INFERNO, Episode 146. Snakebit: Inferno, Canto XXIV, Lines 97 - 120

Our pilgrim, Dante, and his guide, Virgil, have come down to a place where they can see into the darkness of the seventh of the malebolge, the evil pouches that make up the eighth circle of fraud in hell.

And what a sight they see! A pit of writhing snakes, one sinner bitten, then incinerated and reconstituted, right before their eyes.

Here are the segments of this episode of WALKING WITH DANTE:

[01:32] My English translation of the passage: Inferno, Canto XXIV, lines 97 - 120. If you'd like to read along, just scroll down this page.

[03:56] A little pep talk for reading on in Dante's COMEDY.

[05:50] The first snake bite: right between the shoulder blades of an unknown sinner.

[10:29] The soul burns up--and Dante the poet burns up texts in a conflagration of literary allusions.

[15:31] What's with the "o" and the "i" bit? Four possible interpretations. (And there are of course probably many more.)

[21:12]            The phoenix as a symbol of the resurrection--but here?

[25:03] A final metaphor to explain the sinner's incineration and rebirth: demonic possession or a medical condition?

[29:37] The poet steps out from behind the curtain to speak--and only complicates matters further.

And here is my English translation of INFERNO, Canto XXIV, lines 97 - 120:

Lo and behold, right at one of the shades who was near our bank,

A serpent shot out toward him and clamped itself

Onto the spot where the neck and shoulder blades are corded together.

Neither an “o” nor an “i” was ever written so fast

As that soul caught fire, burned up, and was morphed into cinders,

Just as he collapsed down to a pile of ashes.

But then, as he was lying on the ground all unmade,

The dust reassembled itself together

And immediately he came back to how he was.

In like manner, the great sages tell us the truth about

How the phoenix dies and is born again

Just as it comes up to its five hundredth year.

It doesn’t feed on grasses or grains in its life,

But on the tears of incense and on black cardamom,

And its final nest-shroud is made up of nard and myrrh.

Like a guy who falls down without really knowing why,

Either forced to the ground by a demon’s tug

Or paralyzed in some way that lays a guy out,

When he gets back up, he looks around all astonished,

Completely lost in the middle of the suffocating agony

He’s endured, just gawking and sighing,

So this sinner got back up on his feet.

Oh the sheer power of God! It’s so severe

That it showers down the copious blows of his vendetta.