Dante so important to the artistic family? What does he do as a poet and a storyteller that is different, and more lasting? And, how–in a our technologically dependent and individually focused society–does he remain relevant and ageless?

I would be delighted to hear from all of you–artists, scholars, historians, theologians and lovers of The Divine Comedy–to learn more about Dante’s influence on your work and insights.