After moving on from the tree that warned them away, the three travelers meet a group of gluttonous souls who appear starved almost beyond recognition. One of them recognizes Dante. It is his old friend, Forese. When asked by Forese to talk about himself, Dante is unable to do so because he’s so overcome by his friend’s present condition. Instead, he asks Forese to explain his situation. He explains that when the souls here pass by the great tree in the road as they move around the terrace, their hunger for the fruit and water is increased, but they are not allowed to eat. Forese also explains how he arrived at this terrace, and Dante, too, explains his journey with Virgil thus far.
(To read a footnote, click the number in the text. To come back from a footnote, click the up arrow at the note number.)
I was standing there searching through the branches of that tree like one who wastes time looking for birds, when my more-than-father said, “Let us move on now, my son. We need to use the little time we have left wisely.”[1]Having heard the warning not to approach this tree at the end of the previous canto, Dante’s curiosity doesn’t stop him from peering into it like a hunter attempting to catch a bird. Though … Continue reading
And so I quickly moved back to follow the two poets, whose conversation made the walking easy. But then we heard Labia mea Domine chanted sadly, filling us with feelings of both joy and regret. “O sweet father,” I said, “what is this chanting?”
He replied, “I think they are souls who are paying their debts to God.”[2]Moving again along the Terrace of Gluttony, Dante enjoys following the two poets whose conversation makes their walking even easier, until it is interrupted by the sad chanting of the first part of … Continue reading
You know how pilgrims who are lost in their thoughts will pass a stranger on the road, turn and stare, and then move on. Well, soon enough, a group of souls, silent and prayerful, came up from behind and passed us with a doubtful look. They were pale, emaciated, and so thin that you could plainly see all their bones! And from eyes that were sunk deep into their heads they stared at us suspiciously. I don’t even think the starving Erysichthon looked like that when he began to feed on himself![3]I can’t help but play with this simile about the pilgrims lost in their thoughts. Modern “pilgrims” are lost in their cell phones. If this were a grievous sin, one could imagine a place in the … Continue reading
Looking back at them, I said to myself,” They could be those held captive within Jerusalem, when the starving woman Miriam ate her own child!” The sockets of their eyes were so pronounced that they looked like rings missing their stones. Seeing that, one might make out the “m” of the word omo in their faces. Without knowing otherwise, who would guess that the mere scent of fruit or a spring of water could wither those souls like this?[4]Losing the sequence of his observation of the sinners’ eyes for a moment, Dante is reminded of another terrible story of hunger. This one is found in Book VI, 3 of Flavius Josephus’ The Jewish … Continue reading
So, as I stood there wondering about what caused such shriveling disfigurement, one of those starving souls turned and looked at me with those eyes set deep within his skull and cried out: “O what wonderful grace is this?”[5]Once again, Dante seems to step over himself: on the one hand, wondering about the causes of these souls’ disfigurement, and on the other giving answers to his wonderment–almost at the same … Continue reading
To tell you the truth, looking at him then, I would never have recognized the face his voice now revealed to me so clearly. Like a spark, his cry brought back to me the image of my close friend, Forese, who stood there before me.[6]The extent of this sinner’s disfigurement rendered Dante blind, in a sense, and it is the gracious voice of his dear friend, Forese Donati, that now enables the Pilgrim truly to “see” who he … Continue reading
“Don’t pay attention to my withered appearance,” he said. “Rather, tell me about yourself, and those two there with you. Who are they? Please, tell me everything.”[7]Addressing his dear friend, Forese’s first words seem to reflect his self-consciousness as he asks Dante to speak about himself. But his request might also be evidence of his humility and … Continue reading
“Ah, Forese,” I said, “when you died I wept bitterly. And now my grief returns seeing you so terribly disfigured. Please don’t ask me to speak because I’m horrified to see you like this and now my thoughts are scattered. But for God’s sake, please tell me what has happened to you?”[8]Forese would have been 35 when he died, and Dante only 30. If our Pilgrim wasn’t already taken aback by the appearance of the gluttons, his horror, now mixed with grief, is worsened by the fact … Continue reading
“I will tell you, my friend,” he replied. “From the mind of God there is a power that comes into the water and the tree you passed. This is what makes me look this way. You see, all of us here, singing and lamenting, are cleansing ourselves through hunger and thirst for having filled ourselves to excess when we were alive.[9]Forese begins to satisfy Dante’s curiosity by first calling his attention to the great tree, the fruit, and the water he encountered–most likely just minutes ago. There is a kind of divine power … Continue reading The smell of the fruit and the water that splashes down into that tree rouse up within us a powerful craving for food and drink – and not just once. As we run along this path, the pain we experience is rekindled again and again. I speak of pain, but what I really mean is solace. Believe me, the desire that continually brings us back to this tree is the same desire that led Christ to cry out gladly, ‘Eli,’ when he died for us.”[10]Continuing, Forese explains that their terrible hunger and thirst are the result of what they see and smell when they arrive at the great tree, namely the fruit and the water. These two senses … Continue reading
“My dear Forese,” I said, “it’s been less than five years since you departed from our world for a better one. If you knew you were close to death and no longer able to sin, tell me how it is that you have come so far up this mountain? I would have expected to see you near the bottom with those who wasted time in turning to God.”[11]Dante’s question here might seem forward from a friend but, perhaps, that is all the more reason for asking it. He and Forese were good friends, Dante obviously knew that he was a glutton, and … Continue reading
“It was my wife, Nella, who, with her tears and her prayers, enabled me to come to this terrace so quickly and begin my penitence. The more good she does the more she is precious to God, and the more I dearly love her. Unfortunately, the scandalous Barbagia of Sardinia have women more chaste than those where she lives now.[12]The value of prayers for those who have died has been a consistent theme in the Purgatorio, and it comes back here in Forese’s tender and grateful reminiscence of his virtuous wife’s prayers. One … Continue reading
“O dear brother, let me tell you this: I foresee a time – not far from now – when decrees from the pulpit shall warn the women of Florence against their lascivious dress. Even Saracen women know how to clothe themselves modestly. And if these wanton women knew what Heaven has in store for them soon, they would be screaming already. For if our foresight here is correct, these things will come to pass before their baby boys start growing beards.[13]Forese was just warming up in the previous paragraph when he suggested that the savage women of the Bargabia region in Sardinia were more virtuous than contemporary Florentine women. Here, he … Continue reading
“But enough from me, my brother. Please tell me about yourself because, as you can see, everyone here – including me – is looking at you with amazement as you block the sun.”[14]There is a certain humor in Forese’s request here because he gets to say what he obviously saw earlier. He’s spent enough time, as it were, talking about himself while, the whole time, Dante has … Continue reading
“If you recall how the two of us used to behave,” I replied, “ those memories must be a source of chagrin for you. But it was this one here who, just a few days ago, called me away from that way of life. Guided by him, and still alive, I traveled down to the very bottom of Hell. Then, still under his guidance, I have come this far up, circling the mountain which makes straight in you what the world deformed. He tells me that he will continue to guide me until we meet Beatrice; then I will proceed without him. It is Virgil there who leads me. That other soul has just been freed for Heaven. It was for him that the mountain shook.”[15]Dante is very candid here as he responds to his close friend. Some early commentators, like Benvenuto da Imola, suggest that the Poet is referring to memories of their “mutual pursuit of improper … Continue reading
Notes & Commentary
| ↑1 | Having heard the warning not to approach this tree at the end of the previous canto, Dante’s curiosity doesn’t stop him from peering into it like a hunter attempting to catch a bird. Though bird-hunting was popular in the Middle Ages (as it still is in many places), Dante probably considered this to be a waste of time. And Virgil’s reference to the short time left for their journey seems to amplify this and moves Dante away from this momentary distraction. Interestingly enough, there’s no overt sense here that Dante would rather have discovered who it was who spoke the warning–an angel, perhaps?–though that’s most likely why he stopped to look in the first place. That Virgil refers to Dante as “my son” is a tenderness that highlights again the deeper significance of their relationship in light of their shared pilgrimage. In his commentary at this point, Robert Hollander reminds us that this “may also reflect the Roman poet’s extraordinary ability to bring a pagan–and perhaps even this backsliding Christian–to Christ, as Statius’ narrative [in the previous canto] has established.” |
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| ↑2 | Moving again along the Terrace of Gluttony, Dante enjoys following the two poets whose conversation makes their walking even easier, until it is interrupted by the sad chanting of the first part of verse 17 from Psalm 51: “Lord, open my lips.” Dante tells us that, hearing this verse, they were filled “with feelings of both joy and regret.” The whole line reads: “Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will be filled with praise.” This is a fitting prayer for the gluttons, who in life often filled their mouths to excess with rich food and drink, and who now ask for the food of praise. More than that, these souls yearn for “the bread of angels,” that rich image of the Eucharist, the heavenly food on which they will feast when their penitence is completed.
Note again the growing tenderness between Dante and Virgil: a moment ago, Virgil referred to Dante as his “son,” and now Dante refers to Virgil as “my sweet father.” That we, as readers, hear these intimate expressions points again to the Poet’s inclusion of us into every aspect of the work. We, too, are folded into this intimate relationship. Like Dante, we, too, are Virgil’s children, he our father. |
| ↑3 | I can’t help but play with this simile about the pilgrims lost in their thoughts. Modern “pilgrims” are lost in their cell phones. If this were a grievous sin, one could imagine a place in the Inferno where, instead of sinners, Dante and Virgil would first hear a cacophony of voices and then come upon what they first think is an immense murmuration of birds. Upon further investigation they would discover that the “birds” are huge mobile phones on the screens of which are trapped the sinners who owned them. Connected to each sinner is a web of their contacts and all their social media–all talking at once, but no one being able to understand a word!
That being said, Dante, in his travels–before and during his exile–would have seen the scene he describes for us here: pilgrims paying half attention to the road, passing strangers but not stopping to talk. Of course, just moments ago Dante was himself distracted by the tree in the middle of the road. The “pilgrims” here are actually gluttonous sinners who come upon the three travelers unawares from behind. Note that, technically, we have not been told specifically that these sinners were gluttons. Virgil simply tells Dante they’re “paying their debts to God.” And as we’ve already seen him do, Dante will draw this identification out slowly over the next 40 or so lines. The image he paints here gives us a sense of a quickly-moving religious procession, the purposeful participants “silent and prayerful.” (Taking the large view for a moment, Hollander notes here that virtually all the sinners in Purgatory are on the move with the exception of the envious and the avaricious/prodigal.) Seeing the three strangers ahead of them most likely generates their “doubtful look,” especially, though this isn’t noted, if they saw Dante’s shadow which, as we’ll see later, they do. But this look is reflected back at them by Dante, who describes them in a state of horrific emaciation which he’ll soon cover in detail, being reminded first of Ovid’s story of Erysichthon in his Metamorphoses (VIII 738-878). Erysichthon was a Thessalian prince who wanted to construct a feasting hall adjacent to his palace. Violating a grove of trees sacred to the goddess Ceres, he ignored her warnings and cut down the trees. She punished him with such an all-consuming hunger that he spent his fortune and goods on food that only made him hungrier. In the end, he engorged himself with his own flesh and died. The sinners Dante describes here would most likely be on the verge of death were they still alive in our world. One is reminded of photos of concentration camp inmates starved almost beyond human recognition. The sinners here are like walking skeletons, their skin virtually transparent on their bones–quite the opposite, most likely, of their portly bodies when they were alive. Their eyes, complicit with their sin when they were alive, are sunk so far back into their heads they are hardly visible. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, these souls are well-hidden by their sin. |
| ↑4 | Losing the sequence of his observation of the sinners’ eyes for a moment, Dante is reminded of another terrible story of hunger. This one is found in Book VI, 3 of Flavius Josephus’ The Jewish War. A woman, driven mad by the starvation wreaked upon the Jews by the Roman invaders, kills, roasts, and eats a portion of her infant son. On the one hand, we might think of gluttony as a kind of convivial sin, but Dante’s examples from mythology and history make us consider the nature of this sin quite differently.
Returning to the sinners’ eyes–their sockets, actually–Dante makes a clever visualization. First, the sockets of these sinners’ eyes look like rings that have lost their stones, making them, in large part, worthless. But then he goes in an entirely different direction by suggesting that he could “see” the Italian/Latin word, omo (man) in the gluttons’ skull-like faces: the m being the nose and forehead, as it were, and the o on either side being the eyes. Strange as this might seem to us, devout medievals saw the words omo dei (Man of God) printed on the human face. Dorothy Sayers offers this explanation in her commentary: “According to a pious medieval conceit, the words “[H]OMO DEI” (man [is] of God) were plainly written in the human countenance, the eyes representing the two O’s, the line of the cheeks, eyebrows, and nose forming a script M, while the D, E, I are shown in the ears, nostrils, and mouth. On these wasted faces the bony outline of the M stood out with startling clearness.” The significance here, of course, is that each of us is imprinted with the image of God, the imago dei (see Genesis 1:26). Sin distorts that image spiritually, and in this case, gluttony distorts it physically. And Dante takes this one step further with his imagery of the terrible emaciation of these repenting gluttons. In the end, Dante wonders about, and in doing so, gives away, the reason for such distortions of the human body: it’s all due to the gorgeous tree in the middle of the road, filled with luscious-smelling fruit, and splashed from above with the purest water imaginable. The path of cues and crumbs he lays out is definitely an adventure for us to follow, and Mark Musa lets us look at the structure behind these lines in his commentary here: “The syntax of this tercet is broken, creating a ‘tension’ which, combined with the harshness of rare rhymes, underlines the repulsiveness of these skeleton-shades.” |
| ↑5 | Once again, Dante seems to step over himself: on the one hand, wondering about the causes of these souls’ disfigurement, and on the other giving answers to his wonderment–almost at the same time.
But now, one of these shriveled souls recognizes Dante and brings him out of his distracted wonderings with a greeting that is almost identical to Brunetto Lattini’s in Canto 15 (v. 24) of the Inferno. There the sodomites are punished by running eternally through a rain of flames. Like the gluttons here, Lattini’s body, terribly scorched by the flames, makes him initially unrecognizable by Dante. |
| ↑6 | The extent of this sinner’s disfigurement rendered Dante blind, in a sense, and it is the gracious voice of his dear friend, Forese Donati, that now enables the Pilgrim truly to “see” who he has been staring at. His (unchanged) voice from the past “sparks” their close relationship back into flames, and initiates one of the longest conversations in the entire Poem–from here to the end of this canto and 100 lines into the next.
Forese Donati was born in Florence around 1260 and died there in 1295. His family was ancient and noble, and Dante’s wife, Gemma, was a cousin of his. Born five years before Dante and nicknamed Bicci Novello, the two men were lifelong friends and poets. Some of the humorous, sometimes insulting, sonnets they sent back and forth to each other still exist (some commentators deny their authenticity), and it might be inferred that their friendship had its wild side when they were younger. We will meet his sainted sister, Piccarda, in the Paradiso, and their older brother, Corso, hated by many in Florence, may well be in Hell for his evil deeds. Forese will speak about his siblings in the next canto. |
| ↑7 | Addressing his dear friend, Forese’s first words seem to reflect his self-consciousness as he asks Dante to speak about himself. But his request might also be evidence of his humility and self-deference–virtues he has learned here in Purgatory. Interestingly, Forese doesn’t want mere gossipy information, because in the Italian he asks him: “ma dimmi il ver di te,” that is, “tell me the truth about yourself.” He probably wouldn’t have said this if he hadn’t seen Dante’s shadow. He doesn’t appear to be shocked that Dante is alive, but he would definitely be interested to know how his friend has come to be here, and in the company of two other shades he doesn’t recognize. |
| ↑8 | Forese would have been 35 when he died, and Dante only 30. If our Pilgrim wasn’t already taken aback by the appearance of the gluttons, his horror, now mixed with grief, is worsened by the fact that one of them is his great friend. The reader, of course, has heard Dante’s story many times already. So the Poet, rather than give it to us again here, turns the spotlight back onto Forese’s story which, we can be sure, will also tell us a great deal about what happens on this particular terrace. |
| ↑9 | Forese begins to satisfy Dante’s curiosity by first calling his attention to the great tree, the fruit, and the water he encountered–most likely just minutes ago. There is a kind of divine power in these things that makes him and the rest of the gluttons look so terribly emaciated. Basically, there’s more than meets the eye with that tree. And isn’t that the point here? What meets the eye are souls ravaged by hunger. But the “more” here is what Forese wants Dante (and us) to understand. Beyond the singing and lamenting, there is the promise of salvation ahead of these souls, a deep soul-cleansing that is taking place within them, and the tree, the fruit, and the water are the means by which this cleansing takes place. And beyond the abundance of the tree which can be seen, Forese explains, the souls are deprived of its bounty, and they starve. In life, they ate everything in sight, as it were. Now, as though to play on the words, what they see they cannot have. And this is the contrapasso on this terrace.
It’s also interesting to note that Forese never mentions his own sin of gluttony when he was alive though, obviously, that’s why he’s here. And, for that matter, Dante makes no reference to it either. At the same time, it’s well to consider the sin of gluttony for a moment. We might simply think it’s a matter of over-eating. But it’s much more than that. It’s an intense, excessive passion for eating and drinking that goes beyond the control of reason. Food and drink–one’s stomach, for that matter–become the glutton’s god. It’s an addiction that often has bad health and social consequences. Medieval theologians, particularly St. Thomas Aquinas, listed many different types and categories of gluttony, and often linked it with other grave sins like avarice and greed. |
| ↑10 | Continuing, Forese explains that their terrible hunger and thirst are the result of what they see and smell when they arrive at the great tree, namely the fruit and the water. These two senses operate in the same way they did when the gluttons were alive. Except here there’s no fulfillment, no satisfaction in the richness of the taste or the pleasure of what is smelled or swallowed. As it were, they are forever led toward the kitchen, but they never see the stove. Or, perhaps more simply, they’re led to the food but are prevented from eating it. And, to make matters worse, as we’ve seen here in Purgatory and also in Hell (see Inf. 28), these torments are repeated again and again as the souls move around the terrace until they are finally released.
Well, not “torments,” Forese tells Dante, but solace. This strikes us as odd, of course, because we don’t ordinarily think of such intense sensual deprivation as a comfort. However, what Dante wants to remind us of here is that Purgatory is a temporal place/experience. As Virgil reminded him in Canto 10 earlier, “You must not think about the punishment, / think but of what will come of it–at worst / it cannot last beyond the Final Day.” In other words, all souls in Purgatory know that eternal life in Paradise awaits them. This is the “solace” that outweighs any pain they experience. Forese’s last reference here, to Christ’s crying out ‘Eli’when he was dying on the cross, leads to some interesting theological insights. What might seem like a gratuitous devotional theme actually keeps the gluttons focused on the real object of their salvation–namely Jesus, instead of the false god of food and drink. Moreover, it has been a constant in some devotional practices throughout the history of Christianity to welcome suffering, sometimes self-inflicted, as a way of uniting oneself with Jesus in his own suffering. The thinking might go something like this: “It’s the least I can do for someone who has done so much for me.” After the Age of Martyrs, when Christianity became legalized under Constantine, some refer to the new era as the White Martyrdom. In this context, people weren’t killed for their faith, but might freely embrace a way of life (oftentimes monastic) where they “died to the world” in order to gain eternal life through penitence and self-denial. Specifically, the word Eli refers to verse 1 of Psalm 22 which Jesus cried out before he died: “Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani?” “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” It might seem odd to the reader that Forese interprets these death-laden words with gladness. But his purpose is to look beyond the suffering and beyond the death to what follows: a victory over death manifested in Jesus’ resurrection and the cancellation of a debt of sin incurred by Adam and Eve at another tree in the Garden of Eden (see Genesis 3). Furthermore, there is no mistaking the fact that, in the commentary tradition of the Purgatorio, the two trees the gluttons encounter on this terrace (we will come to the second one in the following canto) are directly related to those of the two in Eden. Recall that there were two trees in the Garden of Eden, one the Tree of Life, and the other the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Adam and Eve ate from the latter tree and incurred death as a result. Robert Hollander comments here that “…the first sin of Adam and Eve, eating of the [forbidden] fruit of that tree deprived them of the fruit of the other one, eternal life. Thus Christ’s sacrifice [his death on the cross] is doubly restorative, redeeming the sin and restoring the reward.” Dorothy Sayers adds to this: “By a beautiful oxymoron Christ is said to have been glad when He uttered from the Cross His great cry of dereliction, because it sprang from His desire, or thirst, for man’s salvation.” |
| ↑11 | Dante’s question here might seem forward from a friend but, perhaps, that is all the more reason for asking it. He and Forese were good friends, Dante obviously knew that he was a glutton, and probably shared more than a few meals with him. He probably also knew that Forese didn’t begin to turn his life around till it was almost over. Mark Musa notes here in his commentary: “This is a telling point for the sin of gluttony, that it compelled Forese to indulge right up to the limit of physical capacity.”
Remember that the date of this journey into the afterlife is the Spring of 1300. Forese had died in 1296, so it seems surprising to the Pilgrim to find his friend here on the Terrace of Gluttony so quickly. And if Forese had put off his repentance to the last part of his life, it’s additionally surprising to Dante that his friend isn’t down at the bottom of the Mountain in Ante-Purgatory where other delayed penitents are consigned. Or, do we dare say it, Dante might have expected to have seen Forese in Hell with the gluttons in Canto 6. There, recall, he had a conversation with an acquaintance nicknamed Ciacco which, in Italian slang, means “hog.” Regardless, Forese’s turn from sin, even at the end of his life, is Dante’s reminder here about the ceaseless activity of God’s grace which, even in extremity, as we’ve seen in the earlier cantos of the Purgatorio, has the power to save even the worst of sinners. |
| ↑12 | The value of prayers for those who have died has been a consistent theme in the Purgatorio, and it comes back here in Forese’s tender and grateful reminiscence of his virtuous wife’s prayers. One might infer here that she loved him in spite of his gluttony. Thus, we come to understand why Forese isn’t in Ante-Purgatory. Ronald Martinez notes here: “Not only has Nella cut short the penalty for Forese’s negligence, she has ‘freed’ him from the penances for pride, envy, anger, sloth, and avarice–whether drastically shortening them or enabling him to skip them entirely.” In Forese’s eyes, she is a beacon of goodness compared with many other women of her generation. That he calls her Nella, a diminutive of Giovanna and Giovanella, is another mark of how tenderly he remembers her. Many commentators suggest that this is also Dante’s way of making up for the rather vulgar poems he and Forese used to shoot at each other when they were young. In some of them, Dante teasingly mocked Nella and accused Forese of neglecting her. And as I noted earlier, there are still disputes about the authenticity of these “darts.”
That Nella was a virtuous Florentine woman is highlighted by Forese’s comparison of them to the women of the Barbagia, at that time a wild and savage region in the mountains of Sardinia where the women were said to go about naked. They, he (Dante) notes, are more virtuous than the shameless women of Florence. |
| ↑13 | Forese was just warming up in the previous paragraph when he suggested that the savage women of the Bargabia region in Sardinia were more virtuous than contemporary Florentine women. Here, he unleashes a venomous prophecy against these lascivious women whose lack of modesty and restraint (a kind of “clothing version” of gluttony) will soon have serious consequences. Some commentators note a decree about this by the bishop of Florence in 1310. As it turns out, though, there seems to have been no such decree. But recalling that Dante wrote the Purgatorio several years after the year 1300 in which it is set, there may have been sumptuary laws against women’s dresses that were extravagant and far too revealing. He then puts mention of this in Forese’s mouth as a “prophecy”–most likely more of a warning.
Finally, noted by Charles Singleton in his commentary here, Giovanni Villani’s Chronicle tells us that in the year 1330 (though Dante was already dead by this time) |
| ↑14 | There is a certain humor in Forese’s request here because he gets to say what he obviously saw earlier. He’s spent enough time, as it were, talking about himself while, the whole time, Dante has been standing there blocking the sun and everyone has been staring at him! |
| ↑15 | Dante is very candid here as he responds to his close friend. Some early commentators, like Benvenuto da Imola, suggest that the Poet is referring to memories of their “mutual pursuit of improper pleasures,” as Hollander puts it. Others suggest, as has already been noted, that their mutual exchange of vulgar sonnets in their youth is the cause of the “chagrin” Dante refers to. Nevertheless, it’s significant that Dante’s concern (perhaps regret) here leads him and us back to Canto 1 in the Inferno, where he found himself lost in a moral wilderness that might well have led him literally to Hell. Not only that, the whole purpose of this journey he’s been on is to acquaint him (and us)–while he’s still alive–with the nature of sin in all its aspects (Inferno), and redemption (Purgatorio). As Virgil leads him up the Mountain of Purgatory Dante witnesses the value of repentance and the action of God’s saving grace in the sinners he meets here. This gives meaning to the Poet’s reference to “the mountain which makes straight in you what the world deformed.”And though Dante is alive and Forese is dead, the fact that both of them are in temporal states (recall that Purgatory is only temporal) also opens another aspect that binds the two friends together.
Meanwhile, we’ve probably lost track of time as we’ve been reading the Poem, but Dante also reminds us (and Forese) here that Virgil took charge of him only a few days ago. It’s Tuesday afternoon, five days into their journey, and he lets us know what we can expect as the climb up the Mountain continues. Only here, at the end of this canto, does he actually answer an earlier question of Forese’s about the identity of his companions. Virgil gets introduced, but it’s fascinating that Statius dosn’t, except to say that he has just been freed from Purgatory and the recent earthquake was to mark that event. These are significant in Purgatory, but for his part, Forese doesn’t seem interested. One would think that the hundreds of years Statius had spent on the Mountain might have made an interesting comparison with the speed of Forese’s ascent, but Dante leaves that for us to consider. |