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    Paradiso
    Paradiso
    Paradiso
    Ebook901 pages8 hours

    Paradiso

    By Dante Alighieri

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    About this ebook

    This brilliant new verse translation by Allen Mandelbaum captures the consummate beauty of the third and last part of Dante's Divine Comedy. The Paradiso is a luminous poem of love and light, of optics, angelology, polemics, prayer, prophecy, and transcendent experience. As Dante ascends to the Celestial Rose, in the tenth and final heaven, all the spectacle and splendor of a great poet's vision now becomes accessible to the modern reader in this highly acclaimed, superb dual language edition. With extensive notes and commentary.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRandom House Publishing Group
    Release dateJun 14, 2016
    ISBN9780553900545
    Author

    Dante Alighieri

    Dante Alighieri was an Italian poet of the Middle Ages, best known for his masterpiece, the epic Divine Comedy, considered to be one of the greatest poetic works in literature. A native of Florence, Dante was deeply involved in his city-state’s politics and had political, as well as poetic, ambitions. He was exiled from Florence in 1301 for backing the losing faction in a dispute over the pope’s influence, and never saw Florence again. While in exile, Dante wrote the Comedy, the tale of the poet’s pilgrimage through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. To reach the largest possible audience for the work, Dante devised a version of Italian based largely on his own Tuscan dialect and incorporating Latin and parts of other regional dialects. In so doing, he demonstrated the vernacular’s fitness for artistic expression, and earned the title “Father of the Italian language.” Dante died in Ravenna in 1321, and his body remains there despite the fact that Florence erected a tomb for him in 1829.

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    Reviews for Paradiso

    4/5

    539 ratings16 reviews

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    • 4/5
      I have given this a rating for enjoyment factor as I am in no way qualified to rate it according to its poetical or literary merits. Each of the parts of the Divine Comedy have offered up an interesting reading experience for me. It is picturesque, and gives insight into the minds, thoughts, beliefs and culture of the time Dante wrote it in the early 1300s.

      I especially enjoyed the commentary and translation by Dorothy L. Sayers and Barbara Reynolds. So much of what was written became clear with their help.
    • 1/5
      A poet takes a tour of the heavens.1/4 (Bad).I gave up a little under halfway through. The first two books were boring, but they were at least about someone going somewhere and seeing things that were, in some sense, happening. This is just a list of dead people, many of whom give speeches.(Apr. 2022)
    • 2/5
      I found I enjoyed each of these sets of 36 cantos less and less. This last group just felt...mind-numbing. I'm trying to determine if they were the most overtly religious of the three sets.

      I liked the "spheres of heaven" aspect, but really the rest of it just left me cold.
    • 4/5
      He who casts off from shore to fish for truth
      without the necessary skill does not return the same
      as he sets out, but worse, and all in vain.

      I enjoyed this final installment of the Divine Comedy, but I have to confess that it was my least favorite of the trilogy. The translation was nice, though lacking in some of the character and charm of Pinsky's Inferno and Merwin's Purgatorio (I didn't read the Hollanders' translation of the first two books). I just wasn't as engrossed in Dante's journey to the Empyrean. This is probably simply a failing on my part—or at least a mark against my literary sensibilities.

      While occasionally overwhelming and tedious, the notes were copious and often very helpful. It would be interesting to see another contemporary poet of the caliber of Pinsky or Merwin translate this final installment someday.
    • 3/5
      I wish I had liked this as much as I enjoyed the first two books of The Divine Comedy.
    • 1/5
      I'm rating this format, not the work itself: Lousy. No illustrations at all. Shame on Amazon for this.
    • 1/5
      I listened to this book on CD instead of actually reading it. The version that I had had an explination at the beginning of each verse to help you understand and then read the verse.

      In this book, you travel with Dante as he assins to Heaven through the skies.

      I really did not liked this book. There is a lot of astrology in this book (which I did not expect). I did not really understand this book (I have several people tell me that I understand the other two parts of The Divine Comedy better because I live my life more on the sinful side **laughs**). I just did not like it. I would not recommend this, though others might understand it better than me.
    • 3/5
      I started this but couldn't finish it, I really need to get back to it. Unlike the other books, it just seemed like the personalities weren't as interesting ,and I guess the rewards just weren't as interesting as the punishments....
    • 5/5
      I have not read a huge number of translations of Dante, but of the one's that I've read Musa's is by far the best. Extremely readable but also quite complex. I would recommend this translation to anyone.
    • 4/5
      Heel anders van aard dan Inferno en purgatorio, bij wijlen onleesbaar. Maar toch een geweldige kracht door de meezuigende vaart, telkens in een hogere sfeer.
      Typerend is de blijvende kritische aard van Dante met steeds weer vragen en een sprankeltje twijfel.
    • 5/5
      (Review is of the Penguin Classics translation by Mark Musa, and applies to all three volumes, Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradisio)

      I would not think to quibble with reviewing Dante himself - Dante is a master, and doesn't need my endorsement. I will say, however, that Musa's translation is an exceptionally sensitive one, and his comprehensive notes are an invaluable aid to the reader less familiar with Dante's broad spheres of reference. Musa is clearly a devoted scholar of Dante, and his concern for Dante's original meaning and tone is evident. This is one of the best translations of The Comedia available.
    • 4/5
      Although, the weakest of the three, Paradiso is still quite amazing for its portrayal of heaven in all its layered complexity. Naturally it is not as vexing or interesting at Purgatorio or Hell but still interesting to see who Dante wanted to place there. Plus, the ending is just hilarious. Again, this translation is great. The Hollander's have outdone themselves. I wonder what they do now.
    • 2/5
      Eh, this book was the least interesting of [book: The Divine Comedy] to me. Like [book: Purgatorio], it had some beautiful imagery, but just got pretty boring.
    • 3/5
      Of the 3 parts this is the least interesting. I know Dante comes from the 13th and 14th centuries and this may seem unfair but it left me with visions of Mussolini styled fascist spectacles. Too overwrought and too syncophantic for my blood--what is left is Dante's talent and beautiful use of language which is something but going to Hell and Purgatory is a lot more worthwhile than going to Heaven in this case.
    • 4/5
      The Divine Comedy epitomized medieval attitudes. From historical perspectives, this work serves as a window into the mentality of late middle ages in Italy, on the brink of the Renaissance. Scholastic thinking informs Dante's approach.
    • 3/5
      As I recall, this one kind of dragged. Or maybe it got a bit too religious for me.

    Book preview

    Paradiso - Dante Alighieri

    THE DIVINE COMEDY: PARADISO

    A Bantam Book

    PUBLISHING HISTORY

    The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri, translated by Allen Mandelbaum, is published in hardcover by the University of California Press: Volume I, Inferno (1980); Volume II, Purgatorio (1981); Volume III, Paradiso (1982). Of the three separate volumes of commentary under the general editorship of Allen Mandelbaum, Anthony Oldcorn, and Charles Ross, Volume I: The California Lectura Dantis: Inferno was published by the University of California Press in 1998. For information, please address University of California Press, 2223 Fulton St., Berkeley, CA 94720.

    Bantam Classic edition published February 1986

    Bantam Classic reissue edition / August 2004

    Published by

    Bantam Dell

    A Division of Random House, Inc.

    New York, New York

    All rights reserved

    English translation copyright © 1984 by Allen Mandelbaum

    Drawings copyright © 1984 by Barry Moser

    Drawing, The Universe of Dante, copyright © 1982 by Bantam Books

    Student notes copyright © 1986 by Anthony Oldcorn and Daniel Feldman

    Cover art copyright © 2004 by Jacopo Marieschi

    Cover photo copyright © by Cameraphoto Arte, Venice / Art Resource, NY

    No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: Bantam Books, New York, New York.

    Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

    ISBN 9780553212044

    eBook ISBN 9780553900545

    v4.1

    a

    This translation of the PARADISO is inscribed to

    Toni Burbank and Stanley Holwitz,

    whose DOPPIO LUME S’ADDUA

    CONTENTS

    Cover

    Title Page

    Copyright

    Dedication

    Introduction

    Paradiso (English Version)

    Canto I

    Canto II

    Canto III

    Canto IV

    Canto V

    Canto VI

    Canto VII

    Canto VIII

    Canto IX

    Canto X

    Canto XI

    Canto XII

    Canto XIII

    Canto XIV

    Canto XV

    Canto XVI

    Canto XVII

    Canto XVIII

    Canto XIX

    Canto XX

    Canto XXI

    Canto XXII

    Canto XXIII

    Canto XXIV

    Canto XXV

    Canto XXVI

    Canto XXVII

    Canto XXVIII

    Canto XXIX

    Canto XXX

    Canto XXXI

    Canto XXXII

    Canto XXXIII

    Paradiso (Italian Version)

    Canto I

    Canto II

    Canto III

    Canto IV

    Canto V

    Canto VI

    Canto VII

    Canto VIII

    Canto IX

    Canto X

    Canto XI

    Canto XII

    Canto XIII

    Canto XIV

    Canto XV

    Canto XVI

    Canto XVII

    Canto XVIII

    Canto XIX

    Canto XX

    Canto XXI

    Canto XXII

    Canto XXIII

    Canto XXIV

    Canto XXV

    Canto XXVI

    Canto XXVII

    Canto XXVIII

    Canto XXIX

    Canto XXX

    Canto XXXI

    Canto XXXII

    Canto XXXIII

    Illustration Gallery

    Notes

    About the Author

    INTRODUCTION

    Paradiso is a poem of spectacle, of wheeling shapes that enter and exit, form, re-form, and dis-form; of voices that discourse out of their faceless flames; of letters and words spelled out across the heavens by living lights in flight; of flames that shape the remarkable Eagle; of the vast amphitheater of the Celestial Rose in the tenth and final heaven, the Empyrean, where the blessed range in carefully orchestrated ranks.

    That expanse is such that when, some two-thirds of the way through Paradise, the voyager turns his gaze back and downward toward the earth, he sees (XXII, 134–135 and 148–152):

    …this globe in such a way that I

    smiled at its scrawny image…

    And all the seven heavens showed to me

    their magnitudes, their speeds, the distances

    of each from each. The little threshing floor

    that so incites our savagery was all—

    from hills to river mouths—revealed to me…

    Such cosmic expanse and order does admit of likeness to spacious waters (I, 112–117):

    Therefore, these natures move to different ports

    across the mighty sea of being, each

    given the impulse that will bear it on.

    This impulse carries fire to the moon;

    this is the motive force in mortal creatures;

    this binds the earth together, makes it one.

    But that expanse does not allow us solitude or intimacy—with one exception: our intimate entry into the making of the poem, into the atelier, forge, foundry, workshop, mind and heart, of the maker-orchestrator.

    Here we find the exilic despair that was so imperative a source of the energies and exhilaration of a work unlike anything Dante had completed before. That despair forms the bitter part of the burden of the prophecy he hears from his ancestor, Cacciaguida, at the center of Paradiso (XVII, 55–60):

    "You shall leave everything you love most dearly:

    this is the arrow that the bow of exile

    shoots first. You are to know the bitter taste

    of others’ bread, how salt it is, and know

    how hard a path it is for one who goes

    descending and ascending others’ stairs."

    And here we find the pride that this terminal cantica engenders, Dante’s sense of the uniqueness of this work as against any wrought prior to him (II, 7–9 and XIX, 7–9):

    The waves I take were never sailed before;

    Minerva breathes, Apollo pilots me,

    and the nine Muses show to me the Bears.

    And what I now must tell has never been

    reported by a voice, inscribed by ink,

    never conceived by the imagination…

    There is pride—and there is the nakedly buoyant, joyous presumption, and even fleeting complacency, of one who contemplates not only from the heights (as in XXII, 148–152, above) but also savors the height itself (XI, 1–12):

    O senseless cares of mortals, how deceiving

    are syllogistic reasonings that bring

    your wings to flight so low, to earthly things!

    One studied law and one the Aphorisms

    of the physicians; one was set on priesthood

    and one, through force or fraud, on rulership;

    one meant to plunder, one to politick;

    one labored, tangled in delights of flesh,

    and one was fully bent on indolence;

    while I, delivered from our servitude

    to all these things, was in the height of heaven

    with Beatrice, so gloriously welcomed.

    And in Dante’s envisioning of this ever-widening expanse—so unlike the ever-narrowing hellish voyage to the deepest pit, and the hopeful, ever-narrowing voyage to the Mount of Purgatory’s summit—we are asked to share the travail of the writer, the constraints and limits of speech and memory, as he struggles with magnitudes. Time and time again, the very scribe who tells us (X, 22–27):

    Now, reader, do not leave your bench, but stay

    to think on that of which you have foretaste;

    you will have much delight before you tire.

    I have prepared your fare; now feed yourself,

    because that matter of which I am made

    the scribe calls all my care unto itself.

    also asks us to enter—intimately—into his cares and concerns at his own bench. But each of the chimings on obstacles and barriers, on the immensity of the task, on its impossibility, only serves to magnify the dimensions and intensity of the vision—whether it be the vision of the smile of Beatrice, or of the happiness of St. Peter coming to greet Beatrice, or of the mystery of the Incarnation.

    The full force of these visions rests in and rises from the temporal shapes and duration of fabulation in the Comedy, a long poem, long in the time of its making (this work so shared by heaven and by earth/ that it has made me lean through these long years, XXV, 2–3). But Dante’s leaps and lapses in the making of Paradiso, the gyres and wheelings of his dervishing desk, do offer, in themselves, another strange sight (XXXIII, 136), an extraordinary spectacle, a vision of the cunning yet transparent place of Dante’s own incarnating (I, 4–9; XXIII, 55–63; XXIV, 25–27; XXX, 22–33; XXXIII, 55–57, 58–63, 106–108, 121–123):

    I was within the heaven that receives

    more of His light; and I saw things that he

    who from that height descends, forgets or can

    not speak; for nearing its desired end,

    our intellect sinks into an abyss

    so deep that memory fails to follow it.

    If all the tongues that Polyhymnia

    together with her sisters made most rich

    with sweetest milk, should come now to assist

    my singing of the holy smile that lit

    the holy face of Beatrice, the truth

    would not be reached—not its one-thousandth part.

    And thus, in representing Paradise,

    the sacred poem has to leap across,

    as does a man who finds his path cut off.

    My pen leaps over it; I do not write:

    our fantasy and, all the more so, speech

    are far too gross for painting folds so deep.

    I yield: I am defeated at this passage

    more than a comic or a tragic poet

    has ever been by a barrier in his theme;

    for like the sun that strikes the frailest eyes,

    so does the memory of her sweet smile

    deprive me of the use of my own mind.

    From that first day when, in this life, I saw

    her face, until I had this vision, no

    thing ever cut the sequence of my song,

    but now I must desist from this pursuit,

    in verses, of her loveliness, just as

    each artist who has reached his limit must.

    From that point on, what I could see was greater

    than speech can show: at such a sight, it fails—

    and memory fails when faced with such excess.

    As one who sees within a dream, and, later,

    the passion that had been imprinted stays,

    but nothing of the rest returns to mind,

    such am I, for my vision almost fades

    completely, yet it still distills within

    my heart the sweetness that was born of it.

    What little I recall is to be told,

    from this point on, in words more weak than those

    of one whose infant tongue still bathes at the breast.

    How incomplete is speech, how weak, when set

    against my thought! And this, to what I saw

    is such—to call it little is too much.

    Much, of course, is tellable, is chartable. We, seated at our benches, intent on Dante’s dervishing, may have at hand both the Paradiso and a gazetteer for sedentaries therefor, a gazetteer with seven entries for the seven heavenly bodies that were considered planets (and Dante will also call the planets stars)—Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn. Three additional entries would cover the Eighth Heaven or Sphere of the Fixed Stars, those stars that are invariant in their position in relation to each other; the Ninth Heaven, the swiftest of the spheres (I, 123) and matter’s largest sphere (XXX, 38), the Primum Mobile, the primal source of motion for all the eight spheres that lie below and within it; and the Tenth Heaven, the Empyrean, a Christian addition to the gazetteer, a heaven not envisioned by Ptolemy, Alfraganus, or Alpetragius. This gazetteer—except for the entry under the Empyrean—may well be subject to the cavil muttered by another exile, Osip Mandelstam: The Middle Ages…did not fit into the Ptolemaic system: they took refuge there.

    But Dante’s refuge is also ours: a way to scan his journey in space, riprap or calculated scaffold, a frame of composition in which he and we can rest, as he labors at the fundamental, experimental, scribal trial and task: invention. We can see the invented becoming memory as it is made, and we can also see Dante outreading readers, conjuring his being remembered in a future. The energy of his invention informs the words of Mandelstam:

    Dante is an antimodernist. His contemporaneity is inexhaustible, measureless, and unending….It is unthinkable to read the cantos of Dante without aiming them in the direction of the present day. They were made for that. They are missiles for capturing the future. They demand the commentary of the futurum.

    We, bruised by this incredibly cruel century, are part, a small part of that future, and Dante is concerned for his place among us. That concern and desire are momentarily shadowed by his fear that too much truth may offend the readers of his own age. But that shadow is quickly dispelled; for Dante to compromise his words would lose, for him, fame, honor, audience, in the future (XVII, 118–120):

    "Yet if I am a timid friend of truth,

    I fear that I may lose my life among

    those who will call this present, ancient times."

    Thus, he holds fast to Cacciaguida’s injunction (XVII, 127–134):

    "Nevertheless, all falsehood set aside,

    let all that you have seen be manifest,

    and let them scratch wherever it may itch.

    For if, at the first taste, your words molest,

    they will, when they have been digested, end

    as living nourishment. As does the wind,

    so shall your outcry do—the wind that sends

    its roughest blows against the highest peaks…"

    We, too, as part of the future, are asked by Dante to measure our fitness as readers, to measure our hungering for the fare that he calls the bread of angels (II, 1–6 and 10–15):

    O you who are within your little bark,

    eager to listen, following behind

    my ship that, singing, crosses to deep seas,

    turn back to see your shores again: do not

    attempt to sail the seas I sail; you may,

    by losing sight of me, be left astray.

    You other few who turned your minds in time

    unto the bread of angels, which provides

    men here with life—but hungering for more—

    you may indeed commit your vessel to

    the deep salt-sea, keeping your course within

    my wake, ahead of where waves smooth again.

    In a literal sense, we may fall short. For to have turned to the bread of angels means, in the most probable translation of Dante’s metaphorical use of biblical manna, to have begun the study of speculative theology. Such study is less than frequent today, such disciplined recognition and schooling of a hungering that can only be fully appeased with the enlightenment found in the beatific vision proper to the angels—and perhaps not even to them.

    But the bread of angels as object of the hungering of the mind for meaning involves a reachless goal, a search that must for us, here—and even for the Seraphim there—collide with mystery (XXI, 91–99):

    "But even Heaven’s most enlightened soul,

    that Seraph with his eye most set on God,

    could not provide the why, not satisfy

    what you have asked; for deep in the abyss

    of the Eternal Ordinance, it is

    cut off from all created beings’ vision.

    And to the mortal world, when you return,

    tell this, lest men continue to trespass

    and set their steps toward such a reachless goal."

    And if we cannot satisfy/ our mind unless it is enlightened by/ the truth beyond whose boundary no truth lies (IV, 124–126), then Dante would accord with Stevens’s assessment of our earthly situation: It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.

    That collision with mystery, that dissatisfaction of the mind—we do know. It is from this earth that we turn to the bread of angels, and upon this earth that Dante envisions. That bread is also the bread of desire and of the forms that longing engenders. It is the manna that all of us receive in act and memory, the manna of days and nights of grace that lies beyond any algebra of merits.

    Now we can set aside the gazetteer. Now we can share the hungering. We, in this future, may lack the resolution and independence of Dante, but we certainly share his metamorphic vicissitudes, the mutabilities of a man who defines himself as one who by my very nature am/ given to every sort of change (V, 98–99). And when the changing Dante appropriates, it is not only the mediators of antiquity, the gods and muses of his invocations, whom he calls upon; he also appropriates our age, the future angels of Rilke and of Stevens; and he even appropriates the still nameless poets of the future (I, 34–36):

    Great fire can follow a small spark: there may

    be better voices after me to pray

    to Cyrrha’s god for aid—that he may answer.

    That future also includes the future of the poet after the completion of the poem. For though Dante’s Paradiso is completed near the end of his life, his poem is not equatable with his life. And in the opening of the final canto we are to share the sense of poetry as prayer—as vocative that pleads not only for the present need to reach, to see, but also for help in persevering, in living after the envisioning. The prayer of Bernard of Clairvaux to Mary, Virgin mother, daughter of your Son, after fixing her place as centerpoint in universal time, turns to the needs of "this man," Dante (XXXIII, 19–36):

    "In you compassion is, in you is pity,

    in you is generosity, in you

    is every goodness found in any creature.

    This man—who from the deepest hollow in

    the universe, up to this height, has seen

    the lives of spirits, one by one—now pleads

    with you, through grace, to grant him so much virtue

    that he may lift his vision higher still—

    may lift it toward the ultimate salvation.

    And I, who never burned for my own vision

    more than I burn for his, do offer you

    all of my prayers—and pray that they may not

    fall short—that, with your prayers, you may disperse

    all of the clouds of his mortality

    so that the Highest Joy be his to see.

    This, too, o Queen, who can do what you would,

    I ask of you: that after such a vision,

    his sentiments preserve their perseverance."

    That Saint Bernard should be the speaker here, and that this prayer should occupy so privileged a place in Paradiso—these attest to the complex conjoining in Dante of two often diverging paths: the path of intellect and the path of love.

    Dante inhabits and inherits the extraordinary intellectual edifice, foreshadowed a century earlier by Abelard, that finds its culmination in the university life and institutions of thirteenth-century Paris. His Ulysses in the Inferno may indeed represent Dante’s recoiling from the very limits that the ultimate exaltation of intellect may reach, extend, transgress.

    Against Abelard and that nascent reason-able tradition stood his ferocious adversary Bernard, emblem of the rich expansion of the language of God-directed love, in which the theologians outdo all poets before—and often including—Dante. That line exalts affection, the ardor of God-seeking.

    Aquinas had already charted the erotics of knowing with enduring precision: he had already wed intellect and affect. But in Aquinas, Dante could never have found so central a place for the feminine protagonist of affect: Mary. And in Aquinas, he could certainly not have found his incarnate Beatrice. Beatrice, of course, also shares the modes of argumentation, the instruments of the other—intellectual—tradition. If not Theology or Sacred Science itself, she is a confident theologian. But she is, too, a feminine apparition—yet not an icon or idol. She is the living daughter of Memory and Affection.

    Mary herself, before Bernard’s prayer, had been evoked by Dante in the present tense of the writer writing of his life on our earth, outside the poem of Paradise, in lines that are no less memorable than Bernard’s prayer to Mary: The name of that fair flower which I always/ invoke, at morning and at evening… (XXIII, 88–89), where that fair flower is Mary, the Rosa Mystica, the Mary of the Rosary and the Rose in which the Word of God became/ flesh (XXIII, 73–74).

    And when Dante evokes Beatrice in Canto XXIII, he finally brings to bear on her two earthly likenesses most dear to him, the maternal and the ornithological, here joined to his stupendous string of dawn and pre-dawn scenes (XXIII, 1–15):

    As does the bird, among beloved branches,

    when, through the night that hides things from us, she

    has rested near the nest of her sweet fledglings

    and, on an open branch, anticipates

    the time when she can see their longed-for faces

    and find the food with which to feed them—chore

    that pleases her, however hard her labors—

    as she awaits the sun with warm affection,

    steadfastly watching for the dawn to break:

    so did my lady stand, erect, intent,

    turned toward that part of heaven under which

    the sun is given to less haste; so that,

    as I saw her in longing and suspense,

    I grew to be as one who, while he wants

    what is not his, is satisfied with hope.

    Along the way to Beatrice as bird among beloved branches, along the way to Bernard’s prayer, we are asked to share the work of a maker who is ever conscious that the praise and enactment of music or dance are auto-celebrations of the movement of verse itself (even as Milton was in praising Harry Lawes, or Hopkins in praising the colossal smile of Henry Purcell, or Fray Luis in praising Salinas). A maker conscious, too, that verse can mime the movement of the soul in joyous love (XIV, 19–24):

    As dancers in a ring, when drawn and driven

    by greater gladness, lift at times their voices

    and dance their dance with more exuberance,

    so, when they heard that prompt, devout request,

    the blessed circles showed new joyousness

    in wheeling dance and in amazing song.

    That amazing song is sung in a poem that, may, in program, claim to be a timeless poem. Paradiso may be intent on the vision of the everlasting, a poem that sees—apparently—what are the simultaneous presences of the blessed in the Empyrean stretched out over time and space only to accommodate Dante’s earthly eyes (IV, 37–45):

    "They showed themselves to you here not because

    this is their sphere, but as a sign for you

    that in the Empyrean their place is lowest.

    Such signs are suited to your mind, since from

    the senses only can it apprehend

    what then becomes fit for the intellect.

    And this is why the Bible condescends

    to human powers, assigning feet and hands

    to God, but meaning something else instead."

    Yet Dante does not hesitate to glory in the timing mechanism of the clock and in seeing in its machinery the movement of music, of dance, of the time-borne verse line itself, and of the spirit’s growth in love (X, 139–148 and XXIV, 13–18):

    Then, like a clock that calls us at the hour

    in which the bride of God, on waking, sings

    matins to her Bridegroom, encouraging

    His love (when each clock-part both drives and draws),

    chiming the sounds with notes so sweet that those

    with spirit well-disposed feel their love grow;

    so did I see the wheel that moved in glory

    go round and render voice to voice with such

    sweetness and such accord that they can not

    be known except where joy is everlasting.

    And just as, in a clock’s machinery,

    to one who watches them, the wheels turn so

    that, while the first wheel seems to rest, the last

    wheel flies; so did those circling dancers—as

    they danced to different measures, swift and slow—

    make me a judge of what their riches were.

    And on the way to Bernard’s prayer we will also find that our sympathy with Dante’s metamorphic nature has been instructed in one specific way of change within his book of changes: the use of multiple possibilities as instruments and way stations in the conversion of the self to an integral presence (not unakin to Saint Augustine’s: Love made me what I am, that I may be what I was not before). Variety and vicissitude—even exile—may be the apprenticeship and bondage needed before the freedom of oneness can be reached. (And perhaps this mode of metamorphosis is not that un-Ovidian. Did not Ovid himself beseech a seamless way in his incipit?

    My soul would sing of metamorphoses,

    but since, o gods, you were the source of these

    bodies becoming other bodies, breathe

    your breath into my book of changes: may

    the song I sing be seamless as its way

    weaves from the world’s beginning to our day.)

    To that end, the io sol uno, I myself/ alone, of Inferno (II, 3–4) extends through I crown and miter you over yourself of Purgatorio (XXVII, 142) to—now in a political context—Dante’s best party as his own self at the end of the prophecy by Cacciaguida, Dante’s ancestor (XVII, 61–69):

    "And what will be most hard for you to bear

    will be the scheming, senseless company

    that is to share your fall into this valley;

    against you they will be insane, completely

    ungrateful and profane; and yet, soon after,

    not you but they will have their brows bloodred.

    Of their insensate acts, the proof will be

    in the effects; and thus, your honor will

    be best kept if your party is your self."

    That self finds an almost obsessively narcissistic model in the image of the Three-in-One of the Trinity toward the end of Canto XXXIII (124–126):

    Eternal Light, You only dwell within

    Yourself, and only You know You; Self-knowing,

    Self-known, You love and smile upon Yourself!

    But the vast population of the Comedy is proof against the claustrophobia of that model, as is Dante’s gratefulness in the Paradiso to the otherness of Beatrice. Her otherness made possible his engendering the Paradiso, even as the otherness of Virgil nurtured the making of Inferno and Purgatorio. The Paradisiac gratitude of Dante to Beatrice stands in a diptych with his valediction to Virgil (Purg. XXX, 43–54), even as her silent smile complements the silent smile of virgil in the Earthly Paradise, in Purgatorio, XXVIII, 147 (Par. XXXI, 79–93):

    "O lady, you in whom my hope gains strength,

    you who, for my salvation, have allowed

    your footsteps to be left in Hell, in all

    the things that I have seen, I recognize

    the grace and benefit that I, depending

    upon your power and goodness, have received.

    You drew me out from slavery to freedom

    by all those paths, by all those means that were

    within your power. Do, in me, preserve

    your generosity, so that my soul,

    which you have healed, when it is set loose from

    my body, be a soul that you will welcome."

    So did I pray. And she, however far

    away she seemed, smiled, and she looked at me.

    Then she turned back to the eternal fountain.

    Even as the smile of Beatrice and Dante’s gratitude were—earlier—condensed in one of the rare passages in Paradiso where Dante is likened to a dreamer (XXIII, 49–54):

    I was as one who, waking from a dream

    he has forgotten, tries in vain to bring

    that vision back into his memory,

    when I heard what she offered me, deserving

    of so much gratitude that it can never

    be canceled from the book that tells the past.

    I am no less indebted now, completing this translation of the Comedy, to those already acknowledged in the Inferno and Purgatorio volumes, not least to Laury Magnus, whose anima…più di me degna overlooked one who was drawn and driven from the selva oscura through to new trees…renewed when they bring forth new boughs.

    But the Paradiso translation was completed under somewhat charred circumstances. In this time, those who have [i]mparadisa[to] la mia mente and my gazetteer were: Gigliola and Donatella Nocera and their parents in Siracusa, where their Ortygia offered me a blessed stay; Pieraldo Vola in Rome; and Olga and Vittore Branca in Venice. West of the Mississippi, there were the Zwickers and Stangs of St. Louis, the Bassoffs of Boulder, the Richardsons and Feldmans of Denver, the Estesses and Bernards of Houston, and Nanette Heiman of San Francisco. Eastward of the Mississippi: the Alcalays; Leonard and Rayma Feldman; Leon and Peggy Gold; Gale Sigal and Walter Stiller; K. S. Rust; the Austers; Henry Weinfield and Joyce Block; Thomas Harrison; Leon Gottfried; Anthony Oldcorn, Charles Ross, Teodolinda Barolini, and Giuseppe Di Scipio, colleagues whose work on the Lectura Dantis volumes freed me for these ten spheres; the Hanses; the Marianis; and Joseph Marbach, a truly Hippocratic physician che natura/ a li animali fé ch’ell’ ha più cari.

    After the death of my mother, Leah Gordon Mandelbaum, at the completion of this work, Ely Pilchik provided unexpected Paradisiac consolation, as did shared readings with my seminar at the Graduate Center.

    The visit of Mario Luzi to the States—so warmly abetted by Jon Snyder and Francesca Valente—focused much for us both in mulling on magma and metamorphosis. Anne Greenberg, Cecilia Hunt, and Daniel Feldman nurtured editorially beyond anything my ruminare and vanare could conjure. For Barry Moser, Michael Bixler, Czeslaw Jan Grycz, and myself, the road of this bookmaking has indeed been such that dicer, cor, and labor shared one way. The most tenacious tutelary spirits, whose double lights gave me the strength to see The End, share the dedication of this book; New York to Los Angeles spans much less than their magnificenza does.

    In Valbonne and Mougins, Elisa and Nicholas, grandchildren whose differing voices join to sound sweet music, were joined in turn by Margherita, Jonathan, and Anne in amply providing the bread of angels.

    Allen Mandelbaum

    The Graduate Center of the City University of New York May, 1984

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    Proem and Invocation to Apollo. Dante’s passing beyond the human, beyond the earth, in heavenward ascent with Beatrice. His wonder. Beatrice on the Empyrean and the order of the universe.

    CANTO I

    The glory of the One who moves all things   →

    permeates the universe and glows

    in one part more and in another less.

    4

    I was within the heaven that receives   →

    more of His light; and I saw things that he

    who from that height descends, forgets or can

    7

    not speak; for nearing its desired end,   →

    our intellect sinks into an abyss

    so deep that memory fails to follow it.

    10

    Nevertheless, as much as I, within

    my mind, could treasure of the holy kingdom

    shall now become the matter of my song.

    13

    O good Apollo, for this final task   →

    make me the vessel of your excellence,

    what you, to merit your loved laurel, ask.

    16

    Until this point, one of Parnassus’ peaks

    sufficed for me; but now I face the test,

    the agon that is left; I need both crests.

    19

    Enter into my breast; within me breathe

    the very power you made manifest

    when you drew Marsyas out from his limbs’ sheath.   →

    22

    O godly force, if you so lend yourself

    to me, that I might show the shadow of

    the blessed realm inscribed within my mind,

    25

    then you would see me underneath the tree

    you love; there I shall take as crown the leaves

    of which my theme and you shall make me worthy.

    28

    So seldom, father, are those garlands gathered

    for triumph of a ruler or a poet

    —

    a sign of fault or shame in human wills

    —

    31

    that when Peneian branches can incite   →

    someone to long and thirst for them, delight

    must fill the happy Delphic deity.   →

    34

    Great fire can follow a small spark: there may   →

    be better voices after me to pray

    to Cyrrha’s god for aid—that he may answer.

    37

    The lantern of the world approaches mortals   →

    by varied paths: but on that way which links

    four circles with three crosses, it emerges

    40

    joined to a better constellation and

    along a better course, and it can temper

    and stamp the world’s wax more in its own manner.

    43

    Its entry from that point of the horizon   →

    brought morning there and evening here; almost

    all of that hemisphere was white—while ours

    46

    was dark—when I saw Beatrice turn round

    and left, that she might see the sun: no eagle

    has ever stared so steadily at it.

    49

    And as a second ray will issue from   →

    the first and reascend, much like a pilgrim   →

    who seeks his home again, so on her action,

    52

    fed by my eyes to my imagination,

    my action drew, and on the sun I set

    my sight more than we usually do.

    55

    More is permitted to our powers there

    than is permitted here, by virtue of

    that place, made for mankind as its true home.

    58

    I did not bear it long, but not so briefly

    as not to see it sparkling round about,

    like molten iron emerging from the fire;

    61

    and suddenly it seemed that day had been

    added to day, as if the One who can   →

    had graced the heavens with a second sun.

    64

    The eyes of Beatrice were all intent

    on the eternal circles; from the sun,   →

    I turned aside: I set my eyes on her.

    67

    In watching her, within me I was changed   →

    as Glaucus changed, tasting the herb that made

    him a companion of the other sea gods.

    70

    Passing beyond the human cannot be

    worded: let Glaucus serve as simile

    —

    until grace grant you the experience.

    73

    Whether I only was the part of me   →

    that You created last, You—governing

    the heavens—know: it was Your light that raised me.

    76

    When that wheel which You make eternal through   →

    the heavens’ longing for You drew me with

    the harmony You temper and distinguish,

    79

    the fire of the sun then seemed to me   →

    to kindle so much of the sky, that rain

    or river never formed so broad a lake.

    82

    The newness of the sound and the great light   →

    incited me to learn their cause—I was

    more keen than I had ever been before.

    85

    And she who read me as I read myself,

    to quiet the commotion in my mind,

    opened her lips before I opened mine

    88

    to ask, and she began: "You make yourself

    obtuse with false imagining; you can

    not see what you would see if you dispelled it.

    91

    You are not on the earth as you believe;

    but lightning, flying from its own abode,

    is less swift than you are, returning home."

    94

    While I was freed from my first doubt by these   →

    brief words she smiled to me, I was yet caught

    in new perplexity. I said: "I was

    97

    content already; after such great wonder,

    I rested. But again I wonder how

    my body rises past these lighter bodies."

    100

    At which, after a sigh of pity, she

    settled her eyes on me with the same look

    a mother casts upon a raving child,

    103

    and she began: "All things, among themselves,   →

    possess an order; and this order is

    the form that makes the universe like God.

    106

    Here do the higher beings see the imprint

    of the Eternal Worth, which is the end

    to which the pattern I have mentioned tends.

    109

    Within that order, every nature has

    its bent, according to a different station,

    nearer or less near to its origin.

    112

    Therefore, these natures move to different ports

    across the mighty sea of being, each

    given the impulse that will bear it on.

    115

    This impulse carries fire to the moon:   →

    this is the motive force in mortal creatures:

    this binds the earth together, makes it one.

    118

    Not only does the shaft shot from this bow

    strike creatures lacking intellect, but those

    who have intelligence, and who can love.

    121

    The Providence that has arrayed all this

    forever quiets—with Its light—that heaven

    in which the swiftest of the spheres revolves;

    124

    to there, as toward a destined place, we now

    are carried by the power of the bow

    that always aims its shaft at a glad mark.

    127

    Yet it is true that, even as a shape   →

    may, often, not accord with art’s intent,

    since matter may be unresponsive, deaf,

    130

    so, from this course, the creature strays at times

    because he has the power, once impelled,

    to swerve elsewhere; as lightning from a cloud

    133

    is seen to fall, so does the first impulse,

    when man has been diverted by false pleasure,

    turn him toward earth. You should—if I am right

    —

    136

    not feel more marvel at your climbing than

    you would were you considering a stream

    that from a mountain’s height falls to its base.

    139

    It would be cause for wonder in you if,   →

    no longer hindered, you remained below,

    as if, on earth, a living flame stood still."

    142

    Then she again turned her gaze heavenward.

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    Address to the reader. Arrival in the First Heaven, the Sphere of the Moon. Beatrice’s vigorous confutation of Dante, who thinks that rarity and density are the causes of the spots we see on the body of the Moon.

    CANTO II

    O you who are within your little bark,   →

    eager to listen, following behind

    my ship that, singing, crosses to deep seas,

    4

    turn back to see your shores again: do not

    attempt to sail the seas I sail: you may,

    by losing sight of me, be left astray.

    7

    The waves I take were never sailed before;

    Minerva breathes, Apollo pilots me,   →

    and the nine Muses show to me the Bears.   →

    10

    You other few who turned your minds in time

    unto the bread of angels, which provides   →

    men here with life—but hungering for more

    —

    13

    you may indeed commit your vessel to

    the deep salt-sea, keeping your course within

    my wake, ahead of where waves smooth again.

    16

    Those men of glory, those who crossed to Colchis,   →

    when they saw Jason turn into a ploughman

    were less amazed than you will be amazed.

    19

    The thirst that is innate and everlasting—   →

    thirst for the godly realm—bore us away

    as swiftly as the heavens that you see.   →

    22

    Beatrice gazed upward. I watched her.

    But in a span perhaps no longer than   →

    an arrow takes to strike, to fly, to leave

    25

    the bow, I reached a place where I could see

    that something wonderful drew me; and she

    from whom my need could not be hidden, turned

    28

    to me (her gladness matched her loveliness):

    Direct your mind to God in gratefulness,

    she said; He has brought us to the first star.   →

    31

    It seemed to me that we were covered by   →

    a brilliant, solid, dense, and stainless cloud,

    much like a diamond that the sun has struck.

    34

    Into itself, the everlasting pearl

    received us, just as water will accept   →

    a ray of light and yet remain intact.

    37

    If I was body (and on earth we can   →

    not see how things material can share

    one space—the case, when body enters body),

    40

    then should our longing be still more inflamed

    to see that Essence in which we discern

    how God and human nature were made one.

    43

    What we hold here by faith, shall there be seen,   →

    not demonstrated but directly known,

    even as the first truth that man believes.

    46

    I answered: "With the most devotion I

    can summon, I thank Him who has brought me

    far from the mortal world. But now tell me:

    49

    what are the dark marks on this planet’s body   →

    that there below, on earth, have made men tell

    the tale of Cain?" She smiled somewhat, and then   →

    52

    she said: "If the opinion mortals hold   →

    falls into error when the senses’ key

    cannot unlock the truth, you should not be

    55

    struck by the arrows of amazement once

    you recognize that reason, even when

    supported by the senses, has short wings.

    58

    But tell me what you think of it yourself."

    And I: "What seems to us diverse up here   →

    is caused—I think—by matter dense and rare."

    61

    And she: "You certainly will see that your

    belief is deeply sunk in error if

    you listen carefully as I rebut it.

    64

    The eighth sphere offers many lights to you,   →

    and you can tell that they, in quality

    and size, are stars with different visages.

    67

    If rarity and density alone   →

    caused this, then all the stars would share one power

    distributed in lesser, greater, or

    70

    in equal force. But different powers must

    be fruits of different formal principles;

    were you correct, one only would be left,

    73

    the rest, destroyed. And more, were rarity   →

    the cause of the dim spots you question, then

    in part this planet would lack matter through

    76

    and through, or else as, in a body, lean

    and fat can alternate, so would this planet

    alternate the pages in its volume.

    79

    To validate the first case, in the sun’s   →

    eclipse, the light would have to show through, just

    as when it crosses matter that is slender.

    82

    This is not so; therefore we must consider

    the latter case—if I annul that too,

    then your opinion surely is confuted.

    85

    If rarity does not run through and through   →

    the moon, then there must be a limit where

    thickness does not allow the light to pass;

    88

    from there, the rays of sun would be thrown back,

    just as, from glass that hides lead at its back,   →

    a ray of colored light returns, reflected.

    91

    Now you will say that where a ray has been   →

    reflected from a section farther back,

    that ray will show itself to be more dim.

    94

    Yet an experiment, were you to try it,

    could free you from your cavil—and the source   →

    of your arts’ course springs from experiment.

    97

    Taking three mirrors, place a pair of them

    at equal distance from you; set the third

    midway between those two, but farther back.

    100

    Then, turning toward them, at your back have placed

    a light that kindles those three mirrors and

    returns to you, reflected by them all.

    103

    Although the image in the farthest glass   →

    will be of lesser size, there you will see

    that it must match the brightness of the rest.

    106

    Now, just as the sub-matter of the snow,   →

    beneath the blows of the warm rays, is stripped

    of both its former color and its cold,

    109

    so is your mind left bare of error; I

    would offer now to you a new form, light

    so living that it trembles in your sight.

    112

    Within the heaven of the godly peace   →

    revolves a body in whose power lies   →

    the being of all things that it enfolds.

    115

    The sphere that follows, where so much is shown,   →

    to varied essences bestows that being,

    to stars distinct and yet contained in it.

    118

    The other spheres, in ways diverse, direct   →

    the diverse powers they possess, so that

    these forces can bear fruit, attain their aims.

    121

    So do these organs of the universe

    proceed, as you now see, from stage to stage,

    receiving from above and acting downward.

    124

    Now do attend to how I pass by way   →

    of reason to the truth you want that—then

    —

    you may learn how to cross the ford alone.

    127

    The force and motion of the holy spheres   →

    must be inspired by the blessed movers,

    just as the smith imparts the hammer’s art;

    130

    and so, from the deep Mind that makes it wheel,   →

    the sphere that many lights adorn receives

    that

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