13. Abandon Hope, For It's The Gate Of Hell: INFERNO, Canto III, Lines 1 - 21
Finally, the hell we expected . . . maybe.
Our pilgrim and his guide, Virgil, have arrived at hell’s entrance. One strange thing: those words over it. Abandon hope! St. Thomas Aquinas would not be pleased. And the notion that something can “move” God. Aristotle would not be pleased!
Then there’s something stranger: Virgil’s reaction. Is that a cheerful or happy look on his face?
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The segments of this episode of WALKING WITH DANTE:
[01:11] My English translation of INFERNO, Canto III, lines 1 - 21. If you want to see my translation, find a larger study guide, or continue the conversation with me, scroll down this page.
[03:05] The words over hell's gate, perhaps one of the most iconic passage in COMEDY. The gate speaks truth autobiographically.
[05:21] We're entering a civic vision of the afterlife.
[08:28] A bit about justice and the definitely non-Thomistic (and non-Aristotelian) words written over the gate. Justice moved God? How is that possible?
[12:54] Dante-the-pilgrim is a reader! He has to enter hell through an act of reading.
[14:43] Virgil is what every reader needs: a great writer who can move the text out of its space and into the reader's space.
[19:00] Virgil is cheerful at a very desperate spot.
My English translation of INFERNO, Canto III, lines 1 - 21:
Through me is the way to the city of lamentation.
Through me is the way to eternal sorrow.
Through me is the way among the lost people.
Justice moved my high maker.
I was made by divine power,
The sum of all wisdom, and primordial love.
Before me nothing created was made
Except for the eternal things, and I endure eternally.
Abandon every hope, you who come in.
I saw these words, etched in shadowy colors,
Written above the gate,
At which I said, “Master, the sense of it all is tough for me.”
And he to me, as someone on the watch for what to say:
“Here, you must put all doubt away.
You must put to death whatever makes you afraid.
“We have come to the place where I told you
You will see the sorrowing people
Who have lost the good of their minds.”
And when he had placed his hand in mine,
With a cheerful look that comforted me,
He led me to the things that are unknown.
FOR MORE STUDY
Three translation issues:
What’s the appearance of those words over hell’s gate? Line 10 is “Queste parole di colore oscuro . . . (literally, “These words of color dark . . .”). The first thing you might note is that “oscuro” is a repetition from the second line of INFERNO: from the “selva oscura” or “dark wood.” While the wood itself may be in shadows, its darkness is surely as much moral as physical, as much metaphysical as visual. Does the same apply here? Are the words over the gate “dark” in hue? Are they hard to read because they’re carved out of the rock and therefore its same color? Or are they morally dark in color with the tint of damnation? Or are they rhetorically dark—that is, difficult to understand? Part of the answer here lies with the meaning of the word “colore,” which can mean “color” but also “coloration” or even “richness.”
Believe it or not, the pilgrim’s simple question to Virgil at line 12 has inspired much controversy. Here’s what Dante says: “Maestro, il senso lor m’è duro” (literally, “Master, the sense of them to me is hard”—or more casually, “Master, their sense is hard to me”). “Duro” How so? The debate boils down to this: “Their sense is hard for me to understand” or “Their sense is hard to me to withstand.” That last line—”abandon hope”—does sound pretty intimidating. Or is the pilgrim hung up on the many theological problems in the inscription: Love made the gate, justice moved the unmoved mover, and hell is a part of God’s creation? Or maybe the question is more personal: These words are hard because I’m clearly about to enter, so must I, too, abandon hope? In other words, where’s my get-out-of-jail card? Or (finally) is “hard” a play off the physical nature of the words? Is this a rocky entrance? Are the words hard to read because they’re of the same substance as the entrance?
Virgil’s final glance at the pilgrim before they begin their descent is curious. It’s a “lieto volto” (line 20—literally, a happy or lighthearted aspect). Some modern critics see a bit of sadism here. Virgil knows what’s ahead and thinks this middling guy isn’t up to the task (and maybe this middling poet isn’t up to it as well). That interpretation seems too far to me . . . although I think it can be justified because “lieto,” is so jarring in this context. In the podcast episode, I said that Virgil has given the pilgrim a pretty hard time up until now and so feels the need to reassure him that it’s all going to be okay. But maybe there are more ways to translate this look on Virgil’s face. Maybe he’s glad because the pilgrim is finally underway, has finally committed to the path ahead. Or maybe he’s gratified that Dante has finally given in to Virgil’s guidance. Or maybe Virgil is giddy because Dante has finally admitted that he can only get out of this mess with the help of a classical poet (who thought he was going to spend the rest of eternity hanging out with those “suspended”).
Three interpretive issues:
Over the centuries, many commentators have wanted to visualize the entrance to hell. As recent examples, Robert Hollander sees it as a triumphal Roman arch. Eugenio Donato sees it as a rich guy’s fancy tomb. Francesco Mazzoni sees it as the entrance to a walled, medieval city. Even my AI illustration for this episode pictures it as the mouth of a cave. But none of that is in the poem. The words above hell’s entrance are abrupt, just sitting at the start of Canto III. Dante seems unwilling to visualize the opening to hell. We heard at the end of Canto II that the way ahead was “low and savage.” We should probably think of the path as heading downward and being overgrown. But in truth, Dante doesn’t even call the entrance “a gate” per se. He calls it “una porta” (line 11), “a door.” I doubt it has hinges, but a door is not nearly as august as a gate. Why do you think the poet chooses to leave his readers in the dark right when we’d like to see things so clearly? Does this moment set the tone for what’s ahead? Or does it serve some emotional purpose for us readers? Does it implicate us in imagining the poem? Or does it leave us always slightly uncertain, slightly off-balance? What might be the point of any or all of that?
The words over the door are “scritte” (“written”—line 11). I translated the word as “etched.” It’s often translated as “inscribed” or “chiseled.” But it’s a simpler word than those. Maybe we translators feel an unnecessary need to heighten the drama? In any event, “scritte” does bring up an inevitable if background question: Who did the writing? “God” seems the easy answer . . . except the words over the entrance are almost demonically parodic: “Through me . . . through me . . . through me. . . .” They sound like an infernal variation on Jesus’s words: “I am the way, the truth, and the light—no one comes to the Father except through me” (The Gospel of John 14:6). Would God self-parody? And if God wrote them, then did God ventriloquize hell’s first-person voice? Is that possible? What if the gate wrote them? Or hell itself? Or (somehow) Satan (although, as we’ll see, this is probably impossible, given where we’ll find Satan)? If they are infernally written, is hell self-aggrandizing? I mean, one guy is about to walk through that gate and he won’t have to abandon hope. And Jesus did, too, after his crucifixion when he pulled all of the redeemed from Israel out of Limbo. And later in INFERNO, at least one angelic messenger will come striding down into hell, presumably having passed through this entrance. And while we’re at it, all of those Old Testament people came through this gate but ultimately made it to heaven. In the end, there are lots of beings and people who have come here and haven’t had to abandon hope. Or is this dithering overthinking the entrance . . . because the poet just wants to give us some chills? Does this moment even call for rationality?
Virgil’s call for Dante to get moving is reminiscent of what the Cumaean Sibyl says to Aeneas before they descend to the underworld. You can find that bit at THE AENEID, Book VI, line 261. Is Virgil quoting his own work? Does he now see himself as the our pilgrim’s transgendered Sibyl? If so, that may be a step down in his rank. A Sibyl was an Iron Age voice memo app. It repeated what it heard . . . as opposed to a poet who was a creator, not just a personal assistant to the gods.
One journaling prompt:
Have you ever had to abandon hope? How did you get it back? Or did you ever really get it back? How could you now get it back?