When the pilgrim Dante has come forth at last from the jaws of hell to look upon the stars of heaven again, he does not do what the modern writer is required to do. He does not enter the overheated boudoir of his feelings, to rummage in the closet and come forth with objects that are, mercifully, hard to describe. We expect better than that, and he doesn’t disappoint. If you’ve only just scaled the hairy hide of Satan, frozen at the centre of the world, you might cut a caper or two. I defer to those who have had the experience. Dante does more. He cries:
2:00 PM
Without Christ, poetry is also unredeemed
when the pilgrim dante has come forth at last from the jaws of hell to look upon the stars of heaven again, he does not do what the modern w...
Anthony Esolen
3 min read
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