July 7, 1911 [Dante's Inferno]

                                  

The farther down into Dante's Inferno, the angrier Dante grows, the less all mercy and compassion, let alone tears (the kind that simply come when something hopeless is finally seen clearly, when one understands just how tightly the ice grips) flow, the smaller the space in which one can stand—no, stoop, low as sinners punished by the imagination of something one can only hope is not God—and if it is, then that's that.

And maybe it is—maybe Gustave Doré saw it clearly, the family starved one by one, then down to Hell Papa goes, all's right with the world, things are as they should be—and they should be this, this snarling undulation in dimness, this Italian righteousness standing on the ruins of the birth of the modern world, where a Republic spread its ribbed wings and became an Empire—crushed by barbarians more honest than Caesars with arms folded, certain everyone else deserves Hell.

And in the end, a small opening appears, and the poets see the stars. I wonder if they know what that means, and whether the next circle—up now instead of down—should form a ring of fire and burn the Inferno.