Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco

Source of book: I own this

My first choice for Umberto Eco was originally The Name of the Rose. However, my wife found this for next to nothing at a library sale (or maybe on the discard shelf?) So, it was a convenient choice. 

This book is rather on the long side - 641 pages in my edition. For me, that isn’t that long, as books by Anthony Trollope and Henry James tend to run at least 800. So I am used to reading long books. So believe me when I say:

This book is too damn long. 

I think it would have been a great book at one-third the length. So much of the book seems unnecessary and deadly boring, even if it relates to the plot and theme of the book. Let me explain. 

[Spoiler Warning]

Here is the basic plot. Three friends, Belbo, Diotellevi, and Casaubon (the narrator) work for a vanity press company. As part of their work, they screen books by self-funded authors relating to the constellation of conspiracy theories surrounding the Knights Templar. Casaubon wrote a thesis on the Templars back in college, while Diotellevi is a Cabalist. Between the three of them, they go rather down the rabbit hole of interlocking theories. Eventually, they decide to write the mother of all conspiracy theory books, by finding ludicrous connections and metaphors between all kinds of nonsense - literally from ancient history to Mickey Mouse. To assist them, they use Belbo’s computer (this was in the 1980s) to randomly re-assort phrases they feed into it. The result is a bunch of pseudo-profound and utterly ridiculous blither. 

But the problem is, people start believing it. Maybe even the three friends. And eventually, the belief that the three are in reality holding the great secret of the Templars for world domination turns deadly. 

I avoided spoiling all of the ending, but that is in fact most of the plot. The majority of the book is a mess of interconnected conspiracy theories. It starts out well enough, with a history of the Templars, and then the Rosicrucians, and then...well it really goes down the rabbit hole. Anthony Burgess said that the book contained so many esoteric references to alchemy, the kabbalah, and conspiracy theories, that it needed an index. 

To give a feel for the book, it starts with a teaser of the scene near the very end (Casaubon hiding in the Musée des Arts et Métiers, waiting for...something connected with the Foucault Pendulum.) Then we dive into Casaubon’s attempts (eventually successful) to get into the missing Belbo’s computer, then another 90 pages or so of Templar history and theories. It isn’t until a hundred pages in that we actually get to start the story itself and figure out what the heck is going on. And then, after a short bit of plot, where a mysterious Colonel Ardenti claims to have a document with the secret to the Templars, then disappears, suddenly we are in...Brazil, where Casaubon goes chasing a woman he falls in love with. A few years there, and they meet a nut-job, Aglie  who seems to believe he is the Count of St.-Germain (still living hundreds of years later), who leads Casaubon down another series of rabbit trails. Oh, and a weird Afro-Brazillian occult ceremony and more theories. And then, Casaubon breaks up with the woman and goes back to Italy. And now, we are past the halfway point of the book, having spent maybe 30 pages on plot and the rest on conspiracies. 

 The Foucault Pendulum at the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles

This was the first one I ever saw, and I still remember it.

Once you get to about page 400, the plot finally starts to move somewhere. Over the final 240 pages, the ratio of plot to conspiracy theories is about 1:2, which is, believe it or not, a real improvement. The ending is pretty exciting, actually, and there are some great moments in that second half. So I am glad I stuck with it. But I really don’t think I remember all that much of the Templar stuff - and have no interest in trying to figure it out. 

Anyway, these quotes will give a bit of the flavor. First is Casaubon’s description of the Templars early in the book. 

“Hughes and the original eight others were probably idealists caught up in the mystique of the Crusade. But later recruits were most likely younger sons seeking adventure. Remember, the new kingdom of Jerusalem was sort of the California of the day, the place you went to make your fortune. Prospects at home were not great, and some of the knights may have been on the run for one reason or another. I think of it as a kind of Foreign Legion. What do you do if you’re in trouble? You join the Templars, see the world, have some fun, do some fighting. They feed you and clothe you, and in the end, as a bonus, you save your soul.”

This, of course, was before things got crazy. (Also, this is page 80, and we are still back on the actual history of the Templars.) I should also mention a deliciously snarky remark by Belbo. Casaubon has mentioned that things got uncomfortable after the Crusades, because soldiers do not easily return to civilian life - particularly as a priestly order. From sleeping with the plundered women to celibacy? Anyway:

“From prohibitions you can tell what people normally do,” Belbo said. “It’s a way of drawing a picture of daily life.” 

Another fascinating insight comes from, of all people, Aglie, describing the Brazilian fish market and the mashup of all these religious and occult symbols. 

“This,” Aglie said, “is the very image of what the ethnology textbooks call Brazilian syncretism. An ugly word, in the official view. But in its loftiest sense, syncretism is the acknowledgement that a single Tradition runs through and nurtures all religion, all learning, all philosophy. The wise man does not discriminate; he gathers together all the shreds of light, from wherever they may come…”

One of my epiphanies of the last few years is that ALL religion, past and present, is syncretistic. There is no such thing as “pure” revealed religion. It has always borrowed from the culture in which it exists, for good or ill. While it is an oversimplification to say that there is a single tradition, Aglie is to a certain degree correct. What runs through all religion, learning, and philosophy is humanity. We are all human, and thus have more in common than different. It is therefore unsurprising to find so much religious commonality. Unlike Aglie, I don’t think there is a single conspiracy involving the Templars, of course. 

One of the subplots of the book is the gradual revelation of Belbo’s childhood, growing up in a small village during World War Two, when his fellow residents were caught between the Fascists and the partisan rebels. How to stay alive and “normal” is a fine dance. There is an exchange between Belbo’s uncle, and Mongo, the rebel leader, which is revealing. 

Mongo said then, “You see, Cavalier, it’s this way, Major: we were informed that you collect taxes for the Fascist government that toadies to the invaders.” “You see, Commander,” Uncle Carlo said, “it’s this way: I have a family and receive a salary from the government, and the government is what it is; I didn’t choose it, and what would you have done in my place?” “My dear Major,” Mongo replied, “in your place, I’d have done what you did, but try at least to collect the taxes slowly; take your time.” “I’ll see what I can do,” Uncle Carlo said. “I have nothing against you men; you, too, are sons of Italy and valiant fighters.” They understood each other, because they both thought of Fatherland with a capital F. 

Eco too grew up under Fascism, and is one of the most perceptive writers about the subject. (See note at the end.) Fascism and Nazism are not synonymous. Nazism is Fascist, but not all Fascists are Nazis. For Italy, it was more complicated. Mussolini wasn’t Hitler. While Italy was complicit, it did not invent the “final solution,” and was no more anti-Semitic than, say, England. 

Around this time, Aglie shows up in Italy, and kind of worms his way in with Belbo’s girlfriend, kind of like he did in Brazil to Casaubon’s girl. He gives her some kind of line about how she is Sophia, the female part of God, and…(I don’t really understand all of that)...but she has this fun line about it. 

“How nice! Does he give that line to all the girls?”

“No, stupid, just to me, because he understands me better than you do. He doesn’t try to create me in his image. He understands I have to be allowed to live my life in my own way. And that’s what Sophia did; she flung herself into making the world. She came up against primordial matter, which was disgusting, probably because it didn’t use a deodorant. And then, I think, she accidentally created the Demi -- how do you say it?”

“You mean the Demiurge?”

Lorenza is a minor character, and seems to exist mostly to be part of the love triangle. Casaubon’s girlfriend (and later baby-mama) Lia, on the other hand, is pretty much the only sane character in the book. She tries on several occasions to talk Casaubon back from the cliff, so to speak. The extended passage in chapter 63 is way too long to quote, but she gives Casaubon a brilliant lecture on how the supposed magic numbers of numerology derive naturally from the body, and from nature. 

Another tour-de-force is the section where Belbo, on a dare from Casaubon, creates a whole argument that the automobile powertrain is a metaphor for the Tree of Life. It’s impressive. And laugh-out-loud ludicrous. I mean, it makes exactly zero sense. But it makes sense within the context of the ridiculous stuff the three are coming up with. This is the strong part of the book: the way Eco taps into the real psychodynamics of conspiracy theories. 

But whatever the rhythm was, luck rewarded us, because, wanting connections, we found connections -- always, everywhere, and between everything. The world exploded into a whirling network of kinships, where everything pointed to everything else, everything explained everything else. . . .

One of the things that they start doing is finding things that have the initials “R. C.” - for Rosicrucians. For instance, Raymond Chandler and Rick of Casablanca. Hey, that reminds me of an R.E.M. song: 

[insert]

 Lenny Bruce is NOT afraid....

That this was unhealthy was something they knew, but refused to admit. 

When we traded the results of our fantasies, it seemed to us -- and rightly -- that we had proceeded by unwarranted associations, by shortcuts so extraordinary that, if anyone had accused us of really believing them, we would have been ashamed. We consoled ourselves with the realization -- unspoken, now, respecting the etiquette of irony -- that we were parodying the logic of our Diabolicals. But during the long intervals in which each of us collected evidence to produce at the plenary meetings, and with the clear conscience of those who accumulate material for a medley of burlesques, our brains grew accustomed to connecting, connecting, connecting everything with everything else, until we did it automatically, out of habit. I believe that you can reach the point where there is no longer any difference between developing the habit of pretending to believe and developing the habit of believing. 

This has a way of happening with any ideology, whether that of Communism or Objectivism. The line between parody and true faith is beyond blurry. 

But all of us were losing that intellectual light that allows you always to tell the similar from the identical, the metaphorical from the real.

And that quote in particular struck me as descriptive of Evangelical theology, which has been so divorced from reality that it can no longer make those distinctions, particularly in its own scripture. 

Once the three bring the Jesuits into things, they have an issue: the Jesuits appear to have been the Templar’s biggest enemies. In coming up with a possible explanation, Casaubon stumbles upon a really interesting idea:

The Jesuits knew that if you want to confound your enemies, the best technique is to create clandestine sects, wait for dangerous enthusiasms to precipitate, then arrest them all. In other words, if you fear a plot, organize one yourself; that way, all those who join it come under your control.

The problem for the three is that they actually have managed to do this -- people are believing their hogwash. Lia finally tells Casaubon off, and she is right. 

Your plan isn’t poetic, it’s grotesque. People don’t get the idea of going back to burn Troy just because they read Homer. With Homer, the burning of Troy became something that it never was and never will be, and yet the Iliad endures, full of meaning, because it’s all clear, limpid. Your Rosicrucian manifestoes are neither clear nor limid; they’re mud, hot air, and promises. This is why so many people have tried to make them come true, each finding in them what he wants to find. In Homer, there’s no secret, but your plan is full of secrets, full of contradictions. For that reason you could find thousands of insecure people ready to identify with it. Throw the whole thing out. Homer wasn’t faking, but you three have been faking. Beware of faking: people will believe you. People believe those who sell lotions that make lost hair grow back. They sense instinctively that the salesman is putting together truths that don’t go together, that he’s not being logical, that he’s not speaking in good faith. But they’ve been told that God is mysterious, unfathomable, so to them incoherence is the closest thing to God. The farfetched is the closest thing to a miracle. You’ve invented hair oil. I don’t like it. It’s a nasty joke. 

It’s a nasty joke with consequences. In real life, this happens too. I am thinking particularly of “Pizzagate,” which came damn close to getting innocent people killed. Or the whole Trump presidency, built on racist and xenophobic conspiracy theories, which have gotten a whole lot of brown-skinned people killed. Think about just the last couple of weeks, with the claim that Covid-19 was somehow a Chinese/Democrat conspiracy to remove Trump from office. That would require the entire rest of the world lying, which is ludicrous. But once you already live in the psychological place where incoherence is proof of truth, that’s where you end up. This is one reason why I consider most of the clergy in this country guilty of gross spiritual malpractice, for feeding conspiratorial thinking, painting science as the enemy, and turning people who are different from them into enemies out to get them. It isn’t funny. And the consequences have been dire. 

Anyway, that’s my take on this book. When it is good, it is great. But it is way too long with too many rabbit trails - you really do need an index. I am glad I stuck with it, though. 

***

Umberto Eco and Fascism:

One of the best long articles I have ever read is Eco’s 1995 article for the New York Review of Books, “Ur-Fascism.” Because Fascism takes different forms around the world, it helpful to see what the Fascism of Hitler and Pinochet, Viktor Orban and Jair Bolsanaro, have in common. It is also a prescient predictor of the rise of Trump. And yes, Trump is a textbook Ur-Fascist. 

It was this article that, when I read it several years back, convinced me that white Evangelicalism in America is proto-Fascist in a number of disturbing ways, starting with their idolatry of a mythical past and their need to believe in dire enemies foreign and domestic. And also their obsession with doctrinal and sexual “purity.” The single greatest reason that Trump appealed so deeply to white Evangelicals is that he spoke the Ur-Fascist language that they already built into their doctrine and psyches. (If you don’t think that Trump uniquely appeals to them, look at the way they lined up to defend him during the impeachment proceedings - they could have had Pence, supposedly their sort of candidate: genuinely devout, conservative, and so on. But what Trump has that Pence will never have, is the ability to speak Ur-Fascism.) 

 In a sense, Foucault’s Pendulum is an extended riff on Fascism and its psychological roots. 

The Servant of Two Masters by Carlo Goldoni

Modern actors often complain of being “typecast.” One might be the comic aunt, or the villain with the bass voice like Christopher Lee, or a number of other less lucrative parts. Or one might, like Leonard Nimoy, become so associated with a particular character that one can hardly be envisioned as anyone else.

Well, in the Italian Renaissance theater known as Commedia dell’arte, this quite literally was the way actors were. One learned a particular “stock” role, and continued to perform it for one’s entire career. Not just that, but the plays and plots would change, but the characters would always be the same. You would have the young lovers, the miserly merchant, the stuffy self-important professor, the crafty servant, and so on. These “types” would then be plugged into a stock plot, and the actors would be expected to improvise the dialogue.

With the exception of the young lovers, all the actors would wear half-masks representing their “type.” The tradition lived on in more familiar versions, such as the Punch and Judy shows. Furthermore, many of the “types” - and plots - would find their way into operas of the Italian style.

As the old saw goes, opera can be summarized thus: The tenor wants to make love to the soprano, but is prevented by the baritone. If it is a tragedy, everyone dies. If it is a comedy, the mezzo assists the lovers in finding happiness. 

 "Smeraldina" and "Truffaldino" from the CSUB Production. 

Media photo by director Mandie Rees.

This play, written by Carlo Goldoni in 1746, was written at the request of Antonio Sacco, a famous comedic actor who played the role of “Truffaldino,” a variant of the “Harlequin” role. In this case, it is the role of the crafty servant. Like its inspiration, the play contains some room for improvisation, but in a “modern” twist, much more of the dialogue is written out.

We saw a performance of this by the California State University Bakersfield theater department. There were a number of delightful period touches. The costumes were appropriate for the “types,” including Truffaldino’s multi-colored garb. There were half masks on most of the characters. There was a wagon that opened into a stage, which then became part of the set. (The rest of the stage represented the town square and the house of the merchant.) The music was mandolin arrangements of Italian songs, some of which may have dated to this era. In a nice touch, many of the tunes were from operas, giving the link between the Commedia dell’arte and Grand Opera.

The basic plot is this: Beatrice has come to Venice disguised as her brother, who has just been killed in a duel with Beatrice’s lover, Florindo. Beatrice has come to do two things: find and marry Florindo, and collect the money that Pantalone owes her brother. There is a complication, however. Beatrice’s brother was engaged to Pantalone’s daughter, Clarice, who has never met him. She is in love instead with Silvio, the son of the pompous doctor. Pantalone is determined to keep the prior pledge, to the satisfaction of exactly nobody but himself.

Meanwhile, on her way, Beatrice picks up Truffaldino as her servant. He is a bit of a smart-ass anyway, and manages to irritate everyone with his antics. Except Clarice’s servant Smeraldina, who falls for him immediately.

Beatrice, however, seems to lack something as a master. Namely, a sense of dinnertime. Truffaldino’s great goal is to get some food in his empty stomach, and Beatrice’s obsession with her goals prevents her from dining in a timely manner.

Frustrated, Truffaldino decides to freelance a little, offering his services to Florindo, who has no idea that Beatrice is there. Suddenly, Truffaldino must navigate some treacherous waters, as people give him messages and money “for your master,” but because he has two, he cannot reliably figure out which master. This is compounded by his illiteracy (which becomes a running joke, as he must somehow explain why he has opened letters and keeps a journal), and his need to keep his double life secret.

The culmination of this double dealing is a hilarious scene in which he is acting as a waiter to both masters, neither of whom knows of the other’s existence. He runs himself to exhaustion - and famine - until the end, when he is finally rewarded by four bowls of spaghetti, which are (in this version) dumped on his head as the curtain falls.

Needless to say, this will take some sorting out before all comes out (mostly) well in the end.

It is hardly an unusual convention, but as in many plays - and operas - the servants get the best lines. And also the ones that say the most about society.

As an example, in this play, much is made of the fact that Clarice is caught embracing Beatrice (who is still dressed like a man.) Clarice knows that Beatrice is a woman, but she has been sworn to silence. Why won’t Beatrice reveal her identity? Well, she knows that Pantalone won’t pay his debt in full if he knows he is dealing with a woman. Instead, he would set himself up as her ward - and skim a bit off the top.

But this causes complications, because Silvio is now certain that Clarice has given herself to another. She is soiled goods. As Smeraldina gives as an aside to the audience, men can play the field if they like, but expect women to be pure and faithful.

Not bad for a work 270 years old.

CSUB does a nice job with the production. For obvious reasons, this isn’t at the level of the best professional theater, but the actors were expressive and committed even during the most silly of plot points. In particular, I thought that Truffaldino and Beatrice were well performed. We saw the opening night, but I did not detect any glitches. The CSUB theater department is a reliably enjoyable experience, and this production of a fairly obscure classic is well worth seeing.

The Servant of Two Masters runs two more performances: Saturday, November 7, 8 PM, and Sunday, 2 PM.

***

There are many examples of works for stage and theater that play on the Commedia dell’arte tradition, but here are two of my favorites:

Stravinsky also wrote Petroushka based on the characters, but Pulcinella, both in the ballet form, as found here, and also in the suite for chamber orchestra, is one of my favorite works. I love Stravinsky in all his moods, but there is something particularly charming in his witty remix of Baroque styles - and the Concerto Grosso form. The half masks and stock characters are on great view in this version. 

Prokofiev’s opera, The Love For Three Oranges is based on a play by Carlo Gozzi, a contemporary of Goldoni. While the opera itself is worth a listen, I am fond of the music selected for the orchestral suite. I have had a chance to play the suites from Romeo and Juliet, but hope we get to do this one at some point. Let this one play the whole way through. If you don’t at least recognize the march, I’d be surprised.

Inferno by Dante Alighieri

Source of book: I own this. All three versions. I also gave away a version illustrated by Gustave Dore (to my brother), but I sort of wish I still had it. Yes, I am a nerd. 

I would have to classify this book as more of a project than an ordinary read. I read three completely contrasting translations for comparison, although I only read every word of the Robert Pinsky translation, and probably only read about a quarter of the Melville Best Anderson poetic translation. I limited myself to the first part of the complete Divine Comedy, the Inferno.

I can probably consider this to be part of my ongoing project to read the great epics. I read the Iliad and the Odyssey when I was in high school. I read the Aeneid in my 20s, and read Paradise Lost in 2010. Dante would be a logical next step.

Dante wrote his work in the early 1300s, during a time of political turmoil in Italy. It was considered a bit of a revolutionary work at the time because he wrote in the vernacular Italian, rather than Latin. It is considered to be one of the great literary works, influential long after its time. The work was originally entitled simply Comedia, or Comedy. This referred primarily to its happy ending, not its humor. It was later referred to as the Divine Comedy, although Dante himself never gave it that name.

Dante drew on a variety of sources for his conception of hell, purgatory, and paradise. Medieval theology, foreign to us, spelled out many of the concepts. Dante further drew on Aristotle’s conception of the three levels of sin: incontinent sins, where a person is seduced by his own lusts and appetites; violent sins; and sins of fraud, the worst of all. He must add in two categories of his own to reflect Christian theology: the heretics, who are punished in flaming coffins; and the mere unsaved, who reside in Limbo, outside of the gates of Hell proper.

He also makes references to figures of history and myth, in particular biblical figures and those of Greek and Roman mythology. He also incorporates a large number of contemporary figures – in essence, he is able to revenge himself on his enemies by placing them in hell and detailing their crimes.

Perhaps the most significant influence is that of Virgil. In the Aeneid, Aeneas travels to the underworld in a rather strange and haunting episode. Not only does Dante draw from many elements of this story, he chooses “Virgil” to be his guide through Hell.

Unfortunately, I do not know Italian, so I was unable to read it in the original. One of my versions has the Italian text, and I could make out some words here and there, which helped when determining which translation was closest to the original.

To understand the issues facing the translator, it helps to understand Dante’s poetic form, terza rima. This form consists of three line stanzas, with an interlocking rhyme pattern. The rhyme would be diagramed like this:

A

B

A

B

C

B

C

D

C

Etc.

This is not that challenging in Italian as there are fewer total sounds, and many more words rhyme. English, by comparison, has a great diversity of sounds, perhaps because we have stolen words from many languages, and a rather few of them actually rhyme. Most famously, for example, nothing rhymes with “orange”.

The translator, then, has to balance the demands of terza rima with a need to accurately translate the text itself. There are a number of approaches to this dilemma. The translations I read are vastly different in their approach to the translation, and result in completely different reading experiences.

Poetic Translation by Melville Best Anderson

This book is the most attractive volume of the three. A Heritage Press boxed hardback from 1944, I found it used for a ridiculous low price. At least it appears to have been read at some point, unlike many of my used hardbacks. The illustrations in this volume are an important feature. For the first time, it printed William Blake’s engravings. I would have bought this for that alone. (Side note: I saw Blake’s original illustrations for Paradise Lost at the Huntington Library last year. Simply amazing.) 

 The Whirlwind of the Lustful, Illustration by William Blake

Anderson’s approach to the translation is a rigid adherence to the terza rima form. The rhyme is exact, and he keeps each tercet intact. In the original, each tercet contains a complete thought, with few exceptions. Anderson retains this division, and makes an attempt (to the degree possible) to keep each line intact. The advantage of this technique is that it reads as poetry. The form and the cadence remain intact throughout the entire work. The disadvantage is that such rigidity requires that the rules of syntax and the natural flow of the language must be significantly bent. Thus, instead of reading in natural language like the original, it reads rather obscurely. The language seems artificial, stilted; and it is difficult to follow the story if one does not already know what is happening. 

Prose Translation by H. R. Huse

In contrast, the translation by Huse is strictly prose. This well-made paperback Rinehart Edition was also found used for a low price. Huse translates line for line, but without worrying about either rhyme or rhythm. His lines are of uneven length, and occasionally include extra words in brackets as an explanation of a reference. This is not to say that it is completely without a poetic feel. The story itself, and Dante’s use of words, lend themselves to poetry even within prose. However, it is clearly not true poetry in this translation. On the positive side, the narrative itself is very clear. It is easy to follow the narrator’s adventures, and any unclear passages are clearly explained by notes. There are no illustrations in this edition.

The Robert Pinsky Translation

This hardback was a Christmas gift from my lovely and thoughtful wife. I have admired and enjoyed Pinsky’s own poetry, and even more his writings on poetry. (His Classic Poems series on slate.com is amazing. In addition to a group of well educated readers who regularly comment, Pinsky himself takes part in the conversation.) Pinsky takes an interesting and somewhat novel approach. While preserving the terza rima form, he takes liberties both with the definition of “rhyme”, and with the divisions of the tercets. First, he uses approximate, rather than strict rhyme, preferring that the consonants, rather than the vowels agree. This may not sound promising, but Pinsky has a real gift at preserving the poetic flow. The rhyme remains clear, the lines read well, and one rarely notices the technique itself. Secondly, Pinsky chooses to break up the original tercets. His tercets may contain portions from the prior and subsequent tercets. An original grouping may be expanded or condensed as determined by the translator. The advantage of this technique is that Pinsky can preserve the natural flow of the English language, particularly where the meaning requires additional words, or often fewer words to express the thought. The disadvantage, of course, is that the compact thought of each original tercet is lost.

Pinsky’s translation is illustrated by Michael Mazur, who has provided a deliciously dark and atmospheric set of monochrome prints. 

 A sinner in the frozen lake gnawing on the head of his enemy from life. Illustration by Michael Mazur

As can be seen, the translation process is a question of compromises. No approach is perfect. However, I found that, after a few pages of each, I was primarily reading the Pinsky translation. Unfortunately, he only translated Inferno, so if I choose later to read the two remaining sections, I will have to rely on another translation.

Inferno, the first section of the Divine Comedy, is divided into 34 sections, entitled “Cantos”. A quote from Canto III, the inscription on the gates of Hell, gives an excellent comparison of the three translations.

Anderson:

“Through me the way is to the city of woe;

Through me the way unto eternal pain;

Through me the way among the lost below.

Justice commoved my high creator, when

Made me Divine Omnipotence, combined

With Primal Love and Wisdom Sovereign.

Before me nothing was of any kind

Except eterne, and I eterne abide:

Leave, ye that enter in, all hope behind!”

Note the perfect rhyme and complete thoughts, but also the strained syntax.

Huse:

“Through me you go into the city of grief,

Through me you go into the pain that is eternal,

Through me you go among the people lost.

Justice moved my exalted creator;

The divine power made me,

The supreme wisdom, and the primal love.

Before me all created things were eternal,

And eternal I will last.

Abandon every hope, you who enter here.”

Here, the meaning is clearer, but there is little of poetry.

Pinsky:

“Through me you enter into the city of woes,

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

Justice moved my high maker, in power divine,

Wisdom supreme, love primal. No things were

Before me not eternal; Eternal I remain.

Abandon all hope, you who enter here.

In this case, the quote takes up only seven lines, but the poetry remains.

Another quotation from Canto V is illustrative. Minos, the demon who sorts the souls that arrive in hell into their appropriate levels, signals the level by the number of times he curls his tail around himself.

There Minos stands and snarls with clamor grim,

Examines the transgressions at the gate,

Judges, and sends as he encircles him.

Yea, when the spirit born to evil fate

Before him comes confessing all, that fell

Distinguisher among the reprobate,

Seeing what place belongs to it in Hell,

Entwines him with his tail such times as show

How many circles down he bids it dwell. (Anderson)

There Minos stands, horrible and snarling,

Examining the offenses, judging,

And sending down as he girds himself –

I mean that when an ill-born soul

Comes before him, it confesses wholly,

And that discerner of sin,

Seeing what place in Hell belongs to it,

Encircles himself with his tail as many times

As the degrees he wants it to descend. (Huse)

                        Minos the dreadful

Snarls at the gate. He examines each one’s sin,

Judging and disposing as he curls his tail:

That is, when an ill-begotten soul comes down,

It comes before him, and confesses all;

Minos, great connoisseur of sin, discerns

For every spirit its proper place in Hell,

And wraps himself in his tail with as many turns

As levels down that shade will have to dwell. (Pinsky)

I find this to be both the most clear and the most graceful account of this scene. I am particularly fond of the phrase “connoisseur of sin”, which is a direct parallel of the original. Pinsky seems to be able to draw out these delicious phrases from Dante’s original without losing the piquancy of the original idiom.

Dante goes on to describe the sights and sounds of Hell, in this case, the punishment of the sins of incontinence. Again, the translations have completely different flavors.

And now the notes of woe begin to smite

The hollow of mine ear; now am I come

Where I am pierced by wailings infinite.

I came into a place of all light dumb,

Which bellows like a sea where thunders roll

And counter-winds contend for masterdom.

The infernal hurricane beyond control

Sweeps on and on with ravishment malign

Whirling and buffeting each hapless soul.

When by the headlong tempest hurled supine,

Here are shrieks, the moaning, the laments,

Here they blaspheme the puissance divine. (Anderson)

Now I begin to hear the sad notes of pain,

Now I have come to where

Loud cries beat upon my ears.

I have reached a place mute of all light

Which roars like the sea in a tempest

When beaten by conflicting winds.

The infernal storm which never stops

Drives the spirits in its blast;

Whirling and beating, it torments them.

When they come in front of the landslide

They utter laments, moans, and shrieks;

There they curse the Divine Power. (Huse)

And now I can hear the notes of agony

In sad crescendo beginning to reach my ear;

Now I am where the noise of lamentation

Comes at me in blasts of sorrow. I am where

All light is mute, with a bellowing like the ocean

Turbulent in a storm of warring winds,

The hurricane of Hell in perpetual motion

Sweeping the ravaged spirits as it rends,

Twists, and torments them. Driven as if to land,

They reach the ruin: groaning, tears, laments,

And cursing of the power of Heaven. (Pinsky)

Throughout the Inferno, Dante pairs the sin with the punishment. For example, all sexual sin is punished by continual movement. The merely lustful are blown about by endless winds, the sodomites must continually walk to avoid being immolated by falling flames, and the seducers and pimps are driven along by a devil with a whip.

In the first category are Francesca da Rimini and her lover, Paolo. As with many of the characters, Dante as narrator shows them great sympathy, while Dante the poet condemns them to Hell. Francesca and Paolo, despite their brief appearance, are memorable for their comparative innocence. Tchaikovsky wrote a symphonic poem to depict this episode, using swirling chromaticism to depict the winds that drive the lustful.

Another great example of this comes from Canto VII, where the narrator begins to truly comprehend the evil of sin and its consequences.

Justice of God! Who is it that heaps together

So much peculiar torture and travail?

How is it that we choose to sin and wither? (Pinsky)

Of the translations, only Pinsky emphasizes the role of our choice. The others focus on the consequence of sin, but not its voluntary nature. “How is it that we choose to sin and wither?” Just an amazing line.

I also loved the punishment for the sullen in Canto VII: they are now submerged in a bog, unable to appreciate the daylight they scorned.

The suicides are described in Canto XIII, which I feel contains some of Dante’s best writing. The Canto begins with the word Non, that is, “Not”. Dante and Virgil enter a wood, with “The leaves not green”, “The boughs not smooth”, and “No fruit”. This repetitive use of non is then echoed by the use of cred (“believe”).

I believe

My guide believed that in my belief the voices

I heard from somewhere in the grove

Came somehow from people who were in hiding places –

Indeed, the souls of the suicides are imprisoned in the trees themselves, as Dante finds when he inadvertently breaks off a branch.

One shoot of a mighty thornbush – and it moaned,

“Why do you break me?” Then after it had grown

Darker with blood, it began again and mourned,

“Why have you torn me? Have you no pity, then?

Once we were men, now we are stumps of wood:

Your hand should show some mercy, though we had been

The souls of serpents.” As flames spurt at one side

Of a green log oozing sap at the other end,

Hissing with escaping air, so that branch flowed

With words and blood together – (Pinsky)

The suicides are classified as violent sins – violence against one’s self. In the same class are the sodomites, those violent against nature. Two things struck me here. First, one particular soul claims that his “fierce wife” drove him to sodomy. I’m not sure Dante believed him either. Second, if Dante is to be believed, the Catholic Church has a long history of transferring and protecting pedophiles.

Moving on to the sins of fraud, Dante and Virgil must hitch a ride to the next level on the back of Geryon, a creature from Greek mythology, and a symbol of fraud. He is described thus:

“Behold the beast with the pointed tail

That can cross mountains and break through walls;

Behold the one that infects the whole world!” (Huse)

“Behold the beast with pointed tail, whose guile

Doth mountains cleave & valls & weapons rend;

Behold him who doth all the world defile.” (Anderson)

“Behold the beast that has the pointed tail,

That crosses mountains, leaves walls and weapons broken,

And makes the stench of which the world is full!” (Pinsky)

Another dilemma faced by the translator is how to convey the meaning of the original. This is particularly problematic when translating idioms. If I were familiar with Italian, I’m sure I could have found a few idioms that were perplexing. Even the casual reader, though, can appreciate the difficulty of translating the word merda. In the original, this is a vulgarity, and a rather offensive one at that. However, translators have generally tried to soften this word, or make it more highbrow. Whether this stems from a prudish sensibility, or from a snobbish view of literature, it is inaccurate and fails to reflect the true potency of the original work.

While sexual sinners are punished with motion, it is the flatterers that have to roll in the shit. This section is where Anderson’s poetic translation struggles.

I saw one head so smeared with ordure all,

If clerk or layman ‘twas not evident.  (Anderson)

When asked about the reason he was condemned, a flatterer replies, “To this has plunged me down the sycophance / Wherewith my tongue was never satiate.” I think this misses the clarity and impact of the word “flattery”. Pinsky’s version packs a punch:

Searching it with my eyes,

I saw one whose head was so befouled

With shit, you couldn’t tell which one he was –

Layman or cleric.

…

“Down here is where my flatteries , that store

With which my tongue seemed never to be cloyed,

Have sunk me.”

Also in this section of fraudulent sins is a character to appear later in a Puccini opera: Gianni Schicchi. This character impersonated a recently dead person, in order to make a new will. Schicchi takes the opportunity to give himself a bit off the top of the estate. Dante shows him no sympathy, unlike Francesca and others. Puccini, however, turned the entire episode into a rather hilarious comedy. The most famous aria from that opera is O Mio Babbino Caro. (Roughly translated as “Please do this for me, Daddy”, this was a request at a wedding I played at. The irony was delectable.)

Dante stands at an interesting junction between ancient and modern. He looks to the past, but also toward the future in literature. We now take for granted the image of devils in Hell with pitchforks. It is in the Inferno that we have the imagery appear, complete with burning pitch. Later, Dante anticipates an element of modern horror: the transformation. While Ovid wrote of transformations, typically performed by the gods, Dante goes one step further and makes the transformation spontaneous and internal, stemming from one’s own defects. His picture of a man turning into a dragon, and vice versa, is a chilling vision.

Dante also envisions the arguments put forth by Machiavelli in The Prince. Political cunning is punished as a fraudulent sin. Where Machiavelli would condone and encourage the making of meaningless promises that will never be fulfilled, Dante condemns these politicians to the eight circle of Hell.

The very pit of Hell itself is reserved for those who are treacherous. Interestingly, the center of Hell is not hot, but cold. The sinners are submerged, to various degrees, in a lake of ice, not fire. In the center is Satan himself, locked in place at the waist, and fanning his wings, which creates the chill.

Dante here uses a parody of the Trinity by depicting Satan as having three faces colored yellow, black, and red; symbolizing impotence, ignorance, and hate, respectively. The mouths chew on Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius.

Two final word pictures bracket the pit of Hell.

                        Here it was something less

Than night and less than day…(Pinsky)

And, as Virgil and Dante pass through the floor of Hell at the center of the earth, and ascend to the other side, the section concludes with the word stelle. In fact, the other sections close with this word as well, giving a feeling of unity and eternal vision to the greater poem.

And following its path, we took no care

To rest, but climbed: he first, then I – so far,

Through a round aperture I saw appear

Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,

Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars. (Pinsky)