My favorite action-packed canto! The arrival of the “Heavenly Messenger” brings to mind the poem “The Campaign,” by Joseph Addison, commemorating the English and Austrian victory in 1704 over the French at the Battle of Blenheim, and the Duke Of Marlborough’s military genius:
“So when an Angel, by Divine Command,
With rising Tempests shakes a guilty Land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and Serene he drives the furious Blast;
And pleas'd th' Almighty's Orders to perform,
Rides in the Whirl-wind, and directs the Storm.“
As Vashik and Lisa note, some commentators actually describe IX as reminiscent of a military campaign. The two distinct halves of this canto, at least to me, reflect the anxiety before the start of a battle, and the intense relief that comes when your enemies are dispatched with ease. The first half is tension-laden, with uncertainty, doubt, and fearful anticipation of what might happen. Reason itself is baffled and disabled; Dante and Virgil are all but paralyzed. (The famous hunter Jim Corbett said “The word 'terror' is so generally and universally used in connection with everyday trivial matters that it is apt to fail to convey, when intended to do so, its real meaning.”) The only hope is to bank on, and wait nervously for God’s intercession. And that makes the canto’s second half all the more astonishing — witnessing unmatched power wielded to handily dismiss what ignited their fears. In his notes to IX, John D. Sinclair says: “It is the representation in naked simplicity of the victory of divine omnipotence over diabolical insolence.”
Perhaps Seneca best summed up the overall experience of the pilgrim and guide in this canto: “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.”
IX, to me, is a confrontation between two systems of instincts — the demons, animalistic, with permanent fear and alertness as their occupation, versus Dante (“everyman”) and Virgil (“reason”), who, reason having failed, and lacking the honed instincts of the animal, instinctively turn to that forward-leaning virtue — hope — for divine intervention.
Now to hazard some armchair psychoanalysis — I am convinced we see Dante’s military experience subtly reflected here, and will more directly in subsequent cantos. (Dante took part as a cavalryman at the fierce Battle of Campaldino in June 1289, and at the siege of Caprona in August of that year). Veterans will recognize the moments when Dante instantly reverts to the ancient strands of his DNA in the face of imminent danger. Only someone, I think, that has similar military experience would fully appreciate the Paleolithic depth of the his emotions. He is understandably fearful, but also (IMHO) demonstrates a hard-earned, calculated sense of the menace he faces. (In Barbara Reynold’s “Dante: The Poet, The Thinker, The Man” she notes: “In a letter which Bruni saw, he [Dante] described the battle [Campaldino] and drew a plan of it, saying that though he was then no novice in arms he at first felt great fear, which changed to exultation when the cavalry, routed in the beginning, regrouped and charged, defeating the enemy.”) He isn’t panicked here, if we understand panic to be “flight” driven by overwhelming fear in order to secure safety — although he certainly contemplates retreating! Dante’s anxiety reminds me of an apt quote from a Confederate infantryman at Gettysburg, waiting for his part in Pickett’s Charge: “When a rabbit darted out of some bushes and made a dash for the rear, one man apparently called out, “Run, old hare,” confessing, “If I was an old hare, I’d run too.” Yet Dante doesn’t run.
Here’s a weird tangent with respect to Medusa: I couldn’t help but think of a curious juxtaposition between Dante’s “Rime Petrose” (stony rhymes) and the threatened appearance of Medusa. He wrote four early lyrical poems that celebrate his unrequited love for an unnamed lady — his “donna di petra” (woman of stone). He compared her emotional coldness and unattainability to stone, and suffered intensely from frustrated love. Contrast that with the repellant Medusa, who threatens to turn him into stone!
Speaking of repellent figures: Dante exercises some extraordinary literary gymnastics with his incorporation of Erichtho, as Vashik and Lisa point out. He creates a fantastical narrative where she, a mortal witch, is vested with powers normally reserved for divine or demonic forces, and dispatches Virgil to retrieve a soul from the deepest part of Hell. Who gets retrieved is unstated — but we can be sure it wasn’t a petty criminal. This anecdote may well be Dante reminding us of Virgil's limitations as a pagan. Virgil is not immune to the influence of dark forces, and his knowledge of Hell is partly derived from his service to a figure of evil. If I was Dante and Virgil told me “I know the way; be sure of that,” and then said Erichtho was his travel agent, I might question my choice of guides.
P.S. Did I say that heavenly messenger is freaking awesome? Dante’s terse but evocative description reminds me of a line from the poem “The Rock and the Hawk” by Robinson Jeffers:
Before I proceed to work on today’s assignment, I wanted to make sure and thank you for another excellent, thought-provoking essay and to applaud Luona’s brilliant artwork, which I would say stands shoulder to shoulder with the other Medusa representations you offer here.
I like how JG Nichols has lines 61-63 (the quote for this canto in the journal) as I think it captures the intrigue and the musicality of Dante's words:
O you, whose minds are sound and full of sense
Notice the deeper meaning hidden here
Veiled by these lines that speak of strange events.
My favorite action-packed canto! The arrival of the “Heavenly Messenger” brings to mind the poem “The Campaign,” by Joseph Addison, commemorating the English and Austrian victory in 1704 over the French at the Battle of Blenheim, and the Duke Of Marlborough’s military genius:
“So when an Angel, by Divine Command,
With rising Tempests shakes a guilty Land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past,
Calm and Serene he drives the furious Blast;
And pleas'd th' Almighty's Orders to perform,
Rides in the Whirl-wind, and directs the Storm.“
As Vashik and Lisa note, some commentators actually describe IX as reminiscent of a military campaign. The two distinct halves of this canto, at least to me, reflect the anxiety before the start of a battle, and the intense relief that comes when your enemies are dispatched with ease. The first half is tension-laden, with uncertainty, doubt, and fearful anticipation of what might happen. Reason itself is baffled and disabled; Dante and Virgil are all but paralyzed. (The famous hunter Jim Corbett said “The word 'terror' is so generally and universally used in connection with everyday trivial matters that it is apt to fail to convey, when intended to do so, its real meaning.”) The only hope is to bank on, and wait nervously for God’s intercession. And that makes the canto’s second half all the more astonishing — witnessing unmatched power wielded to handily dismiss what ignited their fears. In his notes to IX, John D. Sinclair says: “It is the representation in naked simplicity of the victory of divine omnipotence over diabolical insolence.”
Perhaps Seneca best summed up the overall experience of the pilgrim and guide in this canto: “We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.”
IX, to me, is a confrontation between two systems of instincts — the demons, animalistic, with permanent fear and alertness as their occupation, versus Dante (“everyman”) and Virgil (“reason”), who, reason having failed, and lacking the honed instincts of the animal, instinctively turn to that forward-leaning virtue — hope — for divine intervention.
Now to hazard some armchair psychoanalysis — I am convinced we see Dante’s military experience subtly reflected here, and will more directly in subsequent cantos. (Dante took part as a cavalryman at the fierce Battle of Campaldino in June 1289, and at the siege of Caprona in August of that year). Veterans will recognize the moments when Dante instantly reverts to the ancient strands of his DNA in the face of imminent danger. Only someone, I think, that has similar military experience would fully appreciate the Paleolithic depth of the his emotions. He is understandably fearful, but also (IMHO) demonstrates a hard-earned, calculated sense of the menace he faces. (In Barbara Reynold’s “Dante: The Poet, The Thinker, The Man” she notes: “In a letter which Bruni saw, he [Dante] described the battle [Campaldino] and drew a plan of it, saying that though he was then no novice in arms he at first felt great fear, which changed to exultation when the cavalry, routed in the beginning, regrouped and charged, defeating the enemy.”) He isn’t panicked here, if we understand panic to be “flight” driven by overwhelming fear in order to secure safety — although he certainly contemplates retreating! Dante’s anxiety reminds me of an apt quote from a Confederate infantryman at Gettysburg, waiting for his part in Pickett’s Charge: “When a rabbit darted out of some bushes and made a dash for the rear, one man apparently called out, “Run, old hare,” confessing, “If I was an old hare, I’d run too.” Yet Dante doesn’t run.
Here’s a weird tangent with respect to Medusa: I couldn’t help but think of a curious juxtaposition between Dante’s “Rime Petrose” (stony rhymes) and the threatened appearance of Medusa. He wrote four early lyrical poems that celebrate his unrequited love for an unnamed lady — his “donna di petra” (woman of stone). He compared her emotional coldness and unattainability to stone, and suffered intensely from frustrated love. Contrast that with the repellant Medusa, who threatens to turn him into stone!
Speaking of repellent figures: Dante exercises some extraordinary literary gymnastics with his incorporation of Erichtho, as Vashik and Lisa point out. He creates a fantastical narrative where she, a mortal witch, is vested with powers normally reserved for divine or demonic forces, and dispatches Virgil to retrieve a soul from the deepest part of Hell. Who gets retrieved is unstated — but we can be sure it wasn’t a petty criminal. This anecdote may well be Dante reminding us of Virgil's limitations as a pagan. Virgil is not immune to the influence of dark forces, and his knowledge of Hell is partly derived from his service to a figure of evil. If I was Dante and Virgil told me “I know the way; be sure of that,” and then said Erichtho was his travel agent, I might question my choice of guides.
P.S. Did I say that heavenly messenger is freaking awesome? Dante’s terse but evocative description reminds me of a line from the poem “The Rock and the Hawk” by Robinson Jeffers:
“…bright power, dark peace;
Fierce consciousness joined with final
Disinterestedness…”
Thank you for teaching us, and the art.
Before I proceed to work on today’s assignment, I wanted to make sure and thank you for another excellent, thought-provoking essay and to applaud Luona’s brilliant artwork, which I would say stands shoulder to shoulder with the other Medusa representations you offer here.
I like how JG Nichols has lines 61-63 (the quote for this canto in the journal) as I think it captures the intrigue and the musicality of Dante's words:
O you, whose minds are sound and full of sense
Notice the deeper meaning hidden here
Veiled by these lines that speak of strange events.
Reads like an incantation