Dante the pilgrim thought he saw towers in the gap between the eighth and ninth circles of hell. But no, they were giants. Who were "entowered" in the pit.

And now we come to the first one: Nimrod. Join me, Mark Scarbrough, as we come up to the first of the giants/towers that ring the final pit of hell, a place where the imagination and history meet in a liminal spot and where all bets are off.

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

[02:00] My English translation of INFERNO, Canto XXXI, lines 46 - 81. If you'd like to read along or drop a comment, just scroll down this page.

[04:59] Nimrod as he appears in the Bible.

[06:52] Nimrod as he moves into Christian mythology.

[10:41] Nimrod as he moved beyond Christian mythology.

[12:42] Nimrod and the confusing nature of the Tower of Babel.

[15:49] Nimrod's garbled speech. Hebrew? Arabic? Pentecostal tongues?

[19:31] Three reversals in this passage: Biblical material in place of classical material, Nimrod as a piece of art from St. Peter's, and Nimrod as Roland, the tragic hero of chivalry.

[25:25] Four curiosities in this passage: "nature" v. the creator, fig leaves, Frisians, and Virgil's direct address to Nimrod.

[33:30] Fictional space as liminal space.

[37:25] Rereading INFERNO, Canto XXXI, lines 46 - 81.

And here’s my English translation of Inferno, Canto XXXI, Lines 46 – 81

 

I could already pick out one gigantic face,

As well as his shoulders and chest, even a big part of his gut,

And his arms stretched down along his sides.

 

For sure, nature did a good thing

When she gave up the craft of making these creatures,

Thereby forcing Mars to give up such emissaries.

 

Even though she hasn’t repented

For whales and elephants, if one takes a closer look,

It’s clear she’s become more even-handed and discreet—

 

Because if the acuity of mental powers

Were added to malicious desires and brute strength,

There’d be no place for anybody to hide.

 

This one’s face looked to me as long and big

As the pine cone at Saint Peter’s in Rome.

The rest of his bones fit that scale, too.

 

Although the embankment made a kind of fig leaf

From his belt line down, it showed us well and enough of him above the rim

That it would be pure vanity

 

For three Frisians to stand on each others’ shoulders just to reach his hair.

In fact, I counted thirty large hand spans

Up from the spot where a guy buckles his coat.

 

“Raphèl maí amècche zabí almi,”

His barbaric mouth began to shout.

It wasn’t a fit spot for sweeter psalms.

 

And my guide to him: “Idiotic soul,

Don’t quit your day job with that horn! Use it to find some kind of release

When rage or another passion takes hold of you.

 

“Check out your neck, you befuddled soul.

There you’ll find the rope that holds your horn

Tight on the diagonal across your massive chest.”

 

Then he to me: “He’s accusing himself.

This is Nimrod, whose terrible plan

Kept the world from using only one language.

 

“Let’s leave him be and not toss our words into the void.

Every single language is the same

To him as all the others. And nobody understands his.”