Why Read Again

Why Read? Again…

I have been thinking about why I find reading literature to be so important that I have dedicated my working life to getting folks reading the greatest and hardest books written. Why does reading Virginia Woolf matter in a world where cities are being occupied by outraged citizens whose ability to make a decent living is being systematically undermined? How is a six-month study of Joyce justified when people are risking their lives to bring down tyrants and murderous autocrats? Why discuss poetry as the ice bergs are melting and the ocean is rising?

I read to understand myself and others. Immersion in a work of literary merit cracks open my petty struggles and limited focus on daily events. Reading a great work of literature reminds me to aspire, and gives me company in the struggle for meaning. Reading widely about the experience of people in different times, countries, skins, faiths, worlds sharpens my understanding of my own narrow perspective and slowly, painfully helps me expand. Reading newspapers, magazines and other forms of media with a critical eye allows me a glimpse of the forces that inform our society and progress—or lack of…

I am also thinking about how literacy is more than a skill. Literacy—the ability to read and write—is not simply decoding but also the on-going development of increased understanding and analytical ability. There has been much attention paid recently to the low level of literacy in many developed countries. Deborah Orr in this week’s Guardian article commented on the correlation between those participating in this summer’s riots and their educational disengagement (see Guardian 27.10.11 G2 magazine—Read all about it: Britain’s shameful literacy crisis). Alongside the discovery that more than two thirds of the rioters are classified as special needs and at least one third had been excluded from school the previous year, Orr observes that of all the stores looted in Clapham Junction, Waterstone’s remained untouched. “Those rioters …probably didn’t even see Waterstone’s. Bookshops don’t even register, because they offer nothing that is wanted. To me, that seems like a miserable omission from a life, and an ignominious, debilitating exclusion from a civilized culture.”

I agree with Orr’s assessment—but realize how hard it is to explain to someone who is not a strong reader why it is worth the effort. I struggle to explain why reading Ulysses is worth the effort—though I KNOW it is. But it is for me: and thus I find myself constantly revisiting the question of Why Read to really make deeply sure that it is not just my means of satisfaction that drives me forward into these studies of Milton and Dante. So today I think about the gorgeous moments of the last two months in our studies of Frankenstein and the Divine Comedy. Moments when we suddenly understood where we have come from and why we still struggle to define the relationship between the Creator and the Created. I think of our conversation around Measure for Measure and how this unleashed a new awareness of the complex relationship between authority and sexuality.

Reading and discussion of great literature exposes the truths we build our lives on—and then allows us the opportunity to explore these truths and re-define them. And that is a powerful-even revolutionary–act.

Feedback from The Divine Comedy

It was a very good salon and I really don’t think I would have taken on this huge and mysterious work without you. It was definitely worth going through the whole work—it is wonderful to actually experience real learning again as I know I did throughout the Divine Comedy (it got so much easier!).

I liked going round and having everyone pick out their passages—I think this worked well. I also think it could work well to identify anyone’s particular knowledge of an area and ask them as appropriate, to provide some background.

I also liked the probing questions you asked about why Dante would have spent so long on a topic or what he was trying to convey. Your questions do help guide the conversation especially when we—as always—manage to veer away a bit.

Thank you so much for your time and guidance through the work—that afternoon in the yard when the weather was divine, the food was abundant, and the conversation was intellectual I just had to pinch myself.

Dante’s Divine Comedy

Dante’s Divine Comedy

Dante1

Già volgeva il mio disio e ’l velle,
sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa,
l’amor che move ’l sole e l’altre stelle.

Now my will and my desire were turned,
like a wheel in perfect motion,
by the love that moves the sun and the other stars.

These breathtaking lines conclude Dante’s Divine Comedy, a 14,000-line epic written in 1321 on the state of the soul after death. T. S. Eliot called such poetry the most beautiful ever written—and yet so few of us have ever read it. Since the poem appeared, and especially in modern times, those readers intrepid enough to take on Dante have tended to focus on the first leg of his journey, through the burning fires of Inferno.

As I prepare opening notes for Dante’s Inferno, I am reading again about the medieval world view and how our idea of the human being has evolved. Dante offers a wonderful road into these deep and dense queries as his Divine Comedy is his attempt to construct an intellectual universe based on the visions of his faith. Several interested participants have wondered how the study of the Inferno might be approached if one is not formally religious. I am finding, as I did in the previous Paris-based study of this work, that the pilgrim’s exploration of his moral and spiritual universe—and the fantastic images that result—provide the reader a map for their own inquiry.

Dante fought the Church—his banishment from his beloved Florence was in part a result of his criticism of Pope Boniface and the political party he supported. His creation of the realms of Hell, Purgatory and Paradise were his attempt to bring his intellect and faith in alignment; a struggle that humans have been inspired by since Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas. Although I will provide background on the historical moment of Dante’s Florentine world and the political and ecclesiastical struggles that tore at his home, these are background to the very human pursuit: to understand the human soul. Although Dante’s terms are Christian, I do not think this desire is limited to the Christian realm. As always, the Salon conversation is enriched with a variety of perspectives, those who hold a formal faith as well as those who hold a formal questioning, along with those, (and I would place myself in this category) whose inquiry is loose and fluid and lifelong. We have so few spaces to share diverse views in religious ideas or spiritual traditions; I propose the study of a great work that engages a vigorous questioning of a formal belief offers that space.

From Inferno, we move towards the mountain of Purgatory. . .

As Dante explains in the opening lines of the canticle, Purgatory is the place in which “the human spirit purges himself, and climbing to Heaven makes himself worthy.” Dante’s Purgatory consists of an island mountain, the only piece of land in the southern hemisphere. Divided into three sections, Antepurgatory, Purgatory proper, and the Earthly Paradise, the lower slopes are reserved for souls whose penance was delayed. The upper part of the mountain consists of seven terraces, each of which corresponds to one of the seven capital sins. Atop the mountain Dante locates, Eden, the Earthly Paradise, the place where the pilgrim is reunited with Beatrice, the woman who inspired the poem. (from The World of Dante: http://www.worldofdante.org/purgatory1.html)

Then on to Paradise. . .

In each translation and writing about the Divine Commedia that I have consulted, the unanimous conclusion is that Paradise is the most difficult—the least likely to be read—the most likely to be started and not finished. We are warned by Dante himself, in the longest address to the reader, that if we have followed thus far in our little boat we should turn back now while we can still see the shores, lest in “losing me, you would be lost yourselves. . .” (l.5, Canto 2). How can we turn back now? I recognize the going will be tough and this might not be the most enjoyable Salon read- but I have not known any of us to shrink from challenge.

Dante has these challenges of ineffability as he attempts both to describe Paradise and his journey—the experience is beyond memory, the visions beyond human words. Here he uses the examples of the human need to put feet and hands on God, to give the Angels wings—we cannot conceive of what he has seen because we are still in our human state. Thus Dante himself must change—transhumanize—(Canto I, l. 70) to manage the journey, and we must shuffle along as best we can in our mortal skins to understand what Dante is offering.

“O you, who in some pretty boat,

Eager to listen, have been following

Behind my ship, that singing sails along

Turn back to look again upon your own shores;

Tempt not the deep, lest unawares,

In losing me, you yourselves might be lost.

The sea I sail has never yet been passed;

Minerva breathes, and pilots me Apollo,

And Muses nine point out to me the Bears.

You other few who have neck uplifted

Betimes to the bread of angels upon

Which one lives and does not grow sated,

Well may you launch your vessel

Upon the deep sea.”

― Dante AlighieriParadiso

SALON DETAILS:

  • Three six-meeting studies, one on each book of the Divine Comedy
  • Recommended editions:
    • Inferno by Dante Aligheri, translated by Mark Musa; Penguin Classics; ISBN-13: 978-0142437223
    • Purgatorio by Dante Aligheri, translated by Robin Kirkpatrick; Penguin Classics; ISBN-13: 978-0140448962
    • Paradiso by Dante Aligheri, translated by Mark Musa; Penguin Classics edition; ISBN-13: 978-0140444438

From Joseph Luzzi\’s illuminating article in American Scholar 03.16

How to Read Dante in the 21st Century 

“Dante requires what Nietzsche called “slow reading”—attentive, profound, patient reading—because Francesca’s sparse, seemingly innocent-sounding words speak volumes about the kind of sinner she is. In the first place, she’s not “speaking” to Dante in a natural voice; she’s alluding to poetry. And it’s a very famous poem, Al cor gentil rempaira sempre amore, “Love always returns to the gentle heart,” a gorgeous medieval lyric by Guido Guinizelli, one of Dante’s poetic mentors in the Sweet New Style, a movement in the late 1200s that nurtured Dante’s emerging artistic sensibilities. Francesca, by citing the poem and the Sweet New Style, is saying: it wasn’t my fault, blame it on love. Despite her prettiness, her sweetness, and her eloquence, she is like every other sinner in hell: it’s never their fault, always someone else’s. They never confess their guilt, the one thing necessary for redemption from sin. With one deft allusion, one lyrical dance amid the ferocious winds in the Circle of the Lustful, Dante delivers a magnificent psychological portrait of Francesca’s path to damnation.”

Why doesn’t anyone read Dante’s Paradiso?

Robert Baird addresses this question in Slate magazine
Please click on the link for the whole article…

Paradise Lost
Why doesn’t anyone read Dante’s Paradiso?

By Robert P. Baird
Posted Monday, Dec. 24, 2007, at 8:10 AM ET

Dante’s Paradiso is the least read and least admired part of his Divine Comedy. The Inferno’s nine circles of extravagant tortures have long captured the popular imagination, while Purgatorio is often the connoisseur’s choice. But as Robert Hollander writes in his new edition of the Paradiso, “One finds few who will claim (or admit) that it is their favorite cantica.” (A cantica, or canticle, is one of the three titled parts of the poem.) The time is ripe to reconsider Paradiso’s neglect, however, since three major new translations of the poem we know as the Divine Comedy are coming to completion. (Dante simply called it his Comedy; in what was perhaps the founding instance of publishing hype, divine was added by a Venetian printer in 1555.) Hollander’s edition, produced with his wife, Jean, was published this summer, and two more are due out next year: one by Robin Kirkpatrick and the other—the one I’m holding out for—by Robert M. Durling and Ronald L. Martinez.

What keeps people from the Paradiso? For one, it lacks the Inferno’s irony. The characters Dante meets in hell know the circumstances of their sins, but with few exceptions, they can’t see the justice in their punishments. The tension between their knowledge and ours generates a kind of dramatic irony familiar to modern readers: the irony of the unreliable narrator. Another problem is narrative: The Purgatorio is almost too successful in wrapping things up, so that by the end of the second canticle, Dante has done almost everything that seemed worth doing. He’s crossed hell and climbed Mount Purgatory, he’s purged himself of his own sins, and he’s come face to face with Beatrice, the woman on account of whom his whole journey was undertaken. It doesn’t help matters that for most of the Paradiso, Beatrice acts more like a schoolmarm than a lover, delivering long speeches that read like lectures in Scholastic theology.
When it comes down to it, though, the real problem modern readers have with the Paradiso is the idea of heaven itself. T.S. Eliot noted almost 80 years ago that “we have (whether we know it or not) a prejudice against beatitude as material for poetry.” As the quote suggests, our trouble with heaven is less a problem of belief than it is a problem of imagination. From the opening lines of Anna Karenina on down, all our best literature teaches us that narrative thrives on adversity, and so heaven presents itself as little more than a blank screen of beatific blandness, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. (Consider, by contrast, how successfully hell has been deployed as a metaphor for modern life: Under the Volcano, The Invisible Man, The Descent of Alette, not to mention “The Waste Land.”)

At first glance, Dante’s nine spheres of heaven look to be exactly the kind of bright, boring place we’d expect. When the pilgrim meets Piccarda in the heaven of the moon, the lowest of the nine, he asks why she doesn’t wish to be higher up, to be nearer to God. Piccarda replies (in Jean Hollander’s translation), “Brother, the power of love subdues our will/ so that we long for only what we have/ and thirst for nothing else.” A statement like this would seem to drain the Paradiso of all possible interest: wanting only what one has may be admirable in life but it hardly bodes well for literature.

For the rest of the article, click here

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